Part 7 (1/2)
Such romantic incidents would doubtless have met with recognition on behalf of the whole race of dogs in the days of Haroun-al-Raschid, or other heroes of the ”Arabian Nights,” but the Young Turkey party of to-day are not to be moved by such considerations. They are practical men, and, desiring to cleanse the streets of Constantinople of a recognized nuisance, they decreed the extermination of _skilos_. But, taking into consideration the Moslem abhorrence of taking away animal life, a curious compromise was made. They were to be banished to a large enclosure at the city walls. A special forceps was invented for the purpose of trapping them, and at dead of night munic.i.p.al officers gripped the sleeping dogs by the neck or the body, and pitched them into a cart, which conveyed them to their so-called ”hotel.” Terrible fights occurred there between dogs already in residency and new arrivals, but it frequently happened that kind-hearted Turks waylaid the carts and liberated the captives.
Within their enclosure the dogs were fed and received water at the expense of the State, a grant of 5,000 a year having been voted in Parliament for their maintenance; but soon the s.p.a.ce allotted them proved inadequate, and their cries and smells became so horrible that it was decided to move them to another locality.
A little uninhabited island, called Oxya, about fifteen miles from the city, was selected for the purpose, and 30,000 were transported to it.
But the island had no water, and the supply of bread was difficult and irregular, and the result was that six months after their transportation only one solitary dog, of which I have the photograph, survived to tell the tale.
Discouraged by their want of success, Government has, I understand, now given up the attempt to exterminate the _skilos_, and any of my readers who happen to visit Constantinople will probably have the pleasure of forming their acquaintance.
CHAPTER XIII
THE GALATA BRIDGE AND THE BAZAARS
An attempt has been made in these pages to conduct the reader over the domains of the Sultan of Turkey, and to introduce him to some of his subjects, but there is perhaps no better place in the world for getting a panoramic view of the various races depicted than on the bridge which spans the Golden Horn, and joins Stamboul with the Galata quarter of Constantinople (see frontispiece). Nor can you find the various products of the Empire exhibited within a more suitable compa.s.s than in the bazaars of Stamboul.
It is computed that no less than twenty million persons pa.s.s over the bridge in the course of a year--_i.e._, about 50,000 daily. The races there represented are too numerous to mention. Each wears its distinctive dress, and foot and head gear, and the contrast of design and colour is wonderful, and not limited to women, as in a European crowd. Here comes an Albanian in white petticoats and crimson sash bristling with pistols; there goes an Emba.s.sy _cava.s.s_ resplendent in scarlet; there is an _Ulema_, or high ecclesiastic, with green turban and flowing robes of white, and another dressed in magenta and a white turban; soldiers in khaki or in pale blue come next, and Young Turk officers all spick and span in new uniforms. A Whirling Dervish, with tall, conical, brown head-dress then moves majestically along, followed by a Bedouin, with camel-hair mantle over his shoulders, and silken kerchief over his head. Alongside him is an M.P. from Arabia, with flowing green coat, and white cap with green turban around it, indicating consanguinity with Mahomet. As for representatives of the other s.e.x, you see groups shuffling along in soft yellow boots, and dragging loose overshoes--overshoes which often prove serviceable weapons of attack to any Turkish woman who has been insulted.
The Turkish ladies' dress is frequently bright-coloured, and a white veil is thrown over the head and face, but sometimes the dress itself is used for that purpose. The fas.h.i.+on, however, is prevailing that black should be used, and the women look like silhouettes flitting along.
Should it happen to be a Friday, sounds of military music greet your ear, and you hear the tramp of infantry as the Sultan's soldiers march along to line the streets through which he must pa.s.s on his way to mosque.
Nothing can rival the physical appearance, dogged perseverance, and power of endurance of the soldiers streaming before you, and the prancing steeds ridden by the officers excite your admiration.
But another sound, less musical, may disturb your ear, and a horde of half-naked savages appear, carrying on poles what you would call a garden-pump, but which is really a fire-engine. A man carrying the hose-nozzle precedes, and as they tear along, shouting ”_Sagh ol!_”