the chibouk be full, the coffee black and hot,
and the rice in the pilaff dyed a reasonable
pale red with tomato skins. At a door close
to the dog, stood a beautiful Armenian woman,
cheapening mackerel of a Bosphorus fisherman.
They were monster fish, and looked hard and
swollen from the Turkish habit of inflating
them, by blowing through the gills, to make
them look larger. They were tabbied with
indigo tattooings, and wore that opalline mother-
of-pearliness that fresh mackerel should wear
when the bloom of death is on them in

That first dark day of nothingness.

The Armenian ogled and squabbled, as the
"womankind" will when they cheapen fish; the
Turk, grave and inflexible, weighed the fish in the
scale of justice, imitating Justice unpleasantly,
however, in one thing—that is, in her blindness—
for he seemed somehow or other to mistake the
weights, and to change half-pounds for pounds.
The fair Armenian was eager, and prettily fussy,
and disputative, but credulous as young
housekeepers are apt to be, and as Eve herself
probably was. She even pointed to the dead dog, and
then to the scales, with a smile at the itinerant
fisherman (the same who fished up the Genii) as
much as to say, "At how much per pound wouldst
thou sell thy servant that dog?" Upon which
the Turk thrust his scales into his girdle, and
shouldering his load of fish, pointed to me,
meaning plainly, "O lady, that dead dog and
yonder staring infidel are neither of any monetary
value in the scales of a true believer, and, what
is more, a Hadji."

This was in Pera—among the Franks,
however, it must be remembered—for in Constantinople
I have seen a crowd of Turks stand
sympathisingly round a puppy that had been run over
by a bullock-cart; a fact which may go to
their account, to balance my before-mentioned
opinion of the Turks' general want of tenderness.
I have, too, seen a pantaloon of a grey-
bearded mullah run, with a rapidity ill-beseeming
his years, but reflecting much credit to his
heart, to get from the nearest fountain a cup of
cold water to throw over a dog in a fit much,
probably, to the aggravation of the malady.
I must confess, too, that Turkish legends—or
rather Arabic and Persian legends—turn much
on Allah's requital to poor Mahommedans who
have shown kindness to animals in his name.
But, Heaven help us all! what can you expect
of the Turk, who is to-day as when he first left
his Tartar tent.

If Cruelty to Animals Martin were alive,
he could not do better than go and dwell in
Constantinople, which he would find to be a
choice place for the animal philanthropists, if he
could but keep his head tight on. Those dogs
are always turning up: if you look down a hole
under a door-step, blind puppies crawl up; if
you go out at dusk and fall over something,
and that something prove "an adder in the
path," and turn and bite you, that adder
will be a dog. Dogs lurk under the
market-stalls, prowl about mosque gates,
roam (not unkicked and uncuffed) through the
dim-vaulted drug bazaars; they surround the
kabob stoves; they haunt the cemeteries and
the cypress groves; they lie in the open street,
and sleep hardily, defiant of hoof, or foot, or
wheel. They are, in a word, everywhere and
omnivorous: you seldom see a dead one,
unless slain by violence and human agency. I
am almost afraid that the street-dogs of
Constantinople, when they get old, and chargeable
to the parish, burdensome to relations, and
generally a stumbling-block, are devoured bodily
by their poor relations.

I wish, as a lover of the dog, that I could
come to a less harsh conclusion. I wish, to
shame man, that they sent the old worn-out
dog to some pleasant, cheerful, well-feeding
workhouse, where he might be refreshed with
alternate doses of gruel and turtle-soup, oakum
picking, and the pianoforte; but such, alas! is
not the case.

The dog to his death-bed I cannot, therefore,
follow; but the dog to his decrepitude I
can. You can scarcely take an observant
walk in Constantinople streets, but you meet
a poor animal, his hair eaten off by a devouring
mange that has nearly gnawed into his vitals.
Sometimes he is horrible to look at, for his hind
legs are paralyzed by some carriage accident
that has injured the spine. Loathsome and
ghastly, the wretched creature drags about his
hated life, perpetually flown at by cruel tyrants
of dogs, who hate the sufferer because he is
unfortunate, and who bully him because he is unable
to resist (O Allah, how like us men!); and there,
in momentary danger from crushing wheels, and
beaten and bitten by everybody, fellow man and
fellow dog trying which can rival the other in
cruelty, he lingers on, till death kindly steps in,
and on some dunghill the beggar dog breathes
his last. "A happy release" indeed, and, for
once, the cant phrase of consolation is true, but,
being true, is not uttered.

Why the police do not do kindly execution
on these poor wretches, I could never discover,
but I think my friend Herne Bey told me that
it was against the Mahommedan creed to kill
animals unnecessarily. What would Mohammed
have said of our preserves and battues, thought
I. Would he hold that fashionable butchery
excusable?

Now Ready, price 4d.,
THE HAUNTED HOUSE,
Forming the CHRISTMAS NUMBER of ALL THE
ROUND; and containing the amount of two
ordinary numbers.