SCRIPTURE ILLUSTRATED. 337 a misplaced and discreditable economy; and few higher tokens of respect could be paid to the remains of a departed friend than a profuse application of costly perfumes. Thus the writers of the Talmud tell us that not less than eighty pounds weight of spices were used at the funeral of Rabbi Gamaliel, an elder; and Josephus mentions in his Antiquities the fact that in the splendid funeral of Herod, five hundred of his servants attended as spice-bearers. Thus, too, after the crucifixion, Nicodemus, and Joseph of Arimathea, two men of wealth, testified their regard for the sacred body of the Saviour by bringing "a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pounds weight," John xix. 39; while, unknown to them, the two Marys, together with their associates, were prepared to render the same office of friendship on the dawn of the first day of the week, Luke xxiv. 1. Whatever cavils the Jewish doctors have made at their extravagance, and the unnecessary waste in lavishing such a quantity of costly perfumes on a person in the circumstances of Jesus, the liberality of those pious disciples in the performance of the rites of their country was unquestionably dictated by the profound veneration which they cherished for the memory of their Lord. THE DIAL OF AHAZ.-Isaiah xxxviii. 8. AHAZ was a man of taste, ready to adopt foreign improvements, as appears from his admiration of the altar at Damascus, and his sending Urijah, the priest, "the fashion of it, and the pattern of it, according to all the workmanship thereof " (2 Kings, xvi. 10). The dial, also, which was called after his name, was probably an importation from Babylon. Different conjectures have been formed as to the construction of this instrument, the first for keeping time mentioned in the Scriptures. The difficulty is, to understand what is meant by "the steps or degrees of Ahaz," as the Hebrew words literally mean. They may mean lines or figures on a dial-plate, or on a pavement, or the steps of the palace of Ahaz, or some steps or staircase he had erected elsewhere. Hence some have thought that the dial was simply a staircase, so constructed that the shadows of the steps showed the hours. Others suppose it to be a pillar erected in the middle of a smooth pavement on which the hours were engraved. Grotius describes it as a concave hemisphere, and in the midst a globe, the shadow of which fell on different lines engraven in the hollow part of the hemisphere, and that these lines were twenty-eight in number. The most probable supposition is, that the dial of Ahaz was a distinct contrivance, of considerable size, erected in the middle court of the house, since Hezekiah saw the miracle from his couch in the palace. A dial was discovered some time ago in Delhi, whose construction would well suit the circumstances recorded of the dial of Ahaz. It appeared to be made to serve the double purpose of a dial and an observatory. The following explanation may serve to describe this dial at Delhi: a wall was found whose top was built in a semi-circular form, along which were accurately marked degrees. Cutting this wall night across the middle was a high staircase, upon the top step of which was placed the gnomon or style of the great dial. According to the shadow of the gnomon as it fell on the semicircular wall, the sun's progress before or after noon was indicated. The miracle has been the occasion of endless controversy. Some think, as the Jews, and some modern writers, that the miracle was wrought upon the sun, and that all the heavenly bodies went back, as much being taken from the next night as was added to this day. Others regard the miracle as wrought on the dial only, especially as no mention is made of any time lost to the inhabitants of the world generally, and the deputation from Babylon came to enquire concerning the wonder wrought" in the land.” The shadow, it is urged, went back by miraculous agency, but not the sun. Both contend for the reality of the miracle. They only differ as to the mode in which it was accomplished. BETHANY.-Luke xxiv. 50. BETHANY was a small hamlet situated on the eastern base of the Mount of Olives. It was not more than two miles from Jerusalem, and gave name to a district of Mount Olivet, adjoining the town. Hence, while Luke says in his gospel that Jesus ascended from Bethany, he tells us with the most perfect consistency in the Acts, that the ascension took place from the Mount of Olives. In the house of Martha, at Bethany, for Luke (x. 38) speaks of her as if alone mistress of the house, the Lord had often found an hospitable reception; and not in the house only; he had found too a place in the hearts of the united and happy family, which abode under that roof; and he loved with a distinguishing human affection "Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.” It was to Bethany, after the day's task was over in the hostile city, that, probably, he was often wont to retire for the night (Mark xi. 11, 19); its immediate nearness to the city allowing him to return thither betimes in the morning. And in the circle of this family, with Mary, who "sat at his feet and heard his word," with Martha, who was only, we may believe, hindered from the same assiduous hearing by her desire to pay as much outward observance as she could to her Divine guest, with Lazarus, his "friend," we may think of him as often wont to find rest and refreshment, after a day spent amid the coutradiction of sinners, and among the men who daily mistook and wrested his words. Dr. Robinson reached Bethany in three-quarter's of an hour from the Damascus-gate of Jerusalem; which gives the distance corresponding to the fifteen furlongs (stadia) of the evangelist. It is now a poor village of about twenty families, and the only marks of antiquity are some hewn stones, from more ancient buildings, found in the walls of some of the houses. The monks