When we remember that Damascus is situated on the edge of the great Syrian desert, that it is surrounded on three sides by hills, high and lifted up, and that the whole country for miles and scores of miles around is bleak, parched and desolate, we can not for a moment be surprised at the pleasing effect the sight of this smiling garden produces in the heart of the Arab. Probably these swarthy sons of the desert have been traveling for ten days or a fortnight, coming from Palmyra or Bagdad, coming from central Arabia or Persia, coming across the arid plain where naught but broad oceans of sand stretch out before them, with not a blade of green grass to enliven the scene or to “rest the dazzled sight.” Finally the fortnight has past; the journey has ended; and the Arabs stand at last upon this hilltop and look down upon yonder green garden of God. In contemplating such a scene, after such a journey, these sons of Ishmael are moved by emotions strong and deep. They have found trees in the wilderness, springs in the desert; and they can but say: “Though old as history itself, thou art fresh as the breath of spring, blooming as thine own rosebud, and fragrant as thine own orange-blossom, O Damascus, pearl of the East.” This is the scene that Paul was looking upon when suddenly a great light shone round about him from heaven, and he fell to the earth as dead. Only a few feet from where I stand, tradition points out the place where he fell. Paul, you remember, was taken up and carried into the city. Desiring to follow him, I leave the mountain top and approach the valley. Damascus is surrounded now, as in Paul’s day, by a stone wall twenty-five or thirty feet high. Entering the city through the Jerusalem gate, I am at once attracted by a man prostrate on the river bank. Placing his palms on the ground, and lifting himself the length of his long arms, he looks down upon the glassy surface of the river as though he were gazing at his image reflected in the water. Then, bending his elbows, he once more lets his breast to the earth. This is repeated over and over again. While going through this strange performance, the man is constantly mumbling and muttering in some unknown Eastern tongue. Rising to his feet, and lifting his face to the sky, the Arab repeatedly smites himself upon the brow, breast and mouth. Then waving his hand towards Heaven, he cries aloud: “Suah baha, yalla Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed!” I ask, “Tolhammy, what means this?” “Why, sir, that is a sacred river. The man was worshipping the river, and then, rising, he called upon Mahomet, his god, to accept his worship. He says ‘O Mahomet, accept my worship, and (placing his hand on his brow) I will think of thee with this mind; (on his breast) I will love thee with this heart; (with hand upon his mouth) and with these lips I will speak thy praises abroad. Hear me, O Mohammed, Mohammed, Mohammed!’” Who could see a sight like this without thinking