VI THE OLDEST CITY IN THE WORLD W But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. —Addison. E are now in the oldest city of the world," I said to E. Lee Smith as we entered the Palace Hotel. "Yes, and you'll be a good deal older when you get out," he added, with a forced laugh. Hoping to divert his mind from Druses, I continued, "When Rome was a young village and London was a reedy marsh, Damascus was one thousand years old, and-" "Say," he interrupted, "don't you wish you could Rome around and get to London right now?" and he turned to Doctor Latham and Howland for comfort I could not give. I wanted to talk about Abraham's coming to Damascus and finding the faithful steward, Eliezer, to whom he might have willed his wealth had not Isaac been born. Also I was thinking of other great men connected with this city of nearly four thousand years. Here David had a garrison, Ahab operated an entire bazaar, and Ahaz, when commanded to meet the great Assyrian Tiglath-Pileser, was so impressed with a pagan altar seen here that he went home to Jerusalem and built one like it in the Holy City! Here Benhadad and Hazael reigned, and here the mighty Naaman, sitting in his purple palace, heard the litle Hebrew maid tell of the prophet of Israel who could cure leprosy. The great Saladin flourished here, and his bones now rest in the center of the city. Richard the Lion-Hearted came hither, as did also Napoleon and bold Roman generals. Here the enchantress of the "Arabian Nights," the queenly Shaherazad, found her material for the wonderful stories that entertained the king (and all of us) one thousand and one nights. Indeed the city is much the same as then, save the Druses around the corner. After all the centuries Damascus still has, in spite of fires, earthquakes, and wars galore, two hundred thousand inhabitants. So fertile an oasis is her high tableland that Damascus renews her life, albeit the Suez Canal has cut off much of her erstwhile trade supremacy. The new Palace Hotel is lovely in most of its appointments-only scant food and water and no soap. The last item we must have, and I find myself dashing out for it. Misses Rowdie and Carson, like the punctilious Virginia schoolmarms which they are, had preceded me to the street, likewise in search of the saponaceous souvenir. It is nearly sunset, and no one is allowed on the streets after dusk. The raids and bombardments are usually at night. Now the streets are astir with the final activities of the day. What a tangle of past and present, new and old, they represent. Electric cars clang their gongs for the desert camel train to give "gangway." All kinds of costumes, colors, and peculiarities are in evidence. We hurry to the nearest drug store, but Miss Rowdie's French and the timid Syrian clerk's Arabic do not gibe— result, no sale, no soap. It is twilight, and the ladies return to the inn, while I continue the search for the cleansing substance. Success greets me; but, alas! the purchase made, my shopkeeper will not accept my Amer ican coin. Down the street again I hurry to find a money changer. Here they are, clanging their silver piasters from hand to hand, and for a discount I swap several good Coolidge dollars for these Syrian and Egyptian piasters and return with enough soap to start a sebaceous factory. MOHAMMEDAN PRAYERS It was Friday night, the Mohammedan Sabbath. After the so-called supper, which, like the Arabian Nights description of food, was highly flavored with Arabic perfumes and mixed with many other foreign substances, we ascended to the roof of our hotel, whence, in the mosque directly across the street, we could see the Moslems assembling for prayer. Not long could we remain here, for soon big guns began to roar on the hills to our right, and the proprietor had us to rush to cover. A fusillade continued for an hour or more and then gradually grew less and less until by midnight all was quiet, and we were disturbed no more save at two or three in the morning the muezzin on the minaret just across from my window called to prayer. His tower was just above my level. Such a wailing, uncanny sound, plaintive and creepy, I have never heard. This is how his notes rose and fell: "All-a-a-a-h! Alla-a-a-ah! Alla-ah is the only true God, And Ma-ah-ham-m-med is his prophet! O All-a-ah-All-a-ah-prayers!" He crooned this out in the dead of night, from each of the four corners of his high perch. It was echoed and repeated by other muezzins from minarets throughout the city. I could distinguish six or eight far away in the distance. How weird it all was, there in the vibrant air of that Syrian city! Early after a patent-leather breakfast we drive in open barouches to the Great Mosque, oldest and richest in the city. Centuries ago it was a heathen temple; then other centuries, and fire devastated it. The Christian era rebuilt it as the Cathedral of St. John. Finally, the Moslems converted it into the imposing shrine that it is to-day. One may still read Greek inscriptions taken from the Bible. These are reminders of the days of the Christians. There are many costly pillars of purest marble, and from the ceilings originally there swung six hundred golden lamps. Rare mosaics, glorious stainedglass windows, rich tapestries and rugs adorn this place sacred to many for ages. Within the ample spaces of the great building stands a tomb of granite with iron rails and gratings. It is said to contain the bones of St. John of Damascus and the head of John the Baptist, brought here from Herod's palace in Samaria. The Moslems claim John the Baptist as forerunner and prophet preparing the way for Mahomet; hence their desire to be guardian of the head of the great Voice in the Wilderness. THE TOMB of the MighTY SALADIN Next we visit the Museum, where we see many curios of Islam, chief of which is the great canopy which is spread above the priest who each year leads the procession of pilgrims toward Mecca. The canopy and magic carpet are carried as far as Derat, whence the band of pilgrims goes on to Mecca, but the carpet and canopy are brought back to this spot. Near by is the tomb of the intrepid and magnanimous Saladin, leader of the Saracens against the Crusaders. Mighty warrior that he was, it was he, the flower of chivalry and the princely leader of hosts, that kept the Christians at bay. As a schoolboy I had sat late in winter nights, over dying embers, reading of Saladin and Richard the Lion-Hearted. Who can forget Saladin's declaring a truce while Richard lay prostrate with fever? To the sick man's tent his enemy sends apples and snow with the hope that Richard may soon rcover to fight again with the dash and brilliancy that won even Saladin's admiration. I was really standing at the tomb of one of my heroes! There was Saladin's portrait hanging above the rich marble encasement. What a noble face and mien he bore! Back yonder in my boyhood days in my old Kentucky home reading Arabian Nights and Walter Scott while the north wind blew the snow against my window panes, and all others had retired, leaving me with Saladin and Richard, until I was almost afraid to go to bedlittle did I think I should ever be standing in old Damascus, over the sleeping dust of the great chieftain! Indulging in reveries like this, I was lost to all else when Jimmie Harris plucked me by the sleeve bidding me come with them to the Street called Straight. |