Gateway, Damascus

‎On the 13th of May, 1894, our caravan passed through the gateway in the western wall of the city of Damascus, and we found ourselves in the midst of this most remarkable city. For hours before we reached it we saw its gleaming glory in the distance; the tall, graceful minarets rising from her more than three hundred mosques; her far-famed gardens and the glory of her trees. Perhaps one of the reasons why travelers praise Damascus so unstintingly is because of the delightful contrast it furnishes to the treeless, hot and verdureless country through which they passed on their approach to it. After a horseback ride from Jerusalem over a rough road—perhaps one of the roughest on earth—through a country with few trees, one would be in condition to praise any city in which gardens, orchards and abundance of water were to be found; but when the contrast is presented between such a desert journey and the surpassing beauty of Damascus, one is justified for the measure of extravagance in his terms of commendation. We see its gardens, canals, fountains, deep and abundant, shadows cast from long, spreading branches of most charming trees; certainly, the traveler may be allowed, at the pitch of his enthusiasm, to use the most extravagant adjectives in his praise of the new-found paradise. Damascus is said to be the oldest city in the world. This may not be literally true, but we know something of its history for four thousand years. It has been ruled by kings from Nineveh, Babylon, Persia, Greece and Rome, and under all it has been a place of importance.