Occasionally stray brown locusts flew in through the door, "flopped" down on the floor and remained stationary, apparently dazed with the unusual sight and sound of the "iron horse" and its long tail.
The arrival of more passengers of the masculine gender at a roadside station demanded that we should vacate our seats and retire to the women's quarter at the other end of the train. We accomplished our exit with as good a grace as possible, reflecting that Eastern customs being the exact reverse of those practised in England, we would show our good breeding by yielding to them—when there was no other alternative. In this instance the change was not for the better. The space was limited, and the air stifling, but the friendly native ladies made room for us and offered us a share of the nuts they were eating, the shells of which plentifully bestrewed the floor. Miss B., our missionary friend, and the ladies exchanged lengthy compliments, inquired minutely into each other's business and commented upon it, as if they were members of the same family. We discovered that these untidy, unshapely-looking females were the wives of the above mentioned resplendent Moslem gentlemen. Like good-tempered children, they seemed absolutely contented with their nuts and dolls—for as such they treated their brown-faced, dark-eyed babies—desiring nothing more in this world than to please their husbands, and to purchase the latest pattern of maudeel—or veil—imported from Beirût.
We had now passed through the Wady es Sura and were speeding rapidly through the Valley of Rephaim, once the way in which the Philistines used to come up in the days of the Judges and David. Great rocks lifted their heads on either side, whose barren wildness suggested the home of the eagle and vulture. The sun was setting, and soon a shrill scream from the engine announced that we were nearing the end of our journey. We had just time to collect our wraps when the train drew up at the little station, and our ears were assailed with loud cries from the porters of "Jerusalem!" Before we had time to think, friendly hands grasped ours, and the kindly voices of Miss K. and Miss C. were bidding us welcome.
How delightful it was to escape the noise and worry of an Oriental railway station! To know that all our luggage would be sought for and looked after by a well-trained servant! To feel that we had no care but to answer the polite inquiries of our friends! A few yards and we were crossing the Bethlehem road on our way to Miss K.'s house, which was perched on the top of the Mount of Evil Counsel. The impressions that short walk left on my mind will never be effaced. Before us, clothed in the magical light of the setting sun, rose the mystical blue wall of the distant Moab Hills, while at their feet the Dead Sea gleamed like a thin line of quicksilver. On our left stood Mount Zion, while beyond, Olivet, "the mount before Jerusalem," crowned with a white church, looked down on the sun-gilt walls of the Temple Area. The hum of the city below, the cry of the shepherd in the Kedron Gorge as he called his flock home, and the sharp quick bark of the dog, sounded indistinct and far away.
I began to realise that we were in Jerusalem, and felt already the magic of its wondrous associations. It seemed almost incredible that we should be calmly gazing upon the very place where the world's Redeemer had "suffered and bled and died," and our thoughts were busy as we passed into Miss K.'s charming home to receive a second welcome. After supper Elizabeth and I slipped out into the garden and stood spell-bound at the lovely scene which met our eyes. The sparkling heavens high above us, the hills round us touched with beauty, while below, the City of our God lay shrouded in silver moonlight, like a babe asleep in the arms of its mother. Involuntarily the words rose to our lips: "As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so is the Lord round about His people."
The next morning we engaged donkeys, and with Miss B. for guide and counsellor rode round the walls of Jerusalem. There was no magical moonlight to soften and glorify the ruin and desolation which met our eye at every stage. Where was the beautiful city and temple which caused the stern Titus to weep because he could not save it? Gone! Buried beneath the seventy feet of rubbish which one day will be cleared away. And could that offensive pool, overshadowed by the public shambles, infested with scavenger-dogs, be "cool Siloam's shady rill"? Yes, and the poor little village above is all that remains of the town of Siloam. Even the olive-trees added to the dreariness of the landscape, for they were stunted and badly nourished. We were now riding up the Mount of Olives, the very road trodden by the Man of Sorrows. Loving thoughts and holy memories gathered round every step of the way till we reached the top and "beheld the city." I cannot do better here than quote from Dr. Macduff's Memories of Olivet. "So far as the Mount itself is concerned, thousands of scenes in our own and other lands are alike grander and more beautiful; there is nothing conspicuous in height; nothing picturesque in form, nothing remarkable in colour. An unconspicuous green swell, with triple top sprinkled with trees, and crowned with a Russian church; this, with a walled town fronting its western slope, studded with a few domes and minarets, at once and for ever took its place in the most sacred shrine of memory as the first view of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives." True, there is nothing really beautiful about Jerusalem, according to our Western ideas. Its situation is fine, but the city itself is ugly and surrounded by "mountains" of rubbish. The Mosque of Omar occupies the Temple area, and Islam has taken up its abode in the place once dedicated to the true worship of Jehovah. But in spite of its present misfortunes, Jerusalem possesses a charm for Jew, Christian and Moslem alike, which no other city in the world can claim. Coming down from the Mount, we rode through Bethany, the home of Martha and Mary. It is a small village, and like many places in Palestine, disappointing to the traveller unless he looks away from the present to the past, and fills in the picture with the vivid colours of sacred and profane history.
It is a mistake to suppose that the East never changes. The march of progress has reached Jerusalem, Western influence is felt within its walls, as the red roofs of the numerous Frangi houses and the glass windows of European shops strongly testify. Residents told us that the Jerusalem of to-day bears little or no resemblance to the Jerusalem of a few years back, except in its natural features.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the chief place of interest in Jerusalem. A visit to its great porch carried us back to the days of chivalry, when the iron shoes of the Crusaders clanged on its stone pavement. Christian knights no longer are required to fight the Turk for the possession of the Holy Sepulchre; instead a strong guard of Turkish soldiers is always on duty to protect the Christians from the violence of each other. Fierce fights, and even bloodshed, are not uncommon among the various sects, Latins, Greeks, Maronites, Copts, Armenians, etc., who have set up their worship in different parts of the sacred edifice. The Holy Sepulchre itself is claimed and held by the Greeks, and every Easter thousands of pilgrims from all parts of the world worship at its shrine. We made our way one day with much difficulty into the narrow cave-like apartment, lighted with huge wax candles, and filled with adoring men and women rapturously kissing the stone slab which covers the supposed tomb, while a Greek priest stood by to receive the offerings of the faithful. We were glad to force our way out, but found some difficulty in doing so, the pressure of the crowd was so great.
This Easter there were five thousand Russians in the city; impassioned-looking men and women, tall, blue-eyed and well favoured, they poured in day after day. We constantly met large parties covered with the dust of travel, each carrying his beloved tea-kettle which he filled at a running brook or neighbouring convent and boiled for his favourite beverage on the semavar, or copper charcoal brazier, which a friendly native would lend. Hundreds of weary miles had they tramped over the hot sand, under the burning sun, deterred by no difficulty, but ever keeping their faces stedfastly set towards Jerusalem. These Russian peasants have one great object in life, for which they save and work with an enthusiasm which never fails: to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, to touch the Holy Sepulchre, to visit the holy shrines, to be baptised in the Jordan, and to return to their fatherland empty in purse but rich in candles, vials of oil, unleavened cakes blessed by the Patriarch, and garments dipped in the Jordan, to be worn only once again—as shrouds.
