Difficulty of Obtaining an Insight into Turkish Character—Inconvenience of Interpreters—Errors of Travellers—Ignorance of Resident Europeans—Fables and Fable-mongers—Turkey, Local and Moral—Absence of Capital Crime—Police of Constantinople—Quiet Streets—Sedate Mirth—Practical Philosophy of the Turks—National Emulation—Impossibility of Revolution—Mahmoud and his People—Unpopularity of the Sultan—Russian Interference—Vanity of the Turks—Russian Gold—Tenderness of the Turks to Animals—Penalty for Destroying a Dog—The English Sportsman—Fondness of the Turks for Children—Anecdote of the Reiss Effendi—Adopted Children—Love of the Musselmauns for their Mothers—Turkish Indifference to Death—Their Burial-places—Fasts—The Turks in the Mosque—Contempt of the Natives for Europeans—Freedom of the Turkish Women—Inviolability of the Harem—Domestic Economy of the Harem—Turkish Slaves—Anecdote of a Slave of Achmet Pasha—Cleanliness of Turkish Houses—The Real Romance of the East.
There is, perhaps, no country under heaven where it is more difficult for an European to obtain a full and perfect insight into the national character, than in Turkey. The extreme application, and the length of time necessary to the acquirement of the two leading languages, which bear scarcely any affinity to those of Europe, render the task one of utter hopelessness to the traveller, who consequently labours under the disadvantage of explaining his impressions, and seeking for information through the medium of a third person, inferentially, and it may almost be said totally, uninterested in both. The most simple question may be put in a manner calculated to influence the reply; as the rivulet takes the tinge of the soil over which it passes—a misplaced emphasis may change the nature of an assertion; and no one requires to be reminded of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of meeting with an individual so straightforward and matter-of-fact as to translate as though he were perpetually in foro conscientiæ. Thus the means of communication between the native and the stranger have an additional and almost insurmountable impediment in this respect, superadded to the natural and palpable obstacles presented by opposing and diffluent prejudices, customs, and opinions.
Flung back, consequently, upon his own resources; soured, perhaps somewhat, by the consciousness that he is so, and judging according to his own impressions, the traveller hazards undigested and erroneous judgments on the most important facts—traces effects to wrong causes—and, deciding by personal feeling, condemns much that, did he perfectly and thoroughly comprehend its nature and tendency, he would probably applaud. Hence arise most of those errors relative to the feelings and affairs of the East, that have so long misled the public mind in Europe; and, woman as I am, I cannot but deplore a fact which I may be deficient in the power to remedy. The repercussion of public opinion must be wrought by a skilful and a powerful hand, They are no lady-fingers which can grasp a pen potent enough to overthrow the impressions and prejudices that have covered reams of paper, and spread scores of misconceptions. But, nevertheless, like the mouse in the fable, I may myself succeed in breaking away a few of the meshes that imprison the lion; and, as I was peculiarly situated during my residence in the East, and enjoyed advantages and opportunities denied to the generality of travellers, who, as far as the natives are concerned, pass their time in Turkey “unknowing and unknown,” I trust that my attempt to refute the errors of some of my predecessors, and to advance opinions, as well as to adduce facts, according to my own experience, may not entail on me the imputation of presumption. I know not whether it may have been from want of inclination, but it is certain that Europeans are at this moment resident in Turkey, as ignorant of all that relates to her political economy, her system of government, and her moral ethics, as though they had never left their own country: and who have, nevertheless, been resident there for fifteen or twenty years. If you succeed in prevailing on them to speak on the subject, they never progress beyond exanimate and crude details of mere external effects. They have not exerted themselves to look deeper; and it may be supererogatory to add, that at the Embassies the great question of Oriental policy is never discussed, save en petit comité. It is also a well-attested fact that the entrée of native houses, and intimacy with native families, are not only extremely difficult, but in most cases impossible to Europeans; and hence the cause of the tissue of fables which, like those of Scheherazade, have created genii and enchanters ab ovo usque ad mala, in every account of the East. The European mind has become so imbued with ideas of Oriental mysteriousness, mysticism, and magnificence, and it has been so long accustomed to pillow its faith on the marvels and metaphors of tourists, that it is to be doubted whether it will willingly cast off its old associations, and suffer itself to be undeceived.
To the eye, Turkey is, indeed, all that has been described, gorgeous, glowing, and magnificent; the very position of its capital seems to claim for it the proud title of the “Queen of Cities.” Throned on its seven hills, mirrored in the blue beauty of the Bosphorus—that glorious strait which links the land-locked harbour of Stamboul to the mouth of the Euxine—uniting two divisions of the earth in its golden grasp—lording it over the classic and dusky mountains of Asia, and the laughing shores of Europe—the imagination cannot picture a site or scene of more perfect beauty. But the morale of the Turkish empire is less perfect than its terrestrial position; it possesses the best conducted people with the worst conducted government—ministers accessible to bribes—public functionaries practised in chicane—a court without consistency, and a population without energy.
