IV

The consul had made me his friend by incessant kindness. He had

at the start insisted on my taking my first meal in Tripoli with

him, and since then I had lived almost as much at his table as

at the hotel, which was a blessing, not to say a charity. He was

a scholarly gentleman, long resident in the Levant, and familiar

with the Moslem world, though his appointment to Tripoli was of

recent date. It was to this last fact, perhaps, that I owed the

rarest of my privileges, an invitation to visit the mosques in his

company. Tripoli is a stronghold of fanaticism, and the mosques are

jealously closed to the infidel; permission to visit them is seldom

given, and if formally granted is generally made nugatory in some

underhand way; for a person in my unofficial station such a visit

would be unexampled. The consul, however, had never himself seen

them, and he suggested that this would be an opportunity for me. His

application was at once honored, and the next morning the chief

of police called and we set out at once, preceded by the consular

_cavass_ or dragoman, himself no mean figure corporeally, brilliant

in his Algerian uniform and bearing before him the formidable and

highly ornamented staff of his office.

We went first to the Gurgy Mosque, which is considered the finest

of all. I wondered if the key would be lost, which is the usual

subterfuge; but the guardian was quickly found, and turned the

lock. My account of the mosques must be meagre; the occasion allowed

of only a _coup d’œil_, it was impossible to take notes on the

spot, and one could examine in detail only near objects in passing. I

can give only an impression, not a description. All mosques are much

alike in plan and arrangement. There is a plain, open hall with the

great vacant floorspace for prayer, the ornamented mihrab or niche

in the wall, showing the direction of Mecca toward which all turn,

with brazen candlesticks or hanging silver lamps, and by its side

and at a little distance the high pulpit with a steep stairway

for the preacher or leader; there may be also a closed box on the

floor, or sometimes elevated, for the Sultan or his representative,

and a latticed space for women. These are permanent features. The

mosques differ much, however, in size, ornamentation, and aspect,

and in the _entourage_ of the main room, its approaches, courts,

and dependencies. The interior of the Gurgy Mosque was square,

finely decorated, beautifully wrought. Intersecting arches,

resting on rows of columns, divided it into several naves with

many domes. The walls were tiled, and an unusual look of elaborate

finish was given to the general effect by the fact that all the

surfaces were entirely covered, nothing being left bare; to the

color tones of the tiles were added on all sides the lights of the

highly wrought stucco incrustation, cool marbles, and the dark,

rich contrasts of beautifully carved wood. The capitals of the

columns, done in stucco, were each different. Texts of the Koran,

illuminated in a fine script on a broad band at the base of the

domes, gave another element to the decoration. It was a beautiful

mosque, and I remember it as one of the few I have seen which were

perfectly finished; there was nothing ruinous or aged or bare about

it, and it was completed—a lovely interior in which the simple

elements of beauty employed in this art were admirably blended. We

especially admired the carved woodwork here. Our stay, however,

was but of a few moments’ duration, and we saw only this interior.

We passed on to the Mosque of Dragut, the pirate, the same who

built the mound of Christian skulls at Djerba by the seashore. It

was quite different, a plain old mosque with old columns, and

seemed to belong to old times. In a low chamber to one side was

Dragut’s tomb. It was covered with green cloth, and at the four

corners colored banners hung over it; other tombs stood about it in

the chapel, princes of Islam, and the usual maps of Mecca and the

tomb of the Prophet were on the walls, and some cherished objects

of historic or personal reverence were here and there; all about

were the great candles and the turban-topped small columns of the

dead. It was a place of profound peace. This impression was deepened

still more as we passed out into the adjoining courts with their

low, crypt-like columns, whitewashed, heavy, and sombre. Here the

commissary, or chief, who had us in charge, an amiable-faced Turk

with a gray, grizzled beard, pointed out the tomb of the English

captain, as it is known, a renegade lieutenant of Dragut, who sleeps

in a beautiful niche nigh his old commander. Further on beneath an

immense, broad old fig-tree in the court were other tombs, with the

turbaned end-slabs of different styles and heights—a little company

shut in this quiet close of death. A great silence and peacefulness

reigned there, alike about the ancient fig-tree without and in the

bannered chamber within. I could not help thinking what a place of

repose the great pirate had found out for himself and his companions

in his death. I went out touched more than commonly with that sense

of deep calm which a mosque always, half-mysteriously, awakes in me.

