At this point I find that the chain of my reminiscences is broken. I can no longer recollect clearly what I did and saw, nor give those long, minute descriptions which flowed so readily from my pen when writing of the earlier part of my visit. It was nothing now but a succession of hurried expeditions back and forth across the Golden Horn, and from Europe to Asia and back again, followed in the evening by visions of populous towns, throngs of people, forests, fleets, hills, all tinged with a faint touch of melancholy by the ever-present shadow of the day of departure now drawing rapidly near, as though already these sights were only memories of what had been. And yet through all the sense of hurry and confusion which the thought of those last days is sure to bring up, certain objects stand out clearly in my memory. I remember, for instance, very distinctly that beautiful morning on which I visited for the first time the greater number of the imperial mosques, and at the mere thought of it I seem instantly to find myself surrounded by an immense space and a solemn stillness. The tremendous impression made upon one’s mind by St. Sophia does not seem to detract from the effect produced by the first sight of those titanic walls. Here, as elsewhere, the religion of the conquerors has appropriated to itself the religious art of the conquered. Almost all the other mosques are built in imitation of Justinian’s great basilica, with huge domes and semi-domes, courts, and porticoes, some even having the form of a Greek cross. But Islamism has tinged everything with a light and color all its own, which, joined to these familiar features, results in an altogether different style of building, where one sees, as it were, the horizon of an unknown world and breathes the atmosphere surrounding a strange God.

These mosques have enormous naves, white, austere, majestic in their simplicity, over which a flood of soft, uniform light pours from numberless windows; every object stands out distinctly from one extremity to the other, and mind and sight seem lulled to sleep by a dreamy sense of utter peacefulness and calm, as though in some misty valley surmounted by a serene white heaven; only the reverberation of your own footsteps recalls the fact that you are in an enclosure. There is nothing to distract the mind; the imagination, spanning directly and without effort the intervening space and light, arrives at once before the object of adoration. There is nothing to suggest either melancholy or terror—no illusions, no mysteries, no shadowy corners in which the symbols of a complicated hierarchy of supernatural beings glimmer vaguely before the confused senses. There is the one clear, distinct, all-compelling idea of a sole and omnipotent God, who demands in his temple the severe nakedness of the sunlit desert, and permits no likeness or image of himself other than the sky. All the imperial mosques of Constantinople possess these common characteristics—a majesty which uplifts and a simplicity which concentrates upon one single object the mind of the worshipper, differing so little from one another, even in the matter of detail, that it is difficult to preserve any distinct recollection of them.

The Ahmediyeh has a peculiarly graceful and pleasing exterior, possessing, notwithstanding its great size, the airy lightness of a fabric built of clouds; its dome is supported on enormous white marble piers around which four small mosques could be built, and it is the only one in Stambul which can boast of the glorious girdle of six minarets. The mosque of Suleiman, more like a little sacred city than a single temple, where a stranger might readily lose his way, has three great naves, and its dome, higher than that of St. Sophia,J rests upon four marvellous columns of red granite, suggesting the trunks of those gigantic trees in California. The mosque of Muhammad is a white and radiant St. Sophia; that of Bayezid has the pre-eminence for elegance of outline; that of Osman is built entirely of marble; the Shazadeh mosque possesses the two most exquisite minarets in Stambul; that in the Ok Serai quarter is the most charming example of the renaissance of Turkish art. The Selimiyeh is the most severe, the mosque of MahmÛd the most elaborate, the ValidÉh Sultan the most ornate. Each one has some peculiar beauty of its own, or else a legend or special privilege attached to it. The Ahmediyeh guards the standard of the Prophet; the Bayezidiyeh is crowned by clouds of pigeons; the Suleimaniyeh can boast of inscriptions written by the hand of Kara Hissari; in the mosque of the ValidÉh Sultan is the imitation gold column which cost the conqueror of Candia his life. Sultan Muhammad sees, “eleven imperial mosques bow their heads around him, even as the sheafs of Joseph’s brothers bowed themselves before his sheaf.” In one may be seen the columns carried away from the imperial palace and Augusteon of Justinian which formerly supported statues of Venus, Theodora, and Eudoxia; in others are marbles from the ancient churches of Chalcedon, pillars from the ruins of Troy, columns from Egyptian temples, precious stained glass stolen from Persian palaces, building materials, the plunder of circus and forum, aqueduct and basilica, all engulfed and lost sight of in the white immensity of the religious art of the victors.

