A GLANCE AT CONSTANTINOPLE.

Here it is that God and man, nature and art, have placed, or created in concert, a landscape that has nothing like it in this planet of our's. I uttered an involuntary cry, and obliterated for ever from my mind the Bay of Naples with all its enchantments. To compare anything with such a concentration of loveliness and magnificence is to insult creation.

A few paces distant on the left frowned the walls, supporting the circular terraces that bound the spacious garden of the grand seraglio, separated from the sea by a narrow flagged footway, continually washed by the perpetual current of the Bosphorus, in little blue rippling waters, like the waters of the Rhone at Geneva. The terraces, which rise in insensible slopes to the Sultan's palace, whose gilded domes are discernable through the gigantic heads of palm-trees and cypresses, are themselves planted with similar trees, whose huge trunks tower above the walls, while the branches, scorning the boundaries of the gardens, overhang the sea with thick canopies of foliage, and shadow the caiques. Our rowers suspended their oars occasionally under their shade. Here and there these groups of trees are broken by palaces, pavilions, kiosks, gilt and sculptured gates opening upon the sea; or batteries of copper and bronze cannon, of antique and uncouth forms. The grated windows of these maritime palaces overlook the sea, and glimpses may now and then be caught of the lustres and gilt ceilings of the apartments, sparkling through the Venetian blind; while at every step elegant Moorish fountains, springing from the seraglio walls, fell murmuring from the heights of the gardens into marble conches, from which the passers by may quench their thirst. A few Turkish soldiers lie stretched at their ease beside these fountains, while numbers of masterless dogs are wandering along the quay, and some of them sleeping in the embrasures. As the boat advanced along these walls, the prospect expanded before use; we neared the Asiatic coast, and the eye began to trace the mouth of the Bosphorus be tween a line of sombre hills and an opposite range, which appeared to be painted in all the tints of the rainbow. Here we again rested-the smiling coast of Asia, only about a

mile distant, was sketched to our right, its broad and high hills standing forward in relief, crowned with black forests of sharp-pointed trees; the champaign was fringed with trees and studded with red-painted houses, the perpendicular sides of the ravines, tapestried with verdant plants and sycamores, whose branches dipped in the stream. Farther off, the hills were still loftier, then declined in green slopes till they formed a large advanced cape, bearing on its brow the considerable town of Scutari, with its white barracks, resembling a royal chateau-its mosques, with their glittering minarets-its quay, and its creeks, &c.

The channel presents, in the distant perspective, an uninterrupted chain of villages, fleets at anchor or in sail, little ports shaded with trees, scattered houses and spacious palaces, with their rose-gardens abutting upon the sea.

A few minutes rowing carried us forward to that precise point of the Golden Horn from whence the eye may revel, at one view, over the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmora, and the entire haven, or, more properly, the interior Sea of Constantinople. There we forgot Marmora, the Asiatic coast, and the Bosphorus, to give our individual and admiring contemplation to the Golden Horn, and the seven towns suspended on the seven hills of Constantinople, all converging towards the arm of the sea, which unites the whole in one unique and incomparable city; at once city, country, seaport, river-banks, gardens, woody mountains, profound valleys, throngs of houses, streets and masts, tranquil lakes, and enchanting solitudes; a view of which no pencil can delineate more than by detached fragments, and of which, at every stroke of the oars, the eye and the soul imbibe an entirely new aspect and impression.

The seraglio retired from us, and grew larger as it retired, in proportion as the eye embraced a fuller scope of the vast outlines of its walls, and the multitude of its slopes, trees, kiosks, and palaces. Its site alone would suffice for the seat of a large town. The port advanced, and gradually came more developed, winding, like a canal, between the sides of hanging mountains. It has no appearance of a port; but resembles rather that of the Thames, or any large river, enclosed by two hilly banks studded with towns, and both shores choked with interminable fleets at anchor in front of the line

of houses. We sailed through that innumerable host of ships, some at anchor, others making sail for the Bosphorus, the Sea of Marmora, or the Black Sea, comprising vessels of every form, of every size, and all flags-from the Arab bark, with its projecting and elevated prow, similar to the beak of the ancient galleys, to the magnificent three-decker, with shining bronze walls. Hundreds of Turkish caiques, little boats which answer the purpose of carriages upon the maritime streets of the amphibious city, guided by one or two rowers in silk sleeves, were threading their way between the more massy structures, crossing each other's paths, coming in contact without being capsized, and elbowing each other like a crowd in the public squares; while clouds of albatross, like beautiful white pigeons, rose from the sea at their approach, flying to a more distant station to cradle themselves upon the waves. I cannot attempt to reckon the vessels, the frigates, brigs, sloops, and boats, which, moving or stationary, cover the waters of the Port of Constantinople, from the mouth of the Bosphorus and the point of the seraglio, to the suburbs of Eyoub, and the delicious valleys of the sweet waters. The Thames, in London, offers nothing comparable to their number.

