She was dressed in a caftan of gold brocade, flowered with silver, very well fitted to her shape, and shewing to advantage the beauty of her bosom, only shaded by the thin guaze of her shift.  Her drawers were pale pink, green and silver, her slippers white, finely embroidered; her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, and her broad girdle set round with diamonds; upon her head a rich Turkish handkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair hanging a great length in various tresses, and on one side of her head some bodkins of jewels.  I am afraid you will accuse me of extravagance in this description.  I think I have read somewhere that women always speak in rapture when they speak of beauty, but I cannot imagine why they should not be allowed to do so.  I rather think it virtue to be able to admire without any mixture of desire or envy.  The gravest writers have spoken with great warmth of some celebrated pictures and statues.  The workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weak imitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to our praise.  For me, I am not ashamed to own I took more pleasure in looking on the beauteous Fatima, than the finest piece of sculpture could have given me.

She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, though she appeared too young to be their mother.  Her fair maids were ranged below the sofa, to the number of twenty, and put me in mind of the pictures of the ancient nymphs.  I did not think all nature could have furnished such a scene of beauty.  She made them a sign to play and dance.  Four of them immediately began to play some soft airs on instruments between a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied with their voices, while the others danced by turns.  This dance was very different from what I had seen before.  Nothing could be more artful....  The tunes so soft!—­the motions so languishing!—­accompanied with pauses and dying eyes! half-falling back, and then recovering themselves in so artful a manner....  I suppose you may have read that the Turks have no music but what is shocking to the ears; but this account is from those who never heard any, but what is played in the streets, and is just as reasonable as if a foreigner should take his ideas of the English music from the bladder and string, and marrowbone and cleavers.  I can assure you that the music is extremely pathetic; ’tis true I am inclined to prefer the Italian, but perhaps I am partial.  I am acquainted with a Greek lady who sings better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled in both, who gives the preference to the Turkish.  ’Tis certain they have very fine natural voices; these were very agreeable.  When the dance was over, four fair slaves came into the room with silver censers in their hands, and perfumed the room with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents.  After this they served me coffee upon their knees in the finest japan china, with soucoupes of silver, gilt.  The lovely Fatima entertained me all this while in the most polite agreeable manner, calling me often Guzel sultanum, or the beautiful sultana, and desiring my friendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that she could not entertain me in my own language.