The interiors differ from one another even less than the exteriors. At the farther end is a marble pulpit, facing it, the Sultan’s seat enclosed within a gilded lattice; beside the mihrab stand two huge candelabra supporting tapers which look like the trunks of palm trees; innumerable lamps composed of large crystal globes are disposed about the nave in so singular a manner as to seem more fitting adjuncts of a grand ball than of religious solemnities. Inscriptions encircling the columns, doorways, and windows, friezes painted in imitation of marble, and floral designs executed in stained glass are the sole attempts at ornamentation which break the white monotony of those lofty walls. The marble treasures of the pavements in the vestibules, the galleries surrounding the courtyards, the ablutionary fountains, and minarets do not impair at all the character of charming yet severe simplicity which marks those great white fabrics, framed in verdure, whose lofty domes stand out clear and sparkling against the blue sky.

And, after all, the jami—that is, the mosque proper—covers only a minor part of the enclosure which goes by its name, the rest being taken up by a labyrinth of courtyards and buildings, consisting of auditoriums, where the Koran is read; treasuries, where private individuals deposit their valuables for safe-keeping; academies, medical colleges, children’s schools, quarters for students, and soup-kitchens for the poor; insane asylums, hospitals, khÂns for travellers, and baths—a little philanthropic settlement nestling at the base of the lofty temple as at that of a mountain, and shaded by mighty trees.

Now, however, all these things have faded into one another in my memory. I only see the tiny black speck of my own insignificant self wandering like a detached atom up and down those vast naves, between two lines of diminutive Turks prostrated at their devotions. As I move on, dazzled by the pervading whiteness, stupefied by the strange light, awed and subdued by the immensity around me, dragging my worn slippers—and my humbled pride as a descriptive writer as well—it seems as though one mosque melted into another, and that all around me in every direction there arose interminable ranks of roofs and pilasters, a white illimitable throng in which sight and sense are swallowed up.

My recollections of how I passed another day are full of mystery and crowded with phantom shapes. Entering the courtyard of a Mussulman private house, and descending by the light of a torch to the very lowest of a flight of damp, mouldy stairs, I found myself beneath the vaulted roof of the Yeri Betan Serai, the great cistern basilica of Constantine, whose confines, according to vulgar belief in Constantinople, are unknown; the greenish waters lose themselves in the distance beneath the black roof, lit up here and there by a vivid ray of light, which seems only to increase the horror of the surrounding darkness. The crimson flame from our torch throws a lurid glare over the arches nearest to us, falls in slanting rays upon the dripping walls, and brings into view dim, confused tiers of columns intercepting the perspective in all directions like the tree-trunks of some vast submerged forest. The imagination, drawn on in spite of itself by a sort of horrible fascination, penetrates those sepulchral galleries, hovers above the face of those gloomy waters, and finally loses itself amid the intricate windings of those endless columns. Meanwhile the dragoman is murmuring in one’s ear blood-curdling tales of adventurous persons who have embarked upon those waters and started off with the intention of exploring their farthermost limits, only to return, long hours afterward, with blanched faces and hair on end, while behind them could be heard boisterous shouts of mocking laughter and piercing shrieks, which echoed and re-echoed beneath the vaulted roof; and others, again, who never returned at all, having met their end—who knows how?—driven insane, perhaps, by terror, or possibly starved to death, or drawn by mysterious currents to some unknown abyss far away from Stambul, God only can tell where. Issuing once more into the broad, sunny light of the At-Meidan square, all these gloomy fancies at once take flight, and a few minutes later we again descend, and find ourselves surrounded by the two hundred pillars of the dry cistern of BinbÛr, where a hundred Greek silk-spinners are singing a martial song as they work in the pale, unearthly light broken by interlacing lines of arches, while from overhead comes the dull, confused rumble of a passing caravan. Then fresh air and sunlight again, followed by another plunge into semi-obscurity, more rows of columns and vaulted roofs, and the stillness of the tomb broken by far-away voices; and so on until evening—altogether a mysterious, unearthly sort of pilgrimage, which left a haunting mental impression for long after of a vast subterranean sea which, having already engulfed the Greek empire, was destined one day to draw gay, thoughtless, unheeding Stambul into its shadowy depths as well.

