er our bottle till some time passed away, and the
face of the blind abbot waxed bland and confiding; and he had that
expression on his countenance which men wear when they are pleased with
themselves and bear goodwill towards mankind in general. I had by the
bye a great advantage over the good abbot, as I could see the workings
of his features and he could not see mine, or note my eagerness about
the oil-cellar, on the subject of which I again gradually entered.
"There is no oil there," said he. "I am curious to see the architecture
of so ancient a room," said I; "for I have heard that yours is a famous
oil-cellar." "It is a famous cellar," said the other monk. "Take another
cup of rosoglio," said I. "Ah!" replied he, "I remember the days when it
overflowed with oil, and then there were I do not know how many brethren
here with us. But now we are few and poor; bad times are come over us:
we are not what we used to be." "I should like to see it very much,"
said I; "I have heard so much about it even at Cairo. Let us go and see
it; and when we come back we will have another bottle; and I will give
you a few more which I have brought with me for your private use."

This last argument prevailed. We returned to the great tower, and
ascended the steep flight of steps which led to its door of entrance. We
then descended a narrow staircase to the oil-cellar, a handsome vaulted
room, where we found a range of immense vases which formerly contained
the oil, but which now on being struck returned a mournful, hollow
sound. There was nothing else to be seen: there were no books here: but
taking the candle from the hands of one of the brethren (for they had
all wandered in after us, having nothing else to do), I discovered a
narrow low door, and, pushing it open, entered into a small closet
vaulted with stone which was filled to the depth of two feet or more
with the loose leaves of the Syriac manuscripts which now form one of
the chief treasures of the British Museum. Here I remained for some time
turning over the leaves and digging into the mass of loose vellum pages;
by which exertions I raised such a cloud of fine pungent dust that the
monks relieved each other in holding our only candle at the door, while
the dust made us sneeze incessantly as we turned over the scattered
leaves of vellum. I had extracted four books, the only ones I could
find which seemed to be tolerably perfect, when two monks who were
struggling in the corner