do not say Baalam’s ass ever drank there—­somebody been imposing on the pilgrims, may be.  Bathed in it—­Jack and I. Only a second—­ice-water.  It is the principal source of the Abana river —­only one-half mile down to where it joins.  Beautiful place—­giant trees all around—­so shady and cool, if one could keep awake—­vast stream gushes straight out from under the mountain in a torrent.  Over it is a very ancient ruin, with no known history —­supposed to have been for the worship of the deity of the fountain or Baalam’s ass or somebody.  Wretched nest of human vermin about the fountain—­rags, dirt, sunken cheeks, pallor of sickness, sores, projecting bones, dull, aching misery in their eyes and ravenous hunger speaking from every eloquent fibre and muscle from head to foot.  How they sprang upon a bone, how they crunched the bread we gave them!  Such as these to swarm about one and watch every bite he takes, with greedy looks, and swallow unconsciously every time he swallows, as if they half fancied the precious morsel went down their own throats —­hurry up the caravan!—­I never shall enjoy a meal in this distressful country.  To think of eating three times every day under such circumstances for three weeks yet—­it is worse punishment than riding all day in the sun.  There are sixteen starving babies from one to six years old in the party, and their legs are no larger than broom handles.  Left the fountain at 1 P.M. (the fountain took us at least two hours out of our way,) and reached Mahomet’s lookout perch, over Damascus, in time to get a good long look before it was necessary to move on.  Tired?  Ask of the winds that far away with fragments strewed the sea.”

As the glare of day mellowed into twilight, we looked down upon a picture which is celebrated all over the world.  I think I have read about four hundred times that when Mahomet was a simple camel-driver he reached this point and looked down upon Damascus for the first time, and then made a certain renowned remark.  He said man could enter only one paradise; he preferred to go to the one above.  So he sat down there and feasted his eyes upon the earthly paradise of Damascus, and then went away without entering its gates.  They have erected a tower on the hill to mark the spot where he stood.

Damascus is beautiful from the mountain.  It is beautiful even to foreigners accustomed to luxuriant vegetation, and I can easily understand how unspeakably beautiful it must be to eyes that are only used to the God-forsaken barrenness and desolation of Syria.  I should think a Syrian would go wild with ecstacy when such a picture bursts upon him for the first time.