he will find himself in a large apartment forming a sort of vestibule. On the left, in a recess of the wall, is a large divan, cushioned and carpeted, where the Turkish doorkeeper is usually sitting, with half a dozen of his friends, smoking the long pipe and drinking coffee, and always conducting himself with great dignity and propriety. Directly in front, surmounted by an iron railing, having at each end three enormous wax candles more than twenty feet high, and suspended above it a number of silver lamps of different sizes and fashions-gifts from the Catholic, Greek and Armenian convents-is a long flat stone called the "Stone of Unction," and on this, it is said, the body of our Lord was laid when taken down from the cross and washed and anointed in preparation for sepulture. This is the first object that arrests the pilgrims in their entrance, and here they prostrate themselves in succession, the old and the young, women and children, the rich man and the beggar, and all kiss the sacred stone. It is a slab of polished white marble, and one of the monks, whom I questioned on the subject as he rose from his knees after kissing it most devoutly, told me that it was not the genuine stone, which he said was under it, the marble having been placed there as an ornamental covering and to protect the hallowed relic from the abuses of the Greeks.

On the left is an iron circular railing, in the shape of a large parrot's cage, having within it a lamp and marking the spot where the women sat while the body was anointed for the tomb. In front of this is an open area surrounded by high square columns supporting a gallery above. The area

and effect, and directly under, in the centre of the area, is an oblong building, about twenty feet long and twelve feet high, circular at the back, but square and finished with a platform in front, and within this building is the holy sepulchre.

Leaving for a moment the throng that is constantly pressing at the door of the sepulchre, let us make the tour of the church. Around the open space under the dome are small chapels for the Syrians, Copts, Maronites, and other sects of Christians who have not, like the Catholics, the Greeks and Armenians, large chapels in the body of the church.

Between two of the piliars is a small door opening to a dark gallery, which leads, as the monks told me, to the tombs of Joseph and Nicodemus, between which and that of the Saviour there is a subterranean communication. These tombs are excavated in the rock, which here forms the floor of the chamber. Farther on, and nearly in range of the front of the sepulchre, is a large opening forming a sort of court to the entrance of the Latin chapel. On one side is a gallery containing a fine organ, and the chapel is neat enough and differs but little from those in the churches of Italy. This is called the "Chapel of Apparition," where Christ appeared to the Virgin. Within the door, on the right, in an enclosure, completely hidden from view, is the Pillar of Flagellation, to which our Saviour was tied when he was scourged before being taken into the presence of Pontius Pilate. A long stick is passed through a hole in the enclosure, the handle being outside, and the pilgrim thrusts it in till it strikes against the pillar, when he draws it out and kisses the point. Only one

Going back again from the door of the Chapel of Apparition and turning to the left, on the right is the outside of the Greek chapel, which occupies the largest space in the body of the church, and on the left is a range of chapels and doors, the first of which leads to the prison where, they say, Christ was confined before he was led to crucifixion. In front of the door is an unintelligible machine described as the stone on which our Saviour was placed when put in the stocks.

Next is the chapel where the soldier who stuck his spear into the side of the Redeemer as he hung upon the cross retired and wept over his transgression. Beyond this is the chapel where the Jews divided Christ's raiment and "cast lots for his vesture." The next is one of the most holy places in the church, the Chapel of the Cross. Descending twenty-eight broad marble steps, the visitor comes to a large chamber eighteen paces square, dimly lighted by a few distant lamps; the roof is supported by four short columns with enormous capitals. In front of the steps is the altar, and on the right a seat on which the empress Helena, advised by a dream where the true cross was to be found, sat and watched the workmen who were digging below. Descending again fourteen steps, another chamber is reached, darker and more dimly lighted than the first and hung with faded red tapestry; a marble slab having on it a figure of the cross covers the mouth of the pit in which the true cross was found. The next chapel is over the spot where our Saviour was crowned with thorns, and under the altar, protected by an iron grating, is the

At

A narrow marble staircase of eighteen steps leads to a chapel about fifteen feet square paved with marble in mosaic and hung on all sides with silken tapestry and lamps dimly burning; the chapel is divided by two short pillars, hung also with silk, and supporting quadrangular arches. the extremity is a large altar ornamented with paintings and figures, and under the altar a circular silver plate with a hole in the centre, indicating the spot in which rested the step of the cross. On each side of the hole is another, the two designating the places where the crosses of the two thieves were erected, and near by, on the same marble platform, is a crevice about three feet long and three inches wide, having brass bars over it and a covering of silk. Removing the covering, by the aid of a lamp I saw beneath a fissure in the rock, and this, say the monks, is the rock which was rent asunder when our Saviour, in the agonies of death, cried out from the cross, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Descending to the floor of the church, underneath is an iron grating which shows more distinctly the fissure in the rock, and directly opposite is a large monument over the head of-Adam !

The reader will probably think that all these things are enough to be comprised under one roof; and, having finished the tour of the church, I returned to the great object of the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the holy sepulchre. Taking off the shoes on the marble platform in front, the visitor is admitted by a low door, on entering which the proudest head must needs do reverence.

