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in front of the gate, is the Cave of the prophet Jeremiah, where he is said to have retired to pour forth his Lamentations, where he sat and looked upon the city, exclaiming: "All that pass by clap their hands at thee; they hiss and wag their heads at the daughter of Jerusalem, saying: Is this the city that men call the perfection of beauty, the joy of the whole earth?" It is a cave wrought in the face of the rock, under a burial-ground, and divided from the road by a low wall of loose stones. Here hermits were wont to live, but the place is now untenanted, unless by a few goats that browse on the slope in front of it.

Proceeding a short distance from the cave of the prophet, we came to what was formerly called Bezetha or Conopolis, now occupied by olive trees, but formerly by people of the lower class, and inclosed by Agrippa with a thick wall of great strength.

Not far from this there are some fine ancient sepulchres, commonly called the Tombs of the Kings of Israel, but generally considered to be the tomb of the Empress Helena, Queen of Adiabene, who was buried near Jerusalem, with her son, Izatus. After clambering over some rubbish, and descending a little, we arrived in a large open court cut out of the rock. On the west side it is hollowed out so as to form a wide entrance, which has a band of carved work over it, consisting of large clusters of grapes and garlands of flowers, mingled with other ornaments, all beautifully sculptured, and bearing evidence of Roman skill. The sides of the entrance, which were once ornamented with columns, are now broken and defaced. On the left hand side of this entrance is a small aperture, through which we crept on our hands and knees, and entered an antechamber, about six feet high and ten feet square. We saw several passages leading from this into other chambers, where there are recesses hewn in the rock for the reception of marble sarcophagi, portions of which, with fragments of the panelled stone doors that closed the entrance to them, are strewn on the ground. The doors had stone pivots, which turned in sockets cut in the rock.

As the day was closing, we took a hasty glance at the Tombs of the Judges, that are situated a short distance to the north of the sepulchres we had just quitted; but were not repaid for the trouble, as they are far inferior in execution.

Crossing the fields in a south-easterly direction, we came to the head of the Valley of Kedron, where some vineyards and olive plan

tations form the eastern boundary of the deep bed of the brook, which passes in a southerly direction through the vale, between Mount Olivet and the hills on which the Holy City is built, thence through the wilderness of St. Saba, and is finally lost in the Dead Sea. Although the bed of the Kedron bears ample evidence of its former greatness, it is now dry, and no longer gladdens the eye of the pilgrim with its silvery stream; for, except during the winter months, when the rain has contributed with the snow to form a pool, there is never any water in its bed. There are associations of an historical kind connected with the brook. It is probable that David and all his people crossed the ancient bridge over its bed, which is near to the tomb of Mary, when he fled from Absalom (2 Sam. xv. 28). It was near to this brook that the idol of Maachah was burnt by her son Asa (1 Kings xv. 13); it was in the fields of Kedron that Josiah ordered the priests to burn the vessels that were made for Baal, and to cast the dust of the altars, which the Kings of Judah and Manassah had made, into the brook (2 Kings xxiii. 12); and

"Thou, soft-flowing Kedron! by thy limpid stream, Our Saviour, at night, when the moon's silver beam Shone bright on thy waters, would oftentimes stray, And lose in their murmurs the toils of the day." We passed over the bridge with one arch, mentioned above, and entered the garden of "dark Gethsemane," with its eight aged olive trees inclosed by a stone wall. It was "Alone to the shade of Gethsemane's garden

The Saviour repair'd when the supper was o'er, Weigh'd down with the load of their guilt, for whose pardon

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Such wonders of sorrow and suffering he bore." Although this may not be the actual site of the Garden of Gethsemane, still it must be in the vicinity, because we know that it was over the brook Cedron" (John xviii. 1), and " near to the city." The guide pointed to a part of the garden, which, he informed us, is looked upon as accursed, being the place where the traitor Judas walked when he came with "a great multitude, with swords and staves," and betrayed his Divine Master with a kiss (Matt. xxvi. 47-49). The south-eastern corner of the garden-a ledge of rocks-is assigned as the spot where Peter, James, and John slept (Luke xxii. 43).

