BY BISHOP JOHN F. HURST, D.D.

One is forcibly struck with the Damascene bazars. They thread the old city in all directions. Some of them are new, and some very old. The most of them are covered ways, where either side is divided into small booths, or shops. The bazar has its specialty—the brass bazar, the silversmith bazar, the goldsmith bazar, the shoe bazar, the silk bazar, and all the rest. Then there is another order of division, such as the Greek bazar and the Frank bazar. There is sometimes, however, a breaking up of all orders, for goods of very varied character you can sometimes get in the same bazar. The oldest of these quaint marts date back many centuries, and are mere holes, or rickety houses, where buying and selling have been going on for many a generation. The venders love these old places. I imagine their fathers, and even remote ancestors sat in the same spot, and did business in much the same way, and chaffed about the prices in quite as much hyperbole, four or five centuries ago, as their children do to-day, when a Frank drops into the busy way, and halts, and asks a question concerning the beautiful wares.

The love is for the old. No Damascene wants to change to the new. The smooth floor and familiar shelves of his booth he could not give up to another for many a bright bishlik.

Not long since the Pasha of Damascus, who had been long making vain efforts to get the shop-keepers of a stretch of the bazar in the “street that is called straight,” to pull down their booths and put up new ones, had to give up the task as hopeless. Finally he ordered that, at a given signal, one night, the bazar should be set fire to in a number of places. His officers did their duty well. They knew what they were about. The result was that long reaches of this one bazar were burned to the ground. The wares went up in smoke with the tinder which enclosed them.

“What could the people do?” I asked my informant.

“Do? Why, nothing at all.”

“Were they insured? Did they get any compensation back again for the destruction of their property?”

“Not in the least. The Pasha had the power. No questions were asked. The consequence is, that, as you see, new bazars are building in various places. Soon they will be occupied by gay, oriental wares, and things will go on quite the same as before. Only there will be more light and fresher air.”

Among the specialties sold in the Damascene bazars we may mention silk goods, first of all. They are combined with cotton, and woven into various patterns for dress and furniture. They defy all competition the world over. The patterns are exquisite. No wonder this artistic weaving has given the city’s name, or damask, to such fabrics for all time. Curtains and all manner of stuffs are woven, and are here displayed in such combinations as to bewilder any but Orientals. I saw, during my stay, the places where these fine silks are woven. There are no great shops, no few places where they come from. They are produced in small houses, in obscure and ill-odorous streets, and by thousands of hands, young and old. It is the toil of the poor, the young, and the infirm, in sunless cellars and obscure corners which brings out these sunny silks and beautiful designs. Queens send here from afar to buy them. There, in the hotel, I saw the Crown Prince of Austria and his fair-haired Belgian bride. Before twenty-four hours will have passed they will be buying these silks of Damascus, and in less than six months Stephanie will be wearing them at a court dinner. When she becomes Empress she will be having more of them, and her favorite rooms will likely be hung with the rich stuffs sent direct from these busy bazars, but coming first from dingy homes and little rickety looms.

Yes, one learns an easy lesson here, in these oriental countries, of the contrast between the hand that weaves and the body that wears the stuffs that adorn the world’s gayest places. In Agra, behind the barred gate, I saw the chained prisoners of the jail weaving most patiently one rich India carpet for the ex-Empress Eugenie, and another, of different figure, but even more rich, for Queen Victoria. It takes about six months for the workers to finish their work. As they weave, one hears the clank of the chains about their feet. But, in the later years, when those great carpets will still delight the eye, few will ever think of the places where the fine wool from Cashmere was woven into such pleasing shapes.

DAMASCENE TRADITIONS.

There is nothing in the way of safe tradition in Damascus. They will show you—yes, what will they not show you? I let them tell me everything, and have given no interdict to our dragoman. He is to tell me all the wildest traditions he pleases, and take me to every sacred spot, and I am to listen. No wonder he has brought me to the house of Ananias, the good friend of the blind Saul, before he became the far-seeing apostle to the Gentiles. We had to leave our carriage and go through several narrow and dirty streets, and got thoroughly wearied by the walk, and then had to wait for a key, and be surrounded by begging children, and be pounded between donkeys with heavily-burdened panniers, and be led down a damp stairway into the darkness, to find the way to the house of Ananias.

