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DAMASCUS must now be left behind, adieu, we wish we could say _au
revoir_ to its lovely lanes and pleasant orchards, its curious motley
crowded bazaars, its marble palaces and murmuring waters, and its grand
associations with all time—for did not through Damascus pass those
archaic caravans whose descendants colonised the four quarters of the
globe? Shem probably here said goodbye to Ham on his way to Africa, and
both bade God-speed to Japhet, in quest of a new world farther north;
and Noah himself—did not he pass here on his way to leave his bones as
near as possible to Eden; and are we not shown his tomb, and that of
Adam, Abel and Seth, _cum multis aliis_ near here even to this day?
Adieu also to the comfortable hotel of Demetri, an oasis in the desert
of barbarism we pass through. We follow back the diligence road a few
miles as far as Dummar, and then start upon the upper road to Baalbec,
_viâ_ Zebedâni, one of the prettiest rides in Syria; but first to get a
zest for better things we pass across the arid desert of Sahrâ. We see
on the way several rock-cut tombs, and soon enter the upper part of the
Abana watershed, which might well be called the “Happy Valley,” in this
part of the world where there is so much desert and wilderness. We pass
several Mohammedan villages having a clean prosperous appearance, the
women looking better and healthier than any we have yet seen. We now
enter the narrow gorge of the Abana, a very romantic looking defile, and
soon after about five hours from Damascus, come upon Ain El Fijeh (one
of the principal tributaries of the Barada), a little river which
springs up suddenly from the earth so abundantly as at once to form a
large stream, which, although not broad, is very deep. It must be, we
should think, the shortest river in the world. Over these springs,
half-hidden by the beautiful foliage of the fig and pomegranate, rise
the massive remains of two temples, one across the stream, one in it,
all around is a grand luxurious grove; this is a fine halting spot and a
good place for a bath. Fruit trees of all kinds—walnut, fig and orange,
mulberry, vine and lemon line the banks of this most lovely little
stream, and where its crystal current mixes with the turbid Barada,
there is a “Meeting of the Waters,” more beautiful even than the
“_Moore_” famed meeting of the Avonbeg and Avonmore in the once
picturesque Vale of Avoca. Here the giant poplar, the graceful palm, the
spreading sycamore, the sombre cypress and the stately oak, are found
forming little forests wherever a rill of living water can force its
way. If the ruined aqueducts of Tyrian and Roman times were only, and
they could easily be, reformed, the whole land would again laugh and
sing, and paradises as of old, would replace the present deserts. God
made the land a garden of Eden, man, by neglecting the watercourses, has
turned it into a wilderness. We continue our journey, following the
course of the Barada for some two hours, having a succession of pretty
woodland views until we come to Sûk Wady Barada, supposed to be the site
of the ancient Abila, the chief town of the district of Abilene, of
which (according to St. Luke) Lysanias was tetrarch in the reign, of
Tiberius Cæsar.
ABILA is said to derive it name from Abel, who according to tradition
was here slain by Cain. A Wely on an overhanging height (Neby Hâbyl) is
pointed out as Abel’s tomb. This first murder, according to tradition
was avenged by Lamech, who slew Cain on Mount Carmel, not far from
Mahrakah the rock of sacrifice, where Elijah slaughtered the prophets of
Baal. We now reach the narrowest part of the Barada gorge, where the
river descending in small cataracts is spanned by a very tumbledown
bridge, attributed by some writers to Zenobia, but more probably the
work of the Roman engineers who built the aqueducts and cut out the
_corniche_ roads.
In the cliff above—now inaccessible—we see numerous rock-cut tombs,
tunnels which once contained an aqueduct, and the remains of a
high-level mountain road, works well worthy the finest engineering of
the West. Here by the stream, near a murmuring waterfall we spread our
carpet for tiffin, the lofty overhanging cliffs, the rushing eddying
waters, the greensward and cool shade of trees (all so uncommon at this
season in the East), combining to make it a very delightful resting
place. On resuming our ride we pass some fine waterfalls and ruined
bridges, and then enter the mountain-girt grass plain of Zebedâni, one
of the most fertile in the land, well watered and well cultivated; then,
after passing some more ruins, we ride through some pretty English-like
lanes to the town, which is the half-way halting place between Damascus
and Baalbec. The population is chiefly Moslem, but there are many
Maronites also. We lodge with the chief priest. We may here remark that
the Maronites are a primitive community of Christians who acknowledge
the Roman Pontiff as their nominal head, but cannot be called orthodox
Roman Catholics, for they are really ruled by their own patriarch and do
not carry out the Roman ritual. They might almost equally well
acknowledge the Archbishop of Canterbury as their chief. The Maronite
women are distinguished by a black band on the forehead.
