an unusual thing for any one to leave Nablous without having an experience of some sort more or less disagreeable to fasten the name of the place in his recollection.  When the brilliant author of “Eothen” sojourned for a day or two in this “hot furnace of Mohammedanism,” as he calls it, the whole Greek population chose him as an involuntary deliverer of a young Christian maiden who had been perverted by rich gifts to the faith of Islam, or at least to a belief that a rich Mohammedan was to be preferred as a husband to a poor Christian.  They stare upon you now, as they did then, as you walk through the streets and bazaars, “with fixed, glassy look, which seemed to say, God is God, but how marvellous and inscrutable are his ways, that thus he permits the white-faced dog of a Christian to hunt through the paths of the faithful!”

We went, of course, to the little Samaritan synagogue, to see the famous copy of the Pentateuch, whose age no man knoweth.  We rode up the steep slopes of Gerizim to the ruins of the temple where the woman of Samaria said her fathers had always worshipped, and then, in a pouring rain, we started for Jenin.  Hassan sunk his head down in a huge Oriental cloak, undoubtedly manufactured in Birmingham or Manchester, and his horse, left to himself, lost his way, for a Palestine road may at any time, like a Western trail, turn into a squirrel’s track and run up a tree.  When we found ourselves again we were all wet and not in the best of humor, but in sight of the old city of Samaria on her high hills.

The magnificent capital of Ahab and Jezebel, we saw at a glance, is now only a ruined, dirty village, where a European could not hope for shelter for a night.  The hills sank into a heavy plain that seemed interminable.  The short twilight faded into untempered darkness.  Hassan was again in the rear.  He would have fled incontinently at the first sign of danger.  Our only consolation was that his horse was tired and he couldn’t get very far away from us under any circumstances.  I had a letter to a Christian at Jenin that was thought to be good for supper and lodging.  We filed through the muddy streets to the door of the Christian’s house, sent in the letter by Hassan, and a man came out, saluted us, told us to follow and he would take us to “a most comfortable place.”  When we stopped, it was before the door of a little mud hut.  An old woman opened it, but, before letting us in, fixed the price we were to pay.  We entered a room that did service for the entire wants of our hostess.  It was very small, but it could not have been made larger without knocking out the sidewalls of her house.  The floor was of dry mud, and there was nothing to sit upon except our saddles.  We supped from the bread and meat our good missionary friend had given us, and, rolling ourselves in our blankets, we slept; but not long.  The mud beneath us was not that dull, inanimate, clog-like thing we trample thoughtlessly under our feet along our country