a pantheon, full of gentle melancholy and charm, and simultaneously with the prayer which rises to your lips there comes a smile. On all sides extends the cemetery, shaded by the hundred-year-old cypresses, crossed by winding paths, white with innumerable tombstones, which seem to be hurrying down the hillside to dip themselves in the sparkling water or pressing forward curiously to the pathways to watch the passage of phantom shapes. And from any number of secluded little nooks, through the spreading branches of the trees, confused glimpses are caught--far off to the right--of Stambul, looking like a succession of blue towns detached from one another; and below--the Golden Horn, reflecting the last rays of the sun, while opposite lie Sudlujè, Kaliji Oghlu, Piri Pasha, Haskeni; and beyond--the large district of Kassim and the vague profile of Galata, fading away in the wonderful blending of soft, tremulous tints which hardly seem as though they belonged to this world. THE JANISSARY MUSEUM. All these impressions have been temporarily effaced, and I find myself marching through a long suite of bare rooms between two rows of immovable, staring figures, which are like those of so many corpses fastened upright against the walls. I never remember to have experienced so decided a feeling of shrinking anywhere else, unless it was in the last room of Mme. Tussaud’s exhibition in London, where, in the somewhat subdued light, you are confronted with the life-like presentments of all of England’s most notorious criminals. This, however, is like a museum of spectres, or rather like an open sepulchre in which you behold the mummified forms of all the most famous personages of that magnificent, savage, ferocious Turkey which no longer exists, save in the memory of a few old men or the imaginative brain of some poet. There are a hundred large wooden figures colored like life and clad in various styles of ancient costume, standing erect in stiff, haughty attitudes, with heads thrown back and blank staring eyes, and hands resting upon their sword-hilts, as though only awaiting the word to draw and begin shedding human blood, just as in the good old times. First, there is the household of the Pâdishah--the chief eunuch and grand vizier, the muftis, chamberlains, and head officials--wearing turbans upon their heads of every color, pyramidal, round, square, huge, exaggerated; long caftans of every conceivable hue, made out of brocade and covered with embroidery; tunics of white or crimson silk, bound about the waist with Cashmere scarfs; gold-embroidered waistcoats, the breasts all glittering with gold and silver medals; and magnificent armor--two long, spectral files, at once fantastic and gorgeous, from which a pretty fair idea may be obtained of the character of the ancient Ottoman court with its savage pomp and haughty pride. Next come the pages bearing the Pâdishah’s furs, his turbans, stool, and sword; then the guards of the gardens and gates,