Through the Wilderness of Judea
From Jewish Life in the East by Sydney M. Samuel, 1881.
From: 1881 C.E. To: 1881 C.E.
Location: Judea and Samaria Area
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From Jewish Life in the East by Sydney M. Samuel, 1881.
The morning was threatening and sultry, when, accompanied by a friend and a capable dragoman (by-the-by why are there no Jewish dragomen for tourists in Jerusalem?—the profession, which only requires the knowledge of one or two foreign languages, is exceedingly well remunerated), we mounted our horses at the Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem. Leaving behind us the lepers, who, fearful and piteous to look upon, beseech the charity of passers-by, outside the city which they are never permitted to enter, we proceeded to mount the stony and precipitous path which leads past the Judah Touro Almshouses, which, with the mill in their vicinity, were founded and are maintained through the benevolent agency of Sir Moses Montefiore.
Over broken slabs of rock, the sure-footed Arab horses pick their way, until they ascend to the lofty plain of Bekâ à, where, it is said, the Philistines frequently encamped, and where they were finally defeated by King David. Descending to a road, if road it can be called, where loose stones encumber the path, and passing a depression in the rock, which a Greek tradition gravely asserts was caused by the reclining form of the prophet Elijah, we see in front of us the high, flat-topped Frank mountain, once the stronghold of the Crusaders. Then we come to the undoubtedly authentic Tomb of Rachel, which owes its present admirable condition of restoration to the kindly care of Sir Moses Montefiore, to which a tablet in Hebrew testifies.
Inside the dome-shaped welie, on the plain whitened tomb, a number of the faithful have recorded their visits by writing their names in Hebrew, and a party of Jewish pilgrims from Safed and Tiberias, with the well-known typical side-ringlets universal amongst the Jews of the Holy Land, were reciting Psalms, and wailing loudly, in the tones familiar to Jews from the synagogue service of the Ninth of Ab, over the destruction of Jerusalem and the loss of their nationality. Possibly ignorant of the fact that we are of the common faith, they refuse us and our horses a draught of water from the well which it contains, and we re-mount, athirst in this thirstiest of lands.
We proceed over a stony and mountainous road, enclosed by low and barren hills, to the Pools of Solomon. These magnificent reservoirs, three in number, measuring respectively 141, 127, and 194 yards in length, constructed of solid masonry and rock, are still in an admirable state of preservation. From them an aqueduct, along the mountains, conducted the water to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. This aqueduct still exists, and were it repaired, there is no reason why Solomon's massive constructions should not, now, serve these cities, so deficient as to their water supply in modern times. Near this, in a low vaulted chamber, is a beautifully clear spring, supposed to be the "sealed fountain" to which the bride is compared in the "Song of Songs."
In the vicinity, also, are the remains of a castle built by Saladin and rebuilt in the seventeenth century. The outer walls and some of the interior masonry still remain. On a grass plateau, therein, the guide spreads a soft carpet, and produces, from an apparently inexhaustible bag, all the materials for an excellent luncheon, from Médoc down to marmalade. The enjoyment of this collation was damped by the sudden downfall of a heavy shower of rain, the first of the season, of which the parched land stood much in need.
Enveloped in mackintoshes we pursue our way, up and down the hills, until we come to Etam, the summer residence of King Solomon, now a village built on the side of a mountain, which latter is utilized, in each case, for one wall of the houses. Below, in the valley, were the Wise King's Gardens, and the spot is still fertile, and is under excellent cultivation by European market-gardeners. Below us lies the traditional Cave of Adullam, in which David sought refuge from Saul.
Further on we come to Bethlehem, which, although the birth-place of King David, now presents nothing of Jewish interest, neither does a single Jew, at present, dwell there. It looks very imposing, situated high up on a hill, with buildings of stone and lime mud, and many dusky olive trees upon its numerous slopes and terraces. After visiting the Church of the Nativity of Jesus, wherein a Turkish soldier is permanently stationed to keep order between the various sects amongst which its chapels are divided, who occasionally fight and kill each other out of pure religious zeal, we inspect the remarkable mother-of-pearl ornaments and artistic carvings for which the village is celebrated.
Seeing the primitive character of the dwellings and costumes, and remarking the shepherds and their flocks upon the neighbouring hills, it can easily be realized how David must have appeared when the prophet Samuel met him here and hailed him as the Lord's anointed; or, seeing the existing threshing-floor, it requires but little force of imagination to re-enact the whole beautiful idyll of Ruth and Boaz. For nothing has changed in Bethlehem since Biblical times. The march of progress has gone by and omitted to pause at this and other kindred spots in the Holy Land. May it not be in order that we may realize the simple truth of the Bible narratives?
