DAMASCUS, BAALBEK, AND HERMON.
The order of the narrative now takes us away from Palestine itself, to
the more northern parts of Syria, where the Survey party spent the
months of July, August, and September, recruiting their health, and
arranging the field-work.
On the morning of June the 16th, 1873, we arrived in the Bay of Beyrout,
and landed just as Midhat Pacha left the harbour, having been
superseded, in the post of Governor of Syria, in favour of Hallet Pacha.
The praises of Midhat as an able, upright, and liberal statesman were in
the mouths of all European residents, and his dismissal was sincerely
regretted.
On Tuesday, the 24th of June, I set out, at the head of my party, on a
march to Damascus, along the French road. We wound slowly up the sides
of Lebanon, here covered with pines, and veiled above with fleecy
clouds, which, when the wind blows from the sea, gather daily on the
summits, and swell the grapes by a soft damp mist, giving great potency
to the Lebanon wine. Arriving at a height of over three thousand feet,
we lost sight of the plain and the white city, and marched on in the
mist until two p.m., only resting at a little mud cottage, where was a
stream of icy water. We then began to descend, and beneath us was spread
out one of the finest views in Syria. The broad flat plain of the Litany
River separates the two ranges of Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon, and runs
north and south, with the river in the middle. The outline of
Anti-Lebanon was beautifully varied, with a long succession of blunt
peaks, rolling ridges, knife-edged spurs, divided by deep narrow
ravines, the whole bathed in the soft bright afternoon sunlight; some
hills were thin and blue in the distance, some rocky and rugged in
front, while the shadows were already creeping slowly up the feet of the
mountains and across the plain. The Bukei’a, as the plain itself is
called, was all yellow with corn, the white road, skirted by tall
poplars, running across it; and, on the south, the background was formed
by the dark ridge of Hermon, on which a solitary streak of snow still
remained.
In a couple of hours we reached the plain, the horses being much
fatigued, and one unfit for riding. We remained for the night at a
miserable wooden house at Stûra.
On the first day we had ridden twenty-nine miles in seven hours. We were
now once more in the saddle by 7.30 a.m., and accomplished forty-one
miles in eight hours (including stoppages), the baggage animals also
arriving at Damascus the same day.
Our way lay at first across the plain, which is well watered, and
covered with corn-fields. Herds and flocks and black Arab tents were
visible everywhere; the storks were still abundant, their long necks
stretched out above the barley, and their shadows sailing along, as they
wheeled above in great circles, before leaving for the north; the
swallows, also, sat in long rows on the telegraph wires. Soon, however,
after crossing the river, we began to enter the pass of Wâdy el Kurn,
and the bare grey hills, steep crags, and wilderness of Jentisk,
succeeded the more fertile scenery of the Bukei’a. Here were no signs of
animal life, beyond an occasional eagle or vulture. The old yellow
diligence, with three mules at the pole and three horses in front,
rumbled past us down the hill. Soon a rocky range, with castellated
crags, appeared in front, and we ascended hills of glaring white chalk,
with here and there a black basaltic seam; at length the top of a poplar
appeared in front, and we rested, for nearly an hour, by a mud stable,
near a beautiful spring in the yellow rocks, round which the
ruddy-coloured little oxen lay, chewing the cud, in blazing sunlight.
The country grew yet more barren as we advanced--a succession of rolling
hills of an ochre colour, with here and there a steep grey crag. About
two p.m. we arrived at a barren plateau, across which the road led--a
streak of blinding white. In front was a range of steep hills like those
left behind; great black shadows came sliding down the slopes, and so
along the plain and up the eastern ridges; behind were banks of fleecy
cloud, but above us a broiling sun and cloudless heaven, while before us
not a trace of Damascus was to be seen. It was, indeed, wearisome work,
toiling over this plateau, uncheered by any distant view of the goal,
and with the apparent necessity of climbing another mountain range;
great, therefore, was my relief when the road dived suddenly down into a
narrow winding valley.
The scenery now became very remarkable, resembling most that of a
Sinaitic oasis. The crags on either side were glaring in the sun,
reddish-yellow in colour, without even a bush or shrub on the slopes,
and with an intensely blue sky above; but below them, in the valley, the
road led beside a swirling stream, which ran rapidly over boulders and
pebbles, under the cool shadow of tall poplar groves, and gardens of
cool, green foliage. The grass grew rank beside the path, trailing
vines, peaches, plums, and other fruit-trees flourished on either bank.
