# Syria, the Land of Lebanon/Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV
HAMATH THE GREAT
NOW that the French railway system has at last extended its operations into northern Syria, the old cities of Homs and Hama will doubtless soon lose much of their naïveté and Oriental color and become filled with dragomans who speak a dozen languages and shopkeepers who have a dozen prices for the unwary tourist. Up to the present, however, the district has been little touched by Western civilization, and we saw there a picture of Syrian life and customs, and especially of unspoiled Syrian politeness, not to be found in more accessible cities.
We traveled from the seaport of Tripoli to Horns in a big yellow diligence, drawn by two horses and three mules, and driven by a couple of unkempt brigands who, in the absence of a sufficiently long whip, urged on their steeds by throwing heavy stones taken from a well-filled bushel-basket which was kept under the seat. The Syrians ordinarily throw like girls, and with as good an aim; but these men, while the coach was rolling and creaking like a ship in a storm, could strike the left ear of the farthest mule ​without any danger either to its own skull or to the other animals.
This ugly, noisy conveyance, which took us sixty miles in eleven hours, seemed quite out of place as a part of the Syrian landscape, and we noticed that it surprised the rest of the country as much as it had us. The camels were the most astonished. Along the road would be seen approaching a distant caravan, led by a white-bearded old man riding a ridiculously small donkey. Behind him, the long line of great animals walked and chewed in a slow rhythm, and looked out upon the world with a solemn gaze which made us flippant sons of a young republic feel like crawling away somewhere and hiding for a few thousand years until we had acquired a little mellowness.
But our mules represented the spirit of modern progress; on a down grade, it was progress at the dizzying speed of ten miles an hour. Now, viewed from the front, a camel looks like an overgrown chicken, and when he is startled he acts just like a flustered fowl. So we had the interesting experience of frightening half to death thirty of these great, clumsy creatures, who scampered and scattered over the road in every direction except the right one, ran into one another and knocked off carefully balanced loads, and tied up the connecting ropes into intricate knots which would challenge the genius of an Alexander to untangle, while a dozen or so stalwart ​Arabs cursed us with a choice of vituperation not to be found in our more stolid West—cursed with a long, deep, comprehensive curse which included us and our fathers, the diligence's father and mother and distant relatives, and laid special emphasis upon the awful destruction which was sure to overtake the religion of the off mule.
About an hour's journey from Tripoli there is a very old pool of sacred fish, references to which are found in works of travel as early as the sixth century. According to the present tradition, the souls of soldiers who have died fighting for Islam are reincarnated in these fish. The Moslems accordingly hold them in the greatest reverence; and if anyone, particularly if a Christian, should harm them, he would almost certainly be torn to pieces by an infuriated mob. While thousands of men and women in the neighboring villages may be suffering the pangs of hunger, wealthy zealots will buy great piles of bread for the fish; often, indeed, they provide in their wills for a certain number of loaves to be thrown each week into the pool. The fish, which are about a foot in length, are fat and bloated as a consequence of this over-feeding, and are unspeakably ugly in form and color. We estimated that there were between four and five thousand of them in the little pool; and it was a sight not soon to be forgotten, as they crowded after the crumbs which we threw them, pushing and fighting so that they were often forced ​quite out of their element and for many square yards the water was completely hidden by the loathsome, wriggling mass.
After eight hours' drive along the valley that leads from Tripoli into the interior, a sudden turn of the road brought into full view the great plain of north-eastern Syria. We were entering this through a break in its western wall, the pass which divides Lebanon from the Nusairiyeh Range, inhabited by its cruel, half-pagan tribes. At our right, the southern margin of the plain was distinctly marked by the abrupt ending of Anti-Lebanon and of the nearer Bika'. The place where the central valley of Syria opens suddenly to the broad expanse of wheat country was known of old as the "Entering In of Hamath," and was the northernmost point to which the Kingdom of Israel ever extended. At the left, low hills rise slowly up to the horizon; in front, the plain rolls out to the unseen desert and the ruined palaces of Palmyra.
