He who enters this door will find himself in _The Sanctuary_. This is a chamber thirty-six feet wide and seventy-two in length, and 109 in height; its height, however, cannot be reached by the eye; for this chamber is in darkness, except the obscure light shed upon it by several lamps. Daylight cannot penetrate it, unless occasionally a feeble glimmering through the door-way; a mysterious obscurity is left to pervade it, and the vision, turning upward, combats for a while the deepening shadows, and is then repelled by utter darkness. The furniture of this room is simple, for it contains only the Table of Shew-bread, and the Golden Candlestick, and the Altar of Incense. While the incense ascends silently, and keeps the chamber filled with perpetual odours, the softened light of the Seven Golden Lamps of the Candlestick falls upon a table with twelve loaves of bread, one for each tribe; as if, by this simple emblem, the staff of his life kept here in memorial, man would gratefully acknowledge by whom his existence is prolonged, and whence are derived its blessings. There is something in this quiet and simple scene, a subdued and humble, yet grateful character in its speech, that is very impressive. At the further end of this chamber is again a door-way covered by a thick veil of many folds. It opens into a square chamber thirty-six feet on each side, and 109 in height. In this chamber there is nothing at all. _It is quite dark_; and its deep obscurity and its vacancy are fit emblems of HIM who is invisible to mortal eye, and whom mortal thought can never reach. This is the Holy of Holies. It is entered only by the High Priest, and by him but once a year. Unadorned, and deeply shut up within the Temple, it is left to darkness, and silence, and impressive solitude. When Pompey, after a toilsome siege, at length took this mountain by assault, he hastened to the Temple, incited both by curiosity, and by a desire to feed his eye on the wealth that had at length become his own; but when, having examined the Sanctuary in its dim mysterious light, and then, raising this veil, he stood in the Holy of Holies, and found no object, nought but an obscurity that his eye, as he gazed upward, sought in vain to pierce, a feeling of awe and dread seems to have come upon him; he left the Temple, having touched neither its furniture nor its treasure, and, calling off his troops, he gave orders to repair the injuries that had been occasioned by his assault.