crucified on Calvary. They say that many old people, who are here now,

saw him then, and had seen him before. He looks always the same--old,

and withered, and hollow-eyed, and listless, save that there is about him

something which seems to suggest that he is looking for some one,

expecting some one--the friends of his youth, perhaps. But the most of

them are dead, now. He always pokes about the old streets looking

lonesome, making his mark on a wall here and there, and eyeing the oldest

buildings with a sort of friendly half interest; and he sheds a few tears

at the threshold of his ancient dwelling, and bitter, bitter tears they

are. Then he collects his rent and leaves again. He has been seen

standing near the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on many a starlight night,

for he has cherished an idea for many centuries that if he could only

enter there, he could rest. But when he approaches, the doors slam to

with a crash, the earth trembles, and all the lights in Jerusalem burn a

ghastly blue! He does this every fifty years, just the same. It is

hopeless, but then it is hard to break habits one has been eighteen

hundred years accustomed to. The old tourist is far away on his

wanderings, now. How he must smile to see a pack of blockheads like us,

galloping about the world, and looking wise, and imagining we are finding

out a good deal about it! He must have a consuming contempt for the

ignorant, complacent asses that go skurrying about the world in these

railroading days and call it traveling.

When the guide pointed out where the Wandering Jew had left his familiar

mark upon a wall, I was filled with astonishment. It read:

657

The Innocents Abroad