the dead, whom the plague had visited, were seen | epic as Homer, as plaintive as Job, as amorous as to sally forth, borne on biers, each by two naked Theocritus, as philosophical as Solomon. His verslaves, to the tombs scattered on all sides of us. ses, that lulled or excited the imagination of the Sometimes a long procession of Turks, Arabs, Ar- Arab as he inhaled the fumes of his narguile menian Jews accompanied the departed and defiled were uttered in guttural tones amid the animated singing among the olive-trees; then returned with group of my Saids. When the poet touched more slow steps and sad silence to the city. Oftener justly or powerfully than usual the sensitive chord the dead were unaccompanied, and when the two of these wild, but impressible men, a light murmur slaves had dug some handsbreadths the sand or was heard from their lips, they clasped their hands earth of the hill and laid the plague-smitten on his together, elevated them above their ears, and, bendlast bed, they sate themselves down on the very ing down their heads, exclaimed by turns, Allah! mound they had thrown up, parted between them Allah! Allah! the vestments of the buried, and lighting their long At some paces from me, a young Turkish woman pipes, smoked silently and watched the vapour as was weeping for her husband on one of those little it ascended in light blue columns and lost itself monuments of white stone, with which all the hills gracefully in the air, limpid, soft and transparent around Jerusalem are strewn. She appeared to in those fair days of autumn. At my feet, the val- be scarcely eighteen or twenty years of age, and ley of Jehosaphat stretched like a vast sepulchre; I never saw so ravishing an image of sorrow. the wasted Cedron furrowed its whitened channel. Her profile, which her veil, thrown backward enathick strewn with large pebbles, and the sides of bled me to see, had that purity of outline which the two hills near its margins were all white with marks the finest heads of the Parthenon, but at tombs and sculptured turbans, the public cemetery the same time the softness, the suavity and the of the Osmanlis. A little on the right the Mount gracious languor of the women of Asia—a beauty of Olives sank down among the widely spread much more feminine, more love-inspiring and chains of the volcanic cones of the naked moun-more enchanting to the soul than the severe and tains of Jericho and Saint Sabba, and showed the masculine beauty of the Grecian statues. Her horizon extending away in the distance, like a lu- light hair, bronzed and golden, like the metal of minous avenue between the tops of the irregular the antique busts-a color highly prized in this cypress trees. The eye involuntarily wandered thither, attracted by the blue, leaded lustre of the Dead Sea, which glistened at the feet of these mountains, while in the back ground, the blue chain of the mountains of Arabia Petrea bordered the horizon. But "bordered" is not the word, for the mountains seemed as transparent as crystal, and you saw, or believed you saw beyond, a vague and indefinite horizon stretching away still and swimming in the ambient vapors of an atmosphere stained with purple and lilac dyes. country of the sun, of which it seems to be a constant reflection-her hair, hanging loosely, fell around her and literally swept the ground; her breasts, according to the custom of the women of that portion of Arabia, were entirely uncovered, and, when she stooped to kiss the turbaned stone, or to lay her ear on the tomb, they touched the earth and left their soft impress in the dust, like the mould of the beautiful bosom of buried Atala, which the sand of the sepulchre still retained, as described in the admirable epic of Chateaubriand. She had strewn the tomb and its adjacent earth with all sorts of flowers; a fine damask cloth was spread upon her knees; on the cloth were some cups of flowers and a basket full of figs and barley-cakes, for that woman was about to spend the whole day in thus lamenting. A hole, scooped in the earth, and which was thought to correspond with the ear of the deceased, served as a speaking-tube to that other world, in which he, whom she had come to visit, peacefully reposed. She leaned from time to time towards this narrow orifice, singing certain words interrupted by sobs, and then held down her ear as if she heard a res It was the hour of noon-that time when the Muezzin watches the sun on the topmost gallery of the minaret and chants the hour and the prayer for all hours. A living, an animated voice, conscious of what it says and sings; far superior, in my opinion, to the stupid and unconscious tones of the bells of our cathedrals. My Arabs had given barley in sacks of goat-leather skins to my horses tied here and there around my tent. With their feet chained by iron rings, these beautiful and docile animals remained immovable-their heads weighed down and shadowed by their long, thick manes, their gray skins shining and smoking under the rays of a burning sun. These men were assembled under the ponse-after which she resumed her mournful shade of one of the largest olive-trees. They had spread upon the grass their damask cloth; and, as they smoked, they narrated to one anotlier stories of the desert, or sang the verses of Antar,-Antar, that type of the wandering Arab, at the same time a shepherd, a warrior and a poet, who had described the whole desert in his national strains-as strain. I endeavored to understand the words she thus murmured in my hearing, but my Arab dragoman could not seize or translate their meaning. How sincere was my regret? What secrets