Commencing the ascent of the Mount of Olives, we were shown the Grotto of the Agony, which the monks assert is the one where our Saviour retired, and, kneeling down, prayed

"Oh, Father, behold in compassion thy Son

Now let this cup pass;' then, as plaintive, he sighed,

Exclaimed, 'Not my will, but thine, Father, be done;'

and his sweat was, 66 as it were, great drops of blood falling down to the ground" (Luke xxii. 42-44). A little further on, the guide pointed to a spot where our Saviour is said to have taught the Apostles the Universal Prayer, and near to this is the cave where the Creed was composed.

The Mount of Olives forms part of a range of limestone mountains extending to the north and south-west. It has three unequal summits; the highest of them, rising from the garden of Gethsemane, is crowned by the Church of the Ascension, within which is shown a stone having a mark something like the impression of a foot. This is affirmed to be the print of our Saviour's foot, left upon the stone at the moment of his ascension; the mark of the other foot is said to have been removed by the Saracens, and placed in the Mosque of Omar. Helena, the mother of Constantine, founded a monastery on the spot, which was afterwards converted into a mosque; and the Turks now exact a tribute from all pilgrims who may desire to have an impression of the foot-print on the stone.

A little to the north of the church is a spot pointed out as the one where the Apostles retired after the ascension of our Saviour; "and while they looked steadfastly toward heaven," they were accosted by two angels: "Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing up into heaven?" (Acts i. 11.)

The view from this part is very fine, and decidedly the most extensive. At our feet is the Garden of Gethsemane, and the Tomb of the Virgin near to it; the Valley of Kedron and the Vale of Jehoshaphat, with the Tombs of Absalom, Jehoshaphat, and Zacharias. To the south is the village of Siloam, the Mount of Offence, and the Pool of Siloam. Before us is a cluster of flat-roofed buildings, mingled with domes and lofty minarets, and relieved by long lines of streets and ruined walls, cypresses and olive trees, rugged cliffs and sterile banks; while in the midst we can see the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the bazaars, the Via Dolorosa winding from St. Stephen's Gate, and in front Mount Moriah, crowned with the Mosque of Omar, flashing its gilded crescents and spires in the last rays of the declining sun. Far away to the south the eye wanders o'er the barren hills of Judah, the Jordan, the still waters of the Dead Sea, and the distant mountains of

Moab; and below us on our left is a fine olive tree, with gnarled trunk and branches, that stands near the road to Jericho, along which the Bedouin is leading his camel; while, afar off, a husbandman is gathering the flocks that have endeavored to obtain a meal from the scorched herbage during the day.

Although we saw many other spots from the Mount, including the Hill of Evil Council, Mount Zion, and the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, the day was too far advanced to remain there any longer; therefore we descended, and retracing our steps, passed through St. Stephen's Gate, so called from its vicinity to the spot where Stephen was stoned (Acts vii. 58), and entered the Via Dolorosa, the road along which our Lord passed to Calvary, which contains many traditional sites connected with that event.

Proceeding along this street, which runs from east to west, we were first pointed out the residence of the Turkish governor, and then the arch of the Ecce Homo! over which is a double window, where Pilate is said to have brought our Saviour forth to the people, saying, "Behold the Man!" (John xix. 5.) At this time of the year and day the street was thronged with pilgrims and Jews, and bore an unusual appearance of bustle; for camels with noiseless tread were bearing bales of merchandise along, while the hum of voices was louder than usual. A few yards beyond this are the remains of a church, built on the spot where the mother of our Saviour met him. Sixty paces further on, Simon the Cyrenean met the multitude, and was compelled to bear the cross when our Saviour fell down under the weight of it (Luke xxiii. 26). The guide gravely pointed to an impression in the wall which he said was made by the end of the cross! Near to this is the spot where our Saviour turned to the women that were following him, and said, "Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me." After this we were pointed out in the following order, the Dwelling of Lazarus; the House of the Rich Man; the House of Veronica, the pious woman; and the Gate of Judgment, through which our Saviour passed as he went to Calvary. But we have lingered almost too long amid these traditional sights, for

"The sun is set-and yet his light
Is lingering in the crimson sky,
Like memory beautiful and bright
Of holy men that die.

