I HAD not been feeling well for some days and while at Damascus I was taken ill with varioloid fever. This was just twelve days after I was directly exposed to the small-pox and the cholera. The varioloid, with which I was suffering, was so severe that my friends really feared it would develop into small-pox proper. It was a dark hour for the sufferer. The shadows of twilight—the twilight of life, as well as of day, seemed to be gathering around me. Even then I could say: “I have lived, and have not lived in vain: my mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, and my frame perish even in conquering pain, but there is that within me which shall tire Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire.”

One night when I was suffering most intensely, when my brow was all scorched with fever and my body racked with pain, Mr. Hamlin, whom I have already mentioned, and whose income is more than a dollar an hour, came into my room and lay down on the side of the bed. With his hand on my brow he said: “Whittle, we are fellow travelers for this journey through the Holy Land; we are friends for the journey of life, and now that you are ill, I want to say that you shall have my sympathy, my presence and my purse. I am your friend and helper. You may have cholera, small-pox, or what not, yet I will stand by you to the last. I shall not leave your bedside until you are well, or as long as you need a friend.” I said to myself: “Truly, night bringeth out the stars,” and “every cloud has a silver lining.” I fell asleep; the fever cooled off, and in a few days “Richard was himself again.” Now that it is over, I am glad that I was ill. It revealed to me the character of the man with whom I am traveling. It is not an unpleasant thing, when one is ten or twelve thousand miles from home, to have a friend talk to him in that way. Hamlin is a whole-souled fellow.

The second night after leaving Damascus the “Equestrian Pilgrims” camped at the foot of Mount Hermon, whose regal brow was crowned with purest snow. It was a glorious sight to see that lonely, lordly mountain, bathed in the golden splendor of the setting sun. One almost ceases to wonder that it has become an object of vigorous adoration. The word Hermon itself means “the holy,” “the unapproachable.” The Arab word for Hermon means “the old,” “the grey-bearded,” “the venerable.” The inspired writers of old often refer to Hermon. It appears to have formed the northern boundaries of the children of Israel. Solomon speaks of Hermon as the haunt of wild beasts, and strangely enough my guide-book says, and the natives here confirm the statement, that bears, wolves and foxes still abound here. The Psalmist says brotherly love is as pleasant as the “dew of Hermon;” as the “dew that falleth on Mount Zion.” I have been much impressed with heavy dews since coming into this Eastern country. I have seen the dew falling before the sun goes down in the evening, and for an hour after the sun rises in the morning. In this country it rains six months, and is dry six months. During the dry season vegetation withers and all nature suffers for moisture. Every night the falling dew is like a gentle shower of rain, refreshing the parched grass and “reviving the vigor of vegetation.” But for these heavy dews nothing would grow, and the people could scarcely exist. How impressive it must have been to these people, therefore, when David said: “Brotherly love is as pleasant as the dew of Hermon, as the dew that falleth on Mount Zion.” God hasten the day when “brotherly love shall abound:” when men shall say: “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity.”

Hermon is, in round numbers, ten thousand feet high and twenty-nine miles long. Its base is rich, and, for this country, well cultivated. Higher up it supports several large almond groves, the fruit of which is most excellent. It is generally conceded by scholars that one of the slopes of Hermon was the scene of the Transfiguration. By some this honor was once claimed for Mount Tabor, but this idea has been exploded. It is impossible that Christ should have been Transfigured on Mount Tabor, for Josephus tells us that Tabor was at that time crowned with a city, and we know that the Transfiguration occurred, not in the midst of human habitations, but out in the solitude of nature. The last time we see our blessed Lord before the Transfiguration was at Caesarea Philippi, near the base of Hermon. “And after six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John, his brother, and bringeth them up into a high mountain apart and was there transfigured before them; His face did shine as the sun and His garment was white as the light. And, behold, there appeared unto them Moses and Elias, talking with Him. Then answered Peter and said unto Jesus: ‘Lord, it is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles—one for Thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias.’”

