Fine Scenery—The Coast of Asia—Turkish Cemeteries—The
Imperial Seraï—The Golden Horn—Mount Olympus—The
Arabajhe—The Araba—The Persian Kiosk—The Barrack of
Scutari—The Mosque of Selim III.—The Slipper of the Sultana
Validè—The Imperial Guard—Military Material—The Macaroni
Manufactory—Sublime Targets—A Major of the Imperial
Guard—Triumph of Utilitarianism—The Rise of the Vines—The
Holy Tomb—Encampments of the Plague-smitten—The Setting
Sun—Return to Europe—The Square of Topphannè.
I have seldom seen a lovelier day than that on which we first passed
over to Scutari; the sunshine was bright upon the Bosphorus, the tops of
the tall cypresses were golden in the light, and their feathery branches
heaved slightly beneath the breeze; the sky was blue about the spiral
minarets: and the painted houses gleamed out like gigantic flowers as
the day-beam touched them; the ripple sparkled like diamond-dust, and
our arrowy caïque seemed to breathe as it undulated upon the surface.
It was a glorious scene! And we were soon upon the bosom of the blue
waters, darting along, with the wild birds above our heads, out into the
Sea of Marmora. Europe was beside and behind us—Europe, with its
palaces, its politics, and its power—and the shadowy shore of Asia,
with its cypress-crowned heights, and its dusky mountains, seemed to woo
our approach. How I regretted that the passage was so brief—a few
strokes of the oar, a few pulsations of the heart, after we had shot
past the “Maiden’s Tower,” and we were landed beside the ruined mosque,
in the valley beyond the Persian Kiosk of the Sultan, which crowns the
crest of the highest hill.
The land curved gracefully downward at this point to form a fair green
glen, where a group of plane trees and acacias threw their long branches
over the remains of the crumbling temple. Here and there a solitary
cypress shot up its dark head like a death-lance into the clear horizon,
contrasting its funereal and gloomy pomp with the laughing clusters of
the pink-blossoming almond-trees, which were scattering their petals
over the grave-stones that rose on the side of the grassy bank amid the
wild flowers, as if to link the present with the past.
It is a beautiful custom, that of burying the dead upon the very path of
the living! It destroys so much of the gloom which imagination is prone
to drape about the grave—it creates so much more of a common interest.
The Turk smokes his chibouk with his back resting against a
turban-crested grave-stone; the Greek spreads his meal upon a tomb; the
Armenian shelters himself from the sunshine beneath the boughs that
overshadow the burial-places of his people; the women sit in groups, and
talk of their homes and of their little ones among the ashes of their
ancestors; and the children gather the wild flowers that grow amid the
graves, as gaily as though death had never entered there.
The caïque soon darted into the little bay, and we trod the shore of
Asia. Immediately in front of us, on the European coast, stretched the
long castellated wall of the ancient city of Constantine, with its Seven
Towers, and its palace-girdled Point. Nothing could be more beautiful!
The numerous buildings of the imperial Seraï were overtopped by shadowy
plane-trees, leafy beeches, lofty cypresses, feathery acacias, and other
magnificent forest trees; from amid whose foliage the gleaming domes and
gilded spires of the palace peeped out like glimpses of fairy-land. On
the extreme point of the shore stands that portion of the Seraglio which
was formerly appropriated to the ladies of the Imperial Harem, but which
is now untenanted, save by half a dozen old and withered women, the
surviving wives of the unfortunate Sultan Selim. The sun had touched it,
and was reflected back in brightness from its gilded doors and
glittering lattices. It looked like a cluster of kiosks gracefully
flung together in the hour of sport.
Beyond that point lay the Golden Horn; and, along the summit of the hill
which shuts it in on the opposite shore, stretched the cypress-grove and
houses of Pera. But ere long we turned away from these accustomed
objects to glance upwards to the crest of Mount Olympus, far, far away
in the distance, forming a mighty background to the Sea of Marmora. We
saw it at a happy moment, for the sunbeams had turned its snows to
jewels, which were flashing with a brightness that almost forbade our
gaze; when suddenly a light cloud passed over its stately brow, and,
deadening for an instant the glitter that it had borrowed from the
day-beam, sobered down its tints into more subdued beauty, and made it
look as though it were girdled by a rainbow.
As we reluctantly quitted this fair scene, and walked towards the
valley, we saw the araba that we had appointed to await us there,
standing beneath the shade of the tall trees; and as the arabajhe
observed our approach, he rose from his seat beneath a stately elm, laid
aside his chibouk, and prepared to assist us into the carriage. But I
lingered yet another moment to contemplate his costume—his voluminous
turban, which it must have required ells of muslin to produce; and his
gaily-tasselled and embroidered jacket, falling back to disclose the
shawl that bound his waist. I scarcely knew which to admire the
most;—his black and bushy beard, and the thick mustachioes that adorned
his upper lip; or the elaborately-wrought Albanian leggings and yellow
slippers which completed his costume.
