The city stands in the centre of an enormous plain, 140 miles, or about five days’ journey from Constantinople. It is distinguished by the approaching traveller at the distance of many miles, by the tall minarets of the mosque of Selim piercing the sky, when all other objects of the city are imperceptible. An Oriental town is never discovered like one where coal is consumed, by the dense vapours which fill the atmosphere about it, but obscuring every other object. The site of it is usually marked by some conspicuous building rising above the rest, projecting on the pure air, and seen distinctly at an immense distance. Adrianople is entered on one side by a street, bounded by a vast cemetery having even more solemnity and beauty than is usual in others; this area is intersected by various avenues, and is the constant retreat of the citizens. There is nothing gloomy or revolting in the feelings it excites. The tombs are shaded by the ever-verdant and aromatic cypress, or varied by rose-trees and “flowers of all hues.” It is the constant resort of all the relatives of those who sleep below, and the dead and the living meet here morning and evening in tranquil repose. On another side the city is approached by a wide causeway, the work of its founder, which he intended as the avenue of communication between his new city and Byzantium. It is still used for the same purpose, and forms the highway to Constantinople, but, like all remains of Roman roads in the country, it is so dilapidated by Turkish unskilfulness and neglect, that it is nearly impassable, and travellers, when overtaken on it by darkness, are compelled to light their lanterns, and pass it with the same precaution as the precipice of the Balkans.