Diary of an idle woman in Constantinople ... With map and illustrations

Preface

It seemed to me in visiting Constantinople that some revival of Greek-Byzantine and Turkish history, on the very sites where such thrilling scenes were enacted, might interest the general reader, and be serviceable to the traveller. I found little of the kind in any of the cur rent works which serve to guide the stranger. I trust that I may, therefore, in a slight degree have supplied the want I myself felt, by grouping about the localities of the principal monuments some pictures of the chief historic events with which they are connected. At least such has been my endeavour. So little remains of the past in this much destroyed city ; and of that so little that is out wardly attractive or even intelligible, with the sole exception of St. Sophia, that without some such rapid reference the actual present is deprived of any link with what has gone before.

The splendours of ancient Byzantium and the meanness of modern Stamboul came to my mind as such a curious contrast it could only be under stood by a reference to history ; and I have en deavoured to describe all that I saw from this point of view, leaving to others the often repeated details of Harems, Bazaars, and Dervishes. Whatever I may have said of Turkish cruelty and the crimes of the Sultans, I have invented nothing — I have simply reproduced the chronicles of the Old Seraglio, the details of modern reigns, and what I myself saw and heard. My principal authorities have been Gibbon, Von Hammer, Lamartine, Theophile Gautier, Gallenga, and Amicis ; Meyer's ' Tiirkei und Griechenland,' a most valuable book ; an article by H.E. Sir Henry Elliot on Abdul Aziz in the ' Nineteenth Century ; ' and various Handbooks. English and German. FRANCES ELLIOT. November 1S92. PAPiK I CONTENTS

Chapter I Arrival

— SEVEN TOWERS — BRIDGE OF GALATA The Seven Towers — The revenge of the janissaries — A glimpse of the Golden Gate — The Seraglio — Depressed by first impression — A polyglot crowd — Comfort of a kavass —Crossing the bridge of Galata — The crowd is picturesque after all

Chapter II Progress To The Hotel Royal

The degraded pariah dogs — Turkish cemeteries better at a distance — We labour up the hill of Pera — Engulfed amongst Greek waiters — The marvellous charm of water — The Greek is ubiquitous — The Jew is not appreciated . 21

Chapter III Next Day

The Mosque of the Valideh — The East : past and present — Progress does not suit the Turk

Chapter IV St

SOPHIA PAGB Original glories of St. Sophia — An angelic architect — The legend of Euphrasia — St. Sophia from the outside — Loose slippers — St. Sophia an emblem of later Christianity — Simplicity replaced by magnificence — The puritan Turk has defaced all — St. Sophia stormed by Mahomet — A scene of horror and desecration-**-The thanksgiving of Justinian — Desecrated by the Empress Irene — The desecration of wrangling sects — Rifled by the barbarian Latins — Abdul Medjid's Bairam procession .... 45

Chapter V The Hippodrome

An epitome of Eastern life — Architectural beauties of the Hippodrome — Arrangement of the auditorium — Spoliation of the Hippodrome — The column of the serpents — Arcadius and Eudocia — Chrysostom of the Golden Mouth — A voice from Heaven — Conflagration follows Chrysostom's exile — The license of the arena — The Greens appeal to Justinian — Riots of Greens and Blues — The Hippodrome under the Ottomans — Splendid fetes of Amurath II.— Demand for the ministers' heads — Mustafa the Idiot proclaimed — Othman in the janissaries' hands — Othman's .desperate struggle for life — Origin of the janissaries — V-Kettles overturned in the Atmeidan — Last acts of the / janissaries — The sacred standard unfurled — The massacre of the janissaries — Last massacre in the Hippodrome

Chapter VI Mqsque Of Ahmed

— PALATIUM Picturesque scene under the plane-trees — Barbarity of Turkish architecture— Sultan Ahmed ascends the throne— On the site of Constantine's palace — Round the Palatium CONTENTS 9 Sacrum — Desolation alone remains — Memories are im perishable — A vision of old palaces — Theophilus with the golden apple — The Palatium Sacrum superseded 126

Chapter VII Church And Palace

— BLACHERNÆ The Court retreats to the Sweet Waters — A charming surprise — Panagia Blachernitissa — The Celestial Mother deserts her sanctuary 146

Chapter VIII The Palace Of

BLACHERNÆ Hanging gardens — The planes and cypresses of Byzantium — The stealthy approach of the inevitable — Luxury of^^r^ Alexius Comnenus — Degenerate treachery . . . 154 \

