The last twenty-four hours we staid in Damascus I lay prostrate with a violent attack of cholera, or cholera morbus, and therefore had a good chance and a good excuse to lie there on that wide divan and take an honest rest.  I had nothing to do but listen to the pattering of the fountains and take medicine and throw it up again.  It was dangerous recreation, but it was pleasanter than traveling in Syria.  I had plenty of snow from Mount Hermon, and as it would not stay on my stomach, there was nothing to interfere with my eating it—­there was always room for more.  I enjoyed myself very well.  Syrian travel has its interesting features, like travel in any other part of the world, and yet to break your leg or have the cholera adds a welcome variety to it.

We left Damascus at noon and rode across the plain a couple of hours, and then the party stopped a while in the shade of some fig-trees to give me a chance to rest.  It was the hottest day we had seen yet—­the sun-flames shot down like the shafts of fire that stream out before a blow-pipe—­the rays seemed to fall in a steady deluge on the head and pass downward like rain from a roof.  I imagined I could distinguish between the floods of rays—­I thought I could tell when each flood struck my head, when it reached my shoulders, and when the next one came.  It was terrible.  All the desert glared so fiercely that my eyes were swimming in tears all the time.  The boys had white umbrellas heavily lined with dark green.  They were a priceless blessing.  I thanked fortune that I had one, too, notwithstanding it was packed up with the baggage and was ten miles ahead.  It is madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella.  They told me in Beirout (these people who always gorge you with advice) that it was madness to travel in Syria without an umbrella.  It was on this account that I got one.

But, honestly, I think an umbrella is a nuisance any where when its business is to keep the sun off.  No Arab wears a brim to his fez, or uses an umbrella, or any thing to shade his eyes or his face, and he always looks comfortable and proper in the sun.  But of all the ridiculous sights I ever have seen, our party of eight is the most so —­they do cut such an outlandish figure.  They travel single file; they all wear the endless white rag of Constantinople wrapped round and round their hats and dangling down their backs; they all wear thick green spectacles, with side-glasses to them; they all hold white umbrellas, lined with green, over their heads; without exception their stirrups are too short—­they are the very worst gang of horsemen on earth, their animals to a horse trot fearfully hard—­and when they get strung out one after the other; glaring straight ahead and breathless; bouncing high and out of turn, all along the line; knees well up and stiff, elbows flapping like a rooster’s that is going to crow, and the long file of umbrellas popping convulsively up and down—­when one sees this outrageous picture exposed to the light of day, he is amazed that the gods don’t get out their thunderbolts and destroy them off the face of the earth!  I do—­I wonder at it.  I wouldn’t let any such caravan go through a country of mine.