A paradise was, in short, set in a frame of most barren desert, an oasis
between bare crags of sun-scorched limestone. The white road wound down
the valley, which became constantly more luxuriant, whilst the hills
grew higher and glared more desolate. On every side tributary streams
gushed down, and we began to pass by white villas, with primitive
frescoes on the walls, by groups of veiled ladies on white donkeys, and
by rich merchants on fine mares. At last the valley opened, and our
cavalcade, of seven horsemen, came cantering down an avenue of poplars,
until, turning a sharp corner, we came suddenly in sight of the entrance
to Damascus.
This approach to the city is not favourable to a just appreciation of
its peculiar beauties. In front of the houses there is a sort of green,
covered with short grass, and divided by the river. A large white
mosque, with two tall minarets, was in front, and the castle to the
right; but no great wall, as at Jerusalem, bounds the city, which has,
in spite of domes and minarets, rather the appearance of a straggling
village of mud houses, with windows of wood lattice, flat mud roofs, and
overhanging upper stories.
We stopped at the hotel, and at once became acquainted with the real
glory of Damascus--namely, its interiors. The house was built round an
ample paved court, its inner walls of stucco, painted in horizontal
bands of white, red, and blue. In the centre was a large square basin,
surrounded by little jets, whence the water trickled slowly. It was
shaded by tall lemon and orange-trees, peaches, and plums. On one side
of the court opened the diwân, a cool, lofty apartment, with raised
floors surrounded by low sofas, and with an octagonal fountain in the
narrow central passage. The roof of this central part was more lofty,
and clerestory windows let in a subdued light. The diwân walls were
marble, and the roofs of inlaid woodwork, gorgeously painted on a
dark-brown ground.
Damascus is an oval town divided into two unequal portions, the largest
to the south, by the river Barada (the ancient Abana). The houses appear
to be principally of mud, or sun-dried brick, with wooden frames; but
the public buildings and better private dwellings are of stone. The
bazaars form the heart of the town, and ramify in various directions. To
Europeans there is something very curious in the collection of fifty or
sixty small shops, in one street, all selling the same article. Thus,
from the meat-market one strolls into a long, covered lane, where red
and yellow slippers are sold; thence into the fragrant scent bazaar, or
to the grimy silversmiths’ smithies, or to the long rows of shops where
silks and embroidered stuffs are sold. Each salesman sits calmly, on the
raised floor of the little pigeon-hole, surrounded by shelves on which
his goods are packed, smoking his V-shaped water-pipe, or engaged in
prayer, and apparently quite indifferent as to custom.
The bazaars are delightfully cool and shady, and the absence of wheeled
vehicles makes them very quiet. They are very narrow, and consequently
much crowded. Huge camels, loaded with firewood, come rolling by, and
oblige you to crouch against the wall to avoid the sweep of the load.
Ladies in long veils, white, or checked with blue with embroidered
edges, walk by in yellow knee-boots, or slippers with a sort of
thick-soled leather golosh drawn over them. Some are mounted on the
white donkeys, which have a thick protuberance to the two sides of their
necks--a sort of fold running sometimes all along the back. The saddles
on which they are perched aloft, with their feet in front over the
animal’s neck, are of red morocco and velvet.
The peasants wear blue, baggy trousers, gathered in at the knee. The
Maronite women, with rich apple-red cheeks, have a black band bound over
the forehead. Among these the fierce Bedawin are mingled, dark and dusky
in complexion, gaunt and stealthy in mien. The broad-shouldered and
moustachioed Kurds are again quite distinct, and contrast with the
ghastly faces and weakly figures of the townsmen born--the fanatical
Softas and Ulema, in their long pale gabardines and scanty white
turbans, incarnations of narrow bigotry and ignorant hate. The bazaar is
roofed in, with openings at intervals, and the ever-changing crowd is
dimly visible in the shadow, or lit up by a beam of sunlight from the
roof.
The great charm of the scene consists in its unmixed Oriental character.
No French fashion or Gothic building destroys the general effect. You
walk in the Damascus of the “Thousand Nights and a Night,” and the grim
story of the wooden roof-prop at the corner, from which you may chance
any day to see a criminal hanging, reminds you of the justice of
Haroun-er-Rashid. Here, through a grating, you look in on the tomb of
Saladin’s brother, under its green pall; there, into the cool court of a
khan, or the outer chamber of a bath. Dark-eyed beauties, who are not
ashamed to show their tattooed faces and nose-rings, meet you at every
corner; and, if you know the city well, you may penetrate into the
recesses of the wicked bath-houses, or visit the slave-market. Damascus
is still the scene of intrigue and passion, as of old; the yearly
poisonings are incredibly numerous, and the place is one of the chief
strongholds of that obstinate fanaticism which refuses to see anything
good in the manners and civilisation of the “heathen.”
