Baalbec and Lebanon.
Departure from Damascus--The Fountains of the Pharpar--Pass of the
Anti-Lebanon--Adventure with the Druses--The Range of Lebanon--The Demon
of Hasheesh departs--Impressions of Baalbec--The Temple of the
Sun--Titanic Masonry--The Ruined Mosque--Camp on Lebanon--Rascality of
the Guide--The Summit of Lebanon--The Sacred Cedars--The Christians of
Lebanon--An Afternoon in Eden--Rugged Travel--We Reach the Coast--Return
to Beyrout.
"Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim."
Milton.
"The cedars wave on Lebanon,
But Judah's statelier maids are gone."
Byron.
Beyrout, _Thursday, May_ 27, 1852.
After a stay of eight days in Damascus, we called our men, Dervish and
Mustapha, again into requisition, loaded our enthusiastic mules, and
mounted our despairing horses. There were two other parties on the way to
Baalbec--an English gentleman and lady, and a solitary Englishman, so that
our united forces made an imposing caravan. There is always a custom-house
examination, not on entering, but on issuing from an Oriental city, but
travellers can avoid it by procuring the company of a Consular Janissary
as far as the gate. Mr. Wood, the British Consul, lent us one of his
officers for the occasion, whom we found waiting, outside of the wall, to
receive his private fee for the service. We mounted the long, barren hill
west of the plain, and at the summit, near the tomb of a Moslem shekh,
turned to take a last long look at the bowery plain, and the minarets of
the city, glittering through the blue morning vapor.
A few paces further on the rocky road, a different scene presented itself
to us. There lay, to the westward, a long stretch of naked yellow
mountains, basking in the hot glare of the sun, and through the centre,
deep down in the heart of the arid landscape, a winding line of living
green showed the course of the Barrada. We followed the river, until the
path reached an impassable gorge, which occasioned a detour of two or
three hours. We then descended to the bed of the dell, where the
vegetation, owing to the radiated heat from the mountains and the
fertilizing stimulus of the water below, was even richer than on the plain
of Damascus. The trees were plethoric with an overplus of life. The boughs
of the mulberries were weighed down with the burden of the leaves;
pomegranates were in a violent eruption of blossoms; and the foliage of
the fig and poplar was of so deep a hue that it shone black in the sun.
Passing through a gateway of rock, so narrow that we were often obliged to
ride in the bed of the stream, we reached a little meadow, beyond which
was a small hamlet, almost hidden in the leaves. Here the mountains again
approached each other, and from the side of that on the right hand, the
main body of the Barrada, or Pharpar, gushed forth in one full stream. The
fountain is nearly double the volume of that of the Jordan at Banias, and
much more beautiful. The foundations of an ancient building, probably a
temple, overhang it, and tall poplars and sycamores cover it with
impenetrable shade. From the low aperture, where it bursts into the light,
its waters, white with foam, bound away flashing in the chance rays of
sunshine, until they are lost to sight in the dense, dark foliage. We sat
an hour on the ruined walls, listening to the roar and rush of the flood,
and enjoying the shade of the walnuts and sycamores. Soon after leaving,
our path crossed a small stream, which comes down to the Barrada from the
upper valleys of the Anti-Lebanon, and entered a wild pass, faced with
cliffs of perpendicular rock. An old bridge, of one arch, spanned the
chasm, out of which we climbed to a tract of high meadow land. In the pass
there were some fragments of ancient columns, traces of an aqueduct, and
inscriptions on the rocks, among which Mr. H. found the name of Antoninus.
The place is not mentioned in any book of travel I have seen, as it is not
on the usual road from Damascus to Baalbec.
