The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
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In descending from Eden to the sea-coast, we were obliged to cross the
great gorge of which I spoke. Further down, its sides are less steep, and
clothed even to the very bottom with magnificent orchards of mulberry,
fig, olive, orange, and pomegranate trees. We were three hours in reaching
the opposite side, although the breadth across the top is not more than a
mile. The path was exceedingly perilous; we walked down, leading our
horses, and once were obliged to unload our mules to get them past a tree,
which would have forced them off the brink of a chasm several hundred feet
deep. The view from the bottom was wonderful. We were shut in by steeps of
foliage and blossoms from two to three thousand feet high, broken by crags
of white marble, and towering almost precipitously to the very clouds. I
doubt if Melville saw anything grander in the tropical gorges of Typee.
After reaching the other side, we had still a journey of eight hours to
the sea, through a wild and broken, yet highly cultivated country.
Beyrout was now thirteen hours distant, but by making a forced march we
reached it in a day, travelling along the shore, past the towns of Jebeil,
the ancient Byblus, and Joonieh. The hills about Jebeil produce the
celebrated tobacco known in Egypt as the _Jebelee_, or "mountain" tobacco,
which is even superior to the Latakiyeh.
Near Beyrout, the mulberry and olive are in the ascendant. The latter tree
bears the finest fruit in all the Levant, and might drive all other oils
out of the market, if any one had enterprise enough to erect proper
manufactories. Instead of this the oil of the country is badly prepared,
rancid from the skins in which it is kept, and the wealthy natives import
from France and Italy in preference to using it. In the bottoms near the
sea, I saw several fields of the taro-plant, the cultivation of which I
had supposed was exclusively confined to the Islands of the Pacific. There
would be no end to the wealth of Syria were the country in proper hands.
Chapter XIII.
Pipes and Coffee.
--"the kind nymph to Bacchus born
By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems
Gifted upon her natal morn
By him with fire, by her with dreams--
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse
Than all the grape's bewildering juice." Lowell.
In painting the picture of an Oriental, the pipe and the coffee-cup are
indispensable accessories. There is scarce a Turk, or Arab, or
Persian--unless he be a Dervish of peculiar sanctity--but breathes his
daily incense to the milder Bacchus of the moderns. The custom has become
so thoroughly naturalized in the East, that we are apt to forget its
comparatively recent introduction, and to wonder that no mention is made
of the pipe in the Arabian Nights. The practice of smoking harmonizes so
thoroughly with the character of Oriental life, that it is difficult for
us to imagine a time when it never existed. It has become a part of that
supreme patience, that wonderful repose, which forms so strong a contrast
to the over-active life of the New World--the enjoyment of which no one
can taste, to whom the pipe is not familiar. Howl, ye Reformers! but I
solemnly declare unto you, that he who travels through the East without
smoking, does not know the East.
It is strange that our Continent, where the meaning of Rest is unknown,
should have given to the world this great agent of Rest. There is nothing
more remarkable in history than the colonization of Tobacco over the whole
Earth. Not three centuries have elapsed since knightly Raleigh puffed its
fumes into the astonished eyes of Spenser and Shakspeare; and now, find me
any corner of the world, from Nova Zembla to the Mountains of the Moon,
where the use of the plant is unknown! Tarshish (if India was Tarshish) is
less distinguished by its "apes, ivory, and peacocks," than by its
hookahs; the valleys of Luzon, beyond Ternate and Tidore, send us more
cheroots than spices; the Gardens of Shiraz produce more velvety _toombek_
than roses, and the only fountains which bubble in Samarcand are those of
the narghilehs: Lebanon is no longer "excellent with the Cedars," as in
the days of Solomon, but most excellent with its fields of Jebelee and
Latakiyeh. On the unvisited plains of Central Africa, the table-lands of
Tartary, and in the valleys of Japan, the wonderful plant has found a
home. The naked negro, "panting at the Line," inhales it under the palms,
and the Lapp and Samoyed on the shores of the Frozen Sea.
It is idle for those who object to the use of Tobacco to attribute these
phenomena wholly to a perverted taste. The fact that the custom was at
once adopted by all the races of men, whatever their geographical position
and degree of civilization, proves that there must be a reason for it in
the physical constitution of man. Its effect, when habitually used, is
slightly narcotic and sedative, not stimulating--or if so, at times, it
stimulates only the imagination and the social faculties. It lulls to
sleep the combative and destructive propensities, and hence--so far as a
material agent may operate--it exercises a humanizing and refining
influence. A profound student of Man, whose name is well known to the
world, once informed me that he saw in the eagerness with which savage
tribes adopt the use of Tobacco, a spontaneous movement of Nature towards
Civilization.
