CHAPTER XXIV.CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA—TIFLIS, “THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS”—IN SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT—SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.We left Resht Monday, March 21, on board the nondescript steamer “B.” There were but two cabins afforded by the steamer, and to one of these Capt. Ahrninckie assigned the Inter Ocean tourists. The run to Baku is less than the Chicago-Milwaukee or Cleveland-Detroit runs, but owing to delays we did not reach Baku until Thursday, March 24. We formed a number of friends in the city, dinners, teas and drives being of daily occurrence. We also attended the opera, but as great as was our diversion, we pined for the days that we should again be in the saddle, with our feet upon the pedal. Our Easter Sunday of 1898 we spent in Tiflis, the quaintest of all Russian cities. Tiflis is called the “Paris of the Caucasus,” but the real significance of the name is “Hot Springs.” Hot Springs there are at Tiflis, not of valuable mineral nature, but most grateful to the weary traveler who visits the bath-houses, and after a thorough steaming is kneaded into supple activity by Persian attendants. Here, of all the cities on earth, I do not know of any one which will afford the visitor more varied and interesting street scenes. New Orleans, when in the regalia of its annual Mardi-Gras, is not more picturesque. It is not only the fanciful appearance of the street, but the unique procession of pedestrians, men of all nations, that makes Tiflis and its streets appear like the dancing room of a bal masque. The Russian and the natives of the Caucasus are more hospitable than any people we ever met. Officials of the city heaped upon us courtesies and seemed to enter into a contest with each other in paying us attention. The last few days of our stay in Tiflis were unusually busy. The ruined tires of Mrs. McIlrath’s bicycle and the badly damaged front tire of my own had to be replaced by new ones, and the best we could make out was to purchase inner tubes and alter our old tires to suit the available article. We left Tiflis on April 14, many friends being present to see us off. We were all happy, even including Rodney, the monkey, to be again awheel. I should mention that it was not until after our sojourn in Tiflis that Mrs. McIlrath wasable, for the first time since her horrible night in the mountains of Persia, to put her feet again to the pedals of her machine. Lost twice on the road, and with many an inconvenience and delay, an account of which would be but to go over in part our misfortunes in other climes, we arrived during the latter part of April at Ahkty, 60 miles from Mount Ararat, the most famed mountain in the world’s history, the resting place of the ark in which Noah preserved the family, human animal, reptile and winged.The day after our arrival in Ahkty was a fete day in Russia, the birthday of the Grand Duke. The town was rich in color with the red, blue and white flags, the shops were closed and bands played in the park. Troops in dress uniform swarmed the streets; women and children in holiday clothes promenaded through the groves of trees ’neath the window of our hotel; and above all, shown in glittering, lofty beauty Mount Ararat, immaculate and cold as if, since her duty done in receiving the ship of God, she had locked herself in frigid mail against the frivolous people beneath.An oil-laden tramp steamer, after three days of wallowing along the shores of Asia Minor, placed us in Constantinople on June 9. We had been directed to several hotels in the city, but as our informants had confessed that all were uniformly piratical in their practices, we selected one directly opposite the American Consulate. Galatea, the section of the city in which we landed, is the water front and wholesale commercial portion of the town, and as we threaded our way through the crowded street, following closely the coolies who carried our luggage, we had excellent opportunity of witnessing the sights of the most interesting quarter of the great city. To those who have not visited the interiors of China, India, Burmah and Persia, Constantinople may appear truly Oriental, but to the Inter Ocean cyclists the city presented anything but a resemblance to manners and customs Eastern. We spent seven days in diligent search for curious sights, and of them all we decided that the most attractive features were the Salaamlik, or public reception at prayer by the Sultan; “the dogs of Stamboul” and Constantinople, the fires and fire department, and the museum and the tomb of Alexander. The religious day of Mussulmans is Friday, and we were present when Abdul Hamid, the Sultan, wended his way to the mosque to pray. The populists turned out to greet him, and soldiers flashed their way through the streets; it was a gala day in Constantinople. We saw the face of the Sultan squarely, but it did not please us. If it were possible for human face to resemble a hawk, the Sultan of Turkey certainly bore that resemblance to the cruel bird. The eyes were glittering, the brows big and slanting, the nose hooked, and the lips thin and compressed. The face was notone to be forgotten. Features do not always bespeak the character of a man, but, after looking into the eyes of the Sultan, one could readily understand how such a man could order the extermination of the opposing sect of a religious people, and calmly read the report of his subordinates who informed him that 3,500 of his Armenian subjects had been slain in the streets of Constantinople and Stamboul in less than thirty-six hours.Fires are a serious event in Constantinople, much more so than my American brethren, in whose country conflagrations are daily affairs, can well imagine. The city, with its sea breeze, the hills and valleys as a flue, and