THE traveller who has passed the high ridge of the Anti-Lebanon, on his way to Damascus, soon finds himself in the middle of a somewhat narrow valley which runs from north to south. It is hemmed in on the west by the mountain ridge just mentioned, and on the east by a lower range of hills. The bottom of the valley is level, and is dotted here and there with villages surrounded by olive and other fruit trees. The vine shoots its luxuriant branches, and corn-fields surround the dwellings of men; the rich soil is fertilised and turned into a green carpet by the gentle and constant moistening of many waters. Not long after having passed a little stream, you arrive at another, which keeps you company to Damascus. Its source is at the bottom of the mountain ridge, on the west side of the valley. It is a small rivulet, and will scarcely attract your notice if you do not know that it is a little playful child which will soon grow into a giant-a majestic stream, at which you will gaze with wonder and delight; for it is the commencement of the Abana, or Amana, which, in the Old Testament, has given its name to the whole of this Lebanon district. It is the longest and most important of the waters of Damascus. Therefore Naaman the Syrian named it before its companion (2 Kings v. 12).

Quiet and smooth is the course of the infant river. At first it winds through the green fields; but before long it changes its course. It glides into a glen which turns towards the east. Its descent then becomes more and more rapid, and its course more stony; it wrestles between pieces of rock, and foams over an irregular pavement of stones; its bed seems to deepen in proportion to the height of the mountains which fence it in on both sides. The willow hangs over the little brook, bending down to kiss it with its leaves, and gradually its waters become clearer and clearer. To the right hand a tributary stream dashes down from the mountain with a fall of twenty feet. The current now rushes on, and doubles its speed with every new supply from the fissures of the mountains. Thus it enters a narrow glen which teems with remains of the olden time. Nature is here wild and majestic. The bursting, foaming, and falling of the stream make the cliff resound with deafening noise, and inspire the traveller with awe. On and on the stream now rushes, as if driven by the hand of an invisible master. The crests and walls of the rocks are naked, but variegated with white and crimson, grey and gold-representing now a serpent's slough, now a tiger's skin, and in these hues towering up into the air. Half way up, the mountains show here and there a little scanty green; but lower down, at their feet, Nature displays all the riches of its blessings. The choicest productions of the Eastern soil are nourished by the waters of the Abana.

But the Abana is not to continue solitary. It winds southward, as it were for the Pharpar to meet it. The source of the latter is grand. At the bottom of a rocky wall, nature has shaped a vault, the mouth of which men tried in olden time to fence in with

square stones in order to build temples within its enclosure. From this opening the water dashes with force, not rushing, but flying like a shaft from a bow. Immediately it finds rest in a basin, but no perma nent abode, for an unceasing supply compels it to push on. Swollen into a stream twenty feet broad, the Pharpar speeds onward between trees, which, high-stemmed and broad-topped, overshadow the traveller, who cannot refrain from pitching his tent in their deliciously cool shade.

The independent life of the Pharpar however is short, for after having rolled on for only a thousand paces, it meets the Abana. It seems unwilling to mingle its clear bluish lymph with the water of the other stream, which has become somewhat greenish. Hence, both rivers continue for a while in the same bed without blending. But soon they mix together. The united stream has now to run a distance of twenty miles before reaching Damascus, its volume being liberally increased by the way. Its course is noticeable from a range of noble trees winding through the valley. On its banks, village links with village, and through the openings in the foliage one sees here and there the water reflecting the landscape on its mirror-like surface. At length it accomplishes its destiny, and becomes the benefactor of the Plain of Damascus.

