dimly lighted mouldering church. And when the sad form is displayed by the glare of candles, the changed face is still not so changed but that the landlord gives a great gasp, and exclaims, all hot and excited-"Lord! Lord! if it aint that painter gentleman as used to be down here last summer a painting-a mighty great friend of Miss Pierrpoint's, - Lord! Lord! but my missus will take on a bit I reckon: he took a picture for her of our pretty little Rose as is gone, and was a right nice pleasant gentleman-Lord! Lord!"

And among the people looking in at the church door was the countryman of the floral banner; but the face glared upon by the dismal candles, and stolid in the midst of that excited assembly, was faded as the banner now was, and scarcely less an object of scorn. Though the countryman had only that very hour been showing his marvellous half-crown given by the tall gentleman, even he did not recognise the giver.

CHAPTER VIII.

O friends-O kindred-O dear brotherhood
Of all the world! what are we, that we should
For covenants of long affection sue?
Why press so near each other, when the touch
Is barred by graves? - Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

We left Agnes Singleton driving along in a cab towards the first glimpse of country freshness and repose which she should reach, with her being fevered with the memories of the awful Hamburg fire, and her soul sick with its renunciation of her love for Leonard. We will not follow her along her wild walk across the lovely stretch of undulating country, lying between Highgate and Hampstead, which so peacefully reposed that beautiful May evening, with its rich woods, and gleaming ponds, and soft green slopes, beneath the golden sunset skyon, on she walked, like one in a trance, oblivious to all around her, and it was only a kind of instinct which led her back to London and her solitary home, when night had closed in. Neither will we describe her miserable awakening upon the morrow, nor how with this morrow still no Leonard came! Alas! Agnes little could divine that the earthly husk of Leonard's spirit lay fading and changing into an object of dread beneath the pleasant leaves and blossoms of the beautiful, peaceful woodland. Could she, as she wandered frantically along that soft May evening, but have manifested the richness of her love to him, instead of hardening her soul against him, would it have availed aught? Could she have withdrawn him from his miserable fate by the strength of her warm life-could she have bound him to the earth and to its beautiful realities? Had Agnes' eyes looked into his with all the devotion which filled her heart, would they have laid the phantoms which tortured his brain? Had the voice of Mary Gaywood reached Leonard's ear, clear as a bell and holy as a seraph's hymn pouring itself forth in "I know that my Redeemer liveth," as upon many a twilight-would the demon have been laid, as within Saul's breast by the touch of David's harp? Could aught have rescued Leonard from the last sad act? Alas! Leonard was one of those beings left, in the extreme moments of their existence, to struggle utterly alone; abandoned, as it seems, by man-abandoned even by their better self; and whose cup of misery flows over in completest bitterness through the loss of faith in the one True Friend, the Father without whose knowledge not a sparrow falleth to the ground.

Honoria is standing beside the bed of Agnes with an extraordinary mournfulness and pallor upon her noble countenance. Agnes is lying dressed upon her bed, and appears sunk in a profound sleep. There she has lain for two days and a night. Honoria has learnt from Agnes' servant that she has awakened once and drunk a cup of coffee, and again fallen into her deathlike sleep. Agnes was not one of those people who would fall into a brain fever, or pine away and break their hearts, however bitter the pain; her physical being was utterly exhausted, but Nature, that marvellous restorer, sank her into the Lethe of sleep in order to again brace up her being for fresh endurance! Alas! poor Agnes, thou art proud and filled with a bitter indignation, which for the time would have silenced thy

cry of love-had Leonard lived! How will thy soul array itself in sackcloth and ashes for each shadow of reproach and anger, when thou shalt hear that Leonard is dead-has died by his own hand!

Whilst Honoria gazed upon that calmly sleeping pale face, the tears rolled quietly over her cheeks, and stooping down to impress a kiss upon her friend's brow, the eyes of Agnes suddenly unclosed and looked at her for a moment in bewilderment.

