After giving our men an hour’s rest, we set off for the Princes’ Islands, which now appeared to the north, over the glassy plain of the sea.  The Gulf of Iskmid, or Nicomedia, opened away to the east, between two mountain headlands.  The morning was intensely hot and sultry, and but for the protection of an umbrella, we should have suffered greatly.  There was a fiery blue vapor on the sea, and a thunder-cloud hid the shores of Thrace.  Now and then came a light puff of wind, whereupon the men would ship the little mast, and crowd on an enormous quantity of sail.  So, sailing and rowing, we neared the islands with the storm, but it advanced slowly enough to allow a sight of the mosques of St. Sophia and Sultan Achmed, gleaming far and white, like icebergs astray on a torrid sea.  Another cloud was pouring its rain over the Asian shore, and we made haste to get to the landing at Prinkipo before it could reach us.  From the south, the group of islands is not remarkable for beauty.  Only four of them—­Prinkipo, Chalki, Prote, and Antigone—­are inhabited, the other five being merely barren rocks.

There is an ancient convent on the summit of Prinkipo, where the Empress Irene—­the contemporary of Charlemagne—­is buried.  The town is on the northern side of the island, and consists mostly of the summer residences of Greek and Armenian merchants.  Many of these are large and stately houses, surrounded with handsome gardens.  The streets are shaded with sycamores, and the number of coffee-houses shows that the place is much frequented on festal days.  A company of drunken Greeks were singing in violation of all metre and harmony—­a discord the more remarkable, since nothing could be more affectionate than their conduct towards each other.  Nearly everybody was in Frank costume, and our Oriental habits, especially the red Tartar boots, attracted much observation.  I began to feel awkward and absurd, and longed to show myself a Christian once more.

Leaving Prinkipo, we made for Constantinople, whose long array of marble domes and gilded spires gleamed like a far mirage over the waveless sea.  It was too faint and distant and dazzling to be substantial.  It was like one of those imaginary cities which we build in a cloud fused in the light of the setting sun.  But as we neared the point of Chalcedon, running along the Asian shore, those airy piles gathered form and substance.  The pinnacles of the Seraglio shot up from the midst of cypress groves; fantastic kiosks lined the shore; the minarets of St. Sophia and Sultan Achmed rose more clearly against the sky; and a fleet of steamers and men-of-war, gay with flags, marked the entrance of the Golden Horn.  We passed the little bay where St. Chrysostom was buried, the point of Chalcedon, and now, looking up the renowned Bosphorus, saw the Maiden’s Tower, opposite Scutari.  An enormous pile, the barracks of the Anatolian soldiery, hangs over the high bank, and, as we row abreast of it, a fresh breeze comes up from the Sea of Marmora.  The prow of the caique is turned across the stream, the sail is set, and we glide rapidly and noiselessly over the Bosphorus and into the Golden Horn, between the banks of the Frank and Moslem—­Pera and Stamboul.  Where on the earth shall we find a panorama more magnificent?