and fortifying some passages towards the sea, so as to preclude any relief from that quarter, while he posted a body of troops here and at Athenry, to control any movement that might be attempted by Lord Clanrickard. The rendition of this castle was one of the articles subsequently required in this treaty, for the surrender of Galway. 1651, The castle here was taken by the provincial forces. The rectory and vicarage of Clare-Galway are now part of the possessions of the Church of St. Nicholas of Galway. It would seem, however, that the warden in right of said church, was formerly only entitled to three-fourths of the tithes of this parish, the other fourth being of the ancient revenue of the see of Tuam, whose prelate claims the right of patronage to this benefice. Near this is Creg Castle, erected by Kirwan, in 1648, who, in Cromwell's time, received the thanks of General Ireton, and a permission under his hand and seal to carry arms, in consequence of the protection he afforded to the Protestants during the troubles of 1641. This castle has been new modelled, and was, I apprehend, the residence of the celebrated chemist Kirwan. Close to Clare-Galway is also the hill of Knocktow, where Gerald, the eighth Earl of Kildare, on the 19th of August, 1504, defeated in battle, his son-in-law, Ulick, Earl of Clanrickard. I was here interrupted in a manner so exceedingly singular, that although it diverts me from the legitimate object of this article, I cannot but communicate it to your expectant thousands, and tens of thousands. A letter was handed to me, closed with a large black seal, that presented, as I first thought, the escutcheon of some of those high mightinesses whom I honour with the familiarity of my correspondence. It was not, however, the Duke of -'s, nor yet the Marquis of -'s, neither the Viceroy's, nor the Premier's, nor even the Attorney-General's, and I rejoiced that none of these my esteemed had reason to resort to so gloomy a herald, "Black might be ominous !" But if I were inclined not to trust the colour, as the Roman poet advises, how much more awed was I on a closer inspection of the armorials—a coffin charged with about a dozen fat faces of cherubs, supplied the place of the shield, the crest was a skull poised between two cross bones, the supporters were on the right, a skeleton, partly enwreathed in a shroud, (if I could give that name to a drapery of much fashion and grace,) and resting on a black-letter motto of Memento Mori, while that on the left presented a form with which I have been too familiar to mistake it-a form of such lovely yet melancholy interest; features so pensive, yet so intelligent; an eye that seemed not to woo, but won to everlasting homage; a voice that obtruded not, but yet, like Juliet's, was more eloquent for its silence.-It was the Genius of the past-the Spirit of bye-gone days, that like the first love of the poet, Still lingering haunts the greenest spot Wonder not, if I gazed for some time upon the beautiful and striking impression of this supporter, softly as it appeared to rest upon a scroll, with the more congenial motto of Auld Lang Syne. That captivating spirit had been to me not only the chronicle of long departed ages, but also, the welcome associate of a great portion of my own. In the consciousness of her own dignity she has deigned, not unfrequently, to reveal herself to my enamoured sight; sometimes I have found her environed in the fosses of an ancient fort; again, leaning over the battlements of some wreck of feudal splendour, or monastic hospitality, she has inspirited my soul with the glories of chivalry, or softened my heart with tales of legendary faith. Up winding stairs have I followed ner to her throne of mantled ivy, and from such a wild observatory full often has she defined to me those ruins that on such occasions surrounded us; those ruins of art which nature had, in a manner, claimed into her possession, and clothed in her own ever-verdant livery. The train of my thinking was, however, here again diverted by an intimation that the bearer of the letter, which I had so received, required an immediate answer. I turned over the epistle, looked at the address with as much hesitation as if I questioned whether it was not a personal service of my death-warrant, or that like the squire in "She stoops to conquer," I could not read more than the superscription. At last, however, I cut round the awful seal, and emancipated the intelligence. It ran as follows:- "MOST VENERABLE SIR,-The voice of your country hath called me up amidst you. Her chronicles are in ruins, and her monuments cry unto me-ay, cry unto me from the ground beneath which they are buried. I have heard the clink of your hammer too, but it was feeble and tremulous; your will is good, but you know not the tools which you would handle. Take me as your help-meet, and I will hold you in my chiefest confidence. Be unto me as the pillar in the wilderness; I will move over the face of the land; I will follow you to the vallies and the high places; I will call upon the tombs and they shall yield their dead; I will strike upon the stones and the fountains