I spoke last night in one of the music halls and gave the Mohammedans a piece of my mind. The poor Christians!—they feared the Government in the old regime; they cower before the boatmen in this. For the boatmen of Beirut have not lost their prestige and power. They are a sort of commune and are yet supreme. Yes, they are always riding the whirlwind and directing the storm. And who dares say a word against them? Every one of them, in his swagger and bluster, is an Abdul Hamid. Alas, everything is yet in a chaotic state. The boatman’s shriek can silence the Press and make the Spouters tremble.
I am to lecture in the Public Hall of one of the Colleges here on the “Moral Revolution.” Believe me, I would not utter a word or write a line if I were not impelled to it. And just as soon as someone comes to the front to champion in this land spiritual and moral freedom, I’ll go “way back and sit down.” For why should I then give myself the trouble? And the applause of the multitude, mind you, brings me not a single olive.
I had made up my mind to go to Cairo, and I was coming up to say farewell to you and mother. For I like not Beirut, where one in winter must go about in top-boots, and in a dust-coat in summer. I wonder what Rousseau, who called Paris the city of mud, would have said of this? Besides, a city ruled by boatmen is not a city for gentlemen to live in. So, I made up my mind to get out of it, and quickly. But yesterday morning, before I had taken my coffee, someone knocked at my door. I open, and lo, a policeman