For the first time for some years we saw again, not only middle-aged women, but women of a middle age, that were both well preserved and good-looking. In most countries the men have their proper allowance of the complete seven ages, but out of England, and in Eastern countries especially, it is rare to find women of the poorer classes who have more than three--namely, childhood, girlhood, and decrepit old age. From the second to the third is only a step, and a young girl has scarcely passed the bloom of early youth ere she changes in a marvellously short time into a wrinkled, toothless, shrivelled old woman. It was really refreshing to look at the good-looking women of uncertain age at Sinope; they had such a bright, matronly, and, if the simile may be used, such a sunshiny air about them. The people seemed wonderfully good-natured, and bestowed upon us many nods and pleasant looks, as if they were really glad to see strangers in their little town. Leaving the Greek quarter, we came to a broad, open space, with a few groups of cypress scattered about--the Turkish burial-ground, chosen with much taste, as is usually the case with Turkish cemeteries. Placed on the narrowest part of the isthmus that unites the promontory to the mainland, it commands lovely views over both bays. We crossed a shaky draw-bridge, and, passing under an old mouldering gateway, found ourselves in the Turkish town--in the real region of true believers--not modern Turks, such as are now mostly seen in Constantinople, in Frank dresses and polished boots, but amongst grave, old-fashioned Moslems, arrayed in the flowing robes and large decorous turbans of days gone by. The women, not nominally veiled in transparent and becoming clouds of muslin, but closely wrapped in sheets of such uncompromising calico that not even the tip of a nose could be seen, glided about like spectres, occasionally stopping under the shadow of a wall, to peep curiously at the unwonted spectacle of Christian women passing through their streets. Finding ourselves in such an assemblage of "The Faithful," I became suddenly conscience-stricken on account of my cambric morning gown, which was really very pretty, but unhappily of a delicate green!! We could not but see the angry glances cast on the objectionable shade, so, although the evening was very oppressive, I hastened to hide myself as much as possible under the folds of a large shawl, doing my best, therefore, to prevent the scandal of the sacred colour being seen on an unbelieving "Giaour." Dried fish and tobacco seemed the staple commodities of the place, and in spite of the exceeding cleanliness both of houses and people, they cause an ancient and fish-like odour to linger in the streets.