Nor is it only in great matters that this wideness of human life comes home to the mind in Constantinople. It is pressed upon the attention by the diversity that prevails, likewise, in matters of comparatively slight importance; in such an affair, for example, as the calculation of time. For some, the pivotal event of history is the birth of Christ; for others, it is the Flight of Mahomet from Mecca to Medina, and accordingly, two systems of the world’s chronology are in vogue. One large part of the populations still adheres to the primitive idea that a new day commences at sunset, while another part of the community defers that event until the moment after midnight. Hence in your movements and engagements you have constantly to calculate the precise time of day according to both views upon the subject. The time-tables of the steamers which ply between the city and the suburbs on the Bosporus and the Sea of Marmora, adopt “Turkish time,” and require you to convert the hour indicated into the corresponding hour from the European or “Frank” standpoint; and the same two-fold way of thinking on the subject is imposed upon all persons having dealings with the Government and the native population in general. A similar diversity exists in regard to the length of the year. The Turkish year consists of twelve lunar months, a thirteenth being added from time to time to settle accounts with the sun. The question when Ramazan, the month of fasting by day and of feasting at night begins, or when the festival of Bairam commences is determined, at least formally, by the appearance of the new moon, upon the testimony of two Moslem witnesses before a judge in any part of the Empire. Thus these religious seasons might commence on different days in different localities, the moon not being visible in some places, on account of the state of the weather. The formula in which the approach of these seasons is now announced to the public, since the increase of astronomical knowledge in Turkish circles, is a curious compromise between former uncertainty and actual assurance on that point. “Ramazan begins (say) on Tuesday next, provided the new moon is visible. If not, the Fast will date from Wednesday.” Alongside the Turkish mode of measuring the year, there is the method introduced into the Roman world by Julius Cæsar, the “Old Style,” followed by Greeks and Armenians, and also the “New Style,” the mode of reckoning inaugurated by Pope Gregory XIII., now thirteen days in advance of the Julian Calendar. Accordingly, to prevent mistakes in regard to a date, letters and newspapers are often dated according to both styles. With some the year begins in March, with the advent of spring; with others it commences in September, when autumn gathers in the fruits of the earth; others make January, in midwinter, their starting-point. The difference between the “Old Style” and the “New Style” involves two celebrations, as a rule, of Easter, two observances of New Year’s Day, while Christmas is celebrated three times, the Armenian Church having combined the commemoration of that festival with the more ancient festival of the Epiphany. For one section of the community, moreover, the day of rest is Sunday, for another Saturday, for yet another the day of special religious services is Friday. All these differences are not matters seen at a remote distance of place or time; they are not curious items of archæological lore. On the contrary, they enter into the practical experience of your workaday life, compelling you to see things from various points of view, and to conform with the ways of humanity in manifold directions.

Then what a diversified scene is spread before the mind by the variety of religious faiths professed here. A native of Constantinople put the case before the Parliament of Religions, held at the Chicago Exposition, thus: “We have a Parliament of Religions every day in Constantinople.” The faith of Israel, Mohammedanism, and Christianity, are here matched against each other in great organised communities, with the marks of the controversies and wars which form so large a part of the history of this Eastern world fresh and clear upon them.

Here are the sects and schools of thought which divide Islam; the Sunnites who maintain the legitimacy of all the Caliphs, the Shiites who hold that Ali, the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet, was his first lawful successor, and who gather annually in the court of the Validè Khan in Stamboul, to cut and gash themselves, like their brethren in Persia, as they mourn the murder of Ali’s sons, Hussein and Hassan; the Howling and the Dancing Dervishes who hope to apprehend the Divine in their ecstasy, the Bektashs Dervishes, more rationalistic, more tolerant, more latitudinarian. Here are the sects that divide the Christian world; Orthodox Greek, Roman Catholic, Gregorian Armenian, Protestant, representatives of the Nestorian Church, and of the Syrian Jacobites. What long vistas of Church History are thus open on every hand; what different modes of conceiving truths stare you in the face at every turn!

