supplies an excellent description, necessarily rendered
valueless, however, by the events of the Crimean war. She speaks of its
harbour as one of the most remarkable in Europe. It owes all its
excellence to Nature, which has here, without assistance from the
science of the engineer, provided a magnificent roadstead, the branches
of which form a number of basins admirably adapted for the requirements
of a great naval station. The whole expanse of this noble harbour is
commanded from the upper part of the town. The roadstead first catches
the eye; it stretches east and west, penetrates inland to a depth of
four miles and three-quarters, with a mean breadth of 1,000 yards; and
forms the channel of communication between Sevastopol and the interior
of the peninsula. The northern shore is girt by a line of cliffs; the
southern shore, broken up by numerous natural basins. To the east, at
the very foot of the hill on which the town stands, lies South Bay,
nearly two miles in length, and completely sheltered by high limestone
cliffs. Beyond lies the dockyard, and the dock, which is of great
extent; and to the west may be seen Artillery Bay.

In spite of the historical interest which now attaches to Sevastopol, as
the scene of the crowning struggle between Russia and the Western
Powers, the most remarkable place in the Chersonese is Bagtche Serai,
"that ancient city which, prior to the Muscovite conquest of the
peninsula, might compete in wealth and power with the great cities of
the East." Beautiful exceedingly is the approach to it, by a road
running parallel with a chain of heights, and clothed with luxuriant
orchards, studded with village and farm, and brightened by the sheen of
brooks. Owing to an ukase of Catherine II., which allowed the Tartars to
keep possession of their ancient capital, Bagtche Serai retains to this
day its individuality of aspect. It is neither modernized nor
Russianized. Sauntering through its narrow streets, and looking upon its
mosques, shops, and cemeteries, the traveller feels that the atmosphere
of the East is around him. And amid the courts and gardens of the old
palace he may well believe himself transported to an "interior" in
Bagdad or Aleppo.

This palace has been celebrated by the muse of Pushkin, the Russian
poet; in fine, it is not possible to do justice to its charms, which
seem to have powerfully impressed our traveller's susceptible
imagination. "It is no easy task," she exclaims, "to