We confess this little circumstance does not make on us an impression very favorable to Mrs. Suttum; more particularly as we learn from Mijwell, a brother of Suttum, that she was the wooer and not the wooed:

"He entertained me, as we returned home, with the domestic affairs of his family. Rathaiyah had offered herself in marriage to Suttum, and not he to her; a common proceeding, it would appear, among the Bedouins. Suttum had consented, because he thought it politic to be thus allied with the Abde, one of the most powerful branches of the Shammar, generally at war with the rest of the tribe. But his new wife, besides having sent away her rival, had already offended his family by her pride and haughtiness. Mijwell rather looked upon his brother with pity, as a henpecked husband.”—p. 316.

The cavalcade had not proceeded far on its way to the Khabour, before another interesting illustration of conjugal amiability was furnished by this proud lady.

Mr. Layard, speaking of Suttum, says, "He came to me before nightfall, some

what downcast in look, as if a heavy weight were on his mind. At length, after various circumlocutions, he said that his wife would not sleep under the white tent which I had lent her, such luxuries being, she declared, only worthy of city ladies, and altogether unbecoming the wife and daughter of a Bedouin. "So determined is she,' said Suttum, "in the matter, that, Billah! she deserted my bed last night and slept on the grass in the open air; and now she swears she will leave me and return on foot to her kindred, unless I save her from the indignity of sleeping under a white tent." It was inconvenient to humor the fancies of the Arab lady, but as she was inexorable, I gave her a black Arab tent, used by the servants for a kitchen. Under this sheet of goat-hair canvass, open on all sides to the air, she said that she could breathe freely, and feel again that she was a Bedouin."-pp. 267, 268.

Presently they reached Arban on the Khabour, and then comes the interview between the rival wives.

"Soon after our arrival at the Khabour, Adla, Suttum's first wife, came to us with her child. After the Sheikh's marriage with Rathaiyah, she had been driven from her husband's tent by the imperious temper of his new bride, and had returned to Moghamis her father. Her eldest sister was the wife of Suttum's eldest brother Sahiman, and her youngest, Maizi, was betrothed to Suttum's youngest brother Mijwell. The three were remarkable for their beauty; their dark eyes had the true Bedouin fire, and their long black hair fell in clusters on their shoulders. Their cousins, the three brothers, had claimed them

as their brides according to Bedouin law. Adla now sought to be reconciled through me to her husband. Rathaiyah, the new wife, whose beauty was already on the wane, dreaded her young rival's share in the affections of her lord, over whom she had established more influence than a lady might be supposed to exercise over her spouse amongst independent Arabs. The Sheikh was afraid to meet Adla, until, after much negotiation, Hormuzd acting as ambassador, the proud Rathaiyah consented to receive her in her tent. Then the injured lady refused to accept these terms, and the matter was only finished by Hormuzd taking her by the arm and dragging her by force over the grass to her rival. There all the outward forms of perfect reconciliation were satisfactorily gone through, although Suttum evidently saw that there was a different reception in store for himself when there was no European eye-witSuch are the trials of married life in the desert!"—pp. 293, 294.

nesses.

Alas! can it be that there are Mrs. Caudles all over the world? Is not even the Desert exempt from them? Who can blame poor Suttum for seeking, as he did, to alleviate his cares and dissipate his troubles in the exciting sport of falconry? And here we touch a topic which, for the sake of our home sportsmen, we may not pass unnoticed. There is probably no part of the globe where the hawk is better trained than on the Tigris and Euphrates. It is easy to see that Mr. Layard himself entered into the sport with no little ardor and he seems to write about it con amore. He is on the lower Euphrates, and thus speaks:

"I spent the following day with Abde Pasha, who was an ardent sportsman, and entertained me with hawking. The Arab and Kurdish chiefs, who were in his camp, were summoned at dawn to accompany him. Most of them had their own falcons and huntsmen-an indispensable part of the establishment of an eastern nobleman. We formed altogether a very gay and goodly company. Bustards, hares, gazelles,

francolins, and several wild animals abounded in the jungle and the plains, and before we returned in the afternoon scarcely a horseman was without some trophy of the chase dangling from his saddle.

"Two of the hereditary Pashas of Kurdistan, claiming descent from the ancient Arab tribe of Beni Khaled, were with us. Deprived of their family possessions, and living as exiles in Baghdad, no longer able to wage war or to go on marauding expeditions, their chief employment was hunting. They were formerly renowned for their welltrained falcons.

