A Journey to Crete, Costantinople, Naples and Florence: Three Months Abroad

The sights of Constantinople are so far interesting as they are different from those of all other European capitals. Their novelty was the chief attraction they had for me. We saw them all in one day, which proves that there are not many.

We first visited the garden of the old Seraglio, whose situation on a gentle hill, sloping down to the Sea of Marmora, is one of the most beautiful in the world. There are large numbers of fine cypresses and plane-trees growing in masses there, almost like a forest, which gives an air of perfect solitude and retirement to the garden, although it is surrounded on two sides by one of the largest and busiest towns in the world. The beautiful old Seraglio that formerly adorned this splendid site was burned down a few years ago. It was then the residence of what are called the “Imperial widows” of the late Sultan. These unhappy creatures are never allowed to leave the precincts of the palace that has been assigned to them as a residence, but must mourn, in perfect retirement, the loss of their late lord till death ends their existence. There is a rumour that one of these Serailee Hanum (that is the title by which they are distinguished), in order to get a chance of escape from her prison, set it on fire; but this is, of course, a conjecture only. The Dowager Sultanas inhabit now another large palace situated in the same garden, and I looked at its latticed windows, when it was pointed out to me, with a feeling of unspeakable pity.

There are in the same delightful locality some pretty Kiosks of the Sultan. One is called the Library, which did however not contain more books than a well stocked schoolroom in an English country house. We visited three mosques: the beautiful one of Sultan Sulimani, Sultan Achmet’s, which has six minarets, and Aja Sophia, the grand old church, the very carpets of which look venerable.

The look-down from the high gallery into the nave, which was well filled with worshippers, was most interesting. The wretched little glass lamps, with which the Turks light up their mosques, are excessively ugly and out of keeping.

The Hippodrome now no more resembles a Roman Circus than Trafalgar Square does. Every trace of the ancient structure has disappeared, and the square is surrounded by Turkish mosques and houses. The large obelisk, that stands in the middle, shows however that this was the site of the splendid Hippodrome which was adorned by an infinite number of the finest Greek statues in marble and bronze. The famous horses of Lysippus, which once stood here, I remembered to have seen over the portals of St. Mark in Venice.

The least beautiful, but not the least interesting sight, is the gallery where the costumes of the Janizaries are exhibited. Most persons will remember that this Turkish soldiery, the formidable opponents of all progress and civilization in the Turkish Empire, the terror of the Sultans and the tyrants of the people, were burnt and massacred by thousands in the year 1826, by order of Sultan Mahmud II., who probably, in doing so, conferred an inestimable benefit upon the nation. A large number of lay figures, representing the principal functionaries of the household of the Sultan, the officers of the Janizaries, and the Janizaries themselves, who were not obliged to wear a uniform, stand there in the very dresses these people used to wear, and which are the strangest costumes the barbarous taste of a wild and haughty people could invent. They look a ghastly host now. I don’t know that I ever felt more uncomfortable than during the time I found myself in their company. I would not stop a night alone in those galleries, not for all the treasures those terrible looking men possessed when alive.

I gladly turn my thoughts from this “dread abode” to the more cheerful life of the Bazaars of Stamboul, where you can buy sparkling diamonds and golden slippers, and all the “perfumes of Arabia.” There is little besides the unavoidable atta of roses and embroidered slippers to tempt a not over acquisitive disposition. Ladies that are fond of diamonds can get them cheaper there than in London or Paris. But then one does not go to the Bazaars only for the purpose of purchasing at the stalls, every one of them is a new and striking picture. The principal figure in it is now an old grey-bearded Turk, who still wears his national dress, sitting on his carpet or reclining on his cushion, smoking his chibouque. He hardly changes his comfortable position, when your dragoman asks him for some article you want, and only rises if he cannot reach it while reclining. Or it is a lively black-eyed young Greek, who spreads out before you as you pass his stall, a gold embroidered table-cover, or holds up some bright glittering beads, in order to excite your desire to purchase; or it is a long bearded Jew, in his oriental dress, that begins to talk to you in English, French and German, all at once, and offers to sell you every thing you can possibly want at the lowest possible price. What different figures are these from the London shopmen in their eternal black coats and white cravats, and the young shopwomen, their companions, in their everlasting black alpaca dresses, always standing behind the counter, even if there is nobody to serve.

