In a Syrian Saddle

CHAPTER III

TO TAANAK AND MEGIDDO

For the first fifty minutes our road lay, for the most part, upward, constantly offering glorious views, especially in retrospect, and then, after crossing a green and wooded plateau, we began once more to descend to the north-east, and at the village of Jeba, after passing through a pleasant district, well covered with fruit gardens, found ourselves, about an hour later, once more on the ordinary highroad from Nablûs to Jenin. We looked with interest at the village of Sânûr, with its ruined fortress, monument to "Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The petty tyrant of his fields withstood," some eighty years ago. The petty tyrant was the Pasha of Acre, who besieged, and with difficulty captured, the fortress manned by the independent villagers, whose courage must have impressed the authorities, for they had the cowardice to destroy the fortification entirely. A little farther on we rode across a low plain which resembled the bed of a large lake, perfect in islands and peninsulas, and which bore the descriptive name of the Meadow of Sinking In—Merj-el-Gharak. Fortunately for us it was fairly dry, and we were able to press forward over its green surface, urged on by "Baedeker," who assured us of two bad descents which would be trying to the nerves and, what mattered more, the riding powers of the Artist, who was somewhat inexperienced in horsemanship, and, on the theory that December was a cold month, so encumbered with clothing that she had no seat whatever, and who having been unwillingly persuaded to emulate the Lady's habit of riding en cavalier courageously faced difficulties by standing in her stirrups and balancing herself upon the pommels. Of course, the stirrup straps broke at frequent intervals, not having adapted themselves to their new uses; but the accident was soon repaired, and the interval of repose was good for the horse, happily as gentle as a sheep, but who suffered also from the unwonted arrangement

Fortunately, nothing more serious occurred to detain us as we resisted the temptation to turn aside to inspect Dôtân, probably the Dothan where poor little Joseph, after passing through Shechem, fell into the hands of the Midianites, who carried him into Egypt. Nablûs, as we have seen, being the only pass through the mountain range of Central Palestine, and Samaria being an open country of good roads, this district must have been the great highway from north to south, from the coast to the Jordan, from Europe and Asia to Africa. It is easy enough to imagine the caravan of Midianites winding southward along yonder ridge, laden with spices for embalming, and visible from far by the sons of Jacob as they sat about the well at the foot of the hill, now crowned with terebinths, and well aware that the travellers would probably turn aside for water. Many ancient, empty, bell-shaped cisterns are to be found in this district such as that into which Joseph was let down.

We surmounted a stony ridge, where the path was in such good condition (not being slippery, as we had feared, after the early rains) as to give us confidence in regard to the worse which was to come, but which, in fact, turned out to be all the better for such dampness as there was, as the horses were less liable to slip on the polished rocks; and, indeed, these creatures are as surefooted as donkeys.

We were glad that the daylight sufficed to show us, as we descended into a narrow valley, before reaching the village of Kubâtîyeh, a sacred tree adorned with rags, standing by the wayside on our right—the first we had seen on our journey, though we afterwards met with many, especially in Galilee.

Such trees exist all over the country, both east and west of the Jordan, except where the presence of Europeans has taught the people to disguise their beliefs, which even then, however, appear in other forms; as, for example, in Jerusalem, where the faithful tie rags to the framework of windows in the mosque and elsewhere, instead of, as here, in the Temple of Nature. The theory of such veneration seems to be much the same as that of the Old Testament saints, who left stones at Bethel, and Ebenezer, on the banks of the Jordan, and so on, "which remain there," say the chroniclers, "to this day"—evidently indicating that they are a monument to record, a witness to testify, an outward and visible sign to excite inquiry, to serve as evidence of some special visit, to demonstrate to God and man that such an one was there in person, from such and such motives, and with such and such intentions.

The tree itself, with its quaint decorations, torn from the apparel of the faithful, is not always the direct object of veneration. It is often accompanied by a wely or grave of a saint, and though at times the cause of the selection of such a place of interment, is sometimes only the accidental consequence, having grown up beside the tomb; whence it is held to be under the saint's protection, just as other objects—ploughs, timber, grain, and vessels of various kinds—are left there, safe from thieves, Christian or Moslem. Sometimes such a wely is surrounded by a whole grove of trees, which may be sacred for either reason, and may be the cause or effect of the presence of the saint. We always behold them with satisfaction, as assuring the continuance of vegetation here and there, which would otherwise, at least in Judæa, inevitably be destroyed.

