we fancy we shall reach the monastery in half an hour, we are compelled to ride three good hours at a sharp trot ere we stand beneath its walls. The evening bell, which summons the pious brethren to prayer, sends its clear clang across to us. How strangely we are affected by the familiar sound in the desert. A thousand sweet reminiscences of the distant home and the beloved family rise before the dreaming mind, and deceive the longing heart, in the same way as the mirage does the pilgrim in the desert.

For the last time the sun casts its beams athwart the melancholy desert, then it disappears, and with it the last degree of its precious blessingheat. A cold, almost freezing north wind blows across the desert, and compels us to wrap ourselves in thick shawls. The loud harr, harr! of the Beduins drives the animals on at a quicker rate, and at last the monastery wall, with its turret-like entrance, is close before us. Three Beduins, at their head the cautious old Schech, with their guns cocked, hurry forward to reconnoitre whether any predatory Arabs may not be lying in ambush. Their caution is, fortunately, unnecessary, and so they soon pull lustily at the long cord which hangs down from an orifice in the tower, and sets the strangers' bell in motion. We must wait a long while ere an answer is given us, and have, consequently, time afforded us to examine the locality more closely. A strong, insurmountable wall forms a large quadrangle round the building, rising to a height of about sixty feet. The Coptic cross is let into the wall above the gateway. The small, low door, through which it is only possible to pass in a stooping posture, is almost entirely blocked up by two huge masses of rock, and, in addition, guarded by a door thickly mounted with iron. The tops of fruitbearing palms rise above the top of the wall.

In the mean while voices become audible in the interior of the gateway, and an animated discussion is carried on with the Beduins, who thrust a letter of recommendation for the Europeans under the door. After a long discussion the bolts are finally withdrawn, the door creaks on its rusty hinges, and a dozen human forms march out like denizens of the tomb. Their appearance has something gloomy and awe-inspiring, which is augmented by the melancholy entourage and the twilight. A black or blue turban, the distinction of Coptic Christians in Egypt, is closely wrapped round the pale, sickly face of each individual that emerges from the darkness of the gateway. A long dark robe surrounds their wasted bodies. Evidently pleased, they seize our hands with many polite speeches, press them to their lips, and almost put us to shame by their fraternal conduct. They make incessant excuses for not having opened the door immediately, but they fancied we were Beduins, come to take the monastery by stratagem. At length they invite us to pass through the narrow gateway, while the animals and a portion of the Beduins are compelled to camp without: we traverse a narrow passage, and at last reach an open hall, in which other monks, with their yellow wax tapers in their hand, politely receive us. They hold their hands before their eyes, which are swollen with illness, in order to defend them from the yellow glare. Each new arrival approaches us reverently to kiss our hands and cause us fresh embarrassment. In the mean while a room is being got ready for the Frankish guests. We are conducted across two court-yards-the last being ornamented with a garden, in

which tall palms rise up from the centre of low bushes, a real oasis in this desert scene-to the uppermost of two terraces, up a flight of stone steps, in such dilapidated condition that we are obliged to employ extreme caution in scaling them. Our room is rather spacious, and pervaded with that disgusting odour which betrays the vicinity of a Copt. It is divided into two parts by a small wooden lattice, and covered with old mats and carpets. It contains two low windows looking out on the court, a strongly-grated hole affording a prospect of the desert, and, in addition, somewhere about ten orifices, through which the draught whistles its pleasant tune. All the monks collect in and before our apartment, and the proper introductions now commence. Two very aged blind Patres stand at the head of the community. With real Arab loquacity they tell us that the monastery is about fifteen hundred years old-just about three-and-thirty centuries younger than many of the mortuary chapels at Gizih-and is named after the Syrian virgin, because in earlier times Syrians inhabited it in common with Egyptians. pray thrice a day to God," thus they conclude, with a certain amount of self-laudation, "in the morning before sunrise, at mid-day, and in the evening. We fast on Tuesdays and Fridays; and, as we eat no meat on those days, we consider you fortunate in coming to-day (Saturday) instead of yesterday. In addition, we fast for forty days at Easter and Christmas."

