d silken reins to guide the well-bred horses.

On horseback alongside prance the ill-favored eunuchs, ready to
swear at or smite the insolent Frank venturing too near the moon-eyed
beauties in the teleki.

At these Sweet Waters the sultan has his own kiosk, a gilded
monstrosity of architecture, and at its window, worn, pallid, haggard,
gazing out with lacklustre and indifferent eye upon the scene below,
this shadow of the Prophet might frequently be seen a few years since.
It was etiquette for him to come sometimes, so he did it as a duty,
not a pleasure; for the poor man had no pleasures, being the most
utterly _blase_ man in this wide world. The drawback on all his pomp
and power is the condition annexed to it, that no one is worthy of
his society, and he must be ever alone, in public as in private. A
representative of the faith as well as of the loyalty of his people,
no one can be supposed to meet or associate with him on terms
approaching equality, and hence his isolation from human sympathy or
society.[25]

The fountain is covered by a square roof, and all around it are marble
slabs with Turkish inscriptions in gilt letters praising the virtues
of the water. In that scriptural phraseology so common in the East you
are notified that "These waters are as sweet as those of the well of
Zemzem, of which Abraham drank, and like unto those of the rivers
of Paradise to the hot and thirsty who come here to taste them." The
water was really very good water, but its praises struck us as rather
hyperbolical, possibly because the Frank at Constantinople generally
drinks and prefers other and more potent beverages.

But drinking the water is the least part of the performance here, and,
unlike Saratoga, "flirtation around the spring" is a thing undreamed
of where the sexes, at peril of life and limb, dare not even
approximate, much less exchange courtesies over the draught.

There is a narrow road which leads you away from this busy spot to
the sources of the fountains of these Sweet Waters. But road-making
is not one of the triumphs of Turkish skill, and this is a very dirty
and dusty road, full of holes which would smash the springs of any
conveyances less primitive and strong than those in use. It is hedged
in by fig trees growing to a size which would astonish those who have
only seen the dwarf trees of the species which we possess. Passing
along this road, we reach the inner valley. Here we find fewer people,
but the