Streams have to be forded to-day for the first time in Europe, several small creeks during the afternoon; and near sundown I find my pathway into a village where I propose stopping for the night, obstructed by a creek swollen bank-full by a heavy thunder-shower in the hills. A couple of lads on the opposite bank volunteer much information concerning the depth of the creek at different points; no doubt their evident mystification at not being understood is equalled only by the amazement at my answers. Four peasants come down to the creek, and one of them kindly wades in and shows that it is only waist deep. Without more ado I ford it, with the bicycle on my shoulder, and straight-way seek the accommodation of the village mehana. This village is a miserable little cluster of mud hovels, and the best the mehana affords is the coarsest of black-bread and a small salted fish, about the size of a sardine, which the natives devour without any pretence of cooking, but which are worse than nothing for me, since the farther they are away the better I am suited. Sticking a flat loaf of black-bread and a dozen of these tiny shapes of salted nothing in his broad waistband, the Turkish peasant sallies forth contentedly to toil.

I have accomplished the wonderful distance of forty kilometres to-day, at which I am really quite surprised, considering everything. The usual daily weather programme has been faithfully carried out - a heavy mist at morning, that has prevented any drying up of roads during the night, three hours of oppressive heat - from nine till twelve - during which myraids of ravenous flies squabble for the honor of drawing your blood, and then, when the mud begins to dry out sufficient to justify my dispensing with the wooden scraper, thunder-showers begin to bestow their unappreciated favor upon the roads, making them well-nigh impassable again. The following morning the climax of vexation is reached when, after wading through the mud for two hours, I discover that I have been dragging, carrying, and trundling my laborious way along in the wrong direction for Tchorlu, which is not over thirty-five kilometres from my starting-point, but it takes me till four o'clock to reach there. A hundred miles on French or English roads would not be so fatiguing, and I wisely take advantage of being in a town where comparatively decent accommodations are obtainable to make up, so far as possible, for this morning's breakfast of black bread and coffee, and my noontide meal of cold, cheerless reflections on the same. The same programme of "bin! bin." from importuning crowds, and police inquisitiveness concerning my "passporte" are endured and survived; but I spread myself upon rny mat to-night thoroughly convinced that a month's cycling among the Turks would worry most people into premature graves.

I am now approaching pretty close to the Sea of Marmora, and next morning I am agreeably surprised to find sandy roads, which the rains have rather improved than otherwise; and although much is unridably heavy, it is immeasurably superior to yesterday's mud. I pass the country residence of a wealthy pasha, and see the ladies of his harem seated in the meadow hard by, enjoying the fresh morning air. They form a circle, facing inward, and the swarthy eunuch in charge stands keeping watch at a respectful distance. I carry a pocketful of bread with me this morning, and about nine o'clock, upon coming to a ruined mosque and a few deserted buildings, I approach one at which signs of occupation are visible, for some water. This place is simply a deserted Mussulman village, from which the inhabitants probably decamped in a body during the last Russo-Turkish war; the mosque is in a tumble-down condition, the few dwelling-houses remaining are in the last stages of dilapidation, and the one I call at is temporarily occupied by some shepherds, two of whom are regaling themselves with food of some kind out of an earthenware vessel.

Obtaining the water, I sit down on some projecting boards to eat my frugal lunch, fully conscious of being an object of much furtive speculation on the part of the two occupants of the deserted house; which, however, fails to strike me as anything extraordinary, since these attentions have long since become an ordinary every-day affair. Not even the sulky and rather hang-dog expression of the men, which failed not to escape my observation at my first approach, awakened any shadow of suspicion in my mind of their being possibly dangerous characters, although the appearance of the place itself is really sufficient to make one hesitate about venturing near; and upon sober after-thought I am fully satisfied that this is a resort of a certain class of disreputable characters, half shepherds, half brigands, who are only kept from turning full-fledged freebooters by a wholesome fear of retributive justice. While I am discussing my bread and water one of these worthies saunters with assumed carelessness up behind me and makes a grab for my revolver, the butt of which he sees protruding from the holster. Although I am not exactly anticipating this movement, travelling alone among strange people makes one's faculties of self-preservation almost mechanically on the alert, and my hand reaches the revolver before his does. Springing up, I turn round and confront him and his companion, who is standing in the doorway. A full exposition of their character is plainly stamped on their faces, and for a moment I am almost tempted to use the revolver on them. Whether they become afraid of this or whether they have urgent business of some nature will never be known to me, but they both disappear inside the door; and, in view of my uncertainty of their future intentions, I consider it advisable to meander on toward the coast.

Ere I get beyond the waste lands adjoining this village I encounter two more of these shepherds, in charge of a small flock; they are watering their sheep; and as I go over to the spring, ostensibly to obtain a drink, but really to have a look at them, they both sneak off at my approach, like criminals avoiding one whom they suspect of being a detective. Take it all in all, I am satisfied that this neighborhood is a place that I have been fortunate in coming through in broad daylight; by moonlight it might have furnished a far more interesting item than the above. An hour after, I am gratified at obtaining my first glimpse of the Sea of Marmora off to the right, and in another hour I am disporting in the warm clear surf, a luxury that has not been within my reach since leaving Dieppe, and which is a thrice welcome privilege in this land, where the usual ablutions at mehanas consist of pouring water on the hands from a tin cup. The beach is composed of sand and tiny shells, the warm surf-waves are clear as crystal, and my first plunge in the Marmora, after a two months' cycle tour across a continent, is the most thoroughly enjoyable bath I ever had; notwithstanding, I feel it my duty to keep a loose eye on some shepherds perched on a handy knoll, who look as if half inclined to slip down and examine my clothes. The clothes, with, of course, the revolver and every penny I have with me, are almost as near to them as to me, and always, after ducking my head under water, my first care is to take a precautionary glance in their direction. "Cursed is the mind that nurses suspicion," someone has said; but under the circumstances almost anybody would be suspicious. These shepherds along the Marmora coast favor each other a great deal,: and when a person has been the recipient of undesirable attention from one of them, to look askance at the next one met with comes natural enough.

Over the undulating cliffs and along the sandy beach, my road now leads through the pretty little seaport of Cilivria, toward Constantinople, traversing a most lovely stretch of country, where waving wheat-fields hug the beach and fairly coquet with the waves, and the slopes are green and beautiful with vineyards and fig-gardens, while away beyond the glassy shimmer of the sea I fancy I can trace on the southern horizon the inequalities of the hills of Asia Minor. Greek fishing-boats are plying hither and thither; one noble sailing-vessel, with all sails set, is slowly ploughing her way down toward the Dardanelles - probably a grain- ship from the Black Sea - and the smoke from a couple of steamers is discernible in the distance. Flourishing Greek fishing-villages and vine- growing communities occupy this beautiful strip of coast, along which the Greeks seem determined to make the Cross as much more conspicuous than the Crescent as possible, by rearing it on every public building under their control, and not infrequently on private ones as well. The people of these Greek villages seem possessed of sunny dispositions, the absence of all reserve among the women being in striking contrast to the demeanor of the Turkish fair sex. These Greek women chatter after me from the windows as I wheel past, and if I stop a minute in the street they gather around by dozens, smiling pleasantly, and plying me with questions, which, of course, I cannot understand. Some of them are quite handsome, and nearly all have perfect white teeth, a fact that I have ample opportunity of knowing, since they seem to be all smiles. There has been much making of artificial highways leading from Constantinople in this direction in ages past. A road-bed of huge blocks of stone, such as some of the streets of Eastern towns are made impassable with, is traceable for miles, ascending and descending the rolling hills, imperishable witnesses of the wide difference in Eastern and Western ideas of making a road. These are probably the work of the people who occupied this country before the Ottoman Turks, who have also tried their hands at making a macadam, which not infrequently runs close along-side the old block roadway, and sometimes crosses it; and it is matter of some wonderment that the Turks, instead of hauling material for their road from a distance did not save expense by merely breaking the stones of the old causeway and using the same road-bed. Twice to-day I have been required to produce my passport, and when toward evening I pass through a small village, the lone gendarme who is smoking a nargileh in front of the mehana where I halt points to my revolver and demands "passaporte," I wave examination, so to speak, by arguing the case with him, and by the not always unhandy plan of pretending not exactly to comprehend his meaning. "Passaporte! passaporte! gendarmerie, me, " replies the officer, authoritatively, in answer to my explanation of a voyager being privileged to carry a revolver; while several villagers who have gathered around us interpose "Bin! bin! monsieur, bin! bin." I have little notion of yielding up either revolver or passport to this village gendarme, for much of their officiousness is simply the disposition to show off their authority and satisfy their own personal curiosity regarding me, to say nothing of the possibility of coming in for a little backsheesh. The villagers are worrying me to "bin! bin!" at the same time the gendarme is worrying me about the revolver and passport, and knowing from previous experience that the gendarme would never stop me from mounting, being quite as anxious to witness the performance as the villagers, I quickly decide upon killing two birds with one stone, and accordingly mount, and pick my way along the rough street out on to the Constantinople road. The gloaming settles into darkness, and the domes and minarets of Stamboul, which have been visible from the brow of every hill for several miles back, are still eight or ten miles away, and rightly judging that the Ottoman Capital is a most bewildering city for a stranger to penetrate after night, I pillow my head on a sheaf of oats, within sight of the goal toward which I have been pedalling for some 2,500 miles since leaving Liverpool. After surveying with a good deal of satisfaction the twinkling lights that distinguish every minaret in Constantinople each night during the fast of Ramadan, I fall asleep, and enjoy, beneath a sky in which myriads of far-off lamps seem to be twinkling mockingly at the Ramadan illuminations, the finest night's repose I have had for a week. Nothing but the prevailing rains have prevented me from sleeping beneath the starry dome entirely in peference to putting up at the village mehanas.

