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were dispersed. "This version, therefore," as Rollin observes, "which renders the Scriptures of the Old Testament intelligible to a vast number of people, became one of the most considerable fruits of the Grecian conquests. In this manner did God prepare the way for the preaching of the gospel, which was then approaching, and facilitate the union of so many nations, of different languages and manners, into one society, and the same worship and doctrines, by the instrumentality of the finest, most copious and correct language that was ever spoken in the world, and which became common to all the countries that were conquered by Alexander."

For more than a century, Judea suffered grievously in the continual wars of Alexander's successors; especially from Antiochus, surnamed by himself Epiphanes, the illustrious, but by others Epimanes, the madman. He deposed Onias, the pious high-priest of the Jews, and sold the sacred office, for an annual tribute of three hundred and sixty talents, to his brother Jason. 'Him he soon deposed, and again sold it to his brother Menelaus for six hundred and sixty talents. On a false report that Epiphanes was dead, Jason attempted to recover the priesthood: with a thousand soldiers he entered Jerusalem, and by the sword and with various torments be put to death all whom he considered his adversaries. Antiochus having heard that the Jews rejoiced at his death, and supposing that all the nation had revolted, took Jerusalem by storm, the year B. c. 170: he slew forty thousand persons, and sold as many more for slaves; and plundered the Temple of its splendid furniture to the amount of eight hundred talents of gold. In contempt of the God of Israel, he entered the Holy of Holies, and sacrificed a sow upon the altar of burnt-offering. Antiochus then returned to Antioch, laden with the riches of his spoils, appointing Philip, a barbarous Phrygian, Governor of Judea; Andronicus, a wicked wretch, to preside in Samaria; and the unprincipled Menelaus to the high-priesthood.

In his fourth expedition to Egypt, ambassadors from the Roman people arrived, and threatened him with the vengeance of their victorious legions unless he withdrew his forces. Infuriated to madness by their authoritative interference, The led back his army through Palestine, and despatched Apollonius with twenty thousand of his soldiers, with orders to destroy Jerusalem, to put to the sword all the men, and to make slaves of all the women and children. These commands were exccuted with eavage fierceness on

the Sabbath day, when the people were assembled for public worship: and none escaped but those who could reach the mountains by flight, or who concealed themselves in caverns of the earth. The city was spoiled of its riches by these impious invaders, and set on fire in several places: they broke down its walls and demolished the houses, and with the materials they erected a strong fortress on mount Acra, which, overlooking the Temple, the garrison were ready to sally forth and murder those who dared to approach it as worshippers.

On his arrival at Antioch, Antiochus published a decree, requiring all people in his dominions to conform to the religion of the Greeks; and Atheneus was commissioned to instruct the Jews in the Grecian idolatrous ceremonies, and to put to death, with the most grievous torments, those who refused compliance with his commands. Arriving at Jerusalem, he obtained the coöperation of some apostate Jews: he put down the daily sacrifice, suppressed all the public and private observances of the Jewish religion, defiled the temple of God itself, and rendered that sacred edifice unfit for divine worship. He also sought out every copy of the Scriptures, and burnt all that could be found; he dedicated the temple of Jehovah to Jupiter Olympus, erected his statue on the altar of burnt-offering, and punished with death all that could be found who had acted contrary to the decree of his sovereign.

Mattathias, a venerable priest of the Asmonean family, with his five sons, John, Simon, Judas, Eleazar, and Jonathan, retired from the persecution at Jerusalem to their native city, Modin, in the tribe of Dan. They were followed by Apelles, an officer of the king, who strove to compel them to observe the commands of Antiochus. The people being called together, Apelles addressed Mattathias, to engage his compliance with the idol worship, promising him a reward of great honor and riches. The aged priest not only rejected his offers, but slew the first apostate Jew who approached the idolatrous altar. He also rose upon the king's agent, and, with the assistance of his sons, put him to death, with all his attendants, demolished the idols and their altars, and then withdrew to the mountains. Being joined by a number of his faithful countrymen, he marched through Judea, broke down the heathen altars in all the cities, restored circumcision, cut off the ministers of the idols, and those Jews who had apostatized to their abominations, and reestablished the true worship of God, B. C 167. Mattathias died the next year, appointing