Chapter IX The Latins In Constantinople

Dandolo and the blind Isaac Angelus — Ambassadors from the Crusaders — Young Alexius retained as hostage — The Crusaders' terms are hard — Conclusion of the Treaty deferred — Alexius betrayed by a false friend — The Latins obtain possession of the city — Short dynasty of five Latin emperors — The beginning of the end — Constantine Dragases— Blachernæ forgotten and passed by . . . 165

Chapter X The Walls

Kind nature veils open wounds — The Adrianople Gate — Lovely vision of Olympus — The sinister ' Crooked Gate' — Sultan Mohammed leads the assault — Array of the defenders — Constantine deserted by the mercenaries — ' The City of God is fallen ' iSS

Chapter XI The Selamlik

PAt.l The Selamlik— En route for Yildiz Kiosk— Abdul Hamid's residence— Simple life of the Padishah— Abdul Hamid's decided opinions- Waiting for the procession— Glittering array of household troops — Ladies must keep in the background— Complete absence of Asiatic pomp . . . 204

Chapter XII Bklisarius's Bucoi

ION Massive ruins — Degradation of a victorious general — A group of Byzantine churches 223

Chapter XIII Mosques

Museum of ancient costumes — Mosques — Extremes meet in ritual — The pigeons of Bajazet II. — The Suleimanyekh — Suleiman the Magnificent — The mosque of Mohammed II. — An Eastern Harry of Monmouth — A tomb of many sultans — The Sweet Waters of Europe — The ceremony of sabreing — Abdul Hamid's first function .... 230

Chapter XIV The Old Seraglio

Seraglio Point — Signification of Seraglio — Fairy-like watcr- ,' palace — Ortu Kapu, the place of execution — Eccentricities _____/_of Turkish cuisine — A motley crowd — The Hall of the Divan — A promising beginning — A brief but fatal delay — Insolent tyranny ofthe Spahis — Vast halls of marble — The harem — A ceremonial writing lesson — A murderous intention averted— Inmates of the harem . . . ■ -34 CONTENTS 11

Chapter XV Turbeh Of Mahmoud II

AND HIS LIFE TAGE Tomb of Mahmoud II. — His dramatic escape— His dogged perseverance — A bright and cheerful tomb — Peculiar notions about the dead ....... 285

Chapter XVI Marriage Of

A VIZIER Curious marriage etiquette — Costume of a sultana — A henpecked vizier — Overcome with sleep— The Selamlik — A i Turkish bon vivanss meal — The sultana's creature . . icj6 CHAPTER XVH MODERN SULTANS Neither of Europe nor Asia — Abdul Aziz — Return from Western Europe — An unexpected reply — Nothing to learn from the European States — Dolmabatchke — The Sultan's evening ride — Mihri the Circassian slave — A lovely night — ' Here is our little nightingale ' — Empress Eugenie — Sultana Mihri — Stormy times — Young Turkey supported by General Ignatieff — Dismissal of the Grand Vizier — Immovable indifference — An impasse — Murad Effendi — Promised freedom — Sealed orders — A bold plan brilliantly carried out — Abdul Aziz is betrayed — Left without a friend — Murad's triumph— Abdul's wretched condition — Suicide without doubt — The funeral of Sultana Mihri— Hassan the Circassian— A terrible vengeance — Murad hopelessly insane — A truly Turkish Sultan . j"

Chapter XVIII The Bosphorus

A distinction without a difference — Exquisitely leautiful — Anatoli and Roumeli Hissar — A panorama of unique VAGS scenes — Steamboat companions — A suggestive picture A village of ambassadors -A classic view — The Syniplc gades — The forest of Belgrade — A wood rather than forest — The quay of Thcrapia — 'The Persian Embassy — Very little originality — Kindly Turkish drivers— Sir Alfred Sandison — A key to the Turkish conscience — Bulgarian refugees — The Sweet Waters of Asia — A kaleidoscope of colour -Adieu to Constantinople 37-S INDEX 421 ILLUSTRATIONS THE MOSQUE OF AHMED . . . Frontispiece PORTION OF THE INTERIOR OF ST. SOPHIA . to face 54 THE SEVEN TOWERS ,, 19c THE FOUNTAIN OF AHMED .... „ 26c MAP OF CONSTANTINOPLE .... at the aux DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN CONSTANTINOPLE

