tion of the Irish question, namely: the erection of a Quarantine upon the Gaza model, large enough to shovel all Ireland into, there "to digest itself at leisure.”

In the Quarantine you would read if you could. But your books are as tasteless to your listless mind, as cakes to a fevered palate. Carelessly you turn the pages, and rise to stroll in the court. The Guardiano steps nimbly up and flourishes his pole. You stalk idly about in the sun, veering toward any chance figure standing in the court, that it may be thrust away by Long Stick. From some neighboring bin, heaped with a mass of filthy Arabs, among whom some Dervish or Santon chances to be, you hear the wild howl of religious frenzy. Nor can you but shudder, dreading that much longer residence would tune your witless voice to the same measures.

The Commander, lying smoking among the pots and pans, has an introverted aspect, as if meditating some further atrocity in the shape of pudding. And what diabolical puddings might a man not make, who lived long in Quarantine! Wind and Shower pass in animated conversation, actually resigned, apparently, to this hiatus in life. You lurch toward them, and your Long Stick parries poles with theirs. The venerable Armenian, whose bin is next our own, is sleeping in the sun; his grave white beard flowing over his vesture-like a Roman Senator, you try to fancy, as if fancy had not long since perished.

"After all," you say, looking up and striving to cajole your intolerable ennui, "after all, that is the Syrian sky." In vain. Even the sky has turned against us. It is

brazen and monotonous. Not one soft cloud wreathes and melts in its depths-not a bird flies, singing, through the blue.

Only in the twilight your heart is a little comforted. For it touches with soft splendor the rough plaster walls, melting them and fusing, until the compassionate moon rises behind the palms of Gaza, which you cannot see, and looking into the court of desolation, it builds in the dim air a marble palace of your prison.

And in that moonlight sits Khadra at the door of her bin, singing Arabic ditties of love and sorrow.

JERUSALEM.

"Now wul y telle the ryght way to Jerusalem."

Sir John Mandeville.

"I hope I shall do nobody wrong to speak what I think, and deserve not blame in imparting my mind. If it be not for thy ease, it may be for my own. So Tully, Cardan, and Boethius wrote de consol. as much to help themselves as others."

Burton's Anatomy.

"Fürchtet nichts, fromme Seelen. Keine prophanirende Scherze sollen euer Ohr verletzen."

F

Henry Heine.