learned in his long exile. The place had been indicated to him by divine revelation, but independently of this it is evidently one of those grand shrines of nature which man vainly tries to rival in his temples and cathedrals, and which strike awe into the human heart, and lead it to lofty thoughts and imaginings; and such a place must have had peculiar impressiveness to a people reared in the flats of the Egyptian delta and who had just been stirred by the marvelous experiences and excitements of their flight from Egypt. It was thus one of the most fitting spots on earth to be the theatre of the revelation to man of a new and purer faith, unmixed with the figments of human invention, and leading to a worship of the one God the Creator. The expedition did not discover any certain indications of the sojourn of the Israelites. The Sinaitic inscriptions, so called, are now known to be of less ancient date. There are however numerous Egyptian inscriptions indicating expeditions to work the mines of turquoise and copper, and dating as far back as the third or fourth dynasty, long before the time of the Exodus; and it is a curious coincidence that the latest king whose name has been recognized is that of Thothmes III., the last great king of the eighteenth dynasty, under which the Israelites flourished, and which was succeeded by that nineteenth dynasty under the early kings of which their captivity commenced. The numerous round stone houses attributed to the Israelites by Arab tradition, are supposed by the explorers to have been the abodes of the Amalekites. They are built with thick walls of rough stone, and the roofs are made with overlapping slabs, and are said to be exactly similar to the ancient "bothans or bee-hive houses of Scotland; and they are also similar, in so far as the overlapping stone arches and thick walls are concerned, to the peculiar houses of Peru and Central and Western America, as described by Squier and others. Some of them had been used as burial places, and in these were found shell ornaments. There are also stone circles, like those in so many other countries, and which contain stone cists very similar to those found in ancient sepul chres in Europe. Those that were opened contained crumbling bones, with charcoal, shell beads, and flint weapons; and in one case a bracelet of copper. All these are attributed to the Amalekites and other early races, and are carefully separated from the buildings and tombs of later dates, ruins of which abound in the peninsula. That some of the more ancient sepulchral remains will yet be referred to the Israelites is not improbable; but it must be borne in mind that the region explored is only that of the three months' journey to Sinai, and of the encampment of about a year before the Mount. In this length of time little of a permanent character is likely to have been effected by the Hebrews; and if their dead were simply buried in the soil, no surface trace may remain of the graves of those who died. All the indications in Exodus are also at variance with the idea that the Israelites at this time either erected permanent buildings or commemorated their sojourn by durable monuments. The whole of the arrangements of Moses were based on the idea of a temporary sojourn and a preparation for a march into Canaan, no mention is made of any inscription on stone except the tablets of the law, and the book in which Moses is said to have recorded the story of the fight at Rephidim (Exod. 17, 14) was probably a roll of skin or papyrus. The monuments of the children of Israel, if such exist in the Peninsula of Sinai, are rather to be sought in those portions of it in which the longer sojourns of the forty years' wanderings occurred; and it is to be hoped that these may yet be subjected to scientific scrutiny similar to that already executed for the country between Suez and Sinai. As preliminary to this, a reconnoissance has been made by one of the party engaged in the survey, Mr. E. H. Palmer; and the results have been given to the world in his interesting book-"The Desert of the Exodus."* He shows the hopeful character of the inquiry, by the suggestion that the numerous tombs at the Erweis el Ebeirig, the probable site of Kibroth Hattaaveh—the graves of those who lusted," may be those of the people who died in the plague at that * London, 1871. 