"The dews fall gently on the flower,

Their fresh'ning influence to impart,
As pity's tears, of soothing power,
Revive the drooping heart."

CHAPTER II.

A WOMAN'S BOOK.

BY ELMA.

(Concluded from page 341.)

"Now," said Mr. Milford, " for the explanation."

"I have none to give."

"Then, of course, I can draw my own inferences. I found Psyche in the arms of Cupid, somewhat after the fashion of this"-pointing to the beautiful statue that adorned the room. "You found a foolish boy at my feet, Mr. Milford; that was all you found."

"All! that is a good deal to the boy, Amy; the remembrance of that abject kneeling to the woman he loves, if that love be not returned, will remain forever branded on his heart as if with a burning iron."

"You give him credit for a lasting love, when it is only the passing fancy of a passionate boy."

"A fancy you have encouraged." "I???

"Yes; you have petted and fondled him into this state of love, and now you are striving to stem the wild current with a few cold words." There was a slight degree of warmth in Mr. Milford's manner as he spoke.

"Mr. Milford, you are unjust; you talk like all men; you cannot understand how a woman can be kind, yes, even tender to one of the opposite sex, without having any wish to attract his love."

"But you saw the love that was gathering strength under your fostering care, and you took no pains to check it."

"Mr. Milford, I learned one lesson very early in life, which I have never wished unlearned. I have saved myself many a heartache by never thinking myself loved until I was told so. All attentions paid me, however devoted and flattering, I set down to friendly civility, and not to love. Many a woman makes herself miserable for life by her vanity; this great female blunder I have been spared. I build up no superstructure of love and hope on the baseless fabric of a little attention that simply said 'I like you;' not 'I love you.'"

"Women, Amy, know pretty well how to distinguish the true from the false. No woman ever inspired a genuine love that she did not know it."

"Women are as apt to go astray on this point as men. A few tender words, a few polite at

tentions, and the heart flutters and beats almost as wildly as if it had heard the words 'I love you.' My vanity has never led me into this snare."

"But, Amy, your heart must certainly have told you that there was danger to this boy in daily, close companionship with one of your-"

"Wonderful attractions," she laughed. "Well, no; my heart was altogether dumb on that subject, and told me nothing, excepting that here was a youth full of genius and noble impulses. We met frequently; I was attracted by him; we were attracted by each other; I loved to talk to him, to draw out his right ideas and his wrong ones. He came to see me, and brought with him his poems, which he read to me. I criticized them, sometimes lovingly, sometimes harshly. He paid me many attentions, which I accepted, in the same way that I would accept yours, Mr. Milford."

"Thank you." He smiled with his eyes. "The thought never occurred to me that he would be foolish enough to think that he loved me. A very young man is not apt to fall in love with a woman several years his senior, and not pretty. So, without a thought of doing him any wrong, I showed him how much I liked him, and now—”

"You must be just, and marry him."

The color rushed to her face, and covered it with a crimson glow; she attempted to speak, but the words died away.

"To develop and strengthen that love, Amy, will be a far holier mission than to write a book."

She looked at him earnestly. Was he jesting? No; he seemed really in earnest, and she could scarcely restrain the indignant feelings that were burning within her heart as she answered, coolly :

"Perhaps your advice is excellent; some of these days I may follow it."

"You could not do better."

"Doubtless you, that are so well skilled in the affairs of love, must be aware how much more devoted is the passion of innocent twenty than the love of-"

"Wicked thirty-five. Finish your sentence. Yes, thirty-five years of selfish indulgence have made me very hard, and very wicked, and very-"

"Unjust, Mr. Milford."

"Well, yes; and unjust. What else?" "Utterly incapable of appreciating the kindly motives of a woman's heart; setting down as a positive crime that act which was beneficent, and prompted only by purity and goodness of thought and purpose."

"What a monster you make me out! Is there no goodness in me?"

"I dare say there is, but to me you are only harsh and unfeeling. I see but your dark shades; the bright side you turn to the world." "Have I never done you a kindness?" "Yes."

"Do I not show great pleasure in being with you?"

"O yes, and so does the house dog; but only this morning he bit my finger."

"Have I never shown you any tenderness, Amy?" His voice grew softer and more earnest. She looked at him as if she would pierce to the very depths of his soul. The boy with his heart on his lips was so easy to read; but the man, whose very words seemed to conceal his thoughts, how could she fathom him? Her voice quivered as she replied:

"Tender! no, you are only ruthless and savage; you accuse me of plotting to win a boy's love for the pleasure of trampling it under my feet; of being cruel where I meant to be kind; of doing that from which my very soul revolts, exciting a passion that I cannot return, plunging a young and loving heart into misery and despair, to gratify a woman's vanity. If this is the way you show your kindness, deliver me from your tender mercies. Mr. Milford, I do not believe that you have one glimmering of tenderness in your whole nature, especially for a woman. Why, the faintest spark that 'dwells in that boy's heart is a blaze of living fire, compared with your dead ashes."

Mr. Milford turned pale, his lips quivered, and he said, sadly: "Amy, duty may keep the man from saying what passion forced from the lips of the boy; nevertheless, the fire may burn alike in both hearts. It is you who are now unjust."

"Help me to close the piano, Mr. Milford. I don't understand one word of what you are saying. I only know that you have advised me to marry Everard. Good-night, most sage of Mentors."

He took her hand in his, and, as he held it, he said: "Oh, Amy! there is a woe upon my heart that is crushing me to the earth." And he released her hand.

She placed it, as if in gentle benediction, on

his arm; and, looking inquiringly into his face, said: "What can I do for you?"

He did not shrink from that hand's light pressure, or from the look of earnest, inquiring sympathy that beamed from her eyes. He said, mournfully: "There is no help for me; some of these days I will tell you all."

She bowed her head; another low, murmured "Good-night," and she was gone.

The next morning Mr. Milford sought her in the conservatory, where she was picking the dead leaves from the plants.

"I have come to say good-by; I am going home again."

She started; but soon recovered herself, and said, "Now? this moment?"

"Not exactly this moment."

"Can you not wait until I pick off these withered leaves? and then I will go with you into the library."

"Yes; I have an hour to spare, and I wish to talk to you."

Listlessly she walked around the plants, scarcely seeing what was before her. How she would miss him! A dreary shadow had fallen on her heart-a heavy weight.

"You are plucking the green leaves," said Mr. Milford, as he sat quietly watching her. "Am I?"

"Why, yes; see, here is a handful. I will take this one away with me, as the children say, 'to remember you by.'"

"You will require some reminder, no doubt; for my own part, I think there are many things we are far happier in forgetting than remembering."

"Yes; but I have no wish to forget you; the remembrance of those hours I passed here will be to me a thing of joy forever."

"I am ready to go into the library, Mr. Milford."

They entered the library. How tranquil and quiet it seemed! How many hours of pure happiness had they known there, when, mind revealing itself to mind, heart had learned to love heart. And now was to come that stern good-by that so often terminates life's pleasantest intercourse.

"I wish to tell you good-by, Amy." "So you intimated to me before." "I need not expect you to say 'I am sorry, Mr. Milford.'"

"No, you need not," she said, quietly, looking cold enough to freeze the warmest love.

"We have known some pleasant hours here," he said, glancing round the room-"at least, I have; hours that can never come again. My

visit has been all too short, and too long," he added, mournfully.

