At the top of a Pera building

This day I was daguerreotyped by an artist who lived at the top of a Pera building, in a hothouse of glass, where it was scarcely possible to breathe. The portrait has been copied with tolerable accuracy, and it may explain how it was that so few of my friends recognized me on my return. But the comfort of a beard, when travelling, to the abolition of shaving tackle, may be readily conceived.

Demetri had ordered two porters to come to the hotel for our luggage, but six arrived instead, upon which a great battle was fought in the street, and the final couple — apparently having “fought the ties off” and remained the victors — carried our luggage down to the Golden Horn, on the 25th of September. The Ferdinando Pritno, one of the Austrian Lloyd’s boats, was getting her steam up, and at half past four she started, just as the “ husband’s boat” was leaving the bridge for Prinkipo, with the same class of passengers on board, quite ready to dress up again on the Sunday, and walk about as long as there were others to admire them, or fireworks to show off their fashionable toilets.

My eyes from Constantinople

I could not take my eyes from Constantinople as we left the port, and commenced ploughing our way towards the Sea of Marmora ; for now, in addition to the beauty of the view, there was some little association connected with almost every point of it on which the eye fell. There was the noble Genoese tower above Stampa’s shop, in which so many hours had been laughed away, and. behind that minaret was the window of our bed-room at the Hotel, in which private guide turkey, on evenings, so many jolly little meetings had been held. There were the hills over which we had such famous gallops, and enjoyed such good spirits; and there was the Bosphorus, and the site of the little cafe, in the extreme distance, where the pickles were served with the bottled beer. The Seraglio, as I looked at it, had lost all its mystery, when I thought of the French clocks, and gimcrack furniture, and English pictures that it contained; and the picturesque tumble-down houses of Galata, I knew, on the other side, were ship-chandlers’ shops, merchants’ counting-houses, ordinary steam-packet offices, and other material establishments. But still the view was as beautiful as ever, even with every vivid recollection of its internal dirt and dilapidation; and, loth to lose it, I kept my eyes fixed on the domes and minarets, the distant Bosphorus and the violet hills above it, until the twilight stole over them, and I could only think of Constantinople as a bright fleeting vision of the past.

I believe that my companion and myself were the only two cabin passengers, and we were in the fore part. But on the deck there were a great many Moslems — Turks and Circassians principally— on their way to Mecca, for their pilgrimage. Their encampment, if so I may call it, was a curious sight. One half, taken longitudinally, of the aft-deck was allotted to them. Of this, the stern portion was railed off into a species of pen, in which the women were placed, to the number of six or seven. They were shut up exactly like animals at a fair. Along the entire length of the aft-deck a spar was hung, over their heads; and when rain came on, they put canvas on this, and formed a species of tent. Under it each made his “divan”; for the quantity of carpets, dirty cushions, and mattresses they carry about with them, when travelling, is incredible. They had also their cooking utensils, and the filth they prepared, from time to time, is equally matter of difficult belief.