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    Chapter 33

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    Chapter 34
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    From Athens all through the islands of the Grecian Archipelago, we saw
    little but forbidding sea-walls and barren hills, sometimes surmounted by
    three or four graceful columns of some ancient temple, lonely and
    deserted--a fitting symbol of the desolation that has come upon all
    Greece in these latter ages. We saw no ploughed fields, very few
    villages, no trees or grass or vegetation of any kind, scarcely, and
    hardly ever an isolated house. Greece is a bleak, unsmiling desert,
    without agriculture, manufactures or commerce, apparently. What supports
    its poverty-stricken people or its Government, is a mystery.

    I suppose that ancient Greece and modern Greece compared, furnish the
    most extravagant contrast to be found in history. George I., an infant
    of eighteen, and a scraggy nest of foreign office holders, sit in the
    places of Themistocles, Pericles, and the illustrious scholars and
    generals of the Golden Age of Greece. The fleets that were the wonder of
    the world when the Parthenon was new, are a beggarly handful of
    fishing-smacks now, and the manly people that performed such miracles of
    valor at Marathon are only a tribe of unconsidered slaves to-day. The
    classic Illyssus has gone dry, and so have all the sources of Grecian
    wealth and greatness. The nation numbers only eight hundred thousand
    souls, and there is poverty and misery and mendacity enough among them
    to furnish forty millions and be liberal about it. Under King Otho the
    revenues of the State were five millions of dollars--raised from a tax
    of one-tenth of all the agricultural products of the land (which tenth
    the farmer had to bring to the royal granaries on pack-mules any
    distance not exceeding six leagues) and from extravagant taxes on trade
    and commerce. Out of that five millions the small tyrant tried to keep
    an army of ten thousand men, pay all the hundreds of useless Grand
    Equerries in Waiting, First Grooms of the Bedchamber, Lord High
    Chancellors of the Exploded Exchequer, and all the other absurdities
    which these puppy-kingdoms indulge in, in imitation of the great
    monarchies; and in addition he set about building a white marble palace
    to cost about five millions itself. The result was, simply: ten into
    five goes no times and none over. All these things could not be done
    with five millions, and Otho fell into trouble.

    The Greek throne, with its unpromising adjuncts of a ragged population of
    ingenious rascals who were out of employment eight months in the year
    because there was little for them to borrow and less to confiscate, and a
    waste of barren hills and weed-grown deserts, went begging for a good
    while. It was offered to one of Victoria's sons, and afterwards to
    various other younger sons of royalty who had no thrones and were out of
    business, but they all had the charity to decline the dreary honor, and
    veneration enough for Greece's ancient greatness to refuse to mock her
    sorrowful rags and dirt with a tinsel throne in this day of her
    humiliation--till they came to this young Danish George, and he took it.
    He has finished the splendid palace I saw in the radiant moonlight the
    other night, and is doing many other things for the salvation of Greece,
    they say.

    We sailed through the barren Archipelago, and into the narrow channel
    they sometimes call the Dardanelles and sometimes the Hellespont. This
    part of the country is rich in historic reminiscences, and poor as Sahara
    in every thing else. For instance, as we approached the Dardanelles, we
    coasted along the Plains of Troy and past the mouth of the Scamander; we
    saw where Troy had stood (in the distance,) and where it does not stand
    now--a city that perished when the world was young. The poor Trojans are
    all dead, now. They were born too late to see Noah's ark, and died too
    soon to see our menagerie. We saw where Agamemnon's fleets rendezvoused,
    and away inland a mountain which the map said was Mount Ida. Within the
    Hellespont we saw where the original first shoddy contract mentioned in
    history was carried out, and the "parties of the second part" gently
    rebuked by Xerxes. I speak of the famous bridge of boats which Xerxes
    ordered to be built over the narrowest part of the Hellespont (where it
    is only two or three miles wide.) A moderate gale destroyed the flimsy
    structure, and the King, thinking that to publicly rebuke the contractors
    might have a good effect on the next set, called them out before the army
    and had them beheaded. In the next ten minutes he let a new contract for
    the bridge. It has been observed by ancient writers that the second
    bridge was a very good bridge. Xerxes crossed his host of five millions
    of men on it, and if it had not been purposely destroyed, it would
    probably have been there yet. If our Government would rebuke some of our
    shoddy contractors occasionally, it might work much good. In the
    Hellespont we saw where Leander and Lord Byron swam across, the one to
    see her upon whom his soul's affections were fixed with a devotion that
    only death could impair, and the other merely for a flyer, as Jack says.
    We had two noted tombs near us, too. On one shore slept Ajax, and on the
    other Hecuba.