Chapter I Arrival Seven Towers Bridge Of Galata

The Seven Towers — The revenge of the janissaries — A glimpse of the Golden Gate — The Seraglio — Depressed by first impression — A polyglot crowd — Comfort of a kavass — Crossing the bridge of Galata — The crowd is picturesque after all. I travel by the Orient Express, incontestably the best train in Europe. I have passed Belgrade — quite a small modern town, and therefore utterly uninteresting — and in the distance Sofia, in a great undulating plain of intense green, shadowed by the irregular ranges of the Balkan Mountains, — a very small place with many pointed towers and spires, and, it is said, a better hotel than any in Constantinople. I have traversed two magnificent ravines in the Balkans, dark, deep, and narrow enough to keep out armies of invaders, and have entered that wild desolate tract of Turkey in Europe, which looks accursed Li and barren.

I catch a glimpse of the uninterest ing outlines of Philippopolis and Adrianople on a high ridge in the distance. I see a minaret for the first time, and a ragged old turbaned Turk turning over a stony soil, and now, after many weary hours of a hot, monotonous day, as the evening shadows spread over these plains so often dyed in blood, I find myself whizzing past the low bank of what is apparently a lake. Some people get out at a place called San Stefano, and are greeted by friends and children, and there is much kissing and embracing, but no sign of any con veyance — the whole scene quite vague, and the station a single house. A boat comes rowing in : perhaps they and their boxes are going in that ? What canthis water with a flat edge be ? The Sea of Marmora ! Impossible ! I confess my feeling is distinctly one of dis appointment.

No excitement is caused by these flat shores so like a Norfolk broad — the tall flags only wanting ; no spasm of delight at the ruined city walls, at this point so inferior in colour and picturesqueness to those of Rome. Nor does the group of the Seven Towers, now transformed into a station, where we stop to gaze on coke and general railway refuse, impress me. Seen from here they appear wanting in elevation, on this low shore, with rapidly rising ground behind. And here it must be noted, as a melancholy fact, that the making of this railway THE SEVEN TOWERS CH. I 3 has destroyed much of the little that was left of ancient Byzantium. We pass in a cutting a range of half-buried arches, that speaks of the great palaces of Con stantine, Justinian, and Heraclius. Blocks of rare marbles lie about, and more arches uprise chaotic, evidently the foundations of gigantic buildings.

Two sculptured lions, of which I shall have further to speak, supported, I am told, a royal balcony facing the water, respected through all centuries — now rudely displaced, not by Turks, but by Christians, zealous for the straight passage of the rail — besides certain beautiful columns of porphyry and green marble, which have also disappeared. That the rail should enter Constantinople at the point of the Seven Towers, and through the ancient walls, desecrating the last remaining vestiges of the Greek emperors, is an irreparable misfortune. In peeps through rifts and clefts, I get a glimpse of the darkening point of the Seraglio just for a moment, stretching out into the Bos phorus, the same archipelago of waters which, higher up, I had passed and despised as the flat banked Sea of Marmora.

The name of the incongruous station where the so-called Seven Towers group together on the shore is Yedi Koitleh in Turkish, Hepta pyrgon in Greek. It stands amidst a sprinkling B of dark plants and funereal cypresses, much moss and flying grasses clinging to its red stones. The guard is talking to an old Turk. who, dressed in a long caftan, striped scarf, and green turban, signifying that he is a descendant of the Prophet, and is an object of respect, stands immovable as for his portrait. I am struck with the calm dignity of his deportment, and this impression strengthens on me more and more. It is not the dignity of civilisation, but of the desert, the self-possession inherited from the Kurd, living alone, in the solitude of the steppes, subject to no man, and indifferent to all. The Seven Towers, though so chaotic now, were used as a State prison for some unfortunate Venetian ambassadors as late as 17 14.

As old as the city, Constantine the Great strengthened and raised them, and his successor and imitator, Theodosius, added three more walls, still to be seen. The blackening towers, heavy with age and damp, have a darker record than their stones ; nothing is more repulsive than their history, which gives you the first taste of Asiatic barbarity, and reminds you that Europe and civilisation are left behind. After the Turks came into possession at the siege of Constantinople, Mahomet II. at once accepted this locality as congenial to his blood thirsty tastes, and made of the towers a strong CH. I THE REVENGE OF THE JANISSARIES 5 castle for his favourite janissaries, destined to be come later the royal shambles — 1458. Here, in a small open court, the heads of his victims were piled up until they reached the battlements, which, if you saw how high they were, you would better understand.

