THROUGH EUROPEAN TURKEY.
ON Monday morning I am again awakened by the muezzin calling the Mussulmans
to their early morning devotions, and, arising from my mat at five
o'clock, I mount and speed away southward from Eski Baba, Not less than
a hundred people have collected to see the wonderful performance again.
All pretence of road-making seems to have been abandoned; or, what is
more probable, has never been seriously attempted, the visible roadways
from village to village being mere ox-wagon and pack-donkey tracks,
crossing the wheat-fields and uncultivated tracts in any direction. The
soil is a loose, black loam, which the rain converts into mud, through
which I have to trundle, wooden scraper in hand; and I not infrequently
have to carry the bicycle through the worst places. The morning is sultry,
requiring good roads and a breeze-creating pace for agreeable going.
Harvesting and threshing are going forward briskly, but the busy hum of
the self-binder and the threshing-machine is not heard; the reaping is
done with rude hooks, and the threshing by dragging round and round,
with horses or oxen, sleigh-runner shaped, broad boards, roughed with
flints or iron points, making the surface resemble a huge rasp. Large
gangs of rough-looking Armenians, Arabs, and Africans are harvesting the
broad acres of land-owning pashas, the gangs sometimes counting not less
than fifty men. Several donkeys are always observed picketed near them,
taken, wherever they go, for the purpose of carrying provisions and
water. Whenever I happen anywhere near one of these gangs they all come
charging across the field, reaping-hooks in hand, racing with each other
and good-naturedly howling defiance to competitors. A band of Zulus
charging down on a fellow, and brandishing their assegais, could scarcely
present a more ferocious front. Many of them wear no covering of any
kind on the upper part of the body, no hat, no foot-gear, nothing but a
pair of loose, baggy trousers, while the tidiest man among them would
be immediately arrested on general principles in either England or
America. Rough though they are, they appear, for the most part, to be
good-natured fellows, and although they sometimes emphasize their
importunities of "bin! bin!" by flourishing their reaping-hooks
threateningly over my head, and one gang actually confiscates the bicycle,
which they lay up on a shock of wheat, and with much flourishing of
reaping-hooks as they return to their labors, warn me not to take it
away, these are simply good-natured pranks, such as large gangs of
laborers are wont to occasionally indulge in the world over.
Streams have to be forded to-day for the first time in Europe, several
small creeks during the afternoon; and near sundown I find my pathway
into a village where I propose stopping for the night, obstructed by a
creek swollen bank-full by a heavy thunder-shower in the hills. A couple
of lads on the opposite bank volunteer much information concerning the
depth of the creek at different points; no doubt their evident mystification
at not being understood is equalled only by the amazement at my answers.
Four peasants come down to the creek, and one of them kindly wades in
and shows that it is only waist deep. Without more ado I ford it, with
the bicycle on my shoulder, and straight-way seek the accommodation of
the village mehana. This village is a miserable little cluster of mud
hovels, and the best the mehana affords is the coarsest of black-bread
and a small salted fish, about the size of a sardine, which the natives
devour without any pretence of cooking, but which are worse than nothing
for me, since the farther they are away the better I am suited. Sticking
a flat loaf of black-bread and a dozen of these tiny shapes of salted
nothing in his broad waistband, the Turkish peasant sallies forth
contentedly to toil.
I have accomplished the wonderful distance of forty kilometres to-day,
at which I am really quite surprised, considering everything. The usual
daily weather programme has been faithfully carried out - a heavy mist at
morning, that has prevented any drying up of roads during the night,
three hours of oppressive heat - from nine till twelve - during which myraids
of ravenous flies squabble for the honor of drawing your blood, and then,
when the mud begins to dry out sufficient to justify my dispensing with
the wooden scraper, thunder-showers begin to bestow their unappreciated
favor upon the roads, making them well-nigh impassable again. The following
morning the climax of vexation is reached when, after wading through the
mud for two hours, I discover that I have been dragging, carrying, and
trundling my laborious way along in the wrong direction for Tchorlu,
which is not over thirty-five kilometres from my starting-point, but it
takes me till four o'clock to reach there. A hundred miles on French or
English roads would not be so fatiguing, and I wisely take advantage of
being in a town where comparatively decent accommodations are obtainable
to make up, so far as possible, for this morning's breakfast of black
bread and coffee, and my noontide meal of cold, cheerless reflections
on the same. The same programme of "bin! bin." from importuning crowds,
and police inquisitiveness concerning my "passporte" are endured and
survived; but I spread myself upon rny mat to-night thoroughly convinced
that a month's cycling among the Turks would worry most people into
premature graves.
I am now approaching pretty close to the Sea of Marmora, and next morning
I am agreeably surprised to find sandy roads, which the rains have rather
improved than otherwise; and although much is unridably heavy, it is
immeasurably superior to yesterday's mud. I pass the country residence
of a wealthy pasha, and see the ladies of his harem seated in the meadow
hard by, enjoying the fresh morning air. They form a circle, facing
inward, and the swarthy eunuch in charge stands keeping watch at a
respectful distance. I carry a pocketful of bread with me this morning,
and about nine o'clock, upon coming to a ruined mosque and a few deserted
buildings, I approach one at which signs of occupation are visible, for
some water. This place is simply a deserted Mussulman village, from which
the inhabitants probably decamped in a body during the last Russo-Turkish
war; the mosque is in a tumble-down condition, the few dwelling-houses
remaining are in the last stages of dilapidation, and the one I call at
is temporarily occupied by some shepherds, two of whom are regaling
themselves with food of some kind out of an earthenware vessel.
Obtaining the water, I sit down on some projecting boards to eat my
frugal lunch, fully conscious of being an object of much furtive speculation
on the part of the two occupants of the deserted house; which, however,
fails to strike me as anything extraordinary, since these attentions
have long since become an ordinary every-day affair. Not even the sulky
and rather hang-dog expression of the men, which failed not to escape
my observation at my first approach, awakened any shadow of suspicion
in my mind of their being possibly dangerous characters, although the
appearance of the place itself is really sufficient to make one hesitate
about venturing near; and upon sober after-thought I am fully satisfied
that this is a resort of a certain class of disreputable characters,
half shepherds, half brigands, who are only kept from turning full-fledged
freebooters by a wholesome fear of retributive justice. While I am
discussing my bread and water one of these worthies saunters with assumed
carelessness up behind me and makes a grab for my revolver, the butt of
which he sees protruding from the holster. Although I am not exactly
anticipating this movement, travelling alone among strange people makes
one's faculties of self-preservation almost mechanically on the alert,
and my hand reaches the revolver before his does. Springing up, I turn
round and confront him and his companion, who is standing in the doorway.
A full exposition of their character is plainly stamped on their faces,
and for a moment I am almost tempted to use the revolver on them. Whether
they become afraid of this or whether they have urgent business of some
nature will never be known to me, but they both disappear inside the
door; and, in view of my uncertainty of their future intentions, I
consider it advisable to meander on toward the coast.
Ere I get beyond the waste lands adjoining this village I encounter two
more of these shepherds, in charge of a small flock; they are watering
their sheep; and as I go over to the spring, ostensibly to obtain a
drink, but really to have a look at them, they both sneak off at my
approach, like criminals avoiding one whom they suspect of being a
detective. Take it all in all, I am satisfied that this neighborhood is
a place that I have been fortunate in coming through in broad daylight;
by moonlight it might have furnished a far more interesting item than
the above. An hour after, I am gratified at obtaining my first glimpse
of the Sea of Marmora off to the right, and in another hour I am disporting
in the warm clear surf, a luxury that has not been within my reach since
leaving Dieppe, and which is a thrice welcome privilege in this land,
where the usual ablutions at mehanas consist of pouring water on the
hands from a tin cup. The beach is composed of sand and tiny shells, the
warm surf-waves are clear as crystal, and my first plunge in the Marmora,
after a two months' cycle tour across a continent, is the most thoroughly
enjoyable bath I ever had; notwithstanding, I feel it my duty to keep a
loose eye on some shepherds perched on a handy knoll, who look as if
half inclined to slip down and examine my clothes. The clothes, with,
of course, the revolver and every penny I have with me, are almost as
near to them as to me, and always, after ducking my head under water,
my first care is to take a precautionary glance in their direction.
