In The Levant 21

In The Levant 21

The day is very hot; the intense sun beats upon the white limestone

rocks and is reflected into the valleys. Our view in returning is better

than it was in coming; the plain and the foot of the pass are covered

with a bloom of lilac-colored flowers. We meet and pass more pilgrims

than before. We overtake them resting or asleep by the roadside, in the

shade of the rocks. They all carry bundles of sticks and canes cut on

the banks of the Jordan, and most of them Jordan water in cans, bottles,

and pitchers. There are motley loads of baggage, kitchen utensils, beds,

children. We see again two, three, and four on one horse or mule, and

now and then a row, as if on a bench, across the horse's back, taking up

the whole road.

 

We overtake one old woman, a Russian, who cannot be less than seventy,

with a round body, and legs as short as ducks' and as big as the "limbs"

of a piano. Her big feet are encased in straw shoes, the shape of a

long vegetable-dish. She wears a short calico gown, an old cotton

handkerchief enwraps her gray head, she carries on her back a big bundle

of clothing, an extra pair of straw shoes, a coffee-pot, and a saucepan,

and she staggers under a great bundle of canes on her shoulder. Poor old

pilgrim! I should like to give the old mother my horse and ease her way

to the heavenly city; but I reflect that this would detract from the

merit of her pilgrimage. There are men also as old hobbling along, but

usually not so heavily laden. One ancient couple are riding in the deep

flaps of a pannier, hanging each side of a mule; they can just see each

other across the mule's back, but the swaying, sickening motion of the

pannier evidently lessens their interest in life and in each other.

 

Our Syrian allies are as brave as usual. The Soudan babies did not go

to the Jordan or the Dead Sea, and are consequently fresh and full of

antics. The Syrian armament has not thus far been used; eagles, rabbits,

small game of all sorts, have been disregarded; neither of the men has

unslung his gun or drawn his revolvers. The hunting dogs have not once

been called on to hunt anything, and now they are so exhausted by

the heat that their master is obliged to carry them all the way to

Jerusalem; one of the hounds he has in his arms and the other is slung

in a pannier under the saddle, his master's foot resting in the other

side to balance the dog. The poor creature looks out piteously from his

swinging cradle. It is the most inglorious hunting-expedition I have

ever been attached to.

 

Our sheykh becomes more and more friendly. He rides up to me

occasionally, and, nobly striking his breast, exclaims, "Me! sheykh,

Jordan, Jerusalem, Mar Saba, Hebron, all round; me, big." Sometimes he

ends the interview with a demand for tobacco, and again with a hint of

the backsheesh he expects in Jerusalem. I want to tell him that he

is exactly like our stately red man at home, with his "Me! Big Injun.

Chaw-tobac?"

 

We are very glad to get out of the heat at noon and take shelter in the

rock grotto at the Red Khan. We sit here as if in a box at the theatre,

and survey the passing show. The Syro-Phoenician woman smokes her

narghileh again, the dogs crouching at her feet, and the Soudan babies

are pretending to wait on her, and tumbling over each other and spilling

everything they attempt to carry. The woman says they are great plagues

to her, and cost thirty napoleons each in Soudan. As we sit here after

lunch, an endless procession passes before us,--donkeys, horses, camels

in long strings tied together, and pilgrims of all grades; and as they

come up the hill one after the other, showing their heads suddenly,

it is just as if they appeared on the stage; and they all--Bedaween,

Negroes, Russians, Copts, Circassians, Greeks, Soudan slaves, and Arab

masters--seem struck with a "glad surprise" upon seeing us, and tarry

long enough for us to examine them.

 

Suddenly presents himself a tall, gayly dressed, slim fellow from Soudan

(the slave of the sheykh), showing his white teeth, and his face beaming

with good-nature. He is so peculiarly black that we ask him to step

forward for closer inspection. Abd-el-Atti, who expresses great

admiration for him, gets a coal from the tire, and holds it up by his

cheek; the skin has the advantage of the coal, not only in lustre but in

depth of blackness. He says that he is a Galgam, a tribe whose virtues

Abdel-Atti endorses: "Thim very sincere, trusty, thim good breed."

 

When we have made the acquaintance of the Galgam in this thorough

manner, he asks for backsheesh. The Doctor offers him a copper coin.

This, without any offence in his manner, and with the utmost courtesy,

he refuses, bows very low, says "Thanks," with a little irony, and turns

away. In a few moments he comes back, opens his wallet, takes out

two silver franc pieces, hands them to the Doctor, says with a proud

politeness, "Backsheesh, Bedawee!" bows, runs across the hill, catches

his horse, and rides gallantly away. It is beautifully done. Once or

twice during the ride to Jerusalem we see him careering over the hills,

and he approaches within hail at Bethany, but he does not lower his

dignity by joining us again.

