I do not say that any more, now that we have been to the country. We went over to Skutari (Asiatic Constantinople) this morning, and took carriages to Bulgurlu Mountain, which overlooks all the city and a vast stretch of country. It is a good view, but it should be, considering what it costs to get there--in wear and tear, I mean. Of all villanous roads, those outside Skutari are the most depraved. They are not roads at all, but just washes and wallows and ditches and stone gullies. I have seen bad roads in Virginia--roads surveyed by George Washington, and never touched since--but they were a dream of luxury as compared with these of Turkey. Our carriages billowed and bobbed and pitched and humped themselves until I got out and walked to keep from being lamed for life. And then the houses--the villas I had expected to see; dear me, how can I picture those cheap, ugly, unpainted, overdecorated architectural crimes? They are wooden and belong to the jig-saw period gone mad. They suggest an owner who has been too busy saving money for a home to acquire any taste; who has spent his savings for lumber and trimmings and has nothing left for paint. Still, he managed to reserve enough to put iron bars on his windows--that is, on part of the house--the harem--every man becoming his own jailer, as it were. I remarked: "I suppose that is to keep the neighbors from stealing their wives." But the Horse-Doctor--wiser and more observant--said: "No, it is to keep a neighbor from breaking in and leaving another." Standing on the top of Bulgurlu--looking down on the Bosporus and the royal palaces--the wife of a foreign minister told us something of the history that has been written there: When Abdul Aziz, in 1876, became Abdul "as was"[4] (his veins were opened with a penknife, I believe), one Murad, his nephew, an educated and travelled prince, came into power. But Murad was for progress--bridges and railroads--so Murad retired to Cheragan Palace, where for thirty-two years he sat at a window and looked out on a world in which he had no part, while Abdul Hamid II. reigned in his stead. Murad was wise and gentle, and did not reproach Abdul, who came to him now and again for advice concerning matters of state. But Murad was fond of watching the people from his window--excursion parties such as ours, and the like--and these in turn used to look up at Murad's window; which things in time came to Abdul Hamid's ears. Then Abdul decided that this indulgence was not good for Murad--nor for the people. Thirty-two years was already too long for that sort of thing. So Murad's face disappeared from the window, and it was given out that he had died--the bulletin did not say what of, but merely mentioned that it had been a "general death"--that is to say, a natural death, under the circumstances--the kind of death a retired Sultan is likely to die. And Abdul mourned for Murad many days, and gave him a costly funeral.