No one but a native of the luxurious East could ever have invented an
araba; with its comfortable cushions, and its gaily painted roof, and
gilded pillars. The prettiest are those of brown and gold, with
rose-coloured draperies, through which the breeze flutters to your cheek
as blandly as though it loved the tint that reminded it of the roses of
the past season amid which it had wandered.
As we clomb the hill, we passed beside the Imperial kiosk, a delicate
little edifice with walls of pale green, and snow-white jalousies; and
then, descending a slight acclivity, we found ourselves opposite the
magnificent barrack, which forms so fine a feature from the sea. There
is probably no country in the world where the barracks are so elegantly
built as in Turkey; they have all the appearance of palaces; and that of
Scutari being appropriated to the Imperial Guard is the handsomest in
the neighbourhood of the capital; being a quadrangle, flanked with
square towers, built in three sections, gradually diminishing in size,
and crowned by a slight spire. Immediately opposite to the principal
gate of the barrack stands the magnificent mosque of Selim III.; but
Scutari, among the numerous temples whose slender minarets are relieved
by the dark back ground of her funereal cypresses, possesses one of
which I must not forget to make mention. Small in size, and not
particularly elegant in its appearance, the mosque of the Sultana Validè
must not be passed over in silence, built as it was from the proceeds of
one of her diamond-sprinkled slippers!
I have mentioned that this barrack is occupied by the Imperial Guard:
and I never shall forget their appearance, as groups of them passed us
on the road. Dirty, slouching, and awkward, many among them without
either shirts or stockings, they certainly looked as unlike Household
Troops as can well be imagined; and might have traversed three quarters
of Europe without being mistaken for soldiers at all, either by their
gait or their garb. When on duty, and not examined too closely, they
make a fair figure as a body, but on ordinary occasions they are as
unmilitary in their appearance and bearing as the rest of the Turkish
army; and the majority of them are such mere boys that they induce a
feeling of pity rather than fear. On one occasion, when I paid a visit
to the Sultan’s sister, while waiting to be admitted, I amused myself
by looking attentively at the palace-guard, who had all collected
outside the guard-house to see the Franks; including the two sentinels
on duty, they amounted to ten individuals; and certainly eight of the
number were not more than fourteen years of age; nor do I believe that
any of them had washed their faces, or brushed their garments for a week
previously.
A Pasha, while speaking with me one day of the Turkish army, assured me
that it was composed of “excellent materials.”—It may be so; I cannot,
nor do I desire, to confute his opinion; but it is certain that, like
other raw materials, it will require a great deal of working before it
can be rendered serviceable; and that, at present, there are few things
more laughable than to see a Turkish regiment at drill or exercise;
there is an independence of feeling and action about each individual
which is quite _impayable_.
But the surprise created by the appearance of the Imperial Guard was not
to be the only cause for astonishment excited by this gallant corps; for
we were yet indulging a hearty laugh at their expense when we were
startled by the recommendation of the arabajhe that we should visit the
Macaroni Manufactory of Achmet Pasha. At first we thought that our
dragoman had played us false, for we could find no possible connection
in our own minds between the Generalissimo of the Armies of the Sublime
Porte, and a Macaroni Manufactory. The invitation had, however, been
correctly interpreted, and we immediately diverged from the road to see
this highly-connected establishment.
On rising a little hill, we entered the widest street that I had yet
seen in the East, partly overshadowed by the stately trees which
encircled an ancient mosque, and terminated by the principal entrance to
the garrison.
I may as well mention here that the main portal of every Turkish barrack
is decorated with a target, richly framed, and perforated with one or
more balls, shot by the Sublime hand of the Sultan, who is an excellent
marksman; and thus seeks to excite by his example a feeling of emulation
among his soldiery.
The araba drew up before a neat-looking white building with a green
balcony, and, ere we could alight, the door was opened to us; when one
of the gentlemen of the party instantly recognized an acquaintance, to
whom he hastened to present us; and I in turn made my bow to a Major of
the Imperial Guard, with a diamond decoration on his breast, his sleeves
tucked up to the shoulders, and his arms buried to the elbows in flour.
The Turks are utilitarians indeed!
The scene was a singular one; the large hall in which we stood was
entirely over-canopied with ropes of macaroni, and surrounded by presses
and rollers.—A major was deciding on the merits of the flour—a
lieutenant was superintending the working of the machine—a couple of
sergeants were suspending the paste to dry—and a fatigue party were
turning the wheels.
Hear this, ye Grenadiers and Coldstream! ye exquisites of Bond Street
and the Ring! There was no _ennui_ here—all was grinding, and sifting,
and rolling, and drying, and selling—yes, selling—The Imperial Guard
of his Sublime Highness have no occasion to kill time; they rather seek
customers. The whitest and finest of the paste supplies the kitchen of
the Sultan: the darkest and coarsest finds its way to that of the
soldiers; but “more remains behind;” and if you are inclined to feast on
Imperial macaroni, you have but to draw out your purse, and pay it in
piastres!
