# Domestic Life in Palestine/Chapter 7

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CHAPTER VII.
LIFE IN HÂIFA.
On Tuesday, October 23, 1855, a Turkish steamer from Constantinople entered the port of Hâifa, bringing a new Pasha for Akka, with his harem, and suite of thirty individuals, including an Armenian doctor. The chief people of Akka came to meet him, and our little town was in an unusual state of excitement. My brother went to welcome his Excellency, who afterward called at the Consulate with twelve attendants.
Newly-appointed Pashas may sometimes be persuaded into doing some good in their Pashalics; and, at the commencement of their reigns, choked-up fountains flow, broken cisterns are repaired, and aqueducts are kept in order, but only for a very little while. On the "new-broom" principle, the Consuls earnestly urged the new Pasha to give orders for the cleansing of the guttered streets of Hâifa, some of which were little better than open sewers, and in a dangerously-unwholesome state. They also advised the removal of the dust-heaps by the sea-shore, which had been allowed to grow into broad barricades, where vegetable refuse and all sorts of filth were thrown. The appeal was favorably heard, the work actually commenced immediately, and Hâifa underwent sweeping and scraping, probably for the first time in its existence. Men and boys ran hither and thither with baskets of rubbish. Beks and Consuls bustled about, giving orders, and the dust-heaps were by degrees shoveled into the sea.
The Europeans and the upper class of Arabs rejoiced at the prospect of living in a comparatively clean town, but the majority considered the reformation quite unnecessary, ​and grumblingly prophesied that some harm would come to Hâifa if such innovations were permitted.
Late on Thursday evening, Mohammed Bek came to the Consulate, lamenting the loss of a gold chain, with his signet ring on it. In the East more importance is attached to the impression of a seal than to a signature. Mohammed Bek feared that some improper use might be made of his ring by the finder, so a declaration of the loss was drawn up by Yusef Anton, the Governor's Secretary, signed by the Bek, and attested by my brother. Mohammed told us that he had missed his chain in the bazar, when surrounded by a crowd of boys, to whom he was giving instructions about the street-cleaning. It was a very fine night, and, half in joke, half in earnest, I offered to seek for the lost treasure. He took me at my word, and we went out all together. The town was perfectly still, the bazar was deserted, and as bright and clean as moonlight and the scavengers of Hâifa could make it; but, after all, I was not so fortunate as to find the ring.
As we returned homeward, the silence was suddenly broken by the wildly-wailing and shrieking voices of women, announcing that a death had just taken place. Their shrill, mournful cries rang in my ears all night.
On the following morning, October 26th, very early, I looked from the window, and saw a bier close to the door of a neighboring house. It was a painted wooden stand, about seven feet by two, raised slightly on four legs, with a low gallery round it, formed of uprights far apart, and two cross-bars. Two strong poles projected at each end from the corners. Above it a canopy was raised, made of freshly-gathered, elastic palm-branches. They were bent like half-hoops, and then interlaced and secured length ways, with straight fronds. I sketched it, and presently I saw the dead body of a man, handsomely dressed, brought out and placed upon it. His face was covered with a shawl. Four men lifted the bier from the ground, and, resting the poles on their shoulders, bore it to the mosque. After a ​little while it was carried slowly along, passing the Consulate on its way to the Moslem burial-ground, preceded by about forty men, solemnly silent, and followed by at least fifty women and children shrieking wildly, singing, and screaming.
Between the palm-fronds I could plainly see the figure of the dead man. The head was foremost, and slightly raised. I could not help thinking that, if a voice endued with power to awaken the dead, would tell the mother and the widow not to weep, and order the bearers of the bier to stand still, and say to the dead man, "Arise," it would be in his fête-day dress that he would sit up under the canopy of palms, and begin to speak. See Luke vii, 11- 15.
I made inquiry about the deceased, and found that he was a respectable Moslem, of about twenty-four years of age, and had left a wife and two children. He had died just before midnight, after a few hours' illness, so violent, that the Arab doctor pronounced it a case of cholera. There had been several very sudden deaths in Hâifa within a few weeks.
In the course of the day I became very ill. Frère Joseph, the Convent doctor, was sent for. He came and administered powerful doses of opium. The next day I was worse and very weak. He ordered emetics and bleeding, but I decidedly declined both, and dispensed with his attendance. My brother prescribed hot baths, and mustard and vinegar poultices, and I slept, but grew weaker and weaker. At three o'clock on Sunday morning, October 29th, he sent his kawass to Akka for a doctor, as a last resource. He wrote to the Pasha, and, ill as I was, I could not help laughing at the letter, on hearing it literally translated into English. It contained a request that his Excellency would allow his private doctor, the Armenian, to proceed to Hâifa to attend the "girl brother of the English Vice-Consul, who was attacked with a slight beauty, or prettiness." This is the polite Turkish form of alluding to illness, when woman is the subject of it. ​Within a short time the doctor came with strict orders from the Pasha not to leave me till I was well. He spoke Italian fluently, as well as Turkish and Greek. He was full of persevering, quiet energy and good-will, which inspired me with confidence immediately. He administered small doses of castor oil, well mixed with sugar, water, gum arabic, and magnesia, in equal proportions, and prescribed linseed and mustard poultices. He prepared stiff, sweet starch, and some meal porridge with a little magnesia in it, and gave them to me in small quantities now and then, with lime-flower water to drink. He did not leave the house for three days and nights, and by Thursday, thanks to his skill and Katrîne's care, I was quite cured of my "slight prettiness," which was of a dangerous kind, and said to be cholera.
