As this was the first day of unclouded sunshine on which I had crossed the port, I looked around me in order to discover the “gilded domes” of which a modern traveller has spoken; but, alas!—the truth must be told—not a mosque in Stamboul has a gilded dome; and the only approach to such a gorgeous object that I could discover were the gilded spires of the minarets of Sultan Mahmoud’s mosque at Topphannè; but, _en revanche_, the eye lingered long on the ruin of Justinian’s aqueduct, which rises hoar and dark above the clustering houses of the city, spanning the two hills against which it rests, as with the grasp of centuries—upon the glittering pinnacles of the Seraï, flashing out amid the tall cypresses that hem them in; and on the elegant, but nearly untenanted, Seraglio itself, which stands upon the very edge of the lake-like sea, mirrored in the clear waters. But these were soon left behind; and, as our sturdy rowers rapidly impelled us forward, we traced on our right hand the extensive outbuildings of the Arsenal, which bound the shore to the very extremity of the port, and only terminate at the point of the “Sweet Waters,” where a lovely river empties itself into the harbour, and gives its name to the locality. In ten minutes, we were at the Fanar, and landed on a wooden terrace washed by the waters of the port; and in five more we had passed into the garden to which it belonged, and thence into the house of the hospitable family who had offered us a home for the night. Having traversed an extensive hall paved with stone, whence three flights of marble stairs gave admittance into different parts of the mansion, we passed through a long gallery, and entered the apartment in which the ladies of the family were awaiting our arrival. No chilling salutation of measured courtesy—no high-bred manifestation of “exclusive” indifference, greeted the foreign strangers; but each in turn approached us with extended hand, and offered the kiss of welcome; and in less than a quarter of an hour we were all laughing and chatting as gaily in French, as though we had been the acquaintance of years. No where do you feel yourself more thoroughly at home at once than among the inhabitants of the East; they _may_ be what we are accustomed to call them—semi-barbarians—but, if such be the case, never was the aphorism of a celebrated female writer more thoroughly exemplified that “extreme politeness comes next to extreme simplicity of manners.” Any privation that you may suffer in a Turkish or Greek house, beyond those consequent on the habits of the country, must be gratuitous, as the natives place a firm reliance on your asking for all that you require or wish; and they are so far from being obliged to you for a contrary mode of action, that you cannot more seriously offend than by giving them cause to suspect, after your departure, that you have been inconvenienced during your residence in their families.