CHAPTER IX.

SAMSON’S COUNTRY.

The new district is one of considerable interest from a Biblical point of view. It is called the ’Arkûb, or “ridge,” and consists of a long spur, about 2000 feet above the sea, with numerous smaller ridges branching off, and two important valleys to the north and south—the first the Valley of Sorek, the second that of Elah. Our camp was a place of considerable interest, if I am correct in identifying it with the Rock Etam, in which Samson took refuge from the Philistines. West of us were Sorek, Zoreah, Eshtaol, and Bethshemesh; and east of us Bether, the scene of the great destruction of the partisans of Barcocheba, and Beth Zacharias, the theatre of the battle in which Eleazar, the Hasmonean, perished under the elephant.

Another site of yet greater interest was also perhaps recovered during this campaign, namely, the Emmaus of St Luke’s Gospel, sixty stadia from Jerusalem. This village has been variously identified with Kolonia, or with Kuriet el ’Anab; with ’Amwâs (in the fourth century) and with el Kubeibeh (since the 15th); but its name has never been found as yet at any site sixty stadia from Jerusalem—a distance which Josephus mentions, as well as the Evangelist, as that of the village Emmaus. (Luke xxiv. 13; B. J. vii. 6, 6.)

South-west of Beit ’Atâb will be found marked on the Survey the ruin of Khamasa, at a distance of about sixty stadia from the Holy City. The site is close to the village of Wâd Fukîn (Pekiin of the Talmud), with rock-cut tombs and other indications of antiquity.

The name Khamasa seems a natural corruption of Khammath, “a hot bath,” whence Emmaus is derived. The valley, with its abundant springs and gardens shady with dark orange foliage, seems an appropriate scene for the meeting of the unrecognised Master with His sad disciples; and one of the ancient Roman highways from Jerusalem passes close to the ruin. Here also a delightful retreat would have been found for the colony of Roman pensioners settled at Emmaus.

The reading of the Sinaitic MS. (160 stadia), mentioned in the first chapter of this volume, is abandoned, it may be noted, by most scholars as not agreeing with the words of Josephus, and as making the distance from Jerusalem to Emmaus too great to have been twice traversed by the disciples within the time specified in the Gospel.

Three places called Etam are noticed in the Old Testament. One a town of the south country (1 Chron. iv. 32), probably the place which we discovered in 1874, called ’Aitûn; the second, a city fortified by Rehoboam (2 Chron. xi. 6), near Bethlehem and Tekoa, and which has probably left its name in the spring called ’Ain ’Atân, near the so-called Solomon’s Pools. The third Etam does not seem to have been a town at all, but “a strong rock,” as Josephus calls it, in the territory of Judah, and is to be sought in that part of the country to which most of Samson’s exploits are confined. (Judg. xv. 8.)

About two miles west of Beit ’Atâb, a valley, running north and south, separates the high rugged mountains of the ’Arkûb from the low rolling hills of the Shephelah district, beyond which is the Philistine plain. This valley joins the great gorge which bounded Judah on the north, and forms a broad vale, half a mile across, filled with luxuriant corn, with a pebbly torrent-bed in the middle, and low white hills on either side. The vale is called Wâdy Sŭrâr (a Hebrew word, meaning “pebbles”), and is the ancient Valley of Sorek. The ruins of Bethshemesh lie on a knoll surrounded by olive-groves, near the junction of the two valleys above mentioned. On the south is Timnah, where Samson slew the lion; and on the north are the little mud villages, Sŭr’a and Eshû’a—the ancient Zoreah and Eshtaol—the hero’s home. The scene, looking up the great corn valley to the high and rugged hills above, is extremely picturesque, and is that which was spread before the eyes of the five lords of the Philistines, as they followed the lowing oxen, which bore the ark on the “straight way” from Ekron to Bethshemesh.

Here also, at the edge of the mountains, is the village of Deir Abân, supposed, by the early Christians, to mark the site of Ebenezer, the boundary of Samuel’s pursuit of the Philistines, and of the land held by the Jews at that period. On the north brink of the Vale of Sorek (in which also Delilah lived) there is a conspicuous white chapel on the hill, dedicated to Neby Samit, and close to the village of Zoreah. Confused traditions—which are, however, probably of Christian origin—connect this prophet with Samson, whose name is recognisable in other parts of this district Under the forms Shemshûn, Sanasîn, and ’Aly (as at Gaza), and also a little farther south as Shemsîn and Samat. It appears probable that the tomb now shown at Zoreah, is that known, to the Jews, in the fourteenth century as Samson’s; and the tradition, thus traced to other than monkish origin, is very possibly as genuine as that which fixes the tombs of Joseph and Phinehas near Shechem. Here, then, we are in Samson’s country, and close to Zoreah we should naturally look for the Rock Etam.

The substitution of B for M is so common (as in Tibneh for Timnah), that the name “ ’Atâb” may very properly represent the Hebrew Etam (or “eagle’s nest”); and there are other indications of the identity of the site. It is pre-eminently a “rock”—a knoll of hard limestone, without a handful of arable soil, standing, above deep ravines, by three small springs. The place is also one which has long been a hiding-place, and the requirements of the Bible story are met in a remarkable way; for the word rendered “top of the Rock Etam” is in reality “cleft” or “chasm;” and such a chasm exists here—a long, narrow cavern, such as Samson might well have “gone down” into, and which bears the suggestive name Hasûta, meaning “refuge” in Hebrew, but having in modern Arabic no signification at all.

This remarkable “cave of refuge” is two hundred and fifty feet long, eighteen feet wide, and five to eight feet high; its south-west end is under the centre of the modern village; its north-east extremity, where is a rock shaft, ten feet deep, leading down from the surface of the hill, is within sixty yards of the principal spring.

The identification thus proposed for the Rock Etam is, I believe, quite a new one; and it cannot, I think, fail to be considered satisfactory, if we consider the modern name, the position, and the existence of this remarkable chasm. Ramath Lehi, where the Philistines assembled when searching for Samson (Judg. xv. 9, 10), is naturally to be sought in the vicinity of Zoreah—Samson’s home, and of the Rock Etam where he took refuge.

A little way north-west of Zoreah, seven miles from Beit ’Atâb, is a low hill, on the slope of which are springs called ’Ayûn Abu Mehârib, or the “fountains of the place of battles.” Close by is a little Moslem chapel, dedicated to Sheikh Nedhîr, or “the Nazarite chief;” and, higher up, a ruin with the extraordinary title Ism Allah—“the name of God.” The Nazarite chief is probably Samson, whose memory is so well preserved in this small district, and the place is perhaps connected with a tradition of one of his exploits. The Ism Allah is possibly a corruption of Esm’a Allah—“God heard”—in which case the incident intended might be the battle of Ramath Lehi. Finally, we were informed by a native of the place that the springs were sometimes called ’Ayûn Kâra, in which name we should recognise easily the En Hak-Kore, or “fountain of the crier.” (Judg. xv. 19.)

To say that this spot certainly represents Ramath Lehi—“the hill of the jaw-bone”—would be too bold. It seems, however, clear that a tradition, of one of Samson’s exploits lingers here; the position is appropriate for the scene of the slaughter with the jaw-bone, and we have not succeeded in finding any other likely site.

Next in interest to the scenery of Samson’s life comes the site of Bether, the scene of the final overthrow of the Jewish power in Palestine by the Romans.

