BY MISS DRAPER.
BY MISS DRAPER.
W. M. R.
The gourd mentioned in Jonah as springing up in one night, is in the Hebrew 'Kikajon.' St. Jerom and many others call it ivy. St. Jerom, however, acknowledges ivy to be an improper translation. The Kikajon, according to Galmêt, is a non-parasitical shrub found in the sandy places of Palestine. It grows with rapidity, and has thick leaves resembling those of a vine.
AND THE COUSIN OF THE DEAD.[From the French.]
AND THE COUSIN OF THE DEAD.[From the French.]
There was found, under the Restoration, a man who was surnamedThe Cousin of the Married, and who merited the appellation by a course of industry and ingenuity truly singular. He repaired every morning to the office of the Mayor of the twelve districts of Paris, and stationed himself before the little grate, where are endorsed notices of all marriages about to take place. He read attentively the names of the affianced persons, learned their qualities, and informed himself of their fortune. When he obtained all this information, the ingenious Cousin made his choice, always deciding, however, in favor of that marriage which was expected to attract the greatest number of guests, and which promised the most sumptuous dinner. He would then buy an enormousbouquet, put on his fine black coat, a pair of open-work stockings and light pumps, and then take from his bandbox his new hat; so attired he would proceed cautiously among the carriages, with a buoyant step, to the church where the marriage ceremony was to be performed, join the crowd of attendants, and officiously offer to hold the nuptial veil. When the benediction was pronounced, he created himselfMaster of Ceremonies, leading the way to the carriages, giving his hand to the ladies, carefully lifting their dresses to prevent them from coming in contact with the coach wheels, shutting the coach doors and bidding the drivers proceed to the appointed hotel. For himself he was no less careful, as he always contrived to secure a place for himself in one of the carriages, so as to arrive with the rest of the company. It was then that he was brilliant, and then that his liveliness and gaiety served to beguile, with the company, the tedious hour before dinner. He had for all some remark to excite laughter—he repeated a pleasant little story, adapted to the time and circumstance of the assembly—he hastened the preparations for the repast—humorously recommended the guests to be patient, and to prepare their appetites for eating, and when all was ready he would announce the fact himself. He was the Major Domo of the house—the man indispensable—the commissary of the feast. Every voice was in his praise—"that gentleman is very amiable"—and if any one indiscreetly inquired his name, it was answered that he was presumed to be the parent or friend of the bride, or a cousin or an intimate friend of the groom.
But it was at the table that his efforts to please were particularly conspicuous. He would post himself in the place of honor—seize the great carving-knife—cut up the meats with admirable promptness and dexterity, and carefully and politely wait upon every guest. He directed the servants, overlooked the courses, and tasted the wines. Then when the dessert was brought, he would take from his pocket a piece of pink paper, mysteriously unfold it, and sing from it a stanza in honor of the newly married couple, composed by himself expressly for the occasion. The good fellow knew but one little story and but one stanza, but he served them up every morning in a new edition.
Unfortunately this witty sharper was one day detected in his career of imposition. Seduced by the attraction of great names, he went to the marriage festival of a rich nobleman of the Fauborg St. Germain. He had assisted at the mass—returned in an elegant barouche to the hotel—had glided unobserved into the parlor, and stood waiting for a suitable opportunity to rehearse his amusing little story, and to commence hisimprompturemarks, so often before repeated. All at once he became the object of general attention; all at once he found all eyes fixed upon him. The mistress of the feast had counted her plates and her guests, and had ascertained that of the latter there was one too many. She was astonished to find on inquiring the name of the Cousin, that no one knew him, and that no one recognized him as a friend. For the first time theCousin of the Marriedlost his self-possession and his assurance. How was he to escape the gaze of the eyes fixed upon him? How was he to answer the questions which might be addressed to him? Presently, a gentleman advances towards him and asks—"By which of the married couple were you invited—on which side are you?"
"On which side?" said the Cousin of the Married, taking his hat, "on the side of the door;" and so saying, he quickly descended the stairs and left the house. Since that day no one has heard tell of him.
