After leaving Greece we threaded our way through the islands of the
Aegean Sea, the Dardanelles, the Sea of Marmora and the Bosphorus, to
Constantinople, where we anchored at the mouth of the Golden Horn. I
must leave to the historian the dramatic and sensational history of the
capital of Turkey in its various shifts of ownership; perhaps no other
city has surpassed it as a factor in European affairs for a period of
two thousand years. It was named after Constantine, the Roman Emperor,
who was its chief builder. He tried to call it New Rome, but this
title would not stick. On the Galata Bridge that leads to Stamboul, a
racial panorama may be seen that embraces all the peoples of the
Orient, and everywhere signs appeal in half a dozen languages. The
private histories of its rulers have also been of the most absorbing
and exciting character, and were they described by a pen of authority
and with the necessary inside knowledge and information they would
still further shock and astonish the uninformed.
The city was founded by the Dorian Greeks some seven hundred years
before the beginning of the Christian era; later the Persians captured
it, then the Romans came and took charge. The Goths were the next men
in possession, followed by Basil of Macedonia, who became Dictator.
Then Mohammed was the man of destiny: the city fell into his hands and
from that day to this the "unspeakable Turk" has ruled it. All these
changes were brought about by battles at sea and on land, by sieges and
through treachery, and with great loss of life, treasure and time.
We employed a guide to take us to the Mosque of Sancta Sophia and the
other principal show places. This man had formerly called himself
"Teddy Roosevelt," but he changed his name to "George Washington Taft,"
in honor of our worthy President, thus making his cognomen thoroughly
American and bringing it up to date at a stroke of the pen; but we told
him this was no kind of a name for a guide in Turkey, and then and
there changed it to "Muley-Molech;" he was much pleased with his new
historical title. "Muley-Molech" had a nose of vast proportions--while
not so large as the _Lusitania's_ helm, yet it was exactly the same
shape; and he wore a moustache that ended in large, hirsutical
corkscrews; his teeth were like small bits of marble stained with
tobacco juice, and they had the effect of an arc made from the spear of
a sword fish, grim and terrible. Altogether he was a remarkable
man--one to be feared at night when near the Bosphorus; although, if
the bitter truth must be told, he avoided impartially both salt water
and fresh, whenever possible. My word! "Muley" was no ordinary,
amateur Munchhausen! he was full of exact statements which he encrusted
with legends that were utterly bare-faced. After hearing one of his
flights of fancy, a fat brewer from the West remarked:
"It's better not to believe so much or to know so many facts that
aren't so; but this is the devil of a place, anyhow; that's right!"
Muley looked at him with fine scorn and went on at his usual gait.
Later I told him (Muley), the story of the Irish judge who once said to
a prisoner whom he was about to sentence:
"We don't want anything from you but silence--and very little of that!"
This hint had a depressing effect, and Muley lost his nerve and the
character he had enjoyed with us of being a picturesque and fearless
liar.
Sancta Sophia was built in Stamboul across the Golden Horn by the
Emperor Justinian in 537 A.D. (fire having destroyed the edifice
originally erected by Constantine and replaced by the church built by
Theodosia, which was also burned). The dome is one hundred and eighty
feet from the floor. To adorn it, the Temple of Diana at Ephesus was
ravaged of eight serpentine columns, and eight more of porphyry were
taken from the Temple of the Sun at Baalbek to add to its beauty. It
is alleged that its cost approached $64,000,000, including the "graft."
Its artistic value is greatly depreciated by the squalor of its
environment. Looking at this great pile, a speculative wag remarked,
with a twinkle in his eye:
"It's all a question of money. Give me the financial assistance of J.
D. R., and with one of the big American construction companies to take
the contract I can produce a building fully equal to this in less time
and for very much less money."
He was right. It would be only a question of deciding to do it. The
Landis' comic-opera fine would be sufficient.
The Sultan's Palace and the ancient Hippodrome are also places of great
interest. In the latter were deposited the four gilded bronze horses,
supposed to have been brought from Scio, once mounted on Trajan's Arch
at Rome, brought here by Constantine. They were taken to Venice by
Dandolo, then Napoleon gave them to Paris, and finally after Waterloo
they were restored again to St. Mark's at Venice.
