THE DRUSES.
The Druses make the Hasbâny Valley their religious centre, as their prophet, Ed Darazi, is supposed to have been born there. Their religious books having been lost (or rather stolen by the Egyptians), their religion, which is of more recent origin than Mahometanism, is traditional only, and it is difficult to say what it really is, but it seems to have been founded on an ancient form of freemasonry. It consists of several degrees. The Druses hate Moslem and Christian pretty equally, but are more tolerant of the former, with whom they often associate for the purpose of plunder, but they would murder either without compunction. At the same time, with an appreciable regard to expediency, their religion allows them to live under whatever creed is supreme. They have, since the 1860 massacres, migrated in large numbers from the Lebanon to the Hauran, east of Jordan, which they hold practically independent of any Government whatever, although nominally subject to the Turkish Sultan. They are distinguished by white turbans. Lebanon being now a separate pashalic, under a Christian governor with a native Christian army, the Druses would find it more difficult to occupy that district now than they did in 1860; but in Anti-Lebanon they are more formidable. When a fanatical Mahommedan wishes to annoy a Druse (as was done by our muleteer in our presence) he calls him “a worshipper of the calf.” This is curious, as the golden calf set up at Dan was only a day’s march from here. The Druses have no mosques or temples, but worship in a room outside a village, and only the higher initiated members are admitted to the whole performance or allowed to learn what is known of their sacred records, which are imparted by oral instruction only, and never reduced to writing. Very few indeed are acquainted with all the mysteries of their religion, and to the higher degrees no man under 30 is ever admitted, the women, we think, never. The most sacred shrine of the Druses is a secluded cave half-way up Hermon, and there only the most secret rites are performed. A pretty ride of about six hours brings us to Rashêya.
Rashêya, the Syrian Heliopolis, or City of the Sun, is finely and healthily situated high up on the slope of Hermon. I have never been mobbed in any Eastern town as I was here, a European being quite a rara avis. Men women and children cluster round me, and even crowd into my little room to stare at me and touch my clothes, prompted, I suppose, by either curiosity or superstition or both; many seem to think me a medicine man, and bringing sick children ask me to touch them; but unfortunately I am not a doctor. A few of the younger women, having confidence in their good appearance, beg of me to draw their portraits, but my first sketch soon puts the other fair candidates to flight. Two or three enterprising young ladies, clasping my hand in theirs, entreat me to take them back with me to England and make them members of my family. I have to explain to them that the social system of the West does not allow of any such extensive adoption as that of the East. We have often been asked by mothers to take their children and bring them up as Feringhees, but think that in most cases this is done to frighten the children. The Rashêya folk are strong healthy-looking people, but have a barbarous habit of tattooing their bodies (which is seldom seen in the East), the hands especially with stripes looking like the seams of gloves. We have, as usual, the floor only to sit and sleep on. We are beginning to be quite clever at squatting à la Turc, but must admit that we think chairs, tables and beds more comfortable. The Rashêya Christians in 1860, were, as in Hasbêya, decoyed into the castle by the Turks, and by them basely betrayed to the Maronite Druses, who massacred man, woman and child.
Mount Hermon, we believe, has not been ascended to the summit by any Englishman for some years. It is called by the Arabs the Snowy Mountain: misled probably by this the text books on the subject boldly assert that its summit is perpetually covered with snow, but this is not the case, nor is it so even with the loftier peaks of Lebanon, on the opposite side of the plain. From Hermon the snow disappears some two months at least, and although we find it cold there is not a trace of snow anywhere. The bare white limestone sides of mountains are often mistaken at a distance for snow, but few travellers ever attain the summit, and hence the perpetuation of the perpetual snow fable.