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An expedition which should dare to take time, which should venture into deliberate and careful examinations, and which was sufficiently strong to overawe the lawless lords of the soil, might do much to settle the jars of opinion, and reveal to the general knowledge this terrible country, scarred and marked for ages by the chastising hand of God.

A minor difficulty in the way of reconciling one traveller's experience with another's, is the perpetual variation of proper names.

Taken down

as these must be from the guide of the moment, it is easy to account for the orthographical vicissitudes through which they pass; but it were surely well even to sacrifice a point and take our predecessor's spelling instead of our own, rather than throw this mist of perplexity over the whole scene. Many a learned puzzle has come out of this peculiarity in the sacred records themselves, the shifting of names, and subtracting of syllables; and we are like, as it seems, to find the same difficulty continuing with us. But it is not necessary, surely, that every new traveller should set up an orthography of his own: with submission, it appears to us that accuracy of place is of much more importance than originality of name, and that he is to be the most commended who enables you at once, and without perplexity, to recognise the spot where, in his predecessor's company, you have been before.

In taking leave of these pleasant

volumes, we cannot help regretting once more that the sketches to which such frequent reference is made are not added to the text. Lieut. Van de Velde's friend to whom his book is addressed, seems to have rather an unfair advantage over the public in this respect; and without detracting anything from the value of the penand-ink sketches, which are admirable of their kind, it is impossible not to feel a degree of injury, or to resist being provoked and tantalised by such a sentence as this "If my short description of the vale of Shechem, with its mountains of Blessing and Curse, can in any way elucidate to you the narratives of Scripture, I shall be very glad. I hope my sketch will come in aid of my pen."

And why, then, does not the sketch come in aid of the pen? The worshipful public who read his book claims to be the dearest of dear friends to an author, and suffers no such successful rivalry of its pretensions. We trust to see M. Van de Velde rectify this mistake in his second edition. A very animated book, full of life and motion, atmosphere and reality, he has added to our store-a good book, which the best of us may read "of Sundays," but which the gayest of us will not find too dry for every-day; and we will be glad to see Lieut. Van de Velde complete, by the addition of his sketches, so worthy a contribution to the little library of science, speculation, and adventure, which treats of the Holy Land.



“ "Ος τᾶς ὀφίωδεος υιόν ποτε Γόργονος
ἢ πολλ ἀμφὶ κρουνός
Πάγασον ζεύξαι πολέων ἔπαθεν

Πρίν γέ οι χρυσάμπυκα κουρα χαλινὸν
Παλλάς ἤνεγκε.”PINDAR.

“ Αλλ ὅτε δῆ καὶ κεινος ἀπήχθετο πᾶσι θεοῖσιν

ἤτοι ὁ καπ πεδίον τὸ Αλήιον οἶος ἀλᾶτο

ὅν θυμὸν κατέδων πάτον ἀνθρώπων ἀλεείνων.”—HoMER.

[The beautiful Corinthian legend of Bellerophon is narrated by Homer in the well-known episode of Glaucus and Diomede, in the sixth book of the Iliad. In that episode the strong-lunged son of Tydeus meets in the fight a face that was new to him, and before engaging in battle desires to know the name of his noble adversary. The courteous request is courteously complied with; and it appears that Glaucus-for such is the champion's name, though now serving in Priam's army as a Lycian auxiliary-was by descent a Grecian, the grandson of the famous Bellerophon of Corinth, between whose family and that of Diomede a sacred bond of hospitality had existed. This discovery leads to an interchange of friendly tokens between the intending combatants; the weapons of war are sheathed, and a bright gleam of human kindness is thrown across the dark tempestuous cloud of international conflict. The story of Bellerophon, as told in this passage of the most ancient Greek poet, is a remarkable instance of how popular legend, proceeding from the germ of some famous and striking fact, is gradually worked up into a form where the actual is altogether subordinated to the miraculous. In Homer there is not a single word said of the winged horse, which is the constant companion of Bellerophon's exploits, in the current form of the legend afterwards revived, and which appears regularly on the coins of Corinth. The reason, also, of the hero's fall, from the loftiest prosperity to the saddest humiliation, is only dimly indicated by the poet, when he says that Bellerophon, towards the close of his life, "was hated by all the gods," and, "avoiding the path of men, ate his own heart" (öv Ivμòv katédwv) ; but whether it was that Homer, knowing the sin of Bellerophon, with a delicate sense of propriety, refused to set it forth distinctly in the mouth of his grandson, or whether the simplicity of the oldest form of the legend knew nothing more than what Homer tells, certain it is that the ever-active Greek imagination could not content itself with the obscurity of the Homeric indication, and the moral that "pride must have a fall" was distinctly brought out in the later form of the myth. For the rest, the writer has taken the topographical notices in the following verses, not from his own conceit, but from the authority of Pausanias in his Corinthian antiquities.

It needs scarcely be added that the legend of Bellerophon-in ancient times equally the property of Corinth in Europe, and Lycia in Asia-has now become in a peculiar manner the possession of Great Britain by the labours_of Sir Charles Fellowes, and the Xanthian Chamber of the British Museum.]


THE sun shines bright on Ephyre's height,*
And right and left with billowy might

Poseidon rules the sea;

"The old name for Corinth. The famous rock of the Acropolis is 1800 feet high, and is a most prominent object from Athens, and all the open country to the east.