Bar Choseba, the Jewish leader, possibly took his name from the town Choseba, which is perhaps the modern Kueizîba. Claiming to be the long-expected King-Messiah, he assumed the title Bar Cocheba—“Son of the Star”—and it is remarkable that near Kueizîba, not far south-east of Bether, is the sacred tomb of Abu Nujeim, which in the vulgar dialect means “Son of the Star.” His last retreat was Bether, a strong fortress, near Jerusalem, and forty Jewish miles from the sea. For three years and a half the fanatical party here held out, and are said to have been finally betrayed by a Samaritan.

Dion Cassius relates that 580,000 Jews were massacred when the fortress fell. Rabbi Akiba, the friend and banner-bearer of Bar Choseba, was flayed alive, repeating with his last breath the noble words of the Shema, or morning prayer of the Temple: “Hear, O Israel! the Lord our God is one Lord.” (Deut. vi. 4.) The valley below Bether is said, in the Talmud, to have run blood to the sea, and the Romans lost a great number of troops in the siege. The power of the Jews was broken for ever by a destruction which must have decimated the nation, and the seat of the Sanhedrim was withdrawn finally to Galilee, having been situated at Jamnia up to this date since the time of the destruction of Jerusalem.

The only site which seems really suited for the important fortress of Bether is the village Bittîr, on the south side of the valley of the same name, thirty-five English miles from the sea, and about five from Jerusalem. On every side, except the south, it is surrounded by deep and rugged gorges, and it is supplied with fresh water from a spring above the village. On the north the position would have been impregnable, as steep cliffs rise from the bottom of the ravine, upon which the houses are perched. The name exactly represents the Hebrew, and the distances agree with those noticed by Eusebius and in the Talmud. Nor must the curious title be forgotten, which is applied to a shapeless mass of ruin on the hill, immediately west of Bittîr, for the name, Khŭrbet el Yehûd—“ruin of the Jews”—may be well thought to hand down traditionally, among the natives of the neighbourhood, the memory of the great catastrophe of Bether.

The lofty but narrow ridge of the watershed which runs out south from Bittîr is the scene of another great tragedy in Jewish history. It is a bare and rocky hill, the summit of which, 3260 feet above the sea, is called Râs Sherifeh, and it extends to a lower saddle, upon which stand the ruins of Beit Skâria, the ancient Beth Zachariah. The ridge commands a fine view both east and west, being the very backbone of Judea. On the one side are the bare white hills round Bethlehem, and the fantastic peaks of the Judean Desert, with the great wall of the Moab mountains far beyond; on the other, the long spurs of the ’Arkûb, resembling waves, with gleams of white chalk, like the surf, on their sides.

From a military point of view, the position is a fine one. The great western road from the plain ran beneath the hill-top, gradually ascending, and was joined by a second main Roman highway from the south-west; while the Hebron road was also commanded on the other side. The very steep slopes on the east, and the precipices and deep valleys on the west, rendered the position impregnable on its flanks, and in rear the retreat to Jerusalem was easy, while abundant water was obtainable from neighbouring springs.

Such was the position in which Judas Maccabeus, with true military instinct, awaited the attack of Antiochus, emerging from the difficult defiles between Bethzur and Beth Zacharias, into the more open ground near the so-called Solomon’s Pools. The Jews were apparently not expert horsemen at this period of their history, any more than at the present day; and the superiority of the Greeks in cavalry and elephants must have been almost neutralised by the character of the ground. Few scenes have been more vividly described in history than the impetuous advance of the Greek army, the shining of their brazen helmets, and the ponderous wooden towers upon their elephants, the devotion of Eleazar, and the timely retreat of Judas.

CONSTANTINE’S BASILICA AT BETHLEHEM.
CONSTANTINE’S BASILICA AT BETHLEHEM.

CHAPTER X.

BETHLEHEM AND MAR SABA.

The credibility of this tradition thus appears to be far greater than that attaching to the later discoveries, by which the enthusiastic Helena and the politic Constantine settled the scenes of other Christian events; and the rude grotto with its rocky manger may, it seems to me, be accepted even by the most sceptical of modern explorers.

Bethlehem is a long town of solidly-built stone houses, crowning the summit of two knolls, connected by a lower saddle, on a white chalk ridge, with steep declivities to the north and south. The monastery and basilica are at the east end of the town, overlooking the northern valley. The population of 5000 souls is almost entirely Christian, and the inhabitants are remarkable for their enterprise and energy in trade. The contrast between Bethlehem and Hebron is very striking; it is the contrast between Christianity and Islam, between the vitality of the religion of progress and civilisation and the hopeless stagnation of a fatalistic creed. Hebron is a city of the past, wrapped in contemplation of its sacred tombs. Bethlehem is a thriving modern town—the birthplace of a faith that looks forward rather than back.

The Church of the Virgin now stands inside a fortress monastery, in which Latin, Greek, and Armenian monks find a common retreat. The basilica was erected, according to cotemporary evidence, by order of Constantine, and is thus the oldest church in Palestine, and perhaps in the world. It has escaped destruction on every occasion when other churches in Palestine were overthrown, and the greater part of the work is stated, by competent authority, to be of the original design. In the eleventh century, when the mad Caliph Hakim destroyed the Holy Sepulchre churches, the Bethlehem basilica was spared; in 1099 the Crusaders sent a detachment of troops to protect it and it thus again escaped, nor was it destroyed in the thirteenth century, although threatened by the Moslems. In this basilica, therefore, we have the only undisputed erection of the time of Constantine in Palestine, and its value cannot be overrated.

Architectural authorities are of opinion that our information as to the progress of Byzantine art in the East is still very imperfect. M. de Vogüé has done much to elucidate the subject, in his work on the great buildings of northern Syria, many of which are dated with exactitude. In Palestine we have two valuable examples, one of fourth century, and one of sixth century architecture—the basilica at Bethlehem, and Justinian’s fortress on Gerizim, with which we may compare ruins of unknown date; and in the first we find M. de Vogüé’s opinion confirmed, with respect to the slowness with which Byzantine art developed in style in the East, in comparison with the more rapid progress of the western Romanesque.

The basilica is moreover interesting because its general plan resembles, very closely, the description given by Eusebius of Constantine’s buildings over the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. On the west was an atrium or outer court, parts of the outer walls of which and shafts of its columns still remain. A narrow vestibule or narthex, entered by a door scarcely four feet high, leads into the basilica itself, which consists of a nave and four aisles, with four rows of eleven columns each, a total breadth of about thirty yards, and a length about equal.

The aisles have flat roofs, above the pillars which are nineteen feet high, but the nave has a clerestory, with walls some thirty feet high above the capitals, and a pointed roof. A wall has been built across the east end of the basilica, separating off the chancel, which has three apses, north, south and east, and which forms the Greek church. Beneath the chancel is the Grotto of the Nativity. North of the basilica is the more modern Latin chapel of St. Catherine, from which a staircase leads down to vaults communicating with the grotto.

