Beyond this lovely hill, the shore is edged with Greek, Armenian, and Turkish houses; and here commences the _moral_ interest of the locality. The dwellings of the raïahs are, when of any extent, almost universally painted of two different colours on the outside, in order to give them the appearance of separate tenements, and thus deceive the passers-by; while those of the Turks themselves are perfectly illustrative of the momentary condition of their owners. The Osmanli is the creature of the present; he never falls back upon the past; he has no glorious memories to wile him from himself; every page of his history is shadowed over by some gloomy recollection—nor dare he dwell upon the future, for he is the subject of a despotic government: the proud Pasha of to-day may be headless, or at best houseless to-morrow; and hence, the premature decay of three-fourths of the Turkish dwellings. When an individual becomes possessed of power, he buys or builds a residence suited to his brightened fortunes: he lavishes his revenue—why should he hoard it? it can only excite the cupidity of the Sultan, and accelerate his disgrace; or awaken the jealousy of his rivals, and insure his ruin. He makes his house gay without, and convenient within; but all its accessories are ephemeral—the paint which he spreads over the surface remains fresh for a year, and that suffices him. Perchance it may outlast his favour; should it not do so, it is no unpleasant task to renew it; and if it should, he contents himself with the weather-stained walls of a more golden season. Once in disgrace, he repairs only just sufficiently to defy the weather, and troubles himself no further. And thus, after you have been a few months in the country, and have studied in some degree the nature and habits of the people, you may give a shrewd guess as you ride along, at the past and present position of the owner of every edifice that fringes the Bosphorus. The courtier has raised a pile which looks as though it had been finished only yesterday; the walls are so bright, and the lattices are so perfect—the blue ripple chafes against the marble steps that lead to the columned portico; and the feathery acacias nestle among their blossoming boughs, gilded kiosks, and lordly terraces. The slighted favourite has still servants lounging about his door, and a stately landing-place beside which his caïque dances on the wave; but a shade has past over the picture: the summer sun and the winter wind have deadened the bright blue or the soft olive of the edifice, and here and there a slender bar is rent away from the discoloured lattices. The fair forest trees still wave along the covered terrace, but the steps are grass-grown, and the flower-vases are overthrown—they might be replaced; but it is better policy to let them suffer with their master.