The Dervish, or domestic priest, for such he may truly be called, whose holy profession, instead of rendering him a distinct individual, suffers him to mingle like his fellow-men in all the avocations, and to participate in all the socialities of life; which permits him to read his offices behind the counter of his shop, and to bring up his family to the cares and customs of every-day life; and who is bound only by his own voluntary act to a steady continuance in the self-imposed duties that he is at liberty to cast aside when they become irksome to him; the holy Dervish frequently passed us in his turn, seated at the bottom of the caïque, with an open volume on his knees, and distinguished from the lay-Turk by his _geulaf_, or high hat of grey felt. Then came a group of Jews, chattering and gesticulating; with their ample cloaks, and small dingy-coloured caps, surrounded by a projecting band of brown and white cotton, whose singular pattern has misled a modern traveller so far as to induce him to state that it is “a white handkerchief, inscribed with some Hebrew sentences from their law.” Thus far, I could compare the port of Constantinople to nothing less delightful than poetry put into action. The novel character of the scenery—the ever-shifting, picturesque, and graceful groups—the constant flitting past of the fairy-like caïques—the strange tongues—the dark, wild eyes—all conspired to rivet me to the deck, despite the bitterness of the weather. Evening came—and the spell deepened. We had arrived during the Turkish Ramazan, or Lent, and, as the twilight gathered about us, the minarets of all the mosques were brilliantly illuminated. Nothing could exceed the magical effect of the scene; the darkness of the hour concealed the outline of the graceful shafts of these etherial columns, while the circles of light which girdled them almost at their extreme height formed a triple crown of living diamonds. Below these depended (filling the intermediate space) shifting figures of fire, succeeding each other with wonderful rapidity and precision: now it was a house, now a group of cypresses, then a vessel, or an anchor, or a spray of flowers; and these changes were effected, as I afterwards discovered, in the most simple and inartificial manner. Cords are slung from minaret to minaret, from whence depend others, to which the lamps are attached; and the raising or lowering of these cords, according to a previous design, produces the apparently magic transitions which render the illuminations of Stamboul unlike those of any European capital.