SYRIA.
Sailing off Jaffa, we “of course” passed over the spot where Jonah
was thrown overboard; but here at least nothing remained except the
seething water to prove the fact, and so I felt quite at liberty to
doubt it—that is, so far as the exact locality was concerned. Westward
in the Mediterranean, and distant I think about two miles, we had a view
of a rarely fine waterspout. The sky was overcast, and it evidently
rained heavily in its vicinity. The appearance was just as shown in the
pictures: a dark cloud was over it, gradually tapering downwards like a
great inverted dome, and terminating in a long dark tube-looking shape
very similar to an elephant’s trunk. This reached down to the sea, which
swelled upwards in a conical form to meet it. It gradually disappeared in
the distance as our vessel advanced northward—of course we were too far
off to hear its rushing sound.
Sailing along the coast of Palestine and Phœnicia, we passed Cæsarea, the
elevated promontory of Mount Carmel, and the sites of Tyre and Sidon, so
famous in ancient history. The island of Cyprus was just sighted in the
distance on the left.
Beyrout, where we landed next day, is evidently a flourishing commercial
city, the shipping port of the Lebanons and of Damascus, and is mentioned
in the Bible as Berothath. It was bombarded by the British fleet in
1840, and showed marks of the war in some small demolished towers.
Its population seemed about 80,000, and it is equally remarkable for
its commercial activity and its educational establishments—chiefly
Protestant. There are several large and excellent schools and higher
seminaries, very liberally maintained by the Americans, Prussians, and
English and Scotch, which we visited; and, whether considering the number
or excellence of these schools, I know no place out of Scotland, and not
many in it, so amply supplied. There are a number of Jews and Christians,
and of course Arabs and Turks, besides other natives. The mercantile
community consists of English, French, Germans, Greeks, Italians, and
others; and many Consulates are established, showing flags of almost
all nations. Beyrout promises to be a very important city; its exports
are wool, silk, and olive oil, and it wants only a better harbour and
good water to make it rival Alexandria. The shipping lies in the open
bay, cargo being carried to and from by large boats. The aspect of the
town is European and Eastern combined. Almost every one of the better
class rides, and the horses seemed numerous and excellent. About a mile
north-east, near the base of the Lebanon, is a small wood of pine trees
similar to one variety of our Scotch firs—to us a welcome and rare sight.
There is a considerable sponge fishery on the coast of Asia Minor, but
chiefly farther to the north.
After a short stay, we in the early morning, some hours before dawn,
commenced our journey over the great mountain range of the Lebanon,
ascending till we reached the region of snow, and thence descending, we
crossed eastward the rich and picturesque Lebanon Valley. It is about 100
miles long from south to north, but only about eight miles broad.
Crossing this valley we recommenced the ascent on the Anti-Lebanon
range, nearly parallel and not quite so high, but more bare and rugged.
The descent eastward was again through a region equally wild, until
we emerged in the great Syrian Valley, with Damascus below and only
a few miles distant. This road over the Lebanons, with its six-horse
diligences, is one of the modern wonders of the East; and, like the Suez
Canal, it was carried out by a French Company. The whole service is a
marvel of excellence, and, considering its great steepness and length,
the speed is wonderful—even down the steep mountain roads generally at
a gallop pace, where oftener than once I found the drags almost at red
heat. The journey by road is said to be 100 miles, and is accomplished in
14 hours, with as much punctuality as some English railway journeys are!
We reached our hotel before sundown. It was the only good one in the
city, I think; and, with the exception of the dining-room, seemed Eastern
in style and furnishing. In the large drawing-rooms or divans several of
the guests sat cross-legged; but we seated ourselves in home fashion upon
the rich cushions around the walls, and enjoyed our coffee, but without
pipes, listening to the gentle murmur of the fountain just outside the
open door leading from the inner court.
Having obtained an introduction to the English Consul, we called and
received a very polite reception, with the usual pipes and coffee. His
house was not large, but new, and with richly ornamented rooms in a
curious mirrored Arabesque style. He advised us not to leave our hotel
after sunset, as some political or religious uneasiness seemed to be felt
at the time in the city, as indeed there too often is.
Damascus is the oldest city in the world, founded it is supposed by
Noah’s grandson, and still remains an important one—geographically,
religiously, politically, and commercially. Its history is long,
eventful, and bloody; and even yet it is distinguished by religious and
national bigotry beyond its compeers. Saul came hither breathing out
threatenings and slaughter, and was himself let down by the wall in a
basket to escape being killed. The Governor of Syria, whose appointment
was then recent, we saw driving through the principal streets in an
English-looking carriage, with splendid horses, and attended by a
large guard of cavalry. He was a rich Turk from Constantinople, from
whose government, we were told, much had been at first expected, as
he was supposed to be wealthy enough to be independent of selling his
subordinate offices for gold—the bane of Turkish government. A vigorous
and efficient administration of justice had been looked for, and for a
month or two the unruly were over-awed, but this did not continue. We
heard it whispered in the hotel that on the previous day there had been
a fight in the street, in which four were killed and three wounded. Such
was Damascus; and so, because no British or other foreign subject had
suffered, nothing more was heard of the affair.
We ascended a hill on the north, on which is built what is called
Mahomet’s Tower—from this point, says the legend, he viewed the beautiful
scene below. “There can only be one Paradise,” he said, “and as mine is
above, I will not even enter this one”—and so he forthwith retraced
his steps. Had he entered, perhaps he would have somewhat modified his
opinion. The valley extends as far as the eye can reach, and, so far
as discernible from this elevation, it seems almost deserving of the
Mahomedan’s praise of it—“beautiful beyond compare.”
The river Abana, sparkling in the sunbeams—save where it is partially
concealed by a narrow belt of slender willow trees, which serves to shade
it from the sun—flows down from the mountains and south-eastward along
the plain. This, as well as the Pharpar, a smaller stream from Hermon
on the south, falls into an inland lake far eastward in the valley. The
Abana flows along the north border of Damascus, and, considering the
coolness and fertilizing qualities of these rivers, it was somewhat
natural that the Syrian general’s—Naaman—pride was hurt at being told—“Go
wash in the Jordan.” Still, with all their beauty, the Syrian rivers
certainly cannot be compared with the grander Jordan.