En route into Stamboul, on the following morning, I meet the first train of camels I have yet encountered; in the gray of the morning, with the scenes around so thoroughly Oriental, it seems like an appropriate introduction to Asiatic life. Eight o'clock finds me inside the line of earthworks thrown up by Baker Pasha when the Russians were last knocking at the gates of Constantinople, and ere long I am trundling through the crooked streets of the Turkish Capital toward the bridge which connects Stamboul with Galata and Pera. Even here my ears are assailed with the eternal importunities to "bin! bin!" the officers collecting the bridge- toll even joining in the request. To accommodate them I mount, and ride part way across the bridge, and at 9 o'clock on July 2d, just two calendar months from the start at Liverpool, I am eating my breakfast in a Constantinople restaurant. I am not long in finding English-speaking friends, to whom my journey across the two continents is not unknown, and who kindly direct me to the Chamber of Commerce Hotel, Eue Omar, Galata, a home-like establishment, kept by an English lady. I have been purposing of late to remain in Constantinople during the heated term of July and August, thinking to shape my course southward through Asia Minor and down the Euphrates Valley to Bagdad, and by taking a south-easterly direction as far as circumstances would permit into India, keep pace with the seasons, thus avoiding the necessity of remaining over anywhere for the winter. At the same time I have been reckoning upon meeting Englishmen in Constantinople who, having travelled extensively in Asia, could further enlighten me regarding the best route to India. As I house my bicycle and am shown to my room I take a retrospective glance across Europe and America, and feel almost as if I have arrived at the half-way house of my journey. The distance from Liverpool to Constantinople is fully 2,500 miles, which brings the wheeling distance from San Francisco up to something over 6,000. So far as the, distance wheeled and to be wheeled is concerned, it is not far from half-way; but the real difficulties of the journey are still ahead, although I scarcely anticipate any that time and perseverance will not overcome. My tour across Europe has been, on the whole, a delightful journey, and, although my linguistic shortcomings have made it rather awkward in interior places where no English-speaking person was to be found, I always managed to make myself understood sufficiently to get along. In the interior of Turkey a knowledge of French has been considered indispensable to a traveller: but, although a full knowledge of that language would have made matters much smoother by enabling me to converse with officials and others, I have nevertheless come through all right without it; and there have doubtless been occasions when my ignorance has saved me from a certain amount of bother with the gendarmerie, who, above all things, dislike to exercise their thinking apparatus. A Turkish official is far less indisposed to act than he is to think; his mental faculties work sluggishly, but his actions are governed largely by the impulse of the moment.

Someone has said that to see Constantinople is to see the entire East; and judging from the different costumes and peoples one meets on the streets and in the bazaars, the saying is certainly not far amiss. From its geographical situation, as well as from its history, Constantinople naturally takes the front rank among the cosmopolitan cities of the world, and the crowds thronging its busy thoroughfares embrace every condition of man between the kid-gloved exquisite without a wrinkle in his clothes and the representative of half-savage Central Asian States incased in sheepskin garments of rudest pattern. The great fast of Ramadan is under full headway, and all true Mussulmans neither eat nor drink a particle of anything throughout the day until the booming of cannon at eight in the evening announces that the fast is ended, when the scene quickly changes into a general rush for eatables and drink. Between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, during Ramadan, certain streets and bazaars present their liveliest appearance, and from the highest-classed restaurant patronized by bey and pasha to the venders of eatables on the streets, all do a rushing business; even the mjees (water-venders), who with leather water-bottles and a couple of tumblers wait on thirsty pedestrians with pure drinking water, at five paras a glass, dodge about among the crowds, announcing themselves with lusty lung, fully alive to the opportunities of the moment.

A few of the coffee-houses provide music of an inferior quality, Constantinople not being a very musical place. A forenoon hour spent in a neighborhood of private residences will repay a stranger for his trouble, since he will during that time see a bewildering assortment of street-venders, from a peregrinating meat-market, with a complete stock dangling from a wooden framework attached to a horse's back, to a grimy individual worrying along beneath a small mountain of charcoal, and each with cries more or less musical. The sidewalks of Constantinople are ridiculously narrow, their only practical use being to keep vehicles from running into the merchandise of the shopkeepers, and to give pedestrians plenty of exercise in jostling each other, and hopping on and off the curbstone to avoid inconveniencing the ladies, who of course are not to be jostled either off the sidewalk or into a sidewalk stock of miscellaneous merchandise. The Constantinople sidewalk is anybody's territory; the merchant encumbers it with his wares and the coffee-houses with chairs for customers to sit on, the rights of pedestrians being altogether ignored; the natural consequence is that these latter fill the streets, and the Constantinople Jehu not only has to keep his wits about him to avoid running over men and dogs, but has to use his lungs continually, shouting at them to clear the way. If a seat is taken in one of the coffee-house chairs, a watchful waiter instantly makes his appearance with a tray containing small chunks of a pasty sweetmeat, known in England as " Turkish Delight," one of which you are expected to take and pay half a piastre for, this being a polite way of obtaining payment for the privilege of using the chair. The coffee is served steaming hot in tiny cups holding about two table-spoonfuls, the price varying from ten paras upward, according to the grade of the establishment. A favorite way of passing the evening is to sit in front of one of these establishments, watching the passing throngs, and smoke a nargileh, this latter requiring a good half-hour to do it properly. I undertook to investigate the amount of enjoyment contained in a nargileh one evening, and before smoking it half through concluded that the taste has to be cultivated.

One of the most inconvenient things about Constantinople is the great scarcity of small change. Everybody seems to be short of fractional money save the money-changers-people who are here a genuine necessity, since one often has to patronize them before making the most trifling purchase. Ofttimes the store-keeper will refuse point-blank to sell an article when change is required, solely on account of his inability or unwillingness to supply it. After drinking a cup of coffee, I have had the kahuajee refuse to take any payment rather than change a cherik. Inquiring the reason for this scarcity, I am informed that whenever there is any new output of this money the noble army of money-changers, by a liberal and judicious application of backsheesh, manage to get a corner on the lot and compel the general public, for whose benefit it is ostensibly issued, to obtain what they require through them. However this may be, they manage to control its circulation to a great extent; for while their glass cases display an overflowing plenitude, even the fruit-vender, whose transactions are mainly of ten and twenty paras, is not infrequently compelled to lose a customer because of his inability to make change. There are not less than twenty money-changers' offices within a hundred yards of the Galata end of the principal bridge spanning the Golden Horn, and certainly not a less number on the Stamboul side.

The money-changer usually occupies a portion of the frontage of a cigarette and tobacco stand; and on all the business streets one happens at frequent intervals upon these little glass cases full of bowls and heaps of miscellaneous coins, varying in value. Behind sits a business-looking person - usually a Jew - jingling a handful of medjedis, and expectantly eyeing every approaching stranger. The usual percentage charged is, for changing a lira, eighty paras; thirty paras for a medjedie, and ten for a cherik, the percentage on this latter coin being about five per cent. Some idea of the inconvenience to the public of this state of affairs can be better imagined by the American by reflecting that if this state of affairs existed in Boston he would frequently have to walk around the block and give a money-changer five per cent, for changing a dollar before venturing upon the purchase of a dish of baked beans. If one offers a coin of the larger denominations in payment of an article, even in quite imposing establishments, they look as black over it as though you were trying to palm off a counterfeit, and hand back the change with an ungraciousness and an evident reluctance that makes a sensitive person feel as though he has in some way been unwittingly guilty of a mean action. Even the principal streets of Constantinople are but indifferently lighted at night, and, save for the feeble glimmer of kerosene lamps in front of stores and coffee-houses, the by-streets are in darkness. Small parties of Turkish women are encountered picking their way along the streets of Galata in charge of a male attendant, who walks a little way behind, if of the better class, or without the attendant in the case of poorer people, carrying small Japanese lanterns. Sometimes a lantern will go out, or doesn't burn satisfactorily, and the whole party halts in the middle of the, perhaps, crowded thoroughfare, and clusters around until the lantern is radjusted. The Turkish lady walks with a slouchy gait, her shroud-like abbas adding not a little to the ungracefulness. Matters are likewise scarcely to be improved by wearing two pairs of shoes, the large, slipper-like overshoes being required by etiquette to be left on the mat upon entering the house she is visiting; and in the case of a strictly orthodox Mussulman lady - and, doubtless, we may also easily imagine in case of a not over-prepossessing countenance - the yashmak hides all but the eyes. The eyes of many Turkish ladies are large and beautiful, and peep from between the white, gauzy folds of the yashmak with an effect upon the observant Frank not unlike coquettishly ogling from behind a fan. Handsome young Turkish ladies with a leaning toward Western ideas are no doubt coming to understand this, for many are nowadays met on the streets wearing yashmaks that are but a single thickness of transparent gauze that obscures never a feature, at the same time producing the decidedly interesting and taking effect above mentioned. It is readily seen that the wearing of yashmaks must be quite a charitable custom in the case of a lady not blessed with a handsome face, since it enables her to appear in public the equal of her more favored sister in commanding whatever homage is to be derived from that mystery which is said to be woman's greatest charm; and if she has but the one redeeming feature of a beautiful pair of eyes, the advantage is obvious. In street-cars, steamboats, and all public conveyances, board or canvas partitions wall off a small compartment for the exclusive use of ladies, where, hidden from the rude gaze of the Frank, the Turkish lady can remove her yashmak and smoke cigarettes.

