Sketches and Travels in London Read online

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

  with little red fezzes, very small, and for very young heads

  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

  yakmac and yellow slippers, and a black female slave, grinning as

  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,