his son Judas, surnamed Maccabeus, to succeed him in the command of the army, which was soon joined by many who were zealous for the law of God. He defeated several large armies of Antiochus under his bravest commanders, recovered Jerusalem, purified the temple, restored the appointed worship of God, and repaired the city, which had been almost a heap of ruins, B. C. 165. Transported with rage at the defeat of his generals, Antiochus threatened to exterminate the whole nation of the Jews, and make Jerusalem their common burial-place: but while these proud words were passing over his lips, the judgment of Heaven fell upon him; he was smitten with an incurable disease, with grievous torments in his bowels, and an intolerable ulcer, breeding vermin, by which his guilty life was terminated, B. c. 164. His son Eupator, under Lysias his general, engaged the neighboring nations to unite in destroying the whole race of the Jews; but Judas, hearing of the alliance, carried the war into the countries of his enemies, and became a terrible scourge to the Syrians, Idumeans, and Arabians. Judas died in battle, B. C. 161, and was succeeded by his brother Jonathan, who, with Simon his brother, continued to manage the affairs of his people with singular bravery and prudence.

Onias, the high-priest, having settled in Egypt,

Jonathan assumed the sacerdotal office at Jerusalem, uniting it with the honor of civil governor, and formed an alliance with the Romans, B. C. 161. Jonathan being slain at Ptolemais, by the treachery of Tryphon, who had usurped the throne of Syria, Simon was chosen to succeed him, B. C. 144; and after a reformation at Jerusalem, he rendered the Jews independent of foreign nations. Having made a tour through the cities of Judea, for the purpose of promoting their peace and order, his son-in-law Ptolemy entertained him in his castle Dochus at Jericho, and murdered him, with his sons Judas and Mattathias, B. c. 135.

Simon was succeeded in the government and priesthood by his son John Hyrcanus, who extended his authority to several adjacent provinces; he destroyed the Samaritan temple on Mount Gerizim, B. c. 130, after it had stood two hundred years, and compelled the Idumeans to embrace the Jewish religion. He renewed the alliance with the Romans, by which he secured considerable advantages for his nation, and died B. C. 107, leaving the sovereignty and priesthood to his son Aristobulus. This prince raised Judea again into a monarchy, and was the first after

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the Captivity who assumed to himself the title of king. He was succeeded by his son Alexander Janneus, who compelled the Philistines to embrace the profession of the Jewish faith, B. o. 97. He reigned twenty-seven years, and died through intemperance, B. c. 79.

The Roman alliance was found to be prejudicial to the interests of the Jews, who suffered much through the civil discords of Rome. The royal and pontifical dignity became a subject of violent contention, and the assistance of the Romans being called in by Aristobulus against his elder brother Hyrcanus, Pompey seated Hyrcanus on the throne, but made Judea a tributary province of the Roman empire, B. c. 63. Pompey, with some of his officers, impiously entered the Holy of Holies; and Crassus, Governor of Syria, pillaged the Temple of ten thousand talents of silver, B. c. 54.

Soon after, Antipater, a crafty nobleman of Idumea, by favor of Julius Cæsar, was made Procurator of Judea, B. c. 47, while Hyrcanus re tained the priesthood. Antipater was succeeded by his son Herod the Great; who, being assisted by Antony, the Roman triumvir, through much bloodshed, obtained the royal dignity, B. c. 40. His authority was confirmed by Augustus Caesar, B C. 30, and he maintained his dignity with dis tinguished ability, but also .with most atrocious cruelty. During his long reign he built many cities; and to ingratiate himself with the Jews, he almost rebuilt their Temple. Mark xiii. 1. John ii. 20. His inhuman barbarity towards the children of Bethlehem, in attempting to murder the infant Jesus, is recorded by the evangelist Matthew. Herod died soon afterwards, suffering the most dreadful torments. Under the government of his sons, Judea became more fully recognized as a Roman province; Shiloh came, and the sceptre departed from Judah, (Gen. xlix. 10 ;) the middle wall of partition between Jew and Gentile was broken down, (Eph ii. 14;) the dispensation of sovereign mercy to all nations was introduced; and after being under the govern. ment of Roman procurators for some years, the whole Jewish state, with its ceremonial and temple, was altogether subverted, A. D. 70, by Titus, the son of the Emperor Vespasian, and the people scattered throughout the world, as living monuments of the truth of Christianity.

