The Jebel es Zubleh is a mountain fifty miles and more in length,
and so narrow that its tracery on the map gives it a likeness to a
caterpillar crawling from the south to the north. Standing on its
red-and-white cliffs, and looking off under the path of the rising
sun, one sees only the Desert of Arabia, where the east winds, so
hateful to vinegrowers of Jericho, have kept their playgrounds
since the beginning. Its feet are well covered by sands tossed from
the Euphrates, there to lie, for the mountain is a wall to the
pasture-lands of Moab and Ammon on the west-lands which else had
been of the desert a part. The Arab has impressed his language upon
everything south and east of Judea, so, in his tongue, the old
Jebel is the parent of numberless wadies which, intersecting the
Roman road-now a dim suggestion of what once it was, a dusty path
for Syrian pilgrims to and from Mecca-run their furrows, deepening
as they go, to pass the torrents of the rainy season into the
Jordan, or their last receptacle, the Dead Sea. Out of one of these
wadies-or, more particularly, out of that one which rises at the
extreme end of the Jebel, and, extending east of north, becomes at
length the bed of the Jabbok River-a traveller passed, going to the
table-lands of the desert. To this person the attention of the
reader is first besought.
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