and the broad sail collapses at last, so that
we can sit straight again.

The Bay presents a bustling appearance
enough. Besides a whole navy of coasters,
there are the great steamers of the Austrian
Lloyd, and the French messagéries, Cunard's
fine Liverpool boats, and the dismal old
vessels of the Turkish Opposition Company.
There is quite a fleet of transports, all
labelled and docketed like so many floating
despatches. Long, stout, seaworthy caiques,
very different to the graceful, but flimsy craft
of Constantinople, go skimming about with
spread sails, bearing parties of passengers to
and fro; and barges laden with coal, or
provisions, or luggage, toil painfully after them.

Nothing can be more cheerful than the first
view of the town. It has not that grand
poetical appearance which belongs to Stamboul,
and one or two other Eastern cities; but
there is an unmistakeable air of solidity and
prosperous business about it, which does quite
as well. You feel sure, before you have
landed, that there is likely to be a good deal
of dining among the inhabitants.

You land at a pretty café, fitted up in the
French style, and crowded with saunterers all
day long. Here may be seen with much
delight the adventurous British midshipman
struggling with a pipe considerably taller
than himself, and trying hard to look as if he
liked it. Here the unsuccessful French
speculator, who has come out with some "biftek à
domicile" scheme, consoles himself for the
failure of his hopes with the soothing refreshment
of a cigar and coffee. Here the brisk
young merchant plays at odd and even with
his father's gold pieces, and smug elders drive
hard bargains together in corners, over a glass
of cold brandy and water. Here Miss Emily
Pentonville, a young lady travelling on
artistic principles (and very odd principles they
are), may be discerned by the most near-
sighted observer, arrayed in a straw hat of
curious dimensions, looking excessively
interesting from among her gay flaunting ribbons,
and elaborate dress. She is engaged in the
novel and promising pursuit of sketching a
Turkish water-carrier. She states plainly
to her admiring attendant, a shining Levantine
exquisite, that if she had only been born
a man, her paintings would be considered
among those which the world would not
willingly see die. A little farther on, again, is a
cheerful little gathering. They are engaged
in the invigorating occupation of discussing
ices and small talk. Their flow of spirits is
wonderful, their humour delightful, their wit
apt and sparkling, yet it is deserving of note,
that not one of them would like to be seen in
Europe, an insignificant quarter of the world,
which they have, so to speak, exhausted. Their
lively proceedings have procured them such
an extensive acquaintance in the West, that
to avoid the inconvenience of frequent and
disagreeable recognition, they have come here,
and set up with bran new characters. What
a pity it is that a bran new character is so
much like a cleaned glove—which does not
look well half so long as it did before.

Let us leave these revellers and take a
walk about the town. At the north end of the
town is the stone bridge over the Meles, a bridge
without parapets, which spans the shallow
stream of the unnavigable river; it is a stream
that partly gurgles over scattered rocks and
pebbles, partly soaks its way through clumps of
reeds, which shut out the adjacent sea from
view. On the bank of this river, over against
Smyrna, the road from the Plain of Hajjilar
and the Bath of Diana, is seen, leading
straight towards the bridge, and flanked by
cemeteries. On the town side are posted one
or two detached coffee-houses, and a hut for
the custom-house officer who examines
firmans and other papers which give free passage
to travellers and traders. A certain toll is
also paid here by the caravans; and because,
in the summer, thousands of camels pass over
this bridge in a single day, it forms a favourite
lounge for the Smyrniotes, who never fail to
conduct strangers to the spot. Beyond this
bridge, the road on the left leads to Bour'nabad,
and the two roads on the right lead to
Boujah and Kooklujah, all villages in which the
Frank merchants have country houses. For
the journey to these places by Frank ladies
I found donkeys to be the steeds in most
request. The stranger who is a good pedestrian
should make at this bridge his first halt
before passing on to the right to see the two
famous aqueducts over the Meles, near which
there are some fine petrifactions; or before
visiting, also on the right, the ruins of the old
castle. In either of these excursions it is
better for him to have a companion than to
stroll about alone. The environs of Smyrna,
are not at all times as safe as the environs of
London. Before we made our way to the caravan
bridge—where three robbers had recently
been hung—I was taken by my friend to a
barren space of ground, above Windmill
Point, which is washed by the waters of a
broad inlet, running up to Bour'nabad. There
I was to see the tents of "the Compromised."
For I should say that my first visit
to Smyrna, about eighteen years ago, was
made during one of the most terrible of all
the years of plague.

Straggling cases of plague occurred during
the first two months of eighteen hundred and
thirty-seven, during which period the
inhabitants suffered dreadfully from influenza.
Strong winds, with heavy rain, occasional
cold and snow, seemed to retard the
progress of the plague itself; but, early in
March, the weather became calm and hot,
and the sky cloudless. On the seventh of
March there were six deaths among the
Franks, whereupon many houses established
quarantine, by causing a wooden gate to be
fixed at the entrance, and kept close against
all corners. On. the thirteenth of March,
three cases were reported as having occurred