The houses of the city are plain-looking outside, the windows fronting
the narrow streets are few in number, and, with their iron bars and
fastenings, give somewhat a prison look. They are stone-built for the
most part, but many seem of concrete or mud, cemented; inside, however,
they show wealth and elegance entirely unexpected. The better class
have always an inner paved court, and generally a marble fountain,
with a few small trees; and the Arabesque decorations—sometimes with
inlaid mother-of-pearl—and the furnishing of the rooms are very rich and
luxurious-looking.
The veteran Emir chief, Abd-el-Kader, formerly Governor of Algiers,
resided there in a kind of honourable banishment. He deserved the
respect of the Christians for his exertions in saving them during the
awful massacres which took place in 1860, when six thousand were cruelly
murdered and their houses destroyed. I met him one morning at our hotel,
when he called to see the Prussian Consul, who had come from Beyrout
to meet the Duke of Mecklenburg, who was expected to arrive that day
from Jerusalem. The chief was still a good-looking, soldierly man. The
manners of the Easterns generally are very ceremonious, and the greetings
appeared warm and cordial: in the Emir’s case they were courtly as well.
Being performed in the open courtyard of the hotel—beside the beautiful
orange and citron trees and the cool marble fountains—several of the
inmates shared in the scene, and in the adieus of the once kingly chief.
He has recently died, so will no more trouble France.
Since the massacre, of which traces are yet to be seen in the Christian
quarter, all English—and indeed all foreigners—are well protected by
Consuls, and security is felt in Syria by the condition then imposed on
the Sultan that one of the Pashas should be a Christian. The result has
been that schools of all kinds are now tolerated, or at least _nominally_
so. The degraded and semi-captive condition of women is being very
slightly ameliorated, and this must eventually loose the bonds of their
servitude, which, although not a legal, is one of fashion—always the most
despotic and impervious to improvement. Slavery has long been legally
abolished; but it is said that young girls are yet frequently, though not
publicly, sold for the harems of those who are able to pay for them, in
most of the Moslem cities. Nor can I see how this monstrous trade can be
eradicated, unless by the spread of Christian education amongst parents
and children themselves. So long as profit is to be made, there will be
found dealers to evade the law, especially if the judge is as guilty
as the culprit; for there, if anywhere, gold is king, and bakshish is
his prophet. For what could be expected when—as was then hinted—the new
Governor had just introduced a harem of unusual magnitude, and indulged
in all the luxurious pleasures of Mahomet’s paradise, besides something
which is forbidden therein, as also to Good Templars at home?
But I must add that truth, or correct information on any subject, seems
unattainable in the East generally. Moreover, this people disliked the
Turks, and had become so accustomed to misgovernment, that any rumour
in that direction found ready credence. _They believed in no promises
or professions of justice in any department whatever._ Except in the
Prophet, they individually seemed to believe in nothing but bakshish,
and measured by the same rule every act of their Governor, from his
appointment of a district Pasha to the avenging the poor widow of her
adversary, or even to his protecting the lives of any number of Arabs,
unless indeed under the protection of some of the religious sects or
foreign consuls. The country appeared ripe for a change, and any change
would, I think, be popular. The whole anxiety of the Porte now seems to
be to avoid giving offence to foreign Powers, and to raise sufficient
taxes for the Government. Improvement, therefore, is not to be looked for.
Damascus is rich in manufactures of silk, wool, and cotton, and gold
and silver work. Its once famous steel “Damascus blades” are now only a
myth, the secret of their manufacture having been lost. The work of the
looms is excellent, but seems very far from uniformly so. Silk “Damasks”
(the name, I presume, is given by “Damascus”), in manifold rich designs,
differing from those both of Cashmere and Cairo, are the leading tissues,
and gold and silver threads are largely introduced into some of them.
The colours of the dyes are generally remarkably fine. I find that the
green shade in a dragoman’s striped silk kerchief which I brought home,
is as fine seen with gaslight as in that of the sun. The dresses of the
men, especially the silk shawls or kerchiefs for the head and waist and
the slippers for the feet, and even the saddles of the horses, have
an extremely rich effect—altogether out of keeping with their general
condition otherwise.
We witnessed the arrival of the royal cavalcade of the Grand Duke of
Mecklenburg travelling from Jerusalem overland. The Duke, his Duchess, I
presume, and the Syrian Governor, were in an open carriage, and Damascus
showed in its holiday attire. The crowds had some difficulty in keeping
orderly, the streets being narrow avenues or lanes. The Turkish troops
are not exactly like our 72nd, and the irregular cavalry are certainly
described by their name, but they had stood in waiting some seven hours
exposed to the hot sun.
On the whole the scene was rather showy, and the mien and bearing of the
Arab population was fine. Although by no means commendable in detail,
their general appearance was far superior to that of an English crowd,
and, while free of awkwardness or vulgarity, was really picturesque.
Females are seldom seen, but—fortunately for us—an unusual number of
them were on this occasion abroad. Dressed generally in large pure white
robes, with faces wholly or partially covered with an ugly coloured
kerchief, they looked like so many ghosts. No doubt glances are
occasionally obtained, and on that gala day I saw a few good faces; but
the popular idea of Eastern beauties is, in England, one of the many
Oriental romances which a journey sadly dispels. The boys and very young
girls have generally fine eyes; but, as in Egypt, most of the adult
females looked as if they had sore eyes or squinted, while many of the
men there as well as in Egypt seemed blind of one eye.
This city is intensely Moslem. There are a number of Jews of very ancient
Damascus settlers, having eight or ten small synagogues, and who have
maintained their distinct nationality for many centuries. They are more
willingly tolerated than the Greeks, Roman Catholics, and other Christian
sects, who have all churches in the city, but are not numerous, or
locally influential, and are tolerated only by protection of the Western
Powers. The great Mosque is one of the largest in Turkey. On entering, we
of course had taken off our shoes, and wore instead red Morocco slippers
(as usual much too large for easy walking), which we had borrowed from
an adjoining stall for a trifling consideration. I had removed my white
travelling hat quite inadvertently—perhaps feeling warm—forgetting at
the moment that I was not entering a church but a Mosque, and that no
greater insult can be offered a Moslem than uncovering the head in their
“holy places.” Braham was behind me, and with more haste than ceremony
he instantly seized and replaced the hat on my head, whispering that
it was fortunate no Moslem had observed what, he said, would certainly
have been resented as an intentional insult by the English infidel. This
is probably true, for almost everywhere in Mahomedan countries, and
especially about the Mosques, one meets with scowling faces and fierce
vindictive glances. The Mosque is a range of buildings surrounding a
large open quadrangle. The floors are of marble, covered with rich
Persian carpets of great thickness. The Mosque carpets seem to be objects
of special sacredness, and I suppose are brought from Mecca with great
ceremony, as those for some of the Cairo Mosques at least are, and then
received by a royal guard of honour in a public procession.
