DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.6272#0008
6 STEAMER TO EGYPT FROM CONSTANTINOPLE.
great man. Nobler never could have belonged to the Prophet
himself. Some of the Pachas who rushed to bid him farewell
bent to kiss his feet. Hark ! the gun. The Sultan is in that
steamboat, returning from the launch of a vessel of war. All
along up the Bosphorus the ships of war are manned to their
topmast yards, and the flags flying. I had recently witnessed
a still more magnificent scene, where the Sultan embarked at
his palace on the Bosphorus to go to mosque.
Hark ! there is another gun. It is sunset, and the Moslems
have all washed, and are kneeling in prayer, with their faces,
as ever, turned toward Mecca. What religionists in the
world observe the duties of their faith more praiseworthily
than these 1 The old Pacha, too, so devout! He prays as
if it were praying that had given that noble dignity to his
face.
It is over, and now we are under way. Farewell to
Pera, and all its varied and picturesque population, roman-
tic environs and its Armenian girls. Farewell to Galata, and
its miserable streets of Greek fishermen, where I have so often
lost my way amidst the throng of traders from every clime ;
where the cannie Scotchman from Greenock strikes bargains
with the Persian of the Caucasus. Farewell to the beautiful
Bosphorus and the distant Symplegades, whose blue forms
it must suffice to see afar off, without running Jason's risk.
Farewell to the gorgeous Sultan's palace ; Bebek and its lovely
bay, the castle of Venetian splendor ; Therapia, and its Greek
maidens ; Buyukdere, and its beauties; and the Asiatic shore !
the " sweet waters," the beautiful valley, and the Sultan's
lovely, dark-eyed Circassians ! Farewell to Scutari, and the
old cypresses of the cemeteries, and Stamboul, that strange
compound, so grand at a distance, so filthy within. In its old
great man. Nobler never could have belonged to the Prophet
himself. Some of the Pachas who rushed to bid him farewell
bent to kiss his feet. Hark ! the gun. The Sultan is in that
steamboat, returning from the launch of a vessel of war. All
along up the Bosphorus the ships of war are manned to their
topmast yards, and the flags flying. I had recently witnessed
a still more magnificent scene, where the Sultan embarked at
his palace on the Bosphorus to go to mosque.
Hark ! there is another gun. It is sunset, and the Moslems
have all washed, and are kneeling in prayer, with their faces,
as ever, turned toward Mecca. What religionists in the
world observe the duties of their faith more praiseworthily
than these 1 The old Pacha, too, so devout! He prays as
if it were praying that had given that noble dignity to his
face.
It is over, and now we are under way. Farewell to
Pera, and all its varied and picturesque population, roman-
tic environs and its Armenian girls. Farewell to Galata, and
its miserable streets of Greek fishermen, where I have so often
lost my way amidst the throng of traders from every clime ;
where the cannie Scotchman from Greenock strikes bargains
with the Persian of the Caucasus. Farewell to the beautiful
Bosphorus and the distant Symplegades, whose blue forms
it must suffice to see afar off, without running Jason's risk.
Farewell to the gorgeous Sultan's palace ; Bebek and its lovely
bay, the castle of Venetian splendor ; Therapia, and its Greek
maidens ; Buyukdere, and its beauties; and the Asiatic shore !
the " sweet waters," the beautiful valley, and the Sultan's
lovely, dark-eyed Circassians ! Farewell to Scutari, and the
old cypresses of the cemeteries, and Stamboul, that strange
compound, so grand at a distance, so filthy within. In its old