As to the prospects of such a mission, Dr Stewart goes on to say:

"If the British Consul-General at Cairo be a man who takes any interest in the gospel, his influence in the present state of the law would be sufficient to secure protection both for the missionary and the converts, from Government persecution; and, that being gained, it is to be hoped that the interest which the Arabs themselves may be expected to take in education, would, by the blessing of God, be sufficient to protect the missionary against isolated attacks of fanaticism. He would require to be not only a man of much self-denial, faith, and prayer, but also of an active practical turn, capable of communicating to those wanderers the elements of agriculture, and of awakening in them some enthusiasm for the improvements he introduces. Surely among the churches of Britain-perhaps among the churches of Scotland, whose sympathies are thoroughly enlisted on behalf of our American brethren-an effort might be made to relieve them of anxiety concerning this peninsula, by planting a mission in it, by means of which, with God's blessing, the Gospel might triumph, in the very birth-place of the law, and 'the Desert rejoice and blossom like the rose.""

After a short stay at Feiran our traveller pressed on to Mount Serbal, to which he assigns the distinction of being the Sinai of ancient times in preference to another mountain called Ghebel Mousa, the claims of which have been of late much insisted on and supported by Imperial patronage. On local peculiarities which accord with Scripture story are his conclusions grounded, and we think they are just. There are many indications given in the Sacred Volume of the appearance both of the mountain and plain at its base; these Dr Stewart properly assumes as the guides to his decision, and makes out to our view a good case for the identity of Serbal and Sinai :

"Serbal does not disappoint one on a near approach to it. Majestic as he seems when you trace his serrated crest towering above all his compeers for days before you reach the base, his presence is still more noble as seen from Wadi Aleiat. There are no outworks or fences, no shoulders or projecting spurs, to detract from his stature or hide his summit, until you have achieved half the ascent; his precipitous sides rise sheer and clear from the rough valley along which we were toiling, like a large three-decker from the sea. I perceived at once the force and propriety of that description which is given of the Mount of God, the Mount which might be touched.' My experience in climbing mountains has been considerable, but never have I met with anything to match the ascent of Serbál. There was no beaten path. Sometimes we struck for a few minutes on a track of the gazelle; but for the most part wandered where the guide's eye deemed a passage most prac ticable. Several times we came to a stand-still before some great mass of rock which stood projecting over the ravine exactly in our way, and round which it was impossible to creep, so there was nothing for it but to climb up its rough sides as best we could, with the disagreeable certainty that a false step or slip of the foot would dash us headlong down the precipice we had been mounting. We took two hours and a-half to reach the top of the ravine, where the actual separation of the peaks takes place; but the difficulty of breathing experienced from the rarity of the air was so great, that I was obliged frequently to lie down for five minutes at a time to recover breath during that period. After leaving

this, we began to ascend the easternmost peak, and had an additional hour of still more dangerous climbing, as it was over the steep, bare, and slippery surface of the granite rock, where there was not a patch of earth or a stone to steady the foot. The only plan was to lie down flat on our breasts, and with arms and feet to hoist the body upwards; but if after such a hoist we failed in getting some crevice or projecting corner by which to anchor with foot or hand, we slipped back with alarming velocity over the ground we had made with such difficulty. It was the ascent of a glacier, only of smooth granite instead of ice. On the narrow plateau at

the top there is a circle of loose stones, which Burckhardt has very accurately described as about two feet high and twelve paces in diameter, which may have formed a Druidical ring connected with the worship of Baal, whose name the mountain bears. It was three o'clock when we got there, after three hours and a-half of

