We visited the tombs of Osman and many of the other Sultans buried in Broussa, the ancient capital of Turkey. The idea of the continual watching of the tomb, and, indeed, the whole attitude of Islam towards death, is full of beauty. One does not wish to believe that the Greeks marched up to this Holy Place with drawn swords, cursing the founder of the Osman Dynasty. We also drove to the famous Green Mosque, immortalised by Pierre Loti. The actual colour of this fine building is a most wonderful turquoise blue; but, like those jewels, it may, indeed, one day grow green with age. Here Pierre Loti used to write his books, reclining on the magnificent carpets, of which the quality and beauty have defied time itself. On one side stands the large door (replacing the altar) of exquisitely blended green porcelain and delicate gold lettering; on the other, the cool and sparkling fountain. All day long he worked in this hallowed atmosphere; where the invisible mouths of the fountain send out a gorgeous mass of rainbow-hued spray into the sun’s white rays. The guardian of the mosque, who used to serve coffee and bring Loti’s narghili and arrange the cushions, has been laid to rest near by; and now Loti’s long life is drawing to its close. His best work was done in the mosque at Broussa, as his countless admirers should not forget—the shrine of one of Turkey’s truest friends. Here, in the East, all may enter God’s House; and it is here that every day, all day long, you see (as, indeed, you may in France) men and women of every sort and condition, unburdening their hearts of joys or sorrows, some carrying a homely parcel, a loaf of bread, or their goods to market; others carrying their little children. No doubt, the mosque—or the church—offers warmth and shelter; but its quiet solemnity must turn our thoughts from all the pettiness of existence, the false pride, and the ugly sin. Nor do those who are, as it were, so thoroughly “at home” in God’s House, pray with any less earnestness or sincerity. What a contrast to the cathedral at Geneva I visited with a French ex-Ambassadress. We had to send for the caretaker, who _unlocked_ the door for us and _locked it up again_ as we left. Yet this was once a church; holy men had dedicated their genius to make it beautiful, because it was the House of God. It is not God’s House now; only a building where men meet and speak. “Have we, indeed, lost faith in anything,” said my companion, as the door was closed behind us “which of us would God Himself lock out? Are there none left who would pray to Him? To what vain and untrusting materialism will mankind yet lower drift?” One morning, unable to hold in the interest awakened by a handsome, young Turkish woman with veiled hair, who was sitting near me in the hotel, I, at last, ventured to ask her if she would “excuse my staring,” but “she so much reminds me” of an old friend, Dr. Nihat Réchad.