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OUR MONTHLY.

A

RELIGIOUS AND LITERARY MAGAZINE.

JULY-1872.

FORTY-EIGHT HOURS IN PALESTINE.

FR

ROM the Hill of Zion, from the hallowed places whence comes what we have of religion, from the hills which have borne the Highest and Holiest, and have looked down upon the glory and the carnage, as nations were born, or grew old, or in grim wrestle slew each other, from all these I had returned, as twilight deepened into night, to find my letters with the New York post-mark upon them, and a package of Horace Greeley's Tribunes.

How curious were the feelings which came with the reading. In America no paradise without protection to native industry; here the lilies which "toil not, neither do they spin," and humanity almost as effortless as they. In this land, the ages gone to a deep sleep; in that, life

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by ALFRED MARTIEN, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

turning with an energy almost fierce. "Sorry for that, sir. However, you Here the anathema upon eaters of swine's have seen everything about Jerusalem, flesh; there the promising prospects of and have two days left, which is time the hog-crop" in Cincinnati. Here enough for reaching the coast.” the women commanded to keep silence; there the cry for woman's rights and woman's oratory. Here the memory of the ideal and spiritual; there the physical and practical, with the body for a shrine. Here Gethsemane, there music in the Central Park.

Curious meeting of dissonants, thoughts arranging themselves in such strange contrasts as I read! It was as if some one had "spoken out in meeting," as if an advertisement had been placed upon a coffin as it descended into the earth, or a stump speech made at the side of an open grave.

One does not feel inclined to speak lightly here, far from it; but these contrasts help to illustrate the feelings which crowd upon one, as these ends of the earth, these ends of the ages, come jarringly together.

But to my letters.

My letters, alas! Sickness, fortune, death it is of little consequence to the reader; the letters were in the imperative. I must start for Western Europe by the next steamer, which was to leave Jaffa, far away on the Mediterranean, in two short days, and I had not yet had a swim in the Dead Sea, nor an informal baptism in the Jordan. Leave Palestine without that? The play with Hamlet left out, or at least Ophelia. I felt nonplussed and provoked at the circumstances I could not control, annoyed that I had so leisurely looked about and wasted precious time, with, as I supposed, the chief part of a month before me in which to finish Palestine.

Two days?—I reflected. Two days is the usual time taken to come from the steamer up to this city of David, and my Dead Sea goal is a two days' journey in another direction! The thing looks a little severe, perhaps fool-hardy. Can I play Hercules for a fraction of time? I called the dragoman.

"Achmet!" said I, holding up my letters, "I must say good-by, and leave by the next steamer."

"And I must have a swim in the Dead Sea, a bath in the Jordan." "Impossible!" "Why?"

"Why? my dear sir, it takes two days to reach the coast, and what you propose is two or three days of weary toil in another direction. The double journey would involve the necessity of being on horseback between thirty and forty hours out of the next forty-eight. Why, a wild Arab of the desert would hardly undertake it."

"And yet, Achmet, I shall."

Come six thousand miles to Palestine, and not cast my lot where the pillar of salt stood? Not see the spot where the Paris and New York of old times underwent their shower-bath of fire? Not swim in the acrid brine, nor bathe in the sacred river?

"No words, Achmet; lose no time; prepare everything and report. I shall go!"

General Beaubechaux, our genial and gentlemanly Consul, who left one limb in the South when our country was saved from ruin, secured for me some mounted guards, and our host packed up the chicken, sardines, wine, etc., necessary for our trot against time. A few hours rest, and about daybreak we were wending our way through the cobble-stone lanestreets of the curious old city towards St. Stephen's Gate, whence we issued as the first rays of the sun were lighting up the little mosque and dusty trees on the Mount of Olives.

