LYING between the Dead Sea and the river Jordan on the east, and the Mediterranean on the west, and extending from Mount Hermon on the north to the desert of Arabia on the south, is a country whose influence has been more far-reaching than that of any other country on the globe. The influence that this country has exerted upon the world is truly remarkable when we consider the limited extent of its territory, and the previous servile condition of the people who made it famous. From the southern end of the Dead Sea to Gaza, on the Mediterranean, the distance is only sixty-five miles, while it is not more than twenty-three miles from the Sea of Galilee to Mt. Carmel. The average breadth of the country does not exceed forty miles. Dan and Beersheba stand respectively for the northern and southern limits of Palestine; and these two cities are not more than one hundred and sixty-five miles apart.

“The whole area of the land of Palestine,” says Dr. Robinson, “does not vary greatly from 12,000 geographical square miles,—about equal to the area of the two states of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Of this whole area, more than one-half, or 7,000 square miles, being by far the most important portion, lies on the west of the Jordan.”

This small land, inhabited by a feeble folk, who for four hundred years had their necks galled by the yoke of Egyptian bondage, has given to the world a Church, a Creed, and a Christ! The Church has carried the Creed into every land under every sky. The Christ of Palestine has become the Christ of the world; and wherever He is enthroned idols fall and nations bow.

Small is the country, but important is the geographical position. It has been called “the very out-post on the extreme western edge of the East, pushed forward, as it were, by the huge continent of Asia.” Cut off from Asia by the desert, and from Europe by the sea, Palestine stands alone. And yet it was the door through which Asiatic and European nations had to pass in order to visit, trade with, or fight each other. There was a constant stream of commerce flowing through the country. Hostile armies frequently met upon her hillsides, and watered her fertile valleys with each other’s blood. It was therefore of the very greatest importance as a strategical point. Thus, by their unique geographical position, the inhabitants of Palestine could, by staying at home, wield a most powerful influence upon the people of Europe, Asia and Africa.

Again, close study reveals the fact that Palestine is as unique within itself as it is in relation to other countries. Within this small area, the antipodes are brought together—the extremes of earth meet. Palestine is a little world within itself. In the valley of the Jordan there is perpetual summer; and, consequently, tropical fruits, a profusion of flowers, and a great variety of birds and wild beasts are found. Only a few miles away, Mount Hermon rises into the region of perpetual snow. There the bear, and other animals natural to a cold climate, take up their abode. Palestine has its highlands and lowlands; its hill country and valleys; its fertile plains and barren deserts; its oceans, rivers and lakes; its fresh water and salt; its flowing rivers and Dead Sea. Within these narrow limits, therefore, is found every variety of climate, soil and production, of habit and occupation, of bird and beast.

We can see the wisdom, therefore, that God displayed in selecting this as the home of His chosen people. Here they were to live and learn; here they were to mould national character, and influence adjacent peoples; here they were to commune with God, and write that Book which was to be read on land and water, by fishermen and farmers, by travelers on the desert and sailors on the sea. Whether chilled by polar snows, or scorched by tropical suns, we can all read that blessed Book with interest, pleasure and profit, and feel at home with the writer.

This wonderful country is known by three names. The first is Palestine from Palestina, the land of the Philistines, literally, “the land of the strangers, or of wanderers.” Originally, this name was applied only to that part of the country known as the marine plain, say from Jaffa to Gaza, as that was pre-eminently the land of the Philistines. Gradually, however, the word Palestine was accepted as the name of the whole country.

Canaan, or the Land of Canaan, is a second name given to this particular country. Canaan signifies “the low land,” or “the low country,” as opposed to the “land of Gilead,” that is, the high table-land the east of Jordan. It may at first seem strange that a country so hilly and rough as this should be called “the low land”; but it should be borne in mind that the hills are a kind of a mountain-chain running through the country from north to south. Approaching the country from the west, one is greatly impressed with the low, broad, level marine plain which begins at Mt. Carmel and extends far south of Gaza, getting broader and broader towards the south. On entering Palestine from the east, one is even more impressed with the low valley, or deep ghor, of the Jordan.