The great mosque epitomises the history of Damascus. Once a heathen
temple, then a Christian church, it is now a Moslem sanctuary. By a
covered street with a great fountain beside it, we arrived at the bronze
gates, on which the Sacramental cup is twice repeated, with Arabic
inscriptions nailed on above. The enclosure is not as large as that of
the Jerusalem Sanctuary; the mosque stretches for 800 feet along the
south side, and is about 300 wide. The court is paved, with a central
fountain beneath a dome, where Moslems wash before prayer. Broad
cloisters run round the court, supported on classic columns.
The building itself is divided by columns into a nave and aisles, and
the floor covered with carpets. Four _mihrabs_, or apses, for prayer,
are made in the south wall, belonging to various sects, and each is
flanked by tall wax torches from Mecca. A long row of worshippers stood
before the central _mihrab_--soldiers and civilians, old and young,
facing the wall and praying together, led by a Sheikh with a melodious
voice.
An old water-carrier brought us sweet water from the holy well of the
Prophet Yahyah (John the Baptist), to the east of the mosque. The whole
sanctuary is whitewashed; but patches of the old glass mosaic, which
once covered all the walls, are still visible, and the effect must
formerly have been very magnificent.
The mosque has three minarets--that of the Bride to the north, a square,
blue tower, from the upper gallery of which four stout Muedhens were
chanting, in beautiful time and shrill falsetto notes, the call to
prayer, a cry which can be heard like a bell over the entire city. The
second minaret is that of “Our Lord Jesus”--a slender grey needle, upon
the summit of which the Moslems believe that Christ will descend in the
last day. We ascended the third minaret, in the south-west corner, by a
winding stair of one hundred and ninety steps, leading to a wooden
gallery, whilst forty more lead up to a narrow ledge beneath the little
dome.
From this point a really characteristic view presented itself. On every
side was a flat expanse of mud roofs, only broken here and there by a
little whitewashed dome, and set in a dense rich belt of deep green,
extending for a mile from the houses on every side. Beyond the gardens
were ranges of hills, barren and desolate, brown and white in colour,
and terminated by the steep Hermon ridge.
The charm of the view, however, was due to the interiors. Each house was
built round an open court, with a cool central fountain, and with green
trees, some of great size, overtopping the roof. The courts were paved
with marble, and galleries of carved woodwork ran around them; the walls
were banded in courses of black and white marble, or coloured blue and
red. Above the roofs rose the countless minarets, in endless variety;
some blue or green, square and squat; others of beautiful grey stone,
with richly ornamented stone pendants, wood lattices, and Arab or Cufic
inscriptions; some whitewashed and crowned with a sort of snuffer-shaped
roof, others domed. Bristling against the green bed in which the mud
city lies, they gave a rich variety of effect, which is lost in the
narrow lanes or roofed bazaars.
Damascus is a centre of the faith, second only to Mecca. The Greek
cathedral is hustled into a corner, and guarded by a great white
minaret. A second great mosque is built on the west, outside the town,
its architect having lost his head for so placing it, to be given back
to him--so says the grim Arabic inscription--when the sanctuary stands
in the middle of Damascus. On the west of the town is a brown fortress,
outwardly formidable, inwardly a ruin--fit emblem of Turkish rule.
From the silversmiths’ bazaar we visited the exterior of the southern
wall of the mosque, jumping over a narrow street, and running along the
house-roofs. Here we found a fine Byzantine doorway, with a well-carved
cornice, and along its frieze the famous Greek inscription: “Thy
kingdom, O Christ, is an everlasting kingdom, and Thy dominion endureth
throughout all generations.”
