preconceived ideas of the inevitable miseries of a “locanda” in a Turkish country town. If people will go there in the depth of winter for the purpose of hunting the wolves and bears on the mountain, as is sometimes the case, they must expect to find the rooms draughty, bare, and comfortless, without stoves or carpets, and the provisions scanty; but in the fine weather, the spring and autumn especially, the principal rooms are delightfully cool and airy; in addition to this, the beds are clean, the table good and liberal, the service excellent, and-best of all-the people honest for the charges, which are moderate for this country, are never augmented in the bill by unlooked-for extras.

As I said, we are very merry at our breakfast table, talking over our excursion of the previous day, and laying out our plans for making the most of the coming hours. We are interrupted for a moment by Giovanni, who has just brought up for our inspection a pail full of lively trout, taken from a small lake near the summit of Mount Olympus. Some Armenians have the monopoly of this supply, and I imagine there are not many of the inhabitants who would wish to infringe their right of fetching them from those almost inaccessible altitudes. I may as well mention that oil extracted from the trout is considered here an infallible remedy in cases of rheumatism and stiff joints; it is used at the baths, and is sold at a high price.

Well! the trout dismissed to the lower regions of the house, whence they will emerge at dinner-time considerably sobered, we begin once more to discuss our plans. We weigh the comparative merits of horses and donkeys, with a decided leaning towards the former; but, on inquiry, finding they are not to be had easily the greater number having been sent off to fetch the travellers from Mondania-we resign ourselves to the humbler style of locomotion, and, while waiting the convenience of the very independent donkey boys, we turn for a moment to that lovely scene of wonderful fertility, which induced one author to remark that "the Moors, when exiled from Andalusia, which they still call the terrestrial Paradise,—and the Jewish tribes who, later, shared their fate, and came to seek a refuge under the Ottoman Sultans,-thought they had found a new Grenada in this rich and beautiful country."

The weather is delightful; bright and breezy, with soft fleeting clouds which throw cool patches of purple tone across the landscape. We watch them as they float slowly, first over the broad expanse of woodland and mulberry grove, with walnut, chestnut, and plane-tree, waving poplar and stately cypress, which, beginning at the foot of the crag under our windows, stretches away to half the width of the plain; then the shade softens for an instant the glowing brilliancy of the rich cultivation beyond, dimming as it passes the silvery sparkle of the winding Niloufar; but soon the little river flashes out, bright and joyous in the sunshine, and the purple shadow is creeping away gently up the noble mountain range which bounds the view-the Mount Katirli (Argan

thoinos). Sometimes, as these shadows of the clouds flit over the rock-bound gorges, or the light vapours rest on the summit of the mountain, it looks all sombre, solemn, and majestic; then, as the sun again touches up the points and gradually bathes it in a soft radiance, bright patches of cultivation spring into view, climbing high up to the foot of the granite crags, nestling even in the little dips and dells between them, with here and there a winding horse-track, a scattered hamlet, or a solitary tchiflik; around the base are hedgerows and patches of rich red and yellow earth; above, in the distance rise, blue and shadowy, the peaks and summits of Mount Samanti, on the farther shore of the Gulf of Mondania.

The northern end of the Katirli range is pointed by two high fantastic masses of granite rock, overhanging the Greek village of Filtardar, and below it many other villages, half buried in their mulberrygroves and vineyards, the principal among which is Demirdesch (celebrated for its silk), help to give life to the landscape. To the south, the mountains, still bounding the fertile luxuriant plain, rise and fall with exquisite variety of outline, until they melt away in the blue distance towards Kutaya, Yeni-shehir, and the wild regions of the interior of Asia Minor.

But our attention is soon attracted from the rather dreamy contemplation of primeval hills to the living and breathing beings who enliven the foreground of our picture. The hotel stands on the highroad to the baths; behind the house, the grey rock rises so abruptly that the ground floor of our next-door neighbour's wooden tenement projects its supporting beams close under the corner of our roof; while in front the narrow stony road, with its low crumbling parapet, quite overhangs a large dilapidated flour-mill. On the other side of the low wall a pomegranate in fall blossom, a myrtle-bush, and a fig-tree covered with its young fruit, just raise their topmost branches into sight: there the grey rock falls straight down, draped and festooned with creepers of every form and colour, to a small platform of neglected ground all ablaze with scarlet poppies; then it dips again to nearly the level of the plain very abruptly so much so, indeed. that without raising our eyes we can almost distinguish the soft fur of the little squirrel who is gracefully winding about the topmost branches of a lofty poplar on the other side of the road.

