Sunrise on the plain of Damascus. Mountain Mosque. Superstition of the natives of Damascus. Mountain course of the Barrady. Tomb of Abel. Fountain of Rosalyn. Toils of travel. Comforts on the road to Pompeii. Ruins of Balbec. The great Temple and its courts. Stones of prodigious size. A gem in Architecture. The circular Temple. Gleanings with regard to their history. Pasha of Balbec. Marshal Bourmont. Cedars of Lebanon. Town of Zahle. Night in our tents on Lebanon. Attack by the natives. Return to the ship.

Early dawn on the 6th of September found us prepared for our journey. We took an early breakfast, and then, accompanied by our kind host and his lady, began to wind up the steep ascents that lie just back of his house. The scene was strikingly oriental. Two negro lads, attendants of Mr. Farran, dressed in the gay and fanciful costume of this region, and mounted on spirited animals, were amusing themselves with making their horses fly at full speed up the precipices, and with darting to and fro across our path. The air was perfumed with the odors of the orange and jessamine: the gardens had been steeped in dew, and seemed to welcome the god of day, which now rising on the edge of the boundless plain, filled it all with glory, and hung the mountain sides with splendid purple and roseate hues.

At the summit of the eminence, we passed a little out of our way, to examine a religious edifice of the Moslems, erected, I think, on the spot where Mahomet is said to have alighted to take once more a look at Damascus, while on his way to heaven. In the estimation of Mahommedans, Mecca is first in sanctity: next is Jerusalem; and next is Damascus, which they call the Prophet’s Heel: the plain adjoining this city is the rendezvous for the great northern caravan of pilgrims for Mecca, and in the gains which the citizens draw from this source, together with the fresh and ardent zeal which the pilgrims bring with them and diffuse around, we may find the cause of the proverbial fanaticism of this city.

I saw a curious specimen of their superstitions the second day of our visit, while I was traversing one of the principal bazaars. The street had been well filled, but it suddenly became thronged; and turning to see the cause of this, I found a party of them leading a horse, on which was seated a young man, without any clothing, looking around him with a wild and vacant stare. He was an idiot, and was regarded by them as a saint; and they were leading him about to receive the homage of the people. As he passed slowly along, all treated him with, the highest respect.

At the Mountain Mosque we took leave of Mr. and Mrs. Farran, with many sincere thanks for their kindness; and then set ourselves adrift once more on the broad range of Anti-Libanus: the relative of our Armenian host, however, still keeping us company and acting as a guide. Our road was considerably to the northward of the one by which we had come to Damascus; and followed up the course of the Barraday, which here, far down in a narrow glen, was spluttering impatiently among the rocks. At intervals the precipices receded from its banks, and left a level spot, which was always occupied by cottages and trees. This route across the mountain was, indeed, in fertility and beauty, the very reverse of the one by which we had come; and our ride was far more pleasant than we had anticipated. At the distance of five or six miles from Damascus we came to the green valley which had attracted our attention a few days before, and we found here a large village quite imbedded in verdure. By noon the river had lost three fourths of its magnitude; but it still kept up a streak of verdure and of profitable cultivation amid the mountain solitudes.

The route which we were following no doubt passes over the ground occupied by the ancient highway from Damascus to Balbec, and must have been once much travelled. We passed, about noon, along the sides of a romantic and deep ravine, where the road had been cut with great labour among the rocks of calcareous tufa; and here we had for our contemplation and antiquarian speculations an ancient aqueduct, carried among and sometimes through the precipitous rocks. In the face of the opposing cliffs were a great many openings to artificial subterranean chambers, probably in old times the dwellings of anchorites, to whose taste the wild and desolate grandeur of the place must have been well adapted. After passing several villages during the day, we came, after dark, to another at the side of a large and beautiful fountain; and here, amid the barking of dogs and the jabbering of the wondering natives, we stopped and pitched our tents under some venerable looking olive trees. The reader may form some idea of the security which we felt in these exposed encampments, when I mention that we never set a guard, or took any particular precaution with regard to our baggage; nor was a single article ever stolen.

