then in blossom, still clothed the plain with verdure, were growing on the very field which they arrayed in glory when alluded to by our Saviour, in his beautiful illustration of the goodness of God.

I have already noticed the thorn-trees, which were thickly scattered over the plain of Galilee. The species is common in Palestine, and, though very different from what Italian painters have supposed, is presumed to be the tree of which the crown of thorns' was made. The branches, being long, slender, and pliant, could easily be plaited; and, as they are thickly covered with small glossy ivyshaped leaves, a double mockery might be conveyed in a wreath which would greatly resemble the classic crown of victory or empire. No plant can be more treacherous than this gentle-looking tree, as it conceals under every leaf a thorn, curved like a fish-hook, which grasps and tears everything that touches it. Whilst noticing these trees, I may mention what appeared to me a peculiarity in Syrian ornithology. It is the great tendency which the birds have to live, as it were, in colonies, various districts being occupied exclusively by different tribes. Upon the highest branch of almost every one of these thorns sat a butcher-bird; and, in some of them, hundreds of the previous year's nests were clustered together in dense masses, unapproachable from their fence of thorns. I am not aware to what bird the nests belonged. Of the Lanus shrike, or butcher-bird, there are upwards of fifty different varieties. The species so common at Galilee was the Lanus excubitor, or great butcher-bird, so called from the alleged fact of his spitting his prey-small birds and beetles-upon thorns, before pulling them to pieces with his bill. The back of this bird is ash-coloured, his breast a dirty white, his wings and tail being composed of white and black feathers. I was confirmed in Syria, in what I suspected, from the only butcher-bird I ever shot or saw in Britain-that, considering its size, no animal is more tenacious of life, and the amount of shot they can carry off is extraordinary.

Wherever fig-trees were plentiful, I observed the speckled woodpecker; and groves of olives were sure to be peopled exclusively by jays. Even the Mount of Olives, though the trees are but scantily scattered over it, resounded with the harsh screams of these noisy birds. Gold

finches, larks, and starlings, in flocks, to the numbers of which we have nothing to compare in Britain, almost cover the hills and plains of the open country. The vast assembly of malards at Bahr el Houle I have already noticed; and all the rooks that I saw in Syria were congregated in one vast rookery at Katana. It surprised me, that I never saw that almost ubiquitous bird, the magpie, in the East.

Lastly, the waterfowl, which in great numbers spotted over the surface of the Sea of Galilee, though of many different species, were, without exception, of the colymbus or grebe tribe. I broke the sabbath of the scene with but a single shot, and having wounded one of these birds, which seemed peculiar, I swam out after it into the lake, and it was only then that I was fully aware of its perfect transparency. Looking down, I saw the bottom at a depth of thirty or forty feet, as plainly as if no water intervened, and the poor grebe had no chance of escape, as, observing every movement it made when under water, I had only to be ready to secure it on its coming to the surface. It appeared to me, that, as these birds, when disturbed, trust to diving and not to flight, they might easily be caught by an expert swimmer, owing to the extreme clearness of the lake.

Our people had proceeded to Tiberias without stopping, and in the afternoon our two companions followed them, leaving us still lingering on a spot at once so interesting in its associations, and so fascinating in its beauty. We mounted our horses, just as the sun went down, but soon the moon shone out, bringing with it a silver light, and resting, with all its company of stars, upon Deep Galilee,' which lay as bright and still as on that night when its angry waves were hushed, and there was a great calm.'

Among the objects that glimmered white in the moonlight was a strange rock, standing near the shore, like a solitary pillar in the lake. A round block of stone, the top of which swelled out into a globe, it very much resembled a gigantic Turkish tombstone, surmounted by its sculptured turban. And eighteen hundred years ago that changeless rock stood there as now, and must often have attracted the notice of One whose slightest mention of it would have rendered it an object of veneration throughout all time! Looking on it, and on the

turf that conceals every trace of Capernaum, that town where the Saviour so often dwelt, as to cause it to be called 'his own city;' and remembering the uncertainty that hangs over almost every locality and individual spot which tradition has connected with the earthly pilgrimage of the Son of God, I could scarcely avoid the conclusion, that it is something more than accident and mere misfortune, that has thus consigned them to oblivion, or surrounded them with doubt.

