There is no doubting there, no question there whether or no the ground on which you tread was not first called "the mount" by some Byzantine Sophia; whether tradition respecting it can go back further than Constantine; whether, in real truth, that was the hill over which Jesus walked when he travelled from the house of Lazarus at Bethany to fulfil his mission in the temple. No: let me take any ordinary believing Protestant Christian3 to that spot, and I will as broadly defy him to doubt there as I will defy him to believe in that filthy4 church of the holy places.
The garden of Gethsemane near the city, "over the brook5 Cedron," where he left his disciples6 resting while he went yonder to pray; the hill-side on which the angel appeared unto him, strengthening him, and whither Judas and the multitude came out to take him; Bethany, the town of Mary and Martha, "fifteen furlongs from Jerusalem," where Lazarus was raised from the dead; the spot from whence he sent for the ass7 and the ass's colt; the path from thence to the city by which he rode when the multitude "cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of David!" the same multitude which afterwards came out against him with staves: these places are there, now as they were in his day, very credible—nay8, more, impossible not to be believed. These are the true holy places of Jerusalem, places for which Greeks and Latins do not fight, guarded by no sedate10, coffee-drinking Turks, open there to all men under the fair heavens, and desolate11 enough, too, even in these pilgrim weeks, for any one or two who will sit there alone and ponder over the wondrous history of the city that still lies over against him.
But what is the so strong evidence of the actual identity of these places? What is it that makes me so sure that this is the Mount of Olives, and that water-channel there the brook Cedron, and the hamlet on the other side the veritable Bethany? Why is one to be so sure of these, and yet feel such an infinity12 of doubt as to that village of Emmaus, that valley of Ajalon, that supposed Arimathea, and the rest of them? Nay, I cannot well say, at any rate not in these light novel pages. Dr. Stanley, with considerable distinctness does say. But go and see: with the ordinary Protestant Christian seeing here will be believing, as seeing over in that church of the holy places most indisputably will be disbelieving.
Hither Bertram strolled, and, seated on the brow of the hill, looked over to Jerusalem till the short twilight13 of the Syrian evening had left him, and he could no longer discern the wondrous spots on which his eye still rested. Wondrous, indeed! There before him were the walls of Jerusalem, standing14 up erect15 from the hill-side—for the city is still all fenced up—stretching from hill to hill in varying but ever continued line: on the left was the Hill of Sion, David's hill, a hill still inhabited, and mainly by Jews. Here is still the Jews' quarters, and the Jews' hospital too, tended by English doctors, nurtured16 also by English money; and here, too, close to David's Gate, close also to that new huge Armenian convent, shall one, somewhat closely scrutinizing17 among heaps of rubbish, come upon a colony of lepers. In the town, but not of it, within the walls, but forbidden all ingress to the streets, there they dwell, a race of mournfullest Pariahs18. From father to son, from mother to daughter, dire19 disease, horrid20, polluting, is handed down, a certain legacy21, making the body loathsome22, and likening the divine face of man to a melancholy23 ape. Oh! the silent sadness, the inexpressible melancholy of those wan24, thoughtless, shapeless, boneless, leaden faces! To them no happy daily labour brings rest and appetite; their lot forbids them work, as it forbids all other blessings25. No; on their dunghills outside their cabins there they sit in the sun, the mournfullest sight one might look on, the leper parents with their leper children, beggars by inheritance, paupers26, outcasts, mutilated victims,—but still with souls, if they or any round them did but know it.
There also, directly facing him, was the Mount Moriah, also inside the walls, where Solomon built the house of the Lord, "where the Lord appeared unto David his father, in the place that David had prepared, in the threshing-floor of Ornan the Jebusite." For this city, Jerusalem, had, in still more ancient days, before the thought of that temple had come into men's minds, been the city Jebus, a city even then fenced up, and here had been the threshing-floor which Ornan tendered to David without price, but which the king bought for six hundred shekels of gold.
Yes; here before him as he sat was the site of that temple, Solomon's temple, "exceeding magnificent, of fame and glory throughout all countries," of which David had been worthy27 only to collect the materials. The site! nay, but there were the very stones themselves.
