AT four o’clock, on the second day after leaving Baalbek, I spy one of the prettiest objects that ever greeted human vision. It is Damascus, the oldest city in the world—Damascus, laid out by Uz, the great-grandson of Noah. For days I have been riding over a ruined and desolate country, and now my eyes fall and feast on a broad, rich valley, through which flow Abana and Pharpar, two rivers of pure water. The whole valley is one great garden, or orchard, in which flourishes almost every tropical plant. Here are the orange, olive and oleander, the peach, pear, palm and pome-granate, the banana, the apple, apricot and myrtle. Amid the rich green foliage of these trees, their golden fruit is seen. Autumn, which is only summer meeting death with a smile, has seared the leaves of some of the more delicate plants of the valley. Red leaves are beautifully interwoven with the green, and they gleam in the rays of the setting sun like sheets of purest gold. Here and there tall and slender silver poplars rise high, and are gracefully swaying to and fro in the evening breezes.

Damascus is situated in the midst of this luxuriant garden. Looking down from the hilltop I see the taller houses, the mosques and minarets, rising from amidst the luxuriant foliage of the trees. Ah, what a picture! According to tradition, when Mohammed reached this point and looked down upon Damascus for the first time, he said: “Man can enter only one paradise, and I prefer to enter the one above.” So he sat down here and feasted his eyes upon the earthly paradise of Damascus and went away without entering its gates, that hereafter he might be permitted to enter the portals of the paradise of God. A stone tower marks the spot where the prophet stood. From that early period Damascus has been regarded by all Arabs as an earthly reflection of paradise, where a foretaste of all the joys of heaven are obtainable. In accordance with the description given in the Koran, the Mohammedan Bible, Arabs picture to themselves paradise as a limitless orchard, traversed by streams of water, where the most delicious fruits are ever ready to drop into the mouth.

When we remember that Damascus is situated on the edge of the great Syrian desert, that it is surrounded on three sides by hills, high and lifted up, and that the whole country for miles and scores of miles around is bleak, parched and desolate, we can not for a moment be surprised at the pleasing effect the sight of this smiling garden produces in the heart of the Arab. Probably these swarthy sons of the desert have been traveling for ten days or a fortnight, coming from Palmyra or Bagdad, coming from central Arabia or Persia, coming across the arid plain where naught but broad oceans of sand stretch out before them, with not a blade of green grass to enliven the scene or to “rest the dazzled sight.” Finally the fortnight has past; the journey has ended; and the Arabs stand at last upon this hilltop and look down upon yonder green garden of God. In contemplating such a scene, after such a journey, these sons of Ishmael are moved by emotions strong and deep. They have found trees in the wilderness, springs in the desert; and they can but say: “Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as the breath of spring, blooming as thine own rosebud, and fragrant as thine own orange-blossom, O Damascus, pearl of the East.”

This is the scene that Paul was looking upon when suddenly a great light shone round about him from heaven, and he fell to the earth as dead. Only a few feet from where I stand, tradition points out the place where he fell. Paul, you remember, was taken up and carried into the city. Desiring to follow him, I leave the mountain top and approach the valley. Damascus is surrounded now, as in Paul’s day, by a stone wall twenty-five or thirty feet high. Entering the city through the Jerusalem gate, I am at once attracted by a man prostrate on the river bank. Placing his palms on the ground, and lifting himself the length of his long arms, he looks down upon the glassy surface of the river as though he were gazing at his image reflected in the water. Then, bending his elbows, he once more lets his breast to the earth. This is repeated over and over again. While going through this strange performance, the man is constantly mumbling and muttering in some unknown Eastern tongue. Rising to his feet, and lifting his face to the sky, the Arab repeatedly smites himself upon the brow, breast and mouth. Then waving his hand towards Heaven, he cries aloud: “Suah baha, yalla Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed!” I ask, “Tolhammy, what means this?” “Why, sir, that is a sacred river. The man was worshipping the river, and then, rising, he called upon Mahomet, his god, to accept his worship. He says ‘O Mahomet, accept my worship, and (placing his hand on his brow) I will think of thee with this mind; (on his breast) I will love thee with this heart; (with hand upon his mouth) and with these lips I will speak thy praises abroad. Hear me, O Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed!’” Who could see a sight like this without thinking of Him who said: “Pray not upon the street corners, to be seen of men; but pray secretly, and your Father who seeth in secret, will reward you openly.”

The valley was charming, even when viewed from the hilltop; but the laughing water, the green foliage and the golden fruit have grown more and more beautiful as we have approached nearer to them. “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus,” are each divided into eight artificial channels, so there are sixteen small rivers flowing through the city, bringing fresh and sparkling water into almost every yard. The luxuriant vegetation of this well-watered valley is never scorched by summer’s fierce heat, nor chilled by winter’s frosty breath. It is a perpetual growth. Flowers and fruits are always on the trees, fragrance and music always in the air.

