Palestine and its transformation...

Front matter

IV c N C «

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Contents

I. The Heart of the Land ...... 3

II. The Land as a Whole 19

III. The Coasts of Phoenician and Jew. . . 42

Chapter I The Heaet Of The Land

Iron is iron, no matter what its shape. Yet a bulky mass of pig-iron is very different from the revolving fly-wheel of an engine. Although the difference is due merely to the form or mould in which the material is cast, it is vastly important. A thousand years of casting good metal in angular moulds would never produce a circular fly-wheel. Even so with human nature. To be sure its powers of growth are infinitely removed from the capacities of iron for welding, bending, and polishing. Yet like molten metal it is poured forth upon the world. A part falls into the mould of the hungry desert, a part into the debilitating torrid zone, and other parts into every conceivable environment. The original material, with its living powers of mind and soul, may or may not be all alike. Some races may be endowed with unusual spiritual insight or mental vigor, just as special varieties of steel possess peculiar qualities because iron has been treated with nickel or chromium;

but the grade of the raw material is only half the story. The finest steel cast into rough, pitted cubes would be useless: the finest primitive races doomed to live always in the fever-stricken swamps of Africa would never emerge from savagery without some outside aid.

The correct interpretation of history demands first a knowledge of man's mental, moral, and spiritual qualities, that is, of the psychological character of human nature. Then it demands an understanding of his surroundings, or of the mould in which generation after generation has been cast. The chief of all moulding forces is geographic environment, — the form of the land where a man lives and obtains sustenance, the nature of the forests, swamps, or mountains to which he flees for refuge, and the character of the climate which determines his mode of life and fills him with lassitude or energy. The great Hebrew conceptions of God, and of the relation of God to man, and man to his fellow, might possibly have been moulded under conditions other than those of Palestine. We can have little doubt, however, that under such circumstances they would have assumed a form distinctly different from that which has gone forth from Judea to dominate the lands of the West.

In Palestine, as perhaps nowhere else, the power of nature in moulding human actions and thoughts is plainly visible. There, too, in strangest contrast, faith and the power of ideals have triumphed more gloriously than in any other land. So strongly do these opposed aspects of history impress themselves upon the student, that more than its share of importance is often assigned to each, according as a man's mind is scientific or idealistic in bent. Hitherto Palestine has been studied chiefly by men filled with the idealistic spirit, that is, by those whose interest centres in the religious significance of the land or in its contribution to thought without respect to the relation of that thought to nature. Many authors, to be sure, have discussed the purely physical aspects of Palestine; but few have avowedly set themselves the task of explaining step by step the process by which geologic structure, topographic form, and the present and past nature of the climate have shaped man's progress, moulded his history, and thus played an incalculable part in the development of a system of thought which could scarcely have arisen under any other physical circumstances. The hope of aiding in the comprehension of this complex sequence, and of showing how natural environment prepared the way for the teachings of Christ, was the purpose of the Yale Expedition whose work forms the basis of this volume.

We went to the East with the firm purpose of steering a coolly scientific middle course between the gushing enthusiasm and the cynical disappointment into which writers on Palestine are prone to fall. For four inspiring months in the spring of 1909 Mr. Clarence F. Graham and myself travelled back and forth in Palestine and its border lands. By a series of circuits and zigzags we saw at least a sample of each of the varied geographic types which nature has thrown together in this unique little country. As we traversed its highly diverse provinces, we were continually amazed to find how minutely geologic structure is reflected, not only in topography and climate, but also in history. We were surprised also to discover how closely historic progress and decline appear to have synchronized with changes in climate. At the end of our journey we found ourselves enthusiastic, not over the beauty of the country, for on the whole it is not beautiful, but over the marvellous way in which a knowledge of the physical geography of the land explains its eventful history, and lends unexpected interest to even the simplest of the old Bible stories.

Two coordinate subjects form the theme of this volume, tocography and climate. The first half of the book is devoted largely to a description of the appearance and form of Palestine and to a consideration of the manner in which the peculiar geological structure of the country has given rise to certain strongly marked characteristics, whose influence can be traced throughout history. The second half deals with the climate of the country, or, more specifically, with the changes to which climate has been subject. In the first half our attention will be closely confined to Palestine; in the second, we shall be forced to include many surrounding regions, and to review the history of Egypt and Babylonia in order to comprehend that of Palestine.