The pillar shafts are monoliths of red and white marble, painted with figures of saints, now dim with age, and scrawled over with the crests and titles of knightly pilgrims of the Crusading ages. The capitals are of the Corinthian order, debased in style, with the cross carved on the rosettes of each. The wall above was once decorated all over with glass mosaic, fragments of which still remain, representing scenes in our Lord’s life, portraits of angels and of Scripture characters, with arabesques and Greek inscriptions. These mosaics, with those on the chancel walls, were executed by order of the Greek Emperor, Manuel Comnenos, in the middle of the twelfth century. The roof above, once painted and gilded, was put up in 1482, the fine rafters having been given by Philip of Burgundy, the lead (stripped off later by the Moslems to make bullets) by Edward IV. of England; and the work was executed in Venice, and brought on camels from Jaffa. Further restorations were made in 1478, and again in 1672 and 1842, but the majority of the work appears to belong to the original structure of the time of Constantine.

On the 24th of October, 1873, we first approached Bethlehem from the west, passing by the great tanks near Urtâs, commonly called Solomon’s Pools, but more probably of the same date with the aqueduct passing by them, which was constructed by Pontius Pilate.

The olive harvest had commenced, and picturesque groups were gathered in the groves, whilst little hammocks for the babies were slung between the trees. The Bethlehem women are famous for their beauty, for their delicate complexions and aquiline features; they are distinguished by their head-dress, a tall felt hat, in shape a truncated cone, over which a white veil is arranged, and from which heavy strings of coins are suspended. Their dresses are also remarkable from the square patches of red and yellow, which are introduced into the blue or striped fabric of which they are composed.

Bethlehem is supplied with water by cisterns, and from the great aqueduct which passes through the hill. The famous well for the waters of which David thirsted, is supposed to be represented by an ancient and extensive cistern with many mouths, on the north-west. It is not impossible that this may be the “pit,” as Josephus calls it, which was beside the gate of the city.

Two feasts are yearly held at Bethlehem, on the Greek and Latin Christmas Eve. The scene on the latter occasion is especially interesting, and may here be described, though I did not witness it until the Christmas of 1874.

Arriving at Bethlehem on that occasion, we visited the church, and descended into the sacred grotto. The floor of the chancel is raised, but the transepts are on the same level with the basilica, and from them two staircases lead down to the grotto, which is about twelve yards long, and three or four wide. It was profusely decorated, and the passages were hung with cloth of gold. The exact place of the Saviour’s birth is shown near the east, in a recess beneath an altar. The manger is on the south; both are cased in marble, but two old columns, supporting the roof, appear to be of rock. The western passage, to the Latin chapel, was decorated with paper hangings, with paintings of scenes in our Lord’s life, and, over the hangings, were some pictures so old that the tarnished gold backgrounds were covered with prismatic tints.

The Latin chapel is a long vaulted room on the north of the basilica, once painted in fresco, but now whitewashed. It was hung with red silk. On the east is a large altar, with a screen and large wax torches: behind it is the choir. The chapel is principally remarkable for its fine silver lamps.

Mass was being performed, and the music and singing were impressive, in a land where song seems almost unknown. The Latin Patriarch, in cloth-of-silver, with a mitre of gold and jewels, and a handsome silver crook, sat on his throne to the north. He was an Italian, a man of dignified mien and delicate features, but apparently of very weak health. After the service he was disrobed, and again robed in purple, with a beautiful ermine cape, the dress of a Canon of the church. In this attire, after a few prayers at a side altar, he was conducted out in procession.

We now wandered through the vaults, where the tombs of Eusebius of Cremona, of Paula, and of her daughter Eustochia, are shown, and the famous study—a gloomy, rock-cut cell—where St. Jerome is said to have spent so many years of his life, engaged on the noble Vulgate translation of the Scriptures.

We left the building in order to witness the entry of the French Consul, who attends the ceremony on this day as representative of the “Eldest son of the Church.” First came the village elders in gay dresses, capering madly on horses and mules; then about a couple of dozen cavalry-soldiers in black, with red fezzes and facings. The four kawasses on good brown horses, dressed in crimson hussar jackets, braided with gold and black, with blue trousers and silk head-shawls, and carrying great maces with gilded tops. The Consul and his secretary came last.

At ten in the evening the bell began to ring, and we again entered the Latin chapel. The place was quite full, and the congregation pushed and struggled, and chattered at the top of their voices. The French Consul appeared in full uniform, covered with orders, and we also obtained good places near the altar. The heat was fearful, and many persons fainted and had to be dragged out.

The long wearisome service, almost entirely choral, with occasional solos, went on for two hours. The Patriarch, in his hot and heavy vestments of cloth-of-gold, looked much exhausted. His mitre was changed at various times, one being of silver, a second of gold, a third jewelled. The whole service was directed by an extremely active priest, who appeared to be a sort of master of the ceremonies.

At midnight the climax was reached, the storm of song and music suddenly ceased, and, in the stillness, the clock struck, and the seventh candle on the high altar was lighted. A curtain was drawn back, and above the altar was a little glass-fronted ebony box, from which the rosy face of a small wax image looked down representing an infant swathed in cloth-of-gold. The great convent-bell swung with a deep sound, heralding the news of Christmas morn, and the little red-cassocked choristers burst forth, in memory of the angels, with the “Gloria! gloria in excelsis!” The organ struggled and pealed in a mad and powerful symphony, and was accompanied by a pipe or reed, in memory of the music of the shepherds’ pipes. The mystic ceremonies of the early mass were commenced, and the weary congregation became interested.

There was something at once touching and ridiculous in this curious scene: ridiculous when one considered the rude and inadequate symbolism employed, and on the other hand impressive, when one reflected that for fifteen centuries the Christmas morn had yearly been celebrated within these walls, and the riches of the Church, the genius of great composers, the intellect of a powerful priesthood, all combined to pay honour to the birthday of the little Jewish child, who had been born in the rude rock stable one wintry night, in a small village of a remote and despised province of the empire of Rome.

Two more hours of singing and music followed, and the great procession to the grotto was then formed. Long wax torches were given to the Consul and his secretary, and candles to the rest of the congregation. A second wax image, in a little wicker cradle, was placed on the altar beneath the former, and borne thence by the Patriarch, who came last. As he passed me, I saw that the figure was surrounded with long strips of paper, like swaddling-clothes loosed from its limbs, one of its hands being raised in benediction.

Very striking was the scene in passing through the Greek chancel. The dark building was lighted only by the torches and tapers, which made the silver lamps above shine out against the dusky background. A dense crowd was kept in its ranks by two lines of Turkish soldiers with loaded Snider rifles. The variety of costumes and faces was wonderful, while the dark columns and grim figures in the glass mosaics, the forest of rafters in the ancient roof, and the rich screen before the apse, formed a dim and effective background, to the glittering line of priests and acolytes in cloth of silver and gold.

The thought could not but suggest itself, how different was the scene thus enacted, amidst the awe-stricken veneration of the multitude, with all the pomp and magnificence which could be lavished on it by a rich and long-established Church, from that first Christmas scene in the dark damp stable beneath, the events of which day were now symbolised by the dressing and undressing of a small wax doll.

The grotto was filled with priests, and blazed with crimson silk, silver and gold, lit up by rows of silver lamps above. The Gospel for the day was read in Latin, and at the words “Et peperit filium suum primogenitum,” the image was laid by the Patriarch on the marble slab, supposed to mark the spot where Christ was born.

The paper bands were wound round the limbs of the image.

The priest descended to the recess with little rock columns, and laid the cradle on one of the two altars within. The Gospel was continued from the words “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields,” until the Gloria in Excelsis had again been sung, and the Patriarch, after censing the image where it lay, returned with equal state to the Latin chapel, where the mass was resumed.