Finally, but not least, there is the spacious outlook afforded by the political situation, of which Constantinople has long been the centre. The question of the continued existence of the Ottoman rule in Europe, if not also in Asia, has been a burning question for many generations, affecting both the destiny of the peoples subject to that rule and the interests and relations of all the Great Powers of Europe. It is one of the biggest, most important, most complicated problems that can occupy the minds of the statesmen of the world, and it has no less magnitude in its appeals to the concern of philanthropists. Here, to speak with malice to none and with charity for all, is a rule established by the might of conquest over different races, rival nationalities, various creeds. As already observed, the conquerors have neither wished nor been able to efface these distinctions, nor have the conquered had any inclination to be merged into a common life and polity. In such a state of things it is not surprising that no love has been lost. Legend has it that the battle of Chalons was waged with such ferocity, that, after the bodies of the combatants lay cold upon the ground, their spirits continued to fight in the air. The struggle between the conqueror and the conquered in Turkey has raged in their hearts even when, to all appearance, it seemed to have ended. In thought and sentiment the country has always been in a state of war. That a rule carried on in the spirit of conquest and of religious exclusiveness should have involved intolerable treatment of the subject peoples is only what might be expected, notwithstanding occasional good intentions. And that peoples thus treated, and persistently reminded of their subjugation and inferior legal standing should never abandon the hope of deliverance, and should even endeavour to create opportunities to achieve emancipation is, likewise, only what might be expected. Whether the subject peoples could have already gained their liberty, if they had been united, is a question open to debate. But what is certain is that their rivalries, their dissensions, and their natural but incompatible expectations, have retarded the realisation of their ambitions. To a large extent, this is their misfortune; the fate imposed upon them by their circumstances. Look, for example, at the situation in the European portion of the Empire. How can any one expect Roumanians, Servians, Bulgarians, Greeks, and Albanians to forget their historical antecedents, their race distinctions, and their associations with different parts of the country, in order to become one nationality? How can they be persuaded to combine in a common effort to become free, while the points in dispute between themselves remain unsettled? The question is rendered yet more difficult when these peoples, as is often the case, dwell side by side in the same section of the country.

Here is a tangle of claims which an impartial mind finds hard to unravel, and feels tempted to relegate to the sword that cuts the Gordian knot. The fundamental difficulty that hinders the solution of what is known as “the Eastern Question” is the absence of a large homogeneous population within the bounds of the Empire, to which the Government of the country can be transferred from the hands of the present ruling race. No single people, under Ottoman rule, can replace the Turk in the mastership of the whole Empire. It is a property that must be divided, and the division of the inheritance, if it is to be carried out in the spirit of justice and common sense and not of partisanship, is a matter of extreme perplexity. Hence the occasion for the interference of the Great Powers of Europe, sometimes to assist the weak, sometimes to repress risings, sometimes to limit the area of disturbance, sometimes to extort concessions, sometimes to appropriate a portion of the spoils, always to guard their own interests, real or artificial. That interference is crippled, often paralysed, by mutual jealousies, by native dissensions, by greater concern for the success of foreign schemes than for the welfare of the country, by the dread of a great war, by inability to answer clearly the question, What next? The spectacle presented by the action of the Powers is not always edifying. It has, at times, provoked the opinion that they are not powerful, but powerless. But the historical evolution which is in process has brought great actors upon the scene. It keeps great themes continually before the mind. Again and again, it has been accompanied with the tramp of armies, and resounded with the thunders of war. It is studded with Conferences and Congresses, at which the foremost statesmen of the day have discussed the destiny of this city and land, as the most momentous problem of European politics. It is still overshadowed by war-clouds.

Nor has all this been a vain show. In the course of the past century, liberty has won many victories in the Near East. Servia, Roumania, Bulgaria, Greece, have risen from the dead and become independent and progressive nations. Old national memories, stretching, in the case of Greece, as far back as classic times, have united with modern ideas to restore the continuity of history, and to hasten the day when the whole of Europe will move forward together. The flood which covered the land has slowly subsided. Tract after tract of the devastated earth has risen above the waters, and is reclaimed for new life and fruit. And the forces which have produced this wonderful transformation still operate. Who can stay their power? What precise form the final consummation will assume—a federation, the rule of a Free Russia, a group of independent but friendly States, partition between the Great Powers—is a secret no one can meantime divine. The unexpected may happen. But the future destiny of a city which has acted so great a part in the past, and which is capable of acting an even greater part in the time to come, is only another reason why life here is so large. What other city presents such a problem? One may as soon dwell by the shore of an ocean, or in view of peaks rising to heaven, and fail to be impressed by the greatness of the world, as live in Constantinople without realising the vastness of human interests and problems.

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