Early next morning, we passed the promontory of Cyzicus, and the Island of Marmora, the marble quarries of which give name to the sea.  As we were approaching the entrance to the Dardanelles, we noticed an Austrian brig drifting in the current, the whiff of her flag indicating distress.  Her rudder was entirely gone, and she was floating helplessly towards the Thracian coast.  A boat was immediately lowered and a hawser carried to her bows, by which we towed her a short distance; but our steam engine did not like this drudgery, and snapped the rope repeatedly, so that at last we were obliged to leave her to her fate.  The lift we gave, however, had its effect, and by dexterous maneuvering with the sails, the captain brought her safely into the harbor of Gallipoli, where she dropped anchor beside us.

Beyond Gallipoli, the Dardanelles contract, and the opposing continents rise into lofty and barren hills.  In point of natural beauty, this strait is greatly inferior to the Bosphorus.  It lacks the streams and wooded valleys which open upon the latter.  The country is but partially cultivated, except around the town of Dardanelles, near the mouth of the strait.  The site of the bridge of Xerxes is easily recognized, the conformation of the different shores seconding the decision of antiquarians.  Here, too, are Sestos and Abydos, of passionate and poetic memory.  But as the sun dipped towards the sea, we passed out of the narrow gateway.  On our left lay the plain of Troy, backed by the blue range of Mount Ida.  The tamulus of Patroclus crowned a low bluff looking on the sea.  On the right appeared the long, irregular island of Imbros, and the peaks of misty Samothrace over and beyond it.  Tenedos was before us.  The red flush of sunset tinged the grand Homeric landscape, and lingered and lingered on the summit of Ida, as if loth to depart.  I paced the deck until long after it was too dark to distinguish it any more.

The next morning we dropped anchor in the harbor of Smyrna, where we remained five hours.  I engaged a donkey, and rode out to the Caravan Bridge, where the Greek driver and I smoked narghilehs and drank coffee in the shade of the acacias.  I contrasted my impressions with those of my first visit to Smyrna last October—­my first glimpse of Oriental ground.  Then, every dog barked at me, and all the horde of human creatures who prey upon innocent travellers ran at my heels, but now, with my brown face and Turkish aspect of grave indifference, I was suffered to pass as quietly as my donkey-driver himself.  Nor did the latter, nor the ready cafidji, who filled our pipes on the banks of the Meles, attempt to overcharge me—­a sure sign that the Orient had left its seal on my face.  Returning through the city, the same mishap befel me which travellers usually experience on their first arrival.  My donkey, while dashing at full speed through a crowd of Smyrniotes in their Sunday dresses, slipped up in a little pool of black mud, and came down with a crash.  I flew over his head and alighted firmly on my feet, but the spruce young Greeks, whose snowy fustanelles were terribly bespattered, came off much worse.  The donkey shied back, levelled his ears and twisted his head on one side, awaiting a beating, but his bleeding legs saved him.