    We had water batteries and forts on both sides of the Hellespont, flying
    the crimson flag of Turkey, with its white crescent, and occasionally a
    village, and sometimes a train of camels; we had all these to look at
    till we entered the broad sea of Marmora, and then the land soon fading
    from view, we resumed euchre and whist once more.

    We dropped anchor in the mouth of the Golden Horn at daylight in the
    morning. Only three or four of us were up to see the great Ottoman
    capital. The passengers do not turn out at unseasonable hours, as they
    used to, to get the earliest possible glimpse of strange foreign cities.
    They are well over that. If we were lying in sight of the Pyramids of
    Egypt, they would not come on deck until after breakfast, now-a-days.

    The Golden Horn is a narrow arm of the sea, which branches from the
    Bosporus (a sort of broad river which connects the Marmora and Black
    Seas,) and, curving around, divides the city in the middle. Galata and
    Pera are on one side of the Bosporus, and the Golden Horn; Stamboul
    (ancient Byzantium) is upon the other. On the other bank of the Bosporus
    is Scutari and other suburbs of Constantinople. This great city contains
    a million inhabitants, but so narrow are its streets, and so crowded
    together are its houses, that it does not cover much more than half as
    much ground as New York City. Seen from the anchorage or from a mile or
    so up the Bosporus, it is by far the handsomest city we have seen. Its
    dense array of houses swells upward from the water's edge, and spreads
    over the domes of many hills; and the gardens that peep out here and
    there, the great globes of the mosques, and the countless minarets that
    meet the eye every where, invest the metropolis with the quaint Oriental
    aspect one dreams of when he reads books of eastern travel.
    Constantinople makes a noble picture.

    But its attractiveness begins and ends with its picturesqueness. From
    the time one starts ashore till he gets back again, he execrates it. The
    boat he goes in is admirably miscalculated for the service it is built
    for. It is handsomely and neatly fitted up, but no man could handle it
    well in the turbulent currents that sweep down the Bosporus from the
    Black Sea, and few men could row it satisfactorily even in still water.
    It is a long, light canoe (caique,) large at one end and tapering to a
    knife blade at the other. They make that long sharp end the bow, and you
    can imagine how these boiling currents spin it about. It has two oars,
    and sometimes four, and no rudder. You start to go to a given point and
    you run in fifty different directions before you get there. First one
    oar is backing water, and then the other; it is seldom that both are
    going ahead at once. This kind of boating is calculated to drive an
    impatient man mad in a week. The boatmen are the awkwardest, the
    stupidest, and the most unscientific on earth, without question.

    Ashore, it was--well, it was an eternal circus. People were thicker than
    bees, in those narrow streets, and the men were dressed in all the
    outrageous, outlandish, idolatrous, extravagant, thunder-and-lightning
    costumes that ever a tailor with the delirium tremens and seven devils
    could conceive of. There was no freak in dress too crazy to be indulged
    in; no absurdity too absurd to be tolerated; no frenzy in ragged
    diabolism too fantastic to be attempted. No two men were dressed alike.
    It was a wild masquerade of all imaginable costumes--every struggling
    throng in every street was a dissolving view of stunning contrasts. Some
    patriarchs wore awful turbans, but the grand mass of the infidel horde
    wore the fiery red skull-cap they call a fez. All the remainder of the
    raiment they indulged in was utterly indescribable.