 

The heat is intense until we reach the well within a mile of Bethany,

where we find a great concourse of exhausted pilgrims. On the way,

wherever there is an open field that admits of it, we have some display

of Bedawee horsemanship. The white Arab mare which the sheykh rides

is of pure blood and cost him £200, although I should select her as

a broken-down stage-horse. These people ride "all abroad," so to say,

arms, legs, accoutrements flying; but they stick on, which is the

principal thing; and the horses over the rough ground, soft fields, and

loose stones, run, stop short, wheel in a flash, and exhibit wonderful

training and bottom.

 

The high opinion we had formed of the proud spirit and generosity of the

Bedawee, by the incident at the Bed Khan, was not to be maintained after

our return to Jerusalem. Another of our Oriental illusions was to be

destroyed forever. The cool acceptance by the Doctor of the two francs

so loftily tendered, as a specimen of Bedawee backsheesh, was

probably unexpected, and perhaps unprovided for by adequate financial

arrangements on the part of the Galgam. At any rate, that evening he was

hovering about the hotel, endeavoring to attract the attention of the

Doctor, and evidently unwilling to believe that there could exist in the

heart of the howadji the mean intention of retaining those francs. The

next morning he sent a friend to the Doctor to ask him for the money.

The Doctor replied that he should never think of returning a gift,

especially one made with so much courtesy; that, indeed, the amount of

the money was naught, but that he should keep it as a souvenir of the

noble generosity of his Bedawee friend. This sort of sentiment seemed

inexplicable to the Oriental mind. The son of the desert was as much

astonished that the Frank should retain his gift, as the Spanish

gentleman who presents his horse to his guest would be if the guest

should take it. The offer of a present in the East is a flowery

__EXPRESSION__ of a sentiment that does not exist, and its acceptance

necessarily implies a return of something of greater value. After

another day of anxiety the proud and handsome slave came in person and

begged for the francs until he received them. He was no better than his

master, the noble sheykh, who waylaid us during the remainder of our

stay for additional sixpences in backsheesh. O superb Bedawee, we did

not begrudge the money, but our lost ideal!

 

 

 

 

VI.--BETHLEHEM AND MAR SABA.

 

|BETHLEHEM lies about seven miles south of Jerusalem. It is also a hill

village, reposing upon a stony promontory that is thrust out eastward

from the central mountain-range; the abrupt slopes below three sides of

it are terraced; on the north is a valley which lies in a direct line

between it and Jerusalem; on the east are the yawning ravines and the

"wilderness" leading to the Dead Sea; on the south is the wild country

towards Hebron, and the sharp summit of the Frank mountain in the

distance. The village lies on the ridge; and on the point at the east

end of it, overlooking a vast extent of seamed and rocky and jagged

country, is the gloomy pile of convents, chapels, and churches that mark

the spot of the Nativity.

 

From its earliest mention till now the home of shepherds and of hardy

cultivators of its rocky hillsides, it has been noted for the free

spirit and turbulence of its inhabitants. The primal character of a

place seems to have the power of perpetuating itself in all changes.

Bethlehem never seems to have been afflicted with servility. During the

period of David's hiding in the Cave Adullam the warlike Philistines

occupied it, but David was a fit representative of the pluck and

steadfastness of its people. Since the Christian era it has been a

Christian town, as it is to-day, and the few Moslems who have settled

there, from time to time, have found it more prudent to withdraw than to

brave its hostility. Its women incline to be handsome, and have rather

European than Oriental features, and they enjoy the reputation

of unusual virtue; the men are industrious, and seem to have more

selfrespect than the Syrians generally.

 

Bethlehem is to all the world one of the sweetest of words. A tender and

romantic interest is thrown about it as the burial-place of Rachel, as

the scene of Ruth's primitive story, and of David's boyhood and kingly

consecration; so that no other place in Judæa, by its associations, was

so fit to be the gate through which the Divine Child should come into

the world. And the traveller to-day can visit it, with, perhaps, less

shock to his feelings of reverence, certainly with a purer and simpler

enjoyment, than any other place in Holy Land. He finds its ruggedness

and desolateness picturesque, in the light of old song and story, and

even the puerile inventions of monkish credulity do not affect him as

elsewhere.

 

From Jerusalem we reach Bethlehem by following a curving ridge,--a

lovely upland ride, on account of the extensive prospect and the breeze,

and because it is always a relief to get out of the city. The country

is, however, as stony as the worst portions of New England,--the

mountain sheep-pastures; thick, double stone-walls enclosing small

fields do not begin to exhaust the stones. On both sides of the ridge

are bare, unproductive hills, but the sides of the valleys are terraced,

and covered with a good growth of olive-trees. These hollows were no

doubt once very fruitful by assiduous cultivation, in spite of the

stones. Bethlehem, as we saw it across a deep ravine, was like a castle

on a hill; there is nowhere level ground enough for a table to stand,

off the ridges, and we looked in vain for the "plains of Bethlehem"

about which we had tried, trustfully, to sing in youth.