At the foot of the mount of transfiguration He healed the demoniac boy whom his father had brought to the other disciples, but for whom they had been unable to do anything; and He taught them that the power to help men comes from faith and prayer.

And then, at last, He turned His steps from this safe and lovely refuge, (where He might surely have lived in peace, or from which He might have gone out unmolested into the wide Gentile world), backward to His own country, His own people, the great, turbulent, hard-hearted Jewish city, and the fate which was not to be evaded by One who loved sinners and came to save them. He went down into Galilee, down through Samaria and Perea, down to Jerusalem, down to Gethsemane and to Golgotha,--fearless, calm,--sustained and nourished by that secret food which satisfied His heart in doing the will of G.o.d.

It was in the quest of this Jesus, in the hope of somehow drawing nearer to Him, that we made our pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And now, in the cool of the evening at Caesarea Philippi, we ask ourselves whether our desire has been granted, our hope fulfilled?

Yes, more richly, more wonderfully than we dared to dream. For we have found a new vision of Christ, simpler, clearer, more satisfying, in the freedom and reality of G.o.d's out-of-doors.

Not through the mists and shadows of an infinite regret, the sadness of sweet, faded dreams and hopes that must be resigned, as Pierre Loti saw the phantom of a Christ whose irrevocable disappearance has left the world darker than ever!

Not amid strange portents and mysterious rites, crowned with I know not what aureole of traditionary splendours, founder of elaborate ceremonies and centre of lamplit shrines, as Matilde Serao saw the image of that Christ whom the legends of men have honoured and obscured!

The Jesus whom we have found is the Child of Nazareth playing among the flowers; the Man of Galilee walking beside the lake, healing the sick, comforting the sorrowful, cheering the lonely and despondent; the well-beloved Son of G.o.d transfigured in the sunset glow of snowy Hermon, weeping by the sepulchre in Bethany, agonizing in the moonlit garden of Gethsemane, giving His life for those who did not understand Him, though they loved Him, and for those who did not love Him because they did not understand Him, and rising at last triumphant over death,--such a Saviour as all men need and as no man could ever have imagined if He had not been real.

His message has not died away, nor will it ever die. For confidence and calm joy He tells us to turn to Nature. For love and sacrifice He bids us live close to our fellowmen. For comfort and immortal hope He asks us to believe in Him and in our Father, G.o.d.

That is all.

But the bringing of that heavenly message made the country to which it came the Holy Land. And the believing of that message, to-day, will lead any child of man into the kingdom of heaven. And the keeping of that faith, the following of that Life, will transfigure any country beneath the blue sky into a holy land.

_THE PSALM OF A SOJOURNER_

_Thou hast taken me into the tent of the world, O G.o.d: Beneath thy blue canopy I have found shelter: Therefore thou wilt not deny me the right of a guest._

_Naked and poor I arrived at the door before sunset: Thou hast refreshed me with beautiful bowls of milk: As a great chief thou hast set forth food in abundance._

_I have loved the daily delights of thy dwelling: Thy moon and thy stars have lighted me to my bed: In the morning I have found joy with thy servants._

_Surely thou wilt not send me away in the darkness?

There the enemy Death is lying in wait for my soul: Thou art the host of my life and I claim thy protection._

_Then the Lord of the tent of the world made answer: The right of a guest endureth but for an appointed time: After three days and three nights cometh the day of departure._

_Yet hearken to me since thou fearest the foe in the dark: I will make with thee a new covenant of everlasting hospitality: Behold I will come unto thee as a stranger and be thy guest._

_Poor and needy will I come that thou mayest entertain me: Meek and lowly will I come that thou mayest find a friend: With mercy and with truth will I come to give thee comfort._

_Therefore open the door of thy heart and bid me welcome: In this tent of the world I will be thy brother of the bread: And when thou farest forth I will be thy companion forever._

_Then my soul rested in the word of the Lord: And I saw that the curtains of the world were shaken, But I looked beyond them to the eternal camp-fires of my friend._

XII

THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

I

THROUGH THE LAND OF THE DRUSES

You may go to Damascus now by rail, if you like, and have a choice between two rival routes, one under government ownership, the other built and managed by a corporation. But to us encamped among the silvery olives at Baniyas, beside the springs of Jordan, it seemed a happy circ.u.mstance that both railways were so far away that it would have taken longer to reach them than to ride our horses straight into the city. We were delivered from the modern folly of trying to save time by travelling in a conveyance more speedy than picturesque, and left free to pursue our journey in a leisurely, independent fashion and by the road that would give us most pleasure. So we chose the longer way, the northern path around Mount Hermon, through the country of the Druses, instead of the more frequented road to the east by Kafr Hawar.