"Oh, Honoria!" cried she, hurriedly, and started up, "Honoria! Where am I?-Oh!-I begin to recollect-but how kind of you, Honoria! How did you learn of my return? What a great, great joy to see you, beloved friend! I have been so strangely exhausted by all that great fatigue of the fire-that awful fire at Hamburg, Honoria. You can tell me what news has arrived since I left. I have been in a strange dream ever since, but am quite refreshed now." And she rose from her bed, and drawing back the window-curtains, looked out into the sunny street. "Honoria, I have lost all count of time; I have no conception what hour of the day it is; scarcely what day it is of the week. I feel like one of the sleepers of Ephesus," with a deep sigh and her head sinking upon her breast. "Honoria, I shall have such sad things to describe to you about that fire, when I feel less weary than I do now; and some noble and beautiful things, too; but oh, my God!" and Agnes, dropping her arms upon the toilettetable, buried her face upon them, and deep sobs shook her frame. Honoria watched her friend in the most painful state of suspense. Had she seen Leonard since her return? did she know any circumstances which might throw light upon the termination of his life? what did this demonstration of a great grief denote? and Agnes, too, ordinarily of so undemonstrative a character? Honoria knew not how to enter upon the miserable inquiry, how to break the sad intelligence to her.

Agnes soon restrained herself. "Honoria," said she, with a sad, faint smile, "I am so utterly exhausted by this great excitement, my nerves so thoroughly unstrung, that I must appear in your eyes little better than a weak child; but you must have read of some of the horrors of the fire in the papers. And, Honoria, only think, I have had a great loss myself: all my papers-all my labours of the past winter at Upsala and Stockholm-are probably lost. Is it not a sad thing for me? But you do not seem to appreciate my loss, dear Honoria-the loss of such valuable material?" "That seems to me at this moment but a small loss, Agnes," spoke Honoria, with trembling lips, and her eye rivetted with an unspeakable sadness upon her friend. "Of course, of course, Honoria, in comparison with the loss at Hamburg of life and property; but, just at this moment, to me this loss of mere written paper is very sad; it was so very, very dear to me!" And again tears chased themselves down Agnes' face, and her lips quivered convulsively. "Agnes, my dear, dear Agnes!But there is Leonard!" and Honoria would have drawn Agnes' bowed face upon her breast; but Agnes started violently up, and exclaimed, -her face flushed crimson, and her eyes sparkling with a wild light-"Honoria, never, never speak that name to me: our love is at an end: with him it never existed! He is to me as one dead. For his sake-for minelet us never, never speak of Leonard!"

"Have you seen him since you returned, Agnes?" eagerly inquired Honoria.

"No, no, Honoria; he loved so little that he never came, although I summoned him-yes, in the first hour of my arrival. Oh! Honoria, was that love?" and the poor girl trembled with a bitter passion.

"My Agnes, Agnes! Leonard is DEAD!" cried Honoria, flinging her arms around her friend, and pressing Agnes convulsively in them.

"Dead!" spoke Agnes, in a low hoarse voice, tearing herself from Honoria; then, as if in whisper, "Dead!" and Agnes had sunk upon the floor in a swoon.

It was a most painful task to communicate to Agnes, upon her awaking, the truth regarding the death of Leenard, and

little was the light which the unhappy girl could throw upon the motives leading to such a deed as self-destruction. That he had been seized with a sudden fit of insanity was their sad verdict, as well as that which the coroner had passed the evening before.

News of Leonard's death had been brought with the early dawn to Honoria upon the very day we find her now with Agnes. Accompanied by her father, she had hastened down, post-haste, into the neighbourhood of Dorking, when, having satisfied themselves that the body was indeed that of poor Leonard Hale-having learnt all the very small information that could be given by the villagers, and arranged with the elergyman what was necessary to be done for the interment respectfully and mournfully of the poor corpse within the

hasty note in Agnes' hand, and to which, sobbing violently, the good old woman of the house pointed. For, like every one brought within his sphere, Leonard had inspired her, through his gentleness, with a strong affection for him.

"Oh, do you think, Miss Pierrpoint, mum, that there was anything wrong between Mr. Hale and Miss Singleton. Oh, if we had but known that the poor gentleman had had anything upon his mind-my old man and I-I'm sure and certain we'd have worked the very flesh off our bones to have given him a bit of ease. He was such a sweet-spoken gentleman! Yes, indeed, Miss Pierrpoint, mum, and Mr. Pierrpoint, sir, he was far more like a lady in his ways than any gentlemannever a cross word; but it was always-' If you please, Mrs. Buddle;' and, 'I'll be obliged to you if you will have my

precincts of the quiet church-yard-they returned as rapidly again to town, there to prosecute fresh inquiry. Honoria, upon their journey, communicated to her father, the, to him, most astounding intelligence, that Leonard Hale and the son of Augustus Mordant were one and the same person. The old gentleman appeared unable to realise such a surprising fact. "And yet, and yet, Honoria, you remember how the likeness to Mordant always struck me in the young man : but it is surprising, surprising!" he repeated a dozen times as they hurried back to London.

