be found under an Oriental sky.  The naked natives of the Torrid Zone are amphibious; they do not bathe, they live in the water.  The European and Anglo-American wash themselves and think they have bathed; they shudder under cold showers and perform laborious antics with coarse towels.  As for the Hydropathist, the Genius of the Bath, whose dwelling is in Damascus, would be convulsed with scornful laughter, could he behold that aqueous Diogenes sitting in his tub, or stretched out in his wet wrappings, like a sodden mummy, in a catacomb of blankets and feather beds.  As the rose in the East has a rarer perfume than in other lands, so does the Bath bestow a superior purification and impart a more profound enjoyment.

Listen not unto the lamentations of travellers, who complain of the heat, and the steam, and the dislocations of their joints.  They belong to the stiff-necked generation, who resist the processes, whereunto the Oriental yields himself body and soul.  He who is bathed in Damascus, must be as clay in the hands of a potter.  The Syrians marvel how the Franks can walk, so difficult is it to bend their joints.  Moreover, they know the difference between him who comes to the Bath out of a mere idle curiosity, and him who has tasted its delight and holds it in due honor.  Only the latter is permitted to know all its mysteries.  The former is carelessly hurried through the ordinary forms of bathing, and, if any trace of the cockney remain in him, is quite as likely to be disgusted as pleased.  Again, there are many second and third-rate baths, whither cheating dragomen conduct their victims, in consideration of a division of spoils with the bath-keeper.  Hence it is, that the Bath has received but partial justice at the hands of tourists in the East.  If any one doubts this, let him clothe himself with Oriental passiveness and resignation, go to the Hamman el-Khyateen, at Damascus, or the Bath of Mahmoud Pasha, at Constantinople, and demand that he be perfectly bathed.

Come with me, and I will show you the mysteries of the perfect bath.  Here is the entrance, a heavy Saracenic arch, opening upon the crowded bazaar.  We descend a few steps to the marble pavement of a lofty octagonal hall, lighted by a dome.  There is a jet of sparkling water in the centre, falling into a heavy stone basin.  A platform about five feet in height runs around the hall, and on this are ranged a number of narrow couches, with their heads to the wall, like the pallets in a hospital ward.  The platform is covered with straw matting, and from the wooden gallery which rises above it are suspended towels, with blue and crimson borders.  The master of the bath receives us courteously, and conducts us to one of the vacant couches.  We kick off our red slippers below, and mount the steps to the platform.  Yonder traveller, in Frank dress, who has just entered, goes up with his boots on, and we know, from that fact, what sort of a bath he will get.