who have been unlading the merchant vessels at Galata, ascend the hill with burdens of every weight and variety. One old man we met had on his back a basket containing two live sheep. Others are coming down with merchandise to be embarked; lanes, dignified by the name of markets, run off from the principal street, each excelling the other in filth and confusion, when suddenly a large open space is gained, and, as if by magic, the eye rests upon as lovely a view as can well be imagined. The open space leads to the bridge of boats which crosses the Golden Horn between Galata and Stamboul. The bridge itself, like almost everything in Constantinople, is in a state of decay. Originally, there were three of these bridges, but about two years ago one of them fell in ; not the slightest attempt has since been made to restore it. Its remains still stick up out of the water, and unless the Galata bridge meet with better treatment than it now enjoys, it has every prospect of a similar fate at no very distant period. But the view from it is perfect: in front rise the mosques and minarets of Stamboul, relieved in their glittering whiteness by the heavy masses of cypress-trees which surround them. To the left of Seraglio Point lies the hill on which Scutari is built; and to the right, as far as one can see, the old town of Stamboul stretches out, its tumble-down wooden houses softened and made picturesque in the distance, and in the peculiar and ever-varying light by which they are illumined. Through all this runs the bright Bosphorus, covered with men-of-war and merchant ships from all countries, while the gay caiques flutter amid their giant brethren like butterflies on the sunny waters. There are now several small steamers, all bearing English names upon their machinery, which ply to different villages on the Bosphorus, and also to the Prince's Isles in the Sea of Marmora; these are great places of resort by the fashionables of Constantinople, many of whom have country houses in them.

On Saturday and Sunday, Prenkipo, the largest of these islands, of which there are nine, becomes a sort of Vauxhall on a large scale; coffeehouses are filled to overflowing; Greek girls in their gayest attire, and as bright and pretty as their dresses, sit about eating ices and listening to music, and to the soft nonsense of their admirers, who, in the evening, let off blue-lights and other fireworks for the amusement of these fair damsels.

The confusion attending the embarkation and disembarkation on these steamers beats anything I ever witnessed: the passengers appear to have no idea at what time any steamer is to start; they will sit upon the bridge in groups, seldom speaking to each other, for an hour or more, apparently making no inquiries, when suddenly something, perfectly unintelligible to a European, for there is no bell, and the steam has gone on puffing from the chimney all the time-something, however, gives them an idea that the time for departure has arrived, and then they swarm on board like bees; they cover every part of the vessel; some few go across the narrow plank provided for them, but many more swing themselves from the bridge; others clamber up the sides of the vessel out of the caiques which cluster round her; a cloud of black smoke rises, and the steamer, with its freight of dirty blue coats and red fezzes, simmers away, avoiding, it seems, almost by a miracle, the destruction of these delicate boats

by which it is surrounded. At the entrance of the bridge there is a tollhouse, at which we saw the poorer-looking Turks each deposit some small coin; we were surprised at being allowed to pass free, but were afterwards told that any one holding office paid no toll, and that as all Europeans were supposed to be on this account exempt, a payment was never demanded of them.

The Stamboul end of the bridge is near the road leading to the great bazaars, and abounds with Turkish boys anxious to act as cicerones. They addressed me in wonderfully good English, calling me "Missus Johnny," and offered to take me all over the bazaar for what they themselves called a "fourpenny bit." We engaged an intelligent Turkish boy, who spoke both French and English, as our guide and interpreter; and after about half an hour's walk through the streets of Stamboul, which are certainly cleaner and more level than those of Pera or Galata, we found ourselves at that entrance of the bazaar which is devoted to the sale of Manchester goods.

After all that has been written in admiration of the bazaars of Constantinople, it may seem bold in me to say that I was disappointed with them; perhaps I should rather say in the wares exposed for sale than in the bazaars themselves. These rows of covered stalls extend over some miles of ground, and give one more the idea of booths at a fair than anything else; each arcade is devoted to its particular kind of merchandise; a view taken from any particular point is rich and effective, from the bright colours of the wares exhibited, the curious old architecture of the roofs and walls of the bazaars, and the picturesque groups with which they are crowded, but a nearer inspection is disappointing; whatever may be procurable, little that is magnificent is exhibited, and those who wish to purchase anything really valuable must penetrate beyond the open shop into a sanctum of treasures, where they will be expected to drink coffee, smoke, and bargain with the proprietor for an hour at least before they will obtain what they desire. One had heard so much of the indolence and indifference of the Turkish salesmen, that I was quite surprised to be assailed on all sides with, "Johnny, what Fine bracelet, wish? you Johnny-good attar!" The apprentices of Eastcheap, in the olden time, could scarcely have been more anxious to dispose of their wares than are the Turks in those parts of the bazaars allotted to the sale of such things as were probably most in request by our countrymen on their way home after the war, such as slippers, mirrors, table-covers, &c. In the armour bazaar, the spice bazaar, the Tusuk bazaar (where the books are written, illuminated, and sold), and others, grave old Turks, generally in flowing white robes, and with long beards and prodigious turbans, sit in solemn grandeur, and look as if nothing so common as a question of buying and selling would disturb their repose. A more modern part of the bazaar, called the "Sultan's Bazaar," is very elegant; the roof, which is of glass, is supported by light pillars and arches; it is well paved with grey and white marble, and has shops on each side, much like those in a London arcade, and inhabited principally by Frenchmen. There are thoroughfares for horses and carriages through all the bazaars, but I saw very few of either; the principal customers are ladies, groups of whom, muffled up in their ferigees, and always with a black slave in