But no name seems so appropriate for this country as “the Holy Land.” No explanation is necessary; every one understands the reason for, and recognizes the appropriateness of, this appellation.

Enough has been said, even in this chapter, to give one some idea of the topography of the Holy Land. Imagine a broad, level country one hundred and sixty-five miles long, sixty miles wide at one end, and twenty at the other. On one side this country is bounded by a sea, and on the other by a river. Now imagine that you build a house through the centre of this long, narrow country from one end to the other. Let the roof come down to the ground on either side of the house, leaving a broad plateau on either side, that is, a wide valley between where the roof comes to the ground and the borders of the country. From the top of the house, or mountain ridge, to the Mediterranean is 3,000 feet, while from its top to the Jordan or Dead Sea is 4,000 feet. This gives an approximately correct idea of Palestine. But no one must for a moment suppose the mountain ridge to be regular like the comb of a house, or its sides smooth like a roof. From the central ridge, a succession of peaks rise up to various heights. Beginning at the south, the peaks are Hebron, 3,029 feet above the Mediterranean; Jerusalem, 2,610, and Mount of Olives, 2,724, Bethel, 2,400; Ebal and Gerizim, 2,700; “little Hermon” and Tabor (on the north side of the plain of Esdraelon) 2,000; Safed, 2,775, and Jebel Jurmuk, 4,000. To find the elevation of any of these peaks above the Dead Sea, just add 1,300 feet to the height already given. These several peaks mentioned are just about the centre of the country from east to west. Sometimes the central ridge is level on top, and we find a broad, elevated table-land.

During the rainy season, which usually begins with November and ends with March, a great deal of water falls upon this mountain ridge. It can not stay there, so, rolling itself up into torrents, it courses down the steep sides with great swiftness. This has continued for thousands of years, until now the ridge on both sides is seamed, threaded, cut, worn and ditched by these torrents into almost every conceivable shape. The wadys and ravines are not far apart, and are frequently quite deep. So all through Palestine there are a succession of ravines, running from east to west, with rocky ridges steep and high between them.

One would naturally suppose that a country like this would be barren and worthless; but not so with Palestine. These mountain ridges are of a lime-stone formation. In the summer, the climate is exceedingly oppressive; the rays of the sun are almost like streams of fire. The thermometer rises in the day to 126 or 128 degrees. The nights, even in midsummer, are cool and pleasant. At noon day the mercury registers 128 degrees, and at night it falls to forty and forty-five degrees. In the day, when the lime-stone rocks become heated, they expand; and at night, when cooled, they contract. They continue to expand and contract until after awhile they fall to pieces—disintegration takes place. This begets a great quantity of finely pulverized lime-stone dust, which is extremely rich and fertilizing. Nature, with her ever watchful care, has so arranged these hills as to enable them to catch, retain, and appropriate most of this fertilizing dust. The hills are naturally terraced. From base to summit we see one terrace rising above another. They look like huge steps placed there to enable giants to ascend. If the people would only build up the defective places in these terraces, they would catch practically all of the dust caused by the decaying rocks, and the country would become richer and richer as the years pass by.

Palestine is still the “land of the vine and fig-tree.” Every hillside is garnished over with olive trees, as also with figs, dates, palms, and pomegranates. The decaying rocks feed the hungry trees they bear. This suggests a very important question: What do the people of Palestine live on? Now, as in Joshua’s time, “the tree of the field is man’s life” (Deut. 20:19). The people live largely on fruits. Olives, especially, are the salvation of that country. The people here eat the olive as we eat peaches. They also pickle them; but the olive is chiefly valuable for the excellent oil it yields. Olive oil is the only seasoning these people have. Figs and dates are likewise plentiful at all seasons of the year, in one form or another. The grapes of the Holy Land are especially fine. They are abundant in quantity, large in size, and deliciously flavored. There is a grape here that makes very fine raisins, and another that yields a superior quality of wine. Wine here is usually mild. It is also plentiful, and is used freely.