On Sunday, July 12th, in company with an Englishman in the Turkish artillery service, I pay my first visit to Asian soil, taking a caique across the Bosphorus to Kadikeui, one of the many delightful seaside resorts within easy distance of Constantinople. Many objects of interest are pointed out, as, propelled by a couple of swarthy, half-naked caique- jees, the sharp-prowed caique gallantly rides the blue waves of this loveliest of all pieces of land-environed water. More than once I have noticed that a firm belief in the supernatural has an abiding hold upon the average Turkish mind, having frequently during my usual evening promenade through the Galata streets noted the expression of deep and genuine earnestness upon the countenances of fez-crowned citizens giving respectful audience to Arab fortune-tellers, paying twenty-para pieces for the revelations he is favoring them with, and handing over the coins with the business-like air of people satisfied that they are getting its full equivalent. Consequently I am not much astonished when, rounding Seraglio Point, my companion calls my attention to several large sections of whalebone suspended on the wall facing the water, and tells me that they are placed there by the fishermen, who believe them to be a talisman of no small efficacy in keeping the Bosphorus well supplied with fish, they firmly adhering to the story that once, when the bones were removed, the fish nearly all disappeared. The oars used by the caique-jees are of quite a peculiar shape, the oar-shaft immediately next the hand-hold swells into a bulbous affair for the next eighteen inches, which is at least four times the circumference of the remainder, and the end of the oarblade is for some reason made swallow-tailed. The object of the enlarged portion, which of course comes inside the rowlocks, appears to be the double purpose of balancing the weight of the longer portion outside, and also for preventing the oar at all times from escaping into the water. The rowlock is simply a raw-hide loop, kept well greased, and as, toward the end of every stroke, the caique-jee leans back to his work, the oar slips several inches, causing a considerable loss of power. The day is warm, the broiling sun shines directly down on the bare heads of the caique-jees. and causes the perspiration to roll off their swarthy faces in large beads, but they lay back to their work manfully, although, from early morning until cannon roar at 8 P.M. neither bite nor sup, not even so much water as to moisten the end of their parched tongues, will pass their lips; for, although but poor hard- working caique-jees, they are true Mussulmans. Pointing skyward from the summit of the hill back of Seraglio Point are the four tapering minarets of the world-renowned St. Sophia mosque, and a little farther to the left is the Sultana Achmet mosque, the only mosque in all Mohammedanism with six minarets. Near by is the old Seraglio Palace, or rather what is left of it, built by Mohammed II. in 1467, out of materials from the ancient Byzantine palaces, and in a department of which the sanjiak shereef (holy standard), boorda-y shereef (holy mantle), and other venerated relics of the prophet Mohammed are preserved. To this place, on the 15th of Ramadan, the Sultan and leading dignitaries of the Empire repair to do homage to the holy relics, upon which it would be the highest sacrilege for Christian eyes to gaze. The hem of this holy mantle is reverently kissed by the Sultan and the few leading personages present, after which the spot thus brought in contact with human lips is carefully wiped with an embroidered napkin dipped in a golden basin of water; the water used in this ceremony is then supposed to be of priceless value as a purifier of sin, and is carefully preserved, and, corked up in tiny phials, is distributed among the sultanas, grand dignitaries, and prominent people of the realm, who in return make valuable presents to the lucky messengers and Mussulman ecclesiastics employed in its distribution. This precious liquid is doled out drop by drop, as though it were nectar of eternal life received direct from heaven, and, mixed with other water, is drunk immediately upon breaking fast each evening during the remaining fifteen days of Ramadan. Arriving at Kadikeui, the opportunity presents of observing something of the high-handed manner in which Turkish pashas are wont to expect from inferiors their every whim obeyed. We meet a friend of my companion, a pasha, who for the remainder of the afternoon makes one of our company. Unfortunately for a few other persons the pasha is in a whimsical mood to-day and inclined to display for our benefit rather arbitrary authority toward others. The first individual coming under his immediate notice is a young man torturing a harp. Summoning the musician, the pasha summarily orders him to play "Yankee Doodle." The writer arrived in Constantinople with the full impression that it was the mosqne of St. Sophia that has the famons six minarets, having, I am quite sure, seen it thus quite frequently accredited in print, and I mention this especially, in order that readers who may have been similarly misinformed may know that the above account is the correct one, does not know it, and humbly begs the pasha to name something more familiar. "Yankee Doodle!" - replies the pasha peremptorily. The poor man looks as though he would willingly relinquish all hopes of the future if only some present avenue of escape would offer itself; but nothing of the kind seems at all likely. The musician appeals to my Turkish-speaking friend, and begs him to request me to favor him with the tune. I am of course only too glad to help him stem the rising tide of the pasha's wrath by whistling the tune for him; and after a certain amount of preliminary twanging be strikes up and manages to blunder through "Yankee Doodle." The pasha, after ascertaining from me that the performance is creditable, considering the circumstances, forthwith hands him more money than he would collect among the poorer patrons of the place in two hours. Soon a company of five strolling acrobats and conjurers happens along, and these likewise are summoned into the "presence" and ordered to proceed. Many of the conjurer's tricks are quite creditable performances; but the pasha occasionally interferes in the proceedings just in the nick of time to prevent the prestidigitator finishing his manipulations, much to the pasha's delight. Once, however, he cleverly manages to hoodwink the pasha, and executes his trick in spite of the latter's interference, which so amuses the pasha that he straightway gives him a medjedie. Our return boat to Galata starts at seven o'clock, and it is a ten minutes' drive down to the landing. At fifteen minutes to seven the pasha calls for a public carriage to take us down to the steamer.

"There are no carriages, Pasha Effendi. Those three are all engaged by ladies and gentlemen in the garden," exclaims the waiter, respectfully.

"Engaged or not engaged, I want that open carriage yonder," replies the pasha authoritatively, and already beginning to show signs of impatience." Boxhanna. "(hi, you, there!)" drive around here," addressing the driver.

The driver enters a plea of being already engaged. The pasha's temper rises to the point of threatening to throw carriage, horses, and driver into the Bosphorus if his demands are not instantly complied with. Finally the driver and everybody else interested collapse completely, and, entering the carriage, we are driven to our destination without another murmur. Subsequently I learned that a government officer, whether a pasha or of lower rank, has the power of taking arbitrary possession of a public conveyance over the head of a civilian, so that our pasha was, after all, only sticking up for the rights of himself and my friend of the artillery, who likewise wears the mark by which a military man is in Turkey always distinguishable from a civilian - a longer string to the tassel of his fez.

This is the last day of Ramadan, and the following Monday ushers in the three days' feast of Biaram, which is in substance a kind of a general carousal to compensate for the rigid self-denial of the thirty days 'fasting and prayer' just ended. The government offices and works are till closed, everybody is wearing new clothes, and holiday-making engrosses the public attention. A friend proposes a trip on a Bosphorus steamer up as far as the entrance to the Black Sea. The steamers are profusely decorated with gaycolored flags, and at certain hours all war-ships anchored in the Bosphorus, as well as the forts and arsenals, fire salutes, the roar and rattle of the great guns echoing among the hills of Europe and Asia, that here confront each other, with but a thousand yards of dancing blue waters between them. All along either lovely shore villages and splendid country-seats of wealthy pashas and Constantinople merchants dot the verdure-clad slopes. Two white marble kiosks of the Sultan are pointed out. The old castles of Europe and Asia face each other on opposite sides of the narrow channel. They were famous fortresses in their day, but, save as interesting relics of a bygone age, they are no longer of any use. At Therapia are the summer residences of the different ambassadors, the English and French the most conspicuous. The extensive grounds of the former are most beautifully terraced, and evidently fit for the residence of royalty itself. Happy indeed is the Constantinopolitan whose income commands a summer villa in Therapia, or at any of the many desirable locations in plain view within this earthly paradise of blue waves and sunny slopes, and a yacht in which to wing his flight whenever and wherever fancy bids him go. In the glitter and glare of the mid-day sun the scene along the Bosphorus is lovely, yet its loveliness is plainly of the earth; but as we return cityward in the eventide the dusky shadows of the gloaming settle over everything. As we gradually approach, the city seems half hidden behind a vaporous veil, as though, in imitation of thousands of its fair occupants, it were hiding its comeliness behind the yashmak; the scores of tapering minarets, and the towers, and the masts of the crowded shipping of all nations rise above the mist, and line with delicate tracery the western sky, already painted in richest colors by the setting sun. On Saturday morning, July 18th, the sound of martial music announces the arrival of the soldiers from Stamboul, to guard the streets through which the Sultan will pass on his way to a certain mosque to perform some ceremony in connection with the feast just over. At the designated place I find the streets already lined with Circassian cavalry and Ethiopian zouaves; the latter in red and blue zouave costumes and immense turbans. Mounted gendarmes are driving civilians about, first in one direction and then in another, to try and get the streets cleared, occasionally fetching some unlucky wight in the threadbare shirt of the Galata plebe a stinging cut across the shoulders with short raw-hide whips - a glaring injustice that elicits not the slightest adverse criticism from the spectators, and nothing but silent contortions of face and body from the individual receiving the attention. I finally obtain a good place, where nothing but an open plank fence and a narrow plot of ground thinly set with shrubbery intervenes between me and the street leading from the palace. In a few minutes the approach of the Sultan is announced by the appearance of half a dozen Circassian outriders, who dash wildly down the streets, one behind the other, mounted on splendid dapple-gray chargers; then come four close carriages, containing the Sultan's mother and leading ladies of the imperial harem, and a minute later appears a mounted guard, two abreast, keen-eyed fellows, riding slowly, and critically eyeing everybody and everything as they proceed; behind them comes a gorgeously arrayed individual in a perfect blaze of gold braid and decorations, and close behind him follows the Sultan's carriage, surrounded by a small crowd of pedestrians and horsemen, who buzz around the imperial carriage like bees near a hive, the pedestrians especially dodging about hither and thither, hopping nimbly over fences, crossing gardens, etc., keeping pace with the carriage meanwhile, as though determined upon ferreting out and destroying anything in the shape of danger that may possibly be lurking along the route. My object of seeing the Sultan's face is gained; but it is only a momentary glimpse, for besides the horsemen flitting around the carriage, an officer suddenly appears in front of my position and unrolls a broad scroll of paper with something printed on it, which he holds up. Whatever the scroll is, or the object of its display may be, the Sultan bows his acknowledgments, either to the scroll or to the officer holding it up.