attendance, stand at the gay stalls, and seem to have as great pleasure in "driving a bargain" as their sisters in any other part of the world. Time was when they are said to have evinced their dislike to an Englishwoman in no very feminine manner, but whether they have become more accustomed to the sight of us within the last two years, or from some other cause, they certainly displayed no ill-nature to me; many of them came up to me and stroked my dress, smiling and nodding, as if in approbation of its texture. I did not see any stalls for the sale of eatables, but men walk about the bazaars with round trays, selling grapes, ices, and delicate-looking puddings in little basins; while, in a corner, a row of tumblers or else of bright brass cups, in front of a large lump of ice, tell you that for half a piastre you may obtain a delicious glass of sherbet (anglicè, lemonade), which, poured dexterously over the ice into the tumber, is most refreshing. With the Turks, the plan of asking two or three times as much money as they intend to take still continues in full force, but we did not find this the case with the Persians; they name their price, and if less is offered, gravely shake their head, and withdraw their goods until you give them what they ask; while the Turk, always offered half, and sometimes a third, of what he demands, though he refuses at first, and will let you walk away from his stall, calls you back, with "Well, Johnny, show your money!" and then gladly receives what you have offered, quite indifferent as to whether you pay him in English or in Turkish coin.

Having letters and presents from English friends to a Greek family living at Kadikoi, a village on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, we walked down to Tophanah, intending there to engage a caique to take us across. We passed through a street devoted to pipe-making, where this universal piece of Turkish property is seen in every stage of its manufacture, from the lump of red clay and long unshapen cherry-stick, to the perfect narghilly, ready to issue from the mouths of the faithful. The whole process is carried on in open shops without windows; and in front of those where the raw material has grown into the finished pipe, Turks are seen sitting on low stools, and carrying out the intention of the manufacturer by smoking his productions upon the spot. A little farther on is a meat market, and close to this is a small mosque, through the court-yard of which we passed. In the centre was a fountain, surrounded by Turks, who were diligently performing their ablutions before entering on their devotions. Some were prostrating themselves on mats outside the door, others were doing the same within, while in the court-yard business was actively carried on. Here were numerous letter-writers, in their large turbans and flowing robes. Here, too, were the money-changers, with heaps of piastres and other coin, besides those who kept the stalls overlaid with the tesbehs or chaplets, numbers of which, like the rosaries near the Roman Catholic churches, are always for sale by the Turkish mosques. In a corner of the court-yard was a small house, with windows open on every side, in which sat a solemnlooking personage under a clock bearing the name of "Gibbon, London." He, we found, was one of the time-keepers of Constantinople-an office requiring no little attention, for the time changes with each day's sunset. It is then always twelve o'clock. As the sun sinks beneath the horizon,

