of amazing antiquity; and, threading and enlivening all, the clear-cold
floods of Lebanon. This was the true haunt of Pan, whose altars are now
before me, graven on the marble crags of Hermon. Looking on those altars,
and on the landscape, lovely as a Grecian dream, I forget that the lament
has long been sung:

"Pan, Pan is dead!"

In another hour, we reached this place, the ancient Cæsarea Philippi, now
a poor village, embowered in magnificent trees, and washed by glorious
waters. There are abundant remains of the old city: fragments of immense
walls; broken granite columns; traces of pavements; great blocks of hewn
stone; marble pedestals, and the like. In the rock at the foot of the
mountain, there are several elegant niches, with Greek inscriptions,
besides a large natural grotto. Below them, the water gushes up through
the stones, in a hundred streams, forming a flood of considerable size. We
have made our camp in an olive grove near the end of the village, beside
an immense terebinth tree, which is inclosed in an open court, paved with
stone. This is the town-hall of Banias, where the Shekh dispenses justice,
and at the same time, the resort of all the idlers of the place. We went
up among them, soon after our arrival, and were given seats of honor near
the Shekh, who talked with me a long time about America. The people
exhibit a very sensible curiosity, desiring to know the extent of our
country, the number of inhabitants, the amount of taxation, the price of
grain, and other solid information.

The Shekh and the men of the place inform us that the Druses are infesting
the road to Damascus. This tribe is in rebellion in Djebel Hauaran, on
account of the conscription, and some of them, it appears, have taken
refuge in the fastnesses of Hermon, where they are beginning to plunder