This one is more like a great city of villas into which the country is making inroads on every side. The little back streets lined with stables rise and descend again over hill and valley, swallowed up at last by the green of park and garden. On the heights the profound peace of the country still reigns, but lower down there is all the stir and activity of a seaport town. From the huge barracks which rise here and there comes a confused sound of bugle-calls, snatches of songs, and the beating of drums, while clouds of birds fly about and settle in the quiet lanes and byways. Following in the wake of a funeral procession, we finally leave the town, and, entering the famous cemetery, are soon lost in that vast forest of mighty cypress trees which extends in one direction toward the Sea of Marmora and in the other toward the Golden Horn, covering a large area of undulating ground. On all sides there is nothing but group on group, row on row, of glimmering white tombstones outlined against the turf and gay colors of the wild flowers, and an intricate network of footpaths winding in and out among the trunks of the trees, crowded so closely together as barely to allow any view of the horizon stretching away in a long shimmering line. We wander aimlessly among the little painted and gilded columns, some erect, others toppling over or fallen flat, and between railings of family sepulchres, mausoleums of dead pashas, rude tombstones of the poor. Here and there lie bunches of faded flowers, and sometimes, where the earth has been disturbed, the light falls upon a half-buried skull; on and on, no sound save the cooing of doves concealed overhead amid the branches of the cypress trees; and the farther we go the more does the forest seem to expand, the tombstones multiply, the paths increase in number, the shining strips of the horizon recede into the distance, and the reign of death keeps pace with us step by step, until at length, just as we begin to despair of ever finding our way out, we issue quite unexpectedly upon the wide avenue leading to the vast open plain of Haidar Pasha, where the Mussulman troops once assembled preparatory to setting out for the Asiatic wars. The view from thence, embracing the Sea of Marmora, Stambul, the mouth of the Golden Horn, Galata, and Pera, all veiled beneath the light morning mist and tinted with the colors of paradise, is so exquisitely lovely that we catch our breath with something of the same incredulous wonder with which we first beheld those shores. CHERAGAN PALACE.