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heights of Lebanon behind, and the boundless and beautiful sea in front,—and over all an atmosphere pure, soft, and splendid. From the port on the left, there runs a chain of six square isolated towers, about ten minutes' walk from each other, seemingly intended for the defence of the harbour; they stand immediately on the sea, and appear to be of Saracen workmanship. Around these towers, and in the sea, as on the shore to the right of Beirout, lie a great number of grey granite pillars. The tower of the lions, one of the six, is said to derive its name from a shield carved over the gateway, on which two lions were formerly visible, the arms of Count Raymond of Toulouse. When Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, took Tripoli from the Saracens, after a seven years' siege, he made Bertrand, the son of Raymond, Count of Tripoli. In the year 1170, the city was almost destroyed by an earthquake; the Saracens took it in 1289, and entirely destroyed it; but it was afterward rebuilt by them. There are several European merchants settled here, and consuls for France, England, Austria, &c. The principal article of export is the silk produced on the mountains, of which it formerly exported about eight hundred quintals every year, at about £80 per quintal: but its commerce has been lately on the decline. The next chief article of exportation is sponges, which are procured on the sea shore: the best are found at some depth in the sea; soap is exported to Tarsus, for Anatolia and the Greek islands, as well as alkali for manufacturing it, which is produced in the eastern desert: the khan of the soap manufacturers is a large well-built edifice. The castle on the left, the tomb of Abou Nazer on the right, the few kiosques and country seats, must yield in loveliness and comfort of position to the convent of Dervises: it is said to be at this time uninhabited; and might probably be come-at-able to the traveller, even of moderate resources, who desires to pitch his tent for a time in the East: the tenant of such an abode would be an enviable man; in his ci-devant Dervish home, in the deep vale of the Kadesha, where the orange and mulberry groves, the poplars, and many other trees and shrubs, render the air fragrant and cool. There is nothing wanting to give a home-feeling to such a residence, save some English furniture, books, and music: then might the recluse of the Kadesha, when walking on his terraced roof, or in his garden, gaze on his valley, river, groves, and the lofty declivities on each side, and defy "earth's extremest bounds," to offer a more grateful retreat; the town,—its busy commerce, the dwellings of its friendly consul and merchants, within half a mile: the storms on the heights of Lebanon above, are heard, but not felt: the long fall of the surge on the distant beach comes low and dream-like up the valley. At evening, how delightful to take a volume of our native land, Shakspeare or Scott, or the more pastoral poets of the lakes, and sit beneath the trees, or in the portico, and "lose the present in the past;" while a thousand associations and fancies come thronging on the thoughts,— till those thoughts are broken, deliciously broken, by the evening convent bell, pealing from the mountain steep. And while we listen, does not that bell tell of the past, as vividly as the immortal drama or verse? does it not bring tears to the eyes, and a rich melancholy to the heart? the Sabbath morn and eve in the fields of our earliest life, when such sounds were borne on the wind, calling us to the grey church, which our fathers loved; calling us also to stand beside their graves, and look our last look on the dead; sorrow, exquisite sorrow,—joy, hope, faith, and memory are breaking forth afresh with every tone of those bells, which come as if from mid air,—and, prolonged by the mountain echoes, are not like earthly sounds. Happy the man, who thus, in a foreign land, feels that the golden cord that bound his spirit to the home of his first and purest thoughts, is not broken; that, far as he wanders, the present cannot sever the past, or cloud the future,—but that there is still, and ever within, a fountain of merciful and blessed things, of which he can drink when all around is enchanting, as when all is desolate and barren.

ANTIOCH, ON THE APPROACH FROM SUADEAH.