The crowd was now so thick that we could scarcely move without treading on some one. On the right were the women in gay-coloured dresses with white veils, the married ones wearing the Bethlehem cap. On the left were the men, who had removed their turbans, but still retained their cotton skull-caps. At five in the morning, after seven hours of heat and discomfort, we left the Patriarch still engaged in his arduous office.

East of Bethlehem is a narrow plain or open valley, bare and treeless, with white stony slopes and a few crumbling ruins. One of these ruins is a large building called Sîr el Ghanem, “the sheep-fold,” apparently an ancient monastery; a second site is called “the Church of the Flocks,” a subterranean Greek chapel, with mediæval ruins above, first mentioned in Crusading chronicles. It is here that Migdal Eder, “the Tower of the Flock,” is supposed by Jerome to have stood, where, according to the Jews, Messiah was first to appear; and it is on this plain, according to tradition, that the angelic messenger appeared to the shepherds, and that the Gloria in Excelsis was first sung.

On the 5th of November we marched across the Shepherds’ Plain and entered the terrible wilderness which stretches above the Dead Sea on the west, and creeps up almost to the vines and olive-groves of Bethlehem.

Two remarkable places may be noticed south-east of Bethlehem at the entrance of this desert; namely, Herodium and the Cave of Khureitûn. The first is a great conical mound on the north side of the valley which runs down from the so-called Solomon’s Pools to the Dead Sea. In the scenery south of Jerusalem, and in views of the country round Bethlehem, this mountain forms a most remarkable feature. It is commonly called, by Christians, “the Frank Mountain,” from a fifteenth-century tradition that it was defended by Franks, for a long time, against the Saracens, after the loss of Jerusalem. By natives it is called Jebel Fureidîs, “Hill of the little Paradise,” possibly a corruption of its old name, Herodium. It was here that Herod the Great built his summer palace, and also his tomb. There is a large reservoir on the flat ground at the foot of the cone, with a central fountain once fed by an aqueduct from the spring at Etam, and near it are buildings which resemble, very closely, those attributable to Herod at Masada. The cone rises 400 feet above this platform. It is truncated, and surrounded by a circular wall, on which are four round towers. On arriving at the summit one looks down into a sort of crater 290 feet in diameter, full of debris. The view from the top is a fine one, with a long succession of barren hills, and the blue waters of the Dead Sea, and the precipices of Moab beyond. The architecture is of great interest as the most perfect specimen of this early date in Palestine.

The Cave at Khureitfûn is the most remarkable cavern in the country. The entrance is reached by creeping along a very narrow ledge, on the side of a high precipice of hard limestone, in a magnificent desert gorge. The entrance is double, and is protected by a great block of stone. The narrow passage leads to a great circular hall cut in rock, and, from this, other narrow winding passages run yet farther into the heart of the mountain; the windings are extremely intricate, leading from one chamber to another, the farthest being some 200 yards from the entrance. A whole day was spent in planning the place. For 100 feet I followed a long burrow, so narrow and low that I could only just drag myself along it on my hands and knees, with a candle in one hand; huge bats flew into my face and more than once extinguished the light, but I succeeded in reaching the very end, and in searching out the extremity of every other passage in this extraordinary cavern.

It appears probable that the whole of the caves and passages are formed by water action; here and there, in the outermost chambers, the walls have been shaped with a pick, but the general character is not unlike other water-worn caverns in limestone country.

In the twelfth century the Crusaders fixed upon the Khureitûn Cave, with their usual hasty judgment, as being the Cave of Adullam, no doubt because it was the most remarkable place of the kind that they could find. The early Christians, however, had been better informed, and the true site, as will be seen later, is to be sought in the Valley of Elah, many miles west of Bethlehem; for Josephus tells us that the cave was at the city of Adullam, which was in the low hills west of the watershed mountains (Ant. vi. 12, 2), and this agrees with the use of the word “hold” or “fortress” in connection with the cave (1 Chron. xi. 16). David’s stronghold, moreover, was not in the “land of Judah” (1 Sam. xxii. 5), but on the border of the Philistine country.

Our first camp in the desert was fixed beside the Monastery of St. Saba, a famous settlement of Greek monks. We here entered into an entirely distinct region. The character of the rock was different from the stratified limestone of the mountains above; it is a white soft chalk, which is worn, by the winter rain, into long knife-edged ridges, separated by narrow ravines with stony beds. The sea breeze never visits this ghastly desert, which is fitly called in Scripture Jeshimon or “solitude.” Thus, though in spring the naked slopes are thinly covered with grass and flowers, it presents, throughout nearly the whole year, a long succession of glaring ridges, with fantastic knolls and peaks, and sharp ragged spurs, absolutely treeless and waterless. The fauna also changes; the tawny desert-partridge takes the place of the red-legged Greek species, common in other districts. The ibex succeeds the gazelle, and many birds unknown in other parts of Palestine are here abundant. The people also are a distinct race; their language is as different from that of the peasantry as is broad Scotch from Devonshire dialect; their habits, dress, dwellings and traditions are those of an entirely different people.

Everything in this desert is of one colour—a tawny yellow. The rocks, the partridges, the camels, the foxes, the ibex, are all of this shade, and only the dark Bedawîn and their black tents are distinguishable in the general glare.

The convent of Mar Saba stands on the south side of the huge fissure or gorge called the Valley of Fire, by which the water from Jerusalem comes down to the Dead Sea. East of it is a plateau between mountains on the west side and precipices rising eight hundred feet from the shores of the lake on the east. This plateau is also of waterworn marl with innumerable ridges, knolls, peaks, ravines, and iron crags around it.

It was from a “Tubg” or terrace, east of the plateau, that we first looked down on that marvellous sea (1300 feet lower than the Mediterranean), which swallows up all Jordan and all the snows of Hermon, and yet has no outlet, but yearly gives off the surplus supply in the heavy steam of evaporating water, which in summer hides it in a hot haze.

The morning sun cast purple, dusky shadows over the great mountains to the east, leaving patches of bright light on their level summits. The high piles of cumulus rose, in silvery brilliancy, above a long grey base of stratus cloud. The sea itself lay unruffled by a single breath of wind, blue and glossy, shining like oil, with long bands of white scum here and there stretching across it. The foreground was yet more extraordinary—fawn-coloured marl with bands of dark brown flint, in a tumbled confusion of cones and knolls, without a single tree or shrub, but streaked, on the north, with a pinkish colour, and capped with harder limestone. Part of this district still bears, among the Bedawîn, the title ’Amrîyeh, which represents the Hebrew Amorah or Gomorrah. A few scattered ruins exist on the plateau, and the Arabs have a tradition that these are remains of vineyards, which once existed, according to them, throughout this scorched and desolate solitude.

The hills west of the plateau are well worthy of notice. They consist of hard brown limestone, and I discovered a feature of great geological interest, in a fault which runs north and south, at the point where the white marl commences: showing that a violent, and probably sudden subsidence has here taken place, at a period so late (geologically speaking) as to be subsequent to the chalk era. The general bearing of this observation on the history of the lake, will be noticed in a subsequent chapter.

The heat was terrible. Not only was the actual temperature high, but not a blade of grass nor a breath of wind gave relief. The caves were the only places where any shade could be found, and they were even hotter than the glaring desert. There are probably few places in Asia where the sun beats down with as fierce and irresistible a power as in the Desert of Judah.