On the 4th of July we left this fascinating city for the cooler retreat
in the mountains, where the English Vice-Consul was staying. Passing
once more up the narrow valley, with its green groves amid desolate
crags, we crossed the Saharah, or desert plateau, and, diverging towards
the right, we made for a fine gorge, with high precipices. The Barada, a
clear, broad, green stream, here comes slipping rapidly down over ledges
of rock and through deep pools, and by its channel is the mud village
called Sûk Wâdy Barada. The river makes a sudden bend at the gorge, and
passes between high rocks, burrowed with tombs, which are in many cases
inscribed with barbarous Greek texts. The stream falls over a low
precipice, and forms a broad pool--a delightful bathing-place, reminding
me on each visit of Naaman’s boast about this very river, “better than
all the waters of Israel.” A more picturesque spot than this gorge, with
its Roman road cut in the cliff, its cemetery, its tall poplars and
rushing stream, its crags, above which is the traditional tomb of Abel,
we did not again meet. This place is the ancient Abila, and its name is
still recognisable in the tradition of Abel’s tomb, where, after
carrying the corpse for a hundred years, Cain was allowed to lay it
down. On the 24th of July we revisited the gorge, and inspected the
antiquities. A tablet, cut in the side of the precipice above the
ancient road, identifies the town as Abila, and is repeated again a
little farther on; below it is an aqueduct tunnel, and lower down the
valley, on the left bank opposite the village, are remains of a small
temple. On this visit we discovered no less than six inscriptions
previously unknown, all on tombstones.
Crossing the stream, just above the waterfall, by a single arch, we
continued along the left bank. The Barada has worn a deep bed, and on
either side the remains of petrified leaves and stems are visible in the
rude conglomerate of the banks. The stream pours over boulders and
broken blocks, and is half-covered with luxuriant bushes. Gradually
ascending, the road leads into the long plain of Zebdâny--a sort of
repetition of the Stûra plain on a smaller scale, flanked on the west by
the ragged and castellated ridges of the Anti-Lebanon, and on the east
by a range of equal height. The plateau is bare and treeless, except
towards the north, where are groves of poplar. Through the centre runs
the river, its course marked by green bushes. In the middle of the plain
it springs up suddenly from a great blue pool, or small lake, of
unfathomable depth, resembling the springs of Antipatris mentioned in
the last chapter. The stream is here actually broader than at the gorge,
and emerges in full volume from the earth. The basin is of hard yellow
rock. At first the stream is sluggish, the banks clayey and grassy,
fringed with tall canes; and the water of the pool is full of fish and
frequented by water-fowl; lower down, however, the fall is very rapid,
and, from the gorge to Damascus, the current is extremely quick.
The western mountains were already dark in the blue afternoon shadow, as
we began to climb the white slopes to the east of the plain. Here, at a
height 5000 feet above the sea, our summer camp was to be fixed, at the
village of Bludân, below the Consul’s house.
On the 11th of August the Consul rode down to Damascus, accompanied by
Mr. Wright and myself. On this occasion I was able to see something of
Damascus by night, guided by the missionary; and in the afternoon we
penetrated into one of the slave-markets, ascending a rickety staircase
to a miserable wooden verandah, on to which the little rooms opened. In
one chamber was a negress, gaily dressed, seated on a straw mat, and
dandling a small black baby. She seemed in very good spirits; but her
next-door neighbour was nursing a sick child, and looked unhappy enough.
In the third room were three negresses, and a white girl, pale and thin,
who, instead of greeting us in the jovial manner of the black women,
drew her veil round her and fled into an inner chamber. Theoretically,
the purchase of fresh slaves is forbidden in the Turkish dominions; but
there are two of these slave establishments in Damascus--one just behind
or in a mosque--and newly-imported slaves from Africa arrive here every
year.
On the following day I was honoured by Hallet Pacha, Governor-General of
Syria, with an invitation to accompany the Consul to breakfast. About
ten a.m. we were driven through the bazaar, and arrived at the Pacha’s
house, on a terrace above the green meadow, west of the town. A tent was
spread in the garden, and the Governor, a man of immense corpulence, sat
on a velvet sofa within. His staff sat round, wearing red fezzes and
black frock-coats.
The Pacha belonged to the Old Turkish party, and cordially hated all
“pagans.” The breakfast was studiously Oriental in character, no French
dishes being allowed, and no wine offered. A great brass tray, on a
plain wooden stand, formed a table for eight people. Among the guests
were Mohammed S’aid Pacha--the fierce Kurd who broke in the mountaineers
of Nâblus for the Turks--Holo Pacha, and other dignitaries. The first
course consisted of tomato soup and macaroni, with lemons; rissoles of
rice, and mutton cutlets in bread-crumbs followed, with little dishes of
caviar, and bowls of leben, or sour milk, with cucumbers; next came a
kind of sweet muffins; then six dishes of various vegetables stuffed
with rice, and a broiled chicken; last of all, a huge pilau, and dessert
of figs and melons.