These depressing fancies, however, were entirely dispelled by the gay image of Skutari. Whenever we went there, embarking upon one of the crowded little steamers for the purpose, my friend and I used invariably to get into a discussion as to which ranked first in point of beauty—Skutari or the two banks of the Golden Horn. Yunk preferred the former, but I held out for Stambul. Nevertheless, Skutari captivated me by its sudden, unexpected changes of aspect: it seems to mock all those who approach it by water. From the Sea of Marmora it is only a big village scattered over a hillside; from the Golden Horn you realize that it is a town; but when the steamboat, after rounding the most advanced point on the Asiatic shore, proceeds in a straight line toward the harbor, the little town spreads out in the most astounding fashion; other hills, quite covered with buildings, come into sight, rising one behind the other; the valleys are filled with houses; villas crown the heights; the outskirts stretch away along the shore as far as the eye can reach; and you find that you are approaching a great city, which in the course of a few minutes has come into view from some obscure hiding-place, much as though a huge curtain had been rolled back, and you gaze stupidly at it, half expecting to see it disappear at any moment with the same suddenness with which it came. Landing by means of a wooden gang-plank, and amid the shouts and vociferations of boatmen, dragomen, and others with horses to hire, we mount the principal street, which winds up the hillside among yellow and red houses decked with vines and creepers, and between garden-walls, over which a mass of verdure trails and clambers: overhead tall trellisworks and lofty plane trees cast their shade, the latter so large as to sometimes nearly close the street. As we go on we pass Turkish cafÉs, before which lounges the usual crowd of Asiatic idlers, smoking, stretched out at full length, their gaze fixed on no one knows what. Then we meet a herd of goats; heavy country carts jolt slowly by, drawn by oxen with wreaths of flowers on their heads; peasants, some in fez and others in turban, pass us on the road; Mussulman funeral processions, and groups of hanums, spending the summer in their country-houses, carrying great bunches of flowers or sprays of blossoms in their hands. We seem to be in another Stambul, less mysterious, but gayer and more cheerful than she of the Seven Hills. This one is more like a great city of villas into which the country is making inroads on every side. The little back streets lined with stables rise and descend again over hill and valley, swallowed up at last by the green of park and garden. On the heights the profound peace of the country still reigns, but lower down there is all the stir and activity of a seaport town. From the huge barracks which rise here and there comes a confused sound of bugle-calls, snatches of songs, and the beating of drums, while clouds of birds fly about and settle in the quiet lanes and byways.

Following in the wake of a funeral procession, we finally leave the town, and, entering the famous cemetery, are soon lost in that vast forest of mighty cypress trees which extends in one direction toward the Sea of Marmora and in the other toward the Golden Horn, covering a large area of undulating ground. On all sides there is nothing but group on group, row on row, of glimmering white tombstones outlined against the turf and gay colors of the wild flowers, and an intricate network of footpaths winding in and out among the trunks of the trees, crowded so closely together as barely to allow any view of the horizon stretching away in a long shimmering line. We wander aimlessly among the little painted and gilded columns, some erect, others toppling over or fallen flat, and between railings of family sepulchres, mausoleums of dead pashas, rude tombstones of the poor. Here and there lie bunches of faded flowers, and sometimes, where the earth has been disturbed, the light falls upon a half-buried skull; on and on, no sound save the cooing of doves concealed overhead amid the branches of the cypress trees; and the farther we go the more does the forest seem to expand, the tombstones multiply, the paths increase in number, the shining strips of the horizon recede into the distance, and the reign of death keeps pace with us step by step, until at length, just as we begin to despair of ever finding our way out, we issue quite unexpectedly upon the wide avenue leading to the vast open plain of Haidar Pasha, where the Mussulman troops once assembled preparatory to setting out for the Asiatic wars. The view from thence, embracing the Sea of Marmora, Stambul, the mouth of the Golden Horn, Galata, and Pera, all veiled beneath the light morning mist and tinted with the colors of paradise, is so exquisitely lovely that we catch our breath with something of the same incredulous wonder with which we first beheld those shores.

Cheragan Palace.

Another morning we found ourselves seated in a tram-car between two colossal black eunuchs charged by one of Abdul Aziz’s aides-de-camp with the duty of escorting us over the imperial palace of Cheragan, situated on the Bosphorus just below Beshiktash. I recall distinctly the mingled feeling of curiosity and repulsion with which I looked out of the corner of my eye at the eunuch beside me, towering above me by nearly a head, and with one mighty hand resting open upon his knee. Every time I turned I could catch the faint perfume of essence of bergamot with which his sleek, correct court costume was scented. When the car stopped I put my hand in my pocket to draw out my purse, but the enormous hand of the eunuch closed upon my own like a steel vise, and his great eyes met mine with a warning look, as who should say, “Christian, refrain from offering me such an insult, or I will break every bone in your body.”

