wondering how long Madame B---- would survive if she had to endure
such visits frequently.

We started for our first visit to the bazaar, crossing the Golden Horn
to Stamboul by the old bridge, which has sunk so in places that you
feel as if a _ground-swell_ had been somehow consolidated and was
doing service as a bridge; up through the narrow streets of Stamboul,
now standing aside to let a string of donkeys pass loaded with large
stones fastened by ropes to their pack-saddles, or stepping into a
doorway to let a dozen small horses go by with their loads of boards,
three or four planks being strapped on each side, one end sticking
out in front higher than their heads, and the other dragging on the
ground, scraping along and raising such a dust you are not at all sure
some neighboring lumber-yard has not taken it into its head to walk
off bodily. Fruit-venders scream their wares, Turkish officers on
magnificent Arab horses prance by, and the crowd of strange and
picturesque costumes bewilders you; and through all the noise and
confusion glide the silent, veiled women. One almost doubts one's own
identity. I was suddenly recalled to _my_ senses, however, by a
gentle thump on the elbow, and turning beheld the head of a diminutive
donkey. I supposed it to be a donkey: the head, tail and feet, which
were all I could see of it, led me to believe it was one of those
much-abused animals. The rest of its body was lost to sight in the
voluminous robes of a corpulent Turk; and, as if he were not load
enough for one donkey, behind him sat a small boy holding his "baba's"
robe very tight lest he should slide off over the donkey's tail. I
looked around for Bergh or some member of a humane society, but no one
except ourselves seemed to see anything unusual. I thought if I were a
Hindu and believed in the transmigration of souls, I would pray that,
whatever shape my spirit took when it left its present form, it might