I would not have you think of me as one But ere he could unfold them lost the key- The Bowdoin Quill contains an original and somewhat surprising little stanza : 'Twas August, in the Notch. A path Through tangle, scrub and wood I took. Lifeless it lay; and its stony eye A. S. M. ALUMNE DEPARTMENT The first three articles in the department were contributed by the Smith College Club of New York City. The most impressive approach to Constantinople is by the Mediterranean route. One should pass through the narrow gate of the Dardanelles to real ize the unique situation which makes Constantinople In Constantinople "the golden key to Asia, the jewel coveted for many crowns, the very capital of the world." Nor does the city itself ever look more fair than when seen from the water. Over on the Asiatic side lies the quaint old town of Scutari, while directly before us the river of the Golden Horn, crowded with shipping of every description, flows under famous Galata Bridge to join the sparkling waters of the Bosphorus. On both sides of the Golden Horn the city stretches away in hill after hill, its towers and domed mosques interspersed everywhere with groups of green trees, and its hundreds of graceful minarets shooting upward into the sky. The streets of Constantinople had a never-failing fascination for me,—they are so full of strange Eastern sights. Often in driving we had to turn out for the street-pedlers, who sit cross-legged on the cobblestones with trays of small articles, needle-books, or frequently glass and chinaware,― placed carefully in the middle of the road. Dogs are everywhere much in evidence. I once counted about twenty-five in one block, great lazy yellow mongrels, which are gentle enough unless attacked, and spend most of their time basking in the sun. We always kept noticing, too, the Constantinople porters, or hamals,- human beasts of burden, carrying enormous loads through the streets. Our own hamal took upon the rack that was strapped to his shoulders our two trunks, a large valise, a dress-suit case and a bundle of shawls ail at once, and walked along behind us about half a mile, as if he were doing nothing remarkable. Most Turkish men of the upper classes dress in modern European suits, but they all wear on their heads the red fez, prescribed by law for every subject of the Sultan. Women go about in loose silk garments called feridjeh, which have great balloon-like sleeves and are so cut as to conceal the lines of the figure. We saw many women who were closely veiled, although the custom of going in "Frank-fashion" (with the face uncovered) is gaining ground, even against strict edicts of the Sultan to the contrary. But all conceivable kinds and varieties of dress are to be seen in walking through the streets, and the many-colored costumes form one element of the picturesqueness that delights a visitor at every moment. One can hardly turn a corner in the older part of Constantinople without coming upon some quaint or beautiful sight. Here it is a small booth all draped with softly-tinted Persian rugs for sale; there, just off a broad highway, you look into a shady, grass-grown little cemetery, or in some open space near a mosque there stands a fountain that dazzles the eyes with the beauty of its ornamentation. The greatest building in Constantinople is, of course, the mosque of St. Sophia. It is in the Byzantine style of architecture, somewhat resembling St. Mark's in Venice, but is very much larger,—indeed, with the exception of St. Peter's, it is the largest church in the world. The outside, though massive, is rather disappointing; but everyone, I think, must always remember the thrill of awe and of delight with which one first gazes at the wonderful interior. No words of mine can describe the great vistas in the spacious nave, the exquisite curves of arch and gallery, the rich harmonies of color in the marble columns, the airy lightness of the vast dome. The Turks have hung eight enormous green shields around the nave, bearing the names of Caliphs in Arabic lettering, and they have carpeted the floor with prayerrugs that run diagonally across the building, because Moslems must turn toward Mecca in their worship, not Jerusalem. We were fortunate in being able to look down from the gallery at the noon hour of prayer. A priest, or Imam, standing at one end of the building, intoned prayers and sentences from the Koran. Every now and again there was a fervent shout of response from the worshippers. Each man bowed and knelt upon his prayer-rug at frequent intervals, during the most sacred words prostrating himself until his forehead touched the floor. But even while listening to a Mahommedan service, it is the memory of a remote past and the thought of another faith that holds us spell-bound in St. Sophia. For nearly a thousand years before the fall of Constantinople this was the greatest church in Christendom, and though its Moslem conquerors have painted over the Scriptural mosaics which were once the glory of its walls and ceiling, they have not entirely obliterated the traces of those earlier times. The Greek cross recurs constantly in the carving of the capitals; and high up on the wall above where the altar formerly stood, there may be seen a mosaic design, covered over with gilding but still distinguishable,- -a dim colossal figure of Christ, with his arms extended in blessing. Sight-seeing in Constantinople is not at all the perfunctory business it has come to be in more sophisticated cities. On our trip through some of the Sultan's palaces, for instance, we were treated almost like guests. Permission had been obtained through the English Embassy for about thirty English and Americans to go over three of the unused palaces, and an aide-de-camp of the Sultan's was detailed to escort us. I like to remember the graceful bearing, courteous manner, and perfect French of that handsome Turkish lieutenant. He took us first through the old palace on Seraglio Point. When we came out on the broad terrace and sat down there to enjoy the beautiful view, some of the palace servants appeared with refreshments, in the shape of Turkish coffee and rose-leaf jam. We were then led down to the shore, where four of the royal caignes (long, low row-boats like gondolas), with eight oarsmen in each, were waiting to take us over to the Asiatic side, to see the palace of Beybar-bey. As we were leaving this, some more servants presented each lady