knelt, a marshal, or master of ceremonies, with a silver wand, gave the signal to the Imperial Guard, who shouted at the top of their voices:  “Prosperity to our Sovereign!  May he live a thousand years!” This part of the ceremony was really grand and imposing.  All the adjuncts were in keeping:  the portico, wrought in rich arabesque designs; the swelling domes and sunlit crescents above; the sycamores and cypresses shading the court; the red tunics and peacock plumes of the guard; the monarch himself, radiant with jewels, as he sat in his chair of gold—­all these features combined to form a stately picture of the lost Orient, and for the time Abdul-Medjid seemed the true representative of Caliph Haroun Al-Raschid.

After the Pashas had finished, the inferior officers of the Army, Navy, and Civil Service followed, to the number of at least a thousand.  They were not considered worthy to touch the Sultan’s person, but kissed his golden scarf, which was held out to them by a Pasha, who stood on the left of the throne.  The Grand Vizier had his place on the right, and the Chief of the Eunuchs stood behind him.  The kissing of the scarf occupied an hour.  The Sultan sat quietly during all this time, his face expressing a total indifference to all that was going on.  The most skilful physiognomist could not have found in it the shadow of an expression.  If this was the etiquette prescribed for him, he certainly acted it with marvellous skill and success.

The long line of officers at length came to an end, and I fancied that the solemnities were now over; but after a pause appeared the Shekh el-Islam, or High Priest of the Mahometan religion.  His authority in religious matters transcends that of the Sultan, and is final and irrevocable.  He was a very venerable man, of perhaps seventy-five years of age, and his tottering steps were supported by two mollahs.  He was dressed in a long green robe, embroidered with gold and pearls, over which his white beard flowed below his waist.  In his turban of white cambric was twisted a scarf of cloth-of-gold.  He kissed the border of the Sultan’s mantle, which salutation was also made by a long line of the chief priests of the mosques of Constantinople, who followed him.  These priests were dressed in long robes of white, green, blue, and violet, many of them with collars of pearls and golden scarfs wound about their turbans, the rich fringes falling on their shoulders.  They were grave, stately men, with long gray beards, and the wisdom of age and study in their deep-set eyes.

Among the last who came was the most important personage of all.  This was the Governor of Mecca (as I believe he is called), the nearest descendant of the Prophet, and the successor to the Caliphate, in case the family of Othman becomes extinct.  Sultan Mahmoud, on his accession to the throne, was the last descendant of Orchan, the founder of the Ottoman Dynasty, the throne being inherited only by the male heirs.