On Saturday morning we embarked at Smyrna for Constantinople. We faintly discerned in the far distance, as we crossed those classic waters, point after point closely connected with ancient story. Of course, all the way, amidst Homeric scenes and associations, we called them to mind by Homer’s help; but the thought of St. John’s labours, his epistles, to the seven churches in the Apocalypse, more prominently occupied one’s mind on the Lord’s day, when we had worship in the saloon, and I preached, as well as I could, to a few sympathetic fellow-passengers. On Monday morning early, we reached the Golden Horn, filled with shipping. Caiques were quietly gliding over still waters; but we were troubled at the Custom House by an ignorant soldier, who laid hold upon my “Homer” and detained it for two or three days. Kemp-Welch was the only member of our party left, the rest proceeding homeward by another route. I made the most of what was possible during the four days spent at Constantinople. My friend and I followed the circuit of the city on horseback; through Stamboul, which appeared very Oriental, ruinous and dirty—through lines of cypresses, near cemeteries with turbaned headstones; and so, all round, till we reached the sweet waters. There we tarried a while, looking at the gardens, and their summer houses, called kiosks. The place is a resort like Hampton Court. Thence we returned to the city. Next day we crossed the Golden Horn, and saw the Sultan’s seraglio, attached to which are more gardens and more kiosks. The place contains a library full of Arabic MSS., and a throne room, with the Sultan’s divan, surmounted with a baldacchino. There His Majesty used to hold his court, attended by janissaries, and was screened from the view of subjects, except that his hands were visible. The Sublime Porte is the grand entrance to the room of audience for ambassadors from other courts. We visited the arsenal with its ammunition, muskets, and swords. The building, it is said, was in the fourth century a church—the Church of S. Irene, where Chrysostom preached some of his wonderful sermons—and it has still in the apse an antique cross. But the grand ecclesiastical edifice of Constantinople is S. Sophia, with columns brought from Ephesus, and representations of four cherubim with their faces obliterated. A legend is preserved to this effect, that when Constantinople was taken by the Turks, a priest was saying mass—immediately a chasm opened in the wall and received him. There he still remains, chalice in hand, waiting to finish the service, when Christians recover the ancient edifice. But I must not enter into further details of what I saw and heard during my short stay at Constantinople. I was now left alone, as my only remaining companion was obliged to return home by a different route.