s the onions of last year
rotting in nets hanging in the sun, strings of garlic returned to
circulation by the Argonauts when they came back from hunting the
golden fleece, but now hung as a badge of trade on the door-jambs; and
the frying of eggs, that have long lost their market value, with Bombay
_ghee_ and young garlic, the whole mellowed and perhaps refined by the
continual vapors from open sewers. One fragrance that perhaps tickles
the olfactory nerve with more delicacy than all others and might be
called a perfumed "dream," comes from baking a garlic pie piping hot in
the open, with Turkish Limburger as a substantial ingredient. This
zephyr when in full action sets at naught the vain attempt of
asafoetida to hold its place in the history of smells that used to rank
with Araby the Blest. If Alexander had inhaled one whiff of this
combination in its full purity it would have floored him in
Constantinople and he could not have lived to conquer the world. One
of the "Corks" fainted when he hit the embalmed beef zone and was taken
to the rear in a red cross ambulance.

[Illustration: A CROWD AT THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM,
WAITING FOR THE DOORS TO OPEN. EACH TRIBE IS IMPATIENT TO ENTER AND
OCCUPY ITS OWN SPACE]

The sights in these places are too dreadful for publication, and as for
the taste--well, I tried a speck of fried sausage and thought I had
touched a live wire! it left a scar on my tongue. We made a special
excursion to see these sights and experience the smells. The driver of
our carriage took advantage of a stop to take a drink at a Turkish
_cafe_; the procession of vehicles began to move, and as we were in the
middle of it our horses had to move too. This left us without a driver
and I had to mount his seat and drive half a mile at a walk before our
man caught up with us. In the crowded, narrow streets this experience
was not a pleasant one, but I did the best I could and nothing happened
of note excepting that in turning a sharp corner the team ran up on the
sidewalk, from which I was chased with wild gestures and eastern
profanity by a Turkish son of a wooden gun, much to the amusement of
the natives and the rest of the procession. Still, the Turks, who are
steeped in these conditions, seem to enjoy them: they laugh and joke at
the unsuccessful attempts of the outlander to acquire their tastes. If
they are happy, why should we object?

[Illustration: THIS IS QUEEN HATSHEPSET