they found and followed it.

A narrow entrance this, and strongly held, as it deserves to be if Nature be man’s handmaid. Strongly fortified it was, too, in olden times, for on that height to the left stands a frowning ruin, a Genoese castle, commanding the entrance for many miles round the open sea and the rolling, wooded heights of Asia inland.

Intensely interesting are the naval exploits of the city republics of Italy during the Middle Ages. It is not easy to realize the power developed by such towns as Pisa, Genoa, and Venice, and the enormous importance of the part they took in the development of Europe. Other cities are so much overshadowed by Rome, that those who are not historians hear only echoes of their greatness.

Primarily there seems to be a divergence in the origin of empire between those gained by a northern or southerly race. Latin empires grew out of cities—Rome and Constantinople, and Athens with her Delian Confederacy; the States of Pisa which owned large oversea possessions, Genoa which to a long strip of coast counted Corsica among her spoils, Venice which with varying fortunes controlled Dalmatia and Istria and built the stout fortress of Nauplia commanding the Gulf of Argolis. Whereas England, France, Germany, in fact those empires founded by the men of a Northern race, began, it appears, by the conquest of other people’s cities, and, making themselves masters of a number of such towns, started states of their own, drawing liberal and very elastic boundaries round them which they could enlarge when strong enough by the simple expedient of picking a quarrel with their neighbours. These depended for their defence more on those who lived in fortified seclusion on the marches of their domain than on the town-dwellers.

The Genoese navy, composed of ships fitted out alike for battle as well as for commerce, was free to look further afield as soon as Pisa, their whilom ally against the Saracens of Africa, Spain and the Mediterranean islands (but a formidable rival at all other times), had been finally crushed at Meloria. Opportunity soon offered, for trouble arose as usual in the Eastern Empire. The Latin dynasty put into power by the crusaders was sinking lower, and a feeling for the restitution of the Greek Empire was growing. Also, the Venetians, new rivals, had assisted the Latins, so there was every reason to interfere. The interference proved successful, Michael Palæologus conceded the suburbs of Pera and Galata to the Genoese. These places were fortified, and served as a base from whence to push Genoese enterprise further into the Black Sea, and in the Crimea a factory was established. From time to time the Genoese turned against the Greeks, no doubt in order that their swords might not rust for want of exercise during the piping times of that peace which in the East was a seldom acquired taste. They stood by the Greeks, however, when trouble came from elsewhere, and to the last upheld their high reputation for bravery and devotion.

The Genoese tower of Galata still stands overlooking the Golden Horn. A yet more notable monument to those gallant seafarers are the so-called “Capitulations.” The Genoese colony was ruled by a magistrate sent from home, and to this day that right is still granted to the Powers of Europe, and can only be fully appreciated by those familiar with the ordinary standards of Eastern justice.

On the next height the Giant’s Mountain, also on the left bank, is another monument of yet greater antiquity, though perhaps its historical value is less easily assessed—depending more than ever on personal opinion and a romantic nature completely undisturbed by the galling limitations of probability—the Tomb of Joshua. Its origin is shrouded in mystery, as it well may be considering the countless ages that have passed over it—there are so few records of Joshua’s travels that no doubt that eminent warrior may have gone on leave to travel for the improvement of his mind like his colleagues of the present day without our hearing anything of his experiences in foreign parts. It is equally possible that he may not have returned from furlough—owing to decease. This is purely speculation—very real, however, is the tomb itself. A long, narrow, walled-in space in connection with a small mosque and under the care of the Hodja in charge contains this, his resting-place, enclosed by iron rails and about 24 ft. long by 10. It also serves as fruit garden, or orchard—for several fig-trees grow here, so we see that, unless the legend lies, Joshua must have been a tall strapping fellow and the sons of Anak can have caused him no real surprise or alarm.

The correct thing to do is to walk round the tomb a great many times (there is a fixed number, but it does not matter much), tie a bit of rag to the railing and express a wish, keeping it strictly to yourself. The next best thing to do is to forget the wish, pay two-pence in baksheesh and ride away to get the most of a glorious view. Artist and Author alike do so.

And a pleasant thing it is to ride on into Asia Minor on an alert, sure-footed Arab; he need be sure-footed, for at one time your road leads along the very edge of a steep decline, at another over the bed of what is a rushing torrent in the rainy season. Everywhere a changing vista, bold, rolling hills, now covered with short scrub and heather, with black rocks peering through it—now under oak and beech, everywhere the glorious bracing air of the uplands mingled with breezes from the Northern Sea. Here and there you find patches of cultivation, the patient team of oxen drawing the primitive plough, merely an iron-shod staff at an angle to the shaft to which the team is yoked. Near by, a village, small wooden houses sheltered by fig-trees, a little shady café where of an evening the men smoke a solemn hubble-bubble and discuss events in the measured sentences of a conversation which begins about nothing in particular and ends in the same district.

What changes those fields have known! armies pouring into Asia full of enterprise and the lust of conquest, returning to escort a victorious emperor in triumph through the Golden Gate, or beaten remnants of a host to seek refuge behind the city walls. And a plough of the same construction, drawn by the same faithful servants, stopped its course a while to watch, and then went on its way unchanging.

But the fairest road is still that glittering waterway with its ever-increasing number of craft, so we pass on to Constantinople. With a fair breeze from the Black Sea dead astern small sailing vessels hurry on towards their goal—the Golden Horn. They are high in the bows, higher still in the poop, with an elegant waist but withal a reasonable breadth of beam, brightly painted too, with cunning devices on the prow and sails that glisten white under the Ottoman ensign; they carry for a flag a crescent argent in a field gules (the Artist insists on heraldic terms, as they are so picturesque). These little ships have been busy collecting many things for the Stamboul market along the Black Sea Coast. Heavy-laden tramps thump onward to Odessa to return with corn or wool. We overhaul a yacht-bowed Russian mail-boat and get a shrill whinny of greeting from the stout little passenger steamers, Tyne-built, that ply between the many landing-stages along the Bosphorus bringing officials, business men and even artists back from the city to those quiet, cosy little bungalows that hide among the trees on either side. White-painted caiques flit across from side to side, one-oared and even two-, some more pretentious ones with more oars still, the boatmen dressed in becoming uniform, veiled ladies in the stern sheets. A hustling steam-pinnace shoots by from one or the other “stationaires,” for every larger Power keeps one here; and there on the right, that row of gleaming palaces by the waterside is Therapia, those palaces the different embassies in their summer quarters. Here