Ere I am in the Ottoman capital a week, I have the opportunity of witnessing a fire, and the workings of the Constantinople Fire Department. While walking along Tramway Street, a hue and cry of' "yangoonvar! yangoonvar!" (there is fire! there is fire!) is raised, and three barefooted men, dressed in the scantiest linen clothes, come charging pell-mell through the crowded streets, flourishing long brass hose-nozzles to clear the way; behind them comes a crowd of about twenty others, similarly dressed, four of whom are bearing on their shoulders a primitive wooden pump, while others are carrying leathern water-buckets. They are trotting along at quite a lively pace, shouting and making much unnecessary commotion, and lastly comes their chief on horseback, cantering close at their heels, as though to keep the men well up to their pace. The crowds of pedestrians, who refrain from following after the firemen, and who scurried for the sidewalks at their approach, now resume their place in the middle of the street; but again the wild cry of "yangoon var!" resounds along the narrow street, and the same scene of citizens scuttling to the sidewalks, and a hurrying fire brigade followed by a noisy crowd of gamins, is enacted over again, as another and yet another of these primitive organizations go scooting swiftly past. It is said that these nimble-footed firemen do almost miraculous work, considering the material they have at command - an assertion which I think is not at all unlikely; but the wonder is that destructive fires are not much more frequent, when the fire department is evidently so inefficient. In addition to the regular police force and fire department, there is a system of night watchmen, called bekjees, who walk their respective beats throughout the night, carrying staves heavily shod with iron, with which they pound the flagstones with a resounding "thwack." Owing to the hilliness of the city and the roughness of the streets, much of the carrying business of the city is done by hamals, a class of sturdy-limbed men, who, I am told, are mostly Armenians. They wear a sort of pack-saddle, and carry loads the mere sight of which makes the average Westerner groan. For carrying such trifles as crates and hogsheads of crockery and glass-ware, and puncheons of rum, four hamals join strength at the ends of two stout poles. Scarcely less marvellous than the weights they carry is the apparent ease with which they balance tremendous loads, piled high up above them, it being no infrequent sight to see a stalwart hamal with a veritable Saratoga trunk, for size, on his back, with several smaller trunks and valises piled above it, making his way down Step Street, which is as much as many pedestrians can do to descend without carrying anything. One of these hamals, meandering along the street with six or seven hundred pounds of merchandise on his back, has the legal right - to say nothing of the evident moral right - to knock over any unloaded citizen who too tardily yields the way. From observations made on the spot, one cannot help thinking that there is no law in any country to be compared to this one, for simon-pure justice between man and man. These are most assuredly the strongest-backed and hardest working men I have seen anywhere. They are remarkably trustworthy and sure-footed, and their chief ambition, I am told, is to save sufficient money to return to the mountains and valleys of their native Armenia, where most of them have wives patiently awaiting their coming, and purchase a piece of land upon which to spend their declining years in ease and independence.

Far different is the daily lot of another habitue of the streets of this busy capital - large, pugnacious-looking rams, that occupy pretty much the same position in Turkish sporting circles that thoroughbred bull-dogs do in England, being kept by young Turks solely on account of their combative propensities and the facilities thereby afforded for gambling on the prowess of their favorite animals. At all hours of the day and evening the Constantinople sport may be met on the streets leading his woolly pet tenderly with a string, often carrying something in his hand to coax the ram along. The wool of these animals is frequently clipped to give them a fanciful aspect, the favorite clip being to produce a lion-like appearance, and they are always carefully guarded against the fell influence of the "evil eye" by a circlet of blue beads and pendent charms suspended from the neck. This latter precautionary measure is not confined to these hard-headed contestants for the championship of Galata, Pera, and Stamboul, however, but grace the necks of a goodly proportion of all animals met on the streets, notably the saddle-ponies, whose services are offered on certain streetcorners to the public.

Occasionally one notices among the busy throngs a person wearing a turban of dark green; this distinguishing mark being the sole privilege of persons who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. All true Mussulmans are supposed to make this pilgrimage some time during their lives, either in person or by employing a substitute to go in their stead, wealthy pashas sometimes paying quite large sums to some imam or other holy person to go as their proxy, for the holier the substitute the greater is supposed to be the benefit to the person sending him. Other persons are seen with turbans of a lighter shade of green than the returned Mecca pilgrims. These are people related in some way to the reigning sovereign.

Constantinople has its peculiar attractions as the great centre of the Mohammedan world as represented in the person of the Sultan, and during the five hundred years of the Ottoman dominion here, almost every Sultan and great personage has left behind him some interesting reminder of the times in which he lived and the wonderful possibilities of unlimited wealth and power. A stranger will scarcely show himself upon the streets ere he is discovered and accosted by a guide. From long experience these men can readily distinguish a new arrival, and they seldom make a mistake regarding his nationality. Their usual mode of self-introduction is to approach him, and ask if he is looking for the American consulate, or the English post-office, as the case may be, and if the stranger replies in the affirmative, to offer to show the way. Nothing is mentioned about charges, and the uninitiated new arrival naturally wonders what kind of a place he has got into, when, upon offering what his experience in Western countries has taught him to consider a most liberal recompense, the guide shrugs his shoulders, and tells you that he guided a gentleman the same distance yesterday and the gentleman gave - usually about double what you are offering, no matter whether it be one cherik or half a dozen. An afternoon ramble with a guide through Stamboul embraces the Museum of Antiquities, the St. Sophia Mosque, the Costume Museum, the thousand and one columns, the Tomb of Sultan Mahmoud, the world-renowned Stamboul Bazaar, the Pigeon Mosque, the Saraka Tower, and the Tomb of Sultan Suliman I. Passing over the Museum of Antiquities, which to the average observer is very similar to a dozen other institutions of the kind, the visitor very naturally approaches the portals of the St. Sophia Mosque with expectations enlivened by having already read wondrous accounts of its magnificence and unapproachable grandeur. But, let one's fancy riot as it will, there is small fear of being disappointed in the "finest mosque in Constantinople." At the door one either has to take off his shoes and go inside in stocking-feet, or, in addition to the entrance fee of two cheriks, "backsheesh" the attendant for the use of a pair of overslippers. People with holes in their socks and young men wearing boots three sizes too small are the legitimate prey of the slipper-man, since the average human would yield up almost his last piastre rather than promenade around in St. Sophia with his big toe protruding through his foot-gear like a mud-turtle's head, or run the risk of having to be hauled bare-footed to his hotel in a hack, from the impossibility of putting his boots on again. Devout Mussulmans are bowing their foreheads down to the mat-covered floor in a dozen different parts of the mosque as we enter; tired-looking pilgrims from a distance are curled up in cool corners, happy in the privilege of peacefully slumbering in the holy atmosphere of the great edifice they have, perhaps, travelled hundreds of miles to see; a dozen half-naked youngsters are clambering about the railings and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner of unrestrained juveniles everywhere - free to gambol about to their hearts' content, providing they abstain from making a noise that would interfere with devotions. Upon the marvellous mosaic ceiling of the great dome is a figure of the Virgin Mary, which the Turks have frequently tried to cover up by painting it over; but paint as often as they will, the figure will not be concealed. On one of the upper galleries are the "Gate of Heaven " and "Gate of Hell," the former of which the Turks once tried their best to destroy; but every arm that ventured to raise a tool against it instantly became paralyzed, when the would-be destroyers naturally gave up the job. In giving the readers these facts I earnestly request them not to credit them to my personal account; for, although earnestly believed in by a certain class of Christian natives here, I would prefer the responsibility for their truthfulness to rest on the broad shoulders of tradition rather than on mine.

The Turks never call the attention of visitors to these reminders of the religion of the infidels who built the structure, at such an enormous outlay of money and labor, little dreaming that it would become one of the chief glories of the Mohammedan world. But the door-keeper who follows visitors around never neglects to point out the shape of a human hand on the wall, too high up to be closely examined, and volunteer the intelligence that it is the imprint of the hand of the first Sultan who visited the mosque after the occupation of Constantinople by the Osmanlis. Perhaps, however, the Mussulman, in thus discriminating between the traditions of the Greek residents and the alleged hand-mark of the first Sultan, is actuated by a laudable desire to be truthful so far as possible; for there is nothing improbable about the story of the hand-mark, inasmuch as a hole chipped in the masonry, an application of cement, and a pressure of the Sultan's hand against it before it hardened, give at once something for visitors to look at through future centuries and shake their heads incredulously about. Not the least of the attractions are two monster wax candles, which, notwithstanding their lighting up at innumerable fasts and feasts, for the guide does not know how many years past, are still eight feet long by four in circumference; but more wonderful than the monster wax candles, the brass tomb of Constantine's daughter, set in the wall over one of the massive doors, the Sultan's hand-mark, the figure of the Virgin Mary, and the green columns brought from Baalbec; above everything else is the wonderful mosaic-work. The mighty dome and the whole vast ceiling are mosaic-work in which tiny squares of blue, green, and gold crystal are made to work out patterns. The squares used are tiny particles having not over a quarter-inch surface; and the amount of labor and the expense in covering the vast ceiling of this tremendous structure with incomputable myriads of these small particles fairly stagger any attempt at comprehension.

