Nor is this the only occasion on which this ancient Jewish rite is observed by the Turks. On recovery from a severe illness, on the birth of a child, on return from a pilgrimage—in short, in every leading circumstance of his life, the Musselmaun immolates a victim: but the Kourban-Baïram is the great sacrificial anniversary, and is observed with much splendour and rejoicing by all the population of the capital. The vessels in the harbour are gaily decked out with flags; all business is suspended; men grasp each other by the hand in the streets, and utter a fraternal greeting—and the poor are seen hastening from house to house to secure the flesh of the sacrifices, which is divided among themselves and the dogs of the city, scarcely less sacred than their own kind in the eyes of the Osmanlis. A friend of mine was told the other day by a Turk with whom he is intimate, and who had just returned to Stamboul after an absence of six months, that he had ascertained that while he was away from home his wife had not once quitted the house; a piece of intelligence which so rejoiced him, that he had sacrificed six sheep, one for each month, in gratitude to Allah and the Prophet, who had bestowed on him so virtuous a helpmate. What a glorious burst of light flooded the enclosure when the sun at length clomb the horizon! It was not only a time of human festival, but nature’s own peculiar holyday; and there was an elasticity and balminess in the air that swept through the carriage, which made the heart leap for gladness. The troops presented a better appearance in line than I had expected, but Sultan Mahmoud has yet much to do if he ever intends to make them look like _soldiers_. They are dirty, slouching, and awkward; tread inwards from their habit of sitting upon their feet, and march as though they were dragging their slippers after them. The frightful _fèz_ is pulled down to their very eyebrows, and the ill-cut clothing is composed of the coarsest and dingiest materials.