66 place, after the second descent of quails. No excavations seem to have been made to test the truth of the suggestion, nor have detailed surveys been made of the regions extending from Sinai to Kadesh, and thence to the eastern border of ancient Edom, a region in which the long sojourn of forty years seems to have been passed-a sojourn which, as Mr. Palmer well remarks, is rather to be regarded as the residence of a numerous pastoral people in the country, than as a constant movement from place to place in a compact body. In the meantime the facts already stated, and still more the study of the maps and photographs of the survey, cannot fail to impress us with the reality of this old Hebrew history. We have here no mere myth, illustrated by the fancies of enthusiastic pilgrims; but the itinerary of a hard and eventful march, through a country presenting the most marked physical features; and this is now compared with the careful measurements and scientific observations of men who have traversed it, step by step, with as prosaic accuracy as if the object had been not to follow the wanderings of an ancient people, but to work out a practicable line for a high-road or a railway. The result is unquestionably to show that the writer of the Books of Exodus and Numbers must have traveled through the region which is the scene of his history; must have personally experienced the difficulties of the journey, and must have been better acquainted with the country than any other traveler whose works we possess, up to the date of the ordnance survey. The Exodus of the Israelites is not a mere question of curious antiquarian research. In that journey they were representatives and examples for us and for all the ages of the world; and their national migration was not only a grand protest against tyranny and injustice, but an important step in the development of God's plans for the salvation of our race. It is well then that this stirring and beautiful history is not a romance or even a legendary tale, but a true record which will bear the application of the severest tests of modern science. J. W. Dawson. CHAPTER I. JOHN BANNOCK. IN WHICH JOHN HIMSELF RELATES IN WHAT open window, and the quiet ticking of the tall eight-day clock that has ticked in pre ESTIMATION HE IS HELD BY HIS NEIGH- cisely the same manner for fifty years, alone BORS. "BRING Some more ale, will you? and be smart about it;" and a pewter pot is hurled across the tap-room, to be flattened against the bar. The landlord of the Ratcliffe Arms picks up the cup and smiles, grimly. He takes no notice of the demand, but directs a halfpitying glance at a shock of tangled brown hair, sunk between two arms on the oaken table; then polishes his bar a moment, and, lighting a clay pipe, seats himself to read with the critical gravity of a British householder, allowed by law to cast his vote. The head is still for half an hour; while outside the voices of boys at play, the hum of a wandering bee as it dashes against the break the silence of the summer afternoon. Then the head is slowly raised, revealing a coarse and sullen face, framed in a rough beard. One eye is purple and black; any villager would say the eye was so disfigured in a fight. An ugly scratch scars the cheek; a village child would tell the same tale. The half-shut eyes of the face peer round the room in a drunken stupor. Then a dirty hand is lifted, and the torn cap on the head dashed to the floor. As the dull eyes look on the cap the throat is distended with a wild yell; and the head again falls between the arms. All is quiet now. Outside the boys shout and laugh at their thoughtless sport, and a butterfly flutters in through the open window and flutters out again. In a little while the rough head is raised once more, the stupid eyes peer round the room; and, after a hard stare that seems to indicate the return of reason, the man's voice, thick and husky, asks: "What time is it, Reub?" Devonshire type which soothes, and at the same time charms, the beholder. From the windows of the tap-room in the hamlet of Tamerton could be seen, calling up thoughts of heather and harebells, the purple hills of Dartmoor. A brief gleam of the Tamar's The landlord looks up from the paper, waves, flowing by a wall of woods, arrested and answers in a quieting way: "About six, Jack. Keep quiet, there's a good fellow. Take a nap, and you'll be on your pins in less than no time." A pause. The landlord assiduously reads his paper. All this time the reason of the dazed man, with the stupid eyes, is trying to make clear to itself what has been said. At last, when the landlord, having forgotten the occurrence, is deep in an interesting column, the man at the table mutters: "On my pins! Why shouldn't I be, eh?" The landlord looks up surprised, but, remembering what has passed, makes no answer and reads on. "I'm a-going to get up anyhow," stutters Jack, supporting himself and leaning on the table as if he feared it would probably fall away into bottomless space. Reuben, the landlord, drops his paper and starts to his feet. "Sit down, Jack, there's a good fellow. Don't make a fuss in the house. You may as well be quiet as not." 66 "Now I ain't a-going to make no fuss. I suppose I know what I'm about. If I didn't, it isn't the likes o' you as could tell me"-this with a pugnacious air. "Be quiet. Don't in any way worry yourself `into heart disease "-this sarcastically, the weathercock of his drunken spirit having veered round. The form of the man-it is clumsy but strongly set-staggers across the room, cautiously stopping now and then, knowing it cannot reach the window in that trip, then staggering on. The landlord watches the transit with a half-amused, half-pitying air. "Now I hope you'll be quiet," he says when the drunken man has reached the window. Jack makes no reply. He is gazing, a strange light in his sleepy eyes, at the boys running and shouting on the green. The prospect before him was of that beautiful the wandering eye. Down below the village stretched the fragrant meadows, dotted with bleating sheep, with here and there a group of tawny cattle standing meditatively in pools of water. A little way down the street on which the tavern stood there is, by the way, but one street-the cottages with overhanging peaks and sometimes a thatched roof thick with swallows' nests were huddled together, white and clean in the rays of the sun. The green-and what village worth the name does not boast a green?