​It is one of the world's greatest battlefields that lies below us, so vast that Waterloo and Gettysburg might be fought in different corners and hardly see the smoke of each other's cannonading. But no modern conflict has engaged such hosts as were drawn up here in martial array. They came from the desert capital, came up from Palestine and Egypt by way of the Entering In of Hamath, came as we have come, through the narrow pass leading from the Mediterranean. Back at the beginning of wars, the trained armies of Egypt fought the Hittite and the Chaldean here. After Babylonian and Persian, Jew and Syrian and Greek had become mere subjects of imperial Rome, it was here that Zenobia, the beautiful, talented, ambitious queen of Palmyra, received her crushing defeat at the hands of Aurelian. Here, centuries later. Crusader and Saracen battled for the land they both called Holy; here chivalrous Tancred led his armies and valiant Saladin won decisive victories.
Two things stand out from the general brownness of the plain. Just below us is the dazzling white acropolis of Horns, and ten miles to the south is the deep blue of the lake once called Qadesh, the "Holy," which was dammed up in its little valley by a long-vanished race and worshiped before history began.
We saw the bright reflection from the smooth sides of the mound long before we could distinguish the town lying beneath it, and for a while we were puzzled ​as to what it was—this huge, symmetrical object rising so abruptly from the great, flat plain, and seeming doubly immense because of the clear air and the absence of any neighboring elevation with which to compare its height. The acropolis is, indeed, no insignificant structure. The people of Homs believe it to be entirely artificial, and its appearance is in favor of such an hypothesis. The circular hill is almost a thousand feet in diameter and its platform stands a hundred feet above the plain. The sides rise so steeply that it would be impossible to scale them without a ladder; and, to make the summit absolutely inaccessible to an enemy, all the outer slope of the mound formerly bore a slippery coating of small, square basalt blocks. At present the platform is reached by a long, winding path; but even this is so steep as to be almost dangerous in places. During the Crusades the fortress of Homs was held alternately by the Christians and the Saracens; and it has suffered from so many assaults that nothing of the old castle now remains save a few fragments of tumbling wall and a ruined gateway.
As we came down into the plain and had a nearer view of the acropolis, we seemed to distinguish a multitude of houses beneath it; but the difficulty of getting a true perspective had deceived us. The city lay beyond and lower; what we now saw were not houses but graves. It was a great metropolis of the dead; thousands and tens of thousands of mounds ​were crowded close together at the foot of the fortress-hill. Some few were surmounted by stone canopies; but most of them were simple Moslem graves, ranged in long ranks looking toward the sacred city of Mecca, with one stone at the head and another at the foot, for the two angels to rest upon as they weigh the good and evil deeds of the dead. As one approaches nearly every great Syrian city, this is the order of interest and impressiveness; first the ruins of former power and grandeur, then the graves of those who trusted in that power and gloried in that grandeur, last the modern town with its poverty and squalor and ignorance.
In Greek times "Emesa," as it was then called, was a place of no little size and importance, and during the Roman era one of its sons wore the imperial purple and one of its daughters became empress. The modern city contains some sixty thousand inhabitants, the large majority of whom are Moslems. The Christians are nearly all Orthodox "Greeks," but there is also a tiny Protestant community. We were guests of the native pastor, and later it lent a new impressiveness to our memories of Homs when we learned that our host was stabbed the very week after our visit. Fortunately, however, the wound was not a mortal one. The city is the market-place of Ard Homs, "the Land of Homs," and its bazaars are ​crowded with fellahîn from all the country round about. The chief industry is the weaving of silks. The citizens claim that there are five thousand looms, and it is easy to believe this statement; as we walked along the streets, which were well-paved and cleaner than those of most Syrian towns, there were whole blocks where every house resounded with the whirring of wheels and the clicking of shuttles.
The home of our host, like almost every other residence in Homs, opened on a court which was separated from the street by a ten-foot wall. We rose at three o'clock the next morning to catch the diligence for Hama, said good-by all around in the lengthy Arabic fashion—and discovered that the key to the one gate was lost. Thereupon arose great bustle and confusion; the women rushed around looking everywhere for the missing key, while the worthy pastor brought a clumsy ladder to help us over the wall. But just as we were preparing to carry our heavy luggage up the ladder, the key was found, and a hard run brought us to the diligence with half a minute to spare.
