THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS CHAPTER I. THE LEVANT-BEYROUT. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee, CHILDE HAROLD. THE "Levant" of the Italians, the "Orient" of the French, the "Morgenland" of the Germans, and Eōthen, now made classical by Kinglake, are mere paraphrases of the "East." The former term is applied not only to the shores but to the seas, over which the sun rises to the morningward of Malta. Bright and blue as it is, and fringed by the brightest and most memorial shores, it is yet a very lonely sea: wild winds, that are almost Typhoons, sweep over it; iron coasts wrap it round, and to the south of Cerigo there is not a safe harbour in all its wide expanse, save that of Alexandria. The commerce of the early world found shelter in the ports of Tyre, Sidon, Acre, and other harbours for small craft, such as that of Scanderoon. These are now filled up with the ruins of the quays, or stores that once overshadowed them; or closed up by ancient sands, that might have run from the glass of old Time himself. The Levantine sea is seldom without a swell; and the wind, like a young child, is generally either troublesome, or asleep : long calms, or changing, gusty breezes, render steamers especially valuable in these waters; and to their instrumentality was chiefly owing the bold measures and extraordinary successes of our late naval operations on the coast of Syria: the paucity of passengers, however, and decrease of trade between Egypt and Syria, have obliged the steamers to give way to a sailingpacket between Alexandria and Beyrout. I visited the admiral's flag-ship, and some other Egyptian menof-war, and then pulled alongside the little schooner that was about to sail for Beyrout. She was in quarantine, as she had been, I believe, for some years, with the exception of a very few occasional days. Alexandria and Beyrout mutually vex one another with this restraint upon communication, more for political than sanatory reasons; and, as this luckless packet has two trips to make in each month, it may be supposed she is scarcely clear of one fortnight's quarantine, when she incurs another. How human nature can endure this perpetual imprisonment, under a broiling sun, in a coop of twenty feet wide, it is difficult to conceive. There is moreover almost always a swell at Alexandria, and generally a heavy sea at Beyrout, so that, even when at anchor, this little craft has as little rest as freedom. Yet her crew look as healthy and contented, and her officers are as gentlemanly and good-tempered, as if she was the flag-ship at Portsmouth. The Blue-Peter was now flying on board this restless bark, the English mails transferred from the Oriental steamer, and I hurried on board with my voluminous luggage. A man who is accustomed to travel about England with a couple of portmanteaus and a dressing-case, has little idea of the appurtenances of an Oriental traveller. There is no such thing as furnished lodgings, or hotels by the way-side in these countries: the natives never take a journey unless compelled to do so by dire necessity, and then they seldom change their clothes until arrived at their des tination when night comes on, they lie down to sleep in the open air, or in some filthy khan. An Englishman, therefore, with any regard to cleanliness or comfort, is obliged to travel with an assortment of goods like those of an upholsterer, comprising every article his various exigencies may require, from a tent to a toasting-fork. He must have bed and bedding; a pantry, scullery, kitchen, and bakehouse, dangling on his camels; saddle, bridle, and water-bottles, arms of all kinds, carpets, mats, and lanterns: besides a wardrobe that would serve for a green room, containing all sorts of garments, from the British uniform to the Syrian turban, the Arab's kefieh, and the Greek capote. All these articles loaded a large boat to the water's edge, and took some time to transfer to the little packet, that lay pitching and straining at her anchor, like an impatient steed that paws the ground. After months of indolent life in sultry Egypt, among screaming Arabs or jabbering dragomans, to rush away over the lively waves, and hear English voices, and watch the steady conduct of English sailors, is a most pleasing change. It was blowing very fresh as we ran out to sea under a close-reefed mainsail, but the sun shone brightly, and the waves were of the purple colour that they wore to Homer's eyes; their foam flew from them in rainbow fragments, and the gallant little craft darted from wave to wave, like the joyous sea-birds that flew round her. Now she hovers for a moment on the watery precipice, now flings herself into the bosom of old Neptune, whose next throb sends her aloft again into the golden sunshine and the diamond spray, till the merry gale catches her drapery, and she plunges once more into the watery valleys, as if at hide and seek with her invisible playfellow, the wind. Our passengers consisted of Captains P. and M., two countrymen of