workmen will give place to the eunuchs and
cavasses, the cooks and the harem of Abd ul
Medgid.

Forget these troublesome, intrusive scandals
—forget all one would rather not remember
just now—and I think I never saw a lovelier
sight than this Eastern palace rising out of
the charmed waters of the Bosphorus. It
stands close by the shore with its snowy
terraces and towers reflected in the clear
calm element. Beautiful as is the reality,
I love the shadows in the deep waters
best. They put me in mind of the
home of the pearl queen, whither the
prince went, in the fairy tale. Indeed,
there is quite a kingdom beneath that
tranquil sealet; and if some good fairy would
grant me one of those dreamy, delightful
wishes, we all I suppose have as children, I
think I should like to be the king of it.
There is something so soft and luxurious, so
strange and far away about it, that I never
saw anything which gave me so vivid a
picture of enchanted land. I believe, indeed,
that half at least of the beautiful imagery of
Arabian and Persian tales owes its origin to
shadows and reflections in the water. Far
as the eye can reach stretches the same
white line of dazzling palaces, with now and
then a tranquil churchyard overgrown with
cypresses, or a coffee-house crowded with
revellers and musicians, the very sound of
their uncouth instruments taking a softer
tone as it comes mellowed over its sparkling
and gorgeous pathway.

We step on shore to the sound of it, and
are nearly blinded by dust. It is one of
those sharp contrasts between romance and
reality which are constantly hitting one in
the face—not an inapt simile in Turkey.
We soon find our paradise vanish when
we enter it. There are, of course, a
whole host of people who have nothing to
do about all Eastern places; and at last
a limp individual, who allows his
contemptuous disgust at Franks to be subdued
by the alluring hope of backsheesh, comes
forward to attend us. He has no particular
idea of there being any duties attached to
this office or any other—no Turk has. He
likes the backsheesh; but no possible
argument would persuade him that it is at
all necessary to earn it. His attendance
merely consists of dogging us solemnly
wherever we go till he is bought off. Several
friends also arrive to help him in an occupation
so congenial; but they will hold no
intercourse with us, for we are dogs; and
when we desire to bark, or, in other words,
to make the smallest inquiry, they
perseveringiy look another way. Your vulgar
Turk is really and truly a sulky bigot, if
ever there was one. He is almost as intractable
and inconvenient as the Moslem gentleman
is courteous and eager to oblige. A
common Turk will never be civil unless he
believes you have the power of the bastinado
over him, with the administrative
conveniences at hand for instantly carrying that
punishment into effect.

The Grand Hall, where the state receptions
are to be held, and the court of the Sultan
will appear in all its splendour, is a fine
lofty place enough. There are some
beautiful specimens of marble among the many
columns; but there is too much gilding, and
the decorations will not bear close examination.
They are done by inferior artists. The
flowers, which are the chief ornament
everywhere, are miserable daubs. Passing up a
mean staircase, we come to a gallery carefully
guarded by jealous trellice work. This is
where the ladies of the harem will sit to eat
bon-bons and watch the proceedings. We
wander from room to room, noticing nothing
very remarkable save a good deal of that
make-believe which I think forms an essential
quality of all Orientals. For instance:
we are in the palace of the Sultan; yet there
are no real curtains. They are painted above
the doors and windows—painted a gorgeous
crimson velvet, with deep gilded embroideries.
Nothing is real in the East. Read history
and you will understand why. The accounts
we have of Oriental splendour were true, but
they are no longer so. The East was once
the treasury of the civilised world. Read
Ducas and Phranza, and Anna Comnena,
and Chalcocondylas, and you will learn how
the treasures it contained were wasted by
ignorance, profusion, priestcraft, and
conquest. But the taste for gold and glitter
remained when the ore and jewels had been
scattered. Show is part of the Eastern
character; and if they cannot any longer
cheat themselves they may at least try to
dazzle you and me.

The interior of Dolma Bakjah is that of a
palace—nothing more. I have seen fifty
better and as many worse. There is no grand
conception in it—no imposing beauty. The
staircases are all mean; the passages are
dark, the rooms generally are low, and the
carpenter's and joiner's work is bad. The
fireplaces—necessary things enough in the
Bosphorus—are too small; there is no
freedom of handling or grace of idea about
any one apartment, though the evidence of
almost reckless expense strikes you at every
turn. The very floors, all things considered,
might have been laid down in silver at a less
cost; yet they are not handsome. The best
things I noticed were some magnificent
specimens of marble in the dining-room, and a
charming effect of the setting sun shining
down through some lofty stained glass
windows. The square formal garden is
singularly ugly.

Let me own I was shocked at the waste of
wealth about this needless place. I am not
going to speak of many a deserted home I
had seen in a distant province, many a bare
hut with the housewife wailing in the midst
for her husband imprisoned to wring the stern