But not the sun that rules above,
Nor strong Poseidon, nor great Jove,
Can look with looks of favouring love,
Bellerophon, on thee.

There's blood upon thy hands; the hounds
Of hell pursue thy path;

Nor they within rich Corinth's bounds
Shall slack their vengeful wrath.
Black broods the sky above thy head,
The Earth breeds serpents at thy tread,
The Furies' foot hath found thee;
A baleful pest their presence brings,
A curse to peasants and to kings;
The horrid shadow of their wings

Turns day to darkness round thee.
Flee o'er the Argive hills, and there,
With suppliant branch and pious prayer,
Thou shalt not crave in vain

Some prince whose hands not worthless hold
The sceptre of Phoroneus old,

To wash thee clean, and make thee bold
To look on men again.

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* The landscape here described is well known to travellers, being on the road between Corinth and Mycenæ. The Apesantian mount, with its broad, flat, tabular summit, overhangs Nemea, where three magnificent Corinthian pillars are all that remain to proclaim, amid the solitude, the once splendid worship of Nemean Jove. The defile of Tretus is described by Pausanias (ii. 15), and by Colonel Mure in his Travels. + The temple of Juno, near Mycenæ, of which the remains have lately been discovered.

The well-known ruins of Tiryns, at the head of the Argolic gulf, between Nau

Here Prœtus reigns; and here at length
The suppliant throws his jaded strength
Before a friendly door;

And now from hot pursuit secure,
And from blood-guiltiness made pure,
His heart shall fear no more.


The princely Protus opes his gate,
And on the fugitive's dark fate

Smiles gracious; him from fear,
And terror of the scourge divine,
He purifies with blood of swine
And sprinkled water clear.

O blessed was the calm that now

Lulled his racked brain, and smoothed his brow!
Nor wildly now did roll

His sleepless eyes; from gracious Jove
Came down the gentle dew of love

That soothed his wounded soul.
And grateful was blithe face of man
To heart now free from Furies' ban,
And sweet the festive lyre.
Fair was each sight that gorgeous day,
Spread forth in beautiful array

To move the heart's desire.

Each manly sport and social game
Thrilled with new joy his re-strung frame,
And waked the living fire.

Antéa saw him poise the dart,

In the fleet race the foremost start,
And lawless Venus smote her heart-
She loved her lord no more:

As no chaste woman sues she sued,
Her guest the partial hostess wooed,
And lavished beauty's store

Of looks and smiles, and pleading tears,
And silvery words; but he reveres
The rights of hospitable Jove,
Chastely repels her perilous love,

Nor hears her parley more.


Who slights a woman's love cuts deep,
And wakes a brood of snakes that sleep
Beneath a bed of roses.

plia and Argos.

The lustful wife of Protus now
To earthly Venus vows a vow,
And in her heart proposes

A fiendish thing. She, with the pin
That bound her peplos, pierced the skin
Of her smooth-rounded arm;
And when the crimson stream began
To trickle down, she instant ran,
And with a feigned alarm

The "galleries" make a fine figure in illustrated tours; but Tiryns, situated on a low elliptical hillock, will disappoint the traveller. Not so Mycenae, of which the remains are truly sublime, and well worthy to be associated for ever with the memory of the "king of men."

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Roused all her maids, and in the ear
Of the fond Prœtus, quick to hear,

She poured the piteous lie,

That the false guest had sought to move
Her loyal-mated heart with love,
And with rude hands had dared assail
Her virtue, cased in surer mail
Than Dian's panoply :

Then, more to stir his wrathful mood,
She bared her arm that streamed with blood,
And scared his jealous eye.
Hot boiled his Argive heart; his eyes
Flash vengeance; but himself denies
The reins to his own spleen.
His public face in smiles is dressed,
He joins the banquet with the rest,
And tells the tale, and plies the jest
With easy social mien;

And to his high Corinthian guest

Lets not a thought be seen.

"Take here,” quoth he, “thou high-souled knight,
To Iobates the Lycian wight,

The brother of my queen,

These tablets; he will honour thee

Even more than I; and thou shalt see
A famous and a fruitful land,

With all Apollo's beauty bland,

And various verdure green."

Uprose the knight with willing feet,
His heart was light, his pace was fleet;
Girt for the road and venture bold
He left the strong Tirynhian hold,
And gaily wends his way

O'er steep Arachne's ridge, till he
Passed Esculapius' sacred fane,

That sendeth health, and healeth pain,
And reached, with foot untired, the sea
That beats with billows bounding free
The Epidaurian bay.


Thoughtful a moment here he stood
And watched the never-sleeping flood,
The ever-changing wave;

He knew no danger, feared no foes,
But from his heart a prayer uprose
To her that guards the brave.
Wise prayer; for scarce the words are gone
From thy free mouth, Bellerophon,
When, struck with holy awe,
Even at thy side in light arrayed,
Serene with placid power displayed,
The chaste Athenian Jove-born maid
Thy wondering vision saw;

And in her hand-O strangest sight!—
A winged steed she led,

That bent the knee before the knight
And bowed its lofty head.

"Fear not, thou son of Æolus' race,

Dear to the gods art thou;


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