I will not pursue these speculations further, for the narghileh (bubbling
softly at my elbow, as I write) is the promoter of repose and the begetter
of agreeable reverie. As I inhale its cool, fragrant breath, and partly
yield myself to the sensation of healthy rest which wraps my limbs as with
a velvet mantle, I marvel how the poets and artists and scholars of olden
times nursed those dreams which the world calls indolence, but which are
the seeds that germinate into great achievements. How did Plato
philosophize without the pipe? How did gray Homer, sitting on the
temple-steps in the Grecian twilights, drive from his heart the bitterness
of beggary and blindness? How did Phidias charm the Cerberus of his animal
nature to sleep, while his soul entered the Elysian Fields and beheld the
forms of heroes? For, in the higher world of Art, Body and Soul are sworn
enemies, and the pipe holds an opiate more potent than all the drowsy
syrups of the East, to drug the former into submission. Milton knew this,
as he smoked his evening pipe at Chalfont, wandering, the while, among the
palms of Paradise.
But it is also our loss, that Tobacco was unknown to the Greeks. They
would else have given us, in verse and in marble, another divinity in
their glorious Pantheon--a god less drowsy than Morpheus and Somnus, less
riotous than Bacchus, less radiant than Apollo, but with something of the
spirit of each: a figure, beautiful with youth, every muscle in perfect
repose, and the vague expression of dreams in his half-closed eyes. His
temple would have been built in a grove of Southern pines, on the borders
of a land-locked gulf, sheltered from the surges that buffet without,
where service would have been rendered him in the late hours of the
afternoon, or in the evening twilight. From his oracular tripod words of
wisdom would have been spoken, and the fanes of Delphi and Dodona would
have been deserted for his.
Oh, non-smoking friends, who read these lines with pain and
incredulity--and you, ladies, who turn pale at the thought of a pipe--let
me tell you that you are familiar only with the vulgar form of tobacco,
and have never passed between the wind and its gentility. The word conveys
no idea to you but that of "long nines," and pig-tail, and cavendish.
Forget these for a moment, and look upon this dark-brown cake of dried
leaves and blossoms, which exhales an odor of pressed flowers. These are
the tender tops of the _Jebelee_, plucked as the buds begin to expand, and
carefully dried in the shade. In order to be used, it is moistened with
rose-scented water, and cut to the necessary degree of fineness. The test
of true Jebelee is, that it burns with a slow, hidden fire, like tinder,
and causes no irritation to the eye when held under it. The smoke, drawn
through a long cherry-stick pipe and amber mouth-piece, is pure, cool, and
sweet, with an aromatic flavor, which is very pleasant in the mouth. It
excites no salivation, and leaves behind it no unpleasant, stale odor.
The narghileh (still bubbling beside me) is an institution known only in
the East. It requires a peculiar kind of tobacco, which grows to
perfection in the southern provinces of Persia. The smoke, after passing
through water (rose-flavored, if you choose), is inhaled through a long,
flexible tube directly into the lungs. It occasions not the slightest
irritation or oppression, but in a few minutes produces a delicious sense
of rest, which is felt even in the finger-ends. The pure physical
sensation of rest is one of strength also, and of perfect contentment.
Many an impatient thought, many an angry word, have I avoided by a resort
to the pipe. Among our aborigines the pipe was the emblem of Peace, and I
strongly recommend the Peace Society to print their tracts upon papers of
smoking tobacco (Turkish, if possible), and distribute pipes with them.
I know of nothing more refreshing, after the fatigue of a long day's
journey, than a well-prepared narghileh. That slight feverish and
excitable feeling which is the result of fatigue yields at once to its
potency. The blood loses its heat and the pulse its rapidity; the muscles
relax, the nerves are soothed into quiet, and the frame passes into a
condition similar to sleep, except that the mind is awake and active. By
the time one has finished his pipe, he is refreshed for the remainder of
the day, and his nightly sleep is sound and healthy. Such are some of the
physical effects of the pipe, in Eastern lands. Morally and
psychologically, it works still greater transformations; but to describe
them now, with the mouth-piece at my lips, would require an active
self-consciousness which the habit does not allow.
A servant enters with a steamy cup of coffee, seated in a silver _zerf_,
or cup-holder. His thumb and fore-finger are clasped firmly upon the
bottom of the zerf, which I inclose near the top with my own thumb and
finger, so that the transfer is accomplished without his hand having
touched mine.
