TURKEYThe cloud-capp'd towers,The gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples.Shakspere,The Tempest,Act IV, Scene 1, Line 153.CONSTANTINOPLE:Duringthe early hours of yesterday morning we reached Smyrna, one of the seven cities spoken of in the Book of Revelation, and we spent the day in its odd, underground bazaars. Wildness, madness and fiendishness have lost their terrors for me since landing at Smyrna.LANDING AT SMYRNABY SPECIAL PERMISSION COPYRIGHT BY DR. J. L. LEEPERImagine all the wild animals of the zoo put together in one cage and all roaring at the same time and you will have some idea of the sound that greeted my ears as our ship dropped anchor. Then look over the rail and, as far as the eye can see, picture rowboats by the hundreds, so thickly crammed together that scarcely a bit of the water can be seen. Watch the oarsman pushing another boat or beating his brother boatman over the head with his oar, each of them yelling at the top of hisvoice, and you will have a dim outline of what really happened. All had the same object in view—that of getting as many passengers as they could carry, and as soon as possible.Our dragoman turned us over to a Turkish guide who proved to be a scholar and a Christian.The bazaars are filthy, but the filth simply serves to make prominent by contrast the beautiful embroideries and laces displayed there. If one dares to give more than a passing glance at any of these, the old Turks will follow trying to force a purchase.To think that Homer should have chosen Smyrna for his birthplace! Yet it was and still is the most important city of Asia Minor, and is picturesquely situated on the Ægean Sea.When we finally reached the ship, after the oarsmen's battlesen routeduring which I had sat still with my eyes closed thinking hard, our Christian Turk came up to me, and, to my surprise and delight, whispered: "We know why we are safe, do we not?"I wonder if he understood that the tears in my eyes were not from fear?The same scene of the boatman was enacted at the Dardanelles. Later, however, all the harsh things were forgotten, as over a foreground of blue sea the dim outline of a city was seen through the mist of the morning.No one can call Constantinople beautiful, but all must admit that it is the most interesting city in Europe. Unique in being situated in both Europe and Asia, the city is divided, like Gaul, into three parts—Stamboul and Galata-Pera, separated from each other by the Golden Horn, in Europe, and Skutari across the Bosporus, in Asia.Galata is the modern business section containing the banks, steamship offices, commission houses and the like, while Pera is on the heights above it with the hotels, the embassies and the homes of the foreigners.Stamboul, or Constantinople proper, is situated on seven hills, on one of which stood the ancient city of Byzantium. Here are the old seraglio and Santa Sophia,—Santa Sophia, with its altars of gold, mosaics of precious stones, pillars of rare marble, its wonderful history and its antiquity.CONSTANTINOPLEBetween the mountain and the sea, inSkutari, nestles the cluster of buildings occupied by the American College for girls, the only college for women in the western Levant. When you learn through what vicissitudes I achieved myentréeto this cosmopolitanécole, you will wonder that I write of it with any degree of composure, or that I am here to write of it at all.Everything seemed so perfectly planned for a comfortable and safe little journey from the hotel in Pera to Skutari, that I followed the attendant without question. He placed me in a caique (ki-eek) putting me in charge of the caiquejee (ki-eek-gee), saying that in a few moments this man would land me at the place where my American friend was in waiting on the other side.A caique is a long narrow skiff with cushions in the bottom upon which one must sit quietly else the boat will tip. My caiquejee and his assistant seemed very mild sort of Turks, for they would nod and smile when I waved my hand at something odd or interesting.I was not versed then in the etiquette of the caiquejee, nor yet in the mysteries of their thousand and one superstitions, but I found, to my sorrow, that to toucheven the hem of another caiquejee's oar was the signal for ordering guns or any other explosive at hand, including vocal fireworks.It was bright and sunny when I left the hotel, but a storm cloud soon appeared and it grew darker and darker. In their haste to reach the other shore, my caiquejee happened to run into another caique, which in any other place on earth would have been overlooked with a bow of excuse.Not so on the Bosporus! My mild-mannered Turks and the three in the other caique were at battle in a second. Had I been able to speak their language, and offer them money, they could not have heard me, so horrible were their cries. There was nothing