Turks look upon death calmly and without repugnance; they do not connect it with ideas of gloom and horror, as we are too prone to do like in Europe,—they spread their burial places in the sunniest spots—on the crests of the laughing hills, where they are bathed in the light of the blue sky; beside the crowded thoroughfares of the city, where the dead are, as it were, once more mingled with the living,—in the green nooks that stretch down to the Bosphorus, wherein more selfish spirits would have erected a villa, or have planted a vineyard. They identify themself with the generation which has passed away— ready to yield their place to that which is to succeed their own.