Another use of such a spot is for the cure of diseases. This may be by means of self-suggestion, the disease being transferred to the tree with the fragment of the dress of the patient, making much the same demands upon the imagination as the Christian science, the hypnotic suggestion, the bread-pill, of modern therapeutics. Another method of cure—also a question of the dominance of mind over matter—is that of taking from the tree the morsels attached to it, which are then worn like the scapulars from Lourdes or St Winifred's, just as, long ago, the sick carried from St Paul "handkerchiefs or aprons, and the diseases departed from them, and the evil spirits went out." Truly, there is nothing new under the sun! Often, especially on Thursdays, the eve of the Moslem Sabbath, these trees have been seen in flames, which, however, do them no injury, just as Moses saw "the bush which burned and was not consumed." Sometimes voices speak in them, just as David waited for "the sound of the going in the mulberry-trees." Sometimes they are held sacred as having served as resting-place for some holy man, just as the oak of Abraham at Hebron is, as such, still a place of pilgrimage for Christian, Moslem, and Jew.

We could ascertain nothing concerning the history of the sacred tree of Kubâtîyeh; and, indeed, it is but rarely that the people are able to relate the history of their shrines, although their faith in them must be strong, as it suffices, as we have seen, for the protection of articles deposited there for safe-keeping. Men—Christians or Moslems—ready to swear anything by the Almighty, will hesitate at a false oath by the shrine of a saint. In some places they hang fragments of meat upon the trees, just as the Israelites offered "shewbread," and Jotham talked of "the wine which cheereth God," the anthropomorphic conception of the Deity being nearly as strong now as when the Israelites were still wanderers in the desert. Such ideas are racial rather than religious. Professor Curtiss ("Primitive Semitic Religion To-Day") demonstrates effectively that such beliefs are common to Christians and Moslems and, in places, even to Jews; he mentions, however, one shrine at least which, on account of the more than doubtful character of its orgies, the more fastidious Moslems have abandoned to those of other creeds. Still, as in the time of Hosea, "they sacrifice upon the tops of mountains, and burn incense upon the hills, under oaks and poplars and terebinths, because the shadow thereof is good." The shadow, by the way, has a direct effect of healing upon the really sick, but is dangerous for the malade imaginaire. We would commend it to the attention of fashionable physicians.

The discussion of sacred shrines and trees lasted us during our long and steep descent to the bottom of the valley, where the sight of the telegraph wires recalled us to the realities of life, and it was with great satisfaction that we found ourselves farther descending, through a Moslem cemetery, into the town of Jenin. Here, as elsewhere, we noticed the entire absence of the outskirts and suburbs to which one is used in a different civilisation. One enters directly into a city or village without any intervention of scattered domesticity to indicate what is coming. We were at once in the main street, substantial houses two storeys high on either side of us; here a large serai (court-house), there a gaily-lighted coffee-house thronged with guests; gardens and palm-trees among the houses; obvious well-being everywhere. We stopped at the village khan, and were at once conducted to our resting-place.

In old schoolroom days, when we used to read the long lists of places the Israelites conquered or did not conquer, we little thought that one day we should take an active and personal interest even in the order of their arrangement. Issachar, we learn in Joshua xix., had assigned to them sixteen cities, which included En-gannim and Tabor, "and the outgoings of their borders to Jordan," and here, for the first time in our lives, we were not bored by Issachar, and were delighted to be at En-gannim, which is Jenin, and means "the garden spring"—a fact impressed upon us as we were ushered between long garden borders, hardy herbaceous of aspect, overshadowed by rose-bushes, into two delightful little stone summer-houses at the bottom, with a fountain—now, alas! dry—between. The men took possession of one house, the ladies of the other, and in the latter, as the larger and pleasanter, we prepared our supper. There were mats on the floor, some stools, two chairs, a table with a patchwork cover, and three of the deep window-seats which, in the East, are generally large enough to count as fittings. A clay stove, with glowing charcoal, was prepared for us outside the door, plenty of water was placed at our service, and we were soon feasting on soup, tinned meats, preserves, white bread, and, of course, tea. At intervals servants came across from the khan to attend to our needs; and finally all was cleared away, and comfortable mattresses, pillows, and wadded quilts, all in freshly-washed covers, were spread upon the floor. It may be worth while to mention, once for all, that, despite the presence in our little company of some supersensitive souls, we never had occasion to unpack our precious "Keating."

