And yet reason refuses to believe that the slow onward march of civilization will not eventually succeed in implanting a spark of new life in this gigantic Asiatic soldier who lies sprawling fast asleep across two continents, only arousing to brandish the sword. But when we consider the efforts which have been made as compared with the results obtained up to the present time, that day appears to be so very distant, especially in view of the needs and the impatience of the Christian population of the East, that it seems vain to hope that the question which is occupying the mind of all Europe can have for its solution the progressive and orderly civilization of the Turkish people. Such, at all events, is the conclusion arrived at by me in the course of my brief sojourn in Constantinople. What other solution is there? Ah, gentlemen, that is a question which you must really excuse me if I decline to answer. Were I to do so, it would seem as though I were giving advice to Europe, an idea which shocks my modesty. And, moreover, as I have already mentioned, there is a certain Austrian boat getting up steam down there in the Golden Horn off Galata, which is ready to start for the Black Sea, and the reader knows very well what that boat is going to pass through. THE BOSPHORUS. Hardly were we well on board when a gray curtain seemed to stretch itself over Constantinople, upon which were portrayed the outlines of the Morravian and Hungarian Mountains and the Alps of Lower Austria. Such rapid changes of scene occur not infrequently upon the decks of outgoing steamers, where one is apt to recognize the features and hear beforehand the language of the country for which he is bound. On this occasion we found ourselves hemmed in by a circle of German faces and felt a premonitory breath of the cold and dampness of the North. Our friends have left us. Three white handkerchiefs fluttering from a distant käik show where they are threading their way through the dark mass of boats coming and going in front of the custom-house. We are in the same spot as that in which our Sicilian boat anchored on the day of our arrival. It is a lovely autumnal evening, clear and warm, and Constantinople has never appeared so vast nor so radiantly beautiful. Yet once again we endeavor to imprint upon our memories her mighty outlines, her matchless coloring, like that of an enchanted city, and for the last time drink in the unutterable beauties of the Golden Horn, so soon to be for ever hidden from our gaze. Now the white handkerchiefs have disappeared and our boat is in motion. Everything seems to have moved out of place: Skutari has come forward, Stambul stepped back, while Galata revolves around in a circle as though trying to see the last of us. Farewell to the Golden Horn! One forward bound of the vessel robs us of Kassim-Pasha, another carries off Eyûb, another the sixth hill of Stambul; then the fifth disappears, the