To visit the Holy Land is a risk that many people prefer not to run; they would rather keep the picture of Jerusalem in their minds than witness the degradation of an ideal Jerusalem where humbug preys upon credulity at so many shillings per “holy site.” Indeed, the faith and ignorance of a Russian pilgrim seem necessary if one would retain unspoilt the childhood’s glamour of many scenes of scriptural association. In spite of drawbacks, however, the ever-increasing facilities of travel draw thousands and thousands to Palestine, many of whom return with faith stimulated and imagination strangely vivified. For the danger of disillusion is confined more or lest to the cities, whose vulgar modernisation so utterly destroys any glamour of the past. The country, the atmosphere, the climate remain unchanged. To follow the route of the Israelitish Exodus, for instance, challenges comparison less crudely. To visit the scenes of the Forty Years’ Wandering in the Wilderness, as Mr. Sutton did⁠—My Camel Ride from Suez to Mount Sinai (Century Press) apparently holds less risk of disillusionment. For the Desert does not change; the granite peak of Sinai may have crumbled, but it has not yet a funicular railway to bring it up to date; and no tramway line makes convenient, though hideous, the desolate shores of the wonderful Red Sea. With a thrill of reverent awe, most artlessly confessed to, he looked upon the rock that Moses smote for water, the slope where grew the brilliant Burning Bush, the grey, waste plain where the Golden Calf enflamed the idolators, and the bleak, limestone heights whence Moses watched the battle against the Amalekites while Aaron and Hur held up his aching arms. With the eyes of the spirit he saw all this seeking guidance nightly in his tent with prayer. He saw it, as Stephen Graham saw the Russian Pilgrims at Jerusalem, from within. And, being thus in the proper devotional frame of mind, his simple account of it reconstructs the past as no critical or scientific report could possibly do. Readers can realise what the Children of Israel felt⁠—their impatience, their boredom, their weary limbs, their cursing and despair in all the desolate encampments on the way. Mr. Sutton followed the actual route, as Dean Stanley did in 1853, and his account claims only to be “jottings from my diary” and were made from day to day without any thought of publication; so, while the narrative seems colourless, and often naive, its lack of picturesque detail is amply atoned for by the sixty-six full-page photographs which give a mast vivid idea of what the fortnight’s journey on camel-back involved. From Cairo by train to Ismalia, thence to Suez and across the Red Sea from the Valley Of Moses, some eight miles down the coast⁠—and then, by easy camps, always prepared in advance by Cook’s dragoman, to Mount Sinai and its monastery. A good map shows the route, while the brief description and the striking photographs persuade the reader that he has almost witnessed a swift cinematograph performance. Formalities were considerable, it seems; a permit from the War Office had to be obtained, while the necessary camels and Bedouin for the journey were engaged by contract from no less a personage than the Archbishop of Sinai! All the Arab tribes, from Suez to Sinai, are under the control of the Sinai convent, each tribe in turn supplying travellers with camels. The dragoman, in this instance, was typical of his race, and the actual start was attended with as many difficulties and delays as those the Israelites themselves experienced. For Mr. Sutton made the mistake of believing that when Iesa said a thing was done, it had been done! From the journey itself one gets a vivid impression of a desolate and howling wilderness, “howling” with wind, not savage animals; of waterless wadis, unbroken by any sign of plant or creature life, their sandy floors strewn with gigantic boulders that earthquakes have shaken down from the surrounding peaks; of occasional delightful oases where the wells, though sometimes brackish, were plentifully filled; of crystal atmosphere, fierce heat, and gorgeous sunsets. The temperature varied between 45 deg. Fahr. and 104 deg. Fahr.; often the track (made by camels only) was flat enough to allow a motorcar to travel smoothly; the average camel pace was three miles an hour, and Mr. Sutton calculated that his mount performed “a uniform five thousand swayings backwards and forwards per hour,” involving much muscular inconvenience to a rider who had never been on camel back before.