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    Chapter 45

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    Chapter 46
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    The last twenty-four hours we staid in Damascus I lay prostrate with a
    violent attack of cholera, or cholera morbus, and therefore had a good
    chance and a good excuse to lie there on that wide divan and take an
    honest rest. I had nothing to do but listen to the pattering of the
    fountains and take medicine and throw it up again. It was dangerous
    recreation, but it was pleasanter than traveling in Syria. I had plenty
    of snow from Mount Hermon, and as it would not stay on my stomach, there
    was nothing to interfere with my eating it--there was always room for
    more. I enjoyed myself very well. Syrian travel has its interesting
    features, like travel in any other part of the world, and yet to break
    your leg or have the cholera adds a welcome variety to it.

    We left Damascus at noon and rode across the plain a couple of hours, and
    then the party stopped a while in the shade of some fig-trees to give me
    a chance to rest. It was the hottest day we had seen yet--the sun-flames
    shot down like the shafts of fire that stream out before a blow-pipe--the
    rays seemed to fall in a steady deluge on the head and pass downward like
    rain from a roof. I imagined I could distinguish between the floods of
    rays--I thought I could tell when each flood struck my head, when it
    reached my shoulders, and when the next one came. It was terrible. All
    the desert glared so fiercely that my eyes were swimming in tears all the
    time. The boys had white umbrellas heavily lined with dark green. They
    were a priceless blessing. I thanked fortune that I had one, too,
    notwithstanding it was packed up with the baggage and was ten miles
    ahead. It is madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella. They told
    me in Beirout (these people who always gorge you with advice) that it was
    madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella. It was on this account
    that I got one.

    But, honestly, I think an umbrella is a nuisance any where when its
    business is to keep the sun off. No Arab wears a brim to his fez, or
    uses an umbrella, or any thing to shade his eyes or his face, and he
    always looks comfortable and proper in the sun. But of all the
    ridiculous sights I ever have seen, our party of eight is the most so
    --they do cut such an outlandish figure. They travel single file; they all
    wear the endless white rag of Constantinople wrapped round and round
    their hats and dangling down their backs; they all wear thick green
    spectacles, with side-glasses to them; they all hold white umbrellas,
    lined with green, over their heads; without exception their stirrups are
    too short--they are the very worst gang of horsemen on earth, their
    animals to a horse trot fearfully hard--and when they get strung out one
    after the other; glaring straight ahead and breathless; bouncing high and
    out of turn, all along the line; knees well up and stiff, elbows flapping
    like a rooster's that is going to crow, and the long file of umbrellas
    popping convulsively up and down--when one sees this outrageous picture
    exposed to the light of day, he is amazed that the gods don't get out
    their thunderbolts and destroy them off the face of the earth! I do--I
    wonder at it. I wouldn't let any such caravan go through a country of
    mine.

    And when the sun drops below the horizon and the boys close their
    umbrellas and put them under their arms, it is only a variation of the
    picture, not a modification of its absurdity.

    But may be you can not see the wild extravagance of my panorama. You
    could if you were here. Here, you feel all the time just as if you were
    living about the year 1200 before Christ--or back to the patriarchs--or
    forward to the New Era. The scenery of the Bible is about you--the
    customs of the patriarchs are around you--the same people, in the same
    flowing robes, and in sandals, cross your path--the same long trains of
    stately camels go and come--the same impressive religious solemnity and
    silence rest upon the desert and the mountains that were upon them in the
    remote ages of antiquity, and behold, intruding upon a scene like this,
    comes this fantastic mob of green-spectacled Yanks, with their flapping
    elbows and bobbing umbrellas! It is Daniel in the lion's den with a
    green cotton umbrella under his arm, all over again.

    My umbrella is with the baggage, and so are my green spectacles--and
    there they shall stay. I will not use them. I will show some respect
    for the eternal fitness of things. It will be bad enough to get
    sun-struck, without looking ridiculous into the bargain. If I fall,
    let me fall bearing about me the semblance of a Christian, at least.

