where the breeze sportively ruffles the
waters.

Such is the land where Risk Allah began
his life of thought. He is fond of it, and
praises it even for what it does not possess.
He is a genuine Oriental, end has travelled
only to learn the inestimable superiority of
his own country, except in matters of faith.
He does not say as much, but we feel this
tone everywhere, and it makes his book more
agreeable to read. How he expatiates on the
delights of Syrian cookery! Here comes the
large iron cauldron filled with ruuzz mafalfal
or peppered rice; the food is ladled out in
portions, enough to each, and no waste.
Then there is a dish of stewed meat and
vegetables; or of the egg vegetable, or
vegetable marrow, sliced and fried in oil,
with cucumbers, lettuces, radishes, and young
onions. A servant stands at the door to
invite any wayfarer who may pass, to enter
and partake. The national dish of kabbeh
sometimes supersedes everything for supper.
Delicious, exclaims Mr. Risk; odious, say
most travellers. We side with the latter;
but tastes differ; and may every Syrian
continue to enjoy his mixture of dried boiled
wheat, suet, meat, pepper, salt, and red
chilies, and fancy it unequalled in the
world!

But, people do not spend all their lives
eating kabbeh in the mountains of Lebanon.
Business calls them to Beyrout sometimes.
Risk Allah is there with his father one night,
when a tumult arises,—shrieks and lamentations,
mixed with the startling sound of firearms.
A Greek pirate vessel has landed its
crew for the purpose of slaughter and
pilage: and the whole timid population,
without a thought of resistance, begins to fly
away by the Bale Yacoob. No one pauses to
inquire the cause of the alarm. All the
people huddle on the summit of one of the
neighbouring hills until dawn, and then
disperse throughout the country. For the
next few weeks, the Lebanon district is
inundated by the scared refugees from Beyrout.
The pirates plundered and murdered to their
hearts' content, and on leaving fired the town
in several places.

These matters are soon forgotten in the
East, where there are no newspapers to take
the government to task for leaving so importune
a town in so defenceless a position.
Trade soon revived, and young Risk Allah
was sent to Damascus in search of a profession
or employment. The Eastern mercantile
classes are essentially a nation of travellers.
In the course of the early part of their
lives they generally manage to see more than
one country, and several capital cities. The
Muslims go as far as Arabia; the least
enterprising of the Christians make excursions to
Damascus and Aleppo. To the former city
young Risk went, and of that city he
declares, no pen can give an adequate idea.
What matter its dark, narrow, and intricate
streets, its confused crowd of people, camels,
mules, and donkeys perpetually moving to
and fro! What matter the first few hours
of disappointment. Open one of those rough
and unpolished wooden doors, and your
admiration will be great. Wealth hides
itself in the East, behind dirty walls. Here
is a spacious quadrangle paved with marble
—a splashing fountain in the midst, alive
with gold fish, and bordered by pretty
flowers. An arcade surrounded by elegant
columns runs round three sides; on the
fourth are the lower apartments of the
house. The cornice is ornamented with
Arabic inscriptions—texts from Scripture or
the Koran; for the manners of the Christian
inhabitants, except in so far as their religion
directly influences them, are a direct copy of
those of the Moslems. In most court-yards
grow orange and lemon-trees, with roses and
dwarf geraniums round their roots in little
beds edged with marble.

Let us enter the Mistaba. Two trellised
windows overlook a spacious fruit-garden,
behind the house. The floor is of marble, but
hid by a carpet; the divan is covered with
velvet; pretty ornaments are disposed here
and there. Everything invites you to recline
and sip a cup of coffee, or lazily taste one of
their saucers of perfumed and candied sweet-
meats. There is a bubbling sound in the
adjoining room. Some one learned in the
enjoyments of life is slowly inhaling a narghileh.
The fragrance fills the air. You are
allured thither, and having refreshed your
mouth by a glass of lemonade, you dream
away, and luxuriously acknowledge that
Damascus is indeed a delightful place.

The ladies are ungraceful enough in the
streets, too, as they are all over the East,
but if they deign to lay aside the izar, and
the odious black handkerchief,—Mashallah,
how lovely! Beautiful dark eyes; eyelashes,
eyebrows, hair, all black; Grecian noses;
red, but slightly pouting lips, dimpled chin,
oval face, rosy complexion, all the elements
of an Eastern houri are there. The figure,
almost always good, is admirably set off by
the costume adopted. Out the head, the
maiden vears a small red cap, encircled by a
handsomely flowered handkerchief, over which
strings of pearls and pieces of small gold
money are tastefully arranged in festoons.
In the centre of the red cap is a diamond
crescent, from which hangs a long golden
cord, with a blue silk band, usuaIIy
ornamented with pearls. The vest fits tight, and
admirably displays the unlaced figure. In
summer, this vest is of blue or pink satin,
bordered and fringed with gold lace; in winter,
of cloth edged with fur. Over the vest, is
worn a short gray jacket, chastely embroidered
with black silk braid. Then, there is
the elegant shawl with the long lappets, and
the large loose trowsers. No wonder that
Mr. Risk was enchanted, and remained
disposed rather to exalt the costume of Eastern