All these things are, however, on the surface, and cannot, consequently, escape the notice of any observant traveller. It is the reverse of the picture that has been so frequently overlooked and neglected. And yet who that regards, with unprejudiced eyes, the moral state of Turkey, can fail to be struck by the absence of capital crime, the contented and even proud feelings of the lower ranks, and the absence of all assumption and haughtiness among the higher?
Constantinople, with a population of six hundred thousand souls, has a police of one hundred and fifty men. No street-riots rouse the quiet citizens from their evening cogitations—no gaming-house vomits forth its throng of despairing or of exulting votaries—no murders frighten slumber from the pillows of the timid, “making night hideous”—no ruined speculator terminates his losses and his life at the same instant, and thus bequeathes a double misery to his survivors—no inebriated mechanic reels homeward to wreak his drunken temper on his trembling wife—the Kavashlir, or police of the capital, are rather for show than use.
From dusk the streets are silent, save when their echoes are awakened by the footfalls of some individual who passes, accompanied by his servant bearing a lantern, on an errand of business or pleasure. Without these lanterns, no person can stir, as the streets of the city are not lighted, and so ill-paved that it would be not only difficult, but almost dangerous, to traverse them in the dark. If occasionally some loud voice of dispute, or some ringing peal of laughter, should scare the silence of night, it is sure to be the voice or the laughter of an European, for the Turk is never loud, even in his mirth; a quiet, internal chuckle, rather seen upon the lips than sensible to the ear, is his greatest demonstration of enjoyment; and while the excitable Greek occasionally almost shrieks out his hilarity, the Musselmaun will look on quietly, with the smile about his mouth, and the sparkle in his eye, which are the only tokens of his anticipation in the jest.
The Turks are the most practical philosophers on earth; they are always contented with the present, and yet ever looking upon it as a mere fleeting good, to which it were as idle to attach any overweening value, as it would be to mourn it when it escapes them. Honours and wealth are such precarious possessions in the East, that men cannot afford to waste existence in weak repinings at their loss; nor are they inclined to do so, when they remember that the next mutation of the Imperial will may reinstate them, unquestioned and untrammelled, in their original position.
It is true that the sharpest sting of worldly misfortune is spared to the Turk, by the perfect similarity of habit and feeling between the rich and the poor; and he also suffers less morally than the European, from the fact that there exists no aristocracy in the country, either of birth or wealth, to ride rough-shod over their less fortunate fellow-men. The boatman on the Bosphorus, and the porter in the streets—the slave in the Salemliek, and the groom in the stables, are alike eligible to fill the rank of Pasha—there is no exclusive clique or caste to absorb “the loaves and fishes” of office in Turkey—the butcher of to-day may be the Generalissimo of to-morrow; and the barber who takes an Effendi by the nose on Monday may, on Tuesday, be equally authorized to take him by the hand.
To this circumstance must be attributed, in a great degree, the impossibility of a revolution in Turkey; but another may also be adduced of at least equal weight. In Europe, the subversion of order is the work of a party who have everything to gain, and who, from possessing no individual interest in the country, have consequently nothing to lose. To persons of this class, every social change offers at least the prospect of advantage; but, throughout the Ottoman empire, nearly every man is the owner of a plot of land, and is enabled to trim his own vine, and to sit under the shadow of his own fig-tree—he has an interest in the soil—and thus, although popular commotions are of frequent occurrence, they merely agitate, without exasperating the feelings of the people.
The Osmanli is, moreover, mentally, as well as physically, indolent—he is an enemy to all unnecessary exertion; and the subjects of Sultan Mahmoud have never threatened him with rebellion because he refused to grant any change in their existing privileges and customs, but, on the contrary, because he sought to introduce innovations for which they had never asked, and for which they had no desire. “Why,” they exclaim in their philosophy, “why seek to alter what is well? If we are content, what more can we desire?” And, acting upon this principle, they resist every attempt at change, as they would a design against their individual liberty.
This feeling has induced the great unpopularity of the Sultan; who, in his zeal to civilize the Empire, has necessarily shocked many privileges and overturned many theories. That he is unpopular, unfortunately admits of no doubt, even in the minds of those most attached to his interests—the very presence of Russian arms within his Imperial territory sufficiently attest the fact: and it is to be feared that he will discover, when too late, that these apparent means of safety were the actual engines of his destruction. Be this as it may, it is certain that the Russian alliance has given great and rational umbrage to the bulk of his people; and, combined with his own mania for improvement and innovation, has caused a want of affection for his person, and a want of deference for his opinions, which operate most disadvantageously for his interests.
That the Russian influence has negatived the good effects of many of his endeavours is palpable, and forces itself daily on the notice of those who look closely and carefully on the existing state of things at Constantinople. It is the policy of Russia to check every advance towards enlightenment among a people whom she has already trammelled, and whom she would fain subjugate. The Turk is vain and self-centered, and consequently most susceptible to flattery. Tell him that he is “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,” and his own self-appreciation leads him immediately to put firm faith in the sincerity of your assertion; the effect of this blind trust is evident at once—it paralyzes all desire of further improvement: he holds it as supererogatory to “gild refined gold, and paint the lily,” and he thus stops short at the threshold, when he should press forward to the arena.
