DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27910#0075
THE TOWN AND LANE OF TIBERIAS, FROM THE NORTH.
^5$T is early morning, at Nazareth, at the old camping ground, near the well of the Virgin. The tents
are down—the men busy dividing the loads for the mules, which stand by, drowsily warring with
the flies, whisking their tails, tossing the gingling bells about their heads, and peevishly stamping
with their fore feet. The Bedouin who is to take me to Tiberias, via Mount Tabor, is squatting
upon the ground at a little distance, smoking a short chibook, with a dirty and faded cofeieh, or
huge fringed handkerchief of yellow and red Damascus silk over his head and shoulders. His face
is no particular colour, but resembles a piece of a well-worn saddle (the Bedouins never wash
either their faces or their clothes). He has a short black beard and moustache, a stealthy cat-like expression,
and an eye full of cowardly cunning and distrust. His horse stands by, picketed to his spear—a true Arab
steed—but not at all the sort of thing which figures in romance. I will describe him : a small, dark brown
Irisli-looking animal—plenty of Blood, and pretty well of bone, but amazingly little flesh; some rude mathe-
matical figures burned into his “off” shoulder; head rather “light,” neck wofully so; no “crop,” but a
shoulder like the hump of a camel; tail cut square, Melton-Mowbray fashion, but with a little tuft left long
in the centre, the effect truly ridiculous;—the ensemble as Dick Turpinish, gipsyish, hedge-bottomish a vagabond
of a beast as you would wish to see matched even with a Bedouin!
And now my guide slings his long matchlock over his shoulder, and throws himself into the high-pummelled
Turkish saddle, out-flanked by dirty blue rags and shabby dangling red tassels, and moves off with his knees
almost up to his chin, and his preposterous old red morocco boots instinctively and incessantly swinging to
and from his horse’s sides, so as to inflict at each step a gentle dig with the flat, sharp-cornered stirrup. 1
follow at a smart “foot’s pace” up and down those monotonous hills, until we reach the base of Mount
Tabor, which rises in singularly isolated beauty to the height of about a thousand feet. Its sides are covered
with stunted evergreen oak and other timber, and on the summit are the ruins of chapels (for Mount Tabor
has been erroneously held to be the mount of the Transfiguration) and of Roman fortifications. The view,
although very extensive, I thought had been rather over-lauded by some travellers. Descending, you pass
through an undulating, uncultivated, but park-like country, covered with long grass, and studded thinly with
small timber: then between two ruined forts, probably Saracenic, through corn-land, until, as the sun i«
sinking in the west, far beneath you, the town and lake of Tiberias break upon the sight—a calm, lovely,
sacred landscape. The fields of ripe corn, stretching from my feet to the shores of the lake, were very rich
and yellow; the lake was very still and very blue; the mountains of Moab, although monotonous in their
outline, were soft and mellow in their colouring, and, in the far north, over the purple hills of Galilee, at a
distance of some forty miles, rises the snowy head of Mount Hermon: truly, it is a lovely scene!
My view is taken from a point immediately above the north-west corner of the town. It embraces a
tower of the Roman castle, now partly in ruins (and a piece of modern brick wall, with which I would have
given anything in reason to have been able to play the artist, and omit), the greater part of the present town,
and the southern bay of the lake. Near the point of this bay is a little white speck, marking the site of the
hot springs and baths, which have been celebrated from time immemorial for their healing virtues. The
water, which is excessively salt and bitter, rises at a temperature ot 40° Falir. The present building was
erected by Ibrahim Pacha, m 18o<_>.
^5$T is early morning, at Nazareth, at the old camping ground, near the well of the Virgin. The tents
are down—the men busy dividing the loads for the mules, which stand by, drowsily warring with
the flies, whisking their tails, tossing the gingling bells about their heads, and peevishly stamping
with their fore feet. The Bedouin who is to take me to Tiberias, via Mount Tabor, is squatting
upon the ground at a little distance, smoking a short chibook, with a dirty and faded cofeieh, or
huge fringed handkerchief of yellow and red Damascus silk over his head and shoulders. His face
is no particular colour, but resembles a piece of a well-worn saddle (the Bedouins never wash
either their faces or their clothes). He has a short black beard and moustache, a stealthy cat-like expression,
and an eye full of cowardly cunning and distrust. His horse stands by, picketed to his spear—a true Arab
steed—but not at all the sort of thing which figures in romance. I will describe him : a small, dark brown
Irisli-looking animal—plenty of Blood, and pretty well of bone, but amazingly little flesh; some rude mathe-
matical figures burned into his “off” shoulder; head rather “light,” neck wofully so; no “crop,” but a
shoulder like the hump of a camel; tail cut square, Melton-Mowbray fashion, but with a little tuft left long
in the centre, the effect truly ridiculous;—the ensemble as Dick Turpinish, gipsyish, hedge-bottomish a vagabond
of a beast as you would wish to see matched even with a Bedouin!
And now my guide slings his long matchlock over his shoulder, and throws himself into the high-pummelled
Turkish saddle, out-flanked by dirty blue rags and shabby dangling red tassels, and moves off with his knees
almost up to his chin, and his preposterous old red morocco boots instinctively and incessantly swinging to
and from his horse’s sides, so as to inflict at each step a gentle dig with the flat, sharp-cornered stirrup. 1
follow at a smart “foot’s pace” up and down those monotonous hills, until we reach the base of Mount
Tabor, which rises in singularly isolated beauty to the height of about a thousand feet. Its sides are covered
with stunted evergreen oak and other timber, and on the summit are the ruins of chapels (for Mount Tabor
has been erroneously held to be the mount of the Transfiguration) and of Roman fortifications. The view,
although very extensive, I thought had been rather over-lauded by some travellers. Descending, you pass
through an undulating, uncultivated, but park-like country, covered with long grass, and studded thinly with
small timber: then between two ruined forts, probably Saracenic, through corn-land, until, as the sun i«
sinking in the west, far beneath you, the town and lake of Tiberias break upon the sight—a calm, lovely,
sacred landscape. The fields of ripe corn, stretching from my feet to the shores of the lake, were very rich
and yellow; the lake was very still and very blue; the mountains of Moab, although monotonous in their
outline, were soft and mellow in their colouring, and, in the far north, over the purple hills of Galilee, at a
distance of some forty miles, rises the snowy head of Mount Hermon: truly, it is a lovely scene!
My view is taken from a point immediately above the north-west corner of the town. It embraces a
tower of the Roman castle, now partly in ruins (and a piece of modern brick wall, with which I would have
given anything in reason to have been able to play the artist, and omit), the greater part of the present town,
and the southern bay of the lake. Near the point of this bay is a little white speck, marking the site of the
hot springs and baths, which have been celebrated from time immemorial for their healing virtues. The
water, which is excessively salt and bitter, rises at a temperature ot 40° Falir. The present building was
erected by Ibrahim Pacha, m 18o<_>.