Damascus is the capital of Syria. It has one hundred and eighty thousand inhabitants, and a large manufacturing interest. As a commercial and distributing centre, it has no equal in the Orient. Great camel caravans are constantly arriving from, and departing for, Palmyra and Bagdad, and all the other more important cities of Persia and central Arabia. Being an inland city, hence unaffected by European thought and civilization, Damascus is exclusively Eastern; and is, therefore, the best place on earth to get correct conceptions of Oriental life and ideas.

Coming into the midst of the city, we find the houses are quaint and characteristically Eastern. From their appearance, one would suppose that they were built 1,500 or 2,000 years ago. Most of them are one story high, and are built of stone, and large sun-dried brick made half and half of straw and white clay. Sometimes a dozen or twenty houses are covered by the same roof. On going into some of these miserable-looking huts, we are reminded that “often in wooden houses golden rooms we find.” Some of these wealthy Damascene merchants live in style—not in American or European style, but in style after the Eastern idea. Their houses, though small, and rough of exterior are richly furnished. Frequently they are lined with marble. The walls and ceilings are beautifully frescoed, while the floor is laid with rich Persian carpets. And yet in these houses we find no chairs, tables or bedsteads. The merchants, though dressed in silks, sit flat on the carpet or on small mats. Their beds consist, usually, of pallets made of soft and beautiful Persian rugs. “A strange way for wealthy people to live,” you say. Well, yes, it is decidedly strange to you; but you must remember that your way of living would be just as strange to these Damascene folk.

The streets are exceedingly narrow, being not more than from nine to twelve feet wide. The stores or shops on either side of the street are little more than holes in the wall, usually about six feet wide and eight feet deep. The floor of this stall is twelve to eighteen inches above the ground. The end facing the street is open, while on the two sides and the back end, shelf rises above shelf. Goods are arranged on these, and also suspended from the ceiling. The customer, should one chance to come along, stands in the street and bargains with the merchant, who sits flat on the floor in the centre of the stall. With a hook in his hand, he, without rising, reaches to one shelf or another, and drags down such goods as may please the purchaser’s fancy. These people eat no idle bread. As soon as the customer is gone, the merchant continues to manufacture saddles, shoes, silks, or such goods as he may deal in.

I was never before so impressed with industry. Damascus is a great manufacturing centre. The people have no machinery—all work is done by hand, and nothing is done within walls or behind curtains. Caps and carpets, saddles and sabres, shoes and shawls, silks and safes, beds and baskets, and a hundred other things, are manufactured on the streets in the open air before our eyes. One entire street is given up to a single industry. For instance the street here to my right is called the shoe bazaar. It is probably a quarter of a mile long; and on either side of the street, from one end to the other, are men, women and children, seated on mats or flat down on the ground with their limbs folded under them. All are as busy as bees, sewing and stitching leather, making shoes. If one wants to buy a pair of shoes, he trades with the man who makes them. The merchant does not stop work, but talks without looking up.

Most of the manufacturers are eager to trade with Europeans and Americans, but some of them are so fanatical that they will not receive money from “Christian dogs.” Numerous poles are thrown across the streets, twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, from which strings are hanging. When the shoes are finished, they are tied to these strings and left suspended. Looking down the street, one sees hundreds and hundreds of shoes dangling in the air, about four feet from the ground.

Silk bazaars are numerous. Looking down these several streets, one sees many weavers seated on the ground, plying their shuttles. Above their uncombed heads is silk of every grade and color, suspended in the air and trembling in the wind. As with shoes and silks, so also with carpets, saddles, and other departments of industry.

The leading industry of Damascus is cabinet-making. The furniture made here is of the finest woods, and is inlaid with mother-of-pearl; hence it is perfectly exquisite and quite costly. Skilled artisans are to be found in these different departments of work. The best of them receive only from sixty to eighty cents per day, while craftsmen of equal skill, in our country, command four to five dollars per day.

Thursday of each week presents a busy scene at the donkey and camel markets. Hundreds of half-dressed and hard-looking camel raisers from the desert drive their patient beasts, old and young, into an open square in the midst of the city. Sellers, buyers and traders, wearing different costumes, representing different tribes and countries, meet. Going in among the camels, they catch, ride and drive them. The animals are priced, and trouble begins. The purchaser offers the seller one-third, or one-fourth of his price. This is taken as an insult. They quarrel, curse each other, and sometimes fight, the friends on either side taking part. Finally the difficulty is settled by an agreement to “split the difference;” so the camel is sold at half of the first price—frequently for less. Late in the evening they adjourn in much disorder. Turbaned Arabs now lead long trains of camels down different streets to the several gates of the city. To-morrow morning, at an early hour, these much abused “ships of the desert” will be loaded and started out on a long voyage across an ocean of sand.

The donkey-markets create less confusion. Donkeys, however, have no unimportant part to play in the daily life of Damascus. They are indispensable. They take the place of our drays, carts and market-wagons. One may look up the street at almost any moment, and see a pair of ears coming. This is regarded as a sure sign that a progenitor of the mule will be along after a while.