with houses of wood, and streets so narrow that flames overreach, a fire, with ordinary start, has an advantage which only exhaustion and skill will overcome. As we saw for ourselves, “exhaustion” is the only method of the Constantinople firemen. There is so much ceremony about going to a fire that the chief and his men are well nigh put out by fatigue before the blaze is extinguished. When I say extinguished, I mean before the fire burns itself out. It is prevented only from being a conflagration by the fact that those members of the department not laid out for want of breath, and assisted by zealous citizens, grab long poles and push and pull down the adjacent buildings. “The dogs ofStamboul” are numbered by the thousands. They are quiet and well behaved, do not bark at wagons and pedestrians, and sleep on the sidewalk, in the gutter and in the middle of the street. They are the scavengers of the city, and woe to the man who abuses them. Sleeping by day, they wake into activity as night advances and the shops close. Meat markets, restaurants, bakeries, private residences and hotels throw the leavings from counter and table into the gutters, and the dogs “do the rest.”I must record, while in Constantinople, the untimely death of Rodney, the monkey. The following quotation appeared in the Servet of Constantinople, and is a fair example, at the same time, of a Turkish newspaper joke: “Suicide at the Maison Tokatlian.—Effendi McIlrath, an American journalist, who is resting at the Maison Tokatlian, is completing a remarkable journey through the interior of Asia and Europe, using bicycles to transport himself and wife. The sights of Constantinople have proven so attractive that the gentleman has had little time to devote to a pet monkey, which has been his companion for several thousand miles. After sunset of the past day the monkey was left alone in the gentleman’s room, and upon returning from dinner the master found the animal hanging by his neck from the window sash. As no papers were left and no warning given, jealousy is ascribed as the cause, but the police will investigate.”I do not know that jealousy was the cause of the little fellow’sself-inflicted end, but I am inclined to believe that the desire to reach some strawberries which lay upon the table near him, the twisting of the strap on his neck, and the consequent choking, had more to do with the ending of Rodney’s erratic career.We departed for Constantza, Roumania, Saturday, June 18, on one of the coasting steamers carrying mail and passengers to the Oriental express, bound for Paris via Buda-Pesth and Vienna. I would not attempt to fix the date when Roumania was populated, but during the ages when Romans required visitors to do as Romans did, the toga-clad nation utilized Roumania as a sort of ancient Australia, a dumping-ground for incorrigible criminals. Some of the hotel and restaurant keepers in Roumania at the present day should be able to trace their ancestry without trouble. The traits of the pioneers are still exhibited. Constantza is pretty; it is one of those white, clean little places which only exist on the sea fronts where coal dust, soot and factories and black dust is unknown. It is called the “Brighton of Roumania,” but since the water off Long Island is just as salt, and the hotel prices almost as exorbitant, the name might be improved on.We selected the Hotel Union in Bucharest as our stopping place, but scarcely had we entered the corridors one evening than a crowd hemmed us in and began the usual catechism in the three popular languages, French, German and Roumanian. Though I managed to slip Mrs. McIlrath through the crowd and up to her chamber, I was unable to leave the throng until two hours later. The next day we were visited by the various members of the “Clubul Ciclistilar Bucharest,” which means Bucharest’s Cycling Club, and, after luncheon with some of the English-speaking members, we were made honorary members of the organization. Principally Germans, the club is a jolly set. They were our guides, companions and entertainers during our sojourn in the city. They sent flowers to Mrs. McIlrath, dined us, invited us to their meetings, and presented us with souvenirs of the occasion. We fared well in the city, and our ride over the miserable roads was the chief topic in cycling circles. It is inconceivable to me why a country so intensely interesting as Roumania, a city so wickedly fascinating and beautiful as Bucharest, should be so little frequented by travelers. Paris, with all its world-wide reputation as a city of gold-plated vice, cannot compare with the more obscure Bucharest. Lovers of beautiful architecture will find in the palaces, museum and academy all that they desire; admirers of glittering uniforms and lovely women will be able to feast their eyes each evening, when all the capital turns out in dress parade on the beautiful boulevarde; artists will find quaint characters, costumes, landscapes and romantic homes, and the novelist of Zolaism will be able to weave plots of realism that will horrifythe morals andtitillatethe perverted palate of the sensation-loving gourmand. As a kingdom, Roumania enjoys liberties which are not to be equaled in any republic extant. The press is free to the extent that monarch and private character, private history and personal characteristics are not exempt from type. Were American editors to write as do their Roumanian brothers, the vocation would be one excluded from the lists of acceptable risks of life insurance companies. Rains delayed our departure from Bucharest until Sunday, July 26. We were escorted on our start from the city, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, by Messrs. Furth and Jensen, two of the most hardy road riders of the Bucharest Cycling Club, and we whirled off thirty-one kilometers ere we entered Ploesti, the half-way stop.
CHAPTER XXIV.CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA—TIFLIS, “THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS”—IN SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT—SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.We left Resht Monday, March 21, on board the nondescript steamer “B.” There were but two cabins afforded by the steamer, and to one of these Capt. Ahrninckie assigned the Inter Ocean tourists. The run to Baku is less than the Chicago-Milwaukee or Cleveland-Detroit runs, but owing to delays we did not reach Baku until Thursday, March 24. We formed a number of friends in the city, dinners, teas and drives being of daily occurrence. We also attended the opera, but as great as was our diversion, we pined for the days that we should again be in the saddle, with our feet upon the pedal. Our Easter Sunday of 1898 we spent in Tiflis, the quaintest of all Russian cities. Tiflis is called the “Paris of the Caucasus,” but the real significance of the name is “Hot Springs.” Hot Springs there are at Tiflis, not of valuable mineral nature, but most grateful to the weary traveler who visits the bath-houses, and after a thorough steaming is kneaded into supple activity by Persian attendants. Here, of all the cities on earth, I do not know of any one which will afford the visitor more varied and interesting street scenes. New Orleans, when in the regalia of its annual Mardi-Gras, is not more picturesque. It is not only the fanciful appearance of the street, but the unique procession of pedestrians, men of all nations, that makes Tiflis and its streets appear like the dancing room of a bal masque. The Russian and the natives of the Caucasus are more hospitable than any people we ever met. Officials of the city heaped upon us courtesies and seemed to enter into a contest with each other in paying us attention. The last few days of our stay in Tiflis were unusually busy. The ruined tires of Mrs. McIlrath’s bicycle and the badly damaged front tire of my own had to be replaced by new ones, and the best we could make out was to purchase inner tubes and alter our old tires to suit the available article. We left Tiflis on April 14, many friends being present to see us off. We were all happy, even including Rodney, the monkey, to be again awheel. I should mention that it was not until after our sojourn in Tiflis that Mrs. McIlrath wasable, for the first time since her horrible night in the mountains of Persia, to put her feet again to the pedals of her machine. Lost twice on the road, and with many an inconvenience and delay, an account of which would be but to go over in part our misfortunes in other climes, we arrived during the latter part of April at Ahkty, 60 miles from Mount Ararat, the most famed mountain in the world’s history, the resting place of the ark in which Noah preserved the family, human animal, reptile and winged.The day after our arrival in Ahkty was a fete day in Russia, the birthday of the Grand Duke. The town was rich in color with the red, blue and white flags, the shops were closed and bands played in the park. Troops in dress uniform swarmed the streets; women and children in holiday clothes promenaded through the groves of trees ’neath the window of our hotel; and above all, shown in glittering, lofty beauty Mount Ararat, immaculate and cold as if, since her duty done in receiving the ship of God, she had locked herself in frigid mail against the frivolous people beneath.An oil-laden tramp steamer, after three days of wallowing along the shores of Asia Minor, placed us in Constantinople on June 9. We had been directed to several hotels in the city, but as our informants had confessed that all were uniformly piratical in their practices, we selected one directly opposite the American Consulate. Galatea, the section of the city in which we landed, is the water front and wholesale commercial portion of the town, and as we threaded our way through the crowded street, following closely the coolies who carried our luggage, we had excellent opportunity of witnessing the sights of the most interesting quarter of the great city. To those who have not visited the interiors of China, India, Burmah and Persia, Constantinople may appear truly Oriental, but to the Inter Ocean cyclists the city presented anything but a resemblance to manners and customs Eastern. We spent seven days in diligent search for curious sights, and of them all we decided that the most attractive features were the Salaamlik, or public reception at prayer by the Sultan; “the dogs of Stamboul” and Constantinople, the fires and fire department, and the museum and the tomb of Alexander. The religious day of Mussulmans is Friday, and we were present when Abdul Hamid, the Sultan, wended his way to the mosque to pray. The populists turned out to greet him, and soldiers flashed their way through the streets; it was a gala day in Constantinople. We saw the face of the Sultan squarely, but it did not please us. If it were possible for human face to resemble a hawk, the Sultan of Turkey certainly bore that resemblance to the cruel bird. The eyes were glittering, the brows big and slanting, the nose hooked, and the lips thin and compressed. The face was notone to be forgotten. Features do not always bespeak the character of a man, but, after looking into the eyes of the Sultan, one could readily understand how such a man could order the extermination of the opposing sect of a religious people, and calmly read the report of his subordinates who informed him that 3,500 of his Armenian subjects had been slain in the streets of Constantinople and Stamboul in less than thirty-six hours.Fires are a serious event in Constantinople, much more so than my American brethren, in whose country conflagrations are daily affairs, can well imagine. The city, with its sea breeze, the hills and valleys as a flue, and with houses of wood, and streets so narrow that flames overreach, a fire, with ordinary start, has an advantage which only