As we were emerging from the pass, we saw a company of twelve armed men
seated in the grass, near the roadside. They were wild-looking characters,
and eyed us somewhat sharply as we passed. We greeted them with the usual
"salaam aleikoom!" which they did not return. The same evening, as we
encamped at the village of Zebdeni, about three hours further up the
valley, we were startled by a great noise and outcry, with the firing of
pistols. It happened, as we learned on inquiring the cause of all this
confusion, that the men we saw in the pass were rebel Druses, who were
then lying in wait for the Shekh of Zebdeni, whom, with his son, they had
taken captive soon after we passed. The news had by some means been
conveyed to the village, and a company of about two hundred persons was
then marching out to the rescue. The noise they made was probably to give
the Druses intimation of their coming, and thus avoid a fight. I do not
believe that any of the mountaineers of Lebanon would willingly take part
against the Druses, who, in fact, are not fighting so much against the
institution of the conscription law, as its abuse. The law ordains that
the conscript shall serve for five years; but since its establishment, as
I have been informed, there has not been a single instance of discharge.
It amounts, therefore, to lifelong servitude, and there is little wonder
that these independent sons of the mountains, as well as the tribes
inhabiting the Syrian Desert, should rebel rather than submit.
The next day, we crossed a pass in the Anti-Lebanon beyond Zebdeni,
descended a beautiful valley on the western side, under a ridge which was
still dotted with patches of snow, and after travelling for some hours
over a wide, barren height, the last of the range, saw below us the plain
of Baalbec. The grand ridge of Lebanon opposite, crowned with glittering
fields of snow, shone out clearly through the pure air, and the hoary head
of Hermon, far in the south, lost something of its grandeur by the
comparison. Though there is a "divide," or watershed, between Husbeiya, at
the foot of Mount Hermon, and Baalbec, whose springs join the Orontes,
which flows northward to Antioch, the great natural separation of the two
chains continues unbroken to the Gulf of Akaba, in the Red Sea. A little
beyond Baalbec, the Anti-Lebanon terminates, sinking into the Syrian
plain, while the Lebanon, though its name and general features are lost,
about twenty miles further to the north is succeeded by other ranges,
which, though broken at intervals, form a regular series, connecting with
the Taurus, in Asia Minor.
On leaving Damascus, the Demon of Hasheesh still maintained a partial
control over me. I was weak in body and at times confused in my
perceptions, wandering away from the scenes about me to some unknown
sphere beyond the moon. But the healing balm of my sleep at Zebdeni, and
the purity of the morning air among the mountains, completed my cure. As I
rode along the valley, with the towering, snow-sprinkled ridge of the
Anti-Lebanon on my right, a cloudless heaven above my head, and meads
enamelled with the asphodel and scarlet anemone stretching before me, I
felt that the last shadow had rolled away from my brain. My mind was now
as clear as that sky--my heart as free and joyful as the elastic morning
air. The sun never shone so brightly to my eyes; the fair forms of Nature
were never penetrated with so perfect a spirit of beauty. I was again
master of myself, and the world glowed as if new-created in the light of
my joy and gratitude. I thanked God, who had led me out of a darkness more
terrible than that of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and while my feet
strayed among the flowery meadows of Lebanon, my heart walked on the
Delectable Hills of His Mercy.
By the middle of the afternoon, we reached Baalbec. The distant view of
the temple, on descending the last slope of the Anti-Lebanon, is not
calculated to raise one's expectations. On the green plain at the foot of
the mountain, you see a large square platform of masonry, upon which stand
six columns, the body of the temple, and a quantity of ruined walls. As a
feature in the landscape, it has a fine effect, but you find yourself
pronouncing the speedy judgment, that "Baalbec, without Lebanon, would be
rather a poor show." Having come to this conclusion, you ride down the
hill with comfortable feelings of indifference. There are a number of
quarries on the left hand; you glance at them with an expression which
merely says: "Ah! I suppose they got the stones here," and so you saunter
on, cross a little stream that flows down from the modern village, pass a
mill, return the stare of the quaint Arab miller who comes to the door to
see you, and your horse is climbing a difficult path among the broken
columns and friezes, before you think it worth while to lift your eyes to
the pile above you. Now re-assert your judgment, if you dare! This is
Baalbec: what have you to say? Nothing; but you amazedly measure the
torsos of great columns which lie piled across one another in magnificent
wreck; vast pieces which have dropped from the entablature, beautiful
Corinthian capitals, bereft of the last graceful curves of their acanthus
leaves, and blocks whose edges are so worn away that they resemble
enormous natural boulders left by the Deluge, till at last you look up to
the six glorious pillars, towering nigh a hundred feet above your head,
and there is a sensation in your brain which would be a shout, if you
could give it utterance, of faultless symmetry and majesty, such as no
conception of yours and no other creation of art, can surpass.
