This “holy” Damascus, this “earthly paradise” of the Prophet, so fair to the eyes that he dared not trust himself to tarry in her blissful shades, she is a city of hidden palaces, of copses and gardens, and fountains and bubbling streams.  The juice of her life is the gushing and ice-cold torrent that tumbles from the snowy sides of Anti-Lebanon.  Close along on the river’s edge, through seven sweet miles of rustling boughs and deepest shade, the city spreads out her whole length.  As a man falls flat, face forward on the brook, that he may drink and drink again, so Damascus, thirsting for ever, lies down with her lips to the stream and clings to its rushing waters.

The chief places of public amusement, or rather, of public relaxation, are the baths and the great cafe; this last, which is frequented at night by most of the wealthy men, and by many of the humbler sort, consists of a number of sheds, very simply framed and built in a labyrinth of running streams, which foam and roar on every side.  The place is lit up in the simplest manner by numbers of small pale lamps strung upon loose cords, and so suspended from branch to branch, that the light, though it looks so quiet amongst the darkening foliage, yet leaps and brightly flashes as it falls upon the troubled waters.  All around, and chiefly upon the very edge of the torrents, groups of people are tranquilly seated.  They all drink coffee, and inhale the cold fumes of the narghile; they talk rather gently the one to the other, or else are silent.  A father will sometimes have two or three of his boys around him; but the joyousness of an Oriental child is all of the sober sort, and never disturbs the reigning calm of the land.

It has been generally understood, I believe, that the houses of Damascus are more sumptuous than those of any other city in the East.  Some of these, said to be the most magnificent in the place, I had an opportunity of seeing.

Every rich man’s house stands detached from its neighbours at the side of a garden, and it is from this cause no doubt that the city (severely menaced by prophecy) has hitherto escaped destruction.  You know some parts of Spain, but you have never, I think, been in Andalusia:  if you had, I could easily show you the interior of a Damascene house by referring you to the Alhambra or Alcanzar of Seville.  The lofty rooms are adorned with a rich inlaying of many colours and illuminated writing on the walls.  The floors are of marble.  One side of any room intended for noonday retirement is generally laid open to a quadrangle, in the centre of which there dances the jet of a fountain.  There is no furniture that can interfere with the cool, palace-like emptiness of the apartments.  A divan (which is a low and doubly broad sofa) runs round the three walled sides of the room.  A few Persian carpets (which ought to be called Persian rugs, for that is the word which indicates their shape and dimensions) are sometimes