Though hungry at first, I was quite unable to eat a quarter of the
amount consumed by the Pacha, and ceased to wonder at the almost
universal obesity of the Turkish dignitaries. The guests all ate from
their hands; and the conversation was such as would not be countenanced
in an ordinary barrack-room, though apparently much enjoyed by the Pacha
and his staff.
To suppose this picture to be universally characteristic of Turkish high
life would no doubt be an error; able and honest men are not altogether
wanting among the Government officials of high standing, and Midhat
Pacha, the immediate predecessor of my host, has since become famous as
a patriot and statesman; but it is the misfortune of Turkey, that the
majority of the governing class are men ignorant and fanatical, sensual
and inert, notoriously corrupt and tyrannical, who have succeeded only
in ruining and impoverishing the countries they were sent to govern.
On the 19th of August, the whole party proceeded, from Bludân, on a
visit to Baalbek, where I was ordered to report on the condition of the
ruins.
Descending from our mountain camp, we rode north-west, over the
well-watered plain, with its long rows of poplars, narrow strips of
green turf beside the streams, and long vineyards, with vines trained
into little bushes, as in Burgundy. Thence we ascended a rugged path
over the grey rocky slopes of Anti-Lebanon, and our view extended over
the broad brown Bukei’a, and as far as the long gleaming ridge of
Lebanon, “the milk-white mountain,” the outline of which is broken by
cones and rounded tops, whilst below a dusky fringe of brushwood creeps
up the slopes. After five hours’ riding, we began to descend, over downs
of blinding white chalk, to the great plain, and at length came in sight
of a village, lying low in an oasis of green trees, with a fine spring
to the east, from which ran a stream fringed with willows and poplars.
The village, or town, of Baalbek is extensive and flourishing. At the
gate of the governor’s house a fine statue, of colossal size, headless,
and seated between sculptured lions, has been placed in a corner of the
road. Passing through the main street, we rode on, between dry-stone
walls, in a narrow lane, which had a perfect screen of poplars above;
and, behind this, rose a huge tawny fortress-wall, like that of the
Temple at Jerusalem; while, to the right, stood a little temple,
staggering, as it were, after the last earthquake, the joints of the
magnificent masonry yawning, and the columns and cornices bending over.
The great wall is crowned by a Saracenic battlement, with loopholes, and
its masonry is a perfect patchwork; but below, the ancient drafted
ashlar, with Greek masons’ marks on the stones, remains intact.
We now found ourselves riding, three abreast, through a dark tunnel of
enormous masonry, and looked back on the green paradise of foliage;
while in front a glaring dust-heap indicated the ascent into the great
enclosure; hence we emerged into the centre of the ruins, with the
famous Six Columns and the Temple of Jupiter in front.
So gracefully are these great buildings proportioned, that the mind
fails at first to appreciate their enormous size. It is only when
standing beneath the pillars, the bases of which, alone, are higher than
a man’s stature, that one can believe the columns to be seventy-five
feet high. Even the rich tracery of the roofs and cornices, is scarcely
more striking than the orange rusty colour which the stone has assumed
in weathering. As at Jerusalem, this colour is most remarkable on the
side from which the winter storms beat on the ruins.
The position of the Kŭl’ah, or “Castle,” as the enclosure is called,
is very low; but the plateau is supported on vaults some thirty feet
high, the space enclosed being, roughly, 1000 feet east and west, by 400
north and south. On the east is a hexagonal structure, with a vestibule,
to which a flight of magnificent steps originally led up, but was
destroyed by the Saracens in converting the temple into a fortress.
The hexagon and the great court beyond, are surrounded with alcoves,
most richly decorated, and once including statues, some of which now, no
doubt, lie hidden beneath the rubbish. The domed roofs of the alcoves
are all richly carved; in one, a head surrounded with a web of scaly
wings; in another, a winged dragon straggling over the whole roof. The
shattered shafts of granite columns lie before the recesses, and mounds
of rubbish cover the floor.
A Christian basilica once stood close to the Sun Temple; but its
dimensions are dwarfed by the huge columns, which seem to bear witness
to the grandeur of the genius of their Roman founder, dwarfing the puny
attempts of Byzantine art and intellect. The church is all gone, except
the foundations. The great pillars of the Sun Temple have fallen one by
one; but six weather-beaten survivors still resist the fury of the
winter and the constant eating away of the frost, though their bases
have all been sapped by the natives, in seeking for the metal cores run
into the joints. The pillars are seventy-five feet high, and seven and a
half feet in diameter; the cornice has a weight of nearly four tons to
the square foot. As the capitals of some pillars are worn away, and the
bases of all six are undermined, they cannot be expected long to remain
standing, and any winter may bring the destruction of the most eastern
column, and perhaps of the next two.
