In The Levant 29

In The Levant 29

We leave the promontory of Beyrout, dip into a long depression, and then

begin to ascend the Lebanon. The road is hard, smooth, white; the soil

on either side is red; the country is exceedingly rich; we pass villas,

extensive plantations of figs, and great forests of the mulberry; for

the silk culture is the chief industry, and small factories of the

famous Syrian silks are scattered here and there. As the road winds

upward, we find the hillsides are terraced and luxuriant with fig-trees

and grapevines,--the latter flourishing, in fact, to the very top of the

mountains, say 5,200 feet above the blue Mediterranean, which sparkles

below us. Into these hills the people of Beyrout come to pass the heated

months of summer, living in little villas which are embowered in foliage

all along these lovely slopes. We encounter a new sort of house; it is

one story high, built of limestone in square blocks and without mortar,

having a flat roof covered with stones and soil,--a very primitive

construction, but universal here. Sometimes the building is in two

parts, like a double log-cabin, but the opening between the two is

always arched: so much for art; but otherwise the house, without

windows, or with slits only, looks like a section of stone-wall.

 

As we rise, we begin to get glimpses of the snowy peaks which make a

sharp contrast with the ravishing view behind us,--the terraced gorges,

the profound ravines, the vineyards, gardens, and orchards, the blue

sea, and the white road winding back through all like a ribbon. As we

look down, the limestone walls of the terraces are concealed, and all

the white cliffs are hidden by the ample verdure. Entering farther into

the mountains, and ascending through the grim Wady Hammâna, we have the

considerable village of that name below us on the left, lying at the

bottom of a vast and ash-colored mountain basin, like a gray heap of

cinders on the edge of a crater broken away at one side. We look at

it with interest, for there Lamartine once lived for some months in as

sentimental a seclusion as one could wish. A little higher up we come to

snow, great drifts of it by the roadside,--a phenomenon entirely beyond

the comprehension of Abdallah, who has never seen sand so cold as this,

which, nevertheless, melts in his hands. After encountering the snow, we

drive into a cold cloud, which seems much of the time to hang on the top

of Lebanon, and have a touch of real winter,--a disagreeable experience

which we had hoped to eliminate from this year; snow is only tolerable

when seen at a great distance, as the background in a summer landscape;

near at hand it congeals the human spirits.

 

When we were over the summit and had emerged from the thick cloud,

suddenly a surprise greeted us. Opposite was the range of Anti-Lebanon;

two thousand feet below us, the broad plain, which had not now the

appearance of land, but of some painted scene,--a singularity which is

partially explained by the red color of the soil. But, altogether, it

presented the most bewildering mass of color; if the valley had been

strewn with watered silts over a carpet of Persian rugs, the effect

might have been the same. There were patches and strips of green and of

brown, dashes of red, blotches of burnt-umber and sienna, alternations

of ploughed field and young grain, and the whole, under the passing

clouds, took the sheen of the opal. The hard, shining road lay down the

mountain-side in long loops, in ox-bows, in curves ever graceful, like a

long piece of white tape flung by chance from the summit to the valley.

We dashed down it at a great speed, winding backwards and forwards on

the mountain-side, and continually shifting our point of view of the

glowing picture.

 

At the little post-station of Stoura we left the Damascus road

and struck north for an hour towards Ba'albek, over a tolerable

carriage-road. But the road ceased at Mu'allakah; beyond that, a

horseback journey of six or seven hours, there is a road-bed to

Ba'albek, stoned a part of the way, and intended to be passable some

day. Mu'allakah lies on the plain at the opening of the wild gorge of

the Berduny, a lively torrent which dances down to join the Litany,

through the verdure of fruit-trees and slender poplars. Over a mile

up the glen, in the bosom of the mountains, is the town of Zahleh, the

largest in the Lebanon; and there we purposed to pass the night, having

been commended to the hospitality of the missionaries there by Dr.

Jessup of Beyrout.

 

Our halted establishment drew a crowd of curious spectators about

it, mostly women and children, who had probably never seen a carriage

before; they examined us and commented upon us with perfect freedom, but

that was the extent of their hospitality, not one of them was willing

to earn a para by carrying our baggage to Zahleh; and we started up

the hill, leaving the dragoman in an animated quarrel with the entire

population, who, in turn, resented his comments upon their want of

religion and good manners.

 

Climbing up a stony hill, threading gullies and ravines, and finally

rough streets, we came into the amphitheatre in the hills which enclose

Zahleh. The town is unique in its construction. Imagine innumerable

small whitewashed wooden houses, rising in concentric circles, one above

the other, on the slopes of the basin, like the chairs on the terraces

of a Roman circus. The town is mostly new, for the Druses captured it

and burned it in 1860, and reminds one of a New England factory village.

