novelist of manners of the period during which he flourished-a period, be it remembered, which, among writers in the same order of fiction, included Disraeli (considered from the non-political side of him) and (when he was not in the big bow-wow vein) the first Lord Lytton.

The third quarter of the nineteenth century has been the flourishing time of perhaps the most popular novelist of manners who ever lived-the late Mr. Trollope to whom no one can deny the merit of careful observation, and who, if he could have brought himself to recognise that a man may become a machine, that machines do not think, and that thought is as necessary as observation to intelligent portraiture, might have well deserved all the popularity which he achieved. Since Mr. Trollope's death it would be hard to name any living representative of the school. Indeed, there is some reason to suspect that the school, as a school, has perished. In one sense almost every novelist we have is a novelist of manners; in another sense none of them are. That is to say, there is not an inventor of sunsets and love-scenes, not a chronicler of "runs" and steeple-chases, not a delineator of theatrical life and character, not a feminine diarist of the doings of the wicked guardsman, who would not be seriously offended at the imputation that he or she fails in the accurate portraiture of contemporary manners; but, on the other hand, all of them" spooning" novelists, sporting novelists, theatrical novelists—are concerned with scenery, passion, incident first, and with manners afterwards. They all make grandly nonchalant pretences of knowingness in the ways of the world in general, and of modern society in particular; but where the

novel of manners has not degenerated in their hands into that very different article, the "fashionable novel''-where it does not recall the vulgarity without recalling the unquestionable cleverness of the once famous Mrs. Gore, it is hardly to be recognised for what it professes to be. The novel of modern life and society, in so far as it does not rely for its attractions on mere sensational incident, is generally a study of male and female character-mostly, indeed, of one male and one female characterwith a few elaborate sketches of scenery for a background, and a clumsy caricature of some two or three well-known contemporary personages thrown in to give it an air of actuality. The close objective study of social types-not of their superficial peculiarities only, but of their inner being-appears to be becoming a lost art. Where, indeed, are we to look for the observation, the humor, to say nothing of the wisdom, which was brought to bear upon this branch of the art of fiction by its great masters in the past? We have but one living novelist with the adequate intellectual equipment; but Mr. George Meredith is poet, philosopher and politician, as well as novelist, and we must be satisfied, I suppose, that brilliant studies of manners form an element, and an ele ment only, in his varied and stimulating work. For the rest, we have pretty writers in abundance, and a few of genuine power in the creation of individual character. But the generalising eye, the penetrative humor, and the genial breadth of sympathy which is needed to portray the social pageant as a whole, appear to be gifts which are becoming rarer and rarer among us every day.Nineteenth Century.

To those who are not personally acquainted with the Queen of Cities, any phrase indicative of its social life, supplemented as it is by the delightful accounts of Sir Henry Drummond Wolff's fête champêtre at Be-jcos an event an event

which marks the social apogee of his visit -will suggest a host of attractive ideas. What a field for the observer of human nature, many may naturally exclaim, is here opened up; to what a conglomeration of nationalities and characters, to

what a cosmopolitan congeries of men and women, shall we not be introduced; how instructive must it prove to see men of no common nationality, of no common creed, of no common interest, held together by the gregarious instinct and self-adaptiveness of humanity! Alas! I can only describe that which exists, and strict regard for veracity compels me to declare that society in Constantinople cannot be called cosmopolitan, although guests of many nationalities may at times be found in the same room. How could it be otherwise? All creatures and all institutions must have some primary vital force, some central and inspiring mainspring. I see a great many wheels, spindles, and levers in a clock, but so long as they are not in motion, and the force to set them in motion is lacking, they can serve no useful interdependent purpose, however admirable be their finish and workmanship. This is just the case of society in Constantinople. The component parts are numerous enough, but there is no force to give them cohesion, no head to society, no social order.