of love and sorrow must her song have expressed! * A pipe passed through water on its way to the mouth What sighs of two souls torn for life from each Turkish widow weeping for her husband as she other must have been conveyed in those verses poured forth her melodious anguish, the elegiac and confused as they were and broken with sobs! Oh! passionate poetry, the poetry of the heart. The if anything could ever awaken the departed, it soldiers and Arab attendants reciting the chivalrous, must be such language murmured by such lips. amorous and marvellous verses of Antar exhibAbout two steps from that woman, under a piece ited the epic and warlike poetry of a nomadic or of dark cloth, held up by two reeds fixed in the conquering people; the Greek monks chanting earth so that it served as a parasol, were her two their psalms upon their lonely terraces, the sacred little children with three black Abyssinian slaves, and lyric poetry of ages of enthusiasm and reliseated, like their mistress, upon a carpet spread gious renovation. And I myself, musing under over the sand. These three women, all of whom my tent, and gathering true histories or thoughts were young and beautiful, with the easy forms and from the whole earth, showed the poetry of phiaquiline features of their country, were grouped losophy and contemplation, daughter of an epoch in various attitudes, like three statues carved out when humanity studied herself and revived even in of a single block. One of them was kneeling on the songs which which she made her pasture. one knee and held upon the other a child, who was stretching forth its arms towards its weeping mother; another had her limbs doubled under her, with her hands joined over her apron of blue cloth, like the Madaleine of Canova; the third was standing slightly bent towards her companions, and, balancing herself from right to left, she rocked upon her scarcely budded bosom the smaller of the children, whom she was vainly endeavoring to Jull to sleep. When the sobs of the young widow reached the ears of the children, they began to weep, and the three black slaves, having echoed the sig hs of their mistress, commenced singing certain airs and infantine songs of their country to quiet the children. It was Sunday. Two hundred paces from me, behind the thick and high walls of Jerusalem, I heard, borne at intervals from the dark dome of the Greek convent the distant and faint echoes of the vesper service. The hymns and psalms of David arose after three thousand years, uttered by strange voices and in a new language upon the same hills, which had inspired them, and I observed upon the terraces of the convent certain old monks of the Holy Land going and coming, breviary in hand, and murmuring those prayers, murmured already by so many ages in various languages and verses. And I was there also to sing of all these things to study the ages in their cradle; to retrace even to its fountain the unknown course of civilization and religion, to inspire myself with the spirit of the place and the concealed signification of stories and monuments on those borders, which! were the point of departure of the modern world, and to cherish a wisdom more real,-a philosophy more true, the grave and thoughtful poetry of the advanced epoch in which we live. This scene, passing by chance under my eyes and preserved among my thousand reminiscences of travel, presented to my mind the destinies and almost entire phases of all poetry. The three slaves, attendant upon the children, with their simple and thoughtless songs, represented the pastoral and instinctive poetry of the nations; the young Behold in these all the poetry of the past; but, in the future, what will it be? [To be continued.] IS THERE A GOD? BY IDA FAYE. I asked the mighty river, And bore the tossing bark; In sounding voice replied, "God gave me strength through rugged banks I asked the stately trees, With summer verdure crowned; The pines with moaning sound; I asked the restless Ocean, Far on the rocky shore: I asked the birds that wing To heaven their joyous flight; Their songs of glad delight. excessively fat, his footman was excessively thin, and the tails of his sixteen-hand bays swept their | fetlocks. This well-fed gentleman, rosy with abundance, and full of the condescending suavity of a man who always vanquishes, was presently front to front with the meagre and bloodless miser. Miles Gregory received him with a wintry welcome; and, but for Jenkin, the distinguished lawyer, fresh from the luxury of his sinking cushions, would have been left without so much as the comfort of a hard-bottomed_chair. As, thanks to Jenkin, he seated himself, the slim footman placed a small bet heavy box on the floor at his feet. "Well-well-what is your business?" inquired the miser. This was in answer to some warm salutations with which Achilles Wiley met an "old friend." 66 "Ah!" answered the lawyer, "you were always an eccentric man. But perhaps you are right. Time is money. My business, my worthy old friend, concerns the bond of Jeptha Smooth and John Stanton-a bond which, I think, these persons gave upon their purchase of some of your Swan River lands." "Yes: it is so. Gregory. What of the bond? said Miles You are aware that Smooth and Stanton have failed," said the lawyer, “ and that this bond for $9,000 is not worth sixpence." 