Honoria knew that Agnes was expected from Sweden about this time, and her anxiety regarding her waxed great; but that she had really returned Honoria first learnt at Leonard's lodgings, whither she and her father had immediately hastened. There, upon a table beside Leonard's casel, lay the little

breakfast ready at the hour I ring for it; and, 'You'll oblige me by not disturbing my pictures;' always 'please' and 'thank you' so natural like, and so punctual in his payment. Mum, it's true this month is owing for; but then, poor young gentleman, he could not have foreseen his death, you know." And she sobbed violently into her checked apron. "And all his traps, mum- Mr. Pierrpoint, sir-what's to be done with them? Mr. Buddle and me, we've had a precious deal of talk about who'd look after them. If Miss Singleton-but I don't think she cared much for the poor departed gentleman-that I don't, indeed, mum; for Mr. Hale, he never seemed revived like by her letters; and the very last morning that I set eyes upon his blessed face, came that trumpery bit of a note there from her, and she just come, her servant said, from across the sea, and to send such a two or three lines as that! And he seemed to think so too, for he drawed and drawed a mortal long time before he went out to see her we supposed. Now that does not look much as though she cared for him-do it, mum?"

And so Mrs. Buddle sobbed and chattered, and passed judgment upon Agnes Singleton, whilst Honoria gazed round the room filled with its traces of poor Leonard's sad life and beautiful genius, till her heart swelled with a sad pain. Mr. Pierrpoint meantime condescended to communicate all the details of the discovery of Leonard's body and of the inquest to Mr. Buddle, who, with spectacles on nose and newspaper in hand, listened breathlessly to every word. The newspaper contained a paragraph descriptive of the discovery of a dead man within a wood near Box Hill, and that paragraph had greatly excited Mr. and Mrs. Buddle's nerves-already excited by the disappearance of their cherished lodger-and Mr. Buddle, in a nervous trepidation, had just made up his mind to set off that very afternoon to look at the corpse, so soon as Mrs. Buddle should have fortified him for the journey by a hot luncheon, when the sad mystery was partially cleared up by the appearance of Mr. and Miss Pierrpoint. And now Honoria sought out poor Agnes, as we have already seen.

Within a week's time Mrs. Buddle had to retract her hard judgment upon Agnes.

"Oh Mr. Buddle, it is enough to make one's very heart break to see the face of that poor young thing Miss Singleton! Not that she takes on like as I should have done, a crying and a sobbing like; but she looked so very white in her black dress when she stepped out of the carriage in which Miss Pierrpoint brought her, that I'd a mighty piece of work of it not to begin a crying myself in her face; and they says not a word, but Miss Pierrpoint and she they just goes into Mr. Hale's painting room as was, and I hears the key turned in the lock, and Miss Pierrpoint comes down directly-' and don't disturb her on no account,' says Miss Pierrpoint, in her noble, commanding way; 'leave her quite alone, Mrs. Buddle, I shall call again for Miss Singleton.' But I assure you, Mr. Buddle, I got quite frightened-she stayed so long up in that there room. Thinks I to myself, if she should now make an end of herself, what a tragedy that would be! If she should fall into a fainting fit, or take on dreadful, whatever could one do for her? I listens, and listens, and listens, and I hears nothing at all, but the old clock ticking in the passage just as usual, and the distant cries in the road. I gets quite fidgety, and at last I remembers that I'd opened the window of Mr. Hale's painting-room this morning, and that if I stepped into the garden, without being inquisitive like, I could just quietly see what the poor thing was a doing of it is but taking a motherly oversight, I says to myself-and then I steps across the flower-bed. I took care and did not trample upon your sweet-williams and sweet-peas, Mr. Buddle, so don't be so frightened !-and there I gently looks in-and Lord a mercy! - I was ready to give a skreech; for I sees the poor young lady lying upon the ground, and one grows quite narvus with such horrid histories; but she was neither dead nor in a swoond, I see immediately, for her hands were clasped and her head, as it lay upon a chair, shook with her violent crying; but all so quiet, Mr. Buddle; and there was the picture Mr. Hale were a drawing of the woman dead at the foot of a cross-the very last day he were alive; she'd put it, poor young lady, up upon the easel; and there hung his cloak and garden hat behind the door, and all his colours and brushes and painting things and books lay about just as he'd left 'emI'd not had the heart to touch them; and the sun shone in so warm through the window, and the birds were a singing so cheery, and some way I never felt sorrier for anything nor anybody in all my life, Mr. Buddle, I do assure you, and I did not know which to pity most, him or her; and I stepped quite back from the window and prayed that the spirit of peace might enter into that poor young thing's heart, and that she might put her trust in what is more than man. And then, whilst I was crying a bit to myself in the garden, and tying up your balsams, Miss Pierrpoint comes again, and

