And now, before embarking upon that Austrian boat which is getting up steam in the Golden Horn opposite Galata, preparatory to sailing for the Black Sea, it remains for me to set forth, modestly as becomes a simple traveller, certain general observations bearing upon the question, “What did you think of the Turks?”--observations altogether spontaneous in themselves, and wholly uninfluenced by current events, resting, in short, entirely upon my personal recollections of those days. At that question, “What did you think of the Turks?” the first thing that comes into my mind is the impression made upon me from the moment I set foot in Constantinople to the last day of my stay there by the outward appearance of the male population of Stambul. Setting aside all merely physical differences, this impression is something altogether unlike that produced upon one by the men of any other city of Europe: it is as though they were all--I am at a loss how to express my meaning more clearly--thinking of precisely the same thing. Now, this idea might occur to a Southerner as he observed superficially and for the first time the inhabitants of a city of Northern Europe, but that is not the same thing at all. With them it is the seriousness and preoccupation of a busy people who are thinking of actual things, while the Turks all seem to be considering something intangible and remote: they have the air of philosophers possessed by a fixed idea, or of somnambulists unconscious of their whereabouts, gazing ahead of them with far-seeing eyes, as though accustomed to contemplate distant horizons, while in the expression of the eyes and lines of the mouth there is that look of vague melancholy noticeable in people who live shut up in themselves. In all there is the same gravity, the same composed manner, the same reserve of language, look, and gesture. They seem all to be gentlemen educated after one pattern, from the pasha to the shopkeeper, and animated in common by a certain well-bred dignity, which, wore it not for the differences in dress, would lead one to suppose that Stambul had no plebeians. The expression is almost universally cold, revealing nothing of the soul and mind within, it being exceedingly rare to come across one of those open countenances so common among us which reflect, like mirrors, the passionate or loving or spiteful nature below, and lend themselves to a quick and accurate reading of the man. Among the Turks, on the contrary, every face is an enigma; their look interrogates, but never responds, and their mouths betray nothing of the impulses of the heart within. It is impossible to convey any idea of the depressing effect made upon a stranger by these expressionless faces, this coldness, this statuesque uniformity of attitude and bearing, and the steady, passionless gaze which seems to see nothing. Sometimes you are seized with an insane desire to shout aloud in the middle of the crowd: “Rouse yourselves