And then we went to see the Emperor of Russia.  We just called on him as comfortably as if we had known him a century or so, and when we had finished our visit we variegated ourselves with selections from Russian costumes and sailed away again more picturesque than ever.  In Smyrna we picked up camel’s hair shawls and other dressy things from Persia; but in Palestine—­ah, in Palestine—­our splendid career ended.  They didn’t wear any clothes there to speak of.  We were satisfied, and stopped.  We made no experiments.  We did not try their costume.  But we astonished the natives of that country.  We astonished them with such eccentricities of dress as we could muster.  We prowled through the Holy Land, from Cesarea Philippi to Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, a weird procession of pilgrims, gotten up regardless of expense, solemn, gorgeous, green-spectacled, drowsing under blue umbrellas, and astride of a sorrier lot of horses, camels and asses than those that came out of Noah’s ark, after eleven months of seasickness and short rations.  If ever those children of Israel in Palestine forget when Gideon’s Band went through there from America, they ought to be cursed once more and finished.  It was the rarest spectacle that ever astounded mortal eyes, perhaps.

Well, we were at home in Palestine.  It was easy to see that that was the grand feature of the expedition.  We had cared nothing much about Europe.  We galloped through the Louvre, the Pitti, the Ufizzi, the Vatican—­all the galleries—­and through the pictured and frescoed churches of Venice, Naples, and the cathedrals of Spain; some of us said that certain of the great works of the old masters were glorious creations of genius, (we found it out in the guide-book, though we got hold of the wrong picture sometimes,) and the others said they were disgraceful old daubs.  We examined modern and ancient statuary with a critical eye in Florence, Rome, or any where we found it, and praised it if we saw fit, and if we didn’t we said we preferred the wooden Indians in front of the cigar stores of America.  But the Holy Land brought out all our enthusiasm.  We fell into raptures by the barren shores of Galilee; we pondered at Tabor and at Nazareth; we exploded into poetry over the questionable loveliness of Esdraelon; we meditated at Jezreel and Samaria over the missionary zeal of Jehu; we rioted—­fairly rioted among the holy places of Jerusalem; we bathed in Jordan and the Dead Sea, reckless whether our accident-insurance policies were extra-hazardous or not, and brought away so many jugs of precious water from both places that all the country from Jericho to the mountains of Moab will suffer from drouth this year, I think.  Yet, the pilgrimage part of the excursion was its pet feature—­there is no question about that.  After dismal, smileless Palestine, beautiful Egypt had few charms