noon
Water-carriers and sweetmeat-venders vie with each other in proclaiming the nature of their business in discordant tones ; a line of donkeys , bearing on their patient backs long planks swaying to and fro , are violently addressed by their half-naked drivers in language of which the poetic force is equalled only by the energetic enunciation ; and a string of Turkish firemen , holloaing as if for their lives , are hurrying -- if an Osmanli can ever be said to hurry -- to extinguish one of those conflagrations which periodically depopulate Pera and Stamboul . The blue sparkling water , too , is alive with traffic , and is indeed anything but a `` silent highway . '' Graceful caïques , rowed by their lightly-clad watermen -- by far the most picturesque of all the dwellers by the Bosphorus -- shoot out in all directions from behind vessels of every rig and every tonnage ; the boatmen screaming , of course , on every occasion , at the very top of their voices . All is bustle , confusion , and noise ; but the tall black cedars in the gardens of the Seraglio-palace tower , solemn and immovable , into the blue cloudless sky , for there is not a breath of air stirring to fan the scorching noon , and the domes and minarets of Stamboul 's countless mosques glitter white and dazzling in the glare . It is refreshing to watch the ripple yonder on the radiant Bosphorus , where the breeze sighs gently up from the sea of Marmora -- alas ! we have not a chance of it elsewhere ; and it is curious to observe the restless white sea-fowl , whom the Turks believe to be the lost souls of the wicked , scouring ever along the surface of the waters , seemingly without stay or intermission , during the livelong day . It is ominous , too ; mark that enormous vulture poised aloft on his broad wing , like a shadow of evil impending over the devoted city .