By a natural perversity of
disposition, which my nursemaids called contrariness, I felt the
more strongly for my creed when I saw it despised among men.
I
quite tolerated the Christianity of Mahometan countries,
notwithstanding its humble aspect and the damaged character of its
followers. I went further and extended some sympathy towards those
who, with all the claims of superior intellect, learning, and
industry, were kept down under the heel of the Mussulmans by reason
of their having OUR faith. I heard, as I fancied, the faint echo
of an old crusader's conscience, that whispered and said, "Common
cause!" The impulse was, as you may suppose, much too feeble to
bring me into trouble; it merely influenced my actions in a way
thoroughly characteristic of this poor sluggish century, that is,
by making me speak almost as civilly to the followers of Christ as
I did to their Mahometan foes.
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.
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