indisposition.

In spite of my illness I had enjoyed myself greatly at Constantinople, and was much occupied with its many peculiar characteristics. A few words only will I still allow myself.

In churches, both Greek and Armenian, Constantinople is still rich, although the number of those which have been transformed into mosques is still greater. Some of the latter have had the singular destiny of having been originally heathen temples, and then changed into Christian churches, and in the third period of their existence have apostatised. Of the many traditions which are linked to the still extant churches, the most remarkable is that of the baked fishes, which, in the church of the Virgin of the Fountain, are still said to be constantly swimming in the water, and are exhibited when a wish is expressed to see them, though, it must be admitted, by a very imperfect light.

The two suburbs, Galata and Pera, have their peculiar character. Galata, which in extent may be compared to the large capitals of Germany, reminds us at present far less of its worship of " the gentle goddess of love," previous to the Christian era, than of that of Mercury, or rather of the flourishing commerce which it formerly enjoyed under the Genoese; for its narrow streets are as thronged with merchants, as those of Leipzig during the fair. These merchants are chiefly Christians, and still enjoy the privileges granted them by the conqueror of Constantinople. Saint Andrew is said to have come to Galata as the first herald of the Cross; from him the bishopric of Byzantium derives is origin. In Galata, I became best acquainted with the ancient high tower which corresponds to that of the Seraskier at Constantinople; and it but too frequently fulfils its office, for the alarm cry "Fire" constitutes almost its daily song. I ascended it repeatedly to fix permanently in my mind the impression of the splendours which lie around this ancient suburb of the Venetians and Genoese.

Pera combines singular contrasts, the most ridiculous beings in manners and costume, and the representatives of the European powers. The high clattering stilted shoes of the women, and the obliquely-cocked towering hats of the men of Pera, are celebrated; and both of these are in proper harmony with the silly fancies, loquacity, and oddity of the Perotese. Yet these Perotese, from their dragoman functions, are in incessant intercourse with the rest of the frankish population of Pera. But lucky the stranger whose propitious fate keeps him ignorant of them. The dæmonic interpreter

* Four weeks after I quitted it, this house was burnt down during an extensive conflagration, with such rapidity that scarcely any thing was saved from it. But I have recently learnt that this excellent woman has almost already succeeded in rebuilding it.

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PECULIARITIES OF CONSTANTINOPLE.

of Plato could not, methinks, have undergone a more melancholy metamorphosis in the style of Ovid than in being transformed into a dragoman of Pera. Divine service is performed at Pera in very different forms and languages. I visited there even a German protestant chapel.

The most entertaining resting-places of my stray promenades through Constantinople were the fountains with their rich ornaments of Arabesque art; it is there that Arabic taste may be best studied in miniature.

It requires indeed much self-denial to visit the Turkish coffeehouses; but they gave me a thorough insight into the character of the Turks. The opium booths and their guests affected me almost painfully; on seeing them, I thought how melancholy do their pale faces, in which, as in shrouds, intoxication wraps its departure, contrast with the close of a beautiful day, or with celestial joy!

In noticing the bazaar, I will not refer to its seductive luxuries, but to Turkish honesty. Just as the Bedouin hangs his tent to a tamarisk, in the midst of the desert, where for months he knows it to be as safe as under lock and key, even so the Turkish merchant of the bazaar will leave all the riches of his stall unguarded during an absence of hours.

The slave-market may be visited by the Christian stranger without difficulty. The sight of these black women, both young and old, in their red striped garments, with, perhaps, a ring around the instep or a coral necklace, with here and there one with an infant at the breast, sitting together by scores, in the middle of the market, and playing, laughing, and weeping together, is not easily forgotten.

Impressions of a different character I received from the dancing and howling dervises — singular aberrations of religious sentiment, although by no means recent; for the dance of the Turkish monks is an off-shoot from the ancient Indian mysteries. In its mystical sense it is symbolical of the harmony of the spheres; at least these dancers as rarely come in contact as the stars themselves, notwithstanding the wide sweep of their fluttering garments, as they encircle their sheikh in a narrow compass. Apart from the symbolical meaning of their dance, I confess that it had, beyond all expectation, a very serious effect upon me. The sheikh utters his prayer with the greatest devotion and dignity, and the music possesses a peculiar blending of the lyrical and elegiacal; the dancing monks did not enliven their pale features, and their fixed eyes, with the least symptom of a smile.

Much more might I relate of the Bosphorus, both because there is not in the world a more beautiful sea voyage than that through the strait, and because I retain the most grateful remembrance of

joyful hours spent at Bujukdere and Therapia, where European diplomacy suns and cools itself, as also at Bibek. But the shores of the Bosphorus, with their magic charms, demand a picture, for which, at this moment, I have no pencil; and the thanks which I would wish to offer to my patrons are far dearer to him who bestows them than to them who are to receive them.

But that to which I must last bid farewell at Constantinople are the sanctuaries of the dead. How willingly, even now, do I frequently abstract my thoughts to the cypress groves of Scutari, and Ejub, and Pera!

To the carnival tumult of the great city, there cannot be a more impressive contrast. How admirably does the Mahometan know to honour and love the dead! In what neighbourly communion does he continue with the departed! I fear, however, at least partially, that I mistake a fair semblance for a reality; for the visits of the living to the cemeteries, especially at Pera, often present very unedifying spectacles.

The East possesses a treasure in its cypresses: that this tree was formed to stand by the grave, is proclaimed by its entire aspect. It stands there like pious reflection upon Good Friday, enveloped by a cloud of sorrow, in a sombre robe, but with its eye fixed upon the dawning of the Easter morning.

VOYAGE TO GREECE.