But if we have no longer the Cousin of the Married, we have now theCousin of the Dead, an expression equally as significant as the first.
Ruined by the Revolution of 1793, the Count of V***, was obliged to accept of a very modest employment. In consequence of a change in the Ministry, the old clerk was compelled to leave his office, with no other resource to sustain life, than a miserable income of 400 francs per annum. He was old, and alone in the world. His strength did not permit him to labor, and by constantly dwelling on his poverty, he became melancholy, and subsequently fell dangerously sick. By carefully attending to the advice of a physician, who generously refused to accept the small sum the old man offered to give for his services, he became, in time, somewhat restored. This physician prescribed for his patient, on pain of a relapse, frequent exercise and a daily ride. You may judge of the poor man's embarrassment! How could he ride every day in a carriage, when his little income was scarcely sufficient to procure the essentials of life? The smallest excursion in a cabriolet cost twenty-five sous—one excursion per day would be four hundred and fifty francs per annum, and his whole yearly income amounted to only four hundred. At that time omnibusses were not invented.
He was beginning to despond when the heavens sent him succor. In passing near St. Rock, he observed that the gate of the church was hung in black, and that a long line of vehicles were in waiting to conduct a funeral procession toPère La Chaise. The coachmen were on their seats, and their strong and beautiful horses, covered with the trappings of mourning, were awaiting with impatience, the moment of departure. The advice of the physician recurred with great force to the mind of poor V***—a feeling of jealousy glided into his inoffensive heart. He envied the fortune of those who could thus ride gratis—he envied, for one instant, the happy destiny of the deceased, in being conveyed to his last earthly home, in a splendid hearse, drawn by four magnificent horses. Feeling a curiosity to know the name and history of one upon whom fortune had so lavishedher favors, he entered the church and piously knelt down among the mourners. V*** had on his only black coat, and he was immediately taken for one of the friends of the deceased, and after the ceremonies in the church, was offered a place in one of the funeral carriages. The occasion was too opportune to be neglected, and he gladly jumped into the wished-for carriage.
On the way, a thousand ideas passed through his imagination. He thanked heaven for having furnished him with the means to fulfil, in so economical a manner, the recommendation of his physician. He accompanied the corpse to the grave—saw the coffin laid in the tomb, and on leaving the churchyard, he found the coach in waiting, and the coachman ready to convey him home.
Since that event V*** has become the willing assistant of all public interments; and what was, at first, only useful as a means of exercise, has become for him a pleasure and a delight. He goes to a funeral as others go to the theatre, to a ball, or to a festival. He daily reads the lists of deaths in the city, and these lists are to him a journal, and the only one for which he conceives there is any use. Still more, he has taken lodgings opposite the dwelling of the undertaker, and every morning he crosses the street to converse with the undertaker, and inform himself of the burials of the day. He puts on his blue surtout or his black dress, according to the rank and fortune of the deceased, the expenses of the funeral, &c., and for all grand ceremonies he wears crape on his arm. V*** is now generally known by the title ofthe Cousin of the Dead. For fifteen years he has not missed a single funeral. His views are too liberal to adopt party feelings; he has assisted to inter Bellart and Manuel, Talma and the Bishop of Beauvais, a female follower of St. Simon and the lady Superior of the Convent of Minimes, and he hopes to live to inter many other characters equally distinguished. He once presented to the Chamber of Deputies, a petition for a law interdicting the embalming of infants, by which the number of funeral processions is materially lessened.
The Cousin of the Dead possesses a remarkably expansive sensibility, and an extraordinary quantity of sympathy for the afflictions of others. He feels the grief of a bereaved mother, the despair of a heart-broken widow, the sorrow of a childless father, with the poignancy of truth. Many a legator, in noticing his sorrow at the grave, has taken him for a disinherited relative; many a mother has been gratified to see him shed tears over her favorite son, and many an husband, on losing a beloved wife, has been astonished at his grief over her remains. He composes funeral orations for all illustrious persons; the burial place is his life and his world. At times, struck with the appearance of grief depicted on his countenance, the friends of the dead have desired him to be the principal mourner.