The character of Judea as an isolated plateau is the most important topographic feature of Palestine. This is no new idea, but it is one whose full significance is rarely appreciated. It explains much of Hebrew history. Judea is not only isolated from the rest of the country, but radically different from any other part in structure, in appearance, and in influence upon man. Because of Judea's peculiar physical form, its people preserved the true spirit of the Hebrew religion when the other Israelites fell away. Even Samaria, the province most closely allied to Judea, is notably different. So important is this difference and so far-reaching its results, that we may well begin our study of the land by a description of the contrasted features of the two as we saw them on one of our journeys.

Late in June we were returning to Jerusalem to compare the aspect of Judea during the long summer drought with our remembrance of it in March at the end of the rainy season. Leaving Galilee and the green plain of Esdraelon, we climbed a short ascent of gray limestone to Jezreel, in northern Samaria. There the Philistines defeated Saul so wofully that he fell on his sword and died. There Naboth lived, whose pleasant vineyard was his undoing in the days when Jezebel ruled Ahab and Ahab ruled Israel. Farther south our route led close to Dothan, where Joseph's brothers cast him into a pit, and drew him forth to sell to Midianite merchants on the way to Egypt. That the first Biblical sites upon which we came in Samaria should be associated with foreign influences is typical of the province. From the earliest times the form of the land has caused it to be full of aliens such as the cruel princess from the trafficking Sidonians, and the callous traders bound from across Jordan to Egypt.

To eyes wonted to the impoverished aspect of nature in lands not blessed with summer rain, Samaria seems a pleasant little province. Small fertile plains lie in basins among low hills or treeless mountains with rounded heads, always rocky, rarely rugged. On the slopes where hill meets plain, drab villages of adobe or stone cluster among terraces, some artificial, some natural. In late June we found part of the terraces covered with sere dead grass; but more bore the prosperous look of grainfields newly reaped or soon to be harvested, and not a few were hidden under a dark mantle of olive groves. The un terraced portions of the hillsides were pale yellow with ripe wheat, or glaring white where the chalky soil lay naked. At the foot of the hills broader fields of ripe grain shimmered in the summer sun, relieved by pure green patches of sesame and millet. The deep reddish brown tint of fallow squares, newly ploughed, proclaimed the richness of a soil mellowed by ages of weathering during its progress from the hillsides to the plains.

Toward the end of the day's ride we came upon delightful bits of scenery. At the head of the valley of Silet ed Dahr, three or four miles north of the ancient city of Samaria, we looked down westward into a beautiful amphitheatre of treeclad slopes with a village in the centre, and a small cultivated plain opening itself to the sun where the stage of the old Greek theatres should be. Close to the village the light green color of the trees proclaimed that they were apricots, while darker patches were figs, set as near to the houses as possible to preserve the tempting fruit from pilferers. Farther away the great amphitheatre was dusky with vigorous olive groves, among whose stony paths we met the women of the East bearing on their heads the inevitable red jars for water. In spite of unprepossessing features, their erect carriage and graceful gait rendered them attractive, at least from a distance. All wore dresses made with bands of red a foot wide on a ground of blue or white and passing diagonally from the shoulders around the waist to the skirt. The picturesque costume looked best on those who eased the strain of the heavy red jars by raising their brown arms and clasping the hands behind the head.

The chief towns of Samaria are not located in the most typical portions of the province. The impressive Roman ruins of Sebastiyeh, the modern representative of Samaria, do not lie in a hollow, but on a hilltop, looking seaward with a splendid view of the Mediterranean in the distance and charming olive groves in "the valleys at one's feet. Shechem, the modern Nablus, is much more nearly typical than Sebastiyeh, for it lies in a valley, but the valley is unusually narrow for Samaria and contains an uncommon amount of running water. Where the valley broadens west of the city, pleasant gardens and fertile fields respond to the abundant springs. The city itself is a strangely contracted place, wedged in between the rounded mountains of Ebal and Gerizim, whose lower slopes are covered with rocky terraces set with hedges of cactus. That so constricted a town should be fanatical seems appropriate. In search of the other members of the caravan I traversed the long covered street upon which the bazaars are strung. As I entered, small boys threw stones at me and shouted, "Giaour, giaour!" (Infidel, infidel.) A man in a green turban, a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed, sourly motioned to me to dismount. Another in a white surplice and red turban, a member of the diminished sect of the Samaritans, stroked his long gray beard and did likewise. I thought they were fanatics who disliked to see a Christian ride through their dim, narrow streets. In a moment, however, my horse began to slip dangerously on the uneven limestone pavement, and I perceived that the men of Shechem were wise in their surly advice.

South of Shechem, although the mountains rise higher than to the north, the scenery is of the true Samaritan type. The roadways traverse basins, plains, and valleys, for the mountains are mere obstructions, — something to be gone around, not crossed. The villages are not on the hills, but snugly set in the valleys.

