ery shelf of soil, every crevice
where a tree can thrust its roots, upholds a mass of brilliant vegetation.
Water is the life of the place. It gushes into the street from exhaustless
fountains; it trickles from the terraces in showers of misty drops; it
tumbles into the gorge in sparkling streams; and everywhere it nourishes a
life as bright and beautiful as its own. The fruit trees are of enormous
size, and the crags are curtained with a magnificent drapery of vines.
This green gateway opens suddenly upon another, cut through a glittering
mass of micaceous rock, whence one looks down on the town and Gulf of
Scanderoon, the coast of Karamania beyond, and the distant snows of the
Taurus. We descended through groves of pine and oak, and in three hours
more reached the shore.

Scanderoon is the most unhealthy place on the Syrian Coast, owing to the
malaria from a marsh behind it. The inhabitants are a wretched pallid set,
who are visited every year with devastating fevers. The marsh was partly
drained some forty years ago by the Turkish government, and a few
thousand dollars would be sufficient to remove it entirely, and make the
place--which is of some importance as the seaport of Aleppo--healthy and
habitable. At present, there are not five hundred inhabitants, and half of
these consist of the Turkish garrison and the persons attached to the
different Vice-Consulates. The streets are depositories of filth, and
pools of stagnant water, on all sides, exhale the most fetid odors. Near
the town are the ruins of a castle built by Godfrey of Bouillon. We
marched directly down to the sea-shore, and pitched our tent close beside
the waves, as the place most free from malaria. There were a dozen vessels
at anchor in the road, and one of them proved to be the American bark
Columbia, Capt. Taylor. We took a skiff and went on board, where we were
cordially welcomed by the mate. In the evening, the captain came to our
tent, quite surprised to find two wandering Americans in such a lonely
corner of the world. Soon afterwards, with true seaman-like generosity, he
returned, bringing a jar of fine Spanish olives and a large bottle of
pickles, which he insisted on adding to our supplies. The olives have the
choicest Andalusian flavor, and the pickles lose none of their relish from
having been put up in New York.

The road from Scanderoon to this place lies mostly along the shore of the
gulf, at the foot of Akma Dagh, and is reckoned dange