One day, during the burial of a personage of considerable importance, the Cousin of the Dead was observed to shed an abundance of tears. One of the mourners approached him and desired that he would make a few appropriate remarks—jeter quelques fleurs sur le cercueil—on the individual whose remains they had just deposited in the cold grave. The procession closed around him as he prepared to speak.
"The tomb," said he, "is again about to enclose the remains of a distinguished citizen." He stopped for a moment, and inquired, in a low voice, the name of the deceased. He was answered, "Augustin Leger."
"Augustin Leger," he resumed, "was a man, grave and austere. His long life was but a continued series of virtuous and benevolent acts. He was entirely devoted to the holy, the legitimate cause of——"
He was a regicide!
"The rights of the sovereign people. His disinterestedness——"
He was a usurer!
"His laudable economy, his aversion to luxury, his unassuming and modest deportment, had gained for him universal esteem. But still more worthy of admiration were his virtues in private life—his patience, his humility, and his devoted and unchangeable attachment to the wife of his bosom, the lady of his choice."
He had been divorced!
"For his children he cherished the most affectionate and tender regard."
He had driven them from his house!
"Virtuous friend! May the earth rest lightly on thy coffin!"
BY EDGAR A. POE.
BY EDGAR A. POE.
Keats fell by a criticism. Who was it died ofThe Andromache?1Ignoble souls!—De L'Omelette perished of an ortolan.L'histoire en est breve—assist me Spirit of Apicius!
1Montfleury. The author of theParnasse Reformémakes him thus express himself in the shades. "The man then who would know of what I died, let him not ask if it were of the fever, the dropsy, or the gout; but let him know that it was of The Andromache."
A golden cage bore the little winged wanderer, enamored, melting, indolent, to theChaussée D'Antin, from its home in far Peru. From its queenly possessor La Bellissima, to the Duc De L'Omelette, six peers of the empire conveyed the happy bird. It was "All for Love."
That night the Duc was to sup alone. In the privacy of his bureau, he reclined languidly on that ottoman for which he sacrificed his loyalty in outbidding his king—the notorious ottoman of Cadêt.
He buries his face in the pillow—the clock strikes! Unable to restrain his feelings, his Grace swallows an olive. At this moment the door gently opens to the sound of soft music, and lo! the most delicate of birds is before the most enamored of men! But what inexpressible dismay now overshadows the countenance of the Duc?——"Horreur!—chien!—Baptiste!—l'oiseau! ah, bon Dieu! cet oiseau modeste que tu as deshabillé de ses plumes, et que tu as servi sans papier!" It is superfluous to say more—the Duc expired in a paroxysm of disgust.
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
"Ha! ha! ha!"—said his Grace on the third day after his decease.
"He! he! he!"—replied the Devil faintly, drawing himself up with an air of hauteur.
"Why, surely you are not serious"—retorted De L'Omelette. "I have sinned—c'est vrai—but, my goodsir, consider!—you have no actual intention of putting such—such—barbarous threats into execution."
"Nowhat?"—said His Majesty—"come sir, strip!"
"Strip indeed!—very pretty i' faith!—no, sir, I shallnotstrip. Who are you, pray, that I, Duc De L'Omelette, Prince de Foie-Gras, just come of age, author of the 'Mazurkiad,' and Member of the Academy, should divest myself at your bidding of the sweetest pantaloons ever made by Bourdon, the daintiestrobe-de-chambreever put together by Rombêrt—to say nothing of the taking my hair out of paper—not to mention the trouble I should have in drawing off my gloves?"
"Who am I?—ah, true! I am Baal-Zebub, Prince of the Fly. I took thee just now from a rose-wood coffin inlaid with ivory. Thou wast curiously scented, and labelled as per invoice. Belial sent thee—my Inspector of Cemeteries. The pantaloons, which thou sayest were made by Bourdon, are an excellent pair of linen drawers, and thyrobe-de-chambreis a shroud of no scanty dimensions."
