In The Levant 17

In The Levant 17

Our allies, the Syrians, please us better. There is a Frenchified

Syrian, with his wife, from Mansura, in the Delta of Egypt. The wife is

a very pretty woman (would that her example were more generally followed

in the East), with olive complexion, black eyes, and a low forehead-; a

native of Sidon. She wears a dark green dress, and a yellow kufia on

her head, and is mounted upon a mule, man-fashion, but upon a saddle

as broad as a feather-bed. Her husband, in semi-Syrian costume, with

top-boots, carries a gun at his back and a frightful knife in his belt.

Her brother, who is from Sidon, bears also a gun, and wears an enormous

sword. Very pleasant people these, who have armed themselves in the

spirit of the hunter rather than of the warrior, and are as completely

equipped for the chase as any Parisian who ventures in pursuit of game

into any of the dangerous thickets outside of Paris.

 

The Sidon wife is accompanied by two servants, slaves from Soudan, a boy

and a girl, each about ten years old,--two grinning, comical monkeys,

who could not by any possibility be of the slightest service to anybody,

unless it is a relief to their pretty mistress to vent her ill-humor

upon their irresponsible persons. You could n't call them handsome,

though their skins are of dazzling black, and their noses so flat

that you cannot see them in profile. The girl wears a silk gown, which

reaches to her feet and gives her the quaint appearance of an old woman,

and a yellow vest; the boy is clad in motley European clothes, bought

second-hand with reference to his growing up to them,--upon which event

the trousers-legs and cuffs of his coat could be turned down,--and a red

fez contrasting finely with his black face. They are both mounted on

a decrepit old horse, whose legs are like sled-stakes, and they sit

astride on top of a pile of baggage, beds, and furniture, with bottles

and camp-kettles jingling about them. The girl sits behind the boy and

clings fast to his waist with one hand, while with the other she holds

over their heads a rent white parasol, to prevent any injury to their

jet complexions. When the old baggage-horse starts occasionally into a

hard trot, they both bob up and down, and strike first one side and then

the other, but never together; when one goes up the other goes down, as

if they were moved by different springs; but both show their ivory and

seem to enjoy themselves. Heaven knows why they should make a pilgrimage

to the Jordan.

 

Our Abyssinian servant, Abdallah, is mounted, also on a pack-horse, and

sits high in the air amid bags and bundles; he guides his brute only

by a halter, and when the animal takes a fancy to break into a gallop,

there is a rattling of dishes and kettles that sets the whole train into

commotion; the boy's fez falls farther than ever back on his head, his

teeth shine, and his eyes dance as he jolts into the midst of the mules

and excites a panic, which starts everything into friskiness, waking

up even the Soudan party, which begins to bob about and grin. There are

half a dozen mules loaded with tents and bed furniture; the cook, and

the cook's assistants, and the servants of the kitchen and the camp are

mounted on something, and the train is attended besides by drivers and

ostlers, of what nations it pleases Heaven. But this is not all. We

carry with us two hunting dogs, the property of the Syrian. The dogs are

not for use; they are a piece of ostentation, like the other portion

of the hunting outfit, and contribute, as do the Soudan babies, to our

appearance of Oriental luxury.

 

We straggle down through the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and around the

Mount of Olives to Bethany; and from that sightly slope our route is

spread before us as if we were looking upon a map. It lies through the

"wilderness of Judæa." We are obliged to revise our Western notions of

a wilderness as a region of gross vegetation. The Jews knew a wilderness

when they saw it, and how to name it. You would be interested to know

what a person who lived at Jerusalem, or anywhere along the backbone of

Palestine, would call a wilderness. Nothing but the absolute nakedness

of desolation could seem to him dreary. But this region must have

satisfied even a person accustomed to deserts and pastures of rocks.

It is a jumble of savage hills and jagged ravines, a land of limestone

rocks and ledges, whitish gray in color, glaring in the sun, even the

stones wasted by age, relieved nowhere by a tree, or rejoiced by

a single blade of grass. Wild beasts would starve in it, the most

industrious bird could n't collect in its length and breadth enough soft

material to make a nest of; it is what a Jew of Hebron or Jerusalem

or Hamah would call a "wilderness"! This exhausts the language of

description. How vividly in this desolation stands out the figure of

the prophet of God, clothed with camel's hair and with a girdle of skin

about his loins, "the voice of one crying in the wilderness."

 

The road is thronged with Jordan pilgrims. We overtake them, they

pass us, we meet them in an almost continuous train. Most of them are

peasants from Armenia, from the borders of the Black Sea, from the

Caucasus, from Abyssinia. The great mass are on foot, trudging wearily

along with their bedding and provisions, the thick-legged women carrying

the heaviest loads; occasionally you see a pilgrim asleep by the

roadside, his pillow a stone. But the travellers are by no means all

poor or unable to hire means of conveyance,--you would say that Judæa

had been exhausted of its beasts of burden of all descriptions for this

pilgrimage, and that even the skeletons had been exhumed to assist in

it. The pilgrims are mounted on sorry donkeys, on wrecks of horses,

on mules, sometimes an entire family on one animal. Now and then we

encounter a "swell" outfit, a wealthy Russian well mounted on a richly

caparisoned horse and attended by his servants; some ride in palanquins,

some in chairs. We overtake an English party, the central figure of

which is an elderly lady, who rides in a sort of high cupboard slung on

poles, and borne by a mule before and a mule behind; the awkward vehicle

sways and tilts backwards and forwards, and the good woman looks out

of the window of her coop as if she were sea-sick of the world. Some

ladies, who are unaccustomed to horses, have arm-chairs strapped upon

the horses' backs, in which they sit. Now and then two chairs are

strapped upon one horse, and the riders sit back to back. Sometimes huge

panniers slung on the sides of the horse are used instead of chairs, the

passengers riding securely in them without any danger of falling out.

