Bru-ma-nah, Aug. 2, 1836.

Last Saturday, I went down to Beyroot, mainly to spend the Sabbath with the small number of Franks that usually meet at the American consul's for worship. I had been on the mountains about three weeks, and found the general temperature pleasant. The thermometer seldom rose to 75° Fahr. The direct action of the sun was, it is true, considerable, but I seldom, except when travelling, went out during the greatest heat of the day. I found the heat greater at Beyroot; from five to eight, and at times ten or more degrees. Still the thermometer does not give the whole difference. There is a closeness—an oppressive something in the air in the town that makes it more trying than the same degrees of heat would produce on the mountains. There is also a very manifest difference in the heat, and oppressive character of the air, in the town, and in what is called the Gardens—the numerous dwellings that lie without the walls, and are scattered for several miles round the city, mentioned in a former letter.

I have repeatedly witnessed since I came to the mountains an appearance in the setting sun which I never before saw, nor have I ever seen it noticed in books. In this dry season of the year we have but few clouds, and the sun usually clear; but in setting, it very often assumes strange and singular appearances. They begin about the time the lower part of the sun touches the line of the horizon. The lower part, at times, appears to flatten up; the upper, to flatten down; and at times, the sides flatten in—so that the disk of the sun forms nearly a square; it seldom, however, took this form. More frequently about the time that one-half of the disk is sunk below the horizon, a portion of the upper part of the remainder appears to separate from the body of the sun, and often assumes the form of an inverted cone, or rather that of a common washbowl, set on the sun, and at times separated from it by a black mark, of, say an inch in diameter. This crown-like appearance, at times, is distinctly visible after the disk of the sun has disappeared; at other times the body of the sun appeared to be surrounded with a groove and a band, giving it the appearance of the capital of a pillar. I have seen it again and again, as it sank under the line of the horizon, flatten down, and spread out horizontally, until in truth it did not look wider than a large walking staff, while it appeared nearly a yard in length—the length of the strip of luminous matter appeared really longer than the usual apparent width of the disk before it began to take the new form. But the most singular fact of all remains to be told. We have several times seen, for it is the most rare appearance, the sun appear distinctly under the horizon, after the luminous aspect was wholly gone. It appeared as a dark mass, nearly of the shape of the sun, but much larger. It seemed under the water, and gradually to sink deeper and deeper. This sinking of it below the line of the horizon causes it to appear to approach nearer the spectator. I saw it on one occasion most distinctly, when the distance of its upper edge appeared a full yard below the line of the horizon. It then gradually became fainter and fainter, until it disappeared. I am not sure that I am philosopher enough to account for these strange appearances. They do not appear every night; and seldom for two nights together are the forms the same. The general cause, I suppose, is the peculiar state of the body of air through which the rays of light from the setting sun reach us on the mountain. We are in a high, pure, and elastic atmosphere. At the foot of the mountain, and the plains on to Beyroot, over which the rays pass, the earth must be greatly heated, and sends up a heated and rarefied body of air—then, farther on, is the ocean, which must keep the stratum of air over it cooler. To this I may add, that we see the sun set over Cyprus. This island lies at the very edge of our horizon, as seen from Bru-ma-nah; so distant that it is only at times that we can distinctly see it. Now Cyprus is an island of considerable size, and not having much growth is greatly heated by the action of the sun. This may, by the rarefied volume of air which it presents to the rays of the sun, tend still farther to vary their course. Thus passing two or three warm and rare, and as many cold and dense strata, may be the cause of all the variety of phenomena above described. I leave it however for others to solve the problem.

It will soon be two months since I reached Beyroot, and few things have struck me more than the uniformity of the weather. There has not been a drop of rain. There has been scarcely any weather that we should call cloudy. True, some clouds do at times collect over the sea, and at times they rest on the mountain, but they are clouds without rain. They very seldom spread over the face of the heavens, so as to withhold the light of the sun; they are mostly confined to one part, and leave the remainder in its usual clearness. I have, again and again, been reminded of the fact, that one day is almost precisely like all the others. We have no opportunity to say "this is a fine day,"—all are fine.

We may suppose that when there is for so long a period no rain, and when the sun, almost without exception, pours on the earth its full blaze of light and heat, the air would become very dry. It is so; but not to an unpleasant degree—at least I am not sensible of any unpleasant effects from it. Plants and vegetation do, it is true, feel it—they wither and droop; and those who wish to preserve them in their freshness and beauty, must resort to the means of watering them. But, as regards comfortable feeling from the air, I have found few places that were to be preferred to Mount Lebanon.