To awake in a rose garden on a December morning, to go out of doors to wash, to take our breakfast at an open door, are sensations to remember. Khalil was late in bringing the horses, ordered for seven o'clock, and so sleepy that we more than suspected he had assisted at the fantasia, the sounds of which had reached us far into the night. He was, however, less inclined than usual to resent having to stay behind the rest of the party, in order to lead the Artist's horse, at the pace which alone was possible under the circumstances. It probably gave him the opportunity of a good nap.

Jenin is surrounded by gardens, and dominated by palms and minarets. It is a seat of government, has a bazaar, and two Moslem schools. One of its mosques may have been the church which was seen by Boniface of Ragusa, a Franciscan writer, as late as 1555, erected to commemorate an early tradition that this was the scene of the healing of the ten lepers, one of whom was a Samaritan—a fact, however, which, by the light of nature, one would not expect to be specially mentioned in Samaria.

Passing over a little stream, and among cactus hedges, we soon left the ordinary route northward on our right, not only from our usual desire to avoid the beaten track, but because it was to be our special privilege, under the leadership of "Baedeker," to visit two spots practically unknown to ordinary travel—Taanak and Megiddo—at both of which very extensive excavations are in progress, the one under Austrian, the other under German auspices. Very soon after leaving Jenin we had made a still farther descent, and found ourselves at the entrance of the plain of Esdraelon or Jezreel, the greatest in Palestine, which, roughly speaking, extends from the Mediterranean to the Jordan, although interrupted by certain undulations. Esdraelon, the great battlefield of the country, was commanded by a strategical line of fortresses, Taanak, Megiddo, Bethshan, and Dor, the first three of which we hoped to visit.

Our road was, for the most part, just such as one finds in the neighbourhood of an English agricultural village—a well-trodden path between cultivated lands—where, however, among corn already springing green, crocuses, white, yellow, and purple, pink cranes' bills, and yellow daisies, the weeds of Galilee, turned the whole into the aspect of a garden. Plovers wheeled overhead, rooks followed the ploughs, dainty chats watched us but a few feet away, chiff-chaffs and corn-crakes and starlings and sparrows and skylarks talked English, and only when we passed a sacred tree hung with rags, or the eye was caught by the colocynth fruit, or by anemones, scarlet, purple, or white, were we reminded that this was Galilee and December, but that, being some two hundred and fifty feet below sea-level, we had no right to feel surprised at hot sunshine and the flora of spring.

The plain widens as we advance, and as here and there some distant spot is pointed out upon the wide horizon, our hearts thrill at the mention of names of lifelong familiarity, glorious in association of the past, but which we realise with difficulty as being before us here and now. Behind us are the hills of Samaria, to our left the country slopes gradually upward into the low hill of Belad-er-Ruah (the Breezyland), the wall which separates the plains of Esdraelon and Sharon, hiding the Mediterranean, and ending, far ahead, in the great precipice of Carmel, where we know the blue waters are lapping gently this soft, warm morning. To our right are the hills of Gilboa; while farther, where peninsulas of mountain step out into the plain, we are bidden to look here and there; while the name of Nain, Endor, and, above all, Nazareth, bring before our minds pictures imagined in childhood, and which it may be difficult, though not unwelcome, to supplant. The great round island of Mount Tabor serves as centre from which to calculate the whereabouts of this place and that.

Our party had been reinforced by the addition of a practical excavator whose presence was specially valuable to us, not only for his knowledge of the country, but because he had done active work on both of the Tells we were about to visit. We commonly called him "the Italian," although he spoke Italian, German, French, and Arabic with equal facility, and, having been associated with the abandoned English railway, was even capable, at need, of falling back upon English.

At the end of two and a quarter hours we drew up at the foot of Tell Taanak. No one who has even seen a Tell could fail to recognise another wherever he met it, and no one who has not seen one would be quite easily convinced of its nature. In Europe, where, if we destroy a house, we use the material for something else, where we reckon in centuries where the East reckons in cycles, where smoke and damp and frost, to say nothing of utilitarianism, are for ever laying waste, it is difficult to conceive of a city abandoned thousands of years ago, and buried, by the hand of Time, as gently as the Babes in the Wood by the robin-redbreast. Imagine the city of York (to take as an example one which stands upon a plain) forsaken of its inhabitants, gently dropping to pieces as it stands, and, finally, neatly covered up, in the course of ages, in a grave-shaped mound, leaving plenty of room for the cathedral towers, and grown over with flowers and grass; then suppose that a party of New Zealanders, visitors to Harrogate, about the fortieth century, should make a vertical shaft straight through the middle, and, somewhat disdainful of vestiges so modern as the county capital, should work their way down to Eboracum, and (but here the analogy of the English town ceases) to two or three cities below that. The specialty of the methods of the German excavators is that specimens of all that is met with are, if by any means possible, preserved as the investigation proceeds, so that you may reconstruct for yourself the life of York, as well as of Eboracum, and of any Scandinavian or British predecessors below both.