We were high on the slopes of Hermon. It was to me a sacred place. When the evening hour came, I stole away from my companions. I went out all alone “where nought but the gleaming stars looked down upon me in silence,” where I could commune with my own heart, with nature and “nature’s God.” I gave myself up to meditation and prayer. I said: “Can it be possible that I am now standing on, or near, the spot where the divinity of my Lord revealed itself; where He wrapped Himself with celestial glory as with a garment; where the veil was drawn aside, and Peter, James and John caught a glimpse of that other world and the splendor thereof?” and an unearthly feeling possessed me—I verily felt that I was standing on the Mount of spiritual Transfiguration. For me the scene was re-enacted before my eyes. To me the Master’s face did shine as the sun, and His garment was white as light. I could almost hear the Father’s voice as He said: “This is my beloved Son in whom I am pleased; hear ye Him.” I felt like Peter that I could say, “It is good to be here;” I felt like Paul that I was caught up into the third heaven; I felt like Bunyan that I was standing on the top of the Delectable Mountains, viewing the City of God and listening to the music of angels. I felt like

“Some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm,
Around whose base, while rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.”

We folded our tents in the morning, to pitch them at night twenty miles away, by the side of a flowing fountain, in the midst of an olive grove and amongst blooming oleanders. There was beauty, there was poetry, in this place. It was so sweetly calm and serenely beautiful, that we were strongly tempted to “lengthen the cords and strengthen the stakes” of our tents and remain here a few days. But we were blessed with perfect weather, and therefore thought best to press towards “that summer land of the vine and fig tree.”

Next morning “Amnon,” the reliable, the sure-footed, was pronounced “ready.” I vaulted into the saddle and rode away. Evening brought us to Caesarea Philippi, now called Banias. Little—practically nothing—remains of the stupendous temple that Herod the Great built here. The guide-book says, and the pilgrims believe, that this was the precise place where Christ said: “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church.” But turning to Matt. 16:13, I read, “When Jesus came unto the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, He asked His Disciples,” etc.

Again, Mark 8:27, “And Jesus went out, and His disciples, into the towns of Caesarea Philippi, and by the way He asked His disciples saying: ‘Whom do men say that I am?’” From this we see that Caesarea Philippi was a district containing more towns than one. True, this was the principal city of the district, but no man has the moral right to select a certain town and say, “This is the place.” Nor do I care to know the precise spot. It is enough for me to know that Peter said: “Thou art the Christ.” Jesus replied: “Thou art Petra (a rock), and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” There is no passage in all the Bible that is so much discussed as this one, for this scripture is claimed as the foundation of the Romish Church. True, the “gates of hell” have not prevailed against “papal power,” but the power of God will prevail against it, and the world shall yet know that Christ, and not Peter, is the chief “corner stone;” that Christ, and not Mary, is the sinner’s Savior.

One hour from Banias brings us to the fountain of the Jordan—the birth place of the sacred river. The spring is large, the water deep and beautifully clear. We could not resist the temptation; we had to bathe in the “fountain of the gods.” We could count the pebbles in the bottom of the swiftly flowing stream. With our eyes we could follow its windings through the fertile valley, by noticing the flowers and green bushes fringing its banks. Near this fountain we rode close upon a herd of buffaloes before they saw us. There were twelve in the bunch and a dozen of them got away—we killed the others.

We now cross into Galilee. High on the hill, and before us, as we face the west, is the city of Dan. O Dan, what a history thou hast had! What memories gather around thy ancient, thy venerable head! As thy name indicates, thou wast once a judge. Thy sons were born to positions of honor. But Ichabod!—“thy glory has departed!” Thou art no longer a sightly city, but a ruined and disheveled village. Thou no longer rulest, but art now thyself ruled with a rod of iron.

“There is the moral of all human tales;
’Tis but the same rehearsed of the past,
First Freedom, and then glory—when that fails,
Wealth, vice, corruption—barbarism at last!”

