est of Hattin is Nazareth; that great
plain south of Nazareth is Esdraelon, the 'battle-field of Palestine';
these rounded mountains here in the eastern part of the Valley of
Esdraelon are Tabor, Little Hermon, and Gilboa;--on the north is Tabor,
at whose base Napoleon fought; the next is Little Hermon, where lived
the witch of Endor; and the one south of Little Hermon is Gilboa, where
Saul and his sons were slain; that range of mountains forming the
southern wall of Esdraelon is Carmel, where Elijah held his trial with
the priests of Baal; here below us, winding in its serpentine course,
is the Jordan in its great trough or Ghor; in the center of the picture
are the mountains of Samaria, with Ebal and Gerizim; to the south are
the mountains of Judea, where lies Jerusalem; and that broad expanse of
water beyond all these is the Mediterranean, the 'great sea toward the
going down of the sun.'"

Then I waited for his criticism. He said, "You are right in every
point, but how did you know?" I said, "It is just like the Palestine of
my childhood's fancy that I located in the field back of the barn on my
father's little farm in western Pennsylvania, and with that picture I
have been familiar from the days of my early youth." It is impossible
for me to express what were my feelings at this supreme moment of my
life, as I viewed for the first time what is distinctively known as the
land of Patriarch, Prophet, Priest, and King--the land of my Redeemer's
earthly pilgrimage--the world's best Holy Land! After some time spent
in viewing that almost matchless scene, and in gathering mountain
lilies, we began our descent into the most remarkable depression in the
world--the great Ghor of the Jordan. The next few hours afforded little
of pleasure. Careful attention had to be given to our horses as we
wound about among the rocks. The horses of both my dragoman and
muleteer fell on this trip, but without serious results to either
horses or riders. It was quite wearying to proceed thus, so when we
finally reached a large sloping rock under which was a kind of stagnant
pool--the only water we had seen since leaving Coefrinje--I was glad to
know that there we would lunch, even though I could not drink of the
water.

This rocky wady is like a prison-house to me. But while eating I hear
sweet strains of music somewhere on the mountains--it is from a
shepherd's pipe. Scanning the heights I see far above me shepherds with
their flocks of she