    The shops here are mere coops, mere boxes, bath-rooms, closets--any thing
    you please to call them--on the first floor. The Turks sit cross-legged
    in them, and work and trade and smoke long pipes, and smell like--like
    Turks. That covers the ground. Crowding the narrow streets in front of
    them are beggars, who beg forever, yet never collect any thing; and
    wonderful cripples, distorted out of all semblance of humanity, almost;
    vagabonds driving laden asses; porters carrying dry-goods boxes as large
    as cottages on their backs; peddlers of grapes, hot corn, pumpkin seeds,
    and a hundred other things, yelling like fiends; and sleeping happily,
    comfortably, serenely, among the hurrying feet, are the famed dogs of
    Constantinople; drifting noiselessly about are squads of Turkish women,
    draped from chin to feet in flowing robes, and with snowy veils bound
    about their heads, that disclose only the eyes and a vague, shadowy
    notion of their features. Seen moving about, far away in the dim, arched
    aisles of the Great Bazaar, they look as the shrouded dead must have
    looked when they walked forth from their graves amid the storms and
    thunders and earthquakes that burst upon Calvary that awful night of the
    Crucifixion. A street in Constantinople is a picture which one ought to
    see once--not oftener.

    And then there was the goose-rancher--a fellow who drove a hundred geese
    before him about the city, and tried to sell them. He had a pole ten
    feet long, with a crook in the end of it, and occasionally a goose would
    branch out from the flock and make a lively break around the corner, with
    wings half lifted and neck stretched to its utmost. Did the
    goose-merchant get excited? No. He took his pole and reached after
    that goose with unspeakable sang froid--took a hitch round his neck, and
    "yanked" him back to his place in the flock without an effort. He
    steered his geese with that stick as easily as another man would steer a
    yawl. A few hours afterward we saw him sitting on a stone at a corner,
    in the midst of the turmoil, sound asleep in the sun, with his geese
    squatting around him, or dodging out of the way of asses and men. We
    came by again, within the hour, and he was taking account of stock, to
    see whether any of his flock had strayed or been stolen. The way he did
    it was unique. He put the end of his stick within six or eight inches of
    a stone wall, and made the geese march in single file between it and the
    wall. He counted them as they went by. There was no dodging that

    If you want dwarfs--I mean just a few dwarfs for a curiosity--go to
    Genoa. If you wish to buy them by the gross, for retail, go to Milan.
    There are plenty of dwarfs all over Italy, but it did seem to me that in
    Milan the crop was luxuriant. If you would see a fair average style of
    assorted cripples, go to Naples, or travel through the Roman States.
    But if you would see the very heart and home of cripples and human
    monsters, both, go straight to Constantinople. A beggar in Naples who
    can show a foot which has all run into one horrible toe, with one
    shapeless nail on it, has a fortune--but such an exhibition as that would
    not provoke any notice in Constantinople. The man would starve. Who
    would pay any attention to attractions like his among the rare monsters
    that throng the bridges of the Golden Horn and display their deformities
    in the gutters of Stamboul? O, wretched impostor! How could he stand
    against the three-legged woman, and the man with his eye in his cheek?
    How would he blush in presence of the man with fingers on his elbow?
    Where would he hide himself when the dwarf with seven fingers on each
    hand, no upper lip, and his under-jaw gone, came down in his majesty?
    Bismillah! The cripples of Europe are a delusion and a fraud. The truly
    gifted flourish only in the by-ways of Pera and Stamboul.

