THE LAND OF THE MOSLEM.
Departure from Greece--Amusements at sea--The
Dardanelles--Gallipoli--A philharmonic soirée--Approach to the
Bosphorus--First view of the Scutari Hospital--Reflections--The
deserted steamer--The lady and her maid--Beautiful scene--The
Golden Horn--Castle of the Seven Towers--Kadikoi--General and
Barrack Hospitals--Grand panorama--Various
edifices--Stamboul--Grand Oriental pageant--The Sultan’s
kitchens--The Harem--Punishment for Turkish ladies--The Leander
Tower--A romantic tale--On shore again--The enchantment
dissolves--First glimpse of a pacha--The terrace of my hotel.
On leaving the Piræsus the weather was fine, and the sea as smooth as a
lake. All our party were themselves again--jovial, happy, and talkative
at meals; reading, writing, games at cards, draughts, dominoes, &c.,
filling up the time. We were like one happy and united family. I paid my
daily visit to the _restaurateur_ and his _chef_, with whom I was soon
on good terms. Towards evening, we collected on the upper deck, where
many French sous-officiers from the second-class cabin joined us, and
sang most admirably, from the simple ballad to the gay gaudriole, the
high operatic solo, and comic or classic choruses.
Next morning, we passed the straits and town of the Dardanelles, where
the Allied flags were gaily floating from the houses of the respective
Consulates. We made but a short stay in its cheerful and animated bay to
deliver the mail. The rapid current, with the numbers of Greeks, in
their gay costumes and slim caiques, trying to sell the passengers all
sorts of things, and so do them out of a few piastres, rendered our
short stay at that place highly amusing. Our next and last stay, before
reaching Constantinople, was Gallipoli, where every one of our party
landed, and remained on shore about an hour. General Cannon had an
excellent idea; he sent some oysters on board, which made a good
addition to our bill of fare. The Gallipoli oysters are small and
ill-formed, but very sweet. The same cannot be said of the town and its
inhabitants--both extremely dirty. Indeed, this first Oriental seaport
contrasts most outrageously with the grand paraphernalia of the “Arabian
Nights.” The evening before our arrival, to our sorrow, we learnt from
the Captain that, owing to the favourable winds we had experienced
during the last sixty hours, if nothing happened, we should enter the
Bosphorus before daybreak. Thus all chance of the view of the grand
panorama of Constantine, so highly praised by travellers, and especially
by poets, which we had so long anticipated, was entirely lost. What can
be more charming and refreshing, after a long sea-passage, where life
has long been suspended in space between heaven and the mighty deep,
than the gradual development of a cheerful panorama, a view of which we
had been some time anticipating?
The first quarter of the moon, forming the crescent--the favourite
emblem of the Moslem--was seen now and then peeping through the murky
clouds, which, in their swift career, cast a dewy shadow upon the ocean.
This did not, however, prevent our philharmonic party from mustering
upon deck in greater numbers than on previous occasions, probably
because it was the last. We kept it up till eleven o’clock, and then
retired perfectly delighted with our voyage, having already forgotten
our unfavourable departure, and regretting nothing but our too-early
arrival in the Bosphorus. The night was calm, and, on going on deck at
daybreak, I heard, to my great satisfaction, that we had proceeded very
slowly all night, there having been a thick fog, which was slowly
disappearing--“a thing,” said the Captain, “seldom seen in the sea of
Marmora.” I returned to my cabin, and only lay down that I might be
ready when Constantinople came in sight, as the Captain had promised to
send and let me know.
About eight in the morning every one was on deck, and the crew busily
engaged getting up the luggage, as our arrival was fixed for nine
o’clock. We then commenced inquiring about the hotels. All fixed upon
Messerie’s hotel, called “L’Hôtel d’Angleterre,” as being the best. By
this time, we were slowly approaching the mouth of the Bosphorus. The
weather was anything but favourable--rain kept falling--everything on
deck was wet, and the air very chilly. General Cannon said to me, “I am
very sorry, Mr. Soyer, for your sake, and that of Captain Ponsonby and
Colonel St. George, that we shall not see the famed view of
Constantinople to advantage. I have already witnessed it, this being my
third voyage. However, as the weather is very changeable here, it may be
a fine day after all.” The great Oriental City was then opening to view,
but, owing to the thick atmosphere, appeared nothing but a confused
mass. Twenty minutes later we were entering the Bosphorus, the grandeur
and magnificence of which, though often described, I cannot pass without
a few remarks.
