behold. I know the breeze, that comes at noon-day,
fresh from the mountains, like a wild romp,
tossing about the leaves, and breaking the still
sunshine of my garden. I know the gentle
zephyrs, stealing along like lovers' sighs, scarcely
heard, but felt delightfully. I know the airs of
early morning, so fresh and friendly; and I
know the sound of the trumpet, which comes
from the king's palace at dawn. It is a laughable
trumpet, though the trumpeter, a solemn
man, whom I know also, is very proud of it. I
know the water, which comes rushing all over
my garden like a prodigal prince with his train,
who only deigns to visit me twice a week. I
know, also, the divine calm of the daybreak, and
could translate into earthly words the birds' hymn
of thanksgiving for the return of day. All nature
prays at the dawn of a summer day in the East.

At night the moon is my mistress. She is so
near, she seems quite at home among my flowers,
as if she lived with them, or had a palace of
gems in the snowy mountain at whose base my
garden grows.

Around me there is a fresh and wonderful
exuberance of life. The whole garden blooms
in the magnificent pomp of an Asiatic
midsummer, and looks like one gorgeous nosegay.
Roses are there in such profusion that they
clamber up the stems of tall trees, and smother
the very leaves of them with the multitude of
their buds and blossoms. Trunk and branches
seem all stifled and conquered in that soft
embrace. I lie down even upon roses—such a
swarming bevy of fragrant beauties as might
have been at the court of the Princess Badoura.
Nature showers her gifts over the land with
disorderly generosity. Nothing can keep in its
place for some other thing that struggles with
it. The flowers go clambering and strolling
over walls and walks like beautiful unruly
children, wild with delight, and liberty, and
health. There is every day a succession of new
flowers. Yesterday my garden was all white,
to-day it seems blue; to-morrow it may be
rose-colour again, as it was a week ago, but every
day brings something new and lovelier than the
day before, revealing wonders of nature and
unsuspected changes.

The very sky seems made up of jewels heaped
together in store from heaven's own treasury.
Here, near the sun, are some small bright-tinted
clouds which look like a cluster of priceless
rubies and opals tossed carelessly upon the skies,
from the brow of some fair Spirit at repose.
Near them is a fine mosaic of turquoise and
white cornelian intermingled, which might serve
to pave one of the courts of heaven; and yonder,
on the verge of the horizon, are endless fields
of amethyst. Round the sun himself, cluster
diamonds of intolerable brightness, and round
the moon, his bride, are pearls. Very beautiful
is the milky way on moonless nights. My nozzir,
or butler, too, has peculiar opinions respecting
the milky way. He informs me, that at the time of
the Flood the windows of heaven were opened,
and these light streaks in the sky come from
chinks that could not be properly closed again.

I am living in two climates. Around me, in
my garden, is sunshine, bright and warm. Roses
of purple and rich yellow hues, such as are
never seen in our parterres, bow their lovely
heads ceremoniously to each other in demure
merriment, and turn aside from the wooing airs
to titter and whisper among themselves. Small
white leaves of unknown flowers, who are
gathered together in a countless host, fall with
every light wind, making mimic snow, as if in
mockery of the wintry storm. But beyond, on
the mountain close by, is real snow and ice; I
have the snow to cool my sherbet, and it is
served to freshen my fruits. The ice is like
crystal, enchanted crystal, which dissolves in a
thousand lustrous hues as I look at it.

My nozzir, who sees me sometimes looking
musingly upwards at the snow on peak and in
ravine, tells me that the sky is made of ice, and
that is why the summits of all mountains which
approach near to it are frozen.

If I go in-doors to seek the shade at noon,
bright carpets are spread beneath my feet, and
the room in which I doze through the heat of
the day, in company with pleasant visitors from
dreamland, is full of Eastern luxuries. The floor
is strewn with embroidered cushions, soft
divans, and shawls, and gilded wares; and
cambric pillows filled with rose-leaves to cool
the heated temples and invite repose, that I
may be fresh and wakeful in the glorious night-time.
By-and-by the walls around are painted
with flowers, and bright with gilding newly
done. Looking-glasses are let into them and
reflect a bearded personage whom I hardly
recognise as the cropped and shaven Englishman
who read the City article in the Times with such
interest, and who wore such very tight clothes,
and who was all bestrapped and umbrellaed in a
club-house, a few months ago. My windows
are of stained glass, very small, and diamond-shaped
like those in English cottages; but when
the sun shines through them they look like
beautiful jewels. I can fancy I am living in
the palace of gems which the slave of the lamp
built for Aladdin, and I must be careful not to
ask for a roc's egg, lest it should all tumble
down and vanish. It is neither of one story
nor of two, but both! part of it being of
one story, and part of it two. It might
have been built by a child at play with cards.
There is a range of rooms, some high and
some low, round a spacious court with a fountain
in the centre, and a piece of ornamental
water, round which strut birds of gorgeous
feather; and a fawn gambols and plays with
my nozzir's daughter, a little maid scarce five
years old. The fountain is blue and silver, full
of living waters, talking always. Over the low
rooms are other low rooms, the two together
about the size and height of one high room, but
not quite, and so quaint juts and corners and
holes make up the difference. Wooden shutters
are in front of these rooms, and extend, like
French windows, almost from the ceiling to
the ground. Above these shutters are
constructed queer little spaces like a honeycomb.