occasionally and very suddenly, and for a brief space of time, to his disciples, in order to satisfy them of the certainty of his resurrection that they might be witnesses of it; and for the purpose of instructing them concerning the mission he was about to commit to them for publishing his gospel to the world. His appearances to his disciples, and his intercourse with them after his resurrection differed very strikingly from those before his crucifixion. Before his crucifixion he always appeared as one of them, and subject to the same conditions and accidents, except sin, and entered fully into their feelings, and freely into conversation with them. After his resurrection his body seemed to have new and wonderful properties, which belong not to matter. He appeared among them in closed rooms, suddenly, without opening the door, and as suddenly vanished out of their sight, as a spirit is supposed to vanish into thin air. His conversation was brief, solemn, and accompanied with a peculiar awe and power. His body was no longer the natural body that was crucified on the cross and laid in the sepulchre, but it was now a spiritual body; for, as St. Paul says, "there is a natural body, and there is a spiritual body." The change in him from a natural to a spiritual body by the resurrection, is the illustration of the change which will take place in his children. His soul also participated in the wonderful advance which the resurrection made in the condition of his being, and hence gave forth the heavenly manifestations witnessed in his occasional intercourse with his disciples.

And yet even these wondrous appearances of the Lord failed to keep the disciples free from doubt. So slow were they to admit the miraculous story, instead of eagerly following cunningly devised fables, that they seem to have resolved on resuming their former occupation,

The Evangelists convey the same idea of the appear ances and disappearances of our Lord, after his resurrection, as is found in the ancient classics, and still entertained, concerning the appearances and disappearances of departed persons, or supernatural beings. Our Lord had the power to become visible or invisible at pleasure. Luke says, "And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight." Not that he removed from their vicinity, but that he became invisible to them. So Æneas, in the sack of Troy, was separated from his wife Creusa, who perished unexpectedly. While he was searching for her, Virgil makes Æneas say, the mournful ghost and shade of Creusa appeared before his eyes, figure larger than the life, and spoke to him. As he was about to reply to her, and throw his arms around her neck, tenuesque recessit in auras, she vanished into thin air. In the same manner, Shakespeare makes the witches

vanish.

her

BANQUO. The earth has bubbles as the water has, And these are of them:-whither are they vanished? MACBETH. Into the air: and what seemed corporal melted, As breath into the wind.

which suggests the probability that they had relinquished all hope of the speedy establishment of the kingdom of God, as promised by their lately crucified Master. As they had been called by the Lord from the shores of the Sea of Galilee, so now, in their disappointment, they return thither; and, after consultation, Peter said to them, "I go a-fishing," that is, I will resume my former occupation, since I see no signs of the kingdom of God; and it is now more than a month since the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. The other disciples said, "We also go with thee." We too will resume our former occupation. The Lord saw their despondency, and heard their consultations. The sun went down, and thus screened from the intense heat of an eastern sun (for it was in the month of May), "they went forth, and entered into a ship immediately, and that night they caught nothing." As the day dawned, and they neared the shore to rest, they saw a stranger standing on the beach. The mildness and majesty of his mien, and the gentleness and tenderness of his address threw a spell over the wearied and desponding fishermen. He said, "Children, have ye any meat?" They answered, "No." "Cast," said he, "your net on the right side, and ye shall find." The sudden and miraculous success opened their eyes, and one said, "It is the Lord." Peter, with his characteristic impetuosity, threw himself into the sea, and hastened to the feet of his Master. So profound and convincing was the effect of this sudden appearance of the Lord, that the disciples durst not converse with him, only as he drew them on by questions.

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His followers and friends seem after this to have assembled at Jerusalem in expectation of some decisive event connected with the promised kingdom of God. Doubtless the mysterious influences of the Divine Master had drawn them to the city. The time of his ascension was at hand. Preparatory to this, he joined them and gave them more particular instruction concerning the mission he was about to commit to them. As Jerusalem was to be the centre of this divine mission, he commanded them that they should not depart from the city upon their mission until they should receive power from on high to qualify them for it. But this divine power, the Holy Spirit, which was to be given them, and which was wonderfully shed upon them on the day of Pentecost, was not sufficient to qualify them for their heavenly work. It is particularly recorded, "Then opened he their understanding that they might understand the Scripture." How long the Lord "assembled together with them at Jerusalem" is not certain. The impression made by the Sacred History is, that he was with them for several days, ex

plaining "all things written in the law of Moses, in the Prophets, and in the Psalms concerning himself." (Luke, xxiv. 44.)

