This fountain, called Rosalyn by the natives, is about fifty feet in diameter, and lies embosomed among gently sloping hills, the only opening being on the west of it, where the eye rests on the ruins of Balbec, and beyond them, on the snowy summits of Lebanon. Towards one side of it is a small island, on which, and also on the main land adjoining, are ruins, apparently of an ancient temple; but at present it is impossible to determine their character. Having pitched our tents, and disposed our baggage, and cooled our feverish faces in the stream, we prepared--to visit the ruins? no, but to take a nap. And there was good philosophy in this; for he who, after a long journey to see an interesting object, rushes up with eyes full of dust and faculties all jaded, does injustice to it, and gets but a modicum of satisfaction himself. If he would enjoy it to the full, let him first get a comfortable meal and then a little repose: the world, and every thing in it, will then be quite a different affair. If the reader’s journeying has been altogether in fancy or in books, he can have no idea how much the traveller’s pleasures are curtailed by these every day wants and feelings; and how often, when he expected to be in raptures, they keep him in incessant torments. “How magnificent are those ruins,” says enthusiasm to him: “yes, but how burning hot this sun,” says his poor, red, scaly face: “why don’t you break out into rapturous exclamations at this splendid colonnade?” cry upbraidingly, reason, and taste and fancy, all combined. “Why, I can’t,” he groans pettishly; “don’t you see my mouth is parched up with thirst, and my tongue is as dry as if it belonged to a mummy.” “Come, come, look,” exclaims his guide; “here, this way is something truly wonderful!” “What! away there,” he answers; “why I am already almost inanimate from fatigue, my feet are blistered, and that roll down yonder precipice has left me in the state of a mere jelly.”