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"O who is more brave than a dark Suliote,
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?"
 

The interior of the country is less advanced than the capital. The great want is that of internal communication. Greece is a country made by nature both for commerce and for agriculture, as it is a peninsula, and the long line of coast is indented with bays, and the interior is very fertile; and if a few short roads were opened to connect the inland valleys with the sea, so that the farmers and peasants could send their produce to market, the exports of the country might soon be doubled. One "trunk" road also is needed, about a hundred miles long, to connect Greece with the European system of railroads. The opening of this single artery of trade would give a great impulse to the industry of the country; but as it would have to cross the frontier of Turkey, it is necessary to have the consent of the Turkish Government, and this the Greeks, though they have sought it for years, have never been able to obtain.

But the obstacles to improvement are not all the fault of the Turks; the Greeks are themselves also to blame. There is a lack of enterprise and of public spirit; they do not work together for the public good. If there were a little more of a spirit of coöperation, they could do wonders for their country. They need not go to England to borrow money to build railroads. There is enough in Athens itself, which is the residence of many wealthy Greeks. Greece is about as large in territory as Massachusetts, and has about the same population. If it had the same spirit of enterprise, it would soon be covered, as Massachusetts is, with a network of railroads, and all its valleys would be alive with the hum of industry.

This lack of enterprise and want of combination for public ends, are due to inherent defects of national character. The modern Greeks have many of the traits of their illustrious ancestors, in which there is a strange compound of strength and weakness. They are a mercurial and excitable race, very much like the French, effervescing like champagne, bubbling up and boiling over; fond of talk, and often spending in words the energy that were better reserved for deeds. They have a proverb of their own, which well indicates their readiness to get excited about little matters, which says, "They drown themselves in a tumbler of water."

A still more serious defect than this lightness of manner, is the want of a high patriotic feeling which overrides all personal ambition. There is too much of party spirit, and of personal ambition. Everybody wants to be in office, to obtain control of the Government, and selfish interests often take the precedence of public considerations; men seem more eager to get into power by any means, than to secure the good of their country. This party spirit makes more difficult the task of government. But after all these are things which more or less exist in all countries, and especially under all free governments, and which the most skilled statesmen have to use all their tact and skill to restrain within due bounds.

But while these are obvious defects of the national character, no one can fail to see the fine qualities of the Greeks, and the great things of which they are capable. They are full of talent, in which they show their ancestral blood, and if sometimes a little restless and unmanageable, they are but like spirited horses, that need only to be "reined in" and guided aright, to run a long and glorious race.

I have good hope of the country also, from the character of the young King, whom I had an opportunity of seeing. This was an unexpected pleasure, for which I am indebted to the courtesy of our accomplished Minister here, Gen. J. Meredith Reed, who suggested and arranged it; and it proved not a mere formality, but a real gratification. I had supposed it would be a mere ceremony, but it was, on the contrary, so free from all stiffness – our reception was so unaffected and so cordial – that I should like to impart a little of the pleasure of it to others. I wish I could convey the impression of that young ruler exactly as he appeared in that interview: for this is a case in which the simplest and most literal description would be the most favorable. Public opinion abroad hardly does him justice; for the mere fact of his youth (he is not yet quite thirty years old), may lead those who know nothing of him personally, to suppose that he is a mere figure-head of the State, a graceful ornament indeed, but not capable of adding much to the political wisdom by which it is to be guided. The fact too of his royal connections (for he is the son of the King of Denmark, and brother-in-law both of the Prince of Wales and of the eldest son of the Czar), naturally leads one to suppose that he was chosen King by the Greeks chiefly to insure the alliance of England and Russia. No doubt these considerations did influence, as they very properly might, his election to the throne. But the people were most happy in their choice, in that they obtained not merely a foreign prince to rule over them, but one of such personal qualities as to win their love and command their respect. Those who come in contact with him soon discover that he is not only a man of education, but of practical knowledge of affairs; that he "carries an old head on young shoulders," and has little of youth about him except its modesty, but this he has in a marked degree, and it gives a great charm to his manners. I was struck with this as soon as we entered the room – an air so modest, and yet so frank and open, that it at once puts a stranger at his ease. There is something very engaging in his manner, which commands your confidence by the freedom with which he gives his own. He welcomed us most cordially, and shook us warmly by the hand, and commenced the conversation in excellent English, talking with as much apparent freedom as if he were with old friends. We were quite alone with him, and had him all to ourselves. There was nothing of the manner of one who feels that his dignity consists in maintaining a stiff and rigid attitude. On the contrary, his spirits seemed to run over, and he conversed not only with the freedom, but the joyousness of a boy. He amused us very much by describing a scene which some traveller professed to have witnessed in the Greek Legislature, when the speakers became so excited that they passed from words to blows, and the Assembly broke up in a general mêlée. Of course no such scene ever occurred, but it suited the purpose of some penny-a-liner, who probably was in want of a dinner, and must concoct "a sensation" for his journal. But I had been present at a meeting of the Greek Parliament a day or two before, and could say with truth that it was far more quiet and decorous than the meeting of the National Assembly at Versailles, which I had witnessed several months before. Indeed no legislative body could be more orderly in its deliberations.

