and straight-way seek the accommodation of the village mehana.  This village is a miserable little cluster of mud hovels, and the best the mehana affords is the coarsest of black-bread and a small salted fish, about the size of a sardine, which the natives devour without any pretence of cooking, but which are worse than nothing for me, since the farther they are away the better I am suited.  Sticking a flat loaf of black-bread and a dozen of these tiny shapes of salted nothing in his broad waistband, the Turkish peasant sallies forth contentedly to toil.

I have accomplished the wonderful distance of forty kilometres to-day, at which I am really quite surprised, considering everything.  The usual daily weather programme has been faithfully carried out — a heavy mist at morning, that has prevented any drying up of roads during the night, three hours of oppressive heat — from nine till twelve — during which myraids of ravenous flies squabble for the honor of drawing your blood, and then, when the mud begins to dry out sufficient to justify my dispensing with the wooden scraper, thunder-showers begin to bestow their unappreciated favor upon the roads, making them well-nigh impassable again.  The following morning the climax of vexation is reached when, after wading through the mud for two hours, I discover that I have been dragging, carrying, and trundling my laborious way along in the wrong direction for Tchorlu, which is not over thirty-five kilometres from my starting-point, but it takes me till four o’clock to reach there.  A hundred miles on French or English roads would not be so fatiguing, and I wisely take advantage of being in a town where comparatively decent accommodations are obtainable to make up, so far as possible, for this morning’s breakfast of black bread and coffee, and my noontide meal of cold, cheerless reflections on the same.  The same programme of “bin! bin.” from importuning crowds, and police inquisitiveness concerning my “passporte” are endured and survived; but I spread myself upon rny mat to-night thoroughly convinced that a month’s cycling among the Turks would worry most people into premature graves.

I am now approaching pretty close to the Sea of Marmora, and next morning I am agreeably surprised to find sandy roads, which the rains have rather improved than otherwise; and although much is unridably heavy, it is immeasurably superior to yesterday’s mud.  I pass the country residence of a wealthy pasha, and see the ladies of his harem seated in the meadow hard by, enjoying the fresh morning air.  They form a circle, facing inward, and the swarthy eunuch in charge stands keeping watch at a respectful distance.  I carry a pocketful of bread with me this morning, and about nine o’clock, upon coming to a ruined mosque and a few deserted buildings, I approach one at which signs of occupation are visible, for some water.  This place is simply a deserted Mussulman village, from which the inhabitants probably decamped in a body during the last Russo-Turkish war; the mosque is in a tumble-down condition, the few dwelling-houses remaining are in the last stages of dilapidation, and the one I call at is temporarily occupied by some shepherds, two of whom are regaling themselves with food of some kind out of an earthenware vessel.