n a
future state: had he ever seen those of Damascus, he would surely
have given them a place on his rivers of Paradise, persuaded that
true believers must feel a melancholy void without them.

There is no ornament or richness about these houses: no sofas,
mirrors, or drapery, save that afforded by a few evergreens and
creepers: the famous silks and damasks of Damascus have no place
here; all is plain and homely; yet no Parisian Cafe, with its
beautiful mirrors, gilding, and luxuriousness, is so welcome to the
imagination and senses of the traveller. After wandering many days
over dry, and stony, and desert places, where the lip thirsted for
the stream, is it not delicious to sit at the brink of a wild,
impetuous torrent, to gaze on its white foam and breaking waves,
till you can almost feel their gush in every nerve and fibre, and
can bathe your very soul in them. And while you slowly smoke your
pipe of purest tobacco, the sands of the desert, and their burning
sun, rise again before you, when you prayed for even the shadow of
a cloud on your way. The banks are in some parts covered with wood,
whose soft green verdure contrasts beautifully with the clear
torrent, and almost droops into its bosom.

Near the coffee-houses are one or two cataracts several feet high,
and the perpetual sound of their fall, and the coolness they spread
around, are exquisite luxuries--in the heat of day, or in the
dimness of evening. There are two or three Cafes constructed
somewhat differently from those just described: a low gallery
divides the platform from the tide; fountains play on the floor,
which is furnished with very plain sofas and cushions; and music
and dancing always abound, of the most unrefined description.

The only intellectual gratification in these places is afforded by
the Arab story-tellers, among whom are a few eminent and clever
men: soon after his entrance, a group begins to form around the
gifted man, who, after a suitable pause, to collect hearers or whet
their expectations, begins his story. It is a picturesque sight--of
the Arab with his wild and graceful gestures, and his auditory,
hushed into deep and child-like attention, seated at the edge of
the rushing tide, while the narrator moves from side to side, and
each accent of his disti