the katurgee, to the village for milk and eggs.  The ewes had just been milked for the suppers of their owners, but they went over the flock again, stripping their udders, which greatly improved the quality of the milk.  The night was so cold that I could scarcely sleep during the morning hours.  There was a chill, heavy dew on the meadow; but when Francois awoke me at sunrise, the sky was splendidly clear and pure, and the early beams had a little warmth in them.  Our coffee, before starting, made with sheep’s milk, was the richest I ever drank.

After riding for two hours across broad, wild ridges, covered with cedar, we reached a height overlooking the valley of the Rhyndacus, or rather the plain whence he draws his sources—­a circular level, ten or twelve miles in diameter, and contracting towards the west into a narrow dell, through which his waters find outlet; several villages, each embowered in gardens, were scattered along the bases of the hills that inclose it.  We took the wrong road, but were set aright by a herdsman, and after threading a lane between thriving grain-fields, were cheered by the sight of the Temple of OEzani, lifted on its acropolis above the orchards of Chavduer, and standing out sharp and clear against the purple of the hills.

Our approach to the city was marked by the blocks of sculptured marble that lined the way:  elegant mouldings, cornices, and entablatures, thrown together with common stone to make walls between the fields.  The village is built on both sides of the Rhyndacus; it is an ordinary Turkish hamlet, with tiled roofs and chimneys, and exhibits very few of the remains of the old city in its composition.  This, I suspect, is owing to the great size of the hewn blocks, especially of the pillars, cornices, and entablatures, nearly all of which are from twelve to fifteen feet long.  It is from the size and number of these scattered blocks, rather than from the buildings which still partially exist, that one obtains an idea of the size and splendor of the ancient OEzani.  The place is filled with fragments, especially of columns, of which there are several hundred, nearly all finely fluted.  The Rhyndacus is still spanned by an ancient bridge of three arches, and both banks are lined with piers of hewn stone.  Tall poplars and massy walnuts of the richest green shade the clear waters, and there are many picturesque combinations of foliage and ruin—­death and life—­which would charm a painter’s eye.  Near the bridge we stopped to examine a pile of immense fragments which have been thrown together by the Turks—­pillars, cornices, altars, pieces of a frieze, with bulls’ heads bound together by hanging garlands, and a large square block, with a legible tablet.  It resembled an altar in form, and, from the word “Artemidoron” appeared to have belonged to some temple to Diana.