passing by the mosque whose treasure is the patriarch’s bodies covered with golden robes, the boys and women threw stones at us, that we might know we were approaching too near their sacred dead. they pride themselves on these sacred relics, and allow no man to pass by without seeing their fidelity displayed. our drivers explained to us all they knew of the magnificence inside, but that was poor explanation and satisfaction, as it had also to be translated. as we left the city on our way to jerusalem, we were shown some two or three olive trees nearly three thousand years old. about an hour after emerging from the city of hebron, we met an arab, and inquired the distance to the holy city, and he said, “about half a day’s camel ride.” all miles are counted here by some animal’s hour’s travel. at one o’clock we were passing over rolling mounds adorned with olive trees. one was higher than the rest, and from its summit i saw jerusalem only half a mile ahead. its towers were few and scarce, and its walls were parched and charred. the mosque of omar’s dome glittered in the sun beam, and this mahommedan sanctum towered above all the other buildings in this city, that was once the “glory of the world,” because of its godliness. yes, the mosque of the turk looked down upon our glorious sepulchre, as it were with contempt. i made my way straight to our humble edifice, and fell upon the marble slabs that once entombed the flesh and blood of the greatest man ever tabernacled in a body of flesh. in the middle of the latin church, which means the church we christians of the world built over calvary, is another small house like a large sepulchre, such as i have seen in new orleans, or pere la chaise, at paris, and in this little house are the sides, bottom, and cover, of the tomb of our savior, just as it was taken from the earth and placed on this stone floor, before this little house and the large church were built around it. two men were inside of the little house, one at each end of our savior’s tomb, giving wild flowers to the visitors. these flowers are fresh, and placed daily on the tomb beside the burning candles, that burn night and day on this consecrated marble tomb. an english lady, who came in before me, was prostrated on the floor, kissing the tomb with great devotion. she was a lady of rank who had pilgrimed here, and now had given way to her devoted feelings towards the dull, cold marble that once, in the midst of thousands of enemies, our savior had lain in, uncorrupted, though bleeding and mangled.

the monks were passing to and fro in all directions. the best place to locate for a short time, is in the convent attached to the church; they make no charges against a pilgrim, but no pilgrim can come here unless rich, and no rich man will go away without giving something to so sacred a place as the tomb of our savior.

these monks are strict in all their rules, and allow none to be treated with indifference; they allow no chickens, ducks, cats, or dogs in the convent; as by their courting habits they might lead the mind of man from spiritual reflections, to groveling desires. these are undisputed facts, and i got them from the lips of a monk’s aid. i walked round the walls of this celebrated city in one hour and a quarter, though when titus took it, it contained about 2,000,000 souls. but as jerusalem was considered by the jews impregnable, the people from all the villages round about came here for safety. this accounts for its having so many people when taken. i am mounting a small arab steed to go to bethlehem. i can see it from here. in an hour after leaving jerusalem, i passed by the tomb of lazarus, and rode up to the walls of the convent at bethel. it was closely shut on all sides. our guide demanded in an authorative tone and air for entrance. a bare footed monk unlatched the door, and we walked in, and were carried direct to the altar built over the manger. we saw burning candles and flowers strewn around. we came out and wended our way towards jericho, it could be seen in the distance. we came to a spring whose water was running freely, and the guide had the impudence to tell me that the cause of this water running so freely, was because the jawbone that sampson fought so bravely with was buried here. he had told me another absurd story about jeremiah’s cave, but i was not inclined to believe anything i heard from the people about here, because i knew as much as they did about it. i came to jerusalem with a submissive heart, but when i heard all the absurdities of these ignorant people, i was more inclined to ridicule right over these sacred dead bodies, and spots, than pay homage.

the same evening i camped at jericho, about a hundred yards from where the jordan empties into the dead sea. we took a bath in the jordan, and tried some of its water with eau de vie, and found it in quality like mississippi water. then before we dressed, we took another in the dead sea. i cannot swim, but i could not sink in this sea; it is a strong brine of sulphur and salt, and stronger in holding up substances than the mediterranean or the atlantic. no living creature can live in it; the jordan washes an immense quantity of small perch-like fish into it, but they instantly die, and are thrown out on the banks of the sea within twenty feet of the jordan. the jordan is frightfully rapid, but so narrow that a child could throw a stone across any part of it within a mile of the sea. rabbits and birds are plentiful here; in the shrubbery in the valley of the jordan i killed doves and quails enough for supper. jericho is not worth mentioning, as there is not even a temple here left by time. the ground is covered with broken bricks and stones.

having stayed in the city of jerusalem seventeen days, i leave it, never wishing to return again, and am now leaving the wall, calvary, moriah, and olivet, to see gallilee, tabor, nazareth, and damascus. i saw the sea, as no doubt it was when the whale vomited; i saw the little house where water was turned into wine, i saw tabor, ascended and took my chances with the wild boar; i returned from tabor to nazareth, where i had left my baggage and provisions; eat some camel’s meat. the soldiers were preparing for army stores, and i hurried on to damascus to hear something about the decrees of st. petersburg against the sublime porte. the turks all through palestine were preparing for war; they said this year, 1853, was going to be a memorable one; the crescent and the cross were to shine gloomily, for the hungry russian bear was seeking food beyond his lair. about the 1st of july i arrived at the paradise-plain city of damascus, and bought a blade. i bought some silks, and old swords, celebrated as damascus blades were, with one i cut a half a dollar into two pieces. the ambassadors of different nations were informing their country’s subjects that it was best to be among the missing, and said that some russians were here yesterday, but were now gone to parts unknown. these ambassadors were more frightened than their subjects; one said to col. fellowes and myself, “as soon as the sultan declares war, no christian will be allowed to pass the barrier of his boundary,” and as this is said to be a quarrel on religion, every christian head might fall “that is found where waves the little turkish flag of the crescent and the cross.” i packed my trunk, paid my bill, and left damascus and its sights, and traveled towards the mediterranean. i looked at my old damascus blade, and thought of those sharp scymaters, like reap hooks, and as i could see one in my imagination, i felt all over, and spurred towards joppa.