Leaving Bethlehem, we leave fertility behind us, and enter upon a long journey up and down rocky and precipitous mountains, stony and weird in shape, and utterly barren of all vegetation. This is the Wilderness of Judaea. More awful and impressive desolation does not exist. It is not the dreary monotony of the sand-deserts of Egypt. It is Nature at its grandest and wildest. Spots there are which can be made fertile, but Man has imitated the cruelty of Nature and has left it to itself—dreary and desolate.
The horses pick their way, with marvellous certainty, over the hard, broken, rocks and loose stones, now on the edge of deep gorges, wonderfully varied as to the shades of sad colour—if colour it can be called where all is sad; now descending to long stretches of barren sandy soil. The sun goes down, with the magnificent splendour of tints only to be seen in the East, tinging even the gruesome rocks with glowing tints, and night comes on. Still we have two hours' journey, before we can meet a human being or find a resting-place, and the solemn stillness which prevails, as well as the danger of the mountain-travelling, is sufficient to damp the highest spirits. After once losing the way and having to retrace our steps, we come upon the Monastery of Mar Saba, with its gigantic terraces, situate at the top, and partly on the side of, a ravine 590 feet in depth, which, in the bright, white moonlight, offers the grandest and most picturesque spectacle that can well be imagined.
Constructed upon huge flying buttresses, the monastery is in the most desolate situation in the whole Holy Land, surrounded by the Wilderness. Excepting the fifty-five monks, many said to be (and let us hope they are)repentant thieves and murderers, and a few villagers who live in the valley below under their protection, no living soul, beyond the nomad Bedouin Arabs, whose black tents and fires are seen in the valleys round about, dwells nearer than distant Jericho on the one hand, and Bethlehem on the other. The monks, who are singularly dirty for such holy men, live on olives, onions, and bread and water; but our inexhaustible bag provides us with much less frugal fare, and we lie down, wearied, on beds in a vast apartment, where guests (of the male sex only, for no female foot dares profane the precincts)are received, by order from the Armenian Convent at Jerusalem, under payment of about the usual hotel charges. In the morning, at sunrise (and how beautiful a sunrise!)we inspect the vast monastery and the cave where St. Saba, the founder, used to dwell on amicable terms with a lion, who has left no descendants in the neighbourhood, although jackals, who might serve as their providers, abound.
Reinforced by a picturesque-looking Bedouin Sheikh, armed in a most imposing manner, who proved to be a most consummate coward, and an Arab muleteer for our baggage, we proceed upon our way. Formerly, when the road presented many dangers, these Bedouins, appointed by the Government, were necessary guards, but they are now simply an excuse for "backshish."
The Government, however, when they are employed, undertakes to recover any article that may be stolen from travellers on these desolate roads, but if they are not engaged, will take no responsibility for life or property. From the mountain above the monastery we obtain our first view of the Dead Sea—a lake glimmering in the sunlight. Between us and it are the yellow mountains of the Wilderness; below, the vast valley of the Jordan, with its hills looking like small stones on the plain, and beyond, the mountains of Moab, so deep in their gorgeous purple and blue waviness of outline, that from here, as from Jerusalem, it is difficult to imagine that they are not themselves a sea.
Under a burning hot-sun and a cloudless cerulean sky the whole forms a picture unequalled for grandeur and beauty, never to be forgotten by him who has witnessed it. Skirting the precipitous valley of the Brook Kidron, with its stupendous cliffs full of caverns, once the dwelling-places of hermits, over paths—for made roads there are none—so bad, that even our confidence in the sure-footedness of the Arab horses gives way, and we descend and lead them, preferring, if they are to go over the precipices, to let them go alone, we come to the foot of a mountain called Neby Musa, said by the Arabs to possess the tomb of Moses on its summit. To this tomb pilgrimages are made, and it annually works miracles, not the least of which is that anybody should be found to believe in its authenticity in the face of the distinct Biblical statement that the burial-place of the prophet is unknown.
Then, after two hours of hard work under a broiling sun, we descend, over quaintly-shaped and volcanic-looking rocks, to the vast plain of the Jordan and the margin of the Dead Sea; passing through a considerable growth of underwood, whence rise coveys of partridges and wild pigeons, which would gladden the heart of the least ardent sportsman.
Whilst, protected by cloths hung on dead trees, thrown up by the waves of the Dead Sea, the contents of the inexhaustible bag are being prepared once more for luncheon, we seek refuge from the heat by a bath in the blue water, where no living thing does, or can exist. And what a bath! It is the very essence of invigoration. You cannot sink,, try how you will, for the specific gravity of the water, highly charged with various salts, sustains the body, so that your feet have an unpleasant tendency to rise out of the water in swimming. The water pricks the eyes and any slight abrasions on the body, with the concentrated sharpness of ten thousand needles, and is most nauseous to the taste, but the swallowing of it is optional. Although refreshed beyond measure, yet the bather is covered from head to foot with an oily salt substance, difficult to remove. About the same length as the Lake of Geneva, the Dead Sea, together with its neighbourhood, must be full of mineral wealth, and being the lowest, hottest, and most protected spot in the world, the climate of its valley should be admirable for consumptive patients.
