CHAPTER X.

BETHLEHEM AND MAR SABA.

The tradition which indicates the grotto in the old basilica at Bethlehem, as the site of the stable where Christ was born, is the most venerable of its kind in existence, the place being noticed by Justin Martyr in the second century. It is almost the only site which we can trace earlier than the time of Constantine, and the tradition seems to me credible, because, throughout this part of Palestine, there are innumerable instances of stables cut in rock, resembling the Bethlehem grotto. Such stables I have planned and measured at Tekoa, ’Azîz, and other places south of Bethlehem, and the mangers existing in them leave no doubt as to their use and character.

The credibility of this tradition thus appears to be far greater than that attaching to the later discoveries, by which the enthusiastic Helena and the politic Constantine settled the scenes of other Christian events; and the rude grotto with its rocky manger may, it seems to me, be accepted even by the most sceptical of modern explorers.

Bethlehem is a long town of solidly-built stone houses, crowning the summit of two knolls, connected by a lower saddle, on a white chalk ridge, with steep declivities to the north and south. The monastery and basilica are at the east end of the town, overlooking the northern valley. The population of 5000 souls is almost entirely Christian, and the inhabitants are remarkable for their enterprise and energy in trade. The contrast between Bethlehem and Hebron is very striking; it is the contrast between Christianity and Islam, between the vitality of the religion of progress and civilisation and the hopeless stagnation of a fatalistic creed. Hebron is a city of the past, wrapped in contemplation of its sacred tombs. Bethlehem is a thriving modern town--the birthplace of a faith that looks forward rather than back.

The Church of the Virgin now stands inside a fortress monastery, in which Latin, Greek, and Armenian monks find a common retreat. The basilica was erected, according to cotemporary evidence, by order of Constantine, and is thus the oldest church in Palestine, and perhaps in the world. It has escaped destruction on every occasion when other churches in Palestine were overthrown, and the greater part of the work is stated, by competent authority, to be of the original design. In the eleventh century, when the mad Caliph Hakim destroyed the Holy Sepulchre churches, the Bethlehem basilica was spared; in 1099 the Crusaders sent a detachment of troops to protect it and it thus again escaped, nor was it destroyed in the thirteenth century, although threatened by the Moslems. In this basilica, therefore, we have the only undisputed erection of the time of Constantine in Palestine, and its value cannot be overrated.

Architectural authorities are of opinion that our information as to the progress of Byzantine art in the East is still very imperfect. M. de Vogüé has done much to elucidate the subject, in his work on the great buildings of northern Syria, many of which are dated with exactitude. In Palestine we have two valuable examples, one of fourth century, and one of sixth century architecture--the basilica at Bethlehem, and Justinian’s fortress on Gerizim, with which we may compare ruins of unknown date; and in the first we find M. de Vogüé’s opinion confirmed, with respect to the slowness with which Byzantine art developed in style in the East, in comparison with the more rapid progress of the western Romanesque.

The basilica is moreover interesting because its general plan resembles, very closely, the description given by Eusebius of Constantine’s buildings over the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. On the west was an atrium or outer court, parts of the outer walls of which and shafts of its columns still remain. A narrow vestibule or narthex, entered by a door scarcely four feet high, leads into the basilica itself, which consists of a nave and four aisles, with four rows of eleven columns each, a total breadth of about thirty yards, and a length about equal.

The aisles have flat roofs, above the pillars which are nineteen feet high, but the nave has a clerestory, with walls some thirty feet high above the capitals, and a pointed roof. A wall has been built across the east end of the basilica, separating off the chancel, which has three apses, north, south and east, and which forms the Greek church. Beneath the chancel is the Grotto of the Nativity. North of the basilica is the more modern Latin chapel of St. Catherine, from which a staircase leads down to vaults communicating with the grotto.

The pillar shafts are monoliths of red and white marble, painted with figures of saints, now dim with age, and scrawled over with the crests and titles of knightly pilgrims of the Crusading ages. The capitals are of the Corinthian order, debased in style, with the cross carved on the rosettes of each. The wall above was once decorated all over with glass mosaic, fragments of which still remain, representing scenes in our Lord’s life, portraits of angels and of Scripture characters, with arabesques and Greek inscriptions. These mosaics, with those on the chancel walls, were executed by order of the Greek Emperor, Manuel Comnenos, in the middle of the twelfth century. The roof above, once painted and gilded, was put up in 1482, the fine rafters having been given by Philip of Burgundy, the lead (stripped off later by the Moslems to make bullets) by Edward IV. of England; and the work was executed in Venice, and brought on camels from Jaffa. Further restorations were made in 1478, and again in 1672 and 1842, but the majority of the work appears to belong to the original structure of the time of Constantine.

