No. 2. PALESTINE, OR THE HOLY-LAND. (From the Modern Traveller.) THE present mixed population of Palestine consists of Turks, Syrians, Bedouin Arabs, Jews, Latin, Greek, and Armenian Christians, Copts, and Druses. In western Palestine, especially on the coast, the inhabitants are stated by Burckhardt. to bear generally more resemblance to the natives of Egypt than those of Northern Syria; while, towards the east of Palestine, especially in the villages about Nablous, Jerusalem, and Hebron, they are evidently of the true Syrian stock in features, though not in language. The Syrian physiognomy assumes, however a cast of features characteristically different in the Aleppine, the Turkman, the native of Mount Libanus, the Damascene, the inhabitants of the sea-coast from Beirout to Acre, and the Bedouin. Dr. Richardson on entering the country from Egypt, was struck at the change of physiognomy, as well as of costume, observable even at El Arisch, which is in the pashalic of Egypt; the people are much fairer, as well as cleaner and better dressed. The Turks in Palestine, as elsewhere throughout the empire, occupy all the civil and military posts. Greeks form a very numerous part of the population. A considerable number of Monks, of different churches and orders, still reside in the Holy-Land: there is, indeed, scarcely a town of any consequence which does not at least contain one convent. The country districts are, to a great extent, filled with nomadic Arabs. The true Arab is always an inhabitant of the desert; a name given to any solitude, whether barren or fertile, and sometimes applied to extensive pasturelands. The moveables of a whole family seldom exceed a camel's load. Nothing can be more simple in construction than their tents. Three apright sticks, driven into the ground, with one laid across the top, form the frame-work, and a large brown cloth, made of goats' or camels' hair, woven by their women, the covering. The manner in which they secure their animals is equally simple. Two sticks are driven into the ground, between which a rope is stretched and fastened at each end; to this rope the asses and mules are all attached by the feet; the horses also, but apart from the asses; the camels are seldom secured at all. The dress of this people in the Holy-Land consists of a blue shirt or tunic, descending below the knee, the legs and feet being exposed: or the latter are sometimes covered with the ancient cothurnus, or buskin. Over this is worn a cloak of very coarse and heavy camels' hair cloth, (the sackcloth of the scriptures,) consisting of one square piece, with holes for the arms, but having a seam down the back. The the dress of John the Baptist, as well This appears to have been as of the ancient prophets.' cloak (or hyke) is almost universally decorated with black and white stripes, passing vertically down the back. The head-dress is a small turban, resembling a coarse handkerchief, bound across the temples, one corner of which generally hangs down, and is often fringed with strings in knots, by way of ornament. The usual weapons of the Arab are, a lance, a poniard, an iron mace, a battle-axe, and, sometimes, a matchlock gun. The usual veil worn by all the females in Syria except the Jewesses, is a large white handkerchief or shawl,? which covers the head and face, and falls over the shoulders. tonishing," remarks Dr. Richardson, "what a light and cheerful air this costume imparts, compared with the dull funeral drapery, of the Egyptian dames." In the dress of the pastoral Arabs, we probably have preserved the most faithful representation_of the ancient Jewish costume. tunic is evidently the inner garment of the New Testament, while the hyke or cloak corresponds to the outer garment, The usual size of the hyke is six yards long, and from five to six broad; and as the Arabs sleep in their aiment, as the Israelites did of old,3 1 Matt, iii. 4. "It is as Zech. xiii. 4. The it serves as a bed or blanket at night. The toga of the Romans, and the plaid of the Highlanders of Scotland, are garments of the same kind. The habits of the Bedouin natives have probably undergone as little change as their costume. 