As usual in the great Mosques, there are many large and beautiful
Corinthian columns, and the piers of the walls contain several fine
specimens of various coloured marbles: in the roof are some small windows
of beautiful coloured glass in small Arabesque patterns. Some portions of
the buildings shown are of great antiquity, indicating that originally
it had been a heathen temple, then a Christian church, and now it is
a Moslem Mosque of the very strictest class. We climbed its highest
minaret, from which we obtained an excellent view of the city. I was
informed once more that on the opposite minaret Christ and Mahomet are to
alight when they come to judge the world.
The population of the city is very variously estimated, but it appeared
to contain about 150,000 inhabitants, nearly all Mahomedans, with 250
Mosques and Moslem chapels and schools. It was once an important seat of
learning, but is now greatly degenerated. There are still many Arabic
schools, but all education is now fostered only in connexion with their
religion, which has in recent years become ultra-intolerant. Surrounding
it on almost all sides are miles of trees, chiefly fruit trees, giving
the appearance of a vast orchard—the olive with its dark green leaves,
the oranges and lemons with their large yellow fruit, the fig, the
walnut, and mulberry putting forth their leaves. The apricot and almond
were in full bloom; their leaves were yet unopened, and as these trees
were very numerous, the appearance in the bright sunlight was beautiful
in the extreme. So richly loaded were these with blossom—almost pure
white—that but for the evident incongruity they would, from a distance,
have suggested a plantation just after a fall of snow!
A good many jokes have been made about “the street which is called
Straight;” but it was evident to me, looking out from the lofty minaret,
that it really had originally been one of the finest streets I have
ever seen—long, very wide, level, and straight, running nearly east and
west, and terminating in the principal gateway of the city in its east
wall. This gateway is evidently of Roman architecture, but the street or
roadway seems covered some five or ten feet deep with the rubbish and
dust of centuries. The great street itself has been encroached upon on
both sides by paltry buildings, set down without regard to either line
or level. The consequence is, as Mark Twain describes it, the great
street Straight is now a narrow zigzag road—although not exactly like
a corkscrew—the original street being hidden, but can still be traced
by the eye from certain elevated points such as this, and Mahomet’s
Tower hill on the north-west of the city. Outside this eastern gate
is an immense mound of earth or rubbish, as high as the walls, and
already almost blocking up the entrance into the gate. This is the
ever-increasing rubbish of the city, which here is ordered outside the
walls, but not a foot more is it carried than absolutely required to meet
the letter of the law—Turkish all over!
The walls show three distinct eras in their history. The oldest parts
may be the foundations, which, however, are not exposed, but the lower
portions above ground are, as well as portions of the gates, evidently
Roman, over which, and including the towers, is Arabic work of their best
days, and now the upper portions are Turkish.
We stood on the road, west of the city, pointed out as the spot of Saul’s
conversion. The house of Judas, where he received his sight, and that
part of the walls from which he was let down in a basket are also pointed
out. Possibly they are correct as to mere locality, but, as usual in
almost every such case, the materialistic part of the story is in point
of age sadly at variance with the historical, and so both can scarcely
be affirmed. There is a tree sometimes called a cedar, but it seems a
sycamore, of very large size and very old, growing in one of the streets,
which it almost blocks up. Of course it will not compare with the Cedars
of Lebanon, but seemed more than thirty-five feet in circumference, and
was partially hollow by decay. Many of the gardens in the suburbs are
enclosed by walls, made of concrete taken from the roads, and shaped in
wood moulds of the simplest construction, which the sun soon dries. Many
also have hedges of the large cactus or prickly pear plant: these have a
singular appearance, but form an efficient fence.
The Bazaars are long, narrow streets, about twenty feet wide, having
small shops along both sides almost open into the roadway. They are
frequently covered across with branches of trees for protection from the
sunshine. The buyers stand on the roadway, and the seller generally sits
upon the raised floor of his little shop. They are divided into Quarters,
such as Goldsmiths’ Quarter, Leatherdealers’ Quarter, Cloth Quarter, and
so on. The former have their workshops in a large open building adjacent,
full of working benches and smelting furnaces, where I observed that
much of the goldsmiths’ jewellery work was of silver, dipped in molten
gold, which looked very well indeed. The latter have a very large central
building, with galleries, where wholesale business seems carried on, and
gives some idea of the immense variety of wares made and imported into
Damascus, and there used, or perhaps more extensively distributed among
the surrounding provinces and other countries. In one of the Bazaars
we saw the famous Damascus “Otto of Roses”—a single drop of which on
my handkerchief gave out its rich perfume for many months afterwards;
also the henna with which the females tint their finger-nails a fine red
colour. At the corners of the Bazaars and along their sides, are charcoal
fires for cooking cakes, sweetmeats, and roasting coffee and peas, &c.;
the former are sometimes as thin as a sheet of brown paper, and very
tasteless. There are sherbet sellers and water sellers, moving about
with their liquids in full-sized goats’ skin “bottles” carried on their
backs. These Bazaars were larger and more businesslike than those of
Cairo—extremely Eastern and novel, although not so continuously crowded.
Amongst the mass of goods exposed for sale I was glad to recognise
several articles of English manufacture, also those of Italy, France,
Switzerland, Austria, Russia, Constantinople, and other markets; but the
most interesting were those of Persia, Bagdad, and the East. Of course
the principal were those of Damascus manufacture, consisting of silks,
woollens, and cottons, table-covers of peculiar patterns, saddlery,
coppersmith work, and drugs. There is a very large sale of fruits and
vegetables of excellent quality, confections, and bottles of curious
liqueurs and preserved fruits, honey, grape-syrup, butter, and other
good things. These eatables are carried about, the sellers keeping up a
ceaseless hum of street calls, which, mingling with the other noises of
a crowded city and the five times a day musical calls to prayer from the
numerous minarets, have a peculiar and exciting effect upon the ear of a
stranger. “Allah is great! I proclaim that there is no god but Allah, and
Mahomet is his prophet.”
The pertinacity of some of the Bazaar dealers is extraordinary, and
sometimes ludicrous. If an offer is made, or the least indication be
given that you think of buying an article, you will probably find the
dealer with his wares sitting at the door of your bedroom waiting an
opportunity to renew the negotiation the next morning. They and the
dragoman and the hotel waiters seem to have a business understanding.
