A TURKISH BATH
"OSMAN, you may go with me to the public bath-house," said his father,
one bright morning. "I have business at the bazaar to-day, and we will
go there afterward. You can have a good bath."
Osman was delighted. A whole day with his father was a great treat.
Besides, it pleased him to think of a visit to the public bath-house.
There was a large marble bath-room in his own home, and there were
furnaces underneath to heat it. There were servants to wait upon him as
he bathed. "Yet the public bath is better still," thought Osman, "and I
love to go there." Probably you have all heard of Turkish baths. They
are so delightful that people in America and other countries have copied
them from the Turks. They have built similar bath-houses in their
cities.
"Are we to drive or walk, papa?" asked Osman.
"We will drive. The carriage will be here in a few moments."
After a short drive they drew up in front of a large and handsome
building. It was the public bath-house.
The first room entered by Osman and his father was a large hall. It was
open overhead to let in the fresh air. There was a raised platform
around the sides. This platform was covered with a soft carpet and
divided into small dressing-rooms. Each visitor would have one of these
for himself.
A fountain was playing in the middle of the hall, making sweet music as
the water fell into the marble basin.
"Go into one of those little rooms and take off your clothing, Osman,"
said his father.
The little boy was soon ready for the bath. The attendant had wound
three bright-bordered towels around him. One of these was tied about his
waist, the second was twisted into a turban around his head, while the
third one was thrown over his shoulders. He would not catch cold, for
the towels were thick and warm. He wore wooden slippers on his feet.
Now for the warm chamber.
Osman knew what was coming. He went at once to the marble platform in
the middle of the room. There he stretched himself on a soft mattress
which the attendants placed for him.
They began to rub his feet and limbs very gently. How pleasant and
restful it was! The little boy soon began to perspire. This was the
time for moving him into a still warmer room, called the hot chamber.
Here Osman was rubbed briskly with a camel's-hair glove after a bowl of
water had been poured over his body.
"Oh, how good this is," he thought, sleepily, when scented water was
brought in, the attendant using the soft fibres of the palm in bathing
him with the fragrant water. It was very, very pleasant.
There was no hurry. Hot clothing was laid on the boy when this last
bathing was over; cold water was poured over his feet and he was taken
to the cooling-room. Here he could lie on a soft, pleasant couch as long
as he wished.
After a good rest, how the blood danced through every part of his body!
Tired! It did not seem as though he could ever be tired again in his
life. He was ready for any amount of walking and sightseeing.
"Father," he said, as they left the building and turned into one of the
busiest streets, "I think a bath is one of the pleasantest things in the
whole world."
"It almost makes a new man out of an old one," answered the serious
Turk.
He never called himself a Turk, however. He would feel insulted to hear
us speak of him in that manner. He would say, "I am an Osmanli, that is,
a subject of the empire founded by Osman."
Osman, the founder of the empire, is also called Otman, so the subjects
are sometimes spoken of as Ottomans, and their country as the Ottoman
Empire.
Now let us go back to our little Osman and his father.
"See that poor beggar," whispered the little boy. "May I give him a
coin, papa?"
It was a sickly-looking old man who filled Osman's heart with pity. He
was very dirty, and his clothes were torn and ragged, although they
were gay with bright colours. As he leaned against the side of a
fountain, he made a picture you would like to paint. He kept crying,
"Baksheesh, baksheesh," to the passers-by.
What a beautiful fountain it was! It had a wide roof, giving a pleasant
shade. There were gilded gratings all around it, worked in lovely
patterns,--roses and honeysuckles and trailing vines.
Brass drinking-cups, hanging around the sides, seemed to say, "Come,
thirsty traveller, come and drink."
What a fluttering and cooing there was over the roof. At least a hundred
pigeons were flying about, fearless and happy. No one would harm them,
not even the ragged street boys who were playing about the fountain and
ready for any mischief.
After Osman had given a silver coin to the beggar, his father pointed
to the fountain, and said, "Look, my child, at the beautiful pattern of
the grating."