    That three-legged woman lay on the bridge, with her stock in trade so
    disposed as to command the most striking effect--one natural leg, and two
    long, slender, twisted ones with feet on them like somebody else's
    fore-arm. Then there was a man further along who had no eyes, and whose
    face was the color of a fly-blown beefsteak, and wrinkled and twisted
    like a lava-flow--and verily so tumbled and distorted were his features
    that no man could tell the wart that served him for a nose from his
    cheek-bones. In Stamboul was a man with a prodigious head, an uncommonly
    long body, legs eight inches long and feet like snow-shoes. He traveled
    on those feet and his hands, and was as sway-backed as if the Colossus
    of Rhodes had been riding him. Ah, a beggar has to have exceedingly
    good points to make a living in Constantinople. A blue-faced man, who
    had nothing to offer except that he had been blown up in a mine, would
    be regarded as a rank impostor, and a mere damaged soldier on crutches
    would never make a cent. It would pay him to get apiece of his head
    taken off, and cultivate a wen like a carpet sack.

    The Mosque of St. Sophia is the chief lion of Constantinople. You must
    get a firman and hurry there the first thing. We did that. We did not
    get a firman, but we took along four or five francs apiece, which is much
    the same thing.

    I do not think much of the Mosque of St. Sophia. I suppose I lack
    appreciation. We will let it go at that. It is the rustiest old barn in
    heathendom. I believe all the interest that attaches to it comes from
    the fact that it was built for a Christian church and then turned into a
    mosque, without much alteration, by the Mohammedan conquerors of the
    land. They made me take off my boots and walk into the place in my
    stocking-feet. I caught cold, and got myself so stuck up with a
    complication of gums, slime and general corruption, that I wore out more
    than two thousand pair of boot-jacks getting my boots off that night, and
    even then some Christian hide peeled off with them. I abate not a single

    St. Sophia is a colossal church, thirteen or fourteen hundred years old,
    and unsightly enough to be very, very much older. Its immense dome is
    said to be more wonderful than St. Peter's, but its dirt is much more
    wonderful than its dome, though they never mention it. The church has a
    hundred and seventy pillars in it, each a single piece, and all of costly
    marbles of various kinds, but they came from ancient temples at Baalbec,
    Heliopolis, Athens and Ephesus, and are battered, ugly and repulsive.
    They were a thousand years old when this church was new, and then the
    contrast must have been ghastly--if Justinian's architects did not trim
    them any. The inside of the dome is figured all over with a monstrous
    inscription in Turkish characters, wrought in gold mosaic, that looks as
    glaring as a circus bill; the pavements and the marble balustrades are
    all battered and dirty; the perspective is marred every where by a web of
    ropes that depend from the dizzy height of the dome, and suspend
    countless dingy, coarse oil lamps, and ostrich-eggs, six or seven feet
    above the floor. Squatting and sitting in groups, here and there and far
    and near, were ragged Turks reading books, hearing sermons, or receiving
    lessons like children. And in fifty places were more of the same sort
    bowing and straightening up, bowing again and getting down to kiss the
    earth, muttering prayers the while, and keeping up their gymnastics till
    they ought to have been tired, if they were not.

    Every where was dirt, and dust, and dinginess, and gloom; every where
    were signs of a hoary antiquity, but with nothing touching or beautiful
    about it; every where were those groups of fantastic pagans; overhead the
    gaudy mosaics and the web of lamp-ropes--nowhere was there any thing to
    win one's love or challenge his admiration.

    The people who go into ecstasies over St. Sophia must surely get them out
    of the guide-book (where every church is spoken of as being "considered
    by good judges to be the most marvelous structure, in many respects, that
    the world has ever seen.") Or else they are those old connoisseurs from
    the wilds of New Jersey who laboriously learn the difference between a
    fresco and a fire-plug and from that day forward feel privileged to void
    their critical bathos on painting, sculpture and architecture forever

