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and valleys without; the good fathers placed before us a substantial breakfast, and we then bade them adieu, followed by a sufficient number of their blessings. The massive gate, with its huge bolts and clasps of iron, was once more unclosed. Few indeed are the times in the course of the year that it receives the wanderer, whose prayers and entreaties for entrance are often unavailing, when he is compelled to seek shelter under the canopy of the rocks around. So far from human resort, so gloomy and unassailable, and having within its walls, caverns, dungeons, and heaps of skeletons, although of saints, it looked like the domain of Despair, in the beautiful romance of the Pilgrim's Progress. Had Bunyan, with his powers of painting, but set his foot in Palestine, how truly and vividly would every scene have opened from his pen; every other might then have been laid hopelessly down.

The path over the wilderness was much more lively and agreeable than on the former day; and we welcomed once more, after a ride of several hours, the walls of the sacred city, as they were seen at some distance at the end of the valley. The day was sultry, and as we passed the small wood of olive-trees on the right of the stream from Siloam, we beheld a party of Armenians regaling beneath its shade. They were well-dressed men, and their horses were fastened to the trees beside them; they invited us very pressingly to alight and join them at their repast. It was rather tempting, for the weather was oppressively hot, and the rivulet beautifully clear, with the cold collation and bottle of wine laid in the shade of the green bank; we declined the invitation, however, and pressed on towards the city, which we soon entered by the gate of Ephraim. The close and prison-like appearance of the streets around the convent, the mean and confined view, and the sus picious and dejected air of the few passengers in the streets, appeared oppressive and repelling after the free air and boundless prospects we had left behind. To celebrate the feast of Easter but few pilgrims had arrived in comparison of former years; yet the ceremonies customary at this period were strictly observed. Olivet and Bethany were visited every day, and the small chapel on the summit of the former attracted the chief veneration. The print of the foot of the Redeemer, the last step that he left on earth, was often kissed with the highest devotion and with tears, as well as the scene of the last passion in the garden beneath, where the marks of the falling drops are yet left on the rocks. The ceremony of the holy light, that took place during Easter, is, however, the greatest imposition practised on the poor pilgrims. On the floor of the rotunda stood every one who had arrived— not one was absent, or would have suffered any thing save mortal sickness to detain him from this wonderful scene. It took place at night, the lights were all extinguished, the vast area with the dome was wrapped in profound darkness, and the whole assembly, full of expectation, preserved a deep silence. The priests were within the sepulchre, busily employed in preparing the miracle. The eyes of all present, Greeks, Catholics, Copts, and Armenians, were intently fixed on the tomb, whence the light was to burst forth, as a token of the divine approbation, and that joy, light, and immortality were sprung from the darkness of the grave. This was the consummation of all: the processions round the sacred spot, the sprinkling of the incense

the tears and prayers, were all preparatory to this great token, which was to seal the joy and complete the consolation of every pilgrim. On a sudden the light burst in a blaze from within the chamber of the sepulchre, and streamed on the multitude of devoted Christians around. What a moment for a painter to have caught-from the expression of doubt, anxiety, and hope, that of wild and enthusiastic joy! The shouts and cries that instantly arose were actually stunning, accompanied with clapping and waving of hands; each one crying out in his own language, many on their knees praying fervently and loudly, and all hailing with ecstasy the light, the holy, the miraculous light! It did not deceive them; for it came vivid and unfading from the sepulchre, and each eye gazed on it with such intenseness and passion, as if it was the light that was to cheer for them "the dark valley of the shadow of death," and take from the grave its fearfulness. The men, who were by far the more numerous part of the audience, were boisterous and half frantic with their joy; but the women expressed it more by tears, and silent clasping of hands. At last, when the priests thought the scene had lasted long enough, the light was extinguished from within, and the pilgrims, nearly exhausted with their fervour, but all delighted, gradually dispersed. You would expect to find that the synagogue of the Jews was in some measure worthy of their capital; but, like the Christians, they appear to avoid every appearance of ornament or comfort without. Their chief place of worship is a sorry and mean-looking building, to which you descend by a flight of steps. It is situated in the midst of the Jewish quarter, and is supported, however, by some ancient pillars. The most striking ceremony of this people, is one which sometimes occurs without the walls of the city when they assemble to celebrate the festival of the tombs of their fathers. They are not allowed to do this without the permission of the Turkish governor, which they are obliged to obtain by the bribe of a handsome sum of money. The whole Jewish population gather together in the Valley of Jehosaphat, which is their favourite burying place; because there they are to be finally judged. The ceremony is conducted with great decency, and is without any clamour or noise. They sit for some time in silence on the tombs of their fathers, with sad counter.ances, and their eyes fixed on the ground. Men, women, and children, are all assembled, and it is an interesting spectacle, to see this fallen people mourning in the Valley of Jehosaphat, where their kings have offered sacrifices; where their prophets have uttered their divine inspirations; and where they believe the trump of the archangel shall finally wake them to judgment. But even this consolation of assembling round the ashes of their fathers, they are obliged to purchase with money. It is well their sensibilities are blunted, and their spirit utterly bowed, or else the draught that is given them to drink would have too much bitterness, and the iron rod of the oppressor would enter into their very soul.

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THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

THE Champions had come from their fields of war,
Over the crests of the billows far,

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores,
Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse king's board,
By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd
The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high,
And they flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

The Scalds had chanted, in Runic rhyme,

Their songs of the sword and the olden time,

And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,

Had breathed from the walls where the bright spears hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string.
They had summon'd a softer voice to sing,

And a captive girl, at the warrior's call,

Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood-in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of the southern skies,
And their drooping lids-oh! the world of woe,
The cloud of dreams, that sweet veil below!

Stately she stood-though her fragile frame
Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flame,
And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,
Under the waves of her dark hair worn.