of their history shall be broken up; I have come from the land of my heart-take me to yours-my spirit is weary." OLD MORTALITY." Old Mortality! I mentally exclaimed, for although I had seen, in your third number, an announcement, purporting to be from him, and, although I had observed a notice of his recent arrival at "The Brazen Head," Bridge-Street, I yet confess, the former intimation did not appear to bear his imprimatur, and I treated the latter as rather a certificate of the high antiquity of the hotel alluded to. Could it be that Mr. Pattieson had erroneously detailed the circumstances of his decease, and mistaken the identity of the pilgrim who closed his mental toils on the highway near Lockerby? or yet, may he not be the wandering Jew? or has he drank of the elixir of immortality? "I don't think he seems to have drank any thing," says my valet (whose presence I had forgotten as I gave utterance to the last sentence,) "but this I know, Sir, that he insists upon coming up to get the answer fresh from your own self." "Produce him, then," I replied, with an effort to seem composed, and throwing myself on a chair, I awaited the mysterious visitant, with my strained eyes fixed upon the now closed door, as if to ascertain the materiality of his nature by the manner of his entrance. The door, however, did open, and tottering with emotion, a being enveloped in the folds of a Highland plaid, glided into the apartment. Closing the door cautiously behind him, he raised himself erect against it, whilst I, looking all the silence of consummate wonder, and loath to advance, remained at an awful distance watching the stranger, who, at length, slowly unwinding his tartan, dropped it expressively from around him, and as with one wild effort manning himself, stood before my gaze, the wreck of a great Spirit,-Old Mortality himself. 66 Ay, look upon me, now," he cried, "my countenance is fallen, and my heart is crushed. The inspired of my revelation hath been gathered to his fathers. He paused. I could not express the powerful feelings that agitated my mind -I already felt as if the vision of this being delighted me, yet feared a touch-a step--a very word might dissipate the delusion. The countenance that so much excited my feelings was one with which adversity seemed to have busied herself in vain, misfortune after all had but seasoned it, and every feature wore the hardihood of many a well-braved winter. "Come not near me," said he, "he is gone that was my stay and my Seannachie, and I too am in ruins," fixing upon me, at the same time, the full majesty of eyes that had lost little of the fire of youth, or at least still wore a splendour in their waning. "Do not come near me, I am in ruins; look at that tion, "it is the web of my country's loom-but I am a fugitive plaid," he added, bending down his eyes with a subdued emoand a wanderer.- -And here," he continued, "while I lay down my mantle, let me not be deemed for ever forgetful of my country. Oh! Scotland! Scotland! full many a winning claim hast thou on the world's admiration, the majesty of thy classic hills; the chivalry of thy history; the scientific acquirements of thy philosophers; the martial triumphs of thy soldiery; the enterprise and perseverance of thy merchants and citizens." tachment to each other that pervades every class of Scotchmen," "And, above all, that love of home and country; that atI now ventured to interpolate, as I thought of all those bondsof Caledonian friendship, even those links that in the idlest commemorations are so powerfully endearing, the foy-the draje -the hogmany-how different from the party anniversaries of Ireland. But," he added, "I must for yet a little space mingle with thy feelings too. For a day thy country shall be my country; thy home shall be my home; I will stand upon the grave of rection, and peal into her ears, Arise! Arise!" thy national literature; I will sound the trumpet of her resur gesting the plagiarism, as I perceived him expanding with the "I perceive you read the newspapers," said I, delicately sug sublimity of the thought and sentiment, "you have borrowed your expressiveness from -? "Breathe not his name," he replied, "I am no politician; but remember the words that I say to you, secure me that place in your periodical which should be mine, and a year, a little year cannot pass away ere you shall have your hundreds of thousands of readers in the land; I will etch out the monuments of the monarchs-the saints-the heroes-the bards I bethought me of the mighty designs of sculpture, which had been projected for execution, on (I think) Parson Trulliber's cudgel, but which were frustrated by the wholly unforeseen lack of space, and, determining to resume the narrative when occasion would admit, I for the present winked to my amanuensis, to close this communication with the authorised signature of J. D. THE BREAKING HEART. "Look on me, Aggy, ay, look on me, and shake your head, and say to yourself, Honor Healy is not long for this world; the twisted white garland that becomes a virgin, will soon be planted on her grave!'