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    Chapter 43

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    Chapter 44
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    We had a tedious ride of about five hours, in the sun, across the Valley
    of Lebanon. It proved to be not quite so much of a garden as it had
    seemed from the hill-sides. It was a desert, weed-grown waste, littered
    thickly with stones the size of a man's fist. Here and there the natives
    had scratched the ground and reared a sickly crop of grain, but for the
    most part the valley was given up to a handful of shepherds, whose flocks
    were doing what they honestly could to get a living, but the chances were
    against them. We saw rude piles of stones standing near the roadside, at
    intervals, and recognized the custom of marking boundaries which obtained
    in Jacob's time. There were no walls, no fences, no hedges--nothing to
    secure a man's possessions but these random heaps of stones. The
    Israelites held them sacred in the old patriarchal times, and these other
    Arabs, their lineal descendants, do so likewise. An American, of
    ordinary intelligence, would soon widely extend his property, at an
    outlay of mere manual labor, performed at night, under so loose a system
    of fencing as this.

    The plows these people use are simply a sharpened stick, such as Abraham
    plowed with, and they still winnow their wheat as he did--they pile it on
    the house-top, and then toss it by shovel-fulls into the air until the
    wind has blown all the chaff away. They never invent any thing, never
    learn any thing.

    We had a fine race, of a mile, with an Arab perched on a camel. Some of
    the horses were fast, and made very good time, but the camel scampered by
    them without any very great effort. The yelling and shouting, and
    whipping and galloping, of all parties interested, made it an
    exhilarating, exciting, and particularly boisterous race.

    At eleven o'clock, our eyes fell upon the walls and columns of Baalbec, a
    noble ruin whose history is a sealed book. It has stood there for
    thousands of years, the wonder and admiration of travelers; but who built
    it, or when it was built, are questions that may never be answered. One
    thing is very sure, though. Such grandeur of design, and such grace of
    execution, as one sees in the temples of Baalbec, have not been equaled
    or even approached in any work of men's hands that has been built within
    twenty centuries past.

    The great Temple of the Sun, the Temple of Jupiter, and several smaller
    temples, are clustered together in the midst of one of these miserable
    Syrian villages, and look strangely enough in such plebeian company.
    These temples are built upon massive substructions that might support a
    world, almost; the materials used are blocks of stone as large as an
    omnibus--very few, if any of them, are smaller than a carpenter's tool
    chest--and these substructions are traversed by tunnels of masonry
    through which a train of cars might pass. With such foundations as
    these, it is little wonder that Baalbec has lasted so long. The Temple
    of the Sun is nearly three hundred feet long and one hundred and sixty
    feet wide. It had fifty-four columns around it, but only six are
    standing now--the others lie broken at its base, a confused and
    picturesque heap. The six columns are their bases, Corinthian capitals
    and entablature--and six more shapely columns do not exist. The columns
    and the entablature together are ninety feet high--a prodigious altitude
    for shafts of stone to reach, truly--and yet one only thinks of their
    beauty and symmetry when looking at them; the pillars look slender and
    delicate, the entablature, with its elaborate sculpture, looks like rich
    stucco-work. But when you have gazed aloft till your eyes are weary, you
    glance at the great fragments of pillars among which you are standing,
    and find that they are eight feet through; and with them lie beautiful
    capitals apparently as large as a small cottage; and also single slabs of
    stone, superbly sculptured, that are four or five feet thick, and would
    completely cover the floor of any ordinary parlor. You wonder where
    these monstrous things came from, and it takes some little time to
    satisfy yourself that the airy and graceful fabric that towers above your
    head is made up of their mates. It seems too preposterous.

    The Temple of Jupiter is a smaller ruin than the one I have been speaking
    of, and yet is immense. It is in a tolerable state of preservation. One
    row of nine columns stands almost uninjured. They are sixty-five feet
    high and support a sort of porch or roof, which connects them with the
    roof of the building. This porch-roof is composed of tremendous slabs of
    stone, which are so finely sculptured on the under side that the work
    looks like a fresco from below. One or two of these slabs had fallen,
    and again I wondered if the gigantic masses of carved stone that lay
    about me were no larger than those above my head. Within the temple, the
    ornamentation was elaborate and colossal. What a wonder of architectural
    beauty and grandeur this edifice must have been when it was new! And
    what a noble picture it and its statelier companion, with the chaos of
    mighty fragments scattered about them, yet makes in the moonlight!

    I can not conceive how those immense blocks of stone were ever hauled
    from the quarries, or how they were ever raised to the dizzy heights they
    occupy in the temples. And yet these sculptured blocks are trifles in
    size compared with the rough-hewn blocks that form the wide verandah or
    platform which surrounds the Great Temple. One stretch of that platform,
    two hundred feet long, is composed of blocks of stone as large, and some
    of them larger, than a street-car. They surmount a wall about ten or
    twelve feet high. I thought those were large rocks, but they sank into
    insignificance compared with those which formed another section of the
    platform. These were three in number, and I thought that each of them
    was about as long as three street cars placed end to end, though of
    course they are a third wider and a third higher than a street car.
    Perhaps two railway freight cars of the largest pattern, placed end to
    end, might better represent their size. In combined length these three
    stones stretch nearly two hundred feet; they are thirteen feet square;
    two of them are sixty-four feet long each, and the third is sixty-nine.
    They are built into the massive wall some twenty feet above the ground.
    They are there, but how they got there is the question. I have seen the
    hull of a steamboat that was smaller than one of those stones. All these
    great walls are as exact and shapely as the flimsy things we build of
    bricks in these days. A race of gods or of giants must have inhabited
    Baalbec many a century ago. Men like the men of our day could hardly
    rear such temples as these.

