The warmest and strongest of coffee was soon swallowed—by the way, what a sad pity it is that we know nothing about making coffee in Europe—and having settled ourselves comfortably in our well-cushioned araba, Madame ——, myself, and our attendant were soon jolting over the rough _pavé_ towards the scene of action, followed by my father and the two Turkish servants. The lattices of the carriage were closely shut, to avoid any possible difficulty, owing to our being Europeans; and one servant walked close beside each door, as though guarding the harem of some bearded Moslem. Arrived within the precincts of the court of Sultan Achmet’s magnificent mosque, and fairly _entamés_ among the carriages, which resembled a bed of scarlet and yellow poppies, we removed the lattices altogether, and remained lying very comfortably among our silken cushions, with the araba open on all sides, and immediately in front of us the space along which the procession was to pass: the line of carriages forming one boundary, and the other being guarded by a treble rank of military. The coup-d’œil was beautiful! The sun was just fringing the fleecy clouds with a glad golden edge; and, as the vapours rolled away, the bright blue of the laughing sky spread far and wide its stainless canopy. The noble trees that overshadow a portion of the enclosure were just putting forth their young spring leaves, all fresh, and dewy, and tender—tokens of that infant vegetation which may be blighted by too rude a blast, and which awakens in the heart such gentle and such fond associations—the spacious steps of white marble that stretch far in front of the principal entrance of the mosque were crowded with human beings—the exterior gallery that runs along the side of the edifice on which the Sultan was to pass was filled with women, whose white veils and dark _feridjhes_ made them look like a community of nuns—while, in the rear of the military, groups were every where forming, shifting, and producing the most interesting pictorial effects.