We have now another long, low cape, called Nukkar Jedrah, even inure rocky than es S'adîat.
Roman Highway
Are these parallel lines of rough rock, some sixteen feet apart, the curbstones of Rome's far-famed roads?
They are; and they do not give a favorable idea of these ancient highways. But they were probably covered over with some sort of composition, not unlike the crushed rock of our modern macadamized roads. I have seen specimens of this in good preservation.
One of my fair friends in America charged me to bring her some memento from the grave of Lady Hester Stanhope. Is not her ladyship's last resting-place somewhere in this neighborhood. On a mountain top, about three hours to the southeast of us; and, as there is nothing of interest along the regular road, we can visit it, if you have no objections to a smart scramble over these hills.
Lead on. No path can be more abominable than this slippery pavement.
We must first provide for lunch. No experienced traveler in this country will forget the commissary department. I must also direct Salim to go on to the bridge over the Owely, and there prepare dinner. We shall be ready for it about three o'clock.
A Mountain Path
Now take that path up the steep face of the mountain on the left, and you will have enough to do to manage yourself and your horse without the trouble of conversation.
Well, this is rough enough, certainly, and desolate too,—fit only for goats and their keepers. I see Arab tents, however.
Yes; and there are villages also, hidden away in the wadies, with vineyards, and olive-orchards, and fields for corn, which produce no mean crop. What bird is this which abounds so much on these mountains?
The Lapwing
It is the English pewit, or lapwing, called by the natives Now, and Bu-Teet, and I know not what besides. The first name is derived from the fact that the bird appears here only in the depth of winter — now being a cold winter-storm.
ILLUSTRATION
I have seen them coming down the coast in large flocks on the wings of the wild north wind. They then disperse over these mountains, and remain until early spring, when they entirely disappear. They roost on the ground wherever night overtakes them. I have frequently started them up from under the very feet of my frightened horse when riding in the dark, especially along the spurs of old Hermon, and in Wady et Teim, between the two Lebanons. They utter a loud scream when about to fly, which sounds like a prolonged teet, and hence the name Bu-Teet—father of teet. It is the dûkephath of Moses, translated lapwing in our version, and I think correctly, notwithstanding what some recent writers advance against it. It was classed by Moses among the unclean birds, and is so regarded now by the Arabs, who refuse to eat it. The upper parts of the body and wings are of a dull slate color, the under parts of both are white. It has a top-knot on the hinder part of the head, pointing backward like a horn; and when running about on the ground, it closely resembles a young hare.
The Hed-Hood
The crown, or top-knot, never expands, like that of the hed-hood or hoopoe. This latter bird is also found in the country, and the Arabic translation of dûkephath is hed-hood, and many modern critics have adopted this opinion, but erroneously, as I think. The hed-hood is a small bird, good to eat, comparatively rare, and therefore not likely to have been mentioned at all by Moses, and still less to have been classed with the unclean. The Bu-Teet is large and striking, and appears in countless numbers. There is, however, a resemblance between them, especially in the remarkable tuft on the head. The whole subject of Biblical ornithology, however, is obscure, and the prohibitions of Moses would now, in many cases, be of no practical avail in reference to birds unclean, since we cannot tell to what ones he refers. But a truce to birds. Follow me down this winding track into the gorge below, and be careful. On you be the responsibility. I have no longer any criterion by which to judge whether a path is safe or otherwise; and as to these little horses, one might ride them up stairs to bed, I presume, without hesitation, at least on their part. But in all seriousness, these mountain roads are positively barbarous.
ILLUSTRATION
I hope you will be able to extract some pleasing and profitable instruction out of them, or my patience will be again upset very soon.
Preparing the Way
Nothing easier. A whole class of Biblical figures rests on this state of things. Isaiah says, “Prepare ye the way of the people; cast up, cast up the high-way; gather out the stones” (Isa. 62:1010Go through, go through the gates; prepare ye the way of the people; cast up, cast up the highway; gather out the stones; lift up a standard for the people. (Isaiah 62:10)), and not only do modern ways prove the need of such preparation, but modern customs show how, when, and why it is done. When Ibrahim Pasha proposed to visit certain places on Lebanon, the emeers and sheikhs sent forth a general proclamation, somewhat in the style of Isaiah's exhortation, to all the inhabitants, to assemble along the proposed route, and prepare the way before him. The same was done in 1845, on a grand scale, when the present sultan visited Brusa. The stones were gathered out, crooked places straightened, and rough ones made level and smooth. I had the benefit of their labor a few days after his majesty's visit. From customs like these comes the exhortation of John the Baptist, “Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight” (Matt. 3:33For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. (Matthew 3:3)) or, as it is more fully developed by the prophet, “Make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain” (Isa. 40:3-43The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. 4Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: (Isaiah 40:3‑4)).
