My Dear Father:

The street in which we dwell is elevated, and from the roof of the house, where I love to walk in the evening, watching the stars that hang over Egypt, there is commanded a wide prospect of the Holy City.

Yesterday morning I was early on the house-top, to behold the first cloud of the day-dawn sacrifice rise from the bosom of the Temple. When I had turned my gaze towards the sacred summit, I was awed by the profound silence which reigned over the vast pile that crowned Mount Moriah. The sun was not yet risen; but the east blushed with a roseate purple, and the morning star was melting into its depth. Night and silence still held united empire over the city and the altar of God. I was awe-silent. I stood with my hands crossed upon my bosom and my head reverently bowed, for in the absence of man and his voice I believed angels were all around in heavenly hosts, the guardian armies of this wondrous city of David. Lances of light now shot upward and across the purple sea in the East, and fleeces of clouds, that reposed upon it like barks, catching the red rays of the yet unrisen sun, blazed like burning ships. Each moment the darkness fled, and the splendor of the dawn increased; and when I expected to see the sun appear over the battlemented heights of Mount Moriah, I was thrilled by the startling peal of the trumpets of the priests; a thousand silver trumpets blown at once from the walls of the Temple, and shaking the very foundations of the city with their mighty voice. Instantly the house-tops everywhere around were alive with worshipers. Jerusalem started, as one man, from its slumbers, and, with their faces towards the Temple, a hundred thousand men of Israel stood waiting. A second trumpet peal, clear and musical as the voice of God when he spake to our father Moses in Horeb, caused every knee to bend, and every tongue to join in the morning song of praise. The murmur of voices was like the continuous roll of the surge upon the beach, and the walls of the lofty Temple echoed it back. Simultaneously with the billow-like swell of the adoring hymn, I beheld a pillar of black smoke ascend from the midst of the Temple, and spread itself above the court like a canopy. It was accompanied by a blue wreath of lighter and more misty appearance, which threaded in and out and entwined about the other, like a silvery strand woven into a sable cord. This latter was the smoke of the incense which accompanied the burnt sacrifice. As I saw it rise higher and higher, and finally overtop the heavy cloud, which was instantly enlarged by volumes of dense smoke that rolled upward from the consuming victim, and slowly disappeared, melting into heaven, I also kneeled, remembering that on the wings of the incense went up the prayers of the people; and ere it dissolved wholly, I entrusted to it, dear father, prayers for thee and me.

The evening sacrifice is, if possible, more imposing than that of the morning. Just as the sun dips beyond the hill of Gibeah, there is heard a prolonged note of a trumpet blown from one of the western watch-towers of Zion. Its mellow tones reach farthest ear within the gates of the city. All labor at once ceases. Every man raises his face towards the summit of the house of God. A deep pause, as if all held their breath in expectation, succeeds. Suddenly the very skies seem to be riven and shaken with the thunder of the company of trumpeters that rolls wave on wave of sound, from the battlements of the Temple. The dark cloud of sacrifice ascends in solemn grandeur, and, sometimes heavier than the evening air, falls like a descending curtain around the Mount, till the whole is veiled from sight; but above it is seen to soar the purer incense to the invisible Jehovah, followed by a myriad eyes, and the utterance of a nation's prayers. As the daylight faded, the light of the altar, hidden from us by the lofty walls of the outer court of the Temple, blazed high and beacon-like, and lent a wild solemnity to the towers and pinnacles that crowned Moriah.

There was, however, my dear father, last evening, one thing which painfully marred the holy character of the sacred hour. After the blast of the silver trumpets of the Levites had ceased, and while all hearts and eyes were ascending to Jehovah with the mounting wreaths of incense, there came from the Roman castle adjoining the city of David, a loud martial clangor of brazen bugles, and other barbarian war instruments of music, while a smoke, like the smoke of sacrifice, rose from the heights of David's fortified hill. I was told that it was the Romans engaged in worshiping Jupiter. Alas! How truly now are the prophecies fulfilled, which are to be found in the Lamentations: "The Lord hath cast off his altar, he hath given up into the hands of the enemy the walls of her palaces: they have made a noise in the house of the Lord, as in the day of a solemn feast." For these things I weep, my dear father.