Alighting before a small door covered with arabesques, we entered a long corridor, where we were presently met by a party of servants in livery, who conducted us up a wide stairway leading to the royal apartments. Here, at all events, there was no need to recall historical associations in order to obtain a vivid and life-like impression. The air was still warm with the breath of the court. The wide divans covered with satin and velvet which extended along the walls were the very same upon which but a few weeks before the Sultan’s odalisques had reclined: a vague suggestion of warm, sensuous life still floated in the air. We walked through a long succession of gorgeous rooms, some decorated after the European fashion, others after the Moorish, all rich and beautiful, but possessing a sort of stately simplicity which awed us, making us talk in subdued tones, while all the time the eunuchs, muttering a string of unintelligible remarks and explanations, pointed out now a certain corner, now a doorway, with the wary gestures of those who reveal something secret and mysterious. Silken hangings, many-hued carpets, mosaic tables—rich oil paintings hung where the light could fall upon them—graceful archways of the doors, divided in the middle by little Arabian pillars, lofty candelabra—resembling crystal trees—which tinkled musically as we shook them in passing,—all these things followed so close upon one another that they became a confused medley almost as soon as seen, our minds being more intent upon visions of possible flying odalisques taken by surprise. The only thing of which I retained any distinct impression was the Sultan’s bath-room, of white marble and carved to represent stalactites, hanging flowers, lace, and delicate fretwork, all so airy and light that one feared to touch it with so much as the point of a finger for fear of its breaking. The arrangement of the rooms reminded me a little of the Alhambra. We passed through them hurriedly, noiselessly over the thick carpets, almost furtively. From time to time a eunuch would pull a cord, a green curtain would roll up, and through a wide window would be seen the Bosphorus, Asia, hundreds of vessels, floods of light; then it would all disappear, and we would be left dazed and blinded as though a lamp had been flashed in our eyes. From one window we caught sight of a little garden the high blank walls of which, as bare and forbidding-looking as those of a convent, suggested at once all sorts of fancies about beautiful women deprived of love and liberty, and then it was suddenly shut out of view by the dropping of the curtain. The rooms seemed unending, and at the sight of each new doorway we would quicken our steps, hoping this time to enter before we were expected; but all in vain: not so much as the flutter of a garment rewarded our efforts; every odalisque had vanished, and a profound and death-like stillness hung over the entire building. That rustling sound which made us turn and glance back so quickly was but the noise of the heavy brocade curtain as it fell back in place, while the silvery tinkle of the crystal candelabras mocked us by its resemblance to the light laughter of some hidden fair one.

And so at last we became utterly wearied out by this never-ending progress through the silent palace and amid that lifeless magnificence—tired of seeing the black faces of the eunuchs, the watchful, sedate crowd of servants, and our own incongruous Bohemian countenances reflected in the huge mirrors which lined the walls; and, reaching the last door almost on a run, we breathed a sigh of heartfelt satisfaction at finding ourselves once more in the open air surrounded by the miserable dwellings and ragged, clamorous population of the TopkhÂneh quarter.

EyÛb.