The peculiarities of Samaritan scenery are due to geological structure. Where hard limestone has been heaved upward, hills and mountains prevail, but throughout most of the province the hard strata have been bent downward, and softer rocks allow the formation of valleys and plains. In spite of the mountains the province can be easily traversed in almost any direction. Hence foreign influences have continually entered. Hence, also, Samaria is relatively fertile but not particularly inspiring. There a man may live all his life in peace and plenty without severe exertion. The heat of summer in the sunny plains deters him from working harder than necessity demands. The winter, with its cool air, spurs him to industry. One would expect to find in Samaria a race of unimaginative plodders, working hard sometimes, but rarely keyed up by the pressure of actual want. Only a few places, such as the city of Samaria and the border towns looking seaward or Jordanward, are fitted to inspire a man and make him long great longings. The mountains are of the rounded, open kind which can be seen entirely from below. A man might dwell among them threescore years and ten, and never feel the impulse to climb for the sake of climbing. The life of Samaria is in its open, accessible plains.

Judea is utterly different. Toward night on the day of our ride from Samaria through Shechem, we climbed a long steep slope, and came out on the top of the world. A change had come over the geological structure of the country. The rocks were harder than hitherto, and lay horizontally. The valleys were correspondingly narrower, the paths stonier, and the fields less fertile. Moreover, the villages and fields were no longer in the lowlands, but up on the heights. Leaving the main wagon road, we struck into a path which seemed the stoniest of all possible paths; but soon, as we bore off to the southwest and approached the village of Sinjil, it became far worse. Walls made of blocks of rough limestone bordered it on either side; and the path itself was a loose mass of angular stones from two to six inches in diameter. For ages the villagers have painstakingly picked the stones from the fields and tossed them into the road. Climbing the last steep ascent we came to the stone village. On the top of a dunghill, twenty feet high, half a dozen men were standing, while two or three squatted comfortably like frogs. Their white cotton trousers and tunics, soiled and worn, appeared too thin for the cool night air; each man had swung over his shoulders a woollen abba or long dark cloak in pleasing contrast with the white garments beneath it. Women whose faces were disfigured with tattooed patterns of stars, circles, or simple lines of dark blue spots, passed by with water jars, or came to the doors to peer out in the intervals when the evening porridge did not require attention. Their dresses were straight gowns of a blue as deep as that of the tattooing on their faces; but red girdles and the white cotton shawls over their heads added a pleasing variety of color. Sitting on the dry grass which covered the flat domes of the neighboring houses, some girls dressed in white let red shawls slip from their black hair to their shoulders. Occasionally they turned from watching the strangers to reprove the saucy little boys who scampered about in striped tunics of various colors and tossed into the air round red caps glittering with gilt bangles.

A handsome, white-bearded man took charge of us, and led the way through a narrow alley up the

' hill to his house. By an outside staircase we ascended past the lower story, where wiry little cows, solemn oxen, and braying donkeys were ensconced, and were introduced to our lodgings. The people of Sinjil are Mohammedans, but do not strictly observe the Law. The women, here, as in most parts of Palestine outside the cities, make no attempt to veil their faces; and our hostess did not hesitate to talk freely with our servants. We found her in an open porch half enclosed by the thick leaves and hanging clusters of a flourishing grapevine. Behind the porch a clean, white- washed room of adobe was put at our disposal, although we preferred to follow our usual custom and sleep in the open air on the roof.

As we looked abroad from our porch we realized how different Judea is from Samaria, or any other part of Palestine. Close at hand tall hedges of prickly pear enclosed small gardens where tomatoes, eggplant, summer squashes, and cucumbers were carefully cherished. Among the gardens fig trees flourished, with here and there a pomegranate tree breaking into crimson bloom. A little farther away, but still close at hand, round watchtowers made of rough limestone stood in the midst of green vineyards. The surrounding walls of stone were capped with thorn bushes set in dry adobe to keep out, not only boys and men, but foxes and other animals with a sweet tooth. Between the walls belated husbandmen were driving donkeys, laden with sheaves which concealed all of the animals except their heads and ears. The beasts were bound for the threshing-floor just below the village, where a few muzzled oxen or donkeys, tied three abreast, were still patiently circling round and round to tread out the grain. Beyond the vineyards and the threshing-floor lay the cultivated land, not in smooth lowland plains or on low gentle slopes as in Samaria, but among the hills on every flat space of sufficient size, perchance in a valley below a pleasing olive grove, or it might be on a hillside. Back of this scene so full of evidences of patient industry, the Judean hills rose rounded, gray, and rocky, a virile landscape, unpromising and yet attractive.