The workshops, which like the stalls of the Bazaars are quite open towards the street, are also interesting to look at. You see the tailor cutting out his work, the cooper making barrels, the turner at his work, the coppersmith, the baker, the pastry-cook, &c. &c. Whenever the work allows it the workmen sit, and they do not look as if they laboured very hard.

As I wished much to visit some Harems in Constantinople, and see a little more of the Turkish women, my husband, in order to gratify my wish, procured for us introductions to some people of note, and took me to the Pashas and smoked chiboques with them, although I know he would have much preferred to take a kaik, and go to Bujuk Dere, or the sweet waters of Europe with me; for a row on the Bosphorus, or the Golden Horn, was what he most enjoyed at Constantinople. Before we visited the Pashas in Stamboul, I paid however my promised visit to Mme. Conemenos, the Greek lady, whose acquaintance I had made on the steamboat from Corfu to Sira. She was staying with her parents in Yeni Keui on the Bosphorus, where M. d’Aristarchi, her father, has a beautiful palace, a present of the late Sultan’s, under whose reign M. d’Aristarchi, who is brother of the Prince of Samos, filled high offices of state. I remember my visit to this amiable family with great pleasure, for in going to Yeni Keui, which is one of the prettiest villages on the Bosphorus, I saw the beauty of that unrivalled spot for the first time. I spent a whole day there, and never was tired of looking on the beautiful scenery around, sitting near the window of some cool airy room of the palace, or walking through the shady and flowery garden that rises in terraces high above the blue waters of the Bosphorus.

The very next day we paid a visit to Omer Pasha, and were of course interested to see this great soldier of the Turkish Empire. He spoke with my husband about the Turkish army, agriculture, and horse breeding; to me about his two little children, a little girl of fifteen months, and a baby boy, who was then a few weeks old. These are his only children, besides a married daughter. He spoke with apparent regret that these children should have been given to him so late in life, and said that he could not hope to see them grow up, but as in spite of his advanced years, and a slight indisposition of which he complained, he still looked a fine man, I told him to trust in Providence, which might spare him still for many years. We parted after a visit of two hours, mutually well pleased I think, and with a promise to renew our acquaintance in London, which he intended visiting in the course of the summer. I did not enter his Harem, as his wife had been so lately confined, and could not receive visitors.

As Omer Pasha is a German by birth, and Ishmael Pasha is of Greek extraction, it was only when I visited Sami Pasha, that I knew I was with a real Mussulman, and I think it was partly for that reason that the visit to his house in Stamboul interested me more than the others I had paid. Sami Pasha, ex-Minister of Public Instruction, and member of the Privy Council, lives in a fine old mansion in Stamboul, which is separated from the bustle and noise of the city, by large court yards and gardens which surround the house on all sides. The house itself is one of the oldest and finest in Constantinople; the halls, and rooms, and staircases, are to an English eye very spacious, and the reception room, which is entirely of finely carved and richly gilded oak, and commands a splendid view of Stamboul, is very beautiful.

Sami Pasha is quite an old man, with a very intelligent look, and the manners of a courtier. He has been Governor of many provinces, and seemed pleased to hear that he was still remembered at Crete, where he was Governor at the time the turbulent Greeks threatened a new insurrection, which his moderation and firmness had prevented from breaking out. He had years ago visited England and France, and was interested in all that concerned those countries. He had known many of our statesmen personally, as Sir Robert Peel and Lord Aberdeen; he inquired after Lord Palmerston, and seemed pleased that his Lordship, of whom he appeared to be a contemporary, was, like himself, still in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Although a member of the Privy Council, he holds no longer any special office, preferring quiet and retirement. He told me that his time was now entirely devoted to study and reflection, and that he was just then writing a treatise on morals. I had expressed a wish to see the “ladies of the house.” I could not in this case ask to see his wife, as I knew he had two legitimate ones; it is not often the case that Turks have more than one wife, partly I believe because it entails a large expenditure, each lady having entirely separate households, with their large suites of apartments, and numerous male and female slaves and attendants. After I had been announced to the ladies, a son of Sami Pasha, a young man of about seventeen years of age, with pleasant, courteous manners, led me into the Harem. All the doors that lead into it had been unlocked, perhaps in order not to shock my western prejudices, so that we walked freely into the ante-chamber of the Harem, where I met the first Hanum, who, looking rather embarrassed but not unkind, conducted me to another room. She was a stout lady of about thirty-five years of age, the mother of the young man that served us as interpreter. She was dressed in green silk, now the fashionable colour among the Turkish ladies, and had a many-coloured handkerchief, in a not unbecoming manner, wound round her head. I had just time to answer the questions these ladies generally ask, viz., how many children I had, their sex, ages, etc., when another lady entered through the open door, who seemed to be very nearly of the same age as the first, and who was dressed in exactly the same way, as sisters often are in England. She sat down on a divan opposite us, and I had to answer very nearly the same questions, when Sami Pasha joined us, and introduced his children to me. Both ladies have many children, among those of the younger there was a very pretty little girl of about three years of age, who, with her blue eyes and fair silken hair, might have been taken for an English child.

