In Acre many wealthy and respectable familles resided, for it was the capital of the pachalic; and the fine and wide plain without the walls was often gay with the exercises of the troops and the presence of the pacha. While resident here, the writer sometimes visited a Jewish family, whose interior exhibited a picture of the troubled state of the times, and the uncertainty of property. The head of the family was a merchant, in whose house two pilgrims of his people had lodged a few years before, a father and mother, who had an only daughter, whom they betrothed on the spot to their host, seeing that he was prosperous, a merchant, young, and possessor of a good house. The Jewish maiden brought a pretty face and figure, and a tolerable portion, to her husband, who had never seen her till she was brought from her distant home to his house, as a bride. The match did not seem to be a happy one: the wife spoke with fervour of her home, of its tranquillity, and many attractions; its woods and flowers, friends and security. The contrast was bitter, such as only domestic affection could reconcile, and this she felt not: the sea washed the walls of her dwelling at Acre; there was no garden: fear was on every side, for the pacha had already hinted his suspicion that her husband was rich; and where he scented plunder, he soon, as the Persian says, "put the footstep of desire into the stirrup of accomplishment." The anxious merchant thought of leaving the town, to avoid the dreaded exactions, and asked our advice where he should emigrate. Reluctant to fly from the scene of his industry, his house, &c., his fancy harassed him by often painting the pacha's avarice, the pacha's wrath, in hideous colours: one or two rich men of his nation had already fallen victims, and his turn might soon follow. Yet, Israelite as he was, he could not bear the idea of a retreat to a mountain village, and its peace and solitude, to a town or fastness on Lebanon-if it did not possess the means of traffic, the delicious opportunities of gain. The uncertainty of resolve and anxiety of mind, which he every day experienced, was distressing: at every rumour of fresh cruelty and extortion he turned pale, and fancied the bastinado at his feet, or the bowstring at his neck: he could have fled alone and safely, and he knew that his wife and dwelling would not be assailed; but jealousy would not allow him to leave a young and pretty woman-fearing more from his friends than his enemies. He knew that he did not possess her affections, and that she dwelt with more heart-sickness and love on her native home, her early attachments, than on his welfare or enjoyment: indeed, if the angel of death should actually overtake him, and his head be asked for at the palace, it was doubtful if the wail of the handsome Jewess would have been as one that refused all consolation. He passed most of his time within doors, that he might attract as little notice as possible: the ships of various nations sailing out of the harbour were finely seen from his windows and gallery, to which they sometimes passed near, and he earnestly wished, many a time, to be on board one of them, embarked for France or England, his wife, his child, and monies, all on board, and Acre left for ever: at last he decided to depart, as secretly as possible, to the former country; but whether he put his design in execution, or what was his fate, we knew not, as we left the town for the interior soon afterwards.

THE SITE OF THE ANCIENT DAPHNE.

In this wild and luxurious scene there is a resemblance to the site of the ancient oracle of Delphi: the gardens of Armida were not more formidable to the crusaders under Godfrey of Bouillon, than the groves of Daphne were of old to the Roman veterans. Cassius, their general, forbade them to enter here, where the sights and sounds were more subduing than the enemy's sword. Daphne, so famous in the history of Syria, is about six miles from Antioch: you travel for some time along the foot of mountains through groves of myrtle and mulberry trees, till you arrive at this natural amphitheatre on the declivity of the mountains, where the springs burst with a loud noise from the earth, and, running in a variety of directions for about two hundred yards, terminate in two beautiful cascades, about thirty feet in height, falling into the valley of the Orontes. The largest of the fountains rises from beneath a rock, on the top and sides of which are the massy remnants of an ancient edifice, perhaps those of the temple of Apollo: the water of this spring is conveyed for nearly two miles through an artificial subterraneous aqueduct, which has been traced to the vicinity of Antioch. The real site of Daphné has been much disputed by travellers, among whom there is a great difference of opinion: neither Babylæ, Zoiba, or Beit-el-ma, fulfil the anticipations and images excited by the words of the ancients, who sometimes dipped their pens, when painting scenes of natural beauty, in the colours of the rainbow; or from their less correct taste and genuine love for the picturesque, when compared with that of the moderns, their descriptions may not always be depended upon, even of the scenes they saw. They loved the soft, rather than the magnificent; and things delicious to the senses, rather than the splendid scenes and ruder excitements of alpine regions. The charms of Daphné were derived as well from religious and voluptuous associations, so artfully blended in the old mythology, as from the unrivalled features of nature.