"How pretty the gilded flowers are," answered Osman. "I love to see
them. But, papa, there are ever so many fountains in our city. Nearly
half of them are as pretty as this one. I believe there is hardly a
street without one."
"I knew a very good man who died a few months ago. He left his money to
be used in building a fountain. It was a kind deed. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, indeed, papa. There are always people and animals who are thirsty.
It is a comfort to have fresh water at hand, especially if it is a warm
day."
[Illustration: "THROUGH THE CROWD OF BUSY PEOPLE."]
As Osman was speaking, he heard a sound of music. Looking down the
street, he saw two gipsies coming toward him. The man was playing on a
bagpipe, and leading a tame bear. The woman was dressed in bright
colours. She was beating a tambourine.
"Isn't it pretty music, papa? Oh, do look at the bear," cried Osman. "He
is doing some tricks."
His father was in no hurry, so he and Osman joined the crowd who
gathered around the gipsies. The bear danced in time to the music, and
did other amusing things.
Osman tossed him a coin, which he carried to his master. This pleased
the others, and they threw him some more coins.
"At this rate, the gipsies will go home to-night quite rich," laughed
Osman's father, as they passed on. "We will go to the bazaar now. I must
attend to some business there before it is much later."
"See that man with the tiger's skin over his shoulders," said Osman, a
few minutes later. "He is clothed in rags, but he isn't a beggar, is
he?"
"No, indeed, Osman. He is without doubt a wise man of our own faith, who
prefers to be poor. He has probably come to the city to visit some holy
tomb, in order to keep a vow he has made. He may have travelled many
hundreds of miles. You should honour him, my little boy."
Osman and his father still moved through the crowd of busy people. They
passed many Greeks and Armenians, who carry on a large share of the
business of the city. There were also Englishmen and Americans, who were
seeing the sights of this strange, lively place.
There were serious-looking Mohammedan priests in white and green
turbans, with their eyes bent down to the ground. There were
water-carriers with big jars on their backs, and sweetmeat-sellers with
scales on which they were ever ready to weigh out the rich candies of
Turkey.
As for dogs and beggars, there were hundreds of them, without a doubt.
"There is the bazaar, papa. I can see it on the hilltop beyond us."
It was an immense building of a brownish gray colour. You might almost
call it a city in itself.
As Osman and his father began to climb the hill, they made their way
between many stands and tiny booths where goods were for sale.
Everything looked inviting, and Osman saw several things he wished to
buy.
"See those lovely grapes, papa. I should like to carry some of them
home," said the boy. But his father would not stop.
"We will not buy anything till we reach the bazaar," he said. "You will
see enough there to tempt you, I do not doubt."
They passed on, and soon reached the entrance of the great building. It
was quiet and dark inside, and there were many narrow little streets or
passages, through which hundreds of people were moving. Each narrow
passage was given up to the sale of some special thing.
The shopkeepers were from many different countries. There were shrewd
Armenians, wily Greeks, Persians with big caps on their heads, and Turks
with long beards, squatting comfortably by their counters.
The high roof was over all. Light was given by great numbers of little
domes shining in every direction through this city of shops.
It was very pleasant to Osman. He liked to watch the crowds and look at
the many lights. He enjoyed the strange odours of the East. He never
grew tired of looking at the rich and beautiful goods for sale,--the
goods of Europe, Asia, and Africa. Three continents seemed to meet in
the great bazaar of Constantinople.
"Oh, papa, please look at these lovely stones. I should like to buy
that necklace for mamma, she is so fond of amber."
But the boy's father replied, "Not to-day, Osman, not to-day."
Some queerly wrought swords now caught the boy's eye. They were made of
the finest steel, and the handles were richly ornamented.
"How I wish I could have one of those for my very own, papa. Mayn't I
please have one?"
"When you are a young man, Osman, we will look for the most elegant
sword to be bought. But not now, my child."
Osman forgot his longing for a sword when he stood in front of a stand
where perfumes were sold.
"We will buy some of this attar of roses. It will please your mother,
and you may give it to her," said the father.
The Turks are fond of delicate perfumes, and there is none they like
better than attar of roses, which is largely made in Turkey, and sent
from there to other countries.