The Harem of Sami Pasha is very splendid, as becomes his rank and station. The windows, all overlooking the inner garden, are unlatticed, which was pleasant to me. The little stands which hold the Turkish coffee-cups were set with diamonds. All the slaves, and there seemed to be a very large number, were well dressed, some in silk, others in muslin, and they wore much jewellery. Most of them were Circassians, and, although no such great beauties as they are reported to be, were good-looking, comely young women.

The ladies received me with great courtesy, offering me as a sign of good will, first sweets and coffee, then lemonade, then coffee again. The younger of the wives, who seemed pleased at my taking particular notice of her little girl, asked me to let her know that I had returned safely to England, and had found my children well. Of course I have complied with so kind a request, accompanying my letter with the photographs of my children. Sami Pasha had said before we left, “you must go and see my son’s collection of antiquities;” and as we had already heard from others that it was the finest collection of the kind in Turkey, which, however, need not say much, we profited by Sami Pasha’s offer, to announce our visit to his son, and went to see him the next day. Suphy Bey received his education at the Court of Mehemet Ali, the great Viceroy of Egypt, and is now a Privy Councillor like his father, and a man of great influence at the Sublime Porte, but he has never left the sacred ground of Islam, and is a thorough Mussulman. He speaks but very little French, and the first thing he offered me was a pipe, when I declined it, he asked if I preferred a cigarette, but even that I was obliged to refuse.

His collection of antiquities, is no doubt very splendid; but old Turkish coins have very little interest for me, as I understand nothing about them, but at the Greek antiquities I looked with pleasure.

I know that his Harem is one of the largest in Constantinople, but I was sorry afterwards that I had asked Suphy Bey to introduce me into it. His Harem is a palace, entirely separated from the house of the Bey, and in order to reach it he led me through two gardens, and the black slave who keeps the keys of the Harem had to unlock several strong doors before we could enter. We waited some time, and the Bey had, it appeared to me, dispatched several slaves before his first Hanum appeared to receive me. She did it with a face of chilling coldness; and, sitting down at the farther end of the room, addressed no other word to me than a polite inquiry after my health. The Bey smoked a chiboque, which a little girl, his daughter, had brought him; and there reigned an awful silence. At last the Bey rose and left the room; he returned after a few minutes, which had seemed to me terribly long, leading by her hand a lovely girl of about sixteen years of age, whom he introduced as the daughter of the proud lady opposite me, and who looked as if she entered the room “sorely against her will.” She was by far the most beautiful woman I had seen in the different Harems, but she had the same expression of cool disdain in her face, that was so repulsive in the mother.

The father led her to a piano that was in the saloon, and she began to play. But the instrument was woefully out of tune, and never had the Turkish music sounded more discordant and barbarous, so that I could not express any approbation, and merely thanked her, when she had finished. Soon after I had been served with coffee, which was as bitter as wormwood, I rose, saying to the Bey that I did not wish to trouble the ladies any longer, being in fact anxious to bring this very unsatisfactory visit to a speedy end.

When I was again alone with my husband, I asked myself if I had any right to feel angry, or even annoyed at the cool reception these ladies gave me; placing myself in their position, I thought that I had reason to be surprised rather that they had abstained from absolute rudeness towards me, and had preserved at least the forms of politeness.