the most fatiguing exertion I ever made in my life, reckoning from the time of leaving the pool at the bottom of the ravine. Though one who has made the ascent might hesitate to undergo the same fatigue a second time, I am certain the unanimous testimony of all who have been there must be, that they would not have missed the panoramic view from the top for any consideration. The first impression made on the mind when the wide waste of wilderness is unfolded before us, is one of stupefaction. The view is so extensive, it seems as if we should never be able to master all its details; but gradually wadis and mountains begin to link together in the memory, until we discover that almost the entire Arabian peninsula is mapped out at our feet. To me, however, there was something more attractive in that desolate mountain top than the view. From previous study of the subject (which subsequent personal observation has confirmed), I made my pilgrimage there under the impression that it is the Mount Sinai; that on this, or one of the neighbouring peaks, Jehovah spake with Moses from out of the cloud, and gave him the law, both moral and ceremonial, for a testimony in Israel; and that the Wadi Aleiat is that portion of the wilderness of Sinai where the tribes were gathered. Leaving my guides, I sought shelter from the piercing blast under the venerable granite block which crowns the summit, that I might meditate a while, not only on that scene, so terrible that it caused Moses to exclaim, 'I do exceedingly fear and quake,' but also on Paul's allegory, in which he likens Mount Sinai in Arabia to Hagar the bondswoman, and Jerusalem above to Sarah the mother of the free. It was a solemn thing, too, sitting on that spot, to realise the fact, that the terrible majesty in which God appeared on Sinai as the Lawgiver, was but an emblem and foreshadowing of his yet more glorious and terrible appearing when he comes as the Law-avenger, 'when every eye shall see him, and they also who pierced him and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him.' Happy they to whom in that day the Lord Jesus is the end of the law for righteousness,' because they believe in him."

Leaving Serbal, the caravan proceeded to Ghebel Mousa, its rival. Here is a convent of St Catherine, established apparently for no other purpose than to fleece travellers who are attracted thither; but the worthy Monks found the Presbyterian clergyman rather much for them -a heretic in every way; for to their extortionate demands for guidance, he returned the simple but natural reply, "I will not pay for such an encumbrance." It may easily be imagined that the stranger was no favourite with the Monks, so their communication was brief and uncordial. Preferring the escort of one of the Pasha's soldiers, Dr Stewart ascended the mountain, which, on account of a road made by Ibrahim Bey, is more easy of ascent. It was Sabbath. What a spot in which to spend the day of rest! Our traveller appreciated, in all its fulness, the grandeur of the situation, thus expressing his feelings:

"Though I could not believe that the mountain on which I sat realized the description given of Sinai in the Bible, yet I was on Horeb, that chain of waste and barren mountains, on one of which God had descended in awful majesty, and given his law to man, amid 'thunderings, and lightnings, and blackness, and darkness, and tempest;' and seldom have I realized more vividly than there the blessedness of being sheltered from the law's avenging power, through the righteousness of the Lord Jesus Christ. Gazing on these eternal desolations-on a forest of jagged mountain peaks, which seem to serve no earthly use, and on a labyrinth of arid valleys, bringing forth only briars and thorns, through which, as through the sieve of the Danaides, angry torrents sometimes flow, only to disappoint and make more desolate-what lessons they teach us of the mysterious wisdom of our Great Creator! What could be his reason in creating such a region of barrenness? Such knowledge is too wonderful for us; it is high, we cannot attain unto it.' And again, gazing on these everlasting hills, which seem to have struck their roots into the very centre of the earth, and to be able to defy the heavings of the earthquake and the spirit of the storm, what solemnising thoughts of Jehovah's power do these words awaken, spoken in relation to his appearance on Sinai: Whose voice then shook the earth; but now he hath promised, saying, Yet once more I shake not the

earth only, but also heaven.'-Heb. xii. 26. But these solemn, silent, majestic mountains, on which the course of time seems to inflict no mutation, bear yet a softer, sweeter testimony for their Great Creator to the believer's heart. The mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee.'-Isaiah liv. 10. My thoughts wandered far away to home and its dear inmates, and to my people, who at that very hour were engaged in the house of prayer, and in spirit I had converse with them from 'Kedar's wilderness afar.'