An interesting hour can next be spent in the Costume Museum, where life- size figures represent the varied and most decidedly picturesque costumes of the different officials of the Ottoman capital in previous ages, the janizaries, and natives of the different provinces. Some of the head-gear in vogue at Constantinople before the fez were tremendous affairs, but the fez is certainly a step too far in the opposite direction, being several degrees more uncomfortable than nothing in the broiling sun; the fez makes no pretence of shading the eyes, and excludes every particle of air from the scalp. The thousand and one columns are in an ancient Greek reservoir that formerly supplied all Stamboul with water. The columns number but three hundred and thirty-four in reality, but each column is in three parts, and by stretching the point we have the fanciful " tbousand-and-one." The reservoir is reached by descending a flight of stone steps; it is filled in with earth up to the upper half of the second tier of columns, so that the lower tier is buried altogether. This filling up was done in the days of the janizaries, as it was found that those frisky warriors were carrying their well-known theory of "right being might and the Devil take the weakest" to the extent of robbing unprotected people who ventured to pass this vicinity after dark, and then consigning them to the dark depths of the deserted reservoir. The reservoir is now occupied during the day by a number of Jewish silk-weavers, who work here on account of the dampness and coolness being beneficial to the silk. The tomb of Mahmoud is next visited on the way to the Bazaar. The several coffins of the Sultan Mahmoud and his Sultana and princesses are surrounded by massive railings of pure silver; monster wax candles are standing at the head and foot of each coffin, in curiously wrought candlesticks of solid silver that must weigh a hundred pounds each at least; ranged around the room are silver caskets, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in which rare illumined copies of the Koran are carefully kept, the attendant who opened one for my inspection using a silk pocket-handkerchief to turn the leaves. The Stamboul Bazaar well deserves its renown, since there is nothing else of its kind in the whole world to compare with it. Its labyrinth of little stalls and shops if joined together in one straight line would extend for miles; and a whole day might be spent quite profitably in wandering around, watching the busy scenes of bargaining and manufacturing. Here, in this bewildering maze of buying and selling, the peculiar life of the Orient can be seen to perfection; the "mysterious veiled lady" of the East is seen thronging the narrow traffic-ways and seated in every stall; water-venders and venders of carpooses (water-melons) and a score of different eatables are meandering through. Here, if your guide be an honest fellow, he can pilot you into stuffy little holes full of antique articles of every description, where genuine bargains can be picked up; or, if he be dishonest, and in league with equally dishonest tricksters, whose places are antiquaries only in name, he can lead you where everything is basest imitation. In the former case, if anything is purchased he comes in for a small and not undeserved commission from the shopkeeper, and in the latter for perhaps as much as thirty per cent. I am told that one of these guides, when escorting a party of tourists with plenty of money to spend and no knowledge whatever of the real value or genuineness of antique articles, often makes as much as ten or fifteen pounds sterling a day commission.

On the way from the Bazaar we call at the Pigeon Mosque, so called on account of being the resort of thousands of pigeons, that have become quite tame from being constantly fed by visitors and surrounded by human beings. A woman has charge of a store of seeds and grain, and visitors purchase a handful for ten paras and throw to the pigeons, who flock around fearlessly in the general scramble for the food. At any hour of the day Mussulman ladies may be seen here feeding the pigeons for the amusement of their children. From the Pigeon Mosque we ascend the Saraka Tower, the great watch-tower of Stamboul, from the summit of which the news of a fire in any part of the city is signalled, by suspending huge frame-work balls covered with canvas from the ends of projecting poles in the day, and lights at night. Constant watch and ward is kept over the city below by men snugly housed in quarters near the summit, who, in addition to their duties as watchmen, turn an honest cherik occasionally by supplying cups of coffee to Visitors.

No fairer site ever greeted human vision than the prospect from the Tower of Saraka. Stamboul, Galata, Pera, and Scutari, with every suburban village and resort for many a mile around, can be seen to perfection from the commanding height of Saraka Tower. The guide can here point out every building of interest in Stamboul-the broad area of roof beneath which the busy scenes of Stamboul Bazaar are enacted from day to day, the great Persian khan, the different mosques, the Sultan's palaces at Pera, the Imperial kiosks up the Bosphorus, the old Grecian aqueduct, along which the water for supplying the great reservoir of the thousand and one columns used to be conducted, the old city walls, and scores of other interesting objects too numerous to mention here. On the opposite hill, across the Golden Horn, Galata Watch-tower points skyward above the mosques and houses of Galata and Pera. The two bridges connecting Stamboul and Galata are seen thronged with busy traffic; a forest of masts and spars is ranged all along the Golden Horn; steamboats are plying hither and thither across the Bosphorus; the American cruiser Quinnebaug rides at anchor opposite the Imperial water-side palace; the blue waters of the Sea of Marmora and the Gulf of Ismidt are dotted here and there with snowy sails or lined with the smoke of steamships; all combined to make the most lovely panorama imaginable, and to which the coast-wise hills and more lofty mountains of Asia Minor in the distance form a most appropriate background.

>From this vantage-point the guide will not neglect whetting the curiosity of his charge for more sight-seeing by pointing out everything that he imagines would be interesting; he points out a hill above Scutari, whence, he says, a splendid view can be had of "all Asia Minor," and "we could walk there and back in half a day, or go quicker with horses or donkeys;" he reminds you that to-morrow is the day for the howling dervishes in Scutari, and tells you that by starting at one we can walk out to the English cemetery, and return to Scutari in time for the howling dervishes at four o'clock, and manages altogether to get his employer interested in a programme, which, if carried out, would guarantee him employment for the next week. On the way back to Galata we visit the tomb of Sulieman I, the most magnificent tomb in Stamboul. Here, before the coffins of Sulieman I., Sulieman II, and his brother Ahmed, are monster wax candles, that have stood sentry here for three hundred and fifty years; and the mosaic dome of the beautiful edifice is studded with what are popularly believed to be genuine diamonds, that twinkle down on the curiously gazing visitor like stars from a miniature heaven. The attendant tells the guide, in answer to an inquiry from me, that no one living knows whether they are genuine diamonds or not, for never, since the day it was finished, over three centuries and a half ago, has anyone been permitted to go up and examine them. The edifice was go perfectly and solidly built in the beginning, that no repairs of any kind have ever been necessary; and it looks almost like a new building to-day.

Not being able to spare the time for visiting all the objects of interest enumerated by the guide, I elect to see the howling dervishes as the most interesting among them. Accordingly we take the ferry-boat across to Scutari on Thursday afternoon in time to visit the English cemetery before the dervishes begin their peculiar services. We pass through one of the largest Mussulman cemeteries of Constantinople, a bewildering area of tombstones beneath a grove of dark cypresses, so crowded and disorderly that the oldest gravestones seem to have been pushed down, or on one side, to make room for others of a later generation, and these again for still others. In happy comparison to the disordered area of crowded tombstones in the Mohammedan graveyard is the English cemetery, where the soldiers who died at the Scutari hospital during the Crimean war were buried, and the English residents of Constantinople now bury their dead. The situation of the English cemetery is a charming spot, on a sloping bluff, washed by the waters of the Bosphorus, where the requiem of the murmuring waves is perpetually sung for the brave fellows interred there. An Englishman has charge; and after being in Turkey a month it is really quite refreshing to visit this cemetery, and note the scrupulous neatness of the grounds. The keeper must be industry personified, for he scarcely permits a dead leaf to escape his notice; and the four angels beaming down upon the grounds from the national monument erected by England, in memory of the Crimean heroes, were they real visitors from the better land, could doubtless give a good account of his stewardship.

The howling dervishes have already begun to howl as we open the portals leading into their place of worship by the influence of a cherik placed in the open palm of a sable eunuch at the door; but it is only the overture, for it is half an hour later when the interesting part of the programme begins. The first hour seems to be devoted to preliminary meditations and comparatively quiet ceremonies; but the cruel-looking instruments of self-flagellation hanging on the wall, and a choice and complete assortment of drums and other noise-producing but unmelodious instruments, remind the visitor that he is in the presence of a peculiar people. Sheepskin mats almost cover the floor of the room, which is kept scrupulously clean, presumably to guard against the worshippers soiling their lips whenever they kiss the floor, a ceremony which they perform quite frequently during the first hour; and everyone who presumes to tread within that holy precinct removes his over-shoes, if he is wearing any, otherwise he enters in his stockings. At five o'clock the excitement begins; thirty or forty men are ranged around one end of the room, bowing themselves about most violently, and keeping time to the movements of their bodies with shouts of "Allah. Allah." and then branching off into a howling chorus of Mussulman supplications, that, unintelligible as they are to the infidel ear, are not altogether devoid of melody in the expression, the Turkish language abounding in words in which there is a world of mellifluousness. A dancing dervish, who has been patiently awaiting at the inner gate, now receives a nod of permission from the priest, and, after laying aside an outer garment, waltzes nimbly into the room, and straightway begins spinning round like a ballet-dancer in Italian opera, his arms extended, his long skirt forming a complete circle around him as he revolves, and his eyes fixed with a determined gaze into vacancy. Among the howlers is a negro, who is six feet three at least, not in his socks, but in the finest pair of under-shoes in the room, and whether it be in the ceremony of kissing the floor, knocking foreheads against the same, kissing the hand of the priest, or in the howling and bodily contortions, this towering son of Ham performs his part with a grace that brings him conspicuously to the fore in this respect. But as the contortions gradually become more-violent, and the cry of "Allah akbar. Allah hai!" degenerates into violent grunts of " h-o-o-o-o-a-hoo-hoo," the half-exhausted devotees fling aside everything but a white shroud, and the perspiration fairly streams off them, from such violent exercise in the hot weather and close atmosphere of the small room. The exercises make rapid inroads upon the tall negro's powers of endurance, and he steps to one side and takes a breathing-spell of five minutes, after which he resumes his place again, and, in spite of the ever-increasing violence of both lung and muscular exercise, and the extra exertion imposed by his great height, he keeps it up heroically to the end.

