But the surprise created by the appearance of the Imperial Guard was not to be the only cause for astonishment excited by this gallant corps; for we were yet indulging a hearty laugh at their expense when we were startled by the recommendation of the arabajhe that we should visit the Macaroni Manufactory of Achmet Pasha. At first we thought that our dragoman had played us false, for we could find no possible connection in our own minds between the Generalissimo of the Armies of the Sublime Porte, and a Macaroni Manufactory. The invitation had, however, been correctly interpreted, and we immediately diverged from the road to see this highly-connected establishment. On rising a little hill, we entered the widest street that I had yet seen in the East, partly overshadowed by the stately trees which encircled an ancient mosque, and terminated by the principal entrance to the garrison. I may as well mention here that the main portal of every Turkish barrack is decorated with a target, richly framed, and perforated with one or more balls, shot by the Sublime hand of the Sultan, who is an excellent marksman; and thus seeks to excite by his example a feeling of emulation among his soldiery. The araba drew up before a neat-looking white building with a green balcony, and, ere we could alight, the door was opened to us; when one of the gentlemen of the party instantly recognized an acquaintance, to whom he hastened to present us; and I in turn made my bow to a Major of the Imperial Guard, with a diamond decoration on his breast, his sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, and his arms buried to the elbows in flour. The Turks are utilitarians indeed! The scene was a singular one; the large hall in which we stood was entirely over-canopied with ropes of macaroni, and surrounded by presses and rollers.—A major was deciding on the merits of the flour—a lieutenant was superintending the working of the machine—a couple of sergeants were suspending the paste to dry—and a fatigue party were turning the wheels. Hear this, ye Grenadiers and Coldstream! ye exquisites of Bond Street and the Ring! There was no _ennui_ here—all was grinding, and sifting, and rolling, and drying, and selling—yes, selling—The Imperial Guard of his Sublime Highness have no occasion to kill time; they rather seek customers. The whitest and finest of the paste supplies the kitchen of the Sultan: the darkest and coarsest finds its way to that of the soldiers; but “more remains behind;” and if you are inclined to feast on Imperial macaroni, you have but to draw out your purse, and pay it in piastres! What a well-imagined antidote to the weariness of a garrison life—What a triumph for utilitarianism!