their nature, “their hand still being against every man,” yet they never are guilty of a breach of faith or friendship. As an instance of this, an Arab was once at Damascus, and received civilities from a Damascene, who gave him some bread and tobacco. About two years passed, when it so happened that this man was going to Aleppo with a caravan, which was attacked, and, happily for all, the traveller was recognised by one of the Bedouins, who proved to be the very man who had received hospitality at Damascus.
Next on our panoramic sketch we find two hardy labourers, fine robust looking men; these are the fellahen, and their vocation in life is restricted to tilling the ground; but there are some amongst them who follow the occupation of farriers, and some few in the larger towns are blacksmiths, tinkers, and shopkeepers; but those that occupy our attention at present wear too healthy an aspect to be taken for citizens. They are peasants from a neighbouring village, and to them Sunday is a day of rest; during the weekdays they are early risers (up with the lark, and even before this “bird hath shaken the dew-drop from her wing”); to them sleep has been a boon indeed—a luxury that few who are not accustomed to hard manual labour can be supposed to enjoy. The careful thrifty wife, although her husband is an early riser, was up before him, lighting the fire, and preparing his early meal. He gets up, and goes through his ablutions; and I may here remark, that Europeans in general, and especially the English, form a very incorrect notion as to the habits of the poorer class of natives in Syria, since few people are more careful in their rigid adherence to cleanliness, though their brown sun-burnt skin gives strangers an idea to the contrary. His breakfast consists of a few
loaves, resembling Scotch cakes, on which cheese, and on fast days olives, mashed together, are carefully rolled up; sometimes, as an extra dainty, a little cold stew from yesterday’s dinner, or a small dish of leban, gives a relish to his keen appetite; and having finished this he shoulders his plough, loosens his cattle, and followed close at the heels by his house-dog, goes forth to his labour till evening. He has generally arrived at the field of action before the sun gets up to look at him, and he never leaves it till the fiery sun, red with heat, has sunk below the horizon. Truly, a labourer in Syria is a living specimen of the curse brought upon mankind by the disobedience of Adam—“He earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow.” Every day, save on fasts and festivals, his toil never ceases. At the commencement of the year, his first and most laborious occupation is that of rearing silk-worms, of which I shall now proceed to give a description.
CHAPTER XX.
THE OCCUPATIONS OF THE PEOPLE.
It is early in spring. The snow that last week lay ancle deep in the plains and valleys of Mount Lebanon, has rapidly dissolved under the genial heat of the April sun. Storms that wildly raged along the sea-girt coast, outriders of Æolus, as he swept by in his hurricane-car, drawn by equinoctial gales; these have been lulled into repose, and the turbulent billows of the deep have forgotten their rough playmate, and are hushed into tranquility. The winter garb of the forest is fast being set aside; the waters of the river flow pleasantly in the warm glow of sunshine; feathered songsters are tuning up against the great spring jubilee; the linnet and the bulbul now call to mind snatches of sweet carols many months forgotten; nature awakes to the bright morning of the year; with light heart the bee sucks from early opening flowers; with the passing song, the peasant trudges forward to his daily labour; oxen are yoked to the plough; the earth—softened with excessive moisture—yields readily to the deep furrows made by the friendly implement; long hidden seeds are turned up to the light of day, and brought forth from nature’s storehouse to supply the wants of the hungry feathered multitude; grass springs up almost perceptibly beneath our feet; the swallow has returned from his distant
journeyings, and brought with him a retinue of gaily dressed butterflies. The sun grows warmer from day to day; the sky remains clear and cloudless; the first week of April has fled on the rapid wings of time, and we are fairly launched into all the delights of an incomparable Syrian spring—hie we forth early on the morrow to breathe the pure untainted air—to revel in the sweet odours wafted around us from countless flowers—to watch the master-touch of that great and beneficent Creator, who has left no work unfinished. Manifold indeed are His works, and in wisdom has He made them all.
The morrow has come, we are up and abroad before the sun has cast his first mantle of light over the pleasant waters of the deep blue sea. We saunter into one of the many white mulberry plantations that surround us on every side, and observe that the leafless boughs are only just putting forth their tender spring buds: yet there is an unusual commotion amongst the rearers of the silkworm—whole families, men, women, and children, are variously employed; the earth round the roots of the mulberry trees is being hoed up; some are planting young shoots, others busy in the kitchen gardens; whilst, to the European eye, a few appear as though engaged in a mysterious occupation. They seem as if their arms were an inconvenience to them, or, as though they were all afflicted with boils or eruptions under their arms, which preclude the possibility of using them without intense pain and difficulty. The singular attitude of these people, as they move about like so many brood-hens with anxiously expanded wings, once attracted the attention of an English medical officer, who assured me, with great alarm depicted in his countenance, that tumours under the arm-pits are certain indications of
the plague, and he immediately recommended our instant departure from the neighbourhood; whilst uncertain what course to pursue, one of the men thrust his hand into his bosom, and extracted the immediate cause of my friend’s alarm; this proved to be a small bag of silk-worm eggs, and as this remainder of his stock has been late in hatching, the peasant resorted to artificial means, and the heat of his body is usually productive of beneficial effects. However, in some parts of Syria the eggs are deposited in moderately warm rooms, which speedily bring forth the embryo worm. Wonderful to say, these eggs, which have been suspended in linen bags throughout the whole year; during the heat of summer, the mild autumn, and the cold of winter—on which temperature has produced no effect—now that the right season has arrived, issue forth from the diminutive eggs, just as the mulberry first puts forth its delicate foliage, so well adapted to the weak state of the microscopic worm. Insects now creep round the bag that had confined them as eggs, and the peasant, who has been anxiously watching them for the last week, welcomes their appearance with infinite satisfaction, as sure harbingers of spring; and, as on the produce of the silk season the fellah and his family depend, in a great measure, for their maintenance, the different processes are watched by them with great anxiety. Now let us attend from day to day, and watch the progress of these tiny millions as they advance in growth, and finally spin round themselves that marvellous small store-house of silk, commonly designated as the cocoon.
The first steps taken by the peasants after the eggs are hatched, is to place some of the minute worms in the centre of small circular baskets, which have been carefully cemented over with cow-dung, and left in a
sunny spot till completely dry; this precaution is indispensable, because the worms are so diminutive that, however closely wrought may be the workmanship of the basket, they would inevitably fall through, and be destroyed or lost. The reason also for having the cow-dung is, that the cow is held in great esteem amongst most Oriental silk-worm breeders; and a superstitious idea prevails, that this animal has a sacred charm, and they therefore imagine that by covering the baskets with cow-dung, it will have some power over the worms. In this primitive condition, a handful of the tender leaves of the mulberry is plucked, and cut up similarly to tobacco, and then sprinkled over the young brood. This process is repeated twice daily, and suffices for the food of numerous caterpillars during the first days of their existence. Their growth is very rapid, and their appetite ravenous; and though tended each day with the utmost solicitude, it is by no means certain that one-half of the immense numbers contained in these baskets will arrive at perfection. Hundreds are trodden to death by their companions; scores of brave young worms perish beneath the weight of some slender mulberry twig, the size of which, though small indeed, is, in comparison to them, like a huge tree; besides these calamities, the worms are entirely at the mercy of the weather. In some parts of Syria, nature takes a freak into her head, and in the midst of sunshine and warmth, down comes a tremendous hail-stone shower or snow storm—then farewell to the worms and the poor peasant’s prospects; his only chance is, to send immediately to the mountain plantations, whose colder climate has retarded the hatching of the egg, and here, at great expense, purchase a second supply of “silk-worm seed” (as it is technically called by us), and then the crop is