But, speaking generally, a judicious buyer finds the prices of many goods
extremely moderate, and travellers often purchase as many Damascus wares
as they can afford to carry along with them.
Altogether Damascus is a most interesting city for a European, and is
deserving of more time than travellers usually allow themselves for its
inspection. It cannot be said to be prospering, and notwithstanding its
great fertility, there are Dervishes and other beggars who proclaim their
wants. Strangers generally give to get quit of them, and frequent acts of
charity are shown by a few of the Moslems. One is a custom deserving of
being made known and imitated at home. When desirous of doing an act of
charity, a Moslem will pay a water seller for the whole contents of his
large leather bottle or waterskin, and then order him to dispense it free
to all who need; and so perhaps occasionally with other articles of food.
Of all these retail pedlars each urges his own peculiar claim on the
public attention. “In the name of the Prophet—Figs!” is not altogether
fabulous, as I supposed. The cry of the water or sherbet seller may be,
“O thirsty one, come!”—that of the seller of beetroot and cucumbers,
“Buy, O father of a family!” But the best cry I have heard of is that of
the seller of watercresses—“Tender cresses—if an old woman eats them she
will be young again next morning!” Although Braham drew our attention to
these cries, of course we were ignorant of their meaning at the time, and
the populace generally did not seem to regard them as witty, probably
because familiar.
This is the chief city of the Turk in Asia, and until recently the
Governor ruled also over the Pashas of Palestine; now I think it is the
chief Pasha at Beyrout who does so. There is a considerable garrison at
Damascus, and indications are not wanting that it is needed to maintain
order. The soldiers seemed a mixture of Turk, Arab, and Syrian natives.
There are two or three Protestant educational missions in Damascus. We
met the principals of the Scotch Mission, who informed us that the head
of the Irish Mission was then confined to his bed with fever. There
seemed no rivalry between them; indeed, they evidently were on friendly
terms, as they need to be, for mutual sympathy, in the midst of hostile
foes who would attack them if they dared.
Their educational operations occasionally extend to the numerous little
villages of the Anti-Lebanon range, and southward into the country of
the Hauran, situated east of Hermon and north of the land of Bashan.
Here there seems to be a remarkably fine field for schools, which has
been hitherto very much neglected—a field in which a comparatively small
expenditure might produce rich results. At the central points—where
Mahomedanism is strong—little or no progress has been made in
enlightening the Moslem inhabitants, even where ample provision has long
existed, as in Beyrout, and where education is well advanced amongst
the children of Jewish and Christian sects. But in the villages I
refer to, the inhabitants are not so much under direct local Moslem
intimidation—indeed, a large portion of them are Maronite, a sect allied
to the Roman Catholics. Rare opportunities seem to exist for reaching,
at very small cost, the poor people of various sects, who seem very
willing to learn, notwithstanding the occasional opposition of interested
local priests and petty chiefs, especially of the Druses, a singularly
proud and exclusive race, whose religion is a mystery, requiring secret
initiation, but similar to Mahomedanism. In Beyrout, notwithstanding its
large and influential Christian population, I was surprised to be told
that no openly declared convert from Mahomedanism would be tolerated
there—by law he was, but his life would not be safe. Still the influence
of Christian teaching must prevail, and in the Lebanons there is a fine
adjacent field.[9]
From the Prophet’s Tower hill, looking toward the sun rising, the plain
of Damascus and desert beyond lay spread out like a great map. Except
where partially limited by a low ridge of hills, the view was the most
extensive I have ever seen, and bounded only by the power of the eye
to scan it. But when the eye fails, imagination readily fills up the
unseen beyond. Nearly north-east the beautiful ruins of Palmyra or
Tadmor, in the desert; and farther east, between the Upper Euphrates and
Tigris, lay the cradle of the human race—Mesopotamia—and Padan-Aram,
the birthplace of Abram; and still farther beyond lay the once great
kingdom of Assyria; while south of these, Media, Babylonia, and Chaldea,
in the land of Shinar; and still farther south, Persia and Arabia.
What a wealth of historic and sacred interest even in the names! And
what are they now? Palestine is a desolation, yet the skeleton of its
former self remains entire; but the once rich and fertile valley of the
Euphrates is “empty and void, and a waste.” Nineveh—“that exceeding great
city”—and Babylon, “the glory of kingdoms and the beauty of the Chaldees’
excellency”—travellers now describe as great mounds of mud—even their
sites are uncertain. They are “the feeding places of the young lions,”
and there “the voice of the messenger is no more heard.” As with an
overflowing flood they have been utterly wasted. The ruins of Tadmor—said
to have been built by Solomon in the desert—and of Persepolis, the
capital of Cyrus of Persia, remain—like oases in the surrounding waste—to
astonish the traveller with the magnificence of which they yet speak, and
“to show where a garden had been.”
In the distance, travelling southward, we observed a caravan consisting
of a long train of camels en route for Bagdad and the Persian Gulf. There
was wont to be a very important Eastern trade, of which Damascus and
Bagdad were the centres, but of late years it has greatly fallen off,
partly because of most unwise taxation by the Turkish Government and
partly by the opening of the Suez Canal, both for goods and passengers.
Perhaps, however, at no distant day this trade may be much more than
re-established by the construction of a railway from some point on the
west coast of the Mediterranean, such as Sidon or Gaza, or Port Said,
viâ Damascus, to Bagdad and the Persian Gulf.[10] The ground seems
nearly level almost the entire distance, and there would certainly be
very little private property of any value on the line. By this means
Central Asia would be opened up to commerce and Christianity, the great
civilizers, and I believe the shortest practicable route to India and the
East obtained. If this great project be too long delayed, Russia will
have established its rival line southward from the Caspian Sea, and by
creating panic in our Indian empire, occasion a military expenditure
costing vastly more than such a line of railway would.[11] To England it
would be of great national importance, politically and commercially.
From Damascus we resolved to recross the Anti-Lebanon mountains en route
for Balbec. This range is extremely bare and rugged from the action of
the weather upon the friable rock, and probably also from earthquakes.
The mountains are in many places worn or split open by great fissures
into separate lofty and fantastic shapes. In the uncertain grey light
of the early morning we passed under a hundred of these; some of them
stood almost perpendicular, towering high over our heads like weird giant
statues, minarets, and spires of almost every conceivable form, some airy
and elegant, but most wildly grand or grotesque, and threatening to fall
upon the passing traveller. The scene around recalled the lines:
“What are the temples man hath built on earth?