And can I ever forget the necropolis of EyÛb? We went there one evening at sunset, and I always think of it just as it looked at that time, lit up by the last gleams of daylight. A small kÄik landed us at the farther end of the Golden Horn, and we climbed up to the “consecrated ground” of the Osmans by a steep, narrow path lined with sepulchres. At that hour the stone-cutters who work at the tombstones during the day, making the vast cemetery resound beneath the sharp blows of their hammers, had dispersed to their homes, and the whole place was completely deserted. We moved forward circumspectly, peering cautiously around to see if we could detect the menacing form of imÂm or dervish, as the profane curiosity of a giaour is less tolerated there than in almost any other sacred spot; but, seeing neither turban nor stiff hat, we finally reached the mysterious EyÛb mosque, whose shining domes and airy minarets we had so often beheld from the hilltops of the opposite shore, as well as from every little bay and inlet in the Golden Horn. In the court, shaded by a mighty plane tree, stands the kiosk-shaped mausoleum of the famous standard-bearer of the Prophet, Abu EyÛb, perpetually lit up by a circle of lamps. He lost his life when the Arabs first besieged Byzantium, and his place of sepulture having been discovered eight centuries later by Muhammad the Conqueror, he consecrated this mosque to his memory; and it is there that each successive sultan presents himself on his accession to be girded with the sword of Osman. It is considered the most sacred mosque in Constantinople, just as the cemetery which surrounds it is more highly revered than any other. In the shade of the great trees which surround the mosque stand tÜrbehs of sultanas, viziers, and distinguished officials of the court, encircled by flowers, gorgeous with marbles and gilt arabesques, and covered with pompous inscriptions. On one side is the small mortuary temple of the muftis, surmounted by an octagonal dome, beneath which repose the bodies of great ecclesiastics in enormous catafalques ornamented with huge muslin turbans. It is a city of tombs, white, shaded, whose sedate beauty combines a religious melancholy with a breath of worldliness, like a very aristocratic neighborhood whose well-bred quiet proceeds from pride. The paths run between white walls and graceful railings, over which vines trail and clamber from the little gardens surrounding the graves; acacia trees stretch forth their branches to meet and mingle overhead with those of oak and myrtle, and through the gilded latticework of the arched windows of the tÜrbehs may be seen, in the dim, soft light within, marble mausoleums tinged with green from the reflections of the trees. In no other place in Stambul is seen to such advantage the Mussulman art of rendering the idea of death agreeable and robbing it of all its terrors. It is at once a necropolis, a royal dwelling-place, a garden, a pantheon, full of gentle melancholy and charm, and simultaneously with the prayer which rises to your lips there comes a smile. On all sides extends the cemetery, shaded by the hundred-year-old cypresses, crossed by winding paths, white with innumerable tombstones, which seem to be hurrying down the hillside to dip themselves in the sparkling water or pressing forward curiously to the pathways to watch the passage of phantom shapes. And from any number of secluded little nooks, through the spreading branches of the trees, confused glimpses are caught—far off to the right—of Stambul, looking like a succession of blue towns detached from one another; and below—the Golden Horn, reflecting the last rays of the sun, while opposite lie SudlujÈ, Kaliji Oghlu, Piri Pasha, Haskeni; and beyond—the large district of Kassim and the vague profile of Galata, fading away in the wonderful blending of soft, tremulous tints which hardly seem as though they belonged to this world.

The Janissary Museum.

All these impressions have been temporarily effaced, and I find myself marching through a long suite of bare rooms between two rows of immovable, staring figures, which are like those of so many corpses fastened upright against the walls. I never remember to have experienced so decided a feeling of shrinking anywhere else, unless it was in the last room of Mme. Tussaud’s exhibition in London, where, in the somewhat subdued light, you are confronted with the life-like presentments of all of England’s most notorious criminals. This, however, is like a museum of spectres, or rather like an open sepulchre in which you behold the mummified forms of all the most famous personages of that magnificent, savage, ferocious Turkey which no longer exists, save in the memory of a few old men or the imaginative brain of some poet. There are a hundred large wooden figures colored like life and clad in various styles of ancient costume, standing erect in stiff, haughty attitudes, with heads thrown back and blank staring eyes, and hands resting upon their sword-hilts, as though only awaiting the word to draw and begin shedding human blood, just as in the good old times. First, there is the household of the PÂdishah—the chief eunuch and grand vizier, the muftis, chamberlains, and head officials—wearing turbans upon their heads of every color, pyramidal, round, square, huge, exaggerated; long caftans of every conceivable hue, made out of brocade and covered with embroidery; tunics of white or crimson silk, bound about the waist with Cashmere scarfs; gold-embroidered waistcoats, the breasts all glittering with gold and silver medals; and magnificent armor—two long, spectral files, at once fantastic and gorgeous, from which a pretty fair idea may be obtained of the character of the ancient Ottoman court with its savage pomp and haughty pride. Next come the pages bearing the PÂdishah’s furs, his turbans, stool, and sword; then the guards of the gardens and gates, the Sultan’s guard, and the white and black eunuchs, with faces like Magi or idols, glittering, plumed, their heads covered with Persian fur, or wearing metal helmets or purple caps, or odd-looking turbans shaped like crescents, cones, and reversed pyramids: they are armed with steel clubs, murderous-looking daggers, and whips, like a band of cut-throats and assassins. One regards you with a look of suspicious contempt; another grinds his teeth; another gazes straight ahead of him, with eyes grown callous from the sight of blood; while a fourth wears upon his lips a smile that is truly devilish. After these follows the corps of the Janissaries, accompanied by its patron saint, Emin Baba, an emaciated individual clad in a white tunic, and officers of every grade, each personating some office connected with the kitchen: all the ranks of the soldiers are represented, wearing the various uniforms and emblems of that insolent corps which finally met its end under the grape-shot of MahmÛd. The childishness, at once grotesque and puerile, of these costumes, combined with the ferocious memories they evoke, produces the impression of a savage Carnival. No artist, however unbridled his imagination might be, could ever succeed in portraying such a mad confusion of royal costumes, ecclesiastical vestments, and garments suitable for brigands and buffoons. The “water-carriers,” the “soup-makers,” the “chief cooks,” the “head of the scullions,” soldiers to whom were assigned all sorts of special duties, succeed one another in long lines, with brushes and ladles fastened to their turbans, bells hung from their tunics, carrying leather bottles and the famous kettles which sounded the signal for revolt, clad in large fur caps and long cloaks falling from neck to heels like magicians’ mantles, with their wide belts made of round disks of engraved metal, their huge sabres, their fishy eyes, their enormous chests, and faces set in every variety of derision, menace, and insult. Last of all come the Seraglio mutes, silken noose in hand, and the dwarfs and buffoons, with cunning, spiteful faces, and mock crowns on their heads.