For twenty-five minutes by my watch, the one lone dancing dervish - who appears to be a visitor merely, but is accorded the brotherly privilege of whirling round in silence while the others howl-spins round and round like a tireless top, making not the slightest sound, spinning in a long, persevering, continuous whirl, as though determined to prove himself holier than the howlers, by spinning longer than they can keep up their howling - a fair test of fanatical endurance, so to speak. One cannot help admiring the religious fervor and determination of purpose that impel this lone figure silently around on his axis for twenty-five minutes, at a speed that would upset the equilibrium of anybody but a dancing dervish in thirty seconds; and there is something really heroic in the manner in which he at last suddenly stops, and, without uttering a sound or betraying any sense of dizziness whatever from the exercise, puts on his coat again and departs in silence, conscious, no doubt, of being a holier person than all the howlers put together, even though they are still keeping it up. As unmistakable signals of distress are involuntarily hoisted by the violently exercising devotees, and the weaker ones quietly fall out of line, and the military precision of the twists of body and bobbing and jerking of head begins to lose something of its regularity, the six "encouragers," ranged on sheep-skins before the line of howling men, like non-commissioned officers before a squad of new recruits, increase their encouraging cries of "Allah. Allah akbar" as though fearful that the din might subside, on account of the several already exhausted organs of articulation, unless they chimed in more lustily and helped to swell the volume.

Little children now come trooping in, seeking with eager anticipation the happy privilege of being ranged along the floor like sardines in a tin box, and having the priest walk along their bodies, stepping from one to the other along the row, and returning the same way, while two assistants steady him by holding his hands. In the case of the smaller children, the priest considerately steps on their thighs, to avoid throwing their internal apparatus out of gear; but if the recipient of his holy attentions is, in his estimation, strong enough to run the risk, he steps square on their backs, The little things jump up as sprightly as may be, kiss the priest's hand fervently, and go trooping out of the door, apparently well pleased with the novel performance. Finally human nature can endure it no longer, and the performance terminates in a long, despairing wail of "Allah. Allah. Allah!" The exhausted devotees, soaked wet with perspiration, step forward, and receive what I take to be rather an inadequate reward for what they have been subjecting themselves to - viz., the privilege of kissing the priest's already much-kissed hand, and at 5.45 P.M. the performance is over. I take my departure in time to catch the six o'clock boat for Galata, well satisfied with the finest show I ever saw for a cherik. I have already made mention of there being many beautiful sea-side places to which Constantinopolitans resort on Sundays and holidays, and among them all there is no lovelier spot than the island of Prinkipo, one of the Prince's Islands group, situated some twelve miles from Constantinople, down the Gulf of Ismidt. Shelton Bey (Colonel Shelton), an English gentleman, who superintends the Sultan's cannon-foundry at Tophana, and the well-known author of Shelton's " Mechanic's Guide," owns the finest steam-yacht on the Bosphorus, and three Sundays out of the five I remain here, this gentleman and his excellent lady kindly invite me to visit Prinkipo with them for the day.

On the way over we usually race with the regular passenger steamer, and as the Bey's yacht is no plaything for size and speed, we generally manage to keep close enough to amuse ourselves with the comments on the beauty and speed of our little craft from the crowded deck of the other boat. Sometimes a very distinguished person or two is aboard the yacht with our little company, personages known to the Bey, who having arrived on the passenger-boat, accept invitations for a cruise around the island, or to dine aboard the yacht as she rides at anchor before the town. But the advent of the " Americanish Velocipediste " and his glistening machine, a wonderful thing that Prinkipo never saw the like of before, creates a genuine sensation, and becomes the subject of a nine-days' wonder. Prinkipo is a delightful gossipy island, occupied during the summer by the families of wealthy Constantinopolitans and leading business men, who go to and fro daily between the little island and the city on the passenger-boats regularly plying between them, and is visited every Sunday by crowds in search of the health and pleasure afforded by a day's outing. While here at Constantinople I received by mail from America a Butcher spoke cyclometer, and on the second visit to Prinkipo I measured the road which has been made around half the island; the distance is four English miles and a fraction. The road was built by refugees employed by the Sultan during the last Russo-Turkish war, and is a very good one; for part of the distance it leads between splendid villas, on the verandas of which are seen groups of the wealth and beauty of the Osmanli capital, Armenians, Greeks, and Turks - the latter ladies sometimes take the privilege of dispensing with the yashmak during their visits to the comparative seclusion of Prinkipo villas - with quite a sprinkling of English and Europeans. The sort of impression made upon the imaginations of Prinkipo young ladies by the bicycle is apparent from the following comment made by a bevy of them confidentially to Shelton Bey, and kindly written out by him, together with the English interpretation thereof. The Prinkipo ladies' compliment to the first bicycle rider visiting their beautiful island is: "O Bizdan kaydore ghyurulduzug em nezalcettt sadi bir dakika ulchum ghyuriorus nazaman bir dah backiorus O bittum gitmush." (He glides noiselessly and gracefully past; we see him only for a moment; when we look again he is quite gone.) The men are of course less poetical, their ideas running more to the practical side of the possibilities of the new ox-rival, and they comment as follows: "Onum beyghir hich-bir-shey yemiore hich-bir-shey ichmiore Inch yorumliore ma sheitan gibi ghiti-ore," (His horse, he eats nothing, drinks nothing, never gets tired, and goes like the very devil.) It is but fair to add, however, that any bold Occidental contemplating making a descent on Prinkipo with a, "sociable" with a view to delightful moonlight rides with the fair; authors of the above poetic contribution will find himself "all at sea" upon, his arrival, unless he brings a three-seated machine, so that the mamma can be accommodated with a seat behind, since the daughters of Prinkipo society never wander forth by moonlight, or any other light, unless thus accompanied, or by some; equally staid and solicitous relative.

For the Asiatic tour I have invented a "bicycle tent" - a handy contrivance by which the bicycle is made to answer the place of tent poles. The material used is fine, strong sheeting, that will roll up into a small space, and to make it thoroughly water-proof, I have dressed it with boiled linseed oil. My footgear henceforth will be Circassian moccasins, with the pointed toes sticking up like the prow of a Venetian galley. I have had a pair made to order by a native shoemaker in Galata, and, for either walking or pedalling, they are ahead of any foot-gear I ever wore; they are as easy as a three-year-old glove, and last indefinitely, and for fancifulness in appearance, the shoes of civilization are nowhere. Three days before starting out I receive friendly warnings from both the English and American consul that Turkey in Asia is infested with brigands, the former going the length of saying that if he had the power he would refuse me permission to meander forth upon so risky an undertaking. I have every confidence, however, that the bicycle will prove an effectual safeguard against any undue familiarity on the part of these frisky citizens. Since reaching Constantinople the papers here have published accounts of recent exploits accomplished by brigands near Eski Baba. I have little doubt but that more than one brigand was among my highly interested audiences there on that memorable Sunday.

The Turkish authorities seem to have made themselves quite familiar with my intentions, and upon making application for a teskere (Turkish passport) they required me to specify, as far as possible, the precise route I intend traversing from Scutari to Ismidt, Angora, Erzeroum, and beyond, to the Persian frontier. An English gentleman who has lately travelled through Persia and the Caucasus tells me that the Persians are quite agreeable people, their only fault being the one common failing of the East: a disposition to charge whatever they think it possible to obtain for anything. The Circassians seem to be the great bugbear in Asiatic Turkey. I am told that once I get beyond the country that these people range over - who are regarded as a sort of natural and half-privileged freebooters - I shall be reasonably safe from molestation. It is a common thing in Constantinople when two men are quarrelling for one to threaten to give a Circassian a couple of medjedis to kill the other. The Circassian is to Turkey what the mythical "bogie" is to England; mothers threaten undutiful daughters, fathers unruly sons, and everybody their enemies generally, with the Circassian, who, however, unlike the "bogie" of the English household, is a real material presence, popularly understood to be ready for any devilment a person may hire him to do.

The bull-dog revolver, under the protecting presence of which I have travelled thus far, has to be abandoned here at Constantinople, having proved itself quite a wayward weapon since it came from the gunsmith's hands in Vienna, who seemed to have upset the internal mechanism in some mysterious manner while boring out the chambers a trifle to accommodate European cartridges. My experience thus far is that a revolver has been more ornamental than useful; but I am now about penetrating far different countries to any I have yet traversed. Plenty of excellently finished German imitations of the Smith & Wesson revolver are found in the magazines of Constantinople; but, apart from it being the duty of every Englishman or American to discourage, as far as his power goes, the unscrupulousness of German manufacturers in placing upon foreign markets what are, as far as outward appearance goes, the exact counterparts of our own goods, for half the money, a genuine American revolver is a different weapon from its would-be imitators, and I hesitate not to pay the price for the genuine article. Remembering the narrow escape on several occasions of having the bull-dog confiscated by the Turkish gendarmerie, and having heard, moreover, in Constantinople, that the same class of officials in Turkey in Asia will most assuredly want to confiscate the Smith & Wesson as a matter of private speculation and enterprise, I obtain through the British consul a teskere giving me special permission to carry a revolver. Subsequent events, however, proved this precaution to be unnecessary, for a more courteous, obliging, and gentlemanly set of fellows, according to their enlightenment, I never met any where, than the government officials of Asiatic Turkey. Were I to make the simple statement that I am starting into Asia with a pair of knee-breeches that are worth fourteen English pounds (about sixty-eight dollars) and offer no further explanation, I should, in all probability, be accused of a high order of prevarication. Nevertheless, such is the fact; for among other subterfuges to outwit possible brigands, and kindred citizens, I have made cloth-covered buttons out of Turkish liras (eighteen shillings English), and sewed them on in place of ordinary buttons. Pantaloon buttons at $54 a dozen are a luxury that my wildest dreams never soared to before, and I am afraid many a thrifty person will condemn me for extravagance; but the "splendor" of the Orient demands it; and the extreme handiness of being able to cut off a button, and with it buy provisions enough to load down a mule, would be all the better appreciated if one had just been released from the hands of the Philistines with nothing but his clothes - and buttons - and the bicycle. With these things left to him, one could afford to regard the whole matter as a joke, expensive, perhaps, but nevertheless a joke compared with what might have been. The Constantinople papers have advertised me to start on Monday, August 10th, "direct from Scutari." I have received friendly warnings from several Constantinople gentlemen, that a band of brigands, under the leadership of an enterprising chief named Mahmoud Pehlivan, operating about thirty miles out of Scutari, have beyond a doubt received intelligence of this fact from spies here in the city, and, to avoid running direct into the lion's mouth, I decide to make the start from Ismidt, about twenty-five miles beyond their rendezvous. A Greek gentleman, who is a British subject, a Mr. J. T. Corpi, whom I have met here, fell into the hands of this same gang, and being known to them as a wealthy gentleman, had to fork over 3,000 ransom; and he says I would be in great danger of molestation in venturing from Scutari to Ismidt after my intention to do so has been published.