The monumental column, dome, and spire—
His proudest works of art. Did he give birth
To one sublime design? Earth, air, and fire,
His unacknowledged tutors. If amiss
His plan, send him to study temples such as this!”
The absence of vegetation was remarkable: a very few slender willows
were occasionally to be seen in the deeper gorges, but for many miles
desolation and silence reigned supreme, broken perhaps by the occasional
scream of the eagle, for which the range provides numerous eyries. On the
mountains more northward numerous Greek Church monasteries and chapels
have centuries ago been erected, and the hermits who inhabit them have
certainly retired from the world.
We stopped at the half-way station on the diligence road, which is
situated in the Great Lebanon Valley—Cœle-Syria. It consists of a small
inn, with numerous stables and a small farmhouse. Here, on horseback, we
resumed our journey northward along the foot of the Lebanon Mountains.
This valley is well watered by numerous little streams, trickling down
from the mountains, which feed the Leontes, a small river that flows
southward, and eventually falls into the Mediterranean between the ruins
of Tyre and Sidon. This river we had crossed in the diligence by a plain
stone bridge, apparently of French construction.
Along the lower shoulders of the Lebanon there is a considerable
population, forming numerous little villages, seated at a small elevation
above the valley, and there is considerable cultivation upon some of the
slopes, consisting of patches of corn, olive and other fruit trees, and
occasionally vines. The population consists of Maronites, Druses, and
Moslems. The latter, however, are the least numerous. These all live
very much apart, especially the Druses, between whom and the Maronites
great jealousy exists. The houses are of stone and mud, of large size,
generally of one, and sometimes of two storeys. Their roofs consist of
mud and branches laid over beams of rough trees. This mud is largely used
all over Syria as cement or concrete, which it somewhat resembles, being
formed of the débris of the limestone and chalk rocks.
Scattered over this locality, and widely apart, are the well-known
“Lebanon Schools.” We visited one of these, and certainly never were
schools built and conducted on more economical principles. This building
was like a large hut, with an earthen floor, having a few plain wooden
seats, a desk, a lot of books and slates, a few maps hung on the walls,
and no superfluities. There was room only for from twenty to thirty
scholars; the teacher, who was a native Syrian, did not speak English,
and therefore I had much difficulty in understanding him. He indicated
that the attendance was good; but, being the dinner hour, we saw only a
few of the scholars. They were healthy-looking boys, with intelligent
countenances, and very plainly but cleanly dressed. Such schools, if well
conducted, seemed calculated to do immense good at very small cost.
On riding through the villages, we were generally met by a somewhat
unfriendly barking of dogs, then the women and children appeared; and
if we chanced to alight for our mid-day lunch, nearly the whole of the
women and children of the village—generally Maronites, I think—stood
in a circle around us, patiently watching our movements with apparent
interest, but always without rudeness. In this journey Braham had brought
no tents, but he found accommodation for us in one of these houses. Our
first night’s experience was by no means encouraging. Our bedroom was
certainly very ample in point of dimensions, and our beds consisted of a
tolerable mattress laid on the earthen floor; the windows were without
glass, and the doors by no means secure, although fastened by a wooden
“lock;” but the atmosphere was extremely warm, for which, or other
reasons, we found sleep by no means inviting. Our morning ablutions were
generally performed in the open air, and were very refreshing.
Our next day’s ride brought us to Balbec. Seen from the distance, the
ruins are picturesque. They are situated on a rising ground in the
valley, near to the Anti-Lebanon range, but their magnificence was
not appreciated until we stood within them. There are, I believe, no
grander architectural ruins in the world, although consisting only of
two great temples; the principal of these is called the “Great Temple,”
of which six magnificent Corinthian columns remain standing entire. With
their pedestals and entablature, they stand about eighty feet high,
and measure upwards of seven feet in diameter. With what is called its
“Courts” and portico this temple had been of very great size. Almost
adjoining on the south, and at a level, about twelve feet lower, is
another temple—apparently of more recent date, and generally called the
“Temple of the Sun,” which, although much smaller in size, is larger
than the Parthenon at Athens. It is very difficult to imagine why these
two magnificent temples should have been erected so huddled together, on
different levels, and without apparent connexion.
Both buildings are of the rough-grained limestone rock of the
Anti-Lebanon mountains adjoining, and the style of architecture in both
is somewhat similar. The original size and form of the buildings are
still traceable by the portions of the walls, in some parts twelve feet
thick, which remain standing, and the pedestals of numerous columns and
capitals which lie prostrate within them. The ornamentation and design of
the Temple of the Sun is rich, and its great eastern doorway—of which
the photograph is familiar to most—seemed to me particularly fine, but
has been very much destroyed by an earthquake. Much uncertainty exists,
indeed nothing is known, as to the age of these temples, which some
attribute to Solomon; but it is evident that they date from three or four
widely different ages. The foundations and portions of the walls date
very far back—probably to the days of that wise king—and contain some
stones of enormous size; but the superstructures seem to belong to the
Greek or early Roman period, while a third portion bears marks of Moslem
work.
There is a legend told by historians that the Emperor Trajan, in order
to test the oracle at Balbec, sent a blank sheet of paper, which he
received back again blank. This confirming his faith in the oracle, he
consulted it a second time, and received in response a few withered twigs
folded up in cloth. Trajan’s death shortly afterwards was deemed a true
interpretation of this oracular answer; and on his body being sent to
Rome for burial, the fame of the oracle was greatly increased.
It was difficult, amongst the confused mass of ruins, to determine what
the original ground level had been. What impressed us greatly was the
size of the huge fallen capitals and entablature—how small even the
tallest of our party looked as we moved amongst them. We descended by a
hole in front of the east gateway into what is now an underground vault
of excellent masonry, and we also passed through a grand archway of great
length and width, apparently a carriage way, but now under the ground
level, and partially dark.
The Syrians have been accused of overturning many of the columns of these
grand temples for the sake of the pieces of metal which formed their
joints, and certainly the fallen pieces bear marks of this spoliation.
The quarry from which these great stones had been taken is distant only
about a mile eastward, and there still remains one of them upon the road,
apparently left in transit, for what reason cannot now be known; but
it indicates some political or other sudden change of circumstances or
government. It measures, I think, about 60 feet in length, 15 in width,
and fully 14 feet in thickness, being only a very little more than the
dimensions of three other similar stones built into the original west
wall of the temple, and, as the perfection of their joinings indicate,
by the hands of a master builder. Even now, and with all the appliances
of modern science, nothing approaching this feat in masonry has been
attempted. The length of the Great Temple seemed to me nearly 1000 feet
over all. Verily there were giants on the earth in those days.
