The sun is setting: a delicate veil of pale blue and gray begins to fall over the European shore, but Asia is still bathed in golden light; across the sparkling water numbers of boats filled with married couples and lovers, excursionists from Constantinople, press toward the European shore, meet and stop one another, and overtake others filled with parents and children from the neighboring villas. Bursts of music and song come from the cafés of Buyukdereh; eagles circle above the summit of Giant’s Mountain, the white lights on the shore fly by, kingfishers gleam through the water, dolphins swim about the ship, the fresh wind of the Black Sea blows in our faces. Where are we? whither are we bound? It is a moment of rapture, of intoxication, in which the sights of the past two hours, both shores of the Bosphorus, all that we have felt and seen, melt and blend together in one glowing, rapturous vision of a single vast city ten times the size of Constantinople, peopled by all the nations of the earth, visited by every blessing from the Almighty, and given over to an endless series of feastings and merrymakings, the contemplation of which fills one with despairing envy. [Illustration: Entrance to the Black Sea.] This is our last vision. The steamer issuing rapidly from the bay of Buyukdereh, we see on our right a small inlet formed by the ancient promontory of Simas, upon which rose the temple of Venus Meretricia, for whom Greek sailors had an especial veneration; then comes the village of Yeni Mahalleh; then the fort of Deli Tabia, facing another small fort which is stationed on the opposite shore at the foot of Giant’s Mountain; next is the castle of Rumili Kavak, whose rugged outlines are clearly defined against the rosy sky tinged by the setting sun. Opposite Rumili Kavak stands another fort, crowning the point upon which rose the temple of the Twelve Gods erected by the Argive Phrygos near to one dedicated to Jupiter, the “distributor of favorable winds,” by the Chalcedons, and converted by Justinian into the church of Michael the Archangel. Here the Bosphorus narrows in for the last time between the outer spur of the Bithynian mountains and the extreme point of the Hemus chain. This was always considered the first place of importance in the strait to be defended from the north, and consequently has been the scene of many hard-fought battles between Byzantine and barbarian, Venetian, and Genoese fleets. Two ruined towers can be made out indistinctly marking the sites of the Genoese castles, which faced each other here, and between which an iron chain was stretched to stop the passage of unfriendly fleets. From this point the Bosphorus widens out to the sea, the banks grow high and steep like two huge ramparts, bare apparently, save for occasional groups of poor-looking houses, a solitary tower or two, the ruins of a monastery, or remains of some ancient mole. After proceeding for some distance we