fashion of his brethren, he keeps a whole
army of retainers; and every now and then
hefinds it good policy to send a valuable
present to Constantinople, otherwise he would
lose his place; or, at least, this event would
be highly probable. Upon the whole,
perhaps, in round numbers, the Pashalik costs
him one thousand five hundred pounds a year,
besides the pay he derives from it. The sum,
however, is a mere bagatelle to him, for
though he would not own it on any account,
he is really one of the richest gentlemen in
Turkey; his father and grandfather having
both made very large fortunes in trade.
When I say that he is one of the richest
gentlemen in Turkey, I mean that he may have
twenty thousand, or twenty-five thousand
pounds a year in land: of course there are
many far richer; but this may still be called
a first-class fortune in the East. Having
said this, it is proper to add that my Pasha is
not a portrait. He is the type of a class, and
few persons who have lived familiarly with
the higher order of Turks will fail to recognise
him in many places.

I have said the Pasha would be sorry to
avow that he is a rich man; but, in reality,
he goes much farther than this. So strong is
the force of tradition, and so dangerous was
it, at one time, to be reputed wealthy, that
there is no nobility in the world more deeply
indebted than the Turkish Pashas. They
borrow money at exorbitant interest, not
because they want it, but to conceal the true
state of their fortune; and a man who has,
perhaps, one hundred thousand pounds sterling,
buried somewhere in the ground, will
designedly seem to have the utmost difficulty
in paying five pounds. The Pashas, as a
class, are kept poor by the number of their
useless retainers; the constant drain for
presents to the higher authorities, and the
general muddle which seems to cling
inevitably to all Turkish affairs. Besides, they
are bad financiers, and though some of them
have acute ideas enough on trading matters,
very few can be made to comprehend
the advantages of profitable investments.
Until lately, there was no national debt in
Turkey. There are still no banks, no
railroads, none of those enterprises on a grand
scale which present a secure employment for
private fortune; and, if there were, the Turk
would long look shyly on them.

Let me describe a visit to the Pasha. It
is early morning, and I have something to
communicate to my friend, so I shall send to
know when he can receive me. The polite
answer is soon returned. His Excellency
will receive me at once. I may as well say
that so great is British influence in Turkey,
however, that I believe his Excellency would
receive me in the middle of the night, if he
had just gone to bed with a severe cold.
Foreign officers usually pay official visits,
preceded by a cavass, to clear the way, and
accompanied by their secretary and
interpreter. I, of course, being a shadow, and
going to a shadowy Pasha, proceed alone. A
quarter of an hour's walk brings me to a
large rambling white-washed house. This is
the Konaki, or Pasha's residence. A score
of armed men are lounging about the courtyard,
also some suitors, and some dogs. A
rabble rout of slippers of all sizes and
denominations encumber the threshold. Having
passed over these, without being tripped up,
I am received by the Pasha's chief secretary,
who conducts me up a broad flight of wooden
stairs, the banisters of which are painted red.
Making our way through a bowing crowd of
cavasses, hojas, suitors, and all sorts of people,
who already throng the anteroom, we soon
come before a heavy curtain, which serves
for a door to the Pasha's private room. This
curtain is noiselessly drawn back. The word
is passed to the men-at-arms, that the Pasha
is giving private audience, and is not to be
disturbed. The next moment we are in his
presence. He has risen, and advanced to
meet his shadowy guest; he takes me by the
hand, and presses it almost affectionately;
then he leads me to a place beside him, and
we sit down together.

It would be a breach of all etiquette to
begin upon business at once, so we look round
the room. It is a large apartment, with a
bright copper mangal, or charcoal burner,
placed in the centre of the matted floor. It
has a sofa and some chairs for furniture:
nothing more. The ceiling, and the little
cupboards (like pigeon holes), let into the
wall, are quaintly painted. The open windows
have a grand view of the surrounding country,
and a fine Dollond telescope beside my friend,
testifies to the interest he takes in the
prospect. Indeed, looking through this
telescope is, I know, one of his most favourite and
constant amusements. It is his occupation,
his relief, and consolation amid the affairs of
state. As I am taking mental note of these
things two servants enter, always in the
same silent way. They bring two pipes, each
of the same size, and each with jewelled
amber mouth-pieces. The attendants draw
themselves up opposite to us, like automatons.
Each places his right hand on his heart, two
other servants place the silver pipe-trays,
and the next moment we are inhaling
wonderful tobacco, the first draught of smoke
penetrating both our lungs at precisely the
same time, though the Pasha had half a
second the advantage of me in the presentation
of the pipe, to mark his quality of host.
He would explain this, if I were to ask him,
by saying it is Turkish hospitality first
to taste yourself whatever you offer to a
guest.

The pipe business being disposed of, there
enter two other attendants; one bears a
crimson napkin richly embroidered with gold
over his left shoulder, the other a coffee tray
with cups of elegant filagree work. These
servants are usually the most favoured of an