exhaustion and skill will overcome. As we saw for ourselves, “exhaustion” is the only method of the Constantinople firemen. There is so much ceremony about going to a fire that the chief and his men are well nigh put out by fatigue before the blaze is extinguished. When I say extinguished, I mean before the fire burns itself out. It is prevented only from being a conflagration by the fact that those members of the department not laid out for want of breath, and assisted by zealous citizens, grab long poles and push and pull down the adjacent buildings. “The dogs ofStamboul” are numbered by the thousands. They are quiet and well behaved, do not bark at wagons and pedestrians, and sleep on the sidewalk, in the gutter and in the middle of the street. They are the scavengers of the city, and woe to the man who abuses them. Sleeping by day, they wake into activity as night advances and the shops close. Meat markets, restaurants, bakeries, private residences and hotels throw the leavings from counter and table into the gutters, and the dogs “do the rest.”I must record, while in Constantinople, the untimely death of Rodney, the monkey. The following quotation appeared in the Servet of Constantinople, and is a fair example, at the same time, of a Turkish newspaper joke: “Suicide at the Maison Tokatlian.—Effendi McIlrath, an American journalist, who is resting at the Maison Tokatlian, is completing a remarkable journey through the interior of Asia and Europe, using bicycles to transport himself and wife. The sights of Constantinople have proven so attractive that the gentleman has had little time to devote to a pet monkey, which has been his companion for several thousand miles. After sunset of the past day the monkey was left alone in the gentleman’s room, and upon returning from dinner the master found the animal hanging by his neck from the window sash. As no papers were left and no warning given, jealousy is ascribed as the cause, but the police will investigate.”I do not know that jealousy was the cause of the little fellow’sself-inflicted end, but I am inclined to believe that the desire to reach some strawberries which lay upon the table near him, the twisting of the strap on his neck, and the consequent choking, had more to do with the ending of Rodney’s erratic career.We departed for Constantza, Roumania, Saturday, June 18, on one of the coasting steamers carrying mail and passengers to the Oriental express, bound for Paris via Buda-Pesth and Vienna. I would not attempt to fix the date when Roumania was populated, but during the ages when Romans required visitors to do as Romans did, the toga-clad nation utilized Roumania as a sort of ancient Australia, a dumping-ground for incorrigible criminals. Some of the hotel and restaurant keepers in Roumania at the present day should be able to trace their ancestry without trouble. The traits of the pioneers are still exhibited. Constantza is pretty; it is one of those white, clean little places which only exist on the sea fronts where coal dust, soot and factories and black dust is unknown. It is called the “Brighton of Roumania,” but since the water off Long Island is just as salt, and the hotel prices almost as exorbitant, the name might be improved on.We selected the Hotel Union in Bucharest as our stopping place, but scarcely had we entered the corridors one evening than a crowd hemmed us in and began the usual catechism in the three popular languages, French, German and Roumanian. Though I managed to slip Mrs. McIlrath through the crowd and up to her chamber, I was unable to leave the throng until two hours later. The next day we were visited by the various members of the “Clubul Ciclistilar Bucharest,” which means Bucharest’s Cycling Club, and, after luncheon with some of the English-speaking members, we were made honorary members of the organization. Principally Germans, the club is a jolly set. They were our guides, companions and entertainers during our sojourn in the city. They sent flowers to Mrs. McIlrath, dined us, invited us to their meetings, and presented us with souvenirs of the occasion. We fared well in the city, and our ride over the miserable roads was the chief topic in cycling circles. It is inconceivable to me why a country so intensely interesting as Roumania, a city so wickedly fascinating and beautiful as Bucharest, should be so little frequented by travelers. Paris, with all its world-wide reputation as a city of gold-plated vice, cannot compare with the more obscure Bucharest. Lovers of beautiful architecture will find in the palaces, museum and academy all that they desire; admirers of glittering uniforms and lovely women will be able to feast their eyes each evening, when all the capital turns out in dress parade on the beautiful boulevarde; artists will find quaint characters, costumes, landscapes and romantic homes, and the novelist of Zolaism will be able to weave plots of realism that will horrifythe morals andtitillatethe perverted palate of the sensation-loving gourmand. As a kingdom, Roumania enjoys liberties which are not to be equaled in any republic extant. The press is free to the extent that monarch and private character, private history and personal characteristics are not exempt from type. Were American editors to write as do their Roumanian brothers, the vocation would be one excluded from the lists of acceptable risks of life insurance companies. Rains delayed our departure from Bucharest until Sunday, July 26. We were escorted on our start from the city, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, by Messrs. Furth and Jensen, two of the most hardy road riders of the Bucharest Cycling Club, and we whirled off thirty-one kilometers ere we entered Ploesti, the half-way stop.
CHAPTER XXIV.CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA—TIFLIS, “THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS”—IN SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT—SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.
CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA—TIFLIS, “THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS”—IN SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT—SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.
CYCLISTS LAND IN RUSSIA—TIFLIS, “THE PARIS OF THE CAUCASUS”—IN SIGHT OF MOUNT ARARAT—SUICIDE OF THE PET MONKEY.
We left Resht Monday, March 21, on board the nondescript steamer “B.” There were but two cabins afforded by the steamer, and to one of these Capt. Ahrninckie assigned the Inter Ocean tourists. The run to Baku is less than the Chicago-Milwaukee or Cleveland-Detroit runs, but owing to delays we did not reach Baku until Thursday, March 24. We formed a number of friends in the city, dinners, teas and drives being of daily occurrence. We also attended the opera, but as great as was our diversion, we pined for the days that we should again be in the saddle, with our feet upon the pedal. Our Easter Sunday of 1898 we spent in Tiflis, the quaintest of all Russian cities. Tiflis is called the “Paris of the Caucasus,” but the real significance of the name is “Hot Springs.” Hot Springs there are at Tiflis, not of valuable mineral nature, but most grateful to the weary traveler who visits the bath-houses, and after a thorough steaming is kneaded into supple activity by Persian attendants. Here, of all the cities on earth, I do not know of any one which will afford the visitor more varied and interesting street scenes. New Orleans, when in the regalia of its annual Mardi-Gras, is not more picturesque. It is not only the fanciful appearance of the street, but the unique procession of pedestrians, men of all nations, that makes Tiflis and its streets appear like the dancing room of a bal masque. The Russian and the natives of the Caucasus are more hospitable than any people we ever met. Officials of the city heaped upon us courtesies and seemed to enter into a contest with each other in paying us attention. The last few days of our stay in Tiflis were unusually busy. The ruined tires of Mrs. McIlrath’s bicycle and the badly damaged front tire of my own had to be replaced by new ones, and the best we could make out was to purchase inner tubes and alter our old tires to suit the available article. We left Tiflis on April 14, many friends being present to see us off. We were all happy, even including Rodney, the monkey, to be again awheel. I should mention that it was not until after our sojourn in Tiflis that Mrs. McIlrath wasable, for the first time since her horrible night in the mountains of Persia, to put her feet again to the pedals of her machine. Lost twice on the road, and with many an inconvenience and delay, an account of which would be but to go over in part our misfortunes in other climes, we arrived during the latter part of April at Ahkty, 60 miles from Mount Ararat, the most famed mountain in the world’s history, the resting place of the ark in which Noah preserved the family, human animal, reptile and winged.The day after our arrival in Ahkty was a fete day in Russia, the birthday of the Grand Duke. The town was rich in color with the red, blue and white flags, the shops were closed and bands played in the park. Troops in dress uniform swarmed the streets; women and children in holiday clothes promenaded through the groves of trees ’neath the window of our hotel; and above all, shown in glittering, lofty beauty Mount Ararat, immaculate and cold as if, since her duty done in receiving the ship of God, she had locked herself in frigid mail against the frivolous people beneath.An oil-laden tramp steamer, after three days of wallowing along the shores of Asia Minor, placed us in Constantinople on June 9. We had been directed to several hotels in the city, but as our informants had confessed that all were uniformly piratical in their practices, we selected one directly opposite the American Consulate. Galatea, the section of the city in which we landed, is the water front and wholesale commercial portion of the town, and as we threaded our way through the crowded street, following closely the coolies who carried our luggage, we had excellent opportunity of witnessing the sights of the most interesting quarter of the great city. To those who have not visited the interiors of China, India, Burmah and Persia, Constantinople may appear truly Oriental, but to the Inter Ocean cyclists the city presented anything but a resemblance to manners and customs Eastern. We spent seven days in diligent search for curious sights, and of them all we decided that the most attractive features were the Salaamlik, or public reception at prayer by the Sultan; “the dogs of Stamboul” and Constantinople, the fires and fire department, and the museum and the tomb of Alexander. The religious day of Mussulmans is Friday, and we were present when Abdul Hamid, the Sultan, wended his way to the mosque to pray. The populists turned out to greet him, and soldiers flashed their way through the streets; it was a gala day in Constantinople. We saw the face of the Sultan squarely, but it did not please us. If it were possible for human face to resemble a hawk, the Sultan of Turkey certainly bore that resemblance to the cruel bird. The eyes were glittering, the brows big and slanting, the nose hooked, and the lips thin and compressed. The face was notone to be forgotten. Features do not always bespeak the character of a man, but, after looking into the eyes of the Sultan, one could readily understand how such a man could order the extermination of the opposing sect of a religious people, and calmly read the report of his subordinates who informed him that 3,500 of his Armenian subjects had been slain in the streets of Constantinople and Stamboul in less than thirty-six hours.Fires are a serious event in Constantinople, much more so than my American brethren, in whose country conflagrations are daily affairs, can well imagine. The city, with its sea breeze, the hills and valleys as a flue, and with houses of wood, and streets so narrow that flames overreach, a fire, with ordinary start, has an advantage which only exhaustion and skill will overcome. As we saw for ourselves, “exhaustion” is the only method of the Constantinople firemen. There is so much ceremony about going to a fire that the chief and his men are well nigh put out by fatigue before the blaze is extinguished. When I say extinguished, I mean before the fire burns itself out. It is prevented only from being a conflagration by the fact that those members of the department not laid out for want of breath, and assisted by zealous citizens, grab long poles and push and pull down the adjacent buildings. “The dogs ofStamboul” are numbered by the thousands. They are quiet and well behaved, do not bark at wagons and pedestrians, and sleep on the sidewalk, in the gutter and in the middle of the street. They are the scavengers of the city, and woe to the man who abuses them. Sleeping by day, they wake into activity as night advances and the shops close. Meat markets, restaurants, bakeries, private residences and hotels throw the leavings from counter and table into the gutters, and the dogs “do the rest.”I must record, while in Constantinople, the untimely death of Rodney, the monkey. The following quotation appeared in the Servet of Constantinople, and is a fair example, at the same time, of a Turkish newspaper joke: “Suicide at the Maison Tokatlian.—Effendi McIlrath, an American journalist, who is resting at the Maison Tokatlian, is completing a remarkable journey through the interior of Asia and Europe, using bicycles to transport himself and wife. The sights of Constantinople have proven so attractive that the gentleman has had little time to devote to a pet monkey, which has been his companion for several thousand miles. After sunset of the past day the monkey was left alone in the gentleman’s room, and upon returning from dinner the master found the animal hanging by his neck from the window sash. As no papers were left and no warning given, jealousy is ascribed as the cause, but the police will investigate.”I do not know that jealousy was the cause of the little fellow’sself-inflicted end, but I am inclined to believe that the desire to reach some strawberries which lay upon the table near him, the twisting of the strap on his neck, and the consequent choking, had more to do with the ending of Rodney’s erratic career.We departed for Constantza, Roumania, Saturday, June 18, on one of the coasting steamers carrying mail and passengers to the Oriental express, bound for Paris via Buda-Pesth and Vienna. I would not attempt to fix the date when Roumania was populated, but during the ages when Romans required visitors to do as Romans did, the toga-clad nation utilized Roumania as a sort of ancient Australia, a dumping-ground for incorrigible criminals. Some of the hotel and restaurant keepers in Roumania at the present day should be able to trace their ancestry without trouble. The traits of the pioneers are still exhibited. Constantza is pretty; it is one of those white, clean little places which only exist on the sea fronts where coal dust, soot and factories and black dust is unknown. It is called the “Brighton of Roumania,” but since the water off Long Island is just as salt, and the hotel prices almost as exorbitant, the name might be improved on.We selected the Hotel Union in Bucharest as our stopping place, but scarcely had we entered the corridors one evening than a crowd hemmed us in and began the usual catechism in the three popular languages, French, German and Roumanian. Though I managed to slip Mrs. McIlrath through the crowd and up to her chamber, I was unable to leave the throng until two hours later. The next day we were visited by the various members of the “Clubul Ciclistilar Bucharest,” which means Bucharest’s Cycling Club, and, after luncheon with some of the English-speaking members, we were made honorary members of the organization. Principally Germans, the club is a jolly set. They were our guides, companions and entertainers during our sojourn in the city. They sent flowers to Mrs. McIlrath, dined us, invited us to their meetings, and presented us with souvenirs of the occasion. We fared well in the city, and our ride over the miserable roads was the chief topic in cycling circles. It is inconceivable to me why a country so intensely interesting as Roumania, a city so wickedly fascinating and beautiful as Bucharest, should be so little frequented by travelers. Paris, with all its world-wide reputation as a city of gold-plated vice, cannot compare with the more obscure Bucharest. Lovers of beautiful architecture will find in the palaces, museum and academy all that they desire; admirers of glittering uniforms and lovely women will be able to feast their eyes each evening, when all the capital turns out in dress parade on the beautiful boulevarde; artists will find quaint characters, costumes, landscapes and romantic homes, and the novelist of Zolaism will be able to weave plots of realism that will horrifythe morals andtitillatethe perverted palate of the sensation-loving gourmand. As a kingdom, Roumania enjoys liberties which are not to be equaled in any republic extant. The press is free to the extent that monarch and private character, private history and personal characteristics are not exempt from type. Were American editors to write as do their Roumanian brothers, the vocation would be one excluded from the lists of acceptable risks of life insurance companies. Rains delayed our departure from Bucharest until Sunday, July 26. We were escorted on our start from the city, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, by Messrs. Furth and Jensen, two of the most hardy road riders of the Bucharest Cycling Club, and we whirled off thirty-one kilometers ere we entered Ploesti, the half-way stop.