I know of nothing so beautiful in all remains of ancient Art as these six
columns, except the colonnade of the Memnonium, at Thebes, which is of
much smaller proportions. From every position, and with all lights of the
day or night, they are equally perfect, and carry your eyes continually
away from the peristyle of the smaller temple, which is better preserved,
and from the exquisite architecture of the outer courts and pavilions.
The two temples of Baalbec stand on an artificial platform of masonry, a
thousand feet in length, and from fifteen to thirty feet (according to the
depression of the soil) in height, The larger one, which is supposed to
have been a Pantheon, occupies the whole length of this platform. The
entrance was at the north, by a grand flight of steps, now broken away,
between two lofty and elegant pavilions which are still nearly entire.
Then followed a spacious hexagonal court, and three grand halls, parts of
which, with niches for statues, adorned with cornices and pediments of
elaborate design, still remain entire to the roof. This magnificent series
of chambers was terminated at the southern extremity of the platform by
the main temple, which had originally twenty columns on a side, similar to
the six now standing.
The Temple of the Sun stands on a smaller and lower platform, which
appears to have been subsequently added to the greater one. The cella, or
body of the temple, is complete except the roof, and of the colonnade
surrounding it, nearly one-half of its pillars are still standing,
upholding the frieze, entablature, and cornice, which altogether form
probably the most ornate specimen of the Corinthian order of architecture
now extant. Only four pillars of the superb portico remain, and the
Saracens have nearly ruined these by building a sort of watch-tower upon
the architrave. The same unscrupulous race completely shut up the portal
of the temple with a blank wall, formed of the fragments they had hurled
down, and one is obliged to creep through a narrow hole in order to reach
the interior. Here the original doorway faces you--and I know not how to
describe the wonderful design of its elaborate sculptured mouldings and
cornices. The genius of Greek art seems to have exhausted itself in
inventing ornaments, which, while they should heighten the gorgeous effect
of the work, must yet harmonize with the grand design of the temple. The
enormous keystone over the entrance has slipped down, no doubt from the
shock of an earthquake, and hangs within six inches of the bottom of the
two blocks which uphold it on either side. When it falls, the whole
entablature of the portal will be destroyed. On its lower side is an eagle
with outspread wings, and on the side-stones a genius with garlands of
flowers, exquisitely sculptured in bas relief. Hidden among the wreaths of
vines which adorn the jambs are the laughing heads of fauns. This portal
was a continual study to me, every visit revealing new refinements of
ornament, which I had not before observed. The interior of the temple,
with its rich Corinthian pilasters, its niches for statues, surmounted by
pediments of elegant design, and its elaborate cornice, needs little aid
of the imagination to restore it to its original perfection. Like that of
Dendera, in Egypt, the Temple of the Sun leaves upon the mind an
impression of completeness which makes you forget far grander remains.
But the most wonderful thing at Baalbec is the foundation platform upon
which the temples stand. Even the colossal fabrics of Ancient Egypt
dwindle before this superhuman masonry. The platform itself, 1,000 feet
long, and averaging twenty feet in height, suggests a vast mass of stones,
but when you come to examine the single blocks of which it is composed,
you are crushed with their incredible bulk. On the western side is a row
of eleven foundation stones, each of which is thirty-two feet in length,
twelve in height, and ten in thickness, forming a wall three hundred and
fifty-two feet long! But while you are walking on, thinking of the art
which cut and raised these enormous blocks, you turn the southern corner
and come upon _three_ stones, the united length of which is _one hundred
and eighty-seven feet_--two of them being sixty-two and the other
sixty-three feet in length! There they are, cut with faultless exactness,
and so smoothly joined to each other, that you cannot force a cambric
needle into the crevice. There is one joint so perfect that it can only be
discerned by the minutest search; it is not even so perceptible as the
junction of two pieces of paper which have been pasted together. In the
quarry, there still lies a finished block, ready for transportation, which
is sixty-seven feet in length. The weight of one of these masses has been
reckoned at near 9,000 tons, yet they do not form the base of the
foundation, but are raised upon other courses, fifteen feet from the
ground. It is considered by some antiquarians that they are of a date
greatly anterior to that of the temples, and were intended as the basement
of a different edifice.
