The Thistle and the Cedar of Lebanon. Habeeb Risk Allah

force, he whirls into the centre of the yard, and meanwhile, some one who has watched the manœuvre, acts the same part by some other blushing maiden. These are confronted face to face, and there is now no escape, so they commence at first timidly and bashfully, but getting gradually excited by the music, they lose all this pretended bashfulness, and do their best to outshine each other; and truly there is rarely a more graceful sight than two beautiful Damascene girls, elegantly dressed and bespangled with jewels, displaying their graceful figures to the best advantage, to the slow but becoming measures of the dance. All the other young ladies now follow their example, and as each couple retires at the termination of their efforts to please, they are hailed with shouts of applause, and liberally besprinkled with rose and orange-flower water. The old ladies evince their approbation by a peculiar vibrating scream, produced by the voice passing through the nearly closed lips, whilst the under lip is kept in a continual tremulous state by the rapid application of the back of the forefinger to that feature. When dancing is over for the evening, sometimes games of forfeit are introduced, and promote much mirth, especially one game called “Tuthun Tuthun, min Tuthun”—a game of Turkish origin, as its name denotes, and which is played thus:—Every one in the circle takes the name of a bird, a tree, or a flower, whilst the king of the game goes round and collects in a handkerchief some small article from each one present. These he afterwards shuffles together, and then drawing one out, which he carefully conceals in his hand, he fixes upon some one in the circle, to whom he puts the question “Tuthun Tuthun, min Tuthun?” or, “Tobacco tobacco, whose is it?” The party fixed upon is obliged to guess, and he names some bird or flower which he heard some one call himself; if the guess is wrong, he has to hold out his hand and receive three stripes from a closely knotted handkerchief, and then the party referred to is next obliged to guess to whom the “Tuthun” belongs, and so on all round the circle till the right name has been discovered. Then the king resigns his post and handkerchief, and is relieved in office by him or her that made the right guess.

      After these games some one tells a story or recites a poem, a specimen of which I am enabled to introduce, literally translated.

      I’ve gazed on many eyes, that shine

       As bright; none ever yet so well

       Have answered to my heart as thine,

       My lovely, little, dear gazelle.

      Oh give me but one smile, to tell

       Of pity from those gentle eyes:

       The thought shall ever with me dwell,

       My love you did not all despise.

      You move in beauty, while each charm

       Subdues the more my amorous soul,

       Until my fainting spirits warm

       To strength beneath thy sweet control.

      Hear then my prayer, to you alone

       I bow—Let those who know me not,

       Mock, if they will, at pangs unknown:

       Your smile, though false, is ne’er forgot.

      Mine eyes have often wearied long

       To catch thine image passing by;

       My saddened spirit grew more strong,

       With thee one moment in mine eye.

      But oh, if love should ever seek

       Its seat within that beauteous breast,

       Drive it afar; you see it wreak

       On me its power to poison rest.

      For bound beneath thy beauty’s sway,

       My days in wasting sadness roll;

       Though deaf to all, this dust can say,

       You’ll meet in heaven, my parted soul.

      Deign but my fevered heart to cool,

       With but one passing word of hope,

       Then shall my tortured spirit school

       Itself, with all beside to cope.

      But thought is useless, words are vain;

       And my bewildered mind can fling

       No effort from this maddening brain,

       That can to thee its image bring.

      For disappointed and beguiled,

       I will not spend another sigh;

       If you had never on me smiled,

       No tear had ever dimmed mine eye.

      I will now endeavour to give my readers a specimen of an original Arabic tale in the familiar and colloquial style of these Oriental storytellers so famed for their amusing delivery and gesticulation.

THE STORY OF THE JINN AND THE SCOLDING WIFE.

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      Once upon a time, many years ago, when good people were rather scarce upon the earth, and such men as Noah had ceased to exist, there dwelt a certain poor man at the city of Aleppo, whose name was—I forgot now exactly what; but as his heirs might not take it in good part, we had best leave the name-part of the business alone altogether. However, he was fortunate enough to pick up with a pretty little wife, whose smiles, so thought the lover, were like the dew of Hermon; instead of which, they proved to be very mildew in every sense of the word. Yusuf—so was the man called, but, I forgot, we must not mention it—married the fair Ankafir. First week, honey and kaymak, and everything nice and sweet; second week, necklaces and other jewellery required; third week, funds low, dinners scant, temper sour; fourth week, squalls matrimonial from morning to night, from night to morning.

      “I tell you what it is, my dear,” quoth Yusuf, “either you must leave off blowing up, or I must take to bastinadoing: so just you choose the least evil.”

      To hear her talk of his inhumanity—to hear her talk of her rich relations and their influence with the Pasha—to hear her storm about broken hearts, and, what is a great deal more serious and matter-of-fact, broken heads—I say, to hear her jabber about all this, was enough to turn a quiet, sober-minded man into a misanthrope for life; but, to feel the argument in the shape of sundry manipulations, cuffs on the ear, scratches, etc., this was beyond the endurance of a martyr; so thought Yusuf, so did his friends, and so did the evil counsellors that recommended him to resort to the use of water as an only alternative.

      Now, I don’t mean to say, mind you, that they suggested, that water, as an every-day kind of a beverage, was likely to be productive of very beneficial effects; neither did they hint that arraki and water, though this latter has often done the job, would facilitate in ridding Yusuf of his incubus. The river Euphrates was thought deep enough—a casualty in the upset of a boat, plausible. The desperate husband took the hint. One day he had a headache. Next day, change of air was thought requisite, and the water-side recommended. He went to Berijek thence to the river-side. A friendly old boatman hired him a boat and his own personal services, and

      “Upon the stream they got ’em.

       The wind blew high; he blew his nose,

       And—sent her to the bottom.”

      She sunk, never again to rise, and the light-hearted husband leaped out of the boat and strolled along the river-side.

      By and bye, a damp-looking old customer, half Neptune, half I don’t know what you may call it, comes walking up the river, just as coolly as a ship of war might float on the ocean, and as fresh as though he had only just got in for a dip, instead of having floated ever so many hundred miles.

      “Salām alaykum,” says Yusuf, “I hope you’re well.”

      “Peace, thou son of a swine,” says the stranger; “What do you mean by sending her there to bother us?”

      “Who is it you