In the spring of 1861 I passed through the town of Ma'lula, on my way from Ba'labakk (Baalbek) to Damascus. Ma'lula is one of the most curious towns not only in Syria, but in the world. It hangs in an apparently unsafe manner on the side of a perpendicular rock of very great height. The houses are partly excavated from the rock, and partly built upon one another. The streets are so steep that men have to walk on all fours and mules on two legs. The dogs, which in other eastern cities manage their affairs among themselves without belonging to any master, or seeming to notice any passer by, are here of an exceptional temper. They bark at travellers, and especially at the skirts of European coats, in a most threatening manner, so that one has to look after his legs, beside trying to keep his equilibrium. Ma'lula is full of antiquities, the study of which would abundantly repay the sojourn of an antiquarian for a whole summer. They consist chiefly of innumerable caves and tombs cut in the rock, wondrous carved figures of priests and kings, &c. The top of the mountain is a plateau, fertilized by a very large stream, the waters of which, divided into two mighty torrents, encircle the town, and loose themselves in a thousand rivulets under the walnut, mulberry, and pomegranate trees of the oasis below.