How delightful is the morning of such a journey! The fresh face of the world bathed in sparkling dew; the greetings from tent to tent as we four friends make our rendezvous from the far countries of sleep; the relish of breakfast in the open air; the stir of the camp in preparation for a flitting; canvas sinking to the ground, bales and boxes heaped together, mule-bells tinkling through the grove, horses refreshed by their long rest whinnying and nipping at each other in play--all these are charming variations and accompaniments to the old tune of "Boots and Saddles."

The immediate effect of such a setting out for a day's ride is to renew in the heart those "vital feelings of delight" which make one simply and inexplicably glad to be alive. We are delivered from those morbid questionings and exorbitant demands by which we are so often possessed and plagued as by some strange inward malady. We feel a sense of health and harmony diffused through body and mind as we ride over the beautiful terrace which slopes down from Baniyas to Tel-el Kadi.

We are glad of the green valonia oaks that spread their shade over us, and of the blossoming hawthorns that scatter their flower-snow on the hillside. We are glad of the crested larks that rise warbling from the gra.s.s, and of the buntings and chaffinches that make their small merry music in every thicket, and of the black and white chats that shift their burden of song from stone to stone beside the path, and of the cuckoo that tells his name to us from far away, and of the splendid bee-eaters that glitter over us like a flock of winged emeralds as we climb the rocky hill toward the north. We are glad of the broom in golden flower, and of the pink and white rock-roses, and of the spicy fragrance of mint and pennyroyal that our horses trample out as they splash through the spring holes and little brooks. We are glad of the long, wide views westward over the treeless mountains of Naphtali and the southern ridges of the Lebanon, and of the glimpses of the ruined castles of the Crusaders, Kal'at esh-Shakif and Hunin, perched like dilapidated eagles on their distant crags. Everything seems to us like a personal gift. We have the feeling of ownership for this day of all the world's beauty. We could not explain or justify it to any sad philosopher who might reproach us for unreasoning felicity. We should be defenceless before his arguments and indifferent to his scorn. We should simply ride on into the morning, reflecting in our hearts something of the brightness of the birds' plumage, the cheerfulness of the brooks'

song, the undimmed hyaline of the sky, and so, perhaps, fulfilling the Divine Intention of Nature as well as if we chose to becloud our mirror with melancholy thoughts.

We are following up the valley of the longest and highest, but not the largest, of the sources of the Jordan: the little River Hasbani, a strong and lovely stream, which rises somewhere in the northern end of the Wadi et-Teim, and flows along the western base of Mount Hermon, receiving the tribute of torrents which burst out in foaming springs far up the ravines, and are fed underground by the melting of the perpetual snow of the great mountain. Now and then we have to cross one of these torrents, by a rude stone bridge or by wading. All along the way Hermon looks down upon us from his throne, nine thousand feet in air. His head is wrapped in a turban of spotless white, like a Druse chieftain, and his snowy winter cloak still hangs down over his shoulders, though its lower edges are already fringed and its seams opened by the warm suns of April.

Presently we cross a bridge to the west bank of the Hasbani, and ride up the delightful vale where poplars and mulberries, olives, almonds, vines and figs, grow abundantly along the course of the river. There are low weirs across the stream for purposes of irrigation, and a larger dam supplies a mill with power. To the left is the sharp barren ridge of the Jebel ez-Zohr separating us from the gorge of the River Litani. Groups of labourers are at work on the watercourses among the groves and gardens. Vine-dressers are busy in the vineyards. Ploughmen are driving their shallow furrows through the stony fields on the hillside. The little river, here in its friendliest mood, winds merrily among the plantations and orchards which it nourishes, making a cheerful noise over beds of pebbles, and humming a deeper note where the clear green water plunges over a weir.

We have now been in the saddle five hours; the sun is ardent; the temperature is above eighty-five degrees in the shade, and along the bridle-path there is no shade. We are hungry, thirsty, and tired. As we cross the river again, splashing through a ford, our horses drink eagerly and attempt to lie down in the cool water. We have to use strong persuasion not only with them, but also with our own spirits, to pa.s.s by the green gra.s.s and the sheltering olive-trees on the east bank and push on up the narrow, rocky defile in which Hasbeiya is hidden. The bridle-path is partly paved with rough cobblestones, hard and slippery, which make the going weariful. The heat presses on us like a burden.

