the first
chain of hills, where in a small olive orchard, there was a cistern,
filled by the late rains. It belonged to two ragged boys, who brought us
an earthen vessel of the water, and then asked, "Shall we bring you milk,
O Pilgrims!" I assented, and received a small jug of thick buttermilk, not
remarkably clean, but very refreshing. My companion, who had not recovered
from his horror at finding that the inhabitants of Ramleh washed
themselves in the pool which supplied us and them, refused to touch it. We
made but a short rest, for it was now nearly noon, and there were yet many
rough miles between us and Jerusalem. We crossed the first chain of
mountains, rode a short distance over a stony upland, and then descended
into a long cultivated valley, running to the eastward. At the end nearest
us appeared the village of Aboo 'l Ghosh (the Father of Lies), which takes
its name from a noted Bedouin shekh, who distinguished himself a few years
ago by levying contributions on travellers. He obtained a large sum of
money in this way, but as he added murder to robbery, and fell upon Turks
as well as Christians, he was finally captured, and is now expiating his
offences in some mine on the coast of the Black Sea.

Near the bottom of the village there is a large ruined building, now used
as a stable by the inhabitants. The interior is divided into a nave and
two side-aisles by rows of square pillars, from which spring pointed
arches. The door-way is at the side, and is Gothic, with a dash of
Saracenic in the ornamental mouldings above it. The large window at the
extremity of the nave is remarkable for having round arches, which
circumstance, together with the traces of arabesque painted ornaments on
the columns, led me to think it might have been a mosque; but Dr.
Robinson, who is now here, considers it a Christian church, of the time of
the Crusaders. The village of Aboo 'l Ghosh is said to be the site of the
birth-place of the Prophet Jeremiah, and I can well imagine it to have
been the case. The aspect of the mountain-country to the east and
north-east would explain the savage dreariness of his lamentations. The
whole valley in which the village stands, as well as another which joins
it on the east, is most assiduously cultivated. The stony mountain sides
are wrought into terraces, where, in spite of soil which resembles an
American turnpike, patches of wheat are growing luxuriantly, and olive
trees, centuries old, hold on