A LARGE diamond, of the finest water, and without flaw, was recently found and sent to the Bank of England from Rio Janeiro, valued at one million three hundred thousand dollars.

$114

THE NESTORIAN PILGRIM.

-

"Happy old man!

Thou carest not, though blindness may not roam, For Heaven's own glory smiles around thy home." WILSON. WHAT are to him the orient blush or noonday's golden beam;

The sheltering dell, with mossy seat, or brook with silvery gleam;

The overhanging rocks, enwreathed with wild and fragrant flowers;

The villages and hamlets, or the groves and shady bowers? And what to him those craggy steeps, with towering snowcapped heads,

Or all the varied landscape which in beauty round him spreads?

Though antelopes go fleeting to their glens at evening shade;

Though streams from cavern-fountains rush, to wind through wood and glade,

Enriching and enlivening, while they flow with murmuring tide,

The "valleys sing"-"the little hills rejoice on every side;" And where the waters mingle, as they pour into the lake, Flamingoes, with their trumpet-notes, the wildest echoes wake:

Those tall and scarlet-plumaged birds, drawn up in lines,

spread o'er

Like legions of embattled hosts-the white and glittering shore.

All these, which were familiar, still diversify the scene, But are as shadowy memories now, of things that once had been.

No more with free and bounding steps he roams the vineclad hills;

No more he leads his panting flocks to drink from mountain rills;

The pasture's green luxuriance is hidden from his sight, For blindness has drawn over him a long and starless night.

But is he wrapped in silent gloom, or wailing bitterly, "Roll on, roll on, ye dark, dark years!-ye bring no joy to me l'

No! One who felt deep interest, and long had wished to prove

The pilgrim's progress in the path of life, and light, and love,

Approaching, with a cautious step, his chosen, quiet nook

A holy, consecrated spot-he paused awhile, to look On those mild, time-worn features; but could find upon that face,

'Mid furrows lined by lengthening age, of vain regrets no

trace.

Secluded, free from earthly cares, with calm, collected mind,

He sat in earnest thoughtfulness. Meekness and faith combined

Seemed stamped, as if by some celestial visitant impressed; His hands were folded reverently upon his aged breast; While the deep spirit's voice within ascended to the throne, Inaudibly, but sweetly, he communed with Heaven alone. At times his lips moved prayerfully, and then in whispering praise:

The son whom he had given to God was walking in His

ways;

"A burning and a shining light"-whose steady lustre shed

A radiance in the father's heart, and round his hoary head.

A pastor, rich in every grace, unweariedly this son
Was gathering precious jewels to adorn his Saviour's

crown.

What blessings from the pilgrim's prayers were gleaned, are yet untold;

But all are written. When on high the record is unrolled, A song of souls may give response, in one exalted strain, "Glory to God and to the Lamb! The Lamb for us was

slain !

We stumbled on 'dark mountains' in the blackness of our night,

And knew not where we wandered, till Yohannan* came with light

To lead us in the narrow way. His father, who was there, Went with us to the mercy seat, where Thou didst answer

prayer !

The Holy Spirit taught us the Redeemer's precious blood Atoned for sin, and brought us to our Saviour and our

God!"

Onet who for the Nestorians left his native land behind, With ardent zeal and "God's own love in his pure breast enshrined,"

Imparted sacred knowledge to the gray-haired and the youth,

And led them to the fount of life immortal, as the truth Revealed from heaven, until by failing health he was com

pelled

To seek new vigor in a clime far-distant. None withheld Assent. The sad necessity, though mourned, was still con

fessed,

As each the missionary's hand affectionately pressed. The pilgrim, who had seen him go, most fervently implored

That he, with renovated strength, to them might be restored.