My mind was quite overpowered when I learnt that the monster building
before us was the Scutari Hospital--a town in itself--and I reflected
that it was full of sick and wounded; that each patient would require
from three to four articles of diet daily, making a total of several
thousand per diem to be provided in some shape or other; and that I had
undertaken to reform and introduce a better organization in the cooking
department, where all was confusion, in so strange a country. I must
confess that, for an hour or so, I was quite at a loss to think how I
should commence operations. I did not know one official there. I had not
the least idea how I should be received; and, after all, I might
probably catch the fever, or some other complaint at the time raging
within its walls. Suddenly I recollected the plan I had explained to the
Duchess of Sutherland and her noble circle, which was to be tried upon a
hundred patients. This had entirely escaped my memory; and in a few
minutes my puzzled brain was as clear as a bell, and I felt confident of
success. “If I succeed with a hundred,” said I, “in a very short time I
can manage a thousand, providing I meet with proper support.”
I afterwards learnt from the doctor on board, that the large red brick
building on the right, about half a mile from the Barrack Hospital, was
called the General Hospital, in which there were at least five or six
hundred patients. My resolution as to how I should act was then fixed;
nothing appeared difficult to me; and, instead of fearing the
undertaking, I was most anxious to begin. Having been advised to call at
Pera, to announce my arrival, and pay my duty to Lord Stratford de
Redcliffe, before going to Scutari, I ordered my people to go on shore
as soon as possible; for, during my reverie upon hospital duties, our
good vessel had anchored.
There was only room at Messerie’s Hotel for General Cannon and his
aide-de-camp. He had bespoken his apartments. Two young gentlemen
apprised us of the fact, and recommended their hotel, as we could not
get accommodation at the “Hôtel d’Angleterre.” As I had a letter of
introduction to Mr. Messerie, I directed my friend T. G. to call there
and make inquiries; and if he found that we could not be received, to go
to the “Hôtel des Ambassadeurs,” that establishment being the next in
standing. As I promised to remain on board till he returned, I was left
almost alone. There was only a lady and her maid. The former was going
by a transport-ship the same evening, to join her husband at Balaklava;
she therefore had no time to go on shore. Colonel St. George, Captains
Ponsonby and Gordon, Mr. Ball, and General Canrobert’s aides-de-camp,
and others, had all left.
By this time the weather had assumed a most brilliant aspect--the morose
and monotonous-looking clouds, which before monopolised the region in
the immediate vicinity of the famed city of Mahomet, had been chased
away by a strong breeze; the sun shed his golden rays in gorgeous
streams from the purple vault of heaven, and the utmost depths of the
lucid waters of the Bosphorus reflected his splendours. The entrance of
the Corne d’Or--so called, no doubt, because it takes the shape of a
horn of plenty--is in truth a Golden Horn, from the facilities it
affords for maritime and commercial intercourse, as well as navigation,
penetrating, as it does, into the very bosom of the imperial city.
Constantinople, like London, has no quays; and on every side this
immense metropolis plunges its feet, or banks, into the Bosphorus, from
which it rises, offering to the view the most magnificent spectacle
beneath the canopy of heaven. This is particularly the case from the
Seraglio Point, where the real city of Istamboul is seated. The soil
rises from the level of the water, presenting a vast amphitheatre of
myriads of houses, mosques, minarets, and monuments of all descriptions,
intermixed with forests of sombre cypress trees.
A dragoman whom I engaged, and who spoke very good English, gave me a
description of the surrounding scenery. Nothing can be more ravishing
than the living panorama of the Bosphorus, covered with caiques and
their caidjees, darting about on all sides like water-flies. The
elegance of those frail barks, and the cleanliness of the light and
cheerful costume of their owners, so well develops the Oriental style,
that it cannot fail in forcibly striking every stranger. Numerous large
sailing-vessels, steamboats, Greek and Turkish barques, and even
men-of-war (many being then stationed in the Golden Horn), made me
forget for some time my mobile panorama, to dwell upon the nautical one,
which, so new to me, unexpectedly attracted my attention, when my
dragoman informed me that it was near eleven o’clock, and that my men
had returned for the luggage.
“Very well,” said I; “but pray explain to me the various places by which
we are now surrounded.”
“Certainly, sir, with great pleasure. I know every spot, palace, and
monument. On entering the Bosphorus this morning, you passed before the
Castle of the Seven Towers, where the ambassadors were formerly
imprisoned. Those islands to the left are the Isles des Princes. All the
Europeans go and spend their Sundays there. In summer many reside there,
and come to business in the morning, returning at night.”
“Those hills yonder, I suppose, are very pretty?”
