Palmyra. this enced, unearthly in appearance, and out of character with the general face of nature. "I have stood (says an American) before the Parthenon, and have almost worshipped that divine achievement of the immortal Phidias. I have been at Milan, at Ephesus, at Alexandria, at Antioch ; but in none of these renowned cities have I beheld anything that I can allow to approach, in united extent, grandeur, and most consummate beauty, almost more than work of man. On each side of this, the central point, there rose upward slender pyramids obelisks-domes of the most graceful proportions, columns, arches, and lofty towers-for number and for form, beyond my power to describe. These buildings, as well as the walls of the city, being all either of white marble, or of some stone as white; and, being everywhere interspersed with multitudes of overshadowing palm-trees, perfectly filled and satis 1 pointed fied my sense of beauty, and made me feel, for the moment, as if in such a scene I should love to dwell, and there end my days." THE TEMPLE OF THE SUN is by far the most extensive ruin in Palmyra. The grand entrance (the Gate of the Sun,) was supported by four fluted Ionic pillars, and adorned with rich carvings of vine leaves and clusters of grapes, in bold and spirited relief, beautifully chiselled. Within the court are the remains of two rows of very noble marble pillars, 37 feet high. The temple was encompassed with another row of pillars, 50 feet high. On the eastern side of the area of the temple, there is a curious doorway of one solid block of stone, which commands a fine view of the desert. "As we looked out of this narrow gateway (says Addison), we fancied that Zenobia herself might have often stood at the same spot, anxiously surveying the operations of Aurelian and his blockading army. From hence the eye wanders over the level waste, across which the unfortunate queen fled on her swift dromedary to the Euphrates; and here, the morning after her departure, doubtless, congregated her anxious friends, to see if she was pursued in her flight; and from hence she was probably first descried, being brought back a captive and a prisoner, in the hands of the Roman horsemen." Next to the temple, the most remarkable structure is the long portico, which extends for nearly 4000 feet. There is also a piazza 40 feet broad, and more than half a mile in length, inclosed with two rows of marble pillars 26 feet high, and eight or nine feet in compass. Of these there still remain 129; and, by a moderate computation, there could not originally have been less than 560. A little to the left, are the ruins of a stately building, which appears to have been a banqueting-house. It is built of better marble, and is finished with greater elegance than the piazza. The pillars that supported it were entire stones. One of them which has fallen down has received no injury! It measures 22 feet in length, and in compass eight feet, nine inches. "We sometimes find a palace (says Volney), of which nothing remains but the courts and walls; sometimes a temple, whose peristyle is half thrown down; and now a portico, a gallery, or a triumphant arch. Here stand groups of columns, whose symmetry is destroyed by the fall of many of them; these we see ranged in rows of such length, that, similar to rows of trees, they deceive the sight, and assume the appearance of continued walls. On which side soever we look, the earth is strewed with vast stones, half buried with broken entablatures, damaged capitals, mutilated friezes, disfigured reliefs, effaced sculptures, violated tombs, and altars defiled with mud." Lo! where PALMYRA, 'mid her wasted plains, Wonderful Things. MITTIE, THE BLIND CHILD. BY MARY IRVING. DID you ever thank God for your eyes, dear children ?— those two bright, clear, happy eyes, that He has given to drink in the pleasant sunshine, the beauty of the flowers, the glory of the rainbow, and the sweetness of your dear mother's smile! Listen now to a story of a child to whom He never gave eyes to look upon any of these beautiful things. It was on a sunshiny morning, somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, that a gentleman, whom sea-sickness had imprisoned in his state-room since the first roll of the ship, took courage, from a cup of coffee and the calmness of the sea, to crawl up on deck. As he stood at the head of the narrow stairway, clutching a rope to support his tottering steps, he heard a glad child's laugh. Looking up, he saw a little girl, about five years old, quite at her ease, on the turning and rolling floor, trying to "jump rope" with a knotted end of a ship rigging which had been given her by an old sailor. The brisk breeze had brightened her cheeks, and curled her flowing hair in no very orderly manner. Mr. L- thought of his own little daughter over the ocean, and his eyes filled. "Come to me, my dear!" he kindly called, reaching his hand towards the child. She stopped her play, looked up as though half-frightened, half-astonished, and then began carefully to creep towards the outstretched hand. He lifted her to his lap, and kissed her coral lips. "Whose little girl are you!" he inquired. "I'm nobody's little girl," she replied in a touching tone. 'Only God takes care of me, and sometimes Captain I." "How, where is your mamma ?" "Mamma is in Burrampooter; I'm not her little girl any more." Here a tear rolled down her cheek. "I'm going to New York," she said, "to be uncle's little girl. But New York is a great way off, isn't it, sir ?” "Not a very long way, my child,—you will soon see your uncle ! " "I can't see, sir," she said softly. Mr. L- started, and looked into those bright, dark, intelligent eyes. Alas! it was too true; they were darkened windows, through which the soul could never look! "Mittie! hey Mittie!" called a bluff voice, as the captain's varnished hat appeared from behind the mast. "Eh, birdie, what new nest have you found!" With a start and a bound Mittie jumped into his rough arms, and laid her cheek upon the shoulder of his shaggy coat sleeve. "Soho, shipmate," continued the captain addressing Mr. L——, “you are aloft at last! Nothing like a stiff nor'wester for taking the starch out of you lands-folk,' and he laughed. "But this little girl, Captain I-, how happens she to be alone on the wide-world of waters ?" "Can't say," returned the captain, with a dubious shake of his shining hat. "She's a stray waif that I picked up on the Liverpool docks. Don't know her belongings; she was labelled New York, it seems. Her name-what's the balance of it sea-bird?" he asked. "Mittie Wythe Hamilton," lisped the child, who had already found her way back to her bit of rope, and sat against the ship's railing, tossing up her hands at every new dash of spray. "I was named for Uncle Wythe, and he told mamma to send me." Her face clouded for an instant, then brightened again in the sunshine. "Poor blind pet! so far as I can make out her story from one thing and another, she is the child of missionaries in India. Poor creatures, they could not bring her over themselves, and I daresay she was getting no good in that heathenish land; so it seems they put her in charge of an English lady, name I've forgotten, who set out to join her husband somewhere in Canada. But she sickened and died before the barque 'Sally' reached England, and the poor thing was left friendless and helpless. What the captain and mate of the 'Sally' were thinking of, I don't know; but the child was actually put on dry land, with the balance of the passengers, and they set sail without so much as looking up a New York packet. Alone in Liverpool, and it's no place for a blind child, sir, to say nothing of one that's got eyes,—I found her amusing herself pretty much as you see her now, with bits of chips, at the corner of a ship yard! How the creature had lived I can't say. I'll believe after this, shipmate, there's a God in the sky, who, as she says, keeps watch over children. 'I want to go to New York,' she would say to every stranger who spoke to her. I couldn't have left the little thing; but I don't know where I'm taking her. If I can't anchor her safely, I'll keep her for the first mate of the Down; hey, sea-bird?" "What could you do with her in that terrible storm off Cape Clear? I shudder to recollect that night!" |