"Why does it cost so much?" asked Osman, as his father handed a gold
coin to the shopkeeper.
"It is because only a few drops can be obtained from hundreds and
hundreds of the flowers. Next year, you shall take a journey with me,
Osman. I am going to the part of our country where the roses are raised
for this purpose. It is a beautiful sight,--the fields thickly dotted
with the sweet-smelling blossoms. You shall then see how the people get
fragrant perfume from the flowers."
"I'm getting so hungry, papa. Can't we get some lunch? That cheese makes
my mouth water."
A man with a round wicker basket containing different kinds of cheese
was going through the street and calling his wares.
"Hush, Osman." His father pointed to the tower of a small mosque.
High up in this tower stood a man crying out to all faithful believers
of Mohammed. It was the call to prayer.
Five times each day this prayer-caller mounted the tower. Each time he
cried out to the people who were within reach of his voice.
Osman and his father instantly turned toward the sacred city of Mecca,
and, kneeling down right where they stood, repeated a short prayer.
Then they slowly rose and turned their steps toward a restaurant, where
they could get a delicious lunch.
There were many other peddlers in the streets besides the cheese-seller.
Some of the shoppers bought what they wished from these peddlers. They
could get unleavened bread or biscuits, custards, ices, sherbet,
sweetmeats, hot vegetables, and many other things.
But Osman's father said, "We can be more comfortable in the restaurant.
Besides, I should like a good dish of kebaby."
Kebaby! It was an odd name and an odd dish.
"It is very, very good," thought our little Turkish cousin, as he began
to eat from the steaming soup-plate set before him.
The cook had placed tiny squares of unleavened bread in the bottom of
the dish. Over this he had poured a quantity of sour cream, and last of
all came little squares of hot meat. The dish was seasoned with salt,
pepper, cardamom, and sumach.
"Good! Yes, very good," said Osman's father, as he tasted the kebaby.
"There is nothing I like better."
When the lunch was over, he and his little son went to that part or the
bazaar where carpets were sold. After many words about the price, a
beautiful rug was purchased. Its colours were soft and rich. It was
woven so closely it would last for many years. The shopkeeper had said
it would be good for a lifetime, and he probably spoke the truth.
"Before we go home, will you take me out on the bridge of boats?" asked
Osman. "It isn't far from the bazaar."
"Aren't you too tired?"
"No, indeed; the bath this morning made me ready for anything."
A short walk brought Osman and his father to the bridge of which he had
spoken. It joins the main city of Constantinople and the suburb of Pera.
"It doesn't seem as though the bridge could be made of boats until we
look over the sides, does it?" said Osman.
"No, dear. They are firmly chained together and covered with such strong
planks that this bridge seems like any other. I must say I like to come
here, myself. We can get such a fine view of the Golden Horn."
"Why do people call our harbour the Golden Horn?"
"It is shaped somewhat like a horn. Besides this, it is the channel
through which many shiploads of the richest goods are carried. Think of
the precious things you saw in the bazaar to-day, the beautiful gems,
the spices, the silks, the shawls of camel's hair."
"I understand now. But look! There is a camel with a heavy load on his
back. His master is leading him. I love camels."
"When I was a little boy," said his father, "my mother used to tell me
stories of the old times. In those days there were none of the
new-fashioned carriages in our streets. Only the gaily trimmed arabas,
and sedan-chairs carried on men's shoulders could be seen."
"Mamma sometimes goes in a sedan-chair now," said Osman. "It must be a
warm way of riding in summer-time, though. The close curtains keep out
the air."
"You would have liked to see the camels in the old days, Osman.
Merchants often travelled through the streets with whole processions of
those animals. They went very slowly, to be sure, and they blocked up
the streets. But camels are steady, faithful creatures, and are good
beasts of burden."
"The dress of the people was much prettier long ago, wasn't it?"
"Indeed, it was. It is a shame so many of our people copy the fashions
of other countries. The dress now looks stiff and ugly beside the loose
robes and bright colours of the old times. But see, my child, the day
has left us and I am tired. We must hasten homeward."