to do but to sit still and pray and try to balance the shell-like caique.Suddenly my caiquejee raised his heavy oar to fling it at the other, lost his balance, and we were all dashed into the cold water of the Bosporus.Instantly the clatter ceased. Some one held me up in the water, and guided the upturned boat toward my hands. After the longest moments of my life, the other heavier caique was caught and balancedwhile I was dragged into it. It was then I noticed there were but four of us where there had been six.I did not crythen, but tried to know I was being cared for. I afterwards learned that it was my silence that saved me. Had I cried or screamed they would have thrown me overboard again and gone away without me, for there is a superstition about tears in a storm, and where a woman is concerned all signs are of an adverse nature.Suddenly one of the Turks gave a blood-curdling yell to attract the attention of the pilot on the little steamer that plies between Skutari and the Galata Bridge.I was helped on board and cared for. No woman could have been more kind, more respectful, or more solicitous for my comfort than were these young Turks. They formed a ring around me sheltering me from the gaze of the rougher, older ones. They put their capes about me while they dried my coat, hat and shoes, and shielded my face as I stood by the engine door to dry my skirt.The young Turk who had held me up in the water could speak a little French, and made me understand that I was perfectly safe and that he would see me to mycarriage. He told me that he was a passenger in the caique which collided with the one I was in, and that a caiquejee from each boat went down in the battle.When you read some dramatic account of the varied fancies that are supposed to pass through the thoughts of one who is drowning, take itcum grano salis. Believe me, the one and only thought that takes possession of a poor mortal at such a time is to grasp something with his hands, and if this is accomplished, his next desire is to feel something solid beneath his feet. His past is nothing, his future less. The present is all there is of human existence. Oh, how well I know this to be true!I tried to show my gallant Turk the gratitude I felt for his efforts in my behalf. He informed me that I could repay him by speaking a word for his countrymen, if the occasion arose. I can see his dark face now light up with pleasure at my promise as he touched his forehead with his hand, for he had lost hisfezin the waters.THE GALATA BRIDGE, CONSTANTINOPLEBY PERMISSION OF DR. LEEPERCOPYRIGHT BY DR. LEEPERWe parted neither of us knowing the other's name, but no word against the rising generation of Turks can ever be said in my presence since that night.I did not rest long undisturbed among the cushions of the carriage he found for me, for my driver who had gone on at a good speed suddenly stopped in the steepest, darkest part of the almost perpendicular incline that leads up to Pera from Galata, and, turning, showed me a coin, demanding something at the same time. I divined that he was asking if I would pay him that much, and I, with my cheeriest smile, nodded. But as he turned to gather up the reins again, I caught sight of his face and only the presence of my guardian angel, who had held my hand all that awful day, kept me from shrieking or from fainting.Finally we turned into the lighted street in which was my hotel, and I was out of the victoria, through the door and into the lift before the carriage had stopped. I called to the clerk to pay the tariff from the Galata Bridge and to give the driver hisbacksheesh. Their angry voices ascended with the elevator.When I reached my room and had turned the key in the lock, I sobbed out all my pent-up emotion and thankfulness.Will you credit it when I tell you that I started again? This time, however, Iwent on the steamboat accompanied by one of the American teachers from the college.In spite of the night spent on—and in—the black waters of the Bosporus, when I think of Constantinople, it is not of this—not of its filthy streets nor its thousands of pariah dogs, not of their howls nor the well nigh unbearable din of bells and yells—but of my first view of a phantom-like city, seated on seven hills, the sides covered with many-colored roofs which slope down to a long white kiosk, of minarets, of mosques with slender spires, and of one tall sentinel cypress tree in the foreground, all seen through the haze of dawn over Marmora's blue waters.
The cloud-capp'd towers,The gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples.Shakspere,The Tempest,Act IV, Scene 1, Line 153.
The cloud-capp'd towers,The gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples.Shakspere,The Tempest,Act IV, Scene 1, Line 153.
The cloud-capp'd towers,
The gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples.
