Towards the end of June I took part in the military races at Alexandria, and from the "home town" of Hypatia I took ship and went to Beyrout—a lovely seaport, nestling under the mighty and magnificent Lebanon. Here I was most hospitably entertained by my friends, the Bustroses. From the balcony of her palatial residence Madame Bustros enjoys a view second to none in the world, and every imaginable fruit and flower grows and blooms on her estate. Beyrout is undoubtedly a place of milk and honey, and is unquestionably within the Biblical boundaries of the Promised Land. Ezekiel xlvii., 17, states: "and the border from the sea shall be Hazar-enan, the border of Damascus and the north northward and the border of Hamath." This was the northern boundary assigned to Israel and was actually occupied in the days of David and Solomon.

My journey across the Lebanon was one long feast of the most beautiful scenery in the world. As we topped the range my last peep of mountain and valley, stretching away down to Beyrout, hemmed in by the glittering sea, was like a vision of Paradise.

Instead of going to Damascus direct, I branched off at Ryak and ran up the Bakaa, the valley which stretches between Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon to Baalbek, where I spent a wonderful time amid the mighty ruins of that ancient temple to Baal.

Baalbek is the most beautiful and impressive ruin that it has ever been my good fortune to look upon. Thebes may exceed it in size, but the wonder of Egypt had not the effect upon me that was produced when I stood under the magnificent columns of this great temple to the heathen god.

I wandered through the vast pile, an insignificant speck amidst its gigantic pillars and fallen lintels, overthrown and shattered by the devastating earthquake which centuries ago wrecked this mighty structure. Who were the architects who designed it? and who were the engineers who set on high those stupendous blocks? Verily there were giants in those days.

At Baalbek railway station I came across one of the prettiest girls I had seen for many a long day engaged in selling peaches. She was a Syrian from Lebanon, which is noted for the beauty of its maidens; I overheard her companions address this Houri of the mountains as "Edeen." While I was standing waiting for my train to arrive a dust storm suddenly sprang up, and when it was over Edeen sat down and calmly licked the dust off every peach until they all bloomed again in her basket; then presently she presented the fruit, fresh and shining, to the incoming passengers, who eagerly bought it from the smiling damsel! I need hardly say that peaches were "off" for me during the rest of my trip, for not all sellers were as beautiful as Edeen!

A few hours in the train took me over the Anti-Lebanon, and I caught my first glimpse of Damascus, that most ancient of cities, which I had long desired to see.

When Mohammed was a camel driver, making a caravan journey from Medina to Aleppo, the story goes that he once camped on a hill overlooking Damascus. His companions asked him to join them and go into the city but he replied—"No; Paradise should only be entered after death!"

I viewed the city from the same spot, but, not being so sure of my hereafter as was the Prophet, I decided to take my chance of entering this earthly Paradise while it offered.

It is rightly described as a pearl set in emeralds. White mosques, minarets, and cupolas peep dazzlingly in all directions out of the emerald foliage. Trees, gardens, and flowers of all kinds abound in this delectable city, whose charm is enhanced by the murmur of the many rivers running through it. I, too, like Naaman the Syrian, found "Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel." The latter is in the district, and runs some ten miles to the south of the oldest city in the world. The great Saladin is buried in Damascus, and of course I made a pilgrimage to the tomb of this famous warrior.

I like to avoid the caravanserais set up for Europeans as much as possible when travelling in the East, so that I may see something of the life of the people. In this way one has many pleasant little adventures, experiences and remembrances, which give zest to life.

While lunching at a famous Arab restaurant I made the acquaintance of Dr. Yuseff, a well-known medical man of Damascus and Beyrout; among other subjects we talked horses and races, and we became such good friends that he lent me his fiery, pure-bred Arab steed to ride while sight-seeing in the neighbourhood—a sure token of friendship from this cultured Arab of Syria.

Just on the outskirts of the city on the banks of the river Barada (the Biblical Abana) I had noticed a Bedouin camp crowded with good-looking horses, so thither I went and called on the Sheik of the tribe. While sitting with the elders in a huge circle, sipping coffee out of tiny cups, I discovered from their conversation that my hosts were wandering Kurds, who were just about to set off for the confines of Persia. I hinted that I would like to join their caravan, and was immediately given a warm welcome, but, much as I should have liked to roam the desert with them, I had to think of my Jewish Battalion waiting for me at Bir Salem. The Kurds expressed much interest when I told them I had to go on a pilgrimage to El Kuds (meaning Jerusalem), for of course they were good Moslems and reverenced the Holy City.