We met with great sympathy from our neighbors. On the evening when I first left my room a company of singers came on to the terrace to serenade me, improvising songs of rejoicing, and praying that I might soon "walk forth in the gardens, to breathe the air with strength and gladness of heart."
On the 1st of November I saw an immense number of swallows perched on the house-tops and on the ropes of the flagstaffs. I was told that they had been gathering there for several days. Before evening I saw them all assemble and take flight toward the south. They looked like a dusky cloud moving swiftly through the air.
Our friend, Saleh Sekhali, and his family, also migrated. They went to Nazareth, for they feared the cholera, and tried to persuade us to accompany them.
The most unhealthy period in Palestine is that which occurs after the falling of the first few autumnal showers, ​which usher in the rainy season, and it lasts till the rain falls regularly and in abundance. This interval does not generally exceed two or three weeks, but when it is prolonged—as in the year 1855, of which I am writing—fevers or other epidemics prevail.
On the 2d of November, a strong sirocco wind, hot, dry, and scorching, as if it came from a furnace, warped our books, and split and cracked our olive-wood furniture. We closed all the window-shutters on the eastern side of the rooms, but we could not exclude the fiery air.
There were four English merchant ships at anchor in the port, as well as several small Greek brigs. The masters complained, in no very gentle terms, of the injury done by the fierce hot wind to the woodwork and fittings of their vessels.
An English captain, on the point of embarking, came in, saying, "I hope you will give me a clean bill of health, Consul."
"As clean as I can," he answered: "but I must state, 'Six deaths within six days—sudden, and reported cholera.'"
After this the street- cleaning was for a time abandoned, and I noticed funeral processions almost daily, sometimes going from the mosque out at the east gate to the Moslem burial-ground, sometimes from the Greek or Latin churches slowly walking toward the Christian cemeteries through the west gate. Moslems are always carried to the grave in the open bier, head foremost, and buried in costume. I shuddered the first time that I saw a body thus committed to the earth, it looked so much like being buried alive. ​The upper classes of Christians are generally interred in coffins. The coffin is usually borne by four or six men, preceded by priests walking under canopies, and surrounded by crowds of people, chanting, bearing embroidered banners and a large cross, and sometimes accompanied by surpliced boys, swinging incense. At a little distance a troop of women follow, singing and screaming wildly; for the priests in vain put their veto on the attendance of female mourners.
There was not one case of cholera in the Jewish community.
Deaths were most frequent in the crowded Moslem quarter, but the Moslems did not seem to suffer much from fear. Perhaps their reliance on the doctrine of fatalism made them calm and apparently resigned. On the other hand, among the Christians, a demoralizing panic quickly spread.
By degrees nearly all the Europeans went up to the Convent, where they established a strict quarantine. Many of the Arabs went to Nazareth and Shefa 'Amer. Altogether, above a thousand people fled, and the Christian quarter looked quite deserted. It was remarked that there was only one hat left in the town—that is, only one Frank—alluding to my brother, who remained at his post endeavoring to reanimate the people. He went from house to house, giving advice and simple medicines, and, as he was not quite convinced that the epidemic was cholera, he examined two or three bodies immediately after death. Their appearance confirmed the current report.
The Arab word for cholera, or the pest, is "Howa-el Asfar," which signifies "the yellow wind." Flags proclaiming quarantine are yellow; is it possible that the color was selected on account of this name? The Arabs told me that the worst cases of cholera occurred at the change of the moon, and that people who were attacked then never recovered! The women seldom left their houses, except to follow funerals; and the men grew more and more ​dispirited. Even our little tailor, Suleiman Shefa Amery, the merriest of the merry, the drollest of the droll, was at last infected with the general fear. His springing, self-satisfied step became slow and cautious, and his voice was subdued to a whisper. He had been in the habit of coming to the Vice-Consulate, now and then, to show me his work—embroidered jackets and trowsers for the trousseau of a bride, or a tobacco-pouch for a Bek. He was one of my many self-constituted teachers, and was at the same time profoundly respectful and deferential, and yet amusingly impertinent. He was the beau ideal of an Oriental tailor, and looked as if he had just walked out of one of the pages of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainment"—good-looking, and quick in every movement. He was always ready, unasked, to do a servic—light a pipe, trim a lamp, pick up a pencil, smooth the pillows and cushions of the divan, fetch a glass of water, or proffer an opinion. He looked with a quick and critical eye on every one's costume, and valued each article of apparel unhesitatingly, as if speaking half to himself and half to the wearer.
