Before embarking the reader on the Black Sea, I cannot forbear a single remark on the distinguished individual who has so long and so worthily represented Great Britain at the Ottoman Porte.

Sir.  Stratford Canning is certainly unpopular with the extreme fanatical party, and with all those economists who are for killing the goose to get at the golden eggs; but the real interests of the Turkish nation never had a firmer support.

The chief difficulty in the case of this race is the impossibility of fusion with others.  While they decrease in number, the Rayahs increase in wealth, in numbers, and in intelligence.

The Russians are the Orientals of Europe, but St. Petersburg is a German town, German industry corrects the old Muscovite sloth and cunning.  The immigrant strangers rise to the highest offices, for the crown employs them as a counterpoise on the old nobility; as burgher incorporations were used by the kings of three centuries ago.

No similar process is possible with Moslems:  one course therefore remains open for those who wish to see the Ottoman Empire upheld; a strenuous insistance on the Porte treating the Rayah population with justice and moderation.  The interests of humanity, and the real and true interests of the Ottoman Empire, are in this case identical.  Guided by this sound principle, which completely reconciles the policy of Great Britain with the highest maxims of political morality, Sir.  Stratford Canning has pursued his career with an all-sifting intelligence, a vigour of character and judgment, an indifference to temporary repulses, and a sacrifice of personal popularity, which has called forth the respect and involuntary admiration of parties the most opposed to his views.

I embarked on board a steamer, skirted the western coast of the Black Sea, and landed on the following morning in Varna.

CHAPTER II.

Varna.—­Contrast of Northern And Southern Provinces of Turkey.—­Roustchouk.—­Conversation with Deftendar.—­The Danube.—­A Bulgarian interior.—­A dandy of the Lower Danube.—­Depart for Widdin.

All hail, Bulgaria!  No sooner had I secured my quarters and deposited my baggage, than I sought the main street, in order to catch the delightfully keen impression which a new region stamps on the mind.

How different are the features of Slaavic Turkey, from those of the Arabic provinces in which I so long resided.  The flat roofs, the measured pace of the camel, the half-naked negro, the uncouth Bedouin, the cloudless heavens, the tawny earth, and the meagre apology for turf, are exchanged for ricketty wooden houses with coarse tiling, laid in such a way as to eschew the monotony of straight lines; strings of primitive waggons drawn by buffaloes, and driven by Bulgarians with black woolly caps, real genuine grass growing on the downs outside the walls, and a rattling blast from the Black Sea, more welcome than all the