Its situation is a stony, ragged basin, three thousand feet above the

sea; the tops of the hills behind it were still covered with snow, and

we could easily fancy that we were in Switzerland. The ten or twelve

thousand inhabitants are nearly all Maroyites, a sect of Christians whom

we should call Greeks, but who are in communion with the Latin church;

a people ignorant and superstitious, governed by their priests,

occasionally turbulent, and always on the point of open rupture with the

mysterious and subtle Druses. Having the name of Christians and few of

the qualities, they are most unpromising subjects of missionary labor.

Yet the mission here makes progress and converts, and we were glad to

see that the American missionaries were universally respected.

 

Fortunately the American name and Christianity are exceedingly well

represented in Northern Syria by gentlemen who unite a thorough and

varied scholarship with Christian simplicity, energy, and enthusiasm.

At first it seems hard that so much talent and culture should be hidden

away in such a place as Zahleh, and we were inclined to lament a lot so

far removed from the living sympathies of the world. It seems, indeed,

almost hopeless to make any impression in this antique and conceited

mass of superstition. But if Syria is to be regenerated, and to be ever

the home of an industrious, clean, and moral people, in sympathy with

the enlightened world, the change is to be made by exhibiting to the

people a higher type of Christianity than they have known hitherto,--a

Christianity that reforms manners, and betters the social condition, and

adds a new interest to life by lifting it to a higher plane; physical

conditions must visibly improve under it. It is not enough in a village

like this of Zahleh, for instance, to set up a new form of Christian

worship, and let it drone on in a sleepy fashion, however devout and

circumspect. It needs _men_ of talent, scientific attainment, practical

sagacity, who shall make the Christian name respected by superior

qualities, as well as by devout lives. They must show a better style

of living, more thrift and comfort, than that which prevails here. The

people will by and by see a logical connection between a well-ordered

house and garden, a farm scientifically cultivated, a prosperous

factory, and the profitableness of honesty and industry, with the

superior civilization of our Western Christianity. You can already see

the influence in Syria of the accomplished scholars, skilful physicians

and surgeons, men versed in the sciences, in botany and geology, who

are able to understand the resources of the country, who are supported

there, but not liberally enough supported, by the Christians of America.

 

 

 

 

XI.--BA'ALBEK.

 

|WE were entertained at the house of the Rev. Mr. Wood, who accompanied

us the next day to Ba'albek, his mission territory including that

ancient seat of splendid paganism. Some sort of religious _fête_ in

the neighborhood had absorbed the best saddle-beasts, and we were

indifferently mounted on the refuse of donkeys and horses, Abdallah,

our most shining possession, riding, as usual, on the top of a pile of

baggage. The inhabitants were very civil as we passed along; we did not

know whether to attribute it to the influence of the missionaries or to

the rarity of travellers, but the word "backsheesh" we heard not once in

Zahleh.

 

After we had emerged from Mu'allakah upon the open plain, we passed on

our left hand the Moslem village of Kerah Nun, which is distinguished as

the burial-place of the prophet Noah; but we contented ourselves with a

sight of the dome. The mariner lies there in a grave seventy feet long,

or seventy yards, some scoffers say; but this, whatever it is, is not

the measure of the patriarch. The grave proved too short, and Noah

is buried with his knees bent, and his feet extending downward in the

ground.

 

The plain of Bukâ'a is some ninety miles long, and in this portion of

it about ten miles broad; it is well watered, and though the red soil

is stuffed with small stones, it is very fertile, and would yield

abundantly if cultivated; but it is mostly an abandoned waste of weeds.

The ground rises gradually all the way to Ba'albek, starting from an

elevation of three thousand feet; the plain is rolling, and the streams

which rush down from the near mountains are very swift. Nothing could be

lovelier than the snowy ranges of mountains on either hand, in

contrast with the browns and reds of the slopes,--like our own autumn

foliage,--and the green and brown plain, now sprinkled with wild-flowers

of many varieties.

 

The sky was covered with clouds, great masses floating about; the wind

from the hills was cold, and at length drove us to our wraps; then a

fine rain ensued, but it did not last long, for the rainy season was

over. We crossed the plain diagonally, and lunched at a little khan,

half house and half stable, raised above a stream, with a group of young

poplars in front. We sat on a raised divan in the covered court, and

looked out through the arched doorway over a lovely expanse of plain and

hills. It was difficult to tell which part of the house was devoted to

the stable and which to the family; from the door of the room which I

selected as the neatest came the braying of a donkey. The landlord and

his wife, a young woman and rather pretty, who had a baby in her arms,

furnished pipes and tobacco, and the travellers or idlers--they are

one--sat on the ground smoking narghilelis. A squad of ruffianly

Metâwileh, a sect of Moslems who follow the Koran strictly, and reject

the traditions,--perhaps like those who call themselves Bible Christians

in distinction from theological Christians,--came from the field,

deposited their ploughs, which they carried on their shoulders, on the

platform outside, and, seating themselves in a row in the khan, looked

at us stolidly. And we, having the opportunity of saying so, looked at

them intelligently.