The Maccabaean

IN viewing the majestic ruins of the Holy City and in comparing them with the mean structures that a modern age has erected, one cannot suppress that feeling of melancholy which always haunts the mind whenever it contemplates the sad changes that time has wrought.

There are some buildings in Jerusalem rather do not excite this sense of gloom, but rather by their unfailing charms more than compensate for the desolation around them. These are the school-houses. Within these domains still linger the rays of cheerfulness and sanctity reflected from the marble walls of the Temple. These schools stand to-day as living monuments of a piety which Assyria could not vanquish; of a love for learning which Rome could not destroy.

Within some sequestered courtyard, some ancient synagogue or some wide upper-chamber, so abundant throughout the Holy City, learning loves to dwell. Places are chosen which are free from noise and which contain the marks of the ages have left. The history of his forefathers must fully penetrate into the pupil's mind, and must arouse in him the determination never to depart from their instructions. In that atmosphere the beauty of the Bible speaks most powerfully to the youthful heart.

The delight which accompanied my visit to one of the elementary schools of Jerusalem induced me also to visit one of the higher institutions of learning.

One afternoon in June I walked down that street which leads to the Jericho Gate—a street abounding in vaulted cook-shops and grotto-like vegetable stores—a street where many strange sounds are heard; predominating among them, the long-drawn-out backsheesh cry of the beggar and the dulcet music of the sherbet vendor’s cymbals. These sounds, however, gradually died away, and as I approached

the Haram Area nothing broke the intense silence except the low melody of some pious Moslem chant.

The houses in that vicinity bore the marks of age and indicated by their massive nail-studded doors and thick iron-grated windows that they were tenanted by Moslems. Among these buildings was one which was not equipped with such contrivances for concealment, and which did not share the forsaken aspect of the rest. Its broad windows gave free access to air and sunshine, and its large door stood open to all those who might choose to enter. Nevertheless, it seemed as much immune from disturbance as the adjacent houses. There was no sign of an educational establishment, but as I approached the door I noticed the following verse enchiseled upon the lintel of the door:

"The ways of the law are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are peace."

In the courtyard there was nobody to be seen and the lusty sounds, with which the Talmud is studied, fell upon my ears as the buzzing of bumblebees and told me that the students were hammering away at their lessons. But despite their energy these sounds were not without a certain charm; they added cheerfulness to tranquility.

While I was admiring the arrangement of the courtyard, that appeared to fit it so well as a recreation place for the students, I became aware that there was yet another place for this purpose—one that afforded better shelter from the heat.

A few steps from the well was a green, wooden door, that stood half open and permitted a view into a spacious enclosure, where a huge plane tree and several cypresses produced a cool and soothing shade. A wooden bench encircled the trunk of the plane tree, and seats of wood and stone were irregularly distributed in the shade of the cypresses. There