It must not be supposed that the higher classes of Syrians are not scrupulous with regard to the laws of etiquette; on the contrary, they strictly enforce them. If Kowagar Bustros and his family called to see Kowagar Saba and his family on this Tuesday, Kowagar Saba will return the visit next Tuesday. If Kowagar Domian invite Kowagar Michali and family to dinner, Kowagar Michali and family give a return party to Kowagar Domian. But the grand day for receiving visits in every house is the Eed, or festival of the master of the house, which is annually celebrated on that saint’s day whose name he has taken, and whose patronage he acknowledges. Thus all those of the name of Michali remain at home on St. Michael’s day, and all their acquaintances call to see them, and to wish them health, luck, and prosperity; some bring fruits, some sweetmeats, and few come empty-handed. If this usage is productive of no very beneficial effects, it at least serves to promote a kindly feeling betwixt neighbours and friends; and this, after all, is a grand point to observe if one wishes to be comfortable and happy in this world.
When a Syrian dies, after a few hours the hired mourners are sent for, according to a custom which has apparently prevailed from the most remote antiquity, as we find it referred to in Amos v. 16. The cries raised by these women are peculiarly mournful and affecting when they are first heard announcing to the immediate neighbourhood that one of their number has departed, or reaching the ear of the passing stranger with their intelligence of death and sorrow. Wax-tapers are then sent round to his friends as a notice that they are invited to the funeral, which always takes place within twenty-four hours after death. When they
are assembled in the church, the tapers are lit, the corpse is placed in the centre, and the service is read; then the candles are extinguished, the body is carried to the grave by his friends, is buried, and “his place knows him no more” (Job vii. 9–10).
I am tempted to close this chapter with the following lament of a lover over the grave of his mistress, literally translated from the Arabic.
I.
Alas! and ah well a-day, that my rose-faced love, my intimate, my soul’s companion, should be enveloped in her shroud! That tongue, once familiar, with so many languages, gives utterance now to none. I listen vainly and am astonished not to hear thy once-loved voice.
II.
Tell me, O Grave, tell me, is her incomparable beauty gone? Has she, too, faded, as the petals fall from the sweetest flower, and her lovely face changed—changed and gone! Thou art not a garden, O Grave; nor yet heaven; still all the fairest flowers and the brightest plants are culled by thee.
III.
O black, mysterious Ground, tell me how or wherefore have we sinned, that thou art prone to hug the beautiful, the chaste, the rare—and yet so cold thy love. Stones alone hast thou for pillows for the tender, the loved, the fair.