Archery is a passion with Sultan Mahmoud, who is extremely vain of his prowess; so much so indeed, that a long stretch of hilly country immediately in the rear of the Military College is dotted over with marble pillars fancifully carved, and carefully inscribed, erected on the spots where the arrows shot by himself from a terrace on the crest of the height are supposed to have fallen—I say supposed, for, as his foible is no secret, the Imperial pages who are employed to collect the shafts, and to measure the distances, generally pick up the arrow and run on twenty or thirty paces further, ere they affect to find it; by which means the Sultan shoots like the Prince Aimwell in the Fairy Tale; and the cunning varlets who restore his arrows earn many a _backshish_ or present which more honest men would miss. I remember on one occasion, when on an exploring expedition, suddenly coming upon so handsome a marble column, inscribed with letters of gold, and surmounted by an urn, that I was curious to learn its purport; when, to my surprise, I discovered that this was a record-pillar of the same description; and as his Sublime Highness had on this occasion pulled a very long bow indeed, so he had perpetuated its memory by a handsomer erection than usual. The archery party at Kahaitchana was amusing enough. First flew the arrow of the Sultan, and away ran the attendants; then each Pasha shot in his turn, taking especial care to keep within bounds, and not to out-Cæsar Cæsar. Some of them looked important, and others horridly bored: but there was no escape from an amateur who boasts that he has practised every week for the last forty years. A little to the left of the spot occupied by the archers is a raised platform overshadowed by a weeping willow, beneath which rises a handsome head-stone. It is the grave of an Imperial Odalique, who died suddenly in the very zenith of her youth, her beauty, and her favour. She was buried in this lovely spot at the express command of the Sultan, who was so deeply affected by her loss that for two entire years he abandoned the valley. The platform is overlooked by the windows of the Salemliek, and every wind that sighs through the willow branches carries their voice to the ears of those who occupy its gilded chambers. Mahmoud, in a fit of poetical despair, is said to have written a pathetic ballad of which she was the subject. I endeavoured to procure it, but failed; and, as I was loath that she should remain unsung in Europe, I even tried my own hand in some wild stanzas, which I wrote hurriedly as I stood near her grave. THE LOST ONE.