It stands on a broad terrace,
on one of the seven hills of Stamboul, and its exquisitely proportioned
domes and minarets shine as if crystalized in the blue of the air. It is a
type of Oriental, as the Parthenon is of Grecian, and the Cologne
Cathedral of Gothic art. As I saw it the other night, lit by the flames of
a conflagration, standing out red and clear against the darkness, I felt
inclined to place it on a level with either of those renowned structures.
It is a product of the rich fancy of the East, splendidly ornate, and not
without a high degree of symmetry--yet here the symmetry is that of
ornament alone, and not the pure, absolute proportion of forms, which we
find in Grecian Art. It requires a certain degree of enthusiasm--nay, a
slight inebriation of the imaginative faculties--in order to feel the
sentiment of this Oriental Architecture. If I rightly express all that it
says to me, I touch the verge of rapsody. The East, in almost all its
aspects, is so essentially poetic, that a true picture of it must be
poetic in spirit, if not in form.

Constantinople has been terribly ravaged by fires, no less than fifteen
having occurred during the past two weeks. Almost every night the sky has
been reddened by burning houses, and the minarets of the seven hills
lighted with an illumination brighter than that of the Bairam. All the
space from the Hippodrome to the Sea of Marmora has been swept away; the
lard, honey, and oil magazines on the Golden Horn, with the bazaars
adjoining; several large blocks on the hill of Galata, with the College of
the Dancing Dervishes; a part of Scutari, and the College of the Howling
Dervishes, all have disappeared; and to-day, the ruins of 3,700 houses,
which were destroyed last night, stand smoking in the Greek quarter,
behind the aqueduct of Valens. The entire amount of buildings consumed in
these two weeks is estimated at between _five and six thousand_! The fire
on the hill of Galata threatened to destroy a great part of the suburb of
Pera. It came, sweeping over the brow of the hill, towards my hotel,
turning the tall cypresses in the burial ground into shafts of angry
flame, and eating away the crackling dwellings of hordes of hapless Turks.
I was in bed; from a sudden attack of fever, but seeing the other guests
packing up their effects and preparing to leave, I was obliged to do the
same; and this, in my weak state, brought on such a perspiration that the
ailment left me, The of