and the traveller must make up his mind to the discomforts of a saddle and to lodging in a tent. A dragoman will undertake to supply him with everything—horses, tents, food, bedding, and all—for a stipulated price, which varies with the size of the party, the time of year, and various other circumstances. I shall have more to say on this subject in another place, and will jump at once into the saddle without wasting time upon preliminaries. The long route was impracticable for our party at the time we were in Syria, but I gave it a very careful study, and from the sources at my command obtained the fullest information concerning it. Let us undertake a journey by this ancient way, and we will carry the “Doubter” along with us. He can’t be spared.
We leave Damascus by the Salahiyeh suburb, passing along a paved road and making a gentle ascent that gives us a good view of the city every time we choose to turn our heads. Some of the houses in this suburb are quite good, and we are not surprised to learn that many of the merchants of Damascus make their residence here. As we reach the end of the large village we pass some ruined mosques and tombs, but we have seen so many of these things that our attention is hardly attracted by them. The Moslems of the past must have been more devout than are their descendants of to-day, as they built a great many edifices for religious and memorial purposes, to which very little attention is paid at present. The Syrian Moslem does not seem to care for the antique any more than does his Turkish brother; there may be exceptions, but I think the rule holds good. For the ruins of Baalbek and Palmyra, the Syrian has no veneration except for their money-making qualities; the few people that live near them are not attracted to either spot by any love for it, but solely because it is a good place for “backsheesh.” Take away the tourist and his gold and silver and the natives would move elsewhere.
I am the more severe on these worldly-minded Syrians, who remain unmoved in the face of the stupendous remains of a past age when I contrast them with the guides and runners, hackmen-and peddlers, hotel-keepers and hotel-waiters, who assemble at Niagara and similar places in America. At Palmyra, or at the Pyramids, the Arabs pester you for “backsheesh,” and greatly mar your interest and pleasure. But at Niagara did any one ever hear of such conduct on the part of the men who make their living there? The noble qualities of the American (generally a naturalized one), come out strongly at Niagara; the beauty and sublimity of the cataract never fail to impress the resident with the sense of his duties to his fellow-man, and while the Arab will endeavor to make you pay ten times what you ought, his Niagara prototype is satisfied with five times, provided he knows he cannot possibly lie you out of any more. I have been at Niagara and Long Branch, the White Mountains and the Yosemite Valley, and thus speak knowingly. And whenever an Arab endeavored to defraud me I thought how much better things were at the fashionable resorts in my own country, and derived much consolation from the reflection.
We take a last view of Damascus from a point where the road crosses a hill about five hundred feet above the city, and nearly two miles away. We see the valley of the Abana in all its loveliness, and realize how much is due to this river and its never-failing waters. We can fully understand the pride with which the native of Damascus contemplates this perennial stream and do not wonder at the reply of Naaman, when told to wash in Jordan. The river is made all the more lovely by its fringe of trees and the wide-spreading gardens where it flows, and the greenness of the foliage is rendered all the more apparent when we contrast it with the barren hills around. The river, divided here and there into several streams, foams and ripples through the glen that leads it down from the mountains to the plain below. Our road lies along this glen, and we suddenly leave it and emerge upon the plain of Dimas.
The change is quite abrupt, from the rich verdure of the valley to the sterility of the Desert, for this plain is really a desert in miniature. The soil is hard and dry, more like flint than earth, and, if you happen to traverse it in summer, you find the heat is intense. It happened to be raining when I crossed this plain, and moreover, it was in the winter, so that I escaped the sensation of undergoing a torture by roasting. It is difficult to realize that such a barren waste can exist so near such a charming city as Damascus. The plain is about ten miles across, and from one side to the other there is not a green thing to be seen, unless the traveller may consider himself one.
After crossing the plain of Dimas we enter the mountains, where we find a few pleasant valleys and ravines, and have some rugged scenery that is not disagreeable. From one of the passes the guide points out another road, which leads more to the eastward, and where the scene of Saul’s conversion is located. There seems to be some difference of opinion about the exact locality, and I suspect that nobody knows the real state of things.
The tradition which locates the conversion there dates back to the time of the Crusades. Some authorities make the scene of the conversion almost under the walls of Damascus, and others within a mile or two of that place. It all depends upon what is meant by “near Damascus.” If we were at San Francisco, and speaking of Albany, we might say “it is near New York,” but should hardly use the expression if we were at Trenton or Hartford. However, it makes no difference about the conversion; we know it happened on the road from Jerusalem, and was near Damascus, so that a mile or two is of no consequence.