restraint, by
proclamation, in these terms.

'_This is the time of feasting, pleasure, and rejoicing. Let no person
reprimand or complain of another: let not the rich insult the poor, or
the strong the weak: let no one ask another, "why have you done this
_?"'

Millions of people were collected in this Paradise. They rejoiced, they
feasted, they frolicked, they danced, they sang. They listened to the
tales of the Arabian story-teller, at once enchanted and enchanting,
or melted to the strain of the Persian poet as he painted the moon-lit
forehead of his heroine and the wasting and shadowy form of his
love-sick hero; they beheld with amazement the feats of the juggler of
the Ganges, or giggled at the practised wit and the practical buffoonery
of the Syrian mime. And the most delighted could still spare a
fascinating glance to the inviting gestures and the voluptuous grace of
the dancing girls of Egypt.[68] Everywhere reigned melody and merriment,
rarity and beauty. For once mankind forgot their cares, and delivered
themselves up to infinite enjoyment.

'I grow courteous,' said Kisloch the Kourd, assisting a party into one
of the shows.

'And I humane,' said Calidas the Indian. 'Fellow, how dare you violate
the proclamation, by thrashing that child?' He turned to one of the
stewards of the table, who was belabouring the unfortunate driver of a
camel which had stumbled and in its fall had shivered its burden, two
panniers of porcelain.

'Mind your own business, fellow,' replied the steward, 'and be thankful
that for once in your life you can dine.'

'Is this the way to speak to an officer?' said Calidas the Indian; 'I
have half a mind to cut your tongue out.'

'Never mind, little fellow,' said the Guebre, 'here is a dirhem for you.
Run away and be merry.'

'A miracle!' grinned the Negro; 'he giveth alms.'

'And you are witty,' rejoined the Guebre. ''Tis a wondrous day.'

'What shall we do?' said Kisloch.

'Let us dine,' proposed the Negro.

'Ay! under this plane-tree,' said Calidas. ''Tis pleasant to be alone. I
hate everybody but ourselves.'

'Here stop, you rascal,' said the Guebre. 'What's your name?'

'I am a Hadgee,' said our old friend Abdallah, the servant of the
charitable merchant Ali, and who was this day one of the officiating
stewards.

'Are you a Jew, you scoundrel?' said the Guebre, 'that is the only thing
worth being. Bring some wine, you accursed Giaour!'

'Instantly,' said Kisloch, 'a