    We went to the quarry from whence the stones of Baalbec were taken. It
    was about a quarter of a mile off, and down hill. In a great pit lay the
    mate of the largest stone in the ruins. It lay there just as the giants
    of that old forgotten time had left it when they were called hence--just
    as they had left it, to remain for thousands of years, an eloquent rebuke
    unto such as are prone to think slightingly of the men who lived before
    them. This enormous block lies there, squared and ready for the
    builders' hands--a solid mass fourteen feet by seventeen, and but a few
    inches less than seventy feet long! Two buggies could be driven abreast
    of each other, on its surface, from one end of it to the other, and leave
    room enough for a man or two to walk on either side.

    One might swear that all the John Smiths and George Wilkinsons, and all
    the other pitiful nobodies between Kingdom Come and Baalbec would
    inscribe their poor little names upon the walls of Baalbec's magnificent
    ruins, and would add the town, the county and the State they came from
    --and swearing thus, be infallibly correct. It is a pity some great ruin
    does not fall in and flatten out some of these reptiles, and scare their
    kind out of ever giving their names to fame upon any walls or monuments
    again, forever.

    Properly, with the sorry relics we bestrode, it was a three days' journey
    to Damascus. It was necessary that we should do it in less than two.
    It was necessary because our three pilgrims would not travel on the
    Sabbath day. We were all perfectly willing to keep the Sabbath day, but
    there are times when to keep the letter of a sacred law whose spirit is
    righteous, becomes a sin, and this was a case in point. We pleaded for
    the tired, ill-treated horses, and tried to show that their faithful
    service deserved kindness in return, and their hard lot compassion. But
    when did ever self-righteousness know the sentiment of pity? What were a
    few long hours added to the hardships of some over-taxed brutes when
    weighed against the peril of those human souls? It was not the most
    promising party to travel with and hope to gain a higher veneration for
    religion through the example of its devotees. We said the Saviour who
    pitied dumb beasts and taught that the ox must be rescued from the mire
    even on the Sabbath day, would not have counseled a forced march like
    this. We said the "long trip" was exhausting and therefore dangerous in
    the blistering heats of summer, even when the ordinary days' stages were
    traversed, and if we persisted in this hard march, some of us might be
    stricken down with the fevers of the country in consequence of it.
    Nothing could move the pilgrims. They must press on. Men might die,
    horses might die, but they must enter upon holy soil next week, with no
    Sabbath-breaking stain upon them. Thus they were willing to commit a sin
    against the spirit of religious law, in order that they might preserve
    the letter of it. It was not worth while to tell them "the letter
    kills." I am talking now about personal friends; men whom I like; men
    who are good citizens; who are honorable, upright, conscientious; but
    whose idea of the Saviour's religion seems to me distorted. They lecture
    our shortcomings unsparingly, and every night they call us together and
    read to us chapters from the Testament that are full of gentleness, of
    charity, and of tender mercy; and then all the next day they stick to
    their saddles clear up to the summits of these rugged mountains, and
    clear down again. Apply the Testament's gentleness, and charity, and
    tender mercy to a toiling, worn and weary horse?--Nonsense--these are for
    God's human creatures, not His dumb ones. What the pilgrims choose to
    do, respect for their almost sacred character demands that I should allow
    to pass--but I would so like to catch any other member of the party
    riding his horse up one of these exhausting hills once!

    We have given the pilgrims a good many examples that might benefit them,
    but it is virtue thrown away. They have never heard a cross word out of
    our lips toward each other--but they have quarreled once or twice. We
    love to hear them at it, after they have been lecturing us. The very
    first thing they did, coming ashore at Beirout, was to quarrel in the
    boat. I have said I like them, and I do like them--but every time they
    read me a scorcher of a lecture I mean to talk back in print.

    Not content with doubling the legitimate stages, they switched off the
    main road and went away out of the way to visit an absurd fountain called
    Figia, because Baalam's ass had drank there once. So we journeyed on,
    through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun, and then far
    into the night, seeking the honored pool of Baalam's ass, the patron
    saint of all pilgrims like us. I find no entry but this in my note-book:

    "Rode to-day, altogether, thirteen hours, through deserts, partly,
    and partly over barren, unsightly hills, and latterly through wild,
    rocky scenery, and camped at about eleven o'clock at night on the
    banks of a limpid stream, near a Syrian village. Do not know its
    name--do not wish to know it--want to go to bed. Two horses lame
    (mine and Jack's) and the others worn out. Jack and I walked three
    or four miles, over the hills, and led the horses. Fun--but of a
    mild type."

    Twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle, even in a Christian land and a
    Christian climate, and on a good horse, is a tiresome journey; but in an
    oven like Syria, in a ragged spoon of a saddle that slips fore-and-aft,
    and "thort-ships," and every way, and on a horse that is tired and lame,
    and yet must be whipped and spurred with hardly a moment's cessation all
    day long, till the blood comes from his side, and your conscience hurts
    you every time you strike if you are half a man,--it is a journey to be
    remembered in bitterness of spirit and execrated with emphasis for a
    liberal division of a man's lifetime.
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