Then the King talked of a great variety of subjects – of Greece and of America, of art and of politics, of the Parthenon and of plum-puddings.⁹ Gen. Reed was very anxious that Greece should be represented at the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia. The King asked what they should send? I modestly suggested "The Parthenon," with which Greece would eclipse all the world, unless Egypt should send the Pyramids! Of course, it would be a profanation to touch a stone of that mighty temple, though it would not be half as bad to carry off a few "specimen bricks" as it was for Lord Elgin to carry off the friezes of Phidias. But Gen. Reed suggested, what would be quite practicable, that they should send plaster casts of some of their greatest statues, which would not rob them, and yet be the most glorious memorial of Ancient Greece.

The King spoke very warmly of America. The relations of the two countries have always been most cordial. When Greece was struggling single-handed to gain her independence, and European powers stood aloof, America was the first to extend her sympathy and aid. This early friendship has not been forgotten, and it needs only a worthy representative of our country here – such as we are most fortunate in having now – to keep for us this golden friendship through all future years.

Such is the man who is now the King of Greece. He has a great task before him, to restore a country so long depressed. He appreciates fully its difficulties. No man understands better the character of the Greeks, nor the real wants of the country. He may sometimes be tried by things in his way. Yet he applies himself to them with inexhaustible patience. The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory of success. If he should sometimes feel a little discouraged, yet there is much also to cheer and animate him. If things move rather slowly, yet it is a fact of good omen that they move at all; and looking back over a series of years, one may see that there has been a great advance. It is not yet half a century since this country gained its independence. Fifty years ago Turkish pachas were ruling over Greece, and grinding the Christian population into the dust. Now the Turks are gone. The people are free, and in their erect attitude, their manly bearing and cheerful spirits, one sees that they feel that they are men, accustomed for these many years to breathe the air of liberty.

With such a country and such a people, this young king has before him the most beautiful part which is given to any European sovereign – to restore this ancient State, to reconstruct, not the Parthenon, but the Kingdom; to open new channels of industry and wealth, and to lead the people in all the ways of progress and of peace.

It will not be intruding into any privacy, if I speak of the king in his domestic relations. It is not always that kings and queens present the most worthy example to their people; and it was a real pleasure to hear the way in which everybody spoke of this royal family as a model. The queen, a daughter of the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, is famed for her beauty, and equally for the sweetness of her manners. The whole nation seems to be in love with her, she is so gentle and so good. They have four children, ruddy cheeked little creatures, whom we saw riding about every day, so blooming and rosy that the carriage looked like a basket of flowers. They were always jumping about like squirrels, so that the King told us he had to have them fastened in with leather straps, lest in their childish glee they should throw themselves overboard. In truth it was a pretty sight, that well might warm the heart of the most cold-blooded old bachelor that ever lived; and no one could see them riding by without blessing that beautiful young mother and her happy children.

There is something very fitting in such a young king and queen being at the head of a kingdom which is itself young, that so rulers and people may grow in years and in happiness together.

I know I express the feelings of every American, when I wish all good to this royal house. May this king and queen long live to present to their people the beautiful spectacle of the purest domestic love and happiness! May they live to see Greece greatly increased in population and in wealth – the home of a brave, free, intelligent and happy people!

CHAPTER XXVIII.
CONSTANTINOPLE

November 24th.

