In a Syrian Saddle

It was, perhaps, bathos, on our part, but we wished Tennyson had known enough Arabic to write Er-Rashid!

How far it all seemed from the littlenesses we have learned to confuse with realities—"the greeting where no kindness is," "the dreary intercourse of daily life"!

Our thoughts turned to dear ones far away as, we may fancy, do those of some who have gone from among us, so far removed we seemed even from those nearest in spirit! We were ready

Towards evening, when the golden light was fading from over the wide plain, we turned our steps towards the eastern hills, a long, low, limestone range, a day's ride distant, although, in the clear atmosphere, it seemed as if we might almost reach their foot in time to see the sun set. One of the soldiers in charge of our party kept us in sight all the time; for away in those dim recesses are wild tribes, who submit to no government but that of their own chief, Ibn Rashid, the great Arabian potentate, whose stronghold is far away beyond the hills, in the city of Hayil, and whom all other shechs hold in awe. Our host, Dr Schumacher, told us that not even his Circassian soldiers, fierce and fearless as they are, would consent to accompany him beyond that plain into the district of Hadramat, and it was still with the sensation of being in touch with fairy lore that we listened while the Professor told us stories of his sojourn in that distant land, of hospitality received in that far-away stronghold, and of personal and friendly intercourse with the great chief himself. We were interested later to note the anachronism of the two cairns, on widely distant hills, remains of Dr Schumacher's survey for the great German map of East Jordan.

As our shadows lengthened we stood to watch the herds of gazelle descending into the plain; the graceful creatures, secure in their swiftness, coming so near that we could watch their movements even without our field-glasses. We had already learnt that they came down daily, towards sunset, often close to the palace walls, and our Sportsmen had long lain in wait for them there in the hope of game, but the news of the human invasion, the profane breaking of the silence, had gone forth, and the gentle creatures, having little reason to feel confidence in the lords of creation, had turned away elsewhere.

As we retraced our steps we lingered, picking up here a flint arrow-head, gift of a distant past, there a bleached snake-skin, perfect as though worn but yesterday. Other treasures, too, we found: wonderful velvety arums, crimson, purple, and black, not the large arum palæstinum of the spring, but a minute, dainty, fairy-like copy of it, fitly adorning this dream world; crocuses, leafless, almost stalkless, white, mauve, and pink, rich relations of the "naked ladies" of our home meadows, and tiny pink geraniums, the lingering guests of summer.

Scarcely were we again at home, when Nature endowed us with another, and truly royal, spectacle. As the full moon rose, above our palace walls, she was eclipsed, and we stood long, watching alternately the western miracle of sunset and the eastern pageant of the slow and, as it seemed, reluctant moonrise. Some of the Arab servants watched with us, but they were of so superior a class that they showed but the faint, unimaginative interest of average civilised man elsewhere. They told us, however, of the superstitious practices still pursued by those "who knew no better"—the singing and beating of tom-toms and sacrifice of a cock. They were wonderful servants, or seemed so to us, the slaves of the kitchen of the West. The cook produced excellent dinners, of three hot courses, upon a box of charcoal embers he could lift with one hand, and the waiters, summoned with a hand-clap, not only brought but ran to bring whatever you might want. Everything was spotlessly clean, and the waiting at table would have done credit to an English "Jeames." They all spoke at least three languages, and they amused our leisure moments with games and songs. The native, however, must come out somewhere, and we are bound to record that, when an imprisoned cock crowed from a small wooden box, these Arabs, who are never quiet one second themselves, took him out and whipped him!

We went to rest early in our luxurious tents, and woke next morning to find, among other miracles, that the water in our jugs was barely above freezing point.

CHAPTER V

AMMÂN

It was with something like the pain of a personal parting that we bade farewell to Mshatta. Our friends, too, were breaking up camp this 7th of October, and as the German flags were saluted before being taken down, we realised to the full, as sometimes happens, that here was one of those moments in life which could never recur; that our joy in the marvellous beauty of the spot, in the indefinable fusion of Art and Nature, was such as we could never repeat. The swallows, who had made their home in the ruined palace, would soon dart and skim in consciousness of sole possession; the lizards, when the sun became hot, would bask upon the wall as they had basked a thousand years; the gazelles would wander fearlessly around at sunset, all would be as before, except where man had left his imprimatur, the scar of death and destruction that follows his tracks across the face of Nature. The very dogs had gone already: the foolish puppy, with its woolly coat, the beautiful tawny deerhound, more light limbed, more fleet than ours, in proportion as the gazelle, his prey, exceeds our moorland deer in swiftness and in grace. The dream was past, "so sleeping, so aroused from sleep," we were on one of those tablelands of life from which no change was possible but descent to the commonplace of every day. We had seen the pale moonlight on the palace walls, the purple hills we might never hope to cross; we had had visions of an enchanted world we might never see; we had had glimpses of a page we might never hope to turn.

