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blast by night—that when the traveller and the wayfaring man halt there, and drink of the pool, and rest in the shadow, they shall bless the dead who rest beneath, for whose sake this luxury was given. In the town of Der-el-Kamar, each respectable family has its own "house of the dead:" sometimes this is in a little detached garden, and consists of a small, solid, stone building, resembling a house, which is called the sepulchre of the family; it has neither door nor window. On the side of the hill, at a short distance from the town, are a number of similar buildings, which are, in fact, so many family mansions of the dead. They have a most melancholy appearance; their walls must be opened at each separate interment of the members of a family. Perhaps this custom, which prevails particularly at Der-al-Kamar and in the lonely neighbouring parts of Lebanon, may have been of great antiquity, and may serve to explain some passages in Scripture. The prophet Samuel "was buried in his house at Ramah;" it could hardly be in his dwelling-house. Joab was buried "in his own house in the wilderness." In the city of Damascus, the only wife of a rich Turk fell dangerously ill. He applied to the English physician, who visited her very often; but in spite of all his skill, the lady, who was young and handsome, visibly grew worse. The husband was passionately fond of her, and implored the Englishman to save her life; for he could hardly believe that the disease would baffle all his art, so high is the opinion they entertain of the foreign hakim. Every day he visited the house of the latter; and, in the distraction of his grief, often wept like a child, and dwelt on the excellencies of his wife, how he loved her, and what misery he should suffer if the angel of death took her away. This emotion and intense affection of the Turk at first appeared rather remarkable to the physician; but he afterwards saw enough, in his visits to the domestic circles of Damascus, to convince him that the affections of home may be as strong under the selfish system of manners, and false faith, of the Koran, as in more blest and refined lands. During the continuance of his wife's illness, the Turk seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in resorting to the cemetery; it had been his favourite walk in his prosperity; and as the Oriental is a being of routine, whose habits and tastes do not change with the most awful changes around him, he still continued almost every evening to walk there, beneath the gloom of the overhanging trees, and abandon himself to the saddest meditations. Sepulchres were thick on every side, and mourners came at this hour to renew their sorrow and lamentation. Slowly pacing to and fro, or seated beside the tomb of his parents, he listened to the woes of others; but they did not drive the iron deeper into his soul: he always returned from the cemetery more calm and submissive than he went, for solitude and reflection rarely irritate or darken the temper and fancy of the Oriental. He was not doomed to taste, in the fate of her he so loved, the bitterness of death: contrary to all hope, the lady at last began to recover. His joy was exquisite, his gratitude unbounded, as he saw her health and beauty return every day; and he generously remunerated the physician—for he had said he would give all his fortune, and go forth a poor man, to save her life. CASTLE IN MOUNT AMANUS. This ruined castle is situated in a defile of the mountain, on the way from Antioch to Beilan: its position, one of the wildest imaginable—on the summit of a cliff whose foot is bathed by a rapid stream; precipices are on every side. The mountainroad is here very ancient, and soon after passes through groves of flowering shrubs, among which is the elegant form of the Italian pine. Looking back, the white lake beyond Antioch glittered in the sun. This castle is most probably of European construction. It was now noon; but had it been evening, the traveller would have been tempted to seek a home in its desolate chambers. When the fire was lighted on the floor, the group gathered round it, the coffee prepared, and the flame glancing on the gloomy walls; then was the hour for an Eastern story. The pleasure with which the Orientals listen to their story-tellers is inexhaustible; the repetition of the same practice, day after day, does not weary their patience, or abate in the smallest degree the interest they feel. This is probably one of the most primitive and ancient amusements in the world: even in the patriarchal days of the Old Testament, the love of oral narratives, in which instruction was blended with imagination, prevailed among the Jews and other Eastern people. The Arabs, when halting at eve on their endless sands, delight to form a group, and call on one of their companions to tell a tale, either of his own invention, or from one of their celebrated poets. To a Turk, the inaction as well as routine of his life, that knows little change or excitement, render this luxury peculiarly welcome. He can command it at all times and seasons, and can pass from the bosom of his family to the favourite haunt of the story-teller in a few moments. Whether the rain falls heavily, or the snows cover the narrow streets, he wraps his robe closely about him, and hastens there. After being sated with love, that he has purchased perhaps with money, it is a relief to him to listen to an ideal picture of strong affection and domestic felicity. Even the man who just before, perhaps, embrued his sabre in the blood of a Greek, will melt with sorrow at the perils and distresses of the hero of the story. As there are no public amusements in the East—no theatres, balls, or drinking-parties—they repair to the scene of this loved amusement with the same feeling as the idle and luxurious in our own land take up a new novel, or go to see a favourite actor. Old men whose white beards hang on their breasts, and whose features prove that they have felt the real evils and trials of life, are seen to devour these fictitious narrations with as much eagerness as the youths who sit beside them. The dervise, too, is there; his wild eyes fixed on the narrator, his very soul stirred by the tale, after he has spent the day in kindling the feelings of others by his own illusions, and drawing crowds about him with his revelations and lies. The badge" also, just come from Mecca, after his painful pilgrimage, that has purged away his sins, and thrown a sacredness about his person even to the end of life, comes here to yield himself to the beautiful fictions of some wandering Arab, and

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