hallowed a spot. Sepulchres also are numerous, hewn out of the rock, as in the Valley of Hinnom; the ashes they once contained are now scattered to the winds. The ascent to the summit of Mount Hor is fatiguing. Half way up is a plain, over which are scattered many heaps of stones, like cromlas; and grottos are hewn out of the sides of the rocks. No trees or verdure of any kind gladdens the eye—it is a sad and withered scene; nor is there a single delicious well of water to quench the burning thirst. It is also dangerous ground; the foot of the Arab, whose hand may here be said to be against every man from whom plunder may be gained, continually hovers around. The little dark groups of tents may be seen pitched, at long intervals, over the waste beneath. Less than another hour of weary ascent, and the summit is gained, where stands the tomb of Aaron, venerated and adored by all the Mahometans, who here offer sacrifices, and pass hours in prayer. Tradition can hardly have erred respecting the identity of the mountain, that it is the Hor where Aaron died and was buried; but as to the tomb, it is of Arabian origin. The veneration for the spot must have existed for very many ages, from the number of scattered ruins of ancient homes and graves. After passing the region of Hor, the desert plains become more extensive, and better adapted for the encampment of a vast multitude; a few towns, at long intervals, are in the way; the climate grows cooler, the night-wind being often keen and piercing. After wandering so many days in these weary scenes, the joy may be conceived when, on gaining the summit of a mountain, the Dead Sea is seen stretched out beneath still, bright, and breezeless; no ripple on its breast, no murmur on its shore; about six miles wide, and of a length far beyond what the eye can follow. Beautiful the deadly sheet of water looks, and the wanderer turns again and again from the white and sandy ocean that has so long been his rest, and follows each creek, and gulf, and hoary precipice of the fatal scene. A few hours hence is the Bedouin village of Safye, where, it is supposed, once stood Zoar, to which Lot entreated to be allowed to fly. There is every reason to believe that the flight from "the cities of the plain" must have been to the high mountains south of the sea; the valley of the Jordan, and the wilderness of Ziph, in the other directions, being either fertile tracts or inhabited by shepherds, where a refuge and a home might easily be found. The air all around this celebrated sea is dreadfully oppressive; even the Arab almost faints beneath it. The plain on the west side of the lake is covered with sand, and no dweller comes there; but on the east there are some spots of fertility, and even groups of trees. Here the Bedouin peasant comes and builds his hut of rushes, and cultivates a few scanty fields. It is not a little strange that no allusion is made, in the writings of Moses, to this noble and fearful sea-the monument of the just judgments of God, over whose shores the Israelites must have stood and gazed in admiration on emerging from their desert homes of forty years. The rapid rushing of the Jordan during the rainy season, and the strange and ghastly stillness of the waters into whose bosom the sacred river pours, is one of the finest contrasts conceivable; no outlet, no increase, no diminution-for ever the same. Such will the Dead Sea ever be, the indelible witness of the terrors of the Lord, that changed "the glorious plain, the garden of beauty," into the valley of the shadow of death. The finest point of view of the Dead Sea is from the wilderness of St. Saba, whose precipices form its western boundary, and amidst whose arid vales, ravines, and caves, David concealed himself for a time from the pursuit of Saul. Oh, when shall my feet wander there again! The loveliest and softest scenes could never have given such enthusiasm—such indelible feeling! It was in the stillness and deep beauty of a moonlight night that we passed on our way over this wilderness; the light was like that of day, so pure and brilliant. Yet even this beauty was terrible-so ineffaceably riven on every mount, and vale, and precipice, was the curse of God-the withering passage of his vengeance. More than once, weary with the walk, we sat down on a bank, silently, for the heart was too full for many words: there was no sound in the air; the sea was now near at handa rapid advance of a few minutes more and we should be by its side; but its silence was unbroken as that of the grave. The lofty towers and strong walls of the monastery of St. Saba had long since faded from view; even the Bedouin spoiler had sought his tent or his cave, and his shrill cry no longer came from afar. This was the hour, above all others, in which to wander around the memorable scene whose ancient judgments were at last succeeded by infinite mercies: for here were composed some of the finest songs of the Psalmist; and prophet, as well as apostle, were acquainted with its solitudes. A BROTHER'S DEATH-BED. BY MARY HOWITT. BROTHER, alas! our life With damask curtains drawn! Yet thou art gone to rest, Like Lazarus in Abraham's breast; And I, another Dives, shall awake Within the ever-burning lake. Wretch that I am!-through life have been! Now comes the first reward of sin, Remorse, that with relentless ire Gnaweth my soul like fire; |