“Oh, very much so indeed. Almost facing them is the Asiatic shore: that
pretty place to the left is called Kadikoi--a very pretty summer
residence, inhabited by rich merchants, particularly Greeks and
Armenians. It is full of beautiful houses and gardens, and is much
celebrated for its fine fruits. A little further this way is the General
Hospital--that red brick building.”
“That I am aware of. And the other is the great Barrack Hospital, with
its hundreds of windows and four square towers. They are full of English
sick and wounded--that I of course knew.”
“Next to it is a splendid mosque called the Sultan’s mosque. It is
frequented by his Majesty when he resides at his summer kiosque of Hyder
Pacha. That forest of cypress trees is the grand Champ des Morts, or the
favourite Turkish cemetery. It extends several miles. Several
generations are buried there.”
“Well, what follows?”
“This beautiful and picturesque spot, sir, is called Scutari. It is full
of kiosques and Turkish families, pachas, &c. It contains about a
hundred thousand inhabitants, almost all Turks, and extends beyond the
front of the Sultan’s new palace of Dolma Bachi. You can see it from
here. It is not quite finished, and is constructed chiefly of white
marble. Lower down is a palace inhabited by the Sultan. It is lighted by
gas--quite a new thing in Constantinople. That large building above, on
the heights, is the grand hospital of Pera, now used by the French; and
all the neighbourhood as far as the pointed tower is called Pera, the
Christian quarter, where are the foreign embassies and foreign
merchants’ residences. The large yellowish building with the colonnade
you see facing us so boldly is the Russian Embassy. They are about to
convert it into a hospital for the sick French officers. The beautiful
mosque and large square you see at the bottom is called Tophané. It
contains a large cannon-foundry; and in the centre of the square is the
kiosque belonging to the Sultan’s brother. His Majesty frequently
visits this place when he attends his favourite mosque.
“This large tower is called the Galata Tower, and from the top the
fire-signal is made; and I can assure you that in the winter its
guardians have something to do, as there is a fire every day or night.
Lower down, towards the bridge, is called Galata, where all mercantile
and commercial, as well as naval, business is transacted. Every rich
merchant of Pera has a counting-house there. The building at the bottom
is the Custom-house, or, as it should be called, the confusion-house;
for if unfortunately you get goods in, ‘tis a hundred to one if you ever
get them out again. The rough bridge you see yonder has only existed
these last twenty years. Before that was built, people were obliged to
cross from Stamboul to the European shore in caiques; and now, when
three or four large vessels have to pass through the bridge, it remains
open for several hours, keeping passengers waiting for that time. Two
more light bridges lower down cross the Golden Horn, and the navigation
terminates about two miles above the last bridge. In caiques you can go
as far as the sweet waters of Europe, which are about five miles further
up.”
“Thank you,” said I; “pray be less prolix in your descriptions.”
“Well, now, sir, as we are come to Stamboul, or the real city of
Constantinople, allow me to explain to you the names of some of those
beautiful mosques with which you see this vast city is crowded. The
first and most important is the Mosque of Sultan Bajazid, very
remarkable for the number of its volatile inhabitants, consisting of
several thousands of beautiful tame pigeons. That high tower behind it
is called the Seraskier’s Tower, and also serves the purpose of a
signal-tower in case of fire, the same as that of Pera. Then follow the
mosques of Sultan Selim, Mahomet, Sedya Tamissi, Solimaniek, Bayazid,
Osmanliek, Sultan Achmet, Irene, and the great Saint Sophia, which I
would in particular advise you to visit.”
“Of course I shall do that, you may be certain.”
“On the prominent part of this side of Saint Sophia the ceremony of the
Bairam is celebrated, at the close of the great feast of the Ramazan.
All the nobility of the Empire are in duty bound to appear in new and
most gaudy costumes at this magnificent Oriental pageant, which this
year will take place at the end of June, at about three o’clock in the
morning.”
“What a singular hour for so great a ceremony!” I remarked.
“Oh, that cannot be helped,” he replied, “as it is regulated by the
revolution of the moon. An old Turk, with whom I am well acquainted,
told me that he recollected its having happened at twelve o’clock in the
day, and in the middle of winter.”
“A strange custom,” said I.
“Well, sir, if you feel interested in Turkish habits and religion, you
should inquire about the six weeks of Rhamadhan, when they starve all
day, and get intoxicated to madness at night.”
“Thank you for your information; but pray continue your description.”
“I will. Near the very spot where this festival takes place is the
Sultan Mahmoud’s palace, the top of which you can see through those high
trees.”