On leaving Damascus I travelled down the Hedjaz Railway as far as Deraa. The moment the ancient Syrian capital is left the train enters the desert, the home of the Ishmaelite. These bold rovers, from time immemorial, have hunted and harried the peaceful traveller caught toiling through their fastnesses. We were not molested for the simple reason that troops of cavalry, British and Indian, were posted at strategic points all along the railway. A few months later, when we withdrew from these parts, the Bedouins began their old games, and took a fierce joy in derailing trains, and robbing, and even killing, the passengers. In this way a good friend of mine, Comandante Bianchini, an officer of the Royal Italian Navy, met his untimely end at the hands of these desert marauders. Bianchini was deeply interested in, and worked hard for, the Zionist cause, and his loss is a sad blow to his many friends. A more cheery, lovable man never sailed the seas.

We reached Deraa (the ancient Edrei) without incident, and then branched off westward to Haifa, the train clambering down and around the precipitous sides of the Yarmuk Escarpment, past the southern shore of the Lake of Galilee at Samakh, across the Jordan and running parallel to it for some miles, then curving upwards out of the Jordan Valley, into the valley of Jezreel, which continues into the plain of Esdraelon.

These narrow plains, the heritage of Issachar, sever the head of Palestine from the body, or, in other words, separate Galilee from Samaria and JudÆa. To use an Irishism, this neck had been the "Achilles' heel" of Israel throughout her history. All down the ages armies from Babylonia, Assyria, Persia, and Egypt have marched and counter-marched through this fertile belt. Open passes southward made Samaria an easy prey. Beisan (the ancient Bethshan), which guards the eastern end and dominates the passage over the Jordan, was generally in the hands of the stranger. It was in the neighbourhood of this famous old stronghold that Barak defeated Sisera, captain of the host of Jaban, king of the Canaanites—a victory celebrated in the famous song of Deborah. It was also in this neighbourhood that Gideon smote the Midianites. His motto, "The sword of the Lord and of Gideon," was also the motto of the Zionists who served England so stoutly in Gallipoli, and it was a curious coincidence that, just as the Midianites were routed by the shouting and clamour of Gideon's three companies, so was the Turkish Army routed by the Zion mules when, with rattling chains and clattering hoofs, they stampeded one dark night and galloped through the Turks as they were creeping stealthily up to attack the British trenches.

Later on in the military history of the Israelites we find the Philistines battling for the supremacy on these plains and overthrowing the army of Israel under their first King Saul, who, in the bitterness of defeat, and finding he could not escape, fell on his sword and died on Mount Gilboa. In the same battle and the same place the death of Jonathan put an end to his immortal friendship with David and called forth the famous lament: "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places; how are the mighty fallen."

These stories of the Old Testament flashed vividly through my mind as we rolled onward through this historic valley between Mount Gilboa and Beisan on the left, and the cone-shaped Mount Tabor away on the right.

Other countries and other scenes were recalled to my mind when I spied half a dozen beautiful antelope near some standing corn, and my thoughts of Africa were further intensified when I caught a glimpse, on the railway bank, of a huge black snake, some six feet long, rapidly darting away out of danger.

Soon afterwards, on looking to the north, I saw Nazareth perched upon a southern Galilean hill-top. We wound in and out by the brook Kishon, where Elijah smote the false prophets. Finally we passed along the mighty shoulder of Mount Carmel into that great natural anchorage of Haifa, nestling under its shadow; then southward to Ludd and Bir Salem—the whole train journey from Damascus taking some fifteen hours and giving me an unrivalled feast of Biblical landscapes.

Early in July I visited Acre to take part in the races there (which proved a fiasco owing to the antics of the starter), and suddenly found myself close to the dwelling of the famous Abdul Baha, the exponent of the doctrine of the Brotherhood of Man. He certainly has a wide field before him, for at the present moment there seems to be very little brotherly love in any part of the world! His particular mission is to unite the peoples of the earth, and do away with all barriers of race, creed, and prejudice.

Since Patriarchs, Popes, Archbishops, Mullahs, and ministers of all creeds have failed to make humanity realise the necessity of "brotherly love," the League of Nations would be well advised to adopt the Sage of Acre and make him President of a "League of Teachers," pledged to inculcate love for one's fellowmen as the cardinal feature of his curriculum. One thing is certain—the League of Nations will never bring the world into harmony unless the young are taught to love and help their brothers, irrespective of nationality.

It will be remembered that Acre was the town to which Napoleon laid siege after his wonderful march from Egypt with about 10,000 French Infantry. This extraordinary man was able to cross the Sinai desert with his army, without either roads, railway, or water supply, capture Gaza, Jaffa, and Haifa with ease, and only for the British Fleet would undoubtedly have added Acre, and probably all Syria, to his spoils.

Those who have traversed the Sinai sands in a comfortable railway coach can afford to pay a warm tribute to this redoubtable warrior, and to the no less redoubtable Infantry of France.