and
every incident, situation, and bit of local color has either passed
before or was poured into the wide-open eyes and willing ears of your
most humble and obedient servant

A Staid Old Painter.

150 East 34th Street,
New York, March 13, 1907.

THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL

Joe Hornstog told me this story--the first part of it; the last part of
it came to me in a way which proves how small the world is.

Joe belongs to that conglomerate mass of heterogeneous nationalities
found around the Golden Horn, whose ancestry is as difficult to trace
as a gypsy's. He says he is a "Jew gentleman from Germany," but he
can't prove it, and he knows he can't.

There is no question about his being part Jew, and there is a strong
probability of his being part German, and, strange to say, there is not
the slightest doubt of his being part gentleman--in his own estimation;
and I must say in mine, when I look back over an acquaintance covering
many years and remember how completely my bank account was at his
disposal and how little of its contents he appropriated.

And yet, were I required to hold up my hand in open court, I would have
to affirm that Joe, whatever his other strains might be, was, after
all, ninety-nine per cent. Levantine--which is another way of saying
that he is part of every nationality about him.

As to his honesty and loyalty, is he not the chosen dragoman of kings
and princes when they journey into far distant lands (he speaks seven
languages and many tribal dialects), and is he not today wearing in his
buttonhole the ribbon of the order of the Mejidieh, bestowed upon him
by his Imperial Highness the Sultan, in reward for his ability and
faithfulness?

I must admit that I myself have been his debtor--not once, but many
times. It was this same quick-sighted, quick-witted Levantine who
lifted me from my sketching stool and stood me on my feet in the plaza
of the Hippodrome one morning just in time to prevent my being trodden
under foot by six Turks carrying the body of their friend to the
cemetery--in time, too, to save me from the unforgivable sin among
Orientals, of want of reverence for their dead. I had heard the tramp
of the pall-bearers, and supposing it to be that of the Turkish patrol,
had kept at work. They were prowling everywhere, day and night, and
during those days they passed every ten minutes--nine soldiers in
charge of an officer of police--all owing to the fact that some fiv