Things that would have delighted us in the morning now give us no pleasure. We have made the greedy traveller's mistake of measuring our march by the extent of our endurance instead of by the limit of our enjoyment.

Hasbeiya proves to be a rather thriving and picturesque town built around the steep sides of a bay or opening in the valley. The amphitheatre of hills is terraced with olive-orchards and vineyards.

There are also many mulberry-trees cultivated for the silkworms, and the ever-present figs and almonds are not wanting. The stone houses of the town rise, on winding paths, one above the other, many of them having arched porticoes, red-tiled roofs, and green-latticed windows. It is a place of about five thousand population, now more than half Christian, but formerly one of the strongholds and capitals of the mysterious Druse religion.

Our tents are pitched at the western end of the town, on a low terrace where olive-trees are growing. When we arrive we find the camp surrounded and filled with curious, laughing children. The boys are a little troublesome at first, but a word from an old man who seems to be in charge brings them to order, and at least fifty of them, big and little, squat in a semicircle on the gra.s.s below the terrace, watching us with their l.u.s.trous brown eyes.

They look full of fun, those young Druses and Maronites and Greeks and Mohammedans, so I try a mild joke on them, by pretending that they are a cla.s.s and that I am teaching them a lesson. "A, B, C," I chant, and wait for them to repeat after me. They promptly take the lesson out of my hands and recite the entire English alphabet in chorus, winding up with shouts of "Goot mornin'! How you do?" and merry laughter. They are all pupils from the mission schools which have been established since the great Ma.s.sacre of 1860, and which are helping, I hope, to make another forever impossible.

One of our objects in coming to Hasbeiya was to ascend Mount Hermon. We send for the Druse guide and the Christian guide; both of them a.s.sure us that the adventure is impossible on account of the deep snow, which has increased during the last fortnight. We can not get within a mile of the summit. The snow will be waist-deep in the hollows. The mountain is inaccessible until June. So, after exchanging visits with the missionaries and seeing something of their good work, we ride on our way the next morning.

II

RaSHEIYa AND ITS AMERICANISM

The journey to Rasheiya is like that of the preceding day, except that the bridle-paths are rougher and more precipitous, and the views wider and more splendid. We have crossed the Hasbani again, and leaving the Druses' valley, the Wadi et-Teim, behind us, have climbed the high table-land to the west. We did not know why George Cavalcanty led us away from the path marked in our Baedeker, but we took it for granted that he had some good reason. It is well not to ask a wise dragoman all the questions that you can think of. Tell him where you want to go, and let him show you how to get there. Certainly we are not inclined to complain of the longer and steeper route by which he has brought us, when we sit down at lunch-time among the limestone crags and pinnacles of the wild upland and look abroad upon a landscape which offers the grandeur of immense outlines and vast distances, the beauty of a crystal clearness in all its infinitely varied forms, and the enchantment of gemlike colours, delicate, translucent, vivid, shifting and playing in hues of rose and violet and azure and purple and golden brown and bright green, as if the bosom of Mother Earth were the breast of a dove, breathing softly in the sunlight.

As we climb toward Rasheiya we find ourselves going back a month or more into early spring. Here are the flowers that we saw in the Plain of Sharon on the first of April, gorgeous red anemones, fragrant purple and white cyclamens, delicate blue irises. The fig-tree is putting forth her tender leaf. The vines, lying flat on the ground, are bare and dormant.

The springing grain, a few inches long, is in its first flush of almost dazzling green.

The town, built in terraces on three sides of a rocky hill, 4,100 feet above the sea, commands an extensive view. Hermon is in full sight; snow-capped Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon face each other for forty miles; and the little lake of Kafr Kuk makes a spot of blue light in the foreground.

We are camped on the threshing-floor, a level meadow beyond and below the town; and there the Rasheiyan gilded youth come riding their blooded horses in the afternoon, running races over the smooth turf and showing off their horsemanship for our benefit.

There is something very attractive about these Arabian horses as you see them in their own country. They are spirited, fearless, sure-footed, and yet, as a rule, so docile that they may be ridden with a halter. They are good for a long journey, or a swift run, or a _fantasia_. The prevailing colour among them is gray, but you see many bays and sorrels and a few splendid blacks. An Arabian stallion satisfies the romantic ideal of how a horse ought to look. His arched neck, small head, large eyes wide apart, short body, round flanks, delicate pasterns, and little feet; the way he tosses his mane and c.o.c.ks his flowing tail when he is on parade; the swiftness and spring of his gallop, the dainty grace of his walk--when you see these things you recognise at once the real, original horse which the painters used to depict in their "Portraits of General X on his Favourite Charger."