    Three or four hours out from Damascus we passed the spot where Saul was
    so abruptly converted, and from this place we looked back over the
    scorching desert, and had our last glimpse of beautiful Damascus, decked
    in its robes of shining green. After nightfall we reached our tents,
    just outside of the nasty Arab village of Jonesborough. Of course the
    real name of the place is El something or other, but the boys still
    refuse to recognize the Arab names or try to pronounce them. When I say
    that that village is of the usual style, I mean to insinuate that all
    Syrian villages within fifty miles of Damascus are alike--so much alike
    that it would require more than human intelligence to tell wherein one
    differed from another. A Syrian village is a hive of huts one story high
    (the height of a man,) and as square as a dry-goods box; it is
    mud-plastered all over, flat roof and all, and generally whitewashed
    after a fashion. The same roof often extends over half the town,
    covering many of the streets, which are generally about a yard wide.
    When you ride through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet
    a melancholy dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won't
    run over him, but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet
    a young boy without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says
    "Bucksheesh!"--he don't really expect a cent, but then he learned to
    say that before he learned to say mother, and now he can not break
    himself of it; next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely
    over her face, and her bust exposed; finally, you come to several
    sore-eyed children and children in all stages of mutilation and decay;
    and sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a
    poor devil whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape-vines.
    These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of the
    population are asleep within doors, or abroad tending goats in the
    plains and on the hill-sides. The village is built on some consumptive
    little water-course, and about it is a little fresh-looking vegetation.
    Beyond this charmed circle, for miles on every side, stretches a weary
    desert of sand and gravel, which produces a gray bunchy shrub like
    sage-brush. A Syrian village is the sorriest sight in the world, and
    its surroundings are eminently in keeping with it.

    I would not have gone into this dissertation upon Syrian villages but for
    the fact that Nimrod, the Mighty Hunter of Scriptural notoriety, is
    buried in Jonesborough, and I wished the public to know about how he is
    located. Like Homer, he is said to be buried in many other places, but
    this is the only true and genuine place his ashes inhabit.

    When the original tribes were dispersed, more than four thousand years
    ago, Nimrod and a large party traveled three or four hundred miles, and
    settled where the great city of Babylon afterwards stood. Nimrod built
    that city. He also began to build the famous Tower of Babel, but
    circumstances over which he had no control put it out of his power to
    finish it. He ran it up eight stories high, however, and two of them
    still stand, at this day--a colossal mass of brickwork, rent down the
    centre by earthquakes, and seared and vitrified by the lightnings of an
    angry God. But the vast ruin will still stand for ages, to shame the
    puny labors of these modern generations of men. Its huge compartments
    are tenanted by owls and lions, and old Nimrod lies neglected in this
    wretched village, far from the scene of his grand enterprise.

    We left Jonesborough very early in the morning, and rode forever and
    forever and forever, it seemed to me, over parched deserts and rocky
    hills, hungry, and with no water to drink. We had drained the goat-skins
    dry in a little while. At noon we halted before the wretched Arab town
    of El Yuba Dam, perched on the side of a mountain, but the dragoman said
    if we applied there for water we would be attacked by the whole tribe,
    for they did not love Christians. We had to journey on. Two hours later
    we reached the foot of a tall isolated mountain, which is crowned by the
    crumbling castle of Banias, the stateliest ruin of that kind on earth, no
    doubt. It is a thousand feet long and two hundred wide, all of the most
    symmetrical, and at the same time the most ponderous masonry. The
    massive towers and bastions are more than thirty feet high, and have been
    sixty. From the mountain's peak its broken turrets rise above the groves
    of ancient oaks and olives, and look wonderfully picturesque. It is of
    such high antiquity that no man knows who built it or when it was built.
    It is utterly inaccessible, except in one place, where a bridle-path
    winds upward among the solid rocks to the old portcullis. The horses'
    hoofs have bored holes in these rocks to the depth of six inches during
    the hundreds and hundreds of years that the castle was garrisoned. We
    wandered for three hours among the chambers and crypts and dungeons of
    the fortress, and trod where the mailed heels of many a knightly Crusader
    had rang, and where Phenician heroes had walked ages before them.

