I never saw a set of people who bore so decidedly the stamp of having been born to slavery as the Armenians: they seem even to love the rattle of their chains; they have no high feeling, no emulation, no enthusiasm, no longing for “a place among the nations;” no aspirations after the bright and the beautiful; no ideas, in short, beyond a pitiful imitation of their Moslem masters, whom they consider as the _ne plus ultra_ of all perfection. The appearance of the upper class of Armenians I have already described. Give them a more becoming head-dress, and their costume is surpassingly graceful; but their advantages are all external; their dreams are all of piastres; they have no soul. If you talk to them of their subjection to the Osmanli, what do they reply? “All that you say may be very true, but it does not concern me—my affairs are in a most prosperous condition.” It is impossible to make them sensible of their own social position; they listen, twirl their mustachioes, flourish their white handkerchiefs, replenish their chibouks, utter from time to time “_pekké,_” (very well), with an inane smile, and ultimately walk away, as well satisfied with themselves and with their tyrants as though the subject were one of the most irrelevant nature. From this sweeping accusation of apathy and self-depreciation, even after many months passed in the East, I can except only one individual; but that one is indeed a rare and a bright example to the rest of his countrymen. To those travellers who have visited Constantinople, and who have had the pleasure and advantage of his acquaintance, I need scarcely say that I allude to M. Nubar, the eminent merchant of Galata, whose extensive information, sound judgment, and habitual courtesy, render his friendship extremely valuable to those who are fortunate enough to secure it. To return, however, to the festival of the Champ des Morts, from which I have digressed. Every hundred yards that we advanced, the scene became more striking. One long line of diminutive tents formed a temporary street of eating-houses; there were kibaubs, pillauf, fritters, pickled vegetables, soups, rolls stuffed with fine herbs, sausages, fried fish, bread of every quality, and cakes of all dimensions. Escaping from this too savoury locality, we found ourselves among the sherbet venders, whose marquees, lined with blue or crimson, were pitched with more precision and regard to comfort and convenience than those of the _restaurateurs_. Mirrors, bouquets, and a display of goblets of all shapes and sizes, were skilfully set forth in many of them; some even indulged in the luxury of pictures, which were universally-glaring and highly-coloured French prints of female heads, of the most common description; and in these tents chairs and cushions were alike provided for the guests; while in one corner stood the mangal, ready to supply the necessary fragment of live coal for igniting the chibouk.