the several
streams in order to collect a sufficient quantity in small ponds
adjoining each garden, and this they all do at the same time, or there
would be an unfair division of the fertilizing fluid. These dams are
generally made in the evening and drawn off in the morning, or sometimes
two or three times a day; and thus the reflux of the water that they
hold gives the appearance of an ebb and flow, which by some travellers
has caused a report that the pool of Siloam is subject to daily tides.

[Illustration: THE POOL OF SILOAM.]

There are few towns, and scarcely any metropolitan town, in which the
natural supply of water is so inadequate as at Jerusalem; hence the many
and elaborate contrivances to preserve the precious fluid, or to bring
it to the town by aqueducts.

* * * * *

WINTER THOUGHTS.

[Illustration: Letter A.]

Ah! little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround--
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along
How many feel this very moment death,
And all the sad variety of pain:
How many sink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame! how many bleed
By shameful variance betwixt man and man!
How many pine in want and dungeon glooms,
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs! how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery! Sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty! How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse,
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the Tragic Muse!
Even in the vale where Wisdom loves to dwell,
With Friendship, Peace, and Contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep retired distress. How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish! Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one incessant struggle render life--
One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate,
Vice in its high career would stand appall'd,
And heedless, rambling impulse learn to think;
The conscious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide