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forget the howling desert he has traversed, as well as the distant home, to which he is bound. In Damascus some of the best reciters are to be found; and the peculiar luxury and situation of its coffee-houses aid very much the effect of their narrations. In Cairo, the want of water, the burning heat, and the gloomy and dusty streets, are, as well as the desert that spreads on every side, great foes to the imagination. In Constantinople the beauty of the external scenery, of the Bosphorus and its enchanting shores, cannot be surpassed; but the scantiness of water in the interior of the city, diminishes very much the luxuries of its people, who love beyond every thing the sight and sound of falling water in their apartments. But in Damascus, almost all the coffee-houses have splendid fountains, that are thrown up, some of them to the height of six or seven feet; and it is delightful to recline on one of the soft seats near them, and listen to their ceaseless rush and fall. The abundance of water from the five streams that flow around the city is incredible. The Assyrians might well complain, in their inroads into the Promised Land, of the scarcity of its rivers, and boast that there was nothing like their own Abana and Pharpar. In some of these houses of recreation, whose latticed windows, thrown open, admit the air, the wealthier people form dinner-parties, of men only. Seated in a circle on the carpet, with the various dishes on low tables before them, they eat slowly and carelessly, conversing at intervals, without any of the goût or joviality that wine inspires. Every good private dwelling in Damascus has its fountain, and this is invariably in the best apartment, it being a luxury, or rather a necessity, that few inhabitants care to do without; an Englishman would as soon live in an uncarpeted house. And round the marble basin, or in the divan just beyond it, the host at evening receives his friends; and they sit and smoke, and calmly converse the hours away: this is the time when the wealthier families sometimes send for a celebrated story-teller to amuse the party; and when the latter knows he is to be handsomely paid, it is a more recherché opportunity than the public companies afford.

It is the sultry hour of noon, perhaps, when the burning rays are on the water, the trees, and green banks that surround the public café of Damascus: the light roof, supported by the slender pillars, casts a shade on the peopled floor, on which the well and variously dressed Turks recline, some in small wickered chairs, others on long and softer benches, covered and backed with carpets and cushions. These seats are placed close to the river's edge; and earth has nothing more indulgent than to sit here, in the cool of the day, or in the still hour of night, and listen to the rush of the waters, and gaze on the gleaming of the cataract; then put the amber-tipped and scented pipe to the lips, or turn to the throng of many nations around, all silently enjoying the hour. It is sweet to such a people to have their feelings violently excited, to have the monotony of their thoughts thus broken wildly by the vivid descriptions of the speaker. It is a pleasure so easily enjoyed also; the head need not be raised from its recumbent position, nor the eye turned from the faint twilight falling on the foaming river, nor the hand moved from its gentle grasp on the chibouque. The favourite storyteller watches his moment, and comes forward into the middle of the floor, and raises his hand the lips of the Damascene, the Cairene, the Arab, and the Persian, that

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