From my childhood no city has taken more hold of my imagination than Constantinople. For weeks we have been looking forward to our visit here; and when at last we entered the Dardanelles (passing the site of ancient Troy), and crossed the Sea of Marmora, and on Friday noon, Nov. 12th, caught the first gleam of the city in the distance, we seemed to be realizing a long cherished dream. There it was in all its glory. Venice rising from the sea is not more beautiful than Constantinople, when the morning sun strikes on its domes and minarets, rising out of the groves of dark green cypresses, which mark the places where the Turks bury their dead. And when we entered the Bosphorus, and rounding Seraglio Point, anchored at the mouth of the Golden Horn, we seemed to be indeed in the heart of the Orient, where the gorgeous East dazzles the traveller from the West with its glittering splendors.

But closer contact sometimes turns poetry to prose in rather an abrupt manner, and the impression of Oriental magnificence is rudely disturbed when one goes on shore. Indeed, if a traveller cares more for pleasant impressions than for disagreeable realities, he would do better not to land at all, but rather to stand afar off, moving slowly up and down the Bosphorus, beholding and admiring, and then sail away just at sunset, as the last light of day gilds the domes and minarets with a parting splendor, and he will retain his first impressions undisturbed, and Constantinople will remain in his memory as a beautiful dream. But as we are prepared for every variety of experience, and enjoy sudden contrasts, we are rather pleased than otherwise at the noise and confusion which greet the arrival of our steamer in these waters; and the crowd of boats which surround the ship, and the yells of the boatmen, though they are not the voices of paradise, greatly amuse us. Happily a dragoman sent from the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where we had engaged rooms, hails us from a boat, and, coming on board, takes us in charge, and rescues us from the mob, and soon lands us on the quay, where, after passing smoothly through the Custom House, we see our numerous trunks piled on the backs of half a dozen porters, or hamals, and our guide leads the way up the hill of Pera. And now we get an interior view of Constantinople, which is quite different from the glittering exterior, as seen from a distance. We are plunging into a labyrinth of dark and narrow and dirty streets, which are overhung with miserable houses, where from little shops turbaned figures peer out upon us, and women, closely veiled, glide swiftly by. Such streets we never saw in any city that pretended to civilization. The pavement (if such it deserves to be called) is of the rudest kind, of rough, sharp stones, between which one sinks in mud. There is hardly a street that is decently paved in all Constantinople. Even the Grand Street of Pera, on which are our hotel and all the foreign embassies, is very mean in appearance. The embassies themselves are fine, as they are set far back from the street, surrounded with ample grounds, and on one side overlook the Bosphorus, but the street itself is dingy enough. To our surprise we find that Constantinople has no architectural magnificence to boast of. Except the Mosques, and the Palaces of the Sultan, which indeed are on an Imperial scale, there are no buildings which one would go far to see in London or Paris or Rome. The city has been again and again swept by fires, so that many parts are of modern construction, while the old parts which have escaped the flames, are miserable beyond description. It is through such a part that we are now picking our way, steering through narrow passages, full of dogs and asses and wretched-looking people. This is our entrance into Constantinople. After such an experience one's enthusiasm is dampened a little, and he is willing to exchange somewhat of Oriental picturesqueness for Western cleanliness and comfort.

But the charm is not all gone, nor has it disappeared after twelve days of close familiarity. Only the picture takes a more defined shape, and we are able to distinguish the lights and shadows. Constantinople is a city full of sharp contrasts, in which one extreme sets the other in a stronger light, as Oriental luxury and show look down on Oriental dirt and beggary; as gold here appears by the side of rags, and squalid poverty crouches under the walls of splendid palaces. Thus the city may be described as mean or as magnificent, and either description be true, according as we contemplate one extreme or the other.

As to its natural beauty, (that of situation,) no language can surpass the reality. It stands at the junction of two seas and two continents, where Europe looks across the Bosphorus to Asia, as New York looks across the East River to Brooklyn. That narrow strait which divides the land unites the seas, the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. From the lofty height of the Seraskier tower one looks down on such a panorama as is not elsewhere on the face of the earth. Far away stretches the beautiful Sea of Marmora, which comes up to the very walls of the city, and seems to kiss its feet. On the other side of Stamboul, dividing it from Pera, is the Golden Horn, crowded with ships; and in front is the Bosphorus, where the whole Turkish navy rides at anchor, and a fleet of steamers and ships is passing, bearing the grain of the Black Sea to feed the nations of Western Europe. Islanded amid all these waters are the different parts of one great capital – a vast stretch of houses, out of which rise a hundred domes and minarets. As one takes in all the features of this marvellous whole, he can but exclaim, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is" – Constantinople!

