Shortly before our departure from Constantinople, we were so fortunate as to assist at a very grand Turkish breakfast. It was given by A—— Pasha in honour of the brother of the Viceroy, and to it were invited the principal members of the foreign embassies and legations, the Turkish ministers, Lord S——, and our humble selves.

The banquet was to take place in a lovely kiosk belonging to A—— Pasha, at Anokoi, a village on the Bosphorus, between Therapia and Pera.

As the English ambassador’s state caÏque passed the different military stations on its way down the Bosphorus, the drums beat, and the guard turned out to do honour to the great man; a proceeding far more agreeable to us spectators than to the attachÉ, who, having been “told off” for the purpose, was placed in a prominent part of the boat, that he might perpetually take off his hat in answer to the incessant salutes.

On arriving at Anokoi, we found the landing-place beautifully arranged with awnings, carpets, and flags. Gaily-decorated arabas also were in waiting to convey the guests to the top of the hill on which the kiosk stands.

The road was steep and dusty, and the day was hot, so that we were not sorry to arrive at our destination; but had the way been twice as steep, and even if we had had to ascend it on foot, it would have been worth the climb to see the magnificent view. The kiosk was built on the edge of a rocky but wooded bank hanging over the Bosphorus, and being thus on nearly the highest point near Constantinople, an exquisite panorama of sea and land was stretched before us, bounded only on one side by the lovely blue outline of Olympus, on the other by the expanse of misty grey that marked the Black Sea.

Our host, A—— Pasha, a specimen of the accomplished modern Turkish gentleman, met us at the entrance of the garden. Besides being very good-looking and agreeable, he speaks French admirably well, having been minister and ambassador at several foreign courts. This was, in fact, a farewell entertainment, as he was soon leaving Constantinople for the post to which he had just been nominated.

The banqueting-room was a large and lofty hall, beautifully painted in the Munich fashion, and handsomely furnished with satin hangings and curtains, abundantly supplied with Parisian couches, chairs, and lounges.

The table was adorned with a profusion of gold and silver plate, interspersed with groups of flowers very artistically arranged.

The dÉjeÛner was excellent, but immensely long, for after the cinnamon, vegetable, white, and other soups, came an apparently endless procession of meats, boiled, baked, roasted, and stewed. There were whole animals and minced ones, also chickens and other poultry, stewed with pistachios and olives, fish rolled into balls and cooked with raisins, little birds wrapped in leaves, rice in many ways, pillau, caviare, fish known and unknown, innumerable vegetables and cheeses, and upwards of twenty sorts of sweets. The cookery was very good, though some of the dishes were overabundantly spiced for a Western palate.

The pastry was admirable, and the conserves quite the perfection of culinary art, for not only were the fruit and flowers excellent to eat, but they were beautiful to look at, the orange-flowers, rose-buds, and violets retaining their shape and colour as well as their flavour. The Armenians, who are the principal confectioners, jealously guard their most celebrated recipes, that descend in many families as precious heirlooms from father to son.

I was so fortunate as to be seated next a diplomat who thoroughly understands and appreciates both Turkish and French cookery in all their minutest branches. He was kind enough to superintend my dinner, and an admirable selection he made, though at the same time it must be confessed that he seasoned the “plats” by such brilliant conversation that the contents of the plate before me were often unnoticed.

To eat of such an army of dishes was impossible; some of the unlearned attempted it, not knowing, luckless creatures, what was before them, but broke down early in the day, and were “nowhere” when the fruit came. This was really a loss, for a murmur of admiration passed round the table, even the most trained and hardened old gourmands not being able to refrain from praise when the immense piles of fruit, in the perfection of their delicate beauty, were brought in—grapes, pines, peaches, apricots, figs, pomegranates, Japanese medlars, dates, almonds, nectarines, melons, citrons, oranges, sweet lemons—it is impossible to recollect even the names, but each fruit was so beautiful that an artist would have said it was a picture. However, its fair loveliness did not preserve it from being eaten, for Constantinople is a climate which makes fruit a necessary of life; without it one would really have fever.

There were two bands, one instrumental and one vocal, that performed alternately during breakfast. The voices in the latter were not bad, though rather nasal, but the pieces they sang were pitched too high, and in consequence sounded monotonous and strained. The instrumental music was infinitely better. There were some Wallachian gipsy airs which were perfectly charming. Wild and mournful, like most national music, they were full of character, and every now and then a tender melody broke forth that was inexpressibly touching.

A—— Pasha was so kind as to send us the next day the music of those we most admired, but without the wild, savage clang of Eastern instruments they lose much of their effect.

When the breakfast was at length over, we all adjourned to the garden, where sofas and chairs had been placed in the shade, round a small fountain.

Coffee and pipes were brought, and very merry and amusing was the talk.

Certainly the Ottomans are moving onwards with the times. A hundred years ago who would have supposed that a grave Turk would have been entertaining, not only Christians, but Christian women, and also devoting himself to them with an attention and kindness worthy of the most “preux chevalier” in Christendom?

Rich and luxurious as had been the entertainment, the arrival of the pipes formed the culminating point of magnificence.

