The Græco-Turkish war afforded what will probably be the last opportunity, at least in Europe, for a fair heyday outing to those belonging to what G. B. Shaw might well have described as, next to that of royalty, “a decaying industry”—the profession of war correspondent. Among other arrivals at Salonica were several German officers in the Turkish service, notably the late Grumbkow Pasha, on their way from Constantinople to the front. They appeared more eager for the fray than the Turks themselves, like Sir Walter Scott’s Great Chatham with his sabre drawn Stood waiting for Sir Richard Strachan; Sir Richard, longing to be at ’em, Stood waiting for the Earl of Chatham. This eagerness for bloodshed on the part of men whose country was at peace with the Greeks made a disagreeable impression upon my mind. I was therefore not sorry when a few days later I heard that they had been summoned back to Constantinople, the Russian Ambassador having protested against foreigners in the Turkish service being allowed to fight in the cause of the Infidel against the Orthodox Greek Hellenes. On April 17—it was a Sunday—war was formally declared, and the Greek flag was hauled down from the Greek Consulate. The streets were crowded with people of every creed and nationality as they would be on a holiday. The day is fixed on my memory by the absence of every vestige of rowdyism, such as might well have been anticipated from the fact that Salonica contained a large Greek population who had never made a secret of their sympathies with their countrymen. I had repeatedly witnessed the small Greek shopkeepers eagerly scanning the Greek newspapers for the latest news, and this in the presence of their Turkish customers without the latter taking the slightest notice. When the flag was taken down from the Greek Consulate it was as if an immense load of uncertainty was lifted from the minds of all. Now at least people knew where they were, and both Greeks and Turks seemed to enjoy the end of the long period of uncertainty. I left Salonica for Constantinople on the steamer _Policevera_ on April 19 in the queerest company, for the vessel carried sixteen hundred sheep and only one passenger—myself. At times my travelling companions tried to prevent me from getting on deck, for they filled the whole of the deck and pressed against the cabin door. In Constantinople there was outwardly little evidence of the country being at war. The only unusual feature was the crowd of Greeks that blocked the entry to the French Embassy, which had undertaken their protection whilst the war lasted. I remained nearly a month in the Turkish capital, during which not a single instance of offence or personal violence to the Greek population came to my knowledge, although the modern Greeks are among the most demonstrative of races, and are not accustomed to put a curb on their feelings in Turkey.