The contrary method, of destroying one city to arrive at another, and hastily covering up what remains of both, has however, certain advantages, as it enables excavators to dogmatise without possibility of contradiction from succeeding archæologists, and so saves much of that discussion which, while it establishes knowledge and elicits facts, is a weariness to the amateur public of subscribers and contributors. The German (and, of course, Austrian) excavations are conducted by groups of savants, and not by individuals. Each has his own specialty; and as there are several of such groups now at work in Palestine each, at need, can be reinforced from elsewhere; results can be considered from various standpoints, and opinions exchanged. No ad interim reports are presented to the public; the excavators are not obliged to have something to say at stated intervals; and when the results finally appear they are in a form which leaves nothing to be desired from the point of view of art production. Teutonic thoroughness frugality, and self-dedication can never be more admirably exhibited than in the prosecution of knowledge in this form; and the German expenditure, as compared with the result, is, in Palestine, as surprising in scientific research, as in their philanthropic institutions.

We rode as far as a terrace more than half way up, and then dismounting were soon absorbed in the excavation, on our own account, of a rubbish heap close by, where we filled our pockets with fragments of painted pottery and iridescent glass, with jar handles and broken lamps. "That is Cypriote," "that Phœnician," "that pre-Amoritic," "that merely Arabic," pronounced our experts. "Merely Arabic" might be earlier than the foundation of Westminster Abbey, or the days of Charlemagne, but we were willing to hold it cheap when we could have for the stooping, let us say, the fragment of a water-bottle, still fresh as to its ornamentation, pleasing as to its colouring, which had long been buried when the nomadic tribes of the Israelites first settled in Canaan; or a lamp which may have burned when "fought the kings of Canaan in Taanak by the waters of Megiddo"—celebrated in the savage war-song of Deborah the prophetess, which, in its geographical allusions, is a mine of wealth to the archæologist.

Exploring a Tell must be wonderfully exciting work, even when one has rewards less immediate than the results at Taanak, which is the first Canaanite site ever excavated. Think of finding oneself face to face with the remains of the infants offered up on yonder rock-cut altar—jars and jars full of the bones of poor little Canaanitish babies who might otherwise have lived to play with the little Manassehites who came to settle among them, whose fathers could not drive out the people of Taanak from their own stronghold. Or imagine the sensation of finding, two metres deep under the soil, the only Israelitish altar of incense ever discovered! Although broken into forty pieces, Dr Sellin contrived to put it together, when it was found to be exactly in accordance with the prescribed Mosaic measurements, decorated with rams' horns, with carvings of six cherubs and four lions, and with representations of the Tree of Life and the struggle of a man with the serpent. Dr Sellin ascribes it to the period when the Samaritan influence was strong in Israelitish worship, and thinks it may be as late as from five hundred to one hundred years before Christ. It is to be observed, however, that the German specialists hesitate to claim the very remote periods assigned by other excavators to similar discoveries, often differing from them by as much as a thousand years.

Here we came across the massive wall of a Canaanitish building of a period some eighteen hundred years before Christ; there what was possibly the house of Baana, the governor of the fortress in the time of Solomon; here an Arabian castle of the times of Haroun-er-Raschid; here was found an image of Baal, there of Astarte, here a head of Jahwe, the god of whom it was forbidden to make any graven image. The variety of the commercial relations of Taanak is shown by Mykenæan pottery from the Ægean, scarabs from Egypt, seal cylinders from Babylon. Four thousand years at least passed in review before us as we clambered among the ruins; we ran down an inclined plane into a city which was ancient when the child Joseph passed under its walls, a trembling little slave, on his way down from Dothan into Egypt; or, perching on a staircase, looked into the homes of those citizens whom Joshua failed to subdue. Here we mount a few steps, and find ourselves in the fortress which guarded the plain when Israel and Sisera were struggling on the banks of the Kishon; or, wandering outside, we rest beneath the city walls

No story of the Arabian Nights which may have been related here could have for us half the glamour, the enchantment, of those we may make for ourselves here and now. A fragment of iridescent glass, of an ivory handle, of a water-jar—here are charms enough to weave the magic spell! And here, to exorcise all, comes the rain, and we find ourselves again amid the petty cares of to-day, and hasten back to the terrace where our horses are patiently waiting.