Of Balbec, the great City of the Sun, there are now no other remains
except two much smaller ruins, evidently Roman. There are only a few
hundred inhabitants, who live in the modern Syrian houses such as I have
already described, and in two of these our party lodged for the night,
resuming our journey southward in the morning. The view of this long
valley is fine, with its green cornfields, the river Leontes flowing down
its centre, the Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon mountains on either hand, and
Mount Hermon far south in the distance. The morning sun lighted up the
whole scene, and the mountain tops were brilliantly white or vermilion
and orange tinted. But the mountains were bare of vegetation—the famous
Cedars of Lebanon no longer exist, except about a dozen of almost
fabulous age and size, which, however, are several miles further north.
Balbec was probably the most northern city of the “Land of Promise,”
which is repeatedly described in Scripture as extending “from the
entering in of Hamath” on the north “unto the river of Egypt” on the
south. But, except in the days of Solomon, the Israelites do not seem to
have possessed their inheritance so far north; nor I think did they ever
possess, in its full width eastward, the land promised to their fathers.
Hamath appears to have been a semi-independent province situate in the
centre of this Lebanon valley of Cœle-Syria, of which Toi is mentioned as
the king in the days of David.
Braham took us to view the so-called tomb of Noah, which is at a small
village upon a steep shoulder of the Lebanon range. Entering a very long
narrow stone building we found a tomb rising fully two feet higher than
the floor, and extending the whole length of the building, probably
about seventy feet. It seemed stone-built, white coloured, and lighted
up with numerous oil lamps, which are kept perpetually burning, at, as I
understood, the expense of the Turkish Government. Here and there were
bits of cloth and rags hung over the tomb, which we understood were used
as talismanic charms or given as votive offerings. The keeper explained
as well as he could that the body of Noah lay upon its back the whole
length, and that, as the house over the tomb, long as it was, was still
too short, the legs of the saint from the knees downward were bent down
into a perpendicular hole dug into the ground! Braham said the tomb of
Shem, another antedeluvian of nearly as great length, was to be seen on
the mountain opposite; but we assured him we were quite satisfied with
Noah’s.
I listened with proper decorum to the description, merely remarking that,
“although I always understood Noah had been a very great man, I was not
aware he had been so very tall.” On remounting our horses to ride down
to the valley I asked Braham, who had assisted the keeper in making his
description, with all the gravity of a judge—“Do you believe this story
now—and what did Mr. Buckle say of it?” Braham, who did not at all relish
such questions, answered with great emphasis—“Mr. Buckle, master—Mr.
Buckle, he believed _nothing_, sir.” Two or three years previously, Mr.
Buckle (the eminent historian) had I think, along with his son, travelled
over the same ground, attended by Braham as his dragoman. He took ill of
fever near this spot, and died. He is buried at Damascus, where his grave
may be seen. Braham, who frequently spoke of other eminent men he had
attended, never willingly mentioned Mr. Buckle, perhaps because he may
have stated his opinion of such legends rather freely for Braham (who,
however, was far too intelligent to believe them himself), or perhaps
because this traveller had been so unfortunate as to die while under this
careful dragoman’s guidance. Dragomans generally seem to maintain the
current belief in all legends and “places,” however incredible.
After passing several villages and Zacleh, a small town, we reached
Shtora Inn, where we next day resumed our journey by diligence, and soon
began to ascend the Lebanon range westward. From our road we observed
from time to time donkeys, camels, and horses toiling along the old path,
deep in the mountain gorges, loaded with goods. The French Company have
an excellent service of goods waggons on their road, but the rate is
high, and so the old mode of transport still continues as a competing
route.
Near the highest point of our journey the sky became black, and thunder
peals followed, but it cleared off in the course of two hours, and the
prospect opened up as we proceeded south-westward towards Beyrout. The
mountains became more and more verdant as we descended; we soon obtained
a glimpse of the blue Mediterranean; and the rain having ceased, the
view became grand. Altogether the Lebanon range is both populous and
fertile. Snugly embosomed amongst the lower shoulders of the mountain
were numerous cultivated patches with fruit trees, and even a few palms,
but the mulberry was the chief. There are several of what are called Silk
Factories. These, we were told, were recently introduced by a Scotchman,
and seem to have prospered as well as any manufacturing project may under
Turkish rule. The silkworms are kept in large wooden sheds, where they
are fed on the leaves of the mulberry trees, and not—as many suppose—upon
the growing trees. This explains the stunted appearance of so many trees
in Italy and other silk-producing countries, the top branches being
annually lopped off for the factories.
Beyrout is situated on a gently rising ground, with a good many trees,
and is surrounded by plains—especially southward. These plains are of
red and yellow sands, giving a rich appearance to the scene when the
afternoon sun shines upon it. Here we settled once more in the Grand
Oriental, kept by a tall Greek, a large and only tolerably comfortable
hotel, highly recommended by our dragoman. We here settled up our
accounts in a formal and business style, for Braham was a correct man in
all his ways; and so we parted in a friendly manner, and to our mutual
satisfaction, I trust, for Braham added our “certificates” to his already
ample store of them.[12]
Finding no letters here, as I had expected to do, I telegraphed home—an
operation which was by no means very easy. It occupied me and my guide—a
Turkish official—and a clerk who spoke French—for more than an hour.
I was asked to print it over again in Roman characters. The charge
for twenty-six words was 32_s._ It reached Scotland a sad jumble,
having been translated and transmitted oftener than once, I think.
Fortunately, however, its meaning was guessed at. This guide I had found
standing like a sentry at the foot of the hotel stairs. He was a tall,
reverend-looking, elderly man, dressed in a long robe, like the pictures
we see of the Pharisees of Jerusalem, and so dignified in appearance,
and so very grave and ceremonious, that I hesitated to walk behind him,
as he marched right before me with his turban and his staff through long
streets of the city. He might have sat for a picture of Mordecai, I
think, but with face more sanctimonious no doubt. Next morning, purposing
to have a real Turkish bath, I walked out in search of it; but here again
was my old patriarchal-looking guide unbidden marching before me. The
bath was a very large building, well furnished, and I submitted myself to
a pair of Arabs, who entered upon their duties with the energy and zest
of schoolboys. They talked and laughed loudly as usual during the whole
operation; but the only word I understood was “bakshish.” However, this
bath, which occupied two hours, was, when finished, extremely refreshing.
