which seems to belong to a separate
existence. Just refined enough to be poetic, and just barbaric enough to
be freed from all conventional fetters, it is as grateful to brain and
soul, as an Eastern bath to the body. While I look forward, not without
pleasure, to the luxuries and conveniences of Europe, I relinquish with a
sigh the refreshing indolence of Asia.

We have passed between the Castles of the two Continents, guarding the
mouth of the Dardanelles, and are now entering the Grecian Sea. To-morrow,
we shall touch, for a few hours, at Smyrna, and then turn westward, on the
track of Ulysses and St. Paul. Farewell, then, perhaps forever, to the
bright Orient! Farewell to the gay gardens, the spicy bazaars, to the
plash of fountains and the gleam of golden-tipped minarets! Farewell to
the perfect morn's, the balmy twilights, the still heat of the blue noons,
the splendor of moon and stars! Farewell to the glare of the white crags,
the tawny wastes of dead sand, the valleys of oleander, the hills of
myrtle and spices! Farewell to the bath, agent of purity and peace, and
parent of delicious dreams--to the shebook, whose fragrant fumes are
breathed from the lips of patience and contentment--to the narghileh,
crowned with that blessed plant which grows in the gardens of Shiraz,
while a fountain more delightful than those of Samarcand bubbles in its
crystal bosom I Farewell to the red cap and slippers, to the big turban,
the flowing trousers, and the gaudy shawl--to squatting on broad divans,
to sipping black coffee in acorn cups, to grave faces and _salaam
aleikooms_, and to aching of the lips and forehead! Farewell to the
evening meal in the tent door, to the couch on the friendly earth, to the
yells of the muleteers, to the deliberate marches of the plodding horse,
and the endless rocking of the dromedary that knoweth his master!
Farewell, finally, to annoyance without anger, delay without vexation,
indolence without ennui, endurance without fatigue, appetite without
intemperance, enjoyment without pall!

La Valetta, Malta, _Saturday, August_ 14, 1852.

My last view of Stamboul was that of the mosques of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed, shining faintly in the moonlight, as we steamed down the Sea of
Marmora. The _Caire_ left at nine o'clock, freighted with the news of
Reschid Pasha's deposition, and there were no signs of conflagration in
all the long miles of the city that lay behind us. So we speculated no
more on