of their own noble law, that every slave who
touches the soil of Massachusetts becomes
free.

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.

THE BIN-BASHEE.

THE Bin-Bashee is an officer whose name
signifies, in the grand language of the Turks,
that he is the chief of a thousand men. This
is, however, more imposing than correct;
for I am informed that our Bin-Bashee has
not more than fifty-three men under his
command. I see them very often lounging
about or sitting together in rows upon
the ground smoking nargillies, or conversing.
Their complexion is oily, their hair is
lank, their eyes are small, their noses have no
cartilage, their lips are thick, their shoulders
round. They look sulky—as if they would
like to knock mankind on the head generally.
If you could fancy men made of
a pale species of chocolate, and dressed in
clothes much too short for them—a blue jacket
and canvas trousers—you will have not a
bad idea of the fifty-three men which are
commanded bv the Bin-Bashee. They seem
to be all precisely alike.

They interest me. I delight in endeavouring
to ease their minds. I waylay them, and
offer them, stealthily, cups of coffee, and
not being used to such civilities, although
they are still inclined to the belief that I
am a dog of a Frank, they begin to entertain
a conviction that even in dogs there may
be a difference; that some are rabid and
hostile, while others are friendly, like poodles.
They are learning gradually to consider me with
a more good-humoured contempt, as belonging
to the latter species. Having thus prepossessed
them in my favour I am not surprised
to observe that the eyes of the great Bin-Bashee
himself are now and then cast disdainfully
towards my lattice as he passes my way.
I think, therefore, that I may safely employ my
cavass to open negotiations in my behalf; to
sing of the goodness of the sherbet we are
beginning to manufacture this hot summer
weather, the fragrance of my tobacco and the
friendliness of my disposition. The result is
that one of the chocolate men in the short
clothes appears at my dwelling, and his business
is to know when I will receive the Bin-
Bashee?

Having shown all due honour to the nut-
brown messenger, and assured him that I shall
be happy to see the Bin-Bashee at any time
or in any manner that it may please the
Bin-Bashee to be seen, a solemn apparition
smothered in a most uncomfortable
uniform, descends the little hill beneath
the kiosk, and makes towards my abode.
He is followed by a pipe-stick in waiting,
and several of those loose-looking satellites
who seem to be an indispensable portion of
the train of a Turkish gentleman whensoever
he appears abroad. The loose-looking
satellites all wear slate-coloured trousers
and straight coats of a purple and
melancholy aspect. They are dreary and
taciturn, having nothing to say in particular
to anybody. They appear born to do
the looking-on part in life. Their shoes,
much too large lor them, were created for
going to sleep in rather than for walking.
Their faces are of an unconscionable length.
Their hands are nowhere: perhaps they
are waiting for yesterday's dinner—at
least, this is the idea they give me as they sit
bolt upright, and hold the pipes which are
handed to them, in their mouths.

It appears that the Bin-Bashee has been as
desirous to make my acquaintance as I have
been to establish an intercourse with him.
There the matter ends, however. The
Bin-Bashee is averse to any ribald gaiety of talk.
One would like to shake him to see if shaking
would bring his words out any faster—I
mean bodily; for, as to shaking him up
mentally, there is no such thing. He belongs
to that sleepy and desponding class which
forms the majority of the Turkish people.
He is not only used-up himself, but he
gives you an idea that his father and
grandfather and his great-grandfather
were all used-up before him. I have tried
him upon every subject with which I am
acquainted; but I might as well talk to a
dignified owl, supposing that owl to be in
an [sic] uniform which was not made for him.
I try all my might to look interrogative
and agreeable, I try till the skin of my
forehead is almost cracking with the effort;
but it positively will not do; and, after a dead
silence of some five minutes, there is a
movement among my visitors. They have all
risen at once, as if moved by some slow piece
of mechanism. I perceive that they mean going.
I ask the Bin-Bashee to permit me to return
his visit at the fort which he commands. He
acquiesces with great solemnity; and then
Bin-Bashee, satellites, and pipe-sticks in waiting
stalk drearily away, as if their steps
were measured bv the Dead March.

A day or two after, I make up a
little party to go and see the fortress, and
the Bin-Bashee at the same time. It is a
glorious morning, and we walk through
fields which look like gold and silver from
the luxury of white and yellow flowers.
There are no flowers of any other colour,
except one, and that is a flower of a bright
blue. It is quite hidden by the others, however;
and, far away as the eye can see, stretches
the same wealth of gold and silver blossoms.
Some Greeks accompany me. They are
glad of the chance; for the Turks would not
admit them alone. As we go they are
eloquent as to the utter ruin, weakness, and
rottenness of all things Turkish. They are
certain that fifty determined youths from the
town below might take the fortress, put
the Bin-Bashee to the sword and annihilate
his chocolate soldiery in a breath.
We wind up a grass-grown path to the heights,