On the 24th of October, 1873, we first approached Bethlehem from the west, passing by the great tanks near Urtâs, commonly called Solomon’s Pools, but more probably of the same date with the aqueduct passing by them, which was constructed by Pontius Pilate.

The olive harvest had commenced, and picturesque groups were gathered in the groves, whilst little hammocks for the babies were slung between the trees. The Bethlehem women are famous for their beauty, for their delicate complexions and aquiline features; they are distinguished by their head-dress, a tall felt hat, in shape a truncated cone, over which a white veil is arranged, and from which heavy strings of coins are suspended. Their dresses are also remarkable from the square patches of red and yellow, which are introduced into the blue or striped fabric of which they are composed.

Bethlehem is supplied with water by cisterns, and from the great aqueduct which passes through the hill. The famous well for the waters of which David thirsted, is supposed to be represented by an ancient and extensive cistern with many mouths, on the north-west. It is not impossible that this may be the “pit,” as Josephus calls it, which was beside the gate of the city.

Two feasts are yearly held at Bethlehem, on the Greek and Latin Christmas Eve. The scene on the latter occasion is especially interesting, and may here be described, though I did not witness it until the Christmas of 1874.

Arriving at Bethlehem on that occasion, we visited the church, and descended into the sacred grotto. The floor of the chancel is raised, but the transepts are on the same level with the basilica, and from them two staircases lead down to the grotto, which is about twelve yards long, and three or four wide. It was profusely decorated, and the passages were hung with cloth of gold. The exact place of the Saviour’s birth is shown near the east, in a recess beneath an altar. The manger is on the south; both are cased in marble, but two old columns, supporting the roof, appear to be of rock. The western passage, to the Latin chapel, was decorated with paper hangings, with paintings of scenes in our Lord’s life, and, over the hangings, were some pictures so old that the tarnished gold backgrounds were covered with prismatic tints.

The Latin chapel is a long vaulted room on the north of the basilica, once painted in fresco, but now whitewashed. It was hung with red silk. On the east is a large altar, with a screen and large wax torches: behind it is the choir. The chapel is principally remarkable for its fine silver lamps.

Mass was being performed, and the music and singing were impressive, in a land where song seems almost unknown. The Latin Patriarch, in cloth-of-silver, with a mitre of gold and jewels, and a handsome silver crook, sat on his throne to the north. He was an Italian, a man of dignified mien and delicate features, but apparently of very weak health. After the service he was disrobed, and again robed in purple, with a beautiful ermine cape, the dress of a Canon of the church. In this attire, after a few prayers at a side altar, he was conducted out in procession.

We now wandered through the vaults, where the tombs of Eusebius of Cremona, of Paula, and of her daughter Eustochia, are shown, and the famous study--a gloomy, rock-cut cell--where St. Jerome is said to have spent so many years of his life, engaged on the noble Vulgate translation of the Scriptures.

We left the building in order to witness the entry of the French Consul, who attends the ceremony on this day as representative of the “Eldest son of the Church.” First came the village elders in gay dresses, capering madly on horses and mules; then about a couple of dozen cavalry-soldiers in black, with red fezzes and facings. The four _kawasses_ on good brown horses, dressed in crimson hussar jackets, braided with gold and black, with blue trousers and silk head-shawls, and carrying great maces with gilded tops. The Consul and his secretary came last.

At ten in the evening the bell began to ring, and we again entered the Latin chapel. The place was quite full, and the congregation pushed and struggled, and chattered at the top of their voices. The French Consul appeared in full uniform, covered with orders, and we also obtained good places near the altar. The heat was fearful, and many persons fainted and had to be dragged out.

The long wearisome service, almost entirely choral, with occasional solos, went on for two hours. The Patriarch, in his hot and heavy vestments of cloth-of-gold, looked much exhausted. His mitre was changed at various times, one being of silver, a second of gold, a third jewelled. The whole service was directed by an extremely active priest, who appeared to be a sort of master of the ceremonies.

