The varying thread of our story now takes us to the farfamed perfume bazaar of Constantinople. Stay! what a cloud of perfume and sweet scents burthens the air! Here are gathered all the sweets of the far east and the west, from the long flacon of cologne to the tiny, gilded bottles of attar-gul, the aroma of brtrnt spices, delicate mixtures of rose and musk, with burning pestles of rarest flavor and most costly ingredients, calling to mind the sweets of "Araby the blest."
Bartering for. some trifling article of perfume at the bazaar, stood a young Greek, in the national dress of his people, with a short Spanish cloak of blue broadcloth thrown slightly about his shoulders, as if to protect the wearer from the night dew, which already began to fall. He seemed to be less engaged, after all, with the scent-merchant than in anxiously looking about him in the expectation of meeting some other person. Anon, a female, clothed in the ample dress of white which causes all the sex to look alike in the streets of Constantinople, and her features so hidden as to puzzle all conjecture as to whom she might be, approached, and, purchasing a small flask of otto of rose, exchanged a hurried and secret greeting with the Greek, and both turned together from the perfume bazaar.
The Turkish slave, or, The dumb dwarf of Constantinople:
By Maturin Murray Ballou