    We wondered how such a solid mass of masonry could be affected even by an
    earthquake, and could not understand what agency had made Banias a ruin;
    but we found the destroyer, after a while, and then our wonder was
    increased tenfold. Seeds had fallen in crevices in the vast walls; the
    seeds had sprouted; the tender, insignificant sprouts had hardened; they
    grew larger and larger, and by a steady, imperceptible pressure forced
    the great stones apart, and now are bringing sure destruction upon a
    giant work that has even mocked the earthquakes to scorn! Gnarled and
    twisted trees spring from the old walls every where, and beautify and
    overshadow the gray battlements with a wild luxuriance of foliage.

    From these old towers we looked down upon a broad, far-reaching green
    plain, glittering with the pools and rivulets which are the sources of
    the sacred river Jordan. It was a grateful vision, after so much desert.

    And as the evening drew near, we clambered down the mountain, through
    groves of the Biblical oaks of Bashan, (for we were just stepping over
    the border and entering the long-sought Holy Land,) and at its extreme
    foot, toward the wide valley, we entered this little execrable village of
    Banias and camped in a great grove of olive trees near a torrent of
    sparkling water whose banks are arrayed in fig-trees, pomegranates and
    oleanders in full leaf. Barring the proximity of the village, it is a
    sort of paradise.

    The very first thing one feels like doing when he gets into camp, all
    burning up and dusty, is to hunt up a bath. We followed the stream up to
    where it gushes out of the mountain side, three hundred yards from the
    tents, and took a bath that was so icy that if I did not know this was
    the main source of the sacred river, I would expect harm to come of it.
    It was bathing at noonday in the chilly source of the Abana, "River of
    Damascus," that gave me the cholera, so Dr. B. said. However, it
    generally does give me the cholera to take a bath.

    The incorrigible pilgrims have come in with their pockets full of
    specimens broken from the ruins. I wish this vandalism could be stopped.
    They broke off fragments from Noah's tomb; from the exquisite sculptures
    of the temples of Baalbec; from the houses of Judas and Ananias, in
    Damascus; from the tomb of Nimrod the Mighty Hunter in Jonesborough; from
    the worn Greek and Roman inscriptions set in the hoary walls of the
    Castle of Banias; and now they have been hacking and chipping these old
    arches here that Jesus looked upon in the flesh. Heaven protect the
    Sepulchre when this tribe invades Jerusalem!

    The ruins here are not very interesting. There are the massive walls of
    a great square building that was once the citadel; there are many
    ponderous old arches that are so smothered with debris that they barely
    project above the ground; there are heavy-walled sewers through which the
    crystal brook of which Jordan is born still runs; in the hill-side are
    the substructions of a costly marble temple that Herod the Great built
    here--patches of its handsome mosaic floors still remain; there is a
    quaint old stone bridge that was here before Herod's time, may be;
    scattered every where, in the paths and in the woods, are Corinthian
    capitals, broken porphyry pillars, and little fragments of sculpture; and
    up yonder in the precipice where the fountain gushes out, are well-worn
    Greek inscriptions over niches in the rock where in ancient times the
    Greeks, and after them the Romans, worshipped the sylvan god Pan. But
    trees and bushes grow above many of these ruins now; the miserable huts
    of a little crew of filthy Arabs are perched upon the broken masonry of
    antiquity, the whole place has a sleepy, stupid, rural look about it, and
    one can hardly bring himself to believe that a busy, substantially built
    city once existed here, even two thousand years ago. The place was
    nevertheless the scene of an event whose effects have added page after
    page and volume after volume to the world's history. For in this place
    Christ stood when he said to Peter:

    "Thou art Peter; and upon this rock will I build my church, and the
    gates of hell shall not prevail against it. And I will give unto
    thee the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven; and whatsoever thou shalt
    bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt
    loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."

    On those little sentences have been built up the mighty edifice of the
    Church of Rome; in them lie the authority for the imperial power of the
    Popes over temporal affairs, and their godlike power to curse a soul or
    wash it white from sin. To sustain the position of "the only true
    Church," which Rome claims was thus conferred upon her, she has fought
    and labored and struggled for many a century, and will continue to keep
    herself busy in the same work to the end of time. The memorable words I
    have quoted give to this ruined city about all the interest it possesses
    to people of the present day.

