ABSTRACT
I hailed with delight the appearance, for which I had hoped so much, of the coast of Asia. It was so long since I had seen a mountain. The mifsy coolness of the landscape; the brightness of the painted houses, and the Turkish pavilions mirrored in the blue water; the different ridges of tableland which rise so boldly from the sea to the sky; the sharp summit of Carmel; the square enclosure and the lofty dome of its celebrated monastery, lighted up in the distance by that radiant cherry hue, which always seems to recall that cool dawn of which Homer sings, and at the feet of these mountains, Kaiffa, which we had already passed, opposite Saint John of Acre at the other end of the bay, off which our ship had anchored—it was a vision full at once of magnificence and beauty. The sea, with hardly a ripple, spreading like oil towards the shore where the thin fringe of the waves broke in gentle surf, struggling to compete in blueness with the ether which was already vibrating with the fire of the sun, though the sun could not yet be seen— 242such a sight one never sees in Egypt, with its low coasts and its horizons always spoiled by dust. At last the sun appeared: before us the town of Acre, coming out into the sea upon its promontory of sand, was clearly defined, with its white cupolas, its walls, its terraced houses, and its square battlemented tower which was once the abode of the terrible Djezzar Pasha against whom Napoleon fought.
