cho. The dark range of Gilead and Moab seems
like a huge wall of lapis-lazuli beyond the furrowed, wrinkled,
yellowish clay-hills and the wide gray trench of the Jordan Valley,
wherein the river marks its crooked path with a line of deep green. The
hundreds of ridges that slope steeply down to that immense depression
are touched with a thousand hues of amethystine light, and the ravines
between them filled with a thousand tones of azure shadow. At the end
of the valley glitter the blue waters of the Dead Sea, fifteen miles
away, four thousand feet below us, yet seeming so near that we almost
expect to hear the sound of its waves on the rocky shores of the
Wilderness of Tekoa.

On this mount Jesus of Nazareth often walked with His disciples. On this
widespread landscape His eyes rested as He spoke divinely of the
invisible kingdom of peace and love and joy that shall never pass away.
Over this walled city, sleeping in the sunshine, full of earthly dreams
and disappointments, battlemented hearts and whited sepulchres of the
spirit, He wept, and cried: "O Jerusalem, how often would I have
gathered thy children together even as a hen gathereth her own brood
under her wings, and ye would not!"

III

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE

Come down, now, from the mount of vision to the grove of olive-trees,
the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus used to take refuge with His
friends. It lies on the eastern slope of Olivet, not far above the
Valley of Kidron, over against that city-gate which was called the
Beautiful, or the Golden, but which is now walled up.

The grove probably belonged to some friend of Jesus or of one of His
disciples, who permitted them to make use of it for their quiet
meetings. At that time, no doubt, the whole hillside was covered with
olive-trees, but most of these have now disappeared. The eight aged
trees that still cling to life in Gethsemane have been inclosed with a
low wall and an iron railing, and the little garden that blooms around
them is cared for by Franciscan monks from Italy.

The gentle, friendly Fra Giovanni, in bare sandaled feet, coarse brown
robe, and broad-brimmed straw hat, is walking among the flowers. He
opens the gate for us and courteously invites us in, telling us in
broken French that we may pick what flowers we like. Presently I fall
into discourse with him in broken Italian, telling him of my visit years
ago to the cradle of his Order at Assisi, and to its most beautiful
shrine