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ECHOES FROM THE ORIENT.
By P. L. STANTON.
Rev. P. L. Stanton, a native of Georgia, is now
and has been for some time a resident of Jerusalem.
The following article is the first of several which we
hope to present to our readers from time to time,
accompanied by pictures of localities which have
not been heretofore, so far as our knowledge goes,
presented to the people of this country in the man
ner they will be treated in our columns:
Origin of the Story of Venus and Adonis
To fully appreciate what the accompanying illus
trations are meant to represent, one must have just
come from Palestine in mid-summer when its rock
crowned hills, glowing with heat, are barren and
desolate, and when the vegetation of its valleys is
parched and dead. It was on August 9, 1904, when
the one who held the camera and Mr. Smith who
appeal's in some of the illustrations had their first
view’ of Nahr Ibrahim, “River Abraham,” and the
ancient bridge whose broad arch spans the stream
near where it flows into the Mediterranean Sea. It
was some days later when, far up the slopes of the
great Lebanon Range, they saw the sources of this
river and the charming waterfalls which follow
each other in rapid succession just below the foun
tains. But it is not to tell of the natural charms
of this stream and the surrounding scenery, tempt-
BRIDGE OVER RIVER ADONIS.
ing as that may be, that I am now to write, but to
tell of the origin of a well-known and interesting
mythological story which has made its way into
our literature.
It is not generally known in America, even in
Atlanta, that the story of Venus and Adonis had
its origin far over the seas, in the land of Syria,
and here on the banks of this stream which the an
cient Greco-Phenicians called the River Adonis,
but so it was. If we count all the descending miles
from where these crystal waters burst forth from
amid the great moss-covered boulders, far up under
the lofty cliffs of the Lebanon, down to where they
lose themselves in the blue waters of the great
“Middle Sea,” the distance would not be sufficient
to inspire Americans, in their land of long rivers,
with any very great deal of awe. Indeed, they
might be disposed to question as to whether or not
this famous stream deserved to be called a river,
but it is an important river now, and was so regard
ed by the ancient Phoenicians. It was here on its
banks and among that people, skilled in art and
literature, that the the ancient Greeks found the
story of Venus and Adonis and whence they trans
ported it to their own clime. From classic Greece
Shakespeare bore it away to Britain’s Isle, and gave
it immortality in English verse.
It was to this spot where the river, after flowing
under the broad arch of this quaint old bridge, soon
empties itself into the sea, that the women of an
cient Gebal, about five miles away, came to bewail
the untimely death of the handsome young Adonis,
or to rejoice in his fancied resurrection. At the
autumnal equinox they came to mourn Adonis,
“their lord,” slain by the wild boar, or at the ver-
The Golden Age for July 19, 1906.
nal quinox to celebrate his new birth. To the an
cient Phoenician Gebalites, it was to bewail Tam
muz, “the Sun of Life,” feigning to find his head
in the sea, or to rejoice in his new birth, professing
to find his infant form floating on the bosom of the
river in a. cradle of papyrus. In the following
verses Milton blends the two versions:
“Tammuz came next behind,
Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate
In amorous ditties all a summer’s day;
'While smooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood
Os Tammuz, yearly wounded.”
At the season of the year when the waters of the
river became most abundant from the melting
snows they brought down soil which so colored them
as to give them a fancied resemblance to the blood
of the slain hero. It is easy to see that the dying
down of vegetation in the fall and its seeming to
come back to life in the spring had much to do in
giving form to the story. The idolatrous features
of the celebrations were the occasion of severe de
nunciations by the Hebrew prophet. (Ezekiel 8:14
etc.)
To find a more fascinating spot than even this
down by the sea, we seek the head-waters of this
river, up at Alka, ancient Aphek, where those cool
and crystal waters, after they have made their way
down from the upper heights of the Lebanon, com
ing through soil and crevices in rocks, finally in
triumphant song, break forth in all the strength
and beauty of a full-grown river, and go leaping
wildly and joyfully down over cliffs, making, in
rapid succession, as charming cataracts as can be
found in any land. Hard by the fountains and with
in easy reach of the music of the cataracts, and
close under the towering cliffs which rise perpen
dicularly a thousand feet, are the remains, now
blackened by age, of the once proud and graceful
Temple of Venus. The heaps of stone, some in
place and most part scattered in confusion, are too
much intruded upon by vegetation, by the dust of
their own decay and by that caused by the disinte
gration of the cliffs which rise above them, for the
camera to give even a faint idea of the extent and
importance of the remains. This temple was to
mark the spot famed by the loves of Venus for the
youth so celebrated for his beauty, and was dedi
cated to the worship of that goddess. In the time
of Constantine the Great the elaborate ceremonies
used in the worship had become so grossly licen
tious that he had the temple destroyed and the
worship stopped.
