MY OLIVE-LEAVES.
[Illustration] IT was still very hot when we started from the Damascus
Gate and rode in the direction of the Mount of Olives.
"What a wretched little hillock it is!" said Claude, as we drew near to
it. "It does not deserve the name of hill, much less of mountain."
But to most of us, this "wretched little hillock" was the most sacred
spot on earth. There was no doubt about its identity; "the mountain
on the east side of the city" could not be mistaken for any other. No
vain superstition, no improbable legend had fixed upon this hill as the
place where our Lord's feet had so often trod. The hand of time, and
the cruel devastations of war, which had laid low the beautiful Temple,
and made Jerusalem a heap of ruins, had not been able to obliterate
this spot, nor to make us doubtful as to whether it were indeed the
same Mount of Olives of which we had read so often in the Gospels.
We crossed the Valley of Jehoshaphat, passed the wall of the so-called
Gethsemane, and began to ascend one of the steep stony paths which led
across the mountain to Bethany.
"Do you know, Miss Lindsay," said Mr. Stanley, "that these paths, on
the hillsides, are probably less changed than anything in the whole
country? They must have gone in the same direction years ago, and this
is, without doubt, the very road our Lord's feet so often trod to and
from the city on His way to Martha's house."
I felt as if it were almost too sacred ground. I did not answer him,
for I could not have done so without tears. So we rode on in silence, a
little way behind the others, and Evelyn told me afterwards she would
have been very thankful to have been with us, for Claude and Alice were
laughing and talking the whole way, telling amusing stories of things
and people in England, and taking little or no notice of the scenes and
places around them. The Mount of Olives was nothing to them!
Mr. Stanley rode forward as we came to a turn in the road on the
shoulder of the hill, and made them all stop and look round at the
city: for it is at this place that, when coming from Bethany, Jerusalem
first comes in sight, and there, he said, must have been the very spot
on which our Lord stood when "He beheld the city and wept over it."
Evelyn came close to me and whispered, "Oh, May, I cannot help it, the
tears will come; let us go a little way off by ourselves; Claude and
Alice will chatter so."
We got off our horses, and left them with the dragoman, and went a
short distance from the road to a clump of olive trees; and here we
stood, looking down upon the city. If our Lord wept as He gazed on it
in its glory, because He saw, in the far distance, the shadow of ruin
and desolation creeping towards it, how much more should we weep, who
saw the once beloved city, the joy of the whole earth, made a very
curse amongst men!
"Look forward as well as backward," said Mr. Stanley's voice behind us.
"Forward to what?" Evelyn asked.
"Forward to that day when the Lord will no longer weep over Jerusalem,
but will rejoice over her. Do you remember that passage in Isaiah lxv.:
"'Be ye glad and rejoice for ever in that which I create: for, behold,
I create Jerusalem a rejoicing, and her people a joy. And I will
rejoice in Jerusalem, and joy in My people: and the voice of weeping
shall be no more heard in her, nor the voice of crying.'
"You see the Lord will rejoice in Jerusalem Himself, and call upon us
to rejoice with Him; and surely those who have been one with Him in His
sorrow will be the ones whom He will call to rejoice with Him in His
joy."
"Doesn't it remind you of the shepherd's joy," I said, "as he brought
back his lost sheep, rejoicing himself, and calling together his
friends, saying to them,—
"'Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost'?"
"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Stanley; "I never thought of that; the two
passages are wonderfully alike."
"Oh, Mr. Stanley," said Evelyn, as he turned round, "must we go? It is
so delightful to be here."
"I think we must come again another day, by ourselves," said Mr.
Stanley, in a whisper, "your friends are rather impatient to be moving;
they find very little to interest them on the Mount of Olives."
"I am not surprised," said Evelyn; "half the Bible they do not believe
in, and the other half they do not care for; but, oh dear, I do wish
they had not come with us; I did not think we should feel it so much."
Evelyn went on, reluctantly, to join her father. Mr. Stanley stayed
behind a moment, and gathered a spray of olive-leaves, which he gave to
me, and asked me to keep it, "as a remembrance of the place, and of our
coming here together." I have that spray of olive-leaves now, and shall
keep it as long as I live.
