There were four of us—two Frenchmen, an Italian, and an Englishman. We had ridden from Damascus to Baalbek, and had seen the ruins; after dinner, we were lying on heaps of cushions on the floor, in a hostelry little known to Europeans. For some minutes the bubbling of our narghilés was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. Then the ex-cuirassier spoke out in a strong voice—the voice of a man accustomed to command—“Gentlemen! I propose that we solemnly pass a vote of censure on the late M. de Lamartine.” “Bravo!” was our unanimous cry; and the vote was carried, nemine contradicente. A rider was added, to the effect that poets should be discouraged from writing books of travel.

“Surely a strange proceeding!” says the reader. Let me explain. We had been shut up in Damascus for a long time by heavy snow-storms which blocked the roads; the most interesting book we had was Lamartine’s “Voyage en Orient,” and we had read