This second coach had only two mules and one horse, and was a much smaller affair than that which had brought us from Tripoli. Although the driver was a Moslem to whom alcoholic beverages are strictly forbidden, he was considerably more than half-drunk. He had neglected to fasten the harness properly and, while we were rattling down a steep hill, the tangle of ​straps and strings dropped off one beast and dangled under his heels. Then, as soon as the harness was repaired, our driver let his reins fall among the flying hoofs. He took these mishaps very philosophically; much more so, to tell the truth, than we did. Doubtless he pitied us Western infidels for our evident nervousness and lack of faith. Suppose that the coach should indeed upset—it would be the will of Allah, and who were we to object!
We had but one fellow-traveler, a fat old Moslem wearing the turban of a haj who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He was a most companionable fellow who insisted upon explaining to us all the points of interest along the road; and the fact that his explanations were usually wrong did not in the least detract from our enjoyment of his company. Every time the diligence stopped—and, with our drunken driver and worn-out harness, this was quite often—the Haj would laboriously descend, spread out his handkerchief upon some clean, level spot alongside the road, and turn toward Mecca to recite his prayers. He must have been a very holy man.
The road from Homs to Hama runs almost due north, a straight white line cutting across the green fields. It is one of the oldest highways in the world. For at least five thousand years caravans have been passing along it just as we saw them—long strings of slow-moving camels laden with brightly colored bags of wheat. One could almost imagine that ​Pharaoh was again calling down the corn of Hamath to fill his granaries, against the impending seven years of famine. But even here the old things are passing. Just beyond the line of camels, a longer line of peasant women, with dirty blue dresses kilted above their knee?, were carrying upon their heads baskets of earth and stone for the road-bed of the new French railway. The carriage road is French, too; and a very good road it is. We noticed some men repairing it with a most ingenious roller. A huge rounded stone, drawn by two oxen, had its axle prolonged by a twenty-foot pole, at the end of which a bare-legged Syrian was fastened to balance the contrivance. If the stone had chanced to topple over, the spectacle of the captive road-maker dangling at the top of the slender flag-staff would have been well worth watching.
All along the journey we were reminded of the fact that this was not only the East, but the old, old East. The soil is fertile, but the very wheat-fields are different from ours. Only a few yards in width, they are often of prodigious length; the thin green strips sometimes stretch away until in the far distance they are lost over the curve of the treeless plain. At one place the road is cut through a hill honeycombed with rock-tombs, which the Haj said were of Jewish origin. Every now and then we passed a tell, or great hemispherical mound built up of the rubbish of dozens of ruined towns which, one ​after the other, were built upon the same site. Even as late as Roman times, this was a densely populated and prosperous district. There is now no timber available for building purposes, and so in a number of villages the houses are constructed with conical roofs of stone. Where the rock happens to be of a reddish tinge, the windowless structures remind one of nothing so much as a collection of Indian wigwams; where the stone is white, as at Tell Biseh, it glitters and sparkles like a city cut out of loaf sugar.
"Hamath the Great," as the prophet Amos called it, is still the most important city between Damascus and Aleppo. It is larger than Homs and seems more prosperous, but the difference between the two is not marked enough to prevent considerable mutual jealousy. Hama is especially busy in the early morning, when the market squares are crowded with kneeling camels and the bazaars are bright with newly opened rolls of rich silks, which may be bought at ridiculously low prices—if the purchaser knows how to bargain.
You see the same types in other Syrian cities—rough camel-drivers, veiled ladies, ragged peasants, underfed soldiers, Moslem wise men and reverend Arab sheikhs. Along tourist-beaten routes, however, the picture lacks somewhat of perfection because of the Hotel d'Orient or Hotel Victoria in the background, and, just as you have warmed to an ​enthusiastic interest in the bright scenes of Oriental life, a pert young fellow in French clothes is apt to ask you into his shop or offer to guide you through the bazaars at ten francs a day. But while we were in Hama there was, so far as I know, no other Frank in the city, only one other pair of European trousers, and but two natives who spoke any English. There is not even a resident missionary, and on the rare occasions when American ladies visit the city, they adopt the local costume, veil and all, in order to avoid annoying curiosity.
