plastered and whitewashed. Yet it is quite large enough for its purpose, and for the merits of the black stone whose abode it is. At a window-like opening in the front of the temple, sits the hideous misshapen block, ever ready to receive the adorations of passers-by. The poor god has an attentive priest who twines a robe around his black shoulders, greasy with oily libations, adorns his face with paint, and presents to him flowers, prayers, and incense. Beyond this he attracts little notice, except that now and then a wayfarer of more than ordinary piety stops, unites his hands before his forehead, mutters a prayer, and goes on his way, or, it may be, falls on his face to offer more humble worship.
As yet it was too early for men to think of the gods; in fact, few were thinking of any thing. Stretched at full length on their porticos, or on the beaten ground in front of their houses, they were enjoying their morning sleep as well as if decently tucked in a bedstead, like civilized creatures. With their upper robe turned into a sheet, and their turban beneath their heads, they lay stretched, completely covered, and looking exactly like corpses laid out for burial. We took the first sleeper we saw
