Does he like to talk about heaven, and holiness, and Christ, or are these subjects a bore to him? Does he love to pray and secretly commune with his own heart and with God, or has he no time for such things? Does his heart burn with gratitude to God for his unspeakable gift, or is he unaffected by such a consideration, and his mind only intent upon what Christ died to purchase? Does he love religion for her own sake, or only for what he can get by being pious? Does he join a Christian Church, and thrust himself into office, that his business may prosper? If this be the case, however much he may try to conceal his hypocrisy, and whatever good deeds he may do openly for the sake of appearances, depend upon it he is graduating for the bottomless pit; he is indeed. How is our character being developed? What is the nature of the influence we are exerting upon the world? Where are we qualifying ourselves for? These are grave questions. Give them the consideration their importance demands.

MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES & ANECDOTES.

JERUSALEM.

AFTER Some resistance from the Turkish sentinels, I entered the Pilgrim's Gate, under a lofty archway, and found myself in Jerusalem.

On the left within the walls is a waste place strewed with ruins, and containing a broken cistern, called the "Pcol of Bethsheba;" on the right is pointed out the Hill of Zion, whereon "David's Tower" maintains its ground in tradition, if not in truth. From this open space three streets, or rather roads (for they are almost houseless), branch off; that to the left leads to Calvary and the Convent of the Terra Santa; that to the right to Mount Zion, the English Church, and Armenian Convent; and that straight onward to Mount Moriah, where stand the Mosque of Omar and the collection of villages that is called the city.

I betook myself to the hospice of the Latin Convent, where I found a whitewashed cell and an iron bedstead at my disposal. It was dismal enough; but long travel under a Syrian sun prevents one from feeling fastidious, and it ill becomes a pilgrim to complain on Calvary.

The Convent, whose guest I now found myself, is the wealthiest and most influential of all those in Palestine. It is called, by distinction, the Convent of the Terra Santa, and has possessions handed down from the times of Godfrey de Bouillon. All the other Latin convents in Syria pay deference to this, the chief guardian of the Holy Sepulchre.

I took no guide but memory; and, mounting a fresh horse, I re-passed the gate by which I had entered on the southern side, and rode forth to make a circuit of the city-"to walk round about her, and mark well her battlements.” Sadly has all been changed since this proud challenge was spoken, yet the walls are still towering and imposing in their effect. They vary in height from twenty to sixty feet, according to the undulations of the ground; and are everywhere in good repair. The columns and architraves, as old at least as the Roman-conquered city, that are worked into these walls instead of ruder stones, bear eloquent testimony to the different nature of their predecessors. A bridle-path leads close to their base all round; the valleys of Hinnom and Jehoshaphat yawn suddenly beneath them on the west, south, and north, separating them from Mount Gihon, the Hill of Evil Counsel, and the Mount of Olives. These hills are utterly barren, and lonely as fear can make them. Though within gunshot of the city, robberies are here committed with impunity, and few people venture to leave the walls without being well armed and attended. The deep gloom of the Valley of Hinnom; the sterility of all

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around; the silence and desolation so intense, yet so close to the city; the sort of memory with which I could trace each almost familiar spot, from the tower of Hippicus to the Hill of Scopas, made this the most interesting excursion I ever undertook. Now we look down upon the Pool and Valley of Gihon from the summit of Mount Zion; now upon the Vale of Hinnom, with the Pool of Siloam, and Aceldama beyond the brook; now over Mount Moriah, with the Valley of Jehoshaphat beneath, and the village of Siloam on the opposite side, scattered along the banks where Kedron used to flow. Then, passing through the Turkish cemetery, and over the brook Kedron, we come to the venerable garden of Gethsemane, in which, say the legends, still stand the olive trees that sheltered Christ. This garden is only a small grove, occupying perhaps two acres of ground, but it is one of the best authenticated scenes of interest about Jerusalem. From it a steep and rocky path leads to the three summits of the Mount of Olives, on the loftiest of which stands the Church of the Ascension. An Armenian priest admitted me into the sacred enclosure, motioned to a little monk to lead about my horse, and led the way in silence to the roof of the church. From hence is the most interesting, if not the most striking, view in the world.