ZEBEDÂNI is a small town, finely situated in the midst of most luxurious
vegetation, and almost surrounded by mountains. It boasts a small
Bazaar. Its low mud houses are built closely together, only one or two
having a first floor; most have a small courtyard, into which the goats
and cattle are driven at night. The low flat roofs of the houses are
used much more for getting about the village than the dark, dirty
ill-paved lanes; and, as in other villages, the people sleep in the open
on the roof; and when in the early morning sleeper after sleeper raised
his or her head from beneath the coverlet, gave a yawn and a stretch and
tried to escape from dreamland, the effect was comical in the extreme.
All turned out at dawn of day—lodgers on the cold ground are as a rule
early risers. The room we have is clean, contains the usual curtained
recesses in the walls for cupboards, and a wooden ledge round top of
room for stores, and, what is the only piece of furniture ever seen in
these parts, a large damasceened chest for the valuables of the
household. The mural decorations consist of English willow pattern
plates cemented into the walls—this is a decided improvement on hanging
them up by wires, as they are not liable to be broken by domestic
dusting. We have seen the outside as well as the inside of dwellings
decorated in this manner, and our Western sisters are long forestalled
in this kind of mural ornaments by their barbaric sisters in the East.
Our worthy host is rather nervous about being massacred by Druses, and
we try to reassure him by saying that times are changed since 1860, and
that there is not any occasion to fear; but we should not like to back
this opinion too heavily, for we believe that the fanatical Moslems and
Druses are as bloodthirsty against Christians as ever they were; soon
after writing above there was a collision between Moslems and Christians
at Beyrût, and several of the latter were massacred. There was also an
attack on Christians in the Hauran by the Druses. A Turk only recently
said to me what FROUDE said in September, 1880, in his admirable article
on Ireland: “The idea of Government had almost ceased to exist, and that
every one had to look after his own immediate interest,” and in the case
of a collapse of Turkish rule (not unlikely), Arabs would swarm in from
the desert like locusts, murder all round, and in all probability
permanently occupy the whole country. When we mount our horses at
daybreak the summits of the hills are brightly gilded with the rising
sun. No poetical expression, no fancy pen-picture this gilding of the
hills—far too beautiful to be expressed in language, far too bright to
be pictured in painting, is the grand _mise-en-scène_ of black and gold
set in silver frame produced by the rays of the rising sun mingling with
the disappearing darkness. We have seen it also on many former
occasions; once notably when after sleeping 10,000 feet high in the
Théodule hut under the Matterhorn we saw the Italian mountains literally
bathed in the brightest gold as the sun climbed up to the summits of the
highest peaks and crept down the opposite sides into the valley.
At Zebedâni, by-the-bye, we have a good opportunity of seeing the Syrian
sheep, remarkable for their tremendous tails, and watch the women
stuffing the vine leaves down the sleepy animals’ throats, for the
purpose of creating the enormous quantity of fat, which flies to the
tail and is used to fatten the frugal dish of sour milk and rice, which,
with a salad of olives, fruit and vegetables, all jumbled together into
one great hotch-pot, form their staff of life called (as our German
friends would say aptly) Leben. To this meat is added in times of
plenty. We soon leave the lovely valley of Zebedâni behind, and passing
under Bludàn, the summer residence of the European Consuls, arrive at
the upper source of the Barada, near the watershed of the Anti-Lebanon,
the streams now flowing towards Damascus south-east, and towards the
Bukâa and Lebanon north-west. The first fountain on the northern slope
is that of Eve, in whose transparent waters the mother of all was,
according to poetical tradition, admiring herself when her future lord
and master (as he is euphemistically called) first caught sight of her.
We infer from the Bible description that the Garden of Eden was by no
means a small one, and must have included all Syria Mesopotamia,
Palestine and Egypt, if not the whole of the world. As we are soon
leaving Anti-Lebanon, we may observe that this mountain range extends
from Banias, at the head of the Jordan Valley, to the plains of the
Bukâa, in which is Baalbec. Hermon is sometimes reckoned as part of it,
but on account of its almost isolated position, is often considered to
be as a mountain in business for itself. On our way we cross two Roman
bridges, now on their last legs, but they have done well to have lasted
1800 years.
[Illustration:
BAALBEC—_The Great Stone in the Quarry_.