So we went on to Bethany. The road must have taken the same course in
our Lord's time, for there is a deep valley, and the road runs at its
head. And it must have looked just the same then, with the same wild
flowers growing by the wayside, the same blue mountains of Moab in
front, and the same green valley beneath. Mr. Stanley pointed out to me
some fig trees, growing close to the road, just as they did when the
Saviour, hungry with His long walk from Bethany, searched amongst the
loaves for fruit to refresh him on the way. I had had no idea before
that it was so far from Jerusalem to Bethany; He must have been very
weary as He went backwards and forwards every day of that last, sad
week of His life on earth. Only once do we read of Him riding; it was
all on foot, in the weariness and heat of the day, with the same sun
beating on His head as was shining on us at that very moment.
And then, as I rode at Mr. Stanley's side, he reminded me of that last
walk, when Jesus led His disciples out as far as to Bethany, and we
wondered if, as they trod this road, they knew that He was so soon to
leave them, and that it was the last walk that they would take with
Him. If so, surely they must have been very sorrowful, surely their
hearts must have been so full of the parting with Him that they must
have lost sight, for a little time, of the blessing that parting was to
bring to them, and the realisation of which was so soon to make them
return, by that very road, to Jerusalem, "with great joy, praising and
blessing God."
I never enjoyed anything so much as that ride to Bethany; it was very
quiet and peaceful, for Sir William and Claude were some way in front
with the dragoman, and Evelyn, who rode next with Alice, was not much
inclined for conversation, and kept her laughing companion tolerably
still, so that we were not interrupted in our quiet talk together.
Then we came to Bethany, a miserable, wretched, dirty village, and here
a troop of squalid Arabs came out of their houses to look at us, and to
beg of us, and a number of noisy dogs barked, and howled, and jumped
up at our horses' heads, and we were very glad to get as quickly as
possible out of the narrow, filthy street, and gradually to ascend the
eastern side of the Mount of Olives.
"I think the Ascension must have taken place somewhere here," said
Mr. Stanley; "it would be just far enough away from the noise of the
village, and such a likely place for them to come to."
A lovely view was spread out before us; the village of Bethany lay at
our feet, and then there stretched far away the great wilderness of
Judea, and, beyond it, in the far distance, the fertile plain of the
Jordan, like a line of silver running into the deep blue Dead Sea. Then
the view was shut in by the grand Moab mountains, standing out like a
wall against the sky.
"This is very fine!" said Claude, as we stood looking at it. "This is
well worth coming to see!"
It was the same view that Lot had gazed on; yet where were the cities
of the plain which he had seen in their glory?
Then we crossed over the top of the mountain, and began to descend
the western side, by the very path which David took when fleeing from
Absalom, when we read, he climbed up the ascent barefoot, and with his
head covered, weeping, as he went, at the ingratitude and cruelty of
his son.
We had a different view now, and yet a very beautiful one. The city of
Jerusalem was lying at our feet, nestling amongst the hills.
"'As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round
about His people from henceforth even for ever,'" said Mr. Stanley to
Evelyn and to me, as he rode between us.
"If we could only remember that," said Evelyn, "how happy it would make
us!"
"Yes," said Mr. Stanley, "it would indeed; but is it not a comfort to
know that He is round us, whether we remember it or not? The mountains
do not remove, even though the clouds hide them from our sight."
"I shall never forget this ride," said Evelyn, after a pause.
"I am sure I shall never forget it!" said Mr. Stanley.
"But I thought—" said Evelyn.
"What did you think, Miss Trafford?"
"I thought that it would not seem quite the same to you as it does to
us. I thought you would have become so accustomed to it that you would
not enjoy it so much."
"Oh, I never feel 'that' about the Mount of Olives," said Mr. Stanley;
"other places in Jerusalem, I grant, have somewhat lost their
sacredness in my eyes, but the Mount of Olives always seems holy
ground. I think we can never forget that this was the last place our
Lord's feet touched before He left us, and that it will be the very
first place they will touch when He comes again; for 'His feet shall
stand in that day upon the Mount of Olives, which is before Jerusalem
on the east.'
"And then," he added, after a pause, "I have enjoyed it specially
to-day."
Claude and Alice left Jerusalem the next morning, to continue their
journey through Samaria and Galilee; and we were not sorry to be
alone when we visited the other deeply interesting places in and near
Jerusalem.
