literature is an absorbing passion, and to whom its exercise brings a subtle and unfailing joy. To be versatile without being superficial is no common feat, and we cannot think of any more conspicuous instance of its attainment than the high and uniform excellence of Mrs. Oliphant's multifarious works. Fiction, history, biography, and criticism poured from her pen in unbroken succession for half a century, and now after a long and strenuous and brilliant career, Death has come to carry her from the Seen to the Unseen-the wonder of which she has so often striven to probe with skilful but reverent hand -and found her, even as she might have wished, amidst all the pressing engagements, the bustle, and the excitement of a busy literary life. Perhaps we must go back to Goldsmith for a similar versatility, and for a similar genius for adorning all she touched.

It was in 1849 that Mrs. Oliphant first essayed fiction, and scarce a year has since elapsed which has not added its quota to the varied and wonderful list. During all that time she has made good her position in the first rank of our domestic novelists-writing with profoundest insight and tenderest human sympathy with all the vicissitudes of life. It is not many weeks since her last novel was published-a book remarkable for its attainment of the author's highest and earliest standard, for its homely eloquence, but most of all for the singularly beautiful introductory pages from one who, to use her own simple words, was ever "a writer very little given to explanations, or to any personal appearance." If ever the fair name of "Maga" was assailed, Mrs. Oliphant's sword was quick to leap from its scabbard in defence, and accordingly it may be allowed to "Maga" to vindicate the fame of her aged servant against even her own misgivings. Never has the besetting fear of genius that its tide has ebbed been so powerfully described as in "The Ways of Life," but we refuse to admit of a personal application of the parable, and we rejoiced to observe

that the press with generous enthusiasm defended Mrs. Oliphant's reputation against the diffidence of her own weakness and age.

It is, however, less as a novelist than as an essayist and critic that we prefer to think of Mrs. Oliphant here; and while we are proud that the great bulk of her work in this direction has adorned the pages of "Maga" for so many years, it is from sincere conviction and in no spirit of boasting that we would claim for our charming "Looker-on" the proud title of the most accomplished periodical writer of her day. Mrs. Oliphant's critical powers have happily more enduring monuments than the pages of any magazine, but it was nevertheless in periodical writing-the medium she loved bestthat she attained perhaps her highest felicity of style. With a fine disregard of fame and in staunch adherence 10 the traditions of her youth, Mrs. Oliphant firmly believed in the wisdom of anonymity in magazine writing, SO that few can therefore have any conception of the variety and extent of her labors in this field. Fearless as a critic, she would brush aside what she deemed unworthy and decadent with mocking and stinging irony, white everything that made for the honor and purity of literature would meet with the most genial, sympathetic, and generous praise.

And if the loss sustained by English literature is great, how shall we estimate the more personal loss of a tried friend and brilliant contributor? More than half a century ago Mrs. Oliphant, as a young girl of remarkable literary promise, was led by the gentle "Delta" tremblingly before the dread tribunal of Christopher North. "So long as she is young and happy, work will do her no harm," said the sage, who little knew that he was addressing one who more than any other was to maintain unimpaired the traditions of his beloved "Maga," and to find the crowning work of her life in recording its not uneventful annals. She was already an old contributor when she wrote ner first "Christmas Tale" for the memora

make room for a string of camels, into the Street of David, a narrow lane guiltless of pavement, and with a descent of a step to every eight or ten paces. In the booths on either side Birmingham lamps and Manchester cottons are largely in evidence, but the West is little represented in the throng which comes surging up the hill. Veiled women shuffling along on large black boots, which have a singularly ungraceful appearance as they emerge from the sheet-like wrappings; poor Jew in greasy hat and long straight robe; the rich man, gorgeous in purple plush and fur edgings; Greeks, Moslems, Armenians-they swarm past in an unending stream, while the camel rears his scornful head over all, and grey and white donkeys bear their picturesque riders to and fro.

the

All that we had experienced in the way of insanitary conditions palled before the condition of the streets of Jerusalem, and the first impression of the city can hardly fail to be painful. To ascend the Mount of Olives by a stony road penned in by two walls, and to find the summit disfigured by Bedouin huts of most evil-smelling condition, is a severe disappointment. To be asked a shilling admittance to see the Garden of Gethsemane, walled in and laid out in geometrical order, is neither more nor less than horrible, though hardly more depressing than the reality of that "Mount Zion," which has been in imagination the type of all that was noble and beautiful. To see the sick, the maimed, and the blind as they really are in Palestine is, moreover, a heartrending experience. The number of beggars is so overwhelming that one must be adamant in self-defence, though there are occasions when the hardest heart softens, as, for instance, when a small specimen of humanity, clad in innocency and half a yard of cotton, toddles after one and rolls its big brown eyes in entreaty. "Back

sheesh" is an abominable word, and ought to be abolished, but "Bak-seese!" can be beguiling beyond the power of refusal.

In springtime the verdure of Palestine is said to be delightful, but it is almost impossible for the autumn visitor to believe these reports as he looks over a country desert-like in barrenness; hills of arid earth, and valleys covered with stones. It was only when we drove out of Jerusalem, emerged somewhat from the blinding cloud of dust, and saw the swelling outline of the hills stretching around, that we could realize the possibility of beauty or feel anything of the spell of the Holy Land. We were glad to feel that the streets of the old Jerusalem were many feet below the present level of the city, and to confine ourselves to studying the formation of the country and the life of the people, which seem to have altered so little in the course of eighteen hundred years. To live in Palestine is to have the words of the parables brought before one at every turn. The sparrows offered for sale in the street, the Bethlehem woman searching for the lost coin from her headdress, the shepherd leading his flocks of sheep and goats-they are all there, and the sight gives fresh meaning to the well-known words. One of the most interesting visits which we paid in Jerusalem was to the house of Doctor Schick, a venerable German, who has spent a lifetime in studying the Temple, and in making a model of the ancient enclosure, which is a miracle of delicate workmanship. The doctor's principal difficulty lay in discovering the number of inches represented by the ancient cubit. He tried one number after another, and in each case was stopped in his work by finding that the plan would not work out; but at last he fixed on eighteen inches, when all became easy, and the complicated bits fitted together with the accuracy of a puzzle.