From the brow of a western hill, and through the dim distance of twelve miles, I saw the dome of Omar’s Mosque, the lofty minaret of the Haram, and the Tower of Hippicus. With this last and unexpected view of Jerusalem we resumed our tour to the north. For a mile the country was broken, but beyond were olive-groves and fig-orchards, extending for miles on either hand. The path soon descended a steep, narrow, and rough torrent-bed, and, after an hour’s ride, it entered the charming valley of El-Jîb. Unsurpassed for the beauty and romantic character of its scenery, it abruptly contracts into a wild gorge, and, two miles from its mouth, it contains a gem of a fountain, called ’Ain el-Haramîyeh, or “The Robbers’ Fountain.” Here the glen is as lovely as it is wild, and as bloody in its history as it is dangerous to the unwary traveler. The mountains rise in solemn grandeur on the right and left,shutting out the world, and casting a melancholy shade on the scene below. High up on a jutting cliff is an old castle, gray with age, and covered with moss and creeping vines. Through the bottom of the glen a fierce winter torrent has cut a deep and narrow channel, leaving a broad level space on either side. On the right runs the road to Shiloh; on the left is a small plateau, level and green, and extending inward to the mountain’s base. Down the sides of the western cliff the water trickles, through trails of fern and over beds of velvet moss, into an artificial basin. The plateau is covered with grass, and beneath it is a large reservoir, now a garden. Charmed with the spot, desire inclined us to linger, but prudence warned us to depart. The waters of El-Haramîyeh have washed the bloodstained hands of many a highwayman, and the native of to-day hurries on conscious of danger nigh. A band of robbers were encamped upon the lawn when we reached the fountain. Some were whiffing their narghilehs; others were testing their strength in gymnastic sports, while around the captain of the band two girls were dancing to the music of timbrel and castanets. They returned our salutations, and, after drinking of the cool, sweet water, and plucking a few ferns as mementoes, we recrossed the channel, and began to ascend toward Shiloh. As we advanced the scenery assumed higher forms of sublimity. The mountains approached each other, and rose to the clouds; but when, in turn, the hills receded and the valleys opened, the former were terraced and clad with vineyards, and the latter planted with wheat and corn. Attired in gay costumes, peasant-girls were at work on the terraces, singing merrily; shepherds, with long guns thrown across their shoulders, were winding with their flocks around the loftier cliffs; while far away to the northwest, following the devious mountain-paths, were trains of camels and asses, whose tinkling bells awakened the echoes of the everlasting hills. More than once we dismounted to gather the tempting wild-flowers, and press the pretty anemones, poppies, amaranths, and white-thorn roses.
Reaching the head of the valley, we left Sinjil on the west to visit ancient Shiloh. Before us lay a broad fertile plain, running toward the Jordan, and in the midst of which stands the Arab town of Turmus ’Aya. To the north of the village the path leads up a gentle acclivity, and then, descending intoa narrow valley, it gradually ascends through cultivated fields to the hill on which the renowned city of Samuel stood. At the southern base of the hill stands an old square tower, originally a mosque, and over it a large oak spreads its ample branches. The surrounding hills are round and naked, the valleys narrow and stony, and the landscape featureless and forbidding. Covering a low ridge, projecting from the central chain of mountains, are the scattered ruins of Shiloh. Consisting of heaps of hewn stone, with now and then a broken column, the remains are embedded in rank weeds and tall grass, and destitute of the ordinary attractions of a fallen city. Near them is an old ruined church, which, in the age of the Crusaders, served as a fortress. The walls, four feet thick, are supported by buttresses. Over the entrance is a sculptured amphora, between two wreaths, and within the inclosure are a few fallen Corinthian columns. Half a mile to the east, in a wild glen, is the famous fountain of Shiloh, issuing from the rocks, and flowing into a deep reservoir, where shepherds water their flocks.
From the days of Jerome to the year 1838 the site of Shiloh remained unknown,when the analogy between the ancient and modern names, together with a single verse in the Book of Judges, enabled a distinguished American traveler[467] to determine its long-lost site. Called by the Arabs Seilûn, he judged it the Arabic rendering of the more euphonious name of Shiloh, and, guided by the minute and accurate description of the location by the elders of Israel, he succeeded in identifying the place. Nothing can be more artless and correct than that remarkable passage,“Behold, there is a feast of the Lord in Shiloh yearly, in a place which is on the north side of Bethel, on the east side of the highway that goeth up from Bethel to Shechem, and on the south of Lebonah.”[468] Though destitute of those monuments which have given historic significance to its name, the pleasures of a visit to this celebrated city are to be derived from the recollections of the past rather than from the grandeur of its antiquities.
