The thing succeeded; my wines disappeared with charming celerity. Even the Mufti honored me with a visit, and assured me—while he tried my costly Johannisburg, of 1822, with the smack of a connoisseur—that his friend, the Abbot of Fulda, had done well to exalt this wine to his closet—it did indeed deserve to be drank in solitude, when not a breath, not a word could disturb the full enjoyment of the liquid gold. He tried a couple of bottles, and the European inspiration began then to beam so brilliantly from his eyes, that I verily believe, had any cunning missionary been at hand, he would have embraced Christianity. My affairs then were prosperous, and yet not so; for although the wines had found purchasers, the money for them was not forthcoming. From time to time I paid a visit to my Turkish debtors. I was kindly received with pipes and coffee, but of my money—not a word. I look care never rudely to remind them of it, having been assured by some Armenian friends that the Moslems could bear no dunning, and that unpleasant hints were often rewarded with a most unpleasant bastinado. I was sure of my money in the end, for I had already heard that it was the custom of all distinguished Turks to pay off all their debts on a certain day of the year, just before the Ramazan. The Ramazan was not very distant, and until then I had to wait with patience. It is a dreadful thing for a fiery young merchant, whose fancy revels in interest and commission, to have to parade up and down the streets of Constantinople in useless, idle patience. Thus, one beautiful afternoon, I sauntered toward Bujukdìre, the summer residence of the European ambassadors. Here their many beautiful daughters dwelt, but now my heart was filled with thoughts of Kate, and the future establishment for the sale of fancy articles and _eau de_ _Cologne_. Nevertheless, I trembled with excitement; for my eye rested upon the dome of St. Sophia, and involuntarily the oft-recalled wish stirred in my soul—“Wert thou only, O dearly loved Gabriel Mostert, as prosperous a house as this venerable church, which receives, according to well-accredited testimony, an income of ten thousand guilders daily.” Ten thousand guilders! What a sublime thought! Shakspeare, Schiller, and Goethe had had great thoughts, and Bethman and Rothschild have carried the poesy of trade to a wonderful extent—but this mosque of St. Sophia—I must control myself—I must clip the wings of my speculative fancy, or it will carry me too far—to Golconda or Potosi. Return to thy home, to the old town, where bloomed for Barbarossa the fair Gela, and where blooms now the burgomaster’s daughter, thy violet, and beside her, a shop stocked with all fancy articles, and with the delicious perfume of _Karl Maria Farina of Cöln_.