Should we like our husbands to receive ladies in their own apartments, and when it pleases them, only to bring those visitors for a quarter of an hour to see us, talking with them all the time in a language of which we do not understand a word, and then leaving us again alone, locked up, a prey to jealousy and envy? Really one need not be a Turk, under such circumstances to feel tortured by those ugly passions. Ah, I can forgive almost anything to the Turks: I will not condemn them for having erased the sign of the cross from the portals of Santa Sophia, for having made a powder magazine of the Parthenon, or for having slaughtered the Christians; but one thing I cannot forgive that they consign their own women to a life of idleness, ignorance, and immorality, and to a premature death. For Turkish women, who were healthy, strong girls at twelve years of age when they still enjoyed some liberty, die by hundreds of rapid consumption between the age of eighteen and thirty, in consequence of this unnatural, unhealthy mode of life. I advise all ladies that go to Constantinople, especially if they are under thirty years, (which however was not the case with me), and good looking, (and what woman under thirty does not think herself so), if they wish to visit a Harem, to do so in company of a lady who can speak Turkish, and thus serve as an interpreter. They will be more likely to be received kindly by the Turkish women, who will enter more freely into conversation with them if the husband be not the interpreter.

So poor in attractions for us was Constantinople in spite of the prodigious riches with which nature has endowed it, that we thought a fortnight too much to spend there. One fine morning therefore, we took the steamboat for Brussa, to which place we had a pressing invitation from an amiable and hospitable German family, residing there.

Our boat, which had left Constantinople at eight o’clock, arrived at Modagna towards two in the afternoon, and we found a carriage waiting for us, which after shaking us about like refractory cream that is to be turned into butter, set us down with a headache and backache at Brussa. But the next morning these ills had passed, and then I enjoyed my stay there so much, that I count the few days at Brussa among the pleasantest of my journey.

Brussa, the ancient capital of Turkey, lies in a fertile plain at the foot of Mount Olympus, which rises stately and imposing out of the plain. The town is of a thorough Turkish character. The houses are all of wood, the streets narrow, but they are cleaner than those of any other Turkish town I saw; and there are fine Mosques with elegant minarets. The Mosque of Sultan Mahomet, standing on a hill, especially pleased me, on account of its lovely situation. The little outer court with its fountain, which for the purpose of ablution, is found before every Mosque, shaded by noble old trees, is one of the most lovely spots I saw. It is cool, shady and quiet in the extreme. In Brussa the Turks still wear the real ancient costume; the large turban, the long dolman, trimmed with fur, the wide Mameluke pantaloons, the broad scarf, and rich arms.

Our ascent of the first plateau of Mount Olympus was splendid, at least so I thought, when I was safely down again. Till then, I confess, I did not find it quite so pleasant. Although I had become somewhat accustomed to bad roads on our excursions in Crete, I still thought those of Mount Olympus very terrible. They are narrow paths, fearfully steep, rocky and stony, leading often along precipices, or through thick woods, where the branches grow so low, that you are obliged to bring your head to a level with your horse’s to keep it on your shoulders. When I had gone up a little way, I did not wonder that our kind host and hostess, M. and Mme. S—, had not accompanied us; very few people would care to go up twice. Although the view is splendid, it is obtained at a great sacrifice, and can be enjoyed almost as well from a lower point, which can be easily climbed on foot. Mlle. Lina the daughter, and M. Charles S—, the brother of our host, had however joined us, and here I found how true is Schiller’s word; “Den schreckt der Berg nicht, der darauf geboren,” for both seemed to mind the roads very little. Mlle. Lina, every now and then, would draw my attention to some particularly beautiful view, which to look at from the giddy height we rode along, made my head turn. I could do nothing but look at the road and my husband; trembling lest horse and rider should go down some terrible precipice, for the roads were sometimes such, that I thought a false step of the horse would be immediate destruction of horse and rider. Our guide was a terrible Turk, looking as stern and calm as fate, in which he, like all Turks, had no doubt a blind faith. He took no more notice of us than if we had been in London or anywhere, except behind him. I am persuaded if one or two of us had fallen, and broken our necks, he would have taken no more notice, than he did of the stones that the feet of our horses now and then sent rolling down the precipice. He rode a wretched little horse, which besides himself, carried our shawls and provisions, but he looked perfectly at his ease. I suppose if he had broken his own neck, he would have met the unalterable decree of fate with the same stern, calm look.

But if I have not forgotten the bad roads, I remember also with pleasure, the pleasant hours we spent on the plateau, from which rises the snow-covered summit of the mountain. On the plateau the snow lay in the shade of the trees, while the loveliest Alpine flowers grew in the sunshine; white and purple primroses, of a large size, pleased me especially. After we had rested, we wandered about, and except for the snow and the Alpine vegetation, we might have forgotten that we were on a high mountain, as there was no view of the world below. Shortly before one reaches the plateau, the view is splendid, extending over the mountains, the Lakes of Apollonia, and Nicæa, the Gulph of Gimlek, the town of Brussa, and the beautiful plain surrounding it. We saw, while we were on the plateau, a large vulture, and in descending, an eagle rose slowly and majestically out of a deep ravine. High up it soared, my eye followed it as long as it was visible, and I wished for “the wings of an eagle.” We saw another interesting sight. We passed through a burnt forest. All the large trunks stood erect, but the bark had peeled off, and they looked very sad in their nakedness.

