with shawls and quilts, they huddled in most undignified and unclerical position in the shelter of the weather bulwarks. A little farther on a group of picturesquelooking Turks were curling their mustaches, and endeavoring, by the most vehement whiffs, to smoke away the spirit of the sea; apparently in vain, however.

For some time I amused myself with watching the freaks and dispositions of the various individuals before me. No place is better suited for the study of human nature than the deck of an Oriental steamer. Unfortunately, I had the misfortune to tread on a sleeper's head, and immediately after to put a snappish cur into purgatory by squeezing his tail, which successive catastrophes induced me to seek the forecastle. We were passing the Prince's Islands on our left. A monastery which crowns Prinkipo, the largest of these, contains the ashes of the Empress Irene, who aspired to join by marriage her dominion to that of Charlemagne, and thus reunite the Eastern and Western empires. Before us lay the Asiatic coast, with Olympus' snowy ridge glittering in the sun; and on our right, sail after sail came dancing over the waves before the freshening breeze which blew up the Marmora. As the day wore on we glided into the Gulf of Modania, and the vessel, which was going to continue its trip up to Gemlik, lay off and on, to land a few passengers, ourselves included, at Modania, a dilapidated village, and one of the ports of Brûsa. The process of landing had been attended, if not with positive danger, at any rate with a superfluous amount of shouting and confusion, therefore, once on shore, we retired to a noisy cafené to recover from the shock our nerves had experienced. There, perfectly unconscious of the rabble, to which our humble selves were a source of wonder and amusement, we took a cup of coffee and smoked the pipe of contentment. After a brief interval, behold us mounted on a couple of bony but lively Turkish nags; our saddle-bags were strung over the saddles, an extensive and antiquated method of transporting one's luggage, since Horace, that luxurious bachelor of old, makes mention of the same custom.

Our surrigee, or muleteer, led the way, and had contrived to appropriate to himself the best steed of the party. He was decidedly a character who might be turned

to good account by some novelist of the romantic school. His sturdy frame was surmounted by a head over which fifty winters might have given that touch of snow to his long, thin locks. His eagle eyes had a look of wickedness, and his ferocious mustache curled over his ears; a corbash hung over his shoulders, and an embroidered jerkin, a heavy pair of galligaskins, and leggins of felt completed his appearance. He beguiled the way, occasionally, with a traditionary tale or some wild and melancholy song, like those sung by the muleteer in the sierras of Spain, in the solitudes of Calabria, and by the crumbling fanes of Attica.

At first our route lay through the most luxuriant verdure. It wound through plantations of mulberry, olive, pomegranate, and walnut trees, and the hills on our right hand were covered with vineyards. On our left the Gulf of Modania reflected the rays of the setting sun, and the little village of Nichori showed its scattered roofs on the side of a distant slope.

After winding among the hills some time, we came out, toward dusk, into a more open country; having forded a small stream, and taken a cup of coffee at a guard-house by the roadside, we proceeded on our way at a rapid pace. The new moon gleamed near the horizon, the lights of Brûsa twinkled in the distance, and Mount Olympus rose like a huge shadow against the sky, his summit crowned with masses of white cloud. The owlet's hoot was all that disturbed the solitude of the moon and the train of our meditations. We were traversing regions rendered sacred by their historical associations. Hannibal had probably followed the path we pursued, when flying from an ungenerous foe and seeking the treacherous hospitality of Prusias. How many have trusted, like him, to fortune, and found her a coquette. Has posterity sufficiently awarded him that homage due to the greatest captain of antiquity, and which his own generation refused him?

As we drew near the city we crossed a stream called the Niloufer. It is spanned by the remains of a Roman bridge. There is an interesting tradition connected with the name of this river. It is said that Osman, the founder of the Turkish empire, having intelligence that a neighboring chieftain had left his castle in order to wed the daughter of an ally, surprised the

fortress during the absence of the Castellan, and lay in wait for his return on the banks of this stream. The latter fell into the snare, and was killed, and his virgin bride, whose name was Niloufer, was captured by Osmán, who bestowed her on his son Orchán. By him she became the mother of Suleimán, the first of the Ottomans who gained a footing in Europe, and from her the river obtained its present appellation

Not being very experienced cavaliers, we hailed with joy our entrance at a late hour into the city of Brûsa, and our worthy Boniface, a ruddy German, than whom none ever was more assiduous in his attentions, must have been astonished at the diminution his larder underwent by our attacks.

The morrow's sun caught us napping, and it was not till a late hour that we sallied from our lodgings, my friend to his business and I to spy out the land. As it would be a tedious task to give in detail the narrative of each day's adventures, I will confine myself to a description of Brûsa, with a few reflections on her past and present condition.

It is a mystery how a place so remarkable as Brûsa, for its natural loveliness and its historical interest, and situated so near the sea-coast, should have attracted but little attention from the traveler and

the savan. The beauty of Damascus and the magnificence of Bagdad are proverbial, while this garden of Anatolia is almost as unknown as was Liliput before Gulliver's voyages. Brûsa must surely have been one of Gray's flowers that were "born to blush unseen." The verdure in the city and its vicinity is unsurpassed. Though late in the fall when I was there, the scenery presented rather the appearance of approaching spring, than of that melancholy season which typifies the dissolution of man. The reason of this fertility, so unusual in many parts of the East, is owing probably to the abundance of running water, which supplies the whole region. The summit of Mount Olympus is covered with snow throughout the year, from which numerous streams arise that irrigate the plain during the dry season, when the rest of Asia Minor is parched with drought. Many of these streams flow through the city, affording a constant supply of water for the fountains and cisterns, and washing the filth from the pavements. Their continuous murmur sounds refreshing during the heat of midday. As a consequence from these natural scavengers, Brûsa is one of the cleanest cities in the Turkish dominions.