]
Between Rashêya and this place we have seen two ancient wine presses,
hewn out of the solid rock; they date over 2,000 perhaps 3,000 years
back; they enable one to understand what building a wine press meant,
and what a terrible loss and disappointment it would be to the builder,
if, when he “looked for grapes, he found but wild grapes.” The Cactus
hedges too, with which the vineyards are surrounded to keep out the
“little foxes that spoil the vines,” also take great trouble and many
years before they form that impenetrable barrier through which even the
wild boar cannot break his way. We pass through Surghaya and halt for
lunch in the Wady Yafûfeh, on the banks of the Saradah, which we cross
by a single arched Saracenic bridge, and on resuming our journey leave
on our left Nadu Shays, the reputed tomb of Seth. Ham is said to be
buried a little further east. A beautiful panorama of Lebanon now bursts
upon our view, separated from us by the great plain of the Bukâa, or
valley of the Litany (the accursed river). We next pass near the village
of Brêethen, thought to be the Beroshai of Samuel, and soon come in
sight of the many-rilled orchard gardens and grand Acropolis of Baalbec,
the great ancient shrine of Baal in Phœnicia, the Heliopolis, or City of
the Sun of the Greeks and Romans, and the Baal-gad, according to many,
of Joshua, formerly a station like Palmyra on the great caravan road
from Tyre to India, which we may mention was the original overland
route, and if history repeats itself will be so again. What shorter
route to India can there be than rail to Brindisi, steamer to Corinth
through the canal now being made to Piræus, across the Ægean, to Smyrna,
and thence all the way by rail through the iron gates of Cilicia, _viâ_
the two Antiochs, Syria, Mesopotamia, Persia and Afghanistan, to
India—there are no difficulties which modern engineers could not
overcome. But perhaps we are waiting for the French or Germans to show
the way.[1] Before entering the town we visit the ancient quarries out
of which were hewn the enormous Cyclopean stones which formed the very
ancient Phœnician or Hittite foundation. One block lies there already
hewn but not quite separated from the quarry, it is about 70 feet long,
14 feet wide and 14 high, weighing some 10,000 tons; other large stones
are seen lying about partially hewn—why they were thus left unfinished
in the workshop—whether it was an Assyrian or Persian invader who made
the busy mason so suddenly throw away the gavel to seize the sword will
now never be known. We put up at a small hotel facing the ruins, and
find it fairly comfortable; but are quite alone in our glory until late
in the evening, when an English countess and her niece come in with two
Turkish guards as guides, with whom they can only converse in the
primitive language of signs—the result being that when next morning they
want to see the ruins, they are taken from them, to a hill some miles
off, where they see them—from a distance—a fine effect probably, but not
what was wanted. However, we coming to the rescue, they get a closer
inspection in the afternoon, and having previously gone through it all
ourselves, are quite eloquent in dragomanic descriptions. Their guides,
if not useful as Cicerones, were we must admit extremely picturesque and
pleasant barbarians. The younger lady has we believe by this time
immortalized them and the ruins on canvas, and we hope with supreme
effect, for we planted the fair artist on a high pinnacle of the Temple
from which the _coup d’oeil_ was magnificent.
Footnote 1:
Since writing the above we hear that the Porte are about to grant a
firman to make a railway from Ismid to Bagdad.
Soon after, we see another instance of the inconvenience of having a
guide whose language is unintelligible. On our way to Beyrût we meet a
man and his horse at cross purposes, endeavouring in vain to find out
the reason from his Arab guide. He appeals to us; “Well,” we say, “you
and your horse certainly do not appear to be friends.” “No,” the
traveller replies, “he does not understand me, and I do not understand
my guide, who only speaks Arabic; my horse is a brute.” “Not so, my
friend,” we rejoin, “you are riding him with an Arab bridle in English
fashion.” He was, in fact, unknowingly the greater brute of the two, for
he was torturing the poor beast, and the injured animal might, if he had
been so gifted as the Scriptural ass, have appropriately replied, “Tu
quoque _brute_.” The Arab bit is in the shape of a gridiron (minus
interior bars), a ring hangs from the flat broad end of it, in which the
lower jaw of the animal is placed the handle of the gridiron is in the
mouth, and by a pull of the reins is forced up into the roof of the
mouth, causing considerable pain; the reins are bunched in the hand, and
the animal is guided by laying the left rein across the neck when
wishing to go to the right, and _vice versâ_. Pulling the rein English
fashion would simply hurt and puzzle the animal. We explain the process
and leave the man and his beast better friends; they now understand each
other. (How many of us would also like each other better if we were less
impatient, and took more trouble to understand). Horse and rider now go
on their way as reconciled to one another as Balaam to the ass after the
departure of the Angel.
[Illustration:
_A Street called “Straight,” Damascus._
]
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[Illustration]