"Sir!" replied the Duc, "I am not to be insulted with impunity!—Sir! I shall take the earliest opportunity of avenging this insult!—Sir! you shall hear from me! In the meantimeau revoir!"—and the Duc was bowing himself out of the Satanic presence, when he was interrupted and brought back by a gentleman in waiting. Hereupon his Grace rubbed his eyes, yawned, shrugged his shoulders, reflected. Having become satisfied of his identity, he took a bird's eye view of his whereabouts.
The apartment was superb. Even De L'Omelette pronounced itbien comme il faut. It was not very long, nor very broad,—but its height—ah, that was appalling! There was no ceiling—certainly none—but a dense, whirling mass of fiery-colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above, hung a chain of an unknown blood-red metal—its upper end lost, like C——,parmi les nues. From its nether extremity hung a large cresset. The Duc knew it to be a ruby—but from it there poured a light so intense, so still, so terrible, Persia never worshipped such—Gheber never imagined such—Mussulman never dreamed of such when drugged with opium he has tottered to a bed of poppies, his back to the flowers, and his face to the God Apollo! The Duc muttered a slight oath decidedly approbatory.
The corners of the room were rounded into niches. Three of these were filled with statues of gigantic proportions. Their beauty was Grecian, their deformity Egyptian, theirtout ensembleFrench. In the fourth niche the statue was veiled—it was not colossal. But then there was a taper ankle, a sandalled foot. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart, closed his eyes, raised them, and caught his Satanic Majesty—in a blush.
But the paintings!—Kupris! Astarte! Astoreth!—a thousand and the same! And Rafaelle has beheld them! Yes, Rafaelle has been here; for did he not paint the —— ? and was he not consequently damned? The paintings!—the paintings! O Luxury! O Love!—who gazing on those forbidden beauties shall have eyes for the dainty devices of the golden frames that lie imbedded and asleep against those swellings walls of eider down?
But the Duc's heart is fainting within him. He is not, however, as you suppose, dizzy with magnificence, nor drunk with the ecstatic breath of those innumerable censers.C'est vrai que de toutes ces choses il a pensé beaucoup—mais!The Duc De L'Omelette is terror-stricken; for through the lurid vista which a single uncurtained window is affording, lo! gleams the most ghastly of all fires!
Le Pauvre Duc!He could not help imagining that the glorious, the voluptuous, the never-dying melodies which pervaded that hall, as they passed filtered and transmuted through the alchemy of the enchanted window panes, were the wailings and the howlings of the hopeless and the damned! And there too—there—upon that ottoman!—who couldhebe?—he, thepetit-maitre—no, the Deity—who sat as if carved in marble,et qui sourit, with his pale countenance,si amerement.
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
Mais il faut agir—that is to say a Frenchman never faints outright. Besides, his Grace hated a scene—De L'Omelette is himself again. There were some foils upon a table—some points also. The Duc had studied under B——,il avait tué ses six hommes. Now thenil peut s'echapper. He measures two points, and, with a grace inimitable, offers his Majesty the choice.Horreur!his Majesty does not fence!
Mais il joue!—what a happy thought! But his Grace had always an excellent memory. He had dipped in the "Diable" of the Abbé Gualtier. Therein it is said "que le Diable n'ose pas refuser un jeu d'Ecarté."
But the chances—the chances! True—desperate: but not more desperate than the Duc. Besides, was he not in the secret?—had he not skimmed over Pere Le Brun? was he not a member of the Club Vingt-un? "Si Je perds," said he, "Je serai deux fois perdu," I shall be doubly damned—voila tout!(Here his Grace shrugged his shoulders)Si Je gagne Je serai libre,—que les cartes soient prepareés!
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
*Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â * Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â *
His Grace was all care, all attention—his Majesty all confidence. A spectator would have thought of Francis and Charles. His Grace thought of his game. His Majesty did not think—he shuffled. The Duccoupa.
