Far beyond the highest villages—at an altitude of nine thousand feet, where all other vegetation had ceased—nestling in crevice of the highest ridge of Lebanon, I came upon a sacred grove of four hundred of the cedars of Lebanon. I went often to visit them and to worship in this forest shrine—at twilight, when the great shadows were falling over the face of the yellow mountains; at night, when the stars were looking down upon the trees; and at sunrise, when bars of golden light lay across the evergreen branches of the trees. Our ancestors are said to have worshiped in the forests of England and Europe. After visiting the cedars of Lebanon one will not think it strange that such a mode of worship arose.
Sometimes the cedars, moving in the evening wind like colossal harps touched by the fingers of the wind, give forth a sad, but beautiful, music. But most impressive are the cedars when not a breath of air is stirring. In that awesome and overwhelming silence those great trees reign like monarchs of another world. The silence is vocal with the history of the kingdoms and empires which have waxed and waned during the life of a single one of those trees. At night when the stars come out and pitch their shining tents in the canopy of heaven, looking down upon the mighty mass of the mountains and the cedars of Lebanon, all silent, sad, and majestic, it seems as if the world has come to worship at this throne and altar of nature's trinity of grandeur, silence, and peace—the stars, the mountains, and the cedars of Lebanon.