The western mountains, above the plateau, form a long ridge running north and south, the highest point of which is called El Muntâr, the “watch tower,” while the rest is named El Hadeidûn. A steep slope, unbroken save by precipices, comes sheer down from the top to the plateau, and the mountain is barren and fawn-coloured like the rest of the country. Now this hill, as I afterwards found out, is a place of historical interest, and the story is as follows:

According to the Law of Moses the Scapegoat was led to the wilderness and there set free. This was not, however, the practice of the later Jews. A scapegoat had once come back to Jerusalem, and the omen was thought so bad that the ordinary custom was modified, to prevent the recurrence of such a calamity. The man who led the goat arrived at a high mountain, called Sook, and there was at this place a rolling slope, down which he pushed the unhappy animal, which was shattered to atoms in the fall.

The Scapegoat was led out on the Sabbath, and in order to evade the law of the Sabbath-day’s journey, a tabernacle was erected at every term of two thousand cubits, and became the domicile of the messenger, who, after eating bread and drinking water, was legally able to travel another stage. Ten such tabernacles were constructed between Sook and Jerusalem, and the distance was thus about six and a half English miles. The district was called Hidoodim, and the high mountain Sook. The first means “sharp,” the second “narrow,” both applying well to the knife-edged ridges of the desert. The distance brings us to the great hill of El Muntâr, and here, beside the ancient road from Jerusalem, is a well called Sûk, while in the name Hadeidûn, applied to part of the ridge, we recognise the Hebrew Hidoodim.

Here then, I think, we may fairly conclude is the Mountain of the Scapegoat. From this high ridge the unhappy victim was yearly rolled down into the narrow valley beneath, at the entrance of the great desert, which first unfolded itself before the eyes of the messenger as he gained the summit half a mile beyond the well of Sûk. Beside this well stood probably the tenth booth to which he returned after the deed, and where he sat until sundown, when he was permitted to return to Jerusalem.

From a very early period this horrible wilderness appears to have had an attraction for ascetics, who sought a retreat from the busy world of their fellow men, and who thought to please God by torturing the bodies which He had given them. Thus the Essenes, the Jewish sect whose habits and tenets resembled so closely those of the first Christians, retired into this wilderness and lived in caves. Christian hermits, from the earliest period, were also numerous in all the country between Jerusalem and Jericho, and the rocks are riddled with caves in inaccessible places where they lived. About 480 A.D., St. Saba and St. Euthymius followed the general custom, and established here, in the Fire Valley, the first nucleus of the present monastery.

The Mar Saba Laura clings to the side of a precipice some four hundred feet high, and is built against the cliff with huge flying buttresses to support the walls. The buildings are scarcely distinguishable in colour from the brown crags on which they stand. The deep crevice, which seems to have been rent in some great convulsion of nature, is bare and tawny like the rest of the country. The silence of the desert surrounds it, and only the shrill note of the golden grackle, or the howl of a jackal, breaks this solemn stillness. Not a tree or shrub is in sight, walls of white chalk and sharp ridges shut out the western breeze, and the sigh of the wind in the trees is a sound never heard in the solitude. The place seems dead. The convent and its valley have a fossilised appearance. Scarcely less dead and fossil are its wretched inmates, monks exiled for crimes or heresy, and placed in charge of a few poor lunatics.

MAR SABA.
MAR SABA.

Ladies are not admitted into the monastery, but we were provided with a letter to the Superior. A little iron door in a high yellow wall gives admission from the west, thence a long staircase leads down into a court before the chapel. The walls within are covered with frescoes, some old, some belonging to the time when the monastery was rebuilt, in 1840, by the Russian Government; Greek saints, hideous figures in black and grey dresses, with stoles on which the cross, and ladder and spear, are painted in white, stand out from gilded backgrounds. Against these ghosts of their predecessors the monks were ranged, in wooden stalls, or miserere benches with high arms, which supported their weary figures under the armpits. The old men stood, or rather drooped in their places, with pale sad faces, which spoke of ignorance and of hopelessness, and sometimes of vice and brutality; for the Greek monk is perhaps the most degraded representative of Christianity, and these were the worst of their kind. Robed in long sweeping gowns, with the cylindrical black felt cap on their heads, they looked more like dead bodies than living men, propped up against the quaint Byzantine background. One could fancy one’s self suddenly brought back to the dark ages of the fifth and sixth centuries, when art, and literature, and even human intellect seem to have sunk into a second childhood, and that these were the very men who had fought so obstinately for and against the Monophysite heresy, which St. Saba succeeded in putting down.

The floor of the church was unoccupied, and paved with marble; the transept was closed by the great screen, blazing with gold, and covered with dragons and arabesques, and gaudy pictures of saints and angels on wood. A smell of incense filled the church, and the nasal drawl of the officiating priest soon drove us away to the outer air. We next visited the dark cave covered with pictures, which, after the Greek fashion, were cased in silver, and gleamed in the darkness, and where, behind a grating, are the skulls of the martyrs of a former massacre. Next we went up and down, by winding stairs in the rock, on to the roof of the church to see the nawâkîs, or wooden beams, which are struck instead of bells, though bells are also hung in the belfry. The convent pets came about us, the beautiful black birds with orange wings, which live only in the Jordan Valley, and have been named “Tristram’s grackle,” after that well-known explorer. They have a beautifully clear note, the only pleasant sound ever heard in the solitude, and the monks have tamed them, so that they flock round them to catch raisins, which they pounce upon in mid air. In the valley below, the foxes and jackals also come for alms, the monks throwing down loaves for them.

There is a tall solitary palm, said to have been planted by St. Saba, and to have sprung up bearing dates without stones, which he ate the same day on which it was planted. There is also a cavern in the rock reached by a few steps, where he lived, and in the side of it, a little cupboard about three feet square, where his lion slept. The whole cave belonged to the lion, but the saint seems to have had little regard to the rights of property, and considerable obstinacy of character. Three times he was ejected by the beast, but each time he returned to his meditations undaunted, and the lion finally relinquished to the invader the greater part of his cave.

The monks scattered a little rosewater over our hands, and we left this gloomy abode of the dead-alive in the desert. Scarcely half the monks can read the valuable manuscripts in their library, yet they hide them carefully from the eyes of heretics. Within the walls they may neither smoke nor eat meat, yet raw spirits find their way past the porter, as we were able to prove. A more hopeless, purposeless, degraded life can scarcely be imagined than that of such hermits.

Yet even for these poor outcasts in the stony wilderness, lifeless and treeless though it be, nature prepares every day a glorious picture, quickly-fading but matchless in brilliance of colour; the distant ranges seem stained with purple and pink; in autumn the great bands of cloud sweep over the mountains with long bars of gleaming light between, and for a few minutes, as the sun sets, the deep crimson blush comes over the rocks, and glorifies the whole landscape with an indescribable glow.

THE DOME OF THE ROCK.
THE DOME OF THE ROCK.

CHAPTER XI.

JERUSALEM.

From my room in the Mediterranean Hotel I looked out at dawn. The orange-coloured light behind the Mount of Olives showed a black outline of mosque and tree and hill, with steel-coloured mountains to the right, capped by long wreaths of leaden vapour. The town lay in darkness below, its roofs shining wet with the heavy dew. Dimly visible the great dome of the Chapel of the Rock shone with its new coat of lead, and the tall minaret on the north wall of the Haram, together with the dark cypresses, was just distinguishable. A vapour went up over the whole city, and gave it a weird and dream-like aspect.

