and there, in the "olive-bordered
way," were Fig plantations. The adjoining village of Bethphage derived
its name from the Green Fig.[29] Indeed, "fig-trees may still be seen
overhanging the ordinary road from Jerusalem to Bethany, growing out of
the rocks of the solid mountain, which, by the prayer of faith, might
'be removed and cast into the (distant Mediterranean) Sea.'"[30] An
incident connected with one of these is too intimately identified with
the Redeemer's last journeys to and from the home of His friend to admit
of exclusion from our "Bethany Memories." These memories have hitherto,
for the most part, in connexion at least with our blessed Lord, been
soothing, hallowed, encouraging. Here the "still small voice" is for
once broken with sterner accents. In contrast with the bright background
of other sunny pictures, we have, standing out in bold relief, a
withered, sapless stem, impressively proclaiming, in unwonted utterances
of wrath and rebuke, that the same hand is "strong to smite," which we
have witnessed so lately in the case of Lazarus was "strong to save."

The eye of Jesus, as he traversed the rocky path with His disciples,
rested on a _Fig-tree_. (Mark xi. 12, 13.) It seems not to have been
growing alone, but formed part of a group or plantation on one of the
slopes or ravines of Olivet. Its appearance could not fail to challenge
attention. It was now only the Passover season (the month of April);
summer--the time for ripe figs--was yet distant; and as it is one of
the peculiarities of the tree that the fruit appears _before_ the
leaves, a considerable period, in the ordinary course of nature, ought
to have elapsed before the foliage was matured. Jesus Himself, it will
be remembered, on another occasion, spake of the putting forth of the
fig-tree leaves as an indication that "_summer_ was nigh." It must have
been, therefore, a strange and unusual sight which met the eye of the
travellers as they gazed, in early spring, on one of these trees with
its full complement of leaves--clad in full summer luxuriance. While the
others in the plantation, true to the order of development, were yet
bare and leafless, or else the buds of spring only flushing them with
verdure, the broad leaves of this precocious (and we may think at first
_favoured_) plant--the pioneer of surrounding vegetation--rustled in the
morning breeze, and invited the passers-by to turn aside, examine the
marvel, and pluck the fruit.

We m