From the 8th to the 12th of September I was on board the "Kolowrat," bound for Syra from Constantinople: the sky was cheerful; the passage good. I possessed a real treasure during these days in Count Albert de Pourtales, one of those rare men whom we have only to become acquainted with, in order cordially to enjoy and to esteem them. How delighted I was to gaze a second time on the field of Troy, in his society! Even more interesting than the oil sketches in his rich portfolio were his communications relative to Sardes, Colossæ, and Laodicea. Of the last, amidst unshapely ruins, only three monuments of empty pleasure-three theatres—are still extant. So far, therefore, is that city reduced, to which the words of the Revelation (iii. 15. 17) were directed! "Thou art neither cold nor hot... Thou sayest, I am rich... and knowest not that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor." Pourtales had likewise visited the Dead Sea. When bathing in it, it bore him steadily and lifted him sensibly upwards. The vegetation on its shores he found by no means so scanty as has been often represented. Neither did he see dead fishes nor dead birds.

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SYRA- - SPONGE DIVERS.

It was here What a blessed

On the afternoon of the 12th we lay off Syra. that six months before I had first saluted Greece. and pregnant interval lay between! I had to be detained here for a fortnight's quarantine. Although the idea of quarantine is in itself disagreeable, yet did this period—may I call it a truce?—appear to form an essential link in the chain of the incidents of my journey. The last year had passed like an uninterrupted debauch, which indeed during my whole life I shall not be able to sleep off; but this spiritual collecting of the mind, this repose of quarantine, was very desirable. An abode in the sanatory guard-house of Syra has even its pleasant side. Directly opposite my windows lay the beautiful maritime town, and in the harbour there were many ships. If a steam-boat or sailing vessel chanced to pass in or out, the eye and the heart were both instantly busied. This going and coming is full of significance. At the entrance of the harbour the lighthouse stands solitary upon its rock. In the east, behind it, lies Delos; to the north, Tenos. Not a day did I miss looking towards Delos, when sunset enveloped this holy abode of Apollo in an odoriferous saffron-coloured veil. At the foot of the rock on which we were perched, the sea dashed its surf; it was repeatedly so rough as to rouse me from sleep. But I awoke with pleasure, and ran to the window to admire by moonlight the turbulent rolling of the waves. It is as if the sea had in its breast an unutterable pain which breaks forth with all its anguish by night; or as if it were a criminal, whose wicked conscience allows him no repose.

By day, when the sea was perfectly clear and still, I became here acquainted with a new source of livelihood, that of the diver or sponge hunter. Three men sit in a boat, covered only with a shirt: they look fixedly into the sea, which is here about fifteen feet deep. As soon as one of them observes a sponge, he instantly throws off his shirt, and dives to the bottom, head foremost. He often remained so long below that I looked on with considerable anxiety. But at last he came up, clung with his hand to the vessel, threw his prize into the boat with the other, and then swung himself back to his post. It is a barbarous occupation, and so injurious that even the strongest islanders do not live long.

Early on the 28th we arrived at the Piræus, and about ten in the morning at Athens. The Acropolis, with its marble ruins,

I had already beheld from the ship. It now stood close before the windows of my apartment. With it arose within my soul a host of reminiscences; reminiscences which to mankind, as long as they shall endure, will be dear and holy. For have not wisdom and art both created so much that is great within the city of Athens, that the entire world still sits listening at her feet? Does legislation possess

ATHENS THE ACROPOLIS.

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a wiser guide than Solon?-state policy a more worthy representative than Pericles? Where is the orator like Demosthenes ? Is not Thucydides still a model for historians? Were not also Eschylus and Sophocles Athenians? Has any sculptor surpassed Phidias ? And who amongst the deepest thinkers of the earth has not enjoyed the divine Plato? But Socrates too was a son of Athens, although it was his mother herself that handed him the poisoned goblet.

:

I must at once hasten upwards to the ruins of the Acropolis. We pass through the market-gate, upon whose four ancient pillars the market prices of the days of Hadrian still stand inscribed. The guards open the gate of the Acropolis: there stand we upon the ancient marble floor, and stray through the halls of the propylæum. From the tower constructed at a later period, we speedily turn away and enter the area of the Parthenon, or the temple of the virgin Athene. Several pillars, as superb as they are colossal, are still standing others by the side of them are arising from out the ruins by the aid of helping hands. Every individual spot the cicerone can point out; even to the very spot where stood the masterpiece of the master, the statue of Athene, in gold and ivory, sculptured by Phidias. With most regret, however, may the present Athenians contemplate the empty house behind the Parthenon, where was kept the public treasure, once rich to overflowing. In the immediate vicinity of the Parthenon stands the small temple of the wingless Goddess of Victory, of surprising delicacy and almost perfect, as well as two stately ruins of the temple of Erechtheus. The Acropolis has been transformed also into a modern museum; for statues, and busts, and inscriptions, and friezes, with sculptures of all kinds, have within the last few years been numerously collected and judiciously arranged there.

Had Athens, with all it was and possessed, totally disappeared, with the exception of its Acropolis even as it now remains with all its mutilations and desecrations, it would alone constitute a magnificent testimonial to past greatness; it alone would attract the archæological inquirer and the energetic artist to Athens, and hold them entranced. But around the Acropolis there look upwards to it other monuments which equally speak of past splendour; above all, in the south-east, the pillars of the temple of the Olympian Jupiter, and near it Hadrian's triumphal arch; in the south-west, the almost perfect monument of Philopappus; in the west, the Pnyx, with the place where Demosthenes stood, as well as the sacred judgment-hall, the Areopagus; finally, in the north-west, the temple of Theseus or rather of Mars, which with almost undiminished pillars and walls has wondrously survived all its neighbours, and is now consecrated to be the asylum of all recovered works of art.