f Mostar, we should find, consists of two white streets, a modern hotel, a public garden with a bandstand, and barracks for soldiers. All the rest of it is Turkish. You see the same narrow streets, the same kind of bazaars, the same mosques, the same solemn, white-turbaned Turks and veiled women that you see in Constantinople; but you also see swarthy, stalwart men of Herzegovina and Albania, every one of them carrying a sharp knife at his girdle and a gun in his hand.
We now leave Mostar for Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia, by a railway which is one of the wonders of the world. "In places whole cliffs have been blasted away to enable the metals to follow a narrow pathway with granite walls and a nasty precipice on either side. As the engine creeps carefully over the slender iron bridges towards the summit you may look down from your carriage window into a thousand feet of space, and feel thankful that cog-wheels are beneath you, for otherwise any hitch with the brakes might cause a frightful a