Adjoining the building on the south is the “Jews’ Place of Wailing,” a spot no less remarkable for its antiquity than for the touching scenes which there transpire. It is reached by a narrow lane running out of the Jewish Quarter, and consists of a small quadrangular area 112 feet long, thirty wide, and is inclosed by common dwellings on the west and the Haram wall on the east. Well paved and cleanly kept, it is so secluded as to allow the worshipers to lament their departed national greatness undisturbed. The chief attraction of the spot is the five courses of large stones, bearing the well-known bevel, and remaining _in situ_ where they were placed thousands of years ago. Time has dealt gently with them, and, though slightly displaced by the shock of earthquakes, and worn smooth by the kisses of pilgrims, they are well preserved. Here, as before an altar, on each returning Friday the descendants of Abraham assemble to bewail their once mighty but now fallen nation. Proscribed by their Moslem masters, this is the nearest point of approach to which they are allowed to come, and even for a boon so humble Mohammedan cupidity demands an exorbitant sum. Unparalleled in their history, seldom have a people been treated with such unmitigated cruelty as the Jews. From the time of Adrian to the age of Constantine they were expelled from Jerusalem, and it was only by the clemency of the latter emperor that they were permitted to behold their native city from the neighboring hills; and it was by bribing the Roman guard that they at length gained admission to Jerusalem once a year, on the anniversary of its capture by Titus, to weep over the ruins of their fallen Temple. Though now suffered to dwell within the walls of the city, it is instant death to a Jew to cross the threshold of the sacred inclosure. From the beginning of the twelfth century it has been their custom to linger around these ancient stones and make their complaint to Jehovah. Illustration: JEWS’ PLACE OF WAILING. It was two o’clock on a lovely Friday afternoon when, for the first time, I threaded the narrow streets leading to this mournful spot. About seventy men and women of all ages were engaged in their devotions. In their midst stood the high-priest, whose tall and majestic form distinguished him from those around him, and whose open and intelligent face was pale and sorrowful as he mingled his prayers and tears with a people whose ruined fortunes he was powerless to retrieve. Accustomed to see him, attended by his two sons, walking thoughtfully the streets of what was once the imperial city of his fathers, I had become familiar with his noble bearing and with the calm expression of his Jewish countenance; but, moved by the reflections of his own powerful mind, and touched with sympathy by the scene before him, he lifted up his voice and wept.