—was made the fairer by the shade of three or four stout, massive oaks, whereon were carved the names of some far off on foreign seas, of others married and settled down to a life of toil and quiet. These grand old trees had stood-well, I will not say; for no one has ever told me how many years, and in truth no one knows. But about the age of Tamerton itself there can be no doubt. If you look on a Roman map of Devonshire, you will see the name of one place, and one place only: that is Tamerton. On the green this afternoon in June a number of boys, who had been looking out of a window in a large school-room not far off, ill at ease and pining for the open air, are running and shouting as if they knew— what they never seem to know-that youth, so brief and careless, must be made the most of. Their cries are borne into the low tap-room to the ears of besotted Jack Bannock who is looking sullenly out. A belated bee humming wings its way past the window. A girlish burst of laughter rises on the air, and a fresh breeze, blowing through the tall oak before the Ratcliffe Arms, swings the sign above the door. Tick! tick! goes the clock in its old domestic, monotonous way, looking down approvingly on the clean bar with its silver-mounted tap and bright glasses, on the hams that hang solidly from the rafters, and the big open fire-place that will roar in the winter-time, and bound and blaze up the ancient chimney. The landlord reads on through the parliamentary news with its "Hear! hear!" and "Loud applause" scattered throughout the columns. He smiles occasionally, as a thrifty man should smile, and in a good-natured way pushes off the cat, that has dared to jump up on his substantial knee. The man at the window is looking out, his rough hair blowing over his face. On a sudden he turns round, and a voice startles the landlord: And what credit has he done the village Not a bit. He drinks worse and swears harder than any man in the parish, and his word goes for naught. He brawls and fights all the days of the week, and shuns the church on the Sabbath. There's no lass as will speak to him. There's no lass as will look upon him. But there was a time when I was thought better of. There's a tree over yonder, an oak; you see it? That big one, all rough and gnarled like, with the broad branches. It was under that tree "I wish I was a boy agen!" The sen- when the moon was shining one summer's tence is garnished with an oath. night when the nights was sweeter to me 66 I want you. And so "I say I wish I was a boy agen. I do. Come here. quick. You must." The landlord leaves his paper with a sigh, and approaches the man at the window; wondering what queer turn has come over him now. He feels his arm grasped, and a hoarse voice speaks in his ear, while a big finger is pointing to the green, and a sodden face is worked up to a strange, unusual passion : "What's the matter, Jack? What's the than they be now-I told Mary I loved her, matter now?" and she said she loved me. Yes, me, who now be feared and hated by all the folk around. I was a happy lad then : not even the Squire up at the big house when he brought home his young bride last Whitsuntide was more happy than me with my girl. She died. And then everybody said as how I was going to the devil. They said as how I was drinking and fighting: which was true. Some whispered as how I was a poacher. But it was only whispers. They never caught me. But the whisper was true. I was a poacher. I be a poacher. That's what I be now. And there was a time when no boy on the green was brighter and better and stronger than me. No boy as loved his parents more. And there was my poor mother, God rest her. If she'd a-been living now I should be an honest man, and getting her bread to eat in my tumble-down cottage. But she is dead. She lies under the sod yonder in the graveyard. And who let her die? The parish let her die. There's not even a stone to mark where she was buried. I've spent the money that I earned to give her a headstone in drink, like a dog that I be. And was I ever a boy like them on the green ? No, I cannot believe it. I could have had no comrades, no lass to love me! But I did, God help me. And she died. Do you see the blue river yonder? The Tamar? The beautiful water that I used to love more than the green land? No boy knew the channel better than I did. No boy could sail a boat on it better than I could, in rough or in calm. I used to know it from Sophill and