where rooms were to be prepared for us
in a native house.

The nature of the district thereabout is that of numerous round hills,
separated from each other by deep valleys. On one of these hills stands
the village, on another the large "Convent of the Saviour," (Dair el
Mokhallis,) which is the central station of the Greek Catholic sect;
_i.e._, of those who, while retaining their Oriental rites and calendar,
acknowledge the supremacy of the Pope of Rome; and on the third hill is
Lady Hester Stanhope's house, the three forming the points of nearly an
equilateral triangle. The village commands a fine prospect of the
Mediterranean.

Without dismounting, we proceeded at once to the desolate house of Lady
Hester, but, owing to the precipitous nature of the ground, it takes some
considerable time to reach it, yet voices are easily distinguishable from
one place to the other.

The house presents a melancholy spectacle, though, from the purity of the
atmosphere, the walls appear clean and almost new; no roof remains, all
timbers having been purposely removed immediately after her death,
according to legal right of the proprietor from whom the place was
rented. There has been an extensive suite of rooms, not adapted to
stateliness, but meant for the reception of guests; these are all of
small dimensions, and were mostly built by Lady Hester. We were told
that she kept an establishment of a hundred servants, forty of whom were
women. For the last five years she never travelled beyond the garden,
and during that time the renowned two mares, Leilah and Lulu, (the former
of which was the one with the hollow back, reserved for entering
Jerusalem together with the new Messiah,) became so broken in health for
want of exercise, that when Lady Hester died, they were sold with
difficulty for 300 piastres (less than three pounds) each.

The stables still remaining were very extensive.

The gardens and terraces must have been beautiful, for we were told they
were carefully kept and arranged. We saw large myrtle shrubs in
abundance, besides fruit trees now utterly neglected--

"And still where many a garden flower grows wild,"

for there were red roses blooming without the least care or notice.

No one now resides on any part of that hill.

The eccentric lady is buried in the garden, and in the same grave (we
were assured) with Captain, son of General Loustaneau, a crazy French
enthusiast who lived for above twenty-five