About eight o’clock of the next day, we passed, among an amphitheatre of hills, the head waters of the Farrady, which here bursts into daylight amid a little paradise of verdure; thence our course was generally over high and barren ridges, deserted by the very insects. As we approached once more the plain of Coelo-Syria, we reached another stream, and soon after this we passed on our left the Tomb of Abel!! still in good repair. As such, at least, is regarded, both by Musselmen and Christians, a grave-shaped mound of earth, 113 feet in length. Near it are two pillars, on which Abel is said to have presented his offerings; and they tell us that yearly, in the month of December, fire descends from heaven and rests on their summit. “As I did not see this,” says El Devoto Perigrino, “and it is told me by Christians who are not very scrupulous, I have not given it much credit.”

Proceeding on, again over bare and desolate ridges, we came, at 1 P.M. to where a gorge in the mountain obstructed our path, and casting our eyes to the left, we saw, just beyond its outlet in the plain of Coelo-Syria, a profusion of majestic ruins.

These were the temples of Balbec.

At the head of the little valley at our feet we saw also a fountain, so large and clear, and cool-looking, that it immediately acted as a magnet, and we determined to be the companions of the Naiads during our visit here. So our tents were pitched beneath some fine spreading trees, on a green island formed by the branching of the waters, a few yards from the fountain.

This fountain, called Rosalyn by the natives, is about fifty feet in diameter, and lies embosomed among gently sloping hills, the only opening being on the west of it, where the eye rests on the ruins of Balbec, and beyond them, on the snowy summits of Lebanon. Towards one side of it is a small island, on which, and also on the main land adjoining, are ruins, apparently of an ancient temple; but at present it is impossible to determine their character.

Having pitched our tents, and disposed our baggage, and cooled our feverish faces in the stream, we prepared—to visit the ruins? no, but to take a nap. And there was good philosophy in this; for he who, after a long journey to see an interesting object, rushes up with eyes full of dust and faculties all jaded, does injustice to it, and gets but a modicum of satisfaction himself. If he would enjoy it to the full, let him first get a comfortable meal and then a little repose: the world, and every thing in it, will then be quite a different affair. If the reader’s journeying has been altogether in fancy or in books, he can have no idea how much the traveller’s pleasures are curtailed by these every day wants and feelings; and how often, when he expected to be in raptures, they keep him in incessant torments. “How magnificent are those ruins,” says enthusiasm to him: “yes, but how burning hot this sun,” says his poor, red, scaly face: “why don’t you break out into rapturous exclamations at this splendid colonnade?” cry upbraidingly, reason, and taste and fancy, all combined. “Why, I can’t,” he groans pettishly; “don’t you see my mouth is parched up with thirst, and my tongue is as dry as if it belonged to a mummy.” “Come, come, look,” exclaims his guide; “here, this way is something truly wonderful!” “What! away there,” he answers; “why I am already almost inanimate from fatigue, my feet are blistered, and that roll down yonder precipice has left me in the state of a mere jelly.”

