The Night of Predestination.
Constantinople in Ramazan--The Origin of the Fast--Nightly
Illuminations--The Night of Predestination--The Golden Horn at
Night--Illumination of the Shores--The Cannon of Constantinople--A Fiery
Panorama--The Sultan's Caïque--Close of the Celebration--A Turkish
Mob--The Dancing Dervishes.
"Skies full of splendid moons and shooting stars,
And spouting exhalations, diamond fires." Keats.
Constantinople, _Wednesday, July_ 14, 1862.
Constantinople, during the month of Ramazan, presents a very different
aspect from Constantinople at other times. The city, it is true, is much
more stern and serious during the day; there is none of that gay, careless
life of the Orient which you see in Smyrna, Cairo, and Damascus; but when
once the sunset gun has fired, and the painful fast is at an end, the
picture changes as if by magic. In all the outward symbols of their
religion, the Mussulmans show their joy at being relieved from what they
consider a sacred duty. During the day, it is quite a science to keep the
appetite dormant, and the people not only abstain from eating and
drinking, but as much as possible from the sight of food. In the bazaars,
you see the famished merchants either sitting, propped back against their
cushions, with the shawl about their stomachs, tightened so as to prevent
the void under it from being so sensibly felt, or lying at full length in
the vain attempt to sleep. It is whispered here that many of the Turks
will both eat and smoke, when there is no chance of detection, but no one
would dare infringe the fast in public. Most of the mechanics and porters
are Armenians, and the boatmen are Greeks.
I have endeavored to ascertain the origin of this fast month. The Syrian
Christians say that it is a mere imitation of an incident which happened
to Mahomet. The Prophet, having lost his camels, went day after day
seeking them in the Desert, taking no nourishment from the time of his
departure in the morning until his return at sunset. After having sought
them thus daily, for the period of one entire moon, he found them, and in
token of joy, gave a three days' feast to the tribe, now imitated in the
festival of Bairam, which lasts for three days after the close of Ramazan.
This reason, however, seems too trifling for such a rigid fast, and the
Turkish tradition, that the Koran was sent down from heaven during this
month, offers a more probable explanation. During the fast, the
Mussulmans, as is quite natural, are much more fanatical than at other
times. They are obliged to attend prayers at the mosque every night, or to
have a _mollah_ read the Koran to them at their own houses. All the
prominent features of their religion are kept constantly before their
eyes, and their natural aversion to the Giaour, or Infidel, is increased
tenfold. I have heard of several recent instances in which strangers have
been exposed to insults and indignities.
At dusk the minarets are illuminated; a peal of cannon from the Arsenal,
echoed by others from the forts along the Bosphorus, relieves the
suffering followers of the Prophet, and after an hour of silence, during
which they are all at home, feasting, the streets are filled with noisy
crowds, and every coffee-shop is thronged. Every night there are
illuminations along the water, which, added to the crowns of light
sparkling on the hundred minarets and domes, give a magical effect to the
night view of the city. Towards midnight there is again a season of
comparative quiet, most of the inhabitants having retired to rest; but,
about two hours afterwards a watchman comes along with a big drum, which
he beats lustily before the doors of the Faithful, in order to arouse them
in time to eat again before the daylight-gun, which announces the
commencement of another day's fast.
Last night was the holiest night of Islam, being the twenty-fifth of the
fast. It is called the _Leilet-el-Kadr,_ or Night of the Predestination,
the anniversary of that on which the Koran was miraculously communicated
to the Prophet. On this night the Sultan, accompanied by his whole suite,
attends service at the mosque, and on his return to the Seraglio, the
Sultana Valide, or Sultana-Mother, presents him with a virgin from one of
the noble families of Constantinople. Formerly, St. Sophia was the theatre
of this celebration, but this year the Sultan chose the Mosque of
Tophaneh, which stands on the shore--probably as being nearer to his
imperial palace at Beshiktashe, on the Bosphorus. I consider myself
fortunate in having reached Constantinople in season to witness this
ceremony, and the illumination of the Golden Horn, which accompanies it.