"Cursed is the mind that nurses suspicion," someone has said; but under
the circumstances almost anybody would be suspicious. These shepherds
along the Marmora coast favor each other a great deal,: and when a person
has been the recipient of undesirable attention from one of them, to
look askance at the next one met with comes natural enough.
Over the undulating cliffs and along the sandy beach, my road now leads
through the pretty little seaport of Cilivria, toward Constantinople,
traversing a most lovely stretch of country, where waving wheat-fields
hug the beach and fairly coquet with the waves, and the slopes are green
and beautiful with vineyards and fig-gardens, while away beyond the
glassy shimmer of the sea I fancy I can trace on the southern horizon
the inequalities of the hills of Asia Minor. Greek fishing-boats are
plying hither and thither; one noble sailing-vessel, with all sails set,
is slowly ploughing her way down toward the Dardanelles - probably a grain-
ship from the Black Sea - and the smoke from a couple of steamers is
discernible in the distance. Flourishing Greek fishing-villages and vine-
growing communities occupy this beautiful strip of coast, along which
the Greeks seem determined to make the Cross as much more conspicuous
than the Crescent as possible, by rearing it on every public building
under their control, and not infrequently on private ones as well. The
people of these Greek villages seem possessed of sunny dispositions, the
absence of all reserve among the women being in striking contrast to the
demeanor of the Turkish fair sex. These Greek women chatter after me
from the windows as I wheel past, and if I stop a minute in the street
they gather around by dozens, smiling pleasantly, and plying me with
questions, which, of course, I cannot understand. Some of them are quite
handsome, and nearly all have perfect white teeth, a fact that I have
ample opportunity of knowing, since they seem to be all smiles. There
has been much making of artificial highways leading from Constantinople
in this direction in ages past. A road-bed of huge blocks of stone, such
as some of the streets of Eastern towns are made impassable with, is
traceable for miles, ascending and descending the rolling hills,
imperishable witnesses of the wide difference in Eastern and Western
ideas of making a road. These are probably the work of the people who
occupied this country before the Ottoman Turks, who have also tried their
hands at making a macadam, which not infrequently runs close along-side
the old block roadway, and sometimes crosses it; and it is matter of
some wonderment that the Turks, instead of hauling material for their
road from a distance did not save expense by merely breaking the stones
of the old causeway and using the same road-bed. Twice to-day I have
been required to produce my passport, and when toward evening I pass
through a small village, the lone gendarme who is smoking a nargileh in
front of the mehana where I halt points to my revolver and demands
"passaporte," I wave examination, so to speak, by arguing the case with
him, and by the not always unhandy plan of pretending not exactly to
comprehend his meaning. "Passaporte! passaporte! gendarmerie, me, "
replies the officer, authoritatively, in answer to my explanation of a
voyager being privileged to carry a revolver; while several villagers
who have gathered around us interpose "Bin! bin! monsieur, bin! bin."
I have little notion of yielding up either revolver or passport to this
village gendarme, for much of their officiousness is simply the disposition
to show off their authority and satisfy their own personal curiosity
regarding me, to say nothing of the possibility of coming in for a little
backsheesh. The villagers are worrying me to "bin! bin!" at the same
time the gendarme is worrying me about the revolver and passport, and
knowing from previous experience that the gendarme would never stop me
from mounting, being quite as anxious to witness the performance as the
villagers, I quickly decide upon killing two birds with one stone, and
accordingly mount, and pick my way along the rough street out on to the
Constantinople road. The gloaming settles into darkness, and the domes
and minarets of Stamboul, which have been visible from the brow of every
hill for several miles back, are still eight or ten miles away, and
rightly judging that the Ottoman Capital is a most bewildering city for
a stranger to penetrate after night, I pillow my head on a sheaf of oats,
within sight of the goal toward which I have been pedalling for some
2,500 miles since leaving Liverpool. After surveying with a good deal
of satisfaction the twinkling lights that distinguish every minaret in
Constantinople each night during the fast of Ramadan, I fall asleep, and
enjoy, beneath a sky in which myriads of far-off lamps seem to be twinkling
mockingly at the Ramadan illuminations, the finest night's repose I have
had for a week. Nothing but the prevailing rains have prevented me from
sleeping beneath the starry dome entirely in peference to putting up at
the village mehanas.
En route into Stamboul, on the following morning, I meet the first train
of camels I have yet encountered; in the gray of the morning, with the
scenes around so thoroughly Oriental, it seems like an appropriate
introduction to Asiatic life. Eight o'clock finds me inside the line of
earthworks thrown up by Baker Pasha when the Russians were last knocking
at the gates of Constantinople, and ere long I am trundling through the
crooked streets of the Turkish Capital toward the bridge which connects
Stamboul with Galata and Pera. Even here my ears are assailed with the
eternal importunities to "bin! bin!" the officers collecting the bridge-
toll even joining in the request. To accommodate them I mount, and ride
part way across the bridge, and at 9 o'clock on July 2d, just two calendar
months from the start at Liverpool, I am eating my breakfast in a
Constantinople restaurant. I am not long in finding English-speaking
friends, to whom my journey across the two continents is not unknown,
and who kindly direct me to the Chamber of Commerce Hotel, Eue Omar,
Galata, a home-like establishment, kept by an English lady. I have been
purposing of late to remain in Constantinople during the heated term of
July and August, thinking to shape my course southward through Asia Minor
and down the Euphrates Valley to Bagdad, and by taking a south-easterly
direction as far as circumstances would permit into India, keep pace
with the seasons, thus avoiding the necessity of remaining over anywhere
for the winter. At the same time I have been reckoning upon meeting
Englishmen in Constantinople who, having travelled extensively in Asia,
could further enlighten me regarding the best route to India. As I house
my bicycle and am shown to my room I take a retrospective glance across
Europe and America, and feel almost as if I have arrived at the half-way
house of my journey. The distance from Liverpool to Constantinople is
fully 2,500 miles, which brings the wheeling distance from San Francisco
up to something over 6,000. So far as the, distance wheeled and to be
wheeled is concerned, it is not far from half-way; but the real difficulties
of the journey are still ahead, although I scarcely anticipate any that
time and perseverance will not overcome. My tour across Europe has been,
on the whole, a delightful journey, and, although my linguistic shortcomings
have made it rather awkward in interior places where no English-speaking
person was to be found, I always managed to make myself understood
sufficiently to get along. In the interior of Turkey a knowledge of
French has been considered indispensable to a traveller: but, although
a full knowledge of that language would have made matters much smoother
by enabling me to converse with officials and others, I have nevertheless
come through all right without it; and there have doubtless been occasions
when my ignorance has saved me from a certain amount of bother with the
gendarmerie, who, above all things, dislike to exercise their thinking
apparatus. A Turkish official is far less indisposed to act than he is
to think; his mental faculties work sluggishly, but his actions are
governed largely by the impulse of the moment.
Someone has said that to see Constantinople is to see the entire East;
and judging from the different costumes and peoples one meets on the
streets and in the bazaars, the saying is certainly not far amiss. From
its geographical situation, as well as from its history, Constantinople
naturally takes the front rank among the cosmopolitan cities of the
world, and the crowds thronging its busy thoroughfares embrace every
condition of man between the kid-gloved exquisite without a wrinkle in
his clothes and the representative of half-savage Central Asian States
incased in sheepskin garments of rudest pattern. The great fast of Ramadan
is under full headway, and all true Mussulmans neither eat nor drink a
particle of anything throughout the day until the booming of cannon at
eight in the evening announces that the fast is ended, when the scene
quickly changes into a general rush for eatables and drink. Between eight
and nine o'clock in the evening, during Ramadan, certain streets and
bazaars present their liveliest appearance, and from the highest-classed
restaurant patronized by bey and pasha to the venders of eatables on the
streets, all do a rushing business; even the mjees (water-venders), who
with leather water-bottles and a couple of tumblers wait on thirsty
pedestrians with pure drinking water, at five paras a glass, dodge about
among the crowds, announcing themselves with lusty lung, fully alive to
the opportunities of the moment.
A few of the coffee-houses provide music of an inferior quality,
Constantinople not being a very musical place. A forenoon hour spent in
a neighborhood of private residences will repay a stranger for his
trouble, since he will during that time see a bewildering assortment of
street-venders, from a peregrinating meat-market, with a complete stock
dangling from a wooden framework attached to a horse's back, to a grimy
individual worrying along beneath a small mountain of charcoal, and each
with cries more or less musical. The sidewalks of Constantinople are
ridiculously narrow, their only practical use being to keep vehicles
from running into the merchandise of the shopkeepers, and to give
pedestrians plenty of exercise in jostling each other, and hopping on
and off the curbstone to avoid inconveniencing the ladies, who of course
are not to be jostled either off the sidewalk or into a sidewalk stock
of miscellaneous merchandise. The Constantinople sidewalk is anybody's
territory; the merchant encumbers it with his wares and the coffee-houses
with chairs for customers to sit on, the rights of pedestrians being
altogether ignored; the natural consequence is that these latter fill
the streets, and the Constantinople Jehu not only has to keep his wits
about him to avoid running over men and dogs, but has to use his lungs
continually, shouting at them to clear the way. If a seat is taken in
one of the coffee-house chairs, a watchful waiter instantly makes his
appearance with a tray containing small chunks of a pasty sweetmeat,
known in England as " Turkish Delight," one of which you are expected
to take and pay half a piastre for, this being a polite way of obtaining
payment for the privilege of using the chair. The coffee is served
steaming hot in tiny cups holding about two table-spoonfuls, the price
varying from ten paras upward, according to the grade of the establishment.
A favorite way of passing the evening is to sit in front of one of these
establishments, watching the passing throngs, and smoke a nargileh, this
latter requiring a good half-hour to do it properly. I undertook to
investigate the amount of enjoyment contained in a nargileh one evening,
and before smoking it half through concluded that the taste has to be
cultivated.
One of the most inconvenient things about Constantinople is the great
scarcity of small change. Everybody seems to be short of fractional money
save the money-changers-people who are here a genuine necessity, since
one often has to patronize them before making the most trifling purchase.
Ofttimes the store-keeper will refuse point-blank to sell an article
when change is required, solely on account of his inability or unwillingness
to supply it. After drinking a cup of coffee, I have had the kahuajee
refuse to take any payment rather than change a cherik. Inquiring the
reason for this scarcity, I am informed that whenever there is any new
output of this money the noble army of money-changers, by a liberal and
judicious application of backsheesh, manage to get a corner on the lot
and compel the general public, for whose benefit it is ostensibly issued,
to obtain what they require through them. However this may be, they
manage to control its circulation to a great extent; for while their
glass cases display an overflowing plenitude, even the fruit-vender,
whose transactions are mainly of ten and twenty paras, is not infrequently
compelled to lose a customer because of his inability to make change.
There are not less than twenty money-changers' offices within a hundred
yards of the Galata end of the principal bridge spanning the Golden Horn,
and certainly not a less number on the Stamboul side.
The money-changer usually occupies a portion of the frontage of a cigarette
and tobacco stand; and on all the business streets one happens at frequent
intervals upon these little glass cases full of bowls and heaps of
miscellaneous coins, varying in value. Behind sits a business-looking
person - usually a Jew - jingling a handful of medjedis, and expectantly
eyeing every approaching stranger. The usual percentage charged is, for
changing a lira, eighty paras; thirty paras for a medjedie, and ten for
a cherik, the percentage on this latter coin being about five per cent.
Some idea of the inconvenience to the public of this state of affairs
can be better imagined by the American by reflecting that if this state
of affairs existed in Boston he would frequently have to walk around the
block and give a money-changer five per cent, for changing a dollar
before venturing upon the purchase of a dish of baked beans. If one
offers a coin of the larger denominations in payment of an article, even
in quite imposing establishments, they look as black over it as though
you were trying to palm off a counterfeit, and hand back the change with
an ungraciousness and an evident reluctance that makes a sensitive person
feel as though he has in some way been unwittingly guilty of a mean
action. Even the principal streets of Constantinople are but indifferently
lighted at night, and, save for the feeble glimmer of kerosene lamps in
front of stores and coffee-houses, the by-streets are in darkness. Small
parties of Turkish women are encountered picking their way along the
streets of Galata in charge of a male attendant, who walks a little way
behind, if of the better class, or without the attendant in the case of
poorer people, carrying small Japanese lanterns. Sometimes a lantern
will go out, or doesn't burn satisfactorily, and the whole party halts
in the middle of the, perhaps, crowded thoroughfare, and clusters around
until the lantern is radjusted. The Turkish lady walks with a slouchy
gait, her shroud-like abbas adding not a little to the ungracefulness.
Matters are likewise scarcely to be improved by wearing two pairs of
shoes, the large, slipper-like overshoes being required by etiquette to
be left on the mat upon entering the house she is visiting; and in the
case of a strictly orthodox Mussulman lady - and, doubtless, we may also
easily imagine in case of a not over-prepossessing countenance - the yashmak
hides all but the eyes. The eyes of many Turkish ladies are large and
beautiful, and peep from between the white, gauzy folds of the yashmak
with an effect upon the observant Frank not unlike coquettishly ogling
from behind a fan. Handsome young Turkish ladies with a leaning toward
Western ideas are no doubt coming to understand this, for many are
nowadays met on the streets wearing yashmaks that are but a single
thickness of transparent gauze that obscures never a feature, at the
same time producing the decidedly interesting and taking effect above
mentioned. It is readily seen that the wearing of yashmaks must be quite
a charitable custom in the case of a lady not blessed with a handsome
face, since it enables her to appear in public the equal of her more
favored sister in commanding whatever homage is to be derived from that
mystery which is said to be woman's greatest charm; and if she has but
the one redeeming feature of a beautiful pair of eyes, the advantage is
obvious. In street-cars, steamboats, and all public conveyances, board
or canvas partitions wall off a small compartment for the exclusive use
of ladies, where, hidden from the rude gaze of the Frank, the Turkish
lady can remove her yashmak and smoke cigarettes.
On Sunday, July 12th, in company with an Englishman in the Turkish
artillery service, I pay my first visit to Asian soil, taking a caique
across the Bosphorus to Kadikeui, one of the many delightful seaside
resorts within easy distance of Constantinople. Many objects of interest
are pointed out, as, propelled by a couple of swarthy, half-naked caique-
jees, the sharp-prowed caique gallantly rides the blue waves of this
loveliest of all pieces of land-environed water. More than once I have
noticed that a firm belief in the supernatural has an abiding hold upon
the average Turkish mind, having frequently during my usual evening
promenade through the Galata streets noted the expression of deep and
genuine earnestness upon the countenances of fez-crowned citizens giving
respectful audience to Arab fortune-tellers, paying twenty-para pieces
for the revelations he is favoring them with, and handing over the coins
with the business-like air of people satisfied that they are getting its
full equivalent. Consequently I am not much astonished when, rounding
Seraglio Point, my companion calls my attention to several large sections
of whalebone suspended on the wall facing the water, and tells me that
they are placed there by the fishermen, who believe them to be a talisman
of no small efficacy in keeping the Bosphorus well supplied with fish,
they firmly adhering to the story that once, when the bones were removed,
the fish nearly all disappeared. The oars used by the caique-jees are
of quite a peculiar shape, the oar-shaft immediately next the hand-hold
swells into a bulbous affair for the next eighteen inches, which is at
least four times the circumference of the remainder, and the end of the
oarblade is for some reason made swallow-tailed. The object of the
enlarged portion, which of course comes inside the rowlocks, appears to
be the double purpose of balancing the weight of the longer portion
outside, and also for preventing the oar at all times from escaping into
the water. The rowlock is simply a raw-hide loop, kept well greased, and
as, toward the end of every stroke, the caique-jee leans back to his
work, the oar slips several inches, causing a considerable loss of power.
