the smallest importance may be explained by
the fact, that almost every trade is carried on
in some special quarter; and a few rows of
little shops (like so many corn bins turned
sideways) are set apart for this craft only.
Then again there is always a good deal of space
taken up by fountains and the intramural
gardens of the wealthy.

The poverty and wretchedness of Rustchuk,
however, in spite of its size, was sufficient
to make one quite melancholy. Not a
single house, perhaps, was in perfect repair.
The dirt and squalor of the inhabitants was
sad to see; though here and there the splendid
horses of some overfed Pasha pawed their
stately way up to his kouak, half-smothered
in golden housings and gaudy horsecloths;
or the pasha himself panted fussily along with
his jewelled scimitar at his side, and attended
by a posse of bravoes and pipe-bearers.

As we drew near to the bazaars it was easy
to perceive that they wore an unusual air of
business. Here and there a Frank strutted
about in an astounding uniform, or paused
contemptuously before a bearded seller of
kabobs or dates, and addressed him in a
British West Country Turkish quite
wonderful to hear. If you watched the Turk
who might be thus accosted, his face would
gradually assume a look of endurance and
patience that was almost touching, while
perhaps his sons and hangers-on, less subdued
by years and circumstances, would look
marvelling up at the gay stranger with thoughts
unfriendly enough; and women as they
shuffled past would cry with shrill surprise
that God was great, and hastily draw their
veils closer when they saw the jaunty Frank.
Leaving the bazaar we passed down a narrow
street. Before a door there stood three gaunt
horsemen. They were in a picturesque
attitude enough though dripping with rain; but
their arms were, of course, rusty and
unserviceable, and their horses were leaner than
themselves. They were waiting for somebody,
and we drew rein to speak to them. They
told us that Omer Pasha had just arrived at
Rustchuk, and that we should find him with
the governor. They added that they belonged
to his army, but had only just joined. As they
spoke their chief came out of the house.
He was the usual low-browed savage in
embroidered clothes, and girt with silver arms.
He was a Bashi-Bouzouk—probably the chief
of a little company of banditti from some far
away Albanian village, and he had joined the
Turkish army in the hope of plunder—
whether friends or foes it would matter
little.

On then by baggage waggons drawn by
oxen creeping along their devious and painful
way, no matter where. An awkward little
squad of soldiers with their trowsers turned
up to their knees, and their muskets carried
nohow, slouched beside every waggon, and
some were stretched on the top of the load
asleep, and careless of the rain and jolting.
All belonged likewise to Omer Pacha's
army, and were a very fair specimen of
it. It is an undisciplined horde of
irregulars—sullen, nerveless, useless, apathetic—
in a shocking state of disorganisation and
inefficiency; so that we may fairly say that
Omer Pacha is a great captain, to have been
able to do anything at all with them. A
more wretched army, physically or morally
speaking, perhaps, never confounded the
plans of a general. Every man composing it
is as troublesome and dangerous to his own
unprotected countrymen as insignificant
before the enemy. There is no enthusiasm—no
martial ideas of glory. Our friends march
listlessly into battle and listlessly out of it.
They will fight as all men will fight when
compelled to do so in self-preservation; but
they do not fight or do anything else with a
will; and in degradation of mind they are
scarcely on a level with the beasts of the
field.

I know that in saying this, I am not
recording a popular or agreeable sentiment.
The romantic notions of a Moslem warrior
are very different; but I know the Turkish
soldier pretty well, and pity him sincerely,
for I know the causes which have sunk him
so low. As I have seen and known him, so
I describe. Let Conrad Mazeppa, Esquire,
who has just passed a month at Constantinople,
and who knows all about this matter
and every other, correct me where he sees fit.

We found Omer Pacha at the Kouak, as
we expected, and were at once introduced to
his presence. He was then going to join the
allied army in the Crimea. He seemed
considerably disgusted with the state of things
in general. It appeared that he had been
detained by the intrigues of the Austrian
generals at Bucharest, till so late in the
season, that the line of his march would be
strewed with the corpses of his army, and
that his co-operation with the Allies would
be difficult and valueless. A few months
before his troops were in far better hopes
and condition.

The Wallachians had been anxious to join
with him and march on the disaffected
Russian province of Bessarabia, where they would
have been joined by thousands of their
countrymen, who waited only for the signal to
rise. Also, if Omer Pacha had been allowed
to act earlier, and if the Austrians had not
so perseveringly thwarted him, he might have
diverted a large portion of the Russian army
which had been permitted to concentrate
itself in the Crimea. The Austrian
commanders had designedly rendered the Turkish
army useless, and retained Omer Pacha in
fretful inactivity at Bucharest. For the rest,
the renowned Turkish general was a pleasant
vigorous looking man, somewhat past middle
life, but hale and hearty. Both he and his
family have discreetly adopted the manners
of the Turks; but it is pretty well known
that the great pachas at Constantinople (the