We left Nazareth on the morning of the 8th inst. My companion had done so
well under the care of Fra Joachim that he was able to ride, and our
journey was not delayed by his accident. The benedictions of the good
Franciscans accompanied us as we rode away from the Convent, past the
Fountain of the Virgin, and out of the pleasant little valley where the
boy Jesus wandered for many peaceful years. The Christian guide we engaged
for Mount Tabor had gone ahead, and we did not find him until we had
travelled for more than two hours among the hills. As we approached the
sacred mountain, we came upon the region of oaks--the first oak I had seen
since leaving Europe last autumn. There are three or four varieties, some
with evergreen foliage, and in their wild luxuriance and the
picturesqueness of their forms and groupings, they resemble those of
California. The sea of grass and flowers in which they stood was sprinkled
with thick tufts of wild oats--another point of resemblance to the latter
country. But here, there is no gold; there, no sacred memories.

The guide was waiting for us beside a spring, among the trees. He was a
tall youth of about twenty, with a mild, submissive face, and wore the
dark-blue turban, which appears to be the badge of a native Syrian
Christian. I found myself involuntarily pitying him for belonging to a
despised sect. There is no disguising the fact that one feels much more
respect for the Mussulman rulers of the East, than for their oppressed
subjects who profess his own faith. The surest way to make a man
contemptible is to treat him contemptuously, and the Oriental Christians,
who have been despised for centuries, are, with some few exceptions,
despicable enough. Now, however, since the East has become a favorite
field of travel, and the Frank possesses an equal dignity with the Moslem,
the native Christians are beginning to hold up their heads, and the return
of self-respect will, in the course of time, make them respectable.