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artists from Damascus. We proceeded thence to visit the courts and stables: none can form an idea of the Arabian horse who has not visited those of Damascus, or of the Emir Beshir; it must be seen with its splendid cloths embroidered with gold and pearl, its head covered with a net of blue or red silk, worked with gold and silver lace, shaking its long black mane, brushing with its tail its beautifully polished sides, while its fiery, proud, and intelligent eye is fixed on the stranger. The Emir's favourite wife wears the horn on her head, after the custom of the women of Lebanon; but it is of gold covered with precious stones."

Is it not bitter to leave all these things, the palace he has planned and raised on the inaccessible cliff, the empire he has gained by a half a century's toil and crime, the power that makes old age awful? Is it not agony to go away like the moth, while the steeds look for their master, the princes for their counsellor, and Lebanon for its lord, in vain! his beautiful women shall come and wail for him, and say "Alas! his glory." Yet this man, hard as he may feel the summons, will meet death calmly, as did Djezzar of Acre, and Ali Pacha of Yanina: "there were no bands in their death; they were not troubled." His manners are easy and dignified, his complexion fresh and healthful; there is sweetness in his smile, and his air and conversation are those of a wise and fine old man: at seventy-six he is active and indefatigable, rising always before sunrise, meeting the daily pressure of business, whether it be of rebellion, exaction, trade, or treachery, with a cool and practised head: then careering over his mountain kingdom on one of his splendid Arabs; and at evening, calmer affairs and details, interviews with chiefs and strangers. Each hour, each moment is of value to this remarkable man, as if he felt, with Cecil, the magnificence of the future.

For at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And onwards, all before, I see
Deserts of vast eternity

Yet a few years, or months, and the animating genius, the unpitying heart, will be extinct and cold in Beteddein. The son will take the father's dominion, even with the last breath of the spirit that created it,—and that spirit, into what scene will it pass? To another Beteddein, another bower of luxury and pride, of beauty and fearfulness?— all-unrepenting, unannealed!

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