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 Hanoum[2] 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.