show the house of Mary and Martha, and of Simon, the leper, and also the sepulchre of Lazarus. Dr. Robinson thinks that there is not the slightest probability of its ever having been the tomb of Lazarus. The form is unlike the ancient sepulchres, and the site does not accord with the New Testament account, which implies that the tomb was outside the town, John xi. 31, 38. The present Arab name of the village is el-Azirezeh, from el-Azir, the Arabic form of Lazarus. Messrs. Bonar and M'Cheyne thus describe their visit to Bethany :"We found this ever-memorable village to be very like what we could have imagined it. It lies almost hidden in a small ravine of Mount Olivet; so much so, that from the height it cannot be seen. It is embosomed in fruit trees, especially figs and almonds, olives and pomegranates. The ravine, in which it lies, is terraced, and the terraces are covered either with fruit trees, or waving grain... Perhaps there was no scene in the Holy Land which afforded us more unmingled enjoymeat; we even fancied that the curse that everywhere rested so visibly upon the land had fallen lightly here. In point of situation, nothing could have come up more completely to our previous imagination of the place to which Jesus delighted to retire at evening from the bustle of the city, and the vexations of unbelieving multitudes-sometimes traversing the road by which we came, and perhaps oftener still coming up the face of the hill, by the foot path that passes on the north of Gethsemane. What a peaceful scene! Amidst these trees, or in that grassy field, he may often have been seen in deep communion with the Father; and in sight of this verdant spot it was that he took his last farewell of the disciples, and went upward to resume the deep unbroken fellowship of 'his God and our God,' uttering blessings, even the moment when he began to be parted from them. And it was here that the two angels stood by them in white apparel, and left us this glorious message, This same Jesus which is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him go into heaven.'" Poetry. THE LITTLE SLEEPER. No mother's eye beside thee wakes to-night, And none are near thee but the silent dead. How cheerly glows this hearth, yet glows in vain, And listen to the wild and beating rain In angry gusts against our casement blown. And though we nothing speak, yet well I know That both our hearts are there, where thou dost keep Within thy narrow chamber far below, For the first time unwatched, thy lonely sleep. Oh! no, not thou!-and we our faith deny, This thought allowing: thou, removed from harms, In Abraham's bosom dost securely lie, Oh, not in Abraham's, in a Saviour's arms In that dear Lord's, who in thy worst distress, And like an angel to be meek and mild. Sleep softly, till that blessed rain and dew, Yea, with a living harvest laugh and sing. Trench I will now continue the story of my first cruize in life. It would be impossible to recall the conversation I had with my old school-fellow, Charles Merle, after my arrival at Guysmore, and if it were possible the conversation was too rambling and desultory to repeat in an autobiography. I am anxious to condense the story as much as I can, and at the same time to weave it into something like a narrative. A critical reader, should these pages meet the eye of so formidable a personage, may complain of the clumsiness with which I wield my pen, and the total absence of dramatic surprises that there is in the story; but I cannot help it. Clumsy I am, I doubt not, in the use of the grey goose-quill, and altogether unpractised in the construction of a tale. But it must be remembered that I am not, and never was, a professional writer, and that as to criticism I do not concern myself at all about it, for when these pages see the light I shall be dead and gone, far removed from the pain of censure or the pleasure of applause, and my poor mouldering dust will not be disturbed even should newspaper editors, able reviewers, and other enlighteners of a discerning public, sit in judgment upon me, over my very tomb. But I am not so vain as to expect anybody will trouble so much about me. And now I am on this subject I may say, moreover, that should any one remark the unevenness and inequalities of my style and language, he may as well bear in mind that some parts of my story were written in the days of youthful vigour and enthusiasm, while other parts are the composition of later years. Sometimes indeed the slowness and prattle of age may peep out where they are least expected, for in transferring a paragraph from my old journals to this narrative, I may think it necessary to connect it to the story by a few sentences, and at such times may not be able to resist a very natural tendency to be somewhat prosy and tedions, and may feel, in the words of my quaint old friend, George Herbert, "If I have more to spinne | Ben Johnson. I found my former dress no disadvantage to me as a street fruit-seller. The old Jew disparaged the coat very much when I wanted to dispose of it, he set a far higher value upon it when I wanted to buy it back again, and it was certainly much more decent and respectable than the one he had given in exchange. Appearances go a great way in business; people soon began to notice me in my new array, and I became known as "that tidy-looking young man who comes so early." To get talked about is an advertisement, and with such gratuitous and unsolicited advertising as this, I found my customers gradually increase. Indeed, so numerous did they become, and so freely did they purchase of me, that by Christmas the necessities of my trade obliged me, and the profits of my trade enabled me, to set up a hand-cart, and even to venture to launch into the foreign fruit department when home fruits became scarce and dear. It was in this way that I first began to "feel my legs" in business, and I grew satisfied that I should