I left Beyrout on the night of the 28th of May, with Mr. Harrison, who has decided to keep me company as far as Constantinople.  Francois, our classic dragoman, whose great delight is to recite Homer by the sea-side, is retained for the whole tour, as we have found no reason to doubt his honesty or ability.  Our first thought was to proceed to Aleppo by land, by way of Homs and Hamah, whence there might be a chance of reaching Palmyra; but as we found an opportunity of engaging an American yacht for the voyage up the coast, it was thought preferable to take her, and save time.  She was a neat little craft, called the “American Eagle,” brought out by Mr. Smith, our Consul at Beyrout.  So, one fine moonlit night, we slowly crept out of the harbor, and after returning a volley of salutes from our friends at Demetri’s Hotel, ran into the heart of a thunder-storm, which poured down more rain than all I had seen for eight months before.  But our rais, Assad (the Lion), was worthy of his name, and had two good Christian sailors at his command, so we lay in the cramped little cabin, and heard the floods washing our deck, without fear.

In the morning, we were off Tripoli, which is even more deeply buried than Beyrout in its orange and mulberry groves, and slowly wafted along the bold mountain-coast, in the afternoon reached Tartus, the Ancient Tortosa.  A mile from shore is the rocky island of Aradus, entirely covered by a town.  There were a dozen vessels lying in the harbor.  The remains of a large fortress and ancient mole prove it to have been a place of considerable importance.  Tartus is a small old place on the sea-shore—­not so large nor so important in appearance as its island-port.  The country behind is green and hilly, though but partially cultivated, and rises into Djebel Ansairiyeh, which divides the valley of the Orontes from the sea.  It is a lovely coast, especially under the flying lights and shadows of such a breezy day as we had.  The wind fell at sunset; but by the next morning, we had passed the tobacco-fields of Latakiyeh, and were in sight of the southern cape of the Bay of Suediah.  The mountains forming this cape culminate in a grand conical peak, about 5,000 feet in height, called Djebel Okrab.  At ten o’clock, wafted along by a slow wind, we turned the point and entered the Bay of Suediah, formed by the embouchure of the River Orontes.  The mountain headland of Akma Dagh, forming the portal of the Gulf of Scanderoon, loomed grandly in front of us across the bay; and far beyond it, we could just distinguish the coast of Karamania, the snow-capped range of Taurus.