    It seems curious enough to us to be standing on ground that was once
    actually pressed by the feet of the Saviour. The situation is suggestive
    of a reality and a tangibility that seem at variance with the vagueness
    and mystery and ghostliness that one naturally attaches to the character
    of a god. I can not comprehend yet that I am sitting where a god has
    stood, and looking upon the brook and the mountains which that god looked
    upon, and am surrounded by dusky men and women whose ancestors saw him,
    and even talked with him, face to face, and carelessly, just as they
    would have done with any other stranger. I can not comprehend this; the
    gods of my understanding have been always hidden in clouds and very far
    away.

    This morning, during breakfast, the usual assemblage of squalid humanity
    sat patiently without the charmed circle of the camp and waited for such
    crumbs as pity might bestow upon their misery. There were old and young,
    brown-skinned and yellow. Some of the men were tall and stalwart, (for
    one hardly sees any where such splendid-looking men as here in the East,)
    but all the women and children looked worn and sad, and distressed with
    hunger. They reminded me much of Indians, did these people. They had
    but little clothing, but such as they had was fanciful in character and
    fantastic in its arrangement. Any little absurd gewgaw or gimcrack they
    had they disposed in such a way as to make it attract attention most
    readily. They sat in silence, and with tireless patience watched our
    every motion with that vile, uncomplaining impoliteness which is so truly
    Indian, and which makes a white man so nervous and uncomfortable and
    savage that he wants to exterminate the whole tribe.

    These people about us had other peculiarities, which I have noticed in
    the noble red man, too: they were infested with vermin, and the dirt had
    caked on them till it amounted to bark.

    The little children were in a pitiable condition--they all had sore eyes,
    and were otherwise afflicted in various ways. They say that hardly a
    native child in all the East is free from sore eyes, and that thousands
    of them go blind of one eye or both every year. I think this must be so,
    for I see plenty of blind people every day, and I do not remember seeing
    any children that hadn't sore eyes. And, would you suppose that an
    American mother could sit for an hour, with her child in her arms, and
    let a hundred flies roost upon its eyes all that time undisturbed? I see
    that every day. It makes my flesh creep. Yesterday we met a woman
    riding on a little jackass, and she had a little child in her arms
    --honestly, I thought the child had goggles on as we approached, and I
    wondered how its mother could afford so much style. But when we drew
    near, we saw that the goggles were nothing but a camp meeting of flies
    assembled around each of the child's eyes, and at the same time there was
    a detachment prospecting its nose. The flies were happy, the child was
    contented, and so the mother did not interfere.

    As soon as the tribe found out that we had a doctor in our party, they
    began to flock in from all quarters. Dr. B., in the charity of his
    nature, had taken a child from a woman who sat near by, and put some sort
    of a wash upon its diseased eyes. That woman went off and started the
    whole nation, and it was a sight to see them swarm! The lame, the halt,
    the blind, the leprous--all the distempers that are bred of indolence,
    dirt, and iniquity--were represented in the Congress in ten minutes, and
    still they came! Every woman that had a sick baby brought it along, and
    every woman that hadn't, borrowed one. What reverent and what worshiping
    looks they bent upon that dread, mysterious power, the Doctor! They
    watched him take his phials out; they watched him measure the particles
    of white powder; they watched him add drops of one precious liquid, and
    drops of another; they lost not the slightest movement; their eyes were
    riveted upon him with a fascination that nothing could distract.
    I believe they thought he was gifted like a god. When each individual
    got his portion of medicine, his eyes were radiant with joy
    --notwithstanding by nature they are a thankless and impassive race--and
    upon his face was written the unquestioning faith that nothing on earth
    could prevent the patient from getting well now.

    Christ knew how to preach to these simple, superstitious,
    disease-tortured creatures: He healed the sick. They flocked to our
    poor human doctor this morning when the fame of what he had done to the
    sick child went abroad in the land, and they worshiped him with their
    eyes while they did not know as yet whether there was virtue in his
    simples or not. The ancestors of these--people precisely like them in
    color, dress, manners, customs, simplicity--flocked in vast multitudes
    after Christ, and when they saw Him make the afflicted whole with a
    word, it is no wonder they worshiped Him. No wonder His deeds were the
    talk of the nation. No wonder the multitude that followed Him was so
    great that at one time--thirty miles from here--they had to let a sick
    man down through the roof because no approach could be made to the door;
    no wonder His audiences were so great at Galilee that He had to preach
    from a ship removed a little distance from the shore; no wonder that
    even in the desert places about Bethsaida, five thousand invaded His
    solitude, and He had to feed them by a miracle or else see them suffer
    for their confiding faith and devotion; no wonder when there was a great
    commotion in a city in those days, one neighbor explained it to another
    in words to this effect: "They say that Jesus of Nazareth is come!"

