The sun was setting ere we prepared to traverse the Golden Horn, in order to reach the European side before the firing of the evening gun; the shadows were lying long upon the water: a yellow gleam was settling on the domes and houses of Stamboul, and a thick vapour lowered over the sky. The twilight of the East is fleeting as a thought—and the outline of the city ere long loomed out from amid the gathering darkness, like a spectre of the past. One line of light still glimmered across the waves like a thread of gold, linking the shores of Europe and of Asia; but, even as I pointed it out, it faded; softening down to a faint yellow, like the lip of a primrose—and in another instant, it was gone; while, as it disappeared, the hoarse cannon pealed over the ripple, and told that another day was spent. Our rowers had calculated to a nicety, for, as the sound died away, the caïque touched the crazy wooden pier of Topphannè, and we were once more in Europe! There is not a locality throughout the whole of the capital more strictly or more richly oriental in its aspect than the small square of Topphannè. In the midst stands the celebrated Kilidge Ali Pasha Djiamini, or Fountain of the Mosque of Ali Pasha, a French renegade, who built the temple which bears his name. Constantinople boasts no other fountain of equal beauty. Its rich and elegant arabesques are beyond all praise; and, when the sun is shining on them, almost look like jewels. It has, however, suffered materially from the reforming mania of the Sultan, who, in his rage for improvement, has replaced its wavy and deeply-projecting roof with a little terrace railing, out of all keeping, alike with its architecture and its ornaments; and who was with difficulty persuaded not to destroy it altogether. On one side of the fountain is the mosque to which it belongs, and on the other the kiosk of Halil Pasha, with its magnificent portal and glittering casements. But to be seen to perfection, the square of Topphannè must be visited during the autumn, when the rich fruits of Asia are scattered over its whole extent; piles of perfumed melons, pyramids of yellow grapes, heaps of scarlet pomegranates—the golden orange, the amber-coloured lemon, the ruddy apple, the tufted quince, all are poured forth before you. Nor are the vendors less various or less glowing than their merchandize, as they sit doubled-up upon their mats, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, with their chibouks between their lips; rather waiting than looking for customers—a bright sky above them, and the blended languages of many lands swelling upon the wind. Had I landed at Topphannè on my arrival in Turkey, I should have fancied myself a spectator of one of the scenes described by the tale-telling Schererazade. CHAPTER XVI. Turkish Superstitions—Auguries—The Court Astrologer—The Evil Eye—Danger of Blue Eyes—Imperial Firman—The Babaluk—The Ceremony—Sable Pythonesses—Witchcraft.