The abominations of Popery witnessed in Austrian Poland, called forth many a prayer for the destruction of the Man of Sin.  “The images and idols by the wayside are actually frightful, stamping the whole land as a kingdom of darkness.  I do believe that a journey through Austria would go far to cure some of the Popery-admirers of our beloved land.”  He adds:  “These are the marks of the beast upon this land.”  And in like manner our privileges in Scotland used to appear to him the more precious, when, as at Brody, we heard of Protestants who were supplied with sermon only once a year.  “I must tell this to my people,” said he, “when I return, to make them prize their many seasons of grace.”

He estimated the importance of a town or country by its relation to the house of Israel; and his yearnings over these lost sheep resembled his bowels of compassion for his flock at home.  At Tarnapol, in Galicia, he wrote home:  “We are in Tarnapol, a very nice clean town, prettily situated on a winding stream, with wooded hills around.  I suppose you never heard its name before; neither did I till we were there among Jews.  I know not whether it has been the birth-place of warriors, or poets, or orators; its flowers have hitherto been born to blush unseen, at least by us barbarians of the north; but if God revive the dry bones of Israel that are scattered over the world, there will arise from this place an exceeding great army.”

Our friend and brother in the faith, Erasmus Calman, lightened the tediousness of a long day’s journey by repeating to us some Hebrew poetry.  One piece was on Israel’s present state of degradation; it began—­

[Hebrew: 
                  tsuri goali
              maheir v’chish p’dut ]

As the vehicle drove along, we translated it line by line, and soon after Mr. M’Cheyne put it into verse.  The following lines are a part:—­

Rock and Refuge of my soul,
Swiftly let the season roll,
When thine Israel shall arise
Lovely in the nations’ eyes!

      Lord of glory, Lord of might,
        As our ransomed fathers tell;
      Once more for thy people fight,
        Plead for thy loved Israel. 
      Give our spoilers’ towers to be
      Waste and desolate as we.

      Hasten, Lord, the joyful year,
        When thy Zion, tempest-tossed,
      Shall the silver trumpet hear: 
        Bring glad tidings to the lost! 
      Captive, cast thy cords from thee,
      Loose thy neck—­be free—­be free!

      Why dost Thou behold our sadness? 
      See the proud have torn away
      All our years of solemn gladness,
        When thy flock kept holy-day! 
      Lord, thy fruitful vine is bare,
      Not one gleaning grape is there!

        Rock and Refuge of my soul,
        Swiftly let the season roll,
        When thine Israel shall be,
        Once again, beloved and free.