April_ 19.

Eureka! the whole thing is explained. Talking to day with the guardiano,
he happened to mention that he had been three years in Quarantine, keeping
watch over infected travellers. "What!" said I, "you have been sick three
years." "Oh no," he replied; "I have never been sick at all." "But are not
people sick in Quarantine?" "_Stafferillah!_" he exclaimed; "they are
always in better health than the people outside." "What is Quarantine for,
then?" I persisted. "What is it for?" he repeated, with a pause of blank
amazement at my ignorance, "why, to get money from the travellers!"
Indiscreet guardiano! It were better to suppose ourselves under suspicion
of the plague, than to have such an explanation of the mystery. Yet, in
spite of the unpalatable knowledge, I almost regret that this is our last
day in the establishment. The air is so pure and bracing, the views from
our windows so magnificent, the colonized branch of the Beyrout Hotel so
comfortable, that I am content to enjoy this pleasant idleness--the more
pleasant since, being involuntary, it is no weight on the conscience. I
look up to the Maronite villages, perched on the slopes of Lebanon, with
scarce a wish to climb to them, or turning to the sparkling Mediterranean,
view

"The speronara's sail of snowy hue
Whitening and brightening on that field of blue,"

and have none of that unrest which the sight of a vessel in motion
suggests.

To-day my friend from Timbuctoo came up to have another talk. He was
curious to know the object of my travels, and as he would not have
comprehended the exact truth, I was obliged to convey it to him through
the medium of fiction. I informed him that I had been dispatched by the
Sultan of my country to obtain information of the countries of Africa;
that I wrote in a book accounts of everything I saw, and on my return,
would present this book to the Sultan, who would reward me with a high
rank--perhaps even that of Grand Vizier. The Orientals deal largely in
hyperbole, and scatter numbers and values with the most reckless
profusion. The Arabic, like the Hebrew, its sister tongue, and other old
original tongues of Man, is a language of roots, and abounds with the
boldest metaphors. Now, exaggeration is but the imperfect form of
metaphor. The expression is always a splendid amplification of the simple
fact. Like skilful archers, in order to hit the mark, they aim above it.
When you have once learned his standard of tru