An element of discord was not wanting as we rode through the peaceful valleys. Overhead wheeled a great vulture, hungrily waiting to swoop down on some dead carcase—a camel or a donkey perhaps—and devour its prey. On a crag close by sat a majestic eagle, his piercing eyes boldly fixed on the sun. The solitary bird seemed a fitting type of the departed glory of Israel.
It was pleasant further on to notice signs of human life. Shepherds were tending their flocks and playing on “David’s” pipes—a terrible instrument, by the way, giving forth horrible sounds suggestive of Highland bagpipes in the hands and mouth of a beginner—shepherd-boys were hurling stones from a primitive sling (knitted in worsted) with marvellous skill and true aim at an imaginary Goliath.
In contrast to these pastoral amusements, the solemn Moslem, with his shoes carefully removed, his face towards Mecca, performed his religious duties on the roadside, going through his prayers and prostrations unmoved by the curious glances of strangers and pilgrims from other lands.
We were now nearing the birthplace of our Saviour, through which city we had to pass. On the east is a narrow valley called the Shepherds’ Plain. Even on this early spring morning it looked a bare treeless spot, with stony slopes shining white, and a few crumbling ruins. It was here, according to tradition, that the angelic messengers announced the glad tidings to the wondering shepherds and sang the magnificent “Gloria in Excelsis.”
I am bound to say that my enthusiasm was not kindled by the sight of those holy fields. Indeed, my preconceived ideas received a rude shock—as they often did during our travels—and I came to the woeful conclusion that on the whole it was more pleasing to visit in imagination the sacred spots in Palestine than go on pilgrimage to the actual places.
Just as the sun pointed to nine o’clock, we were entering the straggling city of Bethlehem. We had, as in all Oriental towns, to pick our way carefully through the narrow undulating streets with their hillocks of rubbish and valleys of mud. We were occasionally jammed up against a wall to avoid too close contact with the strings of camels laden with stone for repairing the roads for the expected Imperial visit.
“Bon Jour” of course indulged in lively altercations with the camel drivers; he also unceremoniously pushed aside men, women, and children who happened to be in the line of route. Miss B. told us that a quantity of very bad language was freely dispensed on both sides, but it apparently bred no ill feeling, as we afterwards saw “Bon Jour” and one of the men, who had most violently assaulted him with words, walking amicably across the square.
One cannot fail to be greatly struck by the bright hopeful looks both of the city and its inhabitants, who, we were told, were all Christians. Indeed, it was plainly visible in the thriving aspect of the place and energy of the people, who were busily employed, that Moslem inertness had no stronghold here. The sound of the hammer, the whirr of the wheel, and the grating of the file fell pleasantly on the ear as the industrious workers fashioned the great pearl shells into beads, brooches, and beautifully carved ornaments.
The men and women of Bethlehem are much fairer in complexion than other natives of Syria. The girls are celebrated for their beauty, their large soft blue eyes and brown hair giving them a European look which is almost startling. Their lovely dress adds to their picturesqueness, and the tall cap, covered with gold and silver coins, which the married women wear, gives height to their graceful figures.
There was not much time on this occasion to make more than casual observations, for time was pressing. We rode into the great square and dismounted near the Church of the Nativity, which now stands inside the fortress Monastery of the Virgin.