I used to learn a greater number of Arabic words from him in an hour than from any one else in a day. He could neither read nor write, but his memory was acute. He remembered perfectly the promiscuous vocabulary which he taught me. He used to ask me, each time he came, the words he had told me on previous occasions; and at every successful answer from me he glanced round the room, expecting a look of approbation for himself, and one for his pupil.
He showed me how to do all sorts of Syrian needlework. He made very beautiful designs for embroidery, chiefly conventional foliage. He first stiffens the cloth or silk, by sewing thick paper at the back of it; then, with a piece of hard, white native soap, rubbed to a fine point, he draws, with a firm hand, a few graceful lines and intersecting circles within any given space. He completes the design, in the course of working it, with gold thread, and he never ​by any chance makes two patterns precisely alike. He seemed thoroughly to enjoy his work; but now even he was changed—his brave, self-confident spirit had left him. He no longer took delight in his needle or gold thread. He told me, regretfully, that some of his best embroidery was in the burial-ground; for men and women, Moslems and Christians, are often shrouded in their bridal robes or fête-day dresses. Suleiman was one of the few Arabs who seemed to think this was a very great pity.
When costly garments are buried, the grave is generally watched for some time, for fear it should be rifled.
Suleiman fled for a short time to Shefa 'Amer, his native place, and happily escaped cholera.
One day we rode up to the Convent. Two hundred of the people of Hâifa had taken refuge there. The gardens, which had before looked so quiet and monastic, were enlivened by little groups of Arabs, smoking under the trees, or strolling about. All the rooms were occupied. The French Consul came to meet us, but carefully avoided contact, and led the way to the reception-room, where pastiles were burning. His wife and children came to see us, but remained at a distance. They said that, while people were dying of cholera in Hâifa, they, the voluntary exiles, were almost expiring of ennui and fear on Mount Carmel.
By degrees, the health of Hâifa somewhat improved, and a large proportion of cholera cases were cured. Powdered charcoal, made of bread burnt in an open crucible, was taken by many people as a preventive; and, as far as I could judge, it seemed to be effectual. A teaspoonful, or less, in a cup of sugarless coffee, was the usual daily dose.
On November 14th, we went for a trip in the interior, with Colonel and the Hon. Mrs. Walpole. He claimed my brother's aid in seeking for Winter-quarters for his regiment. He kindly invited me to go too; so, accompanied by his Bashi-Bazouks, and furnished with a circular letter of recommendation from the Pasha to all the governors in his pashalic, we went to Shefa 'Amer, Nazareth, round the ​Lake of Tiberias, and along the valley of the Jordan, up to the Anti-Lebanon, exploring all the old castles and ruins; but we did not come very much in contact with the natives. The interest of the tour is chiefly archæological and architectural, so I will pass it over here. We returned to Hâifa on the 10th of December.
M. Zifo, the Prussian Consul, called to welcome us. He said that he was the "only hat in town," and he was detained by business, much against his inclination, for cholera and typhus-fever prevailed. All the people were praying for rain. For three days after our return, there was not one death in the town, and some of the refugees came from the Convent. The French Consul was one of the first arrivals. Unhappily, his youngest daughter, the pet and plaything of the family, who used to lisp out Arabic and French so prettily, was immediately attacked with cholera, and died after twelve hours' suffering.
On the 15th the panic was revived; but a curious circumstance suddenly restored tranquillity to the minds of the Arabs. On the night of Sunday, the 16th of December, a woman dreamed that she saw four malignant imps. Each one held a stone, with an inscription on it, in his hand. She said to them, "What do you want? Why are you here to trouble me?" They said, speaking as with one voice, "We have come to throw four stones." Then she said, "Hasten to throw your stones, and go in peace." One was thrown at her—the others flew in different directions. She told her dream the next day, and seemed very much alarmed. The imps of her dream were said, by the interpreters thereof, to be "imps of the yellow wind." The majority of the people believed that there would be only four more deaths in Hâifa from cholera. On the 18th, fourteen individuals were attacked; but only two died, one of whom was the dreamer. On the 19th, there were two more deaths, the last which were reported. The people were reassured, and flocked back from ’Akka, Galilee, and Carmel. But the wished-for season of rain had not set in. ​Provisions were dear, and milk was very unwholesome, on account of the scarcity of herbage.
Several ships from Yâfa had taken refuge in the port of Hâifa. The winds were so wild and contrary, that two ships were wrecked off ’Akka, and two boats lost in the bay. The west wind was so strong for a day or two, that it filled the mouth of the River Kishon with sand, so that it could be crossed easily on foot. Then suddenly the east wind rose, and swept the bar of sand quite away, so that the river was twelve feet deep at the usual place of fording, and consequently impassable.
