

Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of All Countries”
edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                         A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE.


CIRCUMSTANCES took me to the Holy Land without a companion, and compelled
me to visit Bethany, the Mount of Olives, and the Church of the Sepulchre
alone.  I acknowledge myself to be a gregarious animal, or, perhaps,
rather one of those which nature has intended to go in pairs.  At any
rate I dislike solitude, and especially travelling solitude, and was,
therefore, rather sad at heart as I sat one night at Z—’s hotel, in
Jerusalem, thinking over my proposed wanderings for the next few days.
Early on the following morning I intended to start, of course on
horseback, for the Dead Sea, the banks of Jordan, Jericho, and those
mountains of the wilderness through which it is supposed that Our Saviour
wandered for the forty days when the devil tempted him.  I would then
return to the Holy City, and remaining only long enough to refresh my
horse and wipe the dust from my hands and feet, I would start again for
Jaffa, and there catch a certain Austrian steamer which would take me to
Egypt.  Such was my programme, and I confess that I was but ill contented
with it, seeing that I was to be alone during the time.

I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for
any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel
altogether satisfied with them.  I intended to take a French guide, or
dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under the
peculiar guardianship of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me as
long as I should remain east of Jerusalem.  This travelling through the
desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant enough;
and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge the forty
shillings which I was told by our British consul that I must pay them for
their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff.  But I did
begrudge the fact of the tariff.  I would rather have fallen in with my
friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity at
the end of our joint journeyings by a donation of piastres to be settled
by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly have been
as agreeable to them as the stipulated sum.  In the same way I dislike
having waiters put down in my bill.  I find that I pay them twice over,
and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I never
have the advantage of their civility.  The world, I fear, is becoming too
fond of tariffs.

“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my
expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement.  “Then I’ll go
alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.”

“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry
tone.  “You have no more right to ride through that country without
paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z—’s
hotel without settling the bill.”

I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the appointed
day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and determined
to make the best of it.  The wild unlimited sands, the desolation of the
Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines of the mountains of
Moab;—those things the consular tariff could not alter, nor deprive them
of the glories of their association.

I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made.  Joseph, my
dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom at five in
the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of
St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of
the Virgin.

I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask
with brandy,—for matters of primary importance I never leave to servant,
dragoman, or guide,—when the waiter entered, and said that a gentleman
wished to speak with me.  The gentleman had not sent in his card or name;
but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I requested that
the gentleman might enter.  In appearance the gentleman certainly was a
gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a young man whose
looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait and outward bearing
seemed to betoken better breeding.  He might be some twenty or twenty-one
years of age, was slight and well made, with very black hair, which he
wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a straight nose, and teeth
that were perfectly white.  He was dressed throughout in grey tweed
clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers of the same; and in his
hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat.

“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me.  Jones is a good
travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself
Jones on the present occasion.

“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask
in the other.  “That’s my name; I’m Jones.  Can I do anything for you,
sir?”

“Why, yes, you can,” said he.  “My name is Smith,—John Smith.”

“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair.  “Will you do
anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him.  “As far
as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in
Jerusalem.”

He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story.  “I
hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.”

“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water.  It’s
not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far
as Jordan.  Can I do anything for you in those parts?”

And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit.  He was
quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself; and was staying at H—’s hotel.
He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called to ask
if I objected to his joining me.  He had found himself, he said, very
lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured to
call and make his proposition.  He seemed to be very bashful, and half
ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared
himself conscious that he was intruding, and expressed a hope that I
would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause
disagreeable to me.

As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends.  It has
so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the
acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close
int