Night brings sweet rest to our tired bodies. Early in the morning, bright rays of cheerful sunshine steal into our tents and drive sleep away. We awake to find a bright, beautiful Sabbath day; and while with our bodies it is to be a day of rest, we pray that with our souls it may be a Sabbath day’s journey towards the New Jerusalem. Stillness pervades the air. The solemn silence is broken only by the mournful music of yonder restless sea. All the pilgrims except Johnson spend the day reading and meditating. He occupies the time in writing to his—to his—grandmother. Late in the afternoon our attention is attracted by an unheard of medley of sound. The noise that falls upon our ears is not more strange than the sight that greets our eyes is curious. The dragoman tells us not to be alarmed, and says it is only a wedding procession. Johnson is glad of that. I stand it for his sake. The procession consists of about a hundred persons, ninety-eight on foot and two riding grey horses, all singing and dancing as they come. Ten or twelve of the footmen are in front of the horses, while the others are behind. The leader of the van is an Arab of unusual length and gracefulness, clad in the most fantastic robes imaginable. In his two hands he holds a stick about six feet long, wrapped around with gay and fancy colors. The leader is coming backward, facing the advancing throng and keeps about ten paces in front of them. He is first on one side of the road and then on the other. He leaps; he bobs up and down: he bows and bends. At one moment his face is almost on the ground, and the next his head is tossed high in the air. The stick is waved like a magician’s wand. The man is active as a cat and every movement is graceful. As he leads, the others follow his example. They all hop and skip and bow and bend and rise and fall together. Some sing while others blow or knock discordant sounds out of their rude instruments of music. Never before did Johnson behold a sight like this, nor until now did such a babbling confusion ever strike his ears. The procession draws close. The two persons on horseback are riding side by side. One is the bride, decked in colors gay and wreathed with flowers many. There are two tall men walking, one on either side of the horse, with their arms locked around the bride; I suppose to keep her from falling. Johnson touches me in the side and says: “Whittle, if that were my bride, I wouldn’t let those fellows do that.” The bride’s face, according to the custom of the country, is covered by a long, flowing veil. The man by her side is not the groom. A man in this country will not condescend to go after a woman—not even after his bride! Woman is an inferior creature—she must humble herself and go to the man. The groom sends his friend or his servant for her, and I understand she is always willing to come. Johnson says it is very different in America. He says one refused to go with him when he went after her in person.