Sight-seeing in Palestine is, in this respect, perfectly different from
sight-seeing in other places; unless there is some communion of heart
between you and those who are with you, unless they love the Book and
the Name which make every place around you so sacred, their remarks,
and indeed the whole tone of their conversation, cannot fail to jar
upon you, and to be somewhat trying and irksome to you.
Alter they were gone, we thoroughly enjoyed our daily excursions in the
city and its neighbourhood. Although Mr. Stanley was comparatively a
stranger, still we had learnt to know him so well in those few weeks
that he seemed more like an old and tried friend! He was a wonderful
help to us in our exploration of the city, for not only did he know
Jerusalem well himself, but he had, during his long stay there, made
many friends among the residents in the city, who obtained for us
admittance into several places which are closed to ordinary travellers.
One of these, a German gentleman, was most kind in guiding us to
several very interesting spots, and, amongst others, to Solomon's
Quarry.
"Would you like to see Solomon's Quarry?" said Mr. Stanley to Sir
William, one day.
"Solomon's Quarry!" repeated Sir William. "Where may that be, pray?"
"It is underneath the city," said Mr. Stanley, "and is a most curious
and interesting place. My friend, who will guide us through it, has
been very active in its exploration, and he has made a splendid plan of
the whole place; so that he knows every inch of the way."
"But is it really Solomon's Quarry?" said Sir William, incredulously.
"Probably so; for it is evident that stone has been taken out of it for
some very great building, and then you remember what is told us of the
building of Solomon's Temple:
"'The House, when it was in building, was built of stone made ready
before it was brought thither: so that there was neither hammer nor axe
nor any tool of iron heard in the house, while it was in building.'
"Now we have only to look at the stones which still remain of the wall
which Solomon built round the Temple platform, to see that the stones
he used were so enormous, that they could not have been brought from
any great distance. In order to move them at all, the labour must have
been immense, and it has always been a mystery how such huge blocks
could be hewn from any rock within a short distance of the building, so
that they could be easily moved to it, and yet be so far away that no
sound of axe or hammer should be heard in the Temple itself."
"I see," said Sir William; "and the discovery of this quarry explains
the mystery, for the stones could be hewn and finished underground, and
then brought to the surface, and put at once in their proper positions.
How very interesting!"
"But we have a still stronger reason," said Mr. Stanley, "for feeling
sure that this is Solomon's Quarry, for there is no other place, in the
whole country round, which shows signs of having been used as a quarry,
from which stone could have been taken for any large building; and the
stone in these underground quarries is, moreover, the very same kind of
stone as we find in the Temple buildings."
"How very, very interesting!" said Sir William. "When can we go there?"
"I have arranged with my friend to meet us at the Damascus Gate
to-morrow morning, if that will suit you," he added, turning to Evelyn.
We had no engagement for the next day, so it was settled that Mr.
Stanley should call for us at eleven o'clock.
But when the morning came, poor Evelyn was not well enough to go. She
had a slight attack of the ague fever, which is so common in Jerusalem,
and the doctor advised her to keep quiet for a day or two, lest she
should have it more severely. I wanted to stay with her, but she would
not hear of it, and insisted on my leaving her in Clemence's care.
"If you don't go, May," she said, "I shall never hear anything
about it. Papa never can describe places; now don't be unkind and
disobedient, but put on your hat and get ready." So, rather against my
will, I set forth with the others.
The gentleman who was our guide was most kind in explaining everything
to us, and in giving us most varied and interesting information.
"How were these quarries discovered?" Sir William asked.
"In a very curious way," he said. "Not many years ago there was a lad
shooting rock-pigeons outside the northern wall. He had a dog with him,
and the dog suddenly disappeared. He had seen it last going behind an
olive tree which grew at the bottom of the rock on which you see the
wall is built. He went to look for the dog, and found on the face of
the rock quite a small hole, so small that he could not get through
it himself, though he heard his dog barking inside. So he came back
into the city for help, and then the hole was made bigger, and they
discovered this place."
"How very curious!" said Sir William.
"Here we are," said Mr. Stanley, "here is the hole; now, Miss Lindsay,
are you ready to leave the sunshine behind?"
