ed, as has already been suggested,
I think such festivities a great glory of English life.
But I have seen the snow melting in the steep places about Jerusalem;
and I know what a cataract it could feed.

As I considered these things a deepening disquiet possessed me,
and my thoughts were far away from where I stood. After all,
the English did not indulge in this doubling of parts and muddling
of mistaken identity in their real and unique success in India.
They may have been wrong or right but they were realistic about Moslems
and Hindoos; they did not say Moslems were Hindoos, or send a highly
intelligent Hindoo from Oxford to rule Moslems as an Englishman.
They may not have cared for things like the ideal of Zionism;
but they understood the common sense of Zionism, the desirability
of distinguishing between entirely different things.
But I remembered that of late their tact had often failed them
even in their chief success in India; and that every hour
brought worse and wilder news of their failure in Ireland.
I remembered that in the Early Victorian time, against the advice
only of the wisest and subtlest of the Early Victorians, we had tied
ourselves to the triumphant progress of industrial capitalism; and that
progress had now come to a crisis and what might well be a crash.
And now, on the top of all, our fine patriotic tradition of foreign
policy seemed to be doing these irrational and random things.
A sort of fear took hold of me; and it was not for the Holy Land
that I feared.

A cold wave went over me, like that unreasonable change and chill
with which a man far from home fancies his house has been burned down,
or that those dear to him are dead. For one horrible moment at least I
wondered if we had come to the end of compromise and comfortable nonsense,
and if at last the successful stupidity of England would topple
over like the successful wickedness of Prussia; because God is not
mocked by the denial of reason any more than the denial of justice.
And I fancied the very crowds of Jerusalem retorted on me words
spoken to them long ago; that a great voice crying of old along
the Via Dolorosa was rolled back on me like thunder from the mountains;
and that all those alien faces are turned against us to-day,
bidding us weep not for them, who have faith and clarity and a purpose,
but weep for ourselves and for our children.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DESERT

There was a story in Jerusalem so