First went our dragoons, picturesque in turbans and burnoose, with brassmounted flint-locks slung over their shoulders; then the dragoman, and myself, I listening to his romance about the localities, most of it false of course and foolish enough; still on that dreary way it was amusing; and last came our little Arab boy, with a donkey loaded with our larder and bedding, for some part of the night, when we halted, we were to spend in the open air. Descending the little

ST. STEPHEN'S GATE.

footway or bridle path, we entered the valley of Siloam, Gehenna on our right, with but little in its appearance to tell why it should be a synonym for hades, and on our left the valley of Jehoshaphat, with its myriad of dry bones, waiting to be clothed again at the judgment. A little cabbage patch was the only green thing in the blank desolation, save a few olive trees on the hills. How seldom do books of travel, or guide books, call attention to the fact that there is no rain in Syria from May to October, and of course in autumn all is dried, scorched and burned up. The surroundings of the Holy City are desolate at all times, but in the autumn, desolation sits brooding like a spectre.

Leaving the valley, we passed between the Mount of Olives and the Mount of Offence, and were fairly on our way. The route to the Dead Sea is usually to the north, by way of Jericho and the Jordan, or to the south through St. Saba. Ours, which led directly towards our goal, was neither of them, but by an unfrequented Arab path between the two, a pathway not put down upon the maps, and much more difficult than the usual routes. It passed through the wilder parts of the dreary "wilderness" where our Saviour was led by the Evil One and tempted. All roads in Syria are but bridle or foot paths. No locomotion can be had there but by horse, mule, or foot

power; the road we were on differing from others only in being narrower, ruder and more dangerous. The route layong the mountain side, and was in places so marrow not pass orch

that two horses cour side was

other; and directly at

a rough, unsightly ravine, some fifty to a hundred feet deep, covered with dust and crumbling limestone. This ravine was not, perhaps, very stupendous or exciting to the imagination, yet profound enough to bring the heavens and earth together, if one fell, for it would be a fall into another world.

We went on through the weary hours, leaving the sacred mountains far behind us, and entering more and more into the wild precincts of that noted wilderness. The sun shone in our faces, its hot, glittering beams half blinding us, and as it rose towards the zenith, poured down its rays stil more scorchingly upon our devoted heads. The hills, mountains, fissures, ravines, and chasms were more and more weird and grotesque as we went on and passed over or around them. In places we had to move very cautiously, often dismounting and leading our hesitating animals where even wild goats would be cautious, and the declivity was too steep to ride down without courting injury or death.

Not a leaf, not a blade of grass was visible as far as the eye could reach. Not a vestige of vegetation in the parched and burnt and boundless desolation. All was one uniform no-color, made up of the hues of dust, burned clay, dry sand, and dirty ochre. We have nothing like it, nothing to compare with it. Reptiles. marsh, jungle, forest, with us make up a "wilderness"-a wilderness through its exuberance of life; but here were fractured rock, dried clay, burned earth and dust thrown about in chaotic confusion, a wilderness through its exuberance of death. It seemed strange, with its dusty, friable surface, that the winter rains of a thousand years had not washed it down to one meaningless level. Crevices, cliffs, precipices were at every turn, their chao

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tic outlines becoming more wild as we alvanced, until it seemed as if the desert had been tossed up by a hundred volcanoes-as if lightning and lava had fought with nature, and she had died in the conflict as if the master fiend, enraged that he could not tempt the Holy One to bow in "the exceeding high mountain" of this very wilderness, had in his wrath made a pandemonium of the spot, and now the fire had gone out, as he pursued his smaller game, mankind.

were congealed into a sparkling monument, sacred to the memory of that sin for evermore. Looking back-alas! if all who do that were turned to salt, made white, not in innocence, but in sin, what a gigantic world-cemetery it would be, crowded with monuments, each corpse its own grave and its own tombstone!

On the beach of the strange sea at last. I heartily disrobed while the others were unpacking our provisions, and dashed into the brine. A stiff hot breeze was

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Onward and down we went by the twisted, narrow pathway, until, on reaching a steep conical hill, covered with pebbles and dusty chips of limestone, we lost our way and all traces of a road. We wandered for some time with difficulty, in danger of rolling down the hillside, then struck the trail again, and went on and down towards the strange watering place. Finally, on reaching the brow of a rugged hill, we came in sight of the huge grave of Sodom and Gomorrah, with the mountains of Moab for a headstone.