From such a summit might the great leader of the people have viewed the land which was to be the reward of their desert wanderings. From it is laid bare every fibre of the great heart of Palestine. The atmosphere is like a crystal lens, and every object in the Holy City is as clear as if it lay within a few yards, instead of a mile's distance. Each battlement upon those war-worn walls, each wild flower that clusters over them; the dogs prowling about the waste places among the ruins, and cactus, and cypress; the turbaned citizens slowly moving in the streets; all these are recognizable almost as clearly as the prominent features of the city.

The eminence called Mount Moriah lies nearest to our view, just above the narrow Valley of Jehoshaphat. The city wall passes over the centre of it, embracing a wide enclosure, studded with cypresses and cedars, in the centre of which stands the magnificent mosque of Omar. This is of a very light, fantastic architecture, bristling with points, and little spires, and minarets, many of which have gilded crescents that flash and gleam in the sunshine; while the various groups of Moslems, sitting on bright carpets, or slowly wandering among the groves, give life and animation to the scene. The mosque occupies the site of the Temple, and is held holy by the Moslem, as the spot where Abraham offered Isaac to be a sacrifice. To the left of the Mosque enclosure, within the walls, is a space covered with rubbish and jungles of the prickly pear; then part of the Hill of Zion, and David's Tower. To the right of the enclosure is the Pool of Bethesda; beyond which St. Stephen's Gate affords entrance to the Via Dolorosa, a steep and winding street, along which Christ bore his cross in his ascent to Calvary. To the right of this street, and towards the north, stands the Hill of Acra, on which Salem, the most ancient part of the city, was built, they say, by Melchisedek. This hill is enclosed by the walls of the modern town; but the Hill of Bezetha lies yet farther to the right, and was enclosed within the walls that the Romans stormed. Beyond Bezetha stands the Hill of Scopas, where from Titus gazed upon Jerusalem the day before its destruction, and wept for the sake of the beautiful city.

Whatever beauty may have distinguished the city in the day of its evil pride, there is little within the wide enclosure of its walls to claim an interest, except the unchangeable hills on which it stands. Here and there is a cluster of flat-roofed buildings, then a space bewildered with weeds and ruins; here is a busy street, with vines sheltering its bazaars, and gorgeous-looking crowds streaming through it; and there is a deserted garden, with a few dreary olive trees and cypresses shading its burnt soil; here is a mosque, with its heavy dome and its pert minarets; and there is the capacious church that covers the Holy Sepulchre.

The eye wanders away with a feeling of relief from this most mournful city, to the wide, strange prospect that surrounds it. Far to the south, we look over the barren but magnificent hills of Judah, with vistas through their

rocky glens of the rich Valley of the Jordan, and the calm, green waters of the Dead Sea, whose surface gleams on either side of a foreground formed by the lofty village of Bethany. Beyond Jordan and the Sea of the Plain, the mountains of the Moabites tower into the clear blue sky, and are reflected in brown and purple shadows on their own dark mysterious lake.

Beneath us is the garden of Gethsemane, the Valley of Hinnom with its Tophet, and the Vale of Jehoshaphat with its brook Kedron, which meets the waters of Siloam at the well of Joab. The Tombs of the Kings, of Nehemiah, of Absalom, and of the Judges, lie before us; the Caves of the Prophets everywhere pierce the rocks that have so often resounded to the war-cry of the Chaldean, the Roman, the Saracen, and the Crusader. Beyond the city spreads the Vale of Repraim, with Bethlehem in the distance; every rock, and hill, and valley that is visible, bears some name that has rung in history. And then the utter desolation that everywhere prevails-as if all was over with that land, and the "rocks had indeed fallen, and the hills indeed had covered" the mighty, the beautiful, and the brave, who once dwelt there in prosperity and peace. No flocks, no husbandmen, nor any living thing is there, except a group of timid travellers-turbaned figures, and veiled women, and a file of camels-winding along the precipitous pathway under the shadow of the palm tree.

