Santa Fe trader to excel.  The animals are not less interesting than their masters.  Our horses, to be sure, are slow, plodding beasts, with considerable endurance, but little spirit; but the two baggage mules deserve gold medals from the Society for the Promotion of Industry.  I can overlook any amount of waywardness in the creatures, in consideration of the steady, persevering energy, the cheerfulness and even enthusiasm with which they perform their duties.  They seem to be conscious that they are doing well, and to take a delight in the consciousness.  One of them has a band of white shells around his neck, fastened with a tassel and two large blue beads; and you need but look at him to see that he is aware how becoming it is.  He thinks it was given to him for good conduct, and is doing his best to merit another.  The little donkey is a still more original animal.  He is a practical humorist, full of perverse tricks, but all intended for effect, and without a particle of malice.  He generally walks behind, running off to one side or the other to crop a mouthful of grass, but no sooner does Dervish attempt to mount him, than he sets off at full gallop, and takes the lead of the caravan.  After having performed one of his feats, he turns around with a droll glance at us, as much as to say:  “Did you see that?” If we had not been present, most assuredly he would never have done it.  I can imagine him, after his return to Beyrout, relating his adventures to a company of fellow-donkeys, who every now and then burst into tremendous brays at some of his irresistible dry sayings.

I persuaded Mr. Harrison to adopt the Oriental costume, which, from five months’ wear in Africa, I greatly preferred to the Frank.  We therefore rode out of Beyrout as a pair of Syrian Beys, while Francois, with his belt, sabre, and pistols had much the aspect of a Greek brigand.  The road crosses the hill behind the city, between the Forest of Pines and a long tract of red sand-hills next the sea.  It was a lovely morning, not too bright and hot, for light, fleecy vapors hung along the sides of Lebanon.  Beyond the mulberry orchards, we entered on wild, half-cultivated tracts, covered with a bewildering maze of blossoms.  The hill-side and stony shelves of soil overhanging the sea fairly blazed with the brilliant dots of color which were rained upon them.  The pink, the broom, the poppy, the speedwell, the lupin, that beautiful variety of the cyclamen, called by the Syrians “deek e-djebel” (cock o’ the mountain), and a number of unknown plants dazzled the eye with their profusion, and loaded the air with fragrance as rare as it was unfailing.  Here and there, clear, swift rivulets came down from Lebanon, coursing their way between thickets of blooming oleanders.  Just before crossing the little river Damoor, Francois pointed out, on one of the distant heights, the residence of the late Lady Hester Stanhope.  During the afternoon we crossed several offshoots of the Lebanon,