as he passed me.  After him came the Sultan’s pages, handsome young fellows, carrying halberts and wearing gilt shakos with immense plumes of peacocks’ feathers, aigrettes, or birds of Paradise.  In the centre of them was the Sultan himself, almost hidden by their plumes.  He kept his head thrown back and wore a black cloak trimmed with diamonds and a fez with an aigrette adorned with the same stones.  He dismounted.  The Grand Vizier and the new Sheik el Islam held up the corners of his cloak, while a hideous negro, with hanging lips and haunches like a woman, covered with embroideries, advanced to receive him.  This was Kislar Aga, chief eunuch and governor of the harem.

And now everybody has come, “Let the sport begin.”  From my window I look out on a broad space, surrounded by beautiful umbrella pines and sloping gently down to the sea.  Beyond is the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus and the pretty village of Kadi-Keni.  This space is full of troops, twelve splendid battalions of the Imperial Guard, Lancers and Artillery.  These form a circle, in the centre of which rises a pulpit covered with some yellow stuff, and around it the pashas and the whole body of Ulemas and Mollahs, wearing the ancient costume—­coloured kaftans, and big white or green turbans crossed with broad gold bands—­shortly collect.  The chief dervishes and the heads of all the religious sects are there also.  All this clergy stands there motionless, impassive, with lowered eyes, not over pleased, I fancy, at bottom.  Then the crowd makes a rush, which infuriates the Grand Vizier.  He makes towards it, lifting his little leg very high and waving his handkerchief.  At the very sight of him everybody flees, and retires humbly within bounds.  Then the manuscript of the Hatti-Schereef is brought to him.  He carries it respectfully to his lips and forehead, and hands it over to Reschid Pasha, who ascends the pulpit and reads it out.  That over and finished midst the deepest silence, an Imaum takes Reschid Pasha’s place in the pulpit.  He stretches out his arms.  All present do the same, the soldiers stretching out but one on account of their weapons, and he intones the prayer for the Sultan, which every one repeats in chorus.  After which every man passes his hand across his eyes and beard and the troops shout “Allah” three times, with unequalled fervour and passion.  Hundreds of cannon are fired in all directions, and the beautiful sight, lighted up by the most brilliant of sunshine, has come to an end.  The Sultan has departed.  The Sultana Valide sends me a posse of officials, bearing cakes and sweetmeats.  I take leave of Kosrew Pasha and depart also, thinking sadly that if this Turkish people, so brave on the field of battle and apparently still so devoted to its sovereign, and so firm in its religious faith, is truly, in spite of all, a rapidly decaying nation, the miserable rag of paper read out this day will certainly not save it.