Trafalgar School - Echoes Yearbook (Montreal, Quebec Canada)

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of amber and ivory. Many of these have disappeared, but its galleries still rest on beautiful columns of jasper and alabaster, which in turn support arches covered with golden mosaics. In 1453, the Turks captured Constantinople. Then, according to legend, amidst the blare of trumpets, the groans of dying men and the shrieks of captured women and children, on the threshold of Santa Sophia appeared Mohammed II. A strange silence followed, then rising in his stirrups and smiting one of the columns with his blood-stained hand, he dedicated the Christian temple to Moslem faith. To-day, high up upon a pillar is the bloody imprint of a hand. Is it Mohammed ' s? To tourists the Turks say y s ; to themselves no. But if the buildings above ground seem imposing, almost more so are the subterranean struc - tures — the gigantic cisterns in which was stored the water brought over stately aqueducts, built on tiers of massive arches. Lighted by torches, these shadowy ma2;es of columns, through which cool water flows, present a scene weirdly fascinating. From one of these reservoirs a passage down to the sea has been found. This once was frequently used as a means of escape by the Sultan ' s son, when he had incurred the wrath of his father. Constantinople, with its mosques, palaces and historic background, is intensely interesting, exceedingly cosmopolitan. But on the shores of the blue Mediterranean, half-encircled by pine- clad snow-tipped mountains, lies Smyrna, the nucleus of Asiatic trade — typically Turkish. In the background rises Mount Pagus upon whose summit lie the ruins of an ancient fortress, built by the Romans centuries ago. Under its shadow stretches the modern city — that is to say modern for Turkey. Smyrna too has had a past, but it relies more on its future — a great blessing, for consequently, it is almost entirely devoid of troublesome tourists. There are four distinct routes to Constantinople, only one to Smyrna — the sea — for railroads are practically unknown. A journey by water is far pleasanter than one by rail; however, in this particular instance there is a serious drawback. Passenger vessels never dock at Smyrna; instead they anchor half a mile out in the open bay, and there you anxiously wait and wonder whether the small kaiques slowly approaching are possibly large or steady enough to carry you and your belongings safely t o shore. As a matter of fact, if the sea is very rough, no attempt whatsoever is made to land; and protest as you may, your ship gayly takes you on to Cypress or whatever its next port may be. However, it is well worth taking the chance, for this eastern port is fascinating. Along the quay rattles a battered horse-car and perhaps an inevitable Ford. On the cobble- stones are chairs and tables about which are gathered Turks, smoking their immense bubble-bubble pipes and drinking their national black coffee. Some are wearing European clothes, but the majority are clad in short baggy trousers, leather jackets and broad brightly coloured sashes. To complete this picturesque costume they should be wearing a turkey-red fez swathed in a linen turban; but instead straw hats, felt hats, tweed caps, usually too large or too small, are perched on their heads at every conceivable angle. There is, of course, method in their madness. About a year ago a law was passed by the Turkish Government forbidding the use of the fez. This drastic measure is one of several by which the educated Turks are endeavouring to Europeanize their country. From this scene of idling gossipers many narrow dirty streets lead to the native Bazaars. Either carrying them on their heads or sitting among them in their dark little shops, merchants droningly call out their wares. Suddenly, with the rumbling of an earthquake, a carriage passes through the market. Natives scatter on all sides before this onrushing monster that is taking more than its share of the road. One sleepy-looking individual, either too slow or too lazy to move, falls sprawling under his basket of figs. But flies still drone and the noon-day sun beats mercilessly down — all is calm and serene until the next disturbing carriage appears. The Turk is a poor business man, but he loves to bargain. The following is a typical instance. Mr. J. P. Morgan sailing the Mediterranean in his yacht Corsair landed at Smyrna to buy Oriental rugs. Hearing of an old Turk who had a wonderful collection he went to his house to see them. With the eye of a connoisseur Mr. Morgan realized the great value of the silky and beautifully designed rugs. Although a huge price was asked, without a moment ' s hesitation he bought them. The Turk was astounded, disgusted, and above all disappointed; for he had antici- pated a long and drawn-out procedure, during the course of which his customer would visit him a I 21 1