The clearness of the air is a most striking characteristic of these regions. It is most striking, and is manifested in many things. It is seen in looking at the starry heavens. The stars are numerous, and the face of the heavens has a clearness in it, that makes the impression on the mind that we can see further into the deep and pathless abyss by which our little earth is surrounded than we can in other countries. It agrees in this with the Italian sky, but is, I think, still more clear. This clearness of the air is also manifest in looking at distant objects. They appear much nearer than they really are. I am almost perpetually struck with this in looking from Bru-ma-nah down to Beyroot, and the long line of coast which lies to the north and south. When I stand on some one of the points of the ridge that runs out towards Beyroot, as I often do, especially in my evening walks, the town appears so near, and the bay at such a short distance below me, that I can hardly get clear of the impression that I could throw a finger-stone into the bay. The ascent and descent, three or four times repeated, has, however, given the matter-of-fact proof that it takes nearly four hours of hard travel to pass the space that lies between Bru-ma-nah and Beyroot. The air, it is true, is not always equally pure and transparent; a dulness and obscurity, like that which is often observable in other countries, at times exist here. The air here is, I think, at least in the dry season, less liable to it; how the rainy seasons may affect the air in all these respects, I am not as yet prepared to say; as I have had no opportunity of making observations.

But little dew falls at this place; and from all that I saw in Beyroot, there is but little there, at least in the dry season; I have not noticed it in the form of drops on the leaves, indeed I have at this place hardly observed it in the form of dampness; a slight degree of this is observable in the evening after sunset. This is our usual hour for walking, and I have observed that our clothes were a little damp on our return. I was struck, however, with the fact, that the nights we were encamped at the foot of the cone of Jebal Sun-neen, there was an abundance of dew. Our tents were wet; and the grass and vegetation, and even dust of the roads, bore witness to it. How it happened that there was so much of it up there, and so little of it down here, I leave for the wise to decide; possibly the cause may be in the neighbourhood of the fact, that the heat here and at Beyroot is remarkably uniform. It varies but few degrees in the twenty-four hours; at our place of encampment, referred to, the variation was much greater; we had great heat by day and almost frost at night.

The more usual and valuable produce of the mountains is the silk. Much of their best ground is planted with the mulberry-tree, the leaf of which is used for feeding the worms. Not much of the silk is manufactured here; most of it is exported to Italy, France, and England.

The principal grain grown here is the barley, and a kind of bearded wheat that looks much like it. I have not, however, travelled enough to make observation to much extent. They raise some tobacco—almost every one here, as you no doubt have heard, smokes—the pipe is everywhere one of the most common things seen; they have long handles, usually made of the cherry-tree; the finer kind are nearly as long as the owner is high, and are tipped with a mouth-piece of amber. They often use a kind of pipe called the nargely, in which the smoke is drawn through water. Much of their time is spent in smoking and taking coffee.

I am told that in the plains of the Bokar' or Celo-Syria, a good deal of Indian corn is grown. I have not seen any of it on the mountains, nor did I notice it on the plains of Beyroot as I passed and repassed. The mountains do not raise bread-stuff sufficient for its own consumption; grain is brought from the plains. They appear to me, indeed, to live on very little up here; and I have often, while looking on their simple fare, thought of the poet's lines:

Still a people may have too few wants, they may be too indifferent as to comforts and conveniences; and the absence of these excitements may lead to idleness and almost complete indifference towards all things. If it be not good for man to be alone, it is still worse for him to be idle; and he who in great kindness to man gave him the woman to be with him, in the same spirit of love gave him employment—to dress the garden and keep it. The devil, it is said, finds employment for idle people; and, even if that were not his peculiar business, the idleness of many must, I should think, put a sore temptation in the devil's way, to give them something to do. I have often heard the devil charged with tempting people, but I am inclined to think, that the temptation is not all on one side; I suspect that people often tempt the devil. Had our first mother Eve been attending to her domestic matters as she ought; or, in company with her goodman, been helping to take care of the garden, she would probably have escaped the evil into which she fell.

