small bazaar.

A few more hours from this town brings us to the banks of the Lake of Scutari, and on an island a few hundred yards from the shore we see waving a Turkish flag, and beneath it a Turkish sentry. This is the frontier post of Lessandra; to the east of it is visible through a telescope the line of forts which marks the usual scene of warfare, almost every foot of ground we tread is rendered famous by having once been the scene of some bloody encounter; from behind the rocks, which form their natural defences, the highlanders wage a perpetual guerilla war upon their foe, picking off with their rifles their assailants, as they struggle to convey guns along paths fit only for a goat or a chamois.

The Lake of Scutari, which is in shape not unlike the Lake of Geneva, and about seventy miles long, is surrounded on all sides by mountains, rising either abruptly from its margin, or in rear of a narrow plain which bounds its eastern shore. It is navigated by a steamer, and in half a day we have once more changed the social atmosphere. The transition from the civilisation of Cattaro to the wildness of Cettinye, is not more striking than that which now greets the eye, as we wind along narrow lanes between high walls jealously concealing each house, with an occasional veiled figure flitting along them. Here the familiar indications of Eastern life meet the eye at every turn. Turks in flowing robes are smoking apathetically, and muezzins are calling people to prayers; indeed, the place seems composed of mosques and graveyards. We pass along dull, lifeless streets, and arrive at last at a fitting termination to them, where all the life seems to have been buried. The lanes

are ill paved, with deep mud traps, very treacherous at night. When we get admittance at a small door in a stone wall, we probably find the mansion inside in keeping with the general air of dilapidation. There is a magnificent rock at the debouchure of a river from the lake, on the summit of which is a picturesque old castle, containing generally an equally picturesque old Pasha, and commanding always a magnificent view; and there is a filthy bazaar at the bottom roofed in from the sun, dirty, noisy, and crowded with a mixed Turkish and Albanian population, until sunset, when it is deserted and the inhabitants retire to the silent suburb.

Scutari is, however, by no means a good specimen of a Turkish town, and only strikes by contrast. It contains too large a Christian population, and during the carnival there is sometimes an attempt at gaiety. Preceded by two men with long paper lanterns, and with trousers tucked up to my knees, I splashed one night through the mud to take part in some festivities, where I hoped to meet some of the élite of Albanian society. Scrambling up a rickety wooden stair, I found myself in a room so full of tobacco-smoke, that I could only at first dimly discern the company seated round it. Strange sounds met my ear, which I discovered to proceed from a piano, twenty-four strings of which were broken, and a flute played by a travelled Albanian, who had once been to Paris, and was gorgeously attired in the costume of the country. No less than six ladies graced the entertainment with their presence, four of whom were in full Albanian attire, while two, fascinated by the attractions. of crinoline, only retained the upper half of the national

dress. There was a great preponderance of men, but I discovered afterwards that a closed gallery was full of native women, too shy to take part in this semi-civilised performance, who gazed curiously at their more advanced compatriots; for dancing is a western importation, and Albanian women do not generally join in festive meetings, and are almost as little seen as if they were Mahometans. The Prince of a Latin tribe, whose usual place of abode was somewhere in the neighbouring mountains, looked wonderingly on at the proceedings, which were conducted by some of the Italian and Levantine portion of the community. After we were tired of discordant music we had a game of "synagogue," which consisted in the whole company passing single cards to each other, and all shouting their names at the same time, which created a great deal of noise and laughter, though it was difficult to say wherein lay the point of the joke. a very ragged old woman handed round tea and lemonade, and the Albanian ladies were persuaded to stand up and dance for the first time in their lives. My partner wore a gold helmet, a crimson and gold-embroidered tunic, open-worked in front, loose white trousers, tight at the ankle, and thick embroidered stockings, with Turkish slippers: a pretty face, and a pair of large black eyes set off this picturesque costume. As she had never even seen a polka danced, it was not without much pressing that she was induced to kick off her slippers, and commence hopping about on her stocking-soles. Once off, however, she spun round vigorously, and peals of laughter from her friends in the gallery rewarded her efforts, while the ludicrous

Then

effect of a little woman running round one, in a short tunic, baggy trousers, and thick stockings, would have upset the gravity of the most sedate of partners. The exertion was becoming trying, when fortunately a mummer appeared in the costume of a dancing dervish, with an illuminated foolscap on his head, and a long grey beard, leading in another, closely veiled, and disguised as a Turkish woman; so we put them in the middle of a circle, and joining hands, danced frantically round them, until the ladies fell back exhausted, and refreshed. themselves with the abundant use of tobacco, in a dense cloud of which I contrived to escape unobserved, and thus ended the last night of the Carnival at Scutari.

A few days after I found myself in another part of the country, the guest of a Turk, during the sacred season of the Ramadan, when neither eating, drinking, nor smoking, are allowed between sunrise and sunset. When night came, instead of boisterous merriment, how gravely we sat on the floor at a low table, and dipped our fingers into the same bowl, and then smoked tchibouks and drank coffee far on into the morning. For it is only natural that when the day offers so little enjoyment, as much as possible should be made of the night. And when at last I stretched myself on the floor on the softest of coverlets, I thought of the singular contrast which the observance of the Christian and Mahometan festival afforded, and wondered how it was that in both cases the religious instinct should err so widely, and in such opposite directions.

LAURENCE OLIPHANT.

DU

XIII.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT.

URING the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence of the desert-a silence as of the grave-cast a most powerful spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes fixed on the distance before me, and as my companions believed me to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed. I only half observed how, during the march, certain members of our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by their ludicrous movements and sudden starts, afforded our company exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep, would lay hold of the high pummel of the saddle with both hands, but this did not prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward one, threatening to fall with a somersault to the ground. Indeed this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness.