written in good faith, believing that he really
would come back, or warning him to fly.
On this point opinion was divided.

Six days, seven days, far on into another week.
The wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly
courage, and began to grow defiant. "Was
the suspected fellow the thief? A pretty
question! If not, where was the man, and
why did he not come back?"

Where was the man, and why did he not
come back? In the dead of night the echoes
of his own words, which had rolled Heaven
knows how far away in the daytime, came
back instead, and abided by him until
morning.

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.

HADJI HASSAN.

HADJI HASSAN is an old gentleman who is
the delight of the neighbourhood. He keeps
a small coffee-house beneath the Pasha's
kiosch on the brow of a hill overlooking the
sea. He is the familiar of the mighty in the
land — a fellow of infinite jest and humour;
whose ill-temper is merely chartered licence;
whose smile is condescension; whose
sarcasm is more damaging than dishonour. He
patronises the world; and the world, seeing
nothing to envy in him, receives his dictatorship
with a sort of contemptuous submission;
but still submission. Hadji Hassan belongs to
that class of landlords who lord it over their
guests, and punishes any sort of rebellion
with the most cutting severity. He accords
his protection to the Pasha and the British
Consul; and condescends to nod to those
functionaries in a confidential manner when
he meets them in private life. But he
declines their intimacy; for he remembers a
Pasha mightier than this one, and a British
Consul who was the friend of his youth.
Besides he is Pasha, British Consul, and everything
else, in his own coffee-house. He is not
fond of the intimate society of people to
whom he thinks it prudent only to nod to in
a confidential manner. He likes very well
to see them sitting above in the kiosch,
because, upon the whole, they are respectable,
and pay their way; but he shakes his head
when he speaks of them among his cronies,
as if he dissented from the things not only
that they do, but from things in general.

I would rather not offend Hadji Hassan.
He ia one of those who form public opinion in
our little world; and I have noticed that
those upon whom he looks unfavourably do
not thrive. Whether this arises from his
discernment in only looking unfavourably on
thriftless people or otherwise, it would be
hard to say.

Hadji Hassan is about sixty years of age.
He wears a turban; for he has too independent
a spirit to conform to the undignified modern
fashion of the red cap. The turban was the
head-dress of Hadji Hassan's grandfather,
who was his guide, philosopher, and friend. If
fashion has changed since the days of Hadji
Hassan's grandfather, fashion is wrong.
That is his dictum, and he would not deign to
argue the point further with anybody. He
has made up his mind on this subject, and
on most others; Hadji Hassan's mind being
a hard, knotty, stubbly sort of mind, requiring
a great deal of making up, and he probably
spent the first twenty years of his life in
the process. It would be impossible, therefore,
to unmake Hadji Hassan's mind. His
opinions on public events may now and
then be modified by a stray remark of
his protégé, the Pasha; but in all private
affairs Hadji Hassan believes himself to be
infallible.

Hadji Hassan's turban is not the only part
of his dress that belongs to a bygone time.
His general appearance is that of an Algerine
pirate of the eighteenth century. He has
the same short ample smalI-clothes, the same
close-fitting embroidered leggings (rather
dirty), the same spare jacket and bare
bullneck. In his girdle he wears a murderous-
looking knife, unsheathed. In build he is
as powerful a man as you would find in the
prize-ring in England. But he is a fine
specimen of the common Turk. His pride,
decision, stiffneckedness, solemnity, and
affected wisdom, all belong to his class, and
are inseparable from it. He maybe ignorant,
but he is never vulgar; determined and
prompt in action, if roused, but never loud
or hectoring. It is highly probable that any
Greek who disagreed with Hadji Hassan
would receive a murderous thrashing, to
teach him more respect for his conquerors
in future; but there would be no previous
wrangling — no hot words. Hadji Hassan
would knock him about within an inch of his
life with the first thing that came handy;
and, merely muttering a contemptuous
Kalk, Giaour! (Be off, dog!) would resume
his nargilly with a dignity as unruffled
as if he had merely thrown a brick-bat at a
cat.

Hadji Hassan is aware that he is a privileged
person, and turns this circumstance to
excellent practical account. It is doubtful
whether he has the smallest knowledge of any
portion of the multiplication table; it was not a
fashionable accomplishment in his early time,
and his immense double-jointed hands have
had too much to do with the musket to handle
the slate-pencil or the Hoja's reed. But
he has a marvellously keen memory for an
unpaid reckoning, and a rapidity in the art
of mental arithmetic which, as the correctness
of his totals no one ever dares to
dispute, obtain for him an unreasonable price for
his coffee. Then his demand for something
for the waiter is sometimes inflexible.

"Hark ye!" said Hadji Hassan to me the
day after my first invasion of his territory.
"Bachsheesh." I mildly remonstrated. "Ah,"
said Hadji Hassan, shaking his venerable
beard, while an expression of utter disgust