Nor are its environs less attractive than the position of the city itself. Whichever way you turn, sailing over these waters and along these shores, or riding outside of the ancient wall, from the Golden Horn over the hills to the Sea of Marmora, with its beautiful islands, there is something to enchant the eye and to excite the imagination. A sail up the Bosphorus is one of the most interesting in the world. We have taken it twice. The morning after our arrival, our friend Dr. George W. Wood, to whom we are indebted for many acts of kindness, gave up the day to accompany us. For miles the shores on either side are dotted with palaces of the Sultan, or of the Viceroy of Egypt, or of this or that Grand Vizier, or of some Pasha who has despoiled provinces to enrich himself, or with the summer residences of the Foreign Ministers, or of wealthy merchants of Constantinople.

The Bosphorus constantly reminded me of the Hudson, with its broad stream indented with bays, now swelling out like our own noble river at the Tappan Zee, and then narrowing again, as at West Point, and with the same steep hills rising from the water's edge, and wooded to the top. So delighted were we with the excursion, that we have since made it a second time, accompanied by Rev. A. V. Millingen, the excellent pastor of the Union Church of Pera, and find the impression of beauty increased. Landing on the eastern side, near where the Sweet Waters of Asia come down to mingle with the sea, we walked up a valley which led among the hills, and climbed the Giants' Mountain, on which Moslem chronicles fix the place of the tomb of Joshua, the great Hebrew leader, while tradition declares it to be the tomb of Hercules. Probably one was buried here as truly as the other; authorities differ on the subject, and you take your choice. But what none can dispute is the magnificent site, worthy to have been the place of burial of any hero or demigod. The view extends up and down the Bosphorus for miles. How beautiful it seemed that day, which was like one of the golden days of our Indian summer, a soft and balmy air resting on all the valleys and the hills. The landscape had not, indeed, the freshness of spring, but the leaves still clung to the trees, which wore the tints of autumn, and thus resembled, though they did not equal, those of our American forests; and as we wandered on amid these wild and wooded scenes, I could imagine that I was rambling among the lovely hills along the Hudson.

But there is one point in which the resemblance ceases. There is a difference (and one which makes all the difference in the world), viz., that the Hudson presents us only the beauty of nature, while the Bosphorus has the added charm of history. The dividing line between Europe and Asia, it has divided the world for thousands of years. Here we come back to the very beginnings of history, or before all history, into the dim twilight of fable and tradition; for through these straits, according to the ancient story, sailed Jason with his Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece, and yonder are the Symplegades, the rocks which were the terror of navigators even in the time of Jason, if such a man ever lived, and around which the sea still roars as it roared thousands of years ago. On a hill-top stood a temple to Jupiter Urius, to which mariners entering the stormy Euxine came to offer their vows, and to pray for favorable winds; and here still lives an old, long-haired Dervish, to whom the Turkish sailors apply for the benefit of his prayers. He was very friendly with us, and a trifling gratuity insured us whatever protection he could give. Thus we strolled along over the hills to the Genoese Castle, a great round tower, built hundreds of years ago to guard the entrance to the Black Sea, and in a grove of oaks stretched ourselves upon the grass, and took our luncheon in full view of two continents, both washed by one "great and wide sea." To this very spot came Darius the Great, to get the same view on which we are looking now; and a few miles below, opposite the American College at Bebek, he built his bridge of boats across the Bosphorus, over which he passed his army of seven hundred thousand men. To the same spot Xenophon led his famous Retreat of the Ten Thousand.

Coming down to later times, we are sitting among the graves of Arabs who fought and fell in the time of Haroun al Raschid, the magnificent Caliph of Bagdad, in whose reign occurred the marvellous adventures related in the Tales of the Arabian Nights. These were Moslem heroes, and their graves are still called "the tombs of the martyrs." But hither came other warriors; for in yonder valley across the water encamped Godfrey of Bouillon, with his Crusaders, who had traversed Europe, and were now about to cross into Asia, to march through Asia Minor, and descend into Syria, to fight for the Holy Sepulchre.

Recalling such historic memories, and enjoying to the full the beauty of the day, we came down from the hills to the waters, and crossing in a caique to the other side of the Bosphorus, took the steamer back to the city.