Gathering Out the Stones
The exhortation to gather out the stones is peculiarly appropriate. These farmers do the exact reverse—gather up the stones from their fields, and cast them into the high, way; and it is this barbarous custom which in many places renders the paths so uncomfortable, and even dangerous.
I have been all the morning in exquisite sympathy with Job, David, Jeremiah, and other prophets and poets who complain of narrow paths. Ours has frequently been not more than a foot wide, of hard, smooth rock, and with a profound gorge yawning beneath.
Slippery Places
You will encounter many such in our rambles along the highways and byways of the land. A dozen “slippery places” have impressed their ugly features upon my imagination. Jeremiah says that the ways of both prophet and priest who were profane should be “as slippery ways in the darkness” (Jer. 23:1212Wherefore their way shall be unto them as slippery ways in the darkness: they shall be driven on, and fall therein: for I will bring evil upon them, even the year of their visitation, saith the Lord. (Jeremiah 23:12)). This is the danger vastly aggravated, according to my experience.
Darkness
During the rebellion of Jerusalem in 1834, I attempted to reach the city from Lydd by ascending the mountains along secret paths in a night intensely dark. A fog also settled down upon us, and added to the gloom. My guides lost the way, and, after wandering and slipping about in the utmost danger for several hours, we were obliged to lie down upon a bare rock and wait for the morning. At such times one can appreciate those promises which insure from sliding and falling (Prov. 3:2323Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. (Proverbs 3:23); Jer. 31:99They shall come with weeping, and with supplications will I lead them: I will cause them to walk by the rivers of waters in a straight way, wherein they shall not stumble: for I am a father to Israel, and Ephraim is my firstborn. (Jeremiah 31:9)). To slide and fall is, in a thousand places, certain destruction; and no threatenings against the workers of iniquity are more terrible than that they shall be set in slippery places; that “their feet shall slide in due time” (Deut. 32:3535To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste. (Deuteronomy 32:35)). One needs a steady eye and obedient nerves to ride along the edge of yawning chasms, and listen calmly to the hard clatter of the iron upon the smooth rock. I generally dismount and walk; but some native horsemen ride over everything. Burckhardt describes the obstinate perseverance of the old Sheikh of Kerak in this sort of desperate daring. They were descending into Wady il 'Ahsa: “It had now become dark, and this was, without exception, the most dangerous route I ever traveled in my life. The descent is steep, and there is no regular road over the smooth rocks, where the foot slips at every step. We had missed our way, and were obliged to alight from our horses — after many of us had suffered severe falls. Our sheikh was the only horseman who would not alight from his mare, whose step, he declared, was as sure as his own.” Very likely; but I would rather fall from my own feet than plunge, horse and all, over some break-neck precipice. Therefore I dismount, as I do here, out of respect to this broad, slanting rock; and you had better do the same, or we may have to pick up both horse and rider from that terrace down yonder, in no wise improved by the feat. And now we must climb once more up five hundred feet, to that castle-like enclosure around the top of this bold mountain pyramid.
Dahr June
Safely done; and here we stand on Dahr June, and beneath this rude and broken tomb lies buried the once lovely, and witty, and most eccentric Lady Hester Stanhope.
Is it possible? Can anything be more sad and solitary? But perhaps it is well that it should be thus.
A melancholy change has indeed come over the scene since I first visited it. The garden, with its trellised arbors, and shaded alleys, and countless flowers, is utterly destroyed, and not one room of all her large establishment remains entire. This on the southwest corner was the apartment in which her ladyship wore out the three last dreary months of life; and this on the east of it was the open lewan, where we found the body wrapped in waxed cloths dipped in turpentine and spirits. The whole of these premises were alive with her servants and others assembled on this mournful occasion.
Utter Solitude
Now not a dog, cat, or even lizard appears, to relieve the utter solitude. The tomb also is sadly changed. It was then embowered in dense shrubbery, and covered with an arbor of running roses, not a vestige of which now remains; and the stones of the vault itself are broken and displaced. There is no inscription—not a word in any language; and, unless more carefully protected than hitherto, the last resting-place of her ladyship will soon be entirely lost. The history of this place is peculiar. It belonged to a wealthy Christian of Damascus, who built the original house, to which Lady Hester added some twenty-five or thirty rooms. At his death, soon after that of Lady Hester, the property was left to an only son, who quickly spent it all by his extravagance. He then turned Moslem, and not long ago hung himself in a neighboring house. His Moslem wife—a low, vulgar creature—fearing that the Christians would one day deprive her of the place, tore down the buildings, and sold the materials to the people of June. Thus the destruction has been intentional, rapid, and complete.