Whenever I ascend to the belvidere to enjoy this view (and I do so several times a day, and invariably every evening,) I cannot conceive how, of the many travellers who have visited Constantinople, so few have felt the beauty which it presents to my eye and to my mind. Why has no one described it? Is it because words have neither space, horizon, nor colours, and that painting is the only language of the eye? But painting itself has never pourtrayed all that is here. The pictures I have seen are merely detached scenes, consisting of dead lines and colours without life; none convey any idea of the innumerable gradations of tints, varying with every change of atmosphere and every passing hour. The harmonious whole and the collossal grandeur of these lines;-the movements and interwindings of the different horizons; the moving sails scattered over the three seas; the murmur of the busy population on the shores; the reports of the cannon on board the vessels ;the flags waving from the mast heads;-the floating caiques; -the vaporous reflection of domes, mosques, steeples, and

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minarets in the sea: all this has never been described. I will try it.

If you recollect that you are in Constantinople, the queen of Europe and Asia, at the precise point where these two quarters of the world meet, as it were, either for friendly greeting, or for combat; whether night should surprise you whilst contemplating this prospect, which can never weary the eye;—or the pharos of Galata, the Seraglio and Scutari, and the lights on the high poops of the vessels, are glimmering; if the stars detach themselves one by one, or in groups from the azure firmament, and envelope the mountains of the Asiatic coast, the snows of Olympus, the Princes islands in the sea of Marmora, the level height of the Seraglio, the hills of Stamboul and the three seas, so that the whole scene seems to float in a blue net work besprinkled with pearls ;if the rising moon diffuse sufficient light to show the great masses of the picture, while it obscures or softens the details; -you have at every hour of the day and night the most delicious spectacle that can charm the sight. It is an enchantment of the eye which spreads to the mind;-a dazzling of the sight and the soul. This is the spectacle which I have enjoyed every day and every night for the space of a month.

I could not have believed that sky, earth, sea, and man could produce such a combination of enchanting prospects: the transparent mirror of the sky or of the sea can alone reflect them in their whole expanse. My imagination also embraces them in this extended way; but my memory cannot retain and reproduce them except in little successful details. I therefore traced singly every different point of view as I glided along in my caique. A painter would require years to depict only one shore of the Bosphorus. The landscape changes at every glance, and as it varies presents renewed beauty. What can I say in a few words?

The seraglio is characterised by the feeling which predominates among the people, viz., the love of nature. The admiration of beautiful prospects, groves, fountains, the expanse of the sea, and the horizon bounded by chains of snowcapped mountains, is the ruling instinct of the nation. In this may be traced the recollection of a pastoral and agricultural people, who love to cherish the remembrance of their origin, and whose tastes are all simple and instructive. They

have raised the palace of their sovereigns, the capitol of their imperial city, on the slope of the loveliest hill in the empire, and perhaps in the whole world. The seraglio has neither the external grandeur, nor the internal luxury of a European palace. Its charms consist in spacious gardens with trees interwinding, free and external as in a virgin forest, with fountains murmuring, and ring-doves cooing; it is the same throughout all Turkey. Sovereign and subjects, rich and poor, have but one want, one feeling, in the choice and arrangement of their dwellings, viz., to charm the eye with a beautiful prospect. If the situation of the house, and the poverty of the owner, preclude this luxury, then, at least, there are a tree, a sheep, and a dovecot, in a patch of ground surrounding the hut.

They live in harmony with the clouds of white turtle-doves which cover the domes of all the Khans and Mosques, and they do not even scare the swallows. The Turks themselves live in peace with all the animate and inanimate creationtrees, birds, or dogs-they respect every thing God has made. They extend their humanity to those inferior animals which are neglected, or persecuted among us.

O! MY OWN LOVE!

BY LORD GLENTWORTH,

O! my own love! how quick the moments fly
When thou art near to fill them with delight:
They seem like stars, whose radiant brilliancy
Shoots, dazzling, through the sable clouds of night.
So sweet, that one might think the amorous breeze
Kiss'd off the dew-drop from the budding rose,
And fondly breath'd upon the shrubs and trees
The richest perfumes which their leaves disclose.

So gently stealing, as when lover's eye
Feeds on the form he doats on to excess,
And scarcely thinks the object has pass'd by,
So full is fancy of its loveliness.

O! my own love! when thy dear form is gone,
On leaden pinions time appears to move,
Leaving this bosom desolate and lone,

Whilst echo sadly sighs-O! my own love!