There are regions more lofty than the glaciered crests of Lebanon;
mountain scenery more sublime, perhaps even more beautiful: its peaks
are not lost in the clouds like the mysterious Ararat; its forests
are not as vast and strange as the towering Himalaya; it has not the
volcanic splendour of the glowing Andes; in lake and in cataract it
must yield to the European Alps; but for life, vigorous, varied, and
picturesque, there is no highland territory in the globe that can for a
moment compare with the great chain of Syria.
Man has fled from the rich and servile plains, from the tyranny of the
Turk and from Arabian rapine, to clothe the crag with vines, and rest
under his fig tree on the mountain top. An ingenious spirit, unwearied
industry, and a bland atmosphere have made a perpetual garden of the
Syrian mountains. Their acclivities sparkle with terraces of corn and
fruit. Castle and convent crown their nobler heights, and flat-roofed
villages nestle amid groves of mulberry trees. Among these mountains
we find several human races, several forms of government, and
several schemes of religion, yet everywhere liberty: a proud, feudal
aristocracy; a conventual establishment, which in its ramifications
recalls the middle ages; a free and armed peasantry, whatever their
creed, Emirs on Arabian steeds, bishops worthy of the Apostles, the
Maronite monk, the horned head-gear of the Druses.
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