Yet it was Jerusalem that I saw. Miles beyond, the fog lifted and showed the city plainly, and it was that same long city bounded on the east by a great tower; but this time it had footing on the solid earth—on a dull, drear hill that sloped to the west. I went on down the highway, and across the hills and the dreary fields,—past the tombs of the Kings and Judges, where to-day shivering shepherd boys seek shelter from the winds,—and on into the crowded bazaars of the city where Christ was crucified.
Great, howling crowds swept me through markets dirtier than those of Damascus, up and down slimy stone steps, jostling, pushing, trampling upon me at every turn. They did not do this because they wanted to be disagreeable to me: It was merely carelessness on their part, for they had seen so many faranchees that they did not notice me when I got in their way. But I was very tired from my long day’s tramp; so when I reached the end of a street I turned to an open doorway in order to get out of the crowd. Through the doorway I caught a glimpse of a long stretch of green grass and of a great mosque, or Mohammedan church.
I had no sooner stepped inside this yard than a shout arose from a rabble of men and boys at one side of the square. But that did not surprise me, for in Damascus the people had shouted every time I entered the grounds belonging to a mosque. So I marched on, pretending I did not notice that they were howling at me. The shouting became louder. Men and boys came down upon me from every direction, howling like demons, and firing stones at me from every side. Some of them struck me on the legs; others whistled dangerously near my head. I left hurriedly.
Later in the day I learned that I had trespassed into the sacred grounds of the mosque of Omar. It is named for Caliph Omar, the leader of the Mohammedans who captured Jerusalem from the Christians in the year 1636. One who does not worship Mohammed may not enter this mosque or the grounds belonging to it without a guard of paid soldiers.
I got back into the crowded streets, and was pushed and jostled as before. To escape this I went down more slimy steps and along a narrow alley until I came to a towering stone wall. Here I saw a strange sight. Hebrews, rich and poor, some dirty and ragged, others wearing diamonds, by turns kissed and beat with their fists the great blocks of stones, shrieking and moaning with tears streaming down their cheeks. I did not have to be told where I was. This time I had fallen upon the “Jews’ Wailing Place.”
I wandered here and there, and at noonday remembered that a sum hardly equal to forty cents jingled in my pockets. It was high time to look for work. So I turned toward the office of the American consul. If there were work to be had by faranchees in the city, the consul, surely, would know it. I fought my way through the gazing crowd of doorkeepers and others into the outer office. A moment later I was admitted to the inner office. The kindly white-haired consul asked me to give him a full account of my journey in Palestine.
“I shall give you a note to the Jewish hotel across the way,” he said, when I had finished, “and you may pay the bill when you earn the money. For you will find work, you may be sure. See me again before you leave the city.”
I mounted an outdoor stairway on the opposite side of David Street to a good inn. From the window of the room assigned to me there was a far-reaching view. To the north, east, and south spread a jumble of small buildings, with their dome-shaped roofs of mud or stone outlined against a few houses covered with red tiles. Here and there rose the slender minarets or steeples of Mohammedan mosques, and in about the center of the city was the great Christian Church, which is said to be built to cover the spot where the Saviour was buried. At the farther edge of the city, yet so near that I could see it from base to dome, stood the beautiful mosque of Omar where I had but recently caused so much excitement. Back of it was a forest of olive trees, and farther on the Mount of Olives. Beyond, miles of dreary hills stretched away to the great wall of the mountains of Moab.
While I was taking a walk after dinner, I came upon an Englishman who lived in Jerusalem. The Englishman wanted some letters translated into French. I began on them at once, and worked late into the night. For the three days following I spent my time in writing and in sight-seeing. The bazaars were half deserted at this period; for on Friday the Mohammedans held a festival, Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath, and Sunday the day of rest for Christians. So among them all there was little going on in the business section during those three days.
On Saturday, at the hotel, there was nothing to eat but meat. It was served cold, for what Jew could order his servants to build a fire on the Sabbath? The day grew wintry cold, however. The hotel-keeper sent for a servant, and gave orders in a language that sounded much like German, ending with the unnecessary remark: “I believe this is one of the coldest days we have had this year.”