And can I ever forget the necropolis of Eyûb? We went there one evening at sunset, and I always think of it just as it looked at that time, lit up by the last gleams of daylight. A small käik landed us at the farther end of the Golden Horn, and we climbed up to the “consecrated ground” of the Osmans by a steep, narrow path lined with sepulchres. At that hour the stone-cutters who work at the tombstones during the day, making the vast cemetery resound beneath the sharp blows of their hammers, had dispersed to their homes, and the whole place was completely deserted. We moved forward circumspectly, peering cautiously around to see if we could detect the menacing form of imâm or dervish, as the profane curiosity of a _giaour_ is less tolerated there than in almost any other sacred spot; but, seeing neither turban nor stiff hat, we finally reached the mysterious Eyûb mosque, whose shining domes and airy minarets we had so often beheld from the hilltops of the opposite shore, as well as from every little bay and inlet in the Golden Horn. In the court, shaded by a mighty plane tree, stands the kiosk-shaped mausoleum of the famous standard-bearer of the Prophet, Abu Eyûb, perpetually lit up by a circle of lamps. He lost his life when the Arabs first besieged Byzantium, and his place of sepulture having been discovered eight centuries later by Muhammad the Conqueror, he consecrated this mosque to his memory; and it is there that each successive sultan presents himself on his accession to be girded with the sword of Osman. It is considered the most sacred mosque in Constantinople, just as the cemetery which surrounds it is more highly revered than any other. In the shade of the great trees which surround the mosque stand türbehs of sultanas, viziers, and distinguished officials of the court, encircled by flowers, gorgeous with marbles and gilt arabesques, and covered with pompous inscriptions. On one side is the small mortuary temple of the muftis, surmounted by an octagonal dome, beneath which repose the bodies of great ecclesiastics in enormous catafalques ornamented with huge muslin turbans. It is a city of tombs, white, shaded, whose sedate beauty combines a religious melancholy with a breath of worldliness, like a very aristocratic neighborhood whose well-bred quiet proceeds from pride. The paths run between white walls and graceful railings, over which vines trail and clamber from the little gardens surrounding the graves; acacia trees stretch forth their branches to meet and mingle overhead with those of oak and myrtle, and through the gilded latticework of the arched windows of the türbehs may be seen, in the dim, soft light within, marble mausoleums tinged with green from the reflections of the trees. In no other place in Stambul is seen to such advantage the Mussulman art of rendering the idea of death agreeable and robbing it of all its terrors. It is at once a necropolis, a royal dwelling-place, a garden,