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 it. It is one of the few thoroughly oriental quarters left on this side of the Galata Bridge.

Arrived at Kara-Keuy I stopped happily, watching the life about me. How delightfully—how terribly—everything was the same. From afar I heard a cry—"Varda!" and then saw the half-clad figure of the runner, who, waving a red flag to right and to left, was warning pedestrians that the street-car was coming. Ah! this was indeed my Constantinople, disdained by progress, forgotten by time. How emblematic was this runner before the street-car. He reminded me of the cynical words of the crafty Russian statesman, Ignatief, who once exclaimed: "They talk of regenerating Turkey—as if that were possible even to the Almighty above."

My dear, dear Turkey! She may start over again in Asia, but be regenerated in Europe?

For a little while I walked on, and then entering a small confectioner's shop, frequented only by Turks, and squatting like them on a low stool, I ordered a kourous worth of boughatcha. I ate it with my fingers, like the others. Near me sat two young students of theology, talking politics. Their tone as much as their words made me see bloodshed. In some ways the Turks are one of the finest races, but they have been losing ground for the last two hundred years and it hurts them, and in their heart they see red. No wonder they make others see it,