the morning, we—the "we" consisting of
myself and an English naval officer, whose ship
was then stationed at Beyrout,—we had first
to descend, for about an hour, into the deep
ravine which separates the first from the second
ridge of Lebanon, and had then to ascend the
second ridge for nearly an hour and a half. This
brought us to the town of Dheir–el–Kammar,
which had been burnt down and utterly destroyed
during the civil war of I860, but which had,
when we visited it, been entirely rebuilt by the
Turkish government. Neither in the country we
had gone through on the previous day, nor in
that we now traversed, were there any signs of
the fearful tragedy which had deluged the land in
blood three short years ago. The villages
were all built up again, the people were
engaged in their daily labour, and the long strings
of laden mules we encountered every few
minutes, proved that there was no small amount
of traffic going on throughout Lebanon. A
pleasant ride of four hours brought us to the
gates of Beit–ed–Deen, where, having sent in our
note of introduction, we were at once ushered
in to Daoud Pasha.

His excellency received us most kindly,
greeting us in English, which he speaks well,
though he was evidently out of practice. He told
us that a letter of introduction was quite
unnecessary, as he was always glad to see travellers,
and that Englishmen were always welcome.
"By the way," he said, "I have an English
officer attached to my staff;" and then, clapping
his hands to summon a servant, he told the
latter to go and call "Something Beg"—I did
not catch the first word, but the title of Beg is
one always given in Turkey to officers holding
the rank of colonel or lieutenant–colonel, or to
civil servants of corresponding rank. In a few
minutes, there arrived a tall stout–built officer,
whose blue eyes and tawny beard announced
him at once, in spite of his red fez and
Turkish uniform, to be an Anglo–Saxon.

To our surprise, the rooms we were shown to
were furnished with every possible comfort;
they were a complete contrast to the miserable
hotel apartments in which we had roughed
it during our stay in Beyrout. We had easy–
chairs that were really easy, basins to wash
in of English proportions, beds which looked
so clean that they almost tempted us to
undress and turn in at once. By the time we
had washed our hands and got rid of a little of
the dust of the journey, a bell summoned us to
table, where we found the pasha with the rest
of the party assembled. We sat down eight to
breakfast.

I never sat down to table with a more
pleasant party, nor did I ever partake of a
better meal. Daoud Pasha is a man who has
seen a great deal of the world, and has
travelled much in Germany, France, and England.
He appeared to be wholly wrapped up in his
work of pacifying the wild mountaineers of
Lebanon, and putting a stop to the sectarian
quarrels among them which had often caused
such rivers of blood to flow. He told us
that when first sent from Constantinople, in
the summer of 1861, to take charge of the
Lebanon, the difficulties of ever introducing
anything like order or respect for either person
or property, into the mountain, seemed really
insurmountable, but that he was happy to say
his work was not without fruit at last. "That
gentleman is my catcher of murderers, thieves,
and rascals," said he, laughing, and pointing to
the English officer who sat next to me; "and this
gentleman," pointing to the officer in French
uniform, "is he who prepares the policemen
with which to catch the evil–doers. I never
have," he continued, "spared, and never will
spare, a murderer. If he is convicted by the
tribunal on positive evidence of having killed a
fellow–creature, I invariably hang him. Capital
punishment is the only thing these people fear."

Our breakfast—which was more of a dinner
than a breakfast—lasted a considerable time.
The pasha had a very good cook. On the
table were fruit, olives, sardines, anchovies,
and pickles. Each dish, as it was brought
to table, was handed round by a servant, à la
Russe. For wine, we had some of the
gold–coloured dry vintage of Lebanon, the once
celebrated vino d'oro, formerly very highly
prized all over Europe, aud equal to excellent
sherry. There was also some good light French
claret. After dinner, coffee, such as you can
only get in the East—and only in the wealthy
houses of the East—was served round, together
with cigarettes made with Latakia tobacco, of a
quality only to be found in Syria, and not in
every part even of that province, though it grows
there. When we had all smoked and chatted for
half an hour, the different members of the pasha's
staff began to withdraw to their various offices.
The pasha said to us, "I shall not stand on
ceremony with you; your countryman here,"
pointing to the English officer, "will act as
guest–master for me, and show you everything
that is to be seen."

The palace of Beit–ed–Deen is erected in the
most picturesque situation it has ever been my
lot to see in any country. From three of the
four sides of the castle, you look straight
down some four hundred feet into three
different ravines, one more wildly beautiful than
another. The gardens of the place were once
magnificent, but, during the twenty years when
it served as a barrack for Turkish troops, these,
like everything else, have been allowed to go
to ruin. The builder of Beit–ed–Deen was the
Emeer Beshie, the celebrated chief who was
banished from Syria in 1840, when the country
was taken from the Egyptians. The emeer—
the word emeer means prince, and this emeer,
though he and all his relations had turned
Christians, was of the family of Shehâb, which
traces its pedigree to Mahomet—was upwards
of fifty years building this castle. Style or
symmetry there is none whatever. It was put up
piecemeal, court being added to court, hall
to hall, and room to room, just as each might be
wanted. Yet, taken as a whole, there is, perhaps,
no place in the world which pleases the eye