Emigration has introduced into Syria somewhat of the three prominent features of Civilisation: namely, a little wealth, a few modern ideas, and many strange diseases. And of these three blessings our two Syrians together are plentifully endowed. For Shakib is a type of the emigrant, who returns home prosperous in every sense of the word. A Book of Verse to lure Fame, a Letter of Credit to bribe her if necessary, and a double chin to praise the gods. This is a complete set of the prosperity, which Khalid knows not. But he has in his lungs what Shakib the poet can not boast of; while in his trunk he carries but a little wearing apparel, his papers, and his blankets. And in his pocket, he has his ribbed silver cigarette case—the only object he can not part with—a heart-shaped locket with a little diamond star on its face—the only present he is bringing with him home—and a third-class passage across the Atlantic. For Khalid will not sleep in a bunk, even though it be furnished with eiderdown cushions and tiger skins.
And since he is determined to pass his nights on deck, it matters little whether he travels first class, or second or tenth. Shakib, do what he may, cannot prevail upon him to accept the first-class passage he had bought in his name. “Let us not quarrel about this,” says he; “we shall be together on board the same ship, and that settles the question. Indeed, the worse way returning home must be ultimately the best. No, Shakib, it matters not how I travel, if I but get away quickly from this pandemonium of Civilisation. Even now, as I sit on this trunk waiting for the hour of departure, I have a foretaste of the joy of being away from the insidious cries of hawkers, the tormenting bells of the rag-man, the incessant howling of children, the rumbling of carts and wagons, the malicious whir of cable cars, the grum shrieks of ferry boats, and the thundering, reverberating, smoking, choking, blinding abomination of an elevated railway. A musician might extract some harmony from this chaos of noises, this jumble of sounds. But I—extract me quickly from them!”
Ay, quickly please, especially for our sake and the Reader’s. Now, the dinner is finished, the rug is folded and presented to our landlord with our salaams, the trunks are locked and roped, and our Arabs will silently steal away. And peacefully, too, were it not that an hour before sailing a capped messenger is come to deliver a message to Shakib. There is a pleasant dilative sensation in receiving a message on board a steamer, especially when the messenger has to seek you among the Salon passengers. Now, Shakib dilates with pride as he takes the envelope in his hand; but when he opens it, and reads on the enclosed card, “Mr. Isaac Goldheimer wishes you a bon voyage,” he turns quickly on his heels and goes on deck to walk his wrath away. For this Mr. Goldheimer is the very landlord who received the Turkish rug. Reflect on this, Reader. Father Abraham would have walked with us to the frontier to betoken his thanks and gratitude. “But this modern Jew and his miserable card,” exclaims Shakib in his teeth, as he tears and throws it in the water—“who asked him to send it, and who would have sued him if he didn’t?”
But Shakib, who has lived so long in America and traded with its people, is yet ignorant of some of the fine forms and conventions of Civilisation. He does not know that fashionable folk, or those aping the dear fashionable folk, have a right to assert their superiority at his expense.—I do not care to see you, but I will send a messenger and card to do so for me. You are not my equal, and I will let you know this, even at the hour of your departure, and though I have to hire a messenger to do so.—Is there no taste, no feeling, no gratitude in this? Don’t you wish, O Shakib—but compose yourself. And think not so ill of your Jewish landlord, whom you wish you could wrap in that rug and throw overboard. He certainly meant well. That formula of card and messenger is so convenient and so cheap. Withal, is he not too busy, think you, to come up to the dock for the puerile, prosaic purpose of shaking hands and saying ta-ta? If you can not consider the matter in this light, try to forget it. One must not be too visceral at the hour of departure. Behold, your skyscrapers and your Statue of Liberty are now receding from view; and your landlord and his card and messenger will be further from us every while we think of them, until, thanks to Time and Space and Steam! they will be too far away to be remembered.
Here, then, with our young Seer and our Scribe, we bid New York farewell, and earnestly hope that we do not have to return to it again, or permit any of them to do so. In fact, we shall not hereafter consider, with any ulterior material or spiritual motive, any more of such disparaging, denigrating matter, in the two MSS. before us, as has to pass through our reluctant hands “touchin’ on and appertainin’ to” the great City of Manhattan and its distinguished