Many of them were so encrusted with jewels that it was difficult to form any estimate as to their value. The pieces of amber of which they were made were almost priceless, both for their size and the delicacy of their tint. Yellow amber should be of the palest primrose hue, but there is another shade that is now much prized, namely, the black amber. This is exceedingly rare, and of course, therefore, exceedingly costly.

The pasha was kind enough to give us a piece when he paid his last farewell visit the day before we left the Bosphorus. Most of our kind friends came on board the yacht that day to wish us good-bye and God speed, for at dawn the next day we were to sail for the Crimea, and to judge by the stories that have been poured into our ears for some weeks past, the perils of the Black Sea for a sailing vessel must not only be very numerous, but very extraordinary.

Unluckily the only “detaining” result has been that our maid has taken fright, and resolutely refuses to leave Constantinople. She says that, though devotedly attached to us, she does not think it right to put herself to death for anybody, especially as she has an old mother dependent upon her. She proposes, however, to return to us should we come back alive, which with tears in her eyes she declares is “most improbable.” Such being the cheerful view taken of our expedition, we find it impossible on such short notice to replace her. The few maids to be found here have an idea that we are doomed to death, and no amount of wages can tempt them to share our fate. One day we were buoyed up by the hope that there was a female heart stout enough to share our perils, but when a colossal German, about five feet ten high, and broad in proportion, appeared before us, our courage failed, and we felt she would be an incubus not to be endured. Besides, it would be a question of the nicest calculation whether, provided even if she could get down the companion, she could by possibility squeeze into her cabin. The idea, too, of getting her on deck, should there be any sea, made the brain lose itself in a maze of distressing conjectures.

As for ourselves, we began to grow proud of our courage in braving such unknown dangers, and felt rather like Christian in “Pilgrim’s Progress,” as he prepares to plunge into the flood, and penetrate the dark mist that veils the other side.

But in truth the opening into the Black Sea is often a very “uncanny” looking place, for at every change of weather a dense white fog hangs over it.

All the bad winds are said to come from the Black Sea, all the rain, all the squalls, so that at any rate, deserved or undeserved, it has got a very bad name, and we know that a bad name, whether given to a dog, a man, or a sea, loses nothing by time or telling.

The sea was calm, and the wind was favourable; but our first day’s sail on the Black Sea was marked, and our hearts were troubled by a domestic calamity.

About ten days before we left the Bosphorus a bottle had been let down into the water to cool, and when it was drawn up again a curious little fish was found entangled in the string. It was about five inches long, and had the head of a horse, with the body and tail like those of the old fabulous dragon. We found it was called the Hippocampus, or Sea Horse; and though not uncommon on the coasts of Japan and China, it is rarely seen in these seas, and still more rarely taken alive.

The Russian Ambassador, Prince L——, who happened to be on board when the capture was made, is a great naturalist, and by his advice we put our prize into a glass bowl, with a small supply of its favourite seaweed. For many days the little creature did very well, and we used to watch with much interest its active, graceful movements. One morning, to our great astonishment, we found our friend surrounded by an immense family, about fifty little ones having made their appearance during the night. The mother seemed none the worse for such a prodigious event; and her children, who were about a quarter of an inch long, and perfect sea-horses in miniature, darted about with as much activity and liveliness as their parent.

We were so unfortunate as to possess an excellent steward,—Domenico by name, Neapolitan by birth,—who, with the most earnest endeavours to do right, and with the most anxious activity in so doing, always contrived to understand everything À travers, and who, therefore, by his misplaced zeal and energy, often drove us to the verge of distraction by his well-intentioned but unlucky efforts. We had, of course, given him strict orders never to touch our little pets.

The yacht lay-to just opposite a small village at the entrance of the Black Sea, and here Domenico went on shore to get some of the necessaries always required at the last moment. Seeing some of the seaweed which we needed for our little fish, and which it was not always easy to get, he wisely brought back some with him, but in his unwise zeal was rashly putting it into the bowl when, being suddenly called, he turned hastily, and stumbled, upsetting the glass and its precious contents. The mother was put back alive, but alas! all the fragile little ones were dead. Great was our grief and vexation, and we had not even the consolation of scolding the wretched Domenico. He was so distressingly contrite and unhappy at the fatal results of his disobedience, that he left us nothing to add to the storm of reproaches that he showered upon himself. The mother sea-horse lived for about a fortnight after this sad misfortune; whether she mourned at having thus lost, at one fell swoop, all her large little family, or whether she herself had sustained some injury, we could never discover; but she dwindled and dwindled, and was found one day dead; so all we could do was to preserve her little remains in spirits of wine. We had given a great many of the young ones to Prince L——, who wished to take them to St. Petersburg with him, but they did not survive many days, and their little dried bodies alone reached their destination.

A favourable breeze soon carried us within sight of the coast of the Crimea. The air was balmy, the sea was bright, though it had no longer the intense blueness that is so characteristic of the Bosphorus and the Mediterranean; the atmosphere, also, had a certain mistiness about it more akin to northern regions. We were not very far from the land, and could see that the country was flat and barren. In the far distance we could trace the faint outlines of a range of hills.