It was getting dark when once more we heard the barking of dogs, and so guided, we reached the filthiest village that it ever was my misfortune to see—Jabat el Hashab, we were told, was its name. It consisted of some forty or fifty mud huts, standing in a sea of indescribable dirt and offal; and in the middle of the village there was a huge heap of putrid carrion, carcases of sheep, horses and cattle festering in the mud. A half-naked, ragged, sick-looking creature, who appeared to be a sort of headman among the fever-stricken inhabitants, came out of one of the huts and after some parleying with our dragoman assigned to us a lodging for the night. We should have had, perhaps, better quarters in the caves of the troglodytes. The hut into which we were shown was a sort of apology for a stable or byre. At one end were stalled our four horses; at the other end, on a mud platform about a foot high, we were to lie carpetless, blanketless. Horses fed on karoub-beans are not sweet bedfellows; they, combined with the carrion heap, which was just outside our door, not to speak of the neighing and tramping and the occasional barking of pariah dogs, made the night hideous. The smell was appalling—that, with the serried battalions of creatures by which we were attacked on all sides, murdered sleep. The hours dragged on slowly indeed, but when at last daylight broke we felt that our troubles were over. The sun, which we had not seen for many days, rose gloriously, and we were cheered by the news that four or five hours’ ride would bring us to Damascus, where we should find our baggage and cleanliness. And so, forgetting all our very real discomfort and misery, we set out in high spirits. The darkest hour which heralds the dawn was past! But when we met our men, we found that one poor fellow had died of cold and exhaustion. It had been really a terrible journey. How often in after days did I and my two travelling companions, now alas! both gone, laugh over the miseries of that foul night! “Unpack the boxes swiftly, O dragoman! Let there be no delay! Carry fresh clothes to the Turkish bath; let us too, like Naaman the Syrian, wash and be clean.” With joy we cast off the horrible sponges which we had worn night and day for forty-eight hours. Dirty? Yes, and very densely colonized by undesirable aliens. We threw them off with glee, and gave strict orders that they should be burned—those orders were probably never obeyed; more likely were the wretched rags sold to the local representatives of the triple-hatted traders of Whitechapel. At any rate we saw them no more. But I am treading upon dangerous ground. “Eothen” has been written these seventy years, and there is no room for any other story of travel in Syria and the Holy Land.