hand, and a history in the other, and always find enough to interest and instruct us. While we are resting, reading and talking, the caravan passes by; so, when we come to the camp in the evening, our tents are up ready to receive us. We usually camp near a village, so as to get water and to place ourselves under the protection of the Sheik of the village. As soon as our tents are pitched, the village is deserted—its half-naked, filthy, and ignorant population having gathered round our camp. Supper being over, the muleteers, together with the villagers, give some kind of an entertainment. One night they have a marriage ceremony, then an assessment and collection of taxes, an Arabic tableau, or musical concert, without the music. There is no music in an Arab’s soul! By this we are on good terms with the natives; we go home with them, go into their houses, talk with them, find out how they live, what they think about, so on. It is very seldom that we find a family of five to eight occupying more than one room, and often the goats, dogs and donkeys live in the same room with the other part of the family. The people have no tables, no chairs, no bedsteads. They sit on mats, and sleep on pallets of straw. Whole families, sometimes ten to twelve in number, eat out of the same bowl or pan. Knives and forks are unknown. They live chiefly on bread and fruits. Olives, figs and grapes are the salvation of this country. The yield of olive oil has been greater this year than usual. I spoke a moment ago of an Asiatic village; but I am persuaded that it deserves more than a mere mention. I speak of the average village. It consists of a hive of rough, rock huts one story, say six or seven feet, high, circular, oblong, or triangular in shape. The same low, flat roof frequently extends over half or three-fourths of the town. There are covered streets and lanes, winding around and among the houses. A former traveler, whose book a friend has just handed me, writes as follows: “A Syrian village is the sorriest sight one can fancy. When you ride through one of them at noonday, you first meet a melancholy dog that looks up at you and silently begs that you will not run over him, but he does not offer to get out of your way. Next you meet a young boy without any clothes on; and he holds out his hand and says, ‘bachsheesh;’ but he really does not expect a cent, for he learned to say that before he learned to say ‘mother,’ and he can not break himself of it. Next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn over her face, and her bust exposed. Finally, you meet several sore-eyed children, and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and, sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a poor human ruin whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape vines. These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of the population are asleep indoors, or abroad, tending goats on the plains and on the hillsides.”