These sober statements are sad innovators on our European ideas of Eastern magnificence, but they are, nevertheless, too characteristic to be passed over in silence.
To all the brute creation the Turks are not only merciful but ministering friends; and to so great an extent do they carry this tenderness towards the inferior animals, that they will not kill an unweaned lamb, in order to spare unnecessary suffering to the mother; and an English sportsman, who had been unsuccessful in the chase, having, on one occasion, in firing off his piece previously to disembarking from his caïque, brought down a gull that was sailing above his head, was reproached by his rowers with as much horror and emphasis as though he had been guilty of homicide.
I have elsewhere remarked on the singular impunity enjoyed by the aquatic birds which throng the harbour of Constantinople, and sport among the shipping; on the divers, that may be knocked down by the oar of every passing caïque, so fearless are they of human vicinity; and the gulls, which cluster like pigeons on the roofs of the houses—on the porpoises that crowd the port, and the dogs that haunt the streets. It may not be unamusing to state the forfeit inflicted on an individual for destroying one of these animals, as it is both curious and characteristic. The dead dog is hung up by the tail in such a manner as to suffer his nose to touch the ground; and his murderer is compelled to cover him entirely with corn or millet seed, which is secured by the proper authorities, and distributed to the poor. This ceremony generally costs the delinquent about a thousand piastres.
Another distinguishing trait in the Turkish character is their strong parental affection; indeed I may say love of children generally. Nothing can be more beautiful than the tenderness of a Turkish father; he hails every demonstration of dawning intellect, every proof of infant affection, with a delight that must be witnessed to be thoroughly understood; he anticipates every want, he gratifies every wish, he sacrifices his own personal comfort to ensure that of his child; and I cannot better illustrate this fact than by mentioning a circumstance which fell under my own observation.
The Reiss Effendi, or Minister for Foreign Affairs, had a grandchild whose indisposition caused him the most lively uneasiness; it was in vain that his English physician assured him of the total absence of danger; his every thought, his every anxiety, were with this darling boy; in the midst of the most pressing public business, he would start up and hasten to the chamber of the little patient, to assure himself that everything was going on favourably; he would leave his friends, in an hour of relaxation, to sit beside the sick bed of the child; and at length, when a strict and rigid system of diet was prescribed, which was to be of a fortnight’s duration, he actually submitted himself, and compelled all his establishment to submit, to the same monotonous and scanty fare, lest the boy should accidentally see, or otherwise become conscious of the presence of, any more enticing food, for which he might pine, and thus increase his malady.
It may be thought that I have cited an extreme instance, but such is, in reality, far from being the case; indeed, to such a pitch do the Osmanlis carry their love for children, that they are constantly adopting those of others, whom they emphatically denominate “children of the soul.” They generally take them into their families when mere infants; they rear them with the most extreme care and tenderness: and finally portion them on their marriage, as though the claim were a natural, rather than a gratuitous, one. The adopted child of Turkey is not like the protégé of Europe, the plaything of a season, and ultimately too often the victim of a whim: the act of adoption is with the Turks a solemn obligation; and poverty and privation would alike fail to weary them of well-doing where their affections as well as their word were pledged.
An equally beautiful feature in the character of the Turks is their reverence and respect for the author of their being. Their wives advise and reprimand unheeded—their words are bosh—nothing—but the mother is an oracle; she is consulted, confided in, listened to with respect and deference, honoured to her latest hour, and remembered with affection and regret beyond the grave. “My wives die, and I can replace them,” says the Osmanli; “my children perish, and others may be born to me; but who shall restore to me the mother who has passed away, and who is seen no more?”
These are strong traits, beautiful developments, of human nature; and, if such be indeed the social attributes of “barbarism,” then may civilized Europe, amid her pride of science and her superiority of knowledge, confess that herein at least she is mated by the less highly-gifted Musselmauns.
The philosophy and kindly feeling of the Turk is carried even beyond the grave. He looks upon death calmly and without repugnance; he does not connect it with ideas of gloom and horror, as we are too prone to do in Europe—he spreads his burial places in the sunniest spots—on the crests of the laughing hills, where they are bathed in the light of the blue sky; beside the crowded thoroughfares of the city, where the dead are, as it were, once more mingled with the living—in the green nooks that stretch down to the Bosphorus, wherein more selfish spirits would have erected a villa, or have planted a vineyard. He identifies himself with the generation which has passed away—he is ready to yield his place to that which is to succeed his own.
