Even if we don't take a part in the chant about "mosques and minarets," we can still yield praises to Stamboul. We can chant about the harbour; we can say, and sing, that nowhere else does the sea come so home to a city; there are no pebbly shores -- no sand bars -- no slimy river-beds -- no black canals -- no locks nor docks to divide the very heart of the place from the deep waters. If being in the noisiest mart of Stamboul you would stroll to the quiet side of the way amidst those cypresses opposite, you will cross the fathomless Bosphorus; if you would go from your hotel to the bazaars, you must go by the bright, blue pathway of the Golden Horn, that can carry a thousand sail of the line. You are accustomed to the gondolas that glide among the palaces of St. Mark, but here at Stamboul it is a 120 gun ship that meets you in the street. Venice strains out from the steadfast land, and in old times would send forth the chief of the State to woo and wed the reluctant sea; but the stormy bride of the Doge is the bowing slave of the Sultan. She comes to his feet with the treasures of the world -- she bears him from palace to palace -- by some unfailing witchcraft she entices the breezes to follow her and fan the pale cheek of her lord -- she lifts his armed navies to the very gates of his garden -- she watches the walls of his serai -- she stifles the intrigues of his ministers -- she quiets the scandals of his courts -- she extinguishes his rivals, and hushes his naughty wives all one by one. So vast are the wonders of the deep!

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