The citizens enjoyed us fully as much as we did them. Everywhere we went we were followed by a train of a dozen or two, and when we stopped to look at anything the crowd threatened to interfere with traffic—not that this would have seemed a serious offense to the Oriental mind! They were so interested in our every movement that I could never get room to use my camera until my friend would walk a little way off with an intense expression on his face and draw the cortège after him. Yet these people were not in the least noisy or rude and—I almost hesitate to make such a startling statement about a Syrian city—I do not remember being once asked for bakhsheesh.
The inhabitants of Hama bear the reputation of being very proud and fanatical; but we did not find them so. We stayed with a young physician, a recent graduate of the college at Beirut; and in the ​evening a number of his friends dropped in to see us. As our own supply of Arabic was not at that time equal to the demands of a long conversation, we essayed one or two gymnastic tricks, only to be immediately outdone by our Syrian acquaintances. Then the ice was broken, and we settled down to a long evening of rough games, which always ended in somebody having his hand slapped with a knotted handkerchief. These strangely garbed men with their brown, wrinkled faces, entered into it all with such a childlike enjoyment that we were soon laughing and shouting as we had not done since the Christmas days of boyhood; and the little brazier, with its bright bed of charcoal that sent fearsome shadows of turbaned heads and long mustachios dancing on the white walls overhead, seemed a natural substitute for the Yule log which that very night was burning in the home across the seas.
As the Christians form a quite insignificant minority of the population of Hama, they receive a degree of consideration from their Moslem neighbors such as is not granted in cities where the two religions are more nearly balanced and where jealousy and hatred consequently lead to frequent reprisals. Our host, Dr. Taufik, told us that some of his warmest friends were young Moslems. He has a large practice among the harems of the city, and has performed heroic operations upon their inmates. One afternoon he guided us through a narrow, ​winding lane filled with evil-smelling garbage, to a rude door not over five feet high. This was the entrance to the finest house in Hama, the residence of one of the doctor's Moslem patients. Indeed, Dr. Taufik told us, with perhaps more of civic pride than strict accuracy, that it was the most magnificent dwelling in all Syria. The great central hall was decorated in mosaics of colored marble and overlaid with gold-leaf in intricate patterns of sumptuous beauty. Yet, as is so often the case in the East, the only approach to this splendid residence was through filth and odors which would hardly have been tolerated in the worst slums of an American city.
We later visited the home of another wealthy Moslem, also a patient of the doctor. This time we found the master of the house seated in the middle of the state drawing-room—being shaved. He is the only man I have ever seen who looked dignified while in the hands of a barber. Even with lather all over his face, he sat with the bearing of a prince of the blood giving audience to his favorites. His attitude toward us was marked by the most kindly courtesy. He allowed us to indulge in the untidy American habit of wearing shoes in the house, and, although it was the fast-month of Ramadan and he himself could eat nothing until sunset, delicious sweetmeats were served us in delicate cut-glass dishes set on a heavy silver tray. After we had watched our host put on his furs and drive off behind his two ​beautiful Arab stallions, we asked Dr. Taufik how much wealth was necessary for one to live in such luxury, and what was the business of his Moslem friend. "Oh, he does not work at all," was the answer. "He does not need to, for he has property which brings him an income of forty thousand piasters a year"—which equals a little over fourteen hundred dollars!
Hama has an acropolis somewhat larger than that of Homs, but it is less symmetrical in shape and is not so well preserved. From the summit is seen the same far-reaching historic plain; but the attention is soon drawn back to the city which lies just below. If the visitor has resided in Syria, it is not the twenty-four minarets which hold his gaze, not even the Great Mosque, which is one of many shrines that claim to guard the bones of John the Baptist; but beautiful and interesting above all is the river which winds its slender cord of blue through the heart of the city. Rising on the eastern slopes of Lebanon, then passing northward through Hollow Syria and the Entering In of Hamath, dammed up by the old Hittites to form the Holy Lake by Homs, growing slowly as it flows through the "Land of Hama" until at Antioch it is almost deep enough for modern shipping—the Orontes fathered three of the great cities of the ancient world.