The British Consul at Beira requested one to perform the religious services at the funeral of Lady Hester. It was an intensely hot Sabbath in June, 1839. We started on our melancholy errand at one o'clock, and reached this place about midnight. After a brief examination, the consul decided that the funeral must take place immediately. This vault in the garden was hastily opened, and the bones of General L—or of his son, I forget which—a Frenchman who died here, and was buried in the vault by her ladyship—were taken out and placed at the head.
The Vault
The body, in a plain deal box, was carried by her servants to the grave, followed by a mixed company, with torches and lanterns, to enable them to thread their way through the winding alleys of the garden. I took a wrong path, and wandered sometime in the mazes of these labyrinths. When at length I entered the arbor, the first thing I saw were the bones of the general, in a ghastly heap, with the head on top, having a lighted taper stuck in either eye-socket a hideous, grinning spectacle. It was difficult to proceed with the service under circumstances so novel and bewildering. The consul subsequently remarked that there were some curious coincidences between this and the burial of Sir John Moore, her ladyship's early love. In silence, on the lone mountain at midnight, “our lanterns dimly burning,” with the flag of her country over her, “she lay like a warrior taking his rest”; and we left her “alone in her glory.” There was but one of her own nation present, and his name was Moore.
The people of June, that village across the wady, made large profits from the liberality and extravagances of Lady Hester, and they are full of wonderful stories about her. Several of our friends in Sidon were in her service for years, and from them, and from others still more closely connected, I have had abundant opportunity to learn the character of this strange being.
Her Talents, Dress, Spies
On most subjects she was not merely sane, but sensible, well-informed, and extremely shrewd. She possessed extraordinary powers of conversation, and was perfectly fascinating to all with whom she chose to make herself agreeable. She was, however, whimsical, imperious, tyrannical, and, at times, revengeful in a high degree. Bold as a lion, she wore the dress of an emeer, weapons, pipe, and all; nor did she fail to rule her Albanian guards and her servants with absolute authority. She kept spies in the principal cities, and at the residences of pashas and emeers, and knew everything that was going forward in the country. Her garden of several acres was walled round like a fort; and crowning the top of this conical hill, with deep wadies on all sides, the appearance from a distance was quite imposing. But the site was badly chosen. The hill has no relative elevation above others; the prospect is not inviting; the water is distant, far below, and had to he carried up on mules.
Grounds
She, however, had the English taste for beautiful grounds, and spared neither time, labor, nor expense to convert this barren hill into a wilderness of shady avenues, and a paradise of sweet flowers; and she succeeded. I have rarely seen a more beautiful place.
The morning after the funeral the consul and I went round the premises and examined thirty-five rooms, which had been sealed up by the vice-consul of Sidon to prevent robbery. They were full of trash. One had forty or fifty oil-jars of French manufacture, old, empty, and dusty. Another was crammed with Arab saddles, moth-eaten, tattered, and torn. They had belonged to her mounted guard. Superannuated pipe-stems without bowls filled one room. Two more were devoted to medicines; and another to books and papers, mostly in boxes and ancient chests. Nothing of much value was found anywhere, and the seals were replaced to await legal action. The crowd of servants and greedy retainers had appropriated to themselves her most valuable effects. One of the wealthy citizens of Sidon is said to have obtained his money in this way. She told Mrs. T—that once, when she was supposed to be dying of plague, she could hear her servants breaking open her chests, and ripping off the embossed covers of her cushions. “Oh! didn't I vow,” said she, “that if I recovered I would make a scattering of them!” and she performed her vow to the letter. But each succeeding set, like the flies in the fable of the fox, were as greedy as their predecessors; and, as she finally died of a lingering disease, they had time enough to work their will, and nothing valuable escaped their rapacity.
Death
What a death! Without a European attendant—without a friend, male or female—alone, on the top of this bleak mountain, her lamp of life grew dimmer and more dim, until it went quite out in hopeless, rayless night. Such was the end of the once gay and brilliant niece of Pitt, presiding in the saloons of the master-spirit of Europe, and familiar with the intrigues of kings and cabinets. With Mr. Abbot and his lady she would sit out the longest night talking over those stirring times of the last century and the beginning of the present, with exhaustless spirit and keen delight. But nothing could tempt her back to England. At length, her income was greatly curtailed in order to pay off her numerous debts. She was furious, but unsubdued. In her mountain nest, and all alone, she dragged out the remnant of her days in haughty pride and stubborn independence.
She could be extremely sarcastic, and her satire was often terrible. Many of her letters, and the margin of books which I purchased at the auction, are “illuminated” with her caustic criticisms. There was no end to her eccentricities.
