attendant running footmen; the most active, insolent, and hideous
of these great men, as I thought, being His Highness's black
eunuchs, who went prancing through the crowd, which separated
before them with every sign of respect.
The common women were assembled by many hundreds: the yakmac, a
muslin chin-cloth which they wear, makes almost every face look the
same; but the eyes and noses of these beauties are generally
visible, and, for the most part, both these features are good. The
jolly negresses wear the same white veil, but they are by no means
so particular about hiding the charms of their good-natured black
faces, and they let the cloth blow about as it lists, and grin
unconfined. Wherever we went the negroes seemed happy. They have
the organ of child-loving: little creatures were always prattling
on their shoulders, queer little things in night gowns of yellow
dimity, with great flowers, and pink or red or yellow shawls, with
great eyes glistening underneath. Of such the black women seemed
always the happy guardians. I saw one at a fountain, holding one
child in her arms, and giving another a drink--a ragged little
beggar--a sweet and touching picture of a black charity.
I am almost forgetting His Highness the Sultan. About a hundred
guns were fired off at clumsy intervals from the Esplanade facing
the Bosphorus, warning us that the monarch had set off from his
Summer Palace, and was on the way to his grand canoe. At last that
vessel made its appearance; the band struck up his favourite air;
his caparisoned horse was led down to the shore to receive him; the
eunuchs, fat pashas, colonels and officers of state gathering round
as the Commander of the Faithful mounted. I had the indescribable
happiness of seeing him at a very short distance. The Padishah, or
Father of all the Sovereigns on earth, has not that majestic air
which some sovereigns possess, and which makes the beholder's eyes
wink, and his knees tremble under him: he has a black beard, and a
handsome well-bred face, of a French cast; he looks like a young
French roue worn out by debauch; his eyes bright, with black rings
round them; his cheeks pale and hollow. He was lolling on his
horse as if he could hardly hold himself on the saddle: or as if
his cloak, fastened with a blazing diamond clasp on his breast, and
falling over his horse's tail, pulled him back. But the handsome
sallow face of the Refuge of the World looked decidedly interesting
and intellectual. I have seen many a young Don Juan at Paris,
behind a counter, with such a beard and countenance; the flame of
passion still burning in his hollow eyes, while on his damp brow
was stamped the fatal mark of premature decay. The man we saw
cannot live many summers. Women and wine are said to have brought
the Zilullah to this state; and it is whispered by the dragomans,
or laquais-de-place (from whom travellers at Constantinople
generally get their political information), that the Sultan's
mother and his ministers conspire to keep him plunged in
sensuality, that they may govern the kingdom according to their own
fancies. Mr. Urquhart, I am sure, thinks that Lord Palmerston has
something to do with the business, and drugs the Sultan's champagne
for the benefit of Russia.
As the Pontiff of Mussulmans passed into the mosques a shower of
petitions was flung from the steps where the crowd was collected,
and over the heads of the gendarmes in brown. A general cry, as
for justice, rose up; and one old ragged woman came forward and
burst through the throng, howling, and flinging about her lean
arms, and baring her old shrunken breast. I never saw a finer
action of tragic woo, or heard sounds more pitiful than those old
passionate groans of hers. What was your prayer, poor old wretched
soul? The gendarmes hemmed her round, and hustled her away, but
rather kindly. The Padishah went on quite impassible--the picture
of debauch and ennui.
I like pointing morals, and inventing for myself cheap
consolations, to reconcile me to that state of life into which it
has pleased Heaven to call me; and as the Light of the World
disappeared round the corner, I reasoned pleasantly with myself
about His Highness, and enjoyed that secret selfish satisfaction a
man has, who sees he is better off than his neighbour. "Michael
Angelo," I said, "you are still (by courtesy) young: if you had
five hundred thousand a year, and were a great prince, I would lay
a wager that men would discover in you a magnificent courtesy of
demeanour, and a majestic presence that only belongs to the
sovereigns of the world. If you had such an income, you think you
could spend it with splendour: distributing genial hospitalities,
kindly alms, soothing misery, bidding humility be of good heart,
rewarding desert. If you had such means of purchasing pleasure,
you think, you rogue, you could relish it with gusto. But fancy
being brought to the condition of the poor Light of the Universe
yonder; and reconcile yourself with the idea that you are only a
farthing rushlight. The cries of the poor widow fall as dead upon
him as the smiles of the brightest eyes out of Georgia. He can't
stir abroad but those abominable cannon begin roaring and deafening
his ears. He can't see the world but over the shoulders of a row
of fat pashas, and eunuchs, with their infernal ugliness. His ears
can never be regaled with a word of truth, or blessed with an
honest laugh. The only privilege of manhood left to him, he enjoys
but for a month in the year, at this time of Ramazan, when he is
forced to fast for fifteen hours; and, by consequence, has the
blessing of feeling hungry." Sunset during Lent appears to be his
single moment of pleasure; they say the poor fellow is ravenous by
that time, and as the gun fires the dish-covers are taken off, so
that for five minutes a day he lives and is happy over pillau, like
another mortal.