I repeat that all goods manufactured in Damascus are made by hand, machinery being unknown. Probably three-fourths of the people here never saw or heard of a daily newspaper. They know nothing of the outside world. They never learn anything, never invent anything. They repudiate and scorn anything that is new. They regard an invention as an offspring of the devil. A Christian they hate as they do a serpent. Ignorance is the most prevalent thing in Damascus. It walks the streets; it sits in the shops; it drives camels; it stares the traveler in the face, go where he will. Here, too, as elsewhere, ignorance has borne her legitimate fruit—superstition and fanaticism. The people are, I believe, as fanatical as the devil wants them to be. Only a few years ago, their fanaticism arose to such a pitch that they, without the slightest provocation, pounced upon, and killed, five thousand Christians in the streets of Damascus! Men, women and children were butchered indiscriminately like sheep. Their mangled bodies were piled up in the streets, and scattered through the city, for days and days. The Mohammedans would not defile their pure (?) hands by putting them on “Christian dogs”—they had killed them—that was enough. From Damascus the thirst for blood spread throughout all Syria, and no less than 14,000 Christians perished.

One would naturally suppose that the government would protect life better than that. But the Pasha, or governor, of Syria was the man who gave the signal for the massacre to begin. And it continued until the French government interfered. Napoleon III, whom the world is so fond of condemning, dispatched a body of ten thousand well-armed troops here to stop that human butchery. The Pasha and other officials were arrested and beheaded in the city. The French soldiers, following the custom of the old Romans, constructed a military road from Beyrout to Damascus. This road, which is still in good repair, is the only guarantee of safety Christians now have among these heathen people.

My guide in Damascus is named Abraham. I have not met Isaac and Jacob, but have become somewhat intimate with Abraham. He tells me that his father and mother were victims of that horrible massacre; that when killed, their blood and brains spattered upon him; that his escape was little less than miraculous; that he, with a number of other Christians, was shut up in the citadel for three days; that for three days and nights the Mohammedans stood there with their battering rams, thundering against the walls and gates of the citadel, which were just ready to totter and fall when the French army came up and put a stop to the whole inhuman business.

Several persons who were eye-witnesses to the whole scene have given me a full and detailed account of the massacre. Mohammedans from their beginning may be tracked through history by a trail of blood. They seem to have a thirst that nothing but human gore will satiate. This massacre of Damascus is their last and crowning act. It is worthy of their bloody history. They destroyed “even till destruction sickened.” I have just read a history of this fearful slaughter which closes with this sentence: “Unfortunately, since the massacre matters have improved but little.” I dare not walk the streets of Damascus to-day with a Bible in hand, and let the people know what book it is. I would be in danger of being brained before reaching the post-office.

The guide-book warns us not to look at the women. This goes hard with Johnson. I regret it on his account. There is a custom in this country, which practically amounts to a law, that the women shall keep their faces vailed. Yesterday, while walking up a narrow and gloomy-looking alley, we saw a woman coming towards us. Touching me in the side with his elbow, Johnson said: “Whittle, I am going to look at her a little, anyhow.” When we met the woman, she piteously cried: “Howazhu, howazhu, bachsheesh, bachsheesh,” which being interpreted means, “O, gentlemen, gentlemen, money, money.” Johnson responded: “Lift your vail, then.” When the ill-favored female drew her vail aside, Johnson gave her three piasters (about nine cents) and immediately said: “Put down your vail quickly, and I will give you three more.” I was sorry for my traveling companion. He looked disappointed. He said that the reason the women had to keep their faces covered was, that they were so ugly that to expose them would subject men to sore eyes—if not to blindness.

The early religious history of Damascus is of peculiar interest to all Christians. A great persecution arose against the Christians in Jerusalem. Saul of Tarsus made havoc of the church; entering into every house, and, haling men and women, committed them to prison, breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the Lord. He obtained letters from the Jewish authorities, authorizing him to arrest and carry to Jerusalem all Christians whom he might find in Damascus.

As he journeyed, he came near Damascus, and suddenly there shined round about him a light from Heaven, and he fell to the earth. When Saul asked of the Lord, “What wilt thou have me to do?” the Lord said unto him, “Arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do.” Saul rose from the earth and they brought him into Damascus, and he stopped with Judas, who lived on the street that is called Straight. The Lord directed Ananias to go to Saul, and instruct him what to do. The scales fell from Saul’s eyes, and he arose and was baptized; and straightway he preached Christ, that he was the Son of God. This created a great disturbance in Damascus, and the Jews held a mass meeting and decided to kill Saul. For this purpose the Jews watched the gates of the city day and night. In order to save his life, the disciples took Saul by night and let him down by the wall in a basket.

Damascus is now pretty much as it was eighteen hundred years ago. The places mentioned in connection with Paul are still pointed out—with what degree of certainty, I can not say. Of course I visited the places where “he fell to the earth,” and where “he was let down over the wall in a basket.” At this point the wall is some thirty feet high, and is surmounted by a house which is occupied by a Christian family. The reputed houses of Ananias and Judas are partly underground, and are built of huge stones. These strongly built houses are certainly very old; and it has been suggested that if Ananias and Judas did not live in them at the time of Paul, some other people did.

If I should to-day begin to proclaim the gospel of Christ with the same zeal and earnestness that characterized the ministry of Paul, I would have to be let down over the walls in a basket, or else be butchered on the street.