bris, sixty or seventy feet long, a line of springs gush
forth in singing foam. Under the shadow of trembling poplars and
broad-boughed sycamores, amid the lush greenery of wild figs and grapes,
bracken and briony and morning-glory, drooping maidenhair and
flower-laden styrax, the hundred rills swiftly run together and flow
away with one impulse, a full-grown little river.

There is an immemorial charm about the place. Mysteries of grove and
fountain, of cave and hilltop, bewitch it with the magic of Nature's
life, ever springing and passing, flowering and fading, basking in the
open sunlight and hiding in the secret places of the earth. It is such a
place as Claude Lorraine might have imagined and painted as the scene
of one of his mythical visions of Arcadia; such a place as antique fancy
might have chosen and decked with altars for the worship of unseen
dryads and nymphs, oreads and naiads. And so, indeed, it was chosen, and
so it was decked.

Here, in all probability, was Baal-Gad, where the Canaanites paid their
reverence to the waters that spring from underground. Here, certainly,
was Paneas of the Greeks, where the rites of Pan and all the nymphs were
celebrated. Here Herod the Great built a marble temple to Augustus the
Tolerant, on this terrace of rock above the cave. Here, no doubt, the
statue of the Emperor looked down upon a strange confusion of revelries
and wild offerings in honour of the unknown powers of Nature.

All these things have withered, crumbled, vanished. There are no more
statues, altars, priests, revels and sacrifices at Baniyas--only the
fragment of an inscription around one of the votive niches carved on the
cliff, which records the fact that the niche was made by a certain
person who at that time was "Priest of Pan." _But the name of this_
_person who wished to be remembered is precisely the part of the carving
which is illegible._

Ironical inscription! Still the fountains gush from the rocks, the
poplars tremble in the breeze, the sweet incense rises from the
orange-flowered styrax, the birds chant the joy of living, the sunlight
and the moonlight fall upon the sparkling waters, and the liquid
starlight drips through the glistening leaves. But the Priest of Pan is
forgotten, and all that old interpretation and adoration of Nature,
sensuous, passionate, full of mingled cruelty and ecstasy, has melted
like a mist from her face, and left her serene and pure and lovely as
ever.

Here at