songs, and the infrequent curl of smoke from some tomb or volcanic cave inhabited by lonely men, were the only signs of life. Sad low ranges of bare hills melting into the level distances, the confused undulation of brown turf, and the ghosts of distant mountains shrinking over the horizon, were all the features of the landscape.

Yet at times, even there, where it seemed that human genius had never coped with the mysterious desolation, the sudden ring of the horses' hoofs upon solid pavement reminded us that the broad smooth stones were the Flaminian Way, one of the avenues of old Rome to the uttermost parts of the earth, and we sank away in reveries of the days when this barren landscape was a sea of grain singing to the very gates of Rome.

We were silent and thoughtful that Campagna day. Day never to be forgotten; whose pensive sun can never set. The drowsy tinkling of the horses' bells, the monotonous minor of the Vetturino's song, sound yet in memory, clearly and sadly as then, nor are drowned by the glorious bursts of many orchestras, nor by the passionate pathos of the Miserere, heard since that day.

The afternoon was waning when we reached the edge of a little hill. Upon those dreams of Rome, rose suddenly Rome itself. It lay beyond us and

below, silent and solemn. A group of domes and spires only, the rest was hidden by a hill. But as we proceeded, the city advanced into view, a long procession of architectural pomp: domes, and spires, and campaniles mingling in rich confusion, until, when all had passed before, the dome of St. Peter's closed the pageant like a monarch. In the last rays of the sun, the golden cross blazed in the air. Lost in a chaos of memories, expectations, and dreams, we leaned from the carriage and gazed at Rome.

So, as I smoked the pipe of meditation at the door of the tent among the hills of Judea, waiting for the day which should lead me to Jerusalem, returned the vivid image of the moment and the feelings which led me to Rome. It was natural; for Rome and Jerusalem, as the two extremes, are the two most memorable cities of history.

Yet against the claims of its superb Italian rival, what has the Syrian city to show?

Not Solomon in all his glory; for Hadrian was more magnificent, if less wise. Nor the visible career of the Jews, whose empire was greatest under Solomon, but was then only a part of a later Roman province. Jerusalem does not rival Rome with the imperial pomp of its recollections, nor by its artistic achievements; for its only notable

remains are part of the foundation of Solomon's Temple, while the most imposing ruins of Syria are the Roman relics of Palmyra and Baalbec. Nay, Rome came from Italy, and, scattering the Jews, destroyed Jerusalem.

To the myriads of men who throng whole centuries of history-as Xerxes' army the plains of Greece-headed by the eagle and asserting Rome, Jerusalem opposes a single figure, bearing a palmbranch, and riding upon an ass into the golden gate of the city. That palm is the magic wand which shall wave the discordant world into harmony; that golden gate is the symbol of the way which only he can enter who knows the magic of the palm. That single figure is the most eminent in history. The highest hope of Art is to reveal his beauty; the sublimest strains of Literature are the prophecies and records of his career; the struggle of society is to plant itself upon the truth he taught.

In the vision of the Past, as upon an infinite battle-field, that single figure meets the might of Rome, and the skill of Greece, and the wit of Egypt; and the flame of their glory is paled before his glance. He rode in at the golden gate, and was crucified between thieves. But it is the victim which consecrates the city. In vain the heroism

of the Republic, and the purple splendour of the Emperor, would distract imagination and give a deeper charm to Rome. The cold auroral fires stream anew to the zenith, as we sit in the starlight at the tent door. But a planet burns through them brighter than they, and we no longer discuss which city we approach with the profoundest interest.

CHAPTER V.

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THE JOY OF THE WHOLE EARTH.

BEFORE the stars faded the tent was struck. In the brilliant dawn a party of Russian pilgrims rode by into the mountain gorge. Leaving MacWhirter to follow with the caravan, I ran on alone, up the ravine, and toward Jerusalem.

The path climbed steeply by the side of a dry water-course, and led through a succession of mountain defiles. The air was exhilarating, and birds sang. The wind was fresh and cool, and a thousand flowers were beautiful upon the barren hills. Sometimes the hills were terraced with rock, sometimes covered with loose stones, and the gray olive leaves twinkled in the rising sun.

Many of the valleys were green and lovely. As in Italy, the little towns were built high upon the hillsides. But no sweet bells, as in Italy, rang through the morning air. I passed the ruins of