hearing descriptions of some grand theatrical performance or ball or state reception--of the doings of women of the world, the brilliant society, adventures during Carnival time, long journeys, and all the other strange features of that wonderful Western life; and these glowing scenes take complete possession of the poor little brains, sick to death of the dull monotony of the harem and gloomy shadow of the garden-walls. Just as Europeans dream of the mystery and dreamy tranquillity of the Orient, they sigh enviously for the varied and feverish life of the West, and would willingly exchange all the splendors of the Bosphorus for a gloomy quarter of Paris. It is really, though, not so much the excitement and variety of society that they want: the feature which they care most about and long for most ardently is the domestic life, the little world of the European house, the circle of devoted friends, the family board surrounded with sons and daughters, the happy, honored old age, that equal sharing of sorrow and joy, the confidences, mutual respect, and sacred memories which can make the union of two lives a beautiful and enviable thing even where there is not passionate love--that sanctuary called “home” to which the heart turns even after a life of wandering and sin, a safe place of refuge even amid the storms and passions of youth, the thought of which comforts and sustains one in times of suffering and misery with a promise of peace in the years to come, like the glory of a clear sunset seen from some dark valley.