The day is warm, the broiling sun shines directly down on the bare heads
of the caique-jees. and causes the perspiration to roll off their swarthy
faces in large beads, but they lay back to their work manfully, although,
from early morning until cannon roar at 8 P.M. neither bite nor sup, not
even so much water as to moisten the end of their parched tongues, will
pass their lips; for, although but poor hard- working caique-jees, they
are true Mussulmans. Pointing skyward from the summit of the hill back
of Seraglio Point are the four tapering minarets of the world-renowned
St. Sophia mosque, and a little farther to the left is the Sultana Achmet
mosque, the only mosque in all Mohammedanism with six minarets. Near by
is the old Seraglio Palace, or rather what is left of it, built by
Mohammed II. in 1467, out of materials from the ancient Byzantine palaces,
and in a department of which the sanjiak shereef (holy standard), boorda-y
shereef (holy mantle), and other venerated relics of the prophet Mohammed
are preserved. To this place, on the 15th of Ramadan, the Sultan and
leading dignitaries of the Empire repair to do homage to the holy relics,
upon which it would be the highest sacrilege for Christian eyes to gaze.
The hem of this holy mantle is reverently kissed by the Sultan and the
few leading personages present, after which the spot thus brought in
contact with human lips is carefully wiped with an embroidered napkin
dipped in a golden basin of water; the water used in this ceremony is
then supposed to be of priceless value as a purifier of sin, and is
carefully preserved, and, corked up in tiny phials, is distributed among
the sultanas, grand dignitaries, and prominent people of the realm, who
in return make valuable presents to the lucky messengers and Mussulman
ecclesiastics employed in its distribution. This precious liquid is doled
out drop by drop, as though it were nectar of eternal life received
direct from heaven, and, mixed with other water, is drunk immediately
upon breaking fast each evening during the remaining fifteen days of
Ramadan. Arriving at Kadikeui, the opportunity presents of observing
something of the high-handed manner in which Turkish pashas are wont to
expect from inferiors their every whim obeyed. We meet a friend of my
companion, a pasha, who for the remainder of the afternoon makes one of
our company. Unfortunately for a few other persons the pasha is in a
whimsical mood to-day and inclined to display for our benefit rather
arbitrary authority toward others. The first individual coming under his
immediate notice is a young man torturing a harp. Summoning the musician,
the pasha summarily orders him to play "Yankee Doodle." The writer
arrived in Constantinople with the full impression that it was the mosqne
of St. Sophia that has the famons six minarets, having, I am quite sure,
seen it thus quite frequently accredited in print, and I mention this
especially, in order that readers who may have been similarly misinformed
may know that the above account is the correct one, does not know it,
and humbly begs the pasha to name something more familiar. "Yankee
Doodle!" - replies the pasha peremptorily. The poor man looks as though
he would willingly relinquish all hopes of the future if only some present
avenue of escape would offer itself; but nothing of the kind seems at
all likely. The musician appeals to my Turkish-speaking friend, and begs
him to request me to favor him with the tune. I am of course only too
glad to help him stem the rising tide of the pasha's wrath by whistling
the tune for him; and after a certain amount of preliminary twanging be
strikes up and manages to blunder through "Yankee Doodle." The pasha,
after ascertaining from me that the performance is creditable, considering
the circumstances, forthwith hands him more money than he would collect
among the poorer patrons of the place in two hours. Soon a company of
five strolling acrobats and conjurers happens along, and these likewise
are summoned into the "presence" and ordered to proceed. Many of the
conjurer's tricks are quite creditable performances; but the pasha
occasionally interferes in the proceedings just in the nick of time to
prevent the prestidigitator finishing his manipulations, much to the
pasha's delight. Once, however, he cleverly manages to hoodwink the
pasha, and executes his trick in spite of the latter's interference,
which so amuses the pasha that he straightway gives him a medjedie. Our
return boat to Galata starts at seven o'clock, and it is a ten minutes'
drive down to the landing. At fifteen minutes to seven the pasha calls
for a public carriage to take us down to the steamer.
"There are no carriages, Pasha Effendi. Those three are all engaged by
ladies and gentlemen in the garden," exclaims the waiter, respectfully.
"Engaged or not engaged, I want that open carriage yonder," replies the
pasha authoritatively, and already beginning to show signs of impatience."
Boxhanna. "(hi, you, there!)" drive around here," addressing the driver.
The driver enters a plea of being already engaged. The pasha's temper
rises to the point of threatening to throw carriage, horses, and driver
into the Bosphorus if his demands are not instantly complied with. Finally
the driver and everybody else interested collapse completely, and,
entering the carriage, we are driven to our destination without another
murmur. Subsequently I learned that a government officer, whether a pasha
or of lower rank, has the power of taking arbitrary possession of a
public conveyance over the head of a civilian, so that our pasha was,
after all, only sticking up for the rights of himself and my friend of
the artillery, who likewise wears the mark by which a military man is
in Turkey always distinguishable from a civilian - a longer string to the
tassel of his fez.
This is the last day of Ramadan, and the following Monday ushers in the
three days' feast of Biaram, which is in substance a kind of a general
carousal to compensate for the rigid self-denial of the thirty days
'fasting and prayer' just ended. The government offices and works are
till closed, everybody is wearing new clothes, and holiday-making engrosses
the public attention. A friend proposes a trip on a Bosphorus steamer
up as far as the entrance to the Black Sea. The steamers are profusely
decorated with gaycolored flags, and at certain hours all war-ships
anchored in the Bosphorus, as well as the forts and arsenals, fire
salutes, the roar and rattle of the great guns echoing among the hills
of Europe and Asia, that here confront each other, with but a thousand
yards of dancing blue waters between them. All along either lovely shore
villages and splendid country-seats of wealthy pashas and Constantinople
merchants dot the verdure-clad slopes. Two white marble kiosks of the
Sultan are pointed out. The old castles of Europe and Asia face each
other on opposite sides of the narrow channel. They were famous fortresses
in their day, but, save as interesting relics of a bygone age, they are
no longer of any use. At Therapia are the summer residences of the
different ambassadors, the English and French the most conspicuous. The
extensive grounds of the former are most beautifully terraced, and
evidently fit for the residence of royalty itself. Happy indeed is the
Constantinopolitan whose income commands a summer villa in Therapia, or
at any of the many desirable locations in plain view within this earthly
paradise of blue waves and sunny slopes, and a yacht in which to wing
his flight whenever and wherever fancy bids him go. In the glitter and
glare of the mid-day sun the scene along the Bosphorus is lovely, yet
its loveliness is plainly of the earth; but as we return cityward in the
eventide the dusky shadows of the gloaming settle over everything. As
we gradually approach, the city seems half hidden behind a vaporous veil,
as though, in imitation of thousands of its fair occupants, it were
hiding its comeliness behind the yashmak; the scores of tapering minarets,
and the towers, and the masts of the crowded shipping of all nations
rise above the mist, and line with delicate tracery the western sky,
already painted in richest colors by the setting sun. On Saturday morning,
July 18th, the sound of martial music announces the arrival of the
soldiers from Stamboul, to guard the streets through which the Sultan
will pass on his way to a certain mosque to perform some ceremony in
connection with the feast just over. At the designated place I find the
streets already lined with Circassian cavalry and Ethiopian zouaves; the
latter in red and blue zouave costumes and immense turbans. Mounted
gendarmes are driving civilians about, first in one direction and then
in another, to try and get the streets cleared, occasionally fetching
some unlucky wight in the threadbare shirt of the Galata plebe a stinging
cut across the shoulders with short raw-hide whips - a glaring injustice
that elicits not the slightest adverse criticism from the spectators,
and nothing but silent contortions of face and body from the individual
receiving the attention. I finally obtain a good place, where nothing
but an open plank fence and a narrow plot of ground thinly set with
shrubbery intervenes between me and the street leading from the palace.