Of the third mosque, which I did not identify, but suppose to

have been that of Mahmat, we had barely a passing glimpse, looking

down from a gallery upon a large carpeted floor—there were many

carpets—but it seemed to offer nothing of special interest. The

fourth, however, El-Nakr, the Mosque of the Camel, was after my own

heart. It is the most ancient, as indeed one would expect from the

name, that of Dragut being next in age, and has the special sanctity

that attaches to a traditional religious spot. I suppose it was here

that the faith began on the soil. We entered first into one of those

low-columned, crypt-like courts; two tall palms were growing in it,

with a little patch of bright-green barley beneath. The artistic

effect of this simple scene of nature, framed in the seclusion of

the gray old walls, with its bit of sky above, the sunshine and

the unbroken peace, as it fell on my eyes, was indescribable; of a

thousand scenes it imprinted itself on my memory as a thing seen once

and seen forever—one of those pictures that are only painted by the

soul for itself. We passed within. It was an old plain mosque, with

low columns and an ancient look, all without elegance or ornament. It

was in the same spirit as that of Dragut, but with still more of

austerity and impressiveness. This was the stern old faith, which

could dispense with all but God. It touched the Puritan sentiment

in me to the quick. This was Islam in its spirituality. Here there

was the solitary desert soul in its true devotion, that sought only

room for God—the same room as on the desert sands or on mountain

tops. There was nothing else in the mosque—only the barley under

the palms by the crypt-like cloister, the low-columned austerity

within. I felt the harmony of the two—they were different chords,

but one music of the desert silence.

It was only when we came out from this sanctuary that I noticed any

resentment among the people. As we walked down by the row of men

standing about the entrance, scowling faces and fire-flashing eyes

were bent on us on all sides, but there was no other demonstration,

and we passed through the crowd in that silent glare of hate. It is

a curious sensation to feel oneself an object of hatred to a crowd,

and this was my first experience of it, though, of course, one

notices the hostile look of individuals in Mohammedan countries. It

was disagreeable; and I half blamed myself for having violated a

prejudice which was perfectly natural for these men. We were out

of the press in a few moments, and soon reached the last mosque

that it was thought worth while to visit, that of Ahmed Pashaw. It

was large, of the same decorated type as the first. There were

the same old marble columns, the beautifully ornamented mihrab,

the pulpit, the Sultan’s box, a brown latticed gallery; bright

mats lay on the floor, the blue and green tiles shone cool on the

walls, moulded stucco and carved wood filled the spaces, there being

one unusually fine ceiling in carved wood; and there were Koranic

texts. The crescent was abundantly used in the decoration. It was

all very beautiful and characteristic, full of restful tones, of

harmony and repose. As we passed toward an inner door leading to

the cemetery of the mosque, we noticed inscriptions to the dead on

the wall, and one was pointed out of a pious man who went straight

to Paradise. Outside beyond the tall minaret were the tombs of

the faithful who were buried here, with the turban-topped slabs

as usual. The guardian, who seemed a very old man, with true Arab

gentleness urged me repeatedly and cordially to climb the minaret,

but I refrained, disliking to detain my companions. We passed out

from this beautiful inner close into the street, and turned to the

Consulate where we talked over our morning’s walk.

It was no small part of my pleasure in Tripoli that I owed to

my friend’s hospitality, which gave me the graces and comfort

of civilization in so rude a place as the ordinary traveller

necessarily finds such a country. The boys of the oasis, in other

parts of Africa, had given me the wine of the date-palm fresh from

the tree; here I drank it a little fermented, an exotic drink

piquing the curiosity, and was the more glad to renew my memory

of a long-forgotten _rosso spumante_ and to make altogether new

acquaintance with pleasant wines of Touraine. What conversations

we had over these and on the quiet terrace by the garden, ranging

through French African territory and the Levant, touching on Persian

poets; and my host showed me many beautiful things. It is in this

atmosphere of scholarly talk and friendly kindness that I remember

the morning walk among the mosques of Tripoli.

V

The British consul, who had also shown me attention, arranged for

me to visit the Turkish school of arts and crafts. Hassan Bey,

who seemed to be an aid of the Vali, waited on us one morning at

the Consulate, and we set out to walk to the school. Hassan Bey was

an exile from Daghestan, of a fine military figure, middle-aged,

thick-set, with a pleasant countenance; his gray whiskers became

his energetic face; he had a look of power and the grave authority

of character. He wore a sword; his sleeves and gold braid gave

distinction to his person; and he carried lightly, like a cane,

the short, twisted whip of stiff bull’s hide that one occasionally

sees on these coasts. I have seldom seen so manly a figure, rugged

and strong, and stamped by nature for rule; and his politeness was

complete and charming, with an accent of strength and breeding that

put it out of the category of mere grace of manners. He interested me

profoundly by his personality, an entirely new type in my experience,

and as the walk was somewhat long I had an opportunity to observe

him.

