Sick, nigh unto Death—“Night Bringeth out the Stars”—Mount Hermon and the Transfiguration—Beautiful Camp-Ground—Amnon, the Reliable—“Thou Art Peter”—Fountain of the Jordan—Slaughter of the Buffaloes—Crossing into Galilee—Dan—Abraham’s Visit—A Fertile Valley—Wooden Plows—A Bedouin Village—Costumes of Eden—A Gory Field—Sea of Galilee—Sacred Memories—The Evening Hour—A Soliloquy—Bathing—Sailing—Fishing.
I HAD not been feeling well for some days and while at Damascus I was taken ill with varioloid fever. This was just twelve days after I was directly exposed to the small-pox and the cholera. The varioloid, with which I was suffering, was so severe that my friends really feared it would develop into small-pox proper. It was a dark hour for the sufferer. The shadows of twilight—the twilight of life, as well as of day, seemed to be gathering around me. Even then I could say: “I have lived, and have not lived in vain: my mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, and my frame perish even in conquering pain, but there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire.”
One night when I was suffering most intensely, when my brow was all scorched with fever and my body racked with pain, Mr. Hamlin, whom I have already mentioned, and whose income is more than a dollar an hour, came into my room and lay down on the side of the bed. With his hand on my brow he said: “Whittle, we are fellow travelers for this journey through the Holy Land; we are friends for the journey of life, and now that you are ill, I want to say that you shall have my sympathy, my presence and my purse. I am your friend and helper. You may have cholera, small-pox, or what not, yet I will stand by you to the last. I shall not leave your bedside until you are well, or as long as you need a friend.” I said to myself: “Truly, night bringeth out the stars,” and “every cloud has a silver lining.” I fell asleep; the fever cooled off, and in a few days “Richard was himself again.” Now that it is over, I am glad that I was ill. It revealed to me the character of the man with whom I am traveling. It is not an unpleasant thing, when one is ten or twelve thousand miles from home, to have a friend talk to him in that way. Hamlin is a whole-souled fellow.
The second night after leaving Damascus the “Equestrian Pilgrims” camped at the foot of Mount Hermon, whose regal brow was crowned with purest snow. It was a glorious sight to see that lonely, lordly mountain, bathed in the golden splendor of the setting sun. One almost ceases to wonder that it has become an object of vigorous adoration. The word Hermon itself means “the holy,” “the unapproachable.” The Arab word for Hermon means “the old,” “the grey-bearded,” “the venerable.” The inspired writers of old often refer to Hermon. It appears to have formed the northern boundaries of the children of Israel. Solomon speaks of Hermon as the haunt of wild beasts, and strangely enough my guide-book says, and the natives here confirm the statement, that bears, wolves and foxes still abound here. The Psalmist says brotherly love is as pleasant as the “dew of Hermon;” as the “dew that falleth on Mount Zion.” I have been much impressed with heavy dews since coming into this Eastern country. I have seen the dew falling before the sun goes down in the evening, and for an hour after the sun rises in the morning. In this country it rains six months, and is dry six months. During the dry season vegetation withers and all nature suffers for moisture. Every night the falling dew is like a gentle shower of rain, refreshing the parched grass and “reviving the vigor of vegetation.” But for these heavy dews nothing would grow, and the people could scarcely exist. How impressive it must have been to these people, therefore, when David said: “Brotherly love is as pleasant as the dew of Hermon, as the dew that falleth on Mount Zion.” God hasten the day when “brotherly love shall abound:” when men shall say: “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”
Hermon is, in round numbers, ten thousand feet high and twenty-nine miles long. Its base is rich, and, for this country, well cultivated. Higher up it supports several large almond groves, the fruit of which is most excellent. It is generally conceded by scholars that one of the slopes of Hermon was the scene of the Transfiguration. By some this honor was once claimed for Mount Tabor, but this idea has been exploded. It is impossible that Christ should have been Transfigured on Mount Tabor, for Josephus tells us that Tabor was at that time crowned with a city, and we know that the Transfiguration occurred, not in the midst of human habitations, but out in the solitude of nature. The last time we see our blessed Lord before the Transfiguration was at Caesarea Philippi, near the base of Hermon. “And after six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John, his brother, and bringeth them up into a high mountain apart and was there transfigured before them; His face did shine as the sun and His garment was white as the light. And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias, talking with Him. Then answered Peter and said unto Jesus: ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles—one for Thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias.’”
We were high on the slopes of Hermon. It was to me a sacred place. When the evening hour came, I stole away from my companions. I went out all alone “where nought but the gleaming stars looked down upon me in silence,” where I could commune with my own heart, with nature and “nature’s God.” I gave myself up to meditation and prayer. I said: “Can it be possible that I am now standing on, or near, the spot where the divinity of my Lord revealed itself; where He wrapped Himself with celestial glory as with a garment; where the veil was drawn aside, and Peter, James and John caught a glimpse of that other world and the splendor thereof?” and an unearthly feeling possessed me—I verily felt that I was standing on the Mount of spiritual Transfiguration. For me the scene was re-enacted before my eyes. To me the Master’s face did shine as the sun, and His garment was white as light. I could almost hear the Father’s voice as He said: “This is my beloved Son in whom I am pleased; hear ye Him.” I felt like Peter that I could say, “It is good to be here;” I felt like Paul that I was caught up into the third heaven; I felt like Bunyan that I was standing on the top of the Delectable Mountains, viewing the City of God and listening to the music of angels. I felt like
“Some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
Around whose base, while rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.”
We folded our tents in the morning, to pitch them at night twenty miles away, by the side of a flowing fountain, in the midst of an olive grove and amongst blooming oleanders. There was beauty, there was poetry, in this place. It was so sweetly calm and serenely beautiful, that we were strongly tempted to “lengthen the cords and strengthen the stakes” of our tents and remain here a few days. But we were blessed with perfect weather, and therefore thought best to press towards “that summer land of the vine and fig tree.”
Next morning “Amnon,” the reliable, the sure-footed, was pronounced “ready.” I vaulted into the saddle and rode away. Evening brought us to Caesarea Philippi, now called Banias. Little—practically nothing—remains of the stupendous temple that Herod the Great built here. The guide-book says, and the pilgrims believe, that this was the precise place where Christ said: “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.” But turning to Matt. 16:13, I read, “When Jesus came unto the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, He asked His Disciples,” etc.