The old city was situated on a lofty table land, which terminates abruptly in the rear of modern Brûsa. The third day

after my arrival, having procured a guide, I proceeded to explore this portion of the town. After a toilsome ascent we reached the elevation through a half-ruined barbacan, unchallenged by its drowsy sentinel. The first object of interest that met our eyes was a mosque, which was originally a Greek church. It contains the tombs of Sultan Orchán, the second in the line of Turkish monarchs, and Sultan Bayazid, surnamed Ilderim or Thunderbolt. The Islamism of the Brûsa Moslems is of a singularly inoffensive character No insult was offered me during my whole stay there, and a small backshish to the keeper of this edifice was all that was requisite to gain us an entrance to its sacred pre

cincts. The building is a neat and solid structure of the Byzantine style of architecture, and derives its chief interest from the ashes which repose beneath its sacred dome.

In the same inclosure stands a mausoleum of unpretending aspect, its little cupola peeping forth from a group of venerable cypresses. It is the tomb of Osmán, the founder of the Ottoman Empire. It remains in the same undisturbed solitude in which it has stood for centuries. The peace which the faithful invokes for the departed Mussulman has here been undisturbed.

Little did Ozmán, when he received the summons, of Azrafél, foresee the great

ness his race would attain under Bayazid, Mohammed, and Suleiman the Magnificent; and as little did he imagine that his mausoleum, the work of some obscure artist, should witness the overthrow of that dominion of which he laid the foundations. Will no form or comeliness revisit his dry bones, that, like the corpse of the Cid, his appearance alone may inspire the foe with dread; and grasping the standard of the prophet, he may again lead the hosts of the crescent to battle, conquering and to conquer! We may not approve of the character of Osmán, nor admire the cruelty and oppression which have always characterized the Turkish rule, but now that they are gone, we can and we ought

to sympathize with them in their decay, without necessarily giving a shock to our sensibilities In the same manner we respect Sardanapalus in the closing drama of his career, and we mourn over the destruction of Babylon, although we contemplate with disgust the voluptuousness of the one and the unparalleled immorality of the other. The hand of time, like the tool of the mason which smoothens the rugged surface of the marble, softens the asperities in the character of a hero or of a heroic nation, which might render their memory offensive.

After leaving this spot we rambled through the grassy lanes diverging from it, across which slanted the cheerful rays of

forgotten by a selfish world, they are remembered by the stars of heaven, whose dewy tears nightly give fragrance to the flowers which flourish around the tombs of the brave, the virtuous, and the beautiful. The following day, in company with my compagnon du voyage, and a native gentleman, I rode out to one of the mineral springs which bubble up at various spots around Brûsa. The whole region of Mt. Olympus is strongly volcanic, and, as a consequence, its thermal springs are numerous. I may here state what is, perhaps, not generally known, that a few months after my visit to Brûsa a severe earthquake, which was felt more or less throughout the Levant, shook that city to its foundations. Many houses, and some of the oldest buildings among them, were overthrown. Hundreds lost their lives in the awful catastrophe. At this time several of these warm springs totally disappeared.

It had been my intention to ascend Mt. Olympus, but the lateness of the season and a heavy fall of snow prevented such an attempt. I tried to console myself in some measure for it by taking a gallop one afternoon over the hills which flank the city, and, standing like outposts from the mountains, effectually shield it from view until one has advanced some distance toward the center of the plain. My path led through the wildest and most romantic scenery on the one hand rocks and precipices, covered with mosses and trailing creepers, and interspersed with forests of chestnut and olive, towered toward heaven in sublime magnificence. On the other hand was the city, but a vast sheet of mist which lay over the plain concealed it. The summits of the distant hills, like low tracts of land along the verge of the ocean, and here and there the loftiest cypresses and minarets, rose above the white vapor, and that was all. What poets have so often sung of cities submerged by the invading sea, and what has actually happened to the cities of the plain, seemed to be repeated at the foot of Mt. Olympus. No breeze uplifted the portentous mass of cloud which so resembled the sullen flood of the Dead Sea. But this was only an evanescent appearance, which the morrow's sun would dispel.

ain gorge, through which a swollen torrent raved and thundered. Khüleborn was evidently infuriated for some reason unknown, perhaps with some bashful Oread of the neighboring woods. He lashed the rocks with foam, and the sparkling spray dashed up to the pines that overhung the agitated waters. Crossing the torrent on a reeling wooden bridge, thrown from crag to crag, I regained the city about sunset, after a circuitous, but delightful ride.

I stopped a few moments in the suburbs at a silk manufactory. It is to the cultivation of this branch of trade that Brûsa owes her continued prosperity. Thrift and opulence are visible in her mart, and the supply of her silk goods, which rival those of Persia and Syria, is continually increasing. The destroying angel, who has left such indelible marks of decay on the cities of the East, must have passed over this paradise with a smile on his lowering countenance.

The week I spent in Brûsa passed delightfully and almost imperceptibly away, and it was with regret that on Tuesday morning I took a last view of its tapering minarets and of the venerable mountain which overshadows them. On our return we took the steamer from Gemlik, instead of Modania. A canter of two or three hours brought us to the Greek village of Demirdesh. After stopping there some time for dinner we proceeded on our way. But now a cold north wind blew directly in our faces, accompanied with blinding sleet. Soon darkness came on; the road, from late rains, was execrable, and our jaded animals could with difficulty pick their way through the mire.

The roar of the surf rolling up the bay, which reached us long before we gained the seashore, betokened our approach to Gemlik. Arrived at that place, we went directly on board the boat, which lay in the roads. She got under weigh toward midnight, but a gale blowing dead ahead, with a strong sea, sorely belabored our crazy steamer.