We were quite ready to accept the alleged Megiddo as such, on the authority, among others, of Robinson among older geographers, and of Professor G. A. Smith among the new, and, perhaps still more, of those who had turned the site, as well as the question, inside out.

Tell el-Mutesellim lies just beyond Lejjun, which corresponds with the Legio of Eusebius. The great plain is called by St Jerome by the name of Campus Legionis, as well as the plain of Megiddo. "The waters of Megiddo," of which we read in Judges, are represented by the abundant streams, tributaries of the Kishon, which the Arabs call the Muquṭṭa. At Lejjun one at once observes a very fine aqueduct, and a large mill, both Roman, and some tentative excavation, which promises good results later, has revealed a theatre and some bricks stamped with the cognisance of the sixth legion. Megiddo and Taanak are always named together in Bible history, and we learn that both were fortified towns before the Israelitish occupation; that the tribe of Manasseh failed to drive out the inhabitants; that Solomon fortified Megiddo; and that two kings of Judah—Ahaziah and Josiah—died there, far from their own royal city—a fact which testifies to its continued consequence. Excavation at Tell el-Mutesellim has revealed a strongly-fortified city of obvious importance, which seems to fulfil all required conditions. Conder, however, identifies Megiddo with a distant town near the Jordan, far from Taanak, the Kishon, and the great plain, which there was no particular reason for fortifying, but which is called Mujedda, which sounds rather like Megiddo.

We reached Lejjun in bright sunshine about an hour after leaving Taanak, and Tell el-Mutesellim rises somewhat abruptly beyond. On an intervening hill, separated from the Tell by a narrow valley, stands a row of corrugated-iron huts, neatly lined with wood, surmounted by the German flag, and bearing the familiar legend, "Thames Iron Works," another reminder that the abandoned English railway, making such rapid progress but a few miles away, must henceforth be put to the credit of Turkish finance and German perseverance.

One large hut served as reception-room, and later as bedroom for the ladies, a second as storeroom and bedroom for the men, and a third was divided into stable, kitchen, and sleeping-place for the servants. A drawing-room was arranged for us in the open air, where deck-chairs were placed so as to be sheltered by huts on both sides, with a glorious view over the Tell beyond to Carmel, Tabor, and the mountains of Gilboa; while the fertile plain stretched like a great sea all around, and behind us we could look over Lejjun, in the near distance, to our old friends the hills east of the Jordan.

"Baedeker" and the Italian had been greeted by half the inhabitants of the district, all old friends and co-workers in the excavation of the Tell, glad just now of a vacation, which gave them leisure to cultivate their fields, but quite ready to return to the work promised them in a few weeks. We met a man with a gun, who had wandered far, in vain, in search of game for our table, and another who mourned that only a couple of eggs had been forthcoming when our somewhat sudden arrival was announced; but the cook, pro tem, was in good spirits at having at an early hour secured five chickens, which had been simmering ever since. One of the Arab's many virtues is that his soups are strong and he never gives you underdone meat. If this were true at lunch it was still more so at dinner, after seven hours' additional cooking, and the liberal allowance of material, all served in the same pot-à-feu, gave everyone the chance to select his favourite portion. The Italian, who had made a shorter journey than we, had brought us some extra luxuries, and we found ourselves in very comfortable quarters.

After luncheon we visited the Tell, and, with plenty of time before us, enjoyed a detailed inspection, and the opportunity of pausing, wherever we felt disposed, for discussion and examination. The amount of excavation already accomplished was just enough, like the index of an interesting book, to indicate what might be expected, and to rouse, without exhausting, our interest. Here we were shown what seemed an extraordinary extent of surface excavated in proportion to the short period—about four months—of work. "Baedeker" had himself had charge of the work, with the Italian as foreman, and so we were able to follow in detail the plan of operation, and to learn how to dissect a Tell. They had begun at the eastern edge because, as it was the highest point, they expected to find an acropolis, as was, in fact, the case. The city to which it belonged had, apparently, been destroyed by fire, as the great beams which served as supports were considerably charred. The fortress, of Jewish workmanship, was built of great stones, but the buttresses were of brick. There was an outer wall, and an aqueduct of later, but also of Jewish, construction.

We were even more interested in a temple of pagan cult, where, not in the open air, as usual, but inside a square chamber, were found a rock-cut altar, and on either side a mazeba, or stone pillar, such as Solomon set up before the Temple, with the names of Jachin and Boaz, and such as, under the name of menhirs, we find in Scotland and the west of England, and, in fact, all over the world—relics of a cult associated with the most elementary principles of nature worship. In horribly suggestive proximity were sacrificial jars containing the bones of infants, head downwards.