comes out to me in the garden, and asks me a deal about Mr. Hale, and she looks very sad; and says she, 'Mrs. Buddle,' says she, 'Miss Singleton thinks she should like to come out into this quiet place and live with you-she would like to live in Mr. Hale's rooms; and you must disturb nothing till she comes-poor thing!-she was to have been Mr. Hale's wife, you know, Mrs. Buddle, and every thing is very dear to her. Now, if she comes to live here, you will be very attentive to her and kind, and will not disturb her in any way, for she is a great writer and very clever, and must be quite quiet, especially now she is so unhappy. Now, remember, she takes your rooms from this time, but she will not return here for some weeks, as she is going away with me into the country. But here is my address, and if you want anything, write to me; and if there are any little bills of Mr. Hale's to be settled let us know.' Very handsome that of Miss Pierrpoint; but I don't think there will be many bills, he was such a very abstemious gentleman was Mr. Hale. And, then, Mr. Buddle, Miss Pierrpoint went up into the room, and directly after, without ringing for me, they lets themselves out and drives away."

Some ten days after Honoria and Agnes had thus abruptly left Mrs. Buddle's, and were located in a quiet village in one of the most beautiful districts of North Wales, whither Honoria had conveyed her friend, the following letter was received by Honoria from Ellis Stamboyse:

Nottingham, May 25th, 1842.

MADAM,-Learning from my confidential clerk, Andrew Gaywood, of your friendship with Miss Agnes Singleton, I am induced to address you in preference to her, considering the natural state of her feelings in consequence of the rash and fatal act of my relative, Leonard Mordant, more particularly as the circumstances which I have to communicate bears upon her connexion with that unfortunate man.

A succinct narrative will perhaps be the best mode of presenting my communication.

On hearing of the fatal fire of Hamburg I hastened immediately to that city, but arrived only to learn, although the whole of the property aud premises of our home remained in substance intact, that still we had sustained an irreparable loss in the death of the valued head of our house, Michael Stamboyse. He appears to have perished with several others, towards the close of the fire, in endeavouring to save a valuable amount of property lying in the city warehouses. My relative, who was a man of the strictoot business habits, appears on the day previous to this event to have made a final will, which I found in his bureau properly attested, and which, to my astonishment, was made principally in favour of Miss Agnes Singleton, supposing her to become the wife of his unfortunate nephew, Leonard Mordant.

I have said that I made this discovery with surprise, because at that time this young lady's connexion with my relative was quite unknown. On inquiry, however, I soon learned of the singular circumstances of her arrival in Hamburg, and of the extraordinary manner in which these two strangers, of apparently such opposite characters, were thrown together, and became coactors amid such appalling events. From Miss Singleton herself you will probably have heard the particulars, and more than I myself know of what passed between her and my deceased uncle, relative to Leonard Mordant.

From what I hear regarding this young lady's character, I deeply deplore the rash, and I must say sinful act, of poor Lesnard, which has thus deprived both him and herself of benefits which Providence evidently designed for them.

This is perhaps hardly the time to express my sincere and carnest admiration and esteem of such portions of Miss Singleton's character as have come to my knowledge. At some future time. I trust that I may be enabled to evince to her the sincerity of these sentiments, and my earnest sympathy with her in this deep trial.

I remain, madam,

Yours truly,

ELLIS STAMBOYSE.

Of the tempest of affliction which had burst over the little home of the Gaywoods by this accumulation of death and sorrow, we will not speak; the sympathetic reader, who has accompanied us so far, will easily have conceived it.

BEYROUT, called by some travellers Beyrouth, Bairout, or Bayruth, is a city of Turkey in Asia, in Syria, in the pachalic of Acre, within twenty-five leagues of that place, and distant twenty leagues from Damascus. Beyrout is the ancient Berytus, the beginning of which history has almost lost in the night of time. So long ago was this old city built, that its origin is enveloped in fable, and the mythologists declare Saturn to have been its founder, and to be the first who made it a place of habitation. Strabo, Pliny, Ptolemy, and others of the ancient writers, record the wonders of Berytus.

