ne with its benediction and its blasphemy,
the city that is set upon a hill, and cannot be hid.

CHAPTER III

THE GATES OF THE CITY

The men I met coming from Jerusalem reported all sorts of
contradictory impressions; and yet my own impression contradicted
them all. Their impressions were doubtless as true as mine;
but I describe my own because it is true, and because I think it
points to a neglected truth about the real Jerusalem. I need not say
I did not expect the real Jerusalem to be the New Jerusalem; a city
of charity and peace, any more than a city of chrysolite and pearl.
I might more reasonably have expected an austere and ascetic place,
oppressed with the weight of its destiny, with no inns except monasteries,
and these sealed with the terrible silence of the Trappists;
an awful city where men speak by signs in the street.
I did not need the numberless jokes about Jerusalem to-day,
to warn me against expecting this; anyhow I did not expect it,
and certainly I did not find it. But neither did I find what I
was much more inclined to expect; something at the other extreme.
Many reports had led me to look for a truly cosmopolitan town,
that is a truly conquered town. I looked for a place like Cairo,
containing indeed old and interesting things, but open on every side
to new and vulgar things; full of the touts who seem only created
for the tourists and the tourists who seem only created for the touts.
There may be more of this in the place than pleases those
who would idealise it. But I fancy there is much less of it
than is commonly supposed in the reaction from such an ideal.
It does not, like Cairo, offer the exciting experience of twenty
guides fighting for one traveller; of young Turks drinking American
cocktails as a protest against Christian wine. The town is quite
inconvenient enough to make it a decent place for pilgrims.
Or a stranger might have imagined a place even less Western than Cairo,
one of those villages of Palestine described in dusty old books
of Biblical research. He might remember drawings like diagrams
representing a well or a wine-press, rather a dry well, so to speak,
and a wine-press very difficult to associate with wine. These hard
colourless outlines never did justice to the colour of the East, but even
to give it the colour of the East would not do justice to Jerusalem.
If I had anticipated the Bagdad of all our dreams, a maze of bazaars
glowing with gorgeous wares, I