---
RASHEYA is again our resting place after our descent from Hermon, and
next morning we make an early start for Damascus. In about 40 minutes we
arrive at Rûkleh where there are ruins of temples, and a mountain ride
of another two hours brings us to Deir-el-Ashair, where again, on a
small elevated plateau, we see extensive and massive remains of ancient
temples with fragments of Ionic columns. After a short ride we now reach
the French diligence road, the only decent bit of road in Syria, over
this the French have a monopoly of wheeled traffic and transport for
nearly 99 years, riding horses pass free, but all pack animals and
caravans have to pay, which however the native caravans evade by still
using the old track up and down the mountains which runs almost
parallel. The ride through the Abana, or Barada Valley, for the last
three hours is very pleasant, being well watered, wooded, and sheltered
from the sun—a most agreeable contrast to the dreary desert of Sahira,
through which we have to ride some two hours to reach it. We may here
remark that Sahira in the Koran is the Arabic term used for Hell, and
anyone who has been in the burning desert at noontide (the hot dry wind
making the skin like parchment and drying up all moisture in the lips
and body) will have an idea that any kind of Hell must be a most
uncomfortably hot place, life being in the burning desert a burden
almost unbearable. The first sight of Damascus, unlike that of
Jerusalem, realises all we have heard of it, it is indeed magnificently
situated in the midst of an extensive plain, intersected in all
directions by the rills of the rivers Pharpar and Abana, which mæander
through and round the whole city, and finally lose themselves in the
meadow lakes beyond.
We see the Wali, or Governor, Hallett Pasha, sitting alone on a chair by
the river side enjoying otium _sine_ dignitate; his guards at a distance
standing by their horses ready to look after him, if necessary. He
politely returns our passing salute in true Parisian style. Like all
other Turkish Pashas he will have to make hay while the sun shines and
be sharp about it. His predecessor, Midhat Pasha (of mournful memory)
did not enjoy the sunshine long, and Hallett’s may be a similarly short
summer. It costs money to be a Damascus Pasha, some £4000 has to be
first found for the Palace Cabal at Stamboul. The official pay of the
appointment is under £3000 a year, so the moment a Pasha gets to his
government he has to set to squeezing; he squeezes backsheesh out of the
higher officials, and they squeeze the lower and the public, who are
fair game for all. Justice, not at all blind here, is continually
looking out for the dollars. But to return to Damascus. The plain in
which it is situated is surrounded on three sides by mountains, Lebanon,
Anti-Lebanon and Hermon; on the east it is bounded by the Syrian desert,
in the midst of which is the city of palm trees, Palmyra, the ancient
Tadmor, the city of Zenobia, the Boadicea of the Syrians. Well might the
Moslem, arrived in this ever-verdant plain, after six days dreary riding
across the desert, when he came across this city embosomed in beautiful
gardens and orchards, when he saw the rills of living water flowing in
all directions and rising in fountains in the very court-yards of the
houses, well might he imagine that he had lighted at last upon the
Garden of Eden. We find comfortable quarters at Demetri’s, the only
Frank hotel, and are glad again to see some signs of western
civilisation.
My flying visit here without tents, traversing the country by little
known paths, creates some curiosity, even among the Europeans, who wish
to know if I am travelling under diplomatic orders; a negative answer to
such a question is not, of course, worth much. The Turkish police give
vent to their curiosity by visiting me in my bedroom and cross-examining
my dragoman as to my intents and purposes, position in life, &c., &c.
