Rythmical blows the waters of the sea of Marmora

CONSTANTINOPLE

Rhythmical blows the waters of the sea of Marmora, the most placid of inland seas. This sea is sheltered from serious turmoil of storm, by the friendly approach to each other of the two continents of Europe and Asia. The measured stroke of the propeller helps one to sleep in peace, after the first strangeness has worn off. It is like the “ All’s well! ” of the watchman of old. If not heard there is reason for instant waking. As it pounds out its beats at half speed, there appears in the dreams a half-consciousness that it is beating time to music. Finally, a persistent monotony of musical impressions destroys the power of sleep; the senses gain control and re-establish connections between the various ganglia, and then the beating of the propeller is found to be accompanied in actual fact by a singular wailing chant. One has to go on deck to learn the meaning of the strange and mournful sound.

By the cool, limpid light of early dawn, the deck passengers, Greeks, Turks and Albanians, have spied the landmarks of the approach to Constantinople, and have let their emotion break forth in song. West and East differ in temperament and in habits of thought and expression, and never more so than in their music. Even with words of joy the music of Turkey is always in the minor key; as though the people had not yet felt joy real and irrepressible. The minor strains of the song of the passengers clustered at the bow of the ship, might seem to imply sorrow. But to them their song is a sweet brooding of reminiscence, like “ Home, Sweet Home.” It is the tribute of their hearts to the greatness of the city to which they are drawing nigh private tours istanbul.

The sun was soon to rise from behind the blue mountains of Asia, and had already kindled a rosy glow amid the haze along their crests. The glassy sea, which near at hand is blue as no other sea is blue, paled into a silver sheet where its level surface passed into the distance and reflected in strange tints the overhanging hills. Up-‘n the sea, twenty miles away to the right, lay the rounded knolls of the Princes’ Islands. Still farther to the right, and some distance behind the coast hills of Asia, was the lofty Bythinian Olympus, a white pile cold as an iceberg and pure as the Jungfrau in springtime. On the left, but close at hand, lay the bare brown hills of Europe, rising from a shore dotted with groups of houses and gardens, and churches, and white-steeled mosques.

Suddenly the sun arose. The haze of the distant hills blazed with a golden glory. Europe reddened at the greeting of the rays, while the mighty curve with which Asia swept around to meet the Western lands, was still dark under the lingering shadows of the hills. A shout went up from the motley crowd at the bulwarks of the bows. “There it is! There it is! Stamboul, Oh, Stamboul! ”