The East

by William Young Martin

There is a good deal of wine made at Bethlehem, and it is said to be the best in Palestine, which, however, is no great boast. Many little articles, and vases of stinkstone from the Dead Sea, are also made for pilgrims.

From Bethlehem, we again re-mounted on our journey eastward for Mara Saba, which lies half-way down the rapid descent to the Dead Sea. Mara Saba, which we reached in the afternoon, in good time to erect our tents, is a “Convent,” as it is called, but in the East this word I found is by no means confined to houses of nuns, but seems to include monasteries as well. Originally it consisted of both—the Kedron stream between—but owing to a serious scandal which arose, the nuns’ convent was suppressed. It is a huge structure, built on the brow of a steep rock—fit site for an eagle’s nest rather than a human habitation. Here the river Kedron leaps in its course downward to the Dead Sea, but by this time its channel was almost dry. The Convent is always readily opened for the reception of travellers, but is walled and guarded most carefully, from fear of attack by the Bedouins, and no communication can be made except by a basket let down from the wall over the gate, by which introductory letters and other articles are conveyed into the Convent. Unfortunately, or rather I ought to say fortunately, our party consisted partly of ladies, whom the monks do not appear to appreciate as they deserve, for no female is admitted within the walls on any consideration. And those who have read the travels of Madame Pfeiffer round the world will remember that she had to sleep outside alone in an old tower, although all the other members of her party were admitted within the walls—certainly a lonely post for a lady to occupy.

But we were provided with our travelling tents, and were therefore independent; besides, we were amply protected, having been followed on this day’s journey by a Turkish escort—obtained through the English Consul—consisting of the Sheik’s son and two Arab soldiers, besides our own servants—by no means a weak party. The young Sheik—a handsome man and very handsomely dressed—was mounted on one of the finest Arabian horses I have seen, but the whole affair of the guard appears to me very much of a farce, for I think that the Bedouins—always seen in the distance—against whom these precautions were taken, are merely used for the purpose of frightening strangers from travelling east of the Jordan, and to prevent them from dispensing with costly guards, dragomans, and the like.

However, our Sheik guard behaved very gallantly, showing us his wonderful horsemanship and the powers of his Arabian, which far surpassed anything I ever saw at a circus.

The figures of these Arab horsemen are familiar to all, from pictures at least. The gun, nearly six feet long, slung on their back, with the long tasselled spear in hands, are drawn to the life; and when the young chief actually galloped his horse up hilly mounds very steep, fencing dexterously the while with his Turkish scimitar, the sight was very picturesque. And then, when he returned to make his salaams before the ladies, which he did in purely Eastern style, it was evident he was a man of some breeding.

The males of us visited the Convent, introduced by our dragoman, and here we found the establishment in full operation. It was founded by a religious recluse, named Saba, about the end of the fifth century, and must, from the peculiarity of the site and the strength of the walls, have cost a great amount of money and labour in its erection. Seen from below it has a very imposing appearance, and to stand on its east balcony and look down its rocky foundation—a sheer declivity of more than 500 feet—require a clear head and an eagle eye. Saba seems to have been a prince of anchorites, a man of extraordinary sanctity, and, as his historian shows, a worker of miracles. He drew around him many followers, and must have been a person of considerable importance in the Greek Church, to which he belonged. On taking possession of the place, he found a small den scooped out in the rock, occupied by a lion; but the lion reverentially vacated, and left the saint in possession of the cell, which he occupied as his bed. Whether the noble animal remained his attendant, as in the similar case of Jerome, is not related. The cell is yet shown, and is certainly more fit for a lion than a man. His other miracles consisted in creating a well of excellent water at the Convent, and in planting a palm tree, whose fruit is a talismanic cure for the sick matrons of Judea; but as it grows within the walls, and no dealings whatever are tolerated with their sex, it is difficult to see how its virtues can be availed of. But cell, well, and tree are all to be seen at this day; and, therefore, is it possible to doubt the truth of either of them?

Saba died at the advanced age of ninety-four. The Convent’s history has not been altogether a peaceful one; indeed it may well be called a fortress convent. It was attacked by the Persian General in the seventh century, when forty-four of the monks were killed, and it formed a point of some importance during the struggles of the Crusaders, besides being frequently menaced by the Bedouins, who are still supposed to watch continually for an opportunity of carrying off its treasures—said to be great. The building consists of a great number of cells, galleries, courts, and stairs; within, its tiny chapel is literally covered with silver. There is a tomb of Saba, but it is empty, his bones having been carried off to Venice. The monks are—about seventy in number—a poor and a very unintellectual-looking set of men, somewhat plainly and shabbily dressed; many of them seem never to stir beyond the walls of the Convent, and their lives are strictly ascetic. Their whole time is occupied in religious services, in the washing and cooking of the establishment, and making walking canes and strings of beads, crosses, and shells—for which there is a large demand by travellers. All these are valued as curiosities, but are really worthless for any practical use. They have a library with some MSS., said to be valuable, which they neither seem to read nor allow others to do so. The washing tubs, I remember, were of hewn stone; and I daresay were ladies admitted, they would notice in the housekeeping many things very defective and ridiculous—altogether the whole place had a very primitive and sleepy appearance. In a recess of one of the walls of the chapel is shown a heap of skulls, said to be those of “the 10,000 martyrs—cross-bearers of a former age.” I should think the recess would not hold above a hundredth part of that number.

Next morning found us in the saddle for the Dead Sea and the Jordan, and here we began a descent of more than four hours’ ride, down one of the wildest and steepest ravines in the East. In this locality are hundreds of cells cut in the face of the rocks, presently inhabited by jackals. They seem to have been originally selected by hermits of all nations in the Middle Ages, who, disgusted with themselves or the world, settled there under the hope of living holy and meritorious lives. How sincerely well meant, but how vain the attempt, and how pregnant with future evils to the Church and the world, history can tell! How unlike to the poor, hiding, persecuted Christians of the Waldenses and of Scotland! They too were content to live in caves, but were hunted like partridges upon the mountains—“they lived unknown till persecution dragged them into fame, and chased them up to heaven!”[5] Deep down, and very frequently in view during the journey, lay the Dead Sea, glancing in the sunbeams as I thought at one time like lead, and at another like silver. The scene was altogether barren in the extreme.

The Dead Sea is forty miles long, and about eight in width. On its north and west shore is a pebbly and muddy beach without shell or trace of living creature, so far as I observed; no vegetation surrounds it, and for our usual noonday lunch we could obtain no shade from the sun: I had to use my umbrella, and can now better understand Jonah’s complaint over his withered Gourd, and the beauty of the prophet’s figure—“The shadow of a great rock in a weary land!” On its banks near its junction with the Jordan are a number of reeds, but they were perfectly withered and brittle, probably irrigated, however, by some stray streams from that river at the period of its annual overflow. Altogether the scene was the wildest and most death-like of any I have ever seen, and had an extremely depressing effect on the spirits, for which no doubt an unwonted atmosphere was also to blame. So intense was the heat at this level, the lowest spot on the earth’s surface—being 1300 feet under the level of the Mediterranean Sea, and more than 3700 under that of Jerusalem—that three of our party who had made a tour of the world, said they had never experienced heat so intolerable, not even under the equator, nor yet on the Red Sea voyage.

It seems obvious that the Dead Sea water surface was at no very distant era several hundred feet higher in level. This fact, I think, incidentally indicates the former fertility of Palestine, because a luxurious vegetation would produce more rain, and consequently a larger volume of water supply by the Jordan and its tributaries than in modern times.