doubt, to certain peculiarities in their structure and build. I had an opportunity of observing this still more closely on another occasion, when I visited one of them in his cell just at the hour when he was preparing to take part in the dance. He was a tall, slender youth, with a beardless and somewhat effeminate face: when we entered he was standing before a mirror in the act of fastening on his white cassock. Greeting us with a smiling glance, he continued his toilet, passing his hand lightly over his slim figure, adjusting rapidly, but at the same time tastefully and with the sure eye of an artist, all the various parts of his costume, just as a lady gives the finishing touches to her dress; and, really seen from behind with his trailing gown, he did look very much indeed like a pretty slip of a girl who, all dressed for the ball, gazes in the mirror to judge of the effect. And he was--a monk! * * * * * But among all my last memories there are none so beautiful as those of the summit of Mount Chamlejah, which rises up above Skutari. It was there that I gave Constantinople my final greeting, and, as it was the last, so was it also the most superb of all my great visions of the metropolis. We crossed ever to Skutari at daybreak one foggy morning: when we arrived at the top of the mountain the fog was still there, and, though the appearance of the sky gave promise of a clear day, everything below us was hidden. It was an extraordinary sight. An immense gray curtain was spread between us and Skutari, the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, all of Constantinople, completely concealing them, just as though the great city with its harbors and outskirts had been blotted out of existence. It was like an ocean of mist, from out of which the summit of Chamlejah arose like a lonely island. As we gazed down at the gray sea at our feet we pretended that we were two poor pilgrims from the interior of Asia Minor, who, having reached that spot before daybreak, were looking at the mist below them without any idea that it covered the mighty metropolis of the Ottoman empire; and then we amused ourselves greatly by picturing what their growing sensations of wonder and bewilderment would have been as, little by little, the rising sun rolled back the veil and exposed the marvellous and unlooked-for spectacle to view. The thick clouds began to break away at various points at the same moment; here and there on the great gray surface little groups of houses appeared like tiny islands--an archipelago of small towns, floating in the mist and scattered far away from one another. These were the peaks of Stambul’s seven hills, the heights of Pera, the highest villages along the European shore of the Bosphorus, the crest of Kassim Pasha, a confused suggestion of the more distant suburbs along the Golden Horn near Eyûb and Haskeui--twenty little Constantinoples, rosy, airy, bristling with innumerable white, green, and silver points.