Her Beliefs and Unbelief’s
In some things she was a devout believer—an unbeliever in many. She read the stars, and dealt in nativities and a sort of second-sight, by which she pretended to foretell coming events. She practiced alchymy, and in pursuit of this vain science was often closeted with strange companions. She had a mare whose back-bone sank suddenly down at the shoulders, and rose abruptly near the hips. This deformity her vivid imagination converted into a miraculous saddle, on which she was to ride into Jerusalem as queen by the side of some sort of Messiah, who was to introduce a fancied millennium. Another mare had a part to play in this august pageant, and both were tended with extraordinary care. A lamp was kept burning in their very comfortable apartments, and they were served with sherbet and other delicacies.
Whimsicalities
Nothing about the premises so excited my compassion as these poor pampered brutes, upon which Lady Hester had lavished her choicest affections for the last fourteen years. They were soon after sold at auction, when hard work and low living quickly terminated their miserable existence. Lady Hester was a doctor, and most positive in her prescriptions to herself, her servants, her horses, and even to her chickens, and often did serious mischief to all her patients. She had many whimsical tests of character both for man and beast, and, of course, was often deceived by both to her cost. But we must end these random sketches. To draw a full-length portrait is aside from our purpose and beyond our power. She was wholly and magnificently unique. Now riding at the head of wild Arabs, queen of the desert, on a visit to Palmyra; now intriguing with mail pashas and vulgar emeers: at one time treating with contempt consuls, generals, and nobles, bidding defiance to law, and thrashing the officers sent to her lodge; at another, resorting to all sorts of mean shifts to elude or confound her creditors: today charitable and kind to the poor; tomorrow oppressive, selfish, and tyrannical in the extreme. Such was Lady Hester in her mountain home on Lebanon. I should like to read the long, dark, interior life of such a being, but not to live it. Alas! she must have drained to the dregs many a bitter cup.
Her War With Nature, God and Man
Her sturdy spirit here fought out all alone a thousand desperate battles, and lost them all. Let those who are tempted to revolt against society, and war with nature, God, and man, come to Bahr June—sit on the fragments of this broken tomb, amid ruins without beauty to charm or age to make venerable—itself a ruin of yesterday, and sinking fast to hopeless oblivion. Will such an end pay for such a life? But enough of Lady Hester. Poor wandering star, struck from the bright galaxy of England's happy daughters to fall and expire on this solitary summit of Lebanon! I drop a tear upon thy lonely grave, which, living, thy proud spirit would have scorned.
A Convent
We will now pass round the head of this ravine, through June, and down those sloping hills of white marl to the River Owely. Let me call your attention to that large convent, called Deir Mukhullis, on the mountain side across the wady. It is the wealthiest establishment of the kind in this part of the country; sustains a school, not very ably conducted; and owns a printing-press, not now in operation. East of us extends the large district of the Shûf, the stronghold of the Druses. It is governed and largely owned by Saied Beg, of the Jemblât family, whose palace is at Mukhtarah.
Our path is leading us into the midst of a very lively agricultural scene; but are not these farmers too late in sowing their grain?
Sowing
That depends on the nature of coining spring. If the latter part of March and the first half of April be rainy, the wheat, and especially the barley, sown now, and even weeks later, may yield a better harvest than what has been in the ground for the last month. In such seasons, the early crop grows so rank as to lodge, when it is entirely spoiled. If the spring, however, should be early and dry, the late sown will fail altogether. This is one of many circumstances which render the crop less certain in Palestine than in Ohio.
Going Forth to Sow
We may now gather a harvest of our own peculiar kind from the operation going on under our eye. The parable about sowing (Matt. 13:3-83And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow; 4And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: 5Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: 6And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. 7And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: 8But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. (Matthew 13:3‑8)) has here its illustration, even in its most minute details. “Behold, a sower went forth to sow.” There is a nice and close adherence to actual life in this form of expression. These people have actually come forth all the way from June to this place.
Hamlets
The expression implies that the sower, in the days of our Savior, lived in a hamlet, or village, as all these farmers now do; that he did not sow near his own house, or in a garden fenced or walled, for such a field does not furnish all the basis of the parable. There are, neither roads, nor thorns, nor stony places in such lots. He must go forth into the open country as these have done, where there are no fences; where the path passes through the cultivated land; where thorns grow in clumps all around; where the rocks peep out in places through the scanty soil; and where also, hard by, are patches extremely fertile.
The Parable
Now here we have the whole four within a dozen rods of us. Our horses are actually trampling down some seeds which have fallen by this wayside, and larks and sparrows are busy picking them up. That-man, with his mattock, is digging about places where the rock is too near the surface for the plow; and much that is sown there will wither away, because it has no deepness of earth. And not a few seeds have fallen among this bellan, and will be effectually choked by this most tangled of thorn bushes. But a large portion, after all, falls into really good ground, and four months hence will exhibit every variety of crop, up to the richest and heaviest that ever rejoices the heart even of an American farmer.