In the village of Baalbec there is a small circular Corinthian temple of
very elegant design. It is not more than thirty feet in diameter, and may
have been intended as a tomb. A spacious mosque, now roofless and
deserted, was constructed almost entirely out of the remains of the
temples. Adjoining the court-yard and fountain are five rows of ancient
pillars, forty (the sacred number) in all, supporting light Saracenic
arches. Some of them are marble, with Corinthian capitals, and eighteen
are single shafts of red Egyptian granite. Beside the fountain lies a
small broken pillar of porphyry, of a dark violet hue, and of so fine a
grain that the stone has the soft rich lustre of velvet. This fragment is
the only thing I would carry away if I had the power.
After a day's sojourn, we left Baalbec at noon, and took the road for the
Cedars, which lie on the other side of Lebanon, in the direction of
Tripoli. Our English fellow-travellers chose the direct road to Beyrout.
We crossed the plain in three hours; to the village of Dayr el-Ahmar, and
then commenced ascending the lowest slopes of the great range, whose
topmost ridge, a dazzling parapet of snow, rose high above us. For several
hours, our path led up and down stony ridges, covered with thickets of oak
and holly, and with wild cherry, pear, and olive-trees. Just as the sun
threw the shadows of the highest Lebanon over us, we came upon a narrow,
rocky glen at his very base. Streams that still kept the color and the
coolness of the snow-fields from which they oozed, foamed over the stones
into the chasm at the bottom. The glen descended into a mountain basin, in
which lay the lake of Yemouni, cold and green under the evening shadows.
But just opposite us, on a little shelf of soil, there was a rude mill,
and a group of superb walnut-trees, overhanging the brink of the largest
torrent. We had sent our baggage before us, and the men, with an eye to
the picturesque which I should not have suspected in Arabs, had pitched
our tents under those trees, where the stream poured its snow-cold beakers
beside us, and the tent-door looked down on the plain of Baalbec and
across to the Anti-Lebanon. The miller and two or three peasants, who were
living in this lonely spot, were Christians.
The next morning we commenced ascending the Lebanon. We had slept just
below the snow-line, for the long hollows with which the ridge is cloven
were filled up to within a short distance of the glen, out of which we
came. The path was very steep, continually ascending, now around the
barren shoulder of the mountain, now up some ravine, where the holly and
olive still flourished, and the wild rhubarb-plant spread its large,
succulent leaves over the soil. We had taken a guide, the day before, at
the village of Dayr el-Ahmar, but as the way was plain before us, and he
demanded an exorbitant sum, we dismissed him, We had not climbed far,
however, before he returned, professing to be content with whatever we
might give him, and took us into another road, the first, he said, being
impracticable. Up and up we toiled, and the long hollows of snow lay below
us, and the wind came cold from the topmost peaks, which began to show
near at hand. But now the road, as we had surmised, turned towards that we
had first taken, and on reaching the next height we saw the latter at a
short distance from us. It was not only a better, but a shorter road, the
rascal of a guide having led us out of it in order to give the greater
effect to his services. In order to return to it, as was necessary, there
were several dangerous snow-fields to be passed. The angle of their
descent was so great that a single false step would have hurled our
animals, baggage and all, many hundred feet below. The snow was melting,
and the crust frozen over the streams below was so thin in places that the
animals broke through and sank to their bellies.
