r; and then we landed at the dirtiest,
smelliest quay, and picked our way through a filthy custom-house,
where, in spite of bribery and corruption, they opened my trunk and
examined all the photographs of the family, which happened to be on
top, and made remarks about them in Turkish which made the other men
laugh. The mud came up over our overshoes as we stood there, so that
altogether we were quite heated in temper when we found ourselves in
an alley outside, filled with garbage which had been there forever,
and learned that this alley was a street, and a very good one for
Constantinople, too.

The porters in Turkey are marvels of strength. They wear a sort of
cushioned saddle on their backs, and to my amazement two men tossed my
enormous trunk on this saddle. I saw it leave their hands before it
reached his poor bent back; he staggered a little, gave it a hitch to
make it more secure, then started up the hill on a trot.

I never saw so much mud, such unspeakably filthy streets, and so many
dogs as Constantinople can boast. You drive at a gallop up streets
slanting at an angle of forty-five degrees, and you nearly fall out of
the back of the carriage. Then presently you come to the top of that
hill and start down the other side, still at a gallop, and you brace
your feet to keep from pitching over the driver's head. You would
notice the dogs first were it not for the smells. But as it is, you
cannot even see until you get your salts to your nose. The odors are
so thick that they darken the air. You are disappointed in the dogs,
however. There are quite as many of them as you expected. You have not
been misled as to the number of them, but nowhere have I seen them
described in a satisfactory way--so that you knew what to expect, I
mean. In the first place, they hardly look like dogs. They have woolly
tails like sheep. Their eyes are dull, sleepy, and utterly devoid of
expression. Constantinople dogs have neither masters nor brains. No
brains because no masters. Perhaps no masters because no brains.
Nobody wants to adopt an idiot. They are, of course, mongrels of the
most hopeless type. They are yellowish, with thick, short, woolly
coats, and much fatter than you expect to find them. They walk like a
funeral procession. Never have I seen one frisk or even wag his tail.
Everybody turns out for them. They sleep--from twelve to twenty of
them--on a single pile of garbage, and never notice either men or each
other unless