the virtuous Christians of Smyrna, in one
lazy lounging morning, than among all the
Turkish population of the town in twenty
years.

The British Consulate (passports always on
sale at reduced prices, efficacious against the
law of the land, and warranted) is opposite Mr.
M'Craith's. It looks a cool, somnolent, agreeable
kind of official residence. Armed men
lounge about the doorways, and travelling
gentlemen twirl their moustaches under the doorway,
mildly wondering why they called there,
or what may be the sleepy secrets of the mysterious
temple within. An uproarious sea-captain
loudly complains that he has paid twice over
a consular fee, which should never have been
levied at all; and an Ionian subject, much
flustered and discomfited, is going away with
a Turk from Magnesia, still more puzzled
and hopeless than he. It is evident, that
whatever may have been the nature of their
business at the British Consulate, its
termination has not been so satisfactory as might
have been desired. Indeed, one of the dragomen
seems to have silently taken note of
this; for presently he bustles out and enters
(quite by accident, of course) into conversation
with them. It is a curious matter of
observation for the candid inquirer how
magically the puzzled faces of the two
persons who have last issued from the British
Consulate appear to clear up at the voice of
the dragoman. Then they all walk briskly
off together to the nearest café, and presently
the dragoman returns alone, and smiling as
if something of a nature by no means
displeasing to him had unexpectedly turned up.

All down the pleasant Frank street, you
could hardly go into a single European
merchant's house without being asked to
lunch with him at twelve o'clock, the great
feeding-time. It would be wise in you to
accept, for though a lingering fear of cholera
would prevent you witnessing any great
display of vegetables, the Smyrna cooks are
by no means to be despised.

Meantime, if you look out, you may have
an opportunity of witnessing an open air
auction. Property to the amount of a
million piastres (ten thousand pounds) may be
about to change hands. When the lot is put
up a small taper is lighted. While it burns
the bidding goes on, so do the auctioneer's
praises. When it is burnt out the lot is
sold.

Suppose it is not twelve o'clock yet, and
you made a visit, the chances are that you
would be requested at once to invest your
leisure on cold brandy and water and cigars.
The odd part of the story, however, is, that
in spite of the blazing heat, you may drink
almost any quantity of that beverage with
impunity. Indeed the practice is at Smyrna
steadily to keep on refreshing yourself with
it all day. Perhaps the climate is so relaxing
that Britons really require a larger amount
of stimulant here than elsewhere. When the
hot wind blows, the heat is stifling. The same
when the periodical sea-breeze fails. Fearful
fevers stalk about the narrow, ill-drained,
ill-ventilated streets, and the poisonous
bazaars; and here the plague and the cholera
have often fixed their stronghold long after
they have retired from other places. Smyrna
is so unhealthy, so pestilential a spot, that
no men stay there during a great part of
the year, save during the short hours of
business, if they can possibly afford to live
away. Smyrna has, however, hitherto been
happy in possessing the invaluable services
of Mr. Wood, by far the ablest medical man
in the Levant.

From one to three, there is almost a
perfect lull at Smyrna. Everybody is taking
a noontide nap. You will meet none but
natives in the streets, and even they are
sleeping in the shade: some of the shops
even are closed, and the deep sleep which
seems to brood over the city lasts till three
or four o'clock. Then the shops re-open, and
the streets and balconies are crowded with
beautiful girls and swains in their best array.
Now the Levantine gent may be seen worrying
his wretched horse into spasmodic curvets,
with his heels pressed down in the stirrups,
and his toes a yard and a half from the horse's
flanks. His hat fiercely cocked on one side,
and his wonderful moustaches twisted wildly
into excruciating points. There he may be
seen, loud, theatrical, vulgar, laughable; the
very soul and spirit of a snob made perfect.
He is going to the coffee-houses beyond the
town, so to misconduct himself as to become
a weary visitation to all men.

A little later, with cavasses to clear the
way, ride the great merchants—the Whittalls
and Hansons. They are going in gay little
parties to their country houses at Bournabat,
or the other villages, where they will entertain
all the strangers in Smyrna with
hospitality quite royal. They have fast trotting
horses to try along the road, laughing parties
of ladies who will canter out to meet them
half way. Kind homely English words will
pour among them, such as are music to the
traveller who has so long had his ears
excoriated by the shrill frantic yells of the Greeks
and Levantines. Then there is the last news
to be told. The last wonderful vagary of the
Padishah Bashi at Pera; the last cold news
from the camp. So now, hurrah for a canter
as we draw near the pleasant woods and
fountains of beautiful Bournabat! The iron
gates of the pretty villas are all thrown wide
open as, one after the other, the great hospitable
commercial magnates ride in, each with
his little band of guests and followers. And
laughing children come shrieking out with
glistening eyes to meet papa, and hang back
timidly when they see a stranger, but make
friends also with him by-and-by.

An hour later, riding or walking parties of
friends, countrymen, and lovers, daintily
dressed, roam out on pleasure parties. New