risk business. If you are likely to prove a good customer at the
bazaar, you are invited to curl yourself up on the rug on the floor of
the booth, and are regaled with coffee. Do you make a call or visit
a harem, the same beverage is immediately offered. Even in the
government offices, while waiting for an interview with some grandee,
coffee is frequently passed round. Here it is particularly acceptable,
for without its sustaining qualities one could hardly survive the
slow movements of those most deliberate of all mortals, the Turkish
officials.

A few days after our arrival my friend of the steamer, Madame A----,
the pretty Austrian bride, invited me to breakfast, and sent her
husband's brother, a fine-looking young Greek, to escort me to
her house. He spoke only Greek and Italian--I neither: however, he
endeavored to beguile the way by conversing animatedly in Italian. As
he gazed up at the sun several times, inhaled with satisfaction the
exhilarating air and pointed to the sparkling waters of the Bosphorus
and the distant hills, I presumed he was dilating on the fine weather
and the glorious prospect. Not to be outdone in politeness, I smiled
a great deal and replied to the best of my ability in good square
English, to which he always assented, "Yes, oh yes!" which seemed to
be all the English he knew. Fortunately, our walk was not long, and
Madame A---- was our interpreter during the breakfast. Her husband was
absent.

[Illustration: SERAGLIO POINT. GOLDEN HORN.]

The breakfast was half German, half Turkish. Here is the bill of fare:
Oysters on the shell from the Bosphorus--the smallest variety I have
ever seen, very dark-looking, without much flavor; fried goldfish; a
sort of curry of rice and mutton, without which no Turkish meal
would be complete; cauliflower fritters seasoned with cheese; mutton
croquettes and salad; fruit, confectionery and coffee. With a young
housekeeper's pride, Madame A---- took me over her house, which was
furnished in European style, with an occasional touch of Orientalism.
In the centre of the reception-room was a low brass tripod on which
rested a covered brass dish about the size of a large punch-bowl.
In cold weather this is filled with charcoal to warm the room. "Cold
comfort," I should think, when the snow falls, as it sometimes does
in Constantinople, and the fierce, cold winds sweep down the Bosphorus
from the Black Sea and the Russian steppes. As in all the best houses
in Pe