We were bound for Ammân, not more than between five and six hours' ride away, and our horses, refreshed by their rest, went gaily along the gently undulating plain. Somewhat north we came in sight of Castal, a Roman fortress, on a hill westward, which some of the party—the Sportsmen, and the Doctor—had visited yesterday, and which Tristram, its discoverer, considered different in character, as well as superior in size, to the usual castle of lookout and defence to be found all over districts where Roman colonies and roads may have needed protection and supervision. Although the place is not mentioned in Eusebius, either in the Itineraries or the Notitia, its name is obviously Roman, and its size, for it is capable of accommodating some twelve hundred cavalry, speaks for its importance. It contains many fragments of fine white marble, not indigenous. There appear to have been two castles: the main building, on the crest of the hill, 84 yards square, of which only the lower storey remains, and a smaller building, northward, of superior workmanship, with a balustrade of fluted Corinthian squared pilasters. The ancient city, which includes remains which may be Greek, stands N.W. of the castle. During the last five years it has been occupied by Bedu, very greatly to its injury.

We had exchanged our escort, as the officer granted by the Pasha for our safe conduct was not responsible for us after we had reached Madaba. We had, accordingly, bidden him farewell before leaving, and had been touched by the fact that he had positively declined to receive a present, alleging that to do so would detract from the honour which he had enjoyed in being permitted to accompany so distinguished a person as the Professor. The member of our party who best knew the country, cynically observed that he must have seen more profit in refusal than in acceptance! He had a good voice, and, though Arab music is certainly an acquired taste, had given us pleasure, and contributed variety to the al-fresco concerts we occasionally enjoyed. Among other songs had been one composed by a certain poet Nimr, whose grave we were to visit later. Silence is impossible to an Arab, and when they are not talking they sing. Our mukaris also sang, the words often being improvised out of some passing circumstance, and with nonsense rhymes.

Whether the following was the actual air or only another exactly like it, it would be impossible to say. For this we are indebted to Dr Schumacher, who found it among the 'Anazeh tribe of Bedu, said to be especially fond of both music and poetry, and who relates that, "walking in the caravan of camels, his mantle or sheepskin thrown over one shoulder and an old musket or a huge stick carried on the other, the Bedawin is heard continually chanting the following monotonous song":—

When the Arab sings he shuts his mouth, and, very literally, "sings through his nose," four notes, or rather tones, amply sufficing for a melody. When we sang they seemed vastly amused, and our younger mukari was caught more than once mimicking our gestures, beating time, and opening his mouth; while the other was in fits of laughter.

The successor of our officer was a Circassian, and, though equally picturesque, of quite a different type. In place of the flowing robe and floating keffeeye of the Bedu he wore an astrachan cap, close-fitting coat, leggings tucked inside low shoes with heels, and the military cloak of the Turkish cavalry. His horse was very powerful, and always well groomed, and, what is more unusual in the Turkish army as represented in Syria, his accoutrements and harness—silver-mounted, with enamel decoration—were bright and well kept. He had all the apparent moroseness characteristic of his race, and never spoke except under pressure; but the Lady reported that he was kindly in rendering small services unasked, would always ride up to her if she became accidentally separated from the party, especially if she were any distance in advance, and was expert in mounting and dismounting her, although never obtruding his assistance.

About half-an-hour from Mshatta the Sportsmen sighted a herd of gazelle, and, still sore from previous disappointments, dismounted to stalk them—as usual, in vain. They vanished like smoke round the base of a low hill, which one of the party climbed, in search rather of information as to their habits, than in hope of a kill. He came back with the report that even a gunshot had failed to break up their ranks, and that they went on their way in perfect order.

The road, still over a wide plain, with occasional undulations, might have been considered barren of interest by those who could not find delight in the wonderful gradations of colouring, dun against the cloudless sky; the sensation of infinite space; the crocuses and minute arums, dainty jewels set in golden sands; the darting lizards, distinguishable only in motion from their surroundings; the tiny white shells of the land-snails; the scent of the wormwood artemisium when crushed beneath our horses' feet; the myriads of larks, including the exquisite crested lark—the Mary-lark of the Highlands of Scotland; while now and then a deep purple shadow crossing our path told of a griffon-vulture or lanner-falcon swooping over the plain, to the terror of bird and beast.

From time to time the Professor would break out into song, not the irritating snatches which are an insult alike to silence and to conversation, but a consistent and complete rendering, as careful as if in any drawing-room, of some quaint old folk-song picked up in his many wanderings—and which, sung with an artistic verve in a mellow tenor, others uniting in bass or alto in a harmonised refrain, filled the air with a melody not unworthy of the surrounding silence.