There are many valleys in this country that are as rich and fertile as the alluvial deposits of the Nile. Such, for instance, is the plain of Esdraelon and the valley around Lake Huleh. These garden spots are annually sown in wheat. To be sure, the yield is not large. We can not expect it to be large when we remember that these sons of idleness use the same rude implements of agriculture that their fathers used three thousand years ago. A camel, or a yoke of oxen, a forked stick, and a half-naked Arab, make a first class plow team for Palestine.

The fact that these people are primitive in their mode and manner of life, makes it all the more delightful to the equestrian pilgrims to be here. The student of history, especially of sacred history, finds the same pleasure in traveling through the Holy Land that a miner does in traversing a rich gold field. The shining dust glittering in the light of the sun stirs every faculty of his being; and now and then, when he finds a nugget of the precious metal, his soul is all aglow with emotion.

Palestine is more than a gold mine, it is a diamond field, to the student of Biblical history. New truths are constantly discovered, and old ones are seen in a new light. Each additional ray gives more beauty, and adds new lustre, to the already resplendent gem.

To those who like novelty, and love Nature, nothing can be more interesting than “tent life in the East.” Here one is introduced into a world of novelties. True, the country is old; but its very age becomes a novelty. The mountains, though shorn of their pristine beauty, though “rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun,” have an interest all their own. If the valleys were lakes, and the hills clothed with verdure, Syria would be only a repetition of the highlands of Scotland. If the purple hills of Judea towered to the skies, if they were covered with snow, and studded with waving forest trees, the Palestine world would be another Switzerland. If these people were Christianized, civilized, and cultivated, they would differ but little from Europeans and Americans.

But such is not the case. The lakes were never here, and the primeval forests disappeared a thousand years ago. Here the snow scarcely ever falls, and the mountains are only hills, Hermon and Tabor being the only exceptions. As for the people, they are mostly Mohammedans and Jews. Many of them never heard of Christ, nor do they want to hear of Him. Nineteen-twentieths of them are so illiterate that, if they were to see a daily newspaper printed in their own language, they could not read it. Not one in fifty could write his name on paper if it would save his neck from the halter.

Nor is this all. The following sentence is as applicable as if it had been written with special reference to this special country: “A land without ruins is a land without memories; a land without memories is a land without history. But twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow of any land, and, be that land bleak, barren, and beautiless, it becomes lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow.” Palestine is a land of ruins. It is strewn with ruins from one end to the other. How could it be otherwise? Has it not been the battle-ground of the nations. Did not Belshazzer come hither from Babylon and Cyrus from Persia? Did not Alexander come from Greece and Hannibal from Carthage? How often did the Ptolemies of Egypt, and the Caesars of Rome, march their devastating legions through this fair land? Think, too, of those brave knights of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, who fought as never men fought before, trying to wrench this Holy Land from the iron grasp of the Saracen and Moslem. That was the darkest and bloodiest period of this world’s history. This was the scene of action. The very dust is historic. Every tree has heard the tramp of armies, and felt the shock of battle. Every stone has a tale to tell. In every community there are stories many, and legends not a few. Yes, Palestine is a “land of ruins.” It has not a “few,” but many “sad cypress leaves twined around its brow.” And, truly, it has become “lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow.”

And more. All history is interesting, yet “crosses and crucifixions take the deepest hold on the hearts of men.” The word Palestine is inseparably associated with that “name which is above every name.” Here Christ was born; here he lived; among the ancestors of these people he “went about doing good.” In these waters He was baptized; these hills were the pulpits from which he preached His own everlasting gospel; while the stones of the valley, the birds of the air, and the lilies of the field, furnished Him with apt illustrations to explain and enforce divine truth. So in this Holy Land there are “memories which make it holier, and a cross which is even in itself an immortality!”