The method of erection of these gigantic masses of masonry remains a
mystery. The Egyptian obelisks were monolithic, and could be swung into
a vertical position; but the building up of the three great stones in a
shaft, the placing of its capital, and the crowning labour of raising
the cornice blocks into position, seem to require superhuman power, and
the simple explanation of the Arabs, that the sons of the Jann were
employed to pile the great masses, seems almost a tempting theory.
The most beautiful and perfect building is the smaller Temple of
Jupiter, to the south. It is 118 feet long east and west, by sixty-five
feet broad in the interior, with a porch twenty-six feet wide in front.
The doorway, twenty-one feet broad, was spanned by a lintel in three
pieces. The central block, or key-stone, weighing sixty tons, has
slipped down, and is supported on a wall built by the Turks. Five
attached columns, with fluted shafts, are built against each wall
inside, and a rich cornice runs above them, whilst two rows of brackets,
with canopies over them, once held statues between the pillars. The
carving of the canopies is marvellously bold and intricate; every detail
is sharply cut; the rosettes and graceful arabesques stand out almost
separated from the stone. The wall across the temple, dividing off the
altar part, is covered with graceful undulating figures, unfortunately
headless; beneath are great vaults, covered with hard cement.
The door, forty-two feet high in the clear, has huge jambs in three
courses, inside each of which a little staircase is hollowed out,
ascending to the roof. The cornice above the door is perhaps the richest
design of all; and, on the soffit, or under side, a great spread eagle
is flanked by winged genii and wreaths. A correct drawing of one niche
in Baalbek would take almost a day to do, and there are at least two
hundred such niches.
The Temple of Jupiter is surrounded by a cloister, comparatively
narrow--eight feet ten inches in the clear--its columns fifty-eight feet
high. The low-arched roof above is covered with colossal busts in high
relief, set in frames of rich design. The effect of height, obtained by
the very great disproportion in width, is more striking than even that
of the loftier Six Columns.
Nine pillars remain on the north side of the cloister, and the roof,
with its sculptured kings, queens, and warriors holding palm branches,
is intact; but the rich cornice is dropping piecemeal from above. On the
south only three pillars remain standing, and one great shaft leans
against the walls, its three stones still adhering firmly together.
The greatest marvel of Baalbek has, however, still to be noticed. The
western fortress-wall is intact, and consists of drafted stones fifteen
to twenty feet long; the third course from the ground is composed,
however, of three huge blocks, each more than sixty-three feet long. In
the quarry lies a fourth, sixty-eight feet long, thirteen feet eight
inches broad, fourteen feet high, along which three horsemen might ride
abreast; it is called the “pregnant stone,” from a legend which is also
found connected with the great column of the Huldah gate in the Temple.
Such are the main features of this mightiest temple ever built by Roman
genius. In size Baalbek dwarfs Palmyra, and equals it in richness of
workmanship. No doubt the superabundance of ornamentation is a mark of
decadence in art; but the magnificence of the proportions seems to allow
of any amount of tracery, without injury to the effect as a whole.
The sun was getting low as I sat sketching the Six Columns, which stood
out dark and desolate against the glowing sky. A stork stood on one leg
on the cornice; his mate was in a nest below. As I turned eastward, the
scene was yet grander. The Temple of Jupiter was in dark shadow, with a
foreground of tumbled columns, like fallen giants, sprawling over
crushed blocks and ruined cornices. The wall on which I sat was battered
in by the thud of one huge shaft tossed against it. Beyond the temple,
the rich tracery of the Moslem _mihrab_ on the south wall was visible;
and, behind this again, was the dark foliage of mulberries, poplars, and
willows, and the bare grey hills tipped with crimson from the setting
sun.
It was indeed an impressive scene; the majesty of the Pagan, the pride
of the Moslem, superhuman power and inexhaustible fancy--all alike
things of the past; and beyond the puny works of man, the “everlasting
hills,” with the rose of evening on their summits, unchanged as they
stood long before the golden plates of the great temple had first caught
the dying beams, and as they may still glow evening after evening, long
after the huge columns have crumbled to dust. The stork stood on one
leg, and no doubt considered the matter; the stars came out one by one,
and unbroken stillness prevailed throughout the ruins.
