From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

With such a country and such a people, this young king has before him the most beautiful part which is given to any European sovereign—to restore this ancient State, to reconstruct, not the Parthenon, but the Kingdom; to open new channels of industry and wealth, and to lead the people in all the ways of progress and of peace.

It will not be intruding into any privacy, if I speak of the king in his domestic relations. It is not always that kings and queens present the most worthy example to their people; and it was a real pleasure to hear the way in which everybody spoke of this royal family as a model. The queen, a daughter of the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, is famed for her beauty, and equally for the sweetness of her manners. The whole nation seems to be in love with her, she is so gentle and so good. They have four children, ruddy cheeked little creatures, whom we saw riding about every day, so blooming and rosy that the carriage looked like a basket of flowers. They were always jumping about like squirrels, so that the King told us he had to have them fastened in with leather straps, lest in their childish glee they should throw themselves overboard. In truth it was a pretty sight, that well might warm the heart of the most cold-blooded old bachelor that ever lived; and no one could see them riding by without blessing that beautiful young mother and her happy children.

There is something very fitting in such a young king and queen being at the head of a kingdom which is itself young, that so rulers and people may grow in years and in happiness together.

I know I express the feelings of every American, when I wish all good to this royal house. May this king and queen long live to present to their people the beautiful spectacle of the purest domestic love and happiness! May they live to see Greece greatly increased in population and in wealth—the home of a brave, free, intelligent and happy people!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CONSTANTINOPLE.

November 24th.

From my childhood no city has taken more hold of my imagination than Constantinople. For weeks we have been looking forward to our visit here; and when at last we entered the Dardanelles (passing the site of ancient Troy), and crossed the Sea of Marmora, and on Friday noon, Nov. 12th, caught the first gleam of the city in the distance, we seemed to be realizing a long cherished dream. There it was in all its glory. Venice rising from the sea is not more beautiful than Constantinople, when the morning sun strikes on its domes and minarets, rising out of the groves of dark green cypresses, which mark the places where the Turks bury their dead. And when we entered the Bosphorus, and rounding Seraglio Point, anchored at the mouth of the Golden Horn, we seemed to be indeed in the heart of the Orient, where the gorgeous East dazzles the traveller from the West with its glittering splendors.

But closer contact sometimes turns poetry to prose in rather an abrupt manner, and the impression of Oriental magnificence is rudely disturbed when one goes on shore. Indeed, if a traveller cares more for pleasant impressions than for disagreeable realities, he would do better not to land at all, but rather to stand afar off, moving slowly up and down the Bosphorus, beholding and admiring, and then sail away just at sunset, as the last light of day gilds the domes and minarets with a parting splendor, and he will retain his first impressions undisturbed, and Constantinople will remain in his memory as a beautiful dream. But as we are prepared for every variety of experience, and enjoy sudden contrasts, we are rather pleased than otherwise at the noise and confusion which greet the arrival of our steamer in these waters; and the crowd of boats which surround the ship, and the yells of the boatmen, though they are not the voices of paradise, greatly amuse us. Happily a dragoman sent from the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where we had engaged rooms, hails us from a boat, and, coming on board, takes us in charge, and rescues us from the mob, and soon lands us on the quay, where, after passing smoothly through the Custom House, we see our numerous trunks piled on the backs of half a dozen porters, or hamals, and our guide leads the way up the hill of Pera. And now we get an interior view of Constantinople, which is quite different from the glittering exterior, as seen from a distance. We are plunging into a labyrinth of dark and narrow and dirty streets, which are overhung with miserable houses, where from little shops turbaned figures peer out upon us, and women, closely veiled, glide swiftly by. Such streets we never saw in any city that pretended to civilization. The pavement (if such it deserves to be called) is of the rudest kind, of rough, sharp stones, between which one sinks in mud. There is hardly a street that is decently paved in all Constantinople. Even the Grand Street of Pera, on which are our hotel and all the foreign embassies, is very mean in appearance. The embassies themselves are fine, as they are set far back from the street, surrounded with ample grounds, and on one side overlook the Bosphorus, but the street itself is dingy enough. To our surprise we find that Constantinople has no architectural magnificence to boast of. Except the Mosques, and the Palaces of the Sultan, which indeed are on an Imperial scale, there are no buildings which one would go far to see in London or Paris or Rome. The city has been again and again swept by fires, so that many parts are of modern construction, while the old parts which have escaped the flames, are miserable beyond description. It is through such a part that we are now picking our way, steering through narrow passages, full of dogs and asses and wretched-looking people. This is our entrance into Constantinople. After such an experience one's enthusiasm is dampened a little, and he is willing to exchange somewhat of Oriental picturesqueness for Western cleanliness and comfort.