are gnarled and twisted like grape-vines.  These are all the people you are likely to see.  The balance of the population are asleep within doors, or abroad tending goats in the plains and on the hill-sides.  The village is built on some consumptive little water-course, and about it is a little fresh-looking vegetation.  Beyond this charmed circle, for miles on every side, stretches a weary desert of sand and gravel, which produces a gray bunchy shrub like sage-brush.  A Syrian village is the sorriest sight in the world, and its surroundings are eminently in keeping with it.

I would not have gone into this dissertation upon Syrian villages but for the fact that Nimrod, the Mighty Hunter of Scriptural notoriety, is buried in Jonesborough, and I wished the public to know about how he is located.  Like Homer, he is said to be buried in many other places, but this is the only true and genuine place his ashes inhabit.

When the original tribes were dispersed, more than four thousand years ago, Nimrod and a large party traveled three or four hundred miles, and settled where the great city of Babylon afterwards stood.  Nimrod built that city.  He also began to build the famous Tower of Babel, but circumstances over which he had no control put it out of his power to finish it.  He ran it up eight stories high, however, and two of them still stand, at this day—­a colossal mass of brickwork, rent down the centre by earthquakes, and seared and vitrified by the lightnings of an angry God.  But the vast ruin will still stand for ages, to shame the puny labors of these modern generations of men.  Its huge compartments are tenanted by owls and lions, and old Nimrod lies neglected in this wretched village, far from the scene of his grand enterprise.

We left Jonesborough very early in the morning, and rode forever and forever and forever, it seemed to me, over parched deserts and rocky hills, hungry, and with no water to drink.  We had drained the goat-skins dry in a little while.  At noon we halted before the wretched Arab town of El Yuba Dam, perched on the side of a mountain, but the dragoman said if we applied there for water we would be attacked by the whole tribe, for they did not love Christians.  We had to journey on.  Two hours later we reached the foot of a tall isolated mountain, which is crowned by the crumbling castle of Banias, the stateliest ruin of that kind on earth, no doubt.  It is a thousand feet long and two hundred wide, all of the most symmetrical, and at the same time the most ponderous masonry.  The massive towers and bastions are more than thirty feet high, and have been sixty.  From the mountain’s peak its broken turrets rise above the groves of ancient oaks and olives, and look wonderfully picturesque.  It is of such high antiquity that no man knows who built it or when it was built.  It is utterly inaccessible, except in one place, where a bridle-path winds upward among the solid rocks to the old portcullis.  The horses’ hoofs have bored holes in these rocks to the depth of six inches during the hundreds and hundreds of years that the castle was garrisoned.  We wandered for three hours among the chambers and crypts and dungeons of the fortress, and trod where the mailed heels of many a knightly Crusader had rang, and where Phenician heroes had walked ages before them.