and arched over, with a flight of steps by which to descend it. Just north of the town, too, by the side of the road along the bed of the valley, is another small fountain, which seemed to serve chiefly at this season for watering animals. The pools above described are doubtless of high antiquity, and one of them is probably to be regarded as the "pool in Hebron," over which David hanged up the assassins of Ishbosheth! 2 Sam. iv. 12. The other alleged antiquities of Hebron, (with the exception of the great mosque,) did not occupy our attention. We neither saw nor inquired after the tomb of Abner, nor that of Jesse, nor the red earth of which Adam was formed, nor the place where Cain slew Abel, nor various other legendary spots mentioned by early and later travellers. The place called by the Jews the "House of Abraham,' an hour from Hebron towards Jerusalem, with the remains of massive walls, is the probable site of what was held to be Mamre in the early Christian ages. The great Haram, or rather the exterior wall, which encloses the mosque, constitutes the most remarkable object in Hebron; and one of the most so in all Palestine. It is also one of the most sacred places of the Mohammedans, being held to cover the sepulchre of Abraham and the other patriarchs. We had looked at it with some care in our previous visit; and it was now one of the first things to claim our further attention. On our way thither this morning, we called at the house of Elias, in the north part of the main quarter, to pay him our respects in return for his kindness. We found that he and his family had already gone out to spend the day under the great oak, which we had passed yesterday; and had left an invitation for us to join them there, and breakfast with them at a later hour. We then proceeded to the mosque. The exterior has the appearance of a large and lofty building in the form of a parallelogram; its longest dimensions being along the valley from N.N.W. to S.S.E., and not, as in most ancient churches, from W. to E. We mea sured on a line parallel to its eastern side and southern end, as near to it as we could, though not without some hints to desist, from an old man or two who came along. The length proved to be nearest two hundred feet, and the breadth one hundred and fifteen feet. The height cannot be less than fifty or sixty feet. The walls are built of very large stones, all levelled and hewn smooth; and similar, in all respects, to the most ancient parts of the walls around the Haram at Jerusalem. But they are not in general so large, nor is the levelling so deep. The architecture has this peculiarity, that the walls are built up externally with square pilasters, sixteen on each side and eight at each end, without capitals, except a sort of cornice which extends along the whole building. Above this, the walls have been raised by the Moslems eight or ten feet higher, with a small turret or minaret at each corner. There are no windows in any part of these walls. The places of entrance are at the two northern corners, where a long and broad flight of steps of very gentle ascent, built up and covered along each side of the building externally, leads to a door in each wall opening into the court within. That at the N.w. corner seemed to be the principal entrance, merely perhaps as being the most conveniently situated. The building stands upon the slope of the eastern hill; the rocks having been excavated along the upper side, in order to lay the foundation. According to all accounts, the structure here described, including all that is visible from without, is merely an exterior enclosure of walls, around a court within. In this court stands the much smaller mosque, which is said to have been once a Christian church. Here, in different parts, the Mohammedans have built tombs for the patriarchs, while their actual place of sepulchre is held to be in a cavern below, which even the faithful are not permitted to enter. But as the jealous bigotry of the Mussulmans of Hebron precludes all admittance to Franks and Christians, and the height of the exterior wall prevents any view of the interior, even from the adjacent hill, we yet without any intelligible description of the. mosque and its appurtenances, and know nothing at all of the cavern which thus represents the cave of Machpelah. are The outer structure thus described, evidently belongs to a high antiquity; and the resemblance of its architecture to that of the remains of the ancient temple at Jerusalem, seems to point to a Jewish origin. Yet we have no certain accounts of it; and all we can learn respecting it, is from a few scattered hints in ancient writers, which merely serve to cast a further gleam of probability upon this conclusion. As a matter of course, monastic tradition refers the edifice to Helena, as one of her churches; but for this, as we have seen, there is not the slightest ground, while the form, direction, and elevation of the structure, and especially the absence of windows, all go to show, that these walls were never anything more than what they are at present, an enclosure around an inner edifice or court. -Dr. Robinson. THE PERAMBULATOR. A RAMBLE ON THE BANKS OF THE WYE. He who has never gazed on the goodly stream, the lofty banks, the woody heights, and