flint-lock gun, with a barrel that is longer than themselves; it has no sights on it, it will not carry farther than a brickbat, and is not half so certain.  And the great sash they wear in many a fold around their waists has two or three absurd old horse-pistols in it that are rusty from eternal disuse —­weapons that would hang fire just about long enough for you to walk out of range, and then burst and blow the Arab’s head off.  Exceedingly dangerous these sons of the desert are.

It used to make my blood run cold to read Wm. C. Grimes’ hairbreadth escapes from Bedouins, but I think I could read them now without a tremor.  He never said he was attacked by Bedouins, I believe, or was ever treated uncivilly, but then in about every other chapter he discovered them approaching, any how, and he had a blood-curdling fashion of working up the peril; and of wondering how his relations far away would feel could they see their poor wandering boy, with his weary feet and his dim eyes, in such fearful danger; and of thinking for the last time of the old homestead, and the dear old church, and the cow, and those things; and of finally straightening his form to its utmost height in the saddle, drawing his trusty revolver, and then dashing the spurs into “Mohammed” and sweeping down upon the ferocious enemy determined to sell his life as dearly as possible.  True the Bedouins never did any thing to him when he arrived, and never had any intention of doing any thing to him in the first place, and wondered what in the mischief he was making all that to-do about; but still I could not divest myself of the idea, somehow, that a frightful peril had been escaped through that man’s dare-devil bravery, and so I never could read about Wm. C. Grimes’ Bedouins and sleep comfortably afterward.  But I believe the Bedouins to be a fraud, now.  I have seen the monster, and I can outrun him.  I shall never be afraid of his daring to stand behind his own gun and discharge it.

About fifteen hundred years before Christ, this camp-ground of ours by the Waters of Merom was the scene of one of Joshua’s exterminating battles.  Jabin, King of Hazor, (up yonder above Dan,) called all the sheiks about him together, with their hosts, to make ready for Israel’s terrible General who was approaching.

“And when all these Kings were met together, they came and pitched together by the Waters of Merom, to fight against Israel.  And they went out, they and all their hosts with them, much people, even as the sand that is upon the sea-shore for multitude,” etc.

But Joshua fell upon them and utterly destroyed them, root and branch.  That was his usual policy in war.  He never left any chance for newspaper controversies about who won the battle.  He made this valley, so quiet now, a reeking slaughter-pen.