Certainly nothing could be more to the point than this illustration. We doubtless are looking upon the very facts which suggested to Him who taught in parables the instructive lesson of the sower. May our hearts be like that good ground which brought forth fruit, some a hundred fold, some sixty fold, some thirty fold! But do you suppose that the enormous increase of a hundred fold is ever gathered by the modern farmer?
I was greatly surprised, when discussing this question on the fertile plain of Esdraelon, to hear not merely the peasants, but intelligent gentlemen, who bad rented the district from government, stoutly maintain that they had themselves, and that very year, reaped more than a hundred fold from part of that plain. I could not understand it until by accident it came out that they had a peculiar mode of calculation. In sowing, they allow one third of the seed for the birds, particularly the crows, which settle down upon the fields in countless flocks. Another third is supposed to be destroyed by mice and insects, and only one third of the seed sown actually comes to maturity. Thus a man sows three bushels, and if he reap a hundred, it is a hundred fold according to his mode of calculation, but according to ours it would only be thirty-three. This latter rate is nearly the lowest mentioned in the parable as the yield of what He calls good ground, and that is really a first-rate crop for even such plains as Esdraelon, which, being directly below Nazareth, must have been perfectly familiar to our Lord; and, as cultivation was no doubt far more careful and skilful than it is now among these stupid fellahîn, it is not at all improbable that the numbers used are in strict accordance with actual experience. Indeed, He could not have erred in this matter. We may suppose, however, that the different rates of yield had reference to various kinds of grain. Barley and wheat are sown side by side in the same field, but the former gives a much heavier crop than the latter.
Four-Hundred Fold
There is a kind of durrah—white maize—sown in this same region, which often returns several hundred fold. I have been assured by respectable farmers that they have gathered more than four hundred fold of this corn.
In the time of Christ the country was densely peopled, and the fields protected from the depredations of birds, mice, and insects, and also from cattle and other animals which now trample under foot so much of the grain. It would then not be necessary to sow more than one-third as much seed as at present in order to secure an equally heavy crop, and thus there might be realized, in favorable circumstances, a hundred fold. This is further confirmed by the fact that an extraordinary number of stalks do actually spring from a single root. Here, on this plain of Sidon, I have seen more than a hundred, and each with a head bowing gracefully beneath the load of well-formed grains. The yield was more than a thousand fold. The supposition in the parable is history in the case of Isaac, who reaped a hundred fold in Gerar, and “in the same year” (Gen 26:1212Then Isaac sowed in that land, and received in the same year an hundredfold: and the Lord blessed him. (Genesis 26:12)). There is a verbal accuracy in this statement worth noting. He received this large return the same year in which he sowed the seed. In our country—at least when I was a farmer—the seed is sown one year and the harvest reaped the next. But these now sowing before us will reap in less than four months; and this is the general result now, as it doubtless was in the time of the patriarchs.
Have you noticed anything in this country which may have suggested the expressions in the 126th Psalm: “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him?” (Psa. 126:5-65They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. 6He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. (Psalm 126:5‑6)).
Sowing in Tears
I never saw people sowing in tears exactly, but have often known them to do it in fear and distress sufficient to draw them from any eye. In seasons of great scarcity, the poor peasants part in sorrow with every measure of precious seed cast into the ground. It is like taking bread out of the mouths of their children; and in such times many bitter tears are actually shed over it. The distress is frequently so great that government is obliged to furnish seed, or none would be sown. Ibrahim Pasha did this more than once within my remembrance, copying the example, perhaps, of his great predecessor in Egypt when the seven years' famine was ended.
The thoughts of this psalm may likewise have been suggested by the extreme danger which frequently attends the farmer in his plowing and sowing. The calamity which fell upon the husbandmen of Job, when the oxen were plowing, and the asses feeding beside them, and the Sabeans fell upon them and took them away, and slew the servants with the edge of the sword (Job 1:14-1514And there came a messenger unto Job, and said, The oxen were plowing, and the asses feeding beside them: 15And the Sabeans fell upon them, and took them away; yea, they have slain the servants with the edge of the sword; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee. (Job 1:14‑15)), is often repeated in our day. To understand this, you must remember what I have just told you about the situation of the arable lands in the open country; and here again we meet that verbal accuracy: the sower goes forth—that is, from the village.
Distance of Fields From Houses
The people of Ibel and Khiem, in Merj 'Aiyûn, for example, have their best grain-growing fields down in the 'And Hûleh, six or eight miles from their homes, and just that much nearer the lawless border of the desert. When the country is disturbed, or the government weak, they cannot sow these lands except at the risk of their lives.
Dangers
Indeed, they always go forth in large companies, and completely armed, ready to drop the plow and seize the musket at a moment's warning; and yet, with all this care, many sad and fatal calamities overtake the men who must thus sow in tears. And still another origin may be found for the thoughts of the psalm in the extreme difficulty of the work itself in many places.