CHAPTER X.



THE START THROUGH ASIA.

In addition to a cycler's ordinary outfit and the before-mentioned small wedge tent I provide myself with a few extra spokes, a cake of tire cement, and an extra tire for the rear wheel. This latter, together with twenty yards of small, stout rope, I wrap snugly around the front axle; the tent and spare underclothing, a box of revolver cartridges, and a small bottle of sewing-machine oil are consigned to a luggage-carrier behind; while my writing materials, a few medicines and small sundries find a repository in my Whitehouse sole-leather case on a Lamson carrier, which also accommodates a suit of gossamer rubber.

The result of my study of the various routes through Asia is a determination to push on to Teheran, the capital of Persia, and there spend the approaching winter, completing my journey to the Pacific next season.

Accordingly nine o'clock on Monday morning, August 10th, finds me aboard the little Turkish steamer that plies semi-weekly between Ismidt and the Ottoman capital, my bicycle, as usual, the centre of a crowd of wondering Orientals. This Ismidt steamer, with its motley crowd of passengers, presents a scene that upholds with more eloquence than words Constantinople's claim of being the most cosmopolitan city in the world; and a casual observer, judging only from the evidence aboard the boat, would pronounce it also the most democratic. There appears to be no first, second, or third class; everybody pays the same fare, and everybody wanders at his own sweet will into every nook and corner of the upper deck, perches himself on top of the paddle-boxes, loafs on the pilot's bridge, or reclines among the miscellaneous assortment of freight piled up in a confused heap on the fore-deck; in short, everybody seems perfectly free to follow the bent of his inclinations, except to penetrate behind the scenes of the aftmost deck, where, carefully hidden from the rude gaze of the male passengers by a canvas partition, the Moslem ladies have their little world of gossip and coffee, and fragrant cigarettes. Every public conveyance in the Orient has this walled-off retreat, in which Osmanli fair ones can remove their yashmaks, smoke cigarettes, and comport themselves with as much freedom as though in the seclusion of their apartments at home.

Greek and Armenian ladies mingle with the main-deck passengers, however, the picturesque costumes of the former contributing not a little to the general Oriental effect of the scene. The dress of the Armenian ladies differs but little from Western costumes, and their deportment would wreathe the benign countenance of the Lord Chamberlain with a serene smile of approval; but the minds and inclinations of the gentle Hellenic dames seem to run in rather a contrary channel. Singly, in twos, or in cosey, confidential coteries, arm in arm, they promenade here and there, saying little to each other or to anybody else. By the picturesqueness of their apparel and their seemingly bold demeanor they attract to themselves more than their just share of attention; but with well-feigned ignorance of this they divide most of their time and attention between rolling cigarettes and smoking them. Their heads are bound with jaunty silk handkerchiefs; they wear rakish-looking short jackets, down the back of which their luxuriant black hair dangles in two tresses; but the crowning masterpiece of their costume is that wonderful garment which is neither petticoat nor pantaloons, and which can be most properly described as "indescribable," which tends to give the wearer rather an unfeminine appearance, and is not to be compared with the really sensible and not unpicturesque nether garment of a Turkish lady. The male companions of these Greek women are not a bit behind them in the matter of gay colors and startling surprises of the Levantine clothier's art, for they likewise are in all the bravery of holiday attire. There is quite a number of them aboard, and they now appear at their best, for they are going to take part in wedding festivities at one of the little Greek villages that nestle amid the vine-clad slopes along the coast - white villages, that from the deck of the moving steamer look as though they have been placed here and there by nature's artistic hand for the sole purpose of embellishing the lovely green frame-work that surrounds the blue waters of the Ismidt Gulf. Several of these merry-makers enliven the passing hours with music and dancing, to the delight of a numerous audience, while a second ever-changing but never-dispersing audience is gathered around the bicycle. The verbal comments and Solomon-like opinions, given in expressive pantomime, of this latter garrulous gathering concerning the machine and myself, I can of course but partly understand; but occasionally some wiseacre suddenly becomes inflated with the idea that he has succeeded in unravelling the knotty problem, and forthwith proceeds to explain, for the edification of his fellow-passengers, the modus operandi of riding it, supplementing his words by the most extraordinary gestures. The audience is usually very attentive and highly interested in these explanations, and may be considerably enlightened by their self-constituted tutors, whose sole advantage over their auditors, so far as bicycles are concerned, consists simply in a belief in the superiority of their own particular powers of penetration. But to the only person aboard the steamer who really does know anything at all about the subject, the chief end of their exposition seems to be gained when they have duly impressed upon the minds of their hearers that the bicycle is to ride on, and that it goes at a rate of speed quite beyond the comprehension of their - the auditors' - minds; "Bin, bin, bin. Chu, chu, chu. Haidi, haidi, haidi." being repeated with a vehemence that is intended to impress upon them little less than flying-Dutchman speed.

The deck of a Constantinople steamer affords splendid opportunity for character study, and the Ismidt packet is no exception. Nearly every person aboard has some characteristic, peculiar and distinct from any of the others. At intervals of about fifteen minutes a couple of Armenians, bare-footed, bare-legged, and ragged, clamber with much difficulty and scraping of shins over a large pile of empty chicken-crates to visit one particular crate. Their collective baggage consists of a thin, half-grown chicken tied by both feet to a small bag of barley, which is to prepare it for the useful but inglorious end of all chickendom. They have imprisoned their unhappy charge in a crate that is most difficult to get at. Why they didn't put it in one of the nearer crates, what their object is in climbing up to visit it so frequently, and why they always go together, are problems of the knottiest kind.

A far less difficult riddle is the case of a middle-aged man, whose costume and avocation explain nothing, save that he is not an Osmanli. He is a passenger homeward bound to one of the coast villages, and he constantly circulates among the crowd with a basket of water-melons, which he has brought aboard "on spec," to vend among his fellow-passengers, hoping thereby to gain sufficient to defray the cost of his passage. Seated on whatever they can find to perch upon, near the canvas partition, all unmoved by the gay and stirring scenes before them, is a group of Mussulman pilgrims from some interior town, returning from a pilgrimage to Stamboul - fine-looking Osmanli graybeards, whose haughty reserve not even the bicycle is able to completely overcome, although it proves more efficacious in subduing it and waking them out of their habitual contemplative attitude than anything else aboard. Two of these men are of magnificent physique; their black eyes, rather full lips, and swarthy skins betraying Arab blood. In addition to the long daggers and antiquated pistols so universally worn in the Orient, they are armed with fine, large, pearl-handled revolvers, and they sit cross-legged, smoking cigarette after cigarette in silent meditation, paying no heed even to the merry music and the dancing of the Greeks.

At Jelova, the first village the steamer halts at, a coupleof zaptiehs come aboard with two prisoners whom they are conveying to Ismidt. These men are lower-class criminals, and their wretched appearance betrays the utter absence of hygienic considerations on the part of the Turkish prison authorities; they evidently have had no cause to complain of any harsh measures for the enforcement of personal cleanliness. Their foot-gear consists of pieces of rawhide, fastened on with odds and ends of string; and pieces of coarse sacking tacked on to what were once clothes barely suffice to cover their nakedness; bare-headed - their bushy hair has not for months felt the smoothing influence of a comb, and their hands and faces look as if they had just endured a seven-years' famine of soap and water. This latter feature is a sure sign that they are not Turks, for prisoners are most likely allowed full liberty to keep themselves clean, and a Turk would at least have come out into the world with a clean face.

The zaptiehs squat down together and smoke cigarettes, and allow their charges full liberty to roam wheresoever they will while on board, and the two prisoners, to all appearances perfectly oblivious of their rags, filth, and the degradation of their position, mingle freely with the passengers; and, as they move about, asking and answering questions, I look in vain among the latter for any sign of the spirit of social Pharisaism that in a Western crowd would have kept them at a distance. Both these men have every appearance of being the lowest of criminals - men capable of any deed in the calendar within their mental and physical capacities; they may even be members of the very gang I am taking this steamer to avoid; but nobody seems to either pity or condemn them; everybody acts toward them precisely as they act toward each other. Perhaps in no other country in the world does this social and moral apathy obtain among the masses to such a degree as in Turkey.

