positing his little cresset upon the floor, left me, with a salutation, to my repose.

The next morning at daybreak I was awakened by singing voices, which sounded rather strangely through those solemn cloisters on descending into the open space in front of the convent, I found a bridal party assembled, and, there being some difficulty on the part of the priests, the villagers were amusing themselves with a dance during the delay. Now, a dance at sunrise is rather a singular occurrence; but it was not less so than the solemn and measured step of the dancers, which David might have imitated without any appearance of levity. Michal could not have found anything to scorn in this choral band, that appeared like a procession, swayed about and slowly undulating to a hymn-like music. All the performers were women; the men, including the bridegroom, decorously set apart, smoking their pipes with an air of most gentlemanly indifference. The poor little bride (who was only twelve years old) stood all the while enveloped in a sort of tent, that moved with her like a Maybush on a chimney-sweep. This singular envelopment, which exactly resembled a huge kaleidoscope covered with pink silk, permitted to us no glimpse of its fair occupant, who was surrounded by a group of staid matrons.

The dance went on, mean time, with perseverance, if not with spirit. Wreathing their arms round one another, they advanced and retreated in two parties, keeping time to their own choral voices: then, forming in a circle, they danced round and round without a smile. Their gay and various drapery floated in picturesque masses of purple or crimson folds, as they moved along; their dark tresses fell in showers behind them, or were looped up with golden ornaments or coloured beads; their voices were passing sweet, and the music that they made seemed to me tender, though very wild. While this was going on, the fathers of the expectant couple were bargaining with the priests about the mar riage. The dispute was carried on with the usual violent gesticu lations, and arose from the priests having raised their price, as 1 understood. The villagers had brought one dollar, the usual sum demanded for the business; but the minister required four. The conference at length broke up angrily: its issue was unfa

vourable, and I saw the bridal procession move off with regret for their disappointment: I would willingly have furnished the necessary expenses, but I confess I grudged them to the illfavoured, harsh-spoken friar, who, perhaps after all, acted only from necessity.

As, however, I had had some conversation with the Elders of the party, I made an offering towards the dowry of the kaleidoscope, and inquired whither they were going with her then: "to the Santon,"* they replied, "who will do the business quite as well, and only charge half-a-dollar."

When I returned to the convent, I found the priest still standing at the door of the Latin convent, and ventured to inquire whether this would not afford a dangerous precedent. "Not so,” he said; "before a child is born, they'll come here to be married properly; for they are respectable people, and would not have a Moslem child for twice the money."

As soon as matins were ended, I waited on the Superior of the Armenian convent, to pay my respects, and to thank him for his hospitality. He was a fine-looking old man, with a very gra cious, though somewhat patronizing air. "We are always most happy," he said, "to receive any friend of the Bishop of the English, and in future shall be happy to receive you on your own ac count." I offered the lay-brother the gratuity usually expected at a convent; this he courteously declined, even when put in the light of a charity for him to distribute among the poor. Finally, I took leave of the Bishop, with feelings of gratitude and respect for him, and an increased interest in his mission.

* A Moslem friar or hermit.

CHAPTER XI.

MAR SABA, THE DEAD SEA, AND THE VALLEY OF THE JORDAN.

Wild rose those hills by scorching suns embrowned,
And horrid crags by toppling convent crowned.

BYRON.

O'er the dark waters Moab's mount
Frowned with his gloomy forehead;
And sheathed his breast in granite rough,
Rent crag, and splinter horrid.

His helm of rock beat back the breeze,
Without a leaf to wreath it,

The vassal-waves rolled in to kiss

His mailed foot beneath it.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

And Jordan! those sweet banks of thine,
And woods so full of nightingales.

MOORE.

I WAS obliged to return to Jerusalem for my baggage-horses and Bedouin: I found Sheikh Abdallah waiting for me, but he had left his horse and his arms without the walls. Issuing by the Zion gate from the city, we rode down into the Valley of Hinnom, where, under a cave that seemed to suit the character of the group, we found six wild-looking Bedouin awaiting us with Sheikh Abdallah's horse. Their dress consisted of a light turban, a coarse white frock with cross-belts of thick cord, and a pair of slippers. The Sheikh's dress was nearly the same; but he had a cloak of camel's hair-cloth, striped brown and white: the footmen had each a long musquet and a knife in his belt. The Sheikh carried his musquet slung at his back, a long spear in his hand, and a scimitar by his side. The Arabs assisted their Chief to mount with considerable ceremony, and then professed

themselves, according to Eastern custom, my most obedient slaves.