At Christmas the rain came; but it was rain such as I had never seen, except in strange old pictures of the Deluge. The town was traversed in all directions by rapid streams of mud and water. Rain came in at the ill-made windows, and our shutters and doors were wrenched from their hinges by the wild wind. Fortunately, the house for which we had been waiting was now ready, and weather-tight; and we managed to move into it, during the short intervals between the torrents. I had to ride there, although it was only at a very short distance. Most of the Arabs went about barefooted, with the water far above their ankles.
During the wet season, there were about three days of nearly continual rain, and three days of sunshine, alternately.
Our new house, the rooms of which were built round a corridored court, was next door to the French Consulate. The Consul's wife—a Syrian lady—kindly initiated me by degrees into all the mysteries of Oriental housekeeping.
Furnishing was a very simple affair. In one of the large empty rooms a native Jewish upholsterer was set to work to take to pieces all the mattresses, cushions, and lehaffs. Then, with a little machine, he separated the cotton which had become hard and close; he tore it and combed it till it was transformed into a fleecy cloud. He quickly remade the mattresses, fitting them to the iron bedsteads and divans, and cleverly quilted a stock of coverlets—lehaffs. His ​naked feet were almost as busy as his fingers. They served him to hold his work. When he wanted to wind a skein of cotton he always fixed it on his long, pliant toes, and used them as pegs when he doubled and twisted the thread; in fact, in many ways he made them useful.
In the mean time an Arab carpenter was engaged in sawing planks and joining them together, ready to place on low trestles round the rooms. On the rude benches thus formed, mattresses, about a yard wide, and cushions, covered with chintz or Manchester prints, were arranged. Deep, full borders, sewed on to the outer edge of the mattresses, quit concealed the rough woodwork underneath. This is all the mystery of the grand Turkish divans. Two native Jewesses assisted me with the musketo and window curtains.
Reed mats, to cover the cemented and stone floors, were made for us at 'Akka according to measure. I furnished one little room as nearly in English style as I could under the circumstances, but the rest of the house was semi-Oriental. There were no fireplaces in any of the rooms. In the kitchen there was a row of cooking-stoves fit for stewing and baking; similar, probably, to "the oven and ranges for pots," referred to in Leviticus xi, 35.
There was a good well in the corner of the court, and a little bell tinkled merrily every time the bucket was in motion. The former occupants of the house were Arabs, and they had left for my benefit a fine henna-tree—lawsonia. It is very like the privet, but the blossom is more yellow and delicate, and the scent is rather oppressive. The green leaves—which produce the dye—are dried, crumbled to a fine powder, and carefully preserved.
The stocking of the storeroom was the next consideration. It soon contained provisions for the Winter. A case of maccaroni, a basket of Egyptian rice, and two sacks of wheat, one of which I sent to be ground by millstones moved by cattle. Afterward I had the meal sifted at the house, the smeed was set apart for white bread, etc., and ​the remainder was stored for making Arab loaves for the servants.
The large terra-cotta jars, glazed inside, and rough without, ranged round the room, often made me think of Ali Baba and the forty thieves. One held the smeed, another held flour, another bran, a fourth oil, and some rather smaller ones contained olives and goats’-milk cheese preserved in oil, and a store of cooking butter. Oranges and lemons garnished the shelves. Dried figs strung on thin cord, and pomegranates tied one by one to ropes, hung in festoons from the rafters, and the bundles of dried herbs of Carmel smelled sweetly.
My kind neighbor taught me how to add to my stores at the right seasons, to make fruit preserves, to concentrate the essence of tomatoes, and to convert wheat into starch by steeping it in water, straining it, and drying it in the sun—for making sweet dishes, as well as for the laundry. The Arabs do not starch or iron their clothes, so I had a little difficulty at first in procuring help in the "getting up" of fine linen. However, an Arab youth, who had once lived with a semi-European tailor, and professed to know how to handle an iron, though he acknowledged that starching was a mystery to him, volunteered assistance, and did his best. Subsequently a young Arab girl in our service was taught the art by an Abyssinian slave, the servant of a European neighbor, and she became very skillful.
Arabs only use starch for making a sort of blancmange, and they shrink from the idea of stiffening linen with it, for they have a strong respect for wheat in any shape. If a morsel of bread fall to the ground, an Arab will gather it up with his right hand, kiss it, touch his forehead with it, and place it in a recess or on a wall, where the fowls of the air may find it, for they say, "We must not tread under foot the gift of God." I have seen this reverence exhibited constantly, by all classes of the people, by masters, servants, and even by little children, Moslems, and Christians. ​I was so busy that I had no time to feel my strange isolation. The mornings were devoted to household arrangements and lessons in Arabic. Visitors and visiting often occupied me after midday, and in fine weather I enjoyed a ride or a stroll with my brother before sunset, and pleasant evenings with him and his friends. When we were at last alone together we used to compare notes of our several occupations, observations, and adventures of the day. His long residence in the East enabled him to explain some of the intricacies and seeming contradictions in the characters of the Arabs, and to guide me in my intercourse with them. In outline during the Winter one day nearly resembled another, but the details were always pleasantly varied.
