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359

MISCELLANEOUS.         

A VISIT TO THE TOMB OF LAZARUS.

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IN Jerusalem–on foot, or riding a thin, wirey Arab horse–through narrow streets, in and out among a jostling, motley, turbaned, burnoosed crowd–past crowded cafes filled with wild men from beyond the Jordan playing checkers, or a kind of backgammon, each group surrounded by stately Arabs lazily smoking their chibouk–through the Bazaars where others more actively engaged are buying, selling or disputing with money changers–past shops with their picturesque occupants, both Jew and Arab–past a ragged and, perchance, sore-footed sentinel at St. Stephan's Gate, and you are now outside of Jerusalem.

Down a steep road into the Valley of Jehoshaphat, across the dry Kidron to the base of Mt. Olivet, past Gethsemane (the garden), and you are now on the high road to Jericho, about eighteen or twenty miles away. Winding up and down and around this historic hill, the village of Bethany (called by the Arabs, El azariveh) comes in sight. A few moments more, and you are in the "streets" (alleys) and among the "houses" (hovels), and without doubt surrounded by a crowd of young and old, blind and lame; some wanting to hold your animal until you return (the grade is steep); others wanting to lead or whip him on where they know you are going; but one and all wanting "backsheesh." The more given, the larger grows, not only the crowd, but also the demand.

Up a dirty alleyway followed by a laughing, hooting,