"The Bedouins, too, of whom there were many in the camp, are, as I have already remarked, much given to the chase, and especially to hawking. Unable to obtain a

variety of falcons, they generally use the species called Chark, a bird found in the Sinjar, in the hills near Arbil, and in the rocky ravines of northern Mesopotamia. They educate them with care; but the great trainers in the East are the Persians and Kurds. The Turks are seldom sufficiently active to engage in these manly pursuits.

"The hawk most valued by Eastern sportsmen is the Shaheen, a variety of the northern peregrine falcon, and esteemed the most noble of the race. Although the smallest in size, it is celebrated for its courage and daring, and is constantly the theme of Persian verse. There are several kinds of Shaheen, each distinguished by its size and plumage; those from the Gebel Shammar, in Nedjd, are the most prized, but being only brought by occasional pilgrims from Mecca, are very rare, The next best are said to come from Tokat, in Asia Minor. The Shaheen should be caught and trained when young. It strikes its quarry in the air, and may be taught to attack even the largest eagle, which it will boldly seize, and, checking its flight, fall with it to the ground. The sportsman should, however, be at hand to release the falcon immediately, or it will soon fall a victim to its temerity. It is usually flown at the crane, the middle bustard (houbara), geese, and francolins. There is a variety called the Bahree, found on the borders of the Persian Gulf, which can be taught to catch geese, ducks, and all manner of waterfowl; but it is difficult to keep and train.

"The next in value is the Balaban, which can be trained to strike its quarry either in the air or on the ground. It is found in the neighborhood of Baghdad and in other parts of Mesopotamia; is caught and trained when full grown, and is flown at gazelles, hares, cranes, bustards, partridges, and francolins.

"The Baz and Shah Baz (Astur plumbarius, the goshawk, and the Falco lanarius) is remarkable for the beauty of its speckled plumage and for its size. It strikes in the air and on the ground, and, if well trained, may take cranes and other large game. The Balaban and Baz, when used by the Persians for hunting hares, are sometimes dressed in a kind of leather breeches; otherwise, as they seize their prey with one talon, and a shrub or some other object with the other, they might have their limbs torn asunder.

"The Chark (Falco cervialis), the usual falcon of the Bedouins, always strikes its quarry to the ground, except the eagle, which it may be trained to fly at in the air. It is chiefly used for gazelles and bustards, but will also take hares and other game.

"The bird usually hawked by the Arabs is the middle-sized bustard, or houbara. It is almost always captured on the ground, and defends itself vigorously with wings and beak against its assailant, which is often disabled in the encounter. The falcon is generally trained to this quarry with

a fowl. The method pursued is very simple. It is first taught to take its raw meat from a man, or from the ground, the distance being daily increased by the falconer. When the habit is acquired, the flesh is tied to the back of a fowl; the falcon will at once seize its usual food, and receives also the liver of the fowl, which is immediately killed. A bustard is then, if possible, captured alive, and used in the same way. In a few days the training is complete, and the hawk may be flown at any large bird on the ground.

"The falconry, however, in which Easterns take most delight, is that of the gazelle. For this very noble and exciting sport, the falcon and greyhound must be trained to hunt together by a process unfortunately somewhat cruel. In the first place, the bird is taught to eat its daily ration of raw meat fastened on the stuffed head of a gazelle. The next step is to accustom it to look for its food between the horns of a tame gazelle. The distance between the animal and the falconer is daily increased, until the hawk will seek its meat when about half a mile off. A greyhound is now loosed upon the gazelle, the falcon being flown at the same time. When the animal is seized, which of course soon takes place, its throat is cut, and the hawk is fed with a part of its flesh. After thus sacrificing three gazelles, the education of the falcon and greyhound is declared to be complete. The chief art in the training is to teach the two to single out the same gazelle, and the dog not to injure the falcon when struggling on the ground with the quarry. The greyhound, however, soon learns to watch the movements of its companion, without whose assistance it could not capture its prey.