In olden times Dan was an important place—the most important city in north Galilee. We often see the expression, “from Dan to Beersheba,” which means from the extreme north to the extreme south of Palestine, a distance of one hundred and sixty-five miles. “From Dan to Beersheba” meant to Jews of old just what “from Maine to Mexico” and “from New York to San Francisco” means to Americans—the uttermost limits of the country.

I give in the following lines an account of a nocturnal visit that Abraham, the father of the faithful, made to this city of Dan. “And when Abram heard that his brother was taken captive, he armed his trained servants, born in his own house, three hundred and eighteen, and he pursued them unto Dan. And he divided himself against them, he and his servants by night, and smote them, and pursued into Hobah, which is on the left hand of Damascus. And he brought back all the goods, and also his brother Lot and his goods, and the women also and the people.”

Coming into Galilee, we find ourselves at once in a beautiful valley lying between two mountain ridges running north and south. The valley is apparently ten miles wide and fifteen to eighteen miles long. The soil is as black as a crow and fertile as the alluvial deposits of the Nile. It is so rich that it looks as if it would sprout a shadow—I am afraid to stand still long in a place. Only small patches of this fertile valley are cultivated and these in the most primitive and imperfect manner. The land is scratched over with wooden plows, drawn, as I have sometimes seen, by a donkey and a skeleton of a milk cow yoked together, or by a camel and an ox harnessed side by side. Thus they tickle the soil which in turn smiles with a sickly, sentimental harvest, and the people live in filth, penury, and poverty; whereas, if they had western vim and push and shove and energy, if they had improved implements of agriculture and would send them deep into the ground and turn up the soil, “the desert would blossom as the rose,” and these trifling sons of want would soon have to “pull down their old barns and build greater ones.” Peace and plenty would usurp the place now held by pinching poverty, and Jerusalem once more would stand

“Girt by her theatre of hills, and would reap
Her corn, and wine, and oil; and plenty would leap
To laughing life, with her redundant horn.”

Here and there, scattered over the plain, we see a Bedouin village. Village did I say? Yes, a village; though there is not a log or a plank, or a board, or a shingle, or a stone to be seen. One of these villages consists of 300 to 500 Bedouins, living in 75 to 100 tents huddled together without law or order. The Bedouins take the bark of the papyrus plant and plait or weave it (by hand of course) into a coarse, rough matting with which they make their houses. The same material serves as roof, walls and floor. These sons of the desert hide their nakedness with robes made of camel’s hair, and their children dress as did Adam or Eve before fig-leaf dresses came into fashion.

In the southern part of the valley is Lake Huleh, or the waters of Merom. Some years ago the plain surrounding this lake was a bloody battle field. Six or eight kings “went out, they and all their hosts with them, much people, even as the sand that is upon the sea shore in multitude, with horses and chariots very many. And when all these kings were met together, they came and pitched their tents at the waters of Merom to fight against Israel. And the Lord said unto Joshua, be not afraid because of them; for to-morrow I will deliver them up all slain before Israel; thou shalt hough their horses and burn their chariots with fire. So Joshua came, and all the people of war with him, against them by the waters of Merom suddenly and they fell upon them. And the Lord delivered them into the hand of Israel.” Lest some people should suppose that I witnessed that battle, I will state that Joshua lived some 1400 years before Christ.

Long before night our tents were stretched on the shore of the Sea of Galilee. This is the most hallowed spot to which we have yet come. No place we have visited is so fraught with holy memories. Arriving here, I dismounted, went into my tent, and there for the first time knelt down and kissed the earth. I knew it was a sacred place. Around this lake our Blessed Lord spent most of His public life. Every thing here wears a holy aspect; every thing is suggestive of the Savior. When I see the men in their row boats, toiling at their nets, I am naturally reminded of the miraculous draught of fishes, of the worldly occupation of those whom Jesus, walking on these very shores, called to follow Him, saying: “I will make you fishers of men.” Probably the ancestors of these half-clad people before me were among the “multitude whom Jesus fed with a few loaves and fishes” on the opposite bank of the lake, or among that other multitude who thronged the beach where I now stand, and, pressing the water’s edge, listened with bated breath to Christ as He spake from Simon’s boat, built, no doubt, like these on the lake.

