The Lands of the Saracen | Page 8

skilful archers, in order to hit the
mark, they aim above it. When you have once learned his standard of
truth, you can readily gauge an Arab's expressions, and regulate your
own accordingly. But whenever I have attempted to strike the key-note
myself, I generally found that it was below, rather than above, the

Oriental pitch.
The Shekh had already informed me that the King of Ashantee, whom
he had visited, possessed twenty-four houses full of gold, and that the
Sultan of Houssa had seventy thousand horses always standing saddled
before his palace, in order that he might take his choice, when he
wished to ride out. By this he did not mean that the facts were precisely
so, but only that the King was very rich, and the Sultan had a great
many horses. In order to give the Shekh an idea of the great wealth and
power of the American Nation, I was obliged to adopt the same plan. I
told him, therefore, that our country was two years' journey in extent,
that the Treasury consisted of four thousand houses filled to the roof
with gold, and that two hundred thousand soldiers on horseback kept
continual guard around Sultan Fillmore's palace. He received these
tremendous statements with the utmost serenity and satisfaction,
carefully writing them in his book, together with the name of Sultan
Fillmore, whose fame has ere this reached the remote regions of
Timbuctoo. The Shekh, moreover, had the desire of visiting England,
and wished me to give him a letter to the English Sultan. This rather
exceeded my powers, but I wrote a simple certificate explaining who he
was, and whence he came, which I sealed with an immense display of
wax, and gave him. In return, he wrote his name in my book, in the
Mughrebbin character, adding the sentence: "There is no God but
God."
This evening the forbidden subject of politics crept into our quiet
community, and the result was an explosive contention which drowned
even the braying of the agonizing trumpets outside. The gentlemanly
Frenchman is a sensible and consistent republican, the old filateur a
violent monarchist, while Absalom, as I might have foreseen, is a Red,
of the schools of Proudhon and Considerant. The first predicted a
Republic in France, the second a Monarchy in America, and the last
was in favor of a general and total demolition of all existing systems.
Of course, with such elements, anything like a serious discussion was
impossible; and, as in most French debates, it ended in a bewildering
confusion of cries and gesticulations. In the midst of it, I was struck by
the cordiality with which the Monarchist and the Socialist united in

their denunciations of England and the English laws. As they sat side
by side, pouring out anathemas against "perfide Albion," I could not
help exclaiming: "_Voilà, comme les extrêmes se rencontrent_!" This
turned the whole current of their wrath against me, and I was glad to
make a hasty retreat.
The physician again visited us to-night, to promise a release to-morrow
morning. He looked us all in the faces, to be certain that there were no
signs of pestilence, and politely regretted that he could not offer us his
hand. The husband of the "married woman" also came, and relieved the
other gentlemen from the charge of the "weeper." He was a stout, ruddy
Provençal, in a white blouse, and I commiserated him sincerely for
having such a disagreeable wife.
To-day, being the last of our imprisonment, we have received many
tokens of attention from dragomen, who have sent their papers through
the grate to us, to be returned to-morrow after our liberation. They are
not very prepossessing specimens of their class, with the exception of
Yusef Badra, who brings a recommendation from my friend, Ross
Browne. Yusef is a handsome, dashing fellow, with something of the
dandy in his dress and air, but he has a fine, clear, sparkling eye, with
just enough of the devil in it to make him attractive. I think, however,
that, the Greek dragoman, who has been our companion in Quarantine,
will carry the day. He is by birth a Boeotian, but now a citizen of
Athens, and calls himself François Vitalis. He speaks French, German,
and Italian, besides Arabic and Turkish, and as he has been for twelve
or fifteen years vibrating between Europe and the East, he must by this
time have amassed sufficient experience to answer the needs of
rough-and-tumble travellers like ourselves. He has not asked us for the
place, which displays so much penetration on his part, that we shall end
by offering it to him. Perhaps he is content to rest his claims upon the
memory of our first Quarantine dinner. If so, the odors of the cutlets
and larks--even