ona. This is a very strongly
fortified place. We were rowed ashore by Maltese boatmen, and, amid a
great crowd and bustle on the quay, landed, and went to the Hotel de
France. The proprietors were very civil, and assigned us a room at the
top of the house, looking out on the place. We sallied forth in quest
of horses to take us to the market-place. An Arab, who spoke some
very broken and dilapidated Italian, took us round the market and
through the streets, shouting "Reel Ain Mokra!" Several Arabs came up
and offered us their horses, but the steeds had such a forlorn look,
that we declined the accommodation, and settled to start by carriage
next morning.

Accordingly, on Monday, the 26th of March, we set out at five o'clock,
on a most wretched morning. The vehicle was the most miserable
locomotive contrivance I ever saw. Drawn by two horses, it pounded and
churned along a most detestable road. We were obliged to get out
several times, and in one place we stuck in the mud for twenty
minutes. It was only by dint of putting our united shoulders to the
wheel, that we succeeded in extricating our unhappy chariot from its
stationary position. At length our eyes were gladdened by the sight of
the defile which opens on the lake Metitza, where Count Z----'s
property is situated. Though of Polish origin, the Count is an
Englishman, and has, I believe, been an officer. Right gladly we
alighted from the carriage, and, loading our guns, prevailed on some
Italian fishermen to take us out in a boat for a pop at the wild ducks
which we saw flying about by hundreds, bagged a few, and then returned
to find that the Count's keeper had come down, under the impression
that we were poachers, with a firm determination to take us into
custody there and then. The production of our letter of recommendation
brought him back to civility, and produced an offer to take us out
shooting; Count Z---- himself was absent in London.

There is an establishment here for the manufacture of oil from putrid
fish, which agreeable occupation announced itself in the shape of such
an overpowering odour, that I seized a glass of cognac, and fled
precipitately, taking my way towards the caravanserai of Ain Mokra.
Poor old Nero, whom I had brought with me, got into a scrape here, and
narrowly escaped being drowned. It appears that the putrid entrails of
the fish are thrown into a kind of pond, which is thus filled with a
slimy mixture resembling clay, and exhaling