    Well, as I was saying, the doctor distributed medicine as long as he had
    any to distribute, and his reputation is mighty in Galilee this day.
    Among his patients was the child of the Shiek's daughter--for even this
    poor, ragged handful of sores and sin has its royal Shiek--a poor old
    mummy that looked as if he would be more at home in a poor-house than in
    the Chief Magistracy of this tribe of hopeless, shirtless savages. The
    princess--I mean the Shiek's daughter--was only thirteen or fourteen
    years old, and had a very sweet face and a pretty one. She was the only
    Syrian female we have seen yet who was not so sinfully ugly that she
    couldn't smile after ten o'clock Saturday night without breaking the
    Sabbath. Her child was a hard specimen, though--there wasn't enough of
    it to make a pie, and the poor little thing looked so pleadingly up at
    all who came near it (as if it had an idea that now was its chance or
    never,) that we were filled with compassion which was genuine and not put
    on.

    But this last new horse I have got is trying to break his neck over the
    tent-ropes, and I shall have to go out and anchor him. Jericho and I
    have parted company. The new horse is not much to boast of, I think.
    One of his hind legs bends the wrong way, and the other one is as
    straight and stiff as a tent-pole. Most of his teeth are gone, and he is
    as blind as bat. His nose has been broken at some time or other, and is
    arched like a culvert now. His under lip hangs down like a camel's, and
    his ears are chopped off close to his head. I had some trouble at first
    to find a name for him, but I finally concluded to call him Baalbec,
    because he is such a magnificent ruin. I can not keep from talking about
    my horses, because I have a very long and tedious journey before me, and
    they naturally occupy my thoughts about as much as matters of apparently
    much greater importance.

    We satisfied our pilgrims by making those hard rides from Baalbec to
    Damascus, but Dan's horse and Jack's were so crippled we had to leave
    them behind and get fresh animals for them. The dragoman says Jack's
    horse died. I swapped horses with Mohammed, the kingly-looking Egyptian
    who is our Ferguson's lieutenant. By Ferguson I mean our dragoman
    Abraham, of course. I did not take this horse on account of his personal
    appearance, but because I have not seen his back. I do not wish to see
    it. I have seen the backs of all the other horses, and found most of
    them covered with dreadful saddle-boils which I know have not been washed
    or doctored for years. The idea of riding all day long over such ghastly
    inquisitions of torture is sickening. My horse must be like the others,
    but I have at least the consolation of not knowing it to be so.

    I hope that in future I may be spared any more sentimental praises of the
    Arab's idolatry of his horse. In boyhood I longed to be an Arab of the
    desert and have a beautiful mare, and call her Selim or Benjamin or
    Mohammed, and feed her with my own hands, and let her come into the tent,
    and teach her to caress me and look fondly upon me with her great tender
    eyes; and I wished that a stranger might come at such a time and offer me
    a hundred thousand dollars for her, so that I could do like the other
    Arabs--hesitate, yearn for the money, but overcome by my love for my
    mare, at last say, "Part with thee, my beautiful one! Never with my
    life! Away, tempter, I scorn thy gold!" and then bound into the saddle
    and speed over the desert like the wind!

    But I recall those aspirations. If these Arabs be like the other Arabs,
    their love for their beautiful mares is a fraud. These of my
    acquaintance have no love for their horses, no sentiment of pity for
    them, and no knowledge of how to treat them or care for them. The Syrian
    saddle-blanket is a quilted mattress two or three inches thick. It is
    never removed from the horse, day or night. It gets full of dirt and
    hair, and becomes soaked with sweat. It is bound to breed sores. These
    pirates never think of washing a horse's back. They do not shelter the
    horses in the tents, either--they must stay out and take the weather as
    it comes. Look at poor cropped and dilapidated "Baalbec," and weep for
    the sentiment that has been wasted upon the Selims of romance!
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