The first of my senses which returned to me was that of smell, and I seemed almost drowned in the spicy perfumes of Araby.  Then my eyes became aware of a green soft fluttering, as of the leaves of a great forest, but quickly I perceived that the fluttering was caused by the green scarfs of a countless multitude of women.  They were “fine women” in the popular sense of the term, and were of the school of beauty admired by the Faithful of Islam, and known to Mr. Bailey, in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” as “crumby.”  These fond attendant nymphs carried me into gardens twain, in each two gushing springs, in each fruit, and palms, and pomegranates.  There were the blessed reclining, precisely as the Prophet has declared, “on beds the linings whereof are brocade, and the fruit of the two gardens within reach to cull.”  There also were the “maids of modest glances,” previously indifferent to the wooing “of man or ginn.”  “Bright and large-eyed maids kept in their tents, reclining on green cushions and beautiful carpets.  About the golden couches went eternal youths with goblets and ewers, and a cup of flowing wine.  No headache shall they feel therefrom,” says the compassionate Prophet, “nor shall their wits be dimmed.”  And all that land is misty and fragrant with the perfume of the softest Latakia, and the gardens are musical with the bubbling of countless narghiles; and I must say that to the Christian soul which enters that paradise the whole place has, certainly, a rather curious air, as of a highly transcendental Cremorne.  There could be no doubt, however, that the Faithful were enjoying themselves amazingly—­“right lucky fellows,” as we read in the new translation of the Koran.  Yet even here all was not peace and pleasantness, for I heard my name called by a small voice, in a tone of patient subdued querulousness.  Looking hastily round, I with some difficulty recognized, in a green turban and silk gown to match, my old college tutor and professor of Arabic.  Poor old Jones had been the best and the most shy of university men.  As there was never any undergraduate in his time (it is different now) who wished to learn Arabic, his place had been a sinecure, and he had chiefly devoted his leisure to “drawing” pupils who were too late for college chapel.  The sight of a lady of his acquaintance in the streets had at all times been alarming enough to drive him into a shop or up a lane, and he had not survived the creation of the first batch of married fellows.  How he had got into this thoroughly wrong paradise was a mystery which he made no attempt to explain.  “A nice place this, eh?” he said to me.  “Nice gardens; remind me of Magdalene a good deal.  It seems, however, to be decidedly rather gay just now; don’t you think so?  Commemoration week, perhaps.  A great many young ladies up, certainly; a good deal of cup drunk in the gardens too.  I always did prefer to go down in Commemoration week, myself; never was a dancing man.  There