Antioch was peculiarly a "defenced city;" nature had given it the everlasting mountains for walls and bulwarks, yet the pride and care of its kings covered them with mighty defences: the fortresses on the summits seem, even in ruin, to laugh at the power of man, and, like the tower of Shinar, to look up to heaven with scorn. The view is taken from a burial-ground: a vulture was perched on one of the tombs, and the bones of the dead were scattered beneath. Two women were lamenting bitterly, but not for the lost city: their hands were lifted to heaven in anguish and despair, for a child taken in mercy in its innocence, or for a husband or friend: the grave was fresh with the flowers they had planted; and when they are withered, the earliest of the season shall replace them. They were kneeling where nations are forgotten in death, but they knew it not: their wail, after the manner of the Eastern women, was low and melancholy: to the fancy of the stranger, wandering among the ruinous places, it seemed like the voice of those over whom the veil is spread, whose blood the earth shall never disclose; "even all the multitudes that fought against the city, to distress her, shall be as a dream of a night-vision." The earthquake, the tempest, the sword, the flame of a devouring fire, have all done their work on Antioch, yet time itself has spared the walls and towers on the precipices: the embattled hosts, who often came against them, saw that they were invincible; the convulsions of nature alone broke their strength, and rent their foundations. Yet even now there is an inexpressible life and immortality about them; even when the city and the plain trembled and sank at their feet, death did not swallow them up in victory: the eagle in his flight often rests on their battlements, rather than on the mountain peak. How poor the minarets, even of the great mosque, look in comparison to these noble ramparts! the morning sun is yet on the mountain heights to the left, and the red battlements on their verge, that look as if there "the trumpet shall again be blown, and the garments of the warrior rolled in blood."

The Oriental women go and mourn in the cemetery, where those who were dear to them are interred: ancient usage and etiquette require an outward shew of sorrow, even

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when the heart has no share in it: a veiled and kneeling figure is often seen where the cypress trees give an almost impenetrable shade: sometimes the air and dress bespeak her to be a lady of the land, sorrowing alone, and in that low thrilling lament, that in the silence of the burial-ground is like the voice of her "that refused to be comforted, because they were not" Among those visited by the cruelties of the Greek revolution was an Armenian lady of Constantinople, a young and handsome widow, whose husband was recently murdered. Bereaved of her home, she resided with the family of a relative: dejection and sorrow were stamped on her pale and handsome features; she refused to join her friends in their walks or excursions on the Bosphorus: even the love of dress, so strong and enduring under almost all circumstances in the breast of an Eastern woman, seemed to be extinct: the blow had been too sudden and ruthless; her home, her husband, her love, all to which her heart clung intensely, were cruelly taken—and what was life to her now! In the evening she sometimes came forth to the place where the slain was buried; and then the imprisoned feelings gave way to all the luxury of sorrow: and there is no spot so suited to its indulgence as the great cemetery on the hill of Pera, at evening; which then scarcely seems a portion of this world, but rather a separate world of shadows, of mourning, and communion with the dead, like the valley of the prophet, into whose awful secrets the desolate alone can enter.

This mingled scene of beauty and ruin, of misery and splendour—was a vivid emblem of the East: the unruffled bosom of the Orontes sweetly reflected the aged ruins on its shores: the hoary walls on the precipices were sadly, fiercely bright, like the ghastly smile on the face of the dead: the few feathery clouds that passed slowly along the peaks, looked like the phantom waving of a banner: the gay tents beside the stream, the Janizaries and their master, the ladies and their slaves, told a tale of pride and pleasure—at which the vulture on the tomb seemed cruelly to gaze; the dogs crunched the bones of the dead, and the mourners, beating their breasts and lifting their hands to heaven, seemed to say, "yet a little while, and you also, who trust in beauty and in power, shall be even as we, lamenting bitterly."

The cemetery of Antioch is destitute of funereal trees; no grateful gloom shrouds the mourner from the careless eye of the passengers: the morning sun was streaming down the mountains on the city, the solid bridge, and the people now issuing from the gate: a party of Turkish ladies passed by, in long muslin wrappers and yellow boots, with their black conductors, to take the air while it was yet fresh and cool: the janizaries of the governor preceded himself on horseback. The tall mosque near the river, the finest in Antioch, as well as the burial-ground, was still wrapped in shade.

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