VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS 8
purchasing the prettily and significantly arranged bouquets of the dark-eyed Bohemian flower-girls; or watching the ungainly dances of the Sclavonians, who, with their discordant bagpipes under their arms, perform evolutions which resemble the saltatory attempts of half-educated bears. Here and there, a little apart from the crowd, may be seen a party of Greeks, engaged in their graceful romaïka; while groups of lovely children, and water-venders, and sweetmeat merchants, wander up and down the greensward, and are greeted with smiles and welcome on all sides. It is, in short, a spirit-stirring scene; and the poorer classes who are unable to command a carriage, or a caïque, will cheerfully toil on foot from the city, under a scorching sun, in order to secure their portion of the festival.
A great deal of public business is occasionally transacted at Kyat-Khana; and then the sparkling Barbyses is alive with the gilded barges of the Pashas and Beys, shooting over the ripple like meteors; the grandee himself being carefully shielded from the sun by a red umbrella, held over him as he reclines on his cushions at the bottom of the boat, quietly smoking his chibouque, by an attendant, who is squatted on the raised stern of the arrow-like bark, immediately behind him.
The valley of Kyat-Khana is a very favourite resort of the present Sultan, who has expended considerable sums in beautifying the palace, and in ornamenting the fountains an kiosques which appertain to it; but only a short time since it was entirely abandoned for two years, owing to the death of a favourite Odalique, who expired suddenly, in the very zenith of her youth and beauty, during a visit which she made here with her Imperial master; whose grief at her loss was so intense, that he could not bear to inhabit the valley until time had blunted his regret. A handsome head-stone, erected to her memory, lettered with gold, and overshadowed by a weeping willow, stands upon a square platform, beneath the windows of the saloon occupied by the Sultan; and the breeze, as it sweeps through the flexile branches of the tree, almost carries them into the apartment. Sultan Mahmoud, who is esteemed a very respectable poet for an Emperor, is said, during his season of despair, to have written a pathetic ballad in her honour; but, be that as it may, it is certain that she has been long forgotten among the bevy of beauties who now tread the gilded chambers of the palace of Kyat-Khana.