Standing on the

Here the river enters a field of vast extent. The plain, more than twelve miles broad, is enclosed by mountains, which rise on the north and south. On the east side there is an opening which allows a prospect into the desert. Nor indeed would the plain itself be much short of a desert, were it not irrigated by these waters, for its western end, which is beyond the influence of the stream, presents nothing but black stones and faded grass. The noble river, as if alive to its duty, here splits into various smaller streams. One after another they branch off from the main channel. Still this munificence does not drain it; it does not even so much as affect its majestic roll. Full and strong the water dashes through all its arms. top of the mountain to the north of the valley, the eye rests on a scene of unparalleled beauty. All is green: the foliage of innumerable trees weaves a carpet, the beauty of which one can scarcely imagine. The poplar, with its slender spire, pierces through the broad dome of the nut-trees. The apricot forms a noble forest which extends for miles. The vine winds from tree to tree, and climbs up to the very top of the poplars, where it suspends its heavy bunches. The orange and the melon bear at the same time blossom, half-ripe | fruit, and golden fruit. Here is a continuous spring. And in the midst of these shady woods and fragrant blossoms-these blessings of an inexhaustible creation— the minarets and domes and towers of Damascus raise themselves. The city lies before you, the only one left of the ancient cities of Asia, still grand and rich as when Naaman inhabited one of its palaces. The rivers of Damascus ! Well may the holy page so call the Abana and the Pharpar. To them the city owes its origin; to them it owes its existence of four thousand years.

was shrouded under the cover of unconscious manhood, and at Jerusalem His visage was marred more than any man's. This sea, on the other hand, witnessed the most peaceful hours of His life. None of His tears mingled with its water; no drop of His precious blood stained its shores.

And this water-basin is still beautiful, although the glory of the surrounding country has disappeared. Its borders are pastures and corn-fields; shrubs and a few trees grow on its shores. The beach is covered with shells and many-coloured stones. The water-mirror is set in a charming frame. How the light plays upon it! Now it is blue, now green, now dark, now black, in endless variety. How the wind touches it as it were with a magician's rod, now tracing mysterious-looking characters on its smooth surface, now falling asleep on its gentle waves ! How majestically, in the north, the Hermon lifts its radiant snowy head! How charmingly winds and bends the sky-line of Galilee's mountains! What a perspective towards the south! Here is an opening in the mountain-circle. It forms a gate of six miles in breadth. This is the valley into which the river descends on leaving the sea. This is the Valley of the Jordan.

And more and more the Jordan plain widens till it measures twenty miles in breadth. Then it is called the Valley of Jericho—once beautiful with the charms of fertility, but now nearly barren-and extends as far as the awe-inspiring rocky walls of the Mountain of Temptation. And where does the Jordan end?

The waters of Damascus end in a marsh; those of Israel in the Dead Sea, which dissolves the constituent parts of the Jordan water into brine. And that grave has an entrance, like any other; but a way out it has none.

Naaman concluded that the waters of Damascus were better than the waters of Israel and so they were in many respects. They flowed on in grander style-they possessed a greater fertilizing powerand they were much clearer and purer. I never saw such water in the world as that of the Abana. I could clearly disorn a little white pebble lying at a depth of fifteen feet, The water of the Jordan, on the other hand, however much purified in the Sea of Tiberias, becomes yellowish and muddy during its long course through the valley therefore to the natural eye the waters of Israel could never bear a comparison with those of Damascus; and thus far the Syrian was quite right in his judgment.

But the eye of faith saw the waters of Israel to be possessed of attributes by which they far surpassed all other waters. At the time when Naaman looked at them, they were, by the touch of an invisible Hand, impregnated with a healing power to which even a malady as incurable as the Syrian's leprosy must yield. Naaman knew not that healing power. And in the same way many in our days are prejudiced against the means which God has appointed for their salvation. They think the waters of the Gospel are not clear enough. True, if clearness such as human reason can look through, be the only thing wanted to save a lost sinuer. But the Abana of human philo

sophy and the Pharpar of human virtue rolled over the fields of Babylon and Persia, Greece and Rome for centuries, and yet the world turned so hopelessly leprous that, but for the water of the Gospel springing up in due time, mankind would have sunk beneath the level of the brutes, and perished in the most loathsome sins. What we want for our salvation is not so much a river the bottom of which a man's eye can fathom at a depth of fifteen feet, as a stream with the waters of which is connected the power of Him who alone is mighty to blot out as a thick cloud our transgressions, to quicken us from the dead, and to restore us to perfect righteousness. Naaman said that the clear waters of Damascus were better, and he was perfectly right, if he only wanted to wash his coat or to quench his thirst. But he was not less perfectly aware that, with all their clearness, they could not wash off his leprosy.