After pausing a while among these interesting solitudes, the journey was resumed towards Palestine. After visiting the cairns or graves which he identifies with the Taberah of old-the scene of the grievous plague sent on Israel in consequence of their impatient demand for flesh instead of the manna-he entered the wilderness of Paran, the extreme of what is styled the higher desert; and, after traversing it, entered the country of the Tiáhah Arabs, whose camping-ground lay round Nukhl, for which place the caravan was bound. New ceremonials had now to be gone through, and a native escort secured. We introduced our readers to the Sheikh Towerahs; we will also act as master of ceremonies in presenting them to the Sheikh of the Tiáhahs:

"A messenger arrived from the encampment shortly after 9, bringing tidings that this Desert Prince would be with us at 10 o'clock. Ten o'clock came, and with it, punctually, the Sheikh. Aéed Ibn Achmet, the Sheikh el Kebier of the Tiáhah tribe was a youth of eighteen years of age-the youngest of three brothers; and as the office of ruler of the tribe is bestowed on one of the sons of the last chief by election, and not by right of primogeniture, he being reckoned the bravest and best qualified to command, was chosen over the heads of his brethren, the two young men I had met at the fort. His father, the last Sheikh, was called Abou Khéleh; and the true title of this youth, according to all European notions, ought to be Aéed Ibn Abou Khéleh, Aéed the son of Abou Khéleh, but among the Bedouins, when this title is given to a man, the father is ignored altogether, and he is called the son of his grandfather, whatever the name of that worthy may have been. In this case the grandfather's name was Achmet, and hence the style of the young Sheikh, Aéen Ibn Achmet. His attire was rich and costly, and such as I had expected from the accounts of former travellers to have seen Nassar arrayed in, when our first introduction took place at Cairo. He wore on his head, bound by a rope of camel's hair, the gay kefiah* the manufacture of Mecca, which is so much valued in the Desert. Over his shoulders hung a blue bernouse; beneath it a long loose robe of scarlet cloth; and below that, fitting close to the body, a tunic or gown of rich crimson silk stripped with yellow, from the looms of Damascus. Yellow boots and slippers completed his costume."

A few days' journey brought Dr Stewart to the termination of his desert wanderings. He arrived at Beersheba, one of the most remarkable spots in that truly interesting region. How vividly all the sacred story rose to his recollection!

"By these very wells, in all probability, Abraham, Isaac, and Abimelech have sat; and no doubt the townsmen of Beersheba would preserve with jealous care the memorials of their venerated forefathers. From this place, with heavy heart but unclouded faith, Abraham set out for Mount Moriah, to offer up his only child at God's command. Beersheba witnessed Rebecca's parting with her favourite son, whom she had driven into exile by her sin, and on whose face she never was to gaze again. In the town which sprang up around these wells, Joel and Abiah, the worthless sons of a worthy sire, were settled as judges, and so incensed the people

* A square handkerchief woven with red and yellow silk, and cotton fringed round the edges. From this word the Italian word Cuffia, a cap, is derived

by their conduct, that they clamoured for a king. From it, too, the prophet who usually never feared the face of man set out for Horeb, the mount of God, probably by the very route we had just travelled, when his faith failed before the threats of Jezebel, and he deemed it hopeless to combat longer single-handed against royal and priestly power. And in Israel's degenerate, God-forgetting days, it would seem that Beersheba sought to out-rival Dan in her idolatry, from the denunciation of Amos, "They that swear by the sin of Samaria, and say, Thy God, O Dan, liveth; and, The manner of Beersheba liveth; even they shall fall, and never rise up again.' -Amos viii. 14."

With devout heart our traveller

"Completed his journey through the great and howling wilderness with ardent thanksgivings to God, who had thus far brought him safely through all his wanderings."

Here we leave him for the present. The journey has been through a country strange in aspect, and more wonderful from the time-hallowed remembrances of far ancient days, when the people of God were led like a sheep through the desert by their Divine Guide. Our sketch has necessarily been very brief, although we fear we have trespassed on our space. In order to do justice to its merits, we would recommend a thorough perusal of the work itself.

PIERRE DE BERANGER.

