One day, upon the Nile, he had invited Verde Giovane, with whom he had a mysterious affinity, to visit his boat; and, after dinner, Frende assured him with trembling delight, that he had found a new species of ichneumon, which, it seems, he pronounced as if spelled aitchneumon.

Verde, whose mind had been confused by the Greek and other architectural names in Egypt, fancied it was a new kind of temple; and, remembering one name of learned sound and meaning not to be surpassed, he asked with the anxiety of an antiquary

"An ichneumon," whispered Frende, excitedly. 'Oh, yes, yes,” replied Verde, vaguely.

"Would you like to see it ?" demanded Frende, tartly; rather hurt at the lack of enthusiasm for ichneumons.

Verde answered at random, for he had no clue to an idea in the matter; and Frende, touched by his indifference, declined to show it, merely remarking that he "had him in a box."

"Good heavens!" said Verde, and rapidly took leave.

"Gunning," cried he to his companion, as he ran breathless into the cabin of his own boat, "Gunning, Frende has H. Newman in a box!"

Nor was it until Gunning explored the mystery by questioning Frende, that he discovered there was no unhappy Mr. Newman boxed up on Frende's boat.

Frende had a fine career upon the desert. When he approached Mount Sinai, his dragoman shouted and raised his finger. Frende beckoned to him. Achmet," said he, "ten piastres for the first scorpion from Sinai.”

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Whenever he alighted, either for lunching or encamping, he drew out a large jar of specimens preserved in spirits, ran rapidly about the space for a long distance beyond the spot, and turning over all the promising stones, he consigned to the jar whatever reptiles, worms, little snakes, scorpions, bugs, or beetles rewarded his search. When it was too late to find more, he ran back to the tent, drank his tea, read a chapter in the Bible, and went to bed. In the morning, he devoted all the time of preparation for departure to the interests of science, and during the day's march, his contemplation of the precious jar was only interrupted by searching glances over the desert to detect any signs of zoological promise in stones or shrubs.

This evening, in Jerusalem, I was telling the story of our day's ride in the valleys to the younger Miss Duck, and dwelt somewhat elaborately and

fervently upon the beauty of Siloam in the rich afternoon light, with Jerusalem towering above. I was even attempting some poetical reminiscences from Byron, Bishop Heber, and Tasso, when Frende, who had been attending very patiently, ventured to interrupt my romance and quotations, exclaiming :

:

"Beautiful, my dear sir, truly beautiful; I seem to see Siloam. Pray, did you anywhere on the damp wall observe a new species of the centipede ?" Leisurlie smiled.

"For in our life alone does Nature live,"

said he, as he took his candle.

CHAPTER X.

ON THE HOUSETOP.

THE Mosque of Omar is the most beautiful object in Jerusalem, and the Church of the Sepulchre is the most unpleasant.

The solemnity of the landscape around the city, its silence and desolation, impress the mind strongly with the spiritualism of Christianity, and to a degree that almost reaches severity. You feel that not only the sanctity of the city, but the austerity of the landscape, fostered the asceticism of the early hermits here.

The image of Christ in your mind perpetually rebukes whatever is not lofty and sincere in your thoughts, and sternly requires reality of all feeling exhibited in Jerusalem. In Rome, you can tolerate tinsel, because the history of the Faith there, and its ritual, are a kind of romance. But it is intolerable in Jerusalem, where, in the presence of the

same landscape, and within the same walls, you have a profound personal feeling and reverence for Jesus.

As you meditate the features of his character, and the beauty of holiness penetrates your mind more deeply, as you recognise the directness of his teaching and the simplicity of his life, as you feel how constantly he appealed to the natural affections of the heart,—you are lost in sorrow and dismay before the melancholy abuses of the Institution which has aimed to perpetuate his spirit among

men.

Were the Scribes and Pharisees alone, you ask, guilty of giving stones for fish?

Turning the pages of ecclesiastical history,—of that church which especially has hitherto represented Christianity, -or of the various sects whose differences so fiercely clash,-does it seem to you that you contemplate the career of an Institution with which Jesus promised to be, until the end of the world?

Or glancing from books to life, and regarding the aspect of any community professing Christianity, as Paris, London, or New York,-would you notice eager selfishness as its characteristic, or forbearance, forgiveness, and self-denial?

If now Jesus were sitting where he once sat, upon the Mount of Olives, which we can yonder