A CITY IN MOURNFUL GUISE. 29 



Mohammed is His prophet I " rang through the dome 

 of the great church which had stood for thirty 

 generations a monument of the greatness and piety 

 of its founder, Justinian, — passed in bewildering suc- 

 cession before me, till at length, as we drew up 

 alongside of the platform of the station of Stambul, 

 I was ready to exclaim, in the words of the old king 

 Athanarich, "Now do I at last behold what I had 

 often heard and deemed incredible." 



Alas for all our dreams ! The glitter of my mental 

 picture was not there : the reality M^as depressing in 

 comparison. Dull grey-looking buildings loomed in- 

 distinctly through mist as I was driven over execrable 

 streets to the European quarter of the town. The 

 rock walls of the Bosphorus, undoubtedly one of the 

 most striking water passages in the world, were but 

 faintly outlined through falling rain. Even in the 

 faces of its people was to be seen a reflex of the 

 city's mournful guise, for there was apparent in 

 them that gloom which is begotten of a long and 

 strenuous fast. E-amazan was at its height. Of 

 course it was all my own fault, as every fresh 

 acquaintance took good care to impress upon me, 

 and I listened patiently to the reiterated assertion 

 that December was not the time of year to see 

 the beauties of Constantinople. The worst of bad 

 weather, however, is powerless to divest the Hippo- 

 drome, with its bronze pillar celebrating the victory 

 of Platsea, of its historic interest, or the burnt 

 column on whose continued existence depends accord- 

 ing to popular superstition the life of the Ottoman 

 Empire, or the museum which guards the relics of 

 some of the earliest known races of mankind, or the 

 great arches of massive masonry which sustain a 

 water- channel enumerated by the versatile anatomist 



