Properly， with the sorry relics we bestrode， it was a three days' journey to Damascus. It was necessary that we should do it in less than two. It was necessary because our three pilgrims would not travel on the Sabbath day. We were all perfectly willing to keep the Sabbath day， but there are times when to keep the letter of a sacred law whose spirit is righteous， becomes a sin， and this was a case in point. We pleaded for the tired， ill-treated horses， and tried to show that their faithful service deserved kindness in return， and their hard lot compassion. But when did ever self-righteousness know the sentiment of pity？ What were a few long hours added to the hardships of some over-taxed brutes when weighed against the peril of those human souls？ It was not the most promising party to travel with and hope to gain a higher veneration for religion through the example of its devotees. We said the Saviour who pitied dumb beasts and taught that the ox must be rescued from the mire even on the Sabbath day， would not have counseled a forced march like this. We said the "long trip" was exhausting and therefore dangerous in the blistering heats of summer， even when the ordinary days' stages were traversed， and if we persisted in this hard march， some of us might be stricken down with the fevers of the country in consequence of it. Nothing could move the pilgrims. They must press on. Men might die， horses might die， but they must enter upon holy soil next week， with no Sabbath-breaking stain upon them. Thus they were willing to commit a sin against the spirit of religious law， in order that they might preserve the letter of it. It was not worth while to tell them "the letter kills."I am talking now about personal friends； men whom I like； men who are good citizens； who are honorable， upright， conscientious； but whose idea of the Saviour's religion seems to me distorted. They lecture our shortcomings unsparingly， and every night they call us together and read to us chapters from the Testament that are full of gentleness， of charity， and of tender mercy； and then all the next day they stick to their saddles clear up to the summits of these rugged mountains， and clear down again. Apply the Testament's gentleness， and charity， and tender mercy to a toiling， worn and weary horse？--Nonsense--these are for God's human creatures， not His dumb ones. What the pilgrims choose to do， respect for their almost sacred character demands that I should allow to pass--but I would so like to catch any other member of the party riding his horse up one of these exhausting hills once！
We have given the pilgrims a good many examples that might benefit them， but it is virtue thrown away. They have never heard a cross word out of our lips toward each other--but they have quarreled once or twice.
We love to hear them at it， after they have been lecturing us. The very first thing they did， coming ashore at Beirout， was to quarrel in the boat.
I have said I like them， and I do like them--but every time they read me a scorcher of a lecture I mean to talk back in print.
Not content with doubling the legitimate stages， they switched of渇the main roda and went away out of the way to visit an absurd fountain called Figia， because Baalam's ass had drank there once. So we journeyed on， through the terrible hills and deserts and the roasting sun， and then far into the night， seeking the honored pool of Baalam's ass， the patron saint of all pilgrims like us. I find no entry but this in my note-book： "Rode to-day， altogether， thirteen hours， through deserts， partly， and partly over barren， unsightly hills， and latterly through wild， rocky scenery， and camped at about eleven o'clock at night on the banks of a limpid stream， near a Syrian village. Do not know its name--do not wish to know it--want to go to bed. Two horses lame (mine and Jack's) and the others worn out. Jack and I walked three or four miles， over the hills， and led the horses. Fun--but of a mild type." Twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle， even in a Christian land and a Christian climate， and on a good horse， is a tiresome journey； but in an oven like Syria， in a ragged spoon of a saddle that slips fore-and-aft， and "thort-ships，" and every way， and on a horse that is tired and lame， and yet must be whipped and spurred with hardly a moment's cessation all day long， till the blood comes from his side， and your conscience hurts you every time you strike if you are half a man，--it is a journey to be remembered in bitterness of spirit and execrated with emphasis for a liberal division of a man's lifetime.