In a few minutes the approach of the Sultan is announced by the appearance
of half a dozen Circassian outriders, who dash wildly down the streets,
one behind the other, mounted on splendid dapple-gray chargers; then
come four close carriages, containing the Sultan's mother and leading
ladies of the imperial harem, and a minute later appears a mounted guard,
two abreast, keen-eyed fellows, riding slowly, and critically eyeing
everybody and everything as they proceed; behind them comes a gorgeously
arrayed individual in a perfect blaze of gold braid and decorations, and
close behind him follows the Sultan's carriage, surrounded by a small
crowd of pedestrians and horsemen, who buzz around the imperial carriage
like bees near a hive, the pedestrians especially dodging about hither
and thither, hopping nimbly over fences, crossing gardens, etc., keeping
pace with the carriage meanwhile, as though determined upon ferreting out
and destroying anything in the shape of danger that may possibly be
lurking along the route. My object of seeing the Sultan's face is gained;
but it is only a momentary glimpse, for besides the horsemen flitting
around the carriage, an officer suddenly appears in front of my position
and unrolls a broad scroll of paper with something printed on it, which
he holds up. Whatever the scroll is, or the object of its display may
be, the Sultan bows his acknowledgments, either to the scroll or to the
officer holding it up.
Ere I am in the Ottoman capital a week, I have the opportunity of
witnessing a fire, and the workings of the Constantinople Fire Department.
While walking along Tramway Street, a hue and cry of' "yangoonvar!
yangoonvar!" (there is fire! there is fire!) is raised, and three
barefooted men, dressed in the scantiest linen clothes, come charging
pell-mell through the crowded streets, flourishing long brass hose-nozzles
to clear the way; behind them comes a crowd of about twenty others,
similarly dressed, four of whom are bearing on their
shoulders a primitive wooden pump, while others are carrying leathern
water-buckets. They are trotting along at quite a lively pace, shouting
and making much unnecessary commotion, and lastly comes their chief on
horseback, cantering close at their heels, as though to keep the men
well up to their pace. The crowds of pedestrians, who refrain from
following after the firemen, and who scurried for the sidewalks at their
approach, now resume their place in the middle of the street; but again
the wild cry of "yangoon var!" resounds along the narrow street, and
the same scene of citizens scuttling to the sidewalks, and a hurrying
fire brigade followed by a noisy crowd of gamins, is enacted over again,
as another and yet another of these primitive organizations go scooting
swiftly past. It is said that these nimble-footed firemen do almost
miraculous work, considering the material they have at command - an
assertion which I think is not at all unlikely; but the wonder is that
destructive fires are not much more frequent, when the fire department
is evidently so inefficient. In addition to the regular police force and
fire department, there is a system of night watchmen, called bekjees,
who walk their respective beats throughout the night, carrying staves
heavily shod with iron, with which they pound the flagstones with a
resounding "thwack." Owing to the hilliness of the city and the roughness
of the streets, much of the carrying business of the city is done by
hamals, a class of sturdy-limbed men, who, I am told, are mostly Armenians.
They wear a sort of pack-saddle, and carry loads the mere sight of which
makes the average Westerner groan. For carrying such trifles as crates
and hogsheads of crockery and glass-ware, and puncheons of rum, four
hamals join strength at the ends of two stout poles. Scarcely less
marvellous than the weights they carry is the apparent ease with which
they balance tremendous loads, piled high up above them, it being no
infrequent sight to see a stalwart hamal with a veritable Saratoga trunk,
for size, on his back, with several smaller trunks and valises piled
above it, making his way down Step Street, which is as much as many
pedestrians can do to descend without carrying anything. One of these
hamals, meandering along the street with six or seven hundred pounds of
merchandise on his back, has the legal right - to say nothing of the evident
moral right - to knock over any unloaded citizen who too tardily yields
the way. From observations made on the spot, one cannot help thinking
that there is no law in any country to be compared to this one, for
simon-pure justice between man and man. These are most assuredly the
strongest-backed and hardest working men I have seen anywhere. They are
remarkably trustworthy and sure-footed, and their chief ambition, I am
told, is to save sufficient money to return to the mountains and valleys
of their native Armenia, where most of them have wives patiently awaiting
their coming, and purchase a piece of land upon which to spend their
declining years in ease and independence.
Far different is the daily lot of another habitue of the streets of this
busy capital - large, pugnacious-looking rams, that occupy pretty much the
same position in Turkish sporting circles that thoroughbred bull-dogs
do in England, being kept by young Turks solely on account of their
combative propensities and the facilities thereby afforded for gambling
on the prowess of their favorite animals. At all hours of the day and
evening the Constantinople sport may be met on the streets leading his
woolly pet tenderly with a string, often carrying something in his hand
to coax the ram along. The wool of these animals is frequently clipped
to give them a fanciful aspect, the favorite clip being to produce a
lion-like appearance, and they are always carefully guarded against the
fell influence of the "evil eye" by a circlet of blue beads and pendent
charms suspended from the neck. This latter precautionary measure is not
confined to these hard-headed contestants for the championship of Galata,
Pera, and Stamboul, however, but grace the necks of a goodly proportion
of all animals met on the streets, notably the saddle-ponies, whose
services are offered on certain streetcorners to the public.
Occasionally one notices among the busy throngs a person wearing a turban
of dark green; this distinguishing mark being the sole privilege of
persons who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca. All true Mussulmans are
supposed to make this pilgrimage some time during their lives, either
in person or by employing a substitute to go in their stead, wealthy
pashas sometimes paying quite large sums to some imam or other holy
person to go as their proxy, for the holier the substitute the greater
is supposed to be the benefit to the person sending him. Other persons
are seen with turbans of a lighter shade of green than the returned Mecca
pilgrims. These are people related in some way to the reigning sovereign.
Constantinople has its peculiar attractions as the great centre of the
Mohammedan world as represented in the person of the Sultan, and during
the five hundred years of the Ottoman dominion here, almost every Sultan
and great personage has left behind him some interesting reminder of the
times in which he lived and the wonderful possibilities of unlimited
wealth and power. A stranger will scarcely show himself upon the streets
ere he is discovered and accosted by a guide. From long experience these
men can readily distinguish a new arrival, and they seldom make a mistake
regarding his nationality. Their usual mode of self-introduction is to
approach him, and ask if he is looking for the American consulate, or
the English post-office, as the case may be, and if the stranger replies
in the affirmative, to offer to show the way. Nothing is mentioned about
charges, and the uninitiated new arrival naturally wonders what kind of
a place he has got into, when, upon offering what his experience in
Western countries has taught him to consider a most liberal recompense,
the guide shrugs his shoulders, and tells you that he guided a gentleman
the same distance yesterday and the gentleman gave - usually about double
what you are offering, no matter whether it be one cherik or half a
dozen. An afternoon ramble with a guide through Stamboul embraces the
Museum of Antiquities, the St. Sophia Mosque, the Costume Museum, the
thousand and one columns, the Tomb of Sultan Mahmoud, the world-renowned
Stamboul Bazaar, the Pigeon Mosque, the Saraka Tower, and the Tomb of
Sultan Suliman I. Passing over the Museum of Antiquities, which to the
average observer is very similar to a dozen other institutions of the
kind, the visitor very naturally approaches the portals of the St. Sophia
Mosque with expectations enlivened by having already read wondrous
accounts of its magnificence and unapproachable grandeur. But, let one's
fancy riot as it will, there is small fear of being disappointed in the
"finest mosque in Constantinople." At the door one either has to take
off his shoes and go inside in stocking-feet, or, in addition to the
entrance fee of two cheriks, "backsheesh" the attendant for the use of
a pair of overslippers. People with holes in their socks and young men
wearing boots three sizes too small are the legitimate prey of the
slipper-man, since the average human would yield up almost his last
piastre rather than promenade around in St. Sophia with his big toe
protruding through his foot-gear like a mud-turtle's head, or run the
risk of having to be hauled bare-footed to his hotel in a hack, from the
impossibility of putting his boots on again. Devout Mussulmans are bowing
their foreheads down to the mat-covered floor in a dozen different parts
of the mosque as we enter; tired-looking pilgrims from a distance are
curled up in cool corners, happy in the privilege of peacefully slumbering
in the holy atmosphere of the great edifice they have, perhaps, travelled
hundreds of miles to see; a dozen half-naked youngsters are clambering
about the railings and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner
of unrestrained juveniles everywhere - free to gambol about to their
hearts' content, providing they abstain from making a noise that would
interfere with devotions. Upon the marvellous mosaic ceiling of the great
dome is a figure of the Virgin Mary, which the Turks have frequently
tried to cover up by painting it over; but paint as often as they will,
the figure will not be concealed. On one of the upper galleries are the
"Gate of Heaven " and "Gate of Hell," the former of which the Turks
once tried their best to destroy; but every arm that ventured to raise
a tool against it instantly became paralyzed, when the would-be destroyers
naturally gave up the job. In giving the readers these facts I earnestly
request them not to credit them to my personal account; for, although
earnestly believed in by a certain class of Christian natives here, I
would prefer the responsibility for their truthfulness to rest on the
broad shoulders of tradition rather than on mine.
