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.