now. 'Tis hard to sit there
and not weep, if a man have any heart within him, any memory of those
histories. "If thou hadst known, even, then, at least in this thy
day, the things which belong unto thy peace!" But thou wouldest not
know. And where art thou now, O Jew? And who is it that sittest in
thy high place, howling there to Allah most unmusically?

"O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" Not silently, and in thought only, but
with outspoken words and outstretched hands, so then spake our young
English friend, sitting there all alone, gazing on the city. What
man familiar with that history could be there and not so speak? "O,
Jerusalem, Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, and stonest
them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered
thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under
her wings, and ye would not! Behold, your house is left unto you
desolate."

When talking over the matter with Harcourt at Oxford, and afterwards
with his uncle at Hadley, Bertram had expressed a sort of half-formed
wish to go into the church; not, indeed, in such a manner as to leave
on the minds of either of his counsellors an idea that he would
really do so; but this profession of being a parson had been one of
those of which he had spoken as being in some sort desirable for
himself. Now, as he sat there, looking at the once holy city, it
seemed to him to be the only profession in any way desirable. He
resolved that he would be a clergyman; thanked his God in that he had
brought him there to this spot before it was too late; acknowledged
that, doubting as he had done, he had now at length found a Divine
counsellor--one whose leading his spirit did not disdain. There he
devoted himself to the ministry, declared that he, too, would give
what little strength he had towards bringing the scattered chickens
of the new house of Israel to that only wing which could give them
the warmth of life. He would be one of the smallest, one of the least
of those who would fight the good fight; but, though smallest and
least, he would do it with what earnestness was in him.

Reader! you may already, perhaps, surmise that George Bertram does
not become a clergyman. It is too true. That enthusiasm, strong,
true, real as it was, did not last him much longer than his last walk
round Jerusalem; at least, did not bide by him till he found himself
once more walking on the High Street of Oxford. Very contemptible
this, you will say.