Soon the town awoke, and the morning hubbub began. Long trains of camels came in, and the swarthy Bedawîn wrangled with the soldiers at the gate. The market-girls from Bethlehem appeared under David’s Tower, and, as the crowd thickened, black priests in saucepan-like hats jostled sickly Jews, with fur caps, long lovelocks, and dirty gabardines. The heavily-shod, unkempt Russian pilgrims mingled with sleek Rabbis, with Europeans, and German residents; Armenians with apple-cheeks and broad red sashes, and fierce Kurds with long moustachios and swords, were also numerous.

So motley a scene as that which is presented daily in David Street and in the market-place under David’s Tower, is perhaps to be found nowhere else. The chatter of the market-people, the shouting of the camel-drivers, the tinkling of bells, mingle with the long cry of the naked derwish, as he wanders, holding his tin pan for alms, and praising unceasingly “the Eternal God.” The scene is most remarkable in the morning, before the glare of the sun, beating down on the stone city, has driven its inhabitants into the shadow; for, later on, the white houses, white chalk hills, and dull grey domes, present a truly unattractive prospect; but about eight a.m. the market still lies in cool shadow, under the huge ochre-coloured tower, with a background of cypresses, and of white walls belonging to the Bible Warehouse. The foreground is composed of a tawny group of camels lying down, donkeys bringing in vegetables or carrying out rubbish, and women in blue and red dresses slashed with yellow, their dark faces and long eyes (tinged with blue) shrouded in white veils, which are fringed perhaps with black or red. Soldiers in black, and Softas in spotless robes, are haggling about their change, or praying in public undisturbed by the din. Horsemen ride by in red boots with red saddles, and spears fifteen feet long. The Greek Patriarch walks past on a visit, preceded by his macebearers and attended by his secretary. Up the narrow street comes the hearse of a famous Moslem, followed by a long procession of women, in white “izars,” which envelop the whole figure, swelling out like balloons, and leaving only the black mask of the face-veil visible; their voices are raised in the high-pitched tremulous ululation which is alike their cry for the dead and their note of joy for the living. Next, perhaps, follows a regiment of sturdy infantry marching back to the castle, with a colonel on a prancing grey—men who have shown their mettle since then, and fat, unwieldy officers, who have perhaps broken down under the strain of campaigning. Their bugles blow a monotonous tune, to which the drums keep time, and the men tread, not in step, but in good cadence to the music. If it be Easter, the native crowd is mingled with the hosts of Armenian and Russian pilgrims, the first ruddy and stalwart, their women handsome and black-eyed, the men fierce and dark; the Russians, yet stronger in build and more barbarian in air, distinguished from every other nationality by their unkempt beards, their long locks, their great fur caps, and boots. Not less distinct are the Spanish, Mughrabee, Russian, and German Jews, each marked by a peculiar and characteristic physiognomy.

Jerusalem is a city of contrasts, and differs widely from Damascus, not merely because it is a stone town in mountains, whilst the latter is a mud city in a plain, but because, while in Damascus Moslem religion and Oriental custom are unmixed with any foreign element, in Jerusalem every form of religion, every nationality of East and West, is represented at one time.

Jerusalem is quite a small town, the circumference of its walls being only two miles and three-quarters; yet within this space it contains a population of 20,000 souls. Ten sects or religions are established in it, and, if their various sub-divisions are counted, they amount to a total of twenty-four, more than half of which are Christian. Prophets and visionaries of no particular sect are also not wanting at any time in the Holy City.

Jerusalem is a very ugly city. It is badly built of mean stone houses perched on the slope of the watershed, and seems in constant danger of sliding into the Kedron Valley. Beautiful bits of architecture are to be admired in its interior—the Gothic façade of the Holy Sepulchre, the grand walls of the Temple, the glowing interior of the mosque; the view towards the east is also very fine, a long wall of far-off mountains, with a foreground of embattled parapets and slender minarets standing out against the distance. Yet, with all this, the city as a whole is not beautiful; its flat-roofed houses and dirty lanes are neither pleasing nor healthy, and the surrounding chalk hills are barren and shapeless. Shechem is a fine well-watered city. Damascus is bedded in gardens, and bristles with minarets, but there is nothing in the site or architecture of Jerusalem, as a whole, which can save it from the imputation of ugliness.

Going down David Street and through the fruit bazaar, with its background of arches, wooden balconies, marble portals brown with age, and fragments of Crusading architecture, you come at length through a bye-lane to the Jews’ wailing-place—a narrow street with the high Temple rampart rising on the east. All along the narrow court the Jews are crowded on Friday. The scene is striking from the great size and strength of the mighty stones, which rise without door or window up to the domes and cypresses above, suggesting how utterly the original worshippers are cast out, by men of alien race and faith, as they here congregate to bewail “our people that are wanderers, our priests that are defiled, our Temple that is cast down.”

Nearest to us stood the Pharisees from Germany, the Ashkenazi Jews, dressed in their best; the old men with grey locks and thin grey beards, on their heads the high black velvet cap edged with fur, their lovelocks curling on either side of their lank faces, their robes long gabardines of many colours; the younger men had blue-black hair, and pale strongly-marked features; here and there one saw a richly-dressed boy, a few little red-haired children, and occasionally an old woman, their faces all stamped with that subtle likeness which betrays the Jews in any country, and in any dress.

There were bits of colour in these groups which would have delighted Rembrandt. An aged white-haired man, in a mulberry gabardine and black velvet cap, contrasted with the black satin and fur of his next neighbour, and in front of both was a third in a green dress. All these dark rich costumes were set in a warm background of tawny colour made by the great wall towering above.

Beyond the Ashkenazi were the Spanish and Mughrabee Jews, in quieter colours with black turbans, brown-eyed and more dignified in bearing. Presently came in a hulking fellow in citron-coloured coat and blue trousers, with a tall black pointed lambs-wool cap—a Russian Jew. The little Pharisees seemed to dwindle beside this giant, and his handsome, fresh-coloured face, blue eyes, and russet beard, seemed hardly to allow of his being one of the same nation; but it is the greatest peculiarity of the Jews that while never intermarrying, they yet approach in appearance most nearly the natives of the country in which they live, without entirely losing national traits of a distinctive character—a striking proof of the influence of climate and surroundings on race.

The emotion of a few of the worshippers was affecting. Here an aged woman in a white veil stood mute, her eyes fixed on the great stones of the Eternal House; there an elder leant his tearful face against the wall, his lips moving, his prayer-book unheeded. But as a rule the crowd maintained the tranquillity of an English congregation, and their dress and appearance was rather ludicrous than otherwise. The Rabbi read verse by verse the touching lamentation service, leaning his book on the wall, and lighted by two or three ordinary candle-lanterns placed before him. The assembly gave the responses in the peculiar manner of the Jews, which reminds one of the buzzing of a swarm of flies when disturbed, and they swayed their bodies all the time with the extraordinary bobbing motion which always accompanies their prayers.

Strange and indeed unique is the spectacle, and it reminds one forcibly of the unchanged character of the Jews. After nineteen centuries of wandering and exile, they are still the same as ever, still bound by the iron chain of Talmudic law, a people whose slavery to custom outruns even that of the Chinese to etiquette, and whose veneration for the past appears to bar the way of progress or improvement in the present.