South of the walls of the fort were many small rooms, possibly barracks; while a tomb near was crowded with the bodies of men, and in another tomb were found ten skulls, of which many showed cuts or holes, evidently relics of a siege. One incomplete shaft, but a few feet wide and seventeen metres deep, not yet reaching rock, showed us the method of beginning operations. Here we could see sections of a wall of unburnt brick, and of two others of unhewn stone, and we longed to return to see these indications followed up. Among the most precious portable finds were an idol and a terra-cotta head, probably Egyptian, a seal with letters in an unknown script, a bowl for libations, a painted censer, and several enamelled gods. Shortly before our arrival, during the last days of work before pausing for the winter rains, some large tombs had been opened, and found to contain some beautiful and unique painted jars, as well as other jars, bowls, and lamps in large quantities. No description of these excavations had as yet been published, and we thought ourselves very fortunate in being able to study and inquire at first hand. It is almost equally interesting to listen to an explanation of work accomplished, and to speculate as to the results of work only begun.

After dinner we were tempted by the notion of visiting these cities of the dead by moonlight, and were well repaid for the effort of crossing the rough ground of the intervening valley. There were no sensuous triumphs of Greek or Roman art, no glories of column and capital, but, perhaps still more impressive, the homes of peoples who had passed away when Greece and Rome were yet unborn. Here were streets trodden by men of like passions with ourselves: hastening to business or pleasure, meeting their brides or burying their dead. Here were chambers in which the drama of life had been played out over and over again—comedy as well as tragedy, birth and death; here the altars where vows had been fulfilled and the gods propitiated; gardens sanctified by the games of children, the laughter of youth; where ambitions, hopes, affections had been born—to die, or to live for ever. All around us spoke of the eternity of all but man—the stars, the hills, the flowers which return to us year by year—Carmel outliving its tragedies, Tabor its miracles; beyond the hills that ancient river, the River Kishon, hastening to the eternal sea. Man alone had passed away, leaving only the wreck of his labour, the ruin of his homes, to show where he had been. But yet another thought came to us. In a fold of yonder hills, where the moonlight rested tenderly, lay the little village of Nazareth, where long ago there dwelt a Man who

We carried our discussion no further. Surely here, as in that little village, had been men into whose lives had entered the beautiful and the true—which, in proportion as they resembled the life of that Man of Nazareth, must endure for ever.

It was the last night of the old year, and in each heart were memories and longings which might not be revealed. We walked back through the soft night air, each thinking of friends far away, gathered about winter fires, and speculating, perhaps, as to the whereabouts of their wanderers. When we had once more assembled in our friendly hut, and, thanks to "Baedeker's" kindly forethought, had drunk together of an excellent punch of tea and red wine, with a dash of kirsch-wasser, we felt constrained to go forth once more into the wide space beyond. Not a solitary light twinkled on the hillside; the village of Lejjun was sleeping: we were the centre of our world. The horses were tethered before our doors, and we were amused to observe that the force of habit persisted even in sleep, and that, so used were they to travelling en queue that, even in repose, they stood in a single row, head to tail.

Each of us had our special regret as we stood beside that grave, each our special hopes as, only a few minutes later, we greeted the stranger guest and wished each other A Happy New Year!

CHAPTER IV

HAIFA AND CARMEL

The early hours of the next morning were devoted to sketching and photography, and after a midday lunch we mounted for a ride, of some nine hours, to Haifa. We soon found ourselves back in the plain, with the great precipice of Carmel before us for our goal. The general features of the country were the same as yesterday, except that we had the River Kishon for our companion. Even the slight amount of rain which had fallen had had its effect here, and the road in parts was heavy enough to disconcert the horses, who picked their way as daintily as if they remembered nothing of the fact that it had rained, with considerable mud as a result, even in their own royal city of Jerusalem, only nine months ago. We could not wonder, however, that the River Kishon should have swept away the hosts of Sisera, for on ground such as this the horse-hoofs might well be "broken by means of the prancings," and nine hundred chariots of iron, hemmed in between the river and the steep hillside, would have a very poor chance, especially in the rainy season, which one may imagine it to have been, as Jael, whom one thinks of as of the Medici, or the knitting-women of the Fronde, "brought forth butter in a lordly dish"; and butter, except at a prohibitive price, at a convent or two in Jerusalem, is not to be had in the summer months. Surely so vile a woman was never celebrated in song!

