particulars concerning the Maronite population,* 1 descended to the river, which flows through the valley below the convent. Viewed from this spot, it appears suspended as it were in the air,-it stands at two-thirds of the way down the hill,-with huge rocks hanging over it, and threatening it with destruction. The valley is the most retired that can be imagined, and one would suppose perfectly free from hostile incursions. Nevertheless, the vexations and insults to which its inhabitants are occasionally exposed from the Metaweli, induced the monks for many years, to abandon this residence altogether.

As there is only one approach to Kanobin, so there is only one way of retiring from it, which is that by which we came. At the end of three-quarters of an hour's fatiguing ascent, we regained the upper plain, which we had crossed the preceding day, and came out upon some fields planted with dhourra (Indian corn), it being too cold a soil to grow wheat. The road to Bshirrai, which lies along a gentle acclivity, bears the marks of devastation committed by the melting of the snows at the be

* See Appendix, No. 13.

ginning of the summer. To our right, the view down into the valley from which we had just emerged, was extremely beautiful. Had I been

master of my own time, I should willingly have tarried here some days, to ramble about its intricate recesses; but my Mussulman guide, Mustapha, took no interest in a scene, which, at every step, reminded him of the ascendancy of those whom he was accustomed to hate and despise, and so hurried me on. After two hours' agreeable ride, gradually, but imperceptibly, ascending the mountain, we reached the village of Bshirrai, consisting of about one hundred houses, built on the edge of a rocky descent, and inhabited by Maronite families, occupied in the silk and dyeing trades, and some few in agricultural pursuits, for we observed both tobacco and cotton growing in the neighbourhood. It was an interesting sight to see this little colony of Christians, thus actively and industriously engaged, at this elevated region, the highest inhabited part of Libanus; whilst the Turks, the inert masters of the plain, where nature had put almost every thing within their reach, were scarcely able to draw out an existence. Equally grateful to my Christian

ears was the tolling of the chapel bells (there are no less than five or six, even in this small hamlet) calling the inhabitants to vespers; a summons I myself was on the point of obeying, when I was informed that at a quarter of an hour north of the village, I should find a convent called Deir Serkis, after St. Sergius, to whom it is dedicated. Thither I directed my steps, and was cordially received at the door by the only inmate of the establishment, a Piedmontese monk of the Carmelite Order. He conducted me to a grassy bank, at the foot of a magnificent walnut tree, from which there is a commanding view over the valley of Kadisha, down to the plain of Tripoli to the south. Here we supped and passed the night.