We mustered ten persons in all, including the seven Bedouin, two servants, and myself: I rode forward alone, and a lonelier scene never echoed to a traveller's tread: when a turn in the road hid my own cavalcade from view, there was no longer a sign of life in all the dreary valley: the path lay through defiles of steep and rocky hills, pierced everywhere with caves and is sures that harboured only the jackal and the outlaw. The scenery became grander, gloomier, and sterner, as we approached Mar Saba; the dry bed of the brook Kedron ran winding through the most extraordinary fissure, which clove, not a rock, but a mountain, some ten or twelve miles in length: its lofty and precipitous sides presented curiously contorted strata in their jagged and vertical cliffs; and were pierced with innumerable caverns, wherein the Eremites of old lived under Hilarion's rule. The Carismians slaughtered, it is said, 10,000 of those solitaries, whose bones were afterwards piously collected and buried beneath the convent-church of Mar Saba.

At length, after four hours' riding along dry, brown, and barren cliffs, on which no lizard glanced, or herbage grew, I came in sight of the magnificent and romantic monastery, that has stood in these savage solitudes for 1300 years. It covers the side of an almost precipitous ravine, occupying the whole face of the cliff from base to summit; battlemented walls enclose it on every side, and a deep, dark, narrow glen yawns beneath it: at its base lies the bed of the brook Kedron, which turns away to the left, and runs into the Dead Sea through the mountains of Engedi.

The Bedouin unceremoniously led their horses in through a small postern gate off the road, which ran level with the highest part of the monastery, and my servants and I descended by a winding path to the chief gate. There were several monks scattered over the cliffs, and gazing on the setting sun, whose last beams lighted up even those fearful chasms with something of a cheerful smile. I was admitted, and somewhat coldly received, by a venerable-looking friar, who told me afterwards he had taken me for a Turk. As soon as it transpired that an Englishman had arrived, several monks came forward, and escorted me with hos

pitable welcomes through vaulted passages, terraces, and innumerable steps, to a very pretty little garden lying in a nook of rocks. Off this was the "strangers' room," a spacious and handsome apartment, luxuriously carpeted, and surrounded with a soft divan. An Albanian took away my boots, and an Athenian hung up my arms: two Ionians approached hastily with trays of sweetmeats and cool water; and a fine old Russian padre lighted my pipe, and then offered a powerful cordial in a liqueur glass. Nothing could exceed the hospitality in which they seemed to vie with one another: as yet, they ministered in silence, my languages being unknown to them; but, at length, an intelligent monk was produced in triumph who could speak Italian. The convent belonging to the Greek church, the monks understood for the most part nothing but Romaic and Russian; and an inhabitant of Joannina, who had served under Ali Pacha, was the only man out of forty, with the exception of the Superior, who could speak any but his native tongue.

When I was considered sufficiently rested, the Superior came to visit me, and, after a long conversation, deputed my Epirote friend to shew me over the convent, as I proposed starting before daylight. This was founded by St. Sabas in the sixth century, and has maintained its ground, they say, ever since. It is true the monks were occasionally massacred by the Saracens, Turks, and Carismians; but their martyrdom only gave fresh interest to the spot in the eyes of their successors. The monastery has been lately repaired by the Greek convent at Jerusalem, of which it is a sort of chapel-of-ease: it contains a beautiful church, dimly lighted by two silver lamps, kept ever burning before pictures of the Saviour and the Virgin: round the head of each figure is a glory-circle of gold and precious stones, on which the lamp's light falling produces a very peculiar effect. As we left the church, a bright moonlight was shining on the cliffs, and long flights of steps, and terraces and gardens, so strangely intermingled in this convent; here and there, dark-robed figures were gliding silently about, or sitting on the cliffs enjoying the cool night-breeze.

About nine o'clock, an old monk, with a large bunch of keys in his cord-girdle, brought in a lamp and supper, which consisted of brown bread, eggs fried in oil, boiled rice, and very sour wine.