Things are rather strained here. The attitude of the allied Powers to
Turkey makes this fanatical people never well disposed to Christians,
now still less so, and to make matters worse, Arab placards have been
posted here and at Beyrût in the Bazaars, summoning the natives to
revolt against the Turks, asking reasonably what common interest the
Arabs have with their now imbecile and insolent conquerors, the Osmanli
usurpers of the Khalifate, who monopolise all place and power, using
them only to oppress the people, whose language they do not even
understand, and whose lives, liberties, and properties they either
cannot or do not care to protect. This is a sign of the times—a writing
on the wall to warn the feeble despots of Stamboul of their doom. This
movement has since developed into an organised Arab League, following
the example of the Albanians. An Armenian League probably is not far
behind. The collapse of the rule of the Osmanlis is merely a matter of
time. They may retain Asia Minor for the present (if England does not
seize it to save it from Russia), but they will have to clear out of
Europe, and Syria, Lebanon and Palestine must ere long be like Egypt,
semi-independent vice-royalties under European protection, or they will
become Russian and French appanages. The Turkish Government have
authorised their postmasters in Syria to detain telegrams and open
letters at their pleasure. A remedy for that is to give the letters to
the Consul who forwards them in his bag. The Consul here lives in a
hired house liable to a notice to quit at any moment. What a pity that
our Government does not buy itself a consular residence in such an
important post as this? It is so undignified for an English Consul to
have to turn out at the bidding of a Moslem landlord, and troublesome in
the extreme to have to move all the archives every few years; and in
case of an intrigue, which is not uncommon in these parts, we might find
it difficult to find a suitable place for the Consul at all. In one of
the squares we see a crowd and several soldiers looking at the dead body
of an Arab. This poor fellow was, with others, in charge of a caravan of
camels, some Druses swooped upon them within only a few hours of
Damascus, all ran except the murdered man, who stuck to his post; they
of course soon killed him and cleared off with the camels. This is the
security for life and property which Turkey provides for its subjects in
the neighbourhood of a great city. We will now take a stroll through
this thoroughly Eastern city, where the far East and the far West meet
more than in any other city in the world, more so even than in Tanjiers
and Tunis. Here we see English tourists in tweed suits, black-coated
Americans in tall hats, Bedouins in dirty bornous, Druses with white
turbans and blood-stained hands, Turks in officials fezzes, orthodox
Moslems in flowing robes and showy green turbans, Circassians with
breast full of cartridges (murderous looking rascals), Kurds in rough
sheep skin cloaks, Persians, Afghans, Pariahs and Parsees, slipshod
veiled Eastern women, gorgeous Jewesses and smartly dressed Parisian
dames, all these meet together in this metropolis of the East, jostling
each other in the narrow unpaved bazaars. Camels also, and mules, horses
and donkeys, with perhaps a drove of long-tailed sheep, from the far
steppes of Turkestan, press on amidst this motley crew, “Oua garda”—take
care, take care, get out of the way quickly! A pack mule is no respecter
of persons, he cares not for your Consul, and over you go if you do not
get out of his way, unless by a vigorous shove you send him over, just
as in self-defence we were obliged to do once. A pack mule on his back,
legs up in the air, is a helpless, pitiable spectacle.
METROPOLIS did I call Damascus? Indeed it is rightly so called, for is
it not the mother of all cities, the oldest living city in the world?
(not even excepting Hebron), for here Abraham’s steward Eliezer lived;
these streets the patriarch himself must often have traversed as a
trader in flocks and herds, and through these lanes, once at all events,
he drove the Hivite Kings of Hermon before his avenging spear, for near
here he rescued Lot and the King of Sodom from their Syrian captors. It
was conquered by David after a protracted struggle, but recovered its
independence in the reign of Solomon. It was subsequently subdued by the
Assyrians. Rome may call itself, Damascus is the Eternal City, founded
probably soon after the flood by a Semitic grandson of Noah. Damascus
has never ceased to exist as a great city, and from its unique position,
probably never will. The prey of every ambitious conqueror, it has seen
the rise and survived the fall of every great empire. Assyrian, Persian,
Greek, Roman, Crusader and Saracen, each in turn have dominated the
garden city—and died—but Damascus still lives and has out-lived all its
rivals of every age. Sidon, Tyre, Antioch and Tarsus survive only as
uninteresting towns, Babylon, Palmyra and Nineveh are no more, but
Damascus is still the “Head of Syria” as it was in the days of
Abraham—Damascus a green island in the midst of a golden sea of sand,
bounded by the desert, surrounded by its rivers, has always been and
must for ever remain the mother city of the world.