In Constantinople we also saw three or four other Mosques of great
size, and the Seraglio grounds and Palace. In the latter we saw the
gates through which the odalisks who had lost the sultan's favor passed
beyond to be executed. The passage of this gate made our flesh creep
when we thought of all it meant to the unfortunates; but near by, in
agreeable contrast, is the "Gate of Felicity," which is the entrance to
the sultan's harem. Through this the new favorites entered and
remained till they had grown old and lost their charm.
[Illustration: "THE MOOSKI," CAIRO. THERE ARE MILES OF STREETS IN THIS
ARTISTIC MARKET WHERE RUGS, TAPESTRIES, LACES, AND ORIENTAL
_BRIC-A-BRAC_ MAY BE SECURED BY THE ANXIOUS AT AN ALARMING SACRIFICE.
EVERY MINUTE IS A BARGAIN DAY]
The Imperial Ottoman Museum is full of good things purloined from other
art centres. It contains many fine examples of Greco-Roman sculptures,
statues and reliefs, in marbles, terra-cotta and bronze. The figures
of dancing women have a swing and their draperies a palpable swish--as
if a breeze were stirring them--seen only in this school of art. It
also contains Alexander the Great's sarcophagus, which is regarded as
one of the finest examples of Greek art in existence.
The Grand Bazaar is both a sight and a town in itself, full of streets,
entries, lanes and alleys, covered here and there as an arcade, into
which the sun never penetrates. The dim light, the great crowds of
strangely costumed people,--veiled women with their children in hand,
attended by eunuchs, some chattering, some silent and aloof--but all
intent on bargaining and eager for the fray. This novel and engrossing
picture is made possible and is enhanced by the bewildering variety and
display of Oriental goods and wares--rugs, perfumes, cosmetics,
weapons, shawls, embroideries, inlaid tables, porcelains, brassware,
silks, fans, jewels, laces, gold and silver ornaments of infinite
variety--all piled up and strewn about as if they had been pitchforked
by some magician into an enchanted market-place, with the god of greed
and chance presiding.
[Illustration: SAMPLES Of CONSTANTINOPLE'S BRAND OF "WHITE WINGS."
IT'S A SIGHT FOR GODS AND MEN TO SEE THESE JOLLY DOGS GOBBLE THE
TURKISH TIDBITS AFTER THE SUN HAS SET]
Limited space forbids the further description of things that are
wonderful and interesting, but a few words must be said in regard to
facts we would rather not think about. The population is about
1,125,000, and most visitors think there is a mangy, flea-bitten dog
for each inhabitant; but the official dog census has placed the canine
population at about 125,000. The dogs of Stamboul and Constantinople
are a necessity and a book might be written about them alone, as they
have ruled these cities from a sanitary point of view for over a
thousand years. If they did not set out at night and partially clean
up the town, Heaven only knows what it would be like! Their sway is
undisputed, and woe betide him who either hurts or kills them--he is a
marked man, not only by the Moslems but by the followers of other
religions. They have no distinctive owners and just live by their
wits, which are keen to an advanced degree; they have rules of the road
of their own making, and the luckless cur that breaks them is put out
of business in the twinkling of an eye. No one likes them, but they
are a thoroughly protected nuisance, for that protection means life to
the people. Without their services as devourers the population would
die like flies, from epidemics and pestilence. All attempts at doing
away with the dogs have resulted in riots and bloodshed: when Mehemet
II. rounded them up and exiled them to an island, a great epidemic
immediately set in and the rioters compelled the Sultan at the point of
the sword to bring them back again. A later attempt was made by an
Ottoman chief-of-police to deport these canine "white wings" to Asia
Minor: he threw them overboard when out of sight of land, and when this
was made public the mob literally tore him limb from limb. So it does
not pay to monkey with the Sultan's pets in the home of their nativity.