While we lie to for a few minutes to disembark passengers at the village where the before-mentioned wedding festivities are in progress, four of the seven imperturbable Osmanlis actually arise from the one position they have occupied unmoved since coming aboard, and follow me to the foredeck, in order to be present while I explain the workings and mechanism of the bicycle to some Arnienian students of Roberts College, who can speak a certain amount of English. Having listened to my explanations without understanding a word, and, without condescending to question the Armenians, they survey the machine some minutes in silence and then return to their former positions, their cigarettes, and their meditations, paying not the slightest heed to several caique loads of Greek merry-makers who have rowed out to meet the new arrivals, and are paddling around the steamer, filling the air with music. Finding that there is someone aboard that can converse with me, the Greeks, desirous of seeing the bicycle in action, and of introducing a novelty into the festivities of the evening, ask me to come ashore and be their guest until the arrival of the next Ismiclt boat - a matter of three days. Offer declined with thanks, but not without reluctance, for these Greek merry-makings are well worth seeing. The Ismidt packet, like everything else in Turkey, moves at a snail's pace, and although we got under way in something less than an hour after the advertised starting-time, which, for Turkey, is quite commendable promptness, and the distance is but fifty-five miles, we call at a number of villages en route, and it is 6 P.M. when we tie up at the Ismidt wharf.

"Five piastres, Effendi," says the ticket-collector, as, after waiting till the crowd has passed the gang-plank, I follow with the bicycle and hand him my ticket.

"What are the five piastres for." I ask. For answer, he points' to my wheel. "Baggage," I explain.

"Baggage yoke, cargo," he replies; and I have to pay it. The fact is, that, never having seen a bicycle before, he don't know whether it is cargo or baggage; but whenever a Turkish official has no precedent to follow, he takes care to be on the right side in case there is any money to be collected; otherwise he is not apt to be so particular. This is, however, rather a matter of private concern than of zealousness in the performance of his official duties; the possibilities of peculation are ever before him.

While satisfying the claim of the ticket-collector a deck-hand comes forward and, pointing to the bicycle, blandly asks me for backsheesh. He asks, not because he has put a finger to the machine, or been asked to do so, but, being a thoughtful, far-sighted youth, he is looking out for the future. The bicycle is something he never saw on his boat before; but the idea that these things may now become common among the passengers wanders through his mind, and that obtaining backsheesh on this particular occasion will establish a precedent that may be very handy hereafter; so he makes a most respectful salaam, calls me "Bey Effendi," and smilingly requests two piastres backsheesh. After him comes the passport officer, who, besides the teskeri for myself, demands a special passport for the machine. He likewise is in a puzzle (it don't take much, by the by, to puzzle the brains of a Turkish official), because the bicycle is something he has had no previous dealings with; but as this is a matter in which finances play no legitimate part - though probably his demand for a passport is made for no other purpose than that of getting backsheesh - a vigorous protest, backed up by the unanimous, and most certainly vociferous, support of a crowd of wharf-loafers, and my fellow-passengers, who, having disembarked, are waiting patiently for me to come and ride down the street, either overrules or overawes the officer and secures my relief. Impatient at consuming a whole day in reaching Ismidt, I have been thinking of taking to the road immediately upon landing, and continuing till dark, taking my chances of reaching some suitable stopping- place for the night. But the good people of Ismidt raise their voices in protest against what they professedly regard as a rash and dangerous proposition. As I evince a disposition to override their well-meant interference and pull out, they hurriedly send for a Frenchman, who can speak sufficient English to make himself intelligible. Speaking for himself, and acting as interpreter in echoing the words and sentiments of the others, the Frenchman straightway warns me not to start into the interior so late in the day, and run the risk of getting benighted in the brush; for "Much very bad people, very bad people! are between Ismidt and Angora; Circassians plenty," he says, adding that the worst characters are near Ismidt, and that the nearer I get to Angora the better I shall find the people. As by this time the sun is already setting behind the hills, I conclude that an early start in the morning will, after all, be the most sensible course.

During the last Russo-Turkish war thousands of Circassian refugees migrated to this part of Asia Minor. Having a restless, roving disposition, that unfits them for the laborious and uneventful life of a husbandman, many of them remain even to the present day loafers about the villages, maintaining themselves nobody seems to know how. The belief appears to be unanimous, however, that they are capable of any deviltry under the sun, and that, while their great specialty and favorite occupation is stealing horses, if this becomes slack or unprofitable, or even for the sake of a little pleasant variety, these freebooters from the Caucasus have no hesitation about turning highwaymen whenever a tempting occasion offers. All sorts of advice about the best way to avoid being robbed is volunteered by the people of Ismidt. My watch-chain, L.A.W. badge, and everything that appears of any value, they tell me, must be kept strictly out of sight, so as not to excite the latent cupidity of such Circassians as I meet on the road or in the villages. Some advocate the plan of adorning my coat with Turkish official buttons, shoulder-straps, and trappings, to make myself, look like a government officer; others think it would be best to rig myself up as a full-blown zaptieh, with whom, of course, neither Circassian nor any other guilty person would attempt to interfere. To these latter suggestions I point out that, while they are very good, especially the zaplieh idea, so far as warding off Circassians is concerned, my adoption of a uniform would most certainly get me into hot water with the military authorities of every town and village, owing to my ignorance of the vernacular, and cause me no end of vexatious delay. To this the quick-witted Frenchman replies by at once offering to go with me to the resident pasha, explain the matter to him, and get a letter permitting me to wear the uniform; which offer I gently but firmly decline, being secretly of the opinion that these excessive precautions are all unnecessary. From the time I left Hungary I have been warned so persistently of danger ahead, and have so far met nothing really dangerous, that I am getting sceptical about there being anything like the risk people seem to think. Without being blind to the fact that there is a certain amount of danger in travelling alone through a country where it is the universal custom either to travel in company or to take a guard, I feel quite confident that the extreme novelty of my conveyance will make so profound an impression on the Asiatic mind that, even did they know that my buttons are gold coins of the realm, they would hesitate seriously to molest me. From past observations among people seeing the bicycle ridden for the first time, I believe that with a hundred yards of smooth road it is quite possible for a cycler to ride his way into the good graces of the worst gang of freebooters in Asia.

Having decided to remain here over-night, I seek the accommodation of a rudely comfortable hotel, kept by an Armenian, where, at the supper-table, I am first made acquainted with the Asiatic dish called "pillau," that is destined to form no inconsiderable part of my daily bill of fare for several weeks. Pillau is a dish that is met - with in one disguise or another all over Asia. With a foundation of boiled rice, it receives a variety of other compounds, the nature of which will appear as they enter into my daily experiences. In deference to the limited knowledge of each other's language possessed by myself and the proprietor, I am invited into the cookhouse and permitted to take a peep at the contents of several different pots and kettles simmering over a slow fire in a sort of brick trench, to point out to the waiter such dishes as I think I shall like. Failing to find among the assortment any familiar acquaintances, I try the pillau, and find it quite palatable, preferring it to anything else the house affords.

Our friend the Frenchman is quite delighted at the advent of a bicycle in Ismidt, for in his younger days, he tells me with much enthusiasm, he used to be somewhat partial to whirling wheels himself; and when he first came here from France, some eighteen years ago, he actually brought with him a bone-shaker, with which, for the first summer, he was wont to surprise the natives. This relic of by-gone days has been stowed away among a lot of old traps ever since, all but forgotten; but the appearance of a mounted wheelman recalls it to memory, and this evening, in honor of my visit, it is brought once more to light, its past history explained by its owner, and its merits and demerits as a vehicle in comparison with my bicycle duly discussed. The bone-shaker has wheels heavy enough for a dog-cart; the saddle is nearly all gnawed away by mice, and it presents altogether so antiquated an appearance that it seems a relic rather of a past century than of a past decade. Its owner assays to take a ride on it; but the best he can do is to wabble around a vacant space in front of the hotel, the awkward motions of the old bone-shaker affording intense amusement to the crowd. After supper this chatty and entertaining gentleman brings his wife, a rotund, motherly-looking person, to see the bicycle; she is a Levantine Greek, and besides her own lingua franca, her husband has improved her education to the extent of a smattering of rather misleading English. Desiring to be complimentary in return for my riding back and forth a few times for her special benefit, the lady comes forward as I dismount and, smiling complacently upon me, remarks, "How very grateful you ride, monsieur!" and her husband and tutor, desiring also to say something complimentary, echoes, " Much grateful - very."

The Greeks seem to be the life and poetry of these sea-coast places on the Ismidt gulf. My hotel faces the water; and for hours after dark a half-dozen caique-loads of serenaders are paddling about in front of the town, making quite an entertaining concert in the silence of the night, the pleasing effect being heightened by the well-known softening influence of the water, and not a little enhanced by a display of rockets and Roman candles. Earlier in the evening, while taking a look at Ismidt and the surrounding scenery, in company with a few sociable natives, who point out beauty-spots in the surrounding landscape with no little enthusiasm, I am impressed with the extreme loveliness of the situation. The town itself, now a place of thirteen thousand inhabitants, is the Nicomedia of the ancients. It is built in the form of a crescent, facing the sea; the houses, many of them painted white, are terraced upon the slopes of the green hills, whose sides and summits are clothed with verdure, and whose bases are laved by the blue waves of the gulf, which here, at the upper extremity, narrows to about a mile and a half in width; white villages dot the green mountain-slopes on the opposite shore, prominent among them being the Armenian town of Bahgjadjik, where for a number of years has been established an American missionary-school, a branch, I think, of Roberts College. Every mile of visible country, whether gently sloping or more rugged and imposing, is green with luxuriant vegetation, and the waters of the gulf are of that deep-blue color peculiar to mountain-locked inlets; the bright green hills, the dancing blue waters, and the white painted villages combine to make a scene so lovely in the chastened light of early eventide that, after the Bosporus, I think I never saw a place more beautiful. Besides the loveliness of the situation, the little mountain-sheltered inlet makes an excellent anchorage for shipping; and during the late war, at the well-remembered crisis when the Russian armies were bearing down on Constantinople and the British fleet received the famous order to pass through the Dardanelles with or without the Sultan's permission, the head-waters of the Ismidt gulf became, for several months, the rendezvous of the ships.