The great glass cases in which all these worthies are enclosed lend something of the look of an anatomical museum to the place, and increase their likeness to mummified human beings, so that from time to time you are conscious of a disagreeable creeping sensation down your backbone, or feel as though you might just have passed through a room of the Old Seraglio in the presence of the entire court whom some threatening outburst from the PÂdishah has frozen stiff with terror. When you at last come out upon the square of the At-Meidan, and your eye falls upon pashas clad all in sombre black, and nizams modestly attired in the uniform of zouaves, oh how gentle, amiable, almost timid, does the Turk of our day and generation appear!

An irresistible attraction calls me back once more among the tombs: this time it is those numberless imperial tÜrbehs scattered throughout the Turkish city, those charming examples of the Mussulman’s art and philosophy, which occupy so conspicuous a place in our recollections of the East. By means of a firman we gained admission, first of all, to the tÜrbeh of MahmÛd the Reformer, which stands in a garden full of roses and jasmine not far from the At-Meidan. It is a beautiful circular building of white marble, whose leaden dome is supported upon Ionic pilasters:K there are seven windows, furnished with gilded gratings, some of which overlook one of the principal streets of Stambul. Inside, the walls are ornamented with bas-reliefs and covered with silken and brocade hangings. In the centre stands the tomb, covered with costly Persian shawls, and lying on it is the imperial fez, emblem of reform, with its plume and diamond aigrette, and within the enclosure, which is surrounded by a graceful railing inlaid with mother-of-pearl, are placed four massive silver candlesticks. The tombs of seven sultans stand along the walls; costly rugs and carpets of many hues cover the pavement; and here and there rare MSS. copies of the Koran with gold lettering lie upon rich reading-desks. A silver case contains a curiosity connected with MahmÛd’s youth, which he directed should be placed on his tomb at his death. It consists of a long strip of muslin covered with minute Arabian characters, extracts from the Koran, which with infinite patience the Sultan traced when he was confined as a prisoner in the Old Seraglio before his accession. From the interior of the tÜrbeh glimpses are caught through the window gratings of branches of trees without, the scent of roses pours in, and the little building is filled with light and the stir and movement of the city, as though it were an open gallery. Women and children pause as they go by to look through the windows and murmur a prayer. There is something primitive and very sweet about it all that touches the heart, as though, not the skeleton, but the soul of the dead sultan lay within those walls, listening to his people who greet him in passing; in dying he has merely exchanged his kiosk in the Seraglio for this one, which is no less cheerful than the other; he is still in the sunlight, in the noise and bustle of Stambul; still among his children—nearer to them, indeed, than before; just on the edge of life and in sight of all; still exhibiting before their eyes his plume glittering as it was ever wont to do when he appeared before them, glowing with life and magnificence, on his way to the mosque to pray for the prosperity of the empire. And it is the same with all the other tÜrbehs—that of Ahmed, of Bayezid (whose head rests upon a brick made of the dust collected from his clothing and slippers), of Suleiman, of Mustafa, and Selim III., of Abdul-Hamid, and of Roxalana: they are small temples whose pillars are of white marble and porphyry, and which glitter with amber and mother-of-pearl. Some of them have openings in the roof through which the rain falls upon the flowers and turf which surround the tombs, all hung with lace and velvet; ostrich eggs and gilded lamps hang from the roofs, lighting up the tombs of the various princes which encircle the paternal sarcophagus, and on them are exposed the handkerchiefs which were used to strangle infants and little children, possibly with a view to impressing upon the minds of the faithful, together with a natural sense of pity for the victims, the fatal necessity for such crimes. I well remember how I, myself, by force of constantly picturing such deaths as these, began at last to be conscious of a certain acquiescence, in my own mind, with the iniquitous reasons of state which sanctioned them—how by dint of seeing ever before me in mosques and fountains and tÜrbehs, and under every conceivable form, the glorification and worship of one man, of one absolute and supreme power, something within me too began to yield itself up to that power; and how, at last, after wandering very frequently in the shaded cemeteries and fixing my attention for long periods on tombs and sepulchres, I came to regard death in a new and much more tranquil light, to experience a certain indifference toward life, and to drift half unconsciously into a state of sluggish philosophy and vague indifference, in which the highest good seemed to consist in dreaming away one’s life, allowing what is written to be accomplished without let or hindrance. And thus it came about that I found myself, quite unexpectedly, seized with a feeling of weariness and aversion when, in the midst of these peaceful reveries, something would recall to my mind our toiling cities, our dark churches, and walled and dreary cemeteries.