Thus the works of men’s hands decay in blacken
ed ruins, and the chantings of worship which once
broke forth from the halls of that temple and
echoed back from those neighboring cliffs have been
hushed forever, but, night and day, winter and sum
mer, spring and autumn, the music of gushing foun
tains and leaning waterfalls, the handiwork of
God, goes welling up in gladdest strains to Him who
made mountain, vale, and river. By the fountains
and along the banks of the river bloom many beau
tiful flowers, but none more lovely than the “Flos
Adonis,” popularly called “the blood-drop.” A
legend tells us the rich blood-coloring of the flower
comes from the blood of the slain Adonis. The
tiny flower is found over all of Syria, and seems
to do its best to make its blood-tint worthy the
sacrifice it cost. .
One might go the world around, and notTiml a
more charmingly romantic spot than this one chos
en as the birth-place of this mythological legend,
but what grotesque figures are sometimes associat
ed with such scenes! This may be illustrated in
A Strange Incident
which happened to our little party as we were leav
ing Afka with its temple remains, fountains, and
waterfalls, August 15, 1904. In the path better
adapted to rocky mountain goats than to horses or
human beings, we suddenly overtook a wild, repul
sive looking creature in the way of a deaf mute girl
whose diminutive and diseased brain could hardly
be imagined as capable of a single intelligent
thought. It was at the moment we had become un
certain as to whether or not we should continue in
the path or turn to the left up a path still more
steep and rugged. In a moment a Hash
of intelligence lit up the face of that freak of na
ture, and she, seeming to fully comprehend our dif
ficulty, instantly sprang and began climb
ing up the sleep and rugged way, beckoning us to
follow. When we turned our horses to obey, there
was an indescribable chuckle of—satisfaction, I
suppose it might be denominated, came from that
strange creature. We had to dismount, for the
danger of merely leading a horse along such away
was equal to the demand on our part for adventure.
Onward ami upward we toiled, stopping now and
then to rest ourselves and horses. When near a
mighty cliff, under the shadow of which our path
was to go for nearly a mile, our guide turned a lit
tle aside to a spot where a few sheaves of grain,
some dirty rags, and a filthy, antiquated mat desig
nated her abiding place. Never was the instinct of
i . ‘
A Wife* S
aAAA ' ■ ' ’
T■’ ■ .
IBM
NAHR IBRAHIM AND OLD BRIDGE.
hospitality more forcibly manifested than when she
drawing a water-jar from its hiding under some
brush, offered us a draught of nature’s truest,
sweetest beverage. That jar had been filled at the
fountains far below, and laboriously, yea, painfully
borne up the steep way, upon the bruised and
weary shoulder of that afflicted daughter of na
ture, and yet we were welcome to quench our burn
ing thirst from its precious contents. Our feel
ings must have been something like those of David
when, in appreciation of the danger and sacrifice in
volved in securing the water from the well by the
gate of Bethlehem, he poured it out as an oblation
to the Lord (2 Sam. 23:15-17). May she have the
reward, and more, promised to the one who shall
give a cup of cold water to a disciple of the Lord!
When Mr. Smith dropped a few little coins into
the hand of that poor, wretched creature, there
could be no words of thanks—words are often but
false and hollow pretenses—but there was a look
toward heaven, and a sound indescribable, but nev
er to be forgotten. As we came away from that
deserted, desolate being 1 found myself wondering
if I would ever meet her again. Yes! we shall
meet again, was the instant thought. Deny it as we
may, that deformed, filthy, repulsive disowned crea
ture, shunned by all of us on earth, is our sister,
and we shall see her again.
Jerusalem, Palestine, P. L. Stanton.
It is an old fact that South Africa owes three of
her greatest industries to Jews. De Pass developed
the whaling and guano industries, Andrade that of
ostrich farming, and Mosenthal the wool and hide
trades.
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