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Turkey and the Turks URKEY! — delicate perfumes, rare spices, soft rugs, come to mind. Every one who visits this empire of the east, sees its majesty, beauty and wealth; few understand its customs and people. Perhaps they would Hke to, but prejudices are stronger — and so they pass on. For, what have Turks been for centuries? Barbarians, filthy contemptible creatures! Yet Turkey has more to offer than we may think. What of its famous cities? Constantinople, her harbour fringed with marble palaces and mosques — a bewildering panorama - — Queen of the East! But Constantinople is not Turkish. Stand on the famous Galata bridge which crosses the Golden Horn — there you will see two cease ' less currents of humanity that sweep past each other from the rising to the setting of the sun, exhibiting a variety of costumes, races and complexions, such as no other city in the world can present. At intervals on either side of this thorough ' fare are human beings, orien ' tal scarecrows, the inevitable beggar. With outstretched hands and sunken eyes they implore in silence — the language of , distress. Before them sweeps a perfect masquerade of nations. A Jew with long yellow coat and black curls; a Damascus camel driver; a florid-faced English merchant; a group of Persians bed ' izened with cheap jewelry; a tatooed Nubian from the Upper Nile; a Chinaman with his queue, and a noisy personally conducted party of tourists. In the dirty cobbled streets still another strange variety of inhabitant is found — Constantinople has long been famed as an immense kennel. It lodges every type of dog, but it speciali2;es in a certain breed — those with long sharp noses and yellow fur, half ' wolf, half fox. Not one of these canines has a master or a name, yet they are respected. Why should they not be? They never molest men, and, what is more important, are the sole scavengers of the city. But though their streets may be dirty, the Turks themselves are personally clean. Where the ancient Greek would erect a statue, and the modern Christian a crucifix, the Moslem constructs a fountain — for water is the most essential thing in his life. He is entirely dependent upon water for drinking purposes, for the Koran forbids all intoxicants. Moreover, five times a day before Moslems pray, they must wash at least their hands. The Mosque of Santa Sophia, where they worship, is the most imposing and largest in the world. Though the Turks have surrounded it with minarets, it was originally a Christian Church, built long before the birth of Mohammed. As you enter, its immensity is overpowering. Two hundred feet above arches the dome, so distant and so vast that it seems a portion of the sky. The marble floor is covered with soft Turkish rugs and mats of fresh rushes, on which feet fall noise ' lessly. The Turk always removes his shoes before he enters a mosque and visitors have to wear slippers of rough matting. The latter are large and rather difficult to keep on; but it is most ridiculous and annoying to see a tourist gayly hopping about on one foot looking in vain for a lost slipper, while grou]is of faithful Moslems are kneeling in prayer, their faces turned toward the sacred Mecca. The wealth of Santa Sophia was once fabulous. Its chalice-cloths were embroid ' ered willi pearls; its altars encrusted with jewels; its crucifixes carved of purest gold, and its doors f ol

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dozen or so times, drink coffee with him, smoke with him, and — bargain! bargain!! bargain!!! This is quite natural. Time means nothing to a Turk, hence bargaining is one of his chief forms of enter- tainment. Contrary to popular belief, the Turks as a whole are farmers. All about Smyrna, stretching far into the hills are fig and olive groves, vineyards and tobacco fields. Little huts with walls of sun-baked clay and roofs of dry thatch form peasant villages. If he owns a goat, a donkey, a well, and a good patch of ground, the Turk thmks he is wealthy — and he is, inasmuch as he is content. One of the most common and picturesque sights imaginable is to see a string of shaggy camels laden with bales of tobacco, slowly wending their way down from the hills. The camel-driver sits cross-legged on a stocky little donkey, either singing a song composed of the repetition of two words Paedishain padisha, or sleeping comfortably. The sweet sound of tinkling camel bells in the distance is so peaceful, that it seems impossible that so many people think of Turkey only as a land ravaged by murderous heathens. Year by year Turkey and the Turks are developing. Since the emancipation of the women and the education of the men, the desire to become Europeanized is dominating the nation. Whether it will succeed or not is an interesting question. In the meantime, the fact that the majority of Turks are not treacherous barbarians is one well worthy of note. Marjorie Miller, Form Upper VI. I 22 I