"One afternoon, late in the autumn of 1872," wrote Dr. William Wright, "I was on the roof of my house trying to cool after a long ride in the sun, when there came a loud knock at my door; the latch was lifted, and presently a resplendent kavass mounted to my platform. He explained to me that a noble Englishman was coming up to see me, and with that Frederic Leighton skipped gaily up the steps. After a courteous greeting and apology, he sat down and became silent, absolutely wrapped up in the pageantry of the sky. When I excused myself for the lapse of the time, he looked at me, and said quietly, 'No artist ever wasted time in accurately observing natural phenomena,' and added, 'That sunset will mix with my paint, and will tint your ink as long as either of us lives. It will never be over, it has dyed our spirits in colours which can never be washed out.'" To his father he wrote:-- DAMASCUS, _October 18, 1873_. DEAR PAPA,--I find that I am not as completely cut off from the western world here as I have been led to believe I was, and that boats leave Damascus for Alexandria weekly, and not fortnightly, as I told you in my hasty line of the other day; although, therefore, you are no longer uneasy about my health, I will not defer till the later boat thanking you for your welcome letter which reached me two or three days ago. I am much shocked and concerned to hear of the death of my poor friend Benson, for which I was in no way prepared, the last accounts I had received before leaving England being of a decidedly hopeful nature. A kinder heart never beat than his, and I felt really attached to him; he is a great loss to me. And now to tell you about myself. Three tedious days on board a Russian boat which tossed and rolled like a cork over a sea on which a P. and O. would have been motionless, brought me to Beyrout, a cheery, picturesque, sunny port at the foot of Lebanon; gay and glad I was to land, and Andrea's cool, clean inn overlooking the sea was a delightful haven of rest, and my first meal at a steady table (or a real chair) was ambrosial. Being in a hurry to get to the end of my journey, I did not stay more than half a day, but started by diligence for Damascus, a journey of some thirteen hours, first over Lebanon itself (which is fine, but by no means grand as I had hoped), then across the Valley of Coelesyria, and lastly over Antilebanon, at the foot of which the town lies. At the last relay I found waiting for me a horse and dragoman, for which and whom I had telegraphed in order that I might get the famous view of Damascus about which travellers have told wonders from time immemorial, and which is only to be seen from a bridle path over the hill above the suburb of Sala'aijeh; unfortunately