While such are the surroundings of Constantinople, in its interior it is the most picturesque city we have yet seen. I do not know what we may find in India, or China, or Japan, but in Europe there is nothing like it. On the borders of Europe and Asia, it derives its character, as well as its mixed population, from both. It is a singular compound of nations. I do not believe there is a spot in the world where meet a greater variety of races than on the long bridge across the Golden Horn, between Pera and Stamboul. Here are the representatives of all the types of mankind that came out of the Ark, the descendants of Shem, Ham, and Japheth – Jews and Gentiles, Turks and Greeks and Armenians, "Parthians and Medes and Elamites, and dwellers in Mesopotamia," Persians and Parsees, and Arabs from Egypt and Arabia, and Moors from the Barbary Coast, and Nubians and Abyssinians from the upper Nile, and Ethiopians from the far interior of Africa. I have been surprised to see so many blacks wearing the turban. But here they are in great numbers, the recognized equals of their white co-religionists. I have at last found one country in the world in which the distinction between black and white makes absolutely no difference in one's rank or position. And this, strange to say, is a country where slavery long existed, and where, though suppressed by law, it still exists, though less openly. We visited the old slave market, and though evidently "business" was dull, yet a dozen men were sitting around, who, we were told, were slave merchants, and some black women who were there to be sold. But slavery in Turkey is of a mild form, and as it affects both races (fair Circassian women being sold as well as the blackest Ethiopian), the fact of servitude works no such degradation as attaints the race. And so whites and blacks meet together, and walk together, and eat together, apparently without the slightest consciousness of superiority on one side, or of inferiority on the other. No doubt this equality is partly due to the influence of Mohammedanism, which is very democratic, which recognizes no distinction of race, before which all men are equal as before their Creator, and which thus lifts up the poor and abases the proud. I am glad to be able to state one fact so much to its honor.

But these turbaned Asiatics are not the only ones that throng this bridge. Here are Franks in great numbers, speaking all the languages of the West, French and Italian, German and English. One may distinguish them afar off by their stove-pipe hat, that beautiful cylinder whose perpendicular outline is the emblem of uprightness, and which we wish might always be a sign and pledge that the man whose face appears under it would illustrate in his own person the unbending integrity of Western civilization. And so the stream of life rolls on over that bridge, as over the Bridge of Mirza, never ceasing any more than the waters of the Golden Horn which roll beneath it.

And not only all races, but all conditions are represented here – beggars and princes; men on horseback forcing their way through the crowd on foot; carriages rolling and rumbling on, but never stopping the tramp, tramp, of the thousands that keep up their endless march. Here the son of the Sultan dashes by in a carriage, with mounted officers attending his sacred (though very insignificant) person; while along his path crouch all the forms of wretched humanity – men with loathsome diseases; men without arms or legs, holding up their withered stumps; or with eyes put out, rolling their sightless eyeballs, to excite the pity of passers by – all joining in one wail of misery, and begging for charity.

In the mongrel population of Constantinople one must not forget the dogs, which constitute a large part of the inhabitants. Some traveller who has illustrated his sketches with the pen by sketches with the pencil, has given, as a faithful picture of this capital of the East, simply a pack of dogs snarling in the foreground as its most conspicuous feature, while a mosque and a minaret may be faintly seen in the distance. If this is a caricature, yet it only exaggerates the reality, for certainly the dogs have taken full possession of the city. They cannot be "Christian dogs," but Moslem dogs, since they are tolerated, and even protected, by the Turks. It is a peculiar breed – all yellow, with long, sharp noses and sharp ears – resembling in fact more the fox or the wolf than the ordinary house-dog. A shaggy Newfoundlander is never seen. As they are restrained by no Malthusian ideas of population, they multiply exceedingly. They belong to no man, but are their own masters, and roam about as freely as any of the followers of the prophet. They are only kept in bounds by a police of their own. It is said that they are divided into communities, which have their separate districts, and that if by chance a stray dog gets out of his beat, the others set upon him, and punish him so cruelly that he flies yelping to his own crowd for protection. They live in the streets, and there may be seen generally asleep in the day-time. You cannot look anywhere but you see a dog curled up like a rug that has been thrown in a corner. You stumble over them on the sidewalk. They keep pretty quiet during the day, but at night they let themselves loose, and come upon you in full cry. They bark and yelp, but their favorite note is a hideous howl, which they keep up under your window by the hour together (at least it seems an hour when you are trying to sleep), or until they are exhausted, when the cry is immediately taken up by a fresh pack around the corner.