But what I remember with the greatest pleasure in thinking of Brussa, is the amiable family which received us so kindly. Mme. S—, is one of the most charming and amiable women I ever had the good fortune to become acquainted with. Although highly intellectual and accomplished, she lives contentedly in what I should call banishment, entirely devoted to the superintendence of her household, and the education of her daughters, who seem worthy of such a mother. Lina, the eldest, is in her simplicity and modesty so fascinating, that my husband, who is not in the habit of speaking in a poetical style, did so in speaking of her, and called her “a violet,” while I thought her younger sister Annichen, very much resembled the bright wild roses that grow like her, round the foot of Mount Olympus.

I remember also with pleasure, the family of Mr. S—, the English Consul at Brussa, in whose house we dined, in company with his daughter and son-in-law, the Consul of Bucharest. That evening, while we talked in the drawing-room of Turner and Landseer, Ruskin and Tennyson, I would almost think myself in a London drawing-room. But at that moment I turned round to the open window, and saw the stars shining with Eastern splendour, and then I remembered where I was.

I was quite sad when I took leave of M. and Mme. S— and their daughters; but sorrows and joys pass quickly on a journey. When I had mounted Mme. S—’s charming little horse she kindly lent me, and was cantering along on our way to Gimlek, where we were to find a boat to take us back to Constantinople, I felt all my spirits return. We accomplished that journey, which usually takes six hours, in four, although we rested twice, at a little kind of caravansery, and had coffee.

Soon after our return from Brussa we left Constantinople, and, if that only is well which ends well, Constantinople was not well, for going on board the French steamer, which was to take us to Messina, was even less agreeable than our embarkation at Rettimo had been. I wished to make a few trifling purchases on my way down to the embarcadair, and my husband therefore proposed to take our luggage to the custom-house, and see it safely on board, while I should join him under the escort of the dragoman. When I got into the boat I much regretted having quitted my husband, for the day being windy and squally, I found the sea very rough. The steamboat was far out, and the waves so high, that the spray quite wetted me, and I had not the warm hand of my husband, but only the cold wet board of the boat to cling to. I was frightened. Still this was nothing to the terror I felt, when at last safely on board the vessel I found that the luggage had arrived, but not my husband.

When he saw that the sea was rough, and knowing that I am of a timid disposition, he had sent on the luggage, thinking he would try to find me and take me on board himself. When I heard this I was nearly in despair, however ridiculous this may seem now. There was I in the steamboat, and my husband still on shore. With the strong current and sea, the boat took much longer time than usual. Might the steamboat not take me to Messina and leave him behind? Would he not, when he found I was gone, take one of those nutshells of a Kaik instead of another boat, and be drowned? for the Kaiks are very dangerous in rough weather. He soon arrived, however, safely in a boat, and I, immensely relieved, but cold and wet and shivering, went down into my cabin to change my wet things. While there I felt the machine begin to work and the boat slowly moving. I hastened on deck. We were just turning round the Seraglio Point, and even under the cold threatening sky that hung over the town, it was a glorious sight. But I turned away from it without regret. It had interested, but not attracted me. I did not wish for a palace on the Bosphorus, as I had wished for a castle on the Rhine, or a villa on the Bay of Naples. Indeed, I think I would rather live in a little cottage in an English village, than inhabit one of the dreary palaces of Stamboul.

CHAPTER IV.

FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO FLORENCE

“Land of the Sun! where’er my footsteps roam,
My thoughts return to thee—thou art my spirit’s home.”

    J. H. Pringle.
And thus the days of Constantinople had gone by, and we were on our voyage back, westward ho! The ship had spread its sails, and the fresh north wind sped us on our way. The sea was very rough; but the movement of the ship, going with the wind, was not unpleasant.