What a well-imagined antidote to the weariness of a garrison life—What
a triumph for utilitarianism!
I shall say nothing of the forest-like cemetery; I have spoken of it
elsewhere. The dark cypresses were flinging their long shadows across
the road; and the hill which we slowly ascended on quitting the
manufactory was called “The Rise of the Vines.” The name is
appropriate; for the houses that fringe it on the left hand overlook a
wide extent of orchard and vineyard, interspersed with kiosks, and
groups of flowering acacias. The view was bounded by the sea, and the
tall mountains above Broussa: and flowers were blossoming by the
wayside, and wild-birds were singing among the boughs. No wonder that
the nature-loving Turks are attached to Scutari.
A small building to the left of the road attracted my attention, and I
alighted to examine it. It proved to be the tomb of a Saint; and I
distinguished, through the closely-latticed casement, a wooden
sarcophagus surmounted by a green turban, and surrounded by the
prayer-carpets of the priests. The wire-work of the window was knotted
all over with rags; shreds of cotton, woollen, and silk—morsels of
ribbon and tape—and fragments of every description. They had been
fastened there by sick and suffering persons, who had firmly believed
that their trouble, whether mental or physical, would remain attached to
the rag, and that they should themselves “return each to his home
clean.”
We avoided the town, for the Plague was there; that omnipresent but
invisible enemy which stretches its clammy hand over the East, and
sweeps down its prey, unchecked by the groans of the bereaved, or the
pangs of the smitten—the deadly Plague, which spares neither sex, nor
age, nor condition, but makes one universal harvest of mankind.
Nothing ever thrilled me more than when I once came suddenly, during my
wanderings, upon an encampment of the Plague-smitten. The huts are
generally erected on a hill-side, and the tents pitched among them; and
you see the families of the infected basking in the sunshine within
their prescribed limits, and gazing eagerly at the chance passenger,
whom his ignorance of their vicinity may conduct past their temporary
dwellings; the children rolling half-naked upon the grass; and the
sallow and careworn parents hanging out the garments of the patients on
the trees of the neighbourhood. Such was precisely the case with that
into which I had unconsciously intruded; and whence I was very hastily
dislodged by the shouts of the guard, stationed to enforce the
quarantaine of the mountain colony; and the alarmed exclamations of my
companions.
It is difficult to look upon such a scene, and upon such a sky, and to
believe in the existence of this frightful scourge! It is the canker at
the core of the forest-tree—the serpent in the garden of Eden.
The sun was setting ere we prepared to traverse the Golden Horn, in
order to reach the European side before the firing of the evening gun;
the shadows were lying long upon the water: a yellow gleam was settling
on the domes and houses of Stamboul, and a thick vapour lowered over the
sky. The twilight of the East is fleeting as a thought—and the outline
of the city ere long loomed out from amid the gathering darkness, like a
spectre of the past. One line of light still glimmered across the waves
like a thread of gold, linking the shores of Europe and of Asia; but,
even as I pointed it out, it faded; softening down to a faint yellow,
like the lip of a primrose—and in another instant, it was gone; while,
as it disappeared, the hoarse cannon pealed over the ripple, and told
that another day was spent.
Our rowers had calculated to a nicety, for, as the sound died away, the
caïque touched the crazy wooden pier of Topphannè, and we were once more
in Europe!
There is not a locality throughout the whole of the capital more
strictly or more richly oriental in its aspect than the small square of
Topphannè. In the midst stands the celebrated Kilidge Ali Pasha
Djiamini, or Fountain of the Mosque of Ali Pasha, a French renegade, who
built the temple which bears his name. Constantinople boasts no other
fountain of equal beauty. Its rich and elegant arabesques are beyond all
praise; and, when the sun is shining on them, almost look like jewels.
It has, however, suffered materially from the reforming mania of the
Sultan, who, in his rage for improvement, has replaced its wavy and
deeply-projecting roof with a little terrace railing, out of all
keeping, alike with its architecture and its ornaments; and who was with
difficulty persuaded not to destroy it altogether.
On one side of the fountain is the mosque to which it belongs, and on
the other the kiosk of Halil Pasha, with its magnificent portal and
glittering casements. But to be seen to perfection, the square of
Topphannè must be visited during the autumn, when the rich fruits of
Asia are scattered over its whole extent; piles of perfumed melons,
pyramids of yellow grapes, heaps of scarlet pomegranates—the golden
orange, the amber-coloured lemon, the ruddy apple, the tufted quince,
all are poured forth before you. Nor are the vendors less various or
less glowing than their merchandize, as they sit doubled-up upon their
mats, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, with their chibouks
between their lips; rather waiting than looking for customers—a bright
sky above them, and the blended languages of many lands swelling upon
the wind.
Had I landed at Topphannè on my arrival in Turkey, I should have fancied
myself a spectator of one of the scenes described by the tale-telling
Schererazade.