His Majesty the Sultan of the Otto man Empire is a most high and puissant monarch. His will is law, and his nod is death. He has many palaces; he rules despotically over a vast empire; he makes quantities of pashas cross their fawning hands whenever he looks at them; he has the power to do anything to any one of his faithful subjects--except recall him to life after he has killed him. But social power he has none. His life is passed in an endless round of official drudgery, nay, positive servitude. Each minutest detail of business, from the highest visions of diplomacy down to the opening of a new coffee-house on the shores of the Bosphorus, passes through his august hands; and each incident of every transaction forms a focus of intrigues which, in their conglomerate mass, it would take twenty sultans with a hundred times Abd-ul-Hamid's power to disarm and defeat. What time, therefore, can he have to spare for society? The Commander of the Faithful may be seen any week as he goes to his Friday's prayer. Then, before the gaze of an adoring populace, through lines of splendid troops, crowds of brilliant aidesde-camp and pashas, fair veiled ladies,

braying brass bands, and screaming dogs, there passes a thin-faced, long-nosed, grizzled-bearded, pale man in a halfclosed carriage, nervously fluttering his hand before his face by way of salute, and receiving the low salaams of all in return. He hurries into the mosque, scarce giving himself time to throw a half-frightened glance round, and so is lost to view before he can well be seen. When one considers why that face is so worn and pale, why those hands are so nervous, how the heart behind that blue military coat must be beating like a roll of drums, one feels grateful that one is but a private individual, and not His Imperial Majesty the Sultan Abd-ulHamid the Second, living as he does in perpetual fear of assassination.

The head of the State neither caring nor daring to assume his position in society, no other Turk essays the role of social leadership. Not only might such an attempt cause him to be unfavorably regarded by his sovereign, but the Turk has neither, by temperament nor custom, any inclination to mix in European society. It is too gay, too animated for him. He is a quiet, sober, reflective creature, who, after his day's work, likes to return to his house, put on his old slippers and his old coat, and, after his evening meal, devote himself to contemplative smoking amongst his women-folk and children. Or, if he is in a more social mood, he will perhaps invite some of his intimates to smoke, and chuckle over childish stories with them in the outer chamber. Again, he cannot return hospitality; the harem system puts that out of the question. Finally, he likes to go to bed and to rise early-habits incompatible with social duties.

It might be supposed that the Grand Vizier, the Ministers of the Cabinet, and the principal State officials, being more or less in constant relation with Europeans, might, for political reasons, develop social aspirations. Away from the Porte, however, one seldom sees them. them. Apropos, you may be permitted to make the acquaintance of the Grand Vizier. He is, physically, just the opposite of what one would expect a Grand Vizier to be. There peers up at you, from above a little insignificant figure of diminutive stature and rather crooked build, a deadly pale face with queer

irregular features, ornamented by a long black beard, and with no particular characteristic to strike your attention until you see a pair of glittering, piercing black eyes closely observing you. Those eyes do everything. As conversation proceeds, you forget all the rest of the man, and address yourself to the glowing orbs of the dignitary. His voice also is peculiar cold, deliberate, passionless, every word carefully weighed and carefully spoken. Unquestionably you will have been talking with a very remarkable man, of keen intellect, clear design, and immense tenacity and strength of purpose. In a country where every minister, more especially a Grand Vizier, is looked upon principally as a target for volleys of intrigue, Saïd Pasha has for five years, with, I believe, only two interruptions of very short duration each, stood firm and unmoved, and is at this time more securely rooted in power than ever. But in society he never appears.

If none of the official class take any social position, are there, it may be asked, no great Turkish families which, breaking through tradition, favor society with their presence? The inquiry proceeds on the hypothesis that great Turkish families exist; they do not exist. The social tendencies of the despotically ruled Turks are eminently democratic. There is no hereditary or any other nobility. Such titles as pasha, bey, &c., are significant only of military or civil rank, not of any social distinction, and are theoretically bestowed for merit alone, never being made hereditary. The sons of the Sultan are mere effendis -Mr's. There are no laws of primogeniture. Land is unfettered. The son of a common peasant may end, often has ended, his life as a high functionary of State just as well as the son of a pasha or a bey. The Government alone is aristocratic-a relic of the past, a little altered in character, however diminished in extent, since the days when the roving tribe, under the hero Orthoguel, marched westward to the help of the Seljuk Sultan of Komiah. The modern Sultan of Turkey is the chief of the tribe. He selects from his tribesmen those whom he considers most competent to advise him. The tribe itself camps out in peace or in trouble as the case may be; and

when it is forced to withdraw itself and pitch its camp a little further away (as was the case after the late Russian war), it leaves, beyond a little waste, no signs of itself behind. From this old tribal spirit have sprung almost all the maladies, and, unless conquered, will proceed the death, of Turkey. In Constantinople there are certainly here and there Turks of considerable fortune. But a Turkish fortune never lasts long enough to confer any solid position on its possessor. A man's goods at his death are divided pretty equally amongst his children, and if he be rich his sons are certain to rush off to Europe and devour their portions in riotous living. Thus society in Constantinople is influenced in no way by the Turks, who are, with one or two exceptions, completely unrepresented.