At midnight the climax was reached, the storm of song and music suddenly ceased, and, in the stillness, the clock struck, and the seventh candle on the high altar was lighted. A curtain was drawn back, and above the altar was a little glass-fronted ebony box, from which the rosy face of a small wax image looked down representing an infant swathed in cloth-of-gold. The great convent-bell swung with a deep sound, heralding the news of Christmas morn, and the little red-cassocked choristers burst forth, in memory of the angels, with the “Gloria! gloria in excelsis!” The organ struggled and pealed in a mad and powerful symphony, and was accompanied by a pipe or reed, in memory of the music of the shepherds’ pipes. The mystic ceremonies of the early mass were commenced, and the weary congregation became interested.

There was something at once touching and ridiculous in this curious scene: ridiculous when one considered the rude and inadequate symbolism employed, and on the other hand impressive, when one reflected that for fifteen centuries the Christmas morn had yearly been celebrated within these walls, and the riches of the Church, the genius of great composers, the intellect of a powerful priesthood, all combined to pay honour to the birthday of the little Jewish child, who had been born in the rude rock stable one wintry night, in a small village of a remote and despised province of the empire of Rome.

Two more hours of singing and music followed, and the great procession to the grotto was then formed. Long wax torches were given to the Consul and his secretary, and candles to the rest of the congregation. A second wax image, in a little wicker cradle, was placed on the altar beneath the former, and borne thence by the Patriarch, who came last. As he passed me, I saw that the figure was surrounded with long strips of paper, like swaddling-clothes loosed from its limbs, one of its hands being raised in benediction.

Very striking was the scene in passing through the Greek chancel. The dark building was lighted only by the torches and tapers, which made the silver lamps above shine out against the dusky background. A dense crowd was kept in its ranks by two lines of Turkish soldiers with loaded Snider rifles. The variety of costumes and faces was wonderful, while the dark columns and grim figures in the glass mosaics, the forest of rafters in the ancient roof, and the rich screen before the apse, formed a dim and effective background, to the glittering line of priests and acolytes in cloth of silver and gold.

The thought could not but suggest itself, how different was the scene thus enacted, amidst the awe-stricken veneration of the multitude, with all the pomp and magnificence which could be lavished on it by a rich and long-established Church, from that first Christmas scene in the dark damp stable beneath, the events of which day were now symbolised by the dressing and undressing of a small wax doll.

The grotto was filled with priests, and blazed with crimson silk, silver and gold, lit up by rows of silver lamps above. The Gospel for the day was read in Latin, and at the words “Et peperit filium suum primogenitum,” the image was laid by the Patriarch on the marble slab, supposed to mark the spot where Christ was born.

“And wrapped Him in swaddling clothes.”

The paper bands were wound round the limbs of the image.

“And laid Him in a manger.”

The priest descended to the recess with little rock columns, and laid the cradle on one of the two altars within. The Gospel was continued from the words “And there were shepherds abiding in the fields,” until the Gloria in Excelsis had again been sung, and the Patriarch, after censing the image where it lay, returned with equal state to the Latin chapel, where the mass was resumed.

The crowd was now so thick that we could scarcely move without treading on some one. On the right were the women in gay-coloured dresses with white veils, the married ones wearing the Bethlehem cap. On the left were the men, who had removed their turbans, but still retained their cotton skull-caps. At five in the morning, after seven hours of heat and discomfort, we left the Patriarch still engaged in his arduous office.

East of Bethlehem is a narrow plain or open valley, bare and treeless, with white stony slopes and a few crumbling ruins. One of these ruins is a large building called Sîr el Ghanem, “the sheep-fold,” apparently an ancient monastery; a second site is called “the Church of the Flocks,” a subterranean Greek chapel, with mediæval ruins above, first mentioned in Crusading chronicles. It is here that Migdal Eder, “the Tower of the Flock,” is supposed by Jerome to have stood, where, according to the Jews, Messiah was first to appear; and it is on this plain, according to tradition, that the angelic messenger appeared to the shepherds, and that the Gloria in Excelsis was first sung.

On the 5th of November we marched across the Shepherds’ Plain and entered the terrible wilderness which stretches above the Dead Sea on the west, and creeps up almost to the vines and olive-groves of Bethlehem.