Comforted in the inner man, and infinitely the better for a short nap, we proceed to the Ford of the Jordan, through the valley, one and a quarter hour's journey. Much has been said as to the disappointing insignificance of this river of unparalleled historical interest; yet it can well be understood how the refreshing verdure by which it is surrounded, strangely abrupt in the environing desolation, must have gladdened the hearts of the Israelites, wearied with their long journeying through the wild and barren mountains of Moab. Its sweet shade and luxuriant greenery rejoice even the hearts of modern tourists who come upon it after a days wandering in the Wilderness of Judea.
Muddy and narrow, yet rushing rapidly and fiercely through its bed down to its resting-place in the Dead Sea, it is impossible to divest it of its grand associations, and to forget that it formed the natural barrier of the Land of Israel. Some two hundred camels were being driven, by the Bedouins, to drink at the Ford, and a quaint spectacle they afforded. Cutting cigarette-holders from some of the numerous reeds which surround the Jordan, we waited patiently till the camels had sufficiently satiated themselves, remarking how they came into the water looking emaciated, and left it inflated, like balloons, we then, in our turn, bathed ourselves in its cool, though uncongenial-looking stream.
The bed is hard and stony to a degree, but one could scarcely refrain from remembering how Naaman, the Captain of the Host, bathed in its waters and was rid of his leprosy, nor from wishing that moral leprosies could be similarly and as efficaciously cured. At this ford the Israelites were said to have crossed on dry land, and here tradition localises the division of the waters by the cloak of Elijah.
Passing a ruin, which still bears the name of Kasr-el-Yehudi (Castle of the Jews), we ride over the plain, through the brushwood and thorn bushes, to Jericho. At the top of the high mountain above it still dwells, in a cavern, an Abyssinian hermit, who but rarely leaves his self-selected solitude. Modern Jericho, the walls of which it requires no miraculous trumpets of Joshua to destroy, is a dirty Bedouin village, containing some sixty families, who dwell in mud hovels and tents, living on little and coming by it with even less scruple. It contains an hotel, which is a sort of mud-hovel, with accommodation of the most primitive character, for two or three travellers.
After dinner, we gaze with wrapt admiration on the splendid sunset, with its ever-changing shades of colour lighting up the novel scene, and on the strange and rare vegetation: then, sitting under the vine-trellised doorway of the little inn, witness, by the light of the full moon, a quaint and novel spectacle. The Sheikh of the village comes forward and utters a wild shriek, when from out of their hiding-places appear various male Bedouins, who form a line, and, with monotonous hand-clapping and strange mirth, encourage two of their number to dance a grotesque and, we must add, a grossly indecent dance. This put a stop to, the women come forward and with shrill tones accompany the wife of the Sheikh, who, with a drawn sword, dances a battle dance in imitation of a real combat, with remarkable grace and agility. Then they all give an imitation of their mode of warfare, while we smoke our comforting nargilehs and enjoy the picturesque scene.
In the house later on, our muleteer Said, a good-tempered little Arabic Sancho Panza, sings us quaint Arabic love songs and tells us (through the interpreter)apocryphal stories of his adventures in the recent Turko-Russian war, while our bold Bedouin Yussuf endeavours to anticipate the morrow's "backshish." The Turks, they tell us, were sustained by the hope of the promised support of England, who played them false and gave them no aid. This firm impression on the mind of an ignorant muleteer is worth recording.
On the morrow we directed our steps to Elisha's fountain, and drank of its pure bubbling stream; then took a ride of six hours over the mountains of the Wilderness, past the so-called Birket Musa (Pool of Moses)—a reservoir constructed, for the use of Jericho, by king Herod—and the valley of the Brook Cherith, to Bethany, where there is nought of Jewish interest; thence to the minaret on the summit of the Mount of Olives, whence a view is obtained on the one side of the Wilderness of Judaea, the Valley of the Jordan, the Dead Sea, and the mountains of Moab; and, on the other side, of the whole city of Jerusalem.
Although the interior of Jerusalem is squalid, ugly, and, truth to tell, more offensively unpleasant to sight and smell than any other city I have visited (and I have seen many), yet, from the Mount of Olives, with its walls, domes, minarets, and spires bathed in the brilliant light of an afternoon sun, shining in a marvellously clear, deep-blue sky, no sight can be more beautiful. The spectator can almost form some idea of its ancient glories and can sympathize with the poignancy of the regret of the "lovers of Zion." And in this pellucid atmosphere, which makes the most distant place appear near at hand, it requires no firm belief in miracles to understand how Moses saw the whole of the Promised Land from Mount Nebo, the highest peak of the Moabite chain of mountains.
Samuel, Sydney Montagu. Jewish Life in the East. C. Kegan Paul & Co., 1881.
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