And when the sun drops below the horizon and the boys close their umbrellas and put them under their arms, it is only a variation of the picture, not a modification of its absurdity.

But may be you can not see the wild extravagance of my panorama.  You could if you were here.  Here, you feel all the time just as if you were living about the year 1200 before Christ—­or back to the patriarchs—­or forward to the New Era.  The scenery of the Bible is about you—­the customs of the patriarchs are around you—­the same people, in the same flowing robes, and in sandals, cross your path—­the same long trains of stately camels go and come—­the same impressive religious solemnity and silence rest upon the desert and the mountains that were upon them in the remote ages of antiquity, and behold, intruding upon a scene like this, comes this fantastic mob of green-spectacled Yanks, with their flapping elbows and bobbing umbrellas!  It is Daniel in the lion’s den with a green cotton umbrella under his arm, all over again.

My umbrella is with the baggage, and so are my green spectacles—­and there they shall stay.  I will not use them.  I will show some respect for the eternal fitness of things.  It will be bad enough to get sun-struck, without looking ridiculous into the bargain.  If I fall, let me fall bearing about me the semblance of a Christian, at least.

Three or four hours out from Damascus we passed the spot where Saul was so abruptly converted, and from this place we looked back over the scorching desert, and had our last glimpse of beautiful Damascus, decked in its robes of shining green.  After nightfall we reached our tents, just outside of the nasty Arab village of Jonesborough.  Of course the real name of the place is El something or other, but the boys still refuse to recognize the Arab names or try to pronounce them.  When I say that that village is of the usual style, I mean to insinuate that all Syrian villages within fifty miles of Damascus are alike—­so much alike that it would require more than human intelligence to tell wherein one differed from another.  A Syrian village is a hive of huts one story high (the height of a man,) and as square as a dry-goods box; it is mud-plastered all over, flat roof and all, and generally whitewashed after a fashion.  The same roof often extends over half the town, covering many of the streets, which are generally about a yard wide.  When you ride through one of these villages at noon-day, you first meet a melancholy dog, that looks up at you and silently begs that you won’t run over him, but he does not offer to get out of the way; next you meet a young boy without any clothes on, and he holds out his hand and says “Bucksheesh!” —­he don’t really expect a cent, but then he learned to say that before he learned to say mother, and now he can not break himself of it; next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn closely over her face, and her bust exposed; finally, you come to several sore-eyed