Nor must I omit to remark on the devout and unaffected religious feeling that exists in Turkey, not only among the Musselmauns, who, however imperative may be their avocations, never neglect to pray five times during the day; but equally among the Greeks and Armenians, whose fasts are so severe that those of the Roman Catholics are comparatively feasts. If you meet a Turk and inquire after his health, he replies—“Shukiur Allah!—Praise be to God, I am well.” Every thing is referred to the Great First Cause. There is none of that haughty self-dependence, that overweening morgue, so strongly marked in Europeans. Among men, the Osmanli considers himself the first, but only among men; when he puts off his slippers at the door of the mosque, he carries no pomp with him into the presence of his God. The luxurious inhabitant of the East, who, in his own salemliek is wont to recline on cushions, and to be served by officious slaves, does not pass into the house of God to tenant a crimson-lined and well-wadded pew, and to listen to the words of inspiration beside a comfortable stove, in dreamy indifference: he takes his place among the crowd—the Effendi stands beside the water-carrier—the Bey near the charcoal-vender—he is but one item among many—he arrogates to himself no honour in the temple where all men are as one common family; and he insults not the Divine Majesty by a bended knee and a stubborn brow.
That the generality of the Turks hold every Frank in supreme contempt, admits of no doubt; and could they, to use their own phrase, “make our fathers and mothers eat dirt,” I am afraid that our respectable ancestors would never again enjoy a comfortable meal; but this feeling on their part is rather amusing than offensive, and only enhances the merit of their politeness when they show courtesy to the stranger and the Giaour.
If, as we are all prone to believe, freedom be happiness, then are the Turkish women the happiest, for they are certainly the freest individuals in the Empire. It is the fashion in Europe to pity the women of the East; but it is ignorance of their real position alone which can engender so misplaced an exhibition of sentiment. I have already stated that they are permitted to expostulate, to urge, even to insist on any point wherein they may feel an interest; nor does an Osmanli husband ever resent the expressions of his wife; it is, on the contrary, part and parcel of his philosophy to bear the storm of words unmoved; and the most emphatic and passionate oration of the inmates of his harem seldom produces more than the trite “Bakalum—we shall see.”
It is also a fact that though a Turk has an undoubted right to enter the apartments of his wives at all hours, it is a privilege of which he very rarely, I may almost say, never avails himself. One room in the harem is appropriated to the master of the house, and therein he awaits the appearance of the individual with whom he wishes to converse, and who is summoned to his presence by a slave. Should he, on passing to his apartment, see slippers at the foot of the stairs, he cannot, under any pretence, intrude himself in the harem: it is a liberty that every woman in the Empire would resent. When guests are on a visit of some days, he sends a slave forward to announce his approach, and thus gives them time and opportunity to withdraw.
A Turkish woman consults no pleasure save her own when she wishes to walk or drive, or even to pass a short time with a friend: she adjusts her yashmac and feridjhe, summons her slave, who prepares her boksha, or bundle, neatly arranged in a muslin handkerchief; and, on the entrance of the husband, his inquiries are answered by the intelligence that the Hanoum2 Effendi is gone to spend a week at the harem of so and so. Should he be suspicious of the fact, he takes steps to ascertain that she is really there; but the idea of controlling her in the fancy, or of making it subject of reproach on her return, is perfectly out of the question.
The instances are rare in which a Turk, save among the higher ranks, becomes the husband of two wives. He usually marries a woman of his own rank; after which, should he, either from whim, or for family reasons, resolve on increasing his establishment, he purchases slaves from Circassia and Georgia, who are termed Odaliques; and who, however they may succeed in superseding the Buyuk Hanoum, or head of the harem, in his affections, are, nevertheless, subordinate persons in the household; bound to obey her bidding, to pay her the greatest respect, and to look up to her as a superior. Thus a Turkish lady constantly prefers the introduction of half a dozen Odaliques into her harem to that of a second wife; as it precludes the possibility of any inconvenient assumption of power on the part of her companions, who must, under all circumstances, continue subservient to her authority.
The almost total absence of education among Turkish women, and the consequently limited range of their ideas, is another cause of that quiet, careless, indolent happiness that they enjoy; their sensibilities have never been awakened, and their feelings and habits are comparatively unexacting: they have no factitious wants, growing out of excessive mental refinement; and they do not, therefore, torment themselves with the myriad anxieties, and doubts, and chimeras, which would darken and depress the spirit of more highly-gifted females. Give her shawls, and diamonds, a spacious mansion in Stamboul, and a sunny palace on the Bosphorus, and a Turkish wife is the very type of happiness; amused with trifles, careless of all save the passing hour; a woman in person, but a child at heart.
Were I a man, and condemned to an existence of servitude, I would unhesitatingly chuse that of slavery in a Turkish family: for if ever the “bitter draught” can indeed be rendered palatable, it is there. The slave of the Osmanli is the child of his adoption; he purchases with his gold a being to cherish, to protect, and to support; and in almost every case he secures to himself what all his gold could not command—a devoted and loving heart, ready to sacrifice its every hope and impulse in his service. Once forget that the smiling menial who hands you your coffee, or pours the rose-water on your hands from an urn of silver, has been purchased at a price, and you must look with admiration on the relative positions of the servant and his lord—the one so eager and so earnest in his services—the other so gentle and so unexacting in his commands.
