Beneath us, apparently quite near, lay the calm Sea of Galilee, showing a light green among its dusky cliffs. Tabor and the Horns of Hattin appeared to the right, and the chain of the Safed mountains as far as the Ladder of Tyre. The gorge of the Litany River was clear, with Belfort on its northern slope, and Tyre itself with its harbours. Carmel formed the extreme distance on this side, about eighty miles away.
On the east the Syrian desert stretched unbroken towards the Euphrates, and the white houses and minarets of Damascus were set in a deep border of green from the surrounding gardens. Farther to the south-east, as on a map, we looked down into the craters of the Jaulan volcanoes, which seemed no larger than the hollow cones of the ant-bear. Over the great brown Bashan plains, so full of ruined Roman cities, of endless Greek inscriptions, of Nabathean texts scrawled on the rocks, and of dolmen groups yet older, we saw the great columns of the whirlwinds slowly stalking in the autumn heat. The Druze villages were at our feet, and a green valley with a gleaming stream.
On the west the long ridges of the Southern Lebanon reached out to the great level of the Mediterranean, with dark shadows in the deep ravines. On the north is Sannin, with its cedar clumps, and grey rocky walls, and valleys fringed with pines. The glorious flush of the Eastern sunset bathed all this scene for a few moments, and then, while still in sunshine ourselves, the steel-blue shadow crept over all the lower world. The great conical shadow of Hermon crept out eastwards and swallowed up Damascus, and stretching yet farther for seventy miles over the desert, stood out against the thick haze on the sky itself.
When the dawn rose, we again stood on the peak, where perhaps the old sun-worshippers used to await the great orb, which here rises from the desert horizon. Often in other places have I seen the first white streak and the glory of the aurora behind mountain ranges; but here, as the red globe appears in the mists over a boundless plain, the great shadow of Hermon stretches far across the dim Mediterranean—a sight not often seen by those who watch the dawn. Wherever a single peak stands out alone, such a shadow may be seen from the summit. In Teneriffe it stretches over the Atlantic, and the watchers on other mountains have seen it; but in Palestine there is nowhere else such a sight or so glorious a panorama, because nowhere else does a solitary mountain stand up twice the height of the surrounding hills. The great peak of Monte Viso, rising above the Italian snowy ranges, has a finer outline, but Hermon is unlike any mountain with which I am acquainted. It appears as the centre of every view in northern Palestine, and its snowy dome is seen from the plains near Jaffa, and from the valley of Jericho; while on the north its outline is equally impressive from the plains of Cœle-Syria, or from the heights of Lebanon. It is this scone which rises in the mind of Hebrew poets in many ages, and which inspires the Song of Songs: “Look from the top of Amana, from the top of Shenir, even Hermon, from the lions’ dens, and from the mountains of the leopards.”
JEBEL SANNIN (LEBANON).
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