From Pole to Pole | Page 8

are in the broadest part of the Balkan
Peninsula; and amidst the regular swaying of the train we lie thinking
of the famous Balkan lands which extend to the south--Albania, with its
warlike people among its mountains and dales; Macedonia, the country
of Alexander the Great; Greece, in ancient times the centre of learning
and art. When day dawns we are in Turkey, and the sun is high when
the train comes to a standstill in Constantinople.
CONSTANTINOPLE
[Illustration: PLATE II. CONSTANTINOPLE.]
From the highest platform of the lofty tower which rises from the
square in the centre of the promontory of Stambul a wonderful view
can be obtained of the city and its surroundings--a singular blending of
great masses of houses and glittering sheets of blue water. Stambul is
the Turkish quarter. It consists of a sea of closely-built wooden houses

of many colours. Out of the confusion rise the graceful spires of
minarets and the round domes of mosques (Plate II.). Just below your
feet is the great bazaar--the merchants' town; and farther off is St.
Sophia, the principal mosque. Like Rome, the city is built on seven
hills. In the valleys between, shady trees and gardens have found a site.
Far to the west are seen the towers on the old wall of Stambul.
[Illustration: PLAN OF CONSTANTINOPLE.]
Before you to the north, on the point of a blunt promontory, stand the
two quarters called Galata and Pera. There Europeans dwell, and there
are found Greeks and Italians, Jews and Armenians, and other men of
races living in the adjacent countries--in the Balkan Peninsula, in Asia
Minor and Caucasia.
Between this blunt peninsula and Stambul an inlet runs
north-westwards deep into the land. Its name is the Golden Horn, and
over its water priceless treasures have from time immemorial been
transported in ships.
Turn to the north-east. There you see a sound varying little in breadth.
Its surface is as blue as sapphire, its shores are crowned by a whole
chaplet of villages and white villas among luxuriant groves. This sound
is the Bosporus, and through it is the way to the Black Sea. Due east,
on the other side of the Bosporus, Scutari rises from the shore to the top
of low hills. Scutari is the third of the three main divisions of
Constantinople. You stand in Europe and look over the great city
intersected by broad waterways and almost forget that Scutari is
situated in Asia.
Turn to the south. Before your eyes lies the Sea of Marmora, a curious
sheet of water which is neither a lake nor a sea, neither a bay nor a
sound. It is a link between the Black and Aegean Seas, connected by
the Bosporus with the former, and by the Dardanelles, the Hellespont,
with the latter. The Sea of Marmora is 130 miles long. Seven miles to
the south the Princes' Islands float on the water like airy gardens, and
beyond in the blue distance are seen the mountains of Asia Minor.

You will acknowledge that this view is very wonderful. Your eyes
wander over two continents and two seas. You are in Europe, but on the
threshold of Asia; and when you look down on the Turks swarming
below, and at the graceful white boats darting across the sound, you
may almost fancy that you are in Asia rather than in Europe. You will
also notice that this fairway is an important trade route. Innumerable
vessels pass daily through the Bosporus to the coasts of Bulgaria,
Rumania, Russia, and Asia Minor, and as many out through the
Dardanelles to Greece and the Archipelago and to the coasts of the
Mediterranean.
Close beneath you all the colours and outlines are distinct. The water of
the Bosporus is vividly blue, and the villas dazzlingly white. On the
Asiatic side stand woods of dark-green cypresses, and outside the
western wall Turks slumber in the deepest shade; cypresses, indeed, are
the watchmen of the dead. And all round the horizon this charming
landscape passes into fainter and lighter tones, light-blue and grey. You
cannot perceive clearly where the land ends and sea and sky begin. But
here and there the white wings of a sailing vessel flutter or a slight puff
of smoke floats above a steamer.
A continuous murmur reaches your ears. It is not wind, nor the song of
waves. It is the combined voice of nature and human labour. It is like
the buzzing round a beehive. Now and then you distinguish the cry of a
porter, the bell of a tramcar, the whistle of a steamer, or the bark of a
dog. But, as a rule, all melt together into a single sound. It is the
ceaseless noise that always hovers over the chimneys of a great city.
THE