-say this, Aggy, to yourself, and then turn round to me, and say, like that false world I am about to leave, Honor Healy you are doing bravely."" "Indeed, Honor, I'll say no such thing, for I do think that you seem to be very poorly; but with the help of God we will get you over it." "Over it! never- -and with the help of God too! Oh! Aggy, I deserve no help from God, though I do from man." “Oh! Honor, Honor, this is worse than being at the death's door. Recollect, Honor, you had an honest father and mother, who though they died when you were young, yet left this world with the priest's blessing upon them. Oh! Honor, sure you have never done any thing to disgrace them, or bring upon you a curse from God." 66 'I havn't done it yet, but look at this !" The persons thus introduced to the reader were Honor Healy and Aggy Brien. The first a lovely young country girl, with light flaxen ringlets, a pale delicate skin, and a cheek which burned with that dazzling red spot which marks out the person who bears it, an early victim to the grave. Her wasted and (young as she was) her withered form was enveloped in woollen garments. She raised herself to a sitting posture on the settle-bed, upon which she had been lying, and handed to her friend Aggy, a comely and still youthful matron, a narrow piece of paper, and as she did so, she said, "look at this!" "This!" exclaimed Aggy, unrolling the paper, and looking at the white powder contained in it, and then tasting it, "this! why, what can this have to do with the state of your soul? This! why, this is sugar-no-it is-Honor Healy, I know, ah! I ought to know it well-it is poison! Honor, if you ever hope for salvation, if you would not be walked upon by devils for ever, I charge you, on the apparel (peril) of your soul tell me what do you mean to do with this?" "It's a short story, and I'll tell it to you. I needn't say to you who know it, how I loved and regarded my old playmate, my school-fellow, and bed-fellow, Jenny Macken. Aggy, I doated on her, and I would do so still, but that she deceived me. Oh! how she ill-used me. From my youngest days I was fond of James Maguire, and he was, I am sure, equally fond of me, and-and-and still he might be so, but for that cruel, that hard-hearted, and that perjured woman. Aggy, give me a drink of whey, or I cannot continue my story. It is as if it was only yesterday, I remember walking in that dark and close boreen, that winds around the high-road to Kilkenny that narrow little boreen, (you know it well,) where the hedges nearly close up the pathway for travellers, and where the hawthorn-blossoms scatter scents about, as plentifully as May morning brings dew upon the cups of the cowslip-I remember when all was sweetness, and calmness, and sun-set, when the mildness of the evening, and the red colour of the sun going down was like, to my mind, the deep flush and the quietness of a baby sleeping. I remember well-oh! I shall never forget that evening-James Maguire had asked me to marry him, and, to be sure, I said I would have him. My heart was full of joy-I thought that every thing was doing its best to please me I thought that the trees were more green, the pathway straighter, the air more mild, and that as I smiled, every thing looked delighted with me. That evening, Aggy, and when my heart was so full, I was walking with Jenny Macken, and I told her what had happened that day, and I said I was to be married, and in the foolishness of my mind I taunted her, that though she was a great deal prettier yet I me. From would be a bride before her. It was a foolish taunt; but the Lord knows I paid heavily, and severely, and sorrowfully for the same nonsensical saying. Jenny frowned at me; and oh! I think that I see in the frown that curled on her white forehead, I think there was the darkness and coldness of the black coffin, and the clayey grave. She said to me too, with a smile that went to my heart, it was so desperate and cruel, may be after all, Honor Healy, you would be wishing to be in my place!' It was too true for her. God help me! it was too true. that evening out she set herself down to please James Maguire, and may be it was because she was handsomer than I am, for she looks like an angel, though she has the disposition of a devil; and may be it was because I was a little jealous of her that James Maguire quarrelled with me; and sure enough she was married to him, and sure enough I had every reason to wish to be in her place; but I hate, yes, I hate, I detest and I curse them both; she for injuring me, he because he deceived But I know I am going-I know that the grave-yard is my doom; and now, Aggy, as you ask me what I'm going to do with the paper, I'll tell you-I'll take right good care, as she was married before me, so shall she be buried before me.