and cause the patient to lick off and swallow the ink, in place of medicine! The people of Jerusalem, now, have an excellent resident English physician, Thomas Chaplin, M.D. At Beyrout, they have two American physicians of the highest order of medical skill, Dr. Van Dyke and Dr. Post.

The Garden of Gethsemane is a plot of ground a little more than half an acre in extent, surrounded by a high stone wall, having but one entrance, and that through a low gate. As the janitor justly said, "all must bow who enter here." We measured the walls by stepping seventy-five short paces on a side, equal to one hundred and fifty-feet. This hollow in the hills, a half-mile of garden ground, is termed Jesmoniya by the natives, and somewhere in it, no doubt, the garden stood. It is quite likely that this is the very spot. It is neatly kept and stocked with olives, cypresses and flowers. The olive trees are eight in number, each boarded up and protected from the pilfering propensities of visitors. Such noble and venerable trees! Rough in their trunks, so aged that their cavities are built up with stone for strength, but fruitful as only such patriarchal trees can be. Each has three, four or five stems springing from a single root, and these roots the same, doubtless, that supported the trees under whose shade Jesus walked, turned aside, prayed, knelt and agonized his soul even unto death. The thought is overwhelming. My mind, while here, was chiefly occupied in the thought that the resurrection of Christ is the guarantee of the resurrection of all mankind. A young lady went past me as I sat and read of the agony, the tears and the sweat. She was making the circuit of Gethsemane upon her knees. Her costly garments already soiled and ragged by her morning's work.-sobs and tears shaking her whole frame,-her hands wildly thrown above her head. I had never seen such a sight before. It recalled the long trains of Irish Catholics that I have observed on snowy winter mornings, on their knees, outside the church, each patiently waiting his turn to enter. It recalled the poet's words:

"With knees of adoration wore the stone,
A holy maid."

Whether this was religion or fanaticism must be left to the Great Searcher of Hearts to say.

In the services of Passion week, this is "Tuesday before Easter." The Scriptural references are those in Matthew xi. 12-19; referring

to His curse upon the barren fig-tree; and the driving out of the money-changers and pedlars who profaned the temple. Coming in from Bethany, where he had spent the night, our Saviour probably returned again to that village at the close of the day. It was during Tuesday that the Scribes and Pharisees plotted to take His life.

CHAPTER X.

A DAY ON MOUNT OLIVET THE TENTH DAY.

CAMP OF THE ASSYRIANS, WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24TH, 6 P. M.

IN going into the city, to-day, I passed clear round to the east side, and entered by the St. Stephen's Gate. The people here call it the Gate of Lady Mary, because they think the mother of Jesus was buried in a tomb east of this gate, near the Garden of Gethsemane. But the Bible doesn't say so. There are some carved lions over this gate, just like the stone lion we got at Kirjath Jearim.

As I went up to that gate, I saw the people burying a man in the graveyard close by. The body had been brought a good way, and as there was no coffin, the corpse was very offensive, reminding me of the expression of Martha in John xi. 39. The grave had been dug east and west. They laid the head of the corpse to the west, placing him on his right side, with his right hand under his right ear as a man does when he is listening for something. Hassan says that they do this, so that the dead man may hear Allah call him on the resurrection day. Then they sung a droning song that was terribly unpleasant to me. Then they took a number of sticks, and fastened them into the sides of the grave, crossways over the body, so as to leave quite a vacant place above it, so that when he shall rise on the last day, he may not have to lift up a great deal of earth. This dead man had a small tuft of hair on top of his head, which the angel of the resurrection will lift him up by. All the rest of his head was shaved smooth, the same way Hassan has his. Hassan says, in some places here they bury a dead man with a piece of stone in one hand and a small copper coin in the other. The stone is to be used at heaven's gate to knock for admission; the money is to pay the doorkeeper. But none of these ceremonies are practised when a woman dies. Oh, no! They don't believe a woman has any soul, and therefore she can't go to heaven at all, or be raised up again by Allah or the angel.

The scenes in Jerusalem would fill a whole volume, I will describe only six.