Suddenly we were startled by a sound so unwonted, yet so strangely familiar, that we could hardly believe in its reality—the shriek of the railway whistle! We were again nearing the Haj railway, at a point where it is actually in use, for 300 kilometres, out of the 2000 projected, are already complete. A little farther and we came across quite a village of the tents of the workmen, the engineers and foremen being mainly German. The Turkish flag was floating, and Turkish soldiers were in charge, for the protection of the undertaking, which seems to be regarded by the Bedu rather with a sad apprehension than with active opposition. Dr Schumacher relates that, when surveying for the English upon the line afterwards abandoned, he discussed the matter with the friendly shech of the 'Anazeh—a superior tribe, said to number 300,000—who is the official protector of the Haj road. Shech Muhammed realised that the presence of the iron monster must rob him of much grazing ground; but he resigned himself, in Moslem fashion, to the inevitable.

"I see well that with the great iron road we cannot remain long in Haurân; but we know that this country is not for ever to be ours, for we have heard how the descendants of those whose bones lie under the ruins of this land are to come back, and rebuild once more its cities, even as they were in the times of their forefathers"; adding, after a pause: "But we will retire to the 'Ajlûn [the district farther north], where there is place yet enough for our tribe. Allah yebârik!" ("May Allah's blessing be upon it!"). The Bedu hold the tradition that the frenjy (Franks) originally possessed the country, and will one day return; that all over the land are indications, marked upon stones, of treasure to be recovered; and that the visits of archæologists are for the purpose of so changing these marks as to confuse the Arabs, who are beginning to understand them too; for have they not their museums in Constantinople and Jerusalem, and are they not making investigations and excavations of their own?

We crossed the railway, a point where it had reached 200 kilometres south of Damascus, and very soon afterwards began to feel that we were once more in the world of man, however remote may have been the date of his occupation. Caves and grottoes in the hillside showed traces of adaptation to his needs; hewn stones lay about in piles; what looked like the remains of a cenotaph attracted our attention; and we dismounted to examine a group of sarcophagi—some but lately exposed to view, others which had long lain upon the surface. Most had a resting-place for the head and a groove for the lid.

A sudden turning at the ford of a rapid stream revealed the town of Ammân, lying in a narrow valley between low but precipitous hills. Most of us were utterly unprepared, after six hours of riding across a lonely tableland, to find an orderly town of 10,000 inhabitants, of an aspect so superior to anything we had seen since leaving Jerusalem, or even, so far as the actual town is concerned, to Jerusalem itself, that an explanation seemed necessary, and the statement that the population was Circassian was, geographically, an added perplexity. The houses, built partly of mud brick and partly of ancient material like those of Madaba, were well placed, most had porticos and balconies, and some were enclosed with well-swept yards. It was not immediately that we realised to the full the causes of a certain sense of unfamiliarity, of having passed into another country, with other conditions. The ear was, perhaps, the first sense conscious of change. The town was silent. There was none of the shrieking, none of the high-pitched voices, none of the singing of an Arab entourage—not only because we were among Circassians, but also because we were in a place where not a woman, not even a young girl, was to be seen! There were men in plenty, silently stalking about, like shabby ghosts of the Prince Regent, in tight-waisted coats, high vests, a display of silver buttons and braid, full skirts, and high boots. Instead of the dangling sword proper to the rest of their historic effect, all carried a revolver at the side, as well as a long dagger upright in the girdle. All were armed, and a row of cartridges across the breast was as much de rigueur as the low astrachan cap which completed the costume. There were no cafés; no dice-boards at street corners; no lounging, screaming, idling; no "making kafe"—the Arabic phrase for doing nothing, in company with others similarly employed, and a row of water-pipes.

These Circassians have an interesting history. In spite of all that is said of "the unspeakable Turk," perhaps few rulers have so many varieties of voluntary immigrants within their domains. The Circassians of East Jordanland seem to have first left their home in the Caucasus, Kamnimotsk, or Kakupschi, about the year 1860, and to have wandered in search of a home where they might be privileged to live under Moslem rule. Their leader, the Emir Nūh Bey, a major in the Russian army, conducted them first into Asia Minor, and finally, after many difficulties and disappointments, about 1878, to this district, which they call "the edge of the desert"—possibly with some personal intention on the part of their leader, who, as his son, 'Abd el hamīd Bey, informed Dr Schumacher, was descended from a family named Hûsh or Hûshi, who came originally from Ramleh (by some identified with Arimathea) in the plain of Sharon, and fought against the Crusaders. Their crest, which they bear upon their weapons, and which, in the Caucasus, they branded upon their cattle, was a mace. The same, with the addition of the letters alef within the head of the mace, was also branded upon their slaves. These Hûshi travelled from Jerusalem into Anatolia, and thence into the Caucasus, and now, as it would seem, were, after the lapse of centuries, on the way back to the cradle of their race. They arrived in the Jaulân, the district which, with the Belka, they have since colonised, about 1880, and in less than a quarter of a century have changed the face of the district which they inhabit. They are frugal and industrious, and have some knowledge of agriculture. Unfortunately, their industry has, in one respect, been misdirected, and they are the acknowledged purveyors of tree trunks for roofing and other architectural purposes, which they convey all over the district in two-wheeled carts drawn by a team of oxen. As the wheels are guiltless of grease, as roads, as we understand them, are practically unknown, and the loads heavy, the approach of these vehicles is known half-a-mile in advance. The melancholy result of their timber trade is that the surrounding hillsides have, within the last twenty years, been almost denuded of their oaks and pines. It is some slight mitigation, however, that the Circassians plant as well as destroy, and promising fruit gardens follow the banks of the stream, especially at Jerash, but also at Ammân and elsewhere.