And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek, by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death!

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day,
And brought to die of the burning dreams
That haunt the Exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land-
She held its lyre with a trembling hand,

Till the spirit, its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain in its first wild flow,
Troubled its murmur, and sad and low;
But it swell'd into deeper power ere long,

As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.

"They bid me sing of Thee, mine own, my sunny land! of Thee!
Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful sounding sea?
Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul?-In silence let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure deep sapphire sky
How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?
Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the North?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more! my spirit shall awake,
And through the mists of death break out, my Country! for thy sake!
That I may make thee known, with all the glory and the light,
And the beauty never more to bless thy daughter's yearning sight!
Thy woods shall whisper in my song, thy bright streams warble by,
Thy soul flow o'er my lips again—yet once, my Sicily!

"There are blue heavens-far hence, far hence! but oh! their glorious blue! Its very night is beautiful with the hyacinth's deep hue!

It is above my own fair land, and round my laughing home,

And arching o'er the vintage hills, they hang their cloudless dome;

And making all the waves as gems, that melt along the shore,
And steeping happy hearts in joy-that now is mine no more!

"And there are haunts in that green land-oh! who may dream or tell
Of all the shaded loveliness it hides in grot and dell?

By fountains flinging rainbow spray on dark and glossy leaves,
And bowers wherein the forest-dove her nest untroubled weaves;
The myrtle dwells there, sending round the richness of its breath,
And the violets gleam, like amethysts, in the dewy moss beneath!
"And there are floating sounds that fill the skies through night and day,
Sweet sounds! the soul to hear them faints in dreams of heaven away!
They wander through the olive-woods, and o'er the shining seas,
They mingle with the orange scents, that load the sleepy breeze;
Lute, voice, and bird are blending there; it were a bliss to die,
As dies a leaf, thy groves among, my flowery Sicily!

"I may not perish thus-farewell!-yet no, my Country! no!,
Is not Love stronger than the Grave? I feel it must be so!
My fleeting spirit shall o'erpass the mountains and the main,
And in thy tender starlight rove, and through thy woods again!
Its passion deepens-it prevails!-I break my chain-I come
To dwell a viewless thing, yet bless'd, in thy sweet air, my home!"

And her pale arms dropp'd the singing lyre,

There came a mist o'er her wild-eye's fire,
And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold,

Loosed from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall,

-A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall!

She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone,
The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!

F. H.

LONDON LETTERS TO COUNTRY COUSINS.-NO. IV.

The King's Bench and its Inmates.

WE will not, my dear Frank, enter this paragon of prisons by the back way adjacent to Belvedere Row, as if we were ashamed of being seen go into it; but will return into the Borough Road, and enter by the principal carriage approach-which, however, leads immediately into the same court-yard as the more private entrance does. This approach resembles all the rest of the exterior of the prison,-which affects an almost puritanical plainness of appearance-disdaining all "foreign aid of ornament," as if conscious of her secret power of holding in captivity all who come within the spell of her charms; or, at least, secure of their returning to her embraces after having once tasted of their sweets. This principal approach to the entrance is flanked on the right by the lofty buttressed wall of which I spoke in my last letter, and is in perfect keeping with it,-consisting, first, of a plain screen of brickwork, with an arched door-way cut in it on each side, for foot passengers, and an open space in the centre for carriage company. This admits you into a plain gravelled avenue, about fifty

yards in length, terminating in a triangular patch of garden on the left, and, turning abruptly to the right, ushers you into the court-yard, in which the sole actual entrance of the prison opens. This latter consists of a common arched door-way, finished by rusticated stone-work, and reached by half a dozen steps, and on passing which you find yourself in a little hall, scarcely a dozen feet square, but the air and furniture of which at once indicate the sort of domicile into which it leads. It has been suggested, with singular infelicity, that the motto over this door should be

"Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate ;"

which, as you are still a

country gentleman," I must interpret to signity that "those who enter here must leave their hopes behind them," -as old ladies do by their paraboues at the door of a methodist meeting as if a prison were a modern Paraclete,

"Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns,"

and Hope a kind of clog, the clatter of which would disturb the religious stillness of the place. The motto that actually does figure over the door is a much more sensible one, though it differs from the above in a single word only. It is, being "written in choice Italian,"

"Lasciate ogni cane voi ch'entrate ;”

or in the vulgate, "No dogs admitted."

While in this little vestibule, you have plenty of time allowed you to study the above, and various other inscriptions touching the amount of fees, &c.; for the functionary whose duty it is to let Christians in and keep dogs out, usually seems in considerable doubt as to which of the two classes any given applicant for admission belongs to, and makes a point of keeping him waiting (or it may be, her,) till, by a most leisurely examination from top to toe, he has fully satisfied himself of the fact. He then,-provided there are not fewer than half a dozen persons waiting on either side of the door,-fishes up the huge polished key from the pocket of his white Witney coat, shoots the heavy-sounding bolts of the iron-bound door, and drawing it slowly open, permits the two streams, of entrances and exits, to interpenetrate each other; and the former, if they are paying their first visit, fancy they have gained the scene of their search. But they soon find that, like a boat on a canal in a hilly country, they have only passed one lock to reach another, where they are called upon to pay the same toll over again, of waiting beneath the half scrutinizing, half supercilious eye of the doorkeeper, till a sufficient number of applicants are collected on each side the door to make it worth his while to take the trouble of turning the key. This latter operation, however, introduces you at last into the actual interior of the King's Bench Prison; and whatever may be the hour at which you enter, places before you a living and moving picture, that I will venture to say is unique in its kind.

Let us first take a glance at the frame-work of this picture: not, however, without having, as in the duty of humanity bound, dropped our mite of money into the tin pot held in the extended hand of a

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