From the Stamboul end of the bridge over the Golden Horn, there was a double hedge of infantry and cavalry all the way to the mosque. We took positions near the entrance to the Seraglio Park, where we could have a front view of the carriages as they approached, and then a side view as they turned to enter the gate. The aphorism that great minds think alike was well verified on that occasion, as we found some two or three thousand people holding similar views to ours, and a front place seemed hopeless.
The police were very civil, and the “cavass,” or police officer on duty in front of our party, kept the population from crowding us in conveniently close. The “cavass” was arrayed in gorgeous style, and a franc slipped into his hand proved a good investment; where he had before used words he now used a stick, and soon convinced the multitude that it had no rights which he or we were bound to respect. We had front places, and the fellow even brought a couple of bricks on which the lady of our party could stand and thus preserve her feet from the dampness of the earth.
We were close to the gate and had a good position. On the opposite side of the gate there was a crowd of women, principally Turkish; we intimated that we would like to stand there, but the force of politeness and “backsheesh” could no farther go. Our lady might join the feminine group, but as for the rest of us it was out of the question. No man was allowed to intrude there; to Christian and Moslem, Jew and Pagan, the place was forbidden, and two policemen were there to enforce obedience.
By and by there was a commotion, and a squadron of cavalry came trotting up the street and into the gate. Close behind them came carriages containing officers of the Sultan’s cabinet, and, behind them in the most gorgeous carriage of all, was the Sultan Abdul-Aziz, the head of the Ottoman Empire.
He rode alone, etiquette forbidding that he should be accompanied by any one, even by a minister of State. He is a stout, in fact more than stout, individual, with a heavy face, rather devoid of expression. I saw him seven years before in Paris; then his cropped and full beard was black; but as I looked at it, on that morning of Bairam I found that it was well sprinkled with grey. Unless the Sultan renews his youth at some Ponce de Leon fount of hair dye he will be a respectable old grey-beard before many years, provided he is not gathered too soon to his Osmanli Fathers. He was born on the 9th of February, 1830, and so you can easily calculate his age—just as easily as he can do it.
He sits erect and with an air of dignity; evidently he knows that people are looking at him, and he ought to be on his good behavior. He is in a gaudy uniform, which my hasty glance does not allow me to include in detail, and his fez is bright, and has evidently been sent out that morning and freshly ironed.
He is evidently proud of his fez and gives his whole mind to it.