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gloomy and imposing. They stand in this part on the very brink of the descent. It occupies above forty minutes to walk round them on the outside, which gives a circumference of three miles. The sides of Mount Sion are less steep where they rise over the Valley of Hinnom, which joins that of Jehoshaphat on the extreme right, beyond the pillar of Absalom, which is seen in the middle of the plate. Here its slopes are covered with corn-fields and with grass, and look rich and smiling, like a little oasis in the neglected soil around the city. Here is shown the scene of the last supper of our Lord and his disciples, a poor attempt of the fathers: the identity of such a chamber can exist only in the credulity of the believer. Of similar pretensions is the tomb of Solomon, near this spot. These places of pretended sanctity are unheeded and forgotten, the moment the eye rests on the fountain of Siloam just below; it breaks out of a rock in the side of Sion, and falls into an open and rock-hewn excavation, to which a flight of ancient stone steps descends. This bason was hewn thousands of years ago; the pool into which the fountain descends, is deep and clear as crystal: its waters are as sweet, as full, and as beautifully clear now, as in the days of our Lord. It is a luxury to sit on the grass that grows on the bank above, and look down on this celebrated water, the most useful, as well as healthful, in the whole neighbourhood-and follow its rapid stream as it gushes down the side of Zion; and thence into the valley beneath, that passes on to the wilderness. There is no water so much esteemed as that of Siloam; to which the women of the city come daily with their pitchers, for when the other waters in the city are scanty and turbid, the current of Siloam is still fresh and everlasting. One day, that we wandered here, we found a group seated pensively beside the water, as if wearied with their journey; it consisted of one fine old man, whose hair and beard were white, and two young and handsome men. They were Jews, and were gazing on the scene around; the open Sepulchres of Hinnom were beneath their feet, the field of blood, and the ruins of the palace of the high-priest who condemned the Innocent, were on the opposite hill: directly behind them were the gloomy walls of the devoted city—and in the dark glen below, their forefathers made their children pass through the fire, and offer sacrifices to Moloch. Could there be a more awful and appealing assemblage of objects? was there not in each a warning voice of the past? It is impossible to behold a Jew wandering among the places of his ancient pride and power, his fields of battle or of miracle, the staff in his hand, the beard sweeping his breast, the tear perhaps on his cheek, without feeling a sympathy for his fate.

The Valley of Jehoshaphat is broken finely by grey and aged rocks, on which a few olive-trees cast a thin shadow: at every step you seem to move over the ashes of those whose names and deeds are interwoven with our earliest memories, with our dearest hopes. The prophet, the apostle, the prince of Judah, have sealed this vale with their blood, or slept here when their warfare was accomplished. The sepulchres hewn out

of the surrounding rocks, are uninjured by time: they are massive, and of a grand and imposing aspect. The erection, or rather the formation of the sepulchre of Absalom, was effected by cutting it from the solid rock. At first sight it seems to be erected by an architect, and adorned with columns which appear to support the edifice, of which

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