The cards are dealt. The trump is turned—it is—it is—the king! No—it was the queen. His Majesty cursed her masculine habiliments. De L'Omelette laid his hand upon his heart.
They play. The Duc counts. The hand is out. His Majesty counts heavily, smiles, and is taking wine. The Duc slips a card.
"C'est à vous à faire"—said his Majesty cutting. His Grace bowed, dealt, and arose from the tableen presentant le Roi.
His Majesty looked chagrined.
Had the drunkard not been Alexander, he would have been Diogenes; and the Duc assured his Majesty in taking leave "que s'il n'etait pas De L'Omelette il n'aurait point d'objection d'etre le Diable."
Mr. H. N. Coleridge says there would be no difficulty in composing a complete epic poem with as much symmetry of parts as is seen in the Iliad, from the English ballads on Robin Hood.
[From the lips of an Octogenarian.]
[From the lips of an Octogenarian.]
"You see, ma'am," said the old man, "my mother died when I was twelve years old. About that time old Mr. C—— came down, and set up for a greatmarchant. Well, his wife was sick, and she sent to ——, where she came from, for a widow-woman to come and take care of her. This widow-woman had three children. Her husband, had been a sea-faring man, and he waswrackedand lost down there at Halifax,—and left his wife with nothing at all, and these three children to take care of."
"Well, my daddy, ma'am, fell in with her, some how or other, and married her. She was a nice woman—as good a mother as ever was,—and had greatlarning, and knew how to do every thing,—only she didn't knownothingabout country-work, you see. Well, her oldest daughter came down, (for my dad had agreed to take one of the children,) and she was a nicegal;and a while after the boy came down. Well, there was nothing said; we all worked along; and the daughter she got married—married Mr. H——, (you know his folks?—) he broke his neck afterwards, falling from his horse."
"Well, a while after this tother daughter came down. Debby was dreadful plain!—I thought she wasdreadful plain!!—but she was a nicegal—smart, working—and good to every body. You see, there were four young children of the second crop, and they had got ragged; and Debby spun, and wove, and clothed, and mended them up. Well, she went back,—but they couldn't live without her, and sent for her again, and so she came. She took care of every thing—saw to my things, and had them all in order,—and every thing comfortable for me in the winter, when I went in the woods,—but I thought nothing, no more than if she'd been my sister."
"Well, by this time I was a youngish man; and in my day, the young folks had a sort of a frolic every night. I used to go,—and sometimes went home with onegal, sometimes with another,—but never thought of Debby. Well, there was a Mr. —— came to see her, but she wouldn't have nothing to say to him; and after that, one came from the Shoals—a rich man's son; his father gave him a complete new vessel, and every thing to load her; but Debby wouldn't have nothing to do with himnother.Then I wasn't worth so much as this stick!—Well, I wondered, and so I says to mother, 'Mother, what's the reason Debby wont take this man?—she'll never better herself!'—'Don't you know, John?' says mother. 'No.' So I says to Debby—'Why don't you have him, Debby?' 'Because,' says Debby, says she, 'if I can't have the one I want, I wont have nobody!'"
"Well, I thought nothing,—but went on, frolicking here, and frolicking there, till one night as I was going home, just towards day, with one of my mates, says I, 'Tom,' says I, 'I wont go to another frolic these two months! If I do, I'll give you a dollar!'—'You?' says he—'you'll go afore two nights!' 'Well, you'll see,' says I.—Well, I stayed at homesteady;and after a while says father, says he to mother, 'Suzy,' says he, (for that was the way he always spoke to her—) 'Suzy,' says he, 'I guess John has got tired of raking about so,—and I'm glad of it.' 'I hope he has,' says mother."