After draining the thick brown liquid, which must be done with due
deliberation and a pause of satisfaction between each sip, I return the
zerf, holding it in the middle, while the attendant places a palm of each
hand upon the top and bottom and carries it off without contact. The
beverage is made of the berries of Mocha, slightly roasted, pulverized in
a mortar, and heated to a foam, without the addition of cream or sugar.
Sometimes, however, it is flavored with the extract of roses or violets.
When skilfully made, each cup is prepared separately, and the quantity of
water and coffee carefully measured.
Coffee is a true child of the East, and its original home was among the
hills of Yemen, the Arabia Felix of the ancients. Fortunately for
Mussulmen, its use was unknown in the days of Mahomet, or it would
probably have fallen under the same prohibition as wine. The word _Kahweh_
(whence _cafe_) is an old Arabic term for wine. The discovery of the
properties of coffee is attributed to a dervish, who, for some
misdemeanor, was carried into the mountains of Yemen by his brethren and
there left to perish by starvation. In order to appease the pangs of
hunger he gathered the ripe berries from the wild coffee-trees, roasted
and ate them. The nourishment they contained, with water from the springs,
sustained his life, and after two or three months he returned in good
condition to his brethren, who considered his preservation as a miracle,
and ever afterwards looked upon him as a pattern of holiness. He taught
the use of the miraculous fruit, and the demand for it soon became so
great as to render the cultivation of the tree necessary. It was a long
time, however, before coffee was introduced into Europe. As late as the
beginning of the seventeenth century, Sandys, the quaint old traveller,
describes the appearance and taste of the beverage, which he calls
"Coffa," and sagely asks: "Why not that black broth which the
Lacedemonians used?"
On account of the excellence of the material, and the skilful manner of
its preparation, the Coffee of the East is the finest in the world. I have
found it so grateful and refreshing a drink, that I can readily pardon the
pleasant exaggeration of the Arabic poet, Abd-el Kader Anazari Djezeri
Hanbali, the son of Mahomet, who thus celebrates its virtues. After such
an exalted eulogy, my own praises would sound dull and tame; and I
therefore resume my pipe, commending Abd-el Kader to the reader.
"O Coffee! thou dispellest the cares of the great; thou bringest back
those who wander from the paths of knowledge. Coffee is the beverage of
the people of God, and the cordial of his servants who thirst for wisdom.
When coffee is infused into the bowl, it exhales the odor of musk, and is
of the color of ink. The truth is not known except to the wise, who drink
it from the foaming coffee-cup. God has deprived fools of coffee, who,
with invincible obstinacy, condemn it as injurious.
"Coffee is our gold; and in the place of its libations we are in the
enjoyment of the best and noblest society. Coffee is even as innocent a
drink as the purest milk, from which it is distinguished only by its
color. Tarry with thy coffee in the place of its preparation, and the good
God will hover over thee and participate in his feast. There the graces of
the saloon, the luxury of life, the society of friends, all furnish a
picture of the abode of happiness.
"Every care vanishes when the cup-bearer presents the delicious chalice.
It will circulate fleetly through thy veins, and will not rankle there:
if thou doubtest this, contemplate the youth and beauty of those who drink
it. Grief cannot exist where it grows; sorrow humbles itself in obedience
before its powers.
"Coffee is the drink of God's people; in it is health. Let this be the
answer to those who doubt its qualities. In it we will drown our
adversities, and in its fire consume our sorrows. Whoever has once seen
the blissful chalice, will scorn the wine-cup. Glorious drink! thy color
is the seal of purity, and reason proclaims it genuine. Drink with
confidence, and regard not the prattle of fools, who condemn without
foundation."
Chapter XIV.
Journey to Antioch and Aleppo.
Change of Plans--Routes to Baghdad--Asia Minor--We sail from
Beyrout--Yachting on the Syrian Coast--Tartus and Latakiyeh--The Coasts
of Syria--The Bay of Suediah--The Mouth of the Orontes--Landing--The
Garden of Syria--Ride to Antioch--The Modern City--The Plains of the
Orontes--Remains of the Greek Empire--The Ancient Road--The Plain of
Keftin--Approach to Aleppo.
"The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As, with dews and sunrise fed,
Comes the laughing morning wind."
Shelley.
Aleppo, _Friday, June_ 4, 1852.
A Traveller in the East, who has not unbounded time and an extensive
fortune at his disposal, is never certain where and how far he shall go,
until his journey is finished. With but a limited portion of both these
necessaries, I have so far carried out my original plan with scarcely a
variation; but at present I am obliged to make a material change of route.
