We passed the whole length of the bazaars, and then, turning up one of the side streets on our right, crossed a deep ravine by a high stone bridge.  Above and below us there were other bridges, under which a stream flowed down from the mountains.  Thence we ascended the height, whereon stands the largest and one of the oldest mosques in Brousa.  The position is remarkably fine, commanding a view of nearly the whole city and the plain below it.  We entered the court-yard boldly, Francois taking the precaution to speak to me only in Arabic, as there was a Turk within.  Mr. H. went to the fountain, washed his hands and face, but did not dare to swallow a drop, putting on a most dolorous expression of countenance, as if perishing with thirst.  The mosque was a plain, square building, with a large dome and two minarets.  The door was a rich and curious specimen of the stalactitic style, so frequent in Saracenic buildings.  We peeped into the windows, and, although the mosque, which does not appear to be in common use, was darkened, saw enough to show that the interior was quite plain.

Just above this edifice stands a large octagonal tomb, surmounted by a dome, and richly adorned with arabesque cornices and coatings of green and blue tiles.  It stood in a small garden inclosure, and there was a sort of porter’s lodge at the entrance.  As we approached, an old gray-bearded man in a green turban came out, and, on Francois requesting entrance for us, took a key and conducted us to the building.  He had not the slightest idea of our being Christians.  We took off our slippers before touching the lintel of the door, as the place was particularly holy.  Then, throwing open the door, the old man lingered a few moments after we entered, so as not to disturb our prayers—­a mark of great respect.  We advanced to the edge of the parapet, turned our faces towards Mecca, and imitated the usual Mohammedan prayer on entering a mosque, by holding both arms outspread for a few moments, then bringing the hands together and bowing the face upon them.  This done, we leisurely examined the building, and the old man was ready enough to satisfy our curiosity.  It was a rich and elegant structure, lighted from the dome.  The walls were lined with brilliant tiles, and had an elaborate cornice, with Arabic inscriptions in gold.  The floor was covered with a carpet, whereon stood eight or ten ancient coffins, surrounding a larger one which occupied a raised platform in the centre.  They were all of wood, heavily carved, and many of them entirely covered with gilded inscriptions.  These, according to the old man, were the coffins of the Ottoman Sultans, who had reigned at Brousa previous to the taking of Constantinople, with some members of their families.  There were four Sultans, among whom were Mahomet I., and a certain Achmet.  Orchan, the founder of the Ottoman dynasty, is buried somewhere in Brousa, and the great central coffin may have been his.  Francois and I talked entirely in Arabic, and the old man asked:  “Who are these Hadjis?” whereupon F. immediately answered:  “They are Effendis from Baghdad.”