Directly in front of the entrance to this broad turning road, which seems to plunge into a wilderness of leafy shade, a hundred yards or so further on is a halting point for those who "welcome the coming," or "speed the parting guest." Some stop here under the shelter of a large chestnut-tree to the right, to take leave of the friends whom they have escorted thus far from the town; others, to wait for those who may come into sight from under the green canopy the overhanging boughs. We watch the people as they pass either way. A Greek party has arrived and stopped; there are three horses well laden with baggage, bedding, and carpets, with large panniers for the children, who are already installed; several men and women are on foot-they pause and say a

of

few last words, the horses' girths are examined, the baggage readjusted, the soft carpets folded more commodiously on the top of the heap; then there is a little leave-taking, two women are hoisted up into their places on the carpeting, half astride between the panniers, a man gets into a similar position above the third horse, two or three more follow on foot, and the small procession moves slowly onwards: the friends watch them from the corner till they disappear behind the drooping boughs of an enormous walnut-tree. Now other figures pass across the space, emerging from under those same walnut boughs; a stately venerable Turk, bearing an ample bright green turban and a dove-coloured cloak, with wide hanging sleeves. He rides a sleek, sturdy-looking donkey, with plenty of red tassels and a general air of comfort about him, and is followed by his servant on another donkey, carrying his master's long pipe in his hand, and his small travelling pack on the back of the saddle. They are jogging on with imperturbable steadiness, and it is well that the road is very broad at this part, for there comes now, rushing helterskelter past them, a wild-looking individual, who is urging his fiery Arab with his shovel stirrups; his head is covered with the brilliant crimson and goldcoloured Syrian haïk, its long fringes floating over his breast and shoulders, the coils of his shawl-girdle cover one-third of his body, his belt bristles with sword, yataghan, pistols, and many other weapons, and in his right hand he grasps a formidable matchlock. He is a zaptieh, or policeman, sometimes here called a zebek, a kind of half-tamed brigand.

Something else comes slowly and totteringly forward into the patch of sunshine; it is a huge mass of mulberry boughs for the silk-worms, and we at length make out the motive power, in the tiny hoofs of a feeble little donkey; it has a head somewhere among the leaves, but undiscernible; a dirty boy with bare legs and a new red fez, which bobs about like a gigantic poppy among the green leaves, is poking the animal on from behind. Next three talikas rattle by full of Turkish women, and accompanied by two shabbily-dressed mounted servants; it is the harem of a small Pasha, come from Constantinople for the bathing season; then follow some Turkish women in thick white yashmaks, borne outside the feradje, according to Broussa fashion; they sit astride, with a child's head peeping contentedly above the edge of the pannier, on each side of the horse. Behind them, a heavy bullock-cart is moving ponderously along, with a pleasant jingle of bells from the animals' heads, and a deep bass accompaniment of ghastly groans from the creaking, suffering wheels. This is followed at a short distance by some camels, who have bells also, but which ring a different tune, and their footfall is noiseless.

Presently comes an old Greek priest, on foot; he has a long snow-white beard, and a high black hat without a brim; then a party of Mussulman Dervishes, with tall caps equally brimless, but made of yellowish felt, and looking like inverted unbaked flowerpots; with them is a wild-looking Santon, who has a

face like mahogany, and streaming black hair. He is clothed in a wondrous mass of tatters, which must take him a full month to adjust, and, once hung together, they are never afterwards disturbed. At a short distance behind the Santon, who is hobbling forward, proffering occasionally his begging dish, resembling a small antediluvian canoe suspended from chains, there passes down the road the other way a restive and very vicious-looking donkey, carrying a Greek lady to the baths; she is astride like the Turkish women, but plus the crinoline, which must account for the animal's capers-perhaps he objects to being, in any way, put into a cage. We are deep in this profound speculation when we suddenly perceive that the space that we have so long been watching is empty for a moment, and we have time to note that, in addition to the cool sound of the rushing mill-stream, the song of the nightingales is unceasing; it rises all around us, mingling with the voices of many other feathered choristers.

There is a great twittering of the swallows, also, who are building their nests in the corners of our windows, but just now they seem disturbed, and are wheeling round and round in a confused, purposeless kind of way. Ah! there is the cause: a brown speck is swooping swiftly towards us; now it passes close, and we see a large hawk with its strong hooked beak, and vicious-looking claws drawn tightly up under its breast, ready to pounce upon the first unhappy little victim; he has, of course, nothing to say to the fine stone eagle, soaring loftily and solemnly towards the rock-crowned summit of Mount Katirli, nor will he venture an encounter with that ungainly stork who comes sailing heavily along, his thin neck stretched out, and his long legs hanging helplessly downwards, intent on reaching the dwelling which he has erected on the broken top of the ruined Turbeh, close to the mosque of Murad II. The stork's flight reminds us that we are going in the same direction ourselves, for the donkeys are at the door, and the time is too precious to be wasted.

There is a little difficulty at first about the starting, as, here, thick-padded cushions only are used, and the animals object to our English saddles; they do not fit them, and the donkey boys never manage to fasten the girths properly. But we are off at length, after much laughing, and, with a feeling that one is decidedly too large for one's conveyance, and must inevitably topple over, we start on our visit to Tchekirghé, the village of the iron baths; Colonel G

having taken care, as he said, to charter a Jew for the proper conveyance of the sketching blocks. Turning to the left from the door of the hotel, our small cavalcade winds, stumbling along over the rough, uneven road, through a part of the village, or rather suburb, called the Mouradiyeh, from the mosque of Sultan Murad II., which stands at the northern extremity. We came to it soon after passing the ruined tomb of a saint, supporting the house of our friend the stork.

I have rarely seen anything more thoroughly oriental than this old mosque with its surroundings,