The plain of Coelo-Syria is generally of the breadth that I have mentioned, and is about 100 miles in length, being bounded in the whole extent by the parallel ranges of Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon. It has a rich soil, and might be made extremely productive; but only a small portion of it is at present under cultivation. Our meal was eaten by the side of a brook, beneath some fig trees; and when it had been succeeded by a short season of repose, we finished our descent, and entered on the monotonous and fiery plain. All day we dragged ourselves across, scorched by a fierce sun, and parched with thirst, and finding little relief in the sight of the snowy peaks on either side. We came about two o’clock to a khan, and soon after to the river, which we crossed on a bridge, though at this season it can be forded. Here we met a long string of camels from Damascus, and soon after we witnessed a natural phenomenon, of which we afterwards saw several instances on the great Assyrian plain,—columns of sand raised high in the air, and passing along the ground, in their shape bearing a great resemblance to that of a water-spout, and doubtless produced by a similar cause.
Our course was not straight across the plain, but inclining to the southward. About five o’clock we reached a village near the foot of Anti-Lebanon, and while we stopped for water, our muleteers began very deliberately to unload the animals, concluding to stop there for the night. They were astonished when told that the day’s journey was not yet finished, and then remonstrated, and then got angry, but to no purpose; and I believe they thought us a very singular and uncivilized set of beings. I do not know that any traveller has ever yet spoken of the difference between foreign countries and our own with respect to energy and rapidity of movement. With us, “time” literally “is money;” and as we have abundant opportunities of making the most of it, we get a sharpness of look, and a quickness of motion, which is seen no where else, and has at length become a characteristic of the nation.
The contrast is striking every where, but most of all along the Mediterranean. A Spanish lad for whom I lately got an excellent situation with a mechanic in one of our cities, was near losing it because “he did not move fast;” although in his own country he would have been considered smart enough. I pointed out to him the difference, and mentioned the objection, and he immediately improved. There is, in most of these countries, a heaviness of look, and slowness of motion, in strong contrast with the bustling, driving character of people in our cities; but which is easily accounted for by the fact, that there are fewer stimulants to enterprise and activity. The journey from Beirout to Damascus, I believe, usually occupies between three and four days; although there were ladies in our company, we made it in two; and let me here also remark, en passant, that as far as endurance of hardships and of fatigue is concerned, I believe ladies are quite as good travellers as men; and as far as my own observation has gone, they are better.
Our determination this evening to proceed, however, soon brought us into an embarrassment. We entered the defiles of Anti-Lebanon, and in the course of a few hours found ourselves shut up in them, and night settling around us, without knowing where to stop; and our Armenian friend, driven beyond his usual land-marks, could now give us no assistance. Tents we had, thanks to the kindness of Mr. Smith, and also provisions; but we had to find a stopping-place where our beasts could get water; and we passed on, mile after mile, without any indications of stream or fountain. This mountain is very different from Lebanon. Though in some places very high, it is generally much lower, and consists of rounded eminences, with here and there deep ravines or glens between. It is also in most places quite deserted. Along this route we passed but one village in the whole way across the mountain, and this was a miserable looking one; nor was there a single house in the whole intermediate country.
We reached a spot at length where the defile was succeeded by a narrow plain, and our company, scattering themselves over the ground in search of water, a glad shout, at length, from some of the party, informed us that they had found a spring. The water came gushing out from the foot of a bluff of rocks, and beneath them we pitched our tents and lighted our fires. Some of us then went to filling the pots for cooking, and some were sent to grope in the dark after dry thistles for fuel; while others seated themselves on the rocks and looked up at the stars, and talked sentiment.
It was a raw cold night; and we were off long before day, traversing a region as dreary and desolate as can be imagined. About ten o’clock we came to the village just noticed; and then again pursued our course over hill and along dale, with not even a butterfly or grasshopper to cheer our course. A large fountain by and by, and a little herbage near it, offered some variety; and not long after this we caught sight of an oasis some miles on our left—a little valley of the most intense green, with trees of majestic form, mingled with the tapering poplar and cypress, all imbedded among hills of a red and yellow color, and of unbroken sterility.
The ground before us now began to ascend, stretching off into elevated plains; and as we advanced, a traveller was now and then met, or seen at a distance crossing the country. These signs multiplying, it was evident that we were approaching Damascus. We gained, at length, the summit of a long sloping plain terminated by a bluff;—and there—there was the city.
And it was a scene strikingly oriental and truly magnificent. We had hit upon the very best way by which Damascus can be approached, for its gardens, though far down, were right under our feet. A sea of intense verdure breaking all at once upon the arid desert; a great city bursting suddenly from amid the completest solitude; and beyond it a plain stretching off—far off—till the eye could follow it no longer;—this was what we saw as we stood upon those heights. I believe the plain of Damascus reaches to the Euphrates, and proceeds on with that river; and if so, it must be 500 miles or more in length, and as far as we could see, it is a smooth level, without hillock or break of any kind. On the eastward, at a great distance, and forming a dim speck on the horizon, were some inequalities like mountains; but to the southward the plain was as smooth as the ocean in a calm, and apparently as boundless.
The peculiar excellence of the spot where Damascus is situated is owing to the Barraday, a rapid stream, which here breaks out from the mountain ravines; and by numerous artificial as well as natural channels, is made to spread over the plain; it waters the whole extent of the gardens, and when this is done, the little of it that is left proceeds on southwardly through the plain, but amid the arid sands it soon dwindles away and disappears. The stretch of gardens is about nine miles in diameter, and, except the space occupied by the city, is one unbroken extent of the deepest verdure. It is planted with all kinds of trees; mostly, however, such as produce fruit, among which the apricot still holds the ascendency; pomegranate, orange, lemon, and fig trees also abound, and rising over these are other trees of huge proportions, intermingled with the poplar and sometimes the willow. Water is carried into every garden; and as we rode on towards the city, it was our almost constant companion, dashing along by our side or through arched ways under the road, and sending off branches in every direction. It is here quite a rapid stream. The gardens are enclosed by brick or earthen walls; and beside the fruit trees are planted thickly with vegetables and with flowering shrubs. In the centre of this wide stretch of verdure, which, as we gazed upon it from the hills, seemed like an earthly paradise, is the city itself. Its population is estimated at 100,000; but I should judge it to be greater than this.
It presents a great mass of houses, but being situated on the level plain, and having no points of elevation and but few prominent edifices, it would not strike us greatly, if it were not mixed up with so much natural beauty. The great mosque, formerly the church of St. John, towers considerably above the rest of the edifices; and so does the dark massive castle, or citadel, and so also do a few domes and several minarets; but they are not sufficient to give it character. But with the scenery around, the gardens, the adjoining range of Anti-Lebanon, rising in many a peak and presenting bold precipices, and with the great plain, so vast that the imagination is lost in attempting to follow it, El Sham, as by this time we had learned from the Arabs to call Damascus, is a place of exquisite beauty. One part of it, which struck us as we viewed it from our elevated position, will interest the Christian. It is a narrow prolongation of the city at the southern end, about three quarters of a mile in length. Commencing in the body of the city and extending along through the whole length of this portion, is “the street which is called Straight,” still remarkable for its length and direct course, and still, I was informed, going by its ancient name. It added greatly to the interest with which we contemplated these remarkable and beautiful scenes, to think that here Paul first looked on nature with the eyes of a Christian, and amid this scenery found subjects to animate him in his new and joyful aspirations, and to strengthen him in his high resolves. Here, in Damascus, “he first preached Christ, that he is the Son of God.”