66 May be so-may be so," commented the miser. "You take your loss very coolly," Wiley re| sumed. "But although the bond is not worth sixpence, Smooth and Stanton will pay you a good fair sum. They have failed, but they are honest men; and their good reputation enables them to borrow the means of arranging this debt upon rea| sonable terms." "If they are honest they will pay all-pay all," said Miles Gregory. "This is a little too exacting," answered the lawyer; "and such a demand will defeat the contemplated arrangement. My dear old friend, you are a sagacious man. Half a loaf is better than no bread. If you go for the whole, you lose the whole. I am empowered to pay you one dollar in Let us go back to Hackwood, to ascertain the cause of the miser's ride. It was some hours before his appearance in Casselton, that, as he sat | two of the debt." No," said the lawyer, "the bond must be sur rendered on payment of $4,500. Otherwise you get nothing for it.” in his desolate room, ruminating variously-now "That will be well," said the miser; "and we embittered by his recollection of Joan's bold threat can give some time-not too long-on the rest.” to lay violent hands upon his hoards, and again becoming placid with the reflection that he had relieved his son without parting with a dollar of his actual moneys-the arrival of a gentleman was A sharp, shrewd twinkle of the old man's small announced to him by Jenkin. This gentleman eyes answered this speech, before he answered it was Achilles Wiley, Esq., a lawyer of distinction in words. in that country-that is to say, a legal star shining, "You are cunning enough-cunning enough," in a very noted manner, over some five counties, he presently said, “ but I see through you. Lewis, which his orbit embraced. He came in a great my son, has the bond, and can fasten it on some roomy, low-swinging coach, with spotless pannels, funds, which you keen dogs have found out. Jepand a splendid hammer-cloth. His coachman was tha Smooth and Jack Stanton have hired you to come, and make this offer of half-to tempt me-to tempt me to take back the bond from my son, who, they think, would give it up, if I said give it up. You are sly very sly-but I am sharp." danger? you keen dogs find out a great deal. I must have my money, every cent of it." A bold step or two, taken in time, may make you safe," answered the lawyer. "Ireton, I think, "I admit," said the lawyer, not in the least sha- will be, even now, unable to pay the debt; but ken, "that my clients have heard of the assign-young Grant is so deeply involved, that he will ment of the bond, and stand in fear of annoyance quietly pay it, to save his credit, which is of vital if not persecution, from your son's creditors, to importance to him. A little adroitness will whom it will soon pass. But there is no fund; the make the debt without suit. Of course I do hond will not be collected; your son is mistaken. not advise you for any benefit of my own; I would It is from an honest desire to pay their debts, com- be very reluctant to undertake the business, after bined with the fear of this annoyance and persecu- advising you to proceed in it. It is but giving netion, that they make you the present offer." cessary counsel to an old and esteemed friend." "The bond must be collected," said Miles Gregory, with a sharp accent. "All is rogueryroguery. Is nobody honest? You must sue-sue. Give no quarter. They want to ruin me in my old age-in my old age." The miser began to lose his look of clear cunning, and to seem confused in understanding and purpose. "May he the bond will be worth nothing to Lewis," he said, "whilst it is worth what you of But I could never take it back. Joan fer to me. "Yes: $10,000 in silver and gold. They assigned the bond of Henry Ireton, and Henry Grant, Snr., for $10,000 more of the purchasemoney-an assignment made without recourse against themselves. Finally they gave their own bond for $9,000, now in question. You hold no other bond of these parties, Smooth and Stanton?" "It is Ireton's bond I meant," said the miser. Pay me the moneys on that." "My clients," responded the lawyer, with a pleasant lifting of the eye-brows" have nothing to do with that bond of Ireton and Grant. By the way, old friend, you had better look about you in that matter." "I look after it very well," answered the miser. "Ireton pays me, pays me on the day, six hundred per annum, in silver, punctually." Well, we will see after the matter," answered the lawyer. "You can place the bond in my hands before I go. My scruples shall not stand in the way of serving you. But let us reconsider the business of the other bond, which, it seems, your son holds. Smooth and Stanton offer $4,500 for its surrender; your son will find it impossible to collect a dollar of it; you are losing $4,500 for the pleasure of leaving a worthless piece of paper in his hands." 66 No-no," said the miser, but with a look which belied his words. "Let them find out; no fault of mine; let them find out that the bond comes to nothing. No fault of mine. I gave them the help. They were satisfied. Besides, it may come to something." "Well, well," said Wiley, "I have made the offer, and explained its entire liberal character, as well as the positive folly of rejecting it. I knew the objection, which, as a cautious man, you entertained to bank notes, and was at the pains of procuring the sum, which I have offered you, in gold. But your mind is made up, and I may as well have the box returned to my carriage. Peterkin! Peterkin!" "Ireton wades in deep water, and the estate of Grant, the surety, is in quite a pretty condition." This ambiguous remark upon the solvency of our friend Henry Grant, for the Henry Grant, Snr., of the bond, was his dead father, and the estate pronounced to be in quite a pretty condition was As the lawyer called, Peterkin, the slim footman his inheritance, the lawyer made less ambiguous