dreariness of his lamentations.  The whole valley in which the village stands, as well as another which joins it on the east, is most assiduously cultivated.  The stony mountain sides are wrought into terraces, where, in spite of soil which resembles an American turnpike, patches of wheat are growing luxuriantly, and olive trees, centuries old, hold on 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 followed the trumpets and the holy hymns, and waited breathlessly for the moment when every mailed knee should drop in the dust, and every bearded and sunburned cheek be wet with devotional tears.