We were approaching the end.  Human nature asserted itself, now.  Overwork and consequent exhaustion began to have their natural effect.  They began to master the energies and dull the ardor of the party.  Perfectly secure now, against failing to accomplish any detail of the pilgrimage, they felt like drawing in advance upon the holiday soon to be placed to their credit.  They grew a little lazy.  They were late to breakfast and sat long at dinner.  Thirty or forty pilgrims had arrived from the ship, by the short routes, and much swapping of gossip had to be indulged in.  And in hot afternoons, they showed a strong disposition to lie on the cool divans in the hotel and smoke and talk about pleasant experiences of a month or so gone by—­for even thus early do episodes of travel which were sometimes annoying, sometimes exasperating and full as often of no consequence at all when they transpired, begin to rise above the dead level of monotonous reminiscences and become shapely landmarks in one’s memory.  The fog-whistle, smothered among a million of trifling sounds, is not noticed a block away, in the city, but the sailor hears it far at sea, whither none of those thousands of trifling sounds can reach.  When one is in Rome, all the domes are alike; but when he has gone away twelve miles, the city fades utterly from sight and leaves St. Peter’s swelling above the level plain like an anchored balloon.  When one is traveling in Europe, the daily incidents seem all alike; but when he has placed them all two months and two thousand miles behind him, those that were worthy of being remembered are prominent, and those that were really insignificant have vanished.  This disposition to smoke, and idle and talk, was not well.  It was plain that it must not be allowed to gain ground.  A diversion must be tried, or demoralization would ensue.  The Jordan, Jericho and the Dead Sea were suggested.  The remainder of Jerusalem must be left unvisited, for a little while.  The journey was approved at once.  New life stirred in every pulse.  In the saddle —­abroad on the plains—­sleeping in beds bounded only by the horizon:  fancy was at work with these things in a moment.—­It was painful to note how readily these town-bred men had taken to the free life of the camp and the desert The nomadic instinct is a human instinct; it was born with Adam and transmitted through the patriarchs, and after thirty centuries of steady effort, civilization has not educated it entirely out of us yet.  It has a charm which, once tasted, a man will yearn to taste again.  The nomadic instinct can not be educated out of an Indian at all.

The Jordan journey being approved, our dragoman was notified.