St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed, gleaming far and white, like icebergs astray on a torrid sea.
Another cloud was pouring its rain over the Asian shore, and we made haste
to get to the landing at Prinkipo before it could reach us. From the
south, the group of islands is not remarkable for beauty. Only four of
them--Prinkipo, Chalki, Prote, and Antigone--are inhabited, the other five
being merely barren rocks.

There is an ancient convent on the summit of Prinkipo, where the Empress
Irene--the contemporary of Charlemagne--is buried. The town is on the
northern side of the island, and consists mostly of the summer residences
of Greek and Armenian merchants. Many of these are large and stately
houses, surrounded with handsome gardens. The streets are shaded with
sycamores, and the number of coffee-houses shows that the place is much
frequented on festal days. A company of drunken Greeks were singing in
violation of all metre and harmony--a discord the more remarkable, since
nothing could be more affectionate than their conduct towards each other.
Nearly everybody was in Frank costume, and our Oriental habits, especially
the red Tartar boots, attracted much observation. I began to feel awkward
and absurd, and longed to show myself a Christian once more.

Leaving Prinkipo, we made for Constantinople, whose long array of marble
domes and gilded spires gleamed like a far mirage over the waveless sea.
It was too faint and distant and dazzling to be substantial. It was like
one of those imaginary cities which we build in a cloud fused in the light
of the setting sun. But as we neared the point of Chalcedon, running along
the Asian shore, those airy piles gathered form and substance. The
pinnacles of the Seraglio shot up from the midst of cypress groves;
fantastic kiosks lined the shore; the minarets of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed rose more clearly against the sky; and a fleet of steamers and
men-of-war, gay with flags, marked the entrance of the Golden Horn. We
passed the little bay where St. Chrysostom was buried, the point of
Chalcedon, and now, looking up the renowned Bosphorus, saw the Maiden's
Tower, opposite Scutari. An enormous pile, the barracks of the Anatolian
soldiery, hangs over the high bank, and, as we row abreast of it, a fresh
breeze comes up from the Sea of Marmora. The prow of the caique is turned
across the stream, the sail is set, and we glide rapidly and noiselessly
over the Bosphorus and into the Golden Horn,