Entering by the gate of the Cotton Bazaar, we stand at length within the Temple courts. Before us are the steps which lead up to the platform where shoes must be removed; for while the outer court, like the old Court of the Gentiles, is a promenade, the paved platform is a sacred enclosure, not to be trodden except barefoot.

From the bright sunlight we pass suddenly into the deep gloom of the interior, lit with the “dim religious light” of the glorious purple windows. The gorgeous colouring, the painted wood-work, the fine marble, the costly mosaics, the great dome flourished all over with arabesques and inscriptions, and gilded to the very top, all this splendour gleams out here and there from the darkness.

And in honour of what is this beautiful chapel built? A low canopy of rich silk covers the dusty limestone ledge round which the “Dome of the Rock” has risen. The Rock of Paradise is the scene of Mohammed’s ascension, the source of the rivers of Paradise, the Place of Prayer of all the Prophets, the Foundation-stone of the World.

Such was the holy spot enshrined by the Dome. The sacred rock, recovered and purified by Omar, was soon after enclosed by the Khalif Abd el Melek, and the inscriptions on the walls give the history of this building with most remarkable detail.

The Arab historians relate that the Dome of the Chain was the model for the Dome of the Rock. Now this is possible, if we except the outer wall of the latter. Take that wall away, and you have a building consisting of two concentric polygons, with pillars bound together by a wooden beam, and supporting arcades. The Dome of the Rock is just three times the size of the Dome of the Chain, and the various measures of plan and height are proportional. The smaller building may therefore have been originally the model of the larger.

Over the outer arcade of the Dome of the Rock runs the great Cufic inscription, giving the date of the erection of the building in 688 A.D. The name of Abd el Melek, the fourth of the Ommiyah Khalifs, has been taken out at a later period, and that of Mamûn, one of the Abbasîyeh Khalifs, substituted; but the clumsy forger has forgotten the date, and has used a lighter blue in the grounding, thus the antiquity of the text is the more confirmed by the alteration.

This inscription dates the arcade, and thus apparently the inner circle, but not necessarily the outer wall, which may be later. The doors in this outer wall bear Cufic inscriptions dating 831 A.D., at which time Mamûn restored the building; the beams in the roof resting on the wall bear the date 913 A.D. In the ninth century the pointed arch began to be used by the Arabs, and the outer wall cannot be dated later than this; but if it be, as may naturally be supposed, of the same date with its doors, it is part of the work of El Mamûn, and this agrees with the idea that ’Abd el Melek’s Dome of the Rock consisted of two concentric arcades only, proportional to those of the Dome of the Chain. The symmetry of the present proportions is destroyed by the great breadth of the larger building in comparison with its height, which is due simply to the addition of the outer wall. Once remove the outer wall, and the pleasing proportions of the Dome of the Chain are reproduced to three times their scale.

The Dome of the Rock belongs to that obscure period of Saracenic art when the Arabs had not as yet created an architectural style of their own, and when they were in the habit of employing Byzantine architects to build their mosques. Among the rare specimens of their work at this time, is the Mosque of ’Amrû, at Cairo, commenced in 642 A.D., and apparently almost rebuilt by that very ’Abd el Melek whose work in Jerusalem we are now considering.

Of the Egyptian building Mr. Fergusson writes: “It probably now remains in all essential parts as left by these two Caliphs” (’Abd el Melek and his successor, Walid). It is therefore very interesting to compare the Jerusalem Haram with the Cairo mosque, and the resemblance is striking.

In both there is a large rectangular area surrounded by colonnades; the pillars in the Cairo mosque are torn from older buildings, and support round arches, and a wooden beam runs above the capitals,—details also observable in the Dome of the Rock.

In both cases there is a mosque on the south wall of the enclosure, that at Jerusalem being, however, a Christian church adapted to Moslem worship, as is the great mosque at Damascus, also partly rebuilt by Walid.

In both the enclosures there is also the same feature of an octagonal building in the centre of the area, with an inner arcade supporting the dome; and this kind of structure is found in many other mosques at Damascus and in Cairo, being essentially an Arab building, suited either to give shade to a fountain useful for ablutions before prayer, or for the protection of some spot sacred, as the Mukam or “standing-place” of a saint or prophet. Such is the Dome of the Rock, not a mosque, as it is sometimes wrongly called, but a “station” in the outer court of the Aksa mosque.

In 831 A.D. the Khalif El Mamûn restored the Dome of the Rock, and if I am correct, enclosed it with an outer wall and gave it its present appearance. The beams in the roof of the arcade bear, as above stated, the date 913 A.D.: a well-carved wooden cornice, hidden by the present ceiling, must then have been visible beneath them.

In 1016 A.D. the building was partly destroyed by earthquake. To this date belong restorations of the original mosaics in the dome, as evidenced by inscriptions. The present wood-work of the cupola was erected by Husein, son of the Sultan Hakem, as shown by an inscription dated 1022 A.D.

The place next fell into the hands of the Crusaders, who christened it Templum Domini, and established in 1112 A.D. a chapter of Canons. The Holy Rock was then cut into its present shape and covered with marble slabs, an altar being erected on it. The works were carried on from 1115 A.D. to 1136 A.D. The beautiful iron grille between the pillars of the drum, and various fragments of carved work are of this date, including small altars with sculptured capitals, having heads upon them—abominations to the Moslem, yet still preserved within the precincts. The interior of the outer wall was decorated in the twelfth century with frescoes, traces of which still remain. The exterior of the same wall is surmounted by a parapet, with dwarf pillars and arches, which is first mentioned by John of Wurtzburg, but must be as old as the round arches of the windows below. The Crusaders would seem to have filled up the parapet arches, and to have ornamented the whole with glass mosaic, as at Bethlehem.

In 1187 A.D. Saladin won the city, tore up the altar, and once more exposed the bare rock, covered up the frescoes with marble slabs, and restored and regilded the dome, as evidenced by an inscription in it dating 1189 A.D.

In 1318 A.D. the lead outside and the gilding within were restored by Nakr ed Dîn, as evinced by an inscription.

In 1520 A.D. the Sultan Soliman cased the bases and upper blocks of the columns with marble. The wooden cornice, attached to the beam between the pillars, seems to be of this period, and the slightly pointed marble casing of the arches under the dome is probably of the same date. The windows bear inscriptions of 1528 A.D. The whole exterior was at this time covered with Kishâni tiles, attached by copper hooks, as evidenced by inscriptions dated 1561 A.D. The doors were restored in 1564 A.D., as also shown by inscriptions.

The date of the beautiful wooden ceiling of the cloisters is not known, but it partly covers the Cufic inscription, and this dates 72 A.H. (688 A.D.), and it hides the wooden cornice, dating probably 913 A.D. The ceiling is therefore probably of the time of Soliman.

In 1830 A.D. the Sultan Mahmûd, and in 1873-5 A.D. the late ’Abd el ’Azîz, repaired the Dome, and the latter period was one specially valuable for those who wished to study the history of the place.

Such is a plain statement of the gradual growth of the building. The dates of the various inscriptions on the walls fully agree with the circumstantial accounts of the Arab writers who describe the Dome of the Rock.

