d by
the earthquake which followed the Crucifixion. But, to my eyes, aided by
the light of the dim wax taper, it was no violent rupture, such as an
earthquake would produce, and the rock did not appear to be the same as
that of which Jerusalem is built. As we turned to leave, a monk appeared
with a bowl of sacred rose-water, which he sprinkled on our hands,
bestowing a double portion on a rosary of sandal-wood which I carried But
it was a Mohammedan rosary, brought from Mecca, and containing the sacred
number of ninety-nine beads.

I have not space here to state all the arguments for and against the
localities in the Holy Sepulchre, I came to the conclusion that none of
them were authentic, and am glad to have the concurrence of such
distinguished authority as Dr. Robinson. So far from this being a matter
of regret, I, for one, rejoice that those sacred spots are lost to the
world. Christianity does not need them, and they are spared a daily
profanation in the name of religion. We know that Christ has walked on the
Mount of Olives, and gone down to the Pool of Siloam, and tarried in
Bethany; we know that here, within the circuit of our vision, He has
suffered agony and death, and that from this little point went out all the
light that has made the world greater and happier and better in its later
than in its earlier days.

Yet, I must frankly confess, in wandering through this city--revered
alike by Christians, Jews and Turks as one of the holiest in the world--I
have been reminded of Christ, the Man, rather, than of Christ, the God. In
the glory which overhangs Palestine afar off, we imagine emotions which
never come, when we tread the soil and walk over the hallowed sites. As I
toiled up the Mount of Olives, in the very footsteps of Christ, panting
with the heat and the difficult ascent, I found it utterly impossible to
conceive that the Deity, in human form, had walked there before me. And
even at night, as I walk on the terraced roof, while the moon, "the balmy
moon of blessed Israel," restores the Jerusalem of olden days to my
imagination, the Saviour who then haunts my thoughts is the Man Jesus, in
those moments of trial when He felt the weaknesses of our common humanity;
in that agony of struggle in the garden of Gethsemane, in that still more
bitter cry of human doubt and human appeal from the cross: "My God, my
God, why hast Thou forsaken me!" Yet there is no reproach for this
conception of the character of Ch