dispirited. Even our little tailor, Suleiman Shefa Amery, the merriest of the merry, the drollest of the droll, was at last infected with the general fear. His springing, self-satisfied step became slow and cautious, and his voice was subdued to a whisper. He had been in the habit of coming to the Vice-Consulate, now and then, to show me his work—embroidered jackets and trowsers for the trousseau of a bride, or a tobacco-pouch for a Bek. He was one of my many self-constituted teachers, and was at the same time profoundly respectful and deferential, and yet amusingly impertinent. He was the beau ideal of an Oriental tailor, and looked as if he had just walked out of one of the pages of the "Arabian Nights' Entertainment"—good-looking, and quick in every movement. He was always ready, unasked, to do a servic—light a pipe, trim a lamp, pick up a pencil, smooth the pillows and cushions of the divan, fetch a glass of water, or proffer an opinion. He looked with a quick and critical eye on every one's costume, and valued each article of apparel unhesitatingly, as if speaking half to himself and half to the wearer.
I used to learn a greater number of Arabic words from him in an hour than from any one else in a day. He could neither read nor write, but his memory was acute. He remembered perfectly the promiscuous vocabulary which he taught me. He used to ask me, each time he came, the words he had told me on previous occasions; and at every successful answer from me he glanced round the room, expecting a look of approbation for himself, and one for his pupil.
He showed me how to do all sorts of Syrian needlework. He made very beautiful designs for embroidery, chiefly conventional foliage. He first stiffens the cloth or silk, by sewing thick paper at the back of it; then, with a piece of hard, white native soap, rubbed to a fine point, he draws, with a firm hand, a few graceful lines and intersecting circles within any given space. He completes the design, in the course of working it, with gold thread, and he never
