shelf in my dark brain-cupboard, and waited till
I could see for myself. On the Turkish
Sabbath I would go to the Sweet Waters of Asia;
on the Greek Sunday to the Sweet Waters of
Europe. " There," I said to myself, " I shall see
all the Greek and Turkish beauties, and will
judge for myself." My inner impression was that
they were wax-works hideously blanched, with
cheeks ruddled red, and thick corked eyebrows.
I was told the right day and hour for each
place. A thousand of the most beautiful
Turkish ladies (wives of pashas) and Sultan's
daughters-in-law, &c., were to astonish my
eyes when I had got over the first dazzle
of a thousand different coloured satins, and
a thousand sprays and clasps of diamonds. I
half resolved to prepare for the sight, by
stopping two previous days in the dark.

I must start for the Sweet Waters of Asia;
for it is only on a certain day (Friday, the
Turkish Sabbath) and at certain hours (from
about three to six) that the full concourse
of ladies is to be seen. Escaping being
torn to pieces by the rival boatmen of
Tophana, avoiding a boat that has for its
cushions a dirty old feather-bed, and another
with a dirty door-mat rug, I tumble down into
the cradle of "Pull away Joe's" neat caïque,
which, because it is a pattern boat, I will
describe. It is long, and sharp at both ends,
and at both ends boarded over, to prevent
shipping seas, with varnished planks, crossed at
the top with little crowning rails of gilt carving,
very dainty and very smart. The cradle where
I lie, my back against where the coxswain
would be seated in our English wherry, is
lined with neat red cushions and white
lamb-skins. There are two boatmen, because the
Sweet Waters lie far up the Bosphorus.
Windybank, the projector, is with me, holding
forth on the stock subjects of the white
minarets and dark cypress-trees of Constantinople,
of the blueness of the water, and of the
Neapolitan look those whales' backs of islands
out in the Sea of Marmora have, reminding us
of Capri, the den of Tiberius.

Windybank, who affects the cicerone, bids me
observe how the caïquejee (boatman) fastens his
oars by a leather loop to a peg on the side of
the boat, which has no rowlocks—a simple
plan, sometimes adopted in our own navy,
that prevents their being lost, unless they
break in some of the whirling and impetuous
currents of the Bosphorus. Every time I look,
Pull away Joe laughs with all his teeth, and
says affirmatively, "Bono Johnny;" upon which
I call out, authoritatively, " Chapuk!" (quick!
quick!), and to which he invariably replies by
saying, " Yawash—yawash " (by degrees—by
degrees), meaning, " No hurry—all in good time."
I should mention that the caïque is not painted,
but is lined inside with clean-shaved plank
of plane-tree, grey with perpetual sun-scorch;
the ornamented parts are covered with a brown
glaze, such as you see on the crust of a pigeon
pie. Pull away Joe is proud of his boat, and
whenever I touch part of it, and say anything
to Windybank, he furls up the striped Broussa
silk gauze of his dandy shirt-sleeves, and says,
"Bono Johnny—pek ayi " (very good).

Past the Maiden's Tower, a sort of legendary
lighthouse that stands on a rock at the entrance
of the Golden Horn, opposite Scutari; past long
lines of vessels and rows of dark-red wooden
houses, with broad-brimmed flat roofs, and
cellar-like boat-houses; past half a dozen tinselly
Italian palaces of the Sultan; past plane-trees,
and cypresses, and fishermen, and coffee-houses,
and other caïques, flying by like swallows, with
here and there a dead lump of carrion, swollen
and horrible. We reach the Sweet Water
meadows, where the caïques are gathering. Some
are ambassadors' and consuls' barques; for, the
boatmen wear red fezes and a sort of uniform;
and on every seat is a pad of white lambskin,
and much gilding lines and studs the gunwales.

"We are in grand time," says Windybank,
who has been boring me about the Tanzimat,
and the Hatti-Scheriff, and how this pasha
was a butcher's boy, and that a bazaar shopman,
and how universal corruption reigns among
public men in Turkey, quite different from
England, where the profits of place are never
thought of, and where nothing but merit can
secure promotion. (You know the man who has
always just come from a chat with a cabinet
minister? That was Windybank.) We land
amidst a cluster of coaches waiting for ladies
who are gone to sit under the plane-trees and
drink coffee, or hear the itinerant musicians.
Poor slaves, this is their only out-of-door amusement,
except shopping in fine weather.

Before I go further into the trampled
meadow of the first or second valley on the shores of
the Bosphorus, let me stop to describe the teleki,
or ordinary Turkish carriage, which has been well
compared to Cinderella's pumpkin carriage. It is
literally a small brougham, only that, instead of
being on the box, where a Christian coachman
would be, the Turkish coachman, generally in a
tight blue frock-coat stiff with gold lace, and a red
fez, walks on one side of the horses, holding the
red reins. Then, the teleki is not a glossy dark
green, or hidden claret, with padded drab lining,
and gravely brilliant silver-plated harness, and
on the centre door panel just one shield of
azures or gules. It is smaller, more rounded,
and much more of the "gimcrack," pinchbeck,
and ormolu style. It seems shaped out
of French plum-boxes; sometimes a gilt bird
flutters on the top, sometimes roses and
tulips are painted upon white in borders
and garlands, in a sunny, rather theatrical, and
meretricious air. To me the telekis never
seem real, but only fit to pass across the
stage in Cinderella or Bluebeard, when Sister
Anne's brothers arrive in the nick of time.
They are not for our dull, fitful, scowling, torpid
climate, but suffice for a people who are two
hundred years behind us. They are, however,
fitting egg-shells to box up Zuleika and Katinka,
and such white and red beauties with shrouded
faces, with bodies shapeless bundles of violet
and gold-coloured satin ferigees, between folds