We left Resht Monday, March 21, on board the nondescript steamer “B.” There were but two cabins afforded by the steamer, and to one of these Capt. Ahrninckie assigned the Inter Ocean tourists. The run to Baku is less than the Chicago-Milwaukee or Cleveland-Detroit runs, but owing to delays we did not reach Baku until Thursday, March 24. We formed a number of friends in the city, dinners, teas and drives being of daily occurrence. We also attended the opera, but as great as was our diversion, we pined for the days that we should again be in the saddle, with our feet upon the pedal. Our Easter Sunday of 1898 we spent in Tiflis, the quaintest of all Russian cities. Tiflis is called the “Paris of the Caucasus,” but the real significance of the name is “Hot Springs.” Hot Springs there are at Tiflis, not of valuable mineral nature, but most grateful to the weary traveler who visits the bath-houses, and after a thorough steaming is kneaded into supple activity by Persian attendants. Here, of all the cities on earth, I do not know of any one which will afford the visitor more varied and interesting street scenes. New Orleans, when in the regalia of its annual Mardi-Gras, is not more picturesque. It is not only the fanciful appearance of the street, but the unique procession of pedestrians, men of all nations, that makes Tiflis and its streets appear like the dancing room of a bal masque. The Russian and the natives of the Caucasus are more hospitable than any people we ever met. Officials of the city heaped upon us courtesies and seemed to enter into a contest with each other in paying us attention. The last few days of our stay in Tiflis were unusually busy. The ruined tires of Mrs. McIlrath’s bicycle and the badly damaged front tire of my own had to be replaced by new ones, and the best we could make out was to purchase inner tubes and alter our old tires to suit the available article. We left Tiflis on April 14, many friends being present to see us off. We were all happy, even including Rodney, the monkey, to be again awheel. I should mention that it was not until after our sojourn in Tiflis that Mrs. McIlrath wasable, for the first time since her horrible night in the mountains of Persia, to put her feet again to the pedals of her machine. Lost twice on the road, and with many an inconvenience and delay, an account of which would be but to go over in part our misfortunes in other climes, we arrived during the latter part of April at Ahkty, 60 miles from Mount Ararat, the most famed mountain in the world’s history, the resting place of the ark in which Noah preserved the family, human animal, reptile and winged.
The day after our arrival in Ahkty was a fete day in Russia, the birthday of the Grand Duke. The town was rich in color with the red, blue and white flags, the shops were closed and bands played in the park. Troops in dress uniform swarmed the streets; women and children in holiday clothes promenaded through the groves of trees ’neath the window of our hotel; and above all, shown in glittering, lofty beauty Mount Ararat, immaculate and cold as if, since her duty done in receiving the ship of God, she had locked herself in frigid mail against the frivolous people beneath.
An oil-laden tramp steamer, after three days of wallowing along the shores of Asia Minor, placed us in Constantinople on June 9. We had been directed to several hotels in the city, but as our informants had confessed that all were uniformly piratical in their practices, we selected one directly opposite the American Consulate. Galatea, the section of the city in which we landed, is the water front and wholesale commercial portion of the town, and as we threaded our way through the crowded street, following closely the coolies who carried our luggage, we had excellent opportunity of witnessing the sights of the most interesting quarter of the great city. To those who have not visited the interiors of China, India, Burmah and Persia, Constantinople may appear truly Oriental, but to the Inter Ocean cyclists the city presented anything but a resemblance to manners and customs Eastern. We spent seven days in diligent search for curious sights, and of them all we decided that the most attractive features were the Salaamlik, or public reception at prayer by the Sultan; “the dogs of Stamboul” and Constantinople, the fires and fire department, and the museum and the tomb of Alexander. The religious day of Mussulmans is Friday, and we were present when Abdul Hamid, the Sultan, wended his way to the mosque to pray. The populists turned out to greet him, and soldiers flashed their way through the streets; it was a gala day in Constantinople. We saw the face of the Sultan squarely, but it did not please us. If it were possible for human face to resemble a hawk, the Sultan of Turkey certainly bore that resemblance to the cruel bird. The eyes were glittering, the brows big and slanting, the nose hooked, and the lips thin and compressed. The face was notone to be forgotten. Features do not always bespeak the character of a man, but, after looking into the eyes of the Sultan, one could readily understand how such a man could order the extermination of the opposing sect of a religious people, and calmly read the report of his subordinates who informed him that 3,500 of his Armenian subjects had been slain in the streets of Constantinople and Stamboul in less than thirty-six hours.