-She's to be here to-day, and that powder she'll get in a tay-cup. That's my story for you, Aggy-I hope Jenny Macken will be here shortly; for I feel that I am going mighty fast." "God between us and all harm! what are you thinking of doing? Is it going before Him who made you, with hands red with the blood of one of his creatures. To be sure, Jenny Macken injured you, but do you want her to be the means of injuring you more and more; she has only destroyed your happiness here, but would you want her to be the means of ruining you, not only here, but hereafter. Oh! Honor, Honor, if you kill a Christian by poison, never think of salvation-you won't and you can't expect it. Honor, you never saw, as I did, any one die by poison. My eldest daughter died that way, and oh if you saw the creature, when the poison began to work on her; she, the innocent darling, took it unknown to me, and when I first saw her after it, there was every feature in her face twisted into twenty forms; her cheeks were as blue as indigo, her body was crudled (curled) up like a ball, and then her shrieks, her cries, her agonies, and her groans till she died. Honor, you can have no idea of it-my only comfort, and wasn't it sad comfort for a mother, it was to see my only child dying before my face. I was only able to cry, Honor, when I saw its eyes, its darling large, full, sweet, innocent, harmless black eyes turned up to heaven, and they looked as if smiling upon the happiness that it was to enjoy for ever, and for ever! I cried then, Honor, and I cry still when I think of it; but what would I do! what could I do if I was dying as you are, and after suffering such punishment here, saw the person I had poisoned gasping out her last breath, and going before Him, who made her and myself, with all her sins upon her head." "Hold me, Aggy," shrieked the unfortunate Honor, “hold me-I am going-God forgive Jenny Macken, and I forgive her. God forgive me for the thought of killing her. Forgive forgive me-oh! forgive-" Aggy, in vain, endeavoured to hold the convulsed and panting form of Honor Healy. She rolled out of her arms, and when she again raised it from the ground, the blood-stained lips, and the fallen jaw, shewed to her that the miserable victim of distracting passions was quite dead! M. A CAPITAL SUCCESSION.-At the overthrow of King James the Second's party in Cork, a pedestrian statue of that misguided monarch stood in the county Court-house, then called the King's Old Castle; on entering which the friends of his more successful son-in-law overthrew the statue, and broke the head off. In this state it lay on the stairs leading to the offices, until the re-building of the Court-house, about twenty-seven years ago, when it was placed on a pedestal, in the grand juryroom, the decapitation being repaired by placing a head of William the Third on the vacant trunk, verifying the old adage, Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. NETTLES.-The nettle is said to have the following properties eaten in sallad, it relieves consumption; it fattens horned cattle, whether eaten green or dried; it not only fattens calves, but improves their flesh; it is an antidote to most maladies; sheep which eat it bring forth healthy vigorous lambs; it promotes the laying of eggs in hens; it promotes the fat of pigs; the seeds mixed with oats are excellent for horses; it grows all the year round, even in the coldest weather; and the fibres of the stem make an excellent hemp. ILLUSTRATIONS OF NATIONAL PROVERBS.-No. 11. [BY SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ. R. H. A.] PETER MOLLOY was now, what is commonly called, "a happy man;" but there was not so miserable a happy man in the king's dominions. He had suddenly brought upon him the charge of a wife, without any previous means laid by for supporting her, and he had lost his employment the morning after he had married. This was a black prospect for poor Peter, and when he considered that not only he, who was guilty of the imprudence, should suffer, but that his poor mother, against whose advice he had acted, should feel the consequences of his rashness, also, his conscience rose up against him in judgment, and his heart smote him for being an undutiful child as well as a foolish young man. The poor mother did not speak unkindly to her son, but was more silent than usual, and evidently in sorrow. His mother's forbearance and grief were additional loads upon poor Peter's heart, for we have said, already, that his heart was better than his head. But grieving would not get him and his wife and mother a dinner, so Peter set out to look for another situation. He was not a tradesman, therefore, to find a new employment was more difficult for him. He could not leave one workshop and go directly and get wages in another, though this itself is not so easily done at times. He had held a situation of some trust, as a warehouse-man, and had been valued by his master for his attention and trust-worthiness; but he failed in the former, and that rendered his employer less sure of the latter quality. To find such another employment as this was not easy, and day after day was consumed in looking for something to do. The support they wanted during these days was derived from pawning various little pieces of comfort that Peter, in his days of industry, had been enabled to get about his poor mother; and as, one by one, necessity forced their being sent to the pawnbrokers, the look of silent sorrow that gleamed from the tearful eyes of the old woman would