Hence I ask, “can any one who likes novelty, and loves nature, who appreciates history, and worships the Lord Jesus Christ, who has a head on him, and a heart in him, fail to enjoy tent life in the East,” or “five hundred miles in the saddle through Palestine and Syria?” If any, speak; for him have I offended. Not one; then none have I offended. So let us be up and going, taking a different route, and moving more rapidly this time than before.

There were five in the original party, but I gladly welcome the reader into our midst, saying to him, “Come thou and go with us and be as eyes unto us, and we will do thee good.” Yes, “be as eyes unto us.” We need some one to point out the road, as much so as Moses did when he addressed this language to his gray-headed father-in-law. Indeed there are no roads in this part of Asia, only dim bridle paths such as have been worn in the rock by constant use for ages. Very few of these people ever saw a wheeled vehicle of any kind. Excepting four towns, there is not a buggy, or a wagon, or even a wheel-barrow, in all Palestine and Syria. There are no roads for them nor for us. Hence we must travel on horseback. Now that the reader has joined us, we are six in number. Making calculations for the new comer, we have eight tents, eighteen servants and muleteers, and thirty-six head of horses, mules, and donkeys. Of course, the mules and donkeys are laden with tents and trunks, and beds and baggage, and other things, for our comfort and convenience, and their own board besides. They look like young elephants with all this luggage on their backs. Each of us has a riding suit, a broad-brimmed hat, and a white umbrella.

While we eat breakfast in the morning, the muleteers fold the tents and get things ready for the road. Now Tolhamy, our Syrian dragoman, mounts his Arabian steed and cries out, “Yal-la, yal-la,” which means come on, come on. We follow suit, and soon all are strung out across the country like a band of wild Indians. The procession is half a mile long. For a while the pilgrims ride up and down the line, singing and talking with the natives; then, plying the whip, they leave the caravan behind. At noon, Abdo, our Arab waiter, stretches the lunch tent, or spreads the carpet under the grateful shade of an olive grove. Lunch being over, we sit for an hour or two reading the Bible and profane history, talking about the battles fought in this neighborhood, about what Christ and His apostles did here, and about the confusion their miracles and teaching must have caused among these people. And, whether we lunched on Mt. Tabor, whose heights are crowned with the ruins of a crusader’s church, and at whose base Barak and Deborah met Sisera in battle (Ju. 4: 14 and 15); or at Endor where Saul called up the witch (1 Sam. 28); or at Joseph’s pit, from which he was sold into Egypt (Gen. 27: 24-28): or at the spring where Gideon’s brave band of three hundred lapped before going against the Midianites (Ju. 7): or at Cana, where our blessed Lord turned water into wine (John 2: 1-11); or at Nain, where He raised the man who was the only son of a widowed mother (Luke 7: 11-17); or at Jacob’s well, where He sat and told the woman all things that ever she did (John 4: 6-26); whether we lunch at one of these places, or the other, or wherever we stop, we have a Bible in one hand, and a history in the other, and always find enough to interest and instruct us.

While we are resting, reading and talking, the caravan passes by; so, when we come to the camp in the evening, our tents are up ready to receive us. We usually camp near a village, so as to get water and to place ourselves under the protection of the Sheik of the village. As soon as our tents are pitched, the village is deserted—its half-naked, filthy, and ignorant population having gathered round our camp.

Supper being over, the muleteers, together with the villagers, give some kind of an entertainment. One night they have a marriage ceremony, then an assessment and collection of taxes, an Arabic tableau, or musical concert, without the music. There is no music in an Arab’s soul! By this we are on good terms with the natives; we go home with them, go into their houses, talk with them, find out how they live, what they think about, so on. It is very seldom that we find a family of five to eight occupying more than one room, and often the goats, dogs and donkeys live in the same room with the other part of the family.