The attraction of the view lay in its spaciousness. Southward the distant prospect was hidden by the height on which the village lies, but eastward, northward, and westward the sterile hills of naked rock did not bound the field of vision. In each case something lay beyond. To the east, across the hidden depression of the deep Jordan Valley, we could see the highlands of Gilead, — a band of deepest blue beneath the gracious sunset arch of pink and purple which in lands of drought makes separation between the shadows of night and the light of day. Northward Mount Gerizim and Mount Ebal merged in a flat- topped mass, flanked by lower hills of softer aspect than those of rugged Judea. Westward the rich glow of a golden sunset hid all the view save the purple hills of the northern end of the Shephelah, seen to the left through a gap in the nearer domes of rock. We turned from the view at the call of our Moslem host, a stout householder in a white tunic, blue girdle, and turban of banded red and white. He served us with unsweetened coffee flavored with cardamom seeds. Then pointing westward, he exclaimed, "El Bahr, el bahr! " (The Sea, the sea.) "Don't you see it out there ? We see it all the time, and Jaffa, and the steamers passing to and fro." Beneath a sky of dim old gold we saw the dark blue line of the Mediterranean. As we watched it, cool breezes came out of the west; the damp of summer dew was in the air. A sense of space and freedom enveloped us, — of height and openness, and of being above the rest of the world and away from it.

The sensation was wholly different from what we had felt in the low villages of Samaria, or in those of the plains east of the Jordan. Something of it we had experienced in Hunin and Safed in upper Galilee, or in the mountain towns of Syria which look down upon the sea; but in all those places something else rises higher and more commanding than any village. In Judea, on the other hand, many a village and almost every hilltop brings with it the sense of space and of being at

SCANTY WHEAT-FIELDS AMONG THE ROCK TERRACES OF JUDEA the top of everything. I felt it south of Hebron, at Jutta, — linguistically unrelated to Judea, — at Dahariyeh, southwest of Hebron, and at Taiyibeh, north of Jerusalem, as well as Sinjil. Scores of other villages give rise to the same feeling. Perhaps it is in part imagination, but my companion felt likewise. It cannot be wholly imagination, for our host evidently loved the view; and few men are so dull that they fail to be thrilled with some slight stir of f eeling when they stand looking down on all the world at sunset. And so it seems that generations of life in such a land must have played a part in giving to the Jews the strong idealism which gradually evolved among them, Judea, far more than any other part of Palestine, gave to the world the great Jewish and Christian religions and indirectly much of Mohammedanism. Judea, to the student of scientific geography, is unique among the countries of the world. Only a land of its peculiar geological structure could stand thus as an island of refuge shut off from all the districts round about, and ever looking down upon them. Neither rich nor beautiful, it is yet inspiring. No wonder the Jews loved it; no wonder the phrase "going up to Jerusalem" meant much, for even in a physical sense the inhabitants of the rest of Palestine were obliged to go up to reach J udea. When they had gone up, they looked abroad and felt that they were separate from the rest of the world. Thus the peculiar physical structure of Judea and its comparative isolation and uplifted position in the midst of Palestine constitute the central theme in the study of the influence of the land upon the people. Judea is the heart of Palestine. /

Chapter II

Judea may be the heart of Palestine. It is not the whole. Many important characteristics pertain to the entire country. These must be understood before the details can be appreciated. To readers already familiar with the physical geography of the land most of what is said in this chapter is familiar. It is included here in order to present a complete picture to which reference may be made later in dealing with special regions.

The small size of Palestine has always been a theme for wonder. Seventy or eighty miles is nothing in most countries. It is everything in Palestine. In America or Europe, having traversed the distance in two hours, we look up in surprise from our magazines to find our destination at hand. In Palestine after travelling eighty miles, which generally takes three days, one is amazed to discover that he has seen so much of the country, that he has grasped its most essential features, and has thereby enriched his vision of history and of the evolution of human thought by the opening of a most fascinating vista.

England is a small country, yet no one would feel that a ride of seventy or eighty miles from

London northwestward to Rugby, and another of equal length southwestward from London to the Isle of Wight, had given him a sight of all the essential parts. We should laugh at a man who thought that, by travelling from Rouen eastward to Paris and northward to St. Quentin or southward to Orleans, he had become acquainted with France. Palestine, however, is so small that a ride of equal length from the Mediterranean coast eastward through Jerusalem and across the Jordan Valley to the plateau of Moab, and then back to Jerusalem and northward through Samaria to the Sea of Galilee, is sufficient to give a good idea of the country as a whole. Palestine has rightly been called the "least of all lands." Had it been larger, its influence might have been less.

