CHAPTER IX.

LIFE IN DEATH.

YES," said Leisurlie, "I am convinced of the truth of the proverb. At least, whatever may be the fact of the Muslim at Mecca, there is no doubt that the Christians in Jerusalem are the worst of all Christians."

Heaven help us, then," commented the Pacha. It was in the warm twilight, and we had been riding all day outside of the city, down in the valleys among the olive groves, delighting in the many points far below the walls, whence we looked up through nearer trees, vineyards, and fig groves, and saw the battlements of Jerusalem looming along the verge of the abyss.

Grand and endless material of picture is here. Bartlett, in his picture of the Pool of Siloam, shows its form. But in all the Eastern illustrations of that accomplished artist, the desert and river are

room.

too much adapted to the meridian of the drawingThe views represent the rude, and majestic, and desolate country, too much as the fancy of Laura Matilda figures it. The grand pathos of the Syrian landscape is not there, except to those in whose minds the forms of the pictures refresh the feeling of actual experience.

Returning at sunset to the city, we passed Wind and Shower, accompanied by a half-dozen friars, sallying forth upon a walk toward the Garden of Gethsemane. The good fathers were very snuffy, and shambled vigorously along. The gentlemen of eclectic costume and creed, glided sentimentally at their sides.

And thus, we mused, the world over, sturdy superstition leads sentiment by the nose.

But the sun had set while we climbed the hill, and the gates of Jerusalem were closed.

We rode up to them and knocked. There came no response, and as the shadows deepened, the desolation of the stony hills became more desolate as we thought of passing the night in a tomb.

“We must open a parley," said Leisurlie, and by way of prelude, we all thundered in unison upon the gate of St. Stephen.

There came no reply. But over the city walls floated the cry of many Muezzin, like melancholy

music in the air.

Al-la-hu-Ak-bar, Al-la-hu Ak-bar,

sighed the wind along the valley of Jehoshaphat. Jerusalem was an enchanted city, in that moment, a vast palace of Blue Béard, and we heard the moaning cry of the victims, heedless of their deliverers thundering at the gate.

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Once more unto the breach, dear friends,' cried Leisurlie, "and this time keep it up until consequences of some kind ensue.'

Holding the horses, we battered the gates again, nor desisted, until we heard a voice within. The words we could not distinguish, but could easily imagine them to be in harmony with Blue Beard's Castle," What ho! without there," in Turkish.

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What ho! within there," cried the dramatic Leisurlie.

We paused to hear the undoing of bars and bolts. But we did not hear them. Only a reiterated Turkish "What ho!"

"We must communicate with them," said the valiant Leisurlie, rather vaguely, for we were alone, and our supply of Arabic, Turkish, Syriac, or of any available tongue, hardly equalled the Italian of Khadra's mother.

"Precisely," said the Pacha, who had sadly bruised his knuckles in the onset, "we must communicate with them."

"Oh, certainly, let's communicate," perorated I. We paused. After a few moments, Leisurlie, as if rehearsing and composing a speech, began

Howadji Ingleez" (English travellers).

he paused, and the Pacha added—

"Bucksheesh" (reward).

"Bukara" (to-morrow), I struck in.

Then

"Täib Kateir" (very good), concluded Leisurlie; and we left the riddle to the reading of the guards inside. We meant to say with oriental brevity, "Admit the English gentlemen, and be well paid to-morrow."

The negotiation was successful. The everlasting gates of Jerusalem lifted up their heads, and as we clattered over the pavement, through streets which, like those of Pompeii, are only stone ruts between elevated walks, we saw crowds of pilgrims thronging the streets, and remembered that it was Good Friday evening.

There had been arrivals at the hotel. Nile friends from Cairo, by the Long Desert and Mount Sinai. The Rev. Dr. and Mrs. Duck, and the dragoman-ridden Eschylus. But Verde Giovane was gone. He had already subdued Jerusalem, and was marching upon Damascus.

In his place, however, Mercury, whimsical god of travel, presented Frende to our attention—the

good English Quaker youth, who had burst out of England, celibacy, and the drab propriety of Quakerism, at one leap; and now, in the most brilliant of blue body-coats, with brass buttons, flaming waistcoats, and other glories untold, was making his bridal tour in the East.

Frende's plans of life were original. He had not travelled in England, had scarcely been to London, never upon the Continent; but, like Verde, had shipped himself and bride directly from Southampton to Alexandria. He did everything in the East that everybody else did. You had but to hunt up some impossible place in the Guide-book, and suggest it to Frende-and he departed the next morning to explore it. It struck me with surprise, that on such occasions, his alacrity was in the degree of his anticipation of damp, slimy places; but I soon learned the reason. When the East was accomplished, he proposed to visit and explore America, and then return to the strict privacy of English country life.

I soon learned the reason why he visited damp places with ardour. He had what my French friend Gûepe calls une spécialité, and that was a passion for reptiles. It seemed to be only a sense of duty to that department of zoology which had brought him to the East.