After sunset the mosques crowning the hills of Stamboul, the mosque of
Tophaneh, on this side of the water, and the Turkish men-of-war and
steamers afloat at the mouth of the Golden Horn, began to blaze with more
than their usual brilliance. The outlines of the minarets and domes were
drawn in light on the deepening gloom, and the masts and yards of the
vessel were hung with colored lanterns. From the battery in front of the
mosque and arsenal of Tophaneh a blaze of intense light streamed out over
the water, illuminating the gliding forms of a thousand caïques, and the
dark hulls of the vessels lying at anchor. The water is the best place
from which to view the illumination, and a party of us descended to the
landing-place. The streets of Tophaneh were crowded with swarms of Turks,
Greeks and Armenians. The square around the fountain was brilliantly
lighted, and venders of sherbet and kaïmak were ranged along the
sidewalks. In the neighborhood of the mosque the crowd was so dense that
we could with difficulty make our way through. All the open space next the
water was filled up with the clumsy _arabas_, or carriages of the Turks,
in which sat the wives of the Pashas and other dignitaries.
We took a caïque, and were soon pulled out into the midst of a multitude
of other caïques, swarming all over the surface of the Golden Horn. The
view from this point was strange, fantastic, yet inconceivably gorgeous.
In front, three or four large Turkish frigates lay in the Bosphorus, their
hulls and spars outlined in fire against the dark hills and distant
twinkling lights of Asia. Looking to the west, the shores of the Golden
Horn were equally traced by the multitude of lamps that covered them, and
on either side, the hills on which the city is built rose from the
water--masses of dark buildings, dotted all over with shafts and domes of
the most brilliant light. The gateway on Seraglio Point was illuminated,
as well as the quay in front of the mosque of Tophaneh, all the cannons of
the battery being covered with lamps. The commonest objects shared in the
splendor, even a large lever used for hoisting goods being hung with
lanterns from top to bottom. The mosque was a mass of light, and between
the tall minarets flanking it, burned the inscription, in Arabic
characters, "Long life to you, O our Sovereign!"
The discharge of a cannon announced the Sultan's departure from his
palace, and immediately the guns on the frigates and the batteries on both
shores took up the salute, till the grand echoes, filling the hollow
throat of the Golden Horn, crashed from side to side, striking the hills
of Scutari and the point of Chalcedon, and finally dying away among the
summits of the Princes' Islands, out on the Sea of Marmora. The hulls of
the frigates were now lighted up with intense chemical fires, and an
abundance of rockets were spouted from their decks. A large Drummond light
on Seraglio Point, and another at the Battery of Tophaneh, poured their
rival streams across the Golden Horn, revealing the thousands of caïques
jostling each other from shore to shore, and the endless variety of gay
costumes with which they were filled. The smoke of the cannon hanging in
the air, increased the effect of this illumination, and became a screen of
auroral brightness, through which the superb spectacle loomed with large
and unreal features. It was a picture of air--a phantasmagoric spectacle,
built of luminous vapor and meteoric fires, and hanging in the dark round
of space. In spite of ourselves, we became eager and excited, half fearing
that the whole pageant would dissolve the next moment, and leave no trace
behind.
