The conversation was intensely interesting, as, indeed, was the whole situation. These calm, dignified men before us, discoursing on the various chances of war in which they had themselves borne a part, and into which they might soon be plunged again; a head here and there, enveloped in a cloud of smoke from pipe or cigarette; sparkling eyes, glittering in eager faces that grew gradually darker as the lines receded into the night, leaving strange memories behind, when at last the sheikh and his followers went forth and vanished in the darkness.
Only the houses in the north-east of Dama are occupied. The most interesting structure in the town is an old church with Greek inscriptions, in the south-west quarter. Probably it corresponds in date with that we saw on the way. Such buildings are of frequent occurrence. The presence of so many remains of Christian antiquity over all these parts suggests reflections as to the extent to which Christianity had laid hold on the then inhabitants, in the beginning of its world-conquering career. The land enjoyed a second day of grace before the final outpouring of wrath and fulfilment of prophetic doom; and for a time it seems to have been roused to improve its privileges. By what agency was the evangel brought hither? Perhaps we may never fully know. But the Romans proudly styled these regions the province of Arabia; and through this the converted persecutor Saul at least passed, if he did not spend his three years’ sojourn here ere going up, in his new capacity as apostle, to Jerusalem. The reasons for believing that the desert of the exodus was the scene of his retirement are not convincing. It harmonises ill with our ideas of the tireless energy of the apostle, who had just consecrated all his fiery devotion to his Lord, and in the first flush of his new-born zeal had proclaimed the truth to his countrymen in Damascus, to picture him haunting the solitudes, where no ear could hear and no heart respond to the wonder of new-found love and joy which he was panting to express. May not these early years of discipleship have been bright years of missionary activity, more immediately successful than those covered by the record of the beloved physician? And, although their history has long been lost amid the darkness of ages, it is pleasant to think that, when the books are opened on high, the fresh light may reveal another brilliant in the glorious crown of the apostle, to be cast down at the Saviour’s feet.
One took a jar and went to fetch water for us to drink. Wishing us to have the best and coolest, the sheikh called after him, “Bring it from the well of the priest.” The name struck me as curious at the moment, but, knowing how persistently ancient names cling to particular spots, and not thinking it at all likely that a “priest” should be found in a Druze village, I thought no more of the matter. Afterwards, however, I heard a story of disinterested self-sacrifice for the sake of Christ which, told of a Syrian, was peculiarly refreshing to a missionary’s ear; and, quite unexpectedly, the sheikh’s words afforded valuable confirmation of its truth. The average Syrian character is the despair of the missionary. Those calling themselves Christians are most disappointing. What time one hopes to see a spirit of self-forgetfulness developing, and a disposition to give the best of life and ability to Christ’s service, among the strangely varied peoples of Syria, he will probably be surprised by a request for some personal favour or advancement. There are noble exceptions, of course, and I have known some, acquaintance with whom forms a permanent enrichment of life. It is well to remember, too, that the conditions in Syria are peculiar. Cut up as the population is into so many little communities, it is the very home of religious fanaticism. The mutual repulsions existing among these sections are terribly strong, each believing itself to be the true and only conservator of God’s truth, and all others, in slightly varying degrees of blackness, simply children of the devil. In such surroundings the feeling grows slowly that those who possess the light are debtors to all who sit in darkness. They must be patiently dealt with; and the story of the priest is a help to patience, as showing of what self-devotion the Syrian character is really capable.
