THE WAILING PLACE AT JERUSALEM
DurınG one of those languid evenings in the month of Ab, when the ruins of Jerusalem appear so unusually dreary, I entered, in company with Rabbi Eliezer, the intricate street of the Chain on our way to the Jews’ Wailing Place. The spirit of melancholy which pervaded this street rendered it a fit prelude to the place whither it led. There were intimations of gloom in everything about, us: in the broken slabs of the pavement, in the crannied walls overgrown with weeds and mosses, in the columns of dust that rose towards every hole in the over-arching roof and in the rude lanterns that glimmered so mistily in front of cook-shops and coffee-houses. Ages of decay had imparted a weird and. ghastly air to the half-buried stairways and chinky jut-windows, to the antique balconies and quaintly parqueted housetops. The indefinable sadness which broods over the ancient edifices of Egypt and Babylon lingered within these shadowy courtyards covered with mouldering vegetation and within their secret upper-chambers whose fair inmates were doomed to share the fate of those magnificent flowers in the sea that remain hidden from human gaze. Centuriess of accumulated languor and melancholy weighed down upon these dwellings—dwellings that occupied the sites of the airy abodes of a freedom-loving people. The sweet serenity of the homes of Israel was not reflected by these dungeon- like habitations. The sombre ramparts that rose on every side, the massive doors profusely studded with nails, the windows encompassed with thick bars of iron told of lives dominated by morbid passions and dark superstitions.
There was, indeed, nothing in our surroundings which did not present a mournfully faded aspect, which did not bear witness to the tragic transformation of the City of David.
It was not without a certain feeling of dread that we passed beneath the low arches of the labyrinthine street of the Chain. Offensive was the sight of those strange niches in the wall where the mercer, saddler or spice-dealer had spread out their wares. We saw scarcely anything to recall the ancient splendor of Jerusalem. The eye was struck by the vaulted tanneries, cavernous bazaars and extensive coffee-houses that suggested the burrows of antiquity. Everywhere we beheld furrowed battlements yellow with age and quaint narrow windows pierced through grey turrets and dilapidated domes. This air, laden with uncomfortable qualms, was not the quickening air of the Holy City, scented with the sweet breath of aloes and cinnamon. Many were the sounds we heard—the half-suppressed voice of conversation, the shrill cries of the fruit-monger, the loud tinkling of the sherbet-vendors' cymbals—but none of them recalled to us the divine language that was once spoken here, the agreeable sounds of cheerful labor and of fervent devotion that once echoed within these sacred precincts.
This was no longer the atmosphere of freedom where men lived so happily. The men inspired with the love of truth and liberty no longer trod these streets. The oppressive customs and traditions of a primitive age had replaced the grand civilization that once flourished here. Utter spiritlessness reigned everywhere. We saw scarcely a countenance that was not disfigured by depravity. All seemed bent beneath the gloom and the tyrannical spirit of antiquity. Fellahin in their sombre abbas, fruit-vendors in their blue robes faded with age, merchants in white tunics and crimson slippers, soldiers with tarnished fezzes and curious yataghans of rude workmanship and water-carriers with queer-shaped water-bottles that called to mind the