The Turks are usually a grave and silent people. They talk less than the Greeks, and indeed than almost any other people that I have been among. It was therefore rather a novelty to meet with one who was of a different cast of temperament. Both our guardians are young Turks, I should think about twenty; and very good-looking. One of them is rather of a grave cast; a genuine Turkish, but withal an unusually mild aspect. The other is as full of life and glee and innocent mischief as he can hold. The first day or two he did not show it much, except in occasionally playing off a little of his humour on his companion. He then began upon Angelo, my Maltese servant, whom I had engaged at Smyrna. The Maltese language is a dialect of the Arabic, and they could therefore converse with him. Our establishment having but two rooms, one of which being occupied by the ladies, and the other by the gentlemen, Angelo had to take up his lodgings in the porch where some of the baggage was placed. The guardians slept in the yard under the tree. They pretended that they would do all sorts of bad things to him at night, and excited his fears not a little. On finding it out I interposed, and assured them, through an interpreter, that if they did not desist from thus working on his fears, I would report them to the police. They assured me they were only in fun, and would not trouble him. Angelo had more spunk than I expected; he got a large knife to defend himself with--we took it from him. I told him to sleep in our room--he would not. I told him to sleep close to the door, which I left open; no, he would sleep at his selected place--and he did. When we walk out, one of our guardians always walks with us, and generally the lively and talkative one chooses that office. He amuses himself and us in various ways, and usually contrives to put in a claim for a boksheesh (a present) at the close of the walk. As he does not always get it, it is amusing to observe in how many ways he contrives to let us know that it would be very acceptable. At times when he does not get it, he pretends to his companion that he has; and thus has sport with him, in refusing to let him have any part of it. They are very obliging--I have seldom seen more perfect good-humour than they manifest. LETTER III. _Beyroot, July 4th, 1836._