No assertion of mine can, however, so satisfactorily prove the fact which I have here advanced, as the circumstance that almost all the youth of both sexes in Circassia insist upon being conveyed by their parents to Constantinople, where the road to honour and advancement is open to every one. The slaves receive no wages; the price of their services has already been paid to their relatives; but twice in the year, at stated periods, the master and mistress of the family, and, indeed, every one of their superiors under the same roof, are bound to make them a present, termed the Backshish, the value of which varies according to the will of the donor; and they are as well fed, and nearly as well clothed, as their owners.
As they stand in the apartment with their hands folded upon their breasts, they occasionally mix in the conversation unrebuked; while, from their number, (every individual maintaining as many as his income will admit), they are never subjected to hard labour; indeed, I have been sometimes tempted to think that all the work of a Turkish house must be done by the fairies; for, although I have been the inmate of several harems at all hours, I never saw a symptom of any thing like domestic toil.
There is a remarkable feature in the position of the Turkish slaves that I must not omit to mention. Should it occur that one of them, from whatever cause it may arise, feels himself uncomfortable in the house of his owner, the dissatisfied party requests his master to dispose of him; and, having repeated this appeal three several times, the law enforces compliance with its spirit; nor is this all—the slave can not only insist on changing owners, but even on selecting his purchaser, although he may by such means entail considerable loss on his master. But, as asseveration is not proof, I will adduce an example.
The wife of Achmet Pasha had a female slave, who, being partial to a young man of the neighbourhood, was desirous to become his property. Such being the case, she informed her mistress that she wished to be taken to the market and disposed of, which was accordingly carried into effect; but, as she was young and pretty, and her lover in confined circumstances, he was soon outbidden by a wealthier man; and, on her return to the harem of Achmet Pasha, her mistress told her that an Asiatic merchant had offered twenty thousand piastres for her, and that she would be removed to his house in a few days. “I will not belong to him,” was the reply; “there was a young man in the market who bid twelve thousand for me, and I have decided to follow him. My price to you was but ten thousand piastres, and thus you will gain two thousand by selling me to him.” Her declaration was decisive: she became the property of her lover, and her resolution cost her mistress eighty pounds sterling.
The most perfect cleanliness is the leading characteristic of Eastern houses—not a grain of dust, not a foot-mark, defaces the surface of the Indian matting that covers the large halls, whence the several apartments branch off in every direction; the glass from which you drink is carefully guarded to avoid the possibility of contamination; and, the instant that you have eaten, a slave stands before you with water and a napkin to cleanse your hands. To the constant use of the bath I have already alluded; and no soil is ever seen on the dress of a Turkish gentlewoman.
I am quite conscious that more than one lady-reader will lay down my volume without regret, when she discovers how matter-of-fact are many of its contents. The very term “Oriental” implies to European ears the concentration of romance; and I was long in the East ere I could divest myself of the same feeling. It would have been easy for me to have continued the illusion, for Oriental habits lend themselves greatly to the deceit, when the looker-on is satisfied with glancing over the surface of things; but with a conscientious chronicler this does not suffice; and, consequently, I rather sought to be instructed than to be amused, and preferred the veracious to the entertaining.
This bowing down of the imagination before the reason is, however, the less either a merit on the one hand, or a sacrifice on the other, that enough of the wild and the wonderful, as well as of the bright and the beautiful, still remains, to make the East a scene of enchantment. A sky, whose blue brilliancy floods with light alike the shores of Asia and of Europe—whose sunshine falls warm and golden on domes, and minarets, and palaces—a sea, whose waves glitter in silver, forming the bright bond by which two quarters of the world are linked together—an Empire, peopled by the gathering of many nations—the stately Turk—the serious Armenian—the wily Jew—the keen-eyed Greek—the graceful Circassian—the desert-loving Tartar—the roving Arab—the mountain-born son of Caucasus—the voluptuous Persian—the Indian Dervish, and the thoughtful Frank—each clad in the garb, and speaking the language of his people; suffice to weave a web of tints too various and too brilliant to be wrought into the dull and commonplace pattern of every-day existence.
I would not remove one fold of the graceful drapery which veils the time-hallowed statue of Eastern power and beauty; but I cannot refrain from plucking away the trash and tinsel that ignorance and bad taste have hung about it; and which belong as little to the masterpiece they desecrate, as the votive offerings of bigotry and superstition form a part of one of Raphaël’s divine Madonnas, because they are appended to her shrine.
Turkish Superstitions—Auguries—The Court Astrologer—The Evil Eye—Danger of Blue Eyes—Imperial Firman—The Babaluk—The Ceremony—Sable Pythonesses—Witchcraft.
The Turks are strangely superstitious; they cling resolutely to the absurd and wild fancies which have been banished from Europe for centuries; and that too with a blindness of faith, and a tenacity of purpose, quite in keeping with their firm and somewhat dogged natures.