the cry of the muezzin is heard from the minarets, and the hands of every clock-of which there are but two or three in Constantinople-are made to point to twelve. Reaching Tophanah we went towards the landing-place, through a kind of market, where kebobs, tomatoes with rice, and other savoury dishes, were cooking, in large brass basins, over a charcoal fire; and, passing amidst a large collection of horses ready saddled, whose leaders anxiously invited "Johnny" to take " some pony -some good pony," we found ourselves surrounded by a no less anxious set of applicants, the owners of the caiques. Having, with the aid of a servant from Messeri's, and an old Turk who exercised a sort of authority over the boatmen, and who of course demanded backsheesh for his assistance, selected a caique, and made an arrangement as to the fare, we seated ourselves with some caution on the cushions at the bottom of the boat, while our picturesque rowers, in shirts and full drawers of white muslin, managed, with no little dexterity, to back us out of the crowd of caiques by which we were surrounded. It would be difficult to imagine anything more luxurious than a voyage on a fine day in a good caique: well stuffed cushions are provided to sit upon and to support the back, the boat speeds rapidly through the bright blue water with a kind of dancing motion, as if in very gladness, the air is light and fresh, and the scenery only too lovely to be described. As we neared the Asiatic shore we saw a large plain covered with tents. This was not, as we supposed, an encampment of soldiers, but of the inhabitants of the village of Kadikoi, the greater portion of which had lately been destroyed by fire. Of this, on landing, we had unpleasing evidence in the heaps of brick rubbish, charred wood, and sand, over which we had to scramble on our way to the house we sought. Workmen were busily employed in rebuilding the houses, and appeared to be substituting brick for the wood of which they had before been constructed, so that eventually the inhabitants would benefit by the fire which had nearly destroyed their village. We reached the house of M. Ralli, and found his wife-a very pretty Greek, who spoke French-at home. The house stood in a large and beautiful garden, and commanded from the verandahs a fine view of Constantinople and the Sea of Marmora. After presenting our letters and presents, we were detained by the entrance of a Greek servant-girl, bearing a silver tray, covered with sweetmeats and with bottles of brandy and iced water. The number of spoons and silver cups to be used in partaking of these delicacies puzzled me much, and I got through the ceremony with an uncomfortable feeling that I had been at last unsuccessful in my attempt to eat Greek sweetmeats "à la Grecque." Crossing the Bosphorus again, we enjoyed the lovely view of Constantinople in the rosy light of the setting sun; but perhaps the city was seldom seen under an aspect of more beauty than during the night of this day, when illumined by vivid flashes of lightning: every minaret point, every mosque and cypress-grove, shone out for one moment, to be buried the next in complete darkness, and then again appear in all its brightness, like a young coquette playing at hide-and-seek with her lovers.

A few days after we started, with other friends, from Messeri's, in two caiques for Scutari, and passing the Leander, or Maiden Tower (why so called no one seems to know), which rises from a rock in the sea a little

On

to the west of Scutari, we landed amidst a crowd of caique rowers, or caiquejees, grape and melon-sellers, and horse-holders, who, as usual, anxiously begged us to mount their "ponies." We toiled up the steep, ill-paved town, till we reached the convent of the Rufai, or howling dervishes, who, on a Thursday, perform their religious exercises in public. Finding they would not begin for nearly three hours, we went on towards the large cemetery of Scutari, which, planted thickly with cypress-trees, formed a pleasant retreat from the great heat of the mid-day sun. our road to it we were struck with the number of houses that had private burial-grounds attached to them; there were few without a little garden in front containing six or eight tombstones. As long as these cover the remains of those loved while on earth, the idea of keeping them near one even in death is pleasing, but one cannot quite fancy taking the lease of a house with the graves of some dozen strangers close to one's breakfast-room window included in the bargain.

The cemetery at Scutari is very large, and has a good carriage-road and wide footpaths through the centre of it. When compared with the cemeteries at Constantinople, it may be said to be in a tolerably good condition, for nothing can exceed the miserable state of these Turkish grave-grounds. The Petit Champ des Morts in Pera is, perhaps, as painful a specimen of a public cemetery as can well be imagined: it is of great extent and unenclosed; scarcely a tombstone in it remains unbroken; the turbans which originally surmounted them are either gone altogether, or are rolled about as playthings by the dirty children, who, with dogs and fowls, contest now the possession of the place. At Scutari the cemetery is better kept, though even here many of the gravestones lie broken and defaced upon the ground. Those still standing are beautifully carved with inscriptions and devices, and painted in gold and bright colours. In most of them there is a small cavity, generally full of water; this, we were told, is an old Moslem custom of providing water for the birds, of which there are multitudes in the cypress-trees of these vast cemeteries. Beyond the cemetery at Scutari is a large plain, on which stand the two barracks given up during the war as hospitals for our wounded soldiers; they are now again restored to their original purpose, and are full of Turkish soldiers. At the edge of this plain, on a cliff overhanging the sea, is a portion of ground railed in as a graveyard for those English who died at Scutari in 1854-5. Most lovely is its position the beautiful hills of Bulgarlu rise behind as if to defend it on the land side, while in front, at the base of the cliff, is the sunny Sea of Marmora. No habitation is near; our countrymen and women sleep alone in the strange land, and, as yet, their graves are undisturbed. The white marble monument to Lord Chewton ; the mound, with its headstone inscribed with the names of many brave soldiers lying there together; and the simple tablet which tells of the poor nurse who sank, after long and devoted exertion, all now remain as we should wish to see them. But how short a time this is likely to be the case we had reason to fear from finding already on two or three of the tombstones carpets spread as beds for Turks who had crept into the graveyard. After gathering a few wild flowers, which grow luxuriantly amid the graves, we returned to the convent of the howling dervishes at Scutari. We were led into a small