VOL. XXVII,

No. 6

S

TIFF and sore from our week in the saddle, wet from the frequent showers, so tired that we could scarcely sit upright on our horses, late in the afternoon of Saturday in Passion week, we ascended a gentle slope that rose to the south from El Bireh. At El Bireh tradition says that the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph met.on the evening when they first missed the child Jesus. They had journeyed one whole day, Mary with the women, Joseph with a band of men, each supposing the twelve year old Saviour was with the other group.

The story of their finding Him in the Temple is familiar to all your readers. As we entered the town, the memory of their quest fought for supremacy in our minds with another thought—that from El Birch to Jerusalem we were to travel over a fine road and to bid farewell, we hoped forever, to the by-paths of Palestine.

Ascending this road southward, we came to its highest point about five o'clock in the afternoon, when our condition could best be described by the word "comatose." A full view of the Holy City broke upon us, crowning its rolling hills in such a way that almost every notable building could be picked out at a glance. The domes of the Holy Sepulchre and the Mosque of Omar, which I had always thought were gilded, were gilded for our coming by the combined effects

of the recent shower and the rays of the setting sun. Back of the city was the Mount of Olives. Beside us was Mount Scopus. As we entered the Holy City through the Damascus gate and picked. our way through the narrow streets to the door of the Casa Nova, and threw ourselves with one last effort from our ponies, I was glad, after it all, that I had made the trip and, tired as I was, I felt more in harmony with my surroundings than if, brisk and fresh, I had stepped from a train at the request of a twentieth century trainman, crying, "All out for Jerusalem."

In

A bath and a night's sleep at the Casa Nova made us forget all the unpleasant features of the preceding week. proof of this, let me state that 5 A. M. the following morning found us both in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where we both said Mass on the Altar of Calvary. Fearing to return to the Casa for coffee lest we might not again gain admission to the church, we went without breakfast in order to be present at the ceremonies of Palm Sunday. The Sepulchre of our Divine Lord occupies. the very center of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Around it the procession of the palms passed. In that procession as in fact in nearly all processions in Jerusalem-the story of Pentecost is repeated. People of almost every nation under Heaven are to be found there. Lay people, including consuls of many nations, religious of various or

ders, clerics, from subdeacons to the Patriarch of Jerusalem, encircled the tomb many times, carrying palms and chanting the usual prayers. The choirs of men and boys can scarcely be surpassed, even in Rome. The one jarring note was the cordon of Turkish soldiers, with rifles grounded, who formed an impassible barrier between us and the pro

cession.

We did not wish to join the procession, but preferred to study it. We could not, had we so wished, as we had yielded our cassocks to other priests who said Mass after us. But it grated upon us to see followers of Mahomet around the tomb of our Saviour, preserving order among Christians.

The explanation quickly followed when, at the close of the Mass, the Latin altar was dismantled and a Greek service immediately followed ours.

In the afternoon of Palm Sunday, a party of priests, Franciscans and seculars, walked to Gethsemane. It was a beautiful day and a delightful walk. The lame, the blind, and especially the lepers, along the road outside the city gate, formed an unpleasant spectacle, but we were becoming accustomed to such sights. There may be honor among thieves, but there is little charity among beggars. That afternoon one of our party threw a coin to a crippled boy. crippled boy. In an instant a blind man, led by a boy, pounced upon him. The poor little cripple, not being able to escape, put the coin for safekeeping into his mouth, whence the blind man extracted it with a violence that threatened to dislocate the poor little fellow's jaw. The robber may have been blind, but the way he scurried up the road to escape us made us doubt it.

I shall ever remember that afternoon in Gethsemane. It seems entirely out of place to enjoy a visit to that spot where Christ suffered His most bitter agony. But the Franciscans have made this a most beautiful spot with plants and beds of pansies and other flowers, which makes it almost impossible to recall with proper feeling the words, "My soul is sorrowful even unto death."

Later in the week, when we came alone in the early morning to say Mass in the Grotto of the Agony, and again on Good Friday, we felt more keenly the genius of the place.

On that Palm Sunday, with Jerusalem and Mt. Zion before us, with the Mount of Olives behind us and the beautiful bright sun shining down upon us, it pains me to confess we spent some time gazing down into the valley of

Jehoshaphat and flippantly conjecturing where our place may be on that day of General Judgment, that "dies irae et amara valde" when, in that Valley of Judgment, Christ shall come again to judge the quick and the dead.

Returning from Gethsemane, we visited the White Fathers of Cardinal Lavigerie, who in our day are imitating their brethren of the Middle Ages in ransoming the captives of Central Africa from sin and paganism. Their beautiful monastery is built over the pool of Bethsaida, where, also, says tradition, St. Joachim and St. Anne lived and where the Blessed Virgin was born. It is impossible to walk in this part of Jerusalem without passing many spots made memorable by events in the life of our Lord, most of which are commemorated by tablets set into the walls. of the houses.

I love to recall those days about the Holy City. I should love to tell ROSARY readers of our visits to Bethlehem, Bethany, Emmaus, the Dead Sea and the Jordan, and all of the points of interest in and around that most interesting of all cities, but the story has been told so often and so much better than I could tell it that I shall refrain and speak of other points. Jerusalem in Holy Week presents a gathering of people fearful and wonder

age was about fifty years; their dress consisted of short skirts and heavy, hobnailed boots. Waists they may have worn, but so many nondescript jackets and coats had they that inner garments were not to be listed. Head-gear was, of course, in keeping the rest of their wardrobe. How many caps, hoods and shawls each one wore, she probably knew I don't.

I am not trying to ridicule these Russian peasants. Far from it. I conceived for them in Jerusalem a respect that constantly increases. They came across the country-how many hundreds of miles I do not know-to visit the tomb of their Saviour. But I do know that their journey was longer than ours, and the trip we found arduous on horseback, they made mostly on foot. The beds we slept in were intolerable; they slept on the ground. They brought their Own food and made tea by the wayside. When we slept on cots in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre that we might be sure of our chance to say Mass on the Tomb of our Lord next morning, several thousand of these pious people were stretched on the cold stone pavement during the night, and as I passed through the great church next morning at four, on my way to the tomb, they were about their devotions at this shrine or that altar, oblivious of all else but the purpose which brought them to the Holy City.

ful to look upon. The most conspicuous figures are the female Russian peasants. They were there in thousands. There were some men with them, mostly very old or very young. The women appeared uniform in age and dress. Their

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