Many of their superstitions they inherit from the Romans; they extract auguries of good and evil from the entrails of fresh-slaughtered animals—they draw inferences from the flight of birds—they have auspicious and inauspicious hours, which are gravely determined by the Astrologers; and no Osmanli ever undertakes a journey, builds a house, marries a wife, or commences any business of importance, without satisfying himself on this important point. Should evil or disappointment overtake him, despite the precaution he has used, he never blames either his own mismanagement or another’s treachery; neither does he sink beneath the trial: he tells you that it is his kismet—his fate—and he calmly submits to what he considers to have been inevitable; and should misfortunes accumulate about him, instead of attributing them to worldly causes, he ascribes them to felech—his constellation—without searching further.
When he is troubled with unpleasant dreams, haunted by melancholy fancies, or suffering from bodily disease, he tears away a fragment of his dress, and fastens the rag to the iron-work of a window belonging to the tomb of a saint, in order to deposit the evil along with it. When he is sick, he procures from the Priest an earthen bowl, inscribed throughout its interior with passages from the Koran; and, filling it with water, sets it aside until the whole of the writing becomes effaced, when he swallows the liquid, and thus administers to himself a dose of Holy Writ! The Court Astrologer publishes every year a species of supernatural almanack, in which he specifies the lucky and unlucky days of the different moons; foretells wars, deaths, and marriages; and imparts a vast quantity of multifarious information, which must be both valuable and curious, if it is to be estimated by the price paid for it, as the salary of the Seer is a most liberal one.
Another singular superstition common throughout Turkey is the belief that should a dog chance to pass between two persons who are conversing, one or the other will fall sick unless the animal be propitiated with food; and the first care of a Musselmaun to whom this ill-luck has occurred, is to look about him for the means of averting its effect.
But the predominant weakness of the East is the dread of the Evil Eye. Should you praise the beauty of a Turkish child to its mother, without prefacing your admiration with “Mashallah!” or, In the name of God—which is considered sufficient to counteract the power of all malignant spirits; and, should the child become ill or meet with an accident, it is at once decided that you have smitten it with the Evil Eye. The Greeks, when by accident they allude to their own good health or good fortune, immediately spit upon their breasts to avert the malign influence; and to such a pitch do they carry their faith in the efficacy of this inelegant exorcism, that on a recent occasion, when an acquaintance of my own was introduced to a beautiful Greek girl, and betrayed into an eulogium on her loveliness, he was earnestly entreated by her mother to perform the same ceremony in the very face which he had just been eulogizing, in order to annul the evil effects of his admiration; and so pressing were her instances that he was compelled to affect obedience to her wishes, ere she could be re-assured of the safety of her daughter!
The Turk decorates the roof of his house, the prow of his caïque, the cap of his child, the neck of his horse, and the cage of his bird, with charms against the Evil Eye; one of the most powerful of these antidotes being garlic: and it must be conceded that, here at least, the workers of woe have shown their taste. Every hovel has its head of garlic suspended by a string; and bouquets of flowers formed of spices, amid which this noxious root is nestled, are sent as presents to the mother of a new-born infant, as a safeguard both to herself and her little one.
A blue eye is super-eminently suspicious, for they have an idea that such is the legitimate colour of the evil orb; and you seldom see a horse, or a draught ox, or even a donkey, which has not about its neck a string of blue beads, to preserve it from the dark deeds of witchcraft. I was considerably amused on one occasion, when, being about to meet the carriage of a friend, the horse that drew it, either from idleness or caprice, suddenly stood still, and the arabajhe exclaimed with vehemence to his mistress, “You see, madam, you see that the horse is struck—the new Hanoum has blue eyes!” turning his own on me as he spoke, with a most unloving expression. I am perfectly convinced that, had the animal met with any misfortune, or been guilty of any misdemeanour during the remainder of the day, the whole blame would have inevitably been visited on my unlucky eyes, which had counteracted the effect of a row of glass beads, and a crescent of bone!
To protect the reigning Sultan from the power of the Evil Eye during his state progresses through the streets of the capital, a peculiar head-dress was invented for the Imperial body-pages, whose ornamented plumes were of such large dimensions as, collectively, to form a screen about his sacred person. Even Sultan Mahmoud, who is superior to many of the popular prejudices, has just caused a Firman to be published, prohibiting the women from looking earnestly at him as he passes them, on pain of—what think you, reader?—of subjecting their husbands or brothers to the bastinado! The Turkish laws are too gallant to condemn females to suffer this punishment in their own persons, and Mahmoud is consequently to be protected from the possibly fatal effects of the ladies’ eyes by their fears for their male relations.
Another singular custom is that of pouring water where any one has fallen, to prevent a recurrence of the accident on the same spot, which is religiously observed by the lower orders; as well as flinging stones at the body of a decapitated criminal, in order to secure the dreams of the spectator from an intrusion of the ghastly object.