The reader has doubtless often thought that he would like to walk the streets of the disentombed Pompeii, and has been in raptures as he imagined himself amid its remains. Yes, but let him first imagine himself on the way to it; for travelling does not give one the power of the magic Arabian lamp. Well, let us suppose him making the experiment of getting there. In the first place, if he does not desire the comfort of being cheated out of four times the honest price for the conveyance, he has to bargain at Naples—no, that is not the word—he has to get angry, and scold and quarrel, or at least to go through the appearance of all this, about his carriage; also about the fare to him who drives, and to him who rides behind; and perhaps about the price of the horses’ feed. You start at length; and, except that in the thronged road one is in constant dread of jolts or an upset, all goes on well for a little while; but the beggars,—here they come: they mark the foreigner at a distance, and are really such pitiful objects that one’s heart bleeds for them. The way up hill is occupied by the aged, or by cripples, or by the blind with a boy to lead them: the level spots by the more robust: and the descent by children, who start from the side of their haggard parents, and cry “miseracordia, famine, sickness,” till your ears tingle, and your fancy is filled with all kinds of diseases and their associations. And the dust, the dust! you are now off from the paved streets of Resina, and a hundred vehicles besides your own are kicking up dust enough to satisfy the ambition of twenty Napoleons: it settles on your new coat, and fills your eyes, and sets you to sneezing; and still amid it all you hear the cry of “miseracordia,” “orphans,” “famine,” “disease.” Next comes a long level spot, and here the beggars leave you; and now start up a dozen urchins, who seem so many Mercuries with winged feet, so rapidly do they follow your godship as you sail along in the cloud—of dust. They would pick your pockets, too, if they could. And now look at them; they turn heels over head, and making a wheel of their extended arms and legs, whirl along by your side: they make music for you by chuckling their chin with the fist; they pick up the dust, and, rubbing it all over their faces, then grin and wriggle, and look like so many imps escaped up from the flames of Vesuvius: and you try in vain to bribe them to stay behind by tossing them some money. They pick it up, and follow you for more. At last you are at the gate of Pompeii, and your carriage comes to a halt; but here, children, with all kinds of deformed limbs, crawl about, and dragging themselves to your feet, call upon you for compassion. And while you yield to pity and think you are doing a charitable act, you are filled with horror on being informed that, in the opinion of physicians who have examined them, their limbs have probably been distorted thus on purpose, in order to make them objects of charity; and that you have been only encouraging their inhuman masters in their iniquitous gains. But at length you are in the city, and you hope now to be at peace. No. You are accompanied all through it by a soldier, who tells you plainly, by his looks and by his manner of watching you, that he believes you only want an opportunity to turn thief and steal some of the relics; and he expects too to be paid for his strict attentions. And you will find a dozen official showmen there, expecting to be paid, and they would not be satisfied if you were to spend a fortune in presents to them. And no matter how liberal you may have been, when you go away you leave behind you faces, looking at least, as if they thought you mean. The rogues! how indignant you feel at them! And this is the strongest feeling which you carry away with you, and it ever afterwards is associated in your mind with Pompeii.

Yes, this is a plain account of a visit to Pompeii. How greatly obliged, then, are the public, to those writers who enable them to travel without the vexations of travel; and to grow sentimental or to grow wise, without growing—hungry; for I will warrant to every man by the time he gets from Pompeii to Naples, not only a good covering of dust, but a famous appetite.

And yet, I suppose the reader is scolding because I have not already set him down quietly among the ruins of Balbec, forgetting that we ourselves had yet a walk of two miles through the hot sun before we could reach them.

These ruins of Balbec, which stand here without a history and without a name, are indeed worthy of all the admiration that has been bestowed upon them. They are at one side of the present village or town of Balbec, a miserable place of a few hundred hovels, and in no wise diverting the attention from them as we approach: its squalid appearance, perhaps, heightens their effect. They rise high above all other objects, so as to be conspicuous at a great distance; and as we approach, our wonder and admiration are mingled with sadness to think that such magnificent edifices should have been so mutilated by the hand of violence and of time; and yet this sadness increases our interest in them.

Our attention was first directed to the most perfect of the temples; but, as we entered at the wrong end of the structures, and soon got our ideas confused amid the masses of ruins, I believe the reader would rather be excused from accompanying us; so I will first state their appearance in ancient times, when there was great regularity and symmetry in them, and then describe them as they are at present.

They stood, then, on an artificial platform of stone, raised on the plain of Coelo-Syria to a height varying, according to the inequalities of the plain, from thirty to forty feet. This was about half a mile from the chain of Anti-Libanus. The platform was adapted in shape to the structures upon it, the complete length being 900 feet and the greatest width about 420. The entrance was from the east. At that end was a flight of about fifty steps, 180 feet in length: at the top of this was a range of twelve columns, each fifty-one inches in diameter, with an interval of nine and a half feet between. The visitor was admitted between them into a covered vestibule, 250 feet in length by 36 in width; this was adorned at the extremities with square columns, while the side opposite to him was ornamented with semi-columns, and also with niches, and, above these, with tabernacles; both the latter being occupied by statues. Crossing this vestibule, he might leave it either by a large central passage or by a smaller one at each side of this, and would then find himself in an open hexagonal court, 150 feet wide and 200 at its greatest length. This court had at its sides, on his right and left, four exedrae, or chambers for schools, open in front, and ornamented each with four columns and pilasters: the intervals between these were taken up with chambers for the high priests and with niches for statues. The whole court was thus surrounded by columns and pilasters, except in the front. In this part was a passage 78 feet wide, with two side passages, giving admittance into the great court of the temple. This court was 380 feet square, and, except in the front and at the entrance, was surrounded by square exedrae, alternating with others of a semi-circular shape: the former had each four columns and two pilasters, and the latter two columns with pilasters at their front. At the entrance into this court were colossal niches, and at the angles were chambers for the priests.

