A REMINISCENCE OF THE EAST.
The breakfast-table assembled around it the three generations of men
who issued from the three subdivisions of the diligence, and presented
that motley and mixed assemblage of ranks, ages, and countries, which
forms so very amusing a part of a traveller’s experience.
First came the “haute aristocratie” of the coupé, then the middle class
of the interieure, and lastly, the tiers etat of the rotonde, with its
melange of Jew money-lenders, under-officers and their wives, a Norman
nurse with a high cap and a red jupe; while, to close the procession, a
German student descended from the roof, with a beard, a blouse, and a
meerschaum. Of such materials was our party made up; and yet, differing
in all our objects and interests, we speedily amalgamated into a very
social state of intimacy, and chatted away over our breakfast with much
good humour and gaiety. Each person of the number seeming pleased at
the momentary opportunity of finding a new listener, save my tall
companion of the coupé. He preserved a dogged silence, unbroken by even
a chance expression to the waiter, who observed his wants and supplied
them by a species of quick instinct, evidently acquired by practice. As
I could not help feeling somewhat interested about the hermit-like
attachment he evinced for solitude, I watched him narrowly for some
time, and at length as the “roti” made its appearance before him, after
he had helped himself and tasted it, he caught my eye fixed upon him,
and looking at me intently for a few seconds, he seemed to be satisfied
in some passing doubt he laboured under, as he said with a most
peculiar shake of the head—“No mangez, no mangez cela.”
“Ah,” said I, detecting in my friend’s French his English origin, “you
are an Englishman I find.”
“The devil a doubt of it, darlin’,” said he half testily.
“An Irishman, too—still better,” said I.
“Why then isn’t it strange that my French always shows me to be
English, and my English proves me Irish? It’s lucky for me there’s no
going farther any how.”
Delighted to have thus fallen upon a “character,” as the Irishman
evidently appeared, I moved my chair towards his; and finding, however,
he was not half pleased at the manner in which my acquaintance had been
made with him, and knowing his country’s susceptibility of being taken
by a story, I resolved to make my advances by narrating a circumstance
which had once befallen me in my early life.
Our countrymen, English and Irish, travel so much now a days, that one
ought never to feel surprised at finding them anywhere. The instance I
am about to relate will verify to a certain extent the fact, by showing
that no situation is too odd or too unlikely to be within the verge of
calculation.
When the 10th foot, to which I then belonged, were at Corfu, I obtained
with three other officers a short leave of absence, to make a hurried
tour of the Morea, and taking a passing glance at Constantinople—in
those days much less frequently visited by travellers than at present.
After rambling pleasantly about for some weeks, we were about to
return, when we determined that before sailing we should accept an
invitation some officers of the “Dwarf” frigate, then stationed there,
had given us, to pass a day at Pera, and pic-nic in the mountain.
One fine bright morning was therefore selected—a most appetizing little
dinner being carefully packed up—we set out, a party of fourteen, upon
our excursion.
The weather was glorious, and the scene far finer than any of us had
anticipated—the view from the mountain extending over the entire city,
gorgeous in the rich colouring of its domes and minarets; while, at one
side, the golden horn was visible, crowded with ships of every nation,
and, at the other, a glimpse might be had of the sea of Marmora, blue
and tranquil as it lay beneath. The broad bosom of the Bosphorus was
sheeted out like a map before us—peaceful yet bustling with life and
animation. Here lay the union-jack of old England, floating beside the
lilies of France—we speak of times when lilies were and barricades were
not—the tall and taper spars of a Yankee frigate towering above the low
timbers and heavy hull of a Dutch schooner—the gilded poop and curved
galleries of a Turkish three-decker, anchored beside the raking mast
and curved deck of a suspicious looking craft, whose red-capped and
dark-visaged crew needed not the naked creese at their sides to bespeak
them Malays. The whole was redolent of life, and teeming with food for
one’s fancy to conjure from.
While we were debating upon the choice of a spot for our luncheon,
which should command the chief points of view within our reach, one of
the party came to inform us that he had just discovered the very thing
we were in search of. It was a small kiosk, built upon a projecting
rock that looked down upon the Bosphorus and the city, and had
evidently, from the extended views it presented, been selected as the
spot to build upon. The building itself was a small octagon, open on
every side, and presenting a series of prospects, land and seaward, of
the most varied and magnificent kind.
Seeing no one near, nor any trace of habitation, we resolved to avail
ourselves of the good taste of the founder; and spreading out the
contents of our hampers, proceeded to discuss a most excellent cold
dinner. When the good things had disappeared, and the wine began to
circulate, one of the party observed that we should not think of
enjoying ourselves before we had filled a bumper to the brim, to the
health of our good king, whose birth-day it chanced to be. Our homeward
thoughts and loyalty uniting, we filled our glasses, and gave so hearty
a “hip, hip, hurra,” to our toast, that I doubt if the echoes of those
old rocks ever heard the equal of it.
Scarcely was the last cheer dying away in the distance, when the door
of the kiosk opened, and a negro dressed in white muslin appeared, his
arms and ancles bearing those huge rings of massive gold, which only
persons of rank distinguish their servants by.
After a most profound obeisance to the party, he explained in very
tolerable French, that his master the Effendi, Ben Mustapha Al Halak,
at whose charge (in house rent) we were then resting, sent us
greetings, and begged that if not considered as contrary to our usages,
&c. we should permit him and his suite to approach the kiosk and
observe us at our meal.
Independent of his politeness in the mode of conveying the request, as
he would prove fully as entertaining a sight to us as we could possibly
be to him, we immediately expressed our great willingness to receive
his visit, coupled with a half hint that perhaps he might honour us by
joining the party.
After a half hour’s delay, the door was once more thrown open, and a
venerable old Turk entered: he salaamed three times most reverently,
and motioned to us to be seated, declining, at the same time, by a
gentle gesture of his hand, our invitation. He was followed by a train
of six persons, all splendidly attired, and attesting, by their costume
and manner, the rank and importance of their chief. Conceiving that his
visit had but one object—to observe our convivial customs—we
immediately reseated ourselves, and filled our glasses.
As one after another the officers of the effendi’s household passed
round the apartments, we offered them a goblet of champagne, which they
severally declined, with a polite but solemn smile—all except one, a
large, savage-looking Turk, with a most ferocious scowl, and the
largest black beard I ever beheld. He did not content himself with a
mute refusal of our offer, but stopping suddenly, he raised up his
hands above his head, and muttered some words in Turkish, which one of
the party informed us was a very satisfactory recommendation of the
whole company to Satan for their heretic abomination.
The procession moved slowly round the room, and when it reached the
door again retired, each member of it salaaming three times as they had
done on entering. Scarcely had they gone, when we burst into a loud fit
of laughter at the savage-looking fellow who thought proper to
excommunicate us, and were about to discuss his more than common
appearance of disgust at our proceedings, when again the door opened,
and a turbaned head peeped in, but so altered were the features, that
although seen but the moment before, we could hardly believe them the
same. The dark complexion—the long and bushy beard were there—but
instead of the sleepy and solemn character of the oriental, with heavy
eye and closed lip, there was a droll, half-devilry in the look, and
partly open mouth, that made a most laughable contrast with the
head-dress. He looked stealthily around him for an instant, as if to
see that all was right, and then, with an accent and expression I shall
never forget, said, “I’ll taste your wine, gentleman, an it be pleasing
to ye.”