The last twenty-four hours we staid in Damascus I lay prostrate with a violent attack of cholera, or cholera morbus, and therefore had a good chance and a good excuse to lie there on that wide divan and take an honest rest.

I had nothing to do but listen to the pattering of the fountains and take medicine and throw it up again.

It was dangerous recreation, but it was pleasanter than traveling in Syria.

I had plenty of snow from Mount Hermon, and as it would not stay on my stomach, there was nothing to interfere with my eating it--there was always room for more.

I enjoyed myself very well.