The flowers were an endless feast; never had we seen anemones of so many shades, and perhaps the greatest event of the day was the finding of the first jonquils, narcissus tazetta. We had been watching their deep green homes for the last three days, but this was the first time we had been rewarded. Both the Doctors contrived to possess themselves, upon an island in the river, although with some difficulty, of a great handful of the sweet-smelling blooms, the firstlings of our New Year's Day. A few minutes later we came to a couple of bridges, one for the railway and one for the road, and from that point we were more or less in sight of the railway all the time. Some of the horses made a great fuss about the passing of a train, for, although the line is not yet formally open for passenger traffic, a train runs every day in each direction for the convenience of the engineers. Just at sunset, after about eight hours' travelling, we came in view of the lights of Haifa, twinkling along the shore, with only the palms and minarets to dispel the illusion that it might be Brighton or Hastings. Carmel was before us, the great landmark of the Palestine coast, boldly leaping out into the sea, its lighthouse throwing out a friendly welcome, rather, perhaps, than a warning, to those who go down to the sea in ships. This is the one spot on all the Syrian coast remotely resembling a harbour; elsewhere are only ledges for sea-birds, rocks inviting to wreckage, and Nile sand brought up by the currents flowing north. The Phœnicians, of whom alone among all the inhabitants of Syria we can think as a seafaring people, traded from farther north. Little wonder that the people of such a land should welcome the promise, so strange to other ears: "There shall be no more sea!" For many months in the year the inhabitants of Judæa can count on letters only "if they can land at Jaffa," and constantly, even when mail-bags can be tossed into the small boats, which alone can come ashore, passengers are carried past, northward to Beirut, or south to Egypt, to make a fresh attempt, often two or three times repeated; and every year has its record of drowning and disaster.

Sir John Maundeville, who is never at a loss to account for anything that comes in his way, gravely assures us that there was here formerly "a good city of the Christians called Caiphas, because Caiaphas first founded it." The town of Haifa (the Arabic name being variously transliterated Haifa and Caifa) is the old Sycaminum; the modern town, however, stands farther within the bay than the old, the ruins of which are still visible at the foot of Mount Carmel. It was built in the middle of the eighteenth century by Dhaher, a famous governor of the neighbouring Acre or Akko, which is the old Ptolemais.

Our quarters at Haifa were at the farther end of the town, and after passing through streets which, though better than in many places, are decidedly Oriental as to width, paving, and dirt, it was reposeful to find ourselves in the German colony—a picturesque European village: wide streets planted with trees, well-kept roads, gardens gay with flowers, and houses which seem to have been transported from some quaint, old country town, each with its text in "black letter" over the door. One, above all others, was to some among us almost a place of pilgrimage, with all its associations of a man of genius unappreciated, misunderstood—one of the many messengers who, with hands laden with gifts, sought to come unto his own, and his own received him not!

Wohl denen, die das Gebot halten und thun immerdar Recht.
Hans Oliphant.

Not England, and not America, carry on his work of—literally—sweetness and light, but the Germans. Haifa is practically a German town so far as its trade, agriculture, and property are concerned. Even the Russian, American, and, till lately, the English consuls are Germans, and most officials, of whatever nationality, reside in the colony. The hotels, shops, and banks are German. The Roman Catholic hospital and hospice are in the hands of a German sisterhood; the sanatorium on Mount Carmel with its luxurious accommodation and extensive grounds, rendezvous of English missionaries, is conducted by Germans.

The Scottish medical mission, here as elsewhere preaching the Gospel of good deeds, has an admirable hospital. The Jerusalem and the East Mission has a chaplain. The great hospice on Mount Carmel is maintained by the Carmelite Fathers. Out of 12,000 inhabitants half are Moslems, sixteen hundred Jews, and about a thousand Greek, Orthodox, and Latins. Of the six hundred Europeans, five hundred are Germans; the rest of the population is mainly Maronite and Greek Catholic.

Plain living and high thinking are, of course, the ideal of life, but there is a joy in unpacking, in a hot bath, in a white table-cloth. Our companions at table were mainly German engineers and contractors, at work on the new railway. We regretted that we were too late to see the opening ceremony of a few days before, which seems to have presented some interesting features, and was certainly a triumph for the Turkish Government. In spite of its execution having been German—for even when in English hands its surveyor was Dr Schumacher, the German-American Vice-Consul—the Moslem ownership of the railway has not been lost sight of, and it is an interesting anomaly that its inauguration was accompanied by the sacrifice of several sheep. Their throats were cut, the blood poured upon the soil, and the flesh roasted and given to the poor. This is done "for a blessing." How far this savage ceremony is a perpetuation of the Old Testament idea of propitiating the Deity, how far it is done to avert the attention of the jinn, it is impossible to say. Similar ceremonies are performed, both by Moslems and Christians, at the initiation of any undertaking,[3] from the opening of public works to the building of a dwelling-house, the anointing with blood being a necessary element.

