They sleep in the streets these days.  They are my compass—­my guide.  When I see the dogs sleep placidly on, while men, sheep, geese, and all moving things turn out and go around them, I know I am not in the great street where the hotel is, and must go further.  In the Grand Rue the dogs have a sort of air of being on the lookout—­an air born of being obliged to get out of the way of many carriages every day—­and that expression one recognizes in a moment.  It does not exist upon the face of any dog without the confines of that street.  All others sleep placidly and keep no watch.  They would not move, though the Sultan himself passed by.

In one narrow street (but none of them are wide) I saw three dogs lying coiled up, about a foot or two apart.  End to end they lay, and so they just bridged the street neatly, from gutter to gutter.  A drove of a hundred sheep came along.  They stepped right over the dogs, the rear crowding the front, impatient to get on.  The dogs looked lazily up, flinched a little when the impatient feet of the sheep touched their raw backs—­sighed, and lay peacefully down again.  No talk could be plainer than that.  So some of the sheep jumped over them and others scrambled between, occasionally chipping a leg with their sharp hoofs, and when the whole flock had made the trip, the dogs sneezed a little, in the cloud of dust, but never budged their bodies an inch.  I thought I was lazy, but I am a steam-engine compared to a Constantinople dog.  But was not that a singular scene for a city of a million inhabitants?

These dogs are the scavengers of the city.  That is their official position, and a hard one it is.  However, it is their protection.  But for their usefulness in partially cleansing these terrible streets, they would not be tolerated long.  They eat any thing and every thing that comes in their way, from melon rinds and spoiled grapes up through all the grades and species of dirt and refuse to their own dead friends and relatives—­and yet they are always lean, always hungry, always despondent.  The people are loath to kill them—­do not kill them, in fact.  The Turks have an innate antipathy to taking the life of any dumb animal, it is said.  But they do worse.  They hang and kick and stone and scald these wretched creatures to the very verge of death, and then leave them to live and suffer.

Once a Sultan proposed to kill off all the dogs here, and did begin the work—­but the populace raised such a howl of horror about it that the massacre was stayed.  After a while, he proposed to remove them all to an island in the Sea of Marmora.  No objection was offered, and a ship-load or so was taken away.  But when it came to be known that somehow or other the dogs never got to the island, but always fell overboard in the night and perished, another howl was raised and the transportation scheme was dropped.

So the dogs remain in peaceable possession of the streets.  I do not say that they do not howl at night, nor that they do not attack people who have not a red fez on their heads.  I only say that it would be mean for me to accuse them of these unseemly things who have not seen them do them with my own eyes or heard them with my own ears.