Ibrahîm Sekhali, my brother's secretary—and also my writing-master—an energetic, clever young man of the Greek Church, went to 'Akka like many others to avoid cholera. 'Akka was over-crowded, and small-pox broke out. Poor Ibrahîm caught it, and died suddenly on the 16th of January, 1856. His death threw a gloom over Hâifa, for he was a general favorite among Christians and Moslems.
On the 17th, early in the morning, Khalîl Sek hali, the father of Ibrahîm, called on us. He was a very stout, tall, robust-looking man, and wore a long robe or open pelisse, and a large white turban. His features were regular, and his beard long and white. He looked grand in his grief, and his lamentations for his dead son were solemn and dignified. He, with my brother and the chief people of our town, went toward ’Akka to join the funeral cortége, for it was arranged that the body should be brought to Hâifa for burial. All the horses and donkeys were in requisition, and nearly all the shops were closed.
I walked out to witness the wailing of the widow and her companions. They were outside the East Gate, near to the burial-ground. About fifty or sixty vailed women surrounded the chief mourners. I was led almost uncon​sciously by little Katrîne Sekhali through the crowd to an open space in the midst. In the center of this space the widow, young and beautiful, kneeled on the ground. She was unvailed. Her head was only covered by a little red-cloth cap. Her long hair was unbraided, and fell over her green velvet, gold-embroidered jacket. She swayed her body to and fro, tossed her head back, raised her hands as if passionately pleading, then threw herself forward with her face to the ground, but suddenly started to her feet, and, with her dark eyes uplifted, and her arms raised above her head, she commenced shrieking wildly, and all the women joined in the piercing cry. Presently she fell down as if exhausted, and there was silence for a moment. Then a few of the women in the inner circle rose, threw off their vails, and danced round her, singing and making a rattling, tremulous sound from the throat, while the rest of the women joined in chorus. Professional mourners kept up the excitement by demonstrations of violent grief, and the professional singers improvised appropriate songs. This lasted for three or four hours, and the crowd gradually grew larger. I made my way through it with difficulty, for some of the women had worked themselves into fits of frenzy and hysterics.
I observed that the men who passed by kept quite aloof from this group of mourners, and made no attempt to look upon the unvailed widow. My kawass stood afar off, waiting for me. On emerging from the crowd, I could see the funeral cortége approaching along the sands. I was informed by a forerunner that the body of Ibrahîm had been interred in the 'Akka burial-ground, as it was considered dangerous to convey it so far as Haifa. When the procession was near to the town, I went up on to the low roof of the custom-house to see it pass. First came the kawasses of some of the Consuls, carrying their long, silver-headed sticks or poles draped with black; then a large party of young men, dressed in various colors, solemnly silent, walking four abreast. At a little distance from these, Ibrahîm's ​horse, without a rider, was led by two men slowly and carefully. Some of poor Ibrahîm 's well-remembered garments were on the saddle.
The three brothers of Ibrahîm followed in a line; then came his nephews and cousins, among whom was our friend Saleh, all looking thoughtful and sad. The next mourner was the mother. She sat cross-legged on a horse, supported by two men. Her face was vailed, but her drooping head expressed her grief—she had lost her favorite son. My brother, who had a great respect both for her and the deceased, rode by her side. Mohammed Bek followed, on a splendid white horse, surrounded by a group of Moslems; then came the 'Akka mourners, headed by the Giammal family, all on foot. Last of all, the father, looking heart-broken, rode slowly toward his bereaved home.
When all the men were out of sight, the company of women entered the gates, shrieking and singing. My kawass retreated hastily, and a young Greek of Scio, who was by my side, said, "You can remain here to see them pass, but it would not be proper for me to do so—men do not watch processions of female mourners;" and he retired.
First came a group of dancers, only slightly vailed, making slow graceful movements, and waving scarfs and kerchiefs, pausing now and then in strange attitudes, resting for a quarter of a minute at a time like statues, and then singing and shrieking wildly, all the company joining in the chorus. The young widow walked alone, followed by two attendants who carried the orphan children. This group was surrounded at a little distance by the nearest female relatives of Ibrahîm. An irregular crowd of women and girls closed the procession, loudly echoing the songs of the leaders. Thus they went slowly through the town; and there was loud wailing and mourning in the house of Sekhali for seven days. But to the silent grief of the mother there was no limit. She lived next door to the Consulate, and I often saw her. She was completely changed. Her firm step had suddenly become faltering, ​and her head drooped. She seldom spoke, and her only words were words of lamentation and despair. Little Katrîne, the daughter of our friend Saleh, touchingly described her great grief, saying, "I think our aunt will die. She has no thought but for Ibrahîm. She does not wish to see any one but Ibrahîm. Always she is kissing his coat, his cap, and his gun. Always her face is wet with tears, and she will not be comforted. She can not eat, and at night she is awake; only a little in the daytime she falls asleep, tired of crying and of folding and unfolding all his clothes. No one can make her glad now."
