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Wade

      Our Little Jewish Cousin

Preface

      In whatever direction you may travel, – north, south, east, or west, – you will doubtless meet some of your little black-eyed Jewish cousins. They live among us here in America. They also dwell in the countries far away across the wide ocean.

      Why are they so scattered, you may ask. Is there no country which is really theirs, and which is ruled over by some one they have chosen? Is there not some place where they can gather together happily whenever they please? The answer is always no.

      They cannot say of this land or of that, "It is ours," for they are homeless. Palestine, which was once theirs, is now in the hands of the Turks. Jerusalem, the city they love best in the whole world, is in the power of those who look with scorn upon the Jewish people.

      For many centuries they have been scattered far and wide. Their children learn to speak the language of the country where they happen to be born. They play the games and dress in the fashion of that country.

      What is it that keeps them Jews? It is their religion, and their religion alone. It binds them as closely together now as it did in the days when they worshipped in the great temple at Jerusalem, two thousand years ago.

      These Jewish cousins would say to us, "Our people have suffered greatly. Yet they do not lose courage. Our parents tell us stories of the glorious past, over and over again. They will not let us forget it, and they teach us to hope for the time when Jerusalem will again be ours, and a new temple, in which we shall be free to worship, will stand upon the spot where the old one was destroyed."

      CHAPTER I

      THE PLACE OF WAILING

      "Come, Esther! Come, Solomon! I am waiting for you," cried a woman's voice.

      The two children were in the courtyard, but, when they heard their mother calling, they ran into the house at once.

      They knew why they were called, for it was Friday afternoon. Every week at this time they went to the "Place of Wailing" with their parents to weep over the troubles of their people and to think of the old days of Jerusalem, before the Romans conquered the city.

      "Esther, your hair needs brushing. Solomon, make your hands and face as clean as possible," said their mother, as she looked at the children.

      She loved them very dearly. She was proud of them, too. Solomon was a bright, clever boy, quick in his studies, while Esther was really beautiful. Her glossy black hair hung in long curls down her back. Her black eyes were soft and loving. Her skin was of a pale olive tint, and her cheeks were often flushed a delicate pink.

      Her mother looked tenderly at her as she brushed the little girl's hair.

      "Mamma, grandma says I look ever so much as you did when you were my age," said Esther, as she trudged by her mother's side down the narrow street.

      "Yes, yes, my child, I have heard her say so. But never mind your looks or mine now. Think of where we are going."

      It was a hot walk. The sun was shining brightly. The street, the stone houses, everything around shone dusty gray in colour. There were no sidewalks. When a camel drew near with his load, or a horseman passed by, Esther had to walk close to the walls of the houses for fear the animals would rub against her.

      She was born in this old city of Jerusalem. She had never been far away from it, and knew little of the wide streets and broad sidewalks found in many other cities.

      She had sometimes heard her father and mother talk of their life in Spain. They came from that country before Esther and her brother were born. It was a long journey, but they had said, "We cannot be happy anywhere except in Jerusalem. That alone is the home of our people."

      Esther's father might have grown rich in Spain. He was a trader. He understood his business well. But in Jerusalem it was harder for him to get money.

      What a strange name for the place where the family were going this afternoon! But it well deserved to be called "The Place of Wailing." It was a dark, dreary court with stone walls on three sides of it. Many Jews were already there when Esther and her people arrived.

      Some of them were seated on the ground. They were weeping bitterly and rocking their bodies to and fro. Others, with sad faces, were reading from the Hebrew Bible. Still others were kissing the wall and bumping it with their foreheads. Some parts of the rock had actually been worn smooth by the lips of those who had come here week after week and year after year. For they really believed it was a part of the old temple wall.

      Little Esther, with her glossy black curls, did just what she saw the others do. The tears began to fall from her eyes as she went close up to the wall and kissed the cold gray stone.

      Did all of these people really feel as bad as they seemed to do? Certainly. For they were grieving that Jerusalem was no longer great and no longer theirs. It was now in the hands of the Turks, but, long before they came, the Romans had taken the city from the Jews, after a long and bitter fight.

      Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath. It is their holy day, and the time when they rest from work. On Friday afternoon they begin to prepare for the Sabbath. Hundreds of the Jews in Jerusalem gather at the Place of Wailing at that time. They not only weep and read from their Bible, but they also pray to the Lord to take their country out of the hands of their enemies and give it back to them.

      As Esther walked home she looked up at the mosque of Omar. It is the Turks' grandest place of worship in the city. Her father told her that it stands on the very spot where Solomon's wonderful temple was built.

      "That temple was the most beautiful one ever seen by men," said the Jew. "Its brightness was enough to dazzle the eyes of those who looked upon it. Its walls were plated with gold. The very gate was golden.

      "A beautiful golden vine, with clusters of grapes as large as a man's body, was draped over the gate. The floor was paved with gold. Golden lilies were carved upon the pillars and mouldings.

      "There was no door. But there was a reason for this. It was to show that the heavens are always open. They are closed to no one."

      "And now, papa, nothing is left of that beautiful building," said Esther.

      "Not one stone, my dear. But we Jews all hope the time will come when it will be rebuilt."

      "It was not the first temple which was destroyed by the Romans when they took Jerusalem, was it?"

      "Oh, no. The second temple had been standing in its place for hundreds of years at that time. It was wonderfully beautiful, too. Herod the Great spent vast sums of money on it. It was the wonder of every one who looked upon it. But our enemies destroyed it, as you well know."

      That evening, while Esther and her brother sat by their father's side, he told them the story of the destruction of Jerusalem and of the brave men and women who tried to save it.

      The Jews had feared for some time that something dreadful would happen. They had seen strange visions. While the feast of the Passover was taking place, the great temple was filled with a light like that of noonday. And this happened at the ninth hour of the night.

      Something else quite as wonderful as this took place. The bronze door of the Gate Beautiful opened of itself at the sixth hour of the night. Yet this very gate was so heavy that twenty men could scarcely move it, even when the great iron bolts had been drawn.

      Esther looked up at her father with surprised eyes as he told of these things. But when he spoke of seven chariots that drove across the sky, and of the armies the frightened people saw in the clouds, she was still more astonished.

      "I should think our soldiers would have lost courage before they were attacked," she exclaimed.

      "Not so, Esther. But listen, my child, as I describe the mighty Roman army that soon drew near Jerusalem. Multitudes of Syrians had joined them, and these led the way as they came marching up the heights.

      "Titus, the Roman general, followed the Syrians. The spearmen came with him. Next came the legions with their terrible short swords and the trumpets that filled the air with word of their approach.

      "Every footman among the Romans was armed with

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