another beauty. We remember Palma Vecchio's golden-haired daughter, and the Venetian pictures, and the stories of angels with sunny locks, and the radiant Preziosa. The astute Armenian knows our thoughts. From the beginning was not the oriental merchant a magician?

For while we sit smoking and delighted, the merchant no less wily than the court-physician of Zobeide, opens the last box of all, and gradually unfolds the most beautiful garment the Howadji have ever seen. The coronation robes of Emperors and Kings, the most sumptuous costumes at courtfestivals, all the elaboration of Western genius in the material and in the making of dresses, pale and disappear before the simple magnificence of this robe.

It is a bournouse or oriental cloak, made of camel's hair and cloth of gold. The material secures that rich stiffness essential in a superb mantle, and the colour is an azure turquoise, exquisite beyond words. The sleeves are cloth of gold, and the edges are wrought in gold, but with the most regal taste. It is the only object purely tasteful that we have seen. Nor is it of that negative safety of taste, which loves dark carriages and neutral tints in dress; but magnificent and imperial, like that of Rachel when she plays Thisbe, and nets her head with Venetian sequins. If the rest imply that all

women are beautiful and brunettes, this proclaims the one superb Blonde, Queen of them all.

"Take that, Leisurlie, it was intended from the beginning of the world for an English beauty.'

r

"Oh! Kooltooluk! there is not a woman in England who could wear it."

Through the dewy distances of memory, as you muse in the dim chamber upon all who might worthily wear that garment, passes a figure perfect as morning, crowned with youth, and robed in grace, for whose image Alpine snows were purer and Italian skies more soft. But even while you muse, it passes slowly away out of the golden gates of possibility into the wide impossible.

As we stroll leisurely homeward, it is early after

noon.

But the shops are closed,-strange silence and desertion reign in the Bazaars, a few dark turbaned Christians and Jews yet linger, and a few children play.

'They are gone to the cafés and gardens," says Golden Sleeve.

And we follow them.

CHAPTER VI.

CAFÉS.

Not only the interiors and the Bazaars bewilder you in Damascus.

Everywhere in the humming gush of fountains you hear the low musical laughter of Undine. Thus, through the heart of the city, the cool cedars of Lebanon sing their shade. The flashing jets in the silent and sunny courts, like winks of that glancing spirit, soothe your mind long before you suspect the reason. In the bazaars and chief streets that laugh is stifled, but when you turn aside, just outside the bazaars, and pass beyond the gates, you are on the banks of Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.

In this realm of water, are the cafés, of which, sipping a petit verre in the Algerine Café, upon the Parisian Boulevards, and looking at the Arab women there, some Howadji have vaguely dreamed. But nothing in civilised cities reminds you of these

resorts. They are open spaces upon the banks of the streams, shielded by heavy foliaged trees, from the sun, and secluded entirely from any noise but that of rushing water.

The finest café is entered through a large room, whose walls are striped in the usual manner, and which is furnished with shabby stools, and multitudes of nargilehs, chibouques, and glass cups for sherbet and coffee. It opens into a cool, green seclusion, through which shoots a flashing stream, crossed by a little bridge.

No café in the world, elsewhere, can offer a luxury so exquisite. In the hot day it proffers coolness and repose. We sit upon the little bridge, and through the massive foliage around us, catch gleams of the colour upon the nearest walls. The passionate sun cannot enter unrestrained; but he dashes his splendour against the trees, and they distil it in flickering drops of intense brightness upon the smooth, hard, black ground. We have his beauty but not his blaze. Supreme luxury! Even the proud sun shall help to cool us by the vivid contrast of the flecks of his light, with the mellow shadow in which we sit.

Beneath leaps the swift river, gurgling gladness as it shoots, like a joyful boy in running. It sweeps for ever around an old greened wall below. It is for ever overhung by blossoming figs, and waving

vines, and almonds which bower it as it passes, far overleaning to hear its forest tales of Lebanon. Around us sit figures clad in rainbow brilliance, which, in placing there, Nature has preceded Art and satisfied imagination. We sip sherbet of roses or smooth Mocha coffee.

Nera! It is the fountained Kiosk of Damascus.

Yet these resorts, with all their shabby stools and coarse matting, convey a finer sense of luxury than any similar attempt in Western life. In view of the purpose desired, these cafés are the triumph of art, although nothing can be simpler and ruder than the whole structure. They are the broadest and most obvious strokes in the adaptation of natural advantages to the greatest enjoyment. The streams are as wild as mountain brooks, the trees as untrimmed as in the forest, yet the combination satisfies the strongest desire of a hot climatecoolness and repose. These resorts are the country serving the city, but not emasculated of its original character. It serves the city as a negro slave clad in his native costume, in bright trinkets and with braided hair, serves the citizen. As London in its vast parks secures for itself the crown of city luxury, namely, the unchanged aspect of fields and woods, so that awaking upon Regent's Park, you shall seem, in the lowing and tranquil grazing of cattle, and in the singing of birds in the morning