She merely looked at him, but made no reply, though she longed to give vent to her feelings, and the weight on her heart was growing each moment heavier.

"I shall miss you, but you will scarcely miss me, Amy."

She answered quietly, so quietly that you had to listen earnestly to catch the low tones: "It is the left that are ever the lonely."

"In this quiet little nook I have felt a perfect rain of sunshine coming down upon me; but I go, and my niche Everard will fill. You must write to me, Amy, and tell me when you decide to marry him. If you do not intend to become his wife, for Heaven's sake be less kind to that boy." And Mr. Milford arose, and paced the room with hurried steps.

Amy sat like a statue, the color forsook her cheek. "Are you going to attack me again on this subject?" she at length said, coldly.

Mr. Milford seated himself beside her. "Amy, forgive me if I pain you.'

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"I really do not understand you, Mr. Milford," she said, somewhat impatiently. "I wish to be true, but people will not let me. It is the law of my nature, and I must obey it, to give kindness to those who need it, even though it subjects me to misrepresentation and even scandal. If my motives are pure, I defy the world's opinion; I am willing to wait until justice is done me; if you will not give it to me, perhaps others may."

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"I do not mean to be unjust, Amy." "No; but you are, notwithstanding. acting out the good impulses of my nature, I know I do no wrong. Everard needs my kind sympathy, and he shall continue to have it. You would make a statue of me, when I am a living woman."

"Amy, I am not so foolish as to think that a woman is bound to conceal her feelings until they become so frozen within her that they actually have not the power to flow forth. I would rather see her open, candid, honest, showing her preferences in a natural way. I despise cant, affectation; I admire truth; let every man as well as woman try to act it out. There is much in life that is utterly false, and much in the relations of man and woman-a falsehood engendered by conventional codes. I would not have a woman restrain one kindly impulse for fear that the world may misinterpret or ridicule her actions; but I would have her, in being true to herself, to try and not be false to others. If I speak warmly on this

subject, you must pardon me. The darkest page in my life's history opens at this very place; and if I seem to pity and sympathize with this boy, it is because I, too, need pity and sympathy. I would ward from him the cruel blow that felled me, bleeding and bruised, to the earth."

Mr. Milford's voice quivered as memories of the past rushed over him. Amy did not look at him, but she felt that his gaze was fixed upon her.

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Scarcely twenty-two when I first met with Margaret Sommers, my whole being was absorbed in a wild worship of this fascinating but subtle woman. She drew me to her with a force I could not resist; one long, smiling look brought me to her side, one playful gesture of her soft hand laid on my arm kept me there. I was twenty-two, she was thirty-two; yet she had the power of adaptation to so wonderful an extent that no young man ever felt that he was not on a perfect equality with her, even in age. I never realized that she was one day older than I was; of the ten years that lay between us I was utterly unconscious. With that subtle power that women know so well how to use, she drew me on until my very soul seemed consumed by the devouring flame of love. I loved her madly-I adored her. Those are strong words; no man can use them more than once in a life; some not even that. She was the one thought of my life. I do not think she meant to do me wrong. She saw that I loved her, and the unselfish worship of a boy pleased her vanity. One day I told her my love with a heart whose wild beats almost smothered me. She interrupted me with a passionate burst of tears.

"Oh, stop!' she said. 'I like you so much; you are to me as a precious young brother.' "No, no; not brother; I will not accept that name!' I exclaimed.

"I can give you no other,' she sobbed. 'Oh, poor child, you make me miserable!'

"I am not a child!' I exclaimed, passionately. Good heavens! am I not a man, with a man's passions, a man's powers? Can I not love as a man?'

"Hush! hush! you only make me wretched,'

she said.

"I will go from you forever, Margaret, if you taunt me with my youth. Heaven only knows we grow old fast enough in this wretched world. Must I go, and come back to you when I have grown older in years, in selfishness, in worldliness, and in crime?' I felt mad; I scarcely knew what I was saying.

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