Between the two periods of the Amalgamation control I sandwiched a delightful holiday, and in the autumn of 1899, after the conclusion of the great Ballinasloe Fair, travelled east as far as Constantinople. Were this a book of travel (which it is not) a chapter might be devoted to that trip. But the cobbler must stick to his last, though a word or two may, perhaps, be allowed on the subject, if only by way of variety.
My companions on this interesting tour were my good friends F. K. and H. H. We went by sea from Southampton to Genoa, where we stayed two days to enjoy the sunshine and colour; its steep, picturesque and narrow streets, and its beautiful old palaces. Then we visited Milan and Venice. At Venice we spent several days, charmed with its beauty. From Trieste we took an Austrian Lloyd steamer, the Espero, to Constantinople. At Patras we left the steamer to rejoin it at Piræus, wending our way by rail along the Gulf of Corinth to Athens, in which classical city we stayed the night. Messrs. Gaze and Sons had ordered their guide (or dragoman as he was called) to meet us and devote himself to our service. The next morning at 7 o’clock, he called for us at our hotel, and from that hour till noon, under his guidance, we visited the temples and monuments of ancient Athens, and
inspected the modern city also. In the afternoon we drove or rather ploughed our way from Athens to Piræus (five miles) along the worst road I ever traversed, not excepting the streets of Constantinople. We found the harbour gay with music, flags and bunting, in honour of a great Russian Admiral who was leaving his ship to journey by ours to Constantinople. His officers bade him respectful farewells on the deck of our steamer, and he ceremoniously kissed them each and all.
On the twenty-second day after leaving home, at six o’clock in the morning, we were aroused in our berths and informed that we had arrived at Constantinople. The morning, unfortunately, was dull, and our first view of the Ottoman city, therefore, a little obscured. All the same, it was a great sight, with its minarets and towers, its Golden Horn and crowded quays. Our dragoman kept at bay all the clamouring crowd of porters, guides and nondescripts of all colours and races that besieged us. It was 8.30 a.m. when we landed, but 3.30 p.m. by Turkish time. The Moslem day is from sunset to sunset, and sunset is always reckoned 12 o’clock; an awkward arrangement which the reforming “Young Turk” perhaps has since altered. The week we spent in Constantinople was all too short. We stayed at the Pera Palace Hotel, and the first night after dinner, in our innocence, strolled out. All was dark and dismal; no one in the streets. We went as far as the quays, strolled back and on the way called at a small cafe, the only inmate of which was a dwarf, as remarkable looking as Velasquez’s Sebastian de Morra. The hall porter at our hotel was waiting our return with anxiety. “It was not safe to be out at night,” he said; “we had gold watches on us and money in our purses, and knives were sharp.” Murray’s guide book, we afterwards found, gave similar warning, without mentioning knives. Sir Nicholas O’Connor was our Ambassador in Constantinople. He was an Irishman from County Mayo, and I had a letter of introduction to him from my friend Sir George Morris. Sir Nicholas invited me to lunch at Therapia, where the Embassy was in residence in its summer quarters. He was exceedingly kind and facilitated our sightseeing in the great city during our stay. We witnessed the Selamlik ceremony of the Sultan’s weekly visit for prayers to the Mosque Hamedieh Jami, which stands adjacent to the grounds of Yildiz Kiosk. It was worth seeing. There
was a great gathering of military in splendid uniforms and glittering decorations. Seven handsome carriages contained his principal wives, or ladies of the harem (wives we were told), and several of the Sultan’s sons (mere youths) were there, beautifully apparelled. We caught glimpses of the ladies through their carriage windows, and being women (though veiled) I should be surprised if they, on their part, did not get glimpses of us. There were eunuchs too, black frock-coated—and the chief eunuch, an important personage who ranks very high. Then came the Sultan (Abdul Hamid) himself in an open carriage, closely surrounded and guarded by officers. He was an elderly, careworn, bearded, sallow, melancholy looking man, whose features seemed incapable of a smile. He entered the Mosque alone; his wives remaining seated in their carriages outside. In the room in which we sat at an open window to view the ceremony we were regaled with the Sultan’s coffee and cigarettes.
The streets and bazaars of Constantinople were absorbingly interesting. The various nationalities that everywhere met the eye; the flowing eastern costumes, the picturesque water carriers, the public letter writers patiently seated at street corners and occupied with their clients, the babel of voices, and yet an Oriental indolence pervading all, crowds but no hurry; the sonorous and musical sound of the Muezzin call to prayers from the minarets—all was new and strange; delightful too, if you except the dogs that beset the streets and over which, as they lay about, we stumbled at every step. They are now a thing of the past. Poor brutes, they deserved a better fate than the cruel method of extinction which Turkish rule administered.
Of course we visited Stamboul’s greatest Mosque, S. Sophia. Many other Mosques we saw, but none that approached the majesty of this. One, the Church of the Monastery of the Chora, famous for its beautiful mosaics, we did not see, although the German Emperor had driven specially to it on his visit in 1898 to the Sultan. The only good road Constantinople seemed to possess was this road to the church, which lies outside the city, and this road, we were told, was constructed for the convenience of His Imperial Majesty.
One day, on the bridge that spans the Golden Horn, we passed the Grand Vizier in his carriage. It was the day on which we crossed the
Bosphorus by steamer to visit Scutari on the Asiatic shore. Scutari commands a splendid view of the city, the Golden Horn, and the Bosphorus in its winding beauty, right away to the Black Sea. What a city some day will Constantinople be! The grandest perhaps on earth. In Scutari we heard the Howling Dervishes at their devotions, and the following day, in Constantinople, witnessed a performance shall I call it? of the Dancing Dervishes in their whirling, circling, toe-revolving exercise. The object of both is said to be to produce the ecstatic state in which the soul enters the world of dreams and becomes one with God. There is no question as to the ecstatic, nay frenzied state many of them attained.
Our last day was the eve of the Ramadan Fast. At eight o’clock that night we left by train to journey homeward overland, for time demanded that we should go back much quicker than we came.