In the centre of the first chamber is the stone which was rolled away from the mouth of the sepulchre, a square block of marble cut and polished. Again bending the head, and lower than before, the visitor enters the inner chamber, the holiest of holy places. The sepulchre “hewn out of the rock" is a marble sarcophagus somewhat resembling a common marble bathing-tub, with a lid of the same material. Over it hang forty-three lamps, which burn without ceasing night and day. The sarcophagus is six feet one inch long and occupies about one half of the chamber; and, one of the monks being always present to receive the gifts or tribute of the pilgrims, there is only room for three or four at a time to enter. The Fathers of the Latin convent annually perform the crucifixion.

J. T. BANNISTER.

than its woes as they are beheld by those who cannot enjoy them. The poor man in society is almost a felon. The cold openly sneer and the arrogant insult with impunity. The very earth joins his enemies and spreads verdant glades and tempting woods where his foot may never tread. The very sky, with a human malice, when his fellow-beings have turned him beneath its dome, bites him with bitter winds and drenches him with pitiless tempests. He almost ceases to be a man, and yet he is lower than the brutes; for they are clothed and fed and have their dens, but the penniless wanderer, turned with suspicion. from the gate of the noble or the thatched roof of the poor, is helplessly adrift amid more dangers and pains than befall any other creature.

THEODORE S. FAY.

POVERTY.

PERHAPS, of all the evils which can befall a man, poverty, if not the very worst, is, as society is constructed, the most difficult to endure with cheerfulness, and the most full of bitter humiliations and pains. Sickness has its periods of convalescence, and even guilt of repentance and reformation. For the loss of friends time affords relief and religion and philosophy open consolation. But poverty is unremitting misery, perplexity, restlessness and shame. It is the vulture of Prometheus. It is the rock of Sisyphus. It throws over the universal world an aspect which only the poor can see and know. The woes of life become more. terrible because they fall unalleviated upon the heart, and its pleasures sicken even more

IN

THE ART OF WRITING.

N the Latin or Greek tongue everything is so excellently done that none can do better; in the English tongue, contrary, everything in a manner so meanly, both for the matter and handling, that no man can do worse. For therein the least learned, for the most part, have been always most ready to write. And they which had least hope in Latin have been most bold in English, when surely every man that is most ready to talk is not most able to write. He that will write well in any tongue must follow this counsel of Aristotle-to speak as the common people do, to think as wise men do, as so should every man understand him and the judgment of wise men allow him. Many English writers have not done so, but, using strange words, as Latin, French and Italian,

do make all things dark and hard. Once I communed with a man which reasoned the English tongue to be enriched and increased thereby, saying,

"Who will not praise that feast where a man shall drink at a dinner both wine, ale

and beer?"

Truly," quoth I, "they be all good, every one taken by himself alone; but if you put malvesye and sack, red wine and white, ale and beer, and all in one pot, you shall make a drink not easy to be known, nor yet wholesome for the body. Cicero, in following Isocrates, Plato and Demosthenes, increased the Latin tongue after another sort. This way, because divers men that write do not know they can neither follow it, because of their ignorance, nor yet will praise it for overarrogancy—two faults seldom the one out of the other's company." ROGER ASCHAM.

LOVE IS THE LIFE OF MAN. FROM THE ORIGINAL LATIN OF EMANUEL SWEDENBORG, OF SWEDEN.

ΜΑΝ

AN knows that love exists, but he does not know what it is. He knows that it exists from the common use of the word, as in the expressions, He loves me; The king loves his subjects, and subjects love their king; Husband and wife, mother and children, love each other; This man loves his country; that, his fellow-citizens or his neighbor. So, also, men are said to love certain things, this, that or the other, without reference to persons.

But, although the word "love" is so universally used, few know what love is. Because men cannot, when reflecting upon it, form

* Malmsey.

any definite idea of its nature, they deny its reality or call it some influence entering man by sight, hearing, touch or conversation, and affecting him. They are utterly ignorant of the fact that love is man's very life—not only the general life of his whole body and the general life of all his thoughts, but also the life of all their particulars. Any one of intelligence can see this if asked, "Could you either think or act if the influence of love were withdrawn? Are not thought, language and action chilled as love grows cold and animated as love grows warm?" But this he knows from experience, not from any recognition of the truth that love is the life of man.

No one knows what human life is unless he knows that it is love. Ignorant of this, one may suppose that life is sensation and action; another, that it is thought. But, in fact, thought is merely the first effect of life, while sensation and action are its secondary effects. Thought is called the first effect of life, but thought may be more and more internal, or more and more external. Inmost thought, which is a perception of ends, is actually the first effect of life.

Some idea of love as being the life of man may be obtained from the effect of the sun's heat upon the world. It is known that this is the general life, as it were, of all vegetation; for from its increase in spring plants of every kind shoot from the soil, are adorned successively with leaves, flowers and fruit, and so in a manner live. But when the heat diminishes, as in autumn and winter, they are stripped of their signs of life, and wither. So is it with love in man, for love and heat correspond to each other. Therefore love is warm.

Translation of R. NORMAN FOSTER.