the Lebanon sinks a good deal, as it does on the south. Beyond this low place, at a considerable distance, I should think a day's travel, say fifteen or twenty miles, it throws up another high point, or mass of mountains. On this last point, which may be about as high as the Sun-neen, grow the famous cedars so much spoken of. Our plan was to have extended our tour so as to visit them and Baalbec, which stands nearly opposite them, on the other side of the plain, but some engagements and matters of duty did not allow all the company to proceed thus far.

Our descent from the top was much more easy and expeditious than our ascent, owing in part to an experiment we made with complete success. On the south side of the point a hollow ran up almost to the top; on the west side of this hollow was a large field of snow, which extended from near the top to the foot of what I have called the cone, or down to the second general level. We made a trial of how we could descend on the snow, and found that, by keeping near the edge, and walking with care, sticking the heel with a little force in it, we could get along with much more ease and expedition than we could over the rough and exceedingly rocky ground. Our descent to our horses was soon accomplished; and just as the sun went down under the western wave, we arrived at our tents, a little tired it is true, but greatly gratified in having reached the top of that "goodly mountain and Lebanon," perhaps the most interesting mountain in the world.

While we were on the Mount, the day, as it shone on us, was perfectly clear; the general state of the air, when we were shaded with an umbrella, or under the shade of a rock, was pleasant. The direct force of the sun was, however, warm. We were above the clouds, and had a most interesting view of their forming far, far below us, and especially on the sea. Soon after mid-day they began to form on the far distant horizon over the sea, and continued to increase until a large part of it was covered; and about the time we reached the foot of the cone, where we had left our horses, the clouds exhibited a most brilliant spectacle. A small strip of the sea, near the foot of the mountain, had no clouds on it. It lay smooth, like a frozen lake. The remainder, in all directions as for as the eye could reach, was covered with immense masses of clouds, which appeared to us like hills of cotton or wool upon the waters. It reminded me of some of those great plains of the valley of the Mississippi, covered with its immense forests, as seen from some high point of the Alleghany or Cumberland range, after the fall of a heavy snow. The clouds appeared about as high above the water as the western groves rise above the plain—the irregularity of hill and dale, and the fleecy whiteness of the clouds, as we looked upon the upper part, which was strongly illuminated by the sun, corresponded well with groves loaded with the new-fallen snow in all its virgin purity.

To make the scene still more interesting, a wind set in from the sea, and drove the masses of clouds against the mountains. We saw the plains covered and again laid bare, as masses of clouds, like the irregular columns of an army, passed over it—drove against the mountains—rose higher and higher up its sides—and at last swept over us and by us in huge piles. It was not one large dense cloud, but a multitude of clouds of various sizes, and at different heights. The sun pouring its flood of light upon these masses, so various in height and density and rapidity of motion, presented the most brilliant and perpetually varying spectacle that I have ever seen. We had all the variety of tints and colouring that light and shade can make, and that ever-changing aspect which is presented by the kaleidoscope. There was, however, no rain; for while we often have clouds on these mountains, there has no rain fallen since I reached Beyroot, which is now more than six weeks.

We spent the night at the foot of the snows, where the former night was passed; and having packed our minerals, shells, and flowers, which we had collected, set off for Bru-ma-nah. We took a more direct road than the one by which we came, as we wished to see as much of the mountain as possible. We passed along a great ridge that ran from our tents, at the foot of the cone, with various irregularities, on to Bru-ma-nah. We found it much as the ridge on which the coal-pits of Corneil are situate. The upper part of it much of the way is of the sandstone formation. On the higher part of this is a stratum of very fine puddingstone. Almost everywhere, in this sandstone formation, we find petrified wood, much iron ore, iron stone, and at many places slate, and all the indications of coal. There can be no doubt that coal exists extensively in this formation; and, from the tour which we made, I should think that from one-sixth to one-fourth of this ridge was of the sandstone formation. It lies about midway up the mountain; has, generally considered, a horizontal position; but is at many places most singularly thrown out of its place. At the heads of hollows, and at the points of ridges, and often in other places, the limestone seems forced up, but retains its horizontal position: at other places, the sandstone is suddenly cut off, and begins again at a great distance above or below;—but my paper is full.

LETTER V.

Bru-ma-nah, Aug. 2, 1836.

Last Saturday, I went down to Beyroot, mainly to spend the Sabbath with the small number of Franks that usually meet at the American consul's for worship. I had been on the mountains about three weeks, and found the general temperature pleasant. The thermometer seldom rose to 75° Fahr. The direct action of the sun was, it is true, considerable, but I seldom, except when travelling, went out during the greatest heat of the day. I found the heat greater at Beyroot; from five to eight, and at times ten or more degrees. Still the thermometer does not give the whole difference. There is a closeness—an oppressive something in the air in the town that makes it more trying than the same degrees of heat would produce on the mountains. There is also a very manifest difference in the heat, and oppressive character of the air, in the town, and in what is called the Gardens—the numerous dwellings that lie without the walls, and are scattered for several miles round the city, mentioned in a former letter.

I have repeatedly witnessed since I came to the mountains an appearance in the setting sun which I never before saw, nor have I ever seen it noticed in books. In this dry season of the year we have but few clouds, and the sun usually clear; but in setting, it very often assumes strange and singular appearances. They begin about the time the lower part of the sun touches the line of the horizon. The lower part, at times, appears to flatten up; the upper, to flatten down; and at times, the sides flatten in—so that the disk of the sun forms nearly a square; it seldom, however, took this form. More frequently about the time that one-half of the disk is sunk below the horizon, a portion of the upper part of the remainder appears to separate from the body of the sun, and often assumes the form of an inverted cone, or rather that of a common washbowl, set on the sun, and at times separated from it by a black mark, of, say an inch in diameter. This crown-like appearance, at times, is distinctly visible after the disk of the sun has disappeared; at other times the body of the sun appeared to be surrounded with a groove and a band, giving it the appearance of the capital of a pillar. I have seen it again and again, as it sank under the line of the horizon, flatten down, and spread out