we may have met walking the streets of Jerusalem and glancing round him with the eye of a master. After the man the feather-beds and the oranges, which get spilt; then a shrill whistle, a hoot from the siren, and the engine begins to bite at the clanking anchor-chain. The screw turns, the vessel swings round to forge ahead; the great blue jelly-fish, fringed about with a purple more glorious than that of Tyre, begin to float past hurriedly and be crumpled up in the churning waters; the farewell shouts of the boatmen die away, and presently we are in the silence of the sea running towards the falling night. Thirty minutes more and the sandy coast of Palestine, with its long background of grey and desolate hills, fades slowly to a line behind us, that grows ever thinner and fainter till at length it seems to sink into the deep and vanishes. Here this humble record of a journey, which to him who sets it down at any rate was of interest, ought by rights to end. Yet as it is but human to smile at the misfortunes of our fellows, the reader may wish to learn what befell us at Port Said. The caviar on board the Russian boat was excellent, though as there was something of a sea, I alone could eat it, but it is impossible to say as much of the sleeping accommodation. At the first streak of dawn I rose and went on deck, for we were near Port Said. Presently out of the grey mists of the morning I saw a majestic steamer appear upon our bow, running westward at about fifteen knots. Evidently she had cleared from Port Said so soon as daylight made it safe for her to round the breakwater. "That's the Caledonian," said a voice at my side. What?" I gasped, "the Caledonian? Why, I have booked passages in her, and she doesn't sail till noon to-day." "It's her all the same. I have shipped in her too often to be mistaken," answered the voice with calm conviction. The Caledonian it was sure enough, who with a lack of principle unworthy of so fine a ship, had calmly departed from Port Said six hours before her time, leaving her wretched passengers from the Holy Land to find their way home as best they might. As the Jaffa boat was one day late she might be two days late; nobody ever dreams of waiting for a boat that has to do business with Jaffa. Very, very sadly did I return to that crowded cabin to impart the news to my still slumbering companion. At this time of the year all the liners from the far East pass the Canal full to the last berth. Moreover, to a man in a hurry to get home, the prospect of a long sojourn at a Port Said hotel, while waiting for a ship, is not pleasant. I knew it, for, as I have said, once in past years that experience had been mine. No wonder, then, that we were depressed. As we dropped past the breakwater, however, we perceived that the Orient liner Oroya was finishing taking in her coal, and hope rose in our breasts. Perhaps on her we could find a berth, though, evidently, there was no time to lose, for these mail steamers do not wait. As the last basket of coal comes on board, before it comes indeed, up goes the anchor and they forge ahead to sea. We anchored, and then followed about as tumultuous a two hours as I have ever spent. With my eye on the rapidly emptying coal barges of the Oroya, I was anxious to disembark, but this was just what I found it impossible to do. No local Cook appeared, for it was still early, but his dragoman, a cross-eyed son of Ham, of whom I have no pleasing recollection, put me off with soft words as to getting ashore. At length we managed it, without his assistance, and then came troubles innumerable. The luggage was carted off to the custom house, I know not why, and leaving it there my nephew and I cantered-on our own legs-to and fro along the hot and sandy streets of Port Said. There was a British India steamer in, and under the guidance of a black youth whom we had picked up, as it was nearest, I visited the office of this line, only to find that she was a cargo boat, though willing by special arrangement to take passengers with time upon their hands. Then we started off for the Orient Office more than a mile away, and there, by the courtesy and kindness of the agent, Mr. Stapledon, succeeded in securing an empty second-class cabin, for the ship which came from Australia was crowded. The rest is too mixed and in a sense too trivial to describe, but the end of it was that perspiring and utterly worn-out we did get aboard the Oroya just before she sailed. So we departed from Port Said, leaving behind us an unrecoverable portmanteau, various other packages, and last, but not least, the unhappy Capernaum, who in the mad scurry had been abandoned in his yellow basket in a secluded corner of the Russian steamer. As the great liner got under weigh, above the clanking of cables, the roaring of steam, and the shouting of the coalboys pushing off their empty floats, I screamed the details of my loss to the kindly Mr. Stapledon in the boat beneath, imploring him to rescue poor Capernaum, who I feared would starve to death, and to forward him by the first opportunity. A month or so later I attended at Ditchingham station, and there in the same yellow basket, carefully covered with canvas, was Capernaum, depressed by his long, cramped wanderings, but still hearty. Now, as I have said, he inhabits the garden, but disliking our climate, which forces him to spend so much of his time underground, continually attempts to return to the Sea of Galilee via the stableyard and the orchard. So after days of swift steaming through quiet seas we came to Marseilles. Thence I travelled by train to Paris, where the bookstalls were laded with caricatures of her Majesty of a nature offensive to her subjects,1 and the railway officials had employed their leisure by inscribing on the iron girders legends in honour of our enemies, such as "A bas les Anglais!" and "Gloire au Général Cronjé!" Thus ended this Winter Pilgrimage in the year of our Lord 1900. Now when it is over-one more of life's turned leaves-I am very glad that it was undertaken and accomplished. 1 Alas! that I must now write-of her late Majesty. THE END Printed by BALLANTYNE HANSON & Co. OF WORKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED BY LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO., 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON, E.C. 91 AND 93 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, AND 32 HORNBY ROAD, BOMBAY. History, Politics, Polity, Political Memoirs, etc. By EVELYN ABBOTT, M. A., LL.D. Part I. From the Earliest Times to the Ionian Revolt. Crown 8vo, 10s. 6d. Part II.-500-445 B.C. Crown 8vo,' Part III. From the Peace of 445 B.C. to the Fall of the Thirty at Athens in being Some Account of the Less Not- able Features of the South African War from the Point of View of the Australian ' Acland and Ransome.-A HAND- Allgood. |