In many respects they are very different from the Arabs: in their industry, their settled homes, their power of initiation, their habits. They have superior agricultural instruments; they do not look upon the camel and the ass as the sole possible means of transportation; but, alone in Syria, until the recent establishment of Jewish and German colonies, employ carts, those for lighter purposes being made of wattles. They preserve their national dress, and neither the tarbush of the Arab of the towns, nor the aba or mantle, common to all, have ever been adopted. Many speak Turkish fluently, the elder ones some Russian, most a little Arabic with a bad accent, but their ordinary tongue continues to be Circassian. The Turkish Government has permitted them to repopulate various ruinous towns—Nawa, Ammân, Jerash, and various villages—for a given period, without paying any taxes, and, in spite of certain incidents of attack and reprisal between themselves and the Bedu, fierce enough for the time, they have succeeded in inspiring their neighbours with respect or, perhaps, awe. They themselves, it is said, are perfectly fearless in attack or defence, and extremely severe in exaction of vengeance. Whereas the fellahin fear to attract attention by successful crops of fruit or grain, lest they should be called upon to feed the Bedu and the tax-gatherer, the Circassians fear no one, and at present pay no taxes. Hence, as well as from superior capacity and industry, they effect, as no fellah may venture to do, improvements of a kind which are permanent; they make walls and roads, they devise systems of irrigation, they plant hedges and trees.

In Ammân, as we came to know later, their industry had very unfortunate effects upon the glorious ruins which adorn the hills on either side: the basilica has wholly disappeared, and one apse of the thermæ; but the Muchtar, who may, perhaps, be likened to the mayor of the town, has forbidden further depredations, and, happily, the new population has not chosen to establish itself among the ruins.

We had made no arrangements for our accommodation in Ammân—a visit which had not been included in the original programme. However, we had been assured there was a "locanda"—it is curious how many Italian words have been accepted into Arabic—and as we had not yet lunched we made our way thither without loss of time. It was in the hands of Christians, and, from the point of view of domestic arrangements, Christianity is not a success among Arabs; and, without entering into details, it suffices to say that life can now hold no mysteries for us in the matter of inns, nor, it may be added, of domestic entomology.

Its full horrors were not revealed until we went inside, and, in our circumstances, to go indoors while we could remain without would have shown a singular lack of imagination and of the spirit of psychological inquiry. There were two courts, an inner and an outer, and those who had investigated certain obvious details decided at once upon the outer, and, accordingly, chairs were arranged round a deal table under a vast apricot-tree—our eight horses, with several other horses and donkeys, being under a neighbouring apricot-tree. We then collected our saddle-bags, and spread our luncheon, after which we drank coffee for the good of the house.

By-and-by a very smart young officer, speaking French and German—educated at a military academy in Austria—came to call upon the Professor, and again we all had coffee. He came as the representative of the officials of the railway line. We were interested in the fact that, unlike most other Arabs of our acquaintance, he did not smoke, and said that he came of a family of non-smokers.

His visit finished, we went off to see the ruins, which lie on the hills on either side of a stream, which we crossed on stepping-stones, though it is said to be not fordable, even on horseback, in the winter. Burckhardt, who was here in 1810, speaks of the elaborate arrangements made for the benefit of this water-supply, a rare natural gift in the Belka. Not only the banks, but the bed of the river was paved, in the manner we had seen ourselves at Ba'albek and elsewhere; and the water was full of fish, probably the chub, which still exist here, and in the Jabbok and Arnon, though ignored by the Arabs, who do not care for fish, and who when they do kill them, with a view of selling them to Europeans, pursue the wasteful and unsportsmanlike method of a discharge of gunpowder!

The most impressive of the ruins, perhaps because the least interfered with by modern buildings, is the theatre. The stage has been destroyed, but some forty tiers of seats still remain visible, as well as about twenty-four boxes, each capable of holding a dozen persons—traces in all of places for some 3000 spectators. Voices on the stage are still distinctly heard on the farthest tier, although the acoustic properties have probably suffered from the removal of parts of the building. A fine colonnade, of which several Corinthian columns, 15 feet high, still remain, stood in front of the building, leading to the river on the one hand and to a small odeum on the other. Burckhardt was at a loss to conjecture the nature of the latter building, of which much more existed then than now: the roof had fallen in, and made entrance difficult, but the wall of the semicircular area was, he says, richly decorated, The theatre is built into the side of the hill in such a way that the third tier of boxes is excavated in the solid rock.

