When I look back on those dear days and friends in Damascus, my eyes fill
and my heart throbs at the memories which crowd upon me. When I think of
all those memories, none is dearer to me than the recollection of the
evenings which we four--Lady Ellenborough, Abd el Kadir, Richard, and
myself--used to spend together on the top of our house. Often after my
reception was over and the sun was setting, we used to ask these two to
stay behind the others and have a little supper with us, and we would go
up to the roof, where it was prepared, and where mattresses and the
cushions of the divans were spread about, and have our evening meal; and
after that we would smoke our narghilehs, and talk and talk and talk far
into the night, about things above, things on the earth, and things under
the earth. I shall never forget the scene on the housetop, backed as it
was by the sublime mountain, a strip of sand between it and us, and on
the other three sides was the view over Damascus and beyond the desert.
It was all wild, romantic, and solemn; and sometimes we would pause in
our conversation to listen to the sounds around us: the last call to
prayer on the minaret-top, the soughing of the wind through the mountain-
gorges, and the noise of the water-wheel in the neighbouring orchard.
I have said we smoked, and that included Lady Ellenborough and myself.
I must confess to the soft impeachment, despite insular prejudices; and
I would advise any woman who sojourns in the East to learn to smoke, if
she can.
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