The first and the saddest was the tale of a young traveller, who about six years ago arrived at Constantinople, and in his tour of the capital, obtained permission to see the _Yèrè Batan Seraï_. The boat was then upon the water; and, not satisfied with gazing on the wonders of the place from land, he sprang into the little skiff, and accompanied by the boatman who was accustomed to row the family in the immediate vicinity of the opening, he pushed off, after having received a warning not to be guilty of the imprudence of advancing so far into the interior as to lose sight of the light of day. This warning he was unhappy enough to disregard. Those who stood watching his progress remarked that he had provided himself with a lamp, and they again shouted to him to beware: but the wretched man was bent upon his purpose; and having, as it is supposed, induced the boatman, by the promise of a heavy reward, to comply with his wish, the flame of the lamp became rapidly fainter and fainter, and at length disappeared altogether from the sight of those who were left behind; and who remained at their station anxiously awaiting its return. But they lingered in vain—they had looked their last upon the unfortunates who had so lately parted from them in the full rush of life and hope—the boat came no more—and it is presumed that those within it, having bewildered themselves among the columns, became unable to retrace their way, and perished miserably by famine. I should have mentioned that the spot on which we stood was not the proper entrance to the cistern, of whose existence and situation they are even now ignorant, but an opening formed by the failure of several of the pillars, by which accident the roof fell in, and disclosed the water-vault beneath.