Reproaching my dragoman for bringing me through such a vile part of the city, he quietly replied, in English, “There is no other road, sir; it has rained very much lately, which is the cause of so much mud.” I now perceived, that as far as the names of pavements go, the difference between Constantinople and London was not so great,--the former being _muck-muddy-mised_, and the latter _macadamised_. At this moment we were turning the corner of the Grand Mosque of Sultan Soliman; and a pacha, in all his obesity, mounted upon an Arabian horse, and followed by his suite, six in number, rode full gallop through a pond of liquid slush, splashing every one from head to foot on either side the narrow street. An English soldier at once sent him his military blessing; and the Turk, spurring his horse, exclaimed, “Not Bono Johnny; Not Bono Johnny;” that being the name given to the English by the Turks. After passing through several similar streets, consisting of ruinous wooden shanties and shops of the lowest order, “viz., chibouque tube and pipe-bowl makers,” the interior of which were dirty and mean, with scarcely any kind of stock, we arrived at a fountain, in front of which was a semi-perpendicular and narrow street. My guide informed me that my hotel was at the end of this street. “It is,” he continued, “the Hôtel d’Angleterre, called by the English--Messerie’s Hotel.” “Thank God for that,” said I. In about twenty minutes we arrived at the said hotel. As I had sent my letter to Mr. Messerie, he soon appeared, and very cordially shook me by the hand, and politely expressed his regret at not being able to accommodate me. He recommended the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. On my saying that I was going there, he made me promise to call upon him the next morning, the distance from his house being but a few paces. When I arrived, I at once retired to my apartment, quite worn out with fatigue. Having taken some refreshment, I made up my mind not to dine at the table d’hôte. I learnt that Colonel St. George, Captain Ponsonby, &c., had gone to the Hôtel de l’Europe, and I therefore felt free for that evening. About five o’clock, Mons. Pantaleone Veracleo, a young Greek, the son of the hotel-keeper, came and informed me that the table d’hôte would be ready at six. Thanking him for his attention, I proceeded to ask several questions about Constantinople, and also the distance from the hotel to the British Embassy? “Not five minutes’ walk, sir,” said he; “you can see it from the top of the hotel. Our house is the highest in Pera!” We mounted to the terrace, and my conductor pointed it out to me. From this terrace I again beheld a similar panorama to that which I had witnessed on board the _Simois_, and by which I had been so much charmed. In order to enjoy it fully, I expressed my desire to remain a short time alone. Having directed my attention to the different points of view, Mr. Veracleo left me. CHAPTER VII. A BIRD’S-EYE VIEW OF CONSTANTINOPLE FROM PERA.