The people have no tables, no chairs, no bedsteads. They sit on mats, and sleep on pallets of straw. Whole families, sometimes ten to twelve in number, eat out of the same bowl or pan. Knives and forks are unknown. They live chiefly on bread and fruits. Olives, figs and grapes are the salvation of this country. The yield of olive oil has been greater this year than usual. I spoke a moment ago of an Asiatic village; but I am persuaded that it deserves more than a mere mention. I speak of the average village. It consists of a hive of rough, rock huts one story, say six or seven feet, high, circular, oblong, or triangular in shape. The same low, flat roof frequently extends over half or three-fourths of the town. There are covered streets and lanes, winding around and among the houses. A former traveler, whose book a friend has just handed me, writes as follows:

“A Syrian village is the sorriest sight one can fancy. When you ride through one of them at noonday, you first meet a melancholy dog that looks up at you and silently begs that you will not run over him, but he does not offer to get out of your way. Next you meet a young boy without any clothes on; and he holds out his hand and says, ‘bachsheesh;’ but he really does not expect a cent, for he learned to say that before he learned to say ‘mother,’ and he can not break himself of it. Next you meet a woman with a black veil drawn over her face, and her bust exposed. Finally, you meet several sore-eyed children, and children in all stages of mutilation and decay; and, sitting humbly in the dust, and all fringed with filthy rags, is a poor human ruin whose arms and legs are gnarled and twisted like grape vines. These are all the people you are likely to see. The balance of the population are asleep indoors, or abroad, tending goats on the plains and on the hillsides.”

If it is a little cold and damp, we gather around the camp fire at night, and watch the glowing flames as they crackle and leap into the air, and fling their wild and weird shadows right and left. Ah! what an artist these flames are. With one bold stroke, they draw the outlines of a perfect picture on the black canvas of night.

When it is clear and pleasant, as it usually is, we go out in front of the tents, and talk and sing and “consider the heavens.” And often, “as I sit and gaze into the silent sky at night, and see the myriad stars, they seem like camp fires, kindled upon the plains of heaven, to light some wanderer over the wastes and desolations of earth.”

It may be wrong, I suppose it is, but somehow I envy the astronomer the pleasure he has in reading the thoughts of God, as written in the language of the stars. I wonder if the stars are inhabited; if so, by men or angels? What becomes of these creatures when a star “falls?” Dr. Broadus would say that this is a good subject for a public debate, as it can never be determined.

At ten o’clock, when the others retire to rest, I take up my pen to record what has transpired during the day. Often the swift footed hours pass by before I know it, and I find myself writing on “the other side of midnight.” But I can not help it. In Palestine there is so much to see and think about that one can not afford to sleep more than five hours out of the twenty-four. When at last my eyes grow heavy, I drop my leaden pen and fall asleep; and often I dream about the objects and places I have seen during the day.

At six, often at five, o’clock, I am up to hear the morning warbler’s first hymn of praise. I find that morning, rosy-fingered now as in the days of Homer, “has yet a new and distant smile at every rising.” Payne has well said that “no true lover ever yet trysted with Nature in her own woods, and by her own fountains, without seeing some new beauty never seen before.”

We have been in this country now for months. We have been many weeks on horseback. We have made more than six hundred miles in the saddle through Palestine and Syria, and yet it has not become monotonous. Indeed, it grows on us; there is a fascination about it. Each day is different from the day before. The roads are different, the people are different, the scenery is not the same. New historical interests, new biblical characters and sacred associations are hourly coming up for conversation and thought. Josephus is no longer dry and prosy. You read “Ben Hur,” and “The Prince of the House of David,” with more interest than ever before; last, and greatest, the Bible—the Bible becomes a new book to you. Its pages are brighter, its truths simpler, and its Christ is more personal and real to you, than before you came here. Palestine is a relief map of the Bible. In our western world, a man may be honestly skeptical; but, if he comes to Palestine as an earnest seeker after truth, he will soon dismiss all doubt, and, like Thomas of old, cry out: “My Lord, and my God!”