Following the old aqueduct built by the emperor Hadrian, which still supplies Stamboul with water, and is exceedingly picturesque with its high dripping arches covered with luxuriant ivy, we reached the walls which protected the city on the land-side, and then, threading our way through the narrow, dirty streets, we returned to the Golden Horn.  I do not wonder, after what I have seen of this part of Stamboul, that the cholera made such ravages here a few years since.  I should think it would remain a constant scourge.  Calling a caique, we were rowed up the Golden Horn to the Sweet Waters, but its tide floated only our own boat, and the banks lacked the attraction of the gay groups which render the place so lively on Fridays.  We were served with coffee by a Turk who with his little brasier of coals was waiting under a wide-spreading tree for any chance visitor, and after a short stroll on the bank opposite the sultan’s pretty palace we floated gently down the stream till we reached the Golden Horn again.  On a large meadow near the mouth of the Sweet Waters some Arabs were camped with an immense flock of sheep.  They had brought them there to shear and wash the wool in the fresh water, and the ground was covered with large quantities of beautiful long fleece.  The shepherds in their strange mantles and head-dresses looked very picturesque as they spread the wool and tended their flocks.  Our caiquegee, as the oarsman of a caique is called, ought not to be overlooked.  His costume was in keeping with his pretty caique, which was painted a delicate straw-color and had white linen cushions.  He was a tall, finely-built fellow, a Cretan or Bulgarian I should think, for he looked too wide awake for a Turk.  The sun had burned his olive complexion to the deepest brown, and his black eyes and white teeth when he smiled lighted up his intelligent face, making him very handsome.  He wore a turban, loose shirt with hanging sleeves and voluminous trousers, all of snowy whiteness.  A blue jacket embroidered with gilt braid was in readiness to put on when he stopped rowing.  It must have taken a ruinous amount of material to make those trousers.  They were full at the waist and knee, and before seating himself to his oars he gracefully threw the extra amount of the fullness which drooped behind over the wide seat as a lady spreads out her overskirt.

[Illustration:  SHEPHERDS.]

Last night we bade farewell to the strange old city with its picturesque sights, its glorious views and the many points of interest we had grown so familiar with.  Our adieus were said, the ammales had taken our baggage to the steamer, which lay at anchor off Seraglio Point, and before dark we went on board, ready to sail at an early hour.

The bustle of getting underway at daylight this morning woke me, and I went on deck in time to take a farewell look.  The first rays of the sun were just touching the top of the Galata Tower and lighting up the dark cypresses in the palace-grounds above us.  The tall minarets and the blue waves of the Bosphorus caught the golden light, while around Olympus the rosy tint had not yet faded and the morning mists looked golden in the sunlight.  We rounded Seraglio Point and steamed down the Marmora, passed the Seven Towers, and slowly the beautiful city faded from our view.