terval of dreams, smoke, and sherbet. The draperies are changed, again with sweet coolness in the changing. Finally, a strong man, Uncle Kühleborn himself, kneels behind you seriously and lifts you up. He thrusts his arms under yours, and bends you ruthlessly backward and forward, straining and squeezing in every direction, forcing your body into postures which it can never know again, actually cracking your backbone, until seizing you quite off the mattrass, old Kühleborn twists you upon his knee into an inextricable knot, then suffers you to fall exhausted upon the couch.

It is the last stroke, the crown of delight. You exist in exquisite sensation, but are no longer conscious of a body. You comprehend an "unbodied joy whose race is just begun." The cool, fragrant dimness permeates your frame. You fall softly into sleep as into an abyss of clouds.

VIII.

Exodus.

THE poem of the traveller's life in Damascus thus sings itself in three cantos, the Bath, the Bazaar and the Café.

There are certain historical associations with the city of which you think little when you are there. The only one that you naturally remember, floats across your Café and Bath dreams, because it is a reality of romance, as well as a fact of history, and it is, that in the defence of Damascus against the Crusader Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, Salah-ed-deen, or our familiar Saladdin, first appeared in arms.

Nor are the Scriptural associations of Damascus especially prominent in your mind. You remember that as a town early mentioned in the Bible, it is reckoned the oldest of cities, and a hundred times a day, your heart echoes to the sound of waters in the scriptural words, "Abana and Parphar, rivers of Damascus." And always, as you "arise and go into the street, which is called straight," the imperial figure of Paul accompanies you. But beyond these, the present interest and beauty of the city quite suffice.

In its own religion, Damascus is famously orthodox. The Damascenes are fanatical, as are the Christians in Rome; and as the latter treated the Jews as dogs, and shut them up nightly within the Ghetto, so, up to a very recent period, the Muslim in Damascus treated the Christians. This gives your sense of justice great satisfaction. You are glad to find the account of bigotry well balanced. Glad, perhaps, to discover that fanaticism is not confined to your own brethren in faith.

Toleration is the great lesson of travel. As, in a small way, a man may mortify spiritual pride, by strolling on Sunday in a western city, from church to church, each of which is regarded by its sect as the true strait gate, so, in a large way, is he benefited by wintering in Rome and then shipping at Naples for the East. For thus he learns the truth emphasized with all magnificence, that neither upon this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, is the only spot of worship. In Rome you have seen the pomp of the world's metropolis surrounding the Pope. In Damascus, the meanest beggar in the bazaar would spit upon the Pope with loathing.

Cadaverous Calvin, also, burning Servetus, is an edifying subject of reflection, as you sip sherbet in Damascus. For you may well despair if the chains of prejudice are not somewhat loosened when you find yourself there. It certainly will not be necessary to elevate Islam above your own faith, or to wax melodious over the hareem. But, if you are a man, it will be necessary to recognize the imperial genius of the Prophet of the Saracens, and to be glad that to them was given a teacher

after their kind. that the Eastern is Christian.

It will be also necessary to reflect, a better Muslim, than the Western is

Thinking these thoughts, you ride slowly out of Damascus, watching the stern Muslim eyes that look at you as you pass. It is a sunny May morning, and the thought of looking for the last time upon a scene so strange and fair, touches it into stranger and fairer beauty. St. Peter guides us to the gate that opens toward the Lebanon. He stands in it and bows a smiling "buon viaggio," the last words he will ever speak for us, and the old Hebrew turns back again to his many heavens.

We climb a space of the mountain, and Golden Sleeve beckons to stop and look behind us. We do so. It is the famous view of Damascus from the Salahheeyah.

Henceforth, when you are called to tell, as all travellers are, the most beautiful object you have seen in your wanderings, you will answer, Damascus, from the Salahheeyah. Its delicate and fairy elegance cannot be described. Beside the dark green and the flashing minarets, there is all the detail, the exquisite intricacy of lines, which seduce the enamored eye to trace all their elaborations. So looked to the Prophet's vision, the clustering graces of Paradise. I do not wonder that he passed and praised. But I do that he could pass and not enter.

Higher you climb the steep mountain path, and higher. Farther removed, the beautiful vision quivers, golden and green, a mirage upon the plain. A step,-a

turn,-it has faded forever, and bare, monotonous mountains gloom around you. Winding lines of greenness mark the water-courses, and a few straggling, miserable huts are the signs of life. As if utterly to obliterate Damascus from recent experience, a cold wind blows bitterly through the mountain gorges, and as we pause at evening, we are glad to creep into a house, and remember the "Pearl of the East," as in January, June is remembered.

Through cold morning showers, we are again upon our way. We climb and climb, still in a sad mountain region, and the chill day reminds us that this bright summer of eastern travel draws to a close.

Heedless of wind and rain, that thought is our grave companion through the Anti-Lebanon. And, as the lover of woods and fields, going down through crimson autumn to the winter, suddenly perceives in extreme October the ghost of June gliding over the landscape, pallid, and with misty mien,-even the Indian summer renewing the feeling, but not the form, of the vanished year, so we, with faces westward bent, leaving the romance of the East behind us, turn yet another page. For, as that afternoon, we crossed the ridge of the range, the noble panorama of the valley of the Bekaa, which separates the Anti-Lebanon from the Lebanon, unrolled beneath us. The range of the Lebanon towered along its farther side, like the Bernese Alps seen from the Jura over the valley of the Aar.

As we skirted the mountain-side and descended, in the pensive glory of the waning day, we saw the six