any pictures which fairly represent it. The Syrian light has not yet been caught upon the palette, and without that, the gorgeousness of the impression is lost.

These fountained and foliaged interiors, hushed in the warm blue silence of that sky, forever suggest a luxurious and poetic life. They suggest it so absolutely and strongly that a child of the West contemplates them, fascinated, indeed, but frightened, as if it were wrong to follow, even in fancy, the outline they draw upon the possibilities of life. Dreaming by the singing waters, or reclining upon the sumptuous divans in the alcoves, the most Christian of Howadji, as he awaits the Houris, hears his heart repeating the mournful words of the Prophet,— "There can be but one Paradise, and mine must not be here !"

Yet as we lay, those May mornings, watching the gazelles, a year's life in Damascus promised the completest romance that the experience of this time could afford.

There would be no society, for technical "Society” is unknown in the East, and no impulse from the magnetic "spirit of the age." But all the rest could be supplied.

You would hear the hum of the West dying away over the Mediterranean, into an incredible echo. Its remembered forms would glide, phantoms, across the luxurious repose of existence. Zeno would dwindle into a myth, modern times into a dream, and the fancied life of Epicurus would be the shadow of your own. Had Epicurus no reason? Was the legend of the lotus-eaters all

a fable? Is the unimaginable imagery of opium dreams, not worth the seeing?

-Self-indulgent, wasteful, selfish, coward before the tyrannous realities of life-these are the reproaches that would disturb your dream.

Yet would I still exhort him who sincerely loves the lotus and thrives upon it-for such there are—to dream that year in Damascus. For would he then return, and paint that year for us, the dream would be justified and celebrated in pictures and songs.

Let Zeno frown. Philosophy, common sense, and resignation, are but synonyms of submission to the inevitable. I dream my dream. Men whose hearts are broken, and whose faith falters, discover that life is a warfare, and chide the boy for loitering along the sea-shore, and loving the stars.

But leave him, inexorable Elders, in the sweet entanglement of the "trailing clouds of glory" with which he comes into the world. Have no fear that they will remain and dim his sight. Those morning vapors fade And they will leave him

away-you have learned it. chilled, philosophical, and resigned, in "the light of common day"—you have proved it. But do not starve him to-day, because he will have no dinner to-morrow. Like a poor country lad who must go out to service in the dim and treacherous city, you will not suffer him to follow the water-courses, and know the flowers, and the sky, and the mountain landscape, in his first few years, lest their sublime memory should seduce him from his work, or sadden him in its doing. But the profoundest thinkers

of you all, have discovered that an inscrutable sadness is the widest horizon of life, and the longing eye is more sympathetic with Nature, than the shallow stare of practical scepticism of truth and beauty.

But while we muse, the ladies have entered the court the family of a Jewish merchant, friend of our St. Peter-a mother and three daughters.

The mother is fat, and covered with brocades and cloths of gold, with bracelets, and necklaces, and rings, and her head is actually crusted with opals, pearls, rubies, carbuncles, and amethysts. She looks, as she stands in the sun, and conscious of the splendor of her appearance, as if she had just emerged from the bazaars, in which every merchant had thrown his choicest treasures at her as she passed. There is neither grace nor taste in her appearance. It is only an accumulation of riches in every kind, but each so genuine and magnificent, that the eye is satisfied.

She is not handsome, but her daughters are. They are tall and willowy, and stand among the oranges and oleanders, looking gravely at us. They have wreaths of pearls, and embroidered vests, and thick skirts heavy with richness, and they all walk upon pattens four or five inches high, of ebony inlaid with pearl, so that in moving, they stalk about the court like Giraffes imperfectly humanized. Their hair is densely black, and is braided in massive folds, studded with gems. Their eyebrows are shaved, and a smooth black arch of kohl supplies their place, and helps to unhumanize them. They are beautiful without the effect of beauty. The dark eyes are soft

and curious, but have no lambent light of sympathy or intelligence. I should as soon undertake conversation with the black marble Venus, as with these silent and stately figures; and it is hard to bring my mind to the conception of their total ignorance and inexperience.

-The scene was like a Sultan's slave-market, and on the whole, rather sadder than my remembrance of a slave merchant's house in Cairo. He had just received several Abyssinian girls for sale. They stood, coarsely clad, and clustering together, in the darkest corner of the court-a group of olive-skinned children, who laughed at the strangers, and chatted among themselves, evidently hoping to be bought, and to taste the incomprehensible life of Christian Howadji.

The Damascene ladies withdrew after we had exchanged some words with the placid mamma, and presently we saw them hurrying along the gallery above, chattering and laughing, like the Abyssinians, and looking down upon us as we retired, with the curiosity of children.

And, as we retired, the painful impression of their utterly vacant life, was relieved by that girlish laughter.

V.

Bazaars.

"Black spirits and white
Blue spirits and gray,

Mingle, mingle, mingle."

CHRISTIANS and Saracens agree in reprobating the black hat. But the Damascenes declare open war against it. In 1432, Bertrandon de la Brocquière entered the city with a "broad beaver hat," which was incontinently knocked off his head. Naturally his first movement was "to lift my fist," but wisdom held his hand, and he desisted, content to revenge himself by the questionable inference that it was "a wicked race."

But if it be "wicked" to malign the black hat, who shall be justified?

This was only a gentle illustration of the bitter hatred of Christians and all infidels, cherished by the Damascenes, who are the most orthodox of Muslim. Indeed, it is only within twenty years that an accredited English representative could reside in Damascus, and he maintains an imposing state. At present, some hundred European tourists visit the city yearly, and the devout