Of these exceptions the principal is Munir Pasha, Grand Master of Ceremonies to the Sultan a man of irreproachable character and courteous, dignified manner. There is rarely a party of importance given by an ambassador or ambassadress at which you do not see his big broad shoulders and dark bearded face, brightened by a cordial smile, in some convenient corner where he can talk with his friends, and contemplate the skittish European at his ease. It is he who has the privilege of introducing ambassadors, special envoys, travelling monarchs and princes, and persons of similar distinguished rank, to the Sultan. All of these, and perhaps in a special degree Sir Henry Wolff, will have kept a pleasant recollection of Munir Pasha.

Izzet Bey, a Turkish officer frequently to be met at social gatherings, is a man of very different stamp. He is the grandson of the great Fuad Pasha, celebrated for having run his country into debt at the fastest pace on record, and for having accompanied the Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz on his European tour, a privilege which led to his downfall and ruin. Personally, Izzet Bey is uninteresting. Considered as a type of young Turk which affects ultra-European manners and contempt of all things Turkish, he is worth a glance. He is a short, fat, pompous man, whose eyebrows combine a perpetual upward cast-to express the consciousness of a careless elegance, unap

proachable by others, but natural in him -with a perpetual frown denoting a legitimate pride in something which has not yet been discovered. He dresses in brilliant uniforms of the most superlative cut, wears a portentous eyeglass, and high, patent-leather boots; speaks beautiful French, and disappears with a regularity only equalled by that with which he reappears, apparently richer than ever-a standing puzzle to the good Constantinopolitans. He is an excellent revolver-shot and good fencer; in a word, a formidable duellist. He is one of his Majesty's aides-de-camp, and at this present moment graces Parisian society in the character of military attaché to the Ottoman Embassy. Most of Izzet Bey's characteristics are shared by his few and faithful followers. These are, in their way, the "mashers" of Stamboul. Like their British prototypes, they are not wholly devoid of meritorious qualities, but there is a decided impression in Constantinople that the good old honest, retrograde Turk is preferable to this more modern edition.

Other Turks, or types of Turk proper, are so rarely seen in society that it is needless to describe them. But something must be said about a Pasha, Italian by birth but, for half a century, Turk by adoption and feeling, of all the Sultan's subjects perhaps the most loyal and devoted-Rustem Pasha, the ex- Governor of the Lebanon. He is a man who has filled many of the highest offices of State with a capacity, integrity, and usefulness beyond all denial. Speak with him for a few minutes; note his spare, wiry figure, his aquiline features, his penetrating glance; hear the authoritative voice in which he delivers his opinion on any subject that may be discussed; and you will recognise in him a man of no ordinary calibre, and of inflexible will. He is a despot, though of a benignant and merciful order. Wherever he has governed or served, he has made the Turkish name obeyed or respected. He is an excellent linguist, speaking most European languages with equal fluency and correctness. Courteous in his address and manner towards men, he has an air of respectful, old-fashioned gallantry towards ladies. There is no man more thoroughly respected and liked in Constantinople than Rustem Pasha.

Hobart Pasha is the most distinguished officer in the Turkish navy, and has rendered conspicuous service to the Turkish State. He has been for twenty years in Ottoman employment, and the effective condition of the Turkish navy is notorious. He is, as he will lose no opportunity of telling you himself, the confidential adviser of the Sultan on all important State matters, and does not shrink, according to his own account, from addressing his Majesty with the simplicity and bluntness proper to the unsophisticated sailor. He is also understood to be the trusty councillor of the English Government, Liberal or Conservative, on Eastern matters. The Admiral is not one of those men who was born with all the trump cards in his hand. He had to find his cards; he has found them, and in his honest, jollytar way, has played them uncommonly well. He is now, after an eventful existence of some six decades, hale and hearty, with a dash of the salt sea in his face, an active and wonderfully juvenile figure, a merry grey-brown eye, and the power of physical endurance of a man half his age. man, possesses an endless fund of anecdote, and is a capital companion-when he is not in the political vein. At such times he is less amusing and more omniscient. His reputation of a "good fellow" is deserved, and in Constantinople it will be long before the name of Hobart Pasha is forgotten.

