Dwight opens his preface by confessing an ambition to write a 'Constantinople Life' after reading Howells's Venetian Life, but the book that emerged is far broader in scope. He deliberately turns attention to 'commoner aspects' of the city and resists what he calls the 'patronising or contemptuous tone of the West toward the East.' The result is a work structured around movement: from the departure of the Sacred Caravan to a Turkish village, from palace ceremonies to the streets. Dwight notes that the 1908 revolution forced him to treat Constantinople as 'a Constantinople in transition,' and he leaves one early chapter 'practically untouched' as a record of the old city.

Procession as Structure

The book's most vivid passages are processional. Dwight describes the Sacred Caravan's march with a camera-like eye: the double line of cavalry, the Emir ül Haj with gold embroidery, the 'big camel' and eight others 'of all sizes, down to a fluffy little white one.' He notes that the ceremony is 'one of the last bits of Oriental colour left in Constantinople,' and that each year it 'seems to lose something.' The procession is not static—it unfolds in stages, from the preliminary escort of the sourreh to the final mules carrying 'quaint little hair trunks.' Dwight also records a second annual procession on the 10th of Mouharrem, in which Turks take no part but which recalls 'an older day of faith.' These set pieces anchor the narrative, giving the reader a sense of ritual time and spatial progression.

Recurring Images: Camels, Palanquins, and Sacred Objects

Certain images recur across the excerpts. The camel appears not as a generic beast of burden but as a specific participant: the 'sacred camel' of the Caravan, the 'fluffy little white one' that draws affection, and the camels that carry the palanquin. The palanquin itself is a repeated motif—first as a vehicle for children 'immensely enjoying a ride,' later as a symbol of the caravan's sacred mission. Dwight also lingers on objects carried in procession: an autograph letter from the Sultan to the Sherif of Mecca, a robe of honour in white tissue-paper, silver vessels with burning sweet savours 'in honour of the angels.' These details accumulate, creating a texture of material culture that Dwight treats with the precision of an ethnographer.

Movement Between Scenes

Dwight's narrative moves not only through space but between registers. The preface describes his shift from a Howells-inspired domestic sketch to a broader survey of 'Turkish Constantinople.' The excerpts show him alternating between the palace and the street, between religious ceremony and secular observation. He notes that the Sacred Caravan's departure is preceded by 'several carriages of Palace ladies' taking 'an unofficial part in most public spectacles,' then cuts to the 'irregular crowd of priests, officers, eunuchs, Palace servants, and nondescripts of various sorts.' This juxtaposition of official and unofficial, sacred and profane, gives the book its distinctive rhythm. Dwight also moves between historical layers: the 1908 revolution, the reign of Abd ül Hamid, and the older days when the caravan was 'less certain to escape attack on the way.'

The City in Transition

Dwight explicitly frames his book as a record of a city undergoing change. The revolution of 1908 'found some reflection' in his pages, and he acknowledges that the Constantinople he describes is 'a Constantinople in transition.' One chapter, 'A Turkish Village,' written before the revolution, describes a place later 'ravaged by a well-meaning but unilluminated desire of progress.' Dwight leaves it 'practically untouched' as a document of the old city. This awareness of loss pervades the excerpts: the Sacred Caravan's ceremony loses something each year; the 'Oriental colour' is fading. Yet Dwight does not simply lament. He chooses to 'dwell on the picturesque and admirable side,' offering a counterweight to Western condescension. The book thus becomes both a portrait and an argument, structured by the tension between what remains and what is passing away.

Readers should approach Constantinople Old and New as a series of linked impressions rather than a systematic guide. Dwight's method is to let scenes unfold in sequence, trusting the reader to follow his movement from procession to village, from palace to street. The book rewards attention to recurring objects and gestures—the camel, the palanquin, the sweet pudding of ashoureh—that tie the city's disparate parts together. For those interested in the Ottoman capital on the eve of World War I, Dwight offers a deliberately sympathetic eye, one that records change without pretending to capture a static 'Orient.'