The Flight into Egypt is another fine specimen of painting, and though of modern date delineates Oriental travelling; the face of the Virgin is exquisitely beautiful, and has a heavenly expression; this figure forcibly brought before me the Countess of K---, whom I had met on the day preceding my visit to this place. I would gladly have spent days instead of hours in this delightful residence, ornamented with such valuable and beautiful specimens of the fine arts; those only who come from distant lands, can fully appreciate the luxuries of all kinds which meet the eye of the spectator when in Western Europe, and especially in Great Britain. The magnificence which I encounter on all sides makes a sadness steal over me; and I cannot but lament for the barrenness of my native land, which once teemed with works, both of art and science. “How are the mighty fallen!” But hope shall shine in the Eastern skies, and the bright morning star arise again.
Many of my fair friends have been exceedingly anxious for me to give them my first impressions of England. After so long a residence in the country, I must confess my habits have become completely Anglicised; I have, however, the pleasure of offering them a translation of portions of some letters written to a friend at Constantinople during my first visit to England:—
“You asked me, before leaving Stamboul, to convey to you as well as I could by letter my first impressions of England and the English. Your Excellency can hardly conceive the difficulty of the task which you have allotted me. However arduous the undertaking may be, I shall endeavour, to the best of my poor abilities, to satisfy your curiosity, and fulfil my rash promise. In our own dear village, and indeed in the most active and bustling towns of Syria, the silence and monotony of the houses are only occasionally broken in upon by the busy hum of human voices—the clattering hoofs of horses and mules—the braying of donkeys, and the merry tinkling bell of the caravan. The sweet song of the bulbul and other summer birds, with the buzzing of the honey-bee, are the familiar sounds to which we are from our infancy accustomed. Stately forest trees—mountains and hills—valleys and dales—citron groves and orchards—the bright plumage of birds and the painted wings of butterflies are the every-day pictures, furnished by the hand of nature, and on which alone our eyes have been content to dwell. The sound of chariot wheels has through centuries been hushed and sunk into oblivion, together with the fiery-spirited warriors that guided them. Such is the quiet state of affairs in our own loved country of Syria. Now, therefore, imagine yourself blindfolded and transported as though by magic into the very centre of the city of London.