Descending from the Mount of Olives, I re-entered the city by St. Stephen's Gate, where Turkish soldiers constantly keep guard; turning to the left, I visited the Pool of Bethesda, and then wandered slowly over the Via Dolorosa, in which is pointed out each spot where the Saviour fell under the burden of the cross, as he bore it to Calvary along this steep and rugged way.

In after days, I impatiently traversed the squalid city, with a monk for my guide, in search of its various localities of traditionary sanctity; but I will not ask the reader to stoop to such a labour. My monkish cicerone pointed out to me where Dives lived, where Lazarus lay, where the cock crowed or roosted that warned Peter of his crime, and even where the blessed Virgin used to wash her Son's linen.

The character of the city within corresponds with that of the country without. Most of it is very solitary and silent; echo only answers to your horse's tread; and frequent waste places, among which the wild dog prowls, convey an indescribable impression of desolation. It is not these waste places alone that give such an air of loneliness to the city, but many of the streets themselves, dark, dull, and mournful-looking, seem as if the Templars' armed tread was the last to which they had resounded. The bazaars and places of business are confined to one small quarter of the city; everywhere else you generally find yourself alone. No one is even there to point out your way; and you come unexpectedly upon the Pool of Bethesda, or wander among the vaulted ruins of the Hospitallers' courts, without knowing it. The remains of the ancient city that meet your eye are singularly few; here and there a column is let into the wall, or you find that the massive and uneven pavement is of costly marble; but, except the Pools of Hezekiah and Bethesda, the Tower of Hippicus, and some few other remains, preserved on account of their utility, there is little of art to connect the memory with the past. The Crescent and the Cross.

THE DYING MAN AND THE THIEF.

A QUEER old humorist lived in a little old cottage in the outskirts of our village. He had travelled much in the East, and had made money as a merchant in Smyrna. Being a native of our parish, and a bachelor, he came to close his mortal chapter where it began. I need scarcely say that, like so many of his class, he was fidgety, testy, and troublesome, but a lover of fair playwithal, warm-hearted and benevolent. At bottom, too, he was a thoroughly religious man. He and I were getting on uncommonly well together, when, greatly to my sorrow, he took ill and died, only a few months after we had

become acquainted. An odd incident befell him on his death-bed; and I must relate it, as illustrative of his character.

A thief made his way into the cottage one midnight, and entered his dying chamber to steal; for he was counted rich as a nabob. There was a light burning in the room. "What do you want, friend?" was the testy demand of our disturbed old gentleman. "Your money and your jewels,' said the thief. "Oh! you are there, are you? Very well. Just look at these old legs of mine (thrusting out his emaciated members from beneath the bed-clothes); nay, lay hold of them-feel them-so, you must be perfectly convinced in your own mind now that I cannot go into the next apartment, where my money is. Come, then, take me on your back, and carry me there." Saying this, the old chap, dying though he was, actually rose and got out of bed. The thief drew back, with a look of ghastly surprise. "Hark ye! son of woman born," continued the old gentleman emphatically, as he sat him down on the front of the bed, and raised his fore-finger with warning solemnity; "I am far on my way to eternity, and you are coming on behind me. You are here to steal certain trash of mine. Come, now, you must do better than that. Draw near. Here is this bald old heart of mine. Stand forward. Reach me now your thievish hand into this inveterate bosom of mine. Oh! do but steal, rob, plunder from it covetousness, lust, anger, and every other lingering bad passion, and send me lighter on my way. Oh! do this, and you shall have all my gold. You shake your head-you cannot. Here, then, friend-I am any thing but heavy-you must take me on your back." The thief could not stand this. He fell down on his knees, and begged the old man's forgiveness. 'Are you really in want?" asked the eccentric invalid. "I am," was the reply; "but I deserve to be so, for I have been dissipated and idle; but I think I am a changed man." "Take this key, then," said our dying friend; "open my desk in the next room there (pointing to the door); you will find a purse of gold in it-bring it to me." The thief did

So.

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"Take that," said the worthy humorist, and he served out his gold liberally into the thief's trembling hand. With tears in his eyes, the poor penitent again fell on his kness, and craved a blessing on the dying man. was about to retire. "Nay, friend, you must help me into my bed first," said the old gentleman; "it is any thing but reasonable that I be raised up at midnight in this sort of manner." Accordingly, the thief lifted the old man up in his arms, and put him into the bed. Now, brother worm," said the queer but wise old patient, "I ask this last piece of service for your own good as well as mine. You will be nothing the worse for having felt the weight and worth of an armful of poor, sinful, dying clay. It will help you to keep in mind your good resolutions. Christ be with you! In his own gracious words, 'Go, and sin no more.'"

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THE ONE LEAF.

THERE was once a caravan crossing, I think, to the north of India, and numbering in its company a godly and devout missionary. As it passed along, a poor old man was overcome by the heat and labours of the journey, and, sinking down, was left to perish on the road. The missionary saw him, and, kneeling down, when the rest had passed along, whispered into his ear, "Brother, what is your hope?" The dying man raised himself a little to reply, and with a great effort succeeded in answering, "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin!" and immediately expired with the effort. The missionary was greatly astonished at the answer, and, in the calm and peaceful appearance of the man, he felt assured he had died in Christ. "How, or where," he thought, "could this man, seemingly a Heathen, have got this hope?" And as he thought of it, he observed a piece of paper grasped tightly in the hand of the corpse, which he succeeded in getting out. What do you think was his surprise and delight when he found it was a single leaf of the Bible, containing the 1st chapter of the First Epistle of John, in which these words occur? On that page the man had found the Gospel.

FRAGMENTS, BY MURUS.

No. VII.

THE first Methodist preacher your friend ever heard, or to his knowledge ever saw, will appear in the succeeding part. He lived at sundry times in the houses of two near relatives in a corporate town, one of whom was an alderman, and in his turn filled the office of mayor or chief magistrate. One day, from fifty-nine to sixty years ago, a middle aged gentlemanly-looking man was brought to the mayor's place of business, attended by two constables, under the charge of blocking up the king's highway, and preaching to the people. The novelty of the scene attracted the notice of many, and among the rest, the notice of your correspondent. Excited by curiosity, he made haste to see what was going on in the street, when, behold! another had stepped into the preacher's place, and was addressing an assembled multitude.

Here was a display of courage in the teeth of persecution, under a consciousness of being engaged in a good cause; the cause of him, who, nearly eighteen hundred years before, had said to his servants, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."

The preacher had been permitted to stand on a stool or chair in front of the shop of a quaker, or one of the Society of Friends. It may not be uninteresting here to add, that the individual who occupied the travelling preacher's post, while his friend was under examination of the magistrate, made a striking appearance in point of figure. The person who communicates this intelligence, does not mean to say that, on a close survey, he was really a handsome man; but flushed, as may be supposed, through excitement, his face was highly coloured; and besides, he was in truth tall, erect, and soldier-like.

"What nervous arms he boasts, how firm his tread,

His limbs how turned."

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He had then passed the meridian of life, and some nine years following he became known in the Methodist New Connexion as a Circuit Preacher in the person of the late venerable John Revill, who finished his ministerial and mortal career in the Staffordshire Potteries, after travelling twenty years.

In his unconverted state, judging by reports common in Sheffield, where he had resided, he was a notorious sinner. Divine grace did much for him. His disposition was naturally ardent; what he did was not done by halves, but with his might. He had been flagrant in the ways of sin and satan; bold as a lion; but when renewed by saving knowledge, he became a burning and shining light; a miracle of mercy; a wonder to many, and brave in calling sinners to repentance. In those days christian zeal was strikingly apparent, and numerous were the seasons of refreshing from the presence of the Lord under the Methodist ministry. Prayer was made; prayer was answered; souls were awakened. "O Lord, revive thy work in the midst of the years, in the midst of the years make known; in wrath remember mercy. For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea."

No. VIII.

YOUR friend Murus was acquainted with a person, who knew a young man to be in great danger of becoming entangled with wicked company, and thereby falling into ruinous practices. The cautions received from those who loved him, and the warnings they had administered, gradually became weaker, and began to have less influence over him. "Enter not into the path of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men," are precepts which had often been inculcated; but a moment arrived when his scruples from this cause of restraint evidently gave way. On a certain occasion, he agreed to go, with a person older than himself, to see exploits and witness scenes of mirth