Memorable as the place where the Tabernacle was first permanently set up in Canaan, and where the Ark remained from the days of Joshua till near the close of Eli’s life,it was here the Israelites assembled to divide the land into tribal possessionsaccording to lot.[469]To fulfill a solemn vow, hither the pious Hannah brought her infant Samuel from Ramah to serve in the Tabernacle.[470] As the custodians of the Ark, from here Hophni and Phinehas went forth to the fatal battle of Ebenezer,and here by the wayside the venerable Eli expired when he heard of the capture of that Ark and the death of his sons.[471] Here the son of a mother, overwhelmed with grief at such calamities, received the name of I-chabod, “The glory is departed from Israel.”[471] In a glen to the east of the town was held that feast at which the daughters of Shiloh were dancing when the 200 Benjamites rose suddenly from the encircling vineyards, and, rushing on the unsuspecting damsels,captured each man a bride, whom he bore in triumph to his home.[472]Disguised like a peasant, hither came the wife of Jeroboam from Tirzah to inquire of the Prophet Ahijah concerning the life of her son.[473]
Having become the seat of impiety, the city fell under the curse of the Almighty, and, in the words of Jeremiah, it was doomed to its present shapeless and desolate condition:“Go ye now unto my place which was in Shiloh, where I set my name at first, and see what I did to it for the wickedness of my people Israel.”[474]
It was amid the recollection of such events that the robbers of Shiloh made their appearance and commenced an unprovoked assault upon our party. We had been forewarned of the turbulent character of the people, and of the danger a visit involved. At Sinjil we had discussed the prudence of a detour to this place, and, though it was a bold and hazardous step, as the sequel proved, yet we resolved to advance. We were in search of the most important knowledge, and, trusting to a gracious Providence, we felt justified in making the attempt. Unfortunately, our servant at the time was at Nablous, awaiting our arrival there, and, being without escort or guide, we were compelled to employ a peasant whom we had chanced to meet in a neighboring field. He was a simple, inoffensive, unarmed man, and was of no advantage to us except to guide us to the site of Seilûn. Having seen us from their mountain fastnesses, the robbers rapidly congregated around the old stone tower, where, at the moment, we were reading the inspired story ofthe place, and recording those reflections suggested by the hour.
Such another band of villainous-looking men Nature has scarcely ever suffered to dwell upon the earth. Some were without a nose, others without an eye, while all bore scars of previous fights, and wore a vicious countenance which promised us no good. Each ruffian was armed with a long gun and a missile not unlike an Indian tomahawk. One, more reckless than the rest, began the fray by plundering my saddle-bags; but, seeing with what determination I drew my revolver, he immediately desisted. Wishing, if possible, to avoid another collision, we attempted to cross a corn-field to the hill on which Shiloh’s ruins lay scattered, but they seized us and drove us back. Knowing that every moment’s delay diminished our chances of escape, we concluded to resume our journey—peaceably if possible, but forcibly if we must. But we had no sooner mounted our horses than the brigands seized the bridles and demanded our money. Another exhibition of our well-conditioned revolvers—which by them is a dreaded weapon—again saved us from their hands, and, putting spurs to our horses, we descended a narrow valley on the south of Shiloh, keeping an eye upon the robbers, who were after us at full speed. But the bottom of the valley soon became so rough that it was impossible to proceed faster than a walk. Having overtaken us, they still clamored for money, and evinced their purpose to renew the attack. At that moment my horse stumbled, throwing me on his head; but, springing back into the saddle, and jerking the reins with all the strength at my command, I saved him from going down. My haversack, however, had fallen off, and one of the ruffians, having picked it up, refused to return it without a reward. Fortunately, the small amount I gave him satisfied him, and to that man I owe my life. Among the plants I had gathered at Shiloh was one of curious structure, which I desired to preserve. Its large bright green leaves were so folded as to resemble an embossed star, but it was a deadly poison. Having dropped it, I called to the Arab to pluck another, but he refused, assuring me in Arabic that it was poisonous.
We now dismissed the peasant previously employed, giving him the promised sum. This proved our misfortune, as the robbers, becoming exasperated at the favor shown their neighbor,came upon us with renewed fierceness in a solitary mountain pass. They had the advantage in numbers, and a base indifference to human life. Sixteen against four gave us but little hope of successful resistance; but, unwilling to yield even against such odds, we determined to resist to the last. Rushing upon us with the utmost fury, they seized our bridles, and, raising their tomahawks over our heads, demanded our money or our lives. Refusing to give the former, we resolved to protect the latter. Having never seen the countenance of a bandit in the act of violence, I shall never forget the expression of the ruffian who assailed me. His face was livid with rage, and his solitary eye blazed with murderous intent as he grasped the bridle firmly with one hand and with the other raised the weapon of death over me. Undaunted either by his rage or threats, I held a parley with him for several minutes, he demanding, and I, in turn, refusing. Trying the power of religious fear, I pointed him to heaven, and repeated the sacred name of “Allah,” but he smiled like a demon, and fiercely replied, “Give me your money!”
Our firmness would have saved us from violence had not a member of our party, in an unguarded moment, struck one of the brigands with a riding-whip, which precipitated the assault, and it was now baksheesh or death. Aware that by this act we had become the aggressors, we concluded to give each a few piastres. Happily for myself, I had not a piastre in change, but, borrowing half a one (two cents) from a companion, I gave it to the villain, whose fury had been cooled by firm looks, strong words, a Damascus blade, and a good revolver.
Grouping together, they counted the spoils, but, finding the booty less than they had expected, they attempted another pursuit, but we had eluded their grasp.Dashing down the glen, we reached in safety the small village of Lubbân—the Lebonah of the Judges,[475] grateful to divine Providence that, through Arab cowardice and Christian grace, no blood had been shed.