The director of the school received us cordially, gave us coffee and

cigarettes, and showed us through the buildings which were rather

extensive. The school is endowed with some lands, and its income is

supplemented by voluntary funds and a subsidy from the government. It

receives upward of one hundred and fifty pupils, from the age of

twelve years, and completely supports them during the course, which

is seven years in length. Some literary instruction is given, such

as geography and secondary branches; but the main end of the school

is technical training in the arts and crafts. There was a carpet

and silk-weaving department, a tailor-shop, a shoe-shop, carpentry,

a foundry and blacksmithing, a refectory and store-rooms. The shops

were rather empty, and the students whom I saw were few and of

all ages; the rest may have been at their books. The foundry and

the carpenter-shop were the busiest and most occupied; there were

many heavy pieces of machinery of modern make, and the department

seemed properly provided for and in competent management; work was

going on in both these rooms, which I watched with great interest. I

was told that the furniture of the Ottoman Bank was made here, and

apparently orders of various kinds, as, for example, for wheels,

were regularly received.

The foundation clearly enough was only a beginning, and the provision

inadequate to the scale; but it was a serious and admirable attempt

to plant the mechanical arts in the country in their modern form and

development, and to foster industry in the simple crafts. The idea

was there and in operation, however the means to realize it might

seem small in my American eyes, used to great industrial riches

in such things; and I was much impressed, not only by the facts

but by the spirit of the thing and those who had it in charge. The

products seemed excellent, so far as I could judge of the various

things shown me. I followed the example of the consul in buying a

small bolt of strong silk in a beautiful design of brilliant-colored

stripes, and I should have been glad to have taken more in other

varieties. I was rather surprised when at the end Hassan Bey

suggested my going into the girls’ carpet school. We entered,

paused a moment at the school-room door that some notice might be

given, and on going into the room I saw that all the girls, who were

young, were standing with their faces turned to the wall. We remained

only long enough to see the nature of the work and its arrangement,

and for a word with the teacher; but the scene, with the young

girlish profiles along the sides, was picturesque. There is one

other carpet school for girls in another city. We spent perhaps

two hours in this inspection and walked leisurely back to town,

where I parted with Hassan Bey with sincere admiration.

In the afternoon I went with Absalom to visit a school I had heard

of in the Jewish quarter, a pious foundation, the bequest of a

wealthy Jew, for the education of poor boys. There were about five

hundred of them there, bright-eyed, intelligent, intent, as Jewish

boys in their condition usually are. The buildings were excellent,

properly furnished, with the substantial and prosperous look of a

well-administered educational enterprise. I visited several rooms,

saw the boys at their desks and classes, heard some exercises,

and talked with the professor in charge. I noticed a tennis-court

on the ground. Altogether, I was more than favorably impressed by

what I saw, and the mere presence here of a well-organized charity

school on such a scale was an encouraging sign. It was surprising to

me to find this establishment and the technical school at Tripoli,

where I had certainly not anticipated seeing anything of the sort,

nor was this my only surprise. I had thought of Tripoli as a

semi-barbarous country almost detached from civilization, a focus

for Moslem fanaticism, a place for Turkish exiles, a last foothold

of the slave-trader, and such it truly was; but it did not present

the aspect of neglect and decay that I had imagined as concomitant

with this. The old gates of the city had recently been removed;

outside the walls there was a good deal of new building going on,

which was a sign of safer and more settled life as well as of a

kind of prosperity; the roads were excellent, and in a Turkish

dependency that is noticeable; in some places new pavements had

been laid. In other words, there was evidence of enterprise and

public works, of modern life and vitality; and this impression was

much strengthened by my experience of the two schools. It is true

that I never lost the sense of that strangely conglomerate crowd

that passed through the streets, that mixed and fanatic people. I

indulged no illusions with respect to the populace _en masse_. The

state of things, however, seemed to me by no means so bad, with

these stirrings of civilization, of betterment, of a modern spirit

in the city, and I was frankly surprised by it.

My surprise melted away some months later when, on opening my

morning paper in America to read of the Turkish revolution, I saw

that the Vali of Tripoli was among the first of the exiles to sail

for Constantinople; and I observed that, later, he had an active

part in the government of the Young Turks. He and Hassan Bey had

been doing in Tripoli what they had been exiled for wishing to do

on the Bosphorus. Then I understood.