have touched a harder heart than Peter's. He went with two silver tea-spoons one morning to the pawnbrokers, and it grieved him sorely to pledge this "little bit of decency," that the mother was pleased to have about her, and as he came to the lane where the entrance to this last refuge of struggling necessity was situated, he felt the blush of shame burn on his cheek, and his manly blood rise from his heart, chokingly, into his throat, at the thought of the degradation he suffered, in being obliged to have recourse to such means of support; he looked sharply round at the corner of the lane, to see that no acquaintance was near, to witness his disgrace, and then darted down the filthy place, and turned into the dark entry under the ill-boding sign of the three golden balls. It was yet early in the morning, but the strong scent of whiskey was distinguishable amongst other odours that rendered the foetid atmosphere of this den peculiarly disgusting. As he entered, he overheard the end of a dialogue between the pawnbroker and a miserable wretch who was entreating a further advance than the other would give on a pair of inexpressibles, much the worse for wear. "Oh, give me another shillin." "I wouldn't give you a shilling altogether on them." "On them," said the fellow, with a shrug of his ragged shoul ders-"Throth, thin, though you won't give me a shillin' on them, it's many a good shillin' I've had in them any how." "The pockets must have been in better order then, than now," said the broker, " for he'd be a clever fellow could keep a shilling in them now." By dad," said the unfortunate wretch, in whom misery had not conquered fun, "by dad 'twas all one to me, whether my pockets was good or bad, the divil a shillin' I could ever keep in them-come-give uz what I want." "No-I'll give you ten-pence, or go away-you're delaying other customers." "Oh! they needn't hurry themselves," said the unfortunate wretch-"you'll do their business for them fast enough-here's the dudds-give us the brass." The exchange was made, and as the broker took the piece of attire "Thrate them dacently," said their former owner, "for they belonged to as bowld a woman as ever blackened an eye. Hurra! here goes for another naggin any how, to dhrink confusion to petticoat government." And he staggered out of the office. A woman now drew from under her cloak a handsome silver table-spoon—“I'll throuble you, Sir, for the same on this that you gave me th' other day." The pawn-broker examined it-" I see the crest and cypher are the same as the other you pledged. Where do these come from?" "Oh! Sir, there's nothing wrong in the matther-my misthiss is in want of a trifle, and they'll be redeemed in a few days more, when she hears from the counthry." "Oh, very well," said the broker, and he took the spoon and handed her some money in return. "My misthiss is a very nice lady, Sir, and wouldn't wish it to be known she done the like." had plenty of leisure for repenting the hasty marriage. At last his hopes of employment became so low, that for immediate relief he undertook to carry the placards of a company of equestrians and tumblers, then exhibiting in the city. These placards were suspended from Peter's neck, one before and another behind him; so that, in fact, the equestrians yoked him into their service like one of their beasts. This employment was not at all to Peter's taste-his neck rising from between two pieces of board, struck the little idle boys in the street, as ridiculous, and he was much annoyed one day as he heard one of these little vagabonds say to another, with mischievous fun twinkling in his eye, and the fore-finger of his little dirty paw pointed at him as he moved, in melancholy, towards them, "look, Dinny -look-see de chap in de pillory." "Pillory!"-Peter did not think a little street blackguard could annoy him so much. This encreased the shame he felt as the passers by looked at his placards, while he walked up and down Sackville-street; every look Peter thought was directed at him, and he fancied that instead of reading the placards, every body said to himself, "Look at that unfortunate devil making a show of himself." This was more particularly the case, when some near-sighted person applied his eye-glass to inspect the "bill of the play" he carried,—and from the nature of the advertisement it bore, the contrast between the bearer and the burden was excessively ludicrous. The bill bore a dazzling large red letters was printed underneath, "LOTS OF FUN,"above these, in striking relief to the red-cheeked grinning clown's face, and "lots of fun," rose poor Peter's pale and melancholy visage, his eye sunken and averted, as if it feared to meet the look of his fellow-creatures. The effect was too striking to pass observation, and, at last, two young gentlemen, with more of frolic than humanity in their natures, stopped right before Peter, raised their glasses at him, and burst into a horse-laugh. "You mean," said a gruff voice behind her, "you wouldn't wish it to be known you done the like," and at the same moment she was laid hold of by a policeman. "If your misthiss isn't a nice woman, I think