for each who has died. This is the minimum. Rich people pay more. The pilgrim has then a ticket given him for each member of his family, and is allowed to depart. Outside, another deacon receives the tickets, together with twenty-one piastres from each pilgrim, which gives him permission to visit the Jordan. The same evening the pilgrim is conducted into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and all the places within it are shown to him: his name is again entered into a book, for which he pays twenty-five piastres, and remains then one night in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is considered very meritorious.

The pilgrim having staid three days in the Greek convent, must now leave it; but a lodging is provided for him near the convent, for which he has to pay, according to his means and the state of the apartments. The Greek convent possesses several houses here which are used for this purpose.

On the fifth day after the pilgrim's arrival he is taken to Gethsemane, and into the Church of the Virgin Mary, which is situated in that vicinity: here he must pay twenty-five piastres. Afterwards he is in his turn conducted to all the Greek convents and churches in the environs of Jerusalem, to Bethlehem, Mar Elias, Mar Saba, the convents of the Cross and of St. John; and at each place he is expected to pay a sum of not less than twenty-five piastres.

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Sometimes the pilgrim refuses to pay the Church is then locked upon him, and he is not permitted to leave it until he has paid. If he tries to get off by saying that his purse is exhausted, he is asked, why did he come to Jerusalem if he had no money. When the pilgrim has visited all the Greek churches and convents, and contributed to each its due, he is allowed to spend his time as he pleases.

Pilgrimage like this, whether made to Jerusalem, or other so-called holy places, with a view of doing penance for sin, or procuring its forgiveness, and in

some way of recommending ourselves to God, Christianity forbids and condemns. Though it has no local shrines, let it not be thought, however, that it requires us to be dead or indifferent to all local emotions. Jacob had his "Penuel" and his "Ephrath;" places which lived in his memory, and were enshrined in his affections. David too had his "Jordan" and his "Hill Mizar." There may be places too which for the same or similar reasons may, yea, must live, and be enshrined in ours; places which, by some who visited them at the same time with ourselves, will be soon forgotten, but whether with pain or pleasure, by us can be forgotten never. There is a principle in our nature, as has been frequently observed, which leads us to look with deep interest on places that have been the scenes of great and important events. abstract the mind," says Dr. Johnson, in a passage which has been often quoted, "from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Far from me, and far from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.'

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While a pilgrimage to Palestine may be made, as it often is, subservient to the cause of error and superstition, when made from proper motives it may be rendered tributary to the advancement of true religion. This it may be to the Christian, and more especially, for obvious reasons, to the Christian minister, so that no one can have made a pilgrimage thither himself, without wishing that it could be made by others.

J. A.

ANSELMO;

OR, THE BROTHER'S TRUST.

THERE was once, says an old legend, a young Italian noble, whose elder brother loved him much; he had moreover saved his life, and had reconciled him to his father when greatly offended with him.

As might have been expected, the youth returned this affection, and after the death of the father these brothers lived together, the younger obeying the elder, and behaving to him in all respects like a son.

Ônce, on a certain day, however, a long separation came between them, for the elder went out as if upon his ordinary affairs, and never returned again to his house. His young brother was first surprised, then alarmed. He sought for him, proclaimed his loss; he scoured the country, caused the waters to be searched, and sought in all the recesses of that old Italian city; but it was of no avail; his brother was gone, and none could tell him whither.

No tidings were heard of him for more than six months, till one night as his young brother was knocking for admittance at his own door, a figure in a domino came up, and put a note into his hand, at the same time whispering his brother's name. It was during the time of the carnival, when it is so much the custom for people to wear disguises that such things excite no surprise. Anselmo, for this was his name, would have seized the domino by the hand, but he quickly disappeared in the crowd; and full of wonder and anxiety the young man read the letter which he had left behind him :

"Anselmo, I live, I am well! and I beseech thee, as thou lovest me, fail not to do for me what I shall require, which is, that thou wilt go every night down that lane which leads along the south wall of the P- Palace; ten paces from the last window but one thou shalt find a narrow slit in the wall; bring with thee a dark lantern, and into that slit do thou place it, turning the light side inward, that thou be not discovered. Thou shalt be at the place every night at twelve, and thou shalt stay until the clock of St. Januarius striketh one. So do, and one night I will meet thee there. Thy loving brother prays thee not to fail."