When he had fully instructed them in the Messianic Scriptures, he prepared for his ascension. The power of his presence drew his friends as well as his disciples close around him. And in the dusk of the evening, that he might escape the notice of the multitude, he passed out of the city eastward, crossing the Kidron, and wound round the southern flank of Mount Olivet, all following slowly and in silence, while he announced to his disciples the import and prospect of their perilous mission. "Ye shall be witnesses unto me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost parts of the earth. Go ye, therefore, into all the world, teach all nations, and preach the gospel to every creature, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. All power is given to me in heaven and in earth, and lo! I am with you always even unto the end of the world."

As he pronounced these words he had advanced round the southern flank of the mountain, leading his disciples, "as far as to Bethany." There, as he uttered the last words of the divine benediction, he lifted up his hands, spreading them out, perhaps over, and perhaps touching the heads of his apostles. While in this act he was parted from them. He threw aside the restraint which for the time weighed down his glorious resurrection body, and it rose majestically and was carried up into heaven; and the clouds received him out of their sight, into that spiritual and glorious world where he sat down on the right hand of the throne of God, to make intercession for us.

It was at nightfall, and the parting was so solemn and glorious, and his pathway to heaven so resplendent, and the majesty and benignancy of his ascending person so enrapturing, that his friends stood motionless and speechless, "gazing up into heaven," through the bright opening which his ascension had left in the sky. There probably they would have continued to stand had not the spell been broken by two of the heavenly visiters who had descended to witness the ascension. From the midst of the illuminated clouds, where they lingered in pity and admiration of the astonished and bereaved disciples, they descended to the earth, and "stood among them in white apparel, and said, Ye men of Galilee, why stand ye gazing

up into heaven? 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." The charm was broken. Ascending Mount Olivet from the edge of the village of Bethany (for this was as near, and a more private way back to the city), they halted on the summit to look once more into the heavens, after their ascended Lord. But the sky had recovered its usual serenity, and spread out its calm blue canopy, lit up with the countless stars of heaven. On the spot where they halted, the piety of subsequent ages erected a magnificent church, and that same piety, sublimated into enthusiasm and credulity, transferred the scene. of the ascension from the humble village of Bethany, far down on the southern flank of the mountain, to its summit. Hence the church, which is seen in the engraving, is called the Church of the Ascension. It is about half a mile due east from St. Stephen's gate, and about three hundred feet above the city. It is alone; neither tent nor hut is near it. And the only worshippers in it are a few monks; sometimes of the Greek order, and sometimes of the Armenian; as the gold of the one outweighs, in the judgment of the Pacha of Jerusalem, the gold of the other. And not unfrequently very unchristian contests occur for the possession of the church; and in these contests, it has more than once been reduced to ashes. The traveller sees it from the northeast part of the city, sitting beautifully on the sacred Mount of Olivet; and if his piety or curiosity should lead him to ascend to it, he will be shown the footprint of our Lord, impressed in the solid rock, as he made the first bound towards Heaven. To this he will kneel, and will kiss it, if his faith waver not; or will turn away with regret and sorrow at the weak superstition that guards and worships an object so obviously apocryphal. In the general uncertainty, and frequent absurdity of the sacred places shown to the traveller in the Holy Land, the free and intelligent Christian will see the wisdom and goodness of God. Had he designed those spots to be reverenced and worshipped, he would have provided for the certain knowledge of them. But in the kingdom of his Son he has made the divine glory and power to appear in the new and divine life which the gospel imparts to individuals and to nations, and not in sacred localities, or buildings, or relics.

I LOOKED upon thy youthful face,
In all its beauty bright,
"Till like a sunbeam through a cloud,
It gleamed with sudden light;

It seemed as though the gates of heaven
Had been unclosed awhile;

So radiant was that face of thine,
Lit by that sunny smile.

THE Bride of Christ! oh, at those words there swept
Bright glories through my spirit! I was deaf
To the deep anthem. Prelate, and cowled priest,
The dim cathedral walls, the kneeling crowd,

The lattice where the black-veiled nuns looked through,

All passed away from mine enraptured eyes!

I saw no more thy bowed form, oh my mother!
Nor his who stood far down the aisle of columns,
Hiding his bent brow with his mantle's fold!

It seems not long since I, a little child,
Trod yon cathedral floors, and in deep awe
First crossed my forehead with the holy water.

It seems not long, Jacopo, since we twain
Prayed, kneeling at one shrine; together winged
Our mated voices like paired larks to heaven,

Or, hand in hand, walked where the garden fountains
Cleft the grim lion mouths!