“Pray, what are those rows of small domes, like well-corked bottles?”
“They are the kitchen chimneys.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, sir; I have often been there, and know well enough that, although
the Sultan no longer inhabits it, two or three hundred men-cooks remain
in the kitchens.”
“For what purpose, my friend, if no one lives there?”
“Oh, somebody does. I believe there is a college for some of the
favourite sons of high Turkish families. Here,” he continued, “look at
this uneven row of houses with lattices. Do you know what they are?”
“No; pray what are they?”
“Why, Sultan Mahmoud’s harem; and it is most probably still inhabited by
a few of his old favourites and their suites, which are very numerous.”
“Well, upon my word, those species of châlets put me very much in mind
of chicken-cages.”
The English officer’s wife, to whom I have before referred, and with
whom I had some conversation during the passage, came upon deck while my
dragoman was describing the surrounding scenery, and listened with vivid
interest, taking notes of the most interesting passages. The dragoman,
turning quickly round--“Madam,” said he, “you see that colossal spout
shooting out at a sharp incline towards the water. That is the spot from
whence, if any of the Turkish ladies prove disobedient or faithless to
their imperial lord and master, they are stitched up in a sack alive,
accompanied by a starving cat and a venomous serpent, and shot into that
mighty watery grave, the Bosphorus.”
“Monsieur Soyer, do you think that is true?”
“I believe such things have been done, madam, for it was pointed out to
me the first thing this morning as having been used for that purpose. I
recollect some years since reading the same tale either in a French or
English work; I believe it was French. At all events, European manners
and customs are progressing throughout the world, and have even reached
Turkey. I hear from every one, that the Sultan is a most amiable and
humane man. I would therefore recommend you to reserve your look of
horror and indignation for more modern calamities. You may be certain,
if such things have happened, they will never happen again, for, thank
Heaven, we live in a civilized era.”
“We should, perhaps, doubt such reports.”
“You are quite right, madam.”
“There is another curious tale related of the Leander Tower,” said the
lady.
“There is; but my dragoman tells me the proper name for it is _La Tour
de la Jeune Fille_, as they say in French, or the Maiden’s Tower.”
“I was here when a French tutor came to Constantinople,” said my
dragoman, “and the first thing he asked me was--‘Where is the Maiden’s
Tower?’ as the English call it. At all events, madam, the story runs
thus:--A great beauty, the daughter of some pacha, had her fortune told
by a celebrated gipsy, who apprised her that she would never marry, as
she was fated to die young. The girl, terrified at the prediction, ran,
and in tears related to her father the fatal destiny said to be in
reserve for her. He immediately sent for the old witch, and she repeated
the fatal prophecy, adding, moreover, that the young girl would die from
the bite of a serpent or some such venomous reptile. The pacha having
repeatedly asked the old woman if that was the only kind of speedy death
with which his daughter was menaced, and having received a reply in the
affirmative, parted upon very friendly terms with the hag, who was
possessed, as he said, by an evil spirit. He then caused this tower to
be built for his daughter’s residence, and for several years she lived
in this picturesque place, without being visited by any one but her
father, who continually supplied her with provisions of the most
delicate kind, and nosegays of the finest flowers. It happened one day,
that, on taking up one of the bouquets in order to inhale the perfume, a
small insect stung her on the lip, and in a few hours she expired in
great agony, before any succour could be obtained, as there was no
communication with the land, nor any antidote in readiness. So awful an
event, in so secluded a spot, had never been contemplated. The pacha’s
intention had been to keep his daughter there till she was of age to be
married, and thus break the spell of the old sorceress. The legend was
thus related to me by an Armenian gentleman who has lived here nearly
all his lifetime.”
“Well, I admit that I have not only heard the story before, but I
recollect the incident of the death of the young girl, from the bite of
a reptile, very well; and I also heard that the name of the Tower of
Leander is applied to it; but it has not the least relation to the
legend of the two lovers celebrated by Lord Byron, who also swam from
Sestos to Abydos.”
As my people had returned, and were waiting for me, I bade my fair
_compagnon de voyage_ adieu, expressing a hope to have the pleasure of
meeting her in Balaklava. Our two caidjees rapidly flew away with us
from the side of the _Simois_, and soon landed us at the Tophané
tumble-down stairs. We are now on shore; but what a contrast!--the fairy
scene has disappeared, and we appear to be in the midst of a penny show.