she has uncommon nice sarvant at all events. I'll throuble you, sir, for that silver spoon too," said the offi-wood-cut of a clown's head, grinning from ear to ear, and in cer of justice to the pawnbroker, and the money the unfortunate womankind received was given back, as the spoon was identified to be one of many stolen from her mistress. This produced a great commotion in the office, and Peter was anxious to get his pawn effected, and leave a scene, which every moment was becoming more odious to him. He approached the counter and offered his spoons. "More spoons," said the pawnbroker, and he cast a suspi cious look at Peter. Peter felt indignant at the insinuation the words and look implied, and was going to make an angry answer, but he checked himself and only said, "I'm no thief, sir." "I didn't say you were," said the pawnbroker in a rough tone -"you're mighty ready to defend yourself, I think." "Well if you don't like to take them give them back to me, and some body else will." "Oh, no," said the pawnbroker, "I'll advance you the money," and so he did. "Please God I'll redeem them soon," said Peter, "and then you'll be sure I'm not a robber." Re "Redeem them," said the policeman, looking shrewdly_at Peter" I see you don't know much about such matters. deem indeed!-why did you never hear the maynin' o' the three balls over a pawnbroker's door?" No," said Peter. 66 Then I'll tell you," said the policeman, "the three balls signify, that whatever you bring here, it's two to one against you that you ever see it again ;" and with this comfortable information to Peter he quitted the office with a brother constable bearing the nice suri ant woman between them. Peter went home heavy-hearted, and after a scanty breakfast again went on the search for employment. In the course of his day's walk, he met a friend who invited him to take a tumbler. --" Dhrown care man," said he; and the punch after a slender breakfast had a great effect on Peter, and created in his mind false hope and fortitude. was 66 "Well," said he to his mother on his return, "to-morrow may bring better luck, and may be its for the best afther all." "How do you make that out, Peter alanna?" said the sorrowful woman. "Why maybe I'll meet a betther masther yet.". "Ah! Pether, Mr. Finn was a rale good masther to you.' This stung Peter because it was true, and he answered that he cross and dark enough betimes." "He was a good masther, for all that," said his mother, "and who knows Pether but you sometimes earned the dark look." "Well, at all events there's as good fish in the say as ever was caught," said Peter, "and maybe I'll have a betther place yit-indeed, I'm partly promised one, and what do you say to that now?" "What you often heerd me say before Pether, that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. God send you a good place, and you'll never have betther nor I wish you, but until you got it I wish you had kept the bird in the hand.'" Peter, for some days after, had cause to feel the truth of the two proverbs his mother had applied to his circumstances. His immediate experience taught him that "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush ;" and in his present state of idleness he This was cruelty-The poor fellow whose misery made the contrast laughable, was stung to the heart.-And fun is never worth purchasing at the price of another's pain! Peter could carry his placards no longer that day; he went to his wretched home, and told his mother and Biddy he could "stand it no longer." "I'll give it up," said he, and "I'm promised a better employment next week." "Peter, darlin," said his mother, "it is a hard lot you have, my poor boy, I don't deny, but bear it till you are sure of a better; you're earnin your bread honestly any how, and you know it's true what I tould you already, and tell you again now, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." A PILGRIMAGE TO THE HOLY SEPULCHRE. [BY THE AUTHOR OF CONTARINI FLEMING.] THE European travellers who journey to the Holy City from the sea-coast, over the rich plain of Ramle, and through the mountainous defiles of Judah, find difficulty in suppressing the disappointment they experience at the first sight of Jerusalem Reaching the summit of a rugged mountain, you observe, in the plain immediately before you, a small walled town, its edifices entirely concealed by the fortification, which rises from a stony soil in the midst of dark and savage hils. But enter Palestine from Arabia, and journey from the Dead Sea through the range of mountains terminated by the Mount of Olives, and you can still gaze from that celebrated eminence upon a prospect which may recal, with some play of the imagination, the lost city of David. Jerusalem is built upon the sioping, but hilly brow of a mountain inferior in elevation to Olivet. From this last position, therefore, you can command the whole prospect of the city. It appears before you in form, an irregular square, between two and three miles in circumference, and is entirely surrounded by a turreted wall, of the time of the crusaders, about fifty feet in height, flanked by square towers, and also protected by high loopholes for archery. The eastern side of the city, which is the one opposite Olivet, crests a deep, narrow and precipitous ravine, forming, with the Mount of Olives, the gloomy vale of Jehosaphat; the southern wall intersects the summit of Mount Sion; the northern runs over the plain; the extreme distance is formed by some barren summits rising over the turrets of the western wall. The masses of dwellings, built of bright stone, with domed or terraced roofs, the gates, the castle, the convents of the Latin, Armenian, and Greek Christians, the two Cupolas of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, the mosques and minarets, but, above all, the splendid pile built upon the supposed site of the temple, and which, with its gardens, and arcades, and courts, and fountains, may fairly be described as the most imposing of Moslemin fanes all these form a fine picture, and, contrasting with the stony desolation of the surrounding country, would afford a fit subject for the magical pencil of our Martin. I entered Jerusalem by the gate of Bethlehem. Accustomed to oriental cities, I was not struck by that character of gloom and dreariness which call forth the lamentations of the lively Gauls, who, with no previous experience of the East, so often sail from Marseilles to land at Jaffa or Alexandria. The houses are, indeed, without chimneys or windows, but they are clean and massy; the tall black obelisk-form of an occasional cypress sometimes breaks the monotony of their appearance; sometimes a palm tree, elegant and lone, rises from a graceful roof. The streets are, indeed, hilly, but their narrowness affords both shade and coolness. I entered Jerusalem by the gate of Bethlehem, and claimed hospitality from the famous convent of Terra Santa. It was some time before the gloomy portal, which, by the bye, was cased with iron, cautiously opened, and I found myself in the galleried court of a building of vast size, but so irregular in design that I never could clearly comprehend it. A janissary attached to the convent sat in the court smoking; some Franciscans in their brown robes girt by a white knotted cord, lounged over the balustrade of the gallery, watching our entrance; the armed pilgrims dismounting, the Arab grooms,—the horses, pawing the cool court, and the patient camels, calmly crouching to be unloaded, completed the picture. I was led through many passages, ascended a staircase, proceeded through a range of galleries, passed through a church, and was finally ushered into the presence of the procurator-general, a mild and aged man, dignified, and not deficient in intelligence. The attendant friar knelt and kissed the procurator's hand as he introduced me. I would have followed his example, but the reverend superior prevented me with a deprecating smile. I presented him my letter of introduction; and, while he read it, his attendant opened a closet, and, producing a bottle and glass, offered me a cordial. "The city is full of pilgrims," observed the procurator, "awaiting the ensuing festival of Easter. I cannot say that we are much troubled with them. Alas! the Latins have quite renounced the holy pilgrimage. You heretics," he added with a smile, "are the only Franks who visit us. But our ceremonies, which are frequent and rigid, will, I fear, trouble you, if you become an inmate of the convent. We have a house at hand, which is at your service; and there you will be quite free.— Bread, and wine, and fish shall be regularly supplied to you from the convent; and, if we do not offer you meat, do not report us in England as inhospitable, but remember that it is Lent." I thanked the courteous procurator; and, as it was near sunset, I assented to his proposal of walking on the terraces of the convent. Their extent impressed me with an idea of the great size of the building. We found upon the terraces several groups of brethren inhaling the subdued atmosphere of an eastern eve. The procurator pointed out to me some of the most celebrated buildings of the city. I was more interested by the Mount of Olives, suffused with the reflected beams of the rich sunset. As the twilight died away, the friars gradually withdrew to the refectory. The kind procurator, too, and his attendants, at length departed, inviting me to join them. I remained alone, for a few minutes, on the solitary terrace, to feel the strange and beautiful stillness, to mark the stars rise, as it were, in Arabia, and to remember that I was at length in Jerusalem. The next day I visited the Greek and Armenian convents. I was informed that the first contained two, and the latter four thousand pilgrims. The Armenian convent, with its church and gardens, is certainly a very great establishment. It is, indeed, a little town; and, on the whole, with its walls, and gates, and courts, and shops, reminded me of the citadel of a strong Flemish city. The church would appear splendid even to those accustomed to Italian temples. The walls and columns are entirely covered with porcelain, and rise out of the most magnificent mosaic pavement I ever beheld. The altar of St. James, raised on the spot