My farthest East is here at Aleppo. At Damascus, I was told by everybody
that it was too late in the season to visit either Baghdad or Mosul, and
that, on account of the terrible summer heats and the fevers which prevail
along the Tigris, it would be imprudent to undertake it. Notwithstanding
this, I should probably have gone (being now so thoroughly acclimated that
I have nothing to fear from the heat), had I not met with a friend of
Col. Rawlinson, the companion of Layard, and the sharer in his discoveries
at Nineveh. This gentleman, who met Col. R. not long since in
Constantinople, on his way to Baghdad (where he resides as British
Consul), informed me that since the departure of Mr. Layard from Mosul,
the most interesting excavations have been filled up, in order to preserve
the sculptures. Unless one was able to make a new exhumation, he would be
by no means repaid for so long and arduous a journey. The ruins of Nineveh
are all below the surface of the earth, and the little of them that is now
left exposed, is less complete and interesting than the specimens in the
British Museum.
There is a route from Damascus to Baghdad, across the Desert, by way of
Palmyra, but it is rarely travelled, even by the natives, except when the
caravans are sufficiently strong to withstand the attacks of the Bedouins.
The traveller is obliged to go in Arab costume, to leave his baggage
behind, except a meagre scrip for the journey, and to pay from $300 to
$500 for the camels and escort. The more usual route is to come northward
to this city, then cross to Mosul and descend the Tigris--a journey of
four or five weeks. After weighing all the advantages and disadvantages of
undertaking a tour of such length as it would be necessary to make before
reaching Constantinople, I decided at Beyrout to give up the fascinating
fields of travel in Media, Assyria and Armenia, and take a rather shorter
and-perhaps equally interesting route from Aleppo to Constantinople, by
way of Tarsus, Konia (Iconium), and the ancient countries of Phrygia,
Bithynia, and Mysia. The interior of Asia Minor is even less known to us
than the Persian side of Asiatic Turkey, which has of late received more
attention from travellers; and, as I shall traverse it in its whole
length, from Syria to the Bosphorus, I may find it replete with "green
fields and pastures new," which shall repay me for relinquishing the first
and more ambitious undertaking. At least, I have so much reason to be
grateful for the uninterrupted good health and good luck I have enjoyed
during seven months in Africa and the Orient, that I cannot be otherwise
than content with the prospect before me.
I left Beyrout on the night of the 28th of May, with Mr. Harrison, who has
decided to keep me company as far as Constantinople. Francois, our classic
dragoman, whose great delight is to recite Homer by the sea-side, is
retained for the whole tour, as we have found no reason to doubt his
honesty or ability. Our first thought was to proceed to Aleppo by land, by
way of Homs and Hamah, whence there might be a chance of reaching Palmyra;
but as we found an opportunity of engaging an American yacht for the
voyage up the coast, it was thought preferable to take her, and save time.
She was a neat little craft, called the "American Eagle," brought out by
Mr. Smith, our Consul at Beyrout. So, one fine moonlit night, we slowly
crept out of the harbor, and after returning a volley of salutes from our
friends at Demetri's Hotel, ran into the heart of a thunder-storm, which
poured down more rain than all I had seen for eight months before. But our
rais, Assad (the Lion), was worthy of his name, and had two good Christian
sailors at his command, so we lay in the cramped little cabin, and heard
the floods washing our deck, without fear.
In the morning, we were off Tripoli, which is even more deeply buried than
Beyrout in its orange and mulberry groves, and slowly wafted along the
bold mountain-coast, in the afternoon reached Tartus, the Ancient Tortosa.
A mile from shore is the rocky island of Aradus, entirely covered by a
town. There were a dozen vessels lying in the harbor. The remains of a
large fortress and ancient mole prove it to have been a place of
considerable importance. Tartus is a small old place on the sea-shore--not
so large nor so important in appearance as its island-port. The country
behind is green and hilly, though but partially cultivated, and rises into
Djebel Ansairiyeh, which divides the valley of the Orontes from the sea.
It is a lovely coast, especially under the flying lights and shadows of
such a breezy day as we had. The wind fell at sunset; but by the next
morning, we had passed the tobacco-fields of Latakiyeh, and were in sight
of the southern cape of the Bay of Suediah. The mountains forming this
cape culminate in a grand conical peak, about 5,000 feet in height, called
Djebel Okrab. At ten o'clock, wafted along by a slow wind, we turned the
point and entered the Bay of Suediah, formed by the embouchure of the
River Orontes. The mountain headland of Akma Dagh, forming the portal of
the Gulf of Scanderoon, loomed grandly in front of us across the bay; and
far beyond it, we could just distinguish the coast of Karamania, the
snow-capped range of Taurus.