Two remarkable places may be noticed south-east of Bethlehem at the entrance of this desert; namely, Herodium and the Cave of Khureitûn. The first is a great conical mound on the north side of the valley which runs down from the so-called Solomon’s Pools to the Dead Sea. In the scenery south of Jerusalem, and in views of the country round Bethlehem, this mountain forms a most remarkable feature. It is commonly called, by Christians, “the Frank Mountain,” from a fifteenth-century tradition that it was defended by Franks, for a long time, against the Saracens, after the loss of Jerusalem. By natives it is called Jebel Fureidîs, “Hill of the little Paradise,” possibly a corruption of its old name, Herodium. It was here that Herod the Great built his summer palace, and also his tomb. There is a large reservoir on the flat ground at the foot of the cone, with a central fountain once fed by an aqueduct from the spring at Etam, and near it are buildings which resemble, very closely, those attributable to Herod at Masada. The cone rises 400 feet above this platform. It is truncated, and surrounded by a circular wall, on which are four round towers. On arriving at the summit one looks down into a sort of crater 290 feet in diameter, full of debris. The view from the top is a fine one, with a long succession of barren hills, and the blue waters of the Dead Sea, and the precipices of Moab beyond. The architecture is of great interest as the most perfect specimen of this early date in Palestine.

The Cave at Khureitfûn is the most remarkable cavern in the country. The entrance is reached by creeping along a very narrow ledge, on the side of a high precipice of hard limestone, in a magnificent desert gorge. The entrance is double, and is protected by a great block of stone. The narrow passage leads to a great circular hall cut in rock, and, from this, other narrow winding passages run yet farther into the heart of the mountain; the windings are extremely intricate, leading from one chamber to another, the farthest being some 200 yards from the entrance. A whole day was spent in planning the place. For 100 feet I followed a long burrow, so narrow and low that I could only just drag myself along it on my hands and knees, with a candle in one hand; huge bats flew into my face and more than once extinguished the light, but I succeeded in reaching the very end, and in searching out the extremity of every other passage in this extraordinary cavern.

It appears probable that the whole of the caves and passages are formed by water action; here and there, in the outermost chambers, the walls have been shaped with a pick, but the general character is not unlike other water-worn caverns in limestone country.

In the twelfth century the Crusaders fixed upon the Khureitûn Cave, with their usual hasty judgment, as being the Cave of Adullam, no doubt because it was the most remarkable place of the kind that they could find. The early Christians, however, had been better informed, and the true site, as will be seen later, is to be sought in the Valley of Elah, many miles west of Bethlehem; for Josephus tells us that the cave was at the city of Adullam, which was in the low hills west of the watershed mountains (Ant. vi. 12, 2), and this agrees with the use of the word “hold” or “fortress” in connection with the cave (1 Chron. xi. 16). David’s stronghold, moreover, was not in the “land of Judah” (1 Sam. xxii. 5), but on the border of the Philistine country.

Our first camp in the desert was fixed beside the Monastery of St. Saba, a famous settlement of Greek monks. We here entered into an entirely distinct region. The character of the rock was different from the stratified limestone of the mountains above; it is a white soft chalk, which is worn, by the winter rain, into long knife-edged ridges, separated by narrow ravines with stony beds. The sea breeze never visits this ghastly desert, which is fitly called in Scripture Jeshimon or “solitude.” Thus, though in spring the naked slopes are thinly covered with grass and flowers, it presents, throughout nearly the whole year, a long succession of glaring ridges, with fantastic knolls and peaks, and sharp ragged spurs, absolutely treeless and waterless. The fauna also changes; the tawny desert-partridge takes the place of the red-legged Greek species, common in other districts. The ibex succeeds the gazelle, and many birds unknown in other parts of Palestine are here abundant. The people also are a distinct race; their language is as different from that of the peasantry as is broad Scotch from Devonshire dialect; their habits, dress, dwellings and traditions are those of an entirely different people.

Everything in this desert is of one colour--a tawny yellow. The rocks, the partridges, the camels, the foxes, the ibex, are all of this shade, and only the dark Bedawîn and their black tents are distinguishable in the general glare.

The convent of Mar Saba stands on the south side of the huge fissure or gorge called the Valley of Fire, by which the water from Jerusalem comes down to the Dead Sea. East of it is a plateau between mountains on the west side and precipices rising eight hundred feet from the shores of the lake on the east. This plateau is also of waterworn marl with innumerable ridges, knolls, peaks, ravines, and iron crags around it.

