One of the muskets furnished with a spring bayonet was shown to us, which, although not equal in finish, and more heavy in form than those of Europe, was, nevertheless, very creditable to an establishment, that is yet comparatively in its infancy. I was much amused by the astonishment of a respectable old Turk who was superintendent of the finishing department, when he saw me engaged with my father in examining this musket. “What pleasure can a Frank woman find in looking at fire-arms?” he asked the Dragoman; “One of our females would be afraid to touch such a thing. Where does she come from? and how came they to let her in here?” The reply of the interpreter surprised him still more. “Mashallàh!” he exclaimed, approaching me with a look of comic earnestness. “Did the Pasha send her? Why, she is but a girl. How should she know how to write books better than our women who never do so?” “Because your women are shut up”—replied the Dragoman. The Turk nodded assent; “True enough, true enough; they cannot learn of the walls. The Franks see and hear, and travel over land and sea; and that is why they know more than we who remain at home, and ask no questions.” I give this little dialogue, because it strikes me as being very characteristic. How often have I been reminded by the Turkish women that if I had learnt many things of which they were ignorant, I had taken a great deal of trouble to acquire them, while they had remained comfortably at home without care or fatigue. From the Armoury we crossed over to the barracks of the Imperial Guard at Scutari, where my appearance created as much astonishment among the troops as though I had come to take the command of the garrison; and once more I was stopped by the officer on guard; but, as Achmet Pacha had prepared the Commandant for our visit, he was immediately summoned by the Dragoman, and received us with the greatest politeness. This magnificent barrack is nearly quadrangular, the centre of the fourth side being occupied by low workshops, and a noble gateway opening upon an exercise ground, at whose extremity on the edge of the rock overhanging the sea stands the Persian Kiosk of the Sultan. Nothing can be conceived more grand than the view from this graceful summer pavilion whence you command the port, the channel, the city of Constantinople, Pera, Galata, and every object of interest and beauty in the neighbourhood of the capital; the picturesque Seraï Bournou; and far, far away, the Sea of Marmora, and the dark mountains of Asia. The prevalence of northerly winds had prevented any vessel from entering the Golden Horn during the three preceding weeks, and a little fleet of about thirty merchant-men were lying at anchor under the very windows of the Kiosk, giving the last touch of loveliness to the scene spread out before us.