He would either fall on his knees as before a shrine, or cover his face as from a sacrilege.
He would have seen the Albert Memorial.

There is nothing so conspicuous in Jerusalem.

There is nothing so gilded and gaudy in Jerusalem.
Above all, there is nothing in Jerusalem that is on so large a scale and at the same time in so gay and glittering a style.
My simple Eastern Christian would almost certainly be driven to cry aloud, "To what superhuman God was this enormous temple erected?
I hope it is Christ; but I fear it is Antichrist." Such, he would think, might well be the great and golden image of the Prince of the World, set up in this great open space to receive the heathen prayers and heathen sacrifices of a lost humanity.

I fancy he would feel a desire to be at home again amid the humble shrines of Zion.
I really cannot imagine _what_ he would feel, if he were told that the gilded idol was neither a god nor a demon, but a petty German prince who had some slight influence in turning us into the tools of Prussia.
Now I myself, I cheerfully admit, feel that enormity in Kensington Gardens as something quite natural.

I feel it so because I have been brought up, so to speak, under its shadow; and stared at the graven images of Raphael and Shakespeare almost before I knew their names; and long before I saw anything funny in their figures being carved, on a smaller scale, under the feet of Prince Albert.
I even took a certain childish pleasure in the gilding of the canopy and spire, as if in the golden palace of what was, to Peter Pan and all children, something of a fairy garden.
So do the Christians of Jerusalem take pleasure, and possibly a childish pleasure, in the gilding of a better palace, besides a nobler garden, ornamented with a somewhat worthier aim.
But the point is that the people of Kensington, whatever they might think about the Holy Sepulchre, do not think anything at all about the Albert Memorial.