In one of the Seven Towers a deep hole bore the ominous designation of ' The Well of Blood.' There were caves in the rock for torture, and that worse than torture, a lingering death. The tyrannous janissaries, the successors of the sanguinary Prætorian Guard in the decline of the Western Empire, brought here such sultans as had incurred their high displeasure : it is a bloody tradition in Eastern history that no de posed sultan lives. Seven sultans have ended their lives within these dark walls, notably Othman II., whose vain efforts to overcome the tyranny of the janissaries cost him his life. The janissaries, who got wind of his intentions, were too many for him, seized upon his sacred person, as though he were a common malefactor, and carried him off to be strangled in their den. One feels almost a savage joy that these same janis saries were themselves cut off by a general massacre, though a sovereign is scarcely to be pitied who sets up archers and pages as living targets to keep his hand in practice.

Other illustrious heads have been suspended from these walls. To hang up a head was the fashion of those times, as at Tyburn not so long ago, and to send a head round to distant governors a not unusual mode of apprising them of punishment. As I have said, ambassadors were confined here whenever it pleased the Sublime Porte to declare war against their states, a harrowing outlook for diplomacy ! Three of the Seven Towers have succumbed to the infirmities of an evil and mis spent life, and have dropped helpless on the soil. The rest are tottering to an inevitable decay, greatly assisted by the excavations necessary for the safe passage. of the Orient Express. A few shabby Turkish soldiers wearing the fez loiter about the little station at which we linger, and stare sullenly at the inroad of the Giaour in the shape of the train.

In contrast to the hideous memories of the past, close at hand opens the Golden Gate (Aurea Porta). This was the triumphal entrance, erected by the second Theodosius in imitation of the Porta Triumphalis of Rome, by which the Greek emperors rode into Byzantium, passing by the Via Triumphalis and the Forum of Constantine to St. Sophia. Here, amid a crowd of those servile and jewelled attendants, who made of the Greek Basileus a terrestrial deity, passed in imperial pomp Arcadius, with his brother Honorius. The Dacian Justin, the elder Justinian, with Belisarius by his side, the great warrior Heraclius, conqueror A GLIMPSE OF THE GOLDEN GATE CH. I 7 of Persian Chosroes, the several Constantines, pale shadows of that great name, the Isaacs and Andronicus, Leo the Isaurian, the royal race of the Comneni, the Angeli and Palæologi, of whom Michael returned (a real triumph) to fill the throne after the expulsion of the five Latin intruders (I will not call them emperors), whom the Cru saders foisted in, and who wrought such evil to Byzantium ; all passed here in the magnificent array proper to an Eastern potentate.

It is recorded that when Michael Palæologus reached the Golden Gate he dismounted and knelt before the image of the Virgin of the Blachernæ, which was carried before him, to signify that the mother of God herself was leading him to his restored throne. I can just discern a walled-up arch, with Corinthian columns of greenish marble, flanked by two massive white towers ; sculptured Roman eagles are in the cornice, and the Banner of the Labarum of the first Constantine. This is the Golden Gate. Close to the dark group of the Seven Towers, on the water's edge, a steep ascent fills up the foreground, covered with a confused mass of sordid roofs and desolate gardens, behind which the lofty lines of the city walls mount with a most strange spring. These land walls, starting from the Seven Towers, continue, along the whole length of the city, up and down in the most precipitous and reckless course — some six miles to Eyoub, where the harbour of the Golden Horn ends in a little river, which lends its chief charm to the valley of the Sweet Waters of Europe, enclosed within a rounded basin of low green hills.

I pinch myself with disgust at my indifference, but my blood is calm. I feel indignant, not only at the ruthless destruction of ancient things, but at the lack of colour. The East, indeed ! Where is it ? We are at the end of May, but no colour rests on the walls which rise around, in a network of wretched little houses. None in the tiny gardens, or on the rugged banks, crumbling downwards. Nor on tree or plant, or on the domes of the small mosques we pass, with slenderest of minarets, for this is a degraded part of Stamboul. All Northern ! Hopelessly Northern ! And small as a doll's house. I hate the common little buildings, not two alike in the whole city, piled one on the other, as if they were a puzzle without room to set it out. The diminutive windows half-closed with carved wooden shutters to conceal the harem.