The advocates of human philosophy and science finish their lives by doing what nobody needs to learn of them-they die. And what everybody would like to learn they cannot teach, viz., how to rise again. To learn that, we must go to Israel. There is no help for it. Nowhere else do those wonderful waters flow which have the power of God to cure that painful and fatal leprosy sin. There is to be found that wonderful Jesus who is the Fountain opened for sin and for uncleanness. He is a turbid fountain to man's natural eye, it is true. He is a Man, and He is God. Who can look through it? He was a curse, yet He is the Lord our Righteousness. Who can fathom it? He died, yet He is the everlasting Life. Who can conceive it? But what is that to you, poor leprous creature? Will you keep waiting till these waters are as clear to you as the Abana and the Pharpar? Plunge down, and you will find that one drop of this blessed flood is better for you than all the streams that watered this unhappy world of ours, from the old philosophers of Egypt and Greece down to the great masters of modern wisdom and science.

To a leprous man nothing can be more vexing than a clear river which has no power to cure him. The clearer it is the more cruel it is. It reflects his leprous form with painful fidelity, to leave him all the more conscious of his hopeless misery. Such are the waters of moral philosophy and human science, if recommended to an anxious sinner instead of the Gospel fountain. Such is the law if taken refuge in instead of the grace of Christ. Honour to whom honour is due; but this honour must be left to the Gospel, for it alone meets the wants of a man who is awakened to his sius and is afraid to die. It is not the chief object of the Gospel to convince a man of his sins, but to cure him from them. Naaman did not go to the Jordan to learn that he was a leper. The Gospel expects and supposes us to come because we feel miserable and hopeless. Let those who do not feel their leprosy go to the Abana and Pharpar and learn their true form and figure first. They that be whole need not a physi cian. But we feel sick; and therefore, whatever may be the excellences of other waters, we take to the waters of Israel.

"AMEN! Such was the sound that came from the pale lips of an aged man who, lying propped up in a clean and comfortable-looking bed, with hands folded above the coverlet, had just ended his morning prayer. The sun threw its kindly smile into the small chamber, in which was room for little furniture besides a handsome carved chest, and its brightest beams fell on a fair young head that lay fast asleep on the edge of the bed. This head belonged to a slender girl, who having sat up and watched her grandfather for great part of the night, had unconsciously laid down her head on the bedclothes and fallen into a deep slumber. The grandfather's pale blue eyes rested for a while with an expression of unutterable love on the sleeping girl; at length he lightly laid his hand upon her hair and whispered, "Bertha!" As if she had received an electric shock, the girl started up, disclosing a most lovely face, and crying out in a tone of distress"O, grandfather, grandfather, have I been asleep? oh, don't be vexed with me, I shall be sure never to do so again."

"Why should I be vexed, my Bertha ?" replied the old man; "you worked till late last evening, why should

you not sleep? If I had wanted anything I should have awakened you before."

"Oh, grandfather, how kind you are! but now what will you have? shall I give you something to drink?"

"I am not thirsty, my child; but just throw my window open, the sun is shining so beautifully, and very soon the first bell will be ringing. It is always such a pleasure to me to hear it on a Sunday morning. I have always felt, when it came floating over woods and hills, as though it was a prayer in the sky, an intercession of angels for us poor mortals, and often indeed it has even seemed to me like God's own voice waking up idle men out of their sleep of sin."

Meanwhile Bertha, pushing back her hair from her face, had gone to open the window, and said—" It is very cool though; tell me when I am to shut it again."

And now, as though the bell had been waiting till the grandfather could hear its tone, it began to ring so gently and soothingly, and yet so solemnly and penetratingly, that it seemed as though it must surely wake an echo in each fold of the human heart. grandfather's face shone as if transfigured, while

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