incident that has made her name so famous, is, that when she wiped the perspiration away, the print of the Saviour’s face remained upon the handkerchief, a perfect portrait, and so remains unto this day.  We knew this, because we saw this handkerchief in a cathedral in Paris, in another in Spain, and in two others in Italy.  In the Milan cathedral it costs five francs to see it, and at St. Peter’s, at Rome, it is almost impossible to see it at any price.  No tradition is so amply verified as this of St. Veronica and her handkerchief.

At the next corner we saw a deep indention in the hard stone masonry of the corner of a house, but might have gone heedlessly by it but that the guide said it was made by the elbow of the Saviour, who stumbled here and fell.  Presently we came to just such another indention in a stone wall.  The guide said the Saviour fell here, also, and made this depression with his elbow.

There were other places where the Lord fell, and others where he rested; but one of the most curious landmarks of ancient history we found on this morning walk through the crooked lanes that lead toward Calvary, was a certain stone built into a house—­a stone that was so seamed and scarred that it bore a sort of grotesque resemblance to the human face.  The projections that answered for cheeks were worn smooth by the passionate kisses of generations of pilgrims from distant lands.  We asked “Why?” The guide said it was because this was one of “the very stones of Jerusalem” that Christ mentioned when he was reproved for permitting the people to cry “Hosannah!” when he made his memorable entry into the city upon an ass.  One of the pilgrims said, “But there is no evidence that the stones did cry out—­Christ said that if the people stopped from shouting Hosannah, the very stones would do it.”  The guide was perfectly serene.  He said, calmly, “This is one of the stones that would have cried out.  “It was of little use to try to shake this fellow’s simple faith—­it was easy to see that.

And so we came at last to another wonder, of deep and abiding interest —­the veritable house where the unhappy wretch once lived who has been celebrated in song and story for more than eighteen hundred years as the Wandering Jew.  On the memorable day of the Crucifixion he stood in this old doorway with his arms akimbo, looking out upon the struggling mob that was approaching, and when the weary Saviour would have sat down and rested him a moment, pushed him rudely away and said, “Move on!” The Lord said, “Move on, thou, likewise,” and the command has never been revoked from that day to this.  All men know how that the miscreant upon whose head that just curse fell has roamed up and down the wide world, for ages and ages, seeking rest and never finding it—­courting death but always in vain—­longing to stop, in city, in wilderness, in desert solitudes, yet hearing always that relentless warning to march—­march on!  They say—­do