The second night of our voyage I slept very soundly; the waves had rocked me to sleep. Suddenly I was roused by cannon shots, which appeared to be fired-off close to my cabin-window, and shook our vessel. I rose quickly, and found that we had cast anchor in the harbour of Piræus, which was full of men-of-war and other vessels belonging to different nations. All had hoisted their flags, and the Greek vessels were cannonading, for it was the 5th of May—King George’s birthday. But I had no time to lose in looking at what was going on in the harbour of Piræus, for in a few hours our boat would leave for Messina, and I wanted to see Athens during that time. I am almost ashamed to say that we did not stop a few days at Athens, but there is only one boat in the week that leaves Athens for Messina, and as we could not spare a week, we had to content ourselves with a few hours. But shall I say the pleasure was not great because it was short? Are not most of the greatest joys of life counted by minutes and hours rather than by weeks and months?

It was a splendid morning, full of clouds and sunshine. The clouds hung over the mountains, but over head smiled the blue Ionian sky. What a pleasant drive it was from Piræus to the Acropolis. After the roads of Turkey it was a great pleasure to drive at a quick pace over a good one. The road was white and dusty, a true summer-road, of which I am very fond. I should most probably have liked it better, if the dust had not been blown into our faces, but I was that morning not in a humour to find fault with anything. I think, in spite of much that is attractive and interesting, I was inwardly glad to be out of Turkey, and if ever I see it again it will not be from choice. The road, after we had driven through some waste and barren land, led through cornfields, where the corn seemed almost ripe; through hayfields and vineyards, which were studded with olive and fruit trees.

Before I left England, the wife of a soldier, who had accompanied her husband to the Crimean war, told me that she had also been at Athens, and that it was “not far from Greece.” I found it, however, farther from Piræus than I expected. It is an hour’s sharp drive, and although the hour passed pleasantly, it seemed long; perhaps because my wish to see the Acropolis was great. We stopped, however, first before the Temple of Theseus; I had seen it at some distance from the window of our carriage, and had admired the grand and noble structure. When I saw it near I found it was but small, and admired the art that could make a comparatively small and very simple building look so imposing.

A short walk brought us to the Acropolis, and when the keeper unlocked the wooden gate, my heart beat at the thought that I was in ancient Greece. With a strangely solemn feeling I ascended the steps of the Propylæa, and then I found myself surrounded by the glorious remains of those noble works of art which, for simple grandeur and beauty, are unsurpassed by anything the genius of man has since produced. Through those noble columns I beheld the very same features of land and sky on which the sages, the orators, the artists of Greece had gazed. I gathered a handful of flowers that grew among the ruins. I picked up some tiny fragment of marble, and looked at it with a feeling akin to that with which a devout Roman Catholic contemplates a relic of his patron saint. At the same moment my foot stumbled against a broken piece of a cannon-ball. And then I remembered that the “barbarous Turk,” more than the ravages of time, had changed these precious monuments of ancient art into ruins; that the Turks had made a powder magazine of the Parthenon, which exploded through a Venetian bomb, and destroyed the Temple of Minerva. And I felt that the Greeks were not to blame for hating them. I felt as if I should have liked to pull down with my own hands the rude, ugly remains of the walls with which they have disfigured the temples of the gods. I felt also very indignant against the Venetians who had no small share in the destruction of those art treasures. They should have known better than to commit such sacrilege. And shall I not say that Lord Elgin, too, committed a great wrong in carrying off those marbles that still adorned the Parthenon? There, under the blue sky of Greece, was their home, and they ought to have remained there. It is true enough that now they can be seen by “the million” that visit the dim rooms of the British Museum; but he has for ever robbed those that might have seen them where they were first placed, of one of the greatest enjoyments art can give to those that love the beautiful.

When we left the fine harbour of Piræus, the Captain pointed out to us the Bay of Salamis, the Throne of Xerxes, the Tomb of Themistocles, and other famous and interesting spots; but I listened only with half attention, for my eyes tried still to distinguish the Acropolis, and I cast many a “long, lingringlook behind;” steam and wind, however, carried me quickly away, and soon I saw nothing but the bare, cheerless coast of Greece.

Towards evening the movement of the ship became more violent; the sea rolled in large foaming waves, and when towards nine o’clock we turned Cape St. Angelo, we had some very heavy gusts of wind, which produced such rolling of the boat, that I held to the bench in order to keep my seat. It was a grand sight, but I have no liking for that kind of grandeur, so I stumbled down stairs as well as I could, in order to see no more of it.