Although no one would suspect it, they have a high order of
intelligence and an acute instinct for local government. By some
unwritten law they divide the town into districts with sharply defined
boundaries invisible to the human eye, yet plainly apparent to the
animal. If an intruder crosses this line he is sorry for it before he
reaches his first bone. The neighboring dogs pounce on him from all
directions, biting his legs, tail and ears, but stopping short when
they in turn reach the line, for fear they may also get into trouble
for trespassing. When one of the members of a district becomes sick
and helpless his comrades do not wait for him to die; they just eat him
up and have done with it. So no one ever sees a dead dog in Stamboul:
professional pride and _esprit de corps_ step in, and the victim is
wafted to the happy hunting grounds in less time than it takes to tell
of it.
The porters are celebrated for their great strength and the big loads
they can carry. To see them do their work is a most interesting sight:
four of them will carry a great cask filled with fluid and suspended
from two poles placed on their shoulders--a fair load for a team of
horses. They carry these loads with the aid of ingenious appliances
and harness, and the amount of lumber, coal, dressed beef and live
animals they transport for short distances is simply incredible.
Soldiers are drilling everywhere and a raw lot they are. The treasury
is empty, and many of them have only one shoe, and some none at all,
only a coarse stocking bound round with rags. They may be experts at
killing women and children, but they would make a sorry showing against
trained soldiers. And then there are the "battleships:" fierce,
devilish-looking bulldogs that could demolish any tin-lined fort in
existence if they could only hit it, or even if the sailors could
manage to fire the guns--or in fact, if only the guns could be fired by
any one--which is exceedingly doubtful.
In smells, the vilest of the vile, including the acrid variety that
cuts the nostrils like a razor, Constantinople stands forever and alone
on a plinth of infamy, and no language that can be dragged into the
arena of expression can be utilized to describe them. They paralyze
the intellect and dull the sense of punishment and acute agony. No
gladiator could enter the lists with them in deadly combat and live to
tell the tale. They arise in part from the debris and remnants of
cheese whose position in the flight of time was contemporaneous with
that of Alexander the Great; from fish that must have darted beneath
the keels of the ships at the battle of Salamis; from tallow, used to
grease the chariot wheels at the battle of Marathon (now sold as
butter); and from the embalmed beef that was left over from the Crimean
War. These with many powerful additions supply the main force and
foundation of all this pervading "sweetness;" but the distinguishing
"high lights" come from minor causes, such as the onions of last year
rotting in nets hanging in the sun, strings of garlic returned to
circulation by the Argonauts when they came back from hunting the
golden fleece, but now hung as a badge of trade on the door-jambs; and
the frying of eggs, that have long lost their market value, with Bombay
_ghee_ and young garlic, the whole mellowed and perhaps refined by the
continual vapors from open sewers. One fragrance that perhaps tickles
the olfactory nerve with more delicacy than all others and might be
called a perfumed "dream," comes from baking a garlic pie piping hot in
the open, with Turkish Limburger as a substantial ingredient. This
zephyr when in full action sets at naught the vain attempt of
asafoetida to hold its place in the history of smells that used to rank
with Araby the Blest. If Alexander had inhaled one whiff of this
combination in its full purity it would have floored him in
Constantinople and he could not have lived to conquer the world. One
of the "Corks" fainted when he hit the embalmed beef zone and was taken
to the rear in a red cross ambulance.
[Illustration: A CROWD AT THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM,
WAITING FOR THE DOORS TO OPEN. EACH TRIBE IS IMPATIENT TO ENTER AND
OCCUPY ITS OWN SPACE]
The sights in these places are too dreadful for publication, and as for
the taste--well, I tried a speck of fried sausage and thought I had
touched a live wire! it left a scar on my tongue. We made a special
excursion to see these sights and experience the smells. The driver of
our carriage took advantage of a stop to take a drink at a Turkish
_café_; the procession of vehicles began to move, and as we were in the
middle of it our horses had to move too. This left us without a driver
and I had to mount his seat and drive half a mile at a walk before our
man caught up with us. In the crowded, narrow streets this experience
was not a pleasant one, but I did the best I could and nothing happened
of note excepting that in turning a sharp corner the team ran up on the
sidewalk, from which I was chased with wild gestures and eastern
profanity by a Turkish son of a wooden gun, much to the amusement of
the natives and the rest of the procession. Still, the Turks, who are
steeped in these conditions, seem to enjoy them: they laugh and joke at
the unsuccessful attempts of the outlander to acquire their tastes. If
they are happy, why should we object?