Difficulties
The soil is rocky, impracticable, overgrown with sharp thorns; and it costs much painful toil to break up and gather out the rocks, cut and burn the briers, and to subdue the stubborn soil, especially with their feeble oxen and insignificant plows. Join all these together, and the sentiment is very forcibly brought out, that he who labors hard, in cold and in rain, in fear and danger, in poverty and in want, casting his precious seed in the ground, will surely come again, at harvest-time, with rejoicing, and bearing his sheaves with him.
Does the calamity mentioned by Joel (1:17) ever befall the farmer in these days—”The seed is rotten under their clods?”
Seed Rotting
It is certain to follow if they sow too long before the rain comes. The seed then rots, and the work must be done over again. The whole description of drought in this chapter is terribly graphic: “That which the palmer-worm hath left hath the locust eaten, and what the locust hath left the canker-worm hath eaten, and that which the canker-worm hath left bath the caterpillar eaten. Be ashamed, O ye husbandmen; howl, O ye vine-dressers, for the wheat and for the barley, because the harvest of the field is perished. The vine is dried up; the fig-tree languisheth; the pomegranate-tree, the palm-tree also, and the apple-tree, even all the trees of the field, are withered. Alas for the day! The meat is cut off before our eyes; the seed is rotten under their clods, and the garners are laid desolate, the barns are broken down. How do the beasts groan! the herds of cattle are perplexed because they have no pasture. Fire hath devoured the pastures of the wilderness, and the flame hath burned all the trees of the field.” Such a day of destruction from the Almighty has more than once come upon this unhappy land, because of the wickedness of those that dwell therein.
Orchards of Sidon
But here we are upon the banks of this fine mountain stream, with the rich orchards of Sidon spread out before us. All this verdure depends upon the river, and should its fountains fail or be diverted, the whole fair scene would quickly vanish. But such a calamity is not likely to occur. The Owely takes its rise in the noble fountains of Barn, some thirty miles to the northeast, and near those of the Damûr.
The River Owely
Flowing at the bottom of a romantic ravine for about fifteen miles, and passing below Mukhtarah and Ammatûr, it unites with a branch from the south in a sweet little vale called Merj Bisry. Thence it pursues its course hither through a succession of gorges well worth visiting had we the necessary leisure. The southern branch plunges down a precipice at Jezzîn, two hundred and forty feet perpendicular—plumb as a wall. My measuring cord, held one foot in advance of the edge, did not touch the rock for more than two hundred feet. When the stream is swollen by the winter rains, it is a splendid cataract; and there are several others almost equally grand between Jezzîn and Ammatûr, where rattling torrents from the heights of Lebanon leap down giddy precipices into the chasm of the main stream. Those below Jebaah es Shûf and Bathir are the most beautiful. The ride from Mukhtarah to Jezzîn is rich in the very finest scenery of this goodly mountain. The path winds along a lofty line of hanging terraces, with the Owely far below, and perpendicular cliffs towering many hundred feet above,—the favorite resort of eagles and savage beasts. To enjoy the prospect to greatest advantage, one should pass from Mezraat es Shûf down into Merj Bisry, and thence up the pine-clothed mountain toward Jebaah el Halâweh.
Picturesque Views
He will thus have in view, for hours together, the river gorge in all its extent and wildness, and also the succession of gigantic precipices by which the lofty ridge of Lebanon is reached and held up, and down which her silver streams spring joyously in bright and boisterous cascades. No one who can command the necessary time should omit this ride. True, there is nothing of historic interest along the route, but the lover of nature will not regret this; rather would he feel it an impertinence to have man's puny structures thrust on his attention amid the infinitely grander architecture of God. At the head of the Merj Bisry, however, are the ruins of an ancient temple, with large columns, half-imbedded in rubbish, which anyone who has a heart for it may examine. Those who built it probably designed to borrow solemnity and magnificence to aid their worship from this association with the handiworks of the Almighty.
A Druse Chief at Bay
It was amid this grand scenery that the celebrated Druse chief, Fakhr ed Din, closed his long career of rebellion against the sultan. A remarkable cliff above Merj Bisry is full of caverns, in one of which, still bearing his name, the emeer was besieged for seven years, as tradition relates. When compelled to forsake this by the poisoning of his supply of water, he took refuge in a cave under the cascade of Jezzîn. This be held until it was sapped from below. The sturdy old rebel calmly smoked his nargeleh (so the story runs) until the sapper's chisel was driven up through the rug on which he was reclining. Then he surrendered, was taken to Constantinople, and there beheaded on the 14th of March 1635 — the fate of a thousand other rebels against the Grand Turk. We are reminded of the old man by this substantial bridge, of a single arch, which here spans the Owely. It was built by him, but out of materials far more ancient. Many of the stones bear the mark of the Phoenician bevel, on which I always look with the respect due to old age.