But to return from this digression. The people of these mountains are greatly given to idleness; it may result, in part, from the kind of culture they pursue. The silkworm can employ but little of their time, and much of the remainder is unemployed. It would be better for them were they employed more constantly. The pasha, it is true, gives many of them employment in connexion with working the coal-mines, and taking coal to Beyroot; and, while there may be hardship in the manner in which he presses them, with their mules and donkeys, into the service, I am not sure that in a more enlarged view of things it may not be to their advantage; were companies of the idlers kept at work constantly in making roads on the mountains, and keeping those made in good repair, the benefit to the whole region would be great indeed. But all improvements travel very slowly in these ends of the earth.

I have long since read of the big-tailed sheep, but do not recollect seeing any until I reached this place. The sheep is about the usual size. On the rump and around the root of the tail, there is a large mass of soft loose flesh or fat, which appears to be but loosely connected with the body, except as kept in connexion with it by the skin. It hangs loose, and shakes about like the udder of a good milch cow, and altogether has a very singular appearance. I have not often, if at all, seen flocks of sheep on these mountains. The goats are often seen in flocks with their keeper, but the sheep are usually seen singly, or but two or three together, having a string about their necks, by which they are fastened when at the house, and led and managed when out at pasture. We may see them led about in the gardens and vineyards, and out on the mountain side, where a tuft of grass is to be found; a boy or girl is usually in attendance upon each sheep. In the evening, I have often seen them bringing the sheep to the springs and pools of water, and pour the water plentifully over them, I suppose to cool them. The sheep appear to take it very kindly, seemingly accustomed to it.

The goats are much used for their milk. The cow is indeed used, and possibly its milk is considered the best, but the goat, as the more thrifty animal, is most easily kept, and suits the spare vegetation which is found on the mountains. They are seen in considerable numbers, and some of them have uncommonly long ears, which are of a speckled whitish colour, and hang down from eight to twelve inches.

The camel is much used here as a beast of burden. It is a tall, raw-boned, long-legged, and long-necked animal, but of a patient, quiet spirit. It shares with the donkey and mule the hard service which the people of these lands exact of their cattle. I have been surprised to see what masses of timber they carry down from these mountains on the backs of camels—beams for houses, shipping, and all sorts of things. I have seen a beam from fifteen to twenty feet long, and from eight to ten, twelve, or fourteen inches in diameter, laid on the back of a camel, one end projecting forward before the head of the animal, and the other reaching far behind, and somehow fastened with ropes to the huge pack-saddle which he carries. Thus loaded he is made to pass over roads, which require some fortitude for a man to ride, and pass up and down descents that are most fearful for such loads: one driver attends each, who may at the more dangerous passes take hold of the beam and aid in keeping it steady. The poor animal usually reaches his place of destination in safety with his lumber—I say usually, for at times, over-loaded or worn down with the length of the way, or missing his step, he falls, and is crushed to death by the merciless load upon his back.

Who has not heard of the scorpion? and yet who has seen one? It was not until after I reached Beyroot that I saw one, and that occurred in a way that took me a good deal by surprise. One evening during our quarantine, the scorpion happening to be mentioned as a reptile that abounded, I expressed a wish to see one. This was reported to our guardians. The next morning, soon after I was out of bed, I was called to the porch, and to my no small surprise, mixed with some apprehension of danger, I saw one of the guardians having a handful of them,—literally a handful of scorpions. He may have had from six to ten of them. They were all small. They are a short reptile—these were about the size of a common locust; the body short and flat, with a tail rather longer than the body. The sting is in the tip of the tail. They strike forward with the tail. They appear rather a slow, dull animal, and do not appear eager to strike or do mischief. When held in the hand, they cannot strike, and the pressure of the hand appears to produce a dull, heavy disposition. The guardian handled them as he pleased—he took hold of the lower part of the tail, with a quick motion, and then held them close in his hand, piled one on the other. They have a way of taking them, I am told, by putting a stick to them that is covered with bees-wax. The scorpion strikes his tail in it, it sticks fast, and he is taken. Their sting produces pain, it is said, but is not often, if ever, fatal. It is but seldom that persons are stung by them.