It is rather a pretty sight when each basket happens to be full of

children. There is, indeed, no end to the strange outfits and the odd

costumes. Nearly all the women who are mounted at all are perched upon

the top of all their household goods and furniture, astride of a bed on

the summit. There approaches a horse which seems to have a sofa on its

back, upon which four persons are seated in a row, as much at ease as if

at home; it is not, however, a sofa; four baskets have been ingeniously

fastened into a frame, so that four persons can ride in them abreast.

This is an admirable contrivance for the riders, much better than riding

in a row lengthwise on the horse, when the one in front hides the view

from those behind.

 

Diverted by this changing spectacle, we descend from Bethany. At first

there are wild-flowers by the wayside and in the fields, and there is a

flush of verdure on the hills, all of which disappears later. The sky

is deep blue and cloudless, the air is exhilarating; it is a day for

enjoyment, and everything and everybody we encounter are in a joyous

mood, and on good terms with the world. The only unamiable exception

is the horse with which I have been favored. He is a stocky little

stallion, of good shape, but ignoble breed, and the devil--which is, I

suppose, in the horse what the old Adam is in man--has never been cast

out of him. At first I am in love with his pleasant gait and mincing

ways, but I soon find that he has eccentricities that require the

closest attention on my part, and leave me not a moment for the scenery

or for biblical reflections. The beast is neither content to go in front

of the caravan nor in the rear he wants society, but the instant he

gets into the crowd he lets his heels fly right and left. After a few

performances of this sort, and when he has nearly broken the leg of the

Syrian, my company is not desired any more by any one. No one is willing

to ride within speaking distance of me. This sort of horse may please

the giddy and thoughtless, but he is not the animal for me. By the time

we reach the fountain 'Ain el-Huad, I have quite enough of him, and

exchange steeds with the dragoman, much against the latter's fancy; he

keeps the brute the remainder of the day cantering over stones and waste

places along the road, and confesses at night that his bridle-hand is so

swollen as to be useless.

 

We descend a steep hill to this fountain, which flows from a broken

Saracenic arch, and waters a valley that is altogether stony and

unfertile except in some patches of green. It is a general halting-place

for travellers, and presents a most animated appearance when we arrive.

Horses, mules, and men are struggling together about the fountain to

slake their thirst; but there is no trough nor any pool, and the only

mode to get the water is to catch it in the mouth as it drizzles from

the hole in the arch. It is difficult for a horse to do this, and the

poor things are beside themselves with thirst. Near by are some

stone ruins in which a man and woman have set up a damp coffee-shop,

sherbet-shop, and smoking station. From them I borrow a shallow dish,

and succeed in getting water for my horse, an experiment which seems to

surprise all nations. The shop is an open stone shed with a dirt floor,

offering only stools to the customers; yet when the motley crowd are

seated in and around it, sipping coffee and smoking the narghilehs

(water-pipes) with an air of leisure as if to-day would last forever,

you have a scene of Oriental luxury.

 

Our way lies down a winding ravine. The country is exceedingly rough,

like the Wyoming hills, but without trees or verdure. The bed of the

stream is a mass of rock in shelving ledges; all the rock in sight is a

calcareous limestone. After an hour of this sort of secluded travel we

ascend again and reach the Red Khan, and a scene still more desolate

because more extensive. The khan takes its name from the color of

the rocks; perched upon a high ledge are the ruins of this ancient

caravansary, little more now than naked walls. We take shelter for lunch

in a natural rock grotto opposite, exactly the shadow of a rock longed

for in a weary land. Here we spread our gay rugs, the servants unpack

the provision hampers, and we sit and enjoy the wide view of barrenness

and the picturesque groups of pilgrims. The spot is famous for its

excellent well of water. It is, besides, the locality usually chosen for

the scene of the adventure of the man who went down to Jericho and

fell among thieves, this being the khan at which he was entertained for

twopence. We take our siesta here, reflecting upon the great advance in

hotel prices, and endeavoring to re-create something of that past when

this was the highway between great Jerusalem and the teeming plain of

the Jordan. The Syro-Phoenician woman smoked a narghileh, and, looking

neither into the past nor the future, seemed to enjoy the present.

 

From this elevation we see again the brown Jordan Valley and the Dead

Sea. Our road is downward more precipitously than it has been before.

The rocks are tossed about tumultuously, and the hills are rent, but

there is no evidence of any volcanic action. Some of the rock strata

are bent, as you see the granite in the White Mountains, but this

peculiarity disappears as we approach nearer to the Jordan. The