When I think how I have been swindled by books of Oriental travel, I want a tourist for breakfast.  For years and years I have dreamed of the wonders of the Turkish bath; for years and years I have promised myself that I would yet enjoy one.  Many and many a time, in fancy, I have lain in the marble bath, and breathed the slumbrous fragrance of Eastern spices that filled the air; then passed through a weird and complicated system of pulling and hauling, and drenching and scrubbing, by a gang of naked savages who loomed vast and vaguely through the steaming mists, like demons; then rested for a while on a divan fit for a king; then passed through another complex ordeal, and one more fearful than the first; and, finally, swathed in soft fabrics, been conveyed to a princely saloon and laid on a bed of eider down, where eunuchs, gorgeous of costume, fanned me while I drowsed and dreamed, or contentedly gazed at the rich hangings of the apartment, the soft carpets, the sumptuous furniture, the pictures, and drank delicious coffee, smoked the soothing narghili, and dropped, at the last, into tranquil repose, lulled by sensuous odors from unseen censers, by the gentle influence of the narghili’s Persian tobacco, and by the music of fountains that counterfeited the pattering of summer rain.

That was the picture, just as I got it from incendiary books of travel.  It was a poor, miserable imposture.  The reality is no more like it than the Five Points are like the Garden of Eden.  They received me in a great court, paved with marble slabs; around it were broad galleries, one above another, carpeted with seedy matting, railed with unpainted balustrades, and furnished with huge rickety chairs, cushioned with rusty old mattresses, indented with impressions left by the forms of nine successive generations of men who had reposed upon them.  The place was vast, naked, dreary; its court a barn, its galleries stalls for human horses.  The cadaverous, half nude varlets that served in the establishment had nothing of poetry in their appearance, nothing of romance, nothing of Oriental splendor.  They shed no entrancing odors —­just the contrary.  Their hungry eyes and their lank forms continually suggested one glaring, unsentimental fact—­they wanted what they term in California “a square meal.”

I went into one of the racks and undressed.  An unclean starveling wrapped a gaudy table-cloth about his loins, and hung a white rag over my shoulders.  If I had had a tub then, it would have come natural to me to take in washing.  I was then conducted down stairs into the wet, slippery court, and the first things that attracted my attention were my heels.  My fall excited no comment.  They expected it, no doubt.  It belonged in the list of softening, sensuous influences peculiar to this home of Eastern luxury.  It was softening enough, certainly, but its application was not happy.  They now gave me a pair of wooden clogs—­benches in miniature, with leather straps over them to confine my feet (which they would have done, only I do not wear No. 13s.) These things dangled uncomfortably by the straps when I lifted up my feet, and came down in awkward and unexpected places when I put them on the floor again, and sometimes turned sideways and wrenched my ankles out of joint.  However, it was all Oriental luxury, and I did what I could to enjoy it.