On the 21st we rode back to Bludân, and on Monday, the 8th of September,
we again set out, this time in company with Mr. Kirby Green, on an
expedition to the summit of Hermon.
The first day’s ride was a long one. Pushing rapidly over the Zebdâny
plain, we reached, in three hours, the French road, and, crossing it,
ascended a long valley, bare and grey with cliffs and a few oak bushes.
We passed the famous temple called Deir-el-Ashaiyir, described by
Captain Warren, and then lost our way; but were at length directed by a
charcoal-burner--one of the very few natives whom we met--to the little
village of Rukhleh, on the steep barren slopes of Hermon. Here we were
joined by Mr. Wright and Sergeant Armstrong, from Damascus. We visited
the ruins and copied several inscriptions.
There are at Rukhleh two temples, one called “the King’s Castle;” there
is also a tower on a rocky knoll, and a Christian church built of the
fragments of the temples. In the church-wall is part of a lintel
representing an eagle, and a fine block with a head in bold relief,
surrounded by a circle ornamented with honeysuckle pattern; the head is
nearly five feet high.
In the afternoon we continued our ride along a rugged mountain path,
passing by Kefr Kûk, where are beautiful vineyards, and a plain, which
in winter becomes a lake, the water rushing out suddenly, with a roaring
noise, from a cavern, and flooding the whole area.
Passing by Aiha, where are remains of another temple, we hurried on to
the large town of Rashaiyeh, built about half-way up the side of Hermon,
and presenting a striking appearance, in the moonlight, with long slopes
of vineyard, terrace above terrace--a cataract of green trailing
foliage. Our entry was triumphal. The Lieutenant-Governor, on a grey
steed, pranced forth to receive the English Consul’s party, at the head
of an army of ten men, who formed line and presented arms. The
cavalry--six irregulars in all--galloped somewhat wildly about, and one
rider was kicked over his horse’s head; we then got jammed in a narrow
street, the horses fought, and the Kaimakam (or Governor) was nearly
kicked, and retired hastily.
The summit of Hermon was only about three hours distant from Rashaiyeh;
so we did not start till late next day. A reception was first held in
the little whitewashed room in which we slept. The Governor, the Kadi,
the Druse Sheikh, the Greek Pope, the Protestant schoolmaster, and their
friends, all came together to do honour to the Consul. At the farther
end of the room sat three old Druses, seemingly dyers--as their hands
were blue with indigo--who expressed extreme approval of every remark
that was made, and laughed loudly at the slightest symptom of a joke.
According to etiquette, the Governor’s visit was returned in half an
hour’s time. The military again turned out, and lemonade was brought by
a soldier, who held an embroidered cloth under our chins as we drank.
The Governor was old and fat, with a cough; he was informed that I came
to look at the stars from the top of Hermon, and supposed it was because
they could be seen better at so great a height, being so much nearer.
We commenced the ascent of some 5000 feet about 10.30 a.m., passing
first through the fine vineyards, into which the bears often come down,
from the summit, to eat grapes; thence along lanes with stone walls,
passing bushes of wild rose, of oak, and of hawthorn, and honeysuckle in
flower. We thus reached the bottom of the main peak, consisting entirely
of grey rocks, worn by snow and rain into jagged teeth and ridges,
covered with a loose shingle or gravel. It seemed impossible for horses,
and still more for laden mules, to toil up; but the breeze grew fresher,
and the bracing mountain air seemed to give vigour to man and beast.
Resting at intervals, we gradually clambered up, passing by the little
cave where the initiated Druses retire, for three or four months, and
perform unknown rites. Ridge above ridge, of rock and grey gravel,
appeared, each seemingly the last, each only hiding one above. Not an
animal was to be seen, except an occasional vulture, and not a tree or
shrub, for the snow covers all this part of the mountain till late in
summer. By two o’clock we reached the summit.
A glorious panorama repaid us for our labour. South of us lay Palestine,
visible as far as Carmel and Tabor, some eighty miles away; eastwards a
broad plain, with detached hills on the dim horizon beyond; westwards
the Lebanon and the golden sea; northwards, mountains as high as Hermon,
Lebanon, and Anti-Lebanon.
