menian merchant, young and comely,—why not Khadra's cousin ?-and he brought with him silks and stuffs at which all that was feminine in our natures swelled with delight. Tempted by his odors, we have come to his garden. The room is small and square, and rough-plastered. Upon the floor are strewn long deep boxes, and the comely young Armenian, in a flowing dark dress, reveals his treasures.

Scarfs, shawls, stuffs for dresses, morning gowns and vests, handkerchiefs, sashes, purses, and tobacco-bags are heaped in rich profusion. They are of the true Eastern richness, and in the true Eastern manner they rely upon that richness for their effect, and not upon their intrinsic tastefulness. The figures of the embroideries, for instance, are not gracefully designed, but the superb material suffices. They imply that there are none but beautiful women in the world, and that all women are brunettes. As the quiet merchant unfolds them, they have the mysterious charm of recalling all the beautiful brunettes who have reigned, Zenobias, and Queens of Sheba, and Cleopatras, in the ruined realm of your past life.

But, Northerners and Westerners, we remember another beauty. We remember Palma Vecchio's goldenhaired 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, open the last box of all, and gradually unfolds the most beauti

ful garment the Howadji have ever seen. The coronation robes of Emperors and Kings, the most sumptuous costumes at court-festivals, 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 color is an azure torquoise, 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.”

"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 afternoon. 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.

VI.

Cafés.

Nor 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 Parphar, 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 civilized 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 color upon the nearest walls. The passionate sun cannot enter unrestrained; but he dashes his splendor 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 forever around an old greened wall below. It is forever 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