On the 2d of May we start for the Euphrates, and follow for some time nearly the route recommended by Colonel Chesney for the great Indian railway to Bussora, on the Persian Gulph. The distance is little more than 800 miles--scarcely thirty steam-winged hours--the level surpassingly uniform. Truly those who desire to find either solitude, or what our author calls _kief_, in the East, must repair thither quickly, for the iron of the engineer has already entered into its soul. Already the blue and white rivers of the Nile are more easily attainable than were the Tiber and the Po to our grandfathers. Beyrout and Latakia will soon be fashionable watering-places; Baalbec as well known as Melrose Abbey; and the excavated ruins of Nimroud will come under the range of "return tickets." The grim Arab will look out from any quiet spot that the all-searching Cockney may have spared him; and he will gaze with wonder on the awful processions of the "devil-goaded" tourists, as they rush with magic speed across his wilderness--only to retrace their steps. The Turk, at the utmost bounds of the Othman Empire, will marvel at this new freak of _kismet_ (destiny;) with a sigh he will abandon his beloved _bockra_ (the "to-morrow" in which he loves to live;) and commending himself to Islam, or resignation in its most trying form, he will "jump in" like the mere Giaours, and be hurled along with the rest across the desert behind the Afreet stoker. But at present the wilderness knows nothing of all this, and we have before us the scenery of other days as Abram beheld it. We now cross the Chalus River, and enter upon a series of vast plains, varied by mysterious _tels_ or mounds, rising up from the level surface like bubbles on a pool. On, or among these, the ever restless Turkomans pitch their tents, and welcome the traveller kindly to their wandering homes. On the third day from Aleppo we reach Aintab, on the river Sadschur, "which, fresh and young, danced brightly on, as if eager to join the Euphrates and see the wide world beyond."