In the city of Jerusalem? Yes, and how strange! It would be impossible to try to describe our feelings, for we knew that somewhere in that vicinity holy men of old had lived and walked and preached. We were aware of the fact that the city had been destroyed many times since Christ’s time, and that the streets which he was wont to walk upon were covered up with many feet of earth. Yet, notwithstanding that fact, we felt wonderfully blessed in being allowed the privilege of even being in the land where Christ and his disciples loved to dwell. Solomon reigned over Jerusalem forty years. God told Abraham to offer his only son for a burnt offering on Moriah, and there the Temple of Solomon was built. I could spend many hours writing about the patriarchs of old, but must hasten on and tell you just a little more about the city. It is surrounded by a high wall pierced with many gates. Every one who goes into or out of the city must pass through one of these gates. A few years ago every one of them was closed after sundown, but no attention is paid to locking them now, and you are allowed to go in and out any hour of the night. Many of the stones in one portion of the wall are very, very old, and the Jews think they were used at one time in the foundation of their ancient temple, and that is as near as it is possible for them to get to the Holy of holies; so every Friday—and other days too—they gather together and weep and wail over the downfall of their beloved Zion. That place is always known as the “Jews’ Wailing Place.” There is a Mohammedan cemetery outside of the city wall; the graves are about two feet high and are covered with a white coat of plaster. There are no tombstones and no names to tell the passer-by whose remains lie beneath the sod. Possibly the relatives know by the location where their dead are buried, but I’m pretty sure no one else could tell. One afternoon we had walked a long distance, and on our return to the hotel passed through the cemetery I’ve just told you about. We were very tired, so leaned against a tomb to rest a few minutes. Several Moslem men passed us, muttering to themselves, and looking quite savage. We asked, “What ails them?” and the reply was, “They don’t want their graves desecrated by Christian dogs.” That was the first time we had been likened to a dog; and, fearing the compliment might be repeated, we arose immediately and walked away. The Mohammedans’ love for a Christian is not great, and it was a little uncertain how many insults they might be tempted to offer if we tarried longer.