romantic rocks of the winding Wye, is a stranger to some of the most delightful scenery in England. As I ramble onward, day after day, a remark or two will sometimes escape me, while the river rolls below; would that I had words to describe the scenes around me, or even vividly to embody my poor thoughts! I am not now on the cloud-capped mountain, huge Plinlimmon, near whose summit the Wye takes its rise, but on Caplor Hill, one of the many heights which adorn the river. It is evening, and the setting sun glaring in the west, like a flaming beacon, lights up the skies. This Caplor Hill is a favourite spot with me: I love its seclusion, its glorious prospect, and its bold and precipitous fall to the river. Years ago, a goodly portion of the wood broke down from its customary position, and moved near to the river's brink, where it now stands, though it has lost, in a great measure, the more visible appearance of its violent disruption. The road through the wood is almost too steep to be passable. Here have I seen the distressed horses of the loaded wain, straining their sinewy frames, and smiting hard the rocky path with their iron-shod hoofs, while their broadbreasted driver, doubly scotching his wheels, has stood panting for breath. Here have I seen the good vicar of a neighbouring parish, when he was curate, toiling up the steep, on the afternoon of the sabbath day, almost dragging after him, by the bridle, his little black pony, stopping every dozen yards to pat him on the neck, calling him pretty fellow, and standing a minute or two to let him take breath, and to take breath himself also. And here, too, I have often loitered in the "gloaming," when the huge trees and heapedup rocks have cast their dark shadows on the ground. At the moment I am making these remarks, the place is full of interest. What a height from the river! how thick and inaccessible the underwood! What deep holes and dark fissures and crevices in the crags! And what a goodly canopy of overhanging trees! The huge rocks on the left are piled up as though giants had been building them; and the rude, rifted watercourse, looks as if a thunderbolt had mistaken its course, and had torn itself a path down to the river. There a hare has crossed the road with her long hind legs and whitetufted tail, hiding herself in the gloom of the tangled brushwood. I can hear the rooks above me as they wing their way to their distant rookery. Yesterday, I explored with a respected clerical friend, the remains of the Roman encampment, still visible in an adjoining height. Time changes much the surface of the world! Where once the Roman marshalled his bold host, Bristling with swords and spears the rocky height, The shepherd tends his flock, and the young lambs In sportive gambols tread the flowery turf. Yonder! over the river is Holm Lacy. A canonry occupied the place in the reign of Henry III. I remember when the goodly mansion there, in the park, was tenanted by the old duke of Norfolk: the beautiful carvings by Gibbons, and the old family portraits, gave, and give an interest to the place. The present occupier has spared no expense in improving the princely dwelling. He has walked with me 66 through every chamber of that goodly dwelling." For some weeks I have been in the neighbourhood of the Wye, now visiting the cottages, and now partaking the hospitality of the farmhouses and the mansions of the gentry around. A London visitor is not an unwelcome guest in the country. Give yourself no airs; accommodate yourself to I have often spoken of Fawley Court, and sometimes I have called it "Old Court;" but no matter! call it what I may, it is a dear old mansion, and I could now be garrulous in its praise, for I love its battlements and shadowy porch, yea, the very ivy that clings to its venerable and venerated walls. It once was a mansion of the Kyrles, of which family was the famous man of Ross. Its battlements, projecting windows with stanchions of stone, and porch with double doors, have long been familiar to me. Fawley is thronged with shiny and shadowy associations. How intelligibly should passing events whisper in our ears, "Pass the time of your sojourning here in fear," 1 Peter i. 17. Hill Eaton, too, has not been forgotten. Who would expect in a farmhouse the strings of the harp and the keys of the piano to be struck with such flying fingers! Often has the voice of psalmody, richly accompanied, rung around me in the room that overlooks the foldyards. Basham, long the stronghold of timehonoured customs, little observed in other places, is changing its inhabitants; for the strongest walls cannot keep out death. It still, however, possesses, in its present occupier, one of the kindliest spirits that ever animated humanity. Moraston, thou hast hearts beating beneath thy hospitable roof that are not likely to lose the place they occupy in my remembrance. * Pennockston (I know not if I spell the name right) stands at a little distance from the river Wye, the court yard at its entrance, and the garden grounds to the south, with their terrace and secluded walks, give an interest to this goodly mansion. I have been rambling from one spot to another, with a friendly inmate, whose invalided frame seems hardly equal to the exertion. How often is