Shakspere,The Tempest,
Act IV, Scene 1, Line 153.
Duringthe early hours of yesterday morning we reached Smyrna, one of the seven cities spoken of in the Book of Revelation, and we spent the day in its odd, underground bazaars. Wildness, madness and fiendishness have lost their terrors for me since landing at Smyrna.
LANDING AT SMYRNABY SPECIAL PERMISSION COPYRIGHT BY DR. J. L. LEEPER
LANDING AT SMYRNA
BY SPECIAL PERMISSION COPYRIGHT BY DR. J. L. LEEPER
Imagine all the wild animals of the zoo put together in one cage and all roaring at the same time and you will have some idea of the sound that greeted my ears as our ship dropped anchor. Then look over the rail and, as far as the eye can see, picture rowboats by the hundreds, so thickly crammed together that scarcely a bit of the water can be seen. Watch the oarsman pushing another boat or beating his brother boatman over the head with his oar, each of them yelling at the top of hisvoice, and you will have a dim outline of what really happened. All had the same object in view—that of getting as many passengers as they could carry, and as soon as possible.
Our dragoman turned us over to a Turkish guide who proved to be a scholar and a Christian.
The bazaars are filthy, but the filth simply serves to make prominent by contrast the beautiful embroideries and laces displayed there. If one dares to give more than a passing glance at any of these, the old Turks will follow trying to force a purchase.
To think that Homer should have chosen Smyrna for his birthplace! Yet it was and still is the most important city of Asia Minor, and is picturesquely situated on the Ægean Sea.
When we finally reached the ship, after the oarsmen's battlesen routeduring which I had sat still with my eyes closed thinking hard, our Christian Turk came up to me, and, to my surprise and delight, whispered: "We know why we are safe, do we not?"
I wonder if he understood that the tears in my eyes were not from fear?
The same scene of the boatman was enacted at the Dardanelles. Later, however, all the harsh things were forgotten, as over a foreground of blue sea the dim outline of a city was seen through the mist of the morning.
No one can call Constantinople beautiful, but all must admit that it is the most interesting city in Europe. Unique in being situated in both Europe and Asia, the city is divided, like Gaul, into three parts—Stamboul and Galata-Pera, separated from each other by the Golden Horn, in Europe, and Skutari across the Bosporus, in Asia.
Galata is the modern business section containing the banks, steamship offices, commission houses and the like, while Pera is on the heights above it with the hotels, the embassies and the homes of the foreigners.
Stamboul, or Constantinople proper, is situated on seven hills, on one of which stood the ancient city of Byzantium. Here are the old seraglio and Santa Sophia,—Santa Sophia, with its altars of gold, mosaics of precious stones, pillars of rare marble, its wonderful history and its antiquity.
CONSTANTINOPLE
CONSTANTINOPLE
Between the mountain and the sea, inSkutari, nestles the cluster of buildings occupied by the American College for girls, the only college for women in the western Levant. When you learn through what vicissitudes I achieved myentréeto this cosmopolitanécole, you will wonder that I write of it with any degree of composure, or that I am here to write of it at all.
Everything seemed so perfectly planned for a comfortable and safe little journey from the hotel in Pera to Skutari, that I followed the attendant without question. He placed me in a caique (ki-eek) putting me in charge of the caiquejee (ki-eek-gee), saying that in a few moments this man would land me at the place where my American friend was in waiting on the other side.
A caique is a long narrow skiff with cushions in the bottom upon which one must sit quietly else the boat will tip. My caiquejee and his assistant seemed very mild sort of Turks, for they would nod and smile when I waved my hand at something odd or interesting.
I was not versed then in the etiquette of the caiquejee, nor yet in the mysteries of their thousand and one superstitions, but I found, to my sorrow, that to toucheven the hem of another caiquejee's oar was the signal for ordering guns or any other explosive at hand, including vocal fireworks.
It was bright and sunny when I left the hotel, but a storm cloud soon appeared and it grew darker and darker. In their haste to reach the other shore, my caiquejee happened to run into another caique, which in any other place on earth would have been overlooked with a bow of excuse.