His heart's deep prayer was granted; but he now could only hear

A voice that thrilled through every nerve like music, soft and clear

As an æolian harp that, long untouched, in silence slept, Breathed melody when o'er its chords anew the breezes

swept.

He grasped his hand, and blessed the Lord, while welcoming again

The loved ambassador of heaven to Oroomiah's plain. His friend, observing now the change, expressed kind sympathy,

To which the venerable saint replied with energy"Oh! think me not unhappy! Though the light of other

years

Has faded from these withering orbs, no doubts, no anxious fears

Disturb me. Humble hope and joy my onward path illume,
Gilding the cloud that hovers o'er my journey to the tomb.
The moon and stars no more by night, the sun no more by
day,

Shed genial influences, nor give one solitary ray;
The faces of my dearest friends, so pleasant heretofore,
The face of my beloved child, I can behold no more!

The pastor of Geog Tapa, now called John. He is the pilgrim's son. †D. T. Stoddard.

But though my heavenly Father takes this privilege from

me,

It was a winter's day. Strips of pale, sickly. looking blue sky shone between the gray clouds, and the wind went down the broad thoroughfares, sometimes with a loud shriek, sometimes with a low moan.

The eye of an artist would have brightened as it rested on her-that little girl who came lightly out of an imposing edifice on Broadway, and stood a moment on the high steps. She looked very beautiful as she tossed back the long curls which a blast wound over her forehead, and glanced up with her large brown eyes to the clouds. She had gathered the folds of her richlyembroidered cloak more closely around her small figure, and was preparing to descend the steps, when a look of surprise drifted into the laughing blue eyes, and the next moment a shadow had fallen on the young fair face.

"Will you please to give me a penny? Mother is sick, and we haven't had any thing to eat for two days." It was an eager, sorrowful voice, that asked the question, and there was something strangely pathetic in the pale, pinched face and large mournful eyes which the boy lifted to the little girl, as he stood before her, with his threadbare coat, and the short brown curls creeping from under his rimless hat.

"I haven't a penny, little boy," said the child, in a low tone, while her face grew very beautiful with its expression of sympathy. "Haven't you got a father or a brother, or somebody to take care of you?"

"Father is dead,” answered the boy, while a tremor of emotion passed over his lip, "and so we haven't anybody to take care of us, and mother and I are starving. Can't you give me something, please?"

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"Well, now I remember, I've got a dollar upstairs. I had saved it to buy a doll for Christmas, but you may have it. Wait a minute;" and she was gone.

66

'Here it is, little boy, in this red purse," and, breathless with haste, she placed it in his hand. 'Papa's gone away, and Betty won't give me any thing for beggars, but you can buy something for your mother and you to eat, with the dollar."

"Thank you, little girl." The boy's voice was low and tremulous, and the tears stood in his large blue eyes, and his face was full of eloquent gratitude, as his small brown fingers closed over the silk purse.

"Oh! I am so glad I gave it to him-my old doll will do just as well. Poor little boy! how sorrowful he looked! and he and his mother were starving too ;" and little Maggie dashed back the tears that twinkled on her brown lashes, and went on her way, little dreaming that the future held for her a day when that deed of love should be repaid to her with good measure, pressed down and running over.

"Oh! I cannot do it! I cannot do it!" and the speaker sank into a dilapidated chair, and buried her face in her hands, while the tears dripped through her small fingers, and her long twilight brown curls floated luxuriant and dishevelled about her.

The light of the setting day came down between the rows of wood houses, and looked with a benediction-like smile into the chamber. It was a very small and very destitute one. In one corner there was a bed, and on this lay an aged woman, apparently an invalid, but sorrow, more than time, had bleached those locks to their hoary whiteness, and seamed so deeply the fore

head beneath them.

"Bring me a cup of tea, Maggie, for I am hungry, child," murmured the sick woman in her uneasy slumber, and then the young girl sprang up hastily, and approaching the bed-side, hung over it very tenderly.