Meanwhile, the cannon thundered from a dozen batteries, and the rockets
burst into glittering rain over our heads. Grander discharges I never
heard; the earth shook and trembled under the mighty bursts of sound, and
the reverberation which rattled along the hill of Galata, broken by the
scattered buildings into innumerable fragments of sound, resembled the
crash of a thousand falling houses. The distant echoes from Asia and the
islands in the sea filled up the pauses between the nearer peals, and we
seemed to be in the midst of some great naval engagement. But now the
caïque of the Sultan is discerned, approaching from the Bosphorus. A
signal is given, and a sunrise of intense rosy and golden radiance
suddenly lights up the long arsenal and stately mosque of Tophaneh, plays
over the tall buildings on the hill of Pera, and falls with a fainter
lustre on the Genoese watch-tower that overlooks Galata. It is impossible
to describe the effect of this magical illumination. The mosque, with its
taper minarets, its airy galleries, and its great central dome, is built
of compact, transparent flame, and in the shifting of the red and yellow
fires, seems to flicker and waver in the air. It is as lofty, and
gorgeous, and unsubstantial as the cloudy palace in Cole's picture of
"Youth." The long white front of the arsenal is fused in crimson heat, and
burns against the dark as if it were one mass of living coal. And over all
hangs the luminous canopy of smoke, redoubling its lustre on the waters of
the Golden Horn, and mingling with the phosphorescent gleams that play
around the oars of the caïques.
A long barge, propelled by sixteen oars, glides around the dark corner of
Tophaneh, and shoots into the clear, brilliant space in front of the
mosque. It is not lighted, and passes with great swiftness towards the
brilliant landing-place. There are several persons seated under a canopy
in the stern, and we are trying to decide which is the Sultan, when a
second boat, driven by twenty-four oarsmen, comes in sight. The men rise
up at each stroke, and the long, sharp craft flies over the surface of
the water, rather than forces its way through it. A gilded crown surmounts
the long, curved prow, and a light though superb canopy covers the stern.
Under this, we catch a glimpse of the Sultan and Grand Vizier, as they
appear for an instant like black silhouettes against the burst of light on
shore.
After the Sultan had entered the mosque, the fires diminished and the
cannon ceased, though the illuminated masts, minarets and gateways still
threw a brilliant gleam over the scene. After more than an hour spent in
devotion, he again entered his caïque and sped away to greet his new wife,
amid a fresh discharge from the frigates and the batteries on both shores,
and a new dawn of auroral splendor. We made haste to reach the
landing-place, in order to avoid the crowd of caïques; but, although we
were among the first, we came near being precipitated into the water, in
the struggle to get ashore. The market-place at Tophaneh was so crowded
that nothing but main force brought us through, and some of our party had
their pockets picked. A number of Turkish soldiers and police-men were
mixed up in the melee, and they were not sparing of blows when they came
in contact with a Giaour. In making my way through, I found that a
collision with one of the soldiers was inevitable, but I managed to plump
against him with such force as to take the breath out of his body, and was
out of his reach before he had recovered himself. I saw several Turkish
women striking right and left in their endeavors to escape, and place
their hands against the faces of those who opposed them, pushing them
aside. This crowd was contrived by thieves, for the purpose of plunder,
and, from what I have since learned, must have been very successful.
I visited to-day the College of the Mevlevi Dervishes at Pera, and
witnessed their peculiar ceremonies. They assemble in a large hall, where
they take their seats in a semi-circle, facing the shekh. After going
through several times with the usual Moslem prayer, they move in slow
march around the room, while a choir in the gallery chants Arabic phrases
in a manner very similar to the mass in Catholic churches. I could
distinguish the sentences "God is great," "Praise be to God," and other
similar ejaculations. The chant was accompanied with a drum and flute, and
had not lasted long before the Dervishes set themselves in a rotary
motion, spinning slowly around the shekh, who stood in the centre. They
stretched both arms out, dropped their heads on one side, and glided
around with a steady, regular motion, their long white gowns spread out
and floating on the air. Their steps were very similar to those of the
modern waltz, which, it is possible, may have been derived from the dance
of the Mevlevis. Baron Von Hammer finds in this ceremony an imitation of
the dance of the spheres, in the ancient Samothracian Mysteries; but I see
no reason to go so far back for its origin. The dance lasted for about
twenty minutes, and the Dervishes appeared very much exhausted at the
close, as they are obliged to observe the fast very strictly.