It’s an Jap metropolis of the ocean, pierced by water at its coronary heart, giving- itself to the winds from Marmora, from the Golden Horn, from the Bosporus, from the Black Sea. The snows of Asia look upon it throughout the blue waters of Marmora, the place the lies des Princes sleep in a flickering haze of gold. Stamboul climbs, like Rome, to the summits of seven hills, and gazes over the good harbor, crowded with a forest of masts, echoing with sounds of the ocean, to Galata, and to Pera on the peak. And the Golden Horn narrows to the candy waters of Europe, however broadens towards Seraglio Level into the Bosporus, that superb freeway of water between Europe and Asia, lined with the palaces and the villas of sultans and pashas, of Jap potentates and of the European Powers: Yildiz, and Dolma bagtche, Beyler- bey, and Cheragan, the good palace of the Khedive of Egypt’s mom, with its quay upon the water, going through the villa of her son, which stands on the Asian shore, lifted excessive amid its woods, the palace of the “candy waters of Asia,” the big red-roofed palace the place Ismail died in exile.
Farther on towards Therapia, the place stand the summer season embassies of the Powers, Robert School, dignified, trying from afar virtually like an amazing grey fortress, rises on its peak above its sloping gardens. Gaze from any summit upon Constantinople, and you’re amazed by the marvel of it, by the marvel of its setting. There’s a vastness, a glory of males, of ships, of seas, of moun-tains, on this grand view which units it aside from all different views of the world. Two seas ship it their message. Two continents give of their magnificence to make it lovely. Two religions have striven to sanctify it with superb buildings. Within the midst of its hidden squalor and crime rises what many contemplate probably the most lovely church—now a mosque—on this planet. Maybe no harbor in Europe can examine with its harbor. For human and historic curiosity it might probably scarcely be equaled. Within the shadow of its marvelous partitions, guarded by innumerable towers and girdled by forests of cypresses, it lies like some nice magician, glittering, mysterious, artful, pray-ing, singing, intriguing, assassinating, seeking to East and West, watchful, and filled with fanaticism.
The well-known outdated timber bridge
I crossed the brand new bridge. The well-known outdated timber bridge, which rocks below your toes, has been moved up the Golden Horn, and now spans the ocean by the marine barracks. Night was falling; a wind had introduced clouds from the Black Sea tour. The waters have been colorless, and have been licked into fretful wavelets, on which the fragile pointed caiques swayed like leaves on a tide. Reverse to me, on the fringe of Stamboul, the large Mosque of Yeni-Valide-Jamissi rose, with its crowd of cupolas giant and small and its prodigious minarets. Though constructed by two ladies, it seemed stern and male, gave the impression to be guarding the bridge, to be proclaiming to all of the mongrels from Galata and Pera, who hurried from shore to shore, that Stamboul will make no compro-mise with the infidel, that within the nice house earlier than this mosque the true East in Europe begins.