ch are the advantages of the ascetic
life, and of such ascetics the Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can
carry twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and youth, and
health, and happiness.

We then venture a question about the sack-cloth, a trace of which was
seen under his tunic sleeve. And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the
drooping sweet basils in silence. No, he likes not to speak of these
mortifications of the flesh. After some meditation he tells us,
however, that the sack-cloth on the first month is annoying,
torturing. "But the flesh," he continues naively, "is inured to it,
as the pile, in the course of time, is broken and softened down." And
with an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and sighs his assurance.
For his Reverence always punctuates his speech with these sweet sighs
of joy. The serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his ear, and
we are asked to "scent the air" a while in the vineyard.

This lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit tills and cultivates
alone. And so thoroughly the work is done that hardly a stone can be
seen in the soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls that
one would think they were built with line and plummet. The vines are
handsomely trimmed and trellised, and here and there, to break the
monotony of the rows, a fig, an apricot, an almond, or an olive,
spreads its umbrageous boughs. Indeed, it is most cheering in the
wilderness, most refreshing to the senses, this lovely vineyard, the
loveliest we have seen.

Father Abd'ul-Messiah might be a descendant of Simeon of the Pillar
for all we know; but instead of perching on the top of it, he breaks
it down and builds with its stones a wall of his vineyard. Here he
comes with his serving-monk, and we resume the conversation under the
almond tree.

"You should come in the grape season to taste of my fruits," says he.

"And do you like the grape?" we ask.

"Yes, but I prefer to cultivate it."

"Throughout the season," the serving-monk puts in, "and though the
grapes be so plentiful, he tastes them not."

"No?"

The Hermit is silent; for, as we have said, he is reluctant in making
such confessions. Virtue, once bragged about, once you pride yourself
upon it, ceases to be such.

In his vineyard the Hermit is most thorough, even scientific. One
would think that he believed only in work. No; he does not sprinkle
the vines with holy water to keep the grubs away. Herein he has sense
enough to know