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-Khyateën, 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