his name in vain. On their annual feast-day, they place a bouquet of scarlet anemones over the entrance to their houses, and hope thereby to please him whose name they never speak. They believe Satan is the chief of all the angels, and that Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael are less than he. Although he now suffers for his disobedience, yet he is still powerful. He is the prince of this world,

HIGH-PRIEST OF THE DEVIL-WORSHIPERS.

and owns all the kingdoms thereof; he is the dispenser of all evil which comes to man, and is, therefore, to be propitiated. They believe that he will be finally restored to his former greatness, and they wish so to demean themselves toward him that he will remember them when he comes into his kingdom. Their symbol of the Evil One is a bronze peacock, around which they

march on their festal days, and a duplicate of which their priests carry when they go on missions to raise money.

As we had concluded to keep to the plains and avoid the mountain-passes, where the snow was deep, and as the Turkish soldier from Mosul was not allowed to leave the post-road, we were compelled to take a Devil-wor shiper to escort us on our way. He was a young man, of kind and obliging manners, and we felt safe in his company. A short distance beyond Semail, we met a

party of gayly dressed Kurdish soldiers, who are the sworn enemies of the native Christians, and for whom we had a more respectful fear than we had for Satan. Toward evening, and after having been in the saddle eleven and a half hours, we stopped for the night at the small village of Barsufkee, where we saw fences for the first time during all our tour. The sheikh was absent, but his wife bade us welcome to her new house, built of stone. The tukhteravan was placed within the entrance,

in which our "elect lady" slept, while we spread our blankets on the cement-covered floor, surrounded by our

men.

We were now in Kurdistan, and the villagers were Kurds, brave, fierce, and thievish. They were part of a vast community whose territory extends from near Mosul to the mountain fastnesses of Diarbekir, and from the Desert of the Arabs on the west to their own mountain-range on the east. They are naturally mountaineers, but descend to the plains in quest of pasture. In their

pursuits, they are shepherds and farmers, soldiers and robbers. They are all Moslems, but of the Persian school, and therefore hated by the Turks. They love independence, and are not easily brought into subjection. Like all mountaineers, they are a free, brave, and happy people. They delight in showy costumes, and in the number and brightness of their weapons. Their women are agile as gazelles, but not half so gentle. They pride themselves on their ornaments and the bright colors of their attire. As the men have a passion for war, the

women have a passion for love. Their written language is Persian, their oral language is Arabic; their dialects are a corruption of both. They are the bitter enemies of the Chaldean Christians, and in their persecutions they are relentless and blood-thirsty to the last degree. No age, or sex, or condition awakens their sympathy or secures their mercy. In their Mohammedan fanaticism, they have butchered the aged, the infirm, nor spared the helpless infant; they have plundered churches, murdered the priests, robbed and burned the towns, slaughtered the men, and captured the women. They are the enemies of all, the friends of none.

The night passed; the day dawned; the journey was resumed. All promised well for the day. But evil lurked in the air. In exchanging soldiers we were compelled to take one who was sickly, without animation, and indifferent to our comfort. He was a Kurd, and knew that we were Christians. In descending from the hill whereon the town stood, he should have kept to the left, and followed the crest of the hills, and all would have been well; but he led us across a meadow into the thick mud of which our mules and horses sunk to their haunches. In their struggles to rise, the mules capsized the tukhteravan, broke the glass windows, and greatly vexed our "elect lady." But she was soon extricated from her embarrassment by good Hadji Merridj, who carried her on his back to where the land was high and dry. But her companions were not so fortunate. Mr. Collins was thrown from his floundering horse, and sprained his knee, which quite disabled him for several days. I had dismounted, and was aiding my horse to get out of the slough, when, in one of his frantic plunges, he nearly crushed my foot. The baggage mules wandered here and there, and floundered in the mud. The