To-day Bethel is a witness against herself. Her hills and valleys are barren, and her ruins are the evidences of her decay. God has forsaken her; his will is done; his word is fulfilled. “Seek not Bethel, nor enter into Gilgal; for Gilgal shall surely go into captivity, and Bethel shall come to naught.”[466] The roll of twenty-five centuries has confirmed the prophetic announcement, and time and ruins are the credentials of the prophet. In vain we searched for the memorials of the past. Neither Abraham’s altar, nor Jacob’s pillar, nor Deborah’s oak, nor Jeroboam’s temple, nor the school of the prophets, could be found. These all have perished, and Bethel mourns her departed glory. The heavens are sealed; the ladder is withdrawn; the angels descend no more; and faith, hope, and charity are the only remaining steps by which to reach the heavenly world.
From the brow of a western hill, and through the dim distance of twelve miles, I saw the dome of Omar’s Mosque, the lofty minaret of the Haram, and the Tower of Hippicus. With this last and unexpected view of Jerusalem we resumed our tour to the north. For a mile the country was broken, but beyond were olive-groves and fig-orchards, extending for miles on either hand. The path soon descended a steep, narrow, and rough torrent-bed, and, after an hour’s ride, it entered the charming valley of El-Jîb. Unsurpassed for the beauty and romantic character of its scenery, it abruptly contracts into a wild gorge, and, two miles from its mouth, it contains a gem of a fountain, called ’Ain el-Haramîyeh, or “The Robbers’ Fountain.” Here the glen is as lovely as it is wild, and as bloody in its history as it is dangerous to the unwary traveler. The mountains rise in solemn grandeur on the right and left, shutting out the world, and casting a melancholy shade on the scene below. High up on a jutting cliff is an old castle, gray with age, and covered with moss and creeping vines. Through the bottom of the glen a fierce winter torrent has cut a deep and narrow channel, leaving a broad level space on either side. On the right runs the road to Shiloh; on the left is a small plateau, level and green, and extending inward to the mountain’s base. Down the sides of the western cliff the water trickles, through trails of fern and over beds of velvet moss, into an artificial basin. The plateau is covered with grass, and beneath it is a large reservoir, now a garden. Charmed with the spot, desire inclined us to linger, but prudence warned us to depart. The waters of El-Haramîyeh have washed the bloodstained hands of many a highwayman, and the native of to-day hurries on conscious of danger nigh. A band of robbers were encamped upon the lawn when we reached the fountain. Some were whiffing their narghilehs; others were testing their strength in gymnastic sports, while around the captain of the band two girls were dancing to the music of timbrel and castanets. They returned our salutations, and, after drinking of the cool, sweet water, and plucking a few ferns as mementoes, we recrossed the channel, and began to ascend toward Shiloh. As we advanced the scenery assumed higher forms of sublimity. The mountains approached each other, and rose to the clouds; but when, in turn, the hills receded and the valleys opened, the former were terraced and clad with vineyards, and the latter planted with wheat and corn. Attired in gay costumes, peasant-girls were at work on the terraces, singing merrily; shepherds, with long guns thrown across their shoulders, were winding with their flocks around the loftier cliffs; while far away to the northwest, following the devious mountain-paths, were trains of camels and asses, whose tinkling bells awakened the echoes of the everlasting hills. More than once we dismounted to gather the tempting wild-flowers, and press the pretty anemones, poppies, amaranths, and white-thorn roses.