We hastened down the hillside, and over the rough sand plain, and of course the spot was pointed out to us where Madam Lot was turned into a pillar of salt. Poor lady! Let us leave her a little sympathy as we pass on. She cast a longing, lingering, last farewell look towards her home, her belongings, her Lares and Penates, and the next moment tears, eyes, heart and heaving bosom, all

blowing from the other side, but the waves were very small, so dense and heavy is the water. I found on wading in that I floated when the water reached my arm-pits, and swam with ease, but had to do so more perpendicularly than usual, to keep my feet from being thrown up, and as I had been warned by our Consul, did not put my head under; so escaping pain in eyes and ears, and a possible headache. After the strange bith, coveted for so many years, I washed with a bottle of fresh water, brought with us for the purpose, and felt no bad effects; on the contrary, my swim over the ruins of the wicked cities was quite refreshing.

The first taste of the water is pleasant enough, but more than the very slightest touch of the tongue to it leaves an acrid, nauseous taste. This is not surprising when we consider that it holds in solution over one-quarter of its bulk of chloride of magnesium, sodium, etc. Think

of it, a mass of salt and chemicals as large as Mt. Washington afloat there!

We of course secured a bottle of the water, as a souvenir, and then, it being after three o'clock, did justice to our viands, as our long weary ride had given us enormous appetites.

very one-sided conversation in Arabic. I looked up, trying to divine his meaning. He pointed to the pomade as he spoke, and I held it up. Gently and formally he put in his finger, and crossed himself. Poor fellow, he evidently thought I was a pilgrim, anointing myself Mounting again and quite refreshed, with holy ointment! As far as that we started for the "Holy Water," which could help him to the Celestial City," was blessed by the Great High Priest him- I was not unwilling to do him a kindself, in his baptism, and which stands, as it ness. The Paris perfumer little thought were, at the entrance to this great World- of the high destiny awaiting his innocent Temple. Towards this water the eyes of pomade. millions are turned, and every year thousands of pilgrims bathe, and by crossing themselves in it, think that they will thus atone for all their sinning.

Some inkling of vegetation lined our way, and the plain was almost a perfect level. The earth was firm for the horses' footing, and we made better time than was possible in the wilderness. As the sun was sinking near the horizon, we came in sight of the Jordan, still a pool of Bethesda to so many, and hastened down to the ford where our Saviour is thought to have been baptized, and where the multitude of pilgrims still bathe at Easter to secure the right of way, or a free pass up Jacob's ladder to the stars and the sphere melodies.

Disrobing once more, I went into the sacred river, and there before me lay "the other side of Jordan," and alas, as most men do with the opposite shore of the spiritual Jordan, I looked at the noted locality shyly, and did not care to travel thither. In this case I did not make the attempt, as the current and eddies in the middle of the stream are treacherous. Some who are careless or too venturesome are drowned here every year.

At the beginning of this immense ride, which I had perhaps not over-wisely undertaken, I had been cautious enough to bring a little bottle of pomade with me, to use in case of abrasion of the skin. As I was sitting on a log and dressing, I rubbed it on the sides of my knees, when I noticed that one of the guards, who was drinking Jordan water not far off, was watching me. Approaching softly and gently, he began holding a

We turned our faces from the baptismal font of Jesus,-away from the huge liquid grave which was once a plain, "and bloomed even as the garden of the Lord,"-away from that sheet of acrid water, a winding sheet around the doomed dead cities,-away from the strange, weird, watery solitude, where hades for a moment burst upon the earth, and claimed its own before their time. Yes, my errand was done, the penalty only remained, for little more than onequarter of my two days' task was accomplished, and the sun of the first was setting.

The donkey boy, dragoons, and dragoman began racing and doing mad pranks as we went on our way, while I kept back to save my strength for labors which they would not have to encounter.

The sun went down, twilight faded into darkness, but it was far in the night, and the stars were glancing their welcome as we entered Jericho. The same stars, the same meaningful glances, as when Joshua or Elijah, or the Holy One rested there; but the place and the people, alas, how changed! We were returning by the longer or more northern route, as a night ride over the one we had come would not be feasible.

A square, rough stone tower stood as a citadel over the miserable little village, and there ten soldiers and a sheik kept watch and ward for travellers or for wandering bandit Bedouins. When we arrived, however, they were smoking and drinking coffee in the open air, and we joined them. In the sheik's Arabic, filtered through the dragoman's doubtful English, we chatted of Eastern life while

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