The great temple, which stood at the further end of this court, and facing the visitor as he entered, was 200 feet long by 160 in width. It had ten columns at each end, and nineteen at each of the sides;[77] they were seven feet in diameter, and the details of the whole edifice were of the same colossal proportions: they allowed eight feet ten inches for the intervals between the columns. There are still remaining three rows of stones, supporting the platform on which this temple stands, which are of remarkable dimensions. In the lowest tier they measure severally 35, 33, 32, 31, and 38 feet in length; with a height of thirteen feet and a breadth of ten feet five inches, exclusive of their mouldings. In the second row, which is twenty-seven feet from the ground, they are generally of the same size, but here are three measuring 64, 64, and 63 feet in length, with their other dimensions to correspond. In the quarry on the side of the mountain adjoining this, is a stone cut loose, that measures seventy feet in length by fourteen in width, and fourteen feet five inches in depth: the weight of this is estimated at 1,135 tons.

Of this colossal temple, nine of the columns of one side, with a portion of their entablature, are all that now remains: its foundations may still be traced, and a few huge fragments are scattered about; but if it was ever completed, it has served as a quarry for more modern structures, perhaps for some that were erected by Constantine, for its area and the environs are pretty well cleared: but the great columns, standing thus naked and alone, produce a very powerful effect. Of the ranges of exedrae, columns, &c., which formed the sides of the square and hexagonal courts, and of the vestibule, there are still large remains; but so broken and defaced by time and human violence, that it is often difficult to ascertain their shape or proportions. The ground is covered over with their ruins. In one corner of the square court are some large columns of the red Egyptian granite: they are of peculiar beauty, and though they have been exposed to the weather for so many centuries, their polish has scarcely been at all affected.

It is sad to walk over this great platform and mark the desolations that have been wrought amid such architectural beauty. A few yards, however, from this is a temple of the same age, still almost perfect, and probably the most splendid specimen of the Corinthian order of architecture that the world now can boast. It stands also on a platform of stone, and was reached by a stair-way of thirty-two steps: it is about twenty-five feet from the south-west angle of the great court just described, and also faces the east. It is peripteral; that is, with a range of columns quite around, and has also another range at the front, forming a vestibule: the length is 280 feet, the breadth 122. There were fifteen columns on each side and eight in front (the angular columns counted twice), or forty-two in all; to which we are to add eight for the vestibule, six in front and one at each side. Of these, thirty-three are now entire and erect, and nine in a ruinous condition; the eight front columns are missing, but those of the vestibule remain. The sides of the interior were also ornamented with half columns, six on each side; between these were niches for statues, with ornamented lacunari (arched coverings), and above the niches were tabernacles, also for statues. The further end was occupied by a platform, reached by a broad flight of fifteen steps, and on this was placed the statue of their divinity. The interior is also in tolerably good preservation. This temple belongs to the florid age of architecture; its ornaments are exuberant and exceedingly rich; the doorway is decorated with vines and foliage, amid which children are sporting; the pannels of the ceiling are occupied by figures of gods and goddesses in relief; in short, Sculpture has here joined her graver sister Architecture, and they have worked together harmoniously, and have produced—what is very seldom produced—a building where great exuberance of ornament is united with delicacy, and chasteness, and simplicity. This building is, indeed, a gem in the art.

