On reaching Galata the excursion begins. Galata is situated on the hill
which forms the promontory between the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus,
the former site of ancient Byzantium’s great cemetery. It is now the
“city” of Constantinople. Its streets, almost all of them narrow and
tortuous, are lined with restaurants, confectioners’, barbers’, and
butchers’ shops, Greek and Armenian cafés, business-houses, merchants’
offices, workshops, counting-houses--dirty, ill-lighted, damp, and
narrow, like the streets in the lower parts of London. A hurrying,
pushing throng of foot-passengers comes and goes all day long, now
and then crowding to right and left to make room in the middle of the
street for the passage of porters, carriages, donkeys, or omnibuses.
Almost all the business conducted in Constantinople flows through this
quarter. Here are the Bourse, the custom-house, the offices of the
Austrian Lloyd and the French express company, churches and convents,
hospitals and warehouses. An underground railroad connects Galata
and Pera. Were it not for the ever-present turban or fez, one would
hardly know he was in the East at all. On every side is heard French,
Italian, and Genoese. The Genoese are, in fact, almost on their native
soil here, and are still somewhat inclined to assume the airs of
proprietors, as in the days when they opened and closed the harbor at
their will and replied to the emperor’s threats with volleys from their
cannon. Of this ancient glory, however, nothing now remains except a
few old houses supported on great pilasters and heavy arches, and the
ancient edifice which was once the residence of the Podesta.
Old Galata has almost entirely disappeared. Thousands of squalid houses
have been razed to the ground to make room for two wide streets, one
of which mounts to the summit of the hill toward Pera, while the other
runs parallel with the sea-wall from one end of Galata to the other.
My friend and I took the latter, seeking refuge from time to time in
some shop or other when a huge omnibus rolled by, preceded by Turks
stripped to the waist, who cleared the street by means of long sticks,
with which they laid about them. At every step some fresh cry assailed
the ear, Turkish porters yelling, “_Sacun ha!_” (Make room!); Armenian
water-carriers calling out, “_Varme su!_” and the Greek, “_Crio nero!_”
Turkish donkey-drivers crying, “_Burada!_” venders of sweetmeats,
“_Scerbet!_” newsboys, “_Neologos!_” Frankish cab-drivers, “_Guarda!
guarda!_”
After walking for ten minutes we were completely stunned. Coming to a
certain place, we noticed with surprise that the paving of the street
suddenly ceased: it had evidently been removed quite recently. We
stopped to examine the roadway and discover, if possible, some reason
for this eccentricity, when an Italian shopkeeper, seeing what we were
about, came to the rescue and satisfied our curiosity. This street, it
seemed, led to the Sultan’s palace, and a few months previously, while
the imperial cortège was passing along it, the horse of His Majesty
Abdul-Aziz stumbled and fell. The good Sultan, much annoyed by this
circumstance, commanded that the pavement should be removed all the
way from the spot where the accident occurred, to the palace; which of
course had been done. Fixing upon this memorable spot as the eastern
boundary of our walk, we now turned our backs upon the Bosphorus
and proceeded, by a series of dark, crooked little streets, in the
direction of the