There is no harm in asking questions. So, to the question as to how they know this is where he lived, the answer came:

“Until lately, nobody knew where Ananias lived. But some years ago a learned man from the west came here and told us this was the place, and so it must be true.”

Now, I take this comfort: Ananias lived somewhere in Damascus, and there is as much probability that he lived here as anywhere else. That is enough for me. Why should we disturb things of such little moment?

But there is not much room for doubting the neighborhood of the place where Paul entered the city. It was the gate nearest the southern side of the city. The old Roman road northward terminated at the gate. It is probable that no change has taken place in the road, and that it follows just the general line, and even the curves, that it did in the remote period. On this southern side of Damascus there has been but little change in the wall from Paul’s day to ours. You can see at a glance that all the lower part of the wall is of Roman work. The blocks are large, clear cut, and brought into closest brotherhood without a grain of mortar. The joining is still perfect. It was the wall of Paul’s time, and only the upper part has been torn down and rebuilt. It is as easy to see the difference between Roman and Turkish workmanship as to trace the line between a Moslem mosque and the Theseum in Athens.

They will show you, in Damascus, the very place where Paul was let down from the wall in a basket. Let them enjoy their definite locality! But I did get, very near the alleged spot, an idea which I had never had before—that there was a mode of building which favored the letting down of any one from the top of the wall. One can see, in several places on this same southern side of Damascus, that people live in houses adjusted on the top of the wall itself. I saw one of these diminutive houses which projected over the wall so far that one might well wonder why it did not fall down to the earth. What more natural thing than that Paul was let down from just such a place. There was not a gate in the wall near by, and nothing was more natural and easy than to aid his escape in this way.

I lingered some time about the Roman gateway. It is an enchanting spot. The great blocks of stone, the pillars, the archway, the smooth stones, over which you walk to reach it, the general curve of the wall, tell of the Roman times, and bring you face to face with the little church in Damascus which was soon to set the whole eastern and western world ablaze by its leading of Paul to the light. Along all the ways, out by this Roman gate, the people were twisting silk, and getting it ready for the loom. It was of hard fiber, yellow, rich, and glistening in the afternoon shimmer of the sun, as it came back from the pink sides of the Anti-Libanus mountains. There was no available spot which was not utilized by long stretches of the silk cord. It was drawn off in all directions, and we had to walk carefully to keep from stumbling against the twister’s twist.

THE CAMELS.

Not very far from the Roman gate was the great camel space. It was the point of departure for caravans to Palmyra, Mecca, and the whole eastern world. Here were hundreds of camels. They seemed to be waiting for the finishing burdens. Some were already loaded, and were pausing for the rest. I know not how long it requires for the completing of a caravan. But it seems that when some camels are loaded they are taken to the outside space, and are kept watch over until all of the others are ready. It must be no small or brief matter to get a caravan ready. Then, when the last camel is laden, and he takes his place in the caravan, and the signal is given to move on, what a commotion it makes! Friends come down to see their friends off. It is the moving off of many people, and of vast treasures of merchandise. Merchants and travelers, and many others who wish to go to the distant places across the desert, for any purpose whatever, go with the caravan. It is the safest way, for the train is guarded, and has, I imagine, the protection of the government. There is something singularly poetical, as well as practical, in the moving of the caravan. It is a thing which does not occur every day. Much commercial gain depends upon its safe conduct and arrival. The camels must be of just the right kind to endure the long journey and the great fatigue. The gait is slow and dull. There is the dreariest monotony. Yet this is the way these people have been traveling and doing business, and keeping up the connections for all these long ages. As things now seem, it would appear to be ages still before the railway, or even the wagon, will take the place of the much-enduring camel, the ship of the desert.

BUCKLE’S GRAVE.

