to be the most awful and important event of their lives; on which even the brightness of their future state in a great measure depended. This ceremony tends to exalt the devotee in his own estimation, for the superior having carefully washed and wiped their feet, kisses them ardently, and pronounces a benediction on each person. Then all the monks of the convent came and knelt on the pavement, and pressed their lips also on the feet of each happy and enviable man. Then followed an excellent supper, in which the priests waited most attentively on their visitors: cheerfulness and sociality quickly succeeded the dull ceremony; it was difficult to say, whether the tongue of monk or pilgrim went the fastest. Many a tale was told, and hardship recounted, on one hand, and vigil and marvel related on the other, till peril, privation, and distance seemed to disappear from the thoughts of both.

TOMB OF ABSALOM, NEAR JERUSALEM.

No temple made with hands can so lift the thoughts to heaven as the side of Olivet or Bethany, the glens of Zion or Bethlehem; the aged rocks, the rushing of the streams of thousands of years: there is a voice of wail even in the winds, as of the wailing for those we love. From the tomb of Rachel to that of Zacharias-how dark and wide is the valley of the dead! But the earth has not always covered her prey; the judges the kings, the warriors of Judah-their ashes are scattered to the winds: a few fragments of stone coffins and broken sarcophagi are all that now remain; the chambers of death are open, and swept by the blast and rain. They stood in a wild waste: the day was sultry in the extreme when we visited them; no grove was near, no shadow, no flowers, no footstep or voice but our own; we turned weary and unfeelingly away, for we had no sympathy with the scene. There was a delicious softness in the air, in the walk at sunrise down the valley of Jehoshaphat, to visit the tomb of Absalom. It was the month of April, the hour when the hills and vales around the city threw aside their covering of sorrow and ruin, and seemed once more to rejoice as in the days of old. Olivet was robed in gold and purple of exquisite hue, while more redly the beams flashed on the Mount of Calvary, the Tower of David, and the Field of Blood. The torrent of Siloam broke down the valley in a flood of light. How beautiful upon every mountain was the glory and freshness of morning! It was sad to see it sink into the heat and glare of day, increased and reflected by the many ruinous places around, and stagnant pools, and narrow wretched streets. A train of camels was advancing from Damascus or Cairo over the plain to the north, winding slowly amidst the olive-trees, to the melancholy chant of the Arab driver. How different from this inspiring air and scene was the convent of St. Salvadore in Jerusalem, where I was compelled to lodge! the massive gates were shut early, and there was no egress-no more the first beams of day awoke me, or the sound of the guitar was sweet at its close: no more the hand of kindness and taste spread my simple meal: the little window that lighted my cell