To our great regret we were now to lose our friend "Baedeker," to whom we owed so much of pleasure and information. We had given him, in return, much valuable advice on how to construct a guide-book, framed on the analogy of certain specimens beloved of tourists, from which we had culled choice extracts for frequent quotation, the general principles of which seemed to be hasty generalisation and the inculcation of moral lessons. We may incidentally mention that the longer and better one knows Syria the more one learns to appreciate the blessings of Baedeker and to value its extreme accuracy, even in the smallest particulars.

We devoted the next day to renewing our stock of provisions at the excellent shops, visiting friends, and, finally, to a ride up Mount Carmel. Last year an Austrian boat, the Posseidon, came ashore in this very treacherous harbour, and among other passengers rescued from the wreck were a cat and kittens, belonging to the son of the captain. These kittens found a kindly welcome among the German population, and in two houses were introduced to our notice with much pride. They were evidently accustomed to attention, for their self-esteem exceeded that of even other cats "subject to vanity," and their Angora lineage, short faces, tufted ears, bushy tales, and black toes justified their claim to admiration. The Arab cat leaves little to be desired as to pelage, but, as a rule, his markings, black on white, would disgrace a fox-terrier. He is, for the most part, well treated in Palestine, and, in consequence, extremely intelligent; but, like the Arabs themselves, and the Arab donkeys, is too much en evidence for perfect good breeding, and his "flashes of silence" are very occasional, and generally due to sleep or food.

The ride up Mount Carmel was an occasion never to be forgotten. The new carriage road climbs the four hundred and eighty feet which lead to the convent in wide sweeps, and is very easy; but the direct ascent is abrupt, and the views proportionately impressive. Northward, the crescent-shaped bay terminated in Acre, with all its associations of crusading times; while far below us Haifa, and all its gardens, offered, perhaps, the most smiling and prosperous picture which Palestine had ever shown us. The detached houses, buried in trees; the unwonted completeness and order of the cultivation; the miles of terraced vineyards, parents of the excellent Haifa wine; the picturesque German colony; the estates of Selim Effendi Khuri—the millionaire of a district in which are many rich men, mainly Germans; the orange and lemon gardens, with their wealth of fruit, here a flame of bougainvilea, there a bower of fragrant jessamine, at intervals a group of stately palms—where else can we find a prospect such as this?

And then, when we reached the top, was there ever such a rock garden as extends for miles along the summit of Carmel, the mountain which travellers abuse, and for which guide-books apologise? Did ever a January sky shine over a more marvellous wealth of beauty and of promise? Rocks of limestone and hornstone; a general effect of greenness, kept fresh at all times of the year owing to the neighbourhood of the sea and the constant dews; scattered shade of sapling oaks, of carobs, hawthorns, elders, Guelder-roses, pomegranates, acacias, almonds now laden with bloom, arbutus, and tamarisks; an undergrowth of azalea, genista, rock-rose, juniper, a tangle of the glorious clematis cirrhosa, with its delicate greenish blossom; myrtles, and "the slender galingale"; ferns in every shady nook—the felis-mas, asplenium-trichomanes, the scented fern; cheilanthes-fragrans, the waving maiden-hair—a feast of colour and sweetness; cyclamen, crimson, pink, and white; hyacinths, blue; chrysanthemums, golden; mandrakes, royal purple; periwinkle, sapphire; anemone coronaria, scarlet, purple, pink, white; the stately narcissus and sweet jonquils; crocuses, golden, purple, and white. And then the promise! How we longed to wait a week or two, as we watched the strong green swords of the bulbous and tuberous plants preparing to defend their coming treasure; the irises, great and small; the gladioli, the squills, the star of Bethlehem, the hyacinths, the arums, the orchises. Soon, too, there would be adonis, red and yellow; scarlet ranunculus, chrysanthemums, and later, asphodels, lupins, scented stocks, lychnis, geraniums of many kinds, centaureas, valerian and a hundred other blooms, which had sent no word of their coming, and at which we could only guess. To catalogue only seems a sort of profanation.