We journeyed on in a most sweltering atmosphere over the ascending hills, the valley of the Upper Jordan lying deep on our right.  In a shallow hollow, under one of the highest peaks, there stands a large deserted khan; over a well of very cold; sweet water, called Bir Youssuf by the Arabs.  Somewhere near it, according to tradition, is the field where Joseph was sold by his brethren; and the well is, no doubt, looked upon by many as the identical pit into which he was thrown.  A stately Turk of Damascus, with four servants behind him, came riding up as we were resting in the gateway of the khan, and, in answer to my question, informed me that the well was so named from Nebbee Youssuf (the Prophet Joseph), and not from Sultan Joseph Saladin.  He took us for his countrymen, accosting me first in Turkish, and, even after I had talked with him some time in bad Arabic, asked me whether I had been making a pilgrimage to the tombs of certain holy Moslem saints, in the neighborhood of Jaffa.  He joined company with us, however, and shared his pipe with me, as we continued our journey.  We rode for two hours more over hills bare of trees, but covered thick with grass and herbs, and finally lost our way.  Francois went ahead, dashing through the fields of barley and lentils, and we reached the path again, as the Waters of Merom came in sight.  We then descended into the Valley of the Upper Jordan, and encamped opposite the lake, at Ain el-Mellaha (the Fountain of the Salt-Works), the first source of the sacred river.  A stream of water, sufficient to turn half-a-dozen mills, gushes and gurgles up at the foot of the mountain.  There are the remains of an ancient dam, by which a large pool was formed for the irrigation of the valley.  It still supplies a little Arab mill below the fountain.  This is a frontier post, between the jurisdictions of the Pashas of Jerusalem and Damascus, and the mukkairee of the Greek Caloyer, who left us at Tiberias, was obliged to pay a duty of seven and a half piastres on fifteen mats, which he had bought at Jerusalem for one and a half piastres each.  The poor man will perhaps make a dozen piastres (about half a dollar) on these mats at Damascus, after carrying them on his mule for more than two hundred miles.

We pitched our tents on the grassy meadow below the mill—­a charming spot, with Tell el-Khanzir (the hill of wild boars) just in front, over the Waters of Merom, and the snow-streaked summit of Djebel esh-Shekh—­the great Mount Hermon—­towering high above the valley.  This is the loftiest peak of the Anti-Lebanon, and is 10,000 feet above the sea.  The next morning, we rode for three hours before reaching the second spring of the Jordan, at a place which Francois called Tell el-Kadi, but which did not at all answer with the description given me by Dr. Robinson, at Jerusalem.  The upper part of the broad valley, whence the Jordan draws his waters, is flat, moist, and but little cultivated.  There are immense herds of sheep, goats, and buffaloes