If I remember aright, Dr. Robinson identifies this river with the Bostrenus of the ancients.
And correctly enough, no doubt, though the notices of it are singularly vague and rare. How beautifully it flows beneath the bridge, and between these bushy banks! Bridge, and stream, and kiln make up a scene of beauty which the artist loves to sketch; and in a portfolio even the old khan looks inviting. But Salim has done well to place our dinner under these trees, and at a respectful distance from that nest of abominations. While we satisfy the demands of hunger, I will give you a chapter from my book of experiences touching this inn.
Experience of an Inn
Several years ago I spent a night there. It was the 3rd of December, too, and a winter-storm was coming on in all its might and majesty. Lightnings blazed along the mountain tops, and heavy thunder bellowed through the wadies of the upper Owely. As evening advanced, the wind began to sob and groan among the rocks and trees, and vast volumes of black vapor, rolling in from the sea, settled on the heights of Lebanon like “a horror of great darkness.” The long-expected and much-desired rains had commenced.
An Arab Caravan
When the day dawned, for want of other amusement, I watched the migration of one of those tribes of Arabs which we passed on the mountains. They were evidently fleeing from some apprehended danger. Ragged boys and girls urged forward droves of cattle, as lean as Pharaoh's types of the seven years of famine; men, riding lank and shaggy mares, hurried onward the slow-paced camels, loaded with tent-walls and the multifarious furniture of their encampment; women staggered along with lots of children on their backs; very old people were strapped fast on the loads; and little babes up there took the pelting rain merrily as unfledged ducklings. Last of all came large flocks, with their surly canine guards and insolent shepherds. Over the bridge rushed the whole caravan, as if the avenger of blood were behind them.
A circumstance which occurred the evening before explained the reason of this hasty migration. The captain of a band of horsemen, a few miles back, called to me and inquired if my companion could read Arabic, handing to him a letter which contained an order from Saied Beg to capture all the men of a particular Arab encampment, as they were accused of robbing the house of a Maronite priest. The Arabs, however, had got the start of the officer, and by sunrise were on the south side of the Owely, and within the jurisdiction of the Governor of Sidon. I was amused with the way in which my companion reproved the captain, and, by implication, his master.
A Delicate Rebuke
It was thoroughly Arabic —a genuine specimen, which you may preserve for future use. “Why,” said he, “can't the keeper of this khân read? No! Well, that's a pity. It would be better if every khanjy could read, and then it would not be necessary for an officer of Saied Beg to show his letters to any chance traveler that comes along. They might contain things which ought not to be published. I would advise the Beg not to rent any of these khans to one who can't read.” “Now,” said I, as we rode along, “why not tell the officer himself that it was a shame for one in his station not to know how to read?” “What! would you have me insult the officer of Saied Beg? Of course that is what I meant, and he understood it; but it would never do to come straight up to the point, and say all this to his very beard.”
Though it rained hard, I pursued my journey to Hasbeiya, for I had no courage to repeat the experiment of the past night in this abominable hole. Our host, with his cats and kittens, his barley and straw, bread and olives, leben and oil, and every other article of his trade, shared with us, our saddles, baggage, and beds, this one low, dark vault. A few burning brands, or brands that would not burn, enabled us, with a great deal of coaxing, to boil a little water for tea, with no other penalty than that of being nearly blinded by a cloud of pungent smoke.
A Bridal Party
The privacy of our apartment was further invaded by a curious bridal party, who appeared determined, bride and all, to partake with us in the privileges of our smoky vault. They kept up a violent row with our host until a late hour, when, buying a few cents' worth of bread, they kindled a fire in that field on the other side of the road, and, huddling round it, kept up a dismal concert of singing, shouting, and clapping hands until morning, when, cold, and wet, and woe-begone, they set off to find the bishop, not, as it now appeared, to be married, but to get unmarried! The young lady had been betrothed, nolens volens, to a man she abhorred, and was now, with her friends, going to get his lordship to cancel the espousals. Being a friend of emancipation in such cases, I heartily wished her success. And, now our active Salim has got everything ready to march, let us cross the river on this fine bridge, and turn down to Sidon, where we shall find a home and a shelter during the storm which I see is gathering fast, and will soon burst in fury upon the coast.
Monotony of the Road
The ride from Beira to Sidon is one of the most tedious and least interesting in Syria. You wade through leagues of deep sand, flounder over rocky headlands, or wind along the shore with the noisy surf dashing over the horse's heels and your own, to the discomfort of both. And to pass from one to another of these annoyances in endless succession is the traveler's only relief. The sea at your side never tires. With a monotony that varies not, wave chases wave toward the shore; then hesitate, swell up, and topple over with a heavy fall, which sends them, in quivering beds of feathery foam, to the beach. In the soft light of a midsummer moon the thing is beautiful; but utter solitude saddens, ceaseless repetition wearies, and the traveler rejoices to escape into the green alleys of old Sidon's fragrant orchards.
