watch, and puts it through the same process.
Then he twiddles the collar of my waistcoat
between his finger and thumb, to satisfy himself
as to the quality of its texture. Then he
examines the lining of my coat, points out
that it is neither so pretty, nor of so fine a
fabric as his own, and, finally proposes a walk
about the town, and to smoke a few cigarettes,
a luxury, in the preparation of which, by
means of tobacco and tissue paper, he
promises duly to instruct me.

I accept the proferred cigar. It convinces
me at once that I am no longer in Turkey
properly speaking. The tobacco is detestable.
With respect to promenading about
the town, I must first see about my passport.
A rusty individual attached in some
way to the British Consulate, is promptly
summoned, and courteously offers his
services to relieve me of this difficulty. I am
grateful sufficiently, and confide my farther
interests in this respect to his care. When I
join my new acquaintance, who I learn is one
of the notabilities of the place, he lets off a
little French joke, not the less blythe from
being perfectly unintelligible, and apropos to
nothing. Then in the midst of our consequent
hilarity, we strut down the street in company.

Acquiring information as I go on, I gradually
ascertain that the Wallachian gent was
anxious to make my acquaintance for the
purpose chiefly of affording a little harmless
morning entertainment to his friends. He
trots me out with much diligence to all sorts
of places. We pay visits as though for a
wager, and I am glad to see the pretty
Greek custom of serving sweetmeats and
strong waters to all comers, still existing
here. In some houses they also maintain
the Turkish fashion of pipes and coffee. Our
visits do not occasion any surprise. Hospitality
is one of the national virtues of Wallachia.
I might take up my quarters, therefore,
permanently in almost every house we
enter, without such a decision on my part
calling for any observation beyond a general
welcome. They are curious about me
individually, and every successive host asks all
manner of odd home questions, my visit as a
perfect stranger, appearing to be the most
natural thing in the world. The ladies
are particularly frank and delightful, and
I feel some regret as the day wanes, and
I am obliged to refuse everybody's invitation
to dinner, to see about my passport,
and prepare for my departure. When I
get back to the hotel, therefore, with this
heroic object resolutely in view, the
Consular individual who undertook to manage
my affairs is no where to be found, and I
am occupied for the next three hours in
the most refreshing and invigorating pursuit
of endeavouring to discover his retreat.
It is not easy to find him Now I get
scent of him at one place, now at another,
half a mile off, and away I hasten flushed
and astonished. At last, I run him down
at a rakee shop. He has forgotten the whole
transaction. Did he receive my passport,
and promise to submit it to the Austrian
authorities? Impossible! If he did he
must have either lost it, or left it at-home,
one or the other. He will go and see,
and I can return to my hotel meanwhile.
Not a bit of it, my Consular acquaintance.
Now that I have found you, at last, we will go
together, if you please. We do so, and the
passport at last turns up safe, but almost
obliterated, in the lining of his hat.

THE FIRST DEATH *

* An Arabian tradition connected with the Mahometan
version of the story of Cain and Abel, forms the substance
of this dramatic scene. According to the Arabian narrative,
Eblis (the Evil Principle) taught Kabeel (Cain) the
way to slay his brother by suggesting to him the dashing
in of his skull with a stone. In the present instance,
Eblis is represented as nothing more than an outward
reflection of the inner evil in Kabeel's nature; and therefore
the device of the stone becomes a subtlety of his own
disturbed brain.

SCENE—A solitary place in the midst of Trees.—KABEEL
sitting moodily upon a Stone.—EBLIS (a
shapeless gloom) standing in front of him.
The setting sun close upon the horizon.

Kabeel. What art thou, that thus standest in my
path,
Thou shapeless and dilating Mystery?
I've felt thee in my heart a weary while,
And in still places I have talk'd with thee,
Muttering strange words: but, till this moment, never
Hast thou upon these eye-balls laid the weight
Of thy most awful presence. Speak to me!
I fear thy silence, and that eyeless face
With which thou starest at me! Art thou dumb?
I feel thee rising out of mine own soul,
As a black smoke goes upwards from a fire,
And hangs in the lagging wind. I know, oh Shade,
That thou hast lived within me like my blood;
Yet wherefore dost thou load the dying day
With such enormous darkness? wherefore rise
Like a new Chaos, blacker than the old,
Making a void of the sweet face of things?
Eblis. I am the Evil Spirit in thy heart.
I am a part of thee; and well thou says't
That thou hast parley'd with me in dim nooks.
I am a part of thee; yet, not alone
Of thee, but of the orbed universe,—
A drop of the unconquer'd primal Night
Wherefrom this world arose. In everything
Below the swift heavens and the home of God,
A wonder and a misery to myself,
I blend most strangely with my opposite—
Darkness and light, discord and harmony,
Mix'd in unceasing strife!

Kabeel. Thy words fall down
Into the joyless chasms of my soul,
Like stones into abysses of the hills,
Waking stupendous murmurs. Oh, thou Gloom!
My spirit lies before thee in a trance,
And must to thee yield up her inmost self.
Alas! I feel thou art a part of me,
And yet I melt beneath thee like a dew!
Why dost thou grow upon me day by day,
Companioning my dreadful solitudes?
Eblis. Kabeel, thou hast a brother.
Kabeel. Lo! thy shade
Grows heavier at that word. Thou speakest false.