missed out, and the loud chords at the end
being half of them false, but not the less
satisfactory to the performer. Mrs. Thornton
heard a step, like her own in its decisive
character, pass the dining-room door.

"John! Is that you?"

Her son opened the door, and showed
himself.

What has brought you home so early? I
thought you were going to tea with that
friend of Mr. Bell's; that Mr. Hale."

"So I am, mother. I am come home to
dress!"

"Dress! humph! When I was a girl,
young men were satisfied with dressing
once in a day. Why should you dress to go
and take a cup of tea with an old parson?"

"Mr. Hale is a gentleman, and his wife
and daughter are ladies.''

"Wife and daughter! Do they teach too?
What do they do? You have never
mentioned them."

"No! mother, because I have never seen
Mrs. Hale; I have only seen Miss Hale for
half an hour."

"Take care you don't get caught by a
penniless girl, John."

"I am not easily caught, mother, as I
think you know. But I must not have Miss
Hale spoken of in that way, which, you know,
is offensive to me. I never was aware of any
young lady trying to catch me yet, nor do I
believe that any one has ever given
themselves that useless trouble."

Mrs. Thornton did not choose to yield the
point to her son; or else she had, in general,
pride enough for her sex.

"Well! I only say, take care. Perhaps
our Milton girls have too much spirit and
good feeling to go angling after husbands;
but this Miss Hale comes out of the aristocratic
counties, where, if all tales be true,
rich husbands are reckoned prizes."

Mr. Thornton's brow contracted, and he
came a step forward into the room.

"Mother " (with a short scornful laugh),
"you will make me confess. The only time I
saw Miss Hale, she treated me with a haughty
civility which had a strong flavour of
contempt in it. She held herself aloof from me
as if she had been a queen, and I her humble,
unwashed vassal. Be easy, mother."

"No! I am not easy, nor content either.
What business had she, a renegade clergy-
man's daughter, to turn up her nose at you!
I would dress for none of them—a saucy set!
if I were you." As he was leaving the room
he said:—

"Mr. Hale is good, and gentle, and learned.
He is not saucy. As for Mrs. Hale, I will
tell you what she is like to-night, if you care
to hear." He shut the door, and was gone.

"Despise my son! treat him as her vassal,
indeed! Humph! I should like to know
where she could find such another! Boy
and man, he's the noblest stoutest heart I
ever knew. I don't care if I am his mother;
I can see what's what, and not be blind.
I know what Fanny is; and I know what
John is. Despise him! I hate her!"

NOTES FROM THE LEBANON.

VIEWS of Eastern life by an Eastern must
needs be very different from what we read in
ordinary books of travels, though not
necessarily more true. The art of
observation requires to be cultivated like all other
arts; otherwise it gives but a series of
impressions as different from reality and from
one another as the thistle from the cedar.
This comparison is suggested by the title of a
book which has told us many pleasant things
about the Lebanon country,—a country
which always has, and always will interest
everybody—even if its associations come to
be forgotten. Its beauty will outlast most
empires, and so indeed seem to do some of
its cedars, for we are bound to believe that
some of the trees which shade its green
swards budded green through the earth when
the first stone of the Temple of Jerusalem
was laid. Mr. Risk Allah, at any rate,
informs us so, on what seemed to him good
authority.

It is curious to read an autobiographical
narrative written expressly for English readers
by an Eastern. Mr. Risk's good faith cannot
be doubted, so it is worth going back with him
to the fountain of his recollections at Shuay-fât,
a village situated in one of the upper valleys
of the Lebanon. His uncle is katib or clerk to
the famous Emir Beshir; his father only
comes there during the warm mouths. The
favourite place of resort is the top of a
hill, where the family indulges in reading
the Bible, with the accompaniment of
smoking. Fancy the Sheikh Faris Biridi
sitting pipe in hand, on an old stone, with
his nephew and servants around him, now
closing his eyes in attention to what he
heard, now gazing over a scene than which
few are more beautiful even in that beautiful
land, listening to the Kital Mukaddas,
and taking especial delight in the hundred
and fourth Psalm! We are reminded of the
patriarchs, who, however, knew neither coffee
nor tobacco. This is Shuay-fât, with its neat
cottages buried in mulberry, orange, lemon,
apricot, and olive-trees, with vines trailing
everywhere, and a columnar poplar rising
at intervals. People are moving about
looking small and close under, as from the
Monument. Mr. Risk whistles, and the dogs
wag their tails in recognition, and bark.
The mountains take up the echo, and it dies
away over the plains beyond, where the cattle
and sheep are grazing, and where streams of
water springing cool from embowered glens
go glancing in the sunlight. The meadows
are bespangled with blue and crimson
flowers; and beyond them is the blue sea,
with here and there a patch of deeper blue