The purely Oriental character of Constantinople is seen in a visit to the bazaars– a feature peculiar to Eastern cities. It was perhaps to avoid the necessity of locomotion, always painful to a Turk, that business has been concentrated within a defined space. Imagine an area of many acres, or of many city squares, all enclosed and covered in, and cut up into a great number of little streets or passages, on either side of which are ranged innumerable petty shops, and you have a general idea of the bazaars. In front of each of these a venerable Turk sits squatting on his legs, and smoking his pipe, and ready to receive customers. You wonder where he can keep his goods, for his shop is like a baby house, a space of but a few feet square. But he receives you with Oriental courtesy, making a respectful salaam, perhaps offering you coffee or a pipe to soothe your nerves, and render your mind calm and placid for the contemplation of the treasures he is to set before you. And then he proceeds to take down from his shelves, or from some inner recess, what does indeed stir your enthusiasm, much as you may try to repress it – rich silks from Broussa, carpets from Persia, blades from Damascus, and antique curiosities in bronze and ivory – all of which excite the eager desire of lovers of things that are rare and beautiful. I should not like to say (lest it should be betraying secrets) how many hours some of our party spent in these places, or what follies and extravagances they committed. Certainly as an exhibition of one phase of Oriental life, it is a scene never to be forgotten.

To turn from business to religion, as it is now perhaps midday or sunset, we hear from the minaret of a neighboring mosque the muezzin calling the hour of prayer; and putting off our shoes, with sandaled or slippered feet, we enter the holy place. At the vestibule are fountains, at which the Moslems are washing their hands and feet before they go in to pray. We lift the heavy curtain which covers the door, and enter. One glance shows that we are not in a Christian church, either Catholic or Protestant. There is no cross and no altar; no Lord's Prayer, no Creed, and no Ten Commandments. The walls are naked and bare, with no sculptured form of prophet or apostle, and no painting of Christ or the Virgin. The Mohammedans are the most terrible of iconoclasts, and tolerate no "images" of any kind, which they regard as a form of idolatry. But though the building looks empty and cold, there is a great appearance of devotion. All the worshippers stand with their faces turned towards Mecca, as the ulema in a low, wailing tone reads, or chants, the passages from the Koran. There is no music of any kind, except this dreary monotone. But all seem moved by some common feeling. They kneel, they bow themselves to the earth, they kiss the floor again and again in sign of their deep abasement before God and his prophet. We looked on in silence, respecting the proprieties of the place. But the scene gave me some unpleasant reflections, not only at the blind superstition of the worshippers, but at the changes which had come to pass in this city of Constantine, the first of Christian emperors, and in a place which has been so often solemnly devoted to the worship of Christ. The Mosque of St. Sophia, which, in its vastness and severe and simple majesty, is certainly one of the grandest temples of the world, was erected as a Christian church, and so remained for nearly a thousand years. In it, or in its predecessor standing on the same spot, preached the "golden-mouthed Chrysostom." This venerable temple is now in the hands of those who despise the name of Christ. It is about four hundred and twenty years since the Turks captured Constantinople, and the terrible Mohammed II., mounted on horseback, and sword in hand, rode through yonder high door, and gave orders to slay the thousands who had taken refuge within those sacred walls. Then Christian blood overflowed that pavement like a sea, as men and women and helpless children were trampled down beneath the heels of the cruel invaders. And so the abomination of desolation came into the holy place, and St. Sophia was given up to the spoiler. His first act was to destroy every trace of its Christian use; to take away the vessels of the sanctuary, as of old they were taken from the temple at Jerusalem; to cover up the beautiful mosaics in the ceiling and on the walls, that for so many centuries had looked down on Christian worshippers; and to cut out the cross. I observed, in going round the spacious galleries, that wherever the sign of the cross had been carved in the ancient marble, it had been chiselled away. Thus the usurping Moslems had striven to obliterate every trace of Christian worship. The sight of such desecration gave me a bitter feeling, only relieved by the assurance which I felt then, and feel now, that that sign shall be restored, and that the Cross shall yet fly above the Crescent, not only over the great temple of St. Sophia, but over all the domes and minarets of Constantinople.