The Turks never call the attention of visitors to these reminders of the
religion of the infidels who built the structure, at such an enormous
outlay of money and labor, little dreaming that it would become one of
the chief glories of the Mohammedan world. But the door-keeper who follows
visitors around never neglects to point out the shape of a human hand
on the wall, too high up to be closely examined, and volunteer the
intelligence that it is the imprint of the hand of the first Sultan who
visited the mosque after the occupation of Constantinople by the Osmanlis.
Perhaps, however, the Mussulman, in thus discriminating between the
traditions of the Greek residents and the alleged hand-mark of the first
Sultan, is actuated by a laudable desire to be truthful so far as possible;
for there is nothing improbable about the story of the hand-mark, inasmuch
as a hole chipped in the masonry, an application of cement, and a pressure
of the Sultan's hand against it before it hardened, give at once something
for visitors to look at through future centuries and shake their heads
incredulously about. Not the least of the attractions are two monster
wax candles, which, notwithstanding their lighting up at innumerable
fasts and feasts, for the guide does not know how many years past, are
still eight feet long by four in circumference; but more wonderful than
the monster wax candles, the brass tomb of Constantine's daughter, set
in the wall over one of the massive doors, the Sultan's hand-mark, the
figure of the Virgin Mary, and the green columns brought from Baalbec;
above everything else is the wonderful mosaic-work. The mighty dome and
the whole vast ceiling are mosaic-work in which tiny squares of blue,
green, and gold crystal are made to work out patterns. The squares used
are tiny particles having not over a quarter-inch surface; and the amount
of labor and the expense in covering the vast ceiling of this tremendous
structure with incomputable myriads of these small particles fairly
stagger any attempt at comprehension.
An interesting hour can next be spent in the Costume Museum, where life-
size figures represent the varied and most decidedly picturesque costumes
of the different officials of the Ottoman capital in previous ages, the
janizaries, and natives of the different provinces. Some of the head-gear
in vogue at Constantinople before the fez were tremendous affairs, but
the fez is certainly a step too far in the opposite direction, being
several degrees more uncomfortable than nothing in the broiling sun; the
fez makes no pretence of shading the eyes, and excludes every particle
of air from the scalp. The thousand and one columns are in an ancient
Greek reservoir that formerly supplied all Stamboul with water. The
columns number but three hundred and thirty-four in reality, but each
column is in three parts, and by stretching the point we have the fanciful
" tbousand-and-one." The reservoir is reached by descending a flight of
stone steps; it is filled in with earth up to the upper half of the
second tier of columns, so that the lower tier is buried altogether.
This filling up was done in the days of the janizaries, as it was found
that those frisky warriors were carrying their well-known theory of
"right being might and the Devil take the weakest" to the extent of robbing
unprotected people who ventured to pass this vicinity after dark, and
then consigning them to the dark depths of the deserted reservoir. The
reservoir is now occupied during the day by a number of Jewish silk-weavers,
who work here on account of the dampness and coolness being beneficial
to the silk. The tomb of Mahmoud is next visited on the way to the Bazaar.
The several coffins of the Sultan Mahmoud and his Sultana and princesses
are surrounded by massive railings of pure silver; monster wax candles
are standing at the head and foot of each coffin, in curiously wrought
candlesticks of solid silver that must weigh a hundred pounds each at
least; ranged around the room are silver caskets, inlaid with mother-of-pearl,
in which rare illumined copies of the Koran are carefully kept, the
attendant who opened one for my inspection using a silk pocket-handkerchief
to turn the leaves. The Stamboul Bazaar well deserves its renown, since
there is nothing else of its kind in the whole world to compare with it.
Its labyrinth of little stalls and shops if joined together in one
straight line would extend for miles; and a whole day might be spent
quite profitably in wandering around, watching the busy scenes of
bargaining and manufacturing. Here, in this bewildering maze of buying
and selling, the peculiar life of the Orient can be seen to perfection;
the "mysterious veiled lady" of the East is seen thronging the narrow
traffic-ways and seated in every stall; water-venders and venders of
carpooses (water-melons) and a score of different eatables are meandering
through. Here, if your guide be an honest fellow, he can pilot you into
stuffy little holes full of antique articles of every description, where
genuine bargains can be picked up; or, if he be dishonest, and in league
with equally dishonest tricksters, whose places are antiquaries only in
name, he can lead you where everything is basest imitation. In the former
case, if anything is purchased he comes in for a small and not undeserved
commission from the shopkeeper, and in the latter for perhaps as much
as thirty per cent. I am told that one of these guides, when escorting
a party of tourists with plenty of money to spend and no knowledge
whatever of the real value or genuineness of antique articles, often
makes as much as ten or fifteen pounds sterling a day commission.
On the way from the Bazaar we call at the Pigeon Mosque, so called on
account of being the resort of thousands of pigeons, that have become
quite tame from being constantly fed by visitors and surrounded by human
beings. A woman has charge of a store of seeds and grain, and visitors
purchase a handful for ten paras and throw to the pigeons, who flock
around fearlessly in the general scramble for the food. At any hour of
the day Mussulman ladies may be seen here feeding the pigeons for the
amusement of their children. From the Pigeon Mosque we ascend the Saraka
Tower, the great watch-tower of Stamboul, from the summit of which the
news of a fire in any part of the city is signalled, by suspending huge
frame-work balls covered with canvas from the ends of projecting poles
in the day, and lights at night. Constant watch and ward is kept over
the city below by men snugly housed in quarters near the summit, who,
in addition to their duties as watchmen, turn an honest cherik occasionally
by supplying cups of coffee to Visitors.
No fairer site ever greeted human vision than the prospect from the Tower
of Saraka. Stamboul, Galata, Pera, and Scutari, with every suburban
village and resort for many a mile around, can be seen to perfection
from the commanding height of Saraka Tower. The guide can here point out
every building of interest in Stamboul-the broad area of roof beneath
which the busy scenes of Stamboul Bazaar are enacted from day to day,
the great Persian khan, the different mosques, the Sultan's palaces at
Pera, the Imperial kiosks up the Bosphorus, the old Grecian aqueduct,
along which the water for supplying the great reservoir of the thousand
and one columns used to be conducted, the old city walls, and scores of
other interesting objects too numerous to mention here. On the opposite
hill, across the Golden Horn, Galata Watch-tower points skyward above
the mosques and houses of Galata and Pera. The two bridges connecting
Stamboul and Galata are seen thronged with busy traffic; a forest of
masts and spars is ranged all along the Golden Horn; steamboats are
plying hither and thither across the Bosphorus; the American cruiser
Quinnebaug rides at anchor opposite the Imperial water-side palace; the
blue waters of the Sea of Marmora and the Gulf of Ismidt are dotted here
and there with snowy sails or lined with the smoke of steamships; all
combined to make the most lovely panorama imaginable, and to which the
coast-wise hills and more lofty mountains of Asia Minor in the distance
form a most appropriate background.