And yet, when floating by the Summer Palace, a barbaric edifice of
wood and marble, with gilded suns blazing over the porticoes, and
all sorts of strange ornaments and trophies figuring on the gates
and railings--when we passed a long row of barred and filigreed
windows, looking on the water--when we were told that those were
the apartments of His Highness's ladies, and actually heard them
whispering and laughing behind the bars--a strange feeling of
curiosity came over some ill-regulated minds--just to have one
peep, one look at all those wondrous beauties, singing to the
dulcimers, paddling in the fountains, dancing in the marble halls,
or lolling on the golden cushions, as the gaudy black slaves
brought pipes and coffee. This tumultuous movement was calmed by
thinking of that dreadful statement of travellers, that in one of
the most elegant halls there is a trap-door, on peeping below which
you may see the Bosphorus running underneath, into which some
luckless beauty is plunged occasionally, and the trap-door is shut
,
and the dancing and the singing, and the smoking and the laughing
go on as before. They say it is death to pick up any of the sacks
thereabouts, if a stray one should float by you. There were none
any day when I passed, AT LEAST, ON THE SURFACE OF THE WATER.
It has been rather a fashion of our travellers to apologise for
Turkish life, of late, and paint glowing agreeable pictures of many
of its institutions. The celebrated author of "Palm-Leaves" (his
name is famous under the date-trees of the Nile, and uttered with
respect beneath the tents of the Bedaween) has touchingly described
Ibrahim Pasha's paternal fondness, who cut off a black slave's head
for having dropped and maimed one of his children; and has penned a
melodious panegyric of "The Harem," and of the fond and beautiful
duties of the inmates of that place of love, obedience, and
seclusion. I saw, at the mausoleum of the late Sultan Mahmoud's
family, a good subject for a Ghazul, in the true new Oriental
manner.
These Royal burial-places are the resort of the pious Moslems.
Lamps are kept burning there; and in the antechambers, copies of
the Koran are provided for the use of believers; and you never pass
these cemeteries but you see Turks washing at the cisterns,
previous to entering for prayer, or squatted on the benches,
chanting passages from the sacred volume. Christians, I believe,
are not admitted, but may look through the bars, and see the
coffins of the defunct monarchs and children of the Royal race.
Each lies in his narrow sarcophagus, which is commonly flanked by
huge candles, and covered with a rich embroidered pall. At the
head of each coffin rises a slab, with a gilded inscription; for
the princesses, the slab is simple, not unlike our own monumental
stones. The headstones of the tombs of the defunct princes are
decorated with a turban, or, since the introduction of the latter
article of dress, with the red fez. That of Mahmoud is decorated
with the imperial aigrette.
In this dismal but splendid museum, I remarked two little tombs
evidently, which were lying under the little embroidered palls of
state. I forget whether they had candles too; but their little
flame of life was soon extinguished, and there was no need of many
pounds of wax to typify it. These were the tombs of Mahmoud's
grandsons, nephews of the present Light of the Universe, and
children of his sister, the wife of Halil Pasha. Little children
die in all ways: these of the much-maligned Mahometan Royal race
perished by the bowstring. Sultan Mahmoud (may he rest in glory!)
strangled the one; but, having some spark of human feeling, was so
moved by the wretchedness and agony of the poor bereaved mother,
his daughter, that his Royal heart relented towards her, and he
promised that, should she ever have another child, it should be
allowed to live. He died; and Abdul Medjid (may his name be
blessed!), the debauched young man whom we just saw riding to the
mosque, succeeded. His sister, whom he is said to have loved,
became again a mother, and had a son. But she relied upon her
father's word and her august brother's love, and hoped that this
little one should be spared. The same accursed hand tore this
infant out of its mother's bosom, and killed it. The poor woman's
heart broke outright at this second calamity, and she died. But on
her death-bed she sent for her brother, rebuked him as a perjurer
and an assassin, and expired calling down the divine justice on his
head. She lies now by the side of the two little fezzes.
Now I say this would be a fine subject for an Oriental poem. The
details are dramatic and noble, and could be grandly touched by a
fine artist. If the mother had borne a daughter, the child would
have been safe; that perplexity might be pathetically depicted as
agitating the bosom of the young wife about to become a mother. A
son is born: you can see her despair and the pitiful look she
casts on the child, and the way in which she hugs it every time the
curtains of her door are removed. The Sultan hesitated probably;
he allowed the infant to live for six weeks. He could not bring
his Royal soul to inflict pain. He yields at last; he is a martyr-
-to be pitied, not to be blamed. If he melts at his daughter's
agony, he is a man and a father. There are men and fathers too in
the much-maligned Orient.
Then comes the second act of the tragedy. The new hopes, the fond
yearnings, the terrified misgivings, the timid belief, and weak
confidence; the child that is born--and dies smiling prettily--and
the mother's heart is rent so, that it can love, or hope, or suffer
no more. Allah is God! She sleeps by the little fezzes. Hark!
the guns are booming over the water, and His Highness is coming
from his prayers.
