Altogether, I never beheld a more lovely scene; and the last touch of beauty was given by the distant view of a Turkish cemetery, which clomb the side of the mountain, and whose grave-stones were shaded by clumps of the dark, silent cypress, relieved here and there by a stately walnut tree, with its bright leaves dancing in the wind. The groups that were scattered over the valley were eminently picturesque: there was the _employé_ with his ill-cut frock-coat and unbecoming _fèz_—the Emir, with his ample green turban, and his vest and drawers of snowy cotton—the Tatar, clad in crimson, wrought with gold, his waist bound with a leathern belt, and his legs protected by Albanian gaiters—the Ulema, with a white shawl twisted about his brow, and a brass ink-bottle thrust into his girdle—the Turning Dervish, with his high cap of gray felt, and his pelisse of green cloth—the Greek serudjhe, with a black shawl twined round his _fèz_, his jacket slung at his back, his gaily-striped vest confined by a shawl about his waist, his full trowsers fastened at the knee, and his legs bare—the Armenian, with his tall calpac and flowing robe—all sitting in groups, smoking their chibouks, sipping their coffee, and drinking huge draughts of the cold rock-water, from goblets of crystal as clear and sparkling as the liquid which they contained. At the coffee-kiosk of the source, groups were engaged in conversation, without any regard to rank or situation in life. The Turks are perfectly destitute of that _morgue_ which renders European society a constant state of warfare against intrusion. Every individual is “eligible” in Turkey—no one loses _caste_ from the contact of unprivileged associates—the hour of relaxation puts all men on a level; and the Bey sits down quietly by the caïquejhe, and the Effendi takes his place near the fisherman, as unmoved by the difference of their relative condition, as though they had been born to the same fortune. There is something beautiful and touching in this utter absence of self-appreciation; and the young noble rises from the mat which he has shared with the old artisan, as uncontaminated by the contact as though he had been partaking the gilded cushions of a Pasha. But, ready as I am to admire this state of things, I am well aware that it could not exist with us; the lower orders of Turkey and the lower orders of Europe are composed of totally different elements. The poor man of the East is intuitively urbane, courteous, and dignified—he is never betrayed into forgetfulness, either of himself or of his neighbour—he never knows, although he was bred in a hut, that he may not die in a palace—and with this possibility before his eyes, he always acts as though the hour of his metathesis were at hand. It is probably from this feeling that an Osmanli smiles when he hears a Frank vaunting himself on his high blood; and that he replies tersely and gravely to the boast that “every Turk is born noble.”