to make Sidon or Beirout most desirable places of residence, but society. On many a lovely spot along this coast, the traveller might wish to pitch his tent for years, even for life, could he but gather a little circle of friends or companions around him; could he but rally some of the associations of his native land, see a few familiar faces draw around his fire-side at evening, to talk of the past, and dwell on the brilliant prospects of the future. But his joys and his griefs in Syria and Palestine must all be felt alone; after spending hour after hour-for time flies unheeded amidst the ruins of glorious temples, and amid the hills and vales of the prophet and the patriarch—he must return to a silent and desolate home, where no voice of kindness or of love greets him, no kindred spirit can enter into his feelings and sympathize in his details. Leaving the shore, we wandered through the streets, in which there is little appearance of affluence or comfort; the tobacco-shops presented a neat and varied appearance, the handsome, and often gold-flowered glass vases were filled with tobacco of all the colours of the rainbow, from the strong weed of Bagdad, which, like brandy, intoxicates the stranger with a few puffs, to the mild and delicate produce of Latikea, of which he may smoke three pipes innocently before breakfast. We entered one of the coffee-houses that was filled with well-dressed Turks, lounging on the soft benches; many of them sat at the open windows that looked on the sea, which fell on the sandy beach with a lulling sound. Seating myself at the window, a cup of coffee and a handsome pipe was presented; having no tobacco, my next neighbour, a good-looking Turk, instantly offered me his little bag, to fill my pipe with its contents; for every Turk carries this little bag about him, as inseparably as an Englishman does his watch. In this manner is a great part of the day beguiled by this indolent and apathetic people, sipping coffee slowly, yet eternally, talking at intervals, uttering grave and pithy sentences, stroking their beards, taking off their turbans, and smoothing their bald heads. To relieve this monotony, a story-teller often breaks in, stands suddenly in the middle of the room, and begins his tale with wild gesticulation, and a rapid flow of words. The Turk listens intently, and then breaks forth into loud peals of laughter, shaking his heavy sides and wide garments with infinite glee, feeling all the luxury of the contrast, like a child relieved from its task, or a bird let out of its cage. In the evening we walked through the gardens of Sidon without the walls; they were full of fruit, and the cottages of the peasants stood in the midst of them. It was beautiful to see this specimen of industry, neatness, and comfort, so unlike the dreary hamlets scattered over a great part of Syria and Palestine. Here every man rejoiced in the fruits of his own labour, and sat under the shadow of his own vine and fig-tree. These Syrians were comely in their persons, and neat in their attire; the graceful cap and tassel, and the tunic, set off their light and slender forms. Many of the young women wore several rows of gold coins braided into their hair, and falling on each side of the face as low as the bosom ; and the hair of others was braided behind, and fell down the back in long tresses; they wore sandals on their feet. While at Sidon we made an excursion to the residence of Lady H. Stanhope, situated on the summit of a high hill, distant about an hour and half's ride from the town. The way, after passing the plain, was rugged and somewhat difficult; but as we ascended the hills, the prospect beneath was magnificent: the beautiful bay of Sidon, the shipping, the town that appeared from on high as if bosomed in gardens, Lebanon, Tyre, the great Sheick mountain that rises over Damascus, and is ever covered with snow. Even a scene such as this can hardly atone for the wild and exposed situation where her ladyship has fixed her home-shelterless, neighbourless, comfortless. Even the romance of Orientalism is passed away; the daring spirit of enterprize, that once bore her through the desert, is now at rest; her stud of twelve beautiful Arabian horses are inactive in their stalls; her twenty-three Arab servants have a sinecure place of it. Nervous, hypochondriac, a slave of superstitious fancies, Lady H. Stanhope rarely quits her home, and for days together does not quit her chamber. Where now is the prestige of the East, the wild aspiring at dominion over its people? if the secret thoughts of her heart could find vent, she would desire to return to England to finish her days: but she never can nor will return; pride, the fear of derision, the affected scorn of European tastes and habits, the rooted preference to Oriental feelings, even in faith, will cause her to go down to the grave without friend or lover to lament over her, or to say, "Alas her glory!" The powers of her mind are as acute as ever, and her conversation as animated and brilliant; she receives hospitably those who are well introduced, and eulogises the East even to the skies; but the pallid face and quivering lip tell of increasing infirmities, and that it is a bitter thing to draw near to the grave in a strange land, far from all the associations, the memories and feelings of our earlier and better life. THE RETROSPECT. BY ROBERT KAYE GREVILLE, LL.D. THEY are gone-the early years— Passion's fervid hopes and fears ;Rainbow-colours paint no more, Scenes on life's "uncertain shore ;"— The dream of youth is broken. Bless'd change-from vain desire Welcome now the chastening rod, Gone are voices once too sweet- All earthly things are flying. Idols from their places roll- Listen from thy throne on high, My humbled spirit turning. Bless'd peace from worldly strife! MISSIONARY HYMN. BY EDWARD BAKER. Isaiah liv. 1—3. SING, thou barren and forsaken, Children numberless are thine. Stretch thy spreading curtains proudly With thee work th' Almighty hands. Shoot thy branches o'er the mountain, Take possession Lo! the Gentiles hail thy Lord! |