The Manitowoc Pilot

THE SUMMIT OF OLIVET.

CONGRESSMAN COX'S DESCRIPTION OF THE

RIDE UP THE MOUNT OF OLIVES.

We reach the summit of Olivet. Leaving for the present the old tower on the left, the tombs of the prophets on the right and "ruins" near the brow of the mountain we go to the old crowning mosque. There is a sheik here, too. He is in command and levies his tribute. They all do. Near is a church to commemorate the ascension. After our guide has embraced and kissed his sheik also we mount the dark winding stairs of this minaret. It is called Tur. The wind blows quite cool. The view on every point is superb. It is the finest prospect about Jerusalem, as it is seen from every part of the city. So from it all the prominent objects are visible.

Below us immediately are the trim terraces, where corn is sometimes raised on ledges of rock; but the olive trees are not plentiful but sporadic. There are enough of them even unto this day to vindicate the name of Olivet. There is a clear sky. No haze obscures the sight. The mountain is a ridge, and rises above Mount Moriah some 220 feet. The walls of the city and octagonal mosque on the temple's site, and a few cypresses and the dark dome seen under us, though across the deep ravine. Here Jerusalem and its churches and holy places is indeed "golden" Jerusalem. From St. Stephen's to the Golden Gate to the southeast corner, the magnificence of the eastern walls is appreciated in all their beauty and strength. We cannot see the tombs on the hither side of the Valley of Jehoshaphat, nor the multitude of flat Jewish gravestones awaiting removal when the dry bones of Ezekiel shall rattle for the judgment; but the massive masonry of the old wall shows grandly, although 100 feet of it is still concealed by piles of rubbish. The city in its towers, elevations, with their angles and gardens, towers and domes, stand out and up in its lights and shades. Wrap your coat about you for it is cold on the minaret, and take your glass for the far off eastern view.

Not yet—wait. Below you to the east, is the beginning of that "Wilderness of Judea, which no one that saw the Sahara around Damascus can mistake for a smiling land. Over white, hot hills, and over gray, verdureless vales, in involutions and convolutions, and swathed in simmering sunshine, the bleak landscape descends for miles, until it melts into the valley of the Jordan, whose course can be traced by its zone of greenery. The glare is not so great in mid-afternoon to see the line of the valley or the dark line of the river as it enters the stark still Dead Sea, a portion of which, like a bluish cadaver in an immense sarcophagus, is discovered between the brown hills and cliffs of the intervening wilderness and the range on the horizon's verge. A few olives break the sameness of the color till the pale azure of the Dead Sea is reached by the vision. Above it is a massive wall so remote as to seem like an exhalation, and yet so near that its shadows and ridges appear. These mountains are fifty miles away. They are the ever beauteous mountains of Moab.

The truth is that Olivet is not a half hour's walk, and even if the ascension were at Bethany, which is beyond Olivet, is not an hour away. But whatever be the fact, Olivet is holy ground. It was chosen by the Savior for his most confiding utterances. Was it not here that He talked of what would befall Jerusalem, His disciples and Himself? Was it not here that He spoke some of the wisest parables and prayed and rested at evening, after turmoil and toil of the city and day? Was it here that He agonized and gave up His own will to do His Father's will? If His ascension was at Bethany, certainly He passed—even as we are now passing—over Olivet to reach Bethany.

On the summit of Olivet we find a newly built cloister for nuns. It was built by a French princess, Mme. Latour d'Auvergne, and is to be eventually her tomb. It is said to be the spot where our Savior taught his disciples how to pray. In the inner court of the cloister is arranged, on little tables, the Lord's prayer in thirty-three different languages. As we enter, our Spanish pilgrims crowd the court and surround the tomb of the princess. A life-size figure in white marble lies at full length over the sarcophagus, and is said to be a good likeness. The face and figure are those of a beautiful woman, angelic in death. Sweet lavender and other flowers ornament the garden and give their aroma to the shaded walks, and all is in neat and dainty contrast with the dirt and slovenliness of the city. The princess is absent now on a visit to France, her native country, but her workmen are perfecting her future mausoleum.