After the murder of that little child, it seems to me one can never
look with anything but horror upon the butcherly Herod who ordered
it. The death of the seventy thousand Janissaries ascends to
historic dignity, and takes rank as war. But a great Prince and
Light of the Universe, who procures abortions and throttles little
babies, dwindles away into such a frightful insignificance of
crime, that those may respect him who will. I pity their
Excellencies the Ambassadors, who are obliged to smirk and cringe
to such a rascal. To do the Turks justice--and two days' walk in
Constantinople will settle this fact as well as a year's residence
in the city--the people do not seem in the least animated by this
Herodian spirit. I never saw more kindness to children than among
all classes, more fathers walking about with little solemn
Mahometans in red caps and big trousers, more business going on
than in the toy quarter, and in the Atmeidan. Although you may see
there the Thebaic stone set up by the Emperor Theodosius, and the
bronze column of serpents which Murray says was brought from
Delphi, but which my guide informed me was the very one exhibited
by Moses in the wilderness, yet I found the examination of these
antiquities much less pleasant than to look at the many troops of
children assembled on the plain to play; and to watch them as they
were dragged about in little queer arobas, or painted carriages,
which are there kept for hire. I have a picture of one of them now
in my eyes: a little green oval machine, with flowers rudely
painted round the window, out of which two smiling heads are
peeping, the pictures of happiness. An old, good-humoured, grey-
bearded Turk is tugging the cart; and behind it walks a lady in a
usual, towards whom the little coach-riders are looking. A small
sturdy barefooted Mussulman is examining the cart with some
feelings of envy: he is too poor to purchase a ride for himself
and the round-faced puppy-dog, which he is hugging in his arms as
young l
adies in our country do dolls.
All the neighbourhood of the Atmeidan is exceedingly picturesque--
the mosque court and cloister, where the Persians have their stalls
of sweetmeats and tobacco; a superb sycamore-tree grows in the
middle of this, overshadowing an aromatic fountain; great flocks of
pigeons are settling in corners of the cloister, and barley is sold
at the gates, with which the good-natured people feed them. From
the Atmeidan you have a fine view of St. Sophia: and here stands a
mosque which struck me as being much more picturesque and
sumptuous--the Mosque of Sultan Achmed, with its six gleaming white
minarets and its beautiful courts and trees. Any infidels may
enter the court without molestation, and, looking through the
barred windows of the mosque, have a view of its airy and spacious
interior. A small audience of women was collected there when I
looked in, squatted on the mats, and listening to a preacher, who
was walking among them, and speaking with great energy. My
dragoman interpreted to me the sense of a few words of his sermon:
he was warning them of the danger of gadding about to public
places, and of the immorality of too much talking; and, I dare say,
we might have had more valuable information from him regarding the
follies of womankind, had not a tall Turk clapped my interpreter on
the shoulder, and pointed him to be off.
Although the ladies are veiled, and muffled with the ugliest
dresses in the world, yet it appears their modesty is alarmed in
spite of all the coverings which they wear. One day, in the
bazaar, a fat old body, with diamond rings on her fingers, that
were tinged with henne of a logwood colour, came to the shop where
I was purchasing slippers, with her son, a young Aga of six years
of age, dressed in a braided frock-coat, with a huge tassel to his
fez, exceeding fat, and of a most solemn demeanour. The young Aga
came for a pair of shoes, and his contortions were so delightful as
he tried them, that I remained looking on with great pleasure,
wishing for Leech to be at hand to sketch his lordship and his fat
mamma, who sat on the counter. That lady fancied I was looking at
her, though, as far as I could see, she had the figure and
complexion of a roly-poly pudding; and so, with quite a premature
bashfulness, she sent me a message by the shoemaker, ordering me to
walk away if I had made my purchases, for that ladies of her rank
did not choose to be stared at by strangers; and I was obliged to
take my leave, though with sincere regret, for the little lord had
just squeezed himself into an attitude than which I never saw
anything more ludicrous in General Tom Thumb. When the ladies of
the Seraglio come to that bazaar with their cortege of infernal
black eunuchs, strangers are told to move on briskly. I saw a bevy
of about eight of these, with their aides-de-camp; but they were
wrapped up, and looked just as vulgar and ugly as the other women,
and were not, I suppose, of the most beautiful sort. The poor
devils are allowed to come out, half-a-dozen times in the year, to
spend their little wretched allowance of pocket-money in purchasing
trinkets and tobacco; all the rest of the time they pursue the
beautiful duties of their existence in the walls of the sacred
harem.
Though strangers are not allowed to see the interior of the cage in
which these birds of Paradise are confined, yet many parts of the
Seraglio are free to the curiosity of visitors, who choose to drop
a backsheesh here and there. I landed one morning at the Seraglio
point from Galata, close by an ancient pleasure-house of the
defunct Sultan; a vast broad-brimmed pavilion, that looks agreeable
enough to be a dancing room for ghosts now: there is another
summer-house, the Guide-book cheerfully says, whither the Sultan
goes to sport with his women and mutes. A regiment of infantry,
with their music at their head, were marching to exercise in the
outer grounds of the Seraglio; and we followed them, and had an
opportunity of seeing their evolutions, and hearing their bands,