Fires are a serious event in Constantinople, much more so than my American brethren, in whose country conflagrations are daily affairs, can well imagine. The city, with its sea breeze, the hills and valleys as a flue, and with houses of wood, and streets so narrow that flames overreach, a fire, with ordinary start, has an advantage which only exhaustion and skill will overcome. As we saw for ourselves, “exhaustion” is the only method of the Constantinople firemen. There is so much ceremony about going to a fire that the chief and his men are well nigh put out by fatigue before the blaze is extinguished. When I say extinguished, I mean before the fire burns itself out. It is prevented only from being a conflagration by the fact that those members of the department not laid out for want of breath, and assisted by zealous citizens, grab long poles and push and pull down the adjacent buildings. “The dogs ofStamboul” are numbered by the thousands. They are quiet and well behaved, do not bark at wagons and pedestrians, and sleep on the sidewalk, in the gutter and in the middle of the street. They are the scavengers of the city, and woe to the man who abuses them. Sleeping by day, they wake into activity as night advances and the shops close. Meat markets, restaurants, bakeries, private residences and hotels throw the leavings from counter and table into the gutters, and the dogs “do the rest.”
I must record, while in Constantinople, the untimely death of Rodney, the monkey. The following quotation appeared in the Servet of Constantinople, and is a fair example, at the same time, of a Turkish newspaper joke: “Suicide at the Maison Tokatlian.—Effendi McIlrath, an American journalist, who is resting at the Maison Tokatlian, is completing a remarkable journey through the interior of Asia and Europe, using bicycles to transport himself and wife. The sights of Constantinople have proven so attractive that the gentleman has had little time to devote to a pet monkey, which has been his companion for several thousand miles. After sunset of the past day the monkey was left alone in the gentleman’s room, and upon returning from dinner the master found the animal hanging by his neck from the window sash. As no papers were left and no warning given, jealousy is ascribed as the cause, but the police will investigate.”
I do not know that jealousy was the cause of the little fellow’sself-inflicted end, but I am inclined to believe that the desire to reach some strawberries which lay upon the table near him, the twisting of the strap on his neck, and the consequent choking, had more to do with the ending of Rodney’s erratic career.
We departed for Constantza, Roumania, Saturday, June 18, on one of the coasting steamers carrying mail and passengers to the Oriental express, bound for Paris via Buda-Pesth and Vienna. I would not attempt to fix the date when Roumania was populated, but during the ages when Romans required visitors to do as Romans did, the toga-clad nation utilized Roumania as a sort of ancient Australia, a dumping-ground for incorrigible criminals. Some of the hotel and restaurant keepers in Roumania at the present day should be able to trace their ancestry without trouble. The traits of the pioneers are still exhibited. Constantza is pretty; it is one of those white, clean little places which only exist on the sea fronts where coal dust, soot and factories and black dust is unknown. It is called the “Brighton of Roumania,” but since the water off Long Island is just as salt, and the hotel prices almost as exorbitant, the name might be improved on.
We selected the Hotel Union in Bucharest as our stopping place, but scarcely had we entered the corridors one evening than a crowd hemmed us in and began the usual catechism in the three popular languages, French, German and Roumanian. Though I managed to slip Mrs. McIlrath through the crowd and up to her chamber, I was unable to leave the throng until two hours later. The next day we were visited by the various members of the “Clubul Ciclistilar Bucharest,” which means Bucharest’s Cycling Club, and, after luncheon with some of the English-speaking members, we were made honorary members of the organization. Principally Germans, the club is a jolly set. They were our guides, companions and entertainers during our sojourn in the city. They sent flowers to Mrs. McIlrath, dined us, invited us to their meetings, and presented us with souvenirs of the occasion. We fared well in the city, and our ride over the miserable roads was the chief topic in cycling circles. It is inconceivable to me why a country so intensely interesting as Roumania, a city so wickedly fascinating and beautiful as Bucharest, should be so little frequented by travelers. Paris, with all its world-wide reputation as a city of gold-plated vice, cannot compare with the more obscure Bucharest. Lovers of beautiful architecture will find in the palaces, museum and academy all that they desire; admirers of glittering uniforms and lovely women will be able to feast their eyes each evening, when all the capital turns out in dress parade on the beautiful boulevarde; artists will find quaint characters, costumes, landscapes and romantic homes, and the novelist of Zolaism will be able to weave plots of realism that will horrifythe morals andtitillatethe perverted palate of the sensation-loving gourmand. As a kingdom, Roumania enjoys liberties which are not to be equaled in any republic extant. The press is free to the extent that monarch and private character, private history and personal characteristics are not exempt from type. Were American editors to write as do their Roumanian brothers, the vocation would be one excluded from the lists of acceptable risks of life insurance companies. Rains delayed our departure from Bucharest until Sunday, July 26. We were escorted on our start from the city, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, by Messrs. Furth and Jensen, two of the most hardy road riders of the Bucharest Cycling Club, and we whirled off thirty-one kilometers ere we entered Ploesti, the half-way stop.