"We

After expressing a wish to be present next morning at early mass, we are invited to supper. With our legs crossed under us we crouch in a fatiguing position with the fathers of the monastery round a circular board, which stands upon a supporter hardly a foot in height, and forms with it a movable table. Soup,, with sweet potatoes, and cold veal, form the bill of fare; and there are about thirty small loaves, made of maize. The water, which we drink out of earthenware vessels, called qullen, tastes salt and bad, and would furnish a naturalist a famous opportunity for the study of the varieties of infusoria. The monks obtain it from a deep well within the monastery. The food is rapidly devoured without the aid of spoons, forks, or knives; and though we strangers cannot in consequence manage the soup with any degree of success, the old Coptic fathers are practised hands. With reverent gestures they draw back the long sleeve of their robe, and dip the bread, together with the half of their right hand, into the wooden bowl, and then carefully lick their fingers. We notice with surprise that these Christian monks neither commence nor terminate the meal with a prayer, and we already begin to form well-founded doubts as to their piety. After the termination of supper we descend with all the monks into the court-yard, where a violent wind is blowing among the branches of the palm-trees, at a temperature of 16 deg. Reaumur. The yellow tapers, which are frequently blown out, cast a sickly glare over the cells of the monks, but it is sufficiently strong for us to discover a horrifying want of cleanliness in them. In the church, which is divided into two parts by a carved screen, into the nave (hêkal) for laymen, and the choir for the priest, we are shown with almost childish glee the wretchedly-painted pictures of saints, and the mummies of two holy Copts, who once lived in the monastery. Ostrich eggs are suspended by long cords from the roof of the church. Upon a reading-desk lies a rather old Copti-Arabic book of gospels. Each page of the vellum is disfigured with spots of grease and dried yellow wax,

and is just as dirty as the desk on which it lies, as the church, and the whole body of Copts inhabiting the monastery. The curious Franks are then led further to a quadrangular basin, filled with dirty, brackish water from the deep well, into which the monks go once annually in memory of Christ's baptism by St. John. A second chapel, in which during the fast the service is performed in a kneeling posture, is broadcast with a coarse variety of corn. Most peculiar is the effect made on us by a long arched room, with traces of coarse old painting. A long table is in the centre, a hundred small loaves lie upon it, and a stone bench runs down either side of it. But who and where are the guests, who will take their places at this long table in the heart of the desert? The monks explain to us that it is always in readiness for the wandering Beduins, who are driven by hunger to pull the strangers' bell, and by the monks for a hospitable reception.

Only with visible repugnance, and after long entreaty, are we conducted to the last spot in the whole monastery most deserving inspection. We slowly climb on to the terrace of a small building; a board is then laid across from it to the projecting threshold of a small door which we see slightly above us. The brother who conducts us warns us to cross the tottering bridge with caution. The heavy bolts are drawn back, and we enter a confined space, from which another door equally well guarded leads to a separate room. The dignitaries of the monastery follow at our heels, and closely watch our every movement. This is the library, which they guard with Argus' eyes. We fancy we shall find a collection of books well arranged, rich in all MSS.; but what a chaotic disorder reigns in this apartment? Some forty large volumes, mostly containing Arabic and Coptic documents, lie confusedly on a bench: tornout pages of parchment or cotton paper cover the filthy ground, the covers are nearly all rotting, and worms have disfigured the leaves by making deep holes. Some of these MSS. are probably four or five centuries old, but we cannot induce the monks to part with them, either by money or persuasion. "Lord!" says the prior of the monastery, "these books were written by brethren who have rested in the lap of earth for ages. At the end of each document, they have solemnly bound us not to part in any fashion with any of these blessed heirlooms, on peril of our salvation." Of course, we can make but slight objections to this; and with a glance of compassion at the old, uncomprehended Coptic books, we lament their unworthy fate of being so carefully treasured through ignorance. After being obliged to admire a species of chapel in the rear of the library, with several badly-painted pictures of Miriam (Mary) and St. Makarios, as well as a carved screen, behind which are the glass communion vessels with their proper coverings, we wander back to our cells in considerable dissatisfaction, and stretch our wearied limbs on the mats, to enjoy the sweet gift of sleep in the Desert Monastery of the Syrian Virgin.

We dream of the old Copts, whose miserable representations our hosts of to-day were; we look back on old times, and see about a hundred monasteries in the valley of the Natron Lakes, from which the Emperor Valens once drove no fewer than five thousand monks into the Byzantine army; we look further back upon the infancy of Christianity, when Egypt was the refuge of the first Christians; we dream of St. Anthony-of the

hermits and penitents-of the pious Pacomius, who, in the middle of the fourth century, built the first monastery on the fertile Nile Island of Tabium suddenly the walls of our chamber rattle, and the earth trembles; a fearful crash breaks over our heads, and wakes us from our short sleep. Under the combined influences of alarm and surprise we rub our eyes. Forked flashes of lightning illumine the white lime walls of our cell, the boisterous wind howls through the numerous openings, and the rain pours in torrents against the building. To judge by the short intervals between the lightning and thunder, a tremendous storm is raging somewhere in our immediate vicinity. Wrapped in our cloaks, we go out into the elements upon the open terrace, and from the parapet are witnesses of the magnificent spectacle, so rare in Egypt. Flash on flash lights up the boundless desert, which seems converted into a glowing sea of fire. The black clouds come in collision with a fearful crash, while the hymn of the trembling monks rises up to us from the lighted church, like the faint groans of dying men, between the pauses of the -rolling thunder.

