PARABLE OF THE SOWER. 117 three bushels, and if he reaps a hundred, it is a hundred fold, according to his mode of calculation, but according to ours it would only be thirty-three. This latter rate is nearly the lowest mentioned in the parable as the yield of what he calls good ground, and that is really a first-rate crop for even such plains as Esdraelon, which, being directly below Nazareth, must have been perfectly familiar to our Lord; and, as cultivation was no doubt far more careful and skillful than it is now among these stupid fellahîn, it is not at all improbable that the numbers used are in strict accordance with actual experience. Indeed, He could not have erred in this matter. We may suppose, however, that the different rates of yield had reference to various kinds of grain. Barley and wheat are sown side by side in the same field, but the former gives a much heavier crop than the latter. There is a kind of durrah—white maize-sown in this same region which often returns several hundred fold. I have been assured by respectable farmers that they have gathered more than four hundred fold of this corn. In the time of Christ the country was densely peopled, and the fields protected from the depredations of birds, mice, and insects, and also from cattle and other animals which now trample under foot so much of the grain. It would then not be necessary to sow more than one third as much seed as at present in order to secure an equally heavy crop, and thus there might be realized, in favorable circumstances, a hundred fold. This is farther confirmed by the fact that an extraordinary number of stalks do actually spring from a single root. Here, on this plain of Sidon, I have seen more than a hundred, and each with a head bowing gracefully beneath the load of well-formed grains. The yield was more than a thousand fold. The supposition in the parable is history in the case of Isaac, who reaped a hundred fold in Gerar, and "in the same year." There is a verbal accuracy in this statement worth noting. He received this large return the same year in which he sowed the seed. In our country-at least when I was a farmer— 1 Gen. xxvi. 12. the seed is sown one year and the harvest reaped the next. But these now sowing before us will reap in less than four months; and this is the general result now, as it doubtless was in the time of the patriarchs. Have you noticed any thing in this country which may have suggested the expressions in the 126th Psalm: They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him? I never saw people sowing in tears exactly, but have often known them to do it in fear and distress sufficient to draw them from any eye. In seasons of great scarcity, the poor peasants part in sorrow with every measure of precious seed cast into the ground. It is like taking bread out of the mouths of their children; and in such times many bitter tears are actually shed over it. The distress is frequently so great that government is obliged to furnish seed, or none would be sown. Ibrahim Pasha did this more than once within my remembrance, copying the example, perhaps, of his great predecessor in Egypt when the seven years' famine was ended. The thoughts of this psalm may likewise have been suggested by the extreme danger which frequently attends the farmer in his plowing and sowing. The calamity which fell upon the husbandmen of Job when the oxen were plowing, and the asses feeding beside them, and the Sabeans fell upon them and took them away, and slew the servants with the edge of the sword,' is often repeated in our day. To understand this, you must remember what I just told you about the situation of the arable lands in the open country; and here again we meet that verbal accuracy: the sower goes forth that is, from the village. The people of Ibel and Khiem, in Merj 'Aiyûn, for example, have their best graingrowing fields down in the 'Ard Hûleh, six or eight miles from their homes, and just that much nearer the lawless border of the desert. When the country is disturbed, or the government weak, they can not sow these lands except at 1 Job i. 14, 15. SOWING IN TEARS-DROUGHT. 119 the risk of their lives. Indeed, they always go forth in large companies, and completely armed, ready to drop the plow and seize the musket at a moment's warning; and yet, with all this care, many sad and fatal calamities overtake the men who must thus sow in tears. And still another origin may be found for the thoughts of the psalm in the extreme difficulty of the work itself in many places. The soil is rocky, impracticable, overgrown with sharp thorns; and it costs much painful toil to break up and gather out the rocks, cut and burn the briers, and to subdue the stubborn soil, especially with their feeble oxen and insignificant plows. Join all these together, and the sentiment is very forcibly brought out, that he who labors hard, in cold and in rain, in fear and danger, in poverty and in want, casting his precious seed in the ground, will surely come again, at harvest-time, with rejoicing, and bearing his sheaves with him. Does the calamity mentioned by Joel (i. 17) ever befall the farmer in these days-The seed is rotten under their clods? It is certain to follow if they sow too long before the rain comes. The seed then rots, and the work must be done over again. The whole description of drought in this chapter is terribly graphic. That which the palmer-worm hath