every kind of small mishap, and he detailed his sufferings with all the gossipy querulousness of his countrymen. It had rained, and blown, and frozen during the voyage from Constantinople, and he as a deck passenger, had been the butt of the fierce elements. He thought it an outrage that, upon a German boat, only one person spoke German. That person was the cook, and he probably employed that tongue only to snub and buffet the poor pilgrim, for the latter, with an air of great disgust, said the cook was a Dummkopf (a blockhead).

But bad as was the sea-voyage, the land journey was worse. Here nobody spoke German, and donkeys wouldn't go, and his ankle was swelled, and if Jerusalem was far away, he certainly could not reach it that day, although he had been going since one o'clock in the morning.

Then, with a movement of despair, he made a rush at the donkey to get on. But the saddle cloth fell off, and when it was arranged the donkey stood still, and absolutely declined to stir.

"But you shouldn't pay a para," said I, "for such a beast as that."

“Ja, mein Herr, (yes, sir), but I have paid," said he with a remorseful shrug.

The driver then made some suggestions in Arabic, doubtless of great practical value, but unfortunately, unintelligible.

"Wie meinen sie, was sagen sie? (what do you say?)" inquired the poor Teuton in bland despair.

For they could not understand each other, and al

though the donkey would not go with the German, I observed that he moved nimbly enough with his master.

But I could not tarry for the swelled ankle, and the slow donkey, and the slower Teuton. I walked with him for a half-hour, gave him what advice I could, comforting him by the assurance that, even at his rate of travel, he would reach Jerusalem by sunset, and then wished. him good-day.

-"Leben Sie wohl (farewell)," said he, in a melancholy tone, as I ran along. "Leben Sie wohl: ach! mein Gott, mein Gott!"

The mountains rose more grandly, and I clambered up to broad, stony table-lands, whence the prospect was bleak and sad. Vast ranges of bare hills receded to the horizon. "In those days came John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness of Judea."

I passed rapidly over this lofty, breezy table-land, with an inconceivable ardor of expectation. Often the pinnacles and shining points of rock upon a distant hillside, startled me with a doubt that I saw Jerusalem, and at every change in the landscape I paused and searched the mountainous desolation to distinguish the city. But the majestic play of morning vapors with the sun and the mountains, mocked the scrutiny of the longing traveller, and gradually inspired a statelier hope.

As I paced more slowly along the hills, the words of the psalm suddenly rang through my mind, like a sublime organ peal through a hushed cathedral. "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth is Mount Zion, on the sides of the North, the city of the Great King—"

Q*

They passed, but in their stead arose an imperial vision.

Through the stupendous vista of rocky mountain sides, I should behold the joy of the whole earth lifted upon a lofty hill, flashing with the massive splendor of towers, and domes, and battlements, darkened by the solemn sadness of cypresses, and graceful with palms. The delicate outlines of hanging gardens, of marble terraces and balconies, and airy pavilions, should cluster within. Triumphant bursts of music, "with trumpets, also, and shawms," and the chime of bells harmonious with the soft acclaim of friendly voices should breathe and pulse from the magnificent metropolis, and preach, more winningly than John, in the wilderness of Judea.

In the Summer of that Syrian noon, this was the spectacle I thought to see, the majesty of its associations manifested in the city.

And as I knew it nearer, I walked more slowly dreaming that dream. The camels of Wind and Shower passed us, returning from Jerusalem. Our caravan overtook me, and I went forward with the Pacha and the Commander.

The high land unrolled itself more broadly. The breezy morning died into silent noon. In the imminent certainty, the eagerness of expectation was passed. Golden Sleeve preceded us a little distance, and we followed silently. Suddenly he stopped, and without turning or speaking, pointed with his finger toward the north.

We reached his side and looked. There was a low line of wall, a minaret, a black dome, a few flat roofs,

and in the midst a group of dark, slender cypresses, and olives, and palms.

There lay Jerusalem dead in the white noon. The desolation of the wilderness moaned at her gates. There was no suburb of trees or houses. She lay upon a high hill in the midst of hills barren as those we had passed. There were no sights or sounds of life. The light was colorless, the air was still. Nature had swooned around the dead city. There was no sound in the air, but a wailing in my heart "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that stonest the prophets, and killest those that are sent unto thee !"

66

VI.

Jerusalem!

JERUSALEM stands upon the point of the long reach of table-land over which we had approached it, as upon a promontory.

The ravines between the city and the adjacent hills are the valleys of Jehoshaphat and Hinnom. The Mount of Olives is the highest of these adjacent hills, and commands Jerusalem. It is crowned by a convent, deserted now, and at its foot, toward the city, on the shore of the brook Kedron, is the Garden of Gethsemane-a small, white-walled inclosure of old olives.

There are no roads about the city. It is not accessible for carriages, nor would its narrow streets permit them to pass. This profound silence characterizes all the Eastern cities, in which wheels do not roar, nor steam shriek, and invests them, by contrast, with a wonderful charm. The ways that lead to the gates of Jerusalem, are horse-paths, like dry water-courses. No dwellings

cluster about the city, except the village of Siloam, a town of "bad people," a group of gray stone houses on the steep side of the deepest part of the valley of Jehosha