The Coasts of Syria might be divided, like those of Guinea, according to
the nature of their productions. The northern division is bold and bare,
yet flocks of sheep graze on the slopes of its mountains; and the inland
plains behind them are covered with orchards of pistachio-trees. Silk is
cultivated in the neighborhood of Suediah, but forms only a small portion
of the exports. This region may be called the Wool and Pistachio Coast.
Southward, from Latakiyeh to Tartus and the northern limit of Lebanon,
extends the Tobacco Coast, whose undulating hills are now clothed with the
pale-green leaves of the renowned plant. From Tripoli to Tyre, embracing
all the western slope of Lebanon, and the deep, rich valleys lying between
his knees, the mulberry predominates, and the land is covered with the
houses of thatch and matting which shelter the busy worms. This is the
Silk Coast. The palmy plains of Jaffa, and beyond, until Syria meets the
African sands between Gaza and El-Arish, constitute the Orange Coast. The
vine, the olive, and the fig flourish everywhere.
We were all day getting up the bay, and it seemed as if we should never
pass Djebel Okrab, whose pointed top rose high above a long belt of fleecy
clouds that girdled his waist. At sunset we made the mouth of the Orontes.
Our lion of a Captain tried to run into the river, but the channel was
very narrow, and when within three hundred yards of the shore the yacht
struck. We had all sail set, and had the wind been a little stronger, we
should have capsized in an instant. The lion went manfully to work, and by
dint of hard poling, shoved us off, and came to anchor in deep water. Not
until the danger was past did he open his batteries on the unlucky
helmsman, and then the explosion of Arabic oaths was equal to a broadside
of twenty-four pounders. We lay all night rocking on the swells, and the
next morning, by firing a number of signal guns, brought out a boat, which
took us off. We entered the mouth of the Orontes, and sailed nearly a mile
between rich wheat meadows before reaching the landing-place of
Suediah--two or three uninhabited stone huts, with three or four small
Turkish craft, and a health officer. The town lies a mile or two inland,
scattered along the hill-side amid gardens so luxuriant as almost to
conceal it from view.
This part of the coast is ignorant of travellers, and we were obliged to
wait half a day before we could find a sufficient number of horses to take
us to Antioch, twenty miles distant. When they came, they were solid
farmers' horses, with the rudest gear imaginable. I was obliged to mount
astride of a broad pack-saddle, with my legs suspended in coils of rope.
Leaving the meadows, we entered a lane of the wildest, richest and
loveliest bloom and foliage. Our way was overhung with hedges of
pomegranate, myrtle, oleander, and white rose, in blossom, and
occasionally with quince, fig, and carob trees, laced together with grape
vines in fragrant bloom. Sometimes this wilderness of color and odor met
above our heads and made a twilight; then it opened into long, dazzling,
sun-bright vistas, where the hues of the oleander, pomegranate and white
rose made the eye wink with their gorgeous profusion. The mountains we
crossed were covered with thickets of myrtle, mastic, daphne, and arbutus,
and all the valleys and sloping meads waved with fig, mulberry, and olive
trees. Looking towards the sea, the valley broadened out between mountain
ranges whose summits were lost in the clouds. Though the soil was not so
rich as in Palestine, the general aspect of the country was much wilder
and more luxuriant.
So, by this glorious lane, over the myrtled hills and down into valleys,
whose bed was one hue of rose from the blossoming oleanders, we travelled
for five hours, crossing the low ranges of hills through which the Orontes
forces his way to the sea. At last we reached a height overlooking the
valley of the river, and saw in the east, at the foot of the mountain
chain, the long lines of barracks built by Ibrahim Pasha for the defence
of Antioch. Behind them the ancient wall of the city clomb the mountains,
whose crest it followed to the last peak of the chain, From the next hill
we saw the city--a large extent of one-story houses with tiled roofs,
surrounded with gardens, and half buried in the foliage of sycamores. It
extends from the River Orontes, which washes its walls, up the slope of
the mountain to the crags of gray rock which overhang it. We crossed the
river by a massive old bridge, and entered the town. Riding along the
rills of filth which traverse the streets, forming their central avenues,
we passed through several lines of bazaars to a large and dreary-looking
khan, the keeper of which gave us the best vacant chamber--a narrow place,
full of fleas.