I received the story in fragmentary form, but so much is clear: A young priest of the Greek Church, a native of Mount Lebanon—the district which has contributed most of the native Christian workers in the country—had laid on his heart the necessities of the great dark land east of Jordan, and, in a spirit of true Christian heroism, he resolved to go forth, single-handed, to the work of evangelisation. He left the comparative comforts of his mountain home for the rude life of these wild regions, with no protection but that of his divine Master, counting the salvation of Moslem and Druze equally precious with that of his own people. He made his way into el-Lejâʾ, staying in villages where he could find a home for a little, and, when his position grew dangerous, passing on to others, carrying some little of the light of civilisation, as well as the evangel. Thus, arriving at Dama, he took possession of an empty house, put wooden frames with glass in the windows, swung a wooden door on hinges in the doorway, and arranged his scanty furniture within. The village lacked good water, so he had an old well cleaned out and repaired, and soon it was filled with wholesome rain-water. For about a year he went out and in among the warlike inhabitants, seeking to teach them the way of the Prince of Peace. A belief got abroad that he had found treasure among the ruins, and had it concealed in the house. A conspiracy was formed to kill and plunder him. He got news of the fact, and, seeing that his life was no longer safe, he was fain to move to another village, leaving a well of clear, cold water to preserve his memory, and, let us hope, also in some hearts a light that will lead to the Fountain of living waters. Exactly where he is now, I do not know, but some years later he was still in the district. “Persecuted in one city, he flees unto another.”
WELL IN THE DESERT
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)
CHAPTER IV
Hidden treasure—The Bedawy’s treasure-trove—The sheikh’s farewell—A savage tract—Jebel ed-Druze—Umm ez-Zeytûn—Tell Shihân—Shuhba—An ancient house—A stingy entertainer—The ruins—Pharaoh’s “grain-heaps”—The house of Shehâb.
The lust for treasure, which almost proved fatal to the priest, is common among all these semi-barbarous people. They are firmly persuaded that among the black ruins everywhere great hoards lie buried. Inscriptions, they think, contain directions how the precious stores are to be found, if they could only be read. But unfortunately they are in some mysterious speech which only the Franj—civilised foreigners—are supposed to understand. Interest in old ruins, in architectural remains, in anything that may shed light on former days, they regard as mere subterfuge. Many travellers have been struck with their unwillingness to show the whereabouts of inscriptions. They have a kind of dim hope that one day they may stumble upon the treasure themselves. Sometimes, however, they become confidential, and offer, for a consideration, say, half of what is found, to show the traveller all they know. They tell many stories, with full circumstantial details, of discoveries of such heaps of gold. The noble metal is usually found by means of magical incantations, and every stranger is suspected of being the happy master of some such charm. At other times a mysterious conjunction of natural circumstances guides the lucky man to fortune.
One day, riding from Derʿat to Gadara, a Bedawy entertained me with such a tale. Between these two towns runs the famous old aqueduct called by the natives Qanâtîr Firʿaun—“the arches of Pharaoh.” A sheikh known to the Bedawy was wont, when a poor boy, to drive the cattle of which he had charge in the direction of a valley crossed by the aqueduct. On several evenings some of his cattle were missing, but in the morning they turned up again. Being sure they had disappeared about the end of the aqueduct, he seated himself early one morning on the building at a point commanding the valley, to see if possible whence his truant cattle should come. Quite near him soon a cow’s nose appeared, followed by a pair of horns, rising, it seemed, from the earth. Rushing thither, he found the mouth of a large cave, hidden by the rough growth of grass and low shrubs. One after another the strayed members of his herd came forth. Then he entered, and almost swooned with amazement at the sight within. Great wealth of yellow gold lay heaped up in a hollow of the rock. He carefully marked the spot and nursed his secret all day. On returning home at evening, he secretly informed his father. They came with a horse, under the cloud of night, and carried off the hurj (saddle-bags) full. Avoiding ostentation to escape the suspicion of wealth, they bought by slow degrees large herds of cattle and fine horses, until they ranked among the richest Arab families. It was believed that the store was not exhausted, but after that first visit all trace of the cave was lost. My informant had seen about the place, but could not find the exact spot. He was not without hope, however, that he might yet get his hands upon that gold. With how many Arabs it is so. They cherish a vague expectation that one day, without industry or thrift, they may find themselves suddenly rich. With their inborn hatred of toil, this idea runs through all their wild improvident life.