No Turk of the lower ranks of society ever passes a shred of paper which may chance to lie upon his path; he always gathers it up with the greatest care; as the popular belief leads him to place implicit faith in an ancient superstition that all paper thus obtained will be collected after death, and scattered over the burning soil through which he is to pass to paradise; and that consequently the more he is enabled to secure, the less suffering he will have to endure hereafter.
A most extraordinary fact came to my knowledge a short time before I left the East, relatively to the female Arabs of the harem. They have a species of society, or institution—I scarcely know how to term it—in which they are initiated from their girlhood, that they call “Babaluk,” whose principle of mystery is kept as secret as that of freemasonry; while the occasional display of its influence is wild and startling enough to remind the spectator of the Priestesses of Delphi.
Far from affecting any concealment of their participation in the pretended powers of the society, you cannot, when a guest in the harem, please an initiated Arab more surely than by inquiring if she be a Babaluk; and the Turkish ladies frequently amuse themselves and their visitors by exhibiting their black slaves while under the influence of their self-excited phrenzy. When a sable Pythoness is informed of the wish of her mistress, she collects such of her companions as are Babaluks, for there are sometimes several in the same harem, and a brazier of burning charcoal is placed in the centre of the saloon in which the ceremony is to take place. Round this brazier the Arabs squat down, and commence a low, wild chant, which they take up at intervals from the lips of each other; and then break into a chorus, that ultimately dies away in a wail, succeeded by a long silence, during whose continuance they rock their bodies backwards and forwards, and never raise their eyes from the earth. From the moment in which the chant commences, an attendant is constantly employed in feeding the fire with aloes, incense, musk, and every species of intoxicating perfume.
After a time, they fall on the floor in a state of utter insensibility, and great exertion is frequently necessary to arouse them from their trance; but, when once they are awakened, they become furious—they rend themselves, and each other—they tear their hair and their clothing—they howl like wild beasts, and they cry earnestly for food, while they reject all that is offered except brandy and raw meat, both of which they destroy in great quantities. Having satisfied their hunger, they renew the warfare that they had discontinued to indulge it, and finally roll on the floor with bloodshot eyeballs, and foaming at the mouth.
A second trance ultimately seizes them, from which they are left to recover alone; fresh perfumes being flung into the brazier to expedite their restoration, which generally takes place in ten or fifteen minutes; and then it is that the spell of prophecy is on them. They rise slowly and majestically from the floor—they wave their hands solemnly over the aromatic flame—they have become suddenly subdued and gentle; and, after having made the circuit of the brazier several times in silence, they gaze coldly round the circle, until, fixing upon some particular individual, they commence shadowing forth her fate, past, present, and to come; and I have heard it seriously asserted that they have thus divulged the most secret events of by-gone years, as well as prophecying those which subsequently took place.
It is scarcely wonderful—even disgusting as a great portion of the ceremonial undoubtedly is—that many of the Turkish ladies occasionally relieve the tedium of the harem by the exhibition of the Babaluk; that vague yearning to pry into futurity so inherent in our nature, coupled with the uncertainty on whom the spell of the sybil may be cast, causes an excitement which forms an agreeable contrast from their customary ennui. No second fate is ever foretold at the same orgies. When the first Babaluk begins to speak, the others sink down into a sitting posture, occasionally enforcing her assertions by repeating the last words of any remarkable sentence in a long, low wail; and, when she ceases and takes her place among them, they are for the third time overtaken by a trance: the brazier is then removed, the spectators leave the room, the door is carefully closed, and the Babaluks are left to awaken at their leisure. When they finally come forth, they resume their customary avocations, without making the slightest allusion to the extraordinary scene in which they have been actors; nor do they like the subject to be mentioned to them until several days have elapsed.
The Mosques at Midnight—Baron Rothschild—Firmans and Orders—A Proposition—Masquerading—St. Sophia by Lamplight—The Congregation—The Mosque of Sultan Achmet—Colossal Pillars—Return to the Harem—The Chèïk-Islam—Count Bathiany—The Party—St. Sophia by Daylight—Erroneous Impression—Turkish Paradise—Piety of the Turkish Women—The Vexed Traveller—Disappointment—Confusion of Architecture—The Sweating Stone—Women’s Gallery—View from the Gallery—Gog and Magog at Constantinople—The Impenetrable Door—Ancient Tradition—Leads of the Mosque—Gallery of the Dome—The Doves—The Atmeidan—The Tree of Groans—The Mosque of Sultan Achmet—Antique Vases—Historical Pulpit—The Inner Court—The Six Minarets—The Mosque of Solimaniè—Painted Windows—Ground-plan of the Principal Mosques—The Treasury of Solimaniè—Mausoleum of Solyman the Magnificent—Model of the Mosque at Mecca—Mausoleums in General—Indispensable Accessories—The Medresch—Mosque of Sultan Mahmoud at Topphannè.
Although I am about to describe to my readers a morning at the mosques, I must nevertheless first conduct them into the mosques at midnight, by recounting a visit to St. Sophia and Sultan Achmet, which I have hitherto forborne to mention, in the hope (since realized) of being enabled, ere my departure from Constantinople, both to form and to impart a better idea of these magnificent edifices than my first adventurous survey had rendered me capable of doing.
