We went to Constantinople and to the Crimea
together, then through Greece, and only parted at Charing
Cross.
It was easy to understand Sir Frederick Stephenson's
(supposed) unwillingness to visit Jerusalem. It was probably
far from being what it is now, or even what it was when
Pierre Loti saw it, for there was no railway from Jaffa in
our time. Still, what Loti pathetically describes as 'une
banalite de banlieue parisienne,' was even then too painfully
casting its vulgar shadows before it. And it was rather with
the forlorn eyes of the sentimental Frenchman than with the
veneration of Dean Stanley, that we wandered about the ever-
sacred Aceldama of mortally wounded and dying Christianity.
One dares not, one could never, speak irreverently of
Jerusalem. One cannot think heartlessly of a disappointed
love. One cannot tear out creeds interwoven with the
tenderest fibres of one's heart. It is better to be silent.
Yet is it a place for unwept tears, for the deep sadness and
hard resignation borne in upon us by the eternal loss of
something dearer once than life. All we who are weary and
heavy laden, in whom now shall we seek the rest which is not
nothingness?
My story is told, but I fain would take my leave with words
less sorrowful.