It were needless to state the number and character of the anathemas
bestowed upon the guide. The impassive Dervish raved; Mustapha stormed;
François broke out in a frightful eruption of Greek and Turkish oaths, and
the two travellers, though not (as I hope and believe) profanely inclined,
could not avoid using a few terse Saxon expressions. When the general
indignation had found vent, the men went to work, and by taking each
animal separately, succeeded, at imminent hazard, in getting them all
over the snow. We then dismissed the guide, who, far from being abashed by
the discovery of his trickery, had the impudence to follow us for some
time, claiming his pay. A few more steep pulls, over deep beds of snow and
patches of barren stone, and at length the summit ridge--a sharp, white
wall, shining against the intense black-blue of the zenith--stood before
us. We climbed a toilsome zig-zag through the snow, hurried over the
stones cumbering the top, and all at once the mountains fell away, ridge
below ridge, gashed with tremendous chasms, whose bottoms were lost in
blue vapor, till the last heights, crowned with white Maronite convents,
hung above the sea, whose misty round bounded the vision. I have seen many
grander mountain views, but few so sublimely rugged and broken in their
features. The sides of the ridges dropped off in all directions into sheer
precipices, and the few villages we could see were built like eagles'
nests on the brinks. In a little hollow at our feet was the sacred Forest
of Cedars, appearing like a patch of stunted junipers. It is the highest
speck of vegetation on Lebanon, and in winter cannot be visited, on
account of the snow. The summit on which we stood was about nine thousand
feet above the sea, but there were peaks on each side at least a thousand
feet higher.
We descended by a very steep path, over occasional beds of snow, and
reached the Cedars in an hour and a half. Not until we were within a
hundred yards of the trees, and below their level, was I at all impressed
with their size and venerable aspect. But, once entered into the heart of
the little wood, walking over its miniature hills and valleys, and
breathing the pure, balsamic exhalations of the trees, all the
disappointment rising to my mind was charmed away in an instant There are
about three hundred trees, in all, many of which are of the last century's
growth, but at least fifty of them would be considered grand in any
forest. The patriarchs are five in number, and are undoubtedly as old as
the Christian Era, if not the Age of Solomon. The cypresses in the Garden
of Montezuma, at Chapultepec, are even older and grander trees, but they
are as entire and shapely as ever, whereas these are gnarled and twisted
into wonderful forms by the storms of twenty centuries, and shivered in
some places by lightning. The hoary father of them all, nine feet in
diameter, stands in the centre of the grove, on a little knoll, and
spreads his ponderous arms, each a tree in itself, over the heads of the
many generations that have grown up below, as if giving his last
benediction before decay. He is scarred less with storm and lightning,
than with the knives of travellers, and the marble crags of Lebanon do not
more firmly retain their inscriptions than his stony trunk. Dates of the
last century are abundant, and I recollect a tablet inscribed: "Souard,
1670," around which the newer wood has grown to the height of three or
four inches. The seclusion of the grove, shut in by peaks of barren snow,
is complete. Only the voice of the nightingale, singing here by daylight
in the solemn shadows, breaks the silence. The Maronite monk, who has
charge of a little stone chapel standing in the midst, moves about like a
shade, and, not before you are ready to leave, brings his book for you to
register your name therein, I was surprised to find how few of the crowd
that annually overrun Syria reach the Cedars, which, after Baalbec, are
the finest remains of antiquity in the whole country.
After a stay of three hours, we rode on to Eden, whither our men had
already gone with the baggage. Our road led along the brink of a
tremendous gorge, a thousand feet deep, the bottom of which was only
accessible here and there by hazardous foot-paths. On either side, a long
shelf of cultivated land sloped down to the top, and the mountain streams,
after watering a multitude of orchards and grain-fields, tumbled over the
cliffs in long, sparkling cascades, to join the roaring flood below. This
is the Christian region of Lebanon, inhabited almost wholly by Maronites,
who still retain a portion of their former independence, and are the most
thrifty, industrious, honest, and happy people in Syria. Their villages
are not concrete masses of picturesque filth, as are those of the Moslems,
but are loosely scattered among orchards of mulberry, poplar, and vine,
washed by fresh rills, and have an air of comparative neatness and
comfort. Each has its two or three chapels, with their little belfries,
which toll the hours of prayer. Sad and poetic as is the call from the
minaret, it never touched me as when I heard the sweet tongues of those
Christian bells, chiming vespers far and near on the sides of Lebanon.