Little Katrîne's fears were realized. The mother of Ibrahîm died on the 13th of February, fretting to the last for her dead son. I attended her funeral the next day. At an early hour I saw the procession form. Men carrying banners, embroidered with sacred emblems and monograms, led the way. Then came the Greek priests. One of them bore a large gilt wooden cross. The body was in a dark coffin, on which three white crosses were conspicuous. It was supported by six men. The male mourners were headed by the widower and his three sons. The women followed afar off. A large number of people lined the road all the way to the church, and fell in with the funeral cortége as it passed.
The bell was tolling as I entered the church. I went up into the women's gallery, which is very high, and opposite to the altar. I was led to the front of it, where a block of wood was given to me for a seat. The women, all vailed and in white sheets, sat around on the matted floor. I looked down into the church, through a sloping wooden lattice, at an angle of about twenty degrees with the ceiling, and so arranged that a view of what was going on below could only be obtained by leaning forward over this lattice, and with the face nearly close to it. Thus positioned, I could see easily.
The chancel was already crowded. A few European gentlemen, in dark clothes, looked conspicuous among the ​Arabs in their many-colored garments. The chief female mourners, shrouded in white, were grouped all together on one side. The coffin, raised on high trestles, stood in the center. A narrow space was left round it. A priest stood at its head, slowly swinging a censer, while two others chanted psalms, and read the service monotonously and mutteringly. The people responded loudly.
Wax-candles were distributed by the younger members of the Sekhali family to every one present. There were about three hundred, and a strange effect was produced when all the candles, as well as the tapers fixed round the coffin, were lighted. Some looked pale and spirit-like in the sunshine; others were obscured in clouds of incense; while the rest illuminated dark corners, made darker by the dense crowd.
Khalil Sekhali, the widower, and his three sons, sat together in a conspicuous position near the door of the sacristy. Every one else was standing. In obedience to a signal from the chief-priest, an opening was made in the crowd toward them. After a few minutes of perfect silence, the widower walked unobstructed into the center of the church. He placed his hands solemnly on the coffin, pressed his broad forehead on to the head of it, pronounced a blessing, kissed a little Byzantine picture of Christ which was placed there, and then returned to his seat, bending his head low. After another silent pause the three sons followed his example; and all the nearest relatives came forward to kiss the picture. After the youngest child of the family had been lifted up to take this farewell, the rest of the congregation crowded round, and with less emotion and more haste performed the same ceremony.
By degrees all but the chief mourners withdrew, and then I went down into the church with the women. One by one they kissed the picture, muttering a short prayer for the repose of the soul of the deceased. Presently the procession re-formed, and went out at the West Gate to ​the Greek burial-ground; the women followed afar off, singing and crying wildly. And again for many days there was mourning in the house of Sekhali.
But the widower did not reject consolation. About a year afterward he sent messengers to Nazareth to seek for a wife for him, and when all was rightly arranged he went there to be affianced. But a monetary difficulty arose, and the contract was annulled. Another bride was sought and quickly chosen, for Khalîl said that he was determined not to be disappointed, nor to be a laughing-stock in Hâifa. He was after all actually betrothed on the very day first fixed for the ceremony, and the marriage took place soon after.
The bridegroom was about seventy and the bride seventeen! I called to welcome the young wife to Hâifa. She was very good-looking, but quite of the peasant class. She had a bright face; the forehead and chin were tattooed; her eyebrows were naturally black and well arched, and her eyelashes were long, so that no kohl was necessary. This peculiarity is expressed, in Arabic, in one word, "Khālā." Her countenance was ruddy, and the women said of her, "The wife of Khalîl is fair; roses grow upon her cheeks; she does not buy her roses in the bazar." This is also said of the women of Shefa 'Amer, who are generally bright and healthy in appearance, and use rouge but rarely. Khalîl was comforted. His three sons and their wives, with their little ones, dwelt with him under the same roof, and there was rejoicing in the house when a son was born to him in his old age.
Elias Sekhali, the eldest son of Khalîl, was studious, thoughtful, clear-headed, and logical, and universally liked by Christians and Moslems. He was employed in the French Consulate. He came very often to see us, and was eager to obtain information about the English Constitution, and the progress of civilization generally. He always had some amusing story or impressive parable to tell me when he found me alone. Many of them were original. I care​fully chronicled all. He often spoke to me on the subject of the government of Syria. He said that there was no opportunity for the people to rise out of their present condition, while they are ruled by officers who have no sympathy with them, no love for the country, and no object but to enrich themselves.