Here Seleucus planted a thick grove of laurel and cypress trees, reaching ten miles in circumference, and forming a cool and impenetrable shade, even in the most sultry summers. In the middle of the wood he erected a magnificent temple, which was consecrated to Apollo and Diana. Daphné was the same with respect to Antioch, as Baiæ was to Rome, and Canopus to Alexandria—a place of resort for amusement and pleasure. The senses were gratified with harmonious sounds and aromatic odours; beautiful were the walks, and shades, and grottoes, beautiful the Syrian women who resorted or dwelt here at last, all who had any fortitude or virtue avoided the place: the soldier and the philosopher shunned its temptations.

"The joyful birds sang sweet in the green bowers;
Murmured the winds; and, in their fall and rise,
Struck from the trees and fountains silver showers,
A thousand strange and welcome harmonies.

Flowers and choice odours richly smiled and smelled
On either side of the calm stream, which wound

In a so spacious circle, that it held

The whole vast forest in its charming round.

It seemed that the hard oak, the grieving yew,

The chaste sad laurel, and the whole green grove,

It seemed each fruit that blushed, each bud that blew,

All spoke of ladies' hope, of ladies' love,

And bade the pilgrim hail to this delightful grove." Nevertheless, the groves of Daphné continued for many ages to attract the veneration, and to be the resort, of natives and strangers: the privileges of the sacred ground were enlarged by the munificence of succeeding emperors; and every generation added new ornaments to the splendour of the temple. At last the Christians of Antioch built a magnificent church here to Babylas bishop of that city, who died in the persecution of Decius: the rites thenceforth began to be neglected, and the priests of Apollo to forsake the place. Julian the Apostate endeavoured to revive the love of paganism amidst the groves of Daphné: he visited the neglected altars, and resumed the sacrifices, and saw with mortification and anguish that their reign was over, their sun was going down, and that the mysterious voice had gone forth in Daphné, as in the temples of Greece, "Let us go hence." One night the temple was discovered to be in flames; the statue of Apollo was consumed to ashes, as also were the altars: Julian said that the malice of the Christians had caused the conflagration; the Christians said, it was the vengeance of God.

Two beautiful cascades, and a few groupes of trees and bushes, and a screen of bold crags behind, cannot, however, realise the associations of memory, which are here miserably shattered; and the pictures of the past flit away like the foam of the waterfalls. Is this all that remains of Daphné?-Let the traveller recline on the bank, whose flowers grow rank beneath the spray; and, lulled with the falling waters, or with a gentle dose of opium, strive to conjure up on the steep the magnificent temple of Apollo; its flights of columns casting their long shadows on the stream, the smoke of its sacrifices and clouds of perfume rising slowly over the groves, while over the cataracts slowly floated the music of many instruments, and the voices of invisible women. He wakes--and what does he behold? Three water-mills built of mud, some myrtle and bramble bushes, and a few mountain girls drawing water from the stream, their coarse garments hiding coarser forms-the Dulcineas of the place; which, had Cervantes seen, he rould surely have placed his hero on the steep, and given him visions, and made him harangue over Daphné and her glory, while Sancho stood laughing loudly by his side.

"Ah, sister! Desolation is a delicate thing;

It walks not on the earth, it floats not on the air,

But treads with silent footstep, and fans with silent wing

Th' illusive hopes which in their hearts the best and gentlest bear;
Who, soothed to mournful thoughts by the ruined scene above,

And the spirit-stirring motion of the bright and busy wave,

Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the monster, Love,

And wake, and find the shadows fall on Daphné's desart grave."