in the party with a bunch of flowers from the Imperial gardens, and our stalwart caiqjis pulled us back again to Europe. The palaces were an enchanting maze of gem-like rooms, alabaster fountains, and crystal stairways. The climax of our Constantinople experiences, however, was our admission to the selamlik, or ceremony when the Sultan goes to prayers on Friday. We reached the place reserved for foreign guests some time before the hour of the service, and watched the regiments fall in to guard both sides of the street, along which the Sultan was to pass from his palace of Yildiz Kiosk to the mosque. Though the distance is only about two blocks, from three to six thousand troops are always called out. "No other court in Europe," said a gentleman near me, furnishes such a pageant as this every week." To the strains of wild music each company marched up and fell into position. Across the road were the Albanian body-guard in striking black and white uniforms, while directly beneath us stood a band of dark, fierce-looking Syrian soldiers, wearing the bright green turbans which show their claim to be descendants of the Prophet. Everywhere the flag of Turkey was fluttering—a white crescent on a blood-red field. 66 Punctually at twelve a muezzin appeared on the balcony of one of the minarets and intoned the musical call to prayer. A moment later the procession started from the palace gates. First came about a hundred mounted officials, fine looking men, with the strong, keen faces that we noticed so often among wearers of the fez. Then followed a number of closed carriages, containing the ladies of the Imperial harem, and by the side of each carriage walked its huge African guardian. Through the windows might be seen the shimmer of blue and gold satin dresses, richly embroidered, and under the sheer gauze veils one caught a glimpse now and then of fair faces and flashing dark eyes. Last came in an open carriage the Sultan himself, dressed in Eastern costume. One man was on the seat opposite him,-the Minister of War. As the Sultan passed, the soldiers greeted him with a great shout which swept along all down the line. He walked with a firm step into the mosque, and remained inside for half-an-hour. His wives and daughters, not being supposed to have any souls, did not enter the mosque at all, but stayed sitting in their carriages in the court-yard until the conclusion of the ceremony. When His Majesty returned he was alone in a pony-phaeton, which he drove himself, and behind him ran a crowd of men. They were dressed in the flowing Turkish garments, many of them were old and stout, the road was uphill and the Sultan drove briskly, so that they had hard work to keep up. And these men, trotting along like so many lackeys behind their Imperial Master, were, we learned, his Grand Vizier, his Minister of War, and the most distinguished officials in his kingdom! As he passed beneath the window of the ambassador's room, where we were standing, the Sultan raised his hand in a courteous salutation, and for an instant we looked directly into those inscrutable eyes. I carried away two impressions,-one was the great dignity in his bearing, the other was the look of unspeakable weariness on his face. What will happen here next? is a speculation that must come to the mind of the traveller in Constantinople. For the charm of the wonderful city lies as much in the mystery of its future as in the romantic past or absorbing present. There is a legend of the common people, that a Greek priest was celebrating the liturgy in St. Sophia, when the conquering army of the Sultan burst through the doors. Taking the crucifix in his hand, the priest slowly withdrew to one of the secret chambers, and there, with the cross, he is waiting still! MARGARET ELMER COE '97. In this brief article I do not wish to encroach upon the field of man, by touching in any direct way upon the so-called "Woman Question". From truthful Adam to the present appre A Woman's Entrance into Law hensive Professor Münsterberg — not excluding the gentle Saint Paul - man has demonstrated his exclusive right (prescriptive though it may be) to treat this subject. That he has done it variedly and learnedly, not to say entertainingly, is at once granted; and while he helps brighten our leisure with his theories, his inspiration goes cheerfully on struggling to solve the problem of that particular fate, which nine times out of ten, uncontrollable circumstances have forced upon her, and in the solution of which, man, by the perversity of life, is her most loyal and staunch helper. The especial struggle under consideration here is that of the woman to whose lot has fallen the legal fate. Usually the first question asked by strangers of a woman lawyer is, “How did you ever happen to take up law?" the second, "Do you honestly like it?" third, "Do you really go into Court and argue cases?" These questions follow in rapid succession. She evades the answer to the first question, for it is usually a long story and it might be somewhat of a personal nature; the second must be "Yes," the third has many answers, but she only gives one, the affirmative,-the others are not harmonious with polite society, for one seldom enjoys being regarded as a curiosity. This attitude of many suggests that a few details regarding the steps which a woman takes in the preparation for and entrance into the profession of law may prove of interest. In New York City there is only one law school open to women-New York University. The entering classes average over two hundred members-perhaps twelve of whom are women. The course consists of two years of hard labor, closing with harder examinations, which, if safely passed, entitle one to the degree of LL. B. While in the law school, each woman is made to feel that her mind has equal chances with every other mind for acquiring legal knowledge and training. The faculty show quite as much appreciation of the application and excellent work of a woman as of a man. This attitude is brought about largely by the personal influence of Dean Ashley, who has firm faith in the good results which a legal training produces in the feminine mind. After the law school-if a woman is a graduate of any college-accepted as of satisfactory standing by the State Board of Law Examiners—she is at once eligible for Examinations for Admission to the Bar. Once having received from the State the right to practice law, her judgment |