Before me are the sites of three ancient cities whose very names have become a reproach; and who can wonder! They rest under the direct curse of Him who said: “Woe unto thee, Chorazin! Woe unto thee, Bethsaida! for I say unto you that in the day of judgment it shall be more tolerable for Tyre and Sidon than for you, Chorazin and Bethsaida!—and thou, Capernaum, which art exalted unto Heaven, shalt be brought down to hell.” Yea, truly; Capernaum, the home of Christ, has been cast down to hell. The city rejected Christ and ever since that time the curse of God has rested upon it. A word to the wise is sufficient. I will therefore only add; reader, be sure you do not reject Him of whom Moses and the prophets did write.

Standing on the western edge of the lake, near the northern end, and looking in a north-westerly direction, I see, about 300 yards away, a man plowing with a wooden plow, drawn by a milk cow and a donkey. In the same field, and close by the plowman, is another man with a basket on his arm full of seed corn (wheat) which he is strewing broadcast over the ground. This reminds me that once upon a time our Lord was standing on these shores, near where I now am. A great multitude of people had assembled to listen to His gracious words. The press was so great that our Lord stepped into a little boat and pushed it out a little way on the water. As the people stood on the shore Christ sat in the boat and preached to them. He began His sermon, “The sower went forth to sow. Some seed fell by the wayside, some among thorns and some in the rocks.” This scene was being re-enacted before my own eyes. How delightful are such experiences! How it carries one back to ancient days! This lake furnished the subject for the parable of the net. And on the left are the hills and fields whence was drawn the comparison to the leaven, the hidden treasure, the pearl of great price. Around this lake the lilies grew and the ravens fed, which the Lord bade us remember.

Galilee is a beautiful lake. It is ten to twelve miles long and six to eight miles wide. The rocky walls surrounding the lake rise, in some places, several hundred feet above its surface. Most of the country around is rough and barren. A few fig and other fruit and shade trees grow near the water’s edge.

But if you would see the beauty—the poetry of Galilee, wait until the glare of day has mellowed into twilight; wait until a holy calm broods over the lake and its surface has been transformed into a silver mirror. Then the great stars above you gleam like nuggets of gold in the blue depths below. Now go “silently and alone” and walk on the beach. You find that distance is annihilated. The lake may be six, sixty, or six hundred miles wide—you can not tell—you do not care. You are not thinking of time or distance, either. The beauty of the scene rivets your attention. Sacred memories crowd upon the mind, and you can but say: “Oh! Galilee! Galilee! For thousands of years have thy pure waters been surging against these historic shores—these sacred shores. Upon thy watery surface Jesus did walk, as though it had been marble pavement. When the storm did come and thou wert lashed into rage and fury, when thy waves were tossed like mountains to the sky; when the frail bark was threatened, and human life endangered; the Son of God whispered: ‘Peace, be still.’ The winds obeyed Him and thy waves, O Galilee, crouched at His feet. For these reasons thou hast become a holy—a sacred sea.

“And now I, even I, a humble disciple of that same Jesus, am permitted to walk on thy shores and sail on thy waters.”

Being unable to break the chain of fascination which binds us to this place, we have remained here several days. Swimming in Galilee is truly delightful. We have had several messes of fish from the lake, but as yet we have caught no fish with a “silver coin in his mouth.”

Tiberias, the only place of importance on the lake, we find to be a walled city of some 5,000 souls, the most of whom are Jews. We find much in the city to attract our attention, but nothing to excite admiration. The Jews living here are a reproach to their race. They are as sorry looking specimens of humanity as one can reasonably expect to find this side of the grave. They are as filthy as monkeys, ugly as gorillas and as poor as Job’s turkey. Extravagant expressions are usually out of place, but I am honestly of the opinion that these people are as poor as a church mouse or a Baptist preacher.

Most of our time here has been spent, not in Tiberias, but in visiting the mouth of Jordan and some ruined cities around the lake, in sailing, swimming and fishing, in reading the Bible and talking of Christ, its central figure.