"Well, one day we were all sitting at table,—mothersotthere,—and fathersot there,—and the hired man next him,—(for we had a hired man, and hiredgal,) and Debby was next to mother, and thegalnext, and I between the hired man and hiredgal. Well, mother was joking the hired man andgal,—(she was a great hand to joke,) and I cast an eye at Debby, and I thought, 'I never see any body alter as you have, Debby!'—She looked handsome!—Well, Debby was weaving up stairs; and I was mowing down by the well, close by the house; and I felt kind of uneasy, and made an excuse to go in for a drink of water. Well, I went in;—and I went up stairs, and into tother chamber—not the one where Debby was weaving,—(for I was kind of bashful, you see,—) and then I went in where Debby was—but said nothing,—for I had never laid the weight of my finger on thegalin my life. At last, 'Debby,' says I, 'what sort of a weaver are you, Debby?' 'O, I guess I can get off as many yards as any body,' says she; 'and I want to get my web out, to go up on the hill to sister's, this afternoon.' 'Well,' says I, 'tell her to have something nice, for I shall be up there.' 'We shan't see you there, I guess,' says Debby. 'You will though,' says I; 'see if you don't!' Father had a great pasture on the hill,—a kind of farm like, (for my father was a rich man!—) so just afore night up I goes, and they had every thing in order. So a while after supper I says to Debby, 'Debby, 'tis time for us to go, for 'twill be milking-time, by the time we get home.' So we went right down across,—and on the way we talked the business over. I married her—and a better wife never wore shoe-leather!"
Palæstine derives its name from the Philistæi, who inhabited the coast of Judæa. It has also been called "The Holy Land" as being the scene of the birth, sufferings and death of our Redeemer. It was bounded on the north by Syria, on the east by Arabia Deserta, on the south by Arabia Petrea, and on the west by the Mediterranean. The principal divisions of the country were Galilea in the north, Samaria in the middle, and Judæa in the south. This country is at present under the Turkish yoke; and the oppression which it now experiences, as well as the visible effects of the divine displeasure, not only during the reign of Titus, and afterwards in the inundations of the northern barbarians, but also of the Saracens and Crusaders, are more than sufficient to have reduced this country, which has been extolled by Moses, and even by Julian the Apostate, for its fecundity, to its present condition of a desert. Galilea, the northern division, is divided by Josephus into Upper Galilea, called Galilea of the Gentiles because inhabited by heathen nations—and Lower Galilea which was adjacent to the sea of Tiberias, and which contained the tribes of Zebulon and Ashur. Galilea was a very populous country: containing, according to Josephus 204 cities, and towns, and paying 200 talents in tribute.
The middle district, Samaria, had its origin in a division of the people of Israel into two distinct kingdoms, during the reign of Jeroboam. One of these kingdoms, called Judah, consisted of such as adhered to the house of David, comprising the two tribes of Judah and Benjamin. The other ten tribes retained the name of Israelites under Jeroboam. Their capital was Samaria, which also became the name of their country. The Samaritans and people of Judæa were bitter enemies. The former differed in many respects from the strictness of the Mosaic law. Among the Judæans, the name of Samaritan was a term of reproach.
The southern division, Judæa, did not assume that name until after the return of the Jews from the Babylonian captivity—though it had been called long before "the kingdom of Judah," in opposition to that of Israel. After the return, the tribe of Judah settled first at Jerusalem; but afterwards spreading over the whole country, gave it the name of "Judæa."
The only rivers of any note in Palæstine are the Jordanes, and the Leontes, which latter passes through the northern extremity of Galilea. The Jordan, according to a curious story of Philip the Tetrarch, has its origin in a lake called Phiala, about ten miles north of Cæsarea of Samochon. This is said to have been ascertained by throwing into the lake some straw which came out where the river emerges from the ground, after having run fifteen miles beneath the surface of the earth—Mannert the German, thinks this fabulous, and places the source of the river in Mount Paneas, in the province of Dan. The Jordan holds a south-westerly course—flows through the lake Samochon, or Samochonites, or as it is called in the Bible, Merom; after which, proceeding onwards till received by the sea of Tiberias, or lake of Genesareth, it emerges from this, and is finally lost in the Dead Sea. In ancient times it overflowed its banks annually, about the period of early harvest; and thus differing from most other rivers, which generally swell in the winter, it was supposed to have a subterraneous communication with the Nile. But now, we can perceive no rise, which is probably owing to the channel having been deepened by the swiftness of the current. The name is supposed to be derived from the Hebrew "Jarden," on account of the river's rapid "descent" through the country.