I ascertained, on settling my hotel bill, that my dignified guide did
not, after all, belong to the hotel, but elected himself as such to all
strangers going into the city, so long as they permitted him, but always
demanded bakshish when “discharged,” at a rate more commensurate with his
dignity than his usefulness. On all other subjects he was a silent man
and a deaf one, unless it suited him to hear.
We visited the principal educational establishments in the city, and
found them in a state of great completeness in every respect. On Sunday
we attended worship in the Scotch Chapel—a neat building, similar to that
at Alexandria. The service was much the same as at home. The congregation
seemed chiefly English, and there was no separation of the sexes, by
curtain or otherwise, as at Alexandria. We felt it to be a privilege to
worship in a Christian church after so long an interval.
We were detained in Beyrout[13] a few days by the equinoctial
gales, which kept back the steamers. We had wished to return home by
Constantinople and the Danube, but rumours of quarantine—and especially
our anxiety to reach home early—decided our course to be viâ Marseilles.
The embarkation on board the French steamer from Constantinople was one
of some danger. The gale from the west raised so much surf on the beach
that considerable dexterity was required in leaping or stepping from a
small rock into the boats just at the proper moment; but the ladies of
our party accomplished the feat very neatly, and we all got on board
dry. In the evening we sailed from the bay southward, bidding adieu to
Syria. There were very few cabin passengers on board; the state rooms and
cabin, however, were half filled with tobacco, in large bales, the odour
of which we had the privilege of inhaling free. Fortunately it was the
Latakia—a Turkish tobacco of very mild quality.
Next day we anchored off Jaffa for unloading and loading cargo; and as
the wind became very high, we witnessed one of the most exciting scenes I
have ever seen as a mere onlooker. There are numerous boatmen, who do all
this transport business each for himself and his own boat. The cargo for
landing was delivered over the lee side of the steamer with comparative
ease, but the cargo for loading was all taken in only from the windward
side; and although not over thirty boats’ load in all, the day was
spent and the sun was getting low without half completing the business.
Many boats had to return with their cargo more or less damaged—some
were upset, some adrift, and others driven on the beach far southward.
Oranges in boxes, and many thousands loose, were floating all around,
with half-sunk boats and young Arabs, some half submerged, some afloat,
but all struggling and screaming as for very life. The scene exhibited
the extraordinary activity of the Arabs, and for some hours the noise of
their quarrels arose above the roar of the winds. There was an utter
absence of any guiding spirit to direct, and so it was a scramble and
fight not only against time, but against winds and waves, and each other.
I must say that I thought a very little aid from our deck might have
prevented this damage and waste of time, but the mate of the steamer made
no effort to mitigate the confusion—perhaps, however, he knew it to be
impossible; and certainly no human voice could be heard amid the general
uproar.
The deck, except the poop, was covered with Moslem pilgrims, chiefly from
Constantinople, en route for Mecca viâ the Red Sea. They were generally
elderly people, but many families, and even children, were amongst them.
They appeared to be Turks of the common people, but several wore rich
clothing and were well provided with excellent cushions. The females were
veiled only partially. Of course their deck fares were very cheap, but
they may have preferred not to go below, as many of them were evidently
not good sailors. They ate their meals—which seemed to be of the simplest
fare—and performed their devotions very regularly, rarely moving about,
and sitting just where they slept. They always seemed to know—even in the
open sea—the direction of Mecca, towards which they prayed.
Our steamer landed the tobacco at Alexandria, and took on board other
cargo, as well as overland, cabin, and other passengers. Amongst these
were a troupe of French opera artistes, whom the Khedive had brought from
France for his new opera, which we witnessed at Cairo, and they were now
returning to Marseilles. They slept on the poop deck during the voyage,
and even the ladies of their party seemed to make themselves comfortable
and at home.
We sailed northward by the east of Sicily. Malta was too distant to be
seen, but we had a fine view of the Sicilian coast, on which Mount Etna
is a very prominent object. Our steamer called for a few busy hours off
Messina—a large city, beautifully situated on the shore, overtopped by a
semicircle of lofty hills. The bay is very large, and the harbour seemed
commodious. We were boarded by numerous boats, full of dealers with
their little wares and articles of vertu, which they spread out on the
steamer’s deck for sale.
Here we parted with our American fellow-travellers with regret. Mr.
Dickson had telegraphed to his Italian courier to meet him here, and here
he was on deck to enter upon his duties. They intended crossing over to
Naples for a tour through Italy, and thence to Paris and England. We had
the pleasure of a call from them at home some months later. I am sorry
to add that the weather on that occasion was so unusually cold and wet
that they must have gone home with a very unfavourable impression of Old
Scotland. We were subsequently glad to hear of their safe arrival in
Pennsylvania—exactly twelve months after their setting out westward—they
having followed the course of the sun round the world.
Passing through the narrow channel—on either side of which is supposed
to be the famous Scylla and Charybdis, the terror of ancient navigators
of Homer’s time and of our schoolboy days—we sailed along the coast of
Italy, passing Capri during the night.
Civita Vecchia was too distant, but Monte Christo was visible, and the
island of Elba barely so, while Corsica lay near on our left. Although we
kept well north toward the French coast, Nice and Cannes were too distant
to be distinctly seen, but we were close in shore off Toulon; and thence
to Marseilles we sailed along miles of white barren rocks, which looked
like a huge irregular wall, behind which La Belle France lay concealed.
The harbour of Marseilles is hid and finely protected by one or two of
such white rocks, but, once entered, it appeared an excellent harbour,
with a fine city beyond it.
We arrived some two days overdue, the wind being generally unfavourable.
Our steamer had brought as cargo several large wooden frames or cages,
filled with quails from Syria. They were nicely arranged along the
bulwarks, and each contained numerous shelves, which enabled the whole
to be regularly fed and watered; latterly each day a good many of them
had died. Those safely landed would, however, be nearly two thousand in
number, and formed a daily subject of interest to our passengers. They
were said to be for the Paris hotels. These birds are migratory, and
easily caught with nets; they are very common all over the East, and form
a considerable article of export from Syria, Palestine, the north coast
of Africa, and the various islands in the Mediterranean. The quail is, in
appearance and size, between a partridge and a lark.
Between Marseilles and Lyons the country is well cultivated, and vines
are trained up to the hilltops. Lyons, where we stopped for a day, is a
large and fine old city, beautifully situated over the west bank of the
Rhone. The soil here gets richer, and altogether this locality seems very
wealthy, both in agriculture and in the silk manufactures.