On awaking next morning, I found, to my great satisfaction, that the ship moved along with a motion hardly perceptible, the sky was almost cloudless, and the air mild and balmy. That day passed pleasantly. I wrote my letter to my children, read a Waverley Novel, and watched the poor little swallows and turtledoves, that came with weary wing to rest on the masts of our ship. One was so tired that a boy belonging to the crew caught the little wanderer in his hand. We gave it some food and water and a free passage to Sicily, where it was set free.

I awoke early next morning, and peeping through my cabin window, saw in the rays of the rising sun the coast of Calabria. “Ah mio Lindoro presto vedremo l’Italia.” I sang, and awoke my husband. We were soon on deck. The sea was calm, and the air as soft and balmy as the day before. The coast of Calabria lay before us, and a little towards the left towered Mount Etna, from whose snow-covered crater arose a white column of smoke, as if Nature was bringing there her morning sacrifice. As we neared the coast the sea became enlivened with boats, whose white sails were reflected in the mirror of the calm sea. We gradually came so close to the coast of Calabria, that we could distinguish houses, trees, gardens, and even human beings and cattle. Through my opera glass I distinguished the very colours of the gaily dressed peasant women that were going to mass, for it was Sunday, and about church time.

The first place at which I looked with special interest was Milito, the little village where Garibaldi ran his ship ashore, when he came to conquer Naples, and was pursued by Neapolitan men-of-war. The Captain that pointed the place out to us, told us that there were still some débris left of the vessel that brought the deliverer of Southern Italy to the shores of Calabria. Then came Reggio, the Neapolitan fortress which the brave Garibaldians took under the command of our friend Colonel Chiassi, and a little further on lay Aspramonte. What a story those three places tell! I looked with a feeling of deep sadness at the mountains over which the flying Garibaldians had carried their wounded General, and thought of Columbus brought back to Spain in chains, of poor John Huss burned at the stake, of Galileo languishing in the prisons of the Inquisition, and how the world has ever cried “crucify him” against its benefactors.

The coast of Calabria looked cheerful and well cultivated; the mountains have wild strange shapes, but at their feet are orange groves, and mulberry plantations, with here and there, growing in the midst of the bright green, the sombre foliage of the olive. I observed many new comfortable looking houses, with large windows and green shutters, which I hope speak of an improved state of the country, and which contrast favourably with the old dwellings of the Italian peasantry. The latter are generally very wretched looking places, with small dismal looking holes instead of windows.

We stayed a day at Messina, and profited by it to look at the town, the churches, etc. How everything is relative in this world. Had I gone to Messina after visiting Florence and Naples, instead of before, I should most likely have thought it a very insignificant looking place. But after Constantinople and Smyrna, it looked a town of palaces. The nice pavement, the fine large stone houses, with their balconies before every window, on which dark girls in gay Sunday dress stood among flowers. It looked quite grand, and very pleasant. The churches are rich in precious marbles and gildings, but built in a very degenerate style of architecture. The pictures with which they are decorated generally represent tortured saints, and are even less satisfactory than the buildings themselves. I wanted to see a little of the country, and we therefore took a drive. I saw however nothing of it, except a dusty road between high walls, which seemed to enclose orchards, for the branches of orange, fig, mulberry, and olive trees, were visible above the walls. I cannot tell whether all the roads around Messina are like this one, or if our coachman was to blame for his choice. We found it difficult to understand the Sicilian dialect, and almost required an interpreter to translate it into Italian.

We left Messina the following afternoon. The weather was still calm and beautiful; the sky cloudless, and the sea shining in the sunlight, as calm as a lake. A short time after we had left Messina, we passed Scylla and Charybdis, the first only discernible by a very slight movement in the water, the latter a rather prominent rock on the opposite coast. It must have been very different in the time of Homer, I should think, for even the boldest imagination could not see in the present Scylla and Charybdis, anything like what Homer describes it to have been. As for Schiller’s beautiful description of it, in his ballad “The Diver,” it is purely imaginative, for Schiller never visited Italy. The next day we passed Stromboli, an island formed by a large volcano rising out of the sea. The mountain, a grand and imposing cone, was in a somewhat active state, much more so than Etna. I was sorry we did not see it by night, for the thick column of smoke that rises out of it, then looks red and fiery. It was however out of sight long before evening, but there were other lights burning through the balmy night, and throwing rays of silver light across the placid waters, Hesperus and “Cynthia’s shining orb.” It was past midnight before we went down stairs, and we had slept but few hours, when the bustle and noise that always follow the arrival of the boat in port, awoke me. When I got on deck, the sun was rising over Naples. I saw the Bay, and Vesuvius and Capri. All these wonderful names were no longer empty sounds, but had become a reality, and I rejoiced in that thought.

