I have been thinking of taking to the road immediately upon landing, and continuing till dark, taking my chances of reaching some suitable stopping-place for the night.  But the good people of Ismidt raise their voices in protest against what they professedly regard as a rash and dangerous proposition.  As I evince a disposition to override their well-meant interference and pull out, they hurriedly send for a Frenchman, who can speak sufficient English to make himself intelligible.  Speaking for himself, and acting as interpreter in echoing the words and sentiments of the others, the Frenchman straightway warns me not to start into the interior so late in the day, and run the risk of getting benighted in the brush; for “Much very bad people, very bad people! are between Ismidt and Angora; Circassians plenty,” he says, adding that the worst characters are near Ismidt, and that the nearer I get to Angora the better I shall find the people.  As by this time the sun is already setting behind the hills, I conclude that an early start in the morning will, after all, be the most sensible course.

During the last Russo-Turkish war thousands of Circassian refugees migrated to this part of Asia Minor.  Having a restless, roving disposition, that unfits them for the laborious and uneventful life of a husbandman, many of them remain even to the present day loafers about the villages, maintaining themselves nobody seems to know how.  The belief appears to be unanimous, however, that they are capable of any deviltry under the sun, and that, while their great specialty and favorite occupation is stealing horses, if this becomes slack or unprofitable, or even for the sake of a little pleasant variety, these freebooters from the Caucasus have no hesitation about turning highwaymen whenever a tempting occasion offers.  All sorts of advice about the best way to avoid being robbed is volunteered by the people of Ismidt.  My watch-chain, L.A.W. badge, and everything that appears of any value, they tell me, must be kept strictly out of sight, so as not to excite the latent cupidity of such Circassians as I meet on the road or in the villages.  Some advocate the plan of adorning my coat with Turkish official buttons, shoulder-straps, and trappings, to make myself, look like a government officer; others think it would be best to rig myself up as a full-blown zaptieh, with whom, of course, neither Circassian nor any other guilty person would attempt to interfere.  To these latter suggestions I point out that, while they are very good, especially the zaplieh idea, so far as warding off Circassians is concerned, my adoption of a uniform would most certainly get me into hot water with the military authorities of every town and village, owing to my ignorance of the vernacular, and cause me no end of vexatious delay.  To this the quick-witted Frenchman replies by at once offering to go with me to the resident pasha, explain the matter to him, and get a letter permitting me to wear the