66 Abraham," remarks Dr. Richardson, "was a Bedouin; and I never saw a fine veneraable looking Shiekh busied among his flocks and herds, that did not remind me of the holy patriarch himself." or gauze. The turks wear what we consider the woman's dress, except that both sexes wear a large drawers made of fine linen or stuff. They, in return, say that the franks go naked,-referring to our tight clothes, fitted to the shape. Under the tunic is worn a shift of linen, cotton, Blue is the colour appointed for the turban of a christian; white is the privilege of a Moslem; green the distinguishing badge of the descendants of the prophet. For a Christian to assume the white turban would, in many places, endanger his life; and were any one to presume to wear a green turban without being able to prove his title to it, he would be put to death. Lady Hester Stanhope, however, whose usual residence is at Mar Elias, in Mount Lebanon, is said to have assumed with impunity the sacred and forbidden colour. The expense of a handsome suit, and the usual accoutrements, exclusive of pistols, &c. is about fifty pounds sterling. ON THE DEATH OF T. S. KIRKNESS. Thou saw'st the world in summer pride, And from its smiles did'st turn away To thy own heaven, 'ere thou hast tried, Or gloomy hour, or wintry day. Thon saw'st the face of man, when man Yet, mourn we, that to thee was given Or poisons life, was thine to know. And we have griev'd, that thou art fled And is there aught that should have kept Oh, is there aught, until we rise Above all hope, and grief, and fear, Should sear the heart, or seal the eyes When God, in chastening love, is near. August 14, 1825. "AM I, TOO, IN ARCARDIA?” BY BERNARD BARTON. What minstrel's glance could wildly view The varnished dream of Arcady! To me, with so much pastoral grace This delicate creation teems, That, while each varied charm I trace, The golden age no vision seems, Imagination's airy flight Transports me far, to distant times, Bearing my thoughts on pinions bright) To simple manners-sunnier climes. Methinks, amid such things as this, Must they have dwelt-the bards of old, Whose numbers, of Arcadian bliss, And Tempe's beauteous vale, have told. In whose immortal song is shown, Graceful of form, and fresh of dye : What pencils such as CLAUDE's alone, From charms like nature's can supply. Delightful painter ! though I feel Appeal which, unto outward sense, Speaks in a language so refined; Triumphs-whose deeper eloquence Proclaim the mastery o'er the mind. And, what could genius win from fate, And dying-IN THY WORKS TO LIVE. WOMAN'S LOVE. and Montague were upon the most intimate terms with each other. Louisa loved; and she was besides ambitious of gaining one for whom so many females were contending. She assiduously paid court to Alfred, but in so delicate a manner that she never betrayed her doing so. She appealed to him on every disputed point; she chose her books by his direction; sang those songs and played those pieces of music which he approved: occasionally a beautiful bouquet, arranged by her hand, was presented to the youth; a purse was netted for him, and a thousand other bewitching little agrèmens displayed, which women know so well how to call into action, and which are so seductive in their eflects upon those they are intended to charm: Alfred by degrees found Miss Montague's society almost necessary to his existance; he was her escort in the park, her attendant at the opera, her partner at the ball, and one morning, having called upon her to enquire after her health, as she had been at Montgomery house all the preceding dayhonour and Amelia being all forgotten -he made her an offer of his hand and fortune. No sooner however, had that magic word which crowns the hopes of a true lover, passed the lips of the fair Louisa, than the thoughts of Amelia recurred to Alfred's breast. "He started like a guilty thing," his colour changed and he sunk into a chair that happened to be close beside him. To the anxious enquiries of Louisa he returned the most incoherent answers, and at length rushed from her presence. in a state of mind which would have demanded pity, had it not been brought on by his own forgetfulness of what was due to the confiding girl who had bestowed her heart on him. He flew to solitude, but reflection maddened him; and he then resorted to society--but nothing could quiet the agitation of his mind. Had he confessed to Louisa the exact state of his heart, all might have been well; for she was a noble minded girl, though her amiable qualities were par tially obscured by her ambition. But his pride would not allow him to acknowledge that he had acted with duplicity, that he had professed to love her when his heart was devoted to another; and he firmly resolved to abide by the event of the morning, and to forget, if possible, Bishopthorpe and Amelia Mildmay. Both the families received the intelligence of Alfred's offer to Louisa Montague with joy; and