cheerful, interesting, and Christian conversation a cordial to the heart of the afflicted, medicine to the mind, "oil to the joints, and marrow to the bones!" I have passed the river, standing in the big horse boat. Fidoe, the ferry Is calm, and soft, and silent: clear and deep Pool Hullock, or Pool Hullick, is a neat cottage-looking habitation, midway between Ross and Hereford, standing in a pretty garden, laid out tastefully in diamond, oval, triangle, and other formed parterres, edged with fresh green box, and abounding with flowers. Peace to its inmates! Birch is a pleasant-looking mansion, near the turnpike road, standing on a slope, and commanding a sweet prospect. The beautiful white rose tree, abounding with flowers, that climbs up one of the light pillars of the veranda, attracts every eye. Birch has an hospitable and benevolent owner. "Blessed is he that considereth the poor: the Lord will deliver him in time of trouble," Psa. xli. 1. Pengethley, the residence of a much respected magistrate, is a sweet retreat: I hardly know one more So. The beauty and delightful situation of the mansion, the air of privacy and quietude which characterizes it, and the prospect of wood, water, and distant country which it commands, render it a sort of fairy land. Time presses, or I could willingly linger a day at Pengethley. The church of Llanwarne bears a date so early as to puzzle the spectator. In the churchyard stands the mutilated remains of an ancient cross. I have often received a cheering welcome from the kind hearts in the farmhouse on the hill. One of its inmates forcibly reminds me of a schoolfellow to whom, in my boyish days, I was much attached. How sweet the morn of life, when leaves bury, where a large Roman camp was once formed, is too alluring an object to be passed by. I have traversed its woody summit in goodly company, and am now on the top of Saddlebow. The hut of Mary Sebbert is only at the distance of a stone's cast. A few poles tied close together at the top, are spread out at the bottom and covered over with turf. In this cheerless hut dwells poor Mary, now about threescore years old. She has lived alone there already nearly thirty years; her mother lived and died there, and she hopes to die there too. "Where do you keep your gold watch and your silver spoons, and all the rest of your plate, Mary?" said I jocosely. "Oh, sir,' said she, "if, by God's mercy, I get a bit of bread, and a potatoe from my little garden, it's all that I desire." I made a bargain with the poor woman, "I will give you a shilling now," said I; "and when you are rich, you shall give it me back again." It is now midday, and the sun is pouring down his sultry beams. The grass and the hedges are apparently trembling in the heat; the white-faced, brown-sided Herefordshire cattle are busy, their teeth and tails both at work, the one tearing the herbage, and the other lashing away the flies. The grey horse under the tree yonder, is shaking his head in the shade to rid himself of his buzzing tormentors, switching himself with his long silky tail, while his impatient foot every now and then dashes the sod. Here is a large tree, standing at the entrance of a shady lane, covered with blossoms, with hundreds of humble-bees buzzing among the branches. They say the harvest will be a late one; but come it will, for seed time and harvest are appointed by the Holy One. * * * * I have gazed on the goodly prospect from the churchyard at Ross, and visited both Goodrich Castle and Goodrich Court, and am now drawing near to Symond's Yat. To describe the armoury and endless curiosities of Goodrich Court would be a tale too long to tell. Enough that I have been spell bound by the one and the other. It may be, that on a future day Goodrich Court may become the subject of my observations, meanwhile I am not unthankful for the attentions paid to me by the owner of this princely erection. 66 Among the olden customs of Herefordshire, there was one which I ought not to pass by. It was common at funerals to hire poor men, to take upon themselves the sins of the deceased person. A loaf of bread was delivered to the sin-eater over the corpse as it lay on the bier, together with a mazar bowl of maple, full of malt liquor, to be drank at the time. In consideration of these advantages, and the additional gift of sixpence in money, the sin-eater undertook to bear the deceased harmless on account of his sins, of whatever sort and kind they might have been, and also freed him from walking after death. It is supposed that this olden custom had reference to the scapegoat in the old law, Lev. xvi. 21, 22. 