"Dans ce Paris, plein d'or et de misère,

En l'an du Christ mil sept cent quatre-vingt,

Chez un tailleur, mon pauvre et vieux grand-père,

Moi nouveau-né, sachez ce qui m'advint."-Le Taileur et la fée.

ONE fine day, in the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and eighty, in an obscure lodging in the Rue Montorgueil, Paris, there was born into this world a puny male-child, who entered on its sickly existence with even more squalling and disturbance than is the wont and privilege of babies. By and bye as this child grew in years, he displayed a rare talent for song, and made a considerable noise in the world after quite another and more melodious fashion. As he himself says in one of his now famous chansonettes—

"Flung down upon this globe,

Weak, sickly, ugly, small,
Half-stifled by the mob,

And pushed about by all,

I utter heavy sighs,

To Fate complaints I bring,
When lo! kind Heaven cries-
Sing, little fellow, sing!"*

And so the little fellow, "fate-compelled," donned the singing robes, and chanted melodies by turns, so exquisite in their tenderness, so touching in their pathos, so exuberant in their mirth and jollity, so sparkling in their wit; imbued with such noble manliness of sentiment, and breathing such fervent patriotism, that his earnest words fell fruitfully on the hearts of all who listened, and he became renowned and a

* Oxenford's translation of Ma Vocation.

great power in the land of his birth; giving joy in the cottage, and banishing ennui from the salon.

In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-seven, just two months back, an imposing funeral cortége filed through the crowded streets of Paris. The pomp and circumstance with which the bier was surrounded, the presence amongst the mourners of many high dignitaries of state, eminent men of science, distinguished book-writers, and votaries of art; the gallant array of National Guards, and, above all, the throng of citizens, who, with reverent gesture and uncovered heads, watched the slow progress of the melancholy train; all gave token that he whose dust was thus borne to the grave was not only honoured, but wellbeloved by his mourning countrymen.

This was the close of the career opened in the tailor's little garret in Rue Montorgueil. Such was the birth and burial of Pierre de Béranger, the great chansonnier of France. What passed between the two periods need not be told in many words. The course of his life, from its vivid portrayal in his widely-famed ballads, is too generally known to require detail at our hands. We may just note one or two of the more prominent incidents.

When Béranger was eight years old, the storm of the great revolt burst over Paris, and little Pierre, to be out of danger's way, was sent off to stay with his aunt at Peronne, where she kept a small hostelry. Before he went, however, he had been a spectator of some of the terrible scenes which befell during the early part of the insurrection. When the Bastile was besieged, the little fellow hung about the skirts of the multitude, doubtless exulting, with all a gamin's glee, over the havoc and confusion which prevailed, the deeper meaning of which he was yet too young to appreciate. This aunt, the inn-keeper, by the advice not unlikely of the village curé-for she was a mightily devout woman in her way-gave young Pierre Telemaque and Rocineli to read, but the restless fellow soon laid his hands on writings which told, for the time, much more deeply on his character and ways of thinking.

From some out-of-the-way lumber-hole at the inn, he ferretted out a few odd volumes of Voltaire's works, which he eagerly perused. Their effect was not long concealed. One day an alarming thunder-storm came on, and Pierre, whilst laughing at the crossings and holy-water sprinklings of his pious aunt, was struck down by the lightning. For nearly two hours he lay in a deep swoon. As soon as the insensibility wore off, he beckoned his aunt to his bed-side, and whispered in her

ear

"Well, auntie, after this, what faith have you in your holy water?" His aunt, we may be sure, was sadly scandalised at the young scapegrace's heterodoxy.

After a brief course of instruction at a small seminary in the village, which went by the magniloquent title of "The Patriotic Institute," Béranger became apprentice to a printer named Laisney. He was then in his fourteenth year, and at Peronne he remained three years longer, working away with the types. While thus engaged, he made an important discovery. That was, that he could write verse. M. Laisney, an amiable, open-hearted man, whom Beranger sincerely loved and respected, seems to have early discovered the lad's liking for literary