The path leads up the side of Olivet, by the very way which our Saviour is said to have descended in his last entry into Jerusalem. At a short distance are the ruins of the village of Bethphage; and, half a mile further, is Bethany. The distance is about two miles from the city. The village is beautifully situated; and the ruins of the house of Lazarus are still shown, and do credit to the good father's taste.

On the right of the road is the tomb of Lazarus, cut out of the rock. Carrying candles, we descended ten or twelve stone steps to the bottom of the cave: in the middle of the floor is the tomb, a few feet deep, and large enough to admit one body only. Several persons can stand conveniently in the cave around the tomb, so that Lazarus, when restored, did not, as some suppose, descend from a sepulchre cut out of the wall, but rose out of the grave, hewn in the floor of the grotto.

The light that enters from above does not find its way to the bottom; the fine painting in the Louvre, of this resurrection, was probably faithful in representing it by torchlight. Its identity cannot be doubted: the position of Bethany could never have been forgotten, and this is the only sepulchre in the whole neighbourhood. It is a delightful Sunday afternoon's walk to Bethany: after crossing the mounts, the path passes along the side of a hill, that looks down into a wild and long valley, in which are a few scattered cottages. The view, just above the village, is very magnificent, as it embraces the Dead Sea, the valley and river of the Jordan, and its confluence with the lake.

On the descent of Olivet is shown the spot where Christ wept over Jerusalem: tradition could not have selected a more suitable spot. Up this ascent David went, when he fled from Absalom, weeping. And, did a Jew wish to breathe his last where the glory of his land and fallen city should meet his departing gaze, he would desire to be laid on the summit of the Mount of Olives.

The condition of the Jews in Palestine is more insecure, and exposed to insult and exaction, than in Egypt and Syria, from the frequent lawless and oppressive conduct of the governors and chiefs. These distant pachalics* are less under the control of the Portet; and, in Egypt, the subjects of Mahmoud enjoy a more equitable and quiet government than in any other part of the empire. There is little na†The Ottoman government.

* Pron. pǎ'-shaw-lics.

tional feeling or enthusiasm among them; though there are some exceptions, where these exist in an intense degree. In the city, they appear fearful and humbled; for the contempt in which they are held by the Turks is excessive, and they often go poorly clad to avoid exciting suspicion.

Yet it is an interesting sight, to meet with a Jew, wandering, with his staff in his hand, and a venerable beard sweeping his bosom, in the rich and silent plain of Jericho, on the sides of his native mountains, or on the banks of the· ancient river Kish'on, where the arm of the mighty was withered in the battle of the Lord. Did a spark of the love of his country warm his heart, his feelings must be exquisite : -but his spirit is suited to his condition.

LESSON XCVI.

-that ye, through his poverty, might be rich.”—
W. RUSSELL.

Low in the dim and sultry west
Is the fierce sun of Syria's sky;
The evening's grateful hour of rest,
Its hour of feast and joy, is nigh.

But he, with thirst and hunger spent,
Lone, by the wayside faintly sinks;

A lowly hand the cup hath lent,

And from the humble well he drinks.

On the dark wave of Galilee

The gloom of twilight gathers fast,

And o'er the waters drearily
Sweeps the bleak evening blast.

The weary bird hath left the air,

And sunk into his sheltered rest;
The wandering beast hath sought his lair,
And laid him down to welcome rest.

Still, near the lake, with weary tread,
Lingers a form of human kind;

And, from his lone, unsheltered head,
Flows the chill night-damp on the wind.

Why seeks not he a home of rest?

Why seeks not he the pillowed bed?
Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest ;-
He hath not where to lay his head!

Such was the lot he freely chose,
To bless, to save, the human race;
And, through his poverty, there flows
A rich, full stream of heavenly grace.

LESSON XCVII.

Elijah fed by Ravens.—GRAHAME.

SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command

Of God, toiled on to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn,
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale.
The withering herbage dies. Among the palms,
The shrivelled leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle. No sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches. Scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around,
And trusts in God, and lays his silvered head
Upon the flowerless bank. Serene he sleeps,

Nor wakes till dawning. Then, with hands enclasped,
And heavenward face, and eye-lids closed, he prays
To Him who manna on the desert showered,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush.
Entranced the man of God remains; till, roused
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.