We had brought candles with us, and we lighted them and began slowly to
descend, crouching for some distance almost on our hands and knees, for
there was not room to stand upright. But after we had gone thus for a
few yards, we found ourselves in a large, rock-hewn cave, as spacious
as an immense church, and from this point, passage after passage went
in different directions.
Our guide led the way and we followed; hall after hall, passage after
passage, we explored; we went for nearly a mile underneath the streets
of Jerusalem.
"Can you picture the scene, 3,000 years ago," said Mr. Stanley to me,
"when the place was full of Solomon's workmen? Look! Here are the marks
of their tools in the stone, as fresh as ever. And do you see this?"
he said, as he pointed to a little niche in the wall. "This is where
the workman put his lamp whilst he was at work; you see even the black
smoke which the flame left on the stone above is still here."
"How very wonderful!" I said. "Oh, Mr. Stanley, it is an interesting
place!"
"Yes," he said, smiling, "I knew you would like it, that is why I
wanted so much to come here; it is one of my favourite places, and I
wanted you to see it. It is a great comfort to me, oftentimes, this
deserted quarry."
"How can it be a comfort to you?" I asked.
"It is such a wonderful picture," he said.
"A picture of what?"
"Is not there a temple being built now?" he said, gently. "A far
grander and more beautiful one than Solomon's—the temple in the
Heavenly Jerusalem; you see now?"
"Yes," I answered, "I think I do; but please tell me; I like to hear
your thoughts about it, and why it comforts you."
"Don't you think the dark, dismal quarry is like this world; it is not
a very bright place, is it? And you and I both know what trouble is."
"How did you know that I did, Mr. Stanley?"
"I knew it by your face; I can read faces very well," he said, smiling;
"but though we are both in the dark quarry now, we shall not always
have to stay here—for God, the Master Builder, has hewn us from the
rock, cut us away from old surroundings, and from the old nature. We
are no longer a part of the old rock, but by God's grace have been
taken out of it; do you see?"
"You mean when we were converted?"
"Yes, and it was a hard wrench at the time, was it not? But we can be
thankful for the work of the crowbar now."
"But we are still in the quarry," I said.
"Yes, and why? Because the work is not done, we are not yet fit for
the Temple—a rough stone would be a disfigurement to God's beautiful
building—each stone must be cut, and chipped, and faced, and squared
after it is hewn out of the rock. Our bad tempers, and habits, and
unholy thoughts must all, by degrees, be done away with. It is a work
of time and patience; and it is not always pleasant to feel the pick
and the chisel at work on us, but it is such a comfort to know in whose
Hand the tool is, and that He can make no mistakes."
"What are the tools?" I asked.
"Don't you think there are different tools for different kinds of
work?" he said. "Look how many tools have been used here. There is the
mark of a heavy crowbar, which has severed the block from the side
of the rock. And look here at this stone which has been left on the
ground, you can see the mark of the pick, with which the block was
brought a little into shape. And here you can see the marks of the
finer tools, the chisels, which were used to give the necessary finish
to the stones."
"And God's tools?" I said.
"Are just as varied, are they not? A great trouble comes—a heavy
blow like the great crowbar, and separates us from the world. But,
after that, day by day, and hour by hour, God must work upon us with
His finer tools—small vexations, little crosses, little losses, home
troubles; all these, I think, are God's tools, making us ready for a
place in the Temple. Don't you think it is a wonderful comfort to look
upon worries and cares as God's tools?"
"Yes," I said, "that is a nice thought."
"And soon," said Mr. Stanley, "the work will be finished, and then we
shall leave the dark quarry behind for ever, and be carried to our
place in the sunshine and light of the glorious Temple above. So,
you see, I was not wrong in saying that this deserted quarry was a
comforting place; you will think of it sometimes, will you not?"
"Indeed I shall," I said.
"And next time a trouble comes which you cannot understand, and which
seems so very hard to bear, just say to yourself, 'It is God's chisel
at work upon me.'"
I had much to tell Evelyn when I came back to the hotel, and much, very
much, to treasure up in my own heart for use in days to come.
Mr. Stanley got for me a piece of stone from the walls of the quarry,
with the marks of the chisel upon it, and I put it carefully away, with
my spray of olive-leaves.
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