Close beside the space allotted for the camels which make the long caravans for Damascus, I came across the little English cemetery. It is a quiet spot, surrounded by a high wall. The gate was locked, and there was no way of getting within it. I could not tell where the key was to be found; wherever it was, it was a long distance off, in the heart of the city. So, by the aid of our dragoman, I succeeded in climbing to the top of the wall, and seeing the one grave in which I was most interested—that of Henry Thomas Buckle, the author of the “History of Civilization.” Buckle had wearied himself out with literary work. His methods were not the most wise nor expeditious. He was an indefatigable gleaner of facts, and a patient gatherer of notes from all quarters, and he piled up his note-books in great heterogeneous masses. He seems to have had but little help, and not to have husbanded his strength. So, like many men who begin to rest when it is all too late, he went off on distant travel. He reached Damascus. His mind must have kindled afresh as he saw this city of weavers and strange oriental combinations, and the thought of the long and hoary history of the place. But he was too weary to think longer. He lay down to die, and here he rests, under the shadow of the thick and high walls of a little graveyard, where only seldom an Anglo-Saxon comes to visit the sacred place. The accumulation of years is beginning to tell upon the inscription. But it is still very legible, and gives the record of his brief and toiling life.

There is something singularly touching in this little graveyard. There are only a few graves, yet among them, besides Buckle’s, are several English noblemen and titled ladies. The inscriptions repeat the story of love and tears, as everywhere else. None who come here expect to die. But the difficulties of removal are great. There are great and long settled superstitions against the transportation of the dead in all these eastern countries. The best way is to let our friends lie where they fall, and to care for the perpetual beauty of their resting place. The little graveyards of the Anglo-Saxons in all the eastern cemeteries make a strange appeal to the sympathies. I have seen many of them, and always they teach a new lesson of the suddenness of death, of the pilgrimage which we call life, and of the burning love of those who remain behind, and who write their words of tenderest affection upon stone in far-off lands.

THE GREAT MOSQUE.

There are few mosques which have a more interesting history than the great one of Damascus. Of all those in existence, save only that of Mecca, the greatest interest probably clusters about this one. It is not as splendid as that of St. Sophia, in Constantinople, and yet it has some elements of touching story that not even that one possesses. It stands upon the foundation of a Greek temple. In the early Christian ages it required only an imperial order to convert a temple into a church. So, when the Emperor Arcadius, toward the close of the fourth century, wished to convert this temple into a church, all he needed to do was to declare his will, and hurl out the pagan priesthood, and make a few minor changes, and the deed was done. It became a splendid church, whose fame went out into all lands. Thus it remained until the rise of the Mohammedan faith. When Damascus was conquered, so arduous was the strife that the leader of the Christians met the leader of the Moslems near the spot where the church stood, and, by agreement, part of the church was given up to the Mohammedans, and part still reserved by the Christians. But Christian and Moslem had the same doorway. This state of things could not last a great while. The Caliph Omar I. asked the Christians to sell their right to a part of the church. They refused, and then he took it from them. But he was fair enough to given them perpetual right to other churches in the city and its environs. He then set to work to beautify and make still more splendid this ancient building. He is said to have brought from Constantinople 1,200 skilled artists, and to have searched over all Syria for the most splendid pillars and architectural adornments, with which to beautify and enlarge the building. Precious stones were used for mosaic, vines of solid gold were made to run over the archways, the wooden ceiling was overlaid with a plating of gold, and from its glittering height there hung six hundred gold lamps.

The wars and time have told strangely upon this rich, historical building. The lamps are gone, no doubt to serve the purposes of warfare. The plating on the ceiling has disappeared, probably for the same reason. Much of the splendor has departed. But there are still the magnificent columns, with mutilated capitals and defaced bases, which once belonged to the Greek pagans of Syria, and in their long life, have witnessed the worship of Baal, Jupiter, Mohammed, and the one true Savior.

