was a wild, bleak picture, the white minarets of the town standing out spectrally against the clouds.  We rode up the sand-hills, back of the town, and selected a good camping-place among the ruins of Tyre.  Near us there was an ancient square building, now used as a cistern, and filled with excellent fresh water.  The surf roared tremendously on the rocks, on either hand, and the boom of the more distant breakers came to my ear like the wind in a pine forest.  The remains of the ancient sea-wall are still to be traced for the entire circuit of the city, and the heavy surf breaks upon piles of shattered granite columns.  Along a sort of mole, protecting an inner harbor on the north side, are great numbers of these columns.  I counted fifteen in one group, some of them fine red granite, and some of the marble of Lebanon.  The remains of the pharos and the fortresses strengthening the sea-wall, were pointed out by the Syrian who accompanied us as a guide, but his faith was a little stronger than mine.  He even showed us the ruins of the jetty built by Alexander, by means of which the ancient city, then insulated by the sea, was taken.  The remains of the causeway gradually formed the promontory by which the place is now connected with the main land.  These are the principal indications of Tyre above ground, but the guide informed us that the Arabs, in digging among the sand-hills for the stones of the old buildings, which they quarry out and ship to Beyrout, come upon chambers, pillars, arches, and other objects.  The Tyrian purple is still furnished by a muscle found upon the coast, but Tyre is now only noted for its tobacco and mill-stones.  I saw many of the latter lying in the streets of the town, and an Arab was selling a quantity at auction in the square, as we passed.  They are cut out from a species of dark volcanic rock, by the Bedouins of the mountains.  There were half a dozen small coasting vessels lying in the road, but the old harbors are entirely destroyed.  Isaiah’s prophecy is literally fulfilled:  “Howl, ye ships of Tarshish; for it is laid waste, so that there is no house, no entering in.”

On returning from our ramble we passed the house of the Governor, Daood Agha, who was dispensing justice in regard to a lawsuit then before him.  He asked us to stop and take coffee, and received us with much grace and dignity.  As we rose to leave, a slave brought me a large bunch of choice flowers from his garden.

We set out from Tyre at an early hour, and rode along the beach around the head of the bay to the Ras-el-Abiad, the ancient Promontorium Album.  The morning was wild and cloudy, with gleams of sunshine that flashed out over the dark violet gloom of the sea.  The surf was magnificent, rolling up in grand billows, which broke and formed again, till the last of the long, falling fringes of snow slid seething up the sand.  Something of ancient power was in their shock and roar, and every great wave that plunged and