The number of fountains in Broussa must at least double that of the mosques, which amount to three hundred and eighty seven. You scarcely turn the corner of a street that is not occupied by a fountain, and it is by no means uncommon to have three and even four in sight at the same time, without calculating that all the good houses have each one or more in their courts or gardens; no kiosk being considered complete without its basin and its little _jet d’eau_. Yet, notwithstanding this profusion of water, many of the streets are disgustingly dirty, not an effort being made to remove the filth which accumulates from the habit indulged in by the inhabitants of sweeping every thing to the fronts of their houses. Indeed, setting aside the costume and the language, Broussa and its neighbourhood are a second edition of Lisbon; nearly the same dirt, the same bullock-cars, and luggage-mules, and rattle from morning to night within the city; the same blue sky, sparkling water, dense vegetation, bright flowers, and lofty trees without; the golden Tagus of the one being replaced by the magnificent plain of the other. After having returned home and changed our dress, we mounted our horses, and started to see the Baths. Nothing can be more beautiful than the road which conducts to them. Immediately on passing the gate of the city, you wind round the foot of the mountain, and descend into the village of Mouradiè; having the small mosque of Sultan Mourad on your right, and in front of you, the lofty chain of land along which you are to travel. After traversing the village, you turn abruptly to the left, and by a gentle ascent, climb to about one-third the height of the mountain; having on one hand the nearly perpendicular rock, and on the other a rapid and almost unprotected descent, clothed with vines and mulberry trees, whence the plain stretches away into the distance. The road, as I have described, hangs on the side of the mountain, and is fringed with wild flowers and shrubs: having the aspect of a garden; the white lilac, the privette, the pomegranate, the rose, the woodbine, the ruby-coloured arum, and the yellow broom, are in profusion; and it is with compunction that you guide your horse among them when turning off the narrow pathway at the encounter of a chance passenger; while the perfume which fills the air, and the song of the nightingales among the mulberry trees, complete the charm of the picture.