immediate preparations were made for the marriage. Alfred wrote one hurried note to Amelia, to intimate that she must prepare her mind to hear of a change; and then he gave himself up to the fascinations of his betrothed. Eager to get rid of the agonizing thoughts which would intrude, and hoping he should feel more easy when it had become his duty to love and honour Louisa as his wife, he was anxious for the day which should unite them. Before that day arrived he had totally forgotten Amelia; and when he led Louisa to the altar not one thought of her disturbed his bosom. Such is Man! and such too frequently is Man's love! it rages with violence for a time; but absence cools the flame, and too often totally extinguishes it, even when the object possesses every qualification which can reflect honour on his choice. The newspapers informed Amelia of the marriage of Alfred, and the next day she disappeared from the cottage of her aunt, whose most anxious enquiries could obtain no tidings of her. It would be vain to describe her anguish ;-she loved Amelia as her child; and when two days had elapsed, and no intelligence was received of the fugitive; she was laid on the bed of sickness caused by anxiety for the fate, and exertion to discover the retreat of her beloved niece. Alfred and his wife departed as soon as the marriage ceremony was performed, for a seat belonging to Sir James Montgomery, situated in the most beautiful part of Devonshire. There blest in each other's society, the days flew swiftly away, and time seemed to have added new pinions to his wings; so short seemed the hours as they passed. But this was happiness too exquisite to be of long duration. On the tenth day of their residence at Chilton house, Louisa was walking on the lawn in front of the building, equipped for riding, and waiting for Alfred, who was too accompany her to take a view of some picturesque objects in the neighbourhood. Suddenly her attention was excited by a female who with agitated step and a wild and distracted mien, approached, and surveyed her with a piercing eye, in which the fire of insanity was clearly to be distinguished. She spoke not, but gazed anxiously and stedfastly on Louisa, who shrunk from the close inspection, and yet seemed rooted to the spot, as if deprived of the power to move. Suddenly the figure approached nearer and passing her hand across the fair brow of Mrs. Montgomery, she put aside the ringlets which overshadowed it, after the pause of perhaps a minute. "Are you his wife-but no!" the fair maniac for such she was continued, "he is mine; his faith was plighted to me-you can have nothing to do with my Alfred !" What an agonizing moment was this for Louisa! She saw before her one who had been deceived by the man to whom she had plighted her vows, and whose reason had fallen a sacrifice to his base and unnatural desertion. What a thought for a doting wife-for a proud one too, who would never have accepted a divided heart— or been contented with a share only of er husband's affection !-But perhaps there might be some mistake: she would try. "What Alfred do you mean, my poor woman?" she asked, in a tone of sympathy. Why, my own Alfred-Alfred Montgomery-him for whom I twined this wreath;-but the flowers are faded now-so, methinks, is his love, for it is a long while since I have heard from him!" She took a wreath of flowers from her bosom as she spoke and pressing it to her lips, presented it to Mrs. Montgomery. "See," she cried, "these are the flowers he used to love! 1 placked them from my own bower; that bower which Alfred decorated. But I cannot give it to you: no I must keep it for Alfred!" she exclaimed in a loud and piercing voice, "where art thou Alfred!" then adding in a lower and plaintive tone. "They told me he was married, but I would not believe it, I wandered through wet and through rain, through brake and through briar, till I reached his home: they told me too that he was married: Still I would not believe it: I followed him here, for is he not mine? is he not mine, what then do you here?" Amelia-for it was indeed that lost, unhappy girl-now seized Louisa wildly by the hand: she uttered a piercing shriek; and the well known voice reaching the ear of her husband he was instantly by her side, eager to see what had occurred to alarm her. But what a sight met his eyes! He beheld his newly married wife supported by her Maid, who had also heard her shriek, pale and inanimate, the picture of death: whilst at her feet lay the lovely being whom he had made wretched. How she came there he was at a loss to conjecture, and not knowing what had passed between her and his wife, he was equally at a loss how to act. Before he could recall his scattered ideas, and resolve on what was to be done, Amelia raised herself from the ground, and catching his eye she sprung up, and clinging. to him exclaimed. "He is here, he is mine!