The Tophané landing place is nothing but a heap of rotten planks, parts
of which have given way, and the holes are rather dangerous, as one
might easily slip and break a leg. The very clean and picturesque
caidjees are waiting amidst heaps of manure and the carcase of a dead
horse, which had been thrown into the Bosphorus and had drifted on
shore. A number of ill-looking, half-famished dogs were feeding upon
that heap of corruption. On inquiring of the son of the proprietor of
the hotel, who accompanied me, he coolly told me that it had only been
there a day or two, and would probably remain for months--particularly
the skeleton--when the dogs had devoured all the flesh. The odour
arising from the carcass, and the filth daily cast into the water, was
very unwholesome, and quite unbearable; and very glad was I to quit the
great landing-place of Tophané--so called, no doubt, from the
extraordinary amount of daily traffic between the shipping above and the
Asiatic shore. About seventy or eighty caiques are always waiting there,
as it is the principal landing point at Constantinople.
Following my guide, we passed through a number of dirty narrow streets,
full of a black liquid mud, very ill paved--if they could be called
paved at all, amidst which numerous leperous and villanous-looking dogs
were snarling and fighting. Donkeys loaded with tiles, stones, and long
logs of wood filled up the filthy road; besides gangs of powerful and
noisy Turkish hamals or porters, carrying enormous loads upon long
poles. The enchanting mirage of the panoramic Constantinople vanished
rapidly from before my disenchanted eyes; this ephemeral Paradise of
Mahomet changing at once into an almost insupportable purgatory. I could
not imagine how such a mass of ruins and of miserable wooden houses
could, from so short a distance, take such a brilliant aspect or create
such ravishing sensations, as the first view of Constantinople had
raised in my mind from the deck of the _Simois_. I now envied the fate
of our fair fellow-traveller who so much regretted that she could not
disembark--were it only for a few hours. Those few hours, nay, the
first, would have sufficed to break the spell. Reader, though this is an
exact description of our entrance into Constantinople, I reasoned
thus--It is an immense metropolis, and no doubt something great exists
within its walls. I must wait patiently and try to find it out.
Reproaching my dragoman for bringing me through such a vile part of the
city, he quietly replied, in English, “There is no other road, sir; it
has rained very much lately, which is the cause of so much mud.” I now
perceived, that as far as the names of pavements go, the difference
between Constantinople and London was not so great,--the former being
_muck-muddy-mised_, and the latter _macadamised_.
At this moment we were turning the corner of the Grand Mosque of Sultan
Soliman; and a pacha, in all his obesity, mounted upon an Arabian horse,
and followed by his suite, six in number, rode full gallop through a
pond of liquid slush, splashing every one from head to foot on either
side the narrow street. An English soldier at once sent him his military
blessing; and the Turk, spurring his horse, exclaimed, “Not Bono Johnny;
Not Bono Johnny;” that being the name given to the English by the Turks.
After passing through several similar streets, consisting of ruinous
wooden shanties and shops of the lowest order, “viz., chibouque tube and
pipe-bowl makers,” the interior of which were dirty and mean, with
scarcely any kind of stock, we arrived at a fountain, in front of which
was a semi-perpendicular and narrow street. My guide informed me that my
hotel was at the end of this street. “It is,” he continued, “the Hôtel
d’Angleterre, called by the English--Messerie’s Hotel.”
“Thank God for that,” said I. In about twenty minutes we arrived at the
said hotel. As I had sent my letter to Mr. Messerie, he soon appeared,
and very cordially shook me by the hand, and politely expressed his
regret at not being able to accommodate me. He recommended the Hôtel des
Ambassadeurs. On my saying that I was going there, he made me promise to
call upon him the next morning, the distance from his house being but a
few paces.
When I arrived, I at once retired to my apartment, quite worn out with
fatigue. Having taken some refreshment, I made up my mind not to dine at
the table d’hôte. I learnt that Colonel St. George, Captain Ponsonby,
&c., had gone to the Hôtel de l’Europe, and I therefore felt free for
that evening. About five o’clock, Mons. Pantaleone Veracleo, a young
Greek, the son of the hotel-keeper, came and informed me that the table
d’hôte would be ready at six. Thanking him for his attention, I
proceeded to ask several questions about Constantinople, and also the
distance from the hotel to the British Embassy?
“Not five minutes’ walk, sir,” said he; “you can see it from the top of
the hotel. Our house is the highest in Pera!”
We mounted to the terrace, and my conductor pointed it out to me. From
this terrace I again beheld a similar panorama to that which I had
witnessed on board the _Simois_, and by which I had been so much
charmed. In order to enjoy it fully, I expressed my desire to remain a
short time alone. Having directed my attention to the different points
of view, Mr. Veracleo left me.