Ten years have wrought many changes in the form and face of Margaret Hammond. The old light has gone out of the dark-brown eyes, and the smile no longer flashes like sunshine through the bed of dimples in that pale face: still, the same beautiful tenderness with which it looked on the beggar boy in front of her father's mansion fills it, as her fingers wander gently over the wrinkled brow, and she murmurs, "Mother, for your sake, I will do it. Any thing, rather

"Mrs. Simpson, I have concluded to take Nancy's place this evening, as you say she is still too ill to leave the house;" and not waiting to receive the thanks of her good-hearted but very loquacious neighbor, Margaret Hammond hurried away.

Twenty years had hardly made their passage over that young head, but the later ones had been full of exceeding bitterness to her whose life had dawned amid every luxury which wealth and affection could bestow; for the death of her father had been followed by a series of pecuniary disasters, which had at last brought the widow and orphan of the wealthy merchant to the very destitute situation in which we have introduced them to the reader.

It was a brilliant scene. Chandeliers poured their soft silvery glances through the spacious drawing-rooms, and over the crowd of chivalry and beauty assembled there.

He was standing by the side of his mother, in one corner of the apartment, the young and gifted orator, whose genius had elicited so much applause, and won him already so many laurels. He was a noble-looking man, and he received the honors and attentions lavished upon him to a degree which would have intoxicated a less selfreliant spirit, with a quiet, impressive grace; albeit an expression of mingled sadness and sarcasm would sometimes sweep over the clear, strong contour of his features.

There was something, too, strangely winning in the face of the lady by his side, in the sorrowful pensiveness which other days had written in those soft blue eyes, and which no subsequent proeperity could erase from her features; but when she lifted it to her son's, the motherly pride and affection that beamed from every lineament made it very beautiful.

"What a sweet face, Edward! There is something very touching in its sadness, too; surely that young, delicate form was never fashioned for such work:" and Mrs. Moulton touched the arm of her son, and directed his attention to Margaret Hammond, who, with downcast eyes and burning cheeks, was conveying a small waiter of tea and coffee from one guest to another, for these were now assembled in the dining-hall.

The young orator started visibly, and an expression of mingled perplexity and wonder filled his deep, eloquent eyes, as they followed the

room. Surely, he had seen that face before; it had looked on him in dreams; it had haunted his waking hours in loneliness, in toil, and in the midst of crowds; and amid thunders of applause it had beamed faintly upon him, but he could not divine when or where he had first beheld it.

At length, Margaret Hammond's task drew her near the place where Mr. Moulton and his mother were standing. Just as she approached the latter, her foot slipped over a small stool which had been inadvertently left there, and she would have fallen to the floor, had not Mrs. Moulton suddenly seized her arm, and thus enabled her to gain her equilibrium.

"You are not hurt, my child?" said the lady, in her soft voice, and the young girl raised her eyes at those gentle tones, while tears of gratitude filled their brown darkness. With that glauce, the truth flashed at once across the mind of the orator. An hour in the past came back to him. The wintry day, the elegant mansion, the little girl with her blue eyes and beautiful attire, the ragged, starving boy, all passed before him.

"Mr. Moulton has requested to see you alone a moment. Will you walk in here?" said the young and graceful hostess, while she led the wondering girl to a private apartment.

"They told me you wished to see me, Sir. Is it a mistake?" said Margaret, for the gentleman had stood several moments gazing intently in her face; but when she at last lifted it to him, there was no look of boldness or freedom, such as she began to fear one occupying such social elevation might bestow with impuuity upon her.

"No, it was not a mistake," he said, in his rich, eloquent tones, "and I have not time to explain now: but do not remain here longer. Take these and return to your home:" and he slipped some bank-notes into her hand. "Do not refuse them: they are not a gift, and only cancel part of a great debt which I owe you;" and before she could reply, he was gone.

A month had elapsed. In a pleasant dwelling, located in a retired portion of the city, Margaret Hammond was seated on a low stool, placed at the feet of her mother's easy-chair. She was looking very happy, and very beautiful, withal, as she sat there, her brown, loving eyes lifted to her mother's face, in whose pale cheeks the hue of returning health was slowly gathering.

"It is very strange, as you say, Mamma, who they can be. He stops me when I attempt to thank them, by saying he owes me a greater debt, and I don't think he ever had any business