The Dead Sea, called also Asphaltites, from the "asphaltos," or bitumen, which it throws up, is situated in Judæa, and near 100 miles long and 25 broad: but is called by Tacitus "Lacus immenso ambitu." Its waters are extremely salt; but the vapors exhaled from them are found not to be so pestilential as they have been usually represented. It is supposed that the thirteen cities, of which Sodom and Gomorrah, as mentioned in the Bible, are the chief, were destroyed by a volcano, and once occupied the site of the Dead Sea. Earthquakes are now frequent in the country. Volumes of smoke are observed to issue from the lake, and new crevices are daily found on its margin.
The country is mountainous. The range of Libanus, so named on account of their snowy summits, from the Hebrew "Lebanon,"white, is imperfectly defined. The principal part of them lies towards the north of Galilea, but the name of Libanus is sometimes given to several parallel chains, which run through the whole extent of Palæstine. Between two of these ranges lay a valley so beautiful that some have called it a terrestrial Paradise; though situated in a much higher region than the greater part of the country, it enjoys perpetual spring—the trees are always green, and the orchards full of fruit. Libanus has been famed for its cedars. Mount Carmel is a celebrated mountain, properly belonging to Samaria, but on which the Syrians had an altar,but not a temple, dedicated to their god Carmelus. A priest of this deity, according to Tacitus, (Lib. 2, cap. 78,) foretold the accession of Vespasian to the throne.
The principal towns in Galilea were Dio-Cæsarea, Jotapata or Gath, Genesareth, and Tiberias. Tiberias was built by Herod, near the lake of the same name, and called after the emperor. After the taking of Jerusalem, there was at Tiberias a succession of Hebrew judges, till about the time of the abdication of Dioclesian and Maximinianus. Epiphanius, bishop of Salamis, says that a Hebrew copy of St. John, and the Acts of the Apostles, was kept in this city.
The chief cities of Samaria were Neapolis, Antipatris, Archelais, Apollonia, Samaria, and Cæsarea. Cæsarea, was the principal, and was anciently called "Turris Stratonis." It was much embellished by Herod, who named it Cæsarea in honor of Augustus—and was the station of the Roman governors. Samaria was situated on Mount Sameron, and was the residence of the kings of Israel, from the time of Omri, its founder, to the overthrow of the kingdom.
In Judæa, were the cities of Engedi, Herodium, Hebron, Beersheba, Jericho, and Jerusalem. Jericho was in the tribe of Benjamin, near the river Jordan; and is called by Moses the city of palm-trees, from the palms in the adjacent plain, which are also noticed by Tacitus. It was destroyed by Joshua, but afterwards rebuilt. Jerusalem, the capital, was anciently called Salem, or Jebus, by the Jebusites, who were in possession of it till the time of David; but it was then called by the Hebrews Jeruschalaim, signifying "the possession of the inheritance of peace." The Greeks and Romans called it by the name of Hierosolyma. It was built on several hills, of which Mount Sion, in the southern part of the city, was the largest. To the north was Acra, called the "second," or "lower city"—on the east of which was Solomon's temple, built on Mount Moriah. North-east of this was the Mount of Olives, and north of it Mount Calvary, the place of the crucifixion. This city was taken by Pompey, who thence derived his name of Hierosolymarius. It was also taken and destroyed by Titus, (in the year of our Lord 71, by the account of Tacitus—but according to Josephus,) on the 8th of Sept. A.D. 70—2177 years after its foundation.
In this siege 110,000 persons are said to have perished, and 97,000 to have been made prisoners, and as Josephus relates, sold as slaves, or thrown to wild beasts for the sport of the conquerors.