of his decapitation, is full of fanciful beauty. In my progress to the Armenian convent, I passed the house of Uriah, the pool of Bathsheba, and the palace of David. Scepticism ceases in Jerusalem. Each step is indeed sacred ground; there is not a house, which has not its legend, a stone which is not hallowed, a cave or fountain which is not the scene of some sacred story. The palace of Pilate, the house of Caiaphas, the grotto in which the denying Peter wept, the spring at which the Saviour first met Mary; these are only a few of the memorable spectacles which greet your fascinated vision and agitated mind at every step you move in the holy city. The tower of David, the Mosque of Solomon, and, above all, the Holy Sepulchre-these are the three remaining objects of great interest within the walls. The first is a stout fortress, with a fosse, the whole comparatively of modern date, and probably of the time of the crusades. The Mosque of Solomon, or, more correctly speaking, Omar, I endeavoured to enter at the hazard of my life. I was detected, and surrounded by a crowd of turbaned fanatics, and escaped with difficulty; but I saw enough to feel that minute inspection would not belie the general character I formed of it from the Mount of Olives. I caught a glorious glimpse of splendid courts and light airy gates of Saracenic triumph, flights of noble steps, long arcades, and interior gardens, where silver fountains spouted their tall streams amid the taller cypress. But before I completed my pilgrimage, by kneeling at the Holy Sepulchre, I resolved to examine "the holy places," without the walls of the city. There are no remains of Ancient Jerusalem, or of the ancient Jews. Some tombs there are which may be ascribed to the Asmonean princes; but all the monuments of David and Solomon, and their long posterity, have utterly disappeared. The mountains and valleys around Jerusalem are full of funereal grottos, catacombs, and sepulchres. Descending Sion, you enter the valley of Siloa, which, further on, as a ravine formed by Mount Moriah and Olivet, is called Jehosaphat. The vale of Jehosaphat was ever the favourite burial-place of the Hebrews, and here, among many other tombs, are two of considerable size, which, although of a corrupt Grecian architecture, are dignified by the titles of the tombs of Zachariah and Absalom. In the rainy season, the ravine is filled by a torrent which is still called the brook Kedron; and which washes the gravestones of those Hebrews fortunate enough to obtain a burial-place in the valley of their fathers. The sublime Siloah is a muddy rill; you descend by steps to the fountain which is its source, and which is covered with an arch. Here the blind man received his sight; and, singular enough, to this very day the healing reputation of its waters prevails, and summons to its brink all those neighbouring Arabs who suffer from the opthalmic affeetions not uncommon in this part of the world. Quitting the tombs of Zachariah and Absalom, you arrive at the sepulchre of the Virgin, who had not the good fortune to die at Jerusalem, but whose body was, it is said, miraculously transported hither, after her death, by the apostles. An adjoining grotto is the scene of "the agony and bloody sweat." Mass is said at the tomb of the Virgin by all the sects, and indeed it is a very favourite spot of religious assembly. Further on, you arrive at a small enclosure which you are apprised is the field of blood, where Judas betrayed the Son of Man with a kiss; and then follows the rock where the Saviour predicted the destruction of the temple. On this brow the Lord's prayer was taught, and, in yonder cave, the creed composed. Through a succession of similar scenes, impossible to enumerate-although, perhaps, I should not forget the cave of the plaintive Jeremiah—I at length arrived at two of the principal objects of my search, the tombs of the Judges. These are both cavernous excavations, with small arched recesses for receiving bodies, but adorned by no painting and no sculpture of any kind. The tombs of the Kings are of a more ambitious character.An open court, about fifty feet in breadth, and extremely deep, is excavated out of the rock. One side is formed of a portico, the frieze of which is sculptured with fruit and flowers in a good Syro-Greek style. There is no grand portal; you crawl into the tombs by a small opening on one of the sides. There are a few small chambers with niches, recesses, and sarcophagi, some sculptured in the same flowing style as the frieze. This is the most important monument at Jerusalem; and Dr. Clarke, who has lavished wonder and admiration on the tombs of Zachariah and Absalom, has announced the tombs of the Kings as one of the marvellous productions of antiquity. But the truth is, all that we see of art in Jerusalem is of the most mean and contemptible character, exhibiting not the slightest feeling for the beautiful or the grand, and not for a moment to be mentioned with the creations of a neighbouring country. It is, of course, out of the question to speak of the pyramids of Memphis, and the obelisks of Heliopolis, the temples of Kar |