Sidon
It is difficult to realize that you little city, which we are approaching with no more reverence than if it were a village of yesterday on the banks of the Ohio, is Sidon—great Zidon of Joshua.
Ancient cities, like prophets, are not without honor except in their own country; and yet, though Sidon is my home, I never ride along this pretty beach, with the gamboling surf on one hand, tall tamarisks on the other, and the city before, without somewhat of that enthusiasm which glowed and burned within me twenty-three years ago, when first I drew near this venerable metropolis.
As we are in no hurry, let me hear something about this home of yours—this “mother of all the Phœnicians,” before we enter it. She looks beautiful enough, sitting in the sea, and blushing with the warm, rosy light of the evening sun.
Story of Sidon
Must I begin at “the beginning? “The story is long and old, and much is forgotten or mixed with fable. It starts off in this fashion: One morning, soon after the flood—but here comes a lad with golden oranges just gathered from Sidon's luxurious gardens. Let us buy them to give relish to our dusty narrative.
Noah’s Great-Grandson
Well, the great grandson of Noah, emigrating westward when men were few and earth a wilderness, crept timidly round the low cape of Sarepta, and gazed earnestly on the plain that stretches this way along the shore. At length he moved forward, and pitched his tent on that castle-crowned Tell, which now overlooks the city. “Here,” exclaimed the patriarch, “my wanderings cease. This mound shall be the stronghold of my future city. It meets my wants in all respects. The surface declines gently northward to the beach, where it falls back eastward, forming a little bay open to the north; and that line of low rocks, parallel with the shore, encloses a quiet basin for the ships I mean to build after the model of my grandfather's ark. That long, narrow island affords a secure retreat for the time of danger. This broad plain we will cover with orchards and gardens; and the water of you limpid stream shall be made to visit, by a thousand rills, every tree, and shrub, and flower of our new paradise. The sea will yield her varied stores in such abundance, that the very art of fishing will take its name, said, from our metropolis; while over these eastern hills our sons will hunt the boar and fleet gazelle, or snare the feathered fowl, to increase our stores and enrich our feasts.”
The venerable patriarch did not live to see all his prophetic anticipations realized. Sidon, however, soon grew great. Her walls towered high, and were drawn with an ample compass, embracing an area many times larger than the present city. Her harbor was crowded with merry mariners from every coast, and caravans filled her magazines with the treasures and luxuries of the distant East.
Sidon’s Glory
None dared molest her, so that to live carelessly, after the manner of the Zidonians (Judg. 18:77Then the five men departed, and came to Laish, and saw the people that were therein, how they dwelt careless, after the manner of the Zidonians, quiet and secure; and there was no magistrate in the land, that might put them to shame in any thing; and they were far from the Zidonians, and had no business with any man. (Judges 18:7)), became the proverbial synonym of perfect prosperity. Even Joshua (Josh. 11:88And the Lord delivered them into the hand of Israel, who smote them, and chased them unto great Zidon, and unto Misrephoth-maim, and unto the valley of Mizpeh eastward; and they smote them, until they left them none remaining. (Joshua 11:8)) ventured not to attack her; and the flying nations found a safe asylum from his devouring sword within her gates. Her merchant ships sailed over every sea. She built strong cities along the shore—Beirût, and Gebal, and Arvad, and Accho, and Dor, and many more. She planted colonies in Cyprus and the Grecian Isles, in Libya and in Spain; while by her side she nourished her fair daughter Tyre.
Then began her long and sad decline. The streams of her prosperity were dried up or diverted. The proud Pharaohs from the Nile—the stern Assyrian from distant Nineveh—the cruel Chaldean and Persian from Babylon—the rough he-goat from Grecia, and the king of fierce countenance from the Tiber, all helped to lay poor Sidon in the dust. And, long after, those locusts which came out of the bottomless pit, with Apollyon at their head, completed the work, during those dismal days when men sought death, but could not find it. And yet Sidon still exists, and has always clung to life with a strange tenacity. Her history runs parallel with the march of time, down the ceaseless current of human generations. Not so Tyre. Long ages have rolled away since continental Tyre sunk beneath the “burden” of prophecy, and the very site where she stood was lost; and there are men yet living who remember when the boar was roused from his lair among the thorns and briers of even insular Tyre. But here we are at the gate of our good city, and in a few minutes we shall be in our own hired house, on the wall from whence you can survey at your leisure what remains of Sidon's ruins, and that about her which never can be ruined even by Mohammedan despotism.