An irresistible attraction calls me back once more among the tombs: this time it is those numberless imperial türbehs scattered throughout the Turkish city, those charming examples of the Mussulman’s art and philosophy, which occupy so conspicuous a place in our recollections of the East. By means of a firman we gained admission, first of all, to the türbeh of Mahmûd the Reformer, which stands in a garden full of roses and jasmine not far from the At-Meidan. It is a beautiful circular building of white marble, whose leaden dome is supported upon Ionic pilasters:[K] there are seven windows, furnished with gilded gratings, some of which overlook one of the principal streets of Stambul. Inside, the walls are ornamented with bas-reliefs and covered with silken and brocade hangings. In the centre stands the tomb, covered with costly Persian shawls, and lying on it is the imperial fez, emblem of reform, with its plume and diamond aigrette, and within the enclosure, which is surrounded by a graceful railing inlaid with mother-of-pearl, are placed four massive silver candlesticks. The tombs of seven sultans stand along the walls; costly rugs and carpets of many hues cover the pavement; and here and there rare MSS. copies of the Koran with gold lettering lie upon rich reading-desks. A silver case contains a curiosity connected with Mahmûd’s youth, which he directed should be placed on his tomb at his death. It consists of a long strip of muslin covered with minute Arabian characters, extracts from the Koran, which with infinite patience the Sultan traced when he was confined as a prisoner in the Old Seraglio before his accession. From the interior of the türbeh glimpses are caught through the window gratings of branches of trees without, the scent of roses pours in, and the little building is filled with light and the stir and movement of the city, as though it were an open gallery. Women and children pause as they go by to look through the windows and murmur a prayer. There is something primitive and very sweet about it all that touches the heart, as though, not the skeleton, but the soul of the dead sultan lay within those walls, listening to his people who greet him in passing; in dying he has merely exchanged his kiosk in the Seraglio for this one, which is no less cheerful than the other; he is still in the sunlight, in the noise and bustle of Stambul; still among his children--nearer to them, indeed, than before; just on the edge of life and in sight of all; still exhibiting before their eyes his plume glittering as it was ever wont to do when he appeared before them, glowing with life and magnificence, on his way to the mosque to pray for the prosperity of the empire. And it is the same with all the other türbehs--that of Ahmed, of Bayezid (whose head rests upon a brick made of the dust collected from his clothing and slippers), of Suleiman, of Mustafa, and Selim III., of Abdul-Hamid, and of Roxalana: they are