A burden was lifted from all our minds, and, moving forward that morning, even higher spirits than usual prevailed. We rode into the village, and stopped a little at the hotel, where souvenirs of the Dead Sea plain, staffs made from the oaks of Bashan, Bedawy clubs, and such-like articles, are exposed for sale to travellers. Then we rode along lanes bounded by hedges of prickly pear and thorns towards the spring of Elisha, called now ʿAin es-Sultan—“Fountain of the Sultan,” where man and beast drank from the cool stream and were refreshed.
The modern Erîha is a miserable representative of the famous cities that rose one after another in the neighbourhood of this copious spring. The land immediately around is a marvel of fertility, bearing, when under cultivation, with tropical luxuriance. Near by the spring stood the ancient city which was attacked and overthrown by the Israelites—the first stronghold gained on this side of the Jordan. Near the same spot rose the city of Heil, who dared the curse and endured it—the curse pronounced by Joshua—in order to restore the crown of splendour which his ancestors had crushed so ruthlessly. This latter was the city known to Elijah and Elisha, not yet ancient in their time, for the inhabitants of which the waters of this lovely spring were miraculously healed. One of the “schools of the prophets” existed here; and here Elijah had his last interview with the youth, the hope of Israel, ere he went forth to yonder lonely tracts eastward, to be parted from the faithful Elisha by the chariot of fire, and caught away to heaven in the whirlwind. The fertility of the plains of Jericho was almost proverbial in later days, when its rich revenues were farmed by Herod from Cleopatra.
Then the magnificent balsam gardens and the groves of stately palms lent added beauty to a scene in the midst of which the luxury-loving Herod had his winter quarters. In the days of our Saviour the sycamore tree was not wanting, as we learn from the story of Zaccheus. The remains of old sugar-mills testify to the ancient culture of the sugar-cane; and the ruins of ancient aqueducts, dating from high antiquity, which brought the contributions of distant springs to the grounds around the city, show with what care the paradise of Jericho was watered. The balsam has now utterly disappeared; and the stranger, coming unprepared upon the scene, might well-exclaim, “How could Jericho ever be called ‘the city of palm trees’?” But great fruitful vines may yet be seen, in the badly-kept gardens, yielding with prodigality in spite of indifferent husbandry; and heavily-laden bananas, bending over the hedges, offer of their sweetness to the hand of the passer-by. The modern village boasts a hotel, a Greek hospice for the accommodation of Russian pilgrims, and the ruins of an old castle, which frown out upon the wilderness to eastward. Those who are willing to be pleasantly deceived by monkish tradition may also have the house of Zaccheus pointed out to them. There are some three hundred inhabitants in the village, creatures of a miserable physique, and with a most undesirable reputation for laziness and thievishness.
That the plains of Jericho might be once again what they were of old—a very garden of delights, wherein is enough and to spare for all—needs hardly to be said. Were proof required, it would be found in the surroundings of Elisha’s fountain. Wherever the waters of the fountain come, the desert sands are transformed into fruitful fields, and all its banks are clothed with emerald. No small supply of water would serve to waken life over all the plains; but is not the vast volume of the Jordan only waiting to be caught in the higher reaches, and taught to run in fertilising streams all over the broad lands? For long generations it has flowed idly past, only a few yards on either side of the rushing flood tasting its refreshing power. What untold wealth is rolling there, in these rich brown waves! What hand shall arrest the flow, and turn its powers to noblest uses, so that all the valley may be filled with the music of rustling grain and with the beauty of ripening fruit?—that the wilderness may rejoice and blossom as the rose. Ere this is possible, the reins of government must be held by stronger and more righteous hands, the husbandman must be secured in the enjoyment of the fruit of his toil. But surely now the appointed season for favour cannot be long delayed. Happy the eyes that shall behold the awaking of all the land to fresh life after its death-like slumber! In those sweet days of reviving, no fairer scenes will greet the eye than these broad stretches, proudly in the midst of which will rise once more the beautiful palm-girt city.
MOUTH OF WADY KELT
We could have lingered long beside that delightful spring, pouring its sparkling waters forth in blessing over the plain; but the sun rose higher in the heavens, and we had a hard ascent before us. We rode along the base of the overhanging hills, crossed the mouth of Wady Kelt, and struck the carriage road leading from Jericho to Jerusalem. Deep, dark, and forbidding is the great cleft in the hills which, since the days of the learned and acute Robinson, has been by many identified with the brook Cherith, where Elijah hid from Jezebel’s wrath, and was miraculously supplied with food. The probabilities are, however, that the old Gileadite turned not southward, but eastward. In the ravines of his own native highlands there must have been many retired spots known to him in youth, where he might foil the most earnest search by strangers. The great grim mountain Karantal, whether the scene of Christ’s Temptation or not, has yet a Christian history of deep interest. The caverns in his frowning sides have been the haunts of Christian hermits from early days. Even yet, at times, a devotee takes refuge there from the vain world. On Mount Tabor, at a Feast of the Transfiguration, I met an Austrian monk who told me he had spent six years in solitary meditation and prayer in a cave in the Jordan Valley.
Now, as we ascend the winding path along the steep mountain sides, we pause for one last look over the plain and the sea and the dark heights beyond, whence came Israel’s hosts of old to possess the land. There, beneath us, where the plain is lost in green, stood the ancient Jericho, where the worshippers from the east of Jordan were wont to assemble ere going up in company to the great feasts. Doubtless these very hills have echoed to the voice of psalms, as the pilgrims marched up the steep ascents. So was it our privilege to turn our faces towards Zion, planting our feet in their footsteps—the footsteps of the tribes of God who went up thither. Very heartily could we wake the echoes again with their old song, “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem,” as we pressed upward to realise a long-cherished dream in the vision of the Holy City.
Thus may we all press up the steeps of life, Zion’s love in our hearts, her songs upon our lips, until with joy the pilgrims’ eyes behold, amid the light and splendour of the Eternal City, the face of the great King!
THE END