It was from a “Tubg” or terrace, east of the plateau, that we first looked down on that marvellous sea (1300 feet lower than the Mediterranean), which swallows up all Jordan and all the snows of Hermon, and yet has no outlet, but yearly gives off the surplus supply in the heavy steam of evaporating water, which in summer hides it in a hot haze.

The morning sun cast purple, dusky shadows over the great mountains to the east, leaving patches of bright light on their level summits. The high piles of cumulus rose, in silvery brilliancy, above a long grey base of stratus cloud. The sea itself lay unruffled by a single breath of wind, blue and glossy, shining like oil, with long bands of white scum here and there stretching across it. The foreground was yet more extraordinary--fawn-coloured marl with bands of dark brown flint, in a tumbled confusion of cones and knolls, without a single tree or shrub, but streaked, on the north, with a pinkish colour, and capped with harder limestone. Part of this district still bears, among the Bedawîn, the title ’Amrîyeh, which represents the Hebrew Amorah or Gomorrah. A few scattered ruins exist on the plateau, and the Arabs have a tradition that these are remains of vineyards, which once existed, according to them, throughout this scorched and desolate solitude.

The hills west of the plateau are well worthy of notice. They consist of hard brown limestone, and I discovered a feature of great geological interest, in a fault which runs north and south, at the point where the white marl commences: showing that a violent, and probably sudden subsidence has here taken place, at a period so late (geologically speaking) as to be subsequent to the chalk era. The general bearing of this observation on the history of the lake, will be noticed in a subsequent chapter.

The heat was terrible. Not only was the actual temperature high, but not a blade of grass nor a breath of wind gave relief. The caves were the only places where any shade could be found, and they were even hotter than the glaring desert. There are probably few places in Asia where the sun beats down with as fierce and irresistible a power as in the Desert of Judah.

The western mountains, above the plateau, form a long ridge running north and south, the highest point of which is called El Muntâr, the “watch tower,” while the rest is named El Hadeidûn. A steep slope, unbroken save by precipices, comes sheer down from the top to the plateau, and the mountain is barren and fawn-coloured like the rest of the country. Now this hill, as I afterwards found out, is a place of historical interest, and the story is as follows:

According to the Law of Moses the Scapegoat was led to the wilderness and there set free. This was not, however, the practice of the later Jews. A scapegoat had once come back to Jerusalem, and the omen was thought so bad that the ordinary custom was modified, to prevent the recurrence of such a calamity. The man who led the goat arrived at a high mountain, called Sook, and there was at this place a rolling slope, down which he pushed the unhappy animal, which was shattered to atoms in the fall.

The Scapegoat was led out on the Sabbath, and in order to evade the law of the Sabbath-day’s journey, a tabernacle was erected at every term of two thousand cubits, and became the domicile of the messenger, who, after eating bread and drinking water, was legally able to travel another stage. Ten such tabernacles were constructed between Sook and Jerusalem, and the distance was thus about six and a half English miles. The district was called Hidoodim, and the high mountain Sook. The first means “sharp,” the second “narrow,” both applying well to the knife-edged ridges of the desert. The distance brings us to the great hill of El Muntâr, and here, beside the ancient road from Jerusalem, is a well called Sûk, while in the name Hadeidûn, applied to part of the ridge, we recognise the Hebrew Hidoodim.

Here then, I think, we may fairly conclude is the Mountain of the Scapegoat. From this high ridge the unhappy victim was yearly rolled down into the narrow valley beneath, at the entrance of the great desert, which first unfolded itself before the eyes of the messenger as he gained the summit half a mile beyond the well of Sûk. Beside this well stood probably the tenth booth to which he returned after the deed, and where he sat until sundown, when he was permitted to return to Jerusalem.

From a very early period this horrible wilderness appears to have had an attraction for ascetics, who sought a retreat from the busy world of their fellow men, and who thought to please God by torturing the bodies which He had given them. Thus the Essenes, the Jewish sect whose habits and tenets resembled so closely those of the first Christians, retired into this wilderness and lived in caves. Christian hermits, from the earliest period, were also numerous in all the country between Jerusalem and Jericho, and the rocks are riddled with caves in inaccessible places where they lived. About 480 A.D., St. Saba and St. Euthymius followed the general custom, and established here, in the Fire Valley, the first nucleus of the present monastery.