mine, a Swiss merchant, and two Italian travellers; these, with the Captain and Lieutenant, made quite a crowd in the little cabin. They were all pleasant fellows, and our voyage savoured more of a cruise in a yacht, than a passage in a packet. We never saw a sail, or caught sight of land, but now and then we had a glimpse of a dolphin, several flying fish fluttered on board with their iridescent wings, and lay panting, and apparently quite contented, on the deck. On the fourth morning, the coast of Syria rose over the horizon, and the clearness of the atmosphere, together with the speed of our yacht bounding before a southerly gale, made the magnificent panorama of the Lebanon start into sight, and develop its complicated beauty, as if by magic. At sunrise, a faint wavy line announced our approach to land; at eight o'clock, we seemed in the very shadow of its mountains, and that country before us was the Holy Land! For 1800 years, the Western world, in all its prosperous life and youthful energy, has looked with reverence and hope towards that hopeless and stricken, but yet honoured land. After ages of obscurity and oblivion as a mere province of a fallen empire, that country suddenly became invested with a glory till then unknown to earth. A few poor fishermen went forth from those shores among the nations, and announced such tidings as changed their destiny for ever. Human life became an altered state; new motives, sympathies, and principles arose, new humanities became developed; new hopes, no longer bounded by, but enlarging from, the grave, animated our race. God had been amongst us, and spoken to us, like brethren, of our glorious inheritance. It was natural, perhaps, that this bright hope and faith should degenerate into enthusiasm—the means were confounded with the end; the land of Palestine became, as it were, a geographical object of idolatry, and pilgrims rushed to its shores in countless multitudes, in the hope of laying down the burden of their sins upon its sacred soil. The spirit of all Europe was warlike then: sometimes vainly struggling at home in instinctive endeavours to arrive at freedom; sometimes expatiating in any vague enterprise that merely promised exercise for its restless energy. The voice of the hermit Peter turned this spirit into a new channel, and the Cross became the emblem of devotion in the cause of chivalry, as well as of religion. That summons rent asunder every tie of love, and home, and interest the warriors of England, France, and Austria, no longer knew a patriotism but for Palestine; no interest but for the Holy Sepulchre; no love but that of glory. Then rolled for centuries the tide of war from Europe upon Asia. beaten back, or perishing there fruitlessly, like the Baffled, and rivers in its deserts, men learned at length that not by human means was glory to be restored to Palestine: its prosperity seemed still reserved into far times for the Children of Promise. The Crescent shone triumphantly over Calvary, and taught the Christian that his faith was to be spiritual-its inspiration no longer to be sought on earth. This Holy Land, although no longer an object of bloody ambition, has lost none of the deep interest with which it once inspired the most vehement crusader. The first impressions of childhood are connected with that scenery; and infant lips in England's prosperous homes pronounce with reverence the names of forlorn Jerusalem and Galilee. We still experience a sort of patriotism for Palestine, and feel that the scenes enacted here were performed for the whole family of Man. Narrow as are its boundaries, we have all a share in the possession: what a church is to a city, Palestine is to the world. Phoenician fleets once covered these silent waters; wealthy cities once fringed those lonely shores; and during three thousand years, War has led all the nations of the earth in terrible procession along those historic plains: yet it is not mere history that thrills the pilgrim to the Holy Land with such feelings as no other spot on the wide earth inspires; but the belief that on yonder earth the Creator once trod with human feet, bowed down with human suffering, linked to humanity by its closest sympa. thy of sorrow, bedewing our tombs with his tears, and consecrating our world with his blood. Such thoughts will influence the most thoughtless traveller on his first view of Palestine, and convert into a pilgrim for the time the most reckless wanderer: even the infidel, in his lonely and desecrated heart, must feel a reverence for the human character of one who lived and died like Him of Nazareth. And now we can recognise Sidon and Tyre; now the Pine Forest, and the garden-covered promontory; and now we spen the city of Beyrout, with its groves and dismantled towers, and the magnificent scenery that surrounds it. All reveries and abstractions speedily gave place to practical considerations the moment the anchor plunged into the water, and the sails came fluttering down. A boat from the Board of Health announced to us |