Random wandering brought me at noonday into the European section about David street. Light as had been my expenditures in Palestine, my fortunes had fallen. A sum barely equal to forty cents jingled in my pockets. It was high time to seek employment. With this end in view, I sought out the addressee of my letter. Unfortunately, his influence was not far-reaching in the city, for he was a mere man-of-all-work in a mission school outside its walls.
“But it is all right,” he cried; “if you are an American, I will take you to ‘the Americans.’”
“The Americans” proved to be a community of my countrymen of Quaker ancestry, who dwelt in a great modern building to the northwest of the city. The errand boy introduced me into the inner courtyard, thickly planted in orange and lemon trees, and a self-appointed committee invited me in to supper. It seemed almost a new experience to sit again at a white-decked table, partaking of such familiar dishes as roast pork and rice pudding, with men and women of my own land chatting on every side. An aged native of Pennsylvania, for no better reason, apparently, than that he had crossed the Atlantic forty years before on the ship that had brought me to Glasgow, espoused my cause and set himself to the task of supplying me with employment, and of getting me to heaven as well. The meal over, the colony adjourned to the parlor on the second floor for a short religious meeting, and then spent the evening in mild merry-making. Several visitors dropped in, among them two natives in faultless evening attire, a disconcerting contrast to my own, but still wearing their fezes. My sponsor announced one as the Superintendent of Public Instruction and the other as the Chief of Police. Though they did not speak English, neither would have been out of place in the most accomplished society.
“These men,” said the Pennsylvanian, “are Mohammedans, and each has several wives. Yet for years they have been welcome guests here, for according to their code of morals they are very moral men. The Superintendent, there, is a famous singer.” He was even then beginning a duet with one of the young ladies at the piano, and that with the clear tone of a man who sait faire.
“The Chief of Police has been rather roughly used?” I suggested. Across his left cheek was a great scar and his left eye was missing.
“Every Christian,” said the man beside me, “should blush with shame at sight of that scar. Each year, as you know, the Christian pilgrims to Jerusalem celebrate feasts and festivals in the churches here, and for years clashes and free fights have frequently broken out between followers of rival creeds. For that reason the Turks have found it necessary to establish a guard in every general Christian edifice. Two years ago, at the Feast of the Assumption in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Greek and Armenian pilgrims, in spite of the guards, fell upon each other. The Chief, there, a man of very peaceful and kindly temperament, went among the combatants and spoke to them through an interpreter. Instead of dispersing, the frenzied pilgrims swept down upon this whole-hearted Mohammedan, and some good Christian, of one side or the other, slashed him across the cheek with a heavy knife and gouged out his eye. They tell us, you know, over in America that Mohammedans are savages and Christians are civilized. I, too, used to think that; but I have lived a long time in Jerusalem now.”
Several members of the community, in business in David street, promised to find me work. A round among them in the morning, however, brought only reiterated promises, and I wandered away through the city. Scores of Christian pilgrims were engaged in a similar occupation, and my weather-beaten and bedraggled appearance led more than one of these devout nomads to accost me. I soon fell in with an Italian who had spent nearly two years in making his way from his home in Urbino to carry out a vow made in an hour of distress.
“Why do you not go to a hospice?” he asked, when he had learned my situation. “I have been in one for three weeks and get both food and bed. There is the Russian, the Greek, the Armenian, the Coptic, the Italian, the French—”
“But no American?” I put in, less eager for charity than for a glimpse of the life within these institutions.
“N—no,” admitted the pilgrim; “no American—but I’ll tell you! Go to the French hospice. Archbishop Ireland of America is there this week and—”