I have not spoken of any of my travelling companions since I left Constantinople. The reason is, that they hardly deserved any special notice. They were such people as any one is likely to meet. Several English families, that had wintered abroad, and returned most of them with coughs and sore throats. Some of the girls were very pretty, perhaps all the more so because they looked so fragile, it seemed one cold East wind would blow the pretty blossoms away. Then there was a rich Jewess from Constantinople, with three daughters, who were all “musical young ladies.” They were going to some European watering-place, not for their health though, I should think, for they looked as strong and hearty as one could wish. The Messageries Impériales steamers are unfortunately provided with a piano, which I consider a most inconsiderate arrangement on the part of the Company; for I had to listen for several hours daily to the performances of these young ladies, playing either singly or in couples. The nuisance became almost intolerable, when they were joined at Messina by a musical young gentleman, an officer from Malta, who, between the fantasias and sonatas of the young ladies, treated us to a succession of quadrilles and polkas. It broke into and spoiled the calm enjoyment of one of the most beautiful moonlight-nights on the Mediterranean, when nature seemed so hushed and still, that I involuntarily spoke in whispers.

There were also two interesting honey-moon couples on board: one of them always sitting in out-of-the-way corners, so that perhaps I might have been altogether unaware of their presence, so little were they in any body’s way, had they not turned up regularly at meal times. The other couple never turned up at all, at least not the lady. She was very poorly, and in fair or foul weather always lying down in the Ladies’ Saloon; to the open door of which the devoted young husband came ever so many times a day, offering lemonade, coffee, and other refreshments to the sufferer, who however seemed unable to relish any thing.

And I must not forget Miss L—, because of the singular adventure that happened to her. She was of middle age and rather delicate constitution, had spent the winter with some friends at Malta, and was now on her way home. We had been neighbours at dinner, and exchanged a few words. Early in the evening, after we had left Messina, where she came on board, she came to me in great agitation, and asked my advice under what were certainly trying circumstances. The stewardess in showing her to her cabin, had said that there would be but one other occupant, viz. a “jeune demoiselle.” How surprised and horrified therefore was the poor lady when, wishing to retire early, she had gone into her cabin, and saw standing before the other berth a pair of man’s boots, and a man lying dressed on it, who had his face covered with a silk handkerchief. She rushed back and told the stewardess that there was a man in her cabin. The stewardess however replied good humouredly, and with a smiling face: “Non, Madame, ce n’est pas un homme, mais une jeune demoiselle noire qui s’habille comme çà.” She told her at the same time that she was sorry there was no empty berth in any other cabin, as she seemed to dislike sleeping with the “jeune demoiselle noire.” At this information, the slight knowledge of the French language which Miss L— possessed, seemed quite to forsake her, she found no words to reply, and came in despair to me, as the only person with whom she had exchanged a few words on board. “What am I to do?” so the poor thing concluded her story, “I cannot sleep in the Saloon because it is full of gentlemen, and to remain on deck would be sure to make me ill, as I am very susceptible to colds.” I took her to my husband, as the tribunal to which I appeal in difficult cases, and he at once reassured her by his promise that he would take care she should not sleep in the same room with the black person, who travelled under the name of a “jeune demoiselle.” He went straight to the Captain, and what the stewardess said she could not do, the Captain arranged. She slept comfortably in the same room with some other ladies, who neither wore male attire, nor “the shadowy livery of a warmer sun.”

Her gratitude to my husband was boundless, and she remained my constant companion till we reached Naples, where we landed, while she proceeded to Genoa and Marseilles. We saw the “jeune demoiselle,” as we called the black person, a good deal on deck and at meals. Miss L— always kept as far as possible away from her, and I did not wonder at it. In looking at the African I felt more than ever, that, although in theory the Americans may be to blame for their manifest dislike to the Negroes; in practice I should find it very difficult not to do as they do, and avoid any intercourse with them. And I admired more than ever the heavenly kindness of Mrs. Beecher Stowe’s little Eva, who broke her heart at the fate of this race. I forget at this moment, if, according to Mr. Darwin’s theory, we have a common origin with them, or are descended from them. In the latter case I hope nobody will ever ask me the question Farinato addresses to Dante in the Inferno: “Chi fur i maggior tuoi”—as I should be rather ashamed to mention these ancestors.