And who has not heard of the chameleon, that wonderful animal that one traveller declared was blue, and another that it was black, and its owner asserted that it was green, but which, when produced, was of a different colour from any of those mentioned! The chameleon is not the only thing which has been made more marvellous by report than nature made it. It is a lizard, of a size rather larger than those little four-legged, long-tailed animals, that in the spring and summer are seen about old fences and trees, nearly the colour of the moccason snake. The chameleon is, in its usual colour, not unlike the above-mentioned lizard, rather lighter—more like the rattlesnake as to colour. It is a perfectly harmless reptile, may be handled at pleasure. It is rather slow in its motions, and when you touch it, it will swell and blow at a great rate, but does nothing else. As its passions are excited by handling, its colour is in a slight degree changeable, and it may be still more so when seen in different kinds of light. The change, however, has been much magnified; and were it not that "as changeable as a chameleon" has become a proverb, and every one expects something, hundreds of people might see and handle it, and not observe any change in its colour. They are often found about houses, and are said to be fond of flies—what their art of catching them may be, I know not; their motions appear too slow to make a living in that way.

I had heard, long before coming to Asia, fearful accounts of the annoyance I must expect from fleas, bed-bugs, and other similar sorts of gentry; I have as yet only come in contact with the fleas, and an occasional musquito. But really the number and pertinacity of the fleas will well make amends for the absence of the other tribes of annoying insects. I know not to what it may be owing, but the flea does seem to multiply in a way that is astonishing. They abound almost everywhere, and it appears to be a matter of impossibility to get wholly out of their reach. The evil may be increased by the earthen floor, and the peculiar character of their houses, and, above all, the unclean habits of the people; and as all the Frank families have native servants, and are visited a good deal by the natives, it is not easy for those families to keep their houses free from the annoyance. I have heard, indeed, a very significant saying, that the king of the fleas resides at Beyroot, and his pasha at Jaffa. I suppose it signifies those are the favourite places with these light-footed gentry.

The fruit season is now coming on, and we have some fine varieties of fruit brought to market. The district of country a little on this side of Jaffa, is the place most famed for the water-melon. There are but few grown on these parts of the mountain. I have seen but few vines, and these bore a small and inferior kind. But the quantities that come from the vicinity of Jaffa are very great; vessels arrive at Beyroot almost daily with them. They are sold for a mere trifle. They are carried all through these mountains, and are a very fine fruit of the kind.

I have never seen the plum any where to be compared with those here. They grow, however, near Damascus. That place is famed for fruit of various kinds, and great quantities of it are brought to Beyroot, and other towns on the coast. At this time of the year, when the fruit is ripe, it is a considerable business to carry fruit and supply the market. The plum to which I refer is nearly as large as a hen's egg, and has a fine rich pulp. It is of a deep red colour, and does credit to the land where it grows.

The apricot abounds at Damascus; and they are brought in large parcels for the supply of this market. It is a fine fruit. I have not seen many growing on this part of the mountain, nor have I seen the apple or the peach growing in very large quantities. The best used here are brought from Damascus. I have not seen any apples to be compared with our best; the apple season, however, is not yet come.

The grape grows well, and there are some fine vineyards. The grape that abounds most, as far as I have observed, is a large white grape. The single grape is often nearly as large as a partridge's egg. The branches contain a noble collection of these grapes, and more than once the large size of the bunch has made me think of the cluster which the spies took from Eshcol, as a sample of the fruit of the land. Some wine is made on these mountains, and of a very good kind, as is said, for I have not so far forgotten my temperance habits as to use, unless very occasionally, and under peculiar circumstances, the wines of any of the countries through which I pass. The wines, I am told, are peculiarly free from alcohol, and have, if any, but a very small portion of the intoxicating principle. They are not so strong as the well-made cider of the middle States.

These mountaineers have a peculiar way of baking bread. They dig a hole in the ground, about the size of a large bottle—put a thick coat of plaster around the side and on the bottom, and then let it dry. It is very much in the shape of a large pot, a little bulging in the middle. A fire is made in the bottom of it, of small branches, and kept up until the sides are well heated; the flames are then suffered to go down, leaving the mass of coals in the bottom. They have the dough ready, and take a piece of it, about as large as a biscuit, and laying it on a board, press it out as large as a common-sized plate, and nearly as thin as the blade of a thick knife. They place it on a round pillow or cushion, (it is so thin it cannot be handled otherwise,) and strike it against the inside of this potlike place. It sticks, and in about one minute is baked. It is then taken off, and another put on. There are, usually, several women engaged at it at the same time, and they put them on with great quickness. You may see three or four of these wafer-like cakes sticking round the tan-moor, as it is called, at the same time, and changed for others every minute. They soon bake bread for a meal.