The materials employed were all apparently designed for their present uses and positions, with exception of the columns supporting the dome and the outer arcade. These have a Byzantine character, and they appear to have been torn from some other building or buildings, probably from Christian churches, just as in the case of the Mosque of ’Amrû at Cairo, or like the pillars which Jezzar Pacha at Acre collected for his mosque. Of every capital in the place I made a careful sketch; of those under the dome, as shown in the illustration, only three are alike. The cross is said to occur on one boss, as at Bethlehem. I have searched for this in vain, though I have a sketch of every boss, but there would be no impossibility in its presence if the pillar came from a church. The bases differ as much as the capitals, as we saw when the marble slabs were removed in 1875. The shafts are also of various heights and diameters, and one at least is upside down, with the capital of another pillar placed on its base end.

Leaving this beautiful and interesting building we crossed the platform southward, having on our right the old sun-dial, which the Crusaders held to mark the site of the Temple altar; and passing the beautiful summer pulpit we descended to the southern court. The most picturesque view is from this point. The Dome of the Rock is seen behind the venerable cypresses of the lower court—a great cupola on which sit innumerable doves, while, beneath it, the walls are resplendent with the harmonious colouring of the tiles—white, blue, green, black, and yellow, in elegant tracery which cannot now be imitated. In front are the flat steps leading up to the pillars and arches called “balances” by the Moslems, and below them are the little chambers of the Sheikhs who live in the enclosure.

The black fanatics who guard the holy place lounged among the trees, and a funeral procession was slowly marching, with subdued murmurs, round the Chapel of the Rock, while, by a curious coincidence, a gorgeous wedding-party in bright-coloured silks, was also approaching the same place.

The great enclosure outside the platform is not paved; it is covered with grass and planted with olives and cypresses. Only the platform is fairly level, and its flagging in parts is covered with Crusading masons’-marks. There is, as above noticed, only one mosque in the enclosure—the great building on the south wall. The whole area is called Haram esh Sherîf, “High Sanctuary,” and Masjid el Haram, “Praying-place of Sanctuary;” also sometimes Masjid el Aksa, “the far-off praying-place,” in allusion to its distance from Mecca and to the Prophet’s long night journey. The mosque itself is called Jami’a el Aksa, or the “far-off meeting-house.” To it we next repaired.

The history of the mosque differs from that of the Dome of the Rock. Justinian, in the sixth century, erected a basilica in honour of the Virgin, partly supported by vaults beneath. The remains of such a basilica are distinguishable in the Aksa, and the vault beneath the mosque has the peculiarity of Byzantine vaulting—the narrow keystone, which is not found in the round arches of the Kubbet es Sakhrah, or Dome of the Rock.

In 637 A.D. the Church of St Mary was visited by Omar, and the “station” where he prayed is still shown in the Aksa. In 688 A.D. Abd el Melek covered the doors with gold and silver plates. Additions were made in the eighth century, and the width of the building was increased. The cupola bears the date 728 A.D. The Crusaders called the place Solomon’s Palace, Solomon’s Porch, or Solomon’s Temple. The Templars remodelled it, adding an apse on the east and a long hall on the west. Again it fell into Moslem hands, and further alterations were made; thus at the present day it presents a confusion of style and plan requiring the eye of a practised architect to distinguish the various additions.

The general effect is poor, for the interior is whitewashed and coarsely painted; only at the south end do any remains of the old glass mosaics still exist, and here are found close together the beautiful pulpit of parquetted wood-work from Damascus, and the new glass chandelier from Constantinople, the twisted columns of the Templars’ dining-hall, and the heavy basket-work capitals of the Byzantine basilica, while, in the vault beneath, is the huge monolith, which three men can scarcely girth, supporting the porch of the Temple-gate—a mixture of styles which cannot perhaps be found in any other building in the world.

Many chapters might be written on the High Sanctuary and its buildings, but space is wanting to describe the gates, the underground passages, the chambers and cisterns, which I again and again explored, and which had, already, been minutely examined and described by Major Wilson and Captain Warren. We must hasten therefore to another building, surpassing in interest even the Temple enclosure itself, namely, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

It is a grim and wicked old building that we now approach. Perhaps no other edifice has been directly the cause of more human misery, or defiled with more blood. There are those who would willingly look upon it as the real place of the Saviour’s Tomb, but I confess that, for myself, having twice witnessed the annual orgy which disgraces its walls, the annual imposture which is countenanced by its priests, and the fierce emotions of sectarian hate and blind fanaticism which are called forth by the supposed miracle, and remembering the tale of blood connected with the history of the Church, I should be loth to think that the Sacred Tomb had been a witness for so many years of so much human ignorance, folly, and crime.

The place is nevertheless venerable from its many memories, for whether or no it encloses the Sepulchre of Christ, it may at least claim to be the site which Christians, from the fourth century downwards, have venerated as such. Of this we cannot well have any doubt when we review the descriptions of the place which have been written in consecutive centuries, including several recently published.

Jerome places Golgotha north of Sion, and the early Christians included under the title Sion only the Upper City of Josephus. Eucherius, Bishop of Lyons, writing in 440 A.D., repeats this description of its position, and speaks of Siloam as below the city wall, and beneath the precipitous eastern rock of Sion—a description of relative position which can only apply to the hill now known as Mount Sion. Jerome himself speaks of Sion as the citadel of the town, which is still true of the modern site.

Theodorus, in 530 A.D., is quite as explicit with regard to the position of the church. “In the middle of the city,” he says, “is a basilica; from the west side you may enter to the Holy Resurrection, where is the Sepulchre of our Lord Jesus Christ, and there is the Mount of Calvary, to which Mount the way is by steps, and it is under one roof.”

We know by contemporary evidence (the Pascal Chronicle) that this Basilica of Constantine was destroyed, in 614 A.D., by Chosroes the Persian. Several small chapels were soon after erected instead, by the monk Modestus, and they are described in 630 A.D. In 700 A.D. Arculphus gives a detailed account of these new buildings, including the round Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the square Church of the Virgin, the Chapel of Golgotha, and, on the east, the Basilica of Constantine separated by an open space from the round church and from Golgotha. The relative positions of Calvary and of the Sepulchre in this account, are the same described by the previous writers, and by Eusebius in his history of the building of the original Basilica in 333 A.D. Arculphus’ description of the Sepulchre as a place “large enough to allow nine men to pray standing,” might have been written of the Holy Tomb in the present church. In 722 A.D. it is again described, and the door of the tomb is then said to be, as it still is, on the east.

We are thus able to identify the site chosen by Constantine in the fourth century, with that recognised in the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth centuries. The chapels of Modestus were destroyed, according to contemporary writers, in 1009 A.D. by the mad Khalif Hakem, but were restored in 1048. From the year 1033 down to 1099 A.D. innumerable pilgrimages took place, but accounts of the buildings are not known. The Crusaders, however, replaced the third system of churches by a magnificent cathedral, and united once more the Sepulchre and Calvary under one roof. Their erection dated from 1103 A.D., and remained intact till 1808, when it was partly destroyed by fire; the southern façade is however still attributable to the twelfth century. Of the position of the Crusading site there is also no doubt, and it is shown on charts of the fourteenth century. Sæwulf, in 1102 A.D., places the site of Calvary “on the declivity of Mount Sion,” thus agreeing with Eucherius, who had described it in the fifth century as “placed outside Mount Sion, where a knoll of scanty size exists to the north.” Both these expressions fit well, as the plan will show, with the actual site of the present building.