The unheard-of squalor in every opening and alley, not so much actual filth as hideous mouldiness and ruin. We pass two towers in the walls, by which CH. I THE SERAGLIO 9 we slowly glide, that bear the name of Vlanga- Bostan, or landing-place, recalling the faithful services of the Gothic guards of the Greek emperors, this being their bostan or quay, and there are peeps and indications of the sparkling blue of the Bosphorus, and the piled-up hills of white houses on the opposite shore. Now we are under the old Seraglio wall, and glimpses come of lofty cypresses massed black as night, and minarets and domes and wooden pointed roofs, revealing in a richer and more wondrous measure the presence of the city. The old Seraglio ! What a name ! A place of love, murder, beauty, ambition, and torture through so many ages ; of dark trees and gleaming walls, fretted fountains, gilded kiosks and enchanting halls, fair open spaces, greenly planted lawns, and sombre gloomy courts.

What have they not seen ? It is said that a funnel shooting out from under gorgeous Eastern chambers lined with gold, and opening at a postern out at sea (for water is all around), disposed of fickle beauties and troublesome viziers, first bow-strung in the palace by the hideous mutes — a legacy from the Greek emperors — then tied in a sack and shot out into the silent bosom of the Bosphorus. Who knows ? Death walked with life, beauty with decay, in this charming abode, where love, despair, hope, agony, and ambition strove with each other ! These are the tragedies of Eastern life, so short, so cruel ! No Western senti ment to turn the edge, and clothe even murder with the poetry of passion. The crude, naked crime, the force of animal lust, the fell gripe of tyranny ! These days are past with the power of evil.

The Seraglio exists no more, save in its outward features, and sultans are now governed by the force of public law. It so chances that I arrive during the feast of Bairam, after the fast of Ramazan, corresponding to our Lent and Easter (but a thousand times more rigid, for the Turk obeys his creed, and during Ramazan neither eats, nor drinks, nor smokes until sunset). As we pass, the whole city seems to have turned out to make universal holiday, arrayed in clothes of every possible tint, except green (which is sacred). The love of colour is quite African : scarlet, blue, yellow, brilliant lilac, and mauve are mingled in the wildest way. Few turbans are visible, almost all wear the fez, long-tailed caftans or coats of cotton with patterns to be seen a mile off, gorgeous under vests of burning crimson or blazing yellow, a scarf twisted many times round the waist, and stripes and patterns of all kinds in such a con glomeration of shades that you become colour blind, and do not perceive what a dazzle it all CH. I DEPRESSED BY FIRST IMPRESSION 11 is.

Of rich stuffs I see none. Everything is as common as the people of this suburb, all scream ing, crying, and moving like a Judy-show in action. High on a broken bank some women sit under coloured parasols, looking at their children playing about, dressed in satin, some white, some ruby, their little frocks clinging round their feet and impeding their movements. But the crowd is so vulgar, the surroundings so mean, I cannot abide it. It is a scene of low opera comique. I observe that the veil is a mere pretext, only in fact covering the lips and forehead, and in most cases so thin that it leaves the face almost bare. I see no pretty women as I pass in the train, still following under the walls, for you advance a good distance into the city before reaching the Stamboul terminus. A dreary depression seizes me, not at all diminished by glimpses of the opposite bank of the Golden Horn, low and insignificant, covered to the water's edge with heterogeneous masses of building and shapeless walls, forming the Christian quarters of Pera and Galata.

Here and there a gigantic warehouse or embassy, or a mediæval tower of grey stone crowned with arches and turrets built by the Genoese, stands out — a triton among minnows. In a bare space, half-way up the Hill of Pera, I see groups of cypresses, which I know indicate a burial-ground, and woods and gardens leading off on the hills in picturesque lines. But oh, how low these hills ! How flat ! How unimpressive ! What a mass of walls, shapeless and void as was this earth before creation! Is this Constantinople of which I have heard so much ? But for the ruins of the Seven Towers (them selves a history), by land and sea so impressive, and the mosque of St. Sophia, the complete absence of any vestige of antiquity in Stamboul is really distressing. Already I feel it. The vast monuments of this once powerful capital of the Christians are now reduced by the Turks to a few fragments, foundations, and subterranean walls.

Ruin more complete, more ruthless, never was beheld. Absolute, sordid ruin, without dignity or pathos. Dust, dirt, neglect, and noise everywhere ; not for a moment is the mind permitted to rest itself in peace. No quiet, no repose ! A train rushes by, a passing cart raises clouds of dust out of the dry soil, a troop of Turkish children try to singer you, a party of Turkish equestrians scamper by who almost upset you. A dragoman at your heels, whom you must have for protection, and for the necessary formalities, mumbles incessantly in a sort of pigeon English ; the cries of vendors of cakes and water, the grunts of the Persian CH. I A POLYGLOT CROWD 13 and Armenian hamals (porters) with their heavy loads, the click of the laden horses and donkeys tottering under piles of bricks and wood, make up a discord enough to crush the spirit out of the most enthusiastic stranger.