entered. He received an order to take the box, by a pretty shrewd look, and a wise shake of the which he had placed at his master's feet, back to head. The announcement of this peril, real or the carriage; and proceeded to obey it. A glance imaginary, to his interests, produced an immedi- was interchanged by master and man; and Peterate effect upon Miles Gregory. The evil princi-kin, after raising the box with great apparent efple began, at once, to rear its subtle head, and to fort, as high as his shoulder, permitted it to fall shake its hideous scales. upon the floor. The fall made the old warped "Danger-danger!" he muttered. And is there flooring tremble, and the windows clatter. The miser jumped from his chair with a weakly agility; With the fear, the ricketty amble became a rickbefore him, in a yellow stream, he saw the bright gold pieces tremble, and rush, and spin upon the floor. etty gallop. The reader now understands why Miles Gregory, the recluse, gallopped, amongst shouting boys, over the hill to the house of his blind son. CHAPTER V. "Gather them up, gather them up; temptation!" muttered the old man, and, stooping down, he began to rake the coins together. As he did so, his eyes began to express the vile craving of his nature; his hands lingered upon the metal. The miser drew up his horse at the gate of the "And this was for me," he half moaned. "Fresh little yard in which Lewis Gregory, his sister, and from the mint. Four thousand and five hundred Henry Grant were met; and presently stood face dollars in gold-nine hundred pieces-all for me. to face with the three. Joan said nothing, but And if I don't take it, the rascals are to keep it-pressing an arm across her breast, awaited the rekeep it owing me. And Lewis is to be none the sult. Henry Grant saluted the old man with grave better. Joan-but-but," here he paused, and his courtesy. Lewis Gregory said: voice, when he did speak again, had sunk into an "Father, it is long since you did me so great a inward whisper, "I can hide my moneys away kindness. Thanks for a visit, which your infirmi where Joan, pry, pry as she will, can never find ties make a serious labor to you. You see us them." quite happy again." "Kindness-kindness ?" possessed by his one idea. Give me back the bond." Turning presently to the lawyer he said: "send your man away. We must see what can be done." Wiley, his countenance expressive of innocent surprise at the sudden change of resolution on the part of his old and esteemed friend, dismissed Peterkin, whilst the gold still lay with a tempting glitter upon the floor. This is reasonable," he said. "It would be a great pity that so pretty a sum should be lost to you." "We must get the bond back," said the miser, with the wrinkles of his face drawn into a fixed knot between his eyes. "Assuredly. Your refusal, in the first instance, was quite unlike your customary sagacity." It was presently decided that Miles Gregory should go in person to recover the bond from his son. replied the old man, "No: it is not that. His voice had a fatal earnestness in it. He fastened his keen eyes upon his son and said several times over, running the words into each other,― "Give me back the bond." Lewis Gregory, astounded by this unexpected demand, turned from one to another, without answering. Joan stepped forward; her father thought that he saw the storm of her temper rising. "Send Joan away," he exclaimed angrily. “I am not to be talked out of my own. You won't brow-beat me now. Go away: go away-you Jezebel." "No; here I remain," Joan answered. "Well, stay. I am not afraid. You are a bold hussy. Get out of the way. Give me back the bond; Lewis, I say, give me the bond." "Is it possible, father, that you require this!" said the blind man. He would gladly have taken the lawyer with him, as a body-guard, but that gentleman had insuperable private objections, and insisted, with some adroit reasons, upon remaining at Hackwood, until his return. The gold was restored to its box. "Yes, yes you are deceiving yourself," said Wiley was conducted to another room: Miles his father. "The bond will be worth nothing to Gregory could leave no one so near his treasure-you. I know all about it. Give it back to me." closet. Doors were made secure. Jenkin brought out the superannuated riding-horse. The miser mounted, the wrinkle still fixed between his eyes, and an internal one as tightly puckered about his heart. The miserable horse, an old friend, neglected as his powers waned, at first quite satisfied his master by his slow ricketty amble; and Miles Gregory, like Tennyson's horseman— "A gray and gap-toothed man, as lean as death, Who slowly rode across a withered heath" way. He said nothing of the fact, that a sum of money had been offered to himself for it; fearing that to let this be known would but increase the difficulty of recovering it. Here the noise of some mischievous lads, climbing upon the paling, made an interruption. Come," said Lewis Gregory, "let us leave this too public place. I have still a roof to shelter you from the derision of these poor children." The miser, as he followed his blind son, who went led by Joan, only said, "Never mind-never mind." Henry Grant, as the others entered, stopped upon the portico, and remained there, walking up and down. went feebly, and at poor speed, upon his But presently came the fear that all might be defeated for want of haste; the bond might even now be passing into other hands; the glorious gold, "Now that we are alone," said Lewis Gregory, with the magic of its yellow gleam, might be lost." tell me why it is that you recal an act of pater |