First. A little girl about six years old. Another little girl about twelve. They are playing camel, and the big girl is the camel. She kneels down as the camels do. Then the little one climbs her back, clasps hands over her forehead, kicks her in the side, and makes a noise as the cameliers do. The big girl screams and gets up awkwardly, as a camel does, turns her head back, grinds her teeth, as a camel does, spits and shrieks, then away they both go, laughing just as such a merry pair of sisters should do. All the dress the two girls have on wouldn't cover a candle-stand decently. Their clothes are made of blue cotton, of the thinnest, cheapest, and raggedest character. But, oh, what a merry game of camel they do play!

Second. A chicken peddler comes by with strings of poultry swung all over him. The man is covered with hens. A rooster's head is sticking out where his head ought to be. An enormous pair of wings flaps over his shoulders, reminding me of a ridiculous old angel that I saw in a Greek church yesterday.

Third. Three laboring men have sat down on the sidewalk near me to eat their breakfast. They are hungry. Their only victuals are libbarn, or curdled milk in a small wooden dish, and bread, that looks as if made of such black sawdust as mahogany wood makes. I gave them some boiled eggs. And never was a lot of boiled eggs swallowed so fast before. Then the grateful fellows came up to thank me. Each one put his right hand under my right hand, so as just to touch it, and raised it up to his lips and kissed it. This is the way they do here.

Fourth. A female dog lies under the window opposite where I am sitting, and suckles her four pups, young things with eyes not yet opened. The sidewalk is only twenty inches wide. Thousands of people pass along it every day. Yet she gave birth to them there, and she will bring them up there; for nobody will disturb her even on that narrow sidewalk. At first she snarled at me, for she doesn't like the style of my clothes; but after I bought her a string of kabobs and some bread, she changed her mind. She saw that, after all, these outlandish clothes of mine may cover a human heart. And now, while I am making a drawing of her family, she wags her tail and turns her one motherly eye up at me with a grateful expression.

Fifth. A furious dog-fight surging down the street nearly carries me off my feet. Hassan, who was smoking outside a café watching me, came up with his koorbash and smote them. Anything like humanity seems foolishness to these people. They used to sew up

their prisoners in asses' skins and then burn them alive; used to cut their feet and hands off; burn out their eyes with hot irons; tear out their tongues by the roots. Hassan says he would love to treat all his enemies that way, and I believe him. He told me of a family of four brothers, living on Mount Lebanon, whose feet, hands, tongues and eyes were destroyed by a cruel tyrant more than thirty years ago.

All the time this dog fight was going on, the mother lay perfectly unconcerned, suckling her little dogs. The heroes of the two factions had agreed that she, at least, shouldn't be meddled with; though, to look at them, you wouldn't think there was so much gallantry in them.

Sixth. A Bedouin Arab, from the desert, comes riding by. As it is against the laws of Jerusalem for him to bring his weapons inside, he has left his spear and his horse pistols, and his long, flint lock musket, outside the city. But he hasn't left his wild, animal face, or his lustful eye, or his cunning, thievish leer. Not a bit of it. His horse is a hundred times more of a gentleman than the rider. What a splendid horse! As the Bedouin comes so near me that I could lay my hand on him, I give him the salute, and say salaam aleik, as much like an Arab as I can. Quick as a flash, he reins up his horse and looks at me. At first he hesitates, then answers my salute. Then he reaches out his dry, sunburnt hand, and whispers, backsheesh. I gave him some and he rode off in high glee. But if his noble horse could speak, he would say, "You Christian dog, I scorn you and your backsheesh! I am a proud, independent Arab steed, from the desert."

I wonder how these chaps can mount their horses with those long, eighteen feet spear handles in their hands.

To-day has been given to viewing Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives. Harriet sketched and described the scenery near the top, while I wandered round the base and examined the Garden of Gethsemane, the Hebrew Cemetery, and other objects of interest. After climbing to the top of the ruined Church of Ascension, I went down to the Brook Kedron, and followed its course for some distance. There is no flow of water in it; nor is the Kedron at all such a thing as, in our country, we would term a brook. Fifty feet of stones and loose earth have been washed in, and now encumber its bed, so that we smile at the idea of having two stone bridges to span a dry ravine. Our Christian poets have found great euphony in the name