head, and cried in a solemn voice, "Allah karim," God is most merciful; and then bending on his knees, saluted the soil with his lips. The young woman, ere she disembarked, kissed the gunnel of the bark, to which they owed their preservation, and then stepping on the beach, she pressed the hand of our hero to her forehead; she spoke no thanks, but the big round tears of gratitude bedewed the fingers she clasped in hers.

In the metaphorical language of Turkish poetry, our hero and his party, "after having seen their broad sails torn by the whirlwind, and their vessel overwhelmed by the deluge of despair, had finally escaped the gulf of danger, turned the tiller of a precipitate retreat, and got into the haven of security."

In the language of common sense, which is not always that of Oriental verse, they were safe in port, lodged in the house of a Candiote barber, in Canea, and discoursing of past perils over smoking dish of pilau and kibab. The Armenian's widow, whose name was Miriam, was received

into the harem of the host; but this nominal seclusion did not preclude frequent visits to her preserver, which were unattended with such scandal as similar conduct would have occasioned in Stamboul.

In the harems of Candia, liberty of conscience, no less than laxity of female discipline, prevail to a greater extent than in any other portion of the Turkish empire.

Moslems not only marry Christian women, but suffer them to go to their Greek churches, and to continue infidels without any interference. They have even adopted the language of their native women, and many of their customs. Hassan, the worthy barber, in whose house Mourad had procured a lodging for himself and his companions, had two Christian wives, one Moslem spouse, and a pagan slave, for the family complement that was necessary to his domestic felicity. He was chief shaver to the governor of the town, and what was a still higher honour, to the head of the religion. His mansion being a large double house, an old Venetian structure, one half of which was chiefly tenanted by rats in the winter season, when no strangers

visited the oil market, he was glad to get a well dressed young Moslem for his lodger, and one who had already changed a doubloon.

Hassan was the Machaon of Canea; he set broken bones, cupped necks, cut veins, cured hot and cold disorders, and altered the qualities of the dum and saffran, in which all maladies are engendered; making red blood of black, with a certain scarlet coloured confection, and yellow bile of brown, with a beautiful lemon tinted decoction. No man was in such repute in Canea, as Hassan the barber. It was delightful to see him manipulating a bald head, just emerging from the soapsuds, smooth and shining, as he was wont to compare it, to the full round moon arising from a cloud; or cutting the long hair of an infidel with a razor, putting the artistes of Franguestan to shame with their scissars, and dismissing the hairy customer with the assurance that his matted locks were finer than the down on the cheek of the sunbul. Hassan had a soft word for every body; the Arab poets were at his fingers' ends, and those who had nothing else to do, came to have their heads shaved, in order to have their hearts

tickled with the love songs of Ferdousi, and the Bacchanalian hymns of Hafiz.

It was a curious exhibition of bald heads, and worth while a journey of Mr. Deville to Canea, to see a beautiful row of shining scalps, ranged in phrenological order on either side of the shop; the owners squatted on a shelf with a towel tucked under each chin, and a watercock peering over every head. Never was such an exquisite display of bumps made (not marked) in any region of unshorn unbelievers.

There stood Hassan in the centre, brandishing his razor in the air—his long leathern strop dangling from his girdle, while he abandoned the pate of some half-lathered customer, to finish a distich of the divine Shemseddin.

How many a mashalla of rapturous applause was moaned by the auditors, for the intensity of the ecstacy produced by the soul-stirring sounds of Eastern poetry and music, is such as to approach to pain; and the acclamation of the hearers is actually a moan, as if wrung from their very vitals. The half-shorn Moslem forgot that his head was still soaped, till the mellifluous barber returned to the operation, and