On one side, the City of Constantinople is spread out beneath you like a map; and you look down upon its thousand domes, and its five thousand minarets—upon its khans, and its charshees, its palaces and its prisons. Move a few paces forward, only to the next window, and the Sea of Marmora, with its peopled coasts, its rocky islets, and its glittering waves, carries your thoughts homeward to the “golden west.” From one point you look on Mount Olympus, with its crown of snow; from another, on the sunny Bosphorus, laden with life, and laughing in the day-beam. Turn to the left, and the Golden Horn, from whence the riches of the world are poured forth over the East, lies at your feet. On—on—ere your eyes ache with gazing, and your mind with wonder, and repose your vision on the dark and arid rocks which enclose “The Valley of the Sweet Waters,” the most fairy-like glen that ever was hemmed in by a belt of mountains. And when you at length descend the three hundred and thirty steps of the dizzy Tower of the Seraskier, inscribe upon your tablets the faint record of an hour, during which, if you have sensibility or imagination, a love of the beautiful, or an appreciation of the sublime, you must have lived through an age of feeling and of fancy; with the busy, breathing city at your feet—the sweet, still valley beside you—and the wide sea, the unfathomable, the mysterious sea, bounding your vision. What a pigmy is man amid such a scene as this! I must not omit to mention that the Seraskier’s Tower, called, by the Turks, Yanguen Kiosk, or Fire Tower, is the watch-house of the fire-guard. Six individuals are constantly on the look-out during the day and night, who relieve each other every hour; and, during the night-watch, the guard constantly makes his round in a pair of spring pattens, which, being made of wood, and soled with iron, keep up a continual noise that prevents his giving way to drowsiness, and thus neglecting his duty. There were seven equally eligible candidates for the hand of the Princess Mihirmàh; and consequently more than seven times seven intrigues set on foot, when it was finally announced that the Sultan, her father, had resolved on bestowing her in marriage on some fortunate noble of his Empire. The Sublime Porte was all in commotion—the seven Eligibles all in agitation—every palace and harem on the _qui vive_—bribes flew about, on yellow wings, like the bright butterflies that herald spring—and the Sultan himself, weary of conflicting counsels and opposing interests, wavering and undecided; while many persons agreed in believing that the Imperial choice would ultimately fall on the handsome and wealthy Mustapha Pasha of Adrianople; and the rather as it was rumoured that the Princess had seen and admired him.