    We visited the Dancing Dervishes. There were twenty-one of them. They
    wore a long, light-colored loose robe that hung to their heels. Each in
    his turn went up to the priest (they were all within a large circular
    railing) and bowed profoundly and then went spinning away deliriously and
    took his appointed place in the circle, and continued to spin. When all
    had spun themselves to their places, they were about five or six feet
    apart--and so situated, the entire circle of spinning pagans spun itself
    three separate times around the room. It took twenty-five minutes to do
    it. They spun on the left foot, and kept themselves going by passing the
    right rapidly before it and digging it against the waxed floor. Some of
    them made incredible "time." Most of them spun around forty times in a
    minute, and one artist averaged about sixty-one times a minute, and kept
    it up during the whole twenty-five. His robe filled with air and stood
    out all around him like a balloon.

    They made no noise of any kind, and most of them tilted their heads back
    and closed their eyes, entranced with a sort of devotional ecstacy.
    There was a rude kind of music, part of the time, but the musicians were
    not visible. None but spinners were allowed within the circle. A man
    had to either spin or stay outside. It was about as barbarous an
    exhibition as we have witnessed yet. Then sick persons came and lay
    down, and beside them women laid their sick children (one a babe at the
    breast,) and the patriarch of the Dervishes walked upon their bodies. He
    was supposed to cure their diseases by trampling upon their breasts or
    backs or standing on the back of their necks. This is well enough for a
    people who think all their affairs are made or marred by viewless spirits
    of the air--by giants, gnomes, and genii--and who still believe, to this
    day, all the wild tales in the Arabian Nights. Even so an intelligent
    missionary tells me.

    We visited the Thousand and One Columns. I do not know what it was
    originally intended for, but they said it was built for a reservoir. It
    is situated in the centre of Constantinople. You go down a flight of
    stone steps in the middle of a barren place, and there you are. You are
    forty feet under ground, and in the midst of a perfect wilderness of
    tall, slender, granite columns, of Byzantine architecture. Stand where
    you would, or change your position as often as you pleased, you were
    always a centre from which radiated a dozen long archways and colonnades
    that lost themselves in distance and the sombre twilight of the place.
    This old dried-up reservoir is occupied by a few ghostly silk-spinners
    now, and one of them showed me a cross cut high up in one of the pillars.
    I suppose he meant me to understand that the institution was there before
    the Turkish occupation, and I thought he made a remark to that effect;
    but he must have had an impediment in his speech, for I did not
    understand him.

    We took off our shoes and went into the marble mausoleum of the Sultan
    Mahmoud, the neatest piece of architecture, inside, that I have seen
    lately. Mahmoud's tomb was covered with a black velvet pall, which was
    elaborately embroidered with silver; it stood within a fancy silver
    railing; at the sides and corners were silver candlesticks that would
    weigh more than a hundred pounds, and they supported candles as large as
    a man's leg; on the top of the sarcophagus was a fez, with a handsome
    diamond ornament upon it, which an attendant said cost a hundred thousand
    pounds, and lied like a Turk when he said it. Mahmoud's whole family
    were comfortably planted around him.

    We went to the great Bazaar in Stamboul, of course, and I shall not
    describe it further than to say it is a monstrous hive of little shops
    --thousands, I should say--all under one roof, and cut up into innumerable
    little blocks by narrow streets which are arched overhead. One street is
    devoted to a particular kind of merchandise, another to another, and so

    When you wish to buy a pair of shoes you have the swing of the whole
    street--you do not have to walk yourself down hunting stores in different
    localities. It is the same with silks, antiquities, shawls, etc. The
    place is crowded with people all the time, and as the gay-colored Eastern
    fabrics are lavishly displayed before every shop, the great Bazaar of
    Stamboul is one of the sights that are worth seeing. It is full of life,
    and stir, and business, dirt, beggars, asses, yelling peddlers, porters,
    dervishes, high-born Turkish female shoppers, Greeks, and weird-looking
    and weirdly dressed Mohammedans from the mountains and the far provinces
    --and the only solitary thing one does not smell when he is in the Great
    Bazaar, is something which smells good.
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