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SCENE ON THE RIVER ORONTES, NEAR SUADEAH.
The scenery on this river resembles, in many parts, that of the Wye in South Wales: it is a fine slow-flowing stream, although its waters are not clear: in this vicinity there are two or three small islands on its bosom. When the traveller has succeeded in procuring mules at Suadeah, which occupies the site of the ancient Seleucia, he may take a solitary and lovely ride to Antioch. The hamlets in the plain are wretched: no roof invites to refreshment or rest; no spacious khan, with its group of trees and quiet pool, stands by the way-side. The gratification of the senses is generally in the East precarious and prospective: the wanderer must often dine and sup, like the impoverished French epicure, on the remembrance of ancient luxuries, which every step of the way towards Daphne•, Antioch, and Sardis, will richly supply. The path along the river often winds among thickets of bay, ilex, arbutus, and flowering myrtle, and where the magnificent pinacled rocks rise abruptly from its bed, he must rest a while, heedless of the noontide rays, careless of where he may lay his head at night In Italy, the curse of its lovely landscapes is the dry bed of the streams which so often cross the path: even its larger and famous rivers are in summer half dry; but in Asia Minor the waters are full, as of old. —not withered, like the prophet's gourd, leaving the stranger to mourn over that most unsightly of all objects, a shrunken spectre-looking torrent, wailing by, or peering through some glassy pools at the pitiless sun. The banks of the Orontes, at this spot, are beautiful as the forest in its glory and gloom, cool as the cavern on the shore: its haughty cliffs, here shrouded by fragrant shrubs—there glaring in the fierce sun-light: below, where the path winds, there is a delightful coolness beneath the overshadowing trees, which in some parts droop even into the stream. The stream scarcely murmurs in its slow and majestic course: it has bathed the ruins of Antioch, and will soon pour its waters into the Mediterranean. The path, after leaving the side of the Orontes, approached the mountains which enclose the plain on the western side, at whose foot were several extensive and well-planted orchards, belonging to the Aga of Antioch: hence the road was through lanes, thickly overhung on both sides with shrubs, and, as it wound up the mountain, the shades of evening began to gather on a country celebrated for its landscape scenery. It soon after grew dark, and the way more rude and rocky; no cottage light was near, or bark of the village dog:— "forlorn on the hill of winds, the night was dark around;" a halt must be made, the fire kindled, and the coffee prepared—sweet solace to the traveller's cares and toils. Over one of the dreariest wilds of Lebanon, the writer was one day passing, when a cloudy sky, a keen wind, and a miserable fog creeping upon every height, forest, and village, made the spirits sink and the blood run cold. The idea of comfort rose like that of an angel in the way. At last, a little hamlet presented itself near at hand; the path passed the door, and a young Syrian, in his light and graceful costume, came forth with a cup of excellent coffee: it was more precious than gold. He had probably descried us