The Arabs, under the present system of irregular taxation, do not attempt to cultivate the land as they would do if they were encouraged and protected by the Government. In many parts of the country a man will not run the risk of improving his estate. He will not plant new olive-trees, nor extend his orchards and vineyards, nor employ many laborers, for fear of exciting the rapacity of the Governor of his district; for if a man is supposed to be rich, excuses are readily invented to impoverish him; debts are coined, or false accusations are made against him, and he is thrown into prison till he pays the supposed debt or a large fine. In one particular instance the Governor of a certain Moslem village, having exceeded even the usual bounds of exaction, a united complaint was made to the Pasha by the indignant villagers. The Pasha, for the sake of appearances, immediately appointed a new Governor. He tried and imprisoned the offender for a few days; but soon made arrangements with him and set him free, after having accepted as a bribe a large proportion of the property which the Ex-Governor had so unjustly obtained!
I have heard of many similar transactions, and sometimes the actors have been well known to me, so that I have had an opportunity of hearing both sides of the story. Nearly all the Turks with whom I came in contact seemed to glory in successful intrigue, and were generally shrewd and clever. They had little or no sympathy with the Arabs, and apparently no true patriotism. There are very few Turks in Palestine, except civil officers and their employés, military officers, and soldiers. They are looked upon always as foreigners. ​Pashas and Governors do not remain long or for any fixed time in one place. Wherever they go they, with few exceptions, "tread upon the poor, and take from them burdens of wheat; they afflict the just, and take a bribe." They naturally favor the Moslems; but money is their chief consideration. They not only injure the people whom they are appointed to protect, but they rob the Government which they are employed to serve. If appointments were given, with appropriate salaries, to men of honor and energy, fitted for office, instead of being sold to speculators, there would be hope for Syria. Crime would be punished and innocence protected in spite of patronage and piasters.
Elias severely felt the disadvantageous position of his countrymen. They live in a land overrun by Bedouins, where there is no security for property, and no encouragement for agriculturists; where there are no roads and very few modern books; where offices are purchased, laws tampered with, justice disregarded, and industry and commercial enterprise checked. I could not help sympathizing with him, especially as I by degrees became better acquainted with the capabilities of the Arab mind, and the wonderful fertility of the country. Under more favorable circumstances and better cultivation each would flourish. Elias admitted that oppression had demoralized the people to a lamentable extent. Their powers and talents were misapplied, their ingenuity and inventive faculties were displayed in artful cunning and clever intrigue. Their powers of endurance and self-sacrifice had grown into seeming apathy and indifference, their love of poetry and of the marvelous had been trifled with by teachers of strange doctrines and conflicting traditions, and their imaginations were incumbered with wild superstitions.
When Elias spoke thus despondingly, no such man as Fuad Pasha had been in Syria to inspire the hope of a better state of things. Elias was always ready to answer patiently and carefully my many questions. During nearly ​three years I was in the habit of seeing him frequently. In August, 1858, he went to Beirût on business. He was not well when he left home, and on Wednesday, the 1st of September, news was brought to Hâifa that he was dead, and had been buried at Beirût. This was a new and terrible affliction for the Sekhali family, for Elias was looked up to as the ruler and manager of the house. Khalil, the aged father, felt the loss acutely, and the widow was quite prostrated. Grief bewildered and almost stupefied her she could not even weep. "Call for the mourning women, that they may come; and for such as are skillful in lamentation, that they may come; and let them make haste, and take up a wailing for us, that our eyes may run down with tears, and our eyelids gush out with waters." And again there were seven days of weeping in the house of Sekhali. See Jeremiah ix, 17, 18.
I joined the mourners on the third day. As soon as I entered the house, I heard the minstrels and the loud cries of the people. See Matthew ix, 23. I was led into a large, long room. Women were sitting on the floor in rows on two sides of it. An open space was left down the middle to the end of the room, where the widow sat apart, with her two youngest children lying at her feet. Her hair was disheveled, and she wore no covering on her head. Her eyelids were swollen with weeping, and her face pale with watching. She looked as if she had suddenly grown old. Her dress was rent and disordered. She had not rested or changed her garments since she heard the tidings of her husband's death. She kissed me passionately, and said, "Weep for me, he is dead;" and then, pointing to her children, she said, "Weep for them, they are fatherless." I sat near to her. One of her children, who was about three years old, crept into my lap, and whispered, "My father is dead." Then he closed his eyes, and pressed his chubby little fingers tightly over them, saying, "My father is dead like this—he is in the dark."
The wailing,which had been slightly interrupted at my ​entrance, was renewed with vigor. The assembled women were all in their gayest dresses—soft crimson silk with white stripes on it prevailing. There were many women from Nazareth and Shefa 'Amer and other villages. They had uncovered their heads and unbraided their hair. They looked dreadfully excited. Their eyes were red with weeping and watching. The air of the room was close and heated, for the widow and chief mourners had remained there for three days and two nights without rest, receiving guests who came to mourn with them. The room was always filled, for as soon as one set of people left another set came in. During my visit there were seventy-three mourners present,without reckoning the children who glided in and out.
Three rows of women sat on the matted floor on the right-hand side, facing three rows on the left. They were all clapping their hands or striking their bosoms in time with the monotonous melody which they murmured.