On the following day we arrived in Paris, where we remained for two days.
Coming out of the Louvre Hotel, we met for a few minutes our commander of
the French steamer. He was a Frenchman of polished manners, rather over
middle age, of whom we heard a somewhat romantic story.
He had, several years before, been a commander in the French navy;
but having an affair of honour (in which it was said his own wife was
interested) with the surgeon of his ship, he was, by the French laws
of marine, prevented giving a challenge, seeing the surgeon was his
own subordinate officer. However, they left the vessel together; and,
landing in a neighbouring country, the challenge was there formally given
and accepted, a duel fought, and the surgeon left dead on the field. For
this he was cashiered—not for murder, but for deserting his ship for a
day without instruction! He subsequently got this mercantile appointment,
through the influence, it was said, of the same Minister who cashiered
him. He was occasionally infirm from gout, was of quiet manners, somewhat
of the old school, and by no means like a fire-eater.
London and Home occupied two days more. Any one who has for the first
time returned from a _daily_ pilgrimage of some months—as ours had very
much been—will understand what is meant by saying that “Home, sweet
Home,” means something more than mere sentiment!
This little book has already swelled far beyond my intention; but
I may be allowed to add, that the journey proved altogether most
pleasant, health-giving, and profitable. I was specially fortunate in
my fellow-travellers, the weather throughout was fine, and my umbrella
was daily unfurled, but only as a parasol. No accident nor illness
ever delayed us for a single hour, and we were free even of the usual
misadventures of which we read, while those trifling ones inseparable
from our mode of travelling were momentary, and almost as quickly
forgotten. The retrospect brings only enjoyment, which in my experience
promises, like good wine, to improve year by year, refusing to be
forgotten; and so I beg leave to recommend my readers to set out on the
like or some similar pilgrimage. I think all would enjoy it—those of
mature years doubly so.
In the reading of the Sacred Record one can—without attaching unwarranted
or religious importance to what are called “holy places”—habitually
recall the scene of its stories, and a vivid and lasting impression
fixes its Truths upon the understanding and the heart.
Wherein the charm of Eastern travel consists,[14] it is more easy to
feel than to describe. I think it largely arises from the extraordinary
development of one of the senses not much exercised by us at home—I mean
that of vision. In this country everything has a sombre, leaden hue, from
the grey sky down to the dingy cottage, and the aspect of our streets to
a southern eye must appear gloomy and cold-looking in the extreme. No
doubt there are exceptions, but these are very occasional and uncertain,
depending almost entirely upon sunshine or clear weather.
In the East everything is changed; the sky is for the most part mellow
and shining from dawn till eventide, and in the lower latitudes of course
the sun mounts higher towards the zenith. The first thing therefore that
strikes a stranger is the almost uniform pre-eminent brightness of the
atmosphere, and warmth of the colour tints of almost every object around,
whether distant or near.
Eastward, beginning at Naples, the houses—by no means so substantial
as with us, and consisting for the most part of bricks or small stones
covered with concrete or cement—have generally an elegant and airy
aspect, and are almost always coloured with light and cheerful tints,
such as yellow, pink, and light brown. The dull bluish _leaden_ tinge
which so prevails in this country is very seldom met with, and for the
first time the eye begins to enjoy the scene in a manner which it rarely
does here—partly from the want of practice in looking abroad. The very
mountains, which with us are usually of a cold cloudy grey or dark violet
tinge, are there almost invariably of a mellow yellowish hue, usually
mixed with slight tints of vermilion and even white.
The main difference certainly lies in the rare atmosphere, which entices
the eye to roam as far as the prospect will permit it to do, and I
think, if nothing else is learned by an Eastern tour, the use of the
eyes is, and becomes a most pleasurable sensation. The prospects and the
landscapes are in general more open than with us, besides being better
lighted up, and I think that one drinks in health at the eyes as well
as all the other senses in travelling by day in the open air, watching
the sunrise as well as the sunsets, and the beautiful ever-varying tints
which these give to the mountain tops around.
Here at home let us all feel more interest than we hitherto have done
in the views and landscapes around us, and possibly we may discover
beauties equally grand, particularly in our gorgeous sunsets—although of
course such occasions may be rare—if we watch, perhaps not so very rare
as we suppose! And then let us look out upon our lovely turfs, meadows,
and lawns, with the grand stately trees and heather-clad hills of our
old country, which remain unrivalled in the East. We need not cultivate
one blue pansy the less, but yellow ones a thousandfold more. Let us
discourage cold gloomy colours—grey and blue—and promote in every way
warm tints—pink, gold, and white—in all our landscapes, cottage gardens,
and street-fronts. Perhaps the effect would soon tell upon the health and
spirits of us all. I think the practice of looking at things—especially
distant objects—is one that will repay all with exquisite pleasure. Even
the rich variety of curves in the landscape, and the simple outlines of
distant mountain tops against the background of sky, become things of
beauty, as John Ruskin points out, and may become to us “a joy for ever,”
as John Keats sings. To neglect them is surely to despise some bounty of
the Great Giver!
The sun, we are told, was set in the heavens to rule the day, and all
inanimate nature seems to acknowledge his sway. His shining brightly or
behind a cloud makes all the difference between a joyful and a gloomy
day. The original idolaters accordingly, in their ignorance of the true
God, bowed down to the great luminary, and erected splendid temples to
this god of fire; while the sacred penmen, although largely referring to
the sun and his effulgence, do so only as types and figures of higher
things.
This general dependence of mute nature upon the sun is a specially
favourite subject with the poets. Thus (from an “Ode to the Sun):”—
All look to thee—aspiring, seek to rise;
The lordly eagle soars in trackless ways
Far above clouds, rejoiced to bathe his eyes
In purest azure streams of thy ethereal rays.
Joyous, upspringing from his morning bed,
The lark—enough to burst his tiny heart—
Proclaims thy welcome:—modestly its head
The lily lifts to thee to kiss, ere thou depart.
On Hermon’s top the snow jewel brightly shines—
Greeting thine advent: and—how richly fraught—
A myriad dewdrops, hung on mountain pines,
Offer up incense! Ocean’s cup presents thy draught.
And then how enjoyable it is to inhale the perfume of a million flowers
from some eminence in the open country! It reminds one of the poet’s
Address to the Morning (from _Blackwood_):—
Oh morn! from countless cups of gold,
Thou liftest reverently on high
More incense fine than earth can hold,
To fill the sky!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]