>From this vantage-point the guide will not neglect whetting the curiosity
of his charge for more sight-seeing by pointing out everything that he
imagines would be interesting; he points out a hill above Scutari, whence,
he says, a splendid view can be had of "all Asia Minor," and "we could
walk there and back in half a day, or go quicker with horses or donkeys;"
he reminds you that to-morrow is the day for the howling dervishes in
Scutari, and tells you that by starting at one we can walk out to the
English cemetery, and return to Scutari in time for the howling dervishes
at four o'clock, and manages altogether to get his employer interested
in a programme, which, if carried out, would guarantee him employment
for the next week. On the way back to Galata we visit the tomb of Sulieman
I, the most magnificent tomb in Stamboul. Here, before the coffins of
Sulieman I., Sulieman II, and his brother Ahmed, are monster wax candles,
that have stood sentry here for three hundred and fifty years; and the
mosaic dome of the beautiful edifice is studded with what are popularly
believed to be genuine diamonds, that twinkle down on the curiously
gazing visitor like stars from a miniature heaven. The attendant tells
the guide, in answer to an inquiry from me, that no one living knows
whether they are genuine diamonds or not, for never, since the day it
was finished, over three centuries and a half ago, has anyone been
permitted to go up and examine them. The edifice was go perfectly and
solidly built in the beginning, that no repairs of any kind have ever
been necessary; and it looks almost like a new building to-day.
Not being able to spare the time for visiting all the objects of interest
enumerated by the guide, I elect to see the howling dervishes as the
most interesting among them. Accordingly we take the ferry-boat across
to Scutari on Thursday afternoon in time to visit the English cemetery
before the dervishes begin their peculiar services. We pass through one
of the largest Mussulman cemeteries of Constantinople, a bewildering
area of tombstones beneath a grove of dark cypresses, so crowded and
disorderly that the oldest gravestones seem to have been pushed down,
or on one side, to make room for others of a later generation, and these
again for still others. In happy comparison to the disordered area of
crowded tombstones in the Mohammedan graveyard is the English cemetery,
where the soldiers who died at the Scutari hospital during the Crimean
war were buried, and the English residents of Constantinople now bury
their dead. The situation of the English cemetery is a charming spot,
on a sloping bluff, washed by the waters of the Bosphorus, where the
requiem of the murmuring waves is perpetually sung for the brave fellows
interred there. An Englishman has charge; and after being in Turkey a
month it is really quite refreshing to visit this cemetery, and note the
scrupulous neatness of the grounds. The keeper must be industry personified,
for he scarcely permits a dead leaf to escape his notice; and the four
angels beaming down upon the grounds from the national monument erected
by England, in memory of the Crimean heroes, were they real visitors
from the better land, could doubtless give a good account of his
stewardship.
The howling dervishes have already begun to howl as we open the portals
leading into their place of worship by the influence of a cherik placed
in the open palm of a sable eunuch at the door; but it is only the
overture, for it is half an hour later when the interesting part of the
programme begins. The first hour seems to be devoted to preliminary
meditations and comparatively quiet ceremonies; but the cruel-looking
instruments of self-flagellation hanging on the wall, and a choice and
complete assortment of drums and other noise-producing but unmelodious
instruments, remind the visitor that he is in the presence of a peculiar
people. Sheepskin mats almost cover the floor of the room, which is kept
scrupulously clean, presumably to guard against the worshippers soiling
their lips whenever they kiss the floor, a ceremony which they perform
quite frequently during the first hour; and everyone who presumes to
tread within that holy precinct removes his over-shoes, if he is wearing
any, otherwise he enters in his stockings. At five o'clock the excitement
begins; thirty or forty men are ranged around one end of the room, bowing
themselves about most violently, and keeping time to the movements of
their bodies with shouts of "Allah. Allah." and then branching off into
a howling chorus of Mussulman supplications, that, unintelligible as
they are to the infidel ear, are not altogether devoid of melody in the
expression, the Turkish language abounding in words in which there is a
world of mellifluousness. A dancing dervish, who has been patiently
awaiting at the inner gate, now receives a nod of permission from the
priest, and, after laying aside an outer garment, waltzes nimbly into
the room, and straightway begins spinning round like a ballet-dancer
in Italian opera, his arms extended, his long skirt forming a complete
circle around him as he revolves, and his eyes fixed with a determined
gaze into vacancy. Among the howlers is a negro, who is six feet three
at least, not in his socks, but in the finest pair of under-shoes in the
room, and whether it be in the ceremony of kissing the floor, knocking
foreheads against the same, kissing the hand of the priest, or in the
howling and bodily contortions, this towering son of Ham performs his
part with a grace that brings him conspicuously to the fore in this
respect. But as the contortions gradually become more-violent, and the
cry of "Allah akbar. Allah hai!" degenerates into violent grunts of "
h-o-o-o-o-a-hoo-hoo," the half-exhausted devotees fling aside everything
but a white shroud, and the perspiration fairly streams off them, from
such violent exercise in the hot weather and close atmosphere of the
small room. The exercises make rapid inroads upon the tall negro's powers
of endurance, and he steps to one side and takes a breathing-spell of
five minutes, after which he resumes his place again, and, in spite of
the ever-increasing violence of both lung and muscular exercise, and the
extra exertion imposed by his great height, he keeps it up heroically
to the end.
For twenty-five minutes by my watch, the one lone dancing dervish - who
appears to be a visitor merely, but is accorded the brotherly privilege
of whirling round in silence while the others howl-spins round and round
like a tireless top, making not the slightest sound, spinning in a long,
persevering, continuous whirl, as though determined to prove himself
holier than the howlers, by spinning longer than they can keep up their
howling - a fair test of fanatical endurance, so to speak. One cannot help
admiring the religious fervor and determination of purpose that impel
this lone figure silently around on his axis for twenty-five minutes,
at a speed that would upset the equilibrium of anybody but a dancing
dervish in thirty seconds; and there is something really heroic in the
manner in which he at last suddenly stops, and, without uttering a sound
or betraying any sense of dizziness whatever from the exercise, puts on
his coat again and departs in silence, conscious, no doubt, of being a
holier person than all the howlers put together, even though they are
still keeping it up. As unmistakable signals of distress are involuntarily
hoisted by the violently exercising devotees, and the weaker ones quietly
fall out of line, and the military precision of the twists of body and
bobbing and jerking of head begins to lose something of its regularity,
the six "encouragers," ranged on sheep-skins before the line of howling
men, like non-commissioned officers before a squad of new recruits,
increase their encouraging cries of "Allah. Allah akbar" as though fearful
that the din might subside, on account of the several already exhausted
organs of articulation, unless they chimed in more lustily and helped
to swell the volume.
Little children now come trooping in, seeking with eager anticipation
the happy privilege of being ranged along the floor like sardines in a
tin box, and having the priest walk along their bodies, stepping from
one to the other along the row, and returning the same way, while two
assistants steady him by holding his hands. In the case of the smaller
children, the priest considerately steps on their thighs, to avoid
throwing their internal apparatus out of gear; but if the recipient of
his holy attentions is, in his estimation, strong enough to run the risk,
he steps square on their backs, The little things jump up as sprightly
as may be, kiss the priest's hand fervently, and go trooping out of the
door, apparently well pleased with the novel performance. Finally human
nature can endure it no longer, and the performance terminates in a long,
despairing wail of "Allah. Allah. Allah!" The exhausted devotees, soaked
wet with perspiration, step forward, and receive what I take to be rather
an inadequate reward for what they have been subjecting themselves to -
viz., the privilege of kissing the priest's already much-kissed hand,
and at 5.45 P.M. the performance is over. I take my departure in time
to catch the six o'clock boat for Galata, well satisfied with the finest
show I ever saw for a cherik. I have already made mention of there being
many beautiful sea-side places to which Constantinopolitans resort on
Sundays and holidays, and among them all there is no lovelier spot than
the island of Prinkipo, one of the Prince's Islands group, situated some
twelve miles from Constantinople, down the Gulf of Ismidt. Shelton Bey
(Colonel Shelton), an English gentleman, who superintends the Sultan's
cannon-foundry at Tophana, and the well-known author of Shelton's "
Mechanic's Guide," owns the finest steam-yacht on the Bosphorus, and
three Sundays out of the five I remain here, this gentleman and his
excellent lady kindly invite me to visit Prinkipo with them for the day.