Presently an especial lamentation was commenced, to which I was invited to respond. I was still seated at the end of the room, near to the widow. The women on my left hand, led by a celebrated professional mourner, sang these words with vigor and energy:
    "We saw him, in the midst of the company of riders,
    Riding bravely on his horse, the horse he loved!"
Then the women on the opposite side of the room answered in a lower and more plaintive key, beating their breasts mournfully:
    "Alas! no more shall we see him
    In the midst of the company of riders,
    Riding bravely on his horse, the horse he loved."
Then the first singers sang:
    "We saw him in the garden, the pleasant garden,
    With his companions, and his children, the children he loved."
Then the second singers answered:
    "Alas! no more shall we see him
    In the garden, the pleasant garden,
    With his companions, and his children, the children he loved."
    "His children and his servants blessed him!
    His home was the shelter of happiness!
    Peace be upon him!"
First singers—loudly and with animation
    "We saw him giving food to the hungry,
    And clothing to the naked."
Second singers—softly and plaintive:
    "Alas I no more shall we see him
    Give food to the hungry,
    And garments to the naked!"
First singers:
    "We saw him give help and succor to the aged
    And good counsel to the young."
Second singers:
    "Alas! no more shall we see him
    Give help and succor to the aged,
    And good counsel to the young."
Chorus of all the women, singing softly
    "He suffered not the stranger to sleep in the streets:
    He opened his door to the wayfarer,
    Peace be upon him!"
After this, they started to their feet, and shrieked as loudly as they could, making a rattling noise in their throats for three or four minutes. The widow kneeled, swaying her body backward and forward, and feebly joined in the wild cry.
Some of the women reseated themselves on the floor quite exhausted, some retired, and a number of guests from 'Akka came in and took the vacant places. A minstrel woman began slowly beating a tambourine, and all the company clapped their hands in measure with it, singing, "Alas for him! alas for him! He was brave, he was good, alas for him!" Then three women rose, with naked swords in their hands, and stood at two or three yards' distance from each other. They began dancing with slow and graceful movements, with their swords at first held low and their heads drooping. Each dancer kept within a circle of ​about a yard in diameter. By degrees the tambourine and the clapping of the hands and the songs grew louder, the steps of the dancers were quickened. They threw back their heads, and gazed upward passionately, as if they would look into the very heavens. They flourished their uplifted swords, and as their movements became more wild and excited, the bright steel flashed and bright eyes seemed to grow brighter. As one by one the dancers sank overcome with fatigue, others rose to replace them. Thus passed seven days and nights. Professional mourners were in constant attendance to keep up the excitement, and dances and dirges succeeded each other, with intervals of wild and hysterical weeping and shrieking. I remained about two hours in the room, and occasionally I watched from a window which overlooked it. I could see that the leader had a powerful influence over all present. A certain tone of her wild wailing voice drew tears from the eyes and produced hysterical emotion in some cases.
There are girls who have a morbid taste for the excitement thus produced, and are celebrated for the facility with which they fall into fits of uncontrollable weeping. The real mourners and the amateur actresses in these scenes are usually ill afterward, but the professional assistants do not appear to suffer from the fatigue or excitement, and they do not lose their self-control for a moment.
Poor Khalîl Sekhali never quite recovered the shock caused by this death. It became an epoch from which to reckon events throughout the district, where Elias had been so well known and so much respected. It was usual to say, "Such an event occurred before or after the death of Elias." And there was a saying current in Hâifa to the effect that "the men of the Sekhali family die always among strangers and away from home." But I suppose that the spell is broken now, for Khalîl, the old man, died in his own house, in January, 1860. I was not in Hâifa at the time, but I was informed that Khalîl had been staying at 'Akka and was very ill there. On his way back ​to Hâifa, in a very weak state, while riding along the sands, he was thrown from his horse, and so much injured that he was carried home, and died in three days. My brother went to the funeral, and in a letter to me he spoke of it thus:
"I never in this neighborhood saw a funeral so numerously attended. The church, as well as the court without, was completely crowded. Seven priests—four of whom had come from a considerable distance for the purpose—chanted the appointed psalms, and the burial service was performed as usual. After the Epistle, Gospel, and Absolution had been read, the chief priest said to the congregation, 'Dear brethren and children, Khalil Sekhali was a man who lived very long in this world. He has had a great deal of business, and has been in communication with a great number of people. It is possible that in certain transactions he may have given cause for offense. Some people may have felt themselves insulted, some may have been grieved or offended, either with or without reason. This now is the time for pardon, and I hereby beseech you all present, and by the blessing of God I implore you all, to pardon him fully, to forgive him all offenses as you hope to be forgiven.' The whole congregation then answered, "May God pardon him!'"
This ceremony of asking pardon of the living for the dead is observed in a slight degree at all burials among the Greeks, but it is not generally so emphatically expressed or so enlarged upon as in the case of Khalîl. He was a man of great influence. He was the founder of the Greek Church in Hâifa; and the only good houses in the town belonged to him or to members of his family.