On the opposite side the ruins are more numerous, but less impressive. A mosque, said to be of the time of the Abbasides (eighth century), stands almost side by side with a Byzantine church; and a little to the north-east are the remains of thermæ, which received water by means of a conduit from the river. A street of columns on the left bank of the stream, and parallel with it, indicates the direction of the high street of the town, nearly a thousand yards long; while north of this stood a forum (by some thought to be a temple) of a late Roman date. The town was evidently walled, and the street of columns was closed by gates towards the east. We heard of many tombs, sarcophagi, and remains of dwellings worth seeing behind the town, but we had little enough time to look at even what was of primary interest. We were, however, thanks to Circassian civilisation, more fortunate than Burckhardt, whose guides forsook him, alarmed by the sight of fresh horse-dung near the ruins, and fearful of falling into the hands of the Bedu. When reproached, they replied that they did not see why they should expose themselves to the danger of being stripped and robbed of their horses, because of his foolish caprice of writing down the stones!

Burckhardt was not the first visitor. He had been preceded by Seetzen in 1805-6, who, however, left very little record of his travels in Haurân and the Belka.

It was necessary to cut short our investigations while enough daylight remained to allow the Professor to pay a visit to the muchtar—a visit worth recording on account of the extreme contrast between our experience here and everywhere else upon our journey. While we were seeking for his house he seems to have had intimation of our approach, for he received us in the road, and, although he once uttered a half-hearted tfaddalu, an invitation to enter which we did not accept, contrary to all Oriental custom and tradition, he showed no desire whatever to entertain us. Elsewhere, to turn away without coffee, repose, and cigarettes would have been a mutual insult. He was civil enough, but of the typical Circassian moroseness, and his small meaningless features, which, despite its reputation for beauty, were characteristic of the race, never once lighted up with even a passing gleam of sunshine.

It was dark under our apricot trees, when we regained the courtyard of the inn, and while we waited for supper we watched with interest the scene around us, again struck by the contrast with our accustomed Arab surroundings. Where there are Arabs there are all the elements of a comic opera: the bright colour, the laughter, the ever-changing groups, the perpetual singing—not individual egotistic singing, but chorus, harmony, antiphon, with hand-clappings and merry shouts. There are sudden, and, apparently, inconsequent dances, and equally sudden and inconsequent changes of mood, drawing of knives, quarrels, embraces, and hand-shakings, such as exist nowhere but among Arabs, and on the lyric stage. Here, however, it was no comic opera, but a transpontine drama of the good old-fashioned sort—a novel by "Monk" Lewis, or Thomas Love Peacock. Men in long, dark drapery glided in and out by the imperfect light of the single lantern hung beneath the trees; they pulled their caps low on their foreheads, and veiled their faces with a cloak thrown over the left shoulder; all carried arms, and seldom spoke, and then only in low voices; the few Arabs present were of the upper class, officers mainly, and they seemed affected by the general depression, and drank coffee and smoked their water-pipes in silence. A single interruption served but to accentuate the prevailing mood. A drunken man, a very rare spectacle in a Moslem country—a Christian, of course—had reached the voluble and affectionate stage, and assured us all, in a variety of languages, of his perfect readiness to oblige us in any direction. The audience silently ignored his existence, and it was in vain that our host led him again and again to the gate: our polyglot friend invariably took affectionate leave, and promptly returned. We felt persuaded that the audience considered his conduct merely another form of the Christian eccentricity, of which our presence had already supplied a curious example. We were all crazy Franks—some drank wine, and others "wrote down stones." Relief came at last, in the person of the only woman we caught sight of in Ammân, a stout Italian of determined aspect, who withdrew her lord and master, not without a certain amount of discussion, which must have further enlightened our companions as to the manners and customs of the superior races. In spite of his irregularities the wretched creature was not friendless. He was a wandering contractor and builder, and possessed, we were told, of some fifteen helpmates dispersed over various parts of the country! Even our own mukaris were silent for once: Khalil slept over his water-pipe, and the boy was at his usual evening task of patching the cloths which hung beneath the horses to protect them from the flies, and which they generally kicked into rags in the course of the day. The beasts themselves seemed asleep after their meal—the only one, according to Arab custom, in the twenty-four hours. Dogs and chickens stirred now and then in dark corners, and cats crept about with a fitting air of silence and mystery.

Presently our supper arrived: good bread, good soup, good rice—one may always count on good cooking among Arabs in this country—and a fowl good to eat, although, to the eye, too much au naturel, too suggestive of a boiled corpse with wagging head, and legs so much in their normal position as to be somewhat surprising upon the dinner-table. Our host offered us beer, and arrived with bottles and glasses in hand, well knowing that at the end of a long, hot day, and in our present surroundings with, the dust and smell of a stable, a couple of bottles cooled in running water, even at the price of a franc and a half each, might be hard to resist; but even the Sportsmen nobly looked the other way, in the probably futile hope of a classification apart from our fellow-Europeans, who could be still heard carrying on a polyglot exchange of compliments at the farther end of the village. We solaced ourselves with tea, and retired early, in the expectation, entirely unfulfilled, of a long night's rest.

