orrespondent, careful to verify all his statistics and meticulous
in the exact description of all his events. This view of things melted
from us with a gradual surprise as we realised that the more deeply we
entered into the poetry, the closer we should come to the truth, of the
narrative. Its moral and religious meaning is firm and steadfast as the
mountains round about Jerusalem; but even as those mountains rose before
us glorified, uplifted, and bejewelled by the vague splendours of the
sunset, so the form of the history was enlarged and its colours
irradiated by the figurative spirit of the East.

There at our feet, bathed in the beauty of the evening air, lay the
Valley of Aijalon, where Joshua fought with the "five kings of the
Amorites," and broke them and chased them. The "kings" were head-men of
scattered villages, chiefs of fierce and ragged tribes. But the fighting
was hard, and as Joshua led his wild clansmen down upon them from the
ascent of Beth-horon, he feared the day might be too short to win the
victory. So he cheered the hearts of his men with an old war-song from
the Book of Jasher.

"Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon;
And thou, moon, in the Valley of Aijalon.
And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed,
Until the nation had avenged themselves of their enemies."

Does any one suppose that this is intended to teach us that the sun
moves and that on this day his course was arrested? Must we believe that
the whole solar system was dislocated for the sake of this battle? To
understand the story thus is to misunderstand its vital spirit. It is
poetry, imagination, heroism. By the new courage that came into the
hearts of Israel with their leader's song, the Lord shortened the
conflict to fit the day, and the sunset and the moonrise saw the Valley
of Aijalon swept clean of Israel's foes.

As we passed through the wretched, mud-built village of Latrun (said to
be the birthplace of the Penitent Thief), a dozen long-robed Arabs were
earnestly discussing some question of municipal interest in the grassy
market-place. They were as grave as the storks, in their solemn plumage
of black and white, which were parading philosophically along the edge
of a marsh to our right. A couple of jackals slunk furtively across the
road ahead of us in the dusk. A _kafila_ of long-necked camels undulated
over the plain. The shadows fell more heavily over cactus-hedge and
olive-orchard as we turned down the hill.

I