Waving him an adieu, we sprang into our saddles, and in a few moments issued out of the western portal of the city. Intending to visit Cæsarea, which is now a desolation and a den of thieves, we had taken the precaution to engage two Turkish soldiers as a guard, for whose service the governor had demanded an exorbitant sum. They were to have met us at the gate of the town, but, true to their traditional indolence, they did not arrive till long after the appointed hour. The sun was high, a long journey was before us, many places of deep interest were to be visited, and we felt impatient at the delay. To wait was the only remedy. At length one came, informing us that his companion had lost his horse. Refusing to linger longer, we ordered him to advance, leaving word with the guard at the gate to hasten the tardy soldier, who overtook us after half an hour’s ride.
Our cavalcade now presented a picturesque appearance as we wound round the southwestern spur of Gerizim and descended into the upper end of the Vale of Shechem. Leading the way, our guard were mounted on spirited horses fantastically caparisoned, while they themselves were attired in costumes of the gayest colors. Each was armed with a long gun thrown across the shoulders, a Turkish sword dangling by his side, and a brace of old-fashioned cavalry pistols sticking in his girdle. As we advanced the scenery became surpassingly lovely. Terraced hills rose on either side, casting a grateful shade in the vale below; groves of figs and olives, apples and pomegranates, apricots and almonds, covered the plain and mountain sides. As we rode on, our ears were saluted with the sound of running waters and the song of birds. In less than thirty minutes we passed on our right a noble fountain, covered with a Roman arch, around which were groups of peasants and droves of asses. An hour beyond we came to an arched mill-race, not unlike a Roman aqueduct, consisting of twelve pointed arches, gray with age and festooned with graceful ferns. It is used for carrying the water to the south side of the valley, where it falls headlong into the heart of an old mill, amid the whirr of wheels, mingling an air of civilization with the crude mechanics of the East. Leaving this terrestrial elysium, our path diverged northward over bleak hills whose limestone ribs had burst through the scanty soil, intensely reflecting the light and heat of a Syrian sun. The path is cut into the solid rock, in some places resembling steps, but now worn smooth by the tread of man and beast. Near the summit of the ridge is the “Shepherds’ Spring,” where maidens were drawing water for their flocks. Now the royal city of Samaria rose to view. Its unique hill, like a truncated cone, adorned with circular terraces; its marble porticoes, now in ruins; and its hut-like dwellings, rising from amid the remains of more pretentious edifices, formed a picture of singular beauty. Descending through magnificent groves, the path followed the valley, and, after passing beneath an old arched gateway, it abruptly turned to the west up the hill of the Samaria of Omri, the Sebaste of Herod, and the Sebustieh of modern times.