CHAPTER V.—The Anti-Lebanon.
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.
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.
[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.
A Street called “Straight,” Damascus.