"The falcon, when loosed from its jesses, flies steadily and near the ground towards the retreating gazelles, and marking one, soon separates it from the herd. It then darts at the head of the affrighted animal, throws it to the ground, or only cheeks it in its rapid course. The greyhound rarely comes up before the blow has been more than once repeated. The falconer then hastens to secure the quarry. Should the dog not succeed in capturing the gazelle after it has been struck for the third or fourth time, the hawk will generally sulk and refuse to hunt any longer. I once saw a very powerful falcon belonging to the Abde Pasha hold a gazelle until the horsemen succeeded in spearing the animal. The fleetness of the gazelle is so great, that, without the aid of the hawk, very few dogs can overtake it, unless the ground be heavy

after rain.

"The pursuit of the gazelle with the faleon and hound over the boundless plains of Assyria and Babylonia is one of the most exhilarating and graceful of sports, displaying equally the noble qualities of the horse, the dog, and the bird.

"The time of day best suited for hawking is very early in the morning, before the

The

eagles and kites are soaring in the sky. The falcon should not be fed for several hours before it is taken to the chase. When not hunting, the Arabs give it meat only once a day. Some hawks require to be hooded, such as the Chark and the Shaheen; others need no covering for the eyes. hood is generally made of colored leather, with eyes worked on it in beads, and gold and variegated threads. Tassels and ornaments of various kinds are added, and the great chiefs frequently adorn a favorite bird with pearls and precious stones. the legs are sometimes fastened small bells. Few hawks will return to the falconer without the lure, which consists of the wing of a bustard or fowl, or of a piece of meat attached to a string, and swung round in the air. The Eastern huntsman has a different call for each variety of Falcon. A good chark will sometimes take as many as eight or ten bustards or five or six gazelles in the course of a morning.

To

"I have introduced these remarks on falconry, founded on personal experience, as this noble science is probably of the greatest antiquity, and is still the favorite pursuit of the Eastern warrior."—pp. 480-483. But even sport has its sorrows. Suttum had a favorite hawk, Hattab, whose unhappy fate is thus recorded.

"The plain, like all the country watered by the Khabour, was one vast meadow teeming with flowers. Game abounded, and the Falcon soon flew towards a bustard, which his piercing eye had seen lurking in the long grass. The sun was high in the heavens; already soaring in the sky, was the enemy of the trained hawk, the agab' a kind of kite or eagle, whose name, signifying 'butcher,' denotes his bloody propensities. Although far beyond our ken, he soon saw Hattab, and darted upon him in one swoop. The affrighted falcon immediately turned from his quarry, and with shrill cries of distress flew towards us. After circling round, unable from fear

In

to alight, he turned towards the Desert, still followed by his relentless enemy. vain his master, following as long as his mare could carry him, waved the lure, and called the hawk by his name; he saw him no more. Whether the noble bird escaped, or fell a victim to the 'butcher,' we never knew.

"Suttum was inconsolable at his loss. He wept when he returned without his falcon on his wrist, and for days he would suddenly exclaim, 'O Bej! Billah! Hattab was not a bird, he was my brother.' He was one of the best trained hawks I ever saw amongst the Bedouins, and was of some substantial value to his owner, as he would daily catch six or seven bustards, except during the hottest part of the summer, when the falcon is unable to hunt."pp. 298, 299.

Doubtless the poor fellow sighed to think that Allah had not taken his wife instead of his "brother."

But it is time to pause, though ample material is before us wherewith to entertain the reader on Arab weddings, and snake charmings, and incidents of desert travelling, with a voyage down the Tigris so graphic in description, that one might paint a panorama from it. Then, too, we have a picture of summer heat at Nineveh that almost makes one gasp for breath, and cry out for iced water; and old Bagdad and older Babylon stand out before us; and we travel with Mr. Layard over the pathway of the memorable retreat of the Ten Thousand, and in short become for a time quite orientalized. But the extracts we have given will suffice to indicate the general character of the book, which will be found to contain much that will interest alike the Christian and the scholar, the archæologist and the architect, the man of letters who reads for amusement, and the man of learning who reads for more.

YE

ESTERDAY I dined with a friend at the St. Nicholas Hotel. I had never seen it before, and, as we approached it, I could not but admire its spacious white marble front, heavy with carving, as it rises over the street and contrasts with the low, dark buildings on each side. It is all freshness and polish and clearness now; so new, indeed, that it looks like the palace of the genii on the morning of the night in which it was built up. This suits a hotel perhaps, but an over new look does not properly become a palace. Magnificence, to be complete, needs a glory which comes only with antiquity and the associations that belong to age. A block

of white marble glittering from the quarry is not so beautiful,-for beauty lies much in the imagination, as the same block, after the rain and the sun of centuries have given to it the mellow tint that says, "Behold, I have stood here so long, and borne so much, and have gained new worth with all I have endured."

Any one who has been at Pisa must remember an old marble palace on the sunny side of the river bank, just opposite the little river chapel of the Spina. It is stained with time, and the mysterious chain is rusted, that hangs over the entrance, from the block, bearing two words which no one can explain Alla giornata,

and which day by day grow more inexplicable as the time when they were cut there becomes more and more hidden in the mist of tradition. Now, who would exchange that strange palace, old and worn, and no longer brilliant, for the same palace in all the pride of its first completion? And is it not finer to wonder and guess at the hidden meaning of those words and that chain, than to have seen them at the time when every little idle boy on the Lung' Arno would have looked up if you had asked him what they meant, and said, Ma, Signore è cosa simplicissima? Yes, Alla giornata, day by day, all that is truly lovely and beautiful grows more lovely and beautiful. Even if it perishes to the sight it lives in remembrance, and memory gives to it its perfect and ideal charm.

In age, too, lies the best of art and of books. Many a bright reputation has sunk before a second generation has seen its lustre.

But we are waiting at the door of the St. Nicholas. The wide hall, with its walls of white and gold, brings us to the broad staircase with its oaken and Italian balustrade, and going up, we tread on crimson carpets where the foot makes no noise. We enter the drawing-rooms, where the light comes through invisible glass, and breaks against satin curtains, where couches covered with velvets, and tables and chairs lavishly carved, leave little for luxury to desire. As we pass the splendid mirror, we start with something of surprise to find the familiar image of ourselves thrown back, quite commonplace and inelegant; for it would have seemed but natural that in such splendor we too should be splendid, and we should have thought it only consonant with what was about us, to see ourselves robed in Tyrian purple, with gold chains around our necks, and rich caps upon our perfumed heads.

We passed on, and looked in vain for the Duchesses who ought to have received us and bade us welcome. We ourselves had something, I imagine, of the air of strangers in the place, for every one else looked like intruders; there was no one fit for it. Instead of imperial and stately women, there were some elderly ladies with spectacles and neat caps, who looked in vain to find in us the princes to whom this magnificence belonged. There were young girls who ought to have been equal to any surrounding, beautiful in any setting, but who, alas, showed too plainly by artificial manners and overlabored dress, and by that fatal air of consciousness which betrays the absence of maidenly dignity and simplicity, that they were not

the true Cinderellas of the place, and were trying in vain to fit the glass slipper on a clumsy foot.

But the dinner was worthy of the palace. Lucullus would have rejoiced to come to life for its sake, and Brillat-Savarin might have been contented. The great hall overflowing with light that poured from golden chandeliers, the fine coloring of the glass and porcelain, the heavy plate, the lavish meats, and game, and jellies, and fruits, the iced and sparkling wines, the troops of servants, the obsequious and quiet attention, were all fitly correspondent in sumptuous display. And after coffee, carrying out its Oriental suggestion, seated in luxurious chairs, a little aside in the great hall, we smoked, and watched the crowd of idlers and passers by, and moralized a little on the show. We saw men, who, not yet in the vigor of life, were blasé with its pleasures; men with the poisoned youth, Vathek-like to find themselves some day with fires, unquenchable and agonizing, in the place of those hearts they had silenced, perverted, and destroyed. We saw men of disappointed hopes, and, by their side, men whose hopes had never failed. There were men with no signs of care, and others, perhaps not less happy, with cares written on their foreheads. At last it grew tiresome, and we went away.

We neither of us wondered as we came out on the street, and looked up at the clear strip of night sky, that the same cui bono query in regard to what we had left came into our minds. As I walked alone to my lodging, I thought whether this was the finest exhibition of our American civilization; whether this was our vaunted practical socialism; whether palaces for the people were any way better than palaces for kings; whether tasteless display, and lavish, reckless wastefulness were the same with real magnificence and thorough taste, and great expense proportioned to a great end.

To-day, with another companion, I went down to the Five Points. Here too I had never been before. We went at first to one of its worst recesses, called by the strange, humorous name of Cow Bay. A filthy, arched passage-way leads into the little bay, round which wretched houses are crowded, as if afraid of the entrance of sunshine and fresh air. A drunken black woman, with a can in her hand, came reeling into the place behind us. From the dirty windows other women were looking out, and at the dirty Cow door stood three or four men, some with the devil-may-care, and others with the pale, exhausted look that equally belong to such places.

I have no liking to detail such scenes in words. I distrust descriptions where horrors are heaped together, and as most people turn away from them as exaggerations, they often serve the bad end of blunting the keen edge of sympathy. I will not describe here.

In the open part of the Five Points, there were men and women standing about the door of the grocery where rum was sold; children were playing around, all dirty, and some of them sickly in appearance, and there were other figures amongst whom were such as might have just stepped out of Hogarth's Gin Lane. Throughout the place there was an indescribable air of confusion, dirt and misery. But at the

base of the triangular space where the Five Points meet, stood a large brick house, on which was painted in great letters, "Five Points House of Industry." I had often of late heard of this house, and as our visit to the place was chiefly for the sake of seeing it, we went in. I heard its history this afternoon for the first time. It was a story worth hearing and repeating. It began thus:

You know how full of despair this Five Points seemed for years, how nobody had the courage to attack it; how vice increased here with the increasing misery; how the gulf between this place and Broadway, grew wider every year; how in the centre and very heart of this Christian city was a shame worse than barbarism, and an evil worse than adversity. There were plenty of kindly and excellent people who meant to do their duty, and gave away much in charity, but who only thought of this place as an evil not to be remedied by any efforts of theirs, and indeed perhaps a necessary part of the social system of a great city. It was a dangerous and detestable error; dangerous in any country, but more than in any other, in our own. Happily it was not universal.

Three years ago some good people determined that something must be done to better this state of things. A young clergyman was engaged to go down and work here. He had not been at work long before he found that it was of little avail to preach, and to give away Bibles and tracts to those, who were so destitute of the means of comfort, as to be reckless of good or of evil. "Why preach virtue to us, who cannot be virtuous, unless we are ready to starve?" said poor forlorn women to him. " Why tell us to be good," asked the children, "when we must steal or be whipped? it is better to be bad than to be good." Such questions were too pathetic, too earnest, to be disregarded. These women, driven by want to vice and misery,

"Paint on their beautiless cheeks,

And hunger and shame in their bosoms;"

the last light of loveliness quenched in their wan hard eyes, were women even in their ruin, and as such appealed with the thoughts of what they might have been, with the force of precious remembrances and the present influence of all noble love, to every worthy man. These children too, with none of the grace, the beauty, or the divine glory of childhood, still, by the uncertainty of the future, by its double prospect, claimed every effort for their aid. Undisheartened, undismayed by the sight of so much to be done by inadequate means, the missionary determined that he would get work and instruction for all that came to him, and help them, that they might learn to help themselves. In order to do this more effectually, he procured the indictment of one of the vilest houses of the place, the keeper was turned out of it, he had it cleaned and set in order, and then went into it with his wife to live. An heroic act this seems to me; it was a brave, faithful thing, for that husband and wife to go down here to live among such neighbors, surrounded by such sights, exposed to all the unwholesome influences of the place. It was a deed for New-York to be proud of.

Reserving one or two rooms for themselves, the missionary and his wife turned the others into school-rooms, work-rooms, and bed-rooms for the vagrant and homeless. Work was obtained from tradespeople. Old cast-off clothes were sought. A bakery was opened in a lower room, where the bread was sold cheap. A school was opened, and the children who came in were washed and made comfortable. Those who had no care elsewhere, were kept and clothed. Young girls and women were sheltered and taught to labor. Places in the country were sought for where they could be safely established. A Sunday school was held, and all the means which earnest, benevolent ingenuity could devise, were employed in this work for the vagabond, the forsaken, the outcast. And for these two years it has been going on, struggling with difficulties, with want of means and want of help, fighting against the opposition of those who were accustomed to make money out of the sins and poverty of others, against foolish prejudice, and against the thousand depressing, often recurring, obstacles that arise from the very characters of those whom it was meant to serve. Still, it has gone on steadily, and is daily spreading its gracious influences.

Such in brief was the story as I heard it. It is not often that we hear nowadays of self-devotion thorough as this, of