Within the middle gate commences the splendour of the Seraï. Elaborate gilding and curious arabesques are profusely lavished on its inner side; whence an avenue of beeches leads to the third door, opening into the kiosk-crowded “Garden of Delight,” wherein former Sultans were wont to receive the European Ambassadors. Beyond the vast and golden-latticed building formerly appropriated to this purpose, the eye is bewildered by the confusion of many shaped and glittering pavilions scattered about on all sides; and I, unfortunately, had not time to examine them at my leisure; as I was requested previously to my survey to visit one of the officers of the household, who possessed the power of introducing me into the harem. Thither we accordingly went; and found the courteous Effendi smoking his chibouk in a sort of garden parlour, overlooking the enclosure in which stands the Column of Theodosius. [Illustration: COLUMN OF THEODOSIUS.] As soon as we were seated, I requested permission to sketch this interesting monument, which he at first refused from a dread of being compromised by my entrance into the Seraï, but after a little reluctance he complied, and I hastily availed myself of his politeness. Well was it for me that I did so, for I had scarcely replaced my pencils, when an attendant, breathless with haste, entered the room, exclaiming, “Hide the lady! Hide the Franks!—The Sultan has just arrived in the second court!” All was instantly confusion. We made a hasty retreat by another gate; and, passing along to the water’s edge, traced upon the mouldering walls several inscriptions in ancient Greek. One ran thus: “Theodosius, King by the grace of Christ;” another; “The Illustrious Theodosius, the great King by the Grace of Christ;” while numberless crosses and half-obliterated sentences still remain, which are beyond solution. Altogether I brought away from the Seraï Bournou, a mere confused impression of gilding and splendour; of domes, and kiosks, and gardens; of lofty walls and gleaming lattices. On passing under what is called the Gate of Constantine, the spot was pointed out to me on which a boy, being a few months ago engaged in play with a party of children of his own age, had dug up a brilliant, weighing between twenty eight and thirty carats; since which period that narrow passage has also been closed against the public. As our caïque darted past the golden gate of the Imperial harem, I lost myself in reveries of all the guilt, and suffering, and despair, which had made the celebrated Palace of the Point the theme of story, and an object of undying interest to the curious. I seemed to see the quivering body of the unfortunate Selim—the Sardanapalus of the East—flung from the walls in mockery; and to hear the taunt of his murderers as they cast him forth—“Traitors and Rebels! there is your Sultan—Do with him as you will!”