South-eastward from these, at the distance of about 300 yards, is a pretty little thing, though of more objectionable taste. It is a temple, circular within, the diameter being thirty-two feet. It is on an ornamented platform or substructure, and the floor was reached by a flight of about fifteen steps; the front presents this flight of steps and a large door-way, with two Corinthian columns at each side. The rest of the exterior is formed by a succession of great niches for statues, five in number, with a Corinthian column at the sharp angles between them. The exterior diameter of the building, from column to column, is sixty-four feet. The interior is highly ornamented, and has a double range of semi-columns one above the other, one range Ionic, the other Corinthian. This little temple answers very well by way of variety, and for employing the power of contrast; and is placed just at the proper distance from the other colossal structures to make the effect very good. Winding around its foundations, and murmuring amid its broken, prostrate columns, is the clear brook from the fountain of Rosalyn. As we listened to the sound of its waters, we could almost imagine it to be the voice of pure and holy Nature chanting the dirge of the unhallowed worship that once was prevalent here.

It is very strange that, in order to learn the origin and design of these splendid structures we are compelled to turn over a variety of ancient books; and that, after all, the information we glean is sufficient only to tantalize, and not to satisfy our curiosity. Its whole amount, I believe to be as follows:

Macrobius informs us that

From this he infers that the divinity was both Jupiter and the Sun: he adds that the temple excelled in divination, and that Trajan consulted it about his Parthian expedition. Macrob. Saternalia, lib. 1.

Lucian, who was a native of Syria, speaks of a great and ancient temple in Phoenicia, the rites of whose worship were brought from Heliopolis in Egypt; and adds, that “many persons assert that this temple was erected by Deucalion, the Scythian; that Deucalion, in whose days the grand inundation of waters took place.”

All this refers to this spot and to the origin of these temples, but not to these temples themselves: the structure to which Lucian refers being evidently of more ancient date. The first clear and authentic information which we have of the edifices now standing, are in John of Antioch, surnamed Malala; who says, that Aurelius Antoninus Pius erected a great temple to Jupiter at Heliopolis, near Libanus in Phoenicia, which was one of the wonders of the world.

The Chronicon Paschale informs us, that Theodosius converted the great and famous temple of Heliopolis into a Christian church.[79]

The florid architecture of these edifices corresponds exactly to the times of the Antonines; and I think we are at liberty to infer, from what we can gather on this subject, that there was here, in very ancient times, a famous temple, containing the statue of Jupiter Igneous, if I may use the term; and that its celebrity led the first of the Antonines, who distinguished himself by building up decaying cities, to erect these vast and beautiful structures. Close adjoining them on the south, is a dark, heavy, and ancient looking building, without windows, and composed of stones, pannelled like those which I saw at the foot of Mount Moriah; and this may, perhaps, be the original temple noticed by Lucian.

The modern Balbec contains about 200 houses. It is protected by a low wall, but not more than half the enclosure is occupied by the dwellings, which are small and miserable looking hovels. As we were leaving the ruins in the evening, we received an invitation from the Pasha to make him a visit, which the lateness of the hour led us to decline. But his house was adjoining our road back to the fountain; and on approaching it, we found the gates wide open, and a train of attendants marshalled for our reception; so there was no help for us, and our party entering, filled his little hall of audience. He seemed disposed to be sociable, and regaled us with pipes, coffee, and apples; and we regretted that our time would not permit a longer visit.

It was now dark, and on leaving his house we found that he had had the politeness to have torches provided for us. They consisted of bits of pine, piled up in small baskets made of iron hoops, and elevated at the end of a long pole. As we wound around or over the undulations of the valley, the effect of the broad lights and shadows, the dancing waters in the pebbly brook by our side, and the oriental costume of the natives, numbers of whom were accompanying us, was very fine.

During the day some other travellers, in the native costume, stopped for an hour or two by our fountain. We had no conversation with them, but were afterwards informed that they were probably the French Marshal Bourmont and some friends, travelling in disguise.

