to the rocks with a clutch as hard and bony
as the hand of Death. In the bed of the valley the fig tree thrives, and
sometimes the vine and fig grow together, forming the patriarchal arbor of
shade familiar to us all. The shoots of the tree are still young and
green, but the blossoms of the grape do not yet give forth their goodly
savor. I did not hear the voice of the turtle, but a nightingale sang in
the briery thickets by the brook side, as we passed along.

Climbing out of this valley, we descended by a stony staircase, as rugged
as the Ladder of Tyre, into the Wady Beit-Hanineh. Here were gardens of
oranges in blossom, with orchards of quince and apple, overgrown with
vines, and the fragrant hawthorn tree, snowy with its bloom. A stone
bridge, the only one on the road, crosses the dry bed of a winter stream,
and, looking up the glen, I saw the Arab village of Kulonieh, at the
entrance of the valley of Elah, glorious with the memories of the
shepherd-boy, David. Our road turned off to the right, and commenced
ascending a long, dry glen between mountains which grew more sterile the
further we went. It was nearly two hours past noon, the sun fiercely hot,
and our horses were nigh jaded out with the rough road and our impatient
spurring. I began to fancy we could see Jerusalem from the top of the
pass, and tried to think of the ancient days of Judea. But it was in vain.
A newer picture shut them out, and banished even the diviner images of Our
Saviour and His Disciples. Heathen that I was, I could only think of
Godfrey and the Crusaders, toiling up the same path, and the ringing lines
of Tasso vibrated constantly in my ear:

"Ecco apparir Gierusalemm' si vede;
Ecco additar Gierusalemm' si scorge;
Ecco da mille voci unitamente,
Gierusalemme salutar si sente!"

The Palestine of the Bible--the Land of Promise to the Israelites, the
land of Miracle and Sacrifice to the Apostles and their followers--still
slept in the unattainable distance, under a sky of bluer and more tranquil
loveliness than that to whose cloudless vault I looked up. It lay as far
and beautiful as it once seemed to the eye of childhood, and the swords of
Seraphim kept profane feet from its sacred hills. But these rough rocks
around me, these dry, fiery hollows, these thickets of ancient oak and
ilex, had heard the trumpets of the Middle Ages, and the clang and
clatter of European armor--I could feel and believe that. I entered the
ranks; I fo