left hath the locust eaten, and what the locust hath left the canker-worm hath eaten, and that which the canker-worm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten. Be ashamed, O ye husbandmen; howl, O ye vine-dressers, for the wheat and for the barley, because the harvest of the field is perished. The vine is dried up; the fig-tree languisheth; the pomegranatetree, the palm-tree also, and the apple-tree, even all the trees of the field, are withered. Alas for the day! The meat is cut off before our eyes; the seed is rotten under the clods, and the garners are laid desolate, the barns are broken down. How do the beasts groan; the herds of cattle are perplexed because they have no pasture. Fire hath devoured the pastures of the wilderness, and the flame hath burned all the trees of the field. Such a day of destruction from the Almighty has more than once come upon this unhappy land because of the wickedness of those that dwell therein. But here we are upon the banks of this fine mountain stream, with the rich orchards of Sidon spread out before us. All this verdure depends upon the river, and should its fountains fail or be diverted, the whole fair scene would quickly vanish. But such a calamity is not likely to occur. The Owely takes its rise in the noble fountains of Barûk, some thirty miles to the northeast, and near those of the Damûr. Flowing at the bottom of a romantic ravine for about fifteen miles, and passing below Mukhtarah and 'Ammatûr, it unites with a branch from the south in a sweet little vale called Merj Bisry. Thence it pursues its course hither through a succession of gorges well worth visiting had we the necessary leisure. The southern branch plunges down a precipice at Jezzîn, two hundred and forty feet perpendicular-plumb as a wall. My measuring cord, held one foot in advance of the edge, did not touch the rock for more than two hundred feet. When the stream is swollen by the winter rains, it is a splendid cataract, and there are several others almost equally grand between Jezzîn and 'Ammatûr, where rattling torrents from the heights of Lebanon leap down giddy precipices into the chasm of the main stream. Those below Jebaah es Shûf and Bathir are the most beautiful. The ride from Mukhtarah to Jezzîn is rich in the very finest scenery of this goodly mountain. The path winds along a lofty line of hanging terraces, with the Owely far below, and perpendicular cliffs towering many hundred feet above, the favorite resort of eagles and savage beasts. To enjoy the prospect to greatest advantage, one should pass from Mezraat es Shûf down into Merj Bisry, and thence up the pine-clothed mountain toward Jebaah el Halâweh. He will thus have in view, for hours together, the river gorge in all its extent and wildness, and also the succession of gigantic precipices by which the lofty ridge of Lebanon is reached and held up, and down which her silver streams spring joyously in bright and boisterous cascades. No one who can command the necessary time should omit this ride. True, there is nothing of historic interest along the route, but the lover of nature will not regret this; rather would he feel it an impertinence to have man's puny structures thrust on his attention amid the infinitely grander FAKHR ED DIN-OWELY. 121 architecture of God. At the head of the Merj Bisry, however, are the ruins of an ancient temple, with large columns, half imbedded in rubbish, which any one who has a heart for it may examine. Those who built it probably designed to borrow solemnity and magnificence to aid their worship from this association with the handiworks of the Almighty. It was amid this grand scenery that the celebrated Druse chief, Fakhr ed Dîn, closed his long career of rebellion against the sultan. A remarkable cliff above Merj Bisry is full of caverns, in one of which, still bearing his name, the Emeer was besieged for seven years, as tradition relates. When compelled to forsake this by the poisoning of his supply of water, he took refuge in a cave under the cascade of Jezzîn. This he held until it was sapped from below. The sturdy old rebel calmly smoked his nargeleh (so the story runs) until the sapper's chisel was driven up through the rug on which he was reclining. Then he surrendered, was taken to Constantinople, and there beheaded on the 14th of March, 1635-the fate of a thousand other rebels against the Grand Turk. We are reminded of the old man by this substantial bridge, of a single arch, which here spans the Owely. It was built by him, but out of materials far more ancient. Many of the stones bear the mark of the Phoenician bevel, on which I always look with the respect due to old age. If I remember aright, Dr. Robinson identifies this river with the Bostrenus of the ancients. And correctly enough, no doubt, though the notices of it are singularly vague and rare. How beautifully it flows beneath the bridge, and between these bushy banks! Bridge, and stream, and khan make up a scene of beauty which the artist loves to sketch; and in a portfolio, even, the old khan looks inviting. But Salîm has done well to place our dinner under these trees, and at a respectful distance from that nest of abominations. While we satisfy the demands of hunger, I will give you a chapter from my book of experiences touching this inn. Several years ago I spent a night there. It was the 3d of December, too, and a winter-storm was coming on in all VOL. I.-F |