entertainments. He comes plashing through
the mire at a stately tramp, and mounted on
a haughty Arabian horse which tosses its
small beautiful head from side to side. He
carries an ample umbrella, and his toilette is
so elaborately clean and sparkling that he
quite glitters under it. He is evidently a
man of high rank. Cavasses all blazing with
gold precede him, and pipe-bearers hem him
round; while some officer of his overgrown
household throws the strong light of a many-
candled lantern to illuminate his way. He is,
in short, the very pink of oriental swellism—
a Turkish gentleman of the most polished
kind. He little knows, as he puffs out his
cheek and goes parading along; what is about
to happen to him when he passes that group
of wild young officers fresh from dinner.
One of them, a rollicking young giant, some
seven feet high, looks for a moment at the
Pasha's immense lantern. Then there is a
daredevil twinkle in his eye which assuredly
bodes mischief; and the next moment the
Pasha's lantern is pierced through, twirling
round aloft on the top of a walking-stick.
A storm of astonished laughter from a
crowd of admiring witnesses—especially of
course from MM. Demetraki and Stavro
Somethingopolis, who are quite wild with
delight at the freak. Yet I should like to see
that young officer obliged to sell out and go
home as a dangerous international mischief-
maker; for the stately Turk has turned
rein, and is riding home, his beard bristling
with anger.

It is about seven o'clock in the evening of
a pouring December day, and the polite or
unpolite world of Pera are going as best they
can to the opera. I cannot say that the
opera of Pera absolutely claims a visit from
the connoisseur. There is an unhealthy smell
of dead rats about it; a prevailing dampness
and dinginess; a curious fog; a loudness; a
dirtiness, which induces me generally to
prefer an arm chair and a dictionary—a
cup of tea and a fire; but I am going
tonight, because my books are all packed, and
my servant has gone out for a holiday, to
carry small scandals to his acquaintance. I
have also been eating a most detestable
farewell dinner at a roguish pastrycook's, and my
companions have borne me off whether or
not.

The howling and steaming of the unwashed
crowd at the theatre doors is altogether so
powerful that we adjourn to the theatre
coffee-house, and discuss a glass of punch and
a cigar till it has subsided. Some British
sailors and French soldiers are fraternising.
They are singing Wapping songs and French
chansonettes at the same time. They are
happy, noisy, and drunk. A waiter mildly
suggests to one of them in Italian that the
temple of harmony is next door, and that
they are disturbing the rest of the
company. He persists in bowing and smiling
these objections whilst a discussion is going
on under his nose as to the propriety
of his being promptly "spiflicated," or
ecrasé—and the debaters are men of
few words. At last, however, he retires,
still smiling, though rather askew and with
a sense of failure: for he presently sees the
meaning of the flashing eyes of the Frenchman,
and the clenched fist of the tar. It is
some time before a naval officer and I, who
have taken great interest in the proceedings,
can so far tranquillise the sailor and soldier as
to prevail upon them to resume their strains
instead of inflicting summary chastisement
on the white-waistcoated official who has
indiscreetly meddled with them. I shall not
have half so much fun in the theatre, where
an English autumnal prima donna is tearing
one of Verdi's operas into shreds, and
screaming in a manner which is
inconceivably ear-piercing. However, I daresay
she will not hurt us much after the
first five minutes, and they say she
supports an invalid mother and a brother who
is a cripple, so that we may pay our money
cheerfully, and go in prepared for
anything.

We have got a box, but we must
nevertheless pay about two shillings entrance
money at the door. We pay our money,—
after the handful of coin from all quarters
of the world, which forms the
currency of the East, has been duly
deciphered and undervalued—and we pass
on; but as we decline to hire opera-glasses
at twenty piastres for the evening, the box-
keeper on his part declines to pay any further
attention to us, and leaves us to find our way
as best we can, merely putting a rusty key
into our hands and telling us a number. In
consequence of this we very naturally get
into the wrong box. An extremely loud
young Armenian, who is loud even for an
Armenian, is seated here with a lady who
devotes her intelligent leisure to the sale of
walking-sticks and cigars. She is a French
lady, and we have seen her in a shop of the
Frank Street somewhere. The Armenian
suspects us of sinister attentions. He
believes us to be Perotes, and charges down
upon us vehemently:

"Vat sares here you vant? Vat sares you
here vant?"

"No Bono Johnny," replies a Briton of our
party, good-humouredly; and we retreat,
leaving the Armenian much pacified at
having been obviously taken for an Englishman,
owing to his perfection in the
language.

Exclusive of a couple of ambassadors and the
Duke of Cambridge, the audience is not very
notable. There are a great many officers
lately in the service of the King of Candy,
and who have of course broken out in
astounding military jackets and caps; but
they are fine dashing fellows for all that.
These gentlemen are of course chiefly occupied
with the Pera belles, on whom however