The name is supposed to be derived, by some, from the Phœnician idol Baal-Berith, a temple in whose honour was erected on this spot. Others, on the contrary, suppose the word to have originated in the salubrity of the locality, owing to the abundant supply of water which is there to be found. In the Phoenician language it signifies a well.

The old town was destroyed by Diodotus Tryphon, but after the conquest of Syria by the Romans it was rebuilt near the site of the ancient city.

Historians who eschew the mythological origin tell us that Berytus was a colony of Sidon (the modern Saida), and the fatherland of that celebrated historian of Phœnicia, Sanchomisthon, who lived, according to some writers, among which Porphyry is numbered, in the days of Semiramis, and, according to others, in the times of Gideon, the judge of Israel, twelve hundred and forty-five years before the commencement of the Christian era. In Berytus, it is said, the invention of glass was first made, a fact which gives additional interest to the spot. The Emperor Augustus in later days made it a Roman colony, and called it Julia Felix-the name Julia in honour of his daughter, and the epithet Felix (happy) to express his admiration of the fertility of the neighbourhood, the incomparable climate, and the magnificence of the situation. Medals were afterwards struck in honour of the Roman emperors bearing the legend, "Colonia Felix Berytus." Herod the Great held at Berytus a solemn court of judicature, at which he condemned to death his two sons, Alexander and Aristobulus, on a charge of treason. At Berytus, also, Agrippa, the grandson of Herod the Great, built a theatre,

an amphitheatre, and baths, and instituted a variety of games, which made the place notorious. When Jerusalem had fallen before the Roman soldiers, Titus celebrated, at Berytus, the birthday of his father, Vespasian. But the place was famous for other things besides its stately theatre, or the grand revels which were held there: it was famous for the study of the law. Alexander Severus had founded a celebrated school there. Justinian called it the "nurse of the law," and would permit no other professors to expound Roman justice but such as had been educated at Rome, Constantinople, or Berytus. Berytus was one of the fairest cities of Phoenicia, celebrated all over the East for its civil government, and counted as a very school and pattern for other cities. There happened at Berytus, in the year of grace 556, a terrible earthquake; in 1109, the city sustained a memorable siege against Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, who took the place from the Saracens; and in 1187 was besieged again, this time by the redoubtable Saladin, sultan of Egypt and Syria. Three-quarters of an hour's ride from Beyrout may still be seen the stately pines, from some of which the Saracens constructed their besieging apparatus, and which proved too strong and powerful for Christian chivalry. Until the time of Saladin, the good knights of Christendom had successfully defied the crescent; but his military skill and daring overcame them at Beyrout, and Moslems rejoiced in the streets of the city. In 1197, the crusaders and the Mahommedans fought a hard fight between Tyre and Sidon, and victory was declared on the side of the cross. When the people of Beyrout heard that the Christians were marching down upon the city, and that Makel Adel and his troops had been defeated, they fled from their homes, and the conquerors found the city well supplied with provisions, arms, and other military stores, and not one follower of the Prophet to dispute the spoil! Thus changing

hands between the Turks and Christians, Beyrout was the scene of many a defeat and many a victory in crusading times. It is the scene of the fabled encounter between St. George and the dragon, and the glorious triumph of the saint over the beast. The last struggle came; the glory of the crusaders was over; and the Christian lords of Beyrout had to submit to their destiny.

"The knights are dust,
Their swords are rust,

Their souls are with the saints we trust."

Christian rule in Beyrout ended in the year 1291; after that period the city was under the domination of the Emirs. One of the most celebrated of these was the Emir FakhrEddin, who made it the capital of his dominions and his own favourite residence. This prince undertook a journey to Italy, and continued for nine years at the court of the Medici at Florence, studying the fine arts, particularly architecture. When he returned to his own country, he built a splendid palace at Beyrout, the remains of which are still to be seen; but alas! his cultivated taste brought swift destruction on him. The sultan, jealous of his power and renown, commissioned another petty prince to dispossess the Emir of his dominions, and to bring him prisoner to Stamboul. It was a hard struggle for the unfortunate Emir to obtain even the privilege of being allowed to live; and when, a short time afterwards, his grandchildren raised a revolt, even this favour was taken away, and the poor Emir lost his head, which was exposed to the public gaze, and left to rot and blacken in the sun, with this inscription under it, "The head of the rebel, Fakhr-Eddin." The dominions once belonging to the unfortunate Emir were now made over to another lord, of a noble Arabian family, dwelling at Mecca, in which family the authority has continued to be invested to the present time; and the family tree taking deep root in Beyrout, numbers no less than two hundred and fifty Emirs.

In 1783, Djezzar Pacha, the same who, a few years later, defended with great tact and success Saint Jean d'Acre against the French army, returned to Beyrout, and made that place a Turkish garrison. When Ibrahim Pacha, at the end of 1831, invaded Syria, Emir Beschir did not attempt to resist him. Beyrout, Jaffa, Acre, Tripoli, were abandoned; but the Arabs relate a curious incident which occurred as Ibrahim was about to enter Beyrout. At a short distance from the gate, as the Pacha was traversing a cross-road, an enormous serpent uncoiled itself directly in his path, and as his horse approached, prepared for the fatal dart. The attendants shrieked and retreated in alarm, the horse reared frightfully, the only man unconcerned was the Pacha, who, drawing his sabre from its sheath, struck at the reptile, and, with one well-aimed blow, cut off its head! Then, without a word, he continued his route and rode into the streets of the old city.

Beyrout possesses, from its commercial character, an air of greater bustle and activity than any other town in Syria. The situation, on the borders of the sea and in close proximity to Lebanon, renders it exceedingly beautiful. Near the gate there is a small eminence from which a commanding prospect may be obtained; a panorama of unequalled grandeur presents itself to the eye. There, in all their magnificence, rise the hills of Lebanon; to the east there is a low, long promontory, on the end of which are situated the Lazaretto buildings, near which vessels ride at anchor in the roads; and all round the town are richly wooded environs, dotted with villas and the rural residences of merchants. A Genoese wall surrounds the town itself, but this is of no great strength; the harbour is commanded by an old fortress, which is in a ruinous condition. There is a small pier for loading boats. The roads are so exposed that, when it comes on to blow, ships generally make for the mouth of Naler-el-Kelb, or the Dog River, where they are more securely sheltered. There are still remaining some curious old fragments of the ancient city; a half-circular ruin, supposed to be the amphitheatre of Agrippa, part of an aqueduct, and traces of the Roman baths, are the principal.

The population of Beyrout is composed of Maronites, Greek Catholics, and Arab Mussulmen, numbering in all about 10,000 souls. There are several British and Continental mercantile houses. Near the bay is the residence of the British Consul, and not far distant is the house of the American Consul. The Mahommedans have lost much of their fanaticism, and are more disposed to be tolerant than they were in days gone by-perhaps it may be that Christians have likewise grown more tolerant; but, however this may be, men of all faiths are allowed to worship without danger in the city of Beyrout. There are representatives of the Greek church, and the Maronite church, a Protestant congregation, a Jewish assembly,

service is conducted in the Presbyterian form at the American Consulate.

The usual characteristics of eastern cities are to be found in Beyrout, such as narrow streets rendered almost impassable by camels, asses, mules, and crowds of busy and idle people-the same sort of shops, and stores, and way of doing business; but the whole neighbourhood is remarkable for its beauty and fertility. The entire country is richly wooded, the mountains being covered with vines and olives. in terraces, and watered by small canals or streamlets. Dehr el Kamer, where the Emir dwells, occupies the side of a hill, and the palace is a very splendid building.

The Druses, who form a large majority not only of the population of Beyrout but of the surrounding country, are a

and a host of Druses and Mussulmen. The Christians have four churches, and the Mahommedans three beautiful mosques, with minarets, courts, and fountains. In the very centre of the city is the Grand Mosque, and, hard by, an ancient church dedicated to St. John, and ornamented with a Gothic colonnade. The French have a small chapel and convent of Capuchins, in the garden of which six Englishmen lie buried. They died of wounds received in the siege of St. Jean d'Acre, in 1799; so, to the English traveller, this Capuchin garden becomes a place of pilgrimage.

Several American missionaries have taken up their residence in the environs of Beyrout, and by their unpretending labours are accomplishing great good, distributing, by means of schools and a printing press of their own, a great deal of religious and general information. Every Sunday, divine

wild, ungovernable race of people. They are equally opposed to Turk and Christian; they stand alone in the world. There is a strange mystery hanging over their domestic life, internal government, and especially over their faith. From some of their books it appears that they worship Flakem Bamri, the fifth of the Fatimite Caliphs. One peculiar portion of the people is set apart for the ministration of religious rites, as the tribe of Levi is distinguished among the Jews. They are initiated into the mysteries of the faith; but respecting these mysteries the great mass of the people remain in entire ignorance. The Druses are a race quite distinct from the other Arabian tribes; some, indeed, suppose them to be the descendants of those armies of vast European hordes which formed the Great Christian Crusade.