"Get away!"

"Inglis subjek."

His predominant idea was, that repeating those
two talismanic words would somehow or other
release him from his durance. At intervals, for
some time after, the piping little voice, crushed
by the stronger mob, kept repeating, "Inglis
subjek."

"Oh! He comes from Salonica," said Grimani,
referring to a list, "and is in for arson and
murder. He wants a good bastinadoing; that
would quiet him."

Grimani (who was late for dinner) thought we
had seen enough, and now assumed an air of
disgust at the interest felt by the doctor and
myself in such wretches. The doctor smiled
at his impatience, and said, "No, Grimani.
I am not going till I have seen more of the
sanitary state of the prison where five
hundred and sixty men are confined. Turnkey, show
me that little room under the stairs, some eleven
feet by seven, where the twelve men sleep."

We went there. O what a torture-room for
sleep!

On emerging from the Zaptie, we passed
across to the Turkish police courts, where rows
of shoes at every curtained door indicated the
exact number of prosecutors within; thence, we
went with Dr. Opinkoff to the thieves' hospital,
where a chatty Italian physician received us
with as much cordiality as if we had been
patients suffering under some hopeless and
profitable disease. The rooms were mean as
those of the poorest English cottage, but they
were clean and business-like, and everything was
decently marshalled and ordered. He led us
upstairs to the wards—mere small cottage bedrooms
—talking to us the jargon of Molière's physicians,
which in Constantinople passes for Frank learning.
We visited all the beds, we looked to see
if this hemorrhage had stanched, and whether
that one's bandages wanted renewing.

In the next room, we stopped to talk with a
poor German sailor, who was sitting up in bed,
reading Luther's noble translation of the Testament.

"Armer Preusser," he said, when I asked him
what part of Deutschland he came from. Poor
fellow, he was only in for begging: a profession
that has had respectable men in it, though it is
difiicult to realise a large fortune by the calling.

"Ah! fifty years ago," said Herne Bey that
night to me, as we walked by starlight on the
lead roof of Misseri's Hotel, "I have heard
friends of mine, now dead (rest their souls!), say
that the Bagnio you saw this morning was horrible
indeed. At that time, it had two divisions, one
for Turkish galley slaves waiting to be sent on
board the fleet, the other for the general criminals
of the city and pashaliks. There, you found
Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, and gipsies; four
or five religions, and a dozen nations, had their
representatives there. There, under the dreadful
rule of Achmet Reis, a liberated galley slave
and chief inspector, you found thievish
beggars, homicides, fraudulent bankers, quack
doctors, robbers, cheating tradesmen, Greek pirates,
disgraced servants, all groaning under a common
torture. Then, at a word of complaint, the
turnkeys would run in and fell a culprit with
their clubs or load him with fresh chains."

So spoke Herne Bey, that wise Frank whom
Turkey has admitted to her councils. Like
other Orientalised Englishmen, I must, however,
remark that he is easily pleased with a country
he seems determined to like; the next time I
saw him, when I began to say that Turkish
prisons must be reformed, he said:

"My dear fellow, learn to take things more
quietly. I call the Bagnio a very comfortable
place."

CERES AT DOCKHEAD.

THEY who see deified mortals in the ancient
gods of Greece and Rome tell us that Ceres had
a bakehouse, and first taught the art of making
bread. Her mystic basket was, no doubt, the
bread-basket in which she was accustomed to
send out her loaves. But they were not the
Romans who first deified her. The Romans got
their bread, as well as their gods, their science,
and their poetry, from Greece. It was not bread
that built up and sustained the noblest Romans
of them all. The idea of bread was not among
the things conquered to herself by Rome until
the war with Perseus, King of Macedon.
Romulus and Remus, the kings that followed
them, Coriolanus, Cincinnatus, Regulus, never
ate bread. Rome was more than five centuries
old before its people learnt of the Greeks how
loaves were made, and escaped from the reproach
of being a "pulse-eating nation."

The knowledge passed from Rome into her
provinces of Southern Europe, but it did not
pass northward so easily. Rye cakes, baked
twice a year, served, until very lately, as chief
representative of bread in Sweden; barley
bannocks and oat cake long remained the staff of
life in villages in Scotland. Gottenburg, the
first harbour and the second town of Sweden,
contained, fifty years ago, twelve thousand
inhabitants. A captain then ordered of a baker
of the town twenty shillings' worth of bread,
and the astonished man asked for security that
the loaves would be all paid for before he would
consent to execute the order, as if they were
left upon his hands it would be impossible to
find a sale for them.

Bartholinus, however, an old Danish
physician, whom the Jews may credit if they will,
says that in some parts of Norway there was
made a sort of bread that would keep forty years
or more. And this, he says, is a great
convenience, because when a man has earned enough,
he bakes bread for the whole remainder of his
life, and lives ever after in peace and security,
regardless of the times of scarcity and dearness.
Such bread is of barley and oats, kneaded
together, baked between two stones. When new
it is nearly tasteless, but the older it grows the
nicer it gets, so that in these lands the cry is
altogether for the stalest bread, and it is not
uncommon to produce at the christening of an