of the Bedouïns, who might have caused them some annoyance on their way home. Having come to a rising ground above the wadi, and from which we had a last distant view of Jerusalem, we there took leave both of the city and our friends. We sent our heartfelt blessings after them, and theirs followed us to Mar-Saba, and wherever beyond it our steps might lead us.

The distance of Mar-Saba from Jerusalem is reckoned at about five hours. The road runs for the most part through or along the valley of the Cedron, which becomes ever wilder and barer the nearer it approaches the Dead Sea. The Convent of the Holy Saba is on the right or southern side of the valley, built upon and against perpendicular rocks. It is quite an eagle's nest, defended with walls and towers that would never suggest to any one the idea of a dwelling of peaceful inhabitants, but much rather of a strongly situated fortress. In fact it is a fortress, only without artillery and a garrison. And wherefore did its pious founder make it so unapproachable for all who would attempt to enter it unasked? The answer must be sought for in the bloody and plundering expeditions of the Bedouïns who inhabit the wilderness, and whose character receives from those strong and lofty convent walls certainly not a favourable although too true testimony. Yet not the plundering Bedouïns only, but the various conquerors of Palestine, the Romans, Syrians, Egyptians, Persians, and Turks, have, at different times, slaked their thirst for blood in the most savage manner on the poor monks. Hence also that practice of living concealed in holes among the rocks, of which so

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many proofs are to be seen over the whole of this country.

The wadi of Mar-Saba is full of such caves, which are even made into regular houses, with walls and windows. Many of these dwellings in the rocks are found to have communications with each other; a small compensation for the disadvantage of living in what otherwise is like a habitation for wild beasts. The lofty perpendicular walls of rock in which these holes are found were, at certain times, the only asylums that remained for the persecuted Christians.

On our knocking at the gate of the convent, no one came to open it, but from an upper window in the tower near the gate, a voice was heard asking what we wanted.

"To see the convent," was the reply.

"Have you brought a letter of introduction from the Greek Patriarch of Jerusalem ?"

"No."

"Then you cannot be admitted."

"We have a baksheesh for you instead of a letter." "Mûsh lasîm baksheesh. 'Katib lasim, geiro lah!" (We care nothing for a baksheesh. We require a letter; nothing else will do.)

His

My friend H. thought this answer impertinent. But if his face was flushed with anger, the monk looked very coolly at us, and the door remained shut. dragoman tried to convince the monk that we were friendly; 'twas all to no purpose. After the inhabitants of Mar-Saba had been twice annoyed by travellers, they had come to the determination of admitting none but such as came with letters of recom

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mendation from their superior at Jerusalem. Surely they were not to be blamed for this. I must even acknowledge that it shewed a friendly feeling on the part of the monk that he lowered a pitcher of water for us in a basket; he grudged our going away without a refreshing draught. But, no, for an Englishman to be refused admittance into his monastery by a beggarly Greek monk, was too bad! "If you will thus drive away us Englishmen," said my friend, "then we will have nothing to do with your water." And they at once turned away from the convent to pitch their tents at a well which is found a quarter of an hour's distance to the north-west of Mar-Saba.

I was amused at the wounded pride of my good fellow-travellers, and their being worsted by the MarSaba monk, who, of course, understood not a word that they said.

For

We were encamped at the well until next morning, favoured by a splendid evening, unmolested by troublesome and inquisitive villagers, and cheered by the enjoyment of heartfelt unaffected friendship. myself, this mode of travelling I felt to be quite a holiday affair, accustomed as I had been, after the fatiguing labours of the day, to spend the evening surrounded by a number of natives, from whom I endeavoured to extract the information I required respecting the country and its villages and ruins. That day I had no labour at all; two topographical memoranda in my pocket-book, and a sketch of Mar-Saba, as seen from the Valley, was all that I did. But it is well at times to enjoy a holiday. It is very likely that hard enough work awaits me, and I will, therefore, take repose as

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long as I can enjoy it. Had not this road been so many times both ridden over and written upon already, I should not have traversed it with so little labour. And as respects Mar-Saba, why I have missed little through the gate having been shut upon us; for, from the descriptions of Russegger, Wilson, and many other travellers, I can very well picture to myself how the interior of the convent must look with its courts, its cells, its church, oratory, burying-ground, rude paintings, and small library.

Shech Hammed, the chief of our Bedouïn escort, headed our party next morning, to shew us the way. We went now to the Dead Sea, following the ordinary tour which travellers take from Jerusalem either by Mar-Saba, or by Nabi-Mûsa (the grave of Moses, according to the Mohammedans), lying to the northeast of Mar-Saba, to the Salt Sea, in order to get an idea of that deep sunken lake, and then return by the Pilgrims' bathing-place at the Jordan and by Jericho. We had now a constant alternation of ascents and descents-mostly descents, however—over hills of a yellow hue, and covered with grass already scorched into hay. The further you proceed, the more does the scenery assume the character of the hills to the south-west of the Dead Sea, yet not quite so desolate and frightful. The road passes at last through a valley full of turnings and windings, with sharp-crested hills of white soft limestone, mixed with a brown gritty sand and asphaltic stones, into a wide gently-sloping plain, the extremity of which is washed by the salt waters of the Dead Sea. This plain is fully an hour broad, and is as it were torn up and seamed with clefts and chasms.

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Those deep furrows have been ploughed in the clayey plain by the winter torrents that come down from the hills. Tamarisks, juniper-bushes (retem), and reeds, the vegetable productions peculiar to those tracts, deprive the plain of the dreariness of its disagreeable ashy colour.

a

Once more did I stand on the shore of the Dead Sea; this time at its northern end, and at the small peninsula that there runs into the water. * While I was relating to my friends what I had seen month ago at the opposite extremity of the sea, another company of English travellers whom we had met with more than once at Jerusalem, came up from a different direction. They were from Jericho, having taken the route from Jerusalem by that place first, and would probably pitch their tents that evening at the spot where we had struck ours in the morning. We put a few pebbles from the shore into our pockets and rode on.

The day was uncommonly hot. Already we were reminded that we were in the month of May. Spring had here gone by; there was all the glow of summer heat, and a true tropical temperature prevailed in the deep-sunk dale. We were all of us panting under the sultry climate as we traversed the hour and a half's distance that separates the northern end of the Dead Sea from the Pilgrims' bathing-place on the banks of the Jordan. No great distance, to be sure; but to us

* M. de Saulcy calls it a small island, and says he found it "covered with rubbish." What has that traveller not seen? We found the peninsula covered with coarse gravel like the shore, but we saw nothing like rubbish. M. de S.'s guides gave him as the name of this spot "Redjom Looth," i. e., Lot's Cairn.-See Journey Round the Dead Sea, vol. ii. p. 52.