on the second day of may i glided out on the beautiful bay of naples, and steered towards the east, where the wise men lived, and the light rose up. the first piece of terra firma next discovered was etna, in sicily. sicily, before the crusade of king siguard, was governed by dukes and earls. mussinna is the only town of any particular note, on this fertile island. mt. etna, while at musina, hides half of the firmament from your view, but when seen at eventide from the deck of a receding vessel, it seems to have sunk in a mole hole. it takes two days carriage ride around its base, to reach its top. six days out from naples brought our good vessel to syria, a city in greece, with 14,000 inhabitants. it is a charming sight to look at from your vessel, on account of its resemblance to wall hung pigeon houses. from the sea, you look at a mountain, with hundreds of systematical white spots clinging to its sides, and which proves to be syria.

the ship stopped here a day, and all the passengers, and the rest of mankind, went ashore. the men were quite handsome for such a rough country; four or five young men and myself, were determined to see some of the syrian ladies, if possible. on we went to the top of the city, through very narrow streets, and few ran over fifty yards without ending, and taking some unknown direction. after great exertion we reached the highest house, but, like moses from his pisgah, we saw the land but not its fruits. we were still inclined to prosecute our search, until our minds came to some definite conclusion. an exclamation of joy burst forth from one of our company, indicating success. we all moved closer to our guide, who, most wonderful to behold, had discovered the figure of a woman with her back towards us. we passed respectfully by her, trying to conceal our emotion of success. the first that passed her, quickly turned round as if he would speak to our companions, just as you have seen a young lady walk a little ahead of her companion, to have an excuse to look back at some young gent who seemed to have admired her when passing, and lo! this woman’s face was bound in the fashion of death, her motion was as still as the grave, and well it might be, as it was nothing but a marble figure of some grecian maid, long dead. we had one good laugh to reward the artist of so exquisite a piece of his skill. the young men went skipping down the hill towards our vessel. i, taking more interest in this monumental piece of affection, did not discover that my friends were gone until i found myself a “last mohican.” i started to descend the theatrical looking town, by winding in and out of small passage ways, until i found myself up an alley with no outlet, and when i turned to go out, the gate was fast and barred. a gate running in another direction was opened, and, old as a man could well be, was an old priest, seated on a stone beckoning to me to come in. i did not seem to comprehend, but he was determined i should, and came out with an extraordinary long string of beads nearly counted. he spoke several languages, and informed me that if my business was what all persons’ business is that enter that alley, that he was ready to give me absolution. i informed him in french that i was there through a mistake; and he then told me that it was usual in syria for those wishing immediate absolution, to come to the priest’s residence at all times, when there was no services in church, and on payment of a small fee, get value received in full. he was a kind old man. he offered to give me absolution right off, for any mistake, or bad intention that i allowed to occupy my attention, whilst in syria.

whilst i was explaining to the priest, i heard a suppressed laugh at the gate. the priest opened the gate and let me out. my friends were close by; they had seen me go in the passage way with no outlet and fastened the gate on me, as they say “to have a lark,” but they little knew that they were then placing me in wisdom’s way; i had learned more with the priest than i could from them all day long.

our sail is up, and on ahead of us is smyrna, the birthplace of homer, one of the seven churches of asia minor, and it has 150,000 inhabitants, and it is close to the isle of patmos, where st. john wrote the revelations and saw four angels standing on the four quarters of the globe holding up the four winds of heaven, that they might not blow upon the sea nor the earth.

smyrna has been destroyed ten or twelve times and still has a large population. like syra, smyrna is on the side of a hill. none of its ancient buildings remain except a corner wall of an old church that resounded back the voice of st. john to the minds of his hearers, when he preached those very epistles we hear every sabbath, in all christian lands. the streets and bazaars are densely crowded with business men from all smaller towns for hundreds of miles around, and the houses, which are only one story, seem to be as densely filled with pretty women. i see no window of a respectable looking house without a lady. i cannot describe the ladies dress as i was not fortunate enough to get inside, and as they are very seldom on the street. the dresses of the men were of so many styles it would not pay to describe them, it is enough to say that it consisted of a many colors as joseph’s coat, of some cotton or silk woof of all qualities.

there being no accommodation here for travelers, we did not ask the captain to lay by all night. next morning we were sailing through the rapid hellespont, at the dardenelles. about ten o’clock, a. m. we reached the part of the hellespont where lord byron swam across from europe to asia—from sestos to abydos.

“if in the month of dark december,

leander, who was nightly wont

(what maid will not the tale remember?)

to cross thy stream, broad hellespont!”

here we stopped some minutes, and two or three yawls came from the asia side in quest of something to do. at the hind part of one of these yawls was a large, fat and shiney black african, doing the lazy part of the work—steering. his heavy self weighed down the other end, containing two men and oars. it was a beautiful day and the sun came down with a quivering heat in the distance, so, as it is said, that the natives in the interior of africa cook their meat on sun heated rocks, he looked as if he was about to broil. he attracted the attention and caused amusement for the passengers; and some one threw some orange peelings on his naked rotundity as he was half lying on his back with no clothes on above his loins. he pretended to take no notice of it until they came in such regular succession he could not but show signs of acknowledgement or cowardice. after his patience gave out, he turned lazily around and looked up, like a duck at thunder, and shook his head; they followed up this amusement until he got agoing on the gibberish dialect, and that was more amusement yet; at last our boat left him, and one of our passengers translated his resentment. it was merely, “according to his ideas of decorum, he had not been treated gentlemanly, and that he would remember it if ever we came to his country, and that he would not consider us worth taking notice of.”

on the morning of the 11th of may, the captain said to the sailors, “bosphorus! down the hatch and bring the mail on deck.” i looked ahead and saw an immense number of steeples, towers and minarets; to the eye no city on earth need look prettier. it was, indeed, the fairest sight i ever beheld. i asked an old turkish tar what it was, he said, “stamboul, stamboul.” the captain said to the pilot, “right towards the harem.” gondoliers from all directions of the “golden horn” were racing to us; in one of them a couple of officers, in their gay colors came. all our baggage was gondoliered, and we, all afloat, approached the custom house. i slipped a five franc piece, as i had been told, in an officers hand, to get rid of the trouble of unlocking trunks, and he went blind, and i passed unmolested with my contraband, if i had any, into the great mahommedan city, constantinople.