September 6. We stopped again, an hour or two, at the ruins, and then commenced re-crossing the plain of Coelo-Syria, directing our course transversely so as to strike our former route over Mount Lebanon. Had our time permitted, we should have visited the cedars of Lebanon, which are about half way between Balbec and Tripoli; but as the autumn was advancing, and the Commodore was anxious to get away from this unknown coast, the project was relinquished. Mr. Chassaud was good enough, however, afterwards to procure some of the wood for us, and to forward it by way of Marseilles to our wintering station at Mahon. I have had my portion of it cut into veneers, which are greatly admired by cabinet makers, both for the color and odour of the wood; the interior of the block is of a golden yellow color, and some portions, which are sprinkled over with small black specks or knots, are very beautiful. The number of the old trees has been gradually diminishing since the mountain first began to be visited by travellers, and but seven or eight are now remaining. The largest of these are ninety feet in height, and they have in one or two cases a circumference of forty feet; which, however, like that of the great chestnut on Mount Etna, is not the circuit of a single tree, but of the generation that has grown around the original trunk. The natives have an annual religious festival beneath these venerable fathers of the forest. There are groves of a younger growth around these, containing altogether about 400 trees. A fine large tree of this species may be seen in the garden of plants at Paris; and in Mr. Prince’s garden at Flushing is a young one also, in a flourishing condition.

About half way across the plain, we came to another large fountain, and smaller ones occurred at intervals; but the ride was wearisome enough: in the whole distance we passed not a house, nor a tree, nor a speck of cultivation; a withering and blighting influence has been for ages upon all this region. About three o’clock, we reached the village of Zahle, at the foot of Lebanon. It has rather a modern appearance, having grown up lately in consequence of some violence and exactions on the other side of the plain, from which the inhabitants have taken refuge under the wing of the princes of Lebanon. It is quite refreshing to an American traveller to see a modern town, and this of Zahle is also particularly pleasing from its situation. It is built on unequal, broken ground, and is bordered on one side by a deep, shaded ravine, along the bottom of which dashes a torrent, singing and making melody in its joyful course. We found near its banks a convenient spot for satisfying our now ravenous appetites, and then, although we had no ruins to inspect afterwards, we again sought the reviving effects of a nap.

And well it was for us that we did so, for we were destined on the following night to have no repose. Having travelled on from Zahle in the coolness of the evening, we came at dusk to our breakfasting place of the 2d., and here determined to pitch our tents. But that was to be a night of fighting and not of sleep.

There is a set of natives on this mountain, the most thievish beings in all the country, with the reputation also of being blood-thirsty and merciless, and waiting to pounce upon every unprotected traveller that may come in their way. They are a small race, but are said to be numerous; and the traveller across these mountains must be on his guard, or he will be very apt to be plundered by them. They carry a concealed dagger, with which they are very expert, and which they do not hesitate to use when there is occasion for it. They are cowardly, and seldom make their attacks except in covert places or by night: and their cunning and malevolence are said to be equal to their cowardice. We had met them occasionally, and had generally been on our guard; but there seemed to be no particular danger this night, and we took no unusual precautions.

But they were lying here in ambush; and we had scarcely blown out our lights, and wrapped ourselves in our blankets for repose, when they made a sudden attack—how many there were, we could not tell in the darkness, but their number must have been very great. We sprung up, and seizing such weapons as were handiest, repelled our assailants, and forced them to a speedy retreat; but not before several wounds had been given and received. I think it probable that some of the enemy were killed. And now we sat down to consult upon the best mode of preventing another attack. Some advised shifting our encampment; some concluded to sit up; and others, amid the confusion of counsel, again yielded to drowsiness, and tried once more to seek repose. But hope of repose was vain: we carried on a skirmishing with them all night, and, notwithstanding our resistance, many of the enemy in the dark succeeded in carrying off the plunder, which was their object.

I should certainly caution all travellers over Mount Lebanon against pitching their tents, as we had done, in an old stubble field swarming with fleas.

As may be supposed, we made an early start on the morrow. Our journey back offered nothing new, and after stopping to pay our respects to Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and to thank them for their kindness, we picked our way down the mountain, and towards evening took up, once more, our quarters in the Delaware.