The next day, we crossed a pass in the Anti-Lebanon beyond Zebdeni, descended a beautiful valley on the western side, under a ridge which was still dotted with patches of snow, and after travelling for some hours over a wide, barren height, the last of the range, saw below us the plain of Baalbec.  The grand ridge of Lebanon opposite, crowned with glittering fields of snow, shone out clearly through the pure air, and the hoary head of Hermon, far in the south, lost something of its grandeur by the comparison.  Though there is a “divide,” or watershed, between Husbeiya, at the foot of Mount Hermon, and Baalbec, whose springs join the Orontes, which flows northward to Antioch, the great natural separation of the two chains continues unbroken to the Gulf of Akaba, in the Red Sea.  A little beyond Baalbec, the Anti-Lebanon terminates, sinking into the Syrian plain, while the Lebanon, though its name and general features are lost, about twenty miles further to the north is succeeded by other ranges, which, though broken at intervals, form a regular series, connecting with the Taurus, in Asia Minor.

On leaving Damascus, the Demon of Hasheesh still maintained a partial control over me.  I was weak in body and at times confused in my perceptions, wandering away from the scenes about me to some unknown sphere beyond the moon.  But the healing balm of my sleep at Zebdeni, and the purity of the morning air among the mountains, completed my cure.  As I rode along the valley, with the towering, snow-sprinkled ridge of the Anti-Lebanon on my right, a cloudless heaven above my head, and meads enamelled with the asphodel and scarlet anemone stretching before me, I felt that the last shadow had rolled away from my brain.  My mind was now as clear as that sky—­my heart as free and joyful as the elastic morning air.  The sun never shone so brightly to my eyes; the fair forms of Nature were never penetrated with so perfect a spirit of beauty.  I was again master of myself, and the world glowed as if new-created in the light of my joy and gratitude.  I thanked God, who had led me out of a darkness more terrible than that of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and while my feet strayed among the flowery meadows of Lebanon, my heart walked on the Delectable Hills of His Mercy.

By the middle of the afternoon, we reached Baalbec.  The distant view of the temple, on descending the last slope of the Anti-Lebanon, is not calculated to raise one’s expectations.  On the green plain at the foot of the mountain, you see a large square platform of masonry, upon which stand six columns, the body of the temple, and a quantity of ruined walls.  As a feature in the landscape, it has a fine effect, but you find yourself pronouncing the speedy judgment, that “Baalbec, without Lebanon, would be rather a poor show.”  Having come to this conclusion, you ride down the hill with comfortable feelings of indifference.  There are a number of quarries on the left hand; you glance at them with an expression