soon "walk" pretty well, and perhaps advance to a position of competence and wealth. Of course I did not expect to do much by hawking fruit in the streets. This was merely a start in life, and I was ever on the lookout for employment more likely to introduce me into a sphere of enterprise in which my early dreams could be realized. But I was never ashamed of my calling. It was an honest one, and that was enough for me. I would have swept crossings or chimneys rather than have done nothing. I wanted to make a beginning, and I made one. I knew I should never reach the goal unless I bestirred myself to start. Some persons think they cannot do better than wait and starve until a sudden revolution of the wheel of fortune turns up a golden opportunity; I did not think so To me it seemed the best course to work and watch until, by indtistry and perseverance, I should turn up an opportunity, and by patient self-culture be prepared at once to avail myself of it. Life is not a game of chances or a lottery; fortunes rarely CLAUDE CLIFTON'S STORY OF HIS LIFE. 341 come in windfalls; they are made, not | priest droned through the service as if he found. The winter came and went, and I was still plying my itinerant trade. It was a winter of much suffering and trial to me, though not without its pleasures. I grew home-sick. City life wearied me as soon as I became familiar with it. I sighed for the free woods and breezy hills of Guysmore. The first letter I received from my mother melted me to tears. I thought of her, a widow, and alone in the home of my childhood, of poor Jessie in the green churchyard, of my brothers over the sea, of the many pleasant hours I had spent by that hearth, now so lonely, and I more than half regretted that I had ventured so soon and so far away all alone upon the great world. I felt as a ship-boy feels on his first voyage, when the first dangers have been passed and the novelty of a sea-faring life has worn off as he muses alone on the high and giddy mast with only the blue sky above, and only the wide waste of waters around; I thought of home and wept. But to this day I feel no shame in the rememberance of those tears. They were not unmanly tears. They were shed, not because of difficulties and hardships that had befallen me, but because of my loneliness. I had no time to weep while poverty and want stared me in the face; I had no disposition to weep until they were combated. It was in the painful, silent solitariness that followed the first successful struggle that I pined for home. The brave heart is ever the stoutest in the storms of adversity; it melts with tenderness in the peaceful meditative calm that follows, awakening bright memories of the past. What I wanted in order to relieve the wretched and miserable feeling of isolation that so saddened me was, the sympathy of a generous, genial, and true-hearted friend. But I had no friends, and I could make none. The little shrivelled Jew had told me all that I could learn about Peter Clifton. Kidd Weldon, so far as I could ascertain, on repeated enquiries, had never returned to London. The people I met with in Covent-garden Market were most of them coarse in their manners, vulgar in their tastes, and vicious in their propensities. A seat on the ale-bench, with unlimited supplies of beer, was the highest point to which their ambition aspired. I was repelled to coldness and disgust by their low habits and profane conversation, rather than attracted to intimacy. No one at the church I attended on Sunday took the slightest notice of me. The gowned were half asleep, and the ladies and gentlemen were more intent upon displaying their fine dresses, so I thought, and quizzing each other through eyeglasses than upon joining in the responses, or listening to the sermon. If Mr. Bluntspeech, the village preacher, who was the great favourite at the meeting-house at Guysmore, could have mounted the pulpit for five minutes he would have startled them into attention, and might have thrown some of the fashionable ladies into hysterics, by his plain, honest homethrusts. And Mr. Bluntspeech had a kind heart, and would not have passed without word or look the solitary stranger on the back benches. I went to this church because it was nearest, and I thought others might be no better. Very often I should have stopped away altogether, but my mother's words would keep ringing in my head on the Sunday morning, "Sundaies observe; think when the bells do 'Tis angels' music." [chime, Nor did I forget when I got to church what the same favourite writer, George Herbert, says about judging preachers; "The worst speaks something good; if all [want sense, God takes a text and preacheth patience." "He that gets patience, and the blessing which Preachers conclude with, hath not lost his [pains." However I gained no friends by visiting that place of worship. The coffee-shops and tap-rooms of public-houses I could not persuade myself to enter; and places of amusement, I had promised my mother carefully to avoid, and kept my promise. As to the people I lived with, the landlady was old enough to be my grandmother, and as deaf as an adder, and her husband sat all day long, in a large odd-looking chair with an angular seat and a low circular back to it, and smoked his pipe, and told stories of the "Darby rebels," and told them so often that I had not been at the house a month before I had heard them all at least a dozen times over. Had I been of a strong political turn, I believe I could have found plenty of "People's Rights Societies", and made friends and companions enough from them. But though working men were complaining, as I think justly, of Pitt's oppressive taxation, and were clamouring for Fox and Reform, yet the remembrance of what Kidd Weldon had told me of his cousin Job, and the vivid recollection I had of the disappointment I saw on my father's face on coming away from the meeting which |