The smallness of Palestine becomes still more remarkable when we consider how extremely varied are the regions found within its borders, and how diminutive the district which has really been important.

A journey from Philadelphia to New York, and then up the Hudson to Poughkeepsie, agrees in length with the one just outlined in Palestine. It is a pleasant ride, which a man might take again and again and still enjoy, but it is not notable for its variety. It includes the smooth lowland of the Delaware, the insignificant hills of western New Jersey, the plains and marshes of the northeastern part of the state, the drowned valley of the Hudson, and the Catskill Mountains, which present the New England type of scenery. No great and sudden contrasts fire the imagination. The impression upon the traveller is of unity rather than diversity. All the country is green. Everywhere nature permits man to live in essentially the same way, and to carry on essentially the same occupations. It would be necessary to travel two thousand miles to New Mexico or Utah to find a district as different from southern New York as Mount Carmel is from the desert seventy -five miles away around Jericho.

California is the only part of the United States which approaches Palestine in variety of scenery. A ride of seventy or eighty miles from San Francisco inland to Sacramento begins on the cool, foggy coast with its low summer temperature, and splendid redwood trees among the mountains. Then come the drier, more grassy mountains east of the great bay, and finally the hot, semi-arid inner valley. Yet even here the degree of variety is less than in Palestine. In California, as one travels across the mountains, the various types succeed one another rapidly, but parallel to the ranges the scenery varies little for hundreds of miles. In Palestine, on the contrary, the changes are rapid whether one travels parallel to the mountains in a north or south direction, or athwart them east or west. \

Even in Southern California, the portion of the world which above all others resembles Palestine, great variety and sudden contrasts are by no means so numerous as in the land of the Hebrews. In the fifty miles from Los Angeles northeastward across the Sierra Madre Mountains to the Mohave Desert the changes are as marked and rapid as those in the same distance from the Mediterranean to the Dead Sea. The immediate coast of California is cooler than that of Palestine because of the great size and free movement of the Pacific Ocean, but the orange groves at the foot of the mountains correspond to those of Jaffa, the grainfields in the upland valleys are not unlike those of Judea, and the Mohave Desert at the eastern base of the mountains is of the same type as that which surrounds the Dead Sea. Farther inland the resemblance diminishes, for in Southern California the desert continues eastward indefinitely, while that of Palestine is interrupted by the peculiar little strip of verdure which has made the name of Moab famous. Only to the east of Moab does the great desert of Arabia begin. There monotonous uniformity succeeds infinite variety.

The remarkable variety of Palestine is due partly to the physical form of the land and partly to the climate. The form may be understood by comparing the topography shown in the photographic map at the beginning of this volume with the diagrammatic sketch on the opposite page. One or two million years ago in the middle of the Tertiary era, the last great geological age, a vast warping and uplifting of the earth's crust took place for hundreds of miles along the eastern coast of the Mediterranean Sea. The movement did not occur all at once, nor with perfect regularity. The whole process probably was not completed until almost the present time, and may not be finished yet. It was complicated by minor movements, some of which were parallel to the main uplift and some at an angle to it. Without attempting to say just when or how each movement took place, let us examine their result. In the first place let us conceive of the main uplift in its simplest form. From the peninsula of Sinai on the south to the northeastern corner of the Mediterranean Sea five hundred miles away to the north, a great arching up of the earth's crust took place, steep toward the west, flat on the top, and of gentle slope toward the east. At the north the movement amounted to six or eight thousand feet. In the centre it was greater, so that Lebanon, Anti-Lebanon, and Hermon rise nine or ten thousand feet above the Mediterranean. Farther south the uplift diminished to only three or four thousand feet in Judea and less in the Negeb. Along the top of this broad flat ridge of solid rock a remarkable dislocation occurred, a subsidence of the centre of the arch from end to end. In the north a narrow belt was bent sharply down as one might bend a sheet of paper, forming the valley of the Orontes, and the Bkaa, five thousand feet or more below the heights on either side. Farther south in Palestine the bending continued, but in the latitude of Jerusalem it took the form of a fracture on one or both sides, and the central wedge dropped six thousand feet to form the Ghor, the deep depression in which lies the Dead Sea. These remarkable movements divided Palestine into three main strips running north and south. The most important strip is the western highland, or plateau, with a moderately steep slope on the west, a very steep descent on the east, and a flat top. Eastward lies the Jordan- Arabah depression, or Ghor, steep on either side, flat on the bottom, below sea-level throughout practically all Palestine, — a hot and most inhospitable rift in the earth's crust. Beyond it a sharp ascent of from three to five thousand feet leads up to the third strip, the eastern highland, broad and flat, and sloping gently away from Palestine to the Syrian desert.