Have patience, Father,
For I am worn with fasting and much prayer,
And tears flow readily. How many days
Have I lain prostrate at the altar's foot,
The marble striking death into my heart,
Speaking no word, partaking of no food
Save water and the crust that gave me strength
To move my lips in prayer! How oft till morn,
My forehead pressed against His icy feet
Who hangs upon the cross, have I lain here
With but one grim companion. Even thou,
Symbol of death, gaunt prophet of the tomb,
That in thy cavernous eyes dost hold the night,
Glaring beside my rosary and missal!

Thou knowest well my father was a noble,
That he lived gaily, making his great wealth
The slave of pleasure. I remember still
Revels, where wine flowed free, and festal times
That filled our lone vast palace by the sea
With guests and music. Then, at early twilight,
There ever came a young, bright girl, who took
Me, the weak child, within her gentle hold;
Smiling so softly, while my faint hands passed
Over the roses in her hair, the pearls

Clasped on her throat, and round, pure, dewy arms.
Ginevra! oh I loved to speak her name!

I loved my nurse to bear me to the window,
Where, lying on her shoulder, I could mark
My sister's white robes floating through the trees;
My sister, as she spake, or walked, or rode,
Great nobles at her side, who smiled and bent
Their plumed heads to catch her lightest word!

But this was for a season-Many months
The palace was deserted. Then, alone,
We wandered freely through the vacant rooms,
I, and my nurse Guiseppa. She would pause
Sometimes, by pictures of worn saints and martyrs;
Saint Lawrence in the flames, his lifted face
Full of sublime forgetfulness of pain;

Or Stephen, stoned and prone; perchance, to mark
Pale hermits watching in their forest caves,
With lamp and book, the inner darkness shapen
Into black fiends; or, sometimes, oh my soul!
An Ecce Homo, with dim, upturned eyes,

And red drops trickling from the crown of thorns!
All these Guiseppa scanned with reverent face,
I, in her arms held level with the canvass,
Looked on in childish fear.

There came a message

That said Ginevra, weary of the court,
Returned to us alone.

"Twas early noon;

I, overwearied, dreamed upon my couch,
And when I woke, my sister stood beside me-
Ginevra! no! Ah, heaven! was that Ginevra
Who quivered at my fear, and in the sunlight
Stood shivering ere she bent and faintly pressed
Her lips upon my brow!

I never knew

What sorrow, like a tearful angel, rent

The veil between my sister's heart and God.
Her brow was as the forehead of a saint,

Bearing the marks of thorns, and on her face

None looked, except to breathe a sigh that tracked
Some upwinged thought to heaven. Oh, to my sense
Her beauty was unreal; whether she prayed,
Kneeling beneath the altar lights, a glory
Tremulous in her hair; whether we twain

Paced the long galleries, where ranged silver sconces
Studding the walls, cast down before our feet
Black shades like chasms; whether to her voice

I listened, while the stealthy-footed night
Passed by unchallenged! As a captive stands
Vacantly gazing at the world without
Through his barred prison windows, all his heart
Busy with other scenes, so looked the soul
Through her blue, holy eyes. I loved her well-
I stopped my play to watch if she passed by,
Or if she mused beside the gallery windows,
As was her wont, I, stealing to her side,
Stood tiptoe, that my arms might clasp her waist.
And sometimes, cloistered in her chamber, there
We read and talked, till purple twilight stains
Sank through the marble pavement. In that room
There hung a copy of a rare old picture,
The Marriage of Saint Catherine.

I remember
That she grew farther from me, day by day,-
I guessed not wherefore. Over her blue eyes
The lids drooped heavily, as lilies loll
Against the swell of waves. No echo tracked
Her footsteps through the vaulty corridors;
And often in the night I saw her rise
To gaze upon Saint Catherine's blessed face,
Or prone before the crucifix, lie there
Praying till dawn.

Once more Ginevra stood
Flower-crowned and jewelled, but beneath the light
Of tall cathedral tapers. From the crowd
Quick sobs burst audibly; the very priests
Looked with sad eyes; nuns to the lattice pressed
And blenched away; but she unconscious stood
With folded hands and looks upcast, as though
The vacant space were legible to her gazing.
Then my fair, haughty mother cowered for fear,
My father's gay lips whitened.

From her brow
The wreath was taken; gem and bridal dress
Stripped from her consecrated form, her head
Shorn of its wavy wealth; and now, Ginevra,
Wrapped in the grave's pale robes, with limbs composed,
Looked marble in her coffin. Father! nay!
Forgive me! let me weep! For when again
They bade her rise, lo! in her symbol shroud
The nun lay dead!