Hardly more than a stone’s throw outside the northern or Damascus Gate of the Holy City stands a white block of buildings which glare in the brilliance of the Oriental sun. The whiteness is enhanced by the dark green of the pines, olives and fig trees from the midst of which the buildings rise. Altogether the place with its garden is a landmark of the district, bare for the most part of vegetation. Indeed there are few such gardens near Jerusalem, and this owes its existence solely to the energy and enthusiasm of a group of men whose aim in the Holy Land is by no means that of gardeners. Forty years ago and less, the place was as barren and desolate as the sun-scorched surroundings are to-day. That garden seems to me symbolic.

As you look out over the trees from a window or from a terrace of the house, a glorious sight meets the gaze. Jerusalem lies spread at your feet. You are looking almost due south. On your right you see the great black dome of the church of the Holy Sepulchre ; over on the left is a similar dome, the Dome of the Rock, covering the site of the ancient altar of holocausts ; in the distance rises the pyramidal church of the Dormition of Our Lady, with its accompanying tower marking the scene of the Last Supper; further on the left stands the Mount of Olives crowned by the tower of the Ascension, and at its feet snuggles the little Garden of Gethsemane.