As the sun sank lower, Palestine became more distinct, and appeared
wonderfully narrow. The calm, green Sea of Galilee lay, dreamlike, in
its circle of dark-grey hills. Tabor was just visible to the south, and
from it the plateau ran out east to the Horns of Hattin. The broken
chain of the Upper Galilean Hills, 4000 feet high, lay beneath the eye,
and terminated in the Ladder of Tyre. The mole of Tyre stood out black
against the gleaming water; and the deep gorge of the Litany could be
seen winding past the beautiful fortress of Belfort. Dim and misty
beyond, lay the ridge of Carmel, from the promontory to the peak of
Sacrifice. The white domes in Tiberias were shining in the sun, and many
of the Galilean towns, including Safed, could be distinguished.
The scene presented a great contrast on the east and west. In the brown,
desolate, and boundless plain to the east, stood the distant green oasis
of Damascus, and the white city, with its tall minarets. The flat
horizon was broken only by the peaks of Jebel Kuleib, the “Hill of
Bashan,” some seventy miles away. South-east of Damascus was the
terrible Lejja district, a basin of basalt seamed with deep gorges, like
rough furrows, and with isolated cones, into which one appeared to look
down, so distinctly were the shadows marked inside the hollow broken
craters. No trees or water relieved the dusky colour; but the great dust
whirlwinds were swirling slowly along over the plains, the bodies, as
the Arabs tell us, of huge malignant spirits, carrying destruction in
their path. At the foot of the mountain little villages were perched on
the rocks, and a stream glittered in a green valley. In most of these
hamlets there is a temple facing the rising sun, which appears first
from behind the great plain on the east.
On the west, high mountain walls, ridge behind ridge, reached out
towards Beyrout, and, on the north, cedar clumps and ragged peaks, grey
and dark with long sweeping shadows, were thrown in strong contrast
against the shining sea.
The sun began to set, a deep ruby flush came over all the scene, and
warm purple shadows crept slowly on. The Sea of Galilee was lit up with
a delicate greenish-yellow hue, between its dim walls of hill. The flush
died out in a few minutes, and a pale, steel-coloured shade succeeded,
although to us, at a height of 9150 feet, the sun was still visible, and
the rocks around us still ruddy.
A long pyramidal shadow slid down to the eastern foot of Hermon, and
crept across the great plain; Damascus was swallowed up by it, and
finally the pointed end of the shadow stood out distinctly against the
sky--a dusky cone of dull colour against the flush of the afterglow. It
was the shadow of the mountain itself, stretching away for seventy miles
across the plain--the most marvellous shadow perhaps to be seen
anywhere.
The sun underwent strange changes of shape in the thick vapours--now
almost square, now like a domed temple--until at length it slid into the
sea, and went out like a blue spark.
Our tent was pitched in the hollow, and six beds crowded into it. Until
one in the morning we continued to observe the stars, but the cold was
very considerable, though no snow was left, and the only water we had
was fetched from a spring about a third of the way down, and tasted
horribly of the goat-skin. In the morning I ran to the peak, and saw the
sun emerge behind the distant plain, and the great conical shadow,
stretching over the sea and against the western sky, becoming gradually
more blunt, until it shrivelled up and was lost upon the hills beneath.
The top of Hermon consists of three rocky peaks; two, north and south,
of equal height--the third, to the west, considerably lower. On the
southern peak are the ruins called Kŭsr esh Shabîb--a rock-hewn
hollow or trench, and a circular dwarf-wall, with a temple just below
the peak on the south. On the plateau is a rudely-excavated cave, with a
rock-cut pillar supporting the roof, and a flat space levelled above,
probably once the floor of a building over the cave. Of all these
objects of interest we made careful plans, as well as of the shape of
the summit.
There is one remarkable natural peculiarity of Hermon still to be
noticed--namely, the extreme rapidity of the formation of cloud on the
summit. In a few minutes a thick cap forms over the top of the mountain,
and as quickly disperses and entirely disappears.
In the accounts of our Lord’s Transfiguration, we read that whilst
staying at Cæsarea Philippi, He retired with His disciples to a “high
mountain apart;” and there can be but little doubt that some part of
Hermon, and very probably the summit, is intended. From the earliest
period the mountain has been a sacred place; in later times it was
covered with temples; to the present day it is a place of retreat for
the Druses. This lofty solitary peak seems wonderfully appropriate for
the scene of so important an event; and in this connection the cloud
formation is most interesting, if we remember the cloud which suddenly
overshadowed the Apostles and as suddenly cleared away, when they found
“no man any more, save Jesus only, with themselves.” (Mark ix. 8.)