The Mar Saba Laura clings to the side of a precipice some four hundred feet high, and is built against the cliff with huge flying buttresses to support the walls. The buildings are scarcely distinguishable in colour from the brown crags on which they stand. The deep crevice, which seems to have been rent in some great convulsion of nature, is bare and tawny like the rest of the country. The silence of the desert surrounds it, and only the shrill note of the golden grackle, or the howl of a jackal, breaks this solemn stillness. Not a tree or shrub is in sight, walls of white chalk and sharp ridges shut out the western breeze, and the sigh of the wind in the trees is a sound never heard in the solitude. The place seems dead. The convent and its valley have a fossilised appearance. Scarcely less dead and fossil are its wretched inmates, monks exiled for crimes or heresy, and placed in charge of a few poor lunatics.

Ladies are not admitted into the monastery, but we were provided with a letter to the Superior. A little iron door in a high yellow wall gives admission from the west, thence a long staircase leads down into a court before the chapel. The walls within are covered with frescoes, some old, some belonging to the time when the monastery was rebuilt, in 1840, by the Russian Government; Greek saints, hideous figures in black and grey dresses, with stoles on which the cross, and ladder and spear, are painted in white, stand out from gilded backgrounds. Against these ghosts of their predecessors the monks were ranged, in wooden stalls, or _miserere_ benches with high arms, which supported their weary figures under the armpits. The old men stood, or rather drooped in their places, with pale sad faces, which spoke of ignorance and of hopelessness, and sometimes of vice and brutality; for the Greek monk is perhaps the most degraded representative of Christianity, and these were the worst of their kind. Robed in long sweeping gowns, with the cylindrical black felt cap on their heads, they looked more like dead bodies than living men, propped up against the quaint Byzantine background. One could fancy one’s self suddenly brought back to the dark ages of the fifth and sixth centuries, when art, and literature, and even human intellect seem to have sunk into a second childhood, and that these were the very men who had fought so obstinately for and against the Monophysite heresy, which St. Saba succeeded in putting down.

The floor of the church was unoccupied, and paved with marble; the transept was closed by the great screen, blazing with gold, and covered with dragons and arabesques, and gaudy pictures of saints and angels on wood. A smell of incense filled the church, and the nasal drawl of the officiating priest soon drove us away to the outer air. We next visited the dark cave covered with pictures, which, after the Greek fashion, were cased in silver, and gleamed in the darkness, and where, behind a grating, are the skulls of the martyrs of a former massacre. Next we went up and down, by winding stairs in the rock, on to the roof of the church to see the _nawâkîs_, or wooden beams, which are struck instead of bells, though bells are also hung in the belfry. The convent pets came about us, the beautiful black birds with orange wings, which live only in the Jordan Valley, and have been named “Tristram’s grackle,” after that well-known explorer. They have a beautifully clear note, the only pleasant sound ever heard in the solitude, and the monks have tamed them, so that they flock round them to catch raisins, which they pounce upon in mid air. In the valley below, the foxes and jackals also come for alms, the monks throwing down loaves for them.

There is a tall solitary palm, said to have been planted by St. Saba, and to have sprung up bearing dates without stones, which he ate the same day on which it was planted. There is also a cavern in the rock reached by a few steps, where he lived, and in the side of it, a little cupboard about three feet square, where his lion slept. The whole cave belonged to the lion, but the saint seems to have had little regard to the rights of property, and considerable obstinacy of character. Three times he was ejected by the beast, but each time he returned to his meditations undaunted, and the lion finally relinquished to the invader the greater part of his cave.

The monks scattered a little rosewater over our hands, and we left this gloomy abode of the dead-alive in the desert. Scarcely half the monks can read the valuable manuscripts in their library, yet they hide them carefully from the eyes of heretics. Within the walls they may neither smoke nor eat meat, yet raw spirits find their way past the porter, as we were able to prove. A more hopeless, purposeless, degraded life can scarcely be imagined than that of such hermits.

Yet even for these poor outcasts in the stony wilderness, lifeless and treeless though it be, nature prepares every day a glorious picture, quickly-fading but matchless in brilliance of colour; the distant ranges seem stained with purple and pink; in autumn the great bands of cloud sweep over the mountains with long bars of gleaming light between, and for a few minutes, as the sun sets, the deep crimson blush comes over the rocks, and glorifies the whole landscape with an indescribable glow.