But when necessity demanded, he could be firm as adamant.  In the Lebanon Valley an Arab youth—­a Christian; he is particular to explain that Mohammedans do not steal—­robbed him of a paltry ten dollars’ worth of powder and shot.  He convicted him before a sheik and looked on while he was punished by the terrible bastinado.  Hear him: 

“He (Mousa) was on his back in a twinkling, howling, shouting, screaming, but he was carried out to the piazza before the door, where we could see the operation, and laid face down.  One man sat on his back and one on his legs, the latter holding up his feet, while a third laid on the bare soles a rhinoceros-hide koorbash —­["A Koorbash is Arabic for cowhide, the cow being a rhinoceros.  It is the most cruel whip known to fame.  Heavy as lead, and flexible as India-rubber, usually about forty inches long and tapering gradually from an inch in diameter to a point, it administers a blow which leaves its mark for time.”—­Scow Life in Egypt, by the same author.]—­that whizzed through the air at every stroke.  Poor Moreright was in agony, and Nama and Nama the Second (mother and sister of Mousa,) were on their faces begging and wailing, now embracing my knees and now Whitely’s, while the brother, outside, made the air ring with cries louder than Mousa’s.  Even Yusef came and asked me on his knees to relent, and last of all, Betuni—­the rascal had lost a feed-bag in their house and had been loudest in his denunciations that morning—­besought the Howajji to have mercy on the fellow.”

But not he!  The punishment was “suspended,” at the fifteenth blow to hear the confession.  Then Grimes and his party rode away, and left the entire Christian family to be fined and as severely punished as the Mohammedan sheik should deem proper.

     “As I mounted, Yusef once more begged me to interfere and have mercy
     on them, but I looked around at the dark faces of the crowd, and I
     couldn’t find one drop of pity in my heart for them.”

He closes his picture with a rollicking burst of humor which contrasts finely with the grief of the mother and her children.

One more paragraph: 

“Then once more I bowed my head.  It is no shame to have wept in Palestine.  I wept, when I saw Jerusalem, I wept when I lay in the starlight at Bethlehem.  I wept on the blessed shores of Galilee.  My hand was no less firm on the rein, my anger did not tremble on the trigger of my pistol when I rode with it in my right hand along the shore of the blue sea” (weeping.) “My eye was not dimmed by those tears nor my heart in aught weakened.  Let him who would sneer at my emotion close this volume here, for he will find little to his taste in my journeyings through Holy Land.”

He never bored but he struck water.

I am aware that this is a pretty voluminous notice of Mr. Grimes’ book.  However, it is proper and legitimate to speak of it, for “Nomadic Life in Palestine” is a representative book—­the representative of a class of Palestine books—­and a criticism upon it will serve for a criticism upon them all.  And since I am treating it in the comprehensive capacity of a representative book, I have taken the liberty of giving to both book and author fictitious names.  Perhaps it is in better taste, any how, to do this.