The remark may be extended to the objects which have been connected with the worship of Jehovah, or the places which have been associated with the names of his prophets. The Hebrew race remains, a living monument of the past, but the material symbols of their religion have long since utterly disappeared. Let us not say that time has necessarily consigned them to oblivion. The great people who once held the Jews in captivity, have withered away; but the enduring Pyramids, and the mysterious Sphinx, still stand unmoved on the banks of the Nile. The tombs of the kings and priests of Egypt remain unaltered, covered with the records of a remote antiquity; but the sepulchre of Moses 'no man knoweth unto this day.'

The fanes sacred to Baal or to Osiris still stand in columned grandeur; but of the Temple of the Most High no stone is left above another. The sculptured gods of the Greeks, the prison of their murdered sage, the graves of their heroes, these, and much more, remain; but where are the relics of the Saviour? where are the earthly footprints of our Lord and his apostles? Are they not lost because of the proneness of man to cleave to some visible object of worship, and to pay that adoration to the thing, which is due only to HIM by whom all things were created, and who is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever?

The plain of Gennesareth does not extend so far to the south as Tiberias, and before reaching that town, the banks of the lake become rugged and steep, and our path led along rocky heights, covered with brushwood, amidst which we heard the piercing cries of the jackals, almost close to our horses' feet. On approaching Tiberias, we found it, to our surprise, surrounded by tents, a regiment of soldiers having bivouacked near the place, and we only discovered our own encampment, after firing repeated shots, which were at length responded to by our friends.

F. C.

CHAPTER III.

PICTURE-SEEING.

ANNE's approaching pleasure was the general subject of conversation the next morning. The family feeling was not unanimous on the occasion-that could scarcely be expected. The children were loudly glad; Mr Dynevor quietly, but unmistakeably pleased; but Helen was somewhat silent, and Anne felt it hard that her mother was evidently annoyed, rather than gratified, at this mark of attention being shown by Mrs Lumley to her eldest daughter, instead of to Helen.

'Why, she scarcely ever saw you in her life,' was the remark with which she wound up a long string of wonderings and conjecturings; she knows nothing in the world about you?'

९

'Oh, pardon me, but you are mistaken there,' interposed Mr Dynevor, looking up from his newspaper. Mrs Lumley has heard a good deal of Anne-from mutual friends.'

'What mutual friends?' 'Myself-if you will permit me to be numbered in the category-and Mr Avarne.'

Anne coloured a quick, painful crimson, and then coloured again from simple fear of detection. But the emotion passed unnoticed, Helen and the children having left the room, and all her father's attention being occupied by Mrs Dynevor's loudly-expressed disdain, at the first utterance of which, Anne gladly fled into the recesses of her store-closet.

'Mr Avarne, indeed! What nonsense will you put into our heads next, I wonder? as if Mr Avarne had not something else to talk about besides a parcel of young

women.'

'That expression is scarcely elegant, my dear,' returned her husband, with his most provoking air of affected gravity, 'and is entirely misplaced on the present occasion. I never accused Mr Avarne of talking about any other young woman but Anne.'

Of all young women, the most unlikely!' cried Mrs Dynevor, with singular irritation. A man like Mr Avarne, who goes into so much society, who sees so

many people:—why, he must know everybody of note in London.'

can

"The more reason he should be able to recognise and appreciate goodness when he meets with it, I think. Much intercourse with the world-by which I mean the "world" of London society—is apt to shake one's faith in its existence, tell you. However,' continued Mr Dynevor, growing serious and explanatory, Mr Avarne only mentioned Anne's love of pictures when Mrs Lumley was talking about them, and she then invited her to go with her this morning. He also made an observation about some sketches of Anne's which he had seen one day;—very ordinary remarks. I don't think, had you been there to hear, they would have afforded you food for a tithe part of a censure, or for the merest atom of wonderment.'

Mrs Dynevor turned away with an angry and rather inconsequent Nonsense!' But her husband settled himself to his newspaper again, with evident deprecation of further argument. Anne might come forth from her sugar and rice with impunity; as, indeed, she was very soon compelled to do, the customary matutinal appeals to her now ensuing.

'Sister Anne, will you mend this hole in my jacket before I go to school?' was Albert's demand.

'May I say my lessons now?' said little Grace.

'Anne, you must see to Rebecca the first thing,' Mrs Dynevor interposed, 'and give her clear directions about the dinner.'

And Helen brought up the rear, by entering with the memorable white dress hanging on her arm. 'Dear Anne, I tore this lace off, last night. Would you sew it on again for me? You will do it so

much more neatly than I can.'

'Now, good people all,' cried Mr Dynevor, just as Anne was leaving the room to execute the kitchen duties impressed on her by her mother, 'if you crowd tasks upon Anne in this fashion, she will never be ready by the time Mrs Lumley calls. And mind you, Mrs Lumley is a very worthy woman, for a woman of fashion, and kind-hearted as she is light-headed; but you would find, I suspect, that she

I

strongly objects to be kept waiting. beg that Anne may be dressed an hour beforehand. I particularly wish she should not be hurried.' And his wife's remonstrance was effectually cut short by'Now I'm going to set to work for the day. Run away, everybody, and let me be quiet,' &c.

Anne had reason to be grateful for her father's interference. Mrs Dynevor might complain, and be reproachful and indignant, but, nevertheless, she always respected her husband's injunctions too much to think of disregarding them. And Helen, whose fair brows were somewhat clouded for a minute or two, when she found not only that her claim on her sister's services was to be postponed, but that on herself would devolve some of Anne's many and various duties for the day-Helen, on consideration, resolved not only to be amiable, but to appear so, too.

She surprised Anne by running up to her room, where she was dressing, with kind offers of assistance. She fluttered about the room, opening boxes, and tumbling the contents of drawers, with a show of zeal that was quite edifying, though, to say the truth, not of great efficacy in furthering Anne's proceedings. But the elder sister was too happy in the kindness, to care much for the help. And, after all, despite every contending hindrance including little Grace's lessons, which she had resolved on superintending herself, before she left home-Anne was dressed and ready, and, as her father complacently remarked, 'looking neither flushed nor pale, but very much as she ought to look,' some time before the roll of carriage wheels, and a footman's imperative knock at the door, announced the expected arrival.

Mr Dynevor handed his daughter into the carriage, and exchanged a few words with Mrs Lumley before it drove off. Mrs Dynevor meanwhile looked furtively from behind the drawing-room curtains-an example which Helen with lofty scorn declined to follow, although she nevertheless attended with some interest to her mother's descriptive remarks on what she

saw.

'Two ladies in the carriage! Who is the other, I wonder? Do you know her, Helen? Thin, and dark, and past thirty, I should think. Who can she be?'

'I haven't the least idea; it doesn't signify.'

Ah, your father is coming in again.

There they go. He will be able to tell us, very likely.'

At that same moment, Anne was put in possession of the coveted information, by being presented to the lady sitting opposite to her.

'Miss Dynevor-Miss Blackburn.'

Bows were duly exchanged, and Anne glanced quietly at her new acquaintance, who considerately directed her eyes towards Mrs Lumley for a minute or two, so as to permit the inspection.

She was a woman past the period conventionally regarded as youthful; and, indeed, there was something in her face which seemed to denote that her spirit had grown old with the years that had gone over her, and that she was not one of those happy few who, even when they cease to look young, retain within the inner and truer self, the best and purest elements both of childhood and of youth. In Miss Blackburn's face there was none of that steadfast and serene calm which is equally characteristic of exceeding wisdom or infinite innocence. The eyes were bright, quick, and searching; the mouth expressive, and restlessly mobile, when not under a control which, however, was somewhat often exercised, resulting in a tightening of the lip, a constraining of the muscles, that did not improve either the symmetry or expression of the countenance thus disciplined. Her voice was like her face. It was not harsh; there was even a wandering music, very earnest and healthful in its occasional tones; yet there was also a jarring inflection which it took too frequently, and an almost total absence of that indefinite something, at once so beautiful and so necessary to the beauty of a woman's voice; the graciousness and gentle sweetness which, because it springs from the spirit of loving within her, is of all her graces the most loveable.

'Do you like pictures?' was the abrupt and rather commonplace question with which she turned to Anne. And then, while receiving the inevitable assent, she looked in her face with an inquiring, but not unkindly gaze.