[Illustration: THIS IS QUEEN HATSHEPSET'S DER-AL-BAHARI TEMPLE AT
THEBES, ORNAMENTED WITH FINE GOLD. THE ORIGINAL METHODS BY WHICH
"HATTY" SWIPED THE MONEY TO BUILD THIS TEMPLE LEAVE WALL STREET TIED TO
THE HITCHING POST AT THE SUB-TREASURY STEPS]
The costumes of the Turk are without number: there is no cut nor
pattern of garment that is not embraced in their fashion plates and the
colors run riot through all the gamut of the rainbow. But, seriously,
they beat all other nations in the arrangement of their head-dress; no
Turk is too poor or too low in caste to devote his time and attention
to what he wears on his head. Of course, the rich ones have immense
turbans, woven with stranded ropes of cloth in bright parti-colors,
placed on the head as a finish to the toilet with as much care as a
wedding cake is posed on a table; but the _poor_ Turk takes a red fez
as a basis to build on, and will, with cheese-cloth, or a strip of old
toweling, or a wisp of worn-out silk and some feathers, turn out an
effect that it is almost impossible to imitate even where ample
facilities are at hand. Some of them wear their turbans well back on
the head, some pitched forward, many with a rake to the side; but all
with the artistic instinct that compels instant admiration. They are
the "old masters" of headgear and their masterpieces may be seen by the
thousand in any crowded street.
[Illustration: OUR HOSPITABLE HOST AND HOSTESS IN THEIR SALON WHERE
THEY ENTERTAINED US AT JERUSALEM]
About the time we were in Constantinople, the new Turkish political
force known the world over as the "Young Turks' movement," was just
springing into life. The members of this body were eager to meet and
mix with visitors and obtain their views and opinions of the
probabilities of success, and a general endorsement of their work; so
it was no trouble to have them visit us on the _Cork_, as she lay at
anchor at the mouth of the Golden Horn. We conversed with them freely
and listened to the recital of their wrongs and how they proposed to
right and correct them. Political corruption and "graft," they said,
were rampant everywhere, destroying the country and blighting every
enterprise and industry. A Young Turk told me that many manufactories
would be started were it not that the rapacity of the horde of petty
officials was such that all must get a share of the spoils before a
license could be granted, and that paying this toll would amount to
much more than the cost of the factory. From the sultan down to the
smallest custom house official, all must get a squeeze out of the
victim whom they meet in any kind of business. The appellation, "The
Sick Man of the East," presents in brief the picture of an unwholesome
looking man, who is allowed to sit tight on his throne and plunder his
people because the Powers can't agree on the division of his empire.
When one looks at Abdul in his carriage one sees at a glance a
coffee-colored knave who, when he gazes at the crowd from behind the
mask of his face, is simply engaged in scheming a new twist in "graft,"
and wondering whether or not they can stand it and live. The Sultan is
an expert pistol-shot and has killed many native visitors without the
slightest proof that they were about to do him harm; if they made a
suspicious movement of any kind he shot them down in cold blood and had
them thrown into the Bosphorus. Abdul had an eye on the main chance
and did not consider it wise to have all his eggs in one basket, so he
deposited the hundred million dollars he wrung from his people--what is
called his "private fortune"--in banks all over the world. The Young
Turks are after this "pile," and he is not likely to retain it all and
save his neck from the rope. Perhaps his most horrible crime was
instigating the annihilation of 360,000 Armenians: this act alone
places him on the pedestal of infamy for all time. But the pedestal is
rocking, and his hour is near at hand. His territory in Europe has
shrunk from 230,000 to 60,000 square miles. In a little while there
won't be much left to divide, but there are other forces at work, and
these serious natives tell you that nothing can now stop the progress
of the task they are engaged in and that the days of the sultan are
numbered. We believed in their sincerity and determination, and wished
them every success. As a wind-up it will perhaps amuse the reader to
note the high-sounding list of titles that the sultan--this "cutpurse
and king of shreds and patches"--has given to himself. Here they are,
all fresh roasted, with a few added words to fill in the interstices of
his portrait: