Not one of these animals has a master, not one of them a name. They lie about the hollows in the streets like pigs in a sty; and men step carefully over them, and horses turn aside to let them snooze in peace. Why should they not? In Constantinople, more than anywhere else, every dog "will have his day; " for in the night time they are hard at work. Dogs are, in fact, the principal scavengers of the city, - the canine brooms of the streets. At night the refuse of the kitchen is thrown into the gutters for their consumption, and they devour almost everything save oyster-shells. Only the ostrich can surpass them in digestive powers. Marvelous stories are told of these animals. They are said to have a police force of their own, exempt as yet from any charges of corruption. They certainly do have special districts, sacred to a limited number of their race; and if any strange cur intrudes on precincts not his own, the ugly brutes that patrol that quarter attack him with such fury that he is lucky to return at all to his own set, even with torn ears, a lost eye, and a tail of woe. No traveler, however, need fear them. These Turkish dogs will not molest men, and hydrophobia is here unknown.

Street Docs

Street Docs.

The Underground Palace

The Underground Palace.

But if the curs of Constantinople are never mad enough to be afraid of water, no more so are the people themselves; for one can always easily find a bath or a fountain in Stamboul. One of the most attractive of its fountains is that of Sultan Achmet, which no one passes without admiration. It is a beautiful specimen of Oriental art, composed entirely of marble and resembling a miniature temple. From each of its four sides, beneath an inlaid arch, springs a jet of water.

Fountain Of Sultan Achmet

Fountain Of Sultan Achmet.

Popcorn Sellers

Popcorn Sellers.

Moreover, its walls fairly sparkle with ornamentation, for on no one of them is there a space as large as a Sultana's hand that is not either carved, gilded, or set in mosaic. The breath of Time, it is true, has somewhat dimmed its colors; but even now, after a lapse of one hundred and seventy years, this fountain, when illumined by the sun, looks like the gorgeous jewel casket of some genie of the Arabian Nights. Constantinople has many exquisite fountains. Where the ancient Greek reared a statue, and the modern Christian erects a crucifix, the Moslem constructs a fountain, since to the Mohammedans, water is the most essential thing in life. Drinking neither wine nor beer, they, more than others, are dependent upon water. Moreover, five times a day, before they pray to Allah, they must wash at least their hands. Hence every mosque invariably has its fountain for ablutions; and so has almost every public square. These fountains are, as a rule, the gifts of private individuals. The names of the donors, however, do not appear on them; but, instead, a quotation from some poet, praising pure water, and contrasting it with intoxicating drinks, which the Koran forbids. It should be fore, that though their streets are often filthy, the Turks themselves are personally clean.

A Jewel Casket

A Jewel Casket.

A Wayside Lavatory

A Wayside Lavatory.

The subject of fountains and cleanliness naturally suggests that of the Turkish bath. On my first visit to one of the bathing establishments of Stamboul, I hesitated several times as I approached the doorway. Travelers have told such different stories of their treatment in these baths, that one feels doubtful just what to expect. Some have pronounced them places of torture; others have become ecstatic over them, as if they were the ante-rooms of Paradise. "What will my fortune be there?" I asked myself repeatedly with dubious heart. At last determined to have the question answered one way or the other, I crossed the threshold. After a grotesque pantomime with the proprietor, who spoke nothing but Turkish, I reduced my clothing to almost microscopic proportions and followed two half-naked men into a suite of dimly-lighted rooms, each having a temperature more infernal than the last. In one of these I found a score of men, apparently wrapped in grave-clothes. Some were walking around, like restless ghosts; others lay motionless, like corp in a morgue. Here my forebodings, which had been gradually growing more and more gloomy, reached their lowest depth. Till then I had merely suspected,0 - now I felt certain that my last day had come. The perspiration commenced to pour down my body in streams. All about me I could hear peculiarly suggestive blows, as if a hundred Turkish mothers were administering corporal punishment to their children. I was beginning to speculate what would be done with my remains after I had expired, when my attendants seized and bore me into another room, the temperature of which might have inspired fear in Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. Without a word of warning, they laid me out, full length, upon a marble slab. I remained there about one-sixteenth of a second. Then, leaping up with a howl of pain, I asked my torturers in most vigorous English what they meant by trying to broil me alive. The Turks grinned deluged the slab with water, and induced me to lie down again. I immediately thought my back was being scorched, but despite my writhings they pinned me down and held me firmly with their knees. In vain I cried out; these horrid followers of the Prophet slapped me, pinched me, scratched me, kneaded me like dough, cracked all my joints, made every one of my vertebrae explode like a cannon-cracker, and finally (though of this I cannot be quite sure), they wrung me out like a dish-cloth. Then they took from the gridiron what was left of me and carried it into another room, where they deluged it with alternate streams of hot and cold water. Suddenly they stopped, and asked me a question in Turkish. I had no idea whether they were inquiring after my health, or telling me to say my prayers before I expired. I retorted in French, German, Italian, and English. It was of no use. They could speak only Turkish, of which I knew not a single word. To this moment I shudder to think what might have been my fate, had I, at a venture, nodded to them affirmalively; for, seeing my perplexity, they pointed out to me a corner of the hall. There I beheld a barber shaving a man's head completely, with the exception of one little tuft, left on the crown, by which the Turks believe the Angel of Death will draw up souls at the Resurrection.