CHAPTER VI

JERASH, AND THE FORDS OF JABBOK

There was no lingering in Ammân next morning. From sheer habit of historic reference we speculated as to whether it were Ptolemy Philadelphus who, having rebuilt the ancient city of Rabbath Ammân, and bequeathed to it the name of Philadelphia, still used among the Arabs, may have endowed it, moreover, so far as our locanda was concerned, with one of the most offensive of the ten plagues of his native land, after which we did our best to forget our recent experiences. We may remark in passing, however, that traces, painful traces, lingered till later in the day, when they were finally removed by a dip in the strong current of the Jabbok, for it had been in very mournful Gregorian cadence that some of us had chanted "Moab is my washpot" while a little water was poured on to our hands out of a bottle by way of morning ablution. However, it was a privilege worth paying for to be able to sing the Psalms in Moab under any conditions; and whatever else may have failed the party, it was never the spirit of cheerful resignation.

We have not yet sung the praise of the early start! One must come to the East to learn to the full the beauty of the morning and of the night, as well as, inter alia, of life without fogs and coal fires and bad cooking; of life where houses are spacious and servants serve, and a napoleon goes further than a sovereign, and the post comes but once a week or so, and newspapers are not.

There is here none of the discomfort of the early start at home—no shivering over ice-cold water, no closed shutters, no bolted front door, no makeshift breakfast brought by the wrong servant in incomplete toilet. No matter how early you rise the world is up before you; you can have as much at five o'clock as at nine. Your horse is a little stable stiff; but he is as pleased with the early start as you, and he snuffs the dewy air with æsthetic enjoyment. In the hollows of the mountains a mist wreath is lying; here and there a few clouds even may hang low to the west—but you know they are only dew, and that even now in October we are perfectly certain of a fine day, with at least another thirty to follow. You are invigorated, encouraged in mind and body for the whole day, even when, as in our case, you know that the day will last for ten or twelve hours.

Almost immediately on leaving the village we began to climb—for, although Ammân is 2747 feet above sea-level, the town itself is in a hollow—and soon found ourselves on an excellent Roman road. The particular pleasure which the Professor had promised us for this day's journey was that we should do homage at the tomb of Abdel Azziz en-Nimr Shech Adwân, more often spoken of as Nimr, a great poet, of the Bedu tribe of the Adwân, who addressed a great number of poems to Watka, his twenty-fourth wife. We had heard one of his poems recited by our Bedawy escort, and we were willing to take the Professor's word for the rest; for the poet's works have been collected by but one editor, who has not yet published them, and the two or three writers who mention the spot at all do so mainly in connection with a certain Shech Goblan, who, before Jerash and Ammân were given over to the Circassians, was much feared throughout the district.

About two hours after leaving Ammân we reached the Wady el-Hammam, and, a little later, Yajûz, a large Bedu cemetery on the side of a hill, strewn with columns, capitals, and hewn stones, obviously the remains of a Roman town. Some great stone troughs, which may have been sarcophagi, attracted the attention of our horses on account of the water they contained, and we gladly dismounted, and left them to such refreshment as was provided by the very muddy spring, while we climbed the hill a short distance to the tomb of our laureate, who may certainly be regarded as having an experimental knowledge of what characteristics were most acceptable in a wife, and whose eulogy of Watka should at least have the merit of discrimination.

The whole hillside was covered with graves, and some curious combinations presented themselves. There the tomb of some landowner was marked by a plough, the inconceivably primitive instrument with which the fellah scratches the surface of the fertile soil; there a fragment of the blue cotton, which is the inevitable dress of the Bedu, twisted round a stick, shows where some woman has been laid to rest; farther again, a stone, roughly sculptured with the instruments of coffee-making, celebrates the hospitality of some unnamed shech; and, in strange contrast with the savagery of to-day, we step over a sculptured capital or carven pillar, memorial of the art and culture of nigh two thousand years ago; while, reminder that "extremes meet," our thoughts are carried back yet another thousand years at sight of the welys—tombs of Moslem saints—standing apart on mounds, shadowed with ancient oaks, where the pious come to worship to-day, to the Israelites who did so of old time, "upon every high hill and under every green tree."

Around the spring were groups of women, with the tattooed faces, hanging veils, and curious long, narrow dresses of the East Jordan Bedu, barely wide enough to stride in, but lying at least a yard upon the ground, front and back, so that when they walk the skirt has to be kilted, often to the entire violation of such ideas of modesty as may have originally dictated its design. They had taken much interest in the Lady, and, as usual, had speculated as to which of her companions might be her proprietor—always the first point to ascertain—the remaining matters of curiosity in regard to a woman being: What did she cost? and How many boys has she?—after which they frankly discuss her "points," and express surprise at the smallness of her waist.

