which the archaeologist finds somewhat to noise abroad. His, indeed, is a scholarship which is essentially necrophagous. For consider, what would become of it, if a necropolis, for instance, did not yield somewhat of nourishment—a limb, a torso, a palimpsest, or even an earthen lamp, a potsherd, or a coin? I rail not at these scholarly gravediggers because I can not interest myself in their work; that were unwise and unfair. But truly, I abominate this business of ‘cashing,’ as it were, the ruins and remains, the ashes and dust, of our ancestors. Archaeology for archaeology’s sake is pardonable; archaeology for the sake of writing a book is intolerable; and archaeology for lucre is abominable.
“At Jbail I visited the citadel, said to be of Phoenician origin, which is occupied by the mudir of the District.
Entering the gate, near which is a chapel consecrated to Our Lady of that name, where litigants, when they can not prove their claims, are made to swear to them, we pass through a court between rows of Persian lilac trees, into a dark, stivy arcade on both sides of which are dark, stivy cells used as stables.
Reaching the citadel proper, we mount a high stairway to the loft occupied by the mudir . This, too, is partitioned, but with cotton sheeting, into various apartments.
“The zabtie , in zouave uniform, at the door, would have me wait standing in the corridor outside; for his Excellency is at dinner. And Excellency, as affable as his zabtie , hearing the parley without, growls behind the scene and orders me gruffly to go to the court.
‘This is not the place to make a complaint,’ he adds.
But the stranger at thy door, O gracious Excellency, complains not against anyone in this world; and if he did, assure thee, he would not complain to the authorities of this world. This, or some such plainness of