Not so on the Bosporus! My mild-mannered Turks and the three in the other caique were at battle in a second. Had I been able to speak their language, and offer them money, they could not have heard me, so horrible were their cries. There was nothing to do but to sit still and pray and try to balance the shell-like caique.
Suddenly my caiquejee raised his heavy oar to fling it at the other, lost his balance, and we were all dashed into the cold water of the Bosporus.
Instantly the clatter ceased. Some one held me up in the water, and guided the upturned boat toward my hands. After the longest moments of my life, the other heavier caique was caught and balancedwhile I was dragged into it. It was then I noticed there were but four of us where there had been six.
I did not crythen, but tried to know I was being cared for. I afterwards learned that it was my silence that saved me. Had I cried or screamed they would have thrown me overboard again and gone away without me, for there is a superstition about tears in a storm, and where a woman is concerned all signs are of an adverse nature.
Suddenly one of the Turks gave a blood-curdling yell to attract the attention of the pilot on the little steamer that plies between Skutari and the Galata Bridge.
I was helped on board and cared for. No woman could have been more kind, more respectful, or more solicitous for my comfort than were these young Turks. They formed a ring around me sheltering me from the gaze of the rougher, older ones. They put their capes about me while they dried my coat, hat and shoes, and shielded my face as I stood by the engine door to dry my skirt.
The young Turk who had held me up in the water could speak a little French, and made me understand that I was perfectly safe and that he would see me to mycarriage. He told me that he was a passenger in the caique which collided with the one I was in, and that a caiquejee from each boat went down in the battle.
When you read some dramatic account of the varied fancies that are supposed to pass through the thoughts of one who is drowning, take itcum grano salis. Believe me, the one and only thought that takes possession of a poor mortal at such a time is to grasp something with his hands, and if this is accomplished, his next desire is to feel something solid beneath his feet. His past is nothing, his future less. The present is all there is of human existence. Oh, how well I know this to be true!
I tried to show my gallant Turk the gratitude I felt for his efforts in my behalf. He informed me that I could repay him by speaking a word for his countrymen, if the occasion arose. I can see his dark face now light up with pleasure at my promise as he touched his forehead with his hand, for he had lost hisfezin the waters.
THE GALATA BRIDGE, CONSTANTINOPLEBY PERMISSION OF DR. LEEPERCOPYRIGHT BY DR. LEEPER
THE GALATA BRIDGE, CONSTANTINOPLEBY PERMISSION OF DR. LEEPERCOPYRIGHT BY DR. LEEPER
We parted neither of us knowing the other's name, but no word against the rising generation of Turks can ever be said in my presence since that night.
I did not rest long undisturbed among the cushions of the carriage he found for me, for my driver who had gone on at a good speed suddenly stopped in the steepest, darkest part of the almost perpendicular incline that leads up to Pera from Galata, and, turning, showed me a coin, demanding something at the same time. I divined that he was asking if I would pay him that much, and I, with my cheeriest smile, nodded. But as he turned to gather up the reins again, I caught sight of his face and only the presence of my guardian angel, who had held my hand all that awful day, kept me from shrieking or from fainting.
Finally we turned into the lighted street in which was my hotel, and I was out of the victoria, through the door and into the lift before the carriage had stopped. I called to the clerk to pay the tariff from the Galata Bridge and to give the driver hisbacksheesh. Their angry voices ascended with the elevator.
When I reached my room and had turned the key in the lock, I sobbed out all my pent-up emotion and thankfulness.
Will you credit it when I tell you that I started again? This time, however, Iwent on the steamboat accompanied by one of the American teachers from the college.
In spite of the night spent on—and in—the black waters of the Bosporus, when I think of Constantinople, it is not of this—not of its filthy streets nor its thousands of pariah dogs, not of their howls nor the well nigh unbearable din of bells and yells—but of my first view of a phantom-like city, seated on seven hills, the sides covered with many-colored roofs which slope down to a long white kiosk, of minarets, of mosques with slender spires, and of one tall sentinel cypress tree in the foreground, all seen through the haze of dawn over Marmora's blue waters.