NOTEBOOK

Night—Rev. Mr. Bullard lectured on Athens, and I
said a few words—same subject.

Constantinople

Aug. 17 reached Constantinople at daylight and an-
chored in the mouth of the Golden Horn.

Visited the celebrated mosque of St. Sophia near the
Grand Seraglio Gardens, but found nothing there to go
into ecstasies over. It is an immense structure and its
dome is very peculiar, being as great in diameter as St.
Peter's, perhaps, but enough flatter to be remarkable.

It seemed curious to see these Eastern devotees going
through their extravagant ceremonies in a church that was
built for Christian worship; this strikes one more than
anything else.

The painted bronze open-work of the capitols of the
columns and the filigree inlaying above them are curious
but not fascinating. The numerous pillars in one piece,
precious marbles, are not lovely because they are so
chipped and dented and rusty and unattractive.

The gaudy mosaics in the dome and their grotesque
Turkish writing are not pretty.

The vast gilt circular wooden signs at the corners are
not handsome.

Neither are the numberless coarse oil-mugs for tapers,
suspended everywhere. I had to enter in stocking feet,
and caught cold and got my feet stuck up with the abom-
inations that besmeared the paved floors everywhere.

It was not bewitching to see a number of dirty varlets
in all manner of absurd costume, sitting tailor-fashion on
the floor, reciting their lessons.

I don't think much of St. Sophia.

1000 columns underground—curious—nothing more.

The fact that he caught cold there had some-
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