LESSON XCVIII.

Mount Sinai.-LETTERS FROM THE EAST.

LEAVING the valley of Paran, the path led over a rocky wilderness, to render which more gloomy, the sky became clouded, and a shower of rain fell. By moonlight we ascended the hills, and, after some hours' progress, rested for the night on the sand. The dews had fallen heavy for some nights, and the clothes that covered us were quite wet in the morning; but, as we advanced, the dews ceased.

Our mode of life, though irregular, was quite to a wanderer's taste. We sometimes stopped for an hour, at midday, or, more frequently, took some bread and a draught of water on the camel's back; but we were repaid for our fatigues, when we halted for the evening, as the sun was sinking in the desert, and, having taken our supper, strolled amidst the solitudes, or spent the hours in conversation till dark.

But the bivouac* by night was the most striking, when, arriving, fatigued, long after dark, the two fires were lighted. I have frequently retired to some distance to gaze at the group of Arabs round theirs, it was so entirely in keeping. They were sipping their coffee, and talking with expressive action and infinite vivacity; and, as they addressed each other, they often bent over the flame which glanced on their white turbans and drapery and dark countenances, and the camels stood behind, and stretched their long necks over their

masters.

Having finished our repast, we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks, and lay down round the fire: and let not that couch be pitied; for it was delightful, as well as romantic, to sink to rest as you looked on that calm and glorious sky, the stars shining with a brilliancy you have no conception of in our climate. Then, in the morning, we were suddenly summoned to depart, and, the camels being loaded, we were soon on the march. Jouma frequently chanted his melancholy Arab song, for at this time we were seldom disposed to converse, and were frequently obliged to throw a blanket over our cloak, and walk for some hours, to guard against the chilness of the air.

The sunsets in Egypt are the finest ; but to see a sunrise in its glory, you must be in the desert: nothing there obscures or obstructs it. You are travelling on, chill and silent,

* Pron. bé-voo-ac; an encampment for a night.

your looks bent toward the east; a variety of glowing hues appear and die away again; and, for some time, the sky is blue and clear; when the sun suddenly darts above the horizon, and such a splendour is thrown instantly on the wide expanse of sand and rocks, that, if you were a Persian adorer, you would certainly break out, like the muezzin* from the minaret, in praise and blessing.

The way now became very interesting, and varied by several narrow, deep valleys, where a few stunted palms grew. The next morning, we entered a noble desert, lined on each side by lofty mountains of rock, many of them perfectly black, with sharp and ragged summits. In the midst of the plain, which rose with a continual yet gentle ascent, were isolated rocks of various forms and colours, and over its surface were scattered a number of shrubs of a lively green. Through all the route, we had met few passengers. One or two little caravans, or a lonely wanderer with his camel, had passed at times, and given us the usual salute of "Peace be unto you." * * *

A few hours more we got sight of the mountains round Sinai. Their appearance was magnificent; when we drew nearer, and emerged out of a deep pass, the scenery was infinitely striking, and, on the right, extended a vast range of mountains as far as the eye could reach, from the vicinity of Sinai down to Tor. They were perfectly bare, but of grand and singular form. We had hoped to reach the convent by day-light, but the moon had risen some time, when we entered the mouth of a narrow pass, where our conductors advised us to dismount.

A gentle yet perpetual ascent, led on, mile after mile, up this mournful valley, whose aspect was terrific, yet ever varying. It was not above two hundred yards in width, and the mountains rose to an immense height on each side. The road wound at their feet along the edge of a precipice, and amidst masses of rock that had fallen from above. It was a toilsome path, generally over stones, placed like steps, probably by the Arabs; and the moonlight was of little service to us in this deep valley, as it only rested on the frowning summits above.

Where is Mount Sinai? was the inquiry of every one. The Arabs pointed before to Gabel Mousa, the Mount of

*Muezzin,-one of a religious order, among the Mohammedans, whose clear and sonorous voice, from the minaret, or steeple of a mosque, answers the purpose of a bell, among Christians, to call the people to morning and evening prayers,