ful years. These feelings I shared in common with the humblest pilgrim that was kneeling there, and in some respects he had even the advantage of me; he had made infinitely greater sacrifices than I had done, and undergone far heavier toils to reach that bourne. Undistracted by mere temporal associations, he only saw the sacred spot wherein the Prophets preached and David sung, and Christ had died.

'The whole cavalcade paused simultaneously when Jerusalem appeared in view; the greater number fell upon their knees and laid their foreheads in the dust, whilst a profound silence, more impressive than the loudest acclamations, prevailed over all: even the Moslems gazed reverently on what was to them also a holy city, and recalled to mind the pathetic appeal of their forefather— ́ Hast thou not a blessing for me, also, O my father?' 'When the crusading army, thinned by pestilence, privation, and many a battle-field, gazed upon the view before us, that warrior host knelt down as a single man; sobs burst from their mailed bosoms, and tears streamed down their rugged cheeks.1 Those tears, and not the blood so profusely shed upon the plains of Palestine, were the true evidences of the crusading spirit.

'Apart from all associations, the first view of Jerusalem is a most striking one. A brilliant and unchequered sunshine has something mournful in it, when all that it shines upon is utterly desolate and drear. Not a tree or a green spot is visible; no sign of life breaks the solemn silence; no smile of nature's glad · ness ever varies the stern scenery around. The flaming, monotonous sunshine above, and the pale, distorted, rocky wastes beneath, realize but too painfully the prophetic picture-Thy sky shall be brass, and thy land shall be iron.' To the right and left, as far as the eye can reach, vague undulations of colourless rocks extend to the horizon. A broken and desolate plain in front is bounded by a wavy, battlemented wall, over which towers frown

1 See ante, page 224, from Tasso,

and minarets peer, and mosque domes swell; intermingled with church turrets and an undistinguishable mass of terraced roofs. High over the city, to the left, rises the Mount of Olives; and the distant hills of Moab, almost mingling with the sky, afford a background to the striking picture.

"There was something startlingly new and strange in that wild, shadowless landscape; the clear outline of the hills and the city walls—so colourless, yet so well defined against the naked sky— gave to the whole a most unreal appearance; it resembled rather an immense mezzotinto engraving than anything that nature and nature's complexion had to do with.

'I am not sure that this stern scenery did not present the only appearance that would not disappoint expectation. It is unlike anything else on earth-so blank to the eye, yet so full of meaning to the heart; every mountain round it familiar to the memory; even yon blasted fig-tree has a voice, and the desolation that surrounds us bears silent testimony to fearful experiences.

The plain upon which we stand looks like the arena of deadly struggles in times gone by-struggles in which all the mighty nations of the earth took part, and in which Nature herself seems to have shared.

'Each of our party had waited for the other to finish his devotions, and seemed to respect each pilgrim's feelings with a Christian courtesy, perhaps inspired by the spot. At length all had risen from their genuflexions and prostrations, and we moved slowly forward over the rugged yet slippery path which human feet had, worn in the solid rock. Countless had been the makers of that path-Jebusites, Hebrews, Chaldæans, Assyrians, Egyptians, Romans, Saracens, Crusaders, and pilgrims from every country under heaven.'

CHAPTER X.

FLOWERS ON GRAVES,

God Almighty first planted a garden; and, indeed, it is the purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the spirit of man,

BACON.

God's own monuments, the flowers, which call to our minds the death, or rather the sleep, of the seeds.

The meanest weed of the garden serveth unto many uses— Every green herb, from the lotus to the darnel,

IT

Is rich with delicate aids to help incurious man,

has been said that for every disease incident to humanity, nature has in herself provided a remedy, in 'simples of a thousand names' with 'strange and vigorous faculties,' did man understand exactly where to seek for, and how to apply them. This idea, worthy of Divine beneficence, does not seem at all inconsistent with the general scope of the Creator's arrangements, nor with the scheme of nature, so far as we understand it. Many are the instances known of the deadly poison and the healing balm growing side by side. The Indian knows where to pluck the herb which draws the fatal venom from the sting of the snake; and it is known also that such

anodyne abounds most or perhaps grows only in the localities in which the reptile is found. The savage

poisons his arrows or his spear with the juice of a deadly plant, fatal to the stranger; but the savage of the same neighbourhood knows where to seek the antidote.

It is indeed most true, that in this material world we may everywhere, if we so please,

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

On the verge of illimitable deserts, where no grain can rise, or scarcely any other tree can grow, the datepalm flourishes abundantly; sufficient in itself for the needs of human life. The cow-trees of South America, the shea-trees of Africa, yield their milk and butter where these necessaries could not otherwise be procured. The snake-master plant, of the Far West, the roots of which, sliced and laid on the wound, are an antidote to the sting of the deadliest snake, grows freely, as we have said, in localities where that reptile most abounds.

Of the water-melon, that most desired of refreshments to a parched overworn traveller, everybody knows that by the goodness of Providence it grows in the driest soil, and flourishes luxuriantly in hot sandy deserts. So, where other refreshment is none,

the half-fainting traveller may slake his thirst and recruit his worn frame even by the wild fruits clustering on the lonely and weary desert track.

So in South America, we read of an old traveller -For food we had fruits as much as we could find, and water we got from the leaves of certain lilies, which grew on the bark of trees, which I found by seeing the monkeys drink at them.'

Nay, at the moment I frame these pages, the commencement of the war with Russia, when thousands of our countrymen are about to brave those 'more deadly foes than the Russians,' fever and dysentery, we read—‘As in all probability Quinine, from its high price, will be confined solely to hospital practice, or to the dressing-case of the officers, it may be advisable to let the soldiers know on disembarking at Gallipoli, &c., that in the marshes and on the borders of the numerous lakes, there grows a herb which, cæteris paribus, will prove their ægis or sheet-anchor, being both a preventive and cure of diseases arising from marsh miasmata: it is the sweet-scented flag (calamus aromaticus).'

The writer suggests that each man should have a handful of the roots in his knapsack, chewing it daily, or powdering and mixing it with his beverage.1

Dr. Graves, in the Times of April 26, 1854.