Nearly three hundred years have passed since we have had a prophet—that divine and youthful Malachi. Since his day, Rabbi Amos confesses that Jehovah has made no sign of having heard the prayers or heeded the sacrifices that have been offered to him in his time. I inquired of the intelligent Rabbi if it would always be thus. He replied that when Shiloh came, there would be a restoration of all things—that the glory of Jerusalem then would fill the whole earth with the splendor of the sun, and that all nations should come up from the ends of the world to worship in the Temple.

My conversation with Rabbi Amos, dear father, led me to examine the Book of the Prophet Malachi. I find that after plainly alluding to our present shame, and reproaching the priests "for causing the people to stumble," he thus prophesies: "Behold, I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me; and the Lord whom ye seek shall suddenly come to his Temple, and he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness. Behold," adds the divine seer, "I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord."

These words I read to-day to Rabbi Amos—indeed I was reading them when Rabbi Ben Israel came in to say that he departs to-morrow. The excellent Amos looked grave. I feared I had offended him by my boldness, and, approaching him, was about to embrace him, when I saw tears were sparkling in his eyes. He took my hand, and smiling, while a glittering drop danced down his snow-white beard and broke into liquid diamonds upon my hand, he said, "You have done no wrong, child; sit down by me and be at peace with thyself. It is too true, in this day, what the Prophet Malachi writeth, O Ben Israel," he said sadly to the Alexandrian Rabbi. "The priests of the Temple have indeed become corrupt, save a few here and there. It must have been at this day the prophet aimed his words. Save in the outward form, I fear the great body of our Levites have little more true religion and just knowledge of the one God Jehovah, than the priests of the Roman idolatry. Alas, I fear me, God regards our sacrifices with no more favor than he looks upon theirs. To-day, while I was in the Temple, and was serving at the altar with the priests, these words of Isaiah came into my thoughts and would not be put aside: 'To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me? saith the Lord. I am full of the burnt offerings of rams, and the fat of fed beasts; and I delight not in the blood of bullocks, or of lambs, or of he-goats. Bring no more vain oblations; incense is an abomination unto me; I am weary to bear them; yea, when ye spread forth your hands I will hide mine eyes from you; yea, when ye make many prayers I will not hear; your hands are full of blood. Wash you; make you clean. Cease to do evil; learn to do well.'"

"I have noticed," said Ben Israel, "that there is less reverence now in the Temple than when I was in Jerusalem a young man; but I find that the magnificence of the ceremonies is increased."

"Yes," responded Rabbi Amos, with a look of sorrow, "yes, as the soul of piety dies out from within, they gild the outside. The increased richness of the worship is copied from the Romans. So low are we fallen! Our worship, with all its gorgeousness, is as a sepulchre white-washed to conceal the rottenness within!"

You may be convinced, my dear father, that this confession, from such a source, deeply humbled me. If, then, we are not worshiping God, what do we worship? Naught! We are worse off than our barbarian conquerors, for we have no God; while they at least have gods many and lords many, such as they are.

Since writing the last line I have been interrupted by Mary, who has brought to see me a youth, nephew of a noble Jewish ruler, who was slain by the Romans for his patriotic devotion to his country. He dwells near the Gaza gate, with his widowed mother, who is a noble lady, honored by all. Between this young man, whose name is John, and Mary, there exists a beautiful attachment, which is each day ripening into the deepest emotion. He has just returned from the vicinity of Jericho, where he has been for some days past, drawn thither by curiosity to see and hear the new prophet, who is drawing thousands into the wilderness, to listen to the eloquence that flows from his mouth. The young man had been giving Mary so interesting an account of him that she desired me also to be a listener. In my next I will write you all I heard.

Your affectionate and devoted daughter,

Adina.