That very night the young nobleman went out unattended in hopes of meeting with his brother. He carried a lantern, and proceeded to the unfrequented lane pointed out in the letter. It

was a desolate place, in a thinly populated quarter of the city. By the faint light of the moon he counted the windows, and found the slit in the wall, which was deep, and fenced on the river side with an iron grating backed by a sheet of horn; into this slit he hastened to place his lantern, and then began to look about him and consider why his brother should have chosen such a place for their meeting.

Not far off ran the river, and he did not doubt that by water his brother would come, for it was evident that he feared to show himself in the streets of the city. Anselmo started once or twice during his solitary watch, for he thought he distinguished the splash of an oar, and then an advancing footstep; but he was mistaken, his brother did not come to meet him that night, nor the next, nor the one after; and when he had come to await him every night for a fortnight he began to get sick at heart.

And yet there was no way but this; he was to watch till his brother came; it was his only chance of seeing him; and he went on, without once failing, for eleven months and twenty days.

In order that he might do this more secretly, he frequently changed his lodging; for as the time wore on he began to fear that his brother might have involved himself in one of the political intrigues common in those days, and he felt that the utmost caution was required, lest his constant visits to that quarter of the city should be watched, and lead to suspicion.

A strange piece of blind obedience this seemed, even to himself, and of trust in his brother; what appeared to him the strangest part of the letter was the entreaty that he would always bring a lantern; as if there could be any fear," he thought, "of my not recognizing his step, or as if it could be likely that more men than one could by any probability be standing by that solitary corner. But in those days of tyrannical government and lawless faction, flight and mysterious disappearance were not uncommon. Thus Anselmo watched on, though hope began to wax faint, even in his strong and patient heart.

The clock struck one. "Eleven months," said he, "and one and twenty days!-I will watch for thee the year out." He put his hand to the slit in the wall and withdrew his lantern; it was dying in the socket. "What," said he, "is the light also weary of watching!" He turned, and a heavy stone hard by his feet was raised from beneath, and up from under the earth came his brother.

"Thy cloak-quick! cover me with it," he whispered. "Hide my prison garments."

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Thy prison garments!" repeated Anselmo, faintly, for he was distraught and amazed.

His brother took the cloak and wrapped himself in it. It was not so dark but that Anselmo could see that his feet were bare and his face haggard. He took the lantern, and threw it down, beckoning towards the river. "Let it lie," he said to his young brother.

"I am sorry the light has gone out just when it is wanted," said Anselmo, for he was still amazed, and scarcely knew what he was talking about.

"Eleven months and twenty-one days hath it served me well," his brother replied; "nothing else, whether alive or dead, saving thyself only, will serve me so well again."

What a strange thing this was to hear; but the walls of the old Italian city echoed the sound so softly that none awoke to listen, and the two figures gliding under the deep shadow of the houses passed away, and were seen there no more.

By morning dawn a vessel left the harbour, and two brothers stood upon the deck bidding farewell to their native country; the one was young, the other had a wan cheek, and hands hardened by labour; but the prison dress was gone, and both were clad in the usual costume of their rank and order.

"And now we are safe and together, said Anselmo, "I pray thee tell me thy story; why didst thou keep me waiting so long, and where didst thou rise from at last?

"That I can tell thee at all, is thy doing," answered his brother, "because thou didst never fail to bring me the lantern." And then, while the grey Italian shores waxed faint in the sunny distance, and all hearts began to turn towards the new world whither the vessel was bound, Anselmo's brother descended with him into the cabin, and there told him, with many expressions of affection, the remarkable tale which follows:

He had, unknown to his brother, made himself obnoxious to the government; and the night of his disappearance he was surrounded, and after making a desperate defence, he was overpowered and thrown into prison. În a dreadful dungeon he lay till his wounds were healed, and then, for some cause unknown to himself, he was given over to the keeping of his deadly enemy; one whose house had long been of the opposite faction to his own. By this enemy he was conveyed to the PPalace, and laid in a dungeon that, as he said, "Nothing it seemed could have broken through, unless his teeth had been strong enough to eat through that wall." Almost every hour in the day his enemy came and looked at him through a hole in the door, his food was given him by means of this aperture, and when he complained of the want of bedding, they gave him, also by means of the hole, a thin mattrass and two coarse rugs to cover him.