the sword: because ye are turned away from the Lord, therefore the Lord will not be with you.
But they presumed to go up unto the hill top: nevertheless the ark of the covenant of the Lord, and Moses, departed not out of the camp.
We must not force the hand of Providence. In His own time God will hasten our redemption.
Then the Amalekites came down, and the Canaanites which dwelt in that hill, and smote them, and discomfited them, even unto Hormah.”
On the eve of Tishah b'Ab —it was in the year 1903—I was riding eastwards out of the City of Jerusalem.
On both sides ruins, hills, valleys, rocks. . . . . Before me rises the Mount of Olives. How much that recalls to our hearts, how many historical memories does it awaken! Of this mountain all of our own poets dream, towards it they strive. But nothing is left us of it save the name. Vanished, the green adornment. Utter desolation . . . . No tree, no blade of grass . . . . Rocks, tombstones, graves . . . . Israel's sepulchres! . . . . Wherever the eye turns, graves, graves, graves. . . .
I ride to the summit of the mountain,and 'gaze down upon the surroundingruins.. . . .
Fancy carries me back to the distant, distant past. And before me there arises the happy time when this mountain was no cemetery, no place of Death, no, it was a place of life, of a great and glorious Life. . . .
To the west of the Mount of Olives Jerusalem and its vicinity are spread out —Mount Moriah. On that mountain, where once the proud Temple of Jerusalem reared its heights, there now stands a Mohammedan Mosque. . . .
I ride further, still further. And now in the midst of all these solitudes—as an oasis in the desert—a quite, restful domicile emerges before my eyes. Green, flourishing trees.. . . . A charming grove, flowers, beautiful paths, a spotless court-
yard and in the middle of it a Christian Orthodox-Russian Church. The priest, Father Parthentuis, is now very old. He can look back over four score of years. He is of tall build, slim, unassuming and neatly dressed, like all Orthodox priests. His face is red, particularly the edge of his nose.
All his movements, even his gait, bespeak a jocund character, of simple, friendly habits. He led me in and showed me the wood, the building, and the pavillion surrounded with grape trellises, from which a vista towards the Dead Sea opens. Thus I walked around with the priest several hours, while he, in inspired tones, told me how all that the eye could see around the place had been created through his own handiwork; the grove, the paths, the pavillion and the buildings round about.
He explained, and I listened to every word, I followed every detail: “More than twenty years have passed since I came hither from the County of Kursk. The place was desolate, deserted like the whole vicinity of the Mount of Olives. There, just look!”—and he pointed to the mountainous country round about his home—“I settled here and began to cultivate the sacred soil. With my own hands I cleared the place of stones, dug ditches, and planted trees, all these flourishing trees, which you are now admiring. There was a time”—so he continued his narrative—“when there was still no water on