and then finding that it was a countryman in apparent distress, offered him my assistance, and prepared, as well as my wearied limbs would permit, to dispose of some of his assailants. The master of the house entreated me not to be so rash, assuring me, that the insult offered to the stranger was for the purpose of saving his life from the effect of the Turkish law; and the gentleman himself in his rage admitting something of the kind, I addressed myself to the reason of Mr. Montague, and contrived, by promising to co-operate in whatever he desired, to subdue his terrible emotion, and to release him from the hands of his domestics. The master and mistress of the house, and I, alone remained with the young man ; with many kind and soothing cares, we contrived to reduce him to something like composure. I did not dare to inquire what was the cause of his distress. Englishmen do not usually give way to strong emotions before strangers, and I knew that something dreadful must have happened, to make this gentleman so far forget the habitual dignity of his nation. Signor and Madam Josepino were cautiously reserved; and the young man himself seemed too much oppressed with the feelings that overpowered him, to explain why it was he was so strongly moved. By our joint cares, Mr. Montague was brought to some degree of composure;

and

and I retired to the apartment prepared for me, where I soon forgot, in a sound sleep, all the fatigues of my journey, and the extraordinary scene which had greeted my arrival.

After dinner on the same evening, as I was sitting in my own apartment enjoying the luxury of a Turkish chibouk, Mr. Montague sent up his name, and soon after appeared in person. He thanked me for the kindness I had shewn in the morning; and proposed, if I were sufficiently recovered from my fatigue, to accompany me in a walk to the shores of the Bosphorus. I gladly availed myself of his politeness, and, arm in arm, as if we were old friends, we strolled through the long and straggling line of wooden houses, called a street, at Pera, till we reached the quarter of Topkamra, opposite to where the seraglio point cuts the waters of the Bosphorus, and is washed by the sea of Marmora on the one side, and the ripple of the Golden Horn on the other.

Innumerable light caiques were darting up and down the stream; the Greek inhabitants of the villages that line the canal were preparing to return home. Some pacha was stepping, with grave composure, into his splendid barge; a few Turkish women, with persons wrapped up in green cloaks hanging to the heels, and their faces hidden, all but the eyes, in white muslin

kerchiefs, were moving with slow and noiseless steps towards the Turkish quarter. I gazed on all I saw with the interest with which a stranger looks for the first time on a scene of so varied and pleasing a nature, and scarcely spoke to my companion, who seemed likewise absorbed in reflections of his own. By degrees I felt his hand grasp my arm convulsively. I heard him sob like one struggling for breath, and I yielded, without inquiry, to the impulse with which he led me apart from the crowd, to a place where we were concealed from notice, and where he could give way, in safety, to the emotions which overpowered him. I remained for several minutes silent; his grief, whatever its cause might be, seemed too profound to be touched by common-place consolation. He saw that I was deeply interested for his situation, and repaid me for my forbearance, by proving that he regarded me as a friend before whom he could relieve his heart.

He stood for a quarter of an hour on the side of the Bosphorus immediately opposite to that spot where the towers of the seraglio are reflected in the clear waters, and where the Gate of Death, as it is called, opens on the profound deep. His eyes were intently fixed upon one spot, where a strong counter current makes a

ripple on the face of the stream. He seemed as if he could look beneath the surface of the deep, and started every now and then, as if he caught a glimpse of some wished-for object. I strained my eyes also in the same direction until I was filled with nervous excitement, and as my companion uttered "There! there!" I fancied that I saw something struggle and then yield to the fury of the tide. Sophia! Sophia!" he exclaimed, convulsively pointing to the same agitated spot-" there! there!" I soon understood what the cause of all his sorrow was, and learned from his despair, that the girl whom he loved had that morning been thrown into the Bosphorus by the husband whom she had enragedthe master whom she had deceived.

Among the Circassian slaves of one of the rich merchants of the silk bazaar, Sophia (for Mr. Montague knew her by no other name) was the most beautiful. She was the youngest of four wives and the most beloved. Her beauty was of the richest kind; but her heart was richer than her beauty. She was as an Englishwoman in the mingled hues of the lily and the rose, which struggled for mastery in her cheek-in the depth and sentiment of her large blue eye-in the grace and elasticity of her form; but she was more than English in the devotion of her love, in the

singleness of her quiet and impassioned nature. She had been educated as all Circassian girls destined for a Turkish harem are, and was a proficient in those arts which form the sole accomplishments of a slave. Nature, however, had given her a heart, and its finer emotions expanded with the more luxuriance, because there was no struggle in her soul between their power and the artificial emotions which are to be learned in an European school.

The moment she was seen in the slave market of Constantinople, numberless offers were made by wealthy grey beards; but the old merchant, Mustapha, had claims of interest on her master, and he became the possessor of the prize. The miser probably bought her on speculation, and calculated in his mind the number of piastres she would bring if exhibited to the sultan or the great pachas of the seraglio; but no sooner was she introduced into his own house, than another feeling came over the old man, and he became as much attached to the gentle Circassian as it was possible for him to be to any living thing. She was for some months his slave, and placed in the harem in the most degrading position that a woman can ever occupy; but as the old valshee died, and left a vacancy in the matrimonial establishment of the harem, Sophia was promoted