But this last new horse I have got is trying to break his neck over the tent-ropes, and I shall have to go out and anchor him.  Jericho and I have parted company.  The new horse is not much to boast of, I think.  One of his hind legs bends the wrong way, and the other one is as straight and stiff as a tent-pole.  Most of his teeth are gone, and he is as blind as bat.  His nose has been broken at some time or other, and is arched like a culvert now.  His under lip hangs down like a camel’s, and his ears are chopped off close to his head.  I had some trouble at first to find a name for him, but I finally concluded to call him Baalbec, because he is such a magnificent ruin.  I can not keep from talking about my horses, because I have a very long and tedious journey before me, and they naturally occupy my thoughts about as much as matters of apparently much greater importance.

We satisfied our pilgrims by making those hard rides from Baalbec to Damascus, but Dan’s horse and Jack’s were so crippled we had to leave them behind and get fresh animals for them.  The dragoman says Jack’s horse died.  I swapped horses with Mohammed, the kingly-looking Egyptian who is our Ferguson’s lieutenant.  By Ferguson I mean our dragoman Abraham, of course.  I did not take this horse on account of his personal appearance, but because I have not seen his back.  I do not wish to see it.  I have seen the backs of all the other horses, and found most of them covered with dreadful saddle-boils which I know have not been washed or doctored for years.  The idea of riding all day long over such ghastly inquisitions of torture is sickening.  My horse must be like the others, but I have at least the consolation of not knowing it to be so.

I hope that in future I may be spared any more sentimental praises of the Arab’s idolatry of his horse.  In boyhood I longed to be an Arab of the desert and have a beautiful mare, and call her Selim or Benjamin or Mohammed, and feed her with my own hands, and let her come into the tent, and teach her to caress me and look fondly upon me with her great tender eyes; and I wished that a stranger might come at such a time and offer me a hundred thousand dollars for her, so that I could do like the other Arabs—­hesitate, yearn for the money, but overcome by my love for my mare, at last say, “Part with thee, my beautiful one!  Never with my life!  Away, tempter, I scorn thy gold!” and then bound into the saddle and speed over the desert like the wind!

But I recall those aspirations.  If these Arabs be like the other Arabs, their love for their beautiful mares is a fraud.  These of my acquaintance have no love for their horses, no sentiment of pity for them, and no knowledge of how to treat them or care for them.  The Syrian saddle-blanket is a quilted mattress two or three inches thick.  It is never removed from the horse, day or night.  It gets full of dirt and hair, and becomes soaked with sweat.  It is bound to breed sores.  These pirates never think of washing a horse’s back.  They do not shelter the horses in the tents, either—­they must stay out and take the weather as it comes.  Look at poor cropped and dilapidated “Baalbec,” and weep for the sentiment that has been wasted upon the Selims of romance!