ned every move, and held myself in every way
responsible for results. The experience I thus gained in the many
countries visited I value highly. Not infrequently I found myself in
trying situations; but all ended well. To-day, in my inventory of
life's rich and helpful experiences, though it were possible for me to
do it, I would not eliminate one of these. It was a kind Providence
that denied me the luxury of a place in a modern "personally conducted"
tourist party.

A few articles descriptive of certain experiences have been written by
me for publication. Some themes I have presented on the lecture
platform a few hundred times. My auditors, universally, have been kind
in their criticisms. Many have been the requests that I write a volume
reciting the story of my travels. In response I have steadily refused.
Many books on travel have appeared in recent years, possibly too many;
but I have seen very little that has been written about the
trans-Jordanic highlands. And it is not strange, for, though multitudes
of tourists annually visit Palestine, not one person out of a thousand
of them ever goes east of the Jordan. And is it worth while? We shall
see.

On my trip I tried to identify no biblical site; I tried to locate no
city of antiquity; I dug into no mound; I disturbed no ruin. All this I
left to the geographer, the historian, and the archaeologist who had
preceded me, or who should come after me. True, with the help of my
Bible, map, guide-book, and guide, I formed opinions, and was happy in
the fitness of some of them; but, in the main, I was content to rest in
the conclusions reached by those who had studied scientifically and
reverently every hill and valley and ruin in this neglected region.

But my observation and experience no other has had. I know of no other
who mapped out or traveled the route chosen by me. I sought and
expected much; I found and experienced more. And though eight years
have passed since my journeyings in Gilead, yet so fresh is the memory
of those days that I need make but slight reference, as I write, to the
notes that were then written. Often, in recent years, I have found
myself lingering in thought on some high ridge looking out over an
extended panorama filled with sacred associations, or silently gazing
up into the strangely impressive Oriental sky by night. Even as I write
I seem to catch again a perfume-laden breeze, bearing repose to my
weary soul. And if the memory of this lan