The present reminders of the time when this vast building of four hundred and twenty-nine feet in length and one hundred and twenty-five feet wide, was new, are numerous and very prominent. Everywhere, at every step you take, you see the old peering out boldly through the new and the late. Here is a patch of rich and deep-stoned mosaic, which has escaped a thousand destructive forces, and still stands as a witness to the time of remote Christianity, when Mohammed was not yet born. The stained windows, with glass so somber and subdued that one can hardly see even this blazing Syrian sun’s rays through it, are few in number, but they must have been made by Christian hands, in the far gone and fading Byzantine times. Even the Roman peers through the Christian, and one sees strong evidences of the times when the star had not yet stood over the manger at Bethlehem, and when the Greek paganism ruled from the Mediterranean to the borders of India. Here is an archway with only one stone missing, which is as perfect a bit of Greek architecture as Athens can furnish to-day.

One of the most singular features of this building is this—the respect which the Mohammedan shows here for Christianity. I have seen nothing equal to it elsewhere. There is here, belonging to the Greek mosque, the Madinet ’Isa, or “Minaret of Jesus,” and the Mohammedans have a belief that when the Christ comes he will appear on this minaret. Bloody as has been the history of Damascus, and violent as has often been the treatment of the Christians by the natives, the Mohammedans have been compelled to respect the Christians, and to remember the relation of this wonderful city to early Christianity.

Let me give another illustration of how the old still looks through the new. To the dragoman I said, when he seemed to have shown us everything:

“Where is that Christian inscription?”

“Oh,” he replied, “nobody goes there much now. It is dangerous to get to it. You have to leap across a bazar, from one house-top to another. It is very dangerous.”

There were two ladies in our little party, and they were not at all frightened by the outlook. It was simply a dragoman’s excuse to save himself a little trouble. We all agreed that Franz must show us the inscription. We went out of the mosque, down the street, then into the silver bazar, then up a rickety stairway, and finally out over the flat roofs of various buildings back to the outer wall of the mosque. We were at the limit, and either had to leap over a deep span, the width of a narrow street, or put a wide board across it. A couple of piasters soon provided the board from a man who was just waiting to serve us, and in one minute more we were reading, along the architrave of one side of the old mosque, these words from David, in early Greek:

This inscription has stood here through all the years since they were put there first by the Christians of the fourth century, after they had changed the temple into the church. The letters are as clear as the sun in the heavens.

It is, perhaps, the only illustration where Mohammedanism has permitted a Christian inscription to stand. It is not likely to be removed in the future, but will come into use when all the mosques are again made into Christian temples.

It is not an easy climb to the top of one of these lofty minarets. But we resolved to do it. The picture never fades from the mind. Toward the west we could see, as though within arm’s length, Ubel Sheikh, or Mount Hermon, with its great folds of snow, that make his perpetual turban of spotless white. Out from the sides of the Anti-Libanus burst the Abana and Pharpar, which go singing down to the desert, and produce the damascenes of all the countries. Yonder is the Christian quarter, there the Jewish, and in another direction the Mohammedan. Far off to the northeast lies Palmyra. But we can not see it. It is a four days’ camel journey distant. The illimitable desert stretches east and south and north, and these two “better rivers” of Damascus lose themselves in those two little lakes, whose silver surface just glistens a little in this perfect sun. Fruit trees are everywhere in bloom. The almond, the plum—the damson takes its name from Damascus—and the apricot, are everywhere in full blaze, and make the city one vast nosegay. The murmur of fountains rises from a thousand courts, while the streets are alive with the streams which have been vexed and teased away by many a device from these living rivers. You get weary with the view.

We now descend. How shall we see the way down the dingy steps? By the same lamp which had guided us up. Yes, it is a veritable coal-oil lantern. Think of it—the mixing up of the centuries! My Anglo-Saxon feet have been guided to the topmost point of one of the world’s oldest buildings here in grand and hoary Damascus, by the aid of a kerosene lantern, every drop of whose petroleum has come from Oil City or its neighborhood.

Damascus, March 8, 1885.

I do not pretend that books are everything.… Some day I may say some very hard things about people who keep their books so close before their eyes that they can not see God’s world, nor their fellow men and women. But books rightly used are society.—E. E. Hale, in “How to Do It.”