Prominent in his quaint costume and mannerism was a young professor of philology from a university of Northern Europe. He was about twenty-five years of age and believed he knew everything worth knowing in geography, philology, and politics. His sympathies were all with the Christian “brothers.” He had come over from Russia, where, in the pursuit of his philological calling, he had rummaged over the worm-eaten parchments of sundry Christian monasteries, and had caught from these the current term of “brothers”—meaning that the lowliest Christian is a “brother,” and the Moslem Turk at best an infidel stranger. He laid down the law without hesitation. “I never condemn a whole people,” he exclaimed; “I say that the vices of a people are always the fault of an autocratic Government.” Here was a specimen of the learned European, caught young in Turkey, returning home with all the kudos which a few months—or even years—added to a smattering familiarity with Oriental languages, can confer, to be looked upon by his friends as an authority on the Eastern question, and possibly, later on, to champion the claims of the suffering “brothers” in the East in the legislative Chamber of his native land! The sun had sunk in the west. It was twilight and we were sitting alone, when there entered an American missionary. A few preliminaries revealed the fact that we had to deal with a worthy, excellent man, past middle age—a teacher of the Gospel whose range of interests did not necessarily exclude politics. “Yes, sir, it is a hard, laborious life, but we keep pegging away,” he said in the course of conversation. “No newspapers, railways, or telegraphs: no means of communication with one’s friends. It is like living in another world. And what a cesspool it is—fifty feet deep, and, do what we may, we can only disinfect the surface. Formerly, when I first came here, thirty years ago, it was very different. We were encouraged to work, and enjoyed every liberty; also we largely increased the number of our flock; but now,” he added despondently, “it is all reaction.” “No wonder,” I rejoined, “the past has bred revolution.” “Yes, I admit there has been a revolutionary movement, but not fostered by us. We have always inculcated obedience to the authorities.” “But do I understand you rightly that a well-known revolutionist was one of your pupils?” “Yes, and I always refused to believe that he had anything to do with the revolutionists.” “Do you refuse to believe so now?” “No, I am grieved to say.” “Now tell me,” I continued, “how are things over in Russia—a Christian country?” “Far worse than here,” he answered in excited tones. “The Russians are much more intolerant—much more reactionary than the Turks. Why, if the Russians ever come here, they will turn us missionaries neck and crop out of the country.” Thereupon we parted, and I left the hotel in search of a breath of fresh air and came upon an Israelite.