After an hour, the storm passes away, which commenced about two o'clock, the streams of rain cease, and the desert is once more shrouded in night. We spend the remainder of it in restless sleep. The tormenting occupants of the Natron chamber, of blessed memory, appear to have their head-quarters in the monastery, and full of vain fury, and tortured by the pain, one sleeper imparts his sufferings to the other. Silent resignation alone can support the usual phlegma in such a truly Egyptian state of things. Woe to that man in the land of the Pharaohs who cannot resignedly endure such a trial of his patience!

At five in the morning the bell rings, in three intervals, for early mass. We quit this terrestrial Hades, and go down to the church, in which the monks are already assembled. The sanctity of the day enhances our feelings of reverence, and with a silent prayer we cross the threshold of the Coptic temple, which is dimly lighted with ampallæ, and powerfully scented with incense. But what is the appearance of the church itself? The little community appears to be a congregation of idlers, who strive to render their standing position more supportable by leaning one arm on tall crutches, and support their backs against a wall, or crouch in a corner. We also receive similar crutches, on which we support ourselves like cripples, following the evil example, and not wishing to attract attention. The officiating clergy wear white robes, or, speaking more correctly, robes which had been once white, and which they have bound round their heads and necks after the fashion of the Beduin cloaks. Red Coptic crosses are sewn on the chest and sleeves. The priest reading mass is continually in motion, bending back and forwards, smoking the saints, then the pictures, or the Book. The Gospel is first read in Coptic, not a word of which a Copt now understands, and then chanted in Arabic. The monks repeat it after him, at the same time correcting the priest who is reading the Holy Word, until growing impatient he repels the nearest critic with the coarse words, "Oskut hansir !" ("Silence, pig!") Full of astonishment, we hear this strange exclamation in a Christian church, and when we look round to discover any one sharing our well-founded displeasure among the

congregation, we notice that some of the monks have rested their heads on the crutch, continuing their sweet morning sleep, as is evidenced by their snoring; others are chattering and laughing, or yawning in a most unseemly fashion, and stretching their limbs. It seems as if all this formed a part of the Coptic ceremonial. After this so-called mass had lasted an hour, the priest distributed small loaves of blessed unleavened bread. We also receive one, and eat it, after the fashion of the others, in the church.

We thank God when we again reach the open court, where the Beduins are already awaiting us. After giving the monks a present of money, which appears to afford them more pleasure than the visit of Europeans, they wish us a successful journey with their usual loquacity, and all lay the right hand incessantly on their chest, mouth, and forehead, as a sign of leave-taking. The same narrow passage leads us out into the desert, which looks remarkably fresh under the blue vault of heaven. The sun has already risen, the animals are impatiently scratching up the wet earth; we mount, and the return journey to Terraneh commences. After a visit to the monastery, the desert seems to us to have become a pleasant place; timidly and cautiously we pass the second monastery, and then strike out in an easterly direction. A twelve hours' march, during which we only rested once, brings us to our destination. The animals have been unable to quench their thirst for three days, and we ourselves are so fatigued as almost to sink from the saddle. The road seems never ending; one malaqua follows the other, and yet the sun is already setting on the verge of the desert. The camel stretches out its long neck, the horse winnows merrily, and the donkeys, pointing their ears, redouble their pace. The Beduins discharge their guns with a chorus of triumph, and all indicates that we shall soon be restored to the luxuriant abundance of vegetation.

Before the sun has thrown its last parting beam on the earth, the fertile Nile Valley, with its light delicate verdure, lies stretched out at our feet. The boat is at the same spot, but the whole landscape, so simple in its components, seems to us to have become tenfold richer, tenfold more beautiful and pleasant. With a hearty El hamderlillah ! (Glory and praise to Allah!) our expecting friends on board greet us, for we have gone through the first excursion into the Lybian Desert without meeting with any dangerous adventure.