Eden merits its name. It is a mountain paradise, inhabited by people so
kind and simple-hearted, that assuredly no vengeful angel will ever drive
them out with his flaming sword. It hangs above the gorge, which is here
nearly two thousand feet deep, and overlooks a grand wilderness of
mountain-piles, crowded on and over each other, from the sea that gleams
below, to the topmost heights that keep off the morning sun. The houses
are all built of hewn stone, and grouped in clusters under the shade of
large walnut-trees. In walking among them, we received kind greetings
everywhere, and every one who was seated rose and remained standing as we
passed. The women are beautiful, with sprightly, intelligent faces, quite
different from the stupid Mahometan females.
The children were charming creatures, and some of the girls of ten or
twelve years were lovely as angels. They came timidly to our tent (which
the men had pitched as before, under two superb trees, beside a fountain),
and offered us roses and branches of fragrant white jasmine. They expected
some return, of course, but did not ask it, and the delicate grace with
which the offering was made was beyond all pay. It was Sunday, and the men
and boys, having nothing better to do, all came to see and talk with us. I
shall not soon forget the circle of gay and laughing villagers, in which
we sat that evening, while the dark purple shadows gradually filled up the
gorges, and broad golden lights poured over the shoulders of the hills.
The men had much sport in inducing the smaller boys to come up and salute
us. There was one whom they called "the Consul," who eluded them for some
time, but was finally caught and placed in the ring before us. "Peace be
with you, O Consul," I said, making him a profound inclination, "may your
days be propitious! may your shadow be increased!" but I then saw, from
the vacant expression on the boy's face, that he was one of those
harmless, witless creatures, whom yet one cannot quite call idiots. "He is
an unfortunate; he knows nothing; he has no protector but God," said the
men, crossing themselves devoutly. The boy took off his cap, crept up and
kissed my hand, as I gave him some money, which he no sooner grasped, than
he sprang up like a startled gazelle, and was out of sight in an instant.
In descending from Eden to the sea-coast, we were obliged to cross the
great gorge of which I spoke. Further down, its sides are less steep, and
clothed even to the very bottom with magnificent orchards of mulberry,
fig, olive, orange, and pomegranate trees. We were three hours in reaching
the opposite side, although the breadth across the top is not more than a
mile. The path was exceedingly perilous; we walked down, leading our
horses, and once were obliged to unload our mules to get them past a tree,
which would have forced them off the brink of a chasm several hundred feet
deep. The view from the bottom was wonderful. We were shut in by steeps of
foliage and blossoms from two to three thousand feet high, broken by crags
of white marble, and towering almost precipitously to the very clouds. I
doubt if Melville saw anything grander in the tropical gorges of Typee.
After reaching the other side, we had still a journey of eight hours to
the sea, through a wild and broken, yet highly cultivated country.
Beyrout was now thirteen hours distant, but by making a forced march we
reached it in a day, travelling along the shore, past the towns of Jebeil,
the ancient Byblus, and Joonieh. The hills about Jebeil produce the
celebrated tobacco known in Egypt as the _Jebelee_, or "mountain" tobacco,
which is even superior to the Latakiyeh.
Near Beyrout, the mulberry and olive are in the ascendant. The latter tree
bears the finest fruit in all the Levant, and might drive all other oils
out of the market, if any one had enterprise enough to erect proper
manufactories. Instead of this the oil of the country is badly prepared,
rancid from the skins in which it is kept, and the wealthy natives import
from France and Italy in preference to using it. In the bottoms near the
sea, I saw several fields of the taro-plant, the cultivation of which I
had supposed was exclusively confined to the Islands of the Pacific. There
would be no end to the wealth of Syria were the country in proper hands.