arates it from the rest of populous Italy, as the grim belt of the Middle Ages separates it in history from modern times?

It was at sunset of a late October day. Trees had not waved to us nor birds sang since we left the park-like woods of Civita Castellana in the sultry, cloudy morning. Solitary shepherds in rough skins, knitting and croning melancholy 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 land

scape.

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 tinkle of the horse's 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 tle 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 relies of Palmyra and Baalbec. Nay, Rome came from Tealy, 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 palm branch, 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 battlefield, 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 splendor 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.

V.

The Jog 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 watercourse, 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 two churches, dating probably from the Crusades. They were massive and picturesque. Hanging plants waved over them funereally in the bright air, and the gnarled old olives clustered about them in dumb sadness.

But although I paused under the olives which had probably seen the builders of the churches, and knew all the chances of their fate,-they whispered nothing in my ear: only as the morning breeze rustled in their foliage, I seemed to hear the wild music of six centuries ago pealing faintly through the valley,—at least it was the best expression the trees could give to their remembrance of it —and, in distant olive groves, shimmering in the sun, I saw the flashing spears and crests of the Crusaders'

army.

The mountain air was exhilarating. I ran eagerly up the winding road, hoping that each turn would reveal Jerusalem; but from each new height only the billowy panorama of hills unrolled around me, the surface fading from vivid green into the blue haze of distance.

Upon one of these paths I overtook a pilgrim. He was evidently a poor European, and was going patiently forward by the side of a small donkey, with a Muslim driver. The pilgrim carried a small pack upon a stick over his shoulder. I was passing him relentlessly, but his forlorn aspect made me pause, and he greeted me with a German good morning.

It was a German tailor apprentice, who had come down the Danube to Constantinople, and had thence sailed to Jaffa. Landing there he had hired a donkey, and was now coming to Jerusalem. And the reason he gave for the journey was that it was something besonders, (odd) to go to Jerusalem.

Truly the Crusaders, whose track he followed, had not suffered more upon the way. He had experienced