Maristow down to the "Do you see them boys on the green? I was a boy once. I had as light a heart as any one of them. I could jump and run with the best of them. My eye was as bright as any lad's; and I was as happy as a boy could be. That's the same green as I played on. Them's the same trees I played under. They was standing then. They'll be standing when them same boys as is playing now are in their graves, and other boys be playing there. That green was there when I was a boy; and the grass was as long as it is now, and the daisies was as thick. When you and me be dead that grass will grow as beautiful. And what am I? A poor drunkard that " 66 "O no, Jack. You're alright." "Don't stop me. Don't stop me. I be a poor drunkard, and I know it. But what was I then? A brave, stout, bright boy. There you see the lad yonder that runs faster than the others, and is stronger and quicker? When I was a boy I was like him. Everybody said Jack Bannock was a fine lad, and would do a credit to the village. breakwater, and from Cathole down to Maker, better than any man in the place. I knew every cove, and every stream that ran into it. I used to row over to Landulph at night-fall to hear the chimes of the bells. Do you think I'd care for the bells now? I used to swim in that river, mornings and when the moon was shining; and no lad better. Didn't I save a child when I was no more'n ten years old? And they say I never had a heart, and be a rough, swearing, godless man, and can't get any work to do, and that I'm a poacher. So I be, I own it. I'm not fit to live. God would be merciful to me if he killed me. I" And here the rough fellow broke down, hid his face in his hands, and would have cried like the boy he used to be, if a feeling of manhood had not restrained him. He only shook a little, and stood there, unwilling to look up and face the sunshine and the boys at play on the green, where once he was wont to play when the afternoons were as fair as this one was. The landlord could say nothing. A man of few words was he; quite unequal to the task of soothing the broken spirit of the poor wretch beside him. Not that he was indifferent. No; his stout chin trembled with emotion, and his lusty arm was about the shoulder of the other man. He looked out at the boys; then shifted his eyes to the oak before his door; then changed his glance to the blue river away in the distance; but he could say nothing, and was silent. A linnet chirped as it lit on the sign; chirped, and a man's heart was nigh to breaking below. A fresh breeze swung the sign, and the bird flew away. The landlord felt he must say something; the bird had gone, and he had a clear field before him. "Cheer up, Jack. Every cloud has a silver lining, they say. You'll soon be alright; never fret, man. You're only a little low. There's no reason why you shouldn't get work; and come here o'nights afterwards, and smoke your pipe, and drink your glass, and chat with the boys." It was a tender chord at that moment to touch upon. God knows drinking for the future was furthest from the man's thoughts. He raised his head with sudden energy, threw off the landlord's arm, and seized him by the collar, his face ablaze with passion. "Drink my glass! Curse you! It is the drinking o' that glass, your glass, sold in your house, sold by you, as has ruined me, and made me what I am. If it hadn't been for you and your drink I might ha' been an honest man now. And you talk to me o' drink when I be mad at the thought o' it. Curse you. Curse your drink." And with his whole strength he pushed the landlord from him, and ran out. A moment after, two gentlemen rode up, dismounted, and tying their horses to the hitching-post, entered the tavern. "What is the matter with Bannock, landlord?" said the first to come in,-a gentleman dressed in white corded breeches and blue coat,-smiling cheerfully as he beat his boot with his riding whip; "I saw him chasing down the street like a madman, without a hat, his hair on end, and his eyes as wild as a driven hare's." "I can't tell you, Squire. He was in here a moment since, talking rather strangely of his boyhood. Then he rushed out all of a sudden before I could stop him." "Touch of the deliriums, I presume,” said the Squire, carelessly. "No, no," replied the landlord stoutly, "there was nothing in particular the matter with him. He was saying he would try to reform, and I hope he will.” The landlord looked both of the gentlemen bravely in the face, and seemed to mean his words, every one of them. "But you will lose one of your best customers," hinted the Squire roguishly, tapping the landlord confidentially on his broad chest. "I don't care for that. I shall be glad to lose him, if it will make him a better man. And there's the making of a good man in him, sirs." "Yes, there is," mused the Squire, with his legs apart, rubbing his chin; "I've often thought so." "Making of a good man in him!” said with contempt the second gentleman, turning round from a sporting picture he was examining. "I don't believe it. The fellow's a good-for-nothing, a brawler, a poacher, a |