Among the whole number there was not one furiously mad, as is so frequently the case in Europe; and I was assured that such patients were extremely rare. Melancholy appeared to be the prevailing symptom of the disease among these hallucinated Osmanlis; a deep, but by no means sullen, melancholy; for very few of them refused to reply to an expression of interest or commiseration; and the feeling of social courtesy, so strong among the Turks, had in no one instance been destroyed, even by the total aberration of intellect which had prostrated every other bond of union between them and their fellow-men. I have mentioned elsewhere the surpassing love of the Turks for their children; and I never saw a more beautiful illustration of parental affection than was exhibited by the first unfortunate before whose cell we paused. Several Greek ladies accompanied us; and the madman, whose head was pillowed upon his knees as we approached him, turned his dim, stony eyes upon each with a cold unconsciousness that was thrilling, until he met the soft, tearful gaze of a pale, delicate girl who was leaning upon my arm. When he caught sight of her he started from his recumbent posture, and almost shrieked out his gladness as he exclaimed—“My child! my child! they told me that you had abandoned me, but I let them say on without a murmur, for I knew that you only tarried; and you are come at last—Why do you weep? I see you, and I am happy. I have not been alone—look here—” and he thrust his hand into his breast, and drew forth a dove which was nestling there; “I have held this upon my heart, and, as I slept, I dreamt that it was you.” After a moment’s silence he resumed: “I would give you this trembling bird, for you are my child, and I love you; but it will not abandon me. It is my friend, my playfellow, my child when you are away. It will not leave me, though I am mad—And yet, why do they tell you that I am mad? It is not so—Do I not know you? Am I not your father? Is it because I am sorrowful that they have told you this?” And again the pale face was bowed down; and one heavy sob which seemed to rise from the very depths of a crushed spirit terminated the sentence. We hurried on—it was profanation to make a spectacle of such an agony—mindless though it was. Nor was the next individual with whom we came in contact less painfully interesting. Strikingly handsome, and not above five-and-thirty, he had already passed four miserable years in the Madhouse of Solimaniè. An Armenian by birth, and a Catholic by faith, he had been induced to embrace Mahomeddanism, but he had paid with his reason the price of his apostacy; and this one memory haunted him in his wretched lunacy. As we paused before the grating of his cell, he bowed his head upon his breast, and murmured out; “_In Nomine Patri, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, Amen._”