During a visit that I made to a Turkish family, with whom I had become acquainted, the conversation turned on the difficulty of obtaining a Firman to see the mosques; when it was stated that Baron Rothschild was the only private individual to whom the favour had ever been accorded: (probably upon the same principle that the Pope instituted the order of St. Gregory, and bestowed the first decoration upon the Hebraic Crœsus) and that travellers were thus dependent on the uncertain chance of encountering, during their residence in Turkey, some distinguished person to whom the marble doors were permitted to fall back.
In vain I questioned and cross-questioned; I failed to obtain a ray of hope beyond the very feeble one held out by this infrequent casualty; and I could not refrain from expressing the bitterness of my disappointment, with an emphasis which convinced my Musselmaun hearers that I was sincere.
Hours passed away, and other subjects had succeeded to this most interesting one, when, as the evening closed in, I remarked that—— Bey, the eldest son of the house, was carrying on a very energetic sotto voce conversation with his venerable father; and I was not a little astonished when he ultimately informed me, in his imperfect French, that there was one method of visiting the mosques, if I had nerve to attempt it, which would probably prove successful; and that, in the event of my resolving to run the risk, he was himself so convinced of its practicability, that he would accompany me, with the consent of his father, attended by the old Kïara, or House-steward; upon the understanding (and on this the grey-bearded Effendi had resolutely insisted) that in the event of detection it was to be sauve qui peut; an arrangement that would enable his son at once to elude pursuit, if he exercised the least ingenuity or caution.
What European traveller, possessed of the least spirit of adventure, would refuse to encounter danger in order to stand beneath the dome of St. Sophia? And, above all, what wandering Giaour could resist the temptation of entering a mosque during High Prayer?
These were the questions that I asked myself as the young Bey vowed himself so gallantly to the venture, (to him, in any case, not without its dangers) in order to avert from me the disappointment which I dreaded.
I at once understood that the attempt must be made in a Turkish dress; but this fact was of trifling importance, as no costume in the world lends itself more readily or more conveniently to the purposes of disguise. After having deliberately weighed the chances for and against detection, I resolved to run the risk; and accordingly I stained my eyebrows with some of the dye common in the harem; concealed my female attire beneath a magnificent pelisse, lined with sables, which fastened from my chin to my feet; pulled a fèz low upon my brow; and, preceded by a servant with a lantern, attended by the Bey, and followed by the Kïara and a pipe-bearer, at half-past ten o’clock I sallied forth on my adventurous errand.
We had not mentioned to either the wife or the mother of the Bey whither we were bound, being fearful of alarming them unnecessarily; and they consequently remained perfectly satisfied with the assurance of the old gentleman, that I was anxious to see the Bosphorus by moonlight; though a darker night never spread its mantle over the earth.
I am extremely doubtful whether, on a less exciting occasion, I could have kept time with the rapid pace of my companion, over the vile pavement of Constantinople; as it was, however, I dared not give way, lest any one among the individuals who followed us, and who were perhaps bound on the same errand, should penetrate my disguise.
“If we escape from St. Sophia unsuspected,” said my chivalrous friend, “we will then make another bold attempt; we will visit the mosque of Sultan Achmet; and as this is a high festival, if you risk the adventure, you will have done what no Infidel has ever yet dared to do; but I forewarn you that, should you be discovered, and fail to make your escape on the instant, you will be torn to pieces.”
This assertion somewhat staggered me, and for an instant my woman-spirit quailed; I contented myself, however, with briefly replying: “When we leave St. Sophia, we will talk of this,” and continued to walk beside him in silence. At length we entered the spacious court of the mosque, and as the servants stooped to withdraw my shoes, the Bey murmured in my ear: “Be firm, or you are lost!”—and making a strong effort to subdue the feeling of mingled awe and fear, which was rapidly stealing over me, I pulled the fèz deeper upon my eyebrows, and obeyed.
On passing the threshold, I found myself in a covered peristyle, whose gigantic columns of granite are partially sunk in the wall of which they form a part; the floor was covered with fine matting, and the coloured lamps, which were suspended in festoons from the lofty ceiling, shed a broad light on all the surrounding objects. In most of the recesses formed by the pillars, beggars were crouched down, holding in front of them their little metal basins, to receive the paras of the charitable; while servants lounged to and fro, or squatted in groups upon the matting, awaiting the egress of their employers. As I looked around me, our own attendant moved forward, and raising the curtain which veiled a double door of bronze, situated at mid-length of the peristyle, I involuntarily shrank back before the blaze of light that burst upon me.
Far as the eye could reach upwards, circles of coloured fire, appearing as if suspended in mid-air, designed the form of the stupendous dome; while beneath, devices of every shape and colour were formed by myriads of lamps of various hues: the Imperial closet, situated opposite to the pulpit, was one blaze of refulgence, and its gilded lattices flashed back the brilliancy, till it looked like a gigantic meteor!