There are few real rivers in this land. Although they make Damascus so fertile, Abana and Pharpar ​are hardly more than noisy creeks. It is true that parts of Lebanon fairly sweat with springs, but hardly half a dozen of these reach the coast except as winter torrents whose stony beds dry up completely when the summer comes. The Jordan in the far south, the Leontes, which flows into the Mediterranean between Tyre and Sidon, and the Orontes in the north—these complete the tale of Syrian rivers, and Hama is the only city in the country whose stream appears as a prominent feature in the landscape. It winds and twists so that you meet it at almost every turn of the street. Along one bank, a line of closely latticed windows mark the harems of the wealthier citizens; farther on, a little group of women are washing clothes under the shade of the cypress trees; yonder a weary train of mules are standing knee-deep in the cool water, while a crowd of naked boys are sporting in the shallow stream with as much energy and enjoyment as any truant brothers of the West.
It is perhaps because the Orontes goes to the northward instead of flowing south, as do the other important Syrian rivers, that it is now known as el-'Asi, "the Rebel"; or the name may have been given, as some old Moslem writers suggest, because its channel is so low that the stream cannot be used for irrigation unless its water is artificially raised.
There is a noise so loud and constant that you have almost ceased to hear it—a dull, grave diapason, ​fuller and deeper than the heaviest organ-stop. Now, slowly and painfully, it forces up a few tones of the scale, then drops sullenly to its key-note. "Do mi sol, do do do. Do sol la, DO DO DO"—on through the day and the night and the century. It is the music of the na'ûra, the water-wheels of the Orontes. You see them now and then in southern villages, but as other cataracts are to Niagara, so are all other water-wheels to the water-wheels of Hama. Great wooden frames revolving painfully upon wooden axles as, by means of buckets along the circumference, the river lifts itself up to the level of the terraces above—these wheels approach very near to perpetual motion. We stand amazed before one that is forty feet high, until the eye travels down the river to another wheel of sixty feet; and our guide takes us out to the edge of the city where a monster ninety feet in diameter is playing its slow, solemn tune.
It is impossible to shut out the sound of their creaking. I know of travelers who have been so distracted by the incessant, inescapable noise that they could not sleep in Hama; but we found the music of the wheels very soothing, like the distant roar of the ocean or a slow fugue played on some cyclopean organ. Now they are in unison, now repeating the theme one after another, now for a brief moment in a sublime harmony never to be forgotten, then once more together in the unison of a tremendous chorus. ​As we drift to sleep, the song of the river calls us back, back, back to the Beginning of Things.
"Do mi fa, do do do."What care the wheels whether Saracen or Crusader conquer in the fight below!" Do fa sol, do do do." The chariots of Zenobia are rattling across the plain—or is it the fleeing cohorts of the Assyrian host? "Do sol la, do do do." The dark regiments of Pharaoh are coming up from the south, and the Hittite city rushes to arms. "Do mi sol, DO do do do." And old Orontes is slowly pushing around the great wheels of the dream city, while the Iliad is unsung, and Cheops is unquarried, and the fathers of Abram still dwell in Ur of the Chaldees.
* ↑ Many eminent scholars, however, follow Edward Robinson (Biblical Researches, III. 568) in identifying the "Entering In of Hamath" (Judges 3:3, I Kings 8:65, etc.), not with the northern end of the Bika', but with the east-and-west valley between the Lebanon and Nusairiyeh ranges, through which we have just come. While I incline more and more toward the view given in the text above, the question must be decided by one's feeling as to which would be the more striking and appropriate landmark, rather than by any direct evidence. The territory included would be practically the same in either case.
* ↑ Heliogabalus. See foot-note, page 191.
* ↑ Julia Domna, wife of Septimius Severus.