We clambered into a covered van, specially reserved--a sort of
Mesopotamian Pullman car. It contained a great litter of odd baggage and
two Hindu officers who were very luxuriously fitted up with beds and a
table. Divesting ourselves of our wet trench-coats, for it was still
raining, we made some sort of a seat of our bags and were tolerably
comfortable. Brown, who, now that he was dry and warm and well fed, was
in the highest spirits, prophesied that our arrival in the enchanted
city of the Arabian Nights was well timed, for it was Friday night, when
all the mosques would be lighted up.

"A million tapers flaring bright
From twisted silvers look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof
Of night new-risen."[2]

So sang Brown, with a map spread out, proving to me that we must alight
at Baghdad South to get the best effect as we gazed entranced at the
night glory of Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold and walked on to find
romance and mystery by many a shadow-chequer'd lawn.

"So much better," he argued, "to approach it gradually like this instead
of arriving in a matter-of-fact way by train." It was still raining
hard, and I had grave doubts about the splendour we were enjoying so
much in anticipation, but I did not throw all cold water on his scheme,
especially as much of it was planned for my benefit. Art would be the
richer, although we, its humble devotees, might be the wetter.