But I am anticipating. The terminus is an elongated shed built on a barren waste. I am bound to say the unspeak able Turk is building another of stone close at hand. In a moment we are surrounded by a scare crow crowd, screaming in Greek, Italian, Turkish, French (to live here you must be a polyglot, and command the idioms of the East and West, or be silent for ever), out of which advance the Turkish officials, quite European save for a fez ; a scene of absolute squalor backed by the foul station. A pale little man vainly struggles among the dark-skinned Armenians and big-nosed Greeks, trying to board the train. Not succeeding, he stands apart and calls out in a shrill voice, high over the eastern gutturals making a chorus round, 'I am Cook's man ; I can speak English.' Blessed little man !

What a boon to travellers who arrive without friends or preparation ! I am told the douane is a fearful struggle, and the Turk quite mediæval in boorish stupidity. But I who write suffered none of these things. Cook's excellent little agent was to me as naught, for had I not there, before my eyes, the stalwart form of the kavass of the English Embassy, a fine dark-complexioned Greek, of excellent presence, in a close-fitting jacket, covered with gold lace, a richlyworked dagger at his waist ? With what a sense of command he kept off the rabble, and how proud I felt of belonging to him ! Here, amid the surging waves of that ill smelling mob (now increased by the passengers who had descended), I blessed the kindness of the Ambassador, who extended the flag of our Empire to me, a lone woman with a maid, in the middle of dirty Stamboul !

All make way before me ; no question is asked. The kavass puts all back with a lordly motion of his hand, and at once places me in an excellent landau in waiting. Aloft, on the shoulders of broad porters in long petticoats, with bare legs and feet, a coloured sash round their loins to hold all together, soar my boxes (all accomplished in a chorus of incredible screams) to be deposited in a two-horse fiacre which follows my landau. I am the more particular in detailing this, because I find a certain terror exists as to arriving at Constantinople. The god-like calm with which the kavass treats everyone, including myself, whom he evidently looks on as a being of an inferior order whom he is sent to convey — in the sense that a lion may take care of a poor little mouse — greatly impresses me. COMFORT OF A KAVASS CH. I 15 With the same sublime repose (all arrange ments having been made and bakshish duly dis tributed) he mounts the box of my landau, to my extreme surprise (I was prepared to give him the best place inside), and gives the signal of departure without cracking of whips or other ceremony, on the most execrable road I ever was shaken on in my life.

There are holes in Spanish highways in which a small cart could be accommodated, but in Turkey freshly split rocks are a novelty one would willingly dispense with. I pass a mosque, a real mosque, the first I have seen, of respectable proportions, but by no means lovely. Stone water troughs, as if for cattle, are placed all round, and in them pious Moslems are performing their ablutions, which apparently consist in a severe washing of head and hands. Ablution, like all other forms of religious rites, is evidently much or little in proportion to the zeal of the believer. Now we emerge in the full evening splendour of the setting sun on the great drawbridge of Galata, rough and unfinished in itself, but mar vellous in contrasts — the bridge that binds Europe with Asia, civilisation with barbarism, Christianity with Mahomedanism, the bitter hate of the past with the iron prejudices of the present — and a busy present, too, with a movement, a life, a clamour, that arouses you with a flash.

Between avenues of great steamers and ships from every country, you pass slowly — the crazy boards creaking beneath — upon a sea of waters pressing on, in front, behind, and on either hand, barges, caiques, launches, and boats shooting about in all directions. The Golden Horn is a very land of waters, dividing the city ; Stamboul on the southern side climbing a range of hills for a length of five miles, Pera and Galata on the northern, dazzling white. Beyond is a vast archipelago, bordered by the flowery shores of Scutari, and studded by those little gems, the Prince's Islands, opening into the Sea of Marmora, with a background of snow-tipped mountains over Broussa, the cradle and capital of the Turk. Asiatic Scutari, opposite, is so near that it forms in fact a quarter of the city, amphitheatred by dark woods ; innumerable white-walled mosques, kiosks, palaces, and houses clothing the heights, and fringing the shore for miles and miles, like blanched flowers on the flood.