-Oh Alfred! they told me you were married; that you had ceased to love me: but I would not believe that you could slight the heart that beats only for you.-Feel!" and she took his hand, and placed it on her bosom, "how it flutters, poor thing!-it will soon be still. Alfred I am dying !"— and her voice suddenly assumed a rational and composed tone.-"I know not what I have said, what I have done; I wandered I know not where or how; but-but-." She struggled to articulate something more, but nature was exhausted; she heaved one sighdropped upon his bosom and expired. Whilst this scene was passing, the servant had conveyed Louisa into the house, whither Alfred followed with his lifeless burden, almost as unconscious as the form he bore. He laid the corpse on a sofa in the parlour-he threw himself by the side of it, and called upon his Amelia once more to live for love and him. Then the recollection of his wife flashed across his mind, he rose, and throwing himself into a chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and sobbed convulsively. This paroxysm over, he became rather calmer, and sought Louisa, who had retired to her chamber. To her he gave a full explanation of his acquaintance with Amelia, and pleaded so effectually for forgiveness, that it was soon granted. But a sting was planted in his heart, which time could never remove. In the midst of all that fortune could bestow, and blessed with happiness seemingly beyond the lot of humanity, the remembrance of Amelia always intruded in the hour of retirement; it was the canker-worm which robbed his nights of repose, his days of happiness, and he lived a memorable instance of splendid misery. His wife's lot was more happy, for to her he was an attentive and affectionate husband; and at his death which took place about a year after his marriage, her grief was sincere and heartfelt. She had numerous offers of marriage but rejected them all, faithful to the memory of him who as her first, she was determined should be her only love. It remains however to be explained how Amelia reached Devonshire. She knew Alfred's residence in town from the address of his letters; and from the servants at Montgomery-house, it was ascertained that a female who answered her description, had been enquiring after him a few days after the bridal party left town. On being told that he was gone to Chilton with his bride, she made no reply but rushed out of the hall. It appeared that a stage Coach had set her down at an inn near the seat of Montgomery; but whether she had travelled in that manner all the way from London, or whether part of the journey had been performed on foot, was never known -most probably, from the state of her dress the latter was the case. At the expence of Alfred, her corpse was removed to Bishopthorpe, and interred in the churchyard of that village. Her aunt did not long survive her and they lie in one grave. This is a melancholy tale, but the incidents are facts which came within my knowledge. I have seen the grave of this hapless girl, and dropped the tear of pity for her fate. WILLIAM COOK, STAFFORD. York, January, 1825. ODE TO HOPE. Hope thou sweet soother of the mind, Child of celestial birth, Foretaste of every joy refin'd; By Heav'n consign'd to earth. Is there a wretch feels not thy balm? Whose heart ne'er touch'd by thee; Oh! in his troubled mind, grant calm, And sweet content may be. Hope at the helm of virtue's bark, Shall guide us through this life, And lead at last to that high mark, Where ends all worldly strife. In deepest woe when sore oppress'd, Sweet Hope! thon soother of the mind, Falmouth. EVENING. Evening! I woo thy dim oblivious shade, L When twilight spreads her veil of misty hue; When day's bright garish tints begin to fade And from the distant hills the vapours blue, In wreaths fantastic, beauteously ascend; And, while the humid earth exhales the dew, To cool sequester'd haunts, my steps I bend; While in the west where the brightsunwithdrew Still lingers many a streak of crimson glow, And tints the azure face of spreading lake; There blending softly into shadows grey : Through the o'ergrown and solitary brake, In pensive mood, I often love to stray, More than amid the scenes of pomp and shew. |