I can not tell—I do not know—when the seed was planted, but some ten years ago the plant of desire sprang up in my heart. I did not pluck it up. Gradually its rootlets intertwined themselves with the fibres of my very being, and finally they took deep root in my soul. Five years later the buds of hope appeared. I was happy. The plant was nurtured with patience and with care. The buds grew into flowers, and now the fruit appears. First, the desire, then the hope, and now the realization. Yes, for years I have thought of traveling through Palestine. This trip became my thought by day and my dream by night. I have often made nocturnal visits to Bethlehem and Calvary. While asleep I have wandered through the streets of Jerusalem; in my dreams I have seen Nazareth nestling on the hillside, and Damascus reposing in the valley. That desire grew stronger and stronger. It became the ruling passion of my life, and I said: “By God’s help I will go.” I set my face like a flint towards the Holy Land, and hither I have come. I feel profoundly thankful that that which was my youth’s fondest hope is now my manhood’s first glory to realize.
I have already begun the journey “through Palestine in the saddle,” and if the reader will exercise some of that “patience” which “beareth all things,” I will tell him who my companions are, and what the mode of traveling is in this country. Afterwards I may say something concerning the appearance and condition of the country; also something about the customs and habits of the people.
I have become quite a pedestrian, and I had hoped to go through Palestine and Syria, as I went through several European countries—on foot. But since arriving here I find that a “tramp trip” is quite impracticable, if not altogether impossible. I never undertake impossibilities, hence I give up my scheme of walking.
While Johnson and I were traveling in Bulgaria, we met Mr. Wm. Y. Hamlin and two ladies from Detroit, Michigan. The two ladies were sisters. One of them was unmarried; the other was Mr. Hamlin’s deceased wife’s mother. We met them again in Constantinople and some time afterward in Smyrna. We spent several days together around the islands and on the waters of the Mediterranean. The two parties proved mutually agreeable. So we have now resolved ourselves into one party for a trip through Syria and Palestine. We employ the same Dragoman who furnishes everything, and pays all expenses of the journey from one end to the other. We are to ride on horses and camels, and sleep in tents. Four days are required to make preparation, nor are four days any too many. Camels, and horses, and donkeys, and mules, and bridles, and saddles, and whips, and spurs, and tents, and beds, and provisions, and cooking utensils, are to be made ready. Packing is to be done, letters are to be written, and costumes purchased. The American Consul is to be seen officially, Turkish passports are to be gotten, and a number of other things to be looked after. What I have to do during these four days reminds me of the man who was, at one and the same time, a lawyer, a merchant, a druggist, a dentist, a physician, a shoemaker, a miller, pastor of four churches and general missionary besides!
At two o’clock on Saturday every thing is pronounced ready, and from that good hour we are to be known as the “Equestrian Pilgrims.” What a formidable turnout is ours! A veritable caravan! To accommodate and serve five pilgrims we have seven tents—I have to sleep in two tents—fifteen body-guards, or muleteers, and thirty head of camels, mules and donkeys! Nor is this all. Chairs and tables, tents and trunks, beds and blankets, and a hundred other things, are tied together and strapped on the backs of the animals. Thus laden, each little donkey, as he goes jogging along, looks like a veritable Jumbo; and the camels, with these great packs on their backs, look almost like walking mountains! These are all strung out one after another—one after another, the front end of the rear camel being tied to the hind end of the one before him, and that one to the next, and so on. I have been reading about caravans all my life and now I have one of my own. I am told to choose any one of the animals I want to ride, whereupon I select a small donkey, mouse-colored, except for the numerous stripes that wind around him—these give him something of a zebra-like appearance. I want to show the natives how supple I am, and, going up to the donkey and putting my arms on his back, I try to leap up. But, unfortunately, I leap over, and come down on the other end of my neck. Amid the loud acclamations of the natives, the stately procession moves off. The stars and stripes flutter in the breezes, while the music of the national hymn is borne away over the sea on the wings of the wind.
The narrow streets of Beyrout are soon quitted, and we at once begin the ascent of Lebanon. The first thing that attracts our attention is a wide world of mulberry trees—it looks about seventeen thousand acres on either side of the road. The trees appear to be about eighteen feet high. Half naked boys and girls, men and women have climbed up the trees and are plucking off the leaves here and there. I don’t know what to make of it. The first thought that suggests itself is that “fig-leaf dresses” have come in fashion again. But Tolhammy my dragoman, says: “This is a great country for silk culture, and mulberry trees are cultivated, and the leaves gathered for the silk worms.” In Damascus he says we shall see plenty of silk manufactured by hand.
We meet a great many Arabs going into the city that we have just left. Several miles back I stopped one of these sons of the desert for a conversation. I think we talked about an hour and thirteen minutes, more or less, and would, no doubt, have talked longer, but neither one of us understood a word the other said. Occasionally there was a lag in the conversation. While I was gathering this valuable information from the stranger, the other part of the caravan slacked never a pace. And now, looking aloft, I see high on the mountain-side a white city—a city of tents. This reminds me of Balaam who was traveling in this same country not far from here, and, seeing a sight just like this, he exclaimed: “How goodly are thy tabernacles, O Jacob and thy tents, O Israel!”
The road, gleaming in the sunshine, looks at one time like a clothes-line hanging on the mountain-side; again it resembles a winding serpent crawling zigzag up the mountain as though it wants to swallow the tents. Climbing the hill, we pass a number of dilapidated villages on the right and left of the road. Just as the sun goes down to cool his hot face in the Mediterranean, we reach the tents pitched on Mt. Lebanon! At last the city is before us. Dismounting, and going into our new apartments, we can hardly believe we are in tents. The walls and ceiling look like white marble newly painted and beautifully frescoed. The rock floor is spread with rich Persian carpets and mats. Here are rocking-chairs, tables, bedsteads, washstands—every thing! “What style!” I say to the party.