On the way over we usually race with the regular passenger steamer, and
as the Bey's yacht is no plaything for size and speed, we generally
manage to keep close enough to amuse ourselves with the comments on the
beauty and speed of our little craft from the crowded deck of the other
boat. Sometimes a very distinguished person or two is aboard the yacht
with our little company, personages known to the Bey, who having arrived
on the passenger-boat, accept invitations for a cruise around the island,
or to dine aboard the yacht as she rides at anchor before the town. But
the advent of the " Americanish Velocipediste " and his glistening
machine, a wonderful thing that Prinkipo never saw the like of before,
creates a genuine sensation, and becomes the subject of a nine-days'
wonder. Prinkipo is a delightful gossipy island, occupied during the
summer by the families of wealthy Constantinopolitans and leading business
men, who go to and fro daily between the little island and the city on
the passenger-boats regularly plying between them, and is visited every
Sunday by crowds in search of the health and pleasure afforded by a day's
outing. While here at Constantinople I received by mail from America a
Butcher spoke cyclometer, and on the second visit to Prinkipo I measured
the road which has been made around half the island; the distance is
four English miles and a fraction. The road was built by refugees employed
by the Sultan during the last Russo-Turkish war, and is a very good one;
for part of the distance it leads between splendid villas, on the verandas
of which are seen groups of the wealth and beauty of the Osmanli capital,
Armenians, Greeks, and Turks - the latter ladies sometimes take the privilege
of dispensing with the yashmak during their visits to the comparative
seclusion of Prinkipo villas - with quite a sprinkling of English and
Europeans. The sort of impression made upon the imaginations of Prinkipo
young ladies by the bicycle is apparent from the following comment made
by a bevy of them confidentially to Shelton Bey, and kindly written out
by him, together with the English interpretation thereof. The Prinkipo
ladies' compliment to the first bicycle rider visiting their beautiful
island is: "O Bizdan kaydore ghyurulduzug em nezalcettt sadi bir dakika
ulchum ghyuriorus nazaman bir dah backiorus O bittum gitmush." (He glides
noiselessly and gracefully past; we see him only for a moment; when we
look again he is quite gone.) The men are of course less poetical, their
ideas running more to the practical side of the possibilities of the new
ox-rival, and they comment as follows: "Onum beyghir hich-bir-shey
yemiore hich-bir-shey ichmiore Inch yorumliore ma sheitan gibi ghiti-ore,"
(His horse, he eats nothing, drinks nothing, never gets tired, and goes
like the very devil.) It is but fair to add, however, that any bold
Occidental contemplating making a descent on Prinkipo with a, "sociable"
with a view to delightful moonlight rides with the fair; authors of
the above poetic contribution will find himself "all at sea" upon, his
arrival, unless he brings a three-seated machine, so that the mamma can
be accommodated with a seat behind, since the daughters of Prinkipo
society never wander forth by moonlight, or any other light, unless thus
accompanied, or by some; equally staid and solicitous relative.
For the Asiatic tour I have invented a "bicycle tent" - a handy contrivance
by which the bicycle is made to answer the place of tent poles. The
material used is fine, strong sheeting, that will roll up into a small
space, and to make it thoroughly water-proof, I have dressed it with
boiled linseed oil. My footgear henceforth will be Circassian moccasins,
with the pointed toes sticking up like the prow of a Venetian galley. I
have had a pair made to order by a native shoemaker in Galata, and, for
either walking or pedalling, they are ahead of any foot-gear I ever wore;
they are as easy as a three-year-old glove, and last indefinitely, and
for fancifulness in appearance, the shoes of civilization are nowhere.
Three days before starting out I receive friendly warnings from both the
English and American consul that Turkey in Asia is infested with brigands,
the former going the length of saying that if he had the power he would
refuse me permission to meander forth upon so risky an undertaking. I
have every confidence, however, that the bicycle will prove an effectual
safeguard against any undue familiarity on the part of these frisky
citizens. Since reaching Constantinople the papers here have published
accounts of recent exploits accomplished by brigands near Eski Baba. I
have little doubt but that more than one brigand was among my highly
interested audiences there on that memorable Sunday.
The Turkish authorities seem to have made themselves quite familiar with
my intentions, and upon making application for a teskere (Turkish passport)
they required me to specify, as far as possible, the precise route I
intend traversing from Scutari to Ismidt, Angora, Erzeroum, and beyond,
to the Persian frontier. An English gentleman who has lately travelled
through Persia and the Caucasus tells me that the Persians are quite
agreeable people, their only fault being the one common failing of the
East: a disposition to charge whatever they think it possible to obtain
for anything. The Circassians seem to be the great bugbear in Asiatic
Turkey. I am told that once I get beyond the country that these people
range over - who are regarded as a sort of natural and half-privileged
freebooters - I shall be reasonably safe from molestation. It is a common
thing in Constantinople when two men are quarrelling for one to threaten
to give a Circassian a couple of medjedis to kill the other. The Circassian
is to Turkey what the mythical "bogie" is to England; mothers threaten
undutiful daughters, fathers unruly sons, and everybody their enemies
generally, with the Circassian, who, however, unlike the "bogie" of the
English household, is a real material presence, popularly understood to
be ready for any devilment a person may hire him to do.
The bull-dog revolver, under the protecting presence of which I have
travelled thus far, has to be abandoned here at Constantinople, having
proved itself quite a wayward weapon since it came from the gunsmith's
hands in Vienna, who seemed to have upset the internal mechanism in some
mysterious manner while boring out the chambers a trifle to accommodate
European cartridges. My experience thus far is that a revolver has been
more ornamental than useful; but I am now about penetrating far different
countries to any I have yet traversed. Plenty of excellently finished
German imitations of the Smith & Wesson revolver are found in the magazines
of Constantinople; but, apart from it being the duty of every Englishman
or American to discourage, as far as his power goes, the unscrupulousness
of German manufacturers in placing upon foreign markets what are, as far
as outward appearance goes, the exact counterparts of our own goods, for
half the money, a genuine American revolver is a different weapon from
its would-be imitators, and I hesitate not to pay the price for the
genuine article. Remembering the narrow escape on several occasions of
having the bull-dog confiscated by the Turkish gendarmerie, and having
heard, moreover, in Constantinople, that the same class of officials in
Turkey in Asia will most assuredly want to confiscate the Smith & Wesson
as a matter of private speculation and enterprise, I obtain through the
British consul a teskere giving me special permission to carry a revolver.
Subsequent events, however, proved this precaution to be unnecessary,
for a more courteous, obliging, and gentlemanly set of fellows, according
to their enlightenment, I never met any where, than the government
officials of Asiatic Turkey. Were I to make the simple statement that I
am starting into Asia with a pair of knee-breeches that are worth fourteen
English pounds (about sixty-eight dollars) and offer no further explanation,
I should, in all probability, be accused of a high order of prevarication.
Nevertheless, such is the fact; for among other subterfuges to outwit
possible brigands, and kindred citizens, I have made cloth-covered buttons
out of Turkish liras (eighteen shillings English), and sewed them on in
place of ordinary buttons. Pantaloon buttons at $54 a dozen are a luxury
that my wildest dreams never soared to before, and I am afraid many a
thrifty person will condemn me for extravagance; but the "splendor"
of the Orient demands it; and the extreme handiness of being able to cut
off a button, and with it buy provisions enough to load down a mule,
would be all the better appreciated if one had just been released from
the hands of the Philistines with nothing but his clothes - and buttons - and
the bicycle. With these things left to him, one could afford to regard
the whole matter as a joke, expensive, perhaps, but nevertheless a joke
compared with what might have been. The Constantinople papers have
advertised me to start on Monday, August 10th, "direct from Scutari."
I have received friendly warnings from several Constantinople gentlemen,
that a band of brigands, under the leadership of an enterprising chief
named Mahmoud Pehlivan, operating about thirty miles out of Scutari,
have beyond a doubt received intelligence of this fact from spies here
in the city, and, to avoid running direct into the lion's mouth, I decide
to make the start from Ismidt, about twenty-five miles beyond their
rendezvous. A Greek gentleman, who is a British subject, a Mr. J. T.
Corpi, whom I have met here, fell into the hands of this same gang, and
being known to them as a wealthy gentleman, had to fork over 3,000 ransom;
and he says I would be in great danger of molestation in venturing from
Scutari to Ismidt after my intention to do so has been published.