Seen from that hill, the city seems so close that you may lay your hand upon it. Between you and it (you, if ever you should happily come to sit there) lies that valley of Jehoshaphat, in which Miss Todd is going to celebrate her picnic. This is the valley in which the Jews most love to have themselves buried; as there, according to them, is the chosen site of the resurrection: and thus they who painfully journeying thither28 in their old age, and dying there can there be buried, will have no frightful29, moles'-work, underground pilgrimage to detain them when that awful trumpet30 shall once more summon them to the upper world.
The air, in Syria there, is thin and clear, clouded by no fogs; and the lines of the wall and the minarets31 of the mosque32 are distinct and bright and sharp against the sky, as in the evening light one looks across from one hill to the other. The huge stones of the wall now standing, stones which made part of that ancient temple, can be counted, one above another, across the valley. Measured by a rough estimate, some of them may be two and twenty feet in length, seven in depth, and five in height, single blocks of hewn rock, cut certainly by no Turkish enterprise, by no medi?val empire, by no Roman labour. It is here, and here only, at the base of the temple, that these huge stones are to be found, at the base of what was the temple, forming part of the wall that now runs along the side of Mount Moriah, but still some forty feet above the ground.
Over them now is the Mosque of Omar—a spot to be desecrated33 no more by Christian step. On the threshing-floor of Ornan, the children of Mahomet now read the Koran and sing to Allah with monotonous34 howl. Oh, what a history! from the treading of the Jebusite's oxen down to the first cry of the Mussulman! Yes; no Christian may now enter here, may hardly look into the walled court round the building. But dignified35 Turks, drinking coffee on their divan36 within the building, keep the keys of the Christian church—keep also the peace, lest Latin and Greek should too enthusiastically worship their strange gods.
There can be few spots on the world's surface more sacred to any Christian than that on which Bertram sat. Coming up from Bethany, over a spur on the southern side of the Mount of Olives, towards Jerusalem, the traveller, as he rises on the hill, soon catches a sight of the city, and soon again loses it. But going onward37 along his path, the natural road which convenience would take, he comes at length to the brow of the hill, looking downwards38, and there has Mount Sion, Moriah, and the site of the temple full before him. No one travelling such a road could do other than pause at such a spot.
'Twas here that Jesus "sat upon the mount, over against the temple." There is no possibility of mistaking the place. "And as he went, one of the disciples saith unto him, 'Master, see what manner of stones and what buildings are here.' And Jesus answering, said unto him, 'Seest thou these great buildings? There shall not be left one stone upon another that shall not be thrown down.'" There are the stones, the very stones, thrown down indeed from the temple, but now standing erect as a wall, supporting Omar's mosque.
"And when he was come near, he beheld39 the city, and wept over it." Yes, walk up from Bethany, my reader, and thou, too, shalt behold40 it, even yet; a matter to be wept over even now. 'Tis hard to sit there and not weep, if a man have any heart within him, any memory of those histories. "If thou hadst known, even then, at least in this thy day, the things which belong unto thy peace!" But thou wouldest not know. And where art thou now, O Jew? And who is it that sittest in thy high place, howling there to Allah most unmusically?
"O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" Not silently, and in thought only, but with outspoken41 words and outstretched hands, so then spake our young English friend, sitting there all alone, gazing on the city. What man familiar with that history could be there and not so speak? "O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! Behold, your house is left unto you desolate."
When talking over the matter with Harcourt at Oxford42, and afterwards with his uncle at Hadley, Bertram had expressed a sort of half-formed wish to go into the church; not, indeed, in such a manner as to leave on the minds of either of his counsellors an idea that he would really do so; but this profession of being a parson had been one of those of which he had spoken as being in some sort desirable for himself. Now, as he sat there, looking at the once holy city, it seemed to him to be the only profession in any way desirable. He resolved that he would be a clergyman; thanked his God in that he had brought him there to this spot before it was too late; acknowledged that, doubting as he had done, he had now at length found a Divine counsellor—one whose leading his spirit did not disdain43. There he devoted44 himself to the ministry45, declared that he, too, would give what little strength he had towards bringing the scattered46 chickens of the new house of Israel to that only wing which could give them the warmth of life. He would be one of the smallest, one of the least of those who would fight the good fight; but, though smallest and least, he would do it with what earnestness was in him.
