At ancient Ayassalook, in the midst of a forbidding desert, we came upon long lines of ruined aqueducts, and other remnants of architectural grandeur, that told us plainly enough we were nearing what had been a metropolis, once.  We left the train and mounted the donkeys, along with our invited guests—­pleasant young gentlemen from the officers’ list of an American man-of-war.

The little donkeys had saddles upon them which were made very high in order that the rider’s feet might not drag the ground.  The preventative did not work well in the cases of our tallest pilgrims, however.  There were no bridles—­nothing but a single rope, tied to the bit.  It was purely ornamental, for the donkey cared nothing for it.  If he were drifting to starboard, you might put your helm down hard the other way, if it were any satisfaction to you to do it, but he would continue to drift to starboard all the same.  There was only one process which could be depended on, and it was to get down and lift his rear around until his head pointed in the right direction, or take him under your arm and carry him to a part of the road which he could not get out of without climbing.  The sun flamed down as hot as a furnace, and neck-scarfs, veils and umbrellas seemed hardly any protection; they served only to make the long procession look more than ever fantastic—­for be it known the ladies were all riding astride because they could not stay on the shapeless saddles sidewise, the men were perspiring and out of temper, their feet were banging against the rocks, the donkeys were capering in every direction but the right one and being belabored with clubs for it, and every now and then a broad umbrella would suddenly go down out of the cavalcade, announcing to all that one more pilgrim had bitten the dust.  It was a wilder picture than those solitudes had seen for many a day.  No donkeys ever existed that were as hard to navigate as these, I think, or that had so many vile, exasperating instincts.  Occasionally we grew so tired and breathless with fighting them that we had to desist,—­and immediately the donkey would come down to a deliberate walk.  This, with the fatigue, and the sun, would put a man asleep; and soon as the man was asleep, the donkey would lie down.  My donkey shall never see his boyhood’s home again.  He has lain down once too often.  He must die.

We all stood in the vast theatre of ancient Ephesus,—­the stone-benched amphitheatre I mean—­and had our picture taken.  We looked as proper there as we would look any where, I suppose.  We do not embellish the general desolation of a desert much.  We add what dignity we can to a stately ruin with our green umbrellas and jackasses, but it is little.  However, we mean well.

I wish to say a brief word of the aspect of Ephesus.

On a high, steep hill, toward the sea, is a gray ruin of ponderous blocks of marble, wherein, tradition says, St. Paul was imprisoned eighteen centuries ago.  From these old walls you have the finest view of the desolate scene where once stood Ephesus, the proudest city of ancient times, and whose Temple of Diana was so noble in design, and so exquisite of workmanship, that it ranked high in the list of the Seven Wonders of the World.