THE TURKISH GOVERNOR.

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monotony we would now and then walk to the window and look out, but could see nothing but rain, rain, rain. This might not have been quite so tiresome if we could have seen any living thing. Washington Irving has written a very pleasant sketch of "a rainy day" which he passed in a country inn. But he could look into a barnyard, with its busy, bustling brood. If we could have seen a rooster, and heard him crow, or a hen and chickens, that would have been quite sufficient to set us off into a talk about domestic fowls. But there was no sign of bird or beast: the rain fell into a stone-paved court, hard and cruel as our fate. So after staring at the stones, we came back from the window and sat down again, all in a row, like convicts in the box, waiting for sentence. In this interesting occupation we passed two mortal hours, when there was a stir without, and the Governor in a fez cap mounted the stairs and entered the room, and making us a gracious salaam, took his seat on the divan. He was not quite the ideal of a Turkish pacha, who ought always to be fat: for he was a little man, with hardly flesh enough on his bones to support so much dignity. The only touch of Oriental magnificence about him was the heavy rings worn on his dainty fingers. As he sat on the edge of the divan, his feet dangled to the floor, which they hardly touched, and he appeared to be sitting uncomfortably, until suddenly he drew up his legs, which, when coiled under him like a cushion, furnished a sufficient base for the slender superstructure. Thus supported, his vertebral column stood up more erect, and swayed hither and thither like a serpent, as he bowed to our petition and complaint. I have no doubt he wished us all in Jericho. However, he was civil, and asked many questions, and made us soft speeches, the full value of which we soon understood. After a somewhat long interview, in which he professed great sympathy

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UNDER A MISSIONARY'S ROOF.

for our loss, and made many promises, he bowed us out just as wise as we were before, and fully convinced that our plain, straightforward ways, unless backed by force, were no match for Oriental cunning and duplicity.

When we came out into the street, it was still pouring, and as it was dismal to go back to our tents to pass the rest of the day, and another night, perhaps to be robbed again, we accepted the invitation of the missionary to transfer our quarters to his house, where, though we were packed pretty closely, and though, when night came, some of us had to sleep on the floor, we had at least a roof over our heads, and a barred door between us and any robbers who might be prowling about. We were wet and shivering, but we sat round the charcoal-burner till we got thoroughly warmed-a sensation which restored a little the equanimity of our minds.

We did not go out again that day. We had had enough of Nablous, and were in no mood to make any further explorations of this sacred city. Though we had camped at the foot of Mount Gerizim, we did not climb to the top where sacrifices had been offered for more than two thousand years. Indeed of the two I think we should have felt more inclined to go up on Mount Ebal, and read all the curses of the law over a place which had proved to us-not a holy mount, but a den of thieves.

But we would not pronounce a malediction on a place where we had found at last a shelter. Here we were warmed and fed, and in the returning sense of comfort, we could listen with complacence to the rain which still poured heavily in the streets. There is a sweet sense of security in the sound of pattering rain, not when it falls on soaking tents, but on a firm and tight roof. Thus we passed the rest of the day in the quiet and comfort of the missionary's home.

LYING TURKISH PROMISES.

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To make an end of this story of robbery, I will anticipate a little. The next morning, before leaving Nablous, Mr. Winter, with the dragoman, paid a second visit to the Governor, and found him in a gracious mood. He did not, like the Colonel, question the truth of their tale, but promised the fullest reparation. The stolen property should be restored to the very last mite. Not only the costly jewelry, but every trifle to the last brass pin. It might take several days, but when we reached Nazareth, or at farthest Damascus or Beirut, the whole missing property should be placed in the hands of the owner, untouched. These assurances were given, if not with the formality of an oath, yet with all the sacred sanction of honor and truth. He followed our friends to the door, repeating these assurances, so that the very last words they heard were what so many other travellers in the East have to hear-lying Turkish promises! But these false words accomplished their purpose, of raising a flutter of hope in the breasts of our robbed companions. For a time they felt even a little return of confidence, and were buoyed up as we resumed our march by seeing their treasures in the distance, which they continued to see very much in the distance all the way through Palestine. At each stage of our journey the pledge was freshly recalled to be freshly disappointed. At last, when we sailed from Beirut for Constantinople, we left our English friends at the hotel still waiting for Turkish justice! If they were determined not to depart till they had recovered what they had lost, I fear they are waiting there still. Such was our day in Nablous—a day that was certainly not all sunshine. May we never see its like again!

CHAPTER IX.

TO SAMARIA AND JENIN-FALLING AGAIN AMONG

THIEVES.

Half the pleasure of life is in contrast, in change from one scene to another. “The clear shining after rain” is beautiful because of the rain, which has cleansed and purified the atmosphere, and made the air so sweet and the sky so blue. But for "the rain" which has gone before, we might not appreciate "the clear shining" which follows after. So in our human experience there is a peculiar zest given to that which is pleasant, by the fact that it comes after that which is dismal and forlorn. Such a change we experienced the next morning. When the day broke, "the rain was over and gone," and the sun rose without a cloud. A little after seven we mounted our horses before the missionary's door, and began to file through the streets of Nablous, followed by the train of mules carrying our tents. Everything wore a new aspect. The city had been washed clean by the rains of the preceding day, and the olive orchards on the hillsides were fresh and green. As the sun touched the tops of the twin mountains between which the valley lies, we could not find it in our hearts to pronounce a malediction even upon Ebal, when it answered

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A DELIGHTFUL CONTRAST.

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so beamingly to the first flush of day. As we rode down the valley, the streams by the roadside, swollen by the rains, seemed to be running a race, bubbling and boiling over in their fulness of joy. These streams unite below the town, and flow through the Plain of Sharon to the Mediterranean. We knew that the sea was not many miles away, for a delicious sea-breeze came up from the west, and blew in our faces, filling our lungs with such bracing air that we felt a constant impulse to shout and sing. Every living thing seemed to have caught the inspiration: the time of the singing of birds had come, and the flowers appeared on the earth. The innumerable multitudes of wild flowers is one of the beauties of Palestine, and never were they more abundant or of more exquisite variety, than that morning as we rode through the hills and valleys of ancient Samaria. This is the heart of Palestine, its central region, and is at once the most beautiful in natural scenery, and the most richly cultivated. It is indeed a land of corn and wine, of vineyards and oliveyards, of the fig-tree and the pomegranate, and of brooks that run among the hills. Through landscapes so rich and varied we rode for a couple of hours, when we saw in the distance a hill standing alone-an island in a sea of verdure-its sides terraced and blooming with the olive and the vine, like those sunny slopes along the Corniche road, in France and Italy, which open their breasts to be warmed by the Southern sun. Below it and around it stretched a wide plain, beyond which rose the encircling hills; so that the central height, standing solitary, was like a throne set in the midst of a vast amphitheatre.

On this noble eminence stood the ancient city of Samaria—a city whose origin dates from nine hundred years before Christ, when Omri, King of Israel, bought the