lived among the quaint and simple scholars
of pleasant Germany. But I think the
conversation of the Cadi is still more quaint
and simple. There is a delightful and childlike
gravity about it which refreshes and
improves me as I listen.

Let me describe the Cadi. He is a tall
fair man, beautiful as the hero of an Eastern
tale. He wears a snow-white turban on his
head, and flowing robes, of a texture at once
rich and delicate. I am sorry, upon the
whole, that the Cadi wears the British shoe,
because I think he would look better in
Turkish slippers. I would rather not look at
his feet therefore; my eyes repose with much
greater pleasure on the chaplet of amber
beads which he is playing with; and on his
dignified and manly beard. His face wears
an expression of habitual good humour, and
there is that general sunny openness about it
which bespeaks a clear conscience. If I were
a prisoner I should like to be judged by the
Cadi, for I am sure that his judgment would
be tempered with mercy. I think you might
believe in the Cadi's word as implicitly as in
that of the best gentleman in Europe. I feel
instinctively that he is incapable of anything
tricky or vulgar. There is something at once
simple and grand about the man. He
commands immediate friendship and respect from
all who know him.

One of the Cadi's attendants has refilled
our pipes, and he presents them silently with
his hand upon his heart. He presents the
Cadi his pipe first, according to the custom of
the East; but the Turkish gentleman smiles
a mute apology to me as he takes it, and does
not place it to his lips until I am served. Then
as we sink back luxuriously in our cushions,
and the westerly breezes come trooping in
through the open window, the Cadi requests
that I will "be at large." This is a Turkish
manner of telling me to make myself at home,
and I take it as such.

I now inform the Cadi that I called on him
a few days since, and was so unlucky as not
to find him at home. I merely say this by
way of commencing the conversation. But
the open brow of the Cadi looks quite
troubled, and he tells me that when he
returned and found I had called in his absence,
the circumstance had the same effect upon
him as "a second deluge;" for the Cadi, like
all Turks of the higher class is as grand in
his language as in his person. I am not
quite prepared for this view of the case on
the part of my host, and I assure him that the
regret should be on my side, but he stoutly
adheres to his former opinion, and repeats it
several times with the utmost gravity.

So we sit silent for a few minutes, looking
out towards the sea, which is spread beneath
us; for the Turks do not love idle prattlers.
Discourse with them is too grave an affair to
be entered on lightly. I know this, and inhale
my pipe with great dignity; though I am
aware that my utmost efforts in this particular
are put utterly to shame by my august
companion. The silence is not awkward or
unpleasant: it is merely Turkish. There is the
utmost good will and desire to prolong the
interview by all polite means on both sides;
and the Cadi is merely thinking how he shall
make himself most agreeable.

At last we see a little boat tossed rather
roughly on the waves out at sea; but it is
pulled by a stout fisherman, and makes its
way gallantly. This leads to a discourse on
Turkish caiques in general; and I ask the
Cadi if he does not think them dangerous in
rough weather. The Cadi says that they
are indeed dangerous, and to support this
opinion he tells me one of those sententious
stories in which all Orientals more or less
delight.

"Once upon a time," says the Cadi, settling
himself in his cushions, and laying down his
jewelled pipe, "one of our sultans was crossing
that very sea in a bark as frail as yonder one. A
storm arose, and his Highness growing frightened
nearly overturned the boat by the abruptness
of his movements. ' Peace, fool! ' said the
boatman at last, and addressing the sultan
with a stern countenance, ' seest thou not
I have three kings to wrestle with; the
winds, the waves, and thee?—but thou hast
ears, and therefore I bid thee to be still.'"
The Cadi assured me that the Sultan was so
delighted with the fearless wit of the boatman,
that he immediately made him Capitan
Pasha or High Admiral and—he was beheaded
shortly afterwards in due course.

Then we are again at peace until after
a fragrant cup of unsweetened coffee, when
I ask the Cadi if he has had much professional
business lately. He says yes, and adds that
it has been chiefly with the Greeks, who have
grown very troublesome. He shakes his head
doubtingly, when he speaks of that people,
and he fears that there is nothing good to be
done with them. " I am like a certain
father," says the Cadi, again illustrating his
opinion by an anecdote, "who had three sons.
My eldest always tells me the truth: he is
the Osmanli. My second always tells me
falsehoods: he is the Zingari, or the Bulgarian;
and when I have to deal with either of
these I know how to act, but my third son
tells me sometimes truth and sometimes falsehood;
he is made up of cunning, and deceives
me always. He is the Greek, and I never
know how to treat him."

I am anxious to know the opinion of an
honest Turk about the Tanzimat, and I take
the present opportunity of putting the question
fairly to the Cadi. I am glad when he
answers unhesitatingly that it has done good.
He says that there is nothing new in the
Tanzimat; it merely provides that those laws
to which violent men had not attended
sufficiently, shall be carried out—nothing more.
It merely enforces the spirit of the true law
of the Prophet, which was that all men
should do unto others as they would be done