Reader! you may already, perhaps, surmise47 that George Bertram does not become a clergyman. It is too true. That enthusiasm, strong, true, real as it was, did not last him much longer than his last walk round Jerusalem; at least, did not bide48 by him till he found himself once more walking on the High Street of Oxford. Very contemptible49 this, you will say. Yes, contemptible enough, as humanity so often is. Who amongst us have not made such resolves—some resolve of self-devotion, at the sound of the preacher's voice—and forgotten it before our foot was well over the threshold? It is so natural, that wish to do a great thing; so hard, that daily task of bathing in Jordan.
When the bright day had disappeared, all but suddenly, and he could no longer see the minarets of the mosque, Bertram descended50 the hill. It is but a short walk thence to Jerusalem—thence even into the centre of Jerusalem.
But what a walk! To the left is the valley-side—that valley of the Resurrection—covered with tombs—flat, sturdy, short stones, each bearing a semblance51, at least, of some short Hebraic epitaph, unmoved through heaven knows how many centuries! apparently52 immovable; the place, in this respect, being very unlike our more ornamental53 cemeteries54. On his right was the Mount of Olives; a mount still of olives, sprinkled over with olive-trees quite sufficiently55 to make it properly so called, even to this day. Then he passed by the garden of Gethsemane, now a walled-in garden, in which grow rue9 and other herbs; in which, also, is one fine, aged56 olive-tree, as to which tradition of course tells wondrous tales. This garden is now in charge of an old Latin monk—a Spaniard, if I remember well—who, at least, has all a Spaniard's courtesy.
It was here, or near to this, just above, on the hill-side, if our topography be reliable, that Jesus asked them whether they could not watch one hour. Bertram, as he passed, did not take the question to himself; but he well might have done so.
Turning round the wall of the garden, on his pathway up to Stephen's Gate, the so-called tomb of the Virgin57 was on his right hand, with its singular, low, subterranean58 chapel59. A very singular chapel, especially when filled to the very choking with pilgrims from those strange retreats of oriental Christendom, and when the mass is being said—inaudible, indeed, and not to be seen, at the furthest end of that dense60, underground crowd, but testified to by the lighting61 of a thousand tapers62, and by the strong desire for some flicker63 of the holy flame.
And then he ascended64 to the city, up the steep hill, the side of Mount Moriah, to St. Stephen's Gate; and there, on his left, was the entrance to Omar's mosque, guarded by fierce dervishes against pollution from stray Christian foot. Hence to his hotel every footstep was over ground sacred in some sense, but now desecrated by traditionary falsehoods. Every action of our Saviour's passion has its spot assigned to it; of every noted65 word the locale is given. When once you are again within the walls, all is again unbelievable, fabulous66, miraculous67; nay, all but blasphemous68. Some will say quite so. But, nevertheless, in passing by this way, should you, O reader! ever make such passage, forget not to mount to the top of Pilate's house. It is now a Turkish barrack; whether it ever were Pilate's house, or, rather, whether it stands on what was ever the site of Pilate's house or no. From hence you see down into the court of the mosque, see whatever a Christian can see of that temple's site, and see also across them gloriously to those hills of Jerusalem, Scopus, and the hill of the men of Galilee, and the Mount of Olives, and the Mount of Offence—so called because there "did Solomon build an high place for Chemosh, the abomination of Moab, on the hill that is before Jerusalem."
On his return to his inn, Bertram at once found that there had been an arrival of some importance during his absence. Waiters and boots were all busy—for there are waiters and boots at Jerusalem, much the same as at the "Saracen's Head," or "White Lion;" there is no chambermaid, however, only a chamberman. Colonel Sir Lionel Bertram was there.
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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pariahs
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| n.被社会遗弃者( pariah的名词复数 )；贱民 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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mosque
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| n.清真寺 | |
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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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