He is a first-rate sports

Turkish ladies, it is unnecessary to explain, are never seen in general society. There are, however, one or two of them who receive visitors, both ladies and gentlemen, at their own houses. Of these the principal are Madame Hilnis Pasha and her sister Zara. The rooms are European; the ladies wear Parisian dresses and talk Parisian French; and their nationality only reveals itself occasionally in the habit of sitting crosslegged on the floor and smoking cigarettes. Sometimes a reaction follows on the long seclusion of the harem life when broken through. Such was the case with Madame Kiazim Pasha, the mother of Izzet Bey. She received à la Européenne for some time, and no one thought much about it. But one day Constantinople was startled by the announcement that Madame Kiazim had eloped

with a Belgian Secretary of Legation, and would be seen no more. The happy couple married when they got far enough away, and are now, I believe, enjoying the pleasures of one another's society in Paris.

So very limited a sprinkling of Turks can evidently leave no perceptible influence on society, while the Armenians and Levantines, in spite of the strength of numbers and riches, make little more appearance than the Turks. There was a time when the Armenians might not only have ruled society, but have held the whole empire under their sway. Their intelligence, energy, and practical business-like qualities, give them immense advantages over the slower and more easy-going Turk. It was not so long ago that they seemed likely to hold the reins of government at the Porte, and to reign supreme at the Palace. And, indeed, so they still might. But they have two fatal defects-intense jealousy of one another, and boundless power of intrigue.

Some five-and-forty years ago or more, when reigned the Sultan Mahmoud of glorious memory, there lived a certain Djezaïli, next only to his imperial master in riches and honor. His word with the Sultan was all-powerful. Never was a favorite more caressed. Estates and houses, riches of all kinds, were heaped upon him. He married a beautiful young wife, and heaven seemed determined that all should prosper with him. But the gods smile on those they would destroy, and he was an Armenian. So one fine morning poor Djezaïli's head was, by his master's order, severed from his shoulders. Madame Djezaïli awoke to hear, not only that she was a widow, but that, of all her riches and possessions, her clothes alone were left her. What diabolical ingenuity of intrigue had compassed this ruin was never really known. But it was beyond doubt that the machinations had been prompted by the jealousy of Djezaïli's own compatriots, and by them carried into execution. Madame Djezaïli managed to retain a few jewels out of her own abundance. Gradually, to keep body and soul together, she parted with them. At last, in utter destitution, she was reduced to plying the trade of a washerwoman. And still an old woman of

over seventy years, arm-deep in soapsuds, may be seen reflecting in patient sorrow over passed glories in a miserable little street near the town of Galata. Many nearly equally striking instances of internecine jealousy might be given. If one Armenian begins to prosper, a dozen others will strive their best to ruin him.

Both from difference of habits and customs, and from a mistaken contempt in which they are held, the Armenians make no show whatever in European society. There is nothing they dislike so much as being on good behavior. Now and then, by a strong effort of will, they give great receptions in huge rooms all gilt and glass, hideously magnificent and supremely stiff and unpleasant. But of society, in the sense of constant intercourse with others outside the pale of the family, they know nothing. The ladies seem to spend most of their time in sitting in the windows and looking down on the streets, an amusement which they prefer to any other, even to the reading of French novels. The standard of morality amongst the Armenians used to be high, but civilisation is doing the usual work of its early stages. Civilised customs are misapprehended and wrongly acted upon. The Armenian ladies, in their desire to emulate the frisky reputation of European dames of fashion, are sometimes carried across the Rubicon, while their European sisters for the most part are not. But the tendency of the Armenian nature is good, and the failing just noticed is due to a fault of method rather than of morals.

The Levantines in the same way as the Armenians, but in a lesser degree, are not held in high esteem by Europeans, and in spite of their wealth, which is often considerable, have no appreciable weight in society. I have never yet known a man confess himself to be a Levantine. He is always English, or French, or a member of one or other of the great nations of Europe. And, indeed, whatever he may call himself, there is probably some grain of truth in his assertion, for the mingled blood of most peoples runs in Levantine veins. You never can tell in what language a Levantine will address you; for, having none of his own, he can speak five or six