Suddenly there was an instant's silence; all eyes were turned southward, where a procession had just come into sight winding up the valley. A weird, melancholy song broke out, the women pressed forward, and we realised that a funeral was advancing. We had already observed a newly-made grave; but the procession passed it by, and halted beside the nearest wely, under a group of trees. The four men who carried the bier laid it gently down, and the women, with loud cries, gathered about it on the ground. The body was that of a woman, so closely wrapped in her dress and veil that we could only perceive that she was slender. All joined in the loud wailing, led, apparently, by a professional mourner, who sat beside the corpse, beating her breast, and throwing dust upon her head. It was a pathetic evidence of the homogeneousness of humankind, despite differences of custom, that those who really wept, silently and apart, were, we understood, the mother and mother-in-law of the dead, while a young man who leant alone against a tree trunk was the newly-married husband of a three days' bride. She had died, they said, of a sudden illness, the description of which suggested measles or small-pox. We could not but think of the little home made desolate, of plans and hopes never to be realised, of the bereaved husband—for here, among the Bedu, marriage is a matter of choice and not of compulsion, as among the Arabs of the towns—of the poor girl herself, who, having reached what is the main object of existence among the Orientals, had been called away just as life was opening. Our point of view may have been a little too Occidental, or it may have been another case of "extremes meet," the mean being represented by the higher civilisation of Khalil, a true Jerusalemite, for his one remark was: "It was a pity the bridegroom had had no use out of his bargain when he had paid so much for her!"

The young man was presented to the Professor, who expressed our respectful sympathy, and we turned away after a last glance at the loud-wailing group of the indifferent, the silent sadness of those most concerned. Whatever the age or race, "Light sorrows speak, great grief is dumb."

When we left the wady we climbed a precipitous hill, and found ourselves overlooking a deep gorge to our left—the Wady er-Rumman—where abundant verdure showed the presence of water—a rare sight to our eyes, habituated to the aridity of Jerusalem, where running water is so utterly unknown that if for a few hours once a year, after exceptionally heavy rain, it is reported that the Kedron flows, the whole population turns out to witness so extraordinary a phenomenon. As a matter of fact, moreover, the Kedron does not flow, unless far underground, and only a spring—the well of Job or Joab—overflows into the Kedron bed, but the fact is always thus described. Further, we crossed a small tributary stream, where we found a number of shepherds and herdsmen, with camels and sheep and goats. By this time our horses were hot with the climb, and we were forced to deny them the desired refreshment, and hastened on, already somewhat occupied with thoughts of the luncheon promised to us at the fords of Jabbok. When we came—some of us riding in advance with the officer—to a pleasant stream shaded by oleanders we thought he must be mistaken in riding resolutely forward, for we were not yet used to a district in which two streams might be passed in a single day, and were half inclined to wait for those behind. However, we pressed on, and, as no shouts followed us, were glad to have made so much way that it was possible to dismount and rest our horses for a few moments, for the Jabbok, it appeared, was still distant—"over two hills," declared Khalil, when he at last overtook us. They were somewhat stiff hills both to climb and to descend, and not Jacob himself, with his two wives and two women-servants and eleven sons, and all his other anxieties, could have been more glad than we, when, from our last ascent, we saw beneath us a wide expanse of fresh green, showing that we had reached the fords of Jabbok. The river, rising from streams in the hills above Ammân, and sweeping round by the north-west before taking a sudden turn towards the Jordan, accomplishes a journey of sixty miles, not counting its windings, to reach the point which, at starting, was only eighteen miles away. In its descent of some three thousand feet its current gains great swiftness, and it rushes with considerable violence over its rocky bed, as the widely-scattered pebbles—white and water-worn—abundantly testify. Two roads follow its course; and though but a couple of distant villages were in sight, the cultivated land all along its banks showed the near presence of active humanity: a deserted mill among the bushes, and a few fellahin watering their cattle, were, however, our only reminder of human life. We were free to picture any chapter in its history which might strike our imagination—Jacob, occupied with all his family cares and apprehensions, suddenly called upon in the darkness to remember the world of the Unseen; Gideon pursuing the Midianites; the hosts of Chosroes marching from Damascus to the Nile; the Roman legionaries constructing the very road which we have followed to-day; Galilean pilgrims coming up to the Jerusalem feasts by way of Peræa; the propagandists of the Prophet hastening to the north; and lastly, and more enduring than all, the fellahin, with their elementary agriculture, seeking their daily bread like the swallows that are darting overhead or the rat that splashes into the stream, oblivious and indifferent to all other life, and, therefore, permanent and persistent in their own.

For ourselves, however, the fords of Jabbok represented primarily the means of taking a bath, and secondarily, those of making tea. The sun was still hot; we had descended considerably since leaving Ammân, and the bushes offered welcome shade. The Circassian soldier brought the Lady a handful of ripe blackberries—the first we had seen in Syria, where blackberries are abundant enough, but for lack of moisture never seem to ripen. The oleanders, with their rich crimson; the rare feast of abundant verdure; the grey water rushing upon its white bed, with the effect of blue which gives to the Jabbok its modern name of Ez-Zerka—"the Blue"; the contented horses cooling their limbs in a deep pool, made a vision we were loth to disturb; but we were already late, and after an hour's repose were bidden to mount once more. When we had crossed the rushing ford and regained the plateau we realised that our shadows were already lengthening.

We had now crossed an important political boundary, for the Jabbok is one of the three rivers at right angles with the Jordan—the Arnon, Jabbok, and Yarmuk—which divide Eastern Palestine into three provinces; physically, as well as, for the most part, politically, though their disentanglement is difficult, distinct. Behind us was the Belka, the land of Ammon and Moab, practically the Peræa of ancient history, in the time of the Herods politically associated with Galilee, and always regarded by the Jew as being as much a Jewish province as Judæa or Galilee. The climate of the Belka is temperate, and in spite of insufficient water at its highest points the treeless plateau is ever fresh and breezy, providing pasture for innumerable herds. It is but seventy miles from the orange gardens of the Philistine plain, but eight hours' direct ride from the palms of Jericho, and yet the Arabs have a proverb: "They said to the Cold: 'Where shall we find thee?' And he answered: 'In the Belka.' 'And if not there?' 'In Baalbek is my home.'" Now Baalbek, as we saw it in August, lies under the shadow of snowcapped mountains.

Now we were coming into 'Ajlûn, the land of Gilead, "the region of Decapolis," a district of forests—falling, alas! before the axe of the Circassian—of springs and streams, tributaries of the Jordan as well as of the Jabbok and the Yarmuk; the land whence "a company of Ishmaelites came with their camels, bearing spicery and balm and myrrh, going to carry it down to Egypt." There is still "balm in Gilead." We had scarcely crossed the river when our soldier, stooping from his saddle, snatched a handful of deliciously fragrant herbs, which he presented to the Lady, who had no opportunity of verifying their species, but was quite prepared to believe that she had enjoyed the sweetness of the balsamum Gileadense, though with suppressed misgivings that it might be only the melissa officinalis. Indeed, the low growth of artemisia and other herbs throughout this region is so sweet that, in the wilder parts of the Belka frequented by gazelle, which feed upon it, the Arabs constantly pick up their droppings for the pleasure of the fragrance.

Low ranges of hills to the east lay between us and that far-away fascination of the desert of which we had first, and most fully, realised the spell at Mshatta, making us feel that we were, in some degree, coming once more into touch with humanity and the commonplace of life, and farther away from that dim region known to so few, and which throughout history has always been the great source of danger, the check upon the civilisation of East Jordan, ever open to the great hungry desert, whence in all ages wild tribes have come forth to seek sustenance from the fertile tablelands of Bashan, Gilead, and Moab.

Here not Nature and the desert but Art and Greece were the prominent facts in the minds of some among us. Ammân, fresh in our memory, had been already an important stronghold two hundred years before Christ, and, later, a member of the Decapolis, although, alone of the ten cites, lying south of the Jabbok. Here, as never before, were we able to realise something of the nature and meaning of that mysterious alliance of the Decapolis, of which the origin is unknown, but which we had seen represented in miniature in the present-day policy of playing off the Circassians against the Bedawy tribes of that same district, which, even two thousand years ago, was then, as now, the check upon all prosperity and progress. There seems little doubt that this confederacy—like the Arab dynasty of the Ghassanides at a later date under Trajan—was intended to balance these Semitic influences; and these cities were thoroughly Hellenic, not only in art and culture, but, unlike other parts of Eastern Palestine, in religion also, the cult of Astarte alone being borrowed from their surroundings. Most of them were placed, like Ammân, on either side of a stream, with fertile land all round about, not on a hill, as was the Semitic custom, to judge from the positions of most of the villages one sees west of the Jordan. Their pastimes, too, were Greek—the theatres, the bath, the circus. All had the street of columns, the forum, the temples such as we had seen at Ammân; each was approached by just such a road as we were treading now.

While we talked and mused the sun had set, the short evening glow was in the west, and we were soon cautiously walking our horses in the dim twilight. Suddenly a stately arch reared itself against the fading sky; while beyond, far as the eye could reach, dusky columns arose against the background of the dark hillside. Before we could take in the scene the veil of night had fallen, for here in the East "with one stride comes the dark." We could see no longer; but we knew we were descending into a valley, for the sound of the rushing stream at the bottom seemed to get nearer, till at last we felt that our horses' feet were in the water. The village was asleep, but few lights shone from the windows of the frugal Circassian inhabitants, and we could only trust to our kindly animals, who were taking their lead from that of the officer, who rode in advance. We were ascending a very steep hill; soon we had reached level ground, and we awaited the coming of the responsible members of our party. Looking back we could see the great lordly columns standing out snow-white in the starlight, monuments of a race, an age, a system, a religion that had perished like last year's snow, leaving not a link with to-day, except that common aspiration after happiness, present and future, which had inspired the existence of the Past, as it still inspires those who gaze upon its monuments. Never had the Past seemed to stoop towards us as now in this eastern starlight, and it seemed as if we might almost hope for answer when we asked: