conjure up in our imagination when we think of the City of the Arabian
Nights in the romantic days, so dear to our childhood, of
Haroun-al-Raschid. We expect so much when we come to the real Baghdad,
and we find so little--so little, that is, of the glamour of the East.
Few "costly doors flung open wide," but a great deal of dirt. Few dark
eyes of ravishingly beautiful women peering coyly through lattice
windows, but a great deal of sordid squalor. Few marvellous
entertainments where we can behold the wonderful witchery of Persian
dancing girls, but a theatre, the principal house of amusement in
Baghdad--and lo, a man selling onions to the habitués of the stalls!

Of all the deadly dull shows I have ever seen I think the one I saw at
Baghdad furnished about the dullest. There were two principal dancing
girls--stars of the theatrical world of Mesopotamia--and a few others
forming a kind of chorus. The orchestra, on the stage, consisted of a
guitar, a sort of dulcimer, and a drum. The musicians made a most
appalling noise and rocked to and fro, as if in the greatest enjoyment
of the thrilling harmonies they were creating. The stars came on one at
a time, the odd one out meanwhile augmenting the chorus, and sang a few
verses of a song to a tune that can only be described as a Gregorian
chant with squiggly bits thrown in. Of course I was unable to understand
the words, but can bear witness to the fact that the tune did not vary
the whole evening, and every gesture and attitude of the singer was
exactly the same again and again as she went through the performance,
and the dance which concluded each six or eight verses was also exactly
the same every time. After this had been going on for about an hour the
other girl came to the footlights. It was natural to expect a change;
but no, she went through it all as if she had most carefully
understudied the part. Neither of these girls was pretty or in the least
attractive to look at. All I could assume, as the audience seemed quite