'Oh, Miss Dynevor has a real enthusiasm for art,' said Mrs Lumley; 'which is so rare in these languid times, as to call for grateful appreciation from all quarters.'

A real anything, when one can but find it, is like water in a dry land, I think,' remarked Miss Blackburn, no longer looking at Anne, and with the pleasanter light in her eyes usurped by a hard glitter,

which, unhappily, seemed more habitual to them.

'And you are an artist yourself, I have heard, Miss Dynevor,' continued Mrs Lumley.

Anne eagerly and earnestly deprecated the title.

'Do you only draw a little, then, after the fashion of young ladies generally?' asked Miss Blackburn, with a smile which would have been more agreeable had it been free from a certain slight but perceptible shade of sarcasm.

More than "a little" in that sense,' replied Anne, courageously; 'yet little enough when measured by the magnitude of such a name as artist.'

'I perceive that your reverence for art is equal to your enthusiasm'-and Miss Blackburn's smile grew more genial; 'the two feelings are not always co-existent, unfortunately.'

Anne looked little puzzled, a little incredulous-a look which the bright dark eyes were quick to interpret.

'I will tell you more clearly what I mean. The enthusiasm which arises out of reverence is deeper and sincerer, stronger and more lasting, than the vivacious sentimentality which ordinarily goes by the name. Do you agree with me now?'

'I think, yes; except,' hesitated Anne, while her interlocutor bent a keen gaze upon her-'except that you imply so wide a scepticism as to the reality.

'Of every-day folks' raptures,' finished Miss Blackburn. 'Exactly so. Think a moment, and you will perceive what a reasonable sceptic I am. How many young ladies who "adore" music, would know Mozart from Jullien? How many who "dote on" the country, would give up a ball or a fashionable promenade for the loveliest scene in nature, lit by the divinest heaven that ever shone? Tell me, now.'

'But,' Anne said, smiling, though feeling painfully that she could not attempt to answer this demand, 'these are only one class; young ladies are not all humanity.' "The most advantageous species from which to illustrate for your purpose, I think,' returned her adversary. 'So far as my experience goes, I believe women to be more innately sincere than men; and certainly the young, both from temperament and circumstance, are less calculating and less conventional than those who have learned for a longer time the admirable lessons taught in the school of

the world. Where will you look for truth, if not among young women?'

Anne was baffled; though feeling clearly that the argument was illogical, she could not demonstrate its falsity. She was silent for a few moments, and at length only said, thoughtfully, Then, where do the true and sincere people come from?'

'It would be more to the purpose to inquire where they go to, I think. In what strange nooks do they so effectually conceal themselves?' said Miss Blackburn, with a harsh laugh, which caused Anne to shrink back involuntarily.

But here Mrs Lumley effected a timely diversion by making some casual remark, and the conversation became more general and more lively. Miss Blackburn did not often join in it. She leaned back, and her restless eyes wandered from the passers-by in the street to the quiet, womanly face opposite to her, fixing themselves longest there, although Anne never encountered them once.

Mr F- -'s studio was in one of the pleasantest suburbs, quite on the other side of London to the drearier district where the Dynevors dwelt. It was a long drive, and pleasant towards its close, when they passed through some lanes, and beside some fields not yet built upon, and where the wind blew freshly, and the air seemed clearer, and the sunshine brighter.

'Who says we have nothing of nature near London?' demanded Mrs Lumley, triumphantly. 'Look, Miss Blackburn. In the summer, these lanes are green and beautiful; even now, you can see the hedges just beginning to bud. And those trees in the field there!-it is quite a bit of the country.'

'I see two hedges extending for a quarter of a mile, six or seven trees, a field, a garden, and, beyond that, rows of villas, and an infinitely extending distance of chimneys. Do you think this is anything like nature? Oh, my dear Mrs Lumley, you might as well call a birch broom a birkenshaw! It is an interminable dispute between us, you must know,' she explained to Anne; 'Mrs Lumley being an ardent upholder of the delights and advantages of a London residence, while I

I have lived all my life in the country, and scarcely count it living to be anywhere else.'

'You love the country, then?' said Anne, interested.

'Yes,' was the curt answer; 'and you