To brace ourselves up for our rambles, we now take a bath in the waters
of the Abana, which are, as its Syrian name Barada indicates, remarkably
cool and pleasant. Having tried Jordan too, we must endorse Naaman’s
opinion, that the bathing in the former is decidedly the best. In the
midst of the city, we are shown a sycamore tree, 42 feet in girth;
certainly a curiosity in any city, but especially so in a Mahommedan
one, where the process of destruction is carried on by man and that of
re-construction or re-placement left to “Allah.” We also see another
tree in the horse market close by, used as a gallows, but public
executions are very rare in Turkey. A good Moslem is peculiarly
sensitive—he does not object to strangle a wife or two quietly at home
if they are annoying, but he objects to a fellow male Moslem being
publicly executed even for a murder. We look into the great mosque; in
its courtyard are the remains of a small ancient temple to the sun—it
was once a Roman temple, then a Greek basilica, and was in more ancient
times probably the site of the very temple in which Naaman bowed the
knee to Rimmon, when his master worshipped there. We found it easier to
enter St. Sophia at Stamboul, the mosque of Omar at Jerusalem, and the
grand mosque at Cairo, than this, the people being so fanatical. St.
Sophia, in fact, we got into by only paying a few francs to the
door-keeper, but here it costs a lot to get in. We are next shown the
tomb of the great Saladin, who died 1193, but as it is very sacred,
cannot view the interior. We now come to the street called “Straight,”
above a mile long, running through the city east to west, and on our way
we call at the traditional house of Ananias, now a small Latin Church;
then just outside the east gate we pass the reputed house of Naaman, now
appropriately a leper hospital, and come upon that part of the wall from
which it is said St. Paul was let down in a basket at the time when
Aretas, the Petræan ruler of Arabia, was King. Aretas was the name of
the dynasty, like, Ptolemy and Pharaoh of Egypt, Candace of Ethiopia,
&c. The conversion of St. Paul is said to have taken place just outside
the city—the spot is shown: bright indeed must have been the light
before which an eastern sun at mid-day paled. A walled up gate is also
shewn as that by which St. Paul entered the city.
[Illustration:
_Damascus._
]
THE BAZAARS are very interesting, here is to be found merchandise
collected by caravans from all corners of the earth; Merchants from
Manchester, Paris, Vienna, Constantinople, Aleppo, Bagdad, Persia,
Afghanistan, India, Egypt, Nubia, and Arabia as far as Mecca, crowd its
exchanges. The native manufactures are chiefly silk, leather and metal
work; the population is principally Moslem. We of course pay a visit to
old Abu Antika (father of antiquities), and possess ourselves of a
Damascus blade. A friend of ours, an artist, was about to give 100
francs for one at Cairo, we asked to look at it, and saw engraved on it
“warranted best steel.” We asked the old Arab swindler what language it
was; he unblushingly answered “Arabic”! my answer induced him to hastily
put away the Damascus blade and my friend put his 100 francs back into
his pocket. Tricks are sometimes played upon travellers. We see in old
Abu Antika’s booth an English Countess wasting a lot of money on
spurious antiquities, we did not know her then so could not interfere,
but she introduced herself to us later on and was a very pleasant and
intelligent fellow traveller. The houses of the rich Damascenes are very
handsomely fitted up; on visiting one, we enter by an archway into a
great open courtyard, with a fountain in the centre and trees and plants
all around. A divan, roofed in, but open to the courtyard at one end, is
fitted with a luxurious lounge; this serves as a public reception room.
On each side of the court is a large room, one used as a Summer and the
other as a Winter sitting room, according to the seasons. All are
magnificently decorated with marble and mirrors. The sleeping rooms are
on the first floor and are entered from a verandah above. Running water
from the Abana flows through all the best houses. The public buildings
and barracks built during the Egyptian occupation are very good for a
Turkish city, and the citadel, an old mediæval castle, is interesting,
but access is not allowed to it. Abdel-Kader, who so long kept the
French at bay in North Africa, lived in Damascus, and had a quarter
allotted to him and his Algerian fellow exiles. Damascus is not the
dirty city it once was. Midhat Pasha greatly improved it in that
respect, and also in other ways, for we see a large quarter of Damascus
in ruins and are told that it was set fire to by Midhat Pasha (after the
fashion of Nero) to make room for a new wide street. This is a much
shorter and more economical way (to the government) of making street
improvements than that we have in England, but as no notice of the
contemplated improvement is given, it must be rather inconvenient to the
inhabitants. Damascus is called by the Arabs El Sham, and in the eyes of
the Moslem world is second in sanctity only to Mecca.
[Illustration:
_Damascus._
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]