The Dervishes.

I am reminded, too, of the dervishes when I recall those last days.

The Mevlevi—or dancing dervishes (the most celebrated of the thirty-two orders)—have a well-known fekkeh on the Grande Rue de Pera. We proceeded thither prepared to behold rapt, saintly countenances lit up by celestial visions. But our minds were quickly disabused of all such ideas. Alas! among dervishes as well the flame of faith “laps a dry wick,” and the celebrated holy dance appeared to me to be nothing more than a cold and formal theatrical performance. It is unquestionably both curious and interesting to watch them as they enter the circular mosque in single file, each one enveloped in a long dark mantle, with arms concealed and head bowed, to an accompaniment of savage music, monotonous and sweet, which resembles the sound made by the wind among the cypress trees of the Skutari cemetery, soothing one into a sort of waking slumber. And when they begin to turn, prostrating themselves two by two before the mihrab with dreamy, languid movements which arouse sudden doubts as to their sex: there is something fascinating too in the way in which, with a sudden rapid movement, they fling aside their cloaks and appear all in white, with long woollen skirts, and, opening their arms with an amorous gesture and inclining their heads to one side, abandon themselves one after another to the evolutions of the dance, as though pushed forward by an invisible hand, and when they all whirl around in the centre of the mosque together and at equal distances from one another, without diverging from their respective posts by so much as a hair’s breadth, as though each one were on a pivot, white, rapid, light, with waving, inflated skirts and half-closed eyes; and when with a sudden simultaneous movement, as though overpowered by some superhuman vision, they cast themselves upon the ground with a thundering cry of “Allah!” or when, commencing again, they bend low and kiss one another’s hands, then circle around once more, close to the wall, with a light, tripping step, between walking and dancing,—all of this, I acknowledge, makes a beautiful and entertaining performance, but the ecstasies, the transports, the transfigured faces, seen and described by so many enthusiastic travellers, I failed to discover. All I saw was a number of extraordinarily agile and indefatigable dancers, who went through their task with the most utter indifference, sometimes even with suppressed smiles. One young dervish was manifestly pleased at finding himself observed by an English girl in the gallery just opposite him, and I detected more than one in an attempt to bite instead of kiss his neighbor’s proffered hand, the other retaliating with a sharp pinch—the hypocrites! What struck me most was that every one of those men—and they were of all ages and conditions—possessed a grace and elegance of movement and pose which might well arouse envy in the breasts of many of the frequenters of our ball-rooms, and which I take to be a natural attribute of the Oriental races, due, no doubt, to certain peculiarities in their structure and build. I had an opportunity of observing this still more closely on another occasion, when I visited one of them in his cell just at the hour when he was preparing to take part in the dance. He was a tall, slender youth, with a beardless and somewhat effeminate face: when we entered he was standing before a mirror in the act of fastening on his white cassock. Greeting us with a smiling glance, he continued his toilet, passing his hand lightly over his slim figure, adjusting rapidly, but at the same time tastefully and with the sure eye of an artist, all the various parts of his costume, just as a lady gives the finishing touches to her dress; and, really seen from behind with his trailing gown, he did look very much indeed like a pretty slip of a girl who, all dressed for the ball, gazes in the mirror to judge of the effect. And he was—a monk!