'And Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat, and confess over him all the iniquities of the children of Israel, and all their transgressions in all their sins, putting them upon the head of the goat, and shall send him away by the hand of a fit man into the wilderness: and the goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities unto a land not inhabited: and he shall let go the goat in the wilderness." that we all, while we see the folly and evil of wandering from God, may discern our true scape-goat in the Redeemer, "who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness," 1 Peter ii. 24. Oh Having crossed the river with two agreeable companions, I am ascending the steep towards Symond's Yat; every minute the prospect becomes more arresting and sublime. Here and there lie fragments that have broken away from the huge rocks beetling above them. The cottages on the opposite heights, with their orchards, seem to mount up to the very skies. At my feet, at this moment, crossing the rocky road, is a stream of black ants of an unusual size; yonder are two children at play, at a fearful height above me, and donkeys, laden with coal from the neighbouring forest of Dean, with their drivers, are passing to and fro, along the precipitous path. We have gained the summit, the abrupt termination of Coldwell promontory, called Symond's Yat, or Gate, and the glorious prospect that has burst upon us has filled me with surprise and joy. I could scream with almost unbear able delight! The rolling river, solemn, deep, and dark, the grand mass of rock fearful in height, and arrestingly perpendicular; the woody amphitheatre stretching round, the ten thousand broad acres lying far and wide below, and the bright sky above, lit up by the burning sun, form together such a scene that the heart revels in the prodigality of beauty, sublimity, and glory, presented to the gaze of the spectator. What, then, if here such glowing scenes arise, Subdued by the very excess of my delight, I have taken a calmer view of the extended prospect. I have leaned on the branches of the tree, growing right over the precipice, gazing on the depth profound. I have descended the extreme end of the rock, by the brushwood, so as to see in profile, the broad face of the stupendous steep, and now am one moment noting down my remarks, and the next, sharing with my companions the refreshments spread out on a napkin, on the rocky summit. An aged man and two aged women, evidently drawing near to the end of their pilgrimage, have proffered us what little information they possess, concerning this rocky mountain, and in return, besides some little matter in the way of gratuity, they have received a part of our provisions, including a glass of good sherry for each of them. Even now their thank-offering is sounding in my ears. The blessing of the aged poor is a precious thing, and when duly earned and truly offered, it ought to be more highly valued than the "dust of diamonds." And is there a fairer scene, a more impressive spectacle than the pile of crags, arches, clefts, hanging woods, and roaring waters of the new Weir? Can it be, that the eye can gaze on a more arresting prospect, a yet more goodly and glorious assemblage of wood, rock, plain and water, of towering height and dark and deep abyss, than is to be found at Symond's Yat? Yes! It is possible, for now I am standing on the dizzy height of Windcliff, the most magnificent and sublime of British scenes. Full as my mind and memory are of the numberless beauties of the winding Wye, of Goodrich, the new Weir, the glowing scene at Symond's Yat, and of the eye and heartarresting remains of Tintern Abbey, still I cannot but acknowledge here the presence of a mightier emotion, a more mysterious influence, a deeper tone of feeling, and a higher estimate of nature's charms then hitherto my mind has entertained: my cup of delight appears to be filled even to the brim. It would be hard to say how much of pleasure may be borne by mortal man; but my power to endure joy seems to be taxed to the uttermost; an addition either to my present enjoyment or to the boundless thankfulness of my heart to the more glorious and almighty Giver of this glorious scene, scarcely could I bear. It has often been a subject of regret, that the liveliness of our emotions, when gazing on glowing scenes, should subside so quickly; but this is only one of the many merciful arrangements of our heavenly Father, who knows what we can, and what we cannot bear. Were our eyes ever sparkling with rapture, and our hearts always thrilling with emotion, we should be unfitted for the humbler and more commonplace duties of our existence. One hour of my present intensity of delight would subdue my strength for the remainder of the day. I am gazing like a monarch from this exalted rocky throne on the widespread territory around me, too much excited to point out, in a systematic manner, the different objects that attract the eye, or to contrast the beauties on the east and west with those on the north and south. It pleases me more to revel, without restraint, in the unbounded prodigality that bewilders and enchants me. I have heard that a celebrated poet, on visiting this place, full of enthusiastic and ardent anticipations, was so disgusted on finding two soldiers playing at cards on the proudest summit of this commanding cliff, that he hurried back from the scene utterly unable to overcome his disgust sufficiently to allow him the delight of feasting his eyes on the entrancing scene. Fully can I enter into his susceptibility. Windcliff and Piercefield Park abound in all that is bold, beauteous, grand, awful, savagely wild, and extravagantly romantic. It is said that "a vast and well-preserved ruin is the most beautiful of buildings." Chepstow Castle and Tintern Abbey, two of the fairest ruins in England, are of themselves pictures of intense interest. The heights in the scenery |