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natives are in winter pervious to the rain and wind: the walls being only one stone in thickness, and that of a porous quality, they absorb the moisture greatly, being very thinly, if at all, stuccoed within. In such a home the stranger is liable to fever, ague, and rheumatism. We at first lodged in one of these cheerful yet comfortless houses; the parlour had four windows, looking on splendid scenes; but when wet and wild weather came, the vessel of lighted charcoal could not diffuse sufficient warmth and comfort through the apartment The frequent arrivals of vessels of various nations from Europe, and the travellers who came on board them, Beirout being the most convenient starting-point for an Eastern tour, made the circle at the English and other consulates interesting and animated. The surrounding country is enriched with vineyards, groves of olive and palm, orange and lemon: the mulberry-trees are innumerable. The resources of this country have not been fairly improved or encouraged: the recesses of Lebanon, rich in mineral productions, deserve to be carefully examined: near the sea, the dislocated strata have almost every where a deep chalybeate tinge, and compact nodules of iron ore are of frequent occurrence. Specimens of excellent pit-coal are found in the neighbourhood of Beirout; but neither the extent nor depth of the beds which are known to exist there, have been yet ascertained. Other metallic ores are also found in various parts of the mountainous district. At the extremity of the town, towards Sidon, is an extensive cemetery, almost at the edge of the sea: it affords a most impressive walk, when evening is on the dark cypress, on "the thousand tombs," the avenues, and the waves that dash at the feet almost of the sepulchres. The influence of the place fast gathers on the thoughts, yet there is nothing gloomy in this influence; so exquisite is the beauty of nature on every side, as to gladden even "the valley of the shadow of death." The bay on each side and in front, like a lake of gold: Lebanon, its wastes, its white villages, its lonely monasteries, red with the dying light From the cedar, the ilex, the palm, the pine, the last beam is slowly vanishing. In such a moment, the sting of death, and the terror of the grave, cannot alarm the thoughts, which are borne away to the living world of loveliness; a faint emblem, perhaps, if aught here below can be an emblem, of that brighter and more beautiful world above, where "they shall die no more." Mourners were now moving up and down the cemetery, alone or in groups, yet mostly alone; they came to mourn their departed relatives: they wailed beneath the cypress shade.


The little ruinous town of Payass, situate in the field of Issus, is a singular place; almost deserted, composed chiefly of bazaars and two or three mosques, a haltingplace for the caravans, and rarely a home for the traveller. This mosque was the principal one of the place: the neighbouring peasants sometimes came to its court, and a group of traders and pedlars would gather here round their fires of an evening, smoking and chatting, when the caravan halted at Payass. The shaft of its minaret was broken, the weeds grew on its walls and roof; its dome, above which the sacred crescent was entire; so also was the greater part of the corridor. The interior was not dilapidated, though long forsaken; no one entered it for the purpose of prayer, placed his little carpet on the floor, and, turning to Mecca, implored Alia to bless his journey. There is no impressiveness in a ruined Turkish church, no grey tower, fretted aisle, or columns that with us look picturesque in decay. The plain and open interior of the mosque, the slender pillars of its corridor, and the tall minaret, look poor when withering by the hand of time. Then there is no cemetery adjacent, no tombs in the shadow of aged trees, no murmur of the wind in their branches, nothing within or without to wake our imagination or sympathy. The little town of Payass, when its gate was locked at night, and no one was in its ruined houses but the traveller and his party, was silent as the wilderness in which it stood: the voice of the imaun from the broken minaret would have been welcome, for it was a melancholy place. The writer once met with an imaun who had lost his employment; the Greeks had ruined his mosque, defaced the interior, erased the gold sentences on the walls, massacred the people, and had spared his life, but turned him forth in the world a broken-hearted and beggared man. He was above sixty years of age, tall, and of tine features; he often came to see me, and would speak of his troubles and sorrows, which had come upon him in the decline of life. He had been the imaun of this mosque from his youth, and he loved its routine of duties and cares, with somewhat similar feeling to those of a pastor over his flock. During the greater part of his life he had never been absent a day from his charge; his eyes had been so used to see the congregation gathered to prayer every day, and his lips to read the Koran, and comment on its meaning, that they were now unfitted for the wilder sights and sounds of the world, into which he was thrown homeless and friendless. He sometimes came to dine, for he often wanted a meal, as he was in the midst of his enemies, who had murdered most of his countrymen: his two sons had perished also. When he spoke of their loss, his bitterness of soul was exquisite, for they were put to death pitilessly, though he said he would have died to save them. When he walked through the town, which was but seldom, he passed his ruined mosque, where he had presided for so many years, and saw it all broken and neglected. He dared not enter it, or shew any signs of emotion, lest he should be exposed to the taunts of the Greeks. He was evidently sinking beneath his misfortunes, which were without hope; and when he told

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