But among all my last memories there are none so beautiful as those of the summit of Mount Chamlejah, which rises up above Skutari. It was there that I gave Constantinople my final greeting, and, as it was the last, so was it also the most superb of all my great visions of the metropolis. We crossed ever to Skutari at daybreak one foggy morning: when we arrived at the top of the mountain the fog was still there, and, though the appearance of the sky gave promise of a clear day, everything below us was hidden. It was an extraordinary sight. An immense gray curtain was spread between us and Skutari, the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, all of Constantinople, completely concealing them, just as though the great city with its harbors and outskirts had been blotted out of existence. It was like an ocean of mist, from out of which the summit of Chamlejah arose like a lonely island. As we gazed down at the gray sea at our feet we pretended that we were two poor pilgrims from the interior of Asia Minor, who, having reached that spot before daybreak, were looking at the mist below them without any idea that it covered the mighty metropolis of the Ottoman empire; and then we amused ourselves greatly by picturing what their growing sensations of wonder and bewilderment would have been as, little by little, the rising sun rolled back the veil and exposed the marvellous and unlooked-for spectacle to view. The thick clouds began to break away at various points at the same moment; here and there on the great gray surface little groups of houses appeared like tiny islands—an archipelago of small towns, floating in the mist and scattered far away from one another. These were the peaks of Stambul’s seven hills, the heights of Pera, the highest villages along the European shore of the Bosphorus, the crest of Kassim Pasha, a confused suggestion of the more distant suburbs along the Golden Horn near EyÛb and Haskeui—twenty little Constantinoples, rosy, airy, bristling with innumerable white, green, and silver points. Then each began to grow larger and larger, as though slowly arising from that vaporous sea, and on all sides thousands of roofs, domes, towers, and minarets floated gayly into sight, crowding close together or chasing after one another as though each were skurrying to take his place before being caught by the sun. Already Skutari lay exposed to view, as well as nearly all of Stambul; on the other bank of the Golden Horn we could see the higher parts of all those outskirts which stretch from Galata to the Sweet Waters; and on the European shore of the Bosphorus, TopkÂneh, Fundukli, DolmabÂghcheh, Beshiktash, and so on, as far as the eye could reach, village after village, great tiers of buildings, and still more distant towns, of which only the roofs could be seen, bathed in a soft pink glow. But the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus, the sea were still invisible. Our two pilgrims would have been completely puzzled: apparently it was an immense city built above two deep valleys, perpetually enveloped in fog, one opening into the other; and they might well have wondered what those two mysterious abysses could possibly contain. But, behold! Yet a few moments and the dull gray of the remaining clouds begins to melt into blue; then a shimmer appears. Water? a bay? No, a strait, a sea, two seas! All of Constantinople at length stands forth revealed, bathed in light, framed in blue and green, looking as though she might just have left the hands of the Creator. Oh the beautiful vision! What avails it that we have already gazed enraptured upon you from a hundred different heights, examined your every minutest detail, and given voice over and over again to our wonder and admiration? Once more we must engage in the vain struggle to express our sense of your all-inexpressible loveliness; and this time it is with the knowledge that yet a few short days and you are destined to fade for ever from our eyes, henceforth to be only a vague, confused memory; the veil of mist will settle down, to lift again no more for ever; the moment of parting is at hand. I know not why, but it is as though we were going into exile, and the horizon of our lives seems to grow indistinct.

And yet even in Constantinople, and when there are only a few days left, one is sometimes bored. The mind, completely wearied out, refuses to receive any more new impressions. We would cross the bridge without turning our heads: everything seemed to be the same color; we wandered aimlessly about, yawning and uninterested like a couple of idle vagabonds; spent hour after hour sitting in front of a Turkish cafÉ staring at the ground, or lounging at the hotel windows watching the cats climb over the opposite roofs. We were satiated with the Orient, and felt within us a growing desire for work and activity.

Then came two days of steady rain. Constantinople became one huge mud-puddle and turned gray all over. That was the final stroke. We plunged head foremost into outrageously bad humors, abused the whole place, grew rude and stupid, and assumed no end of conceited European airs. Who on the day of our arrival would ever have imagined such a condition of things? And to think of the lengths to which it carried us!—actually to the point of holding high festival on the day when we came out of the Austrian Lloyds with a couple of tickets for Varna and the Danube in our pockets! But there was one feature that dampened our rejoicings, and that was the approaching parting from our kind friends in Pera, with whom we passed all our last evenings in the most cordial and friendly fashion. How depressing this everlasting saying good-bye becomes—this continual breaking of pleasant ties, and leaving a fragment of one’s heart wherever one may go! Is there nowhere to be found on the surface of the earth a magic wand by whose aid I shall one day be enabled, at a given moment, to assemble around some well-spread board all my friends scattered at present over the surface of the globe—you, Santoro, from Constantinople; you, Selam, from the coast of Africa; and Ten Brink from the dunes of Holland; and Segovia from the Guadalquivir; and Saavedra from the banks of the Thames—that I may tell you how ever-present you all are in my thoughts and in my heart? Alas! the wand is not yet found, and in the mean time the years go by and one’s dreams fade away.