elegant kiosque, built by Sultan Selim—a glittering gaily-tinted
pavilion, looking like a huge tulip amid the cluster of cypresses in the
centre of which it rose; and a Tekiè or chapel of Turning Dervishes;
whose community, undaunted by the displeasure of the Sultan, persisted in
the occupation of their dwelling, although the walls of the new palace
grew higher from day to day, until they fairly overtopped the more modest
roof of the holy building. To the frequent orders which they received
to vacate their Tekiè, they replied only that they were not free to
depart, as they guarded the ashes of a saint; whose tomb, surrounded
by a lattice-work of bright green, about half way up the height above
the channel, was indeed a conspicuous object from their windows. In
this dilemma, the Sultan applied to the Chèïk-Islam, or High Priest, to
enforce their removal; but he was again met by a steady refusal, the
Chèïk-Islam pleading the danger of such a precedent, and declining all
interference. Sultan Mahmoud heard him in silence, and did not again
agitate the question until the chapel was fairly built in, when he simply
informed the chief Dervish of the precise day on which he was to vacate
the premises; or, in default of his so doing, the roof would be pulled
about the ears of his community. The holy man stood aghast, but there was
no alternative; and the brotherhood in a few hours took quiet possession
of a handsome house on the edge of the water, which had been made over
to them by the Sultan, on the death of the court jester, to whom it had
previously belonged.
The magnificent Turkish line-of-battle ships, when in harbour, are
anchored about mid-stream, in the immediate vicinity of Beshik-Tash;
and nothing can be finer than the effect of their stupendous brass guns
when firing a salute. The peal rattles along the hills, flung back at
intervals by the walls of the Seraglio, until it finally dies away in the
distance, throwing a long musical sound, like the hollow rumbling of a
coming storm along the billows of the Black Sea.
The gardens of the palace are extensive, but will require time to make
them worthy of description; at present, a great portion of the hill-side
behind the building is left in its original state, boasting for all
ornament sweeps of fine cypresses, and here and there a tuft of almond
trees, a group of acacias, or a majestic maple; while the white tents
of the Bulgarian workmen employed upon the walls, give to the scene the
picturesque and cheerful appearance of a summer encampment.
THE CASTLES OF EUROPE AND ASIA.
“Lo! dusky masses steal in dubious sight
Along the leaguered wall and bristling bank
Of the arm’d river.”
BYRON.
These fortresses stand on either shore of the Bosphorus, about half way
up; where the channel is unusually narrow, and was once traversed by the
celebrated bridge of Darius. The Anadoli Hissari, or Castle of Asia, was,
during the reign of the Janissaries, the prison of the Bostangis, or
body-guard of the Sultan, who were here immured or executed as the nature
of their crimes dictated. It rises on the lip of a pleasant rivulet which
empties itself into the Bosphorus, and washes the tree-fringed valley of
the Asian Sweet Waters, called by the natives Guiuk-Suy, or Chest-water,
from the extreme purity of the spring.
[Illustration: THE CASTLES OF EUROPE AND ASIA.
W. H. Bartlett. G. K. Richardson.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
The Roumeli Hissari, or Castle of Europe, on the opposite shore, is of
very singular construction, the ground-plan forming the characters of
the Prophet’s name; by whom, tradition says that it was built in six
days, by permission of the Greek emperor, who, with more courtesy than
policy, acceded to the desire of Mahomet to possess a _pied-à-terre_
on the European edge of the channel. This fortress was the celebrated
prison of the Janissaries; and the large gun yet fills its embrasure on
the lower rampart, which was fired on the execution of every criminal,
to announce to the Sultan that the guilty one had expiated his crime.
The strength of the Castle is much greater than its appearance from the
sea would indicate; and it is well supplied with water, and the means of
storing provisions. The Traitor’s Gate is the only seaward entrance to
the fortress; and through its low wide arch the bodies of the strangled
Janissaries were dragged by the heels, and flung into the Bosphorus.
There are four principal towers, one of which occasionally served as a
state-prison for persons of distinction; that immediately above it, is
called the Tower of Blood, where the Agas, or chiefs of the Janissaries,
were put to death privately, and their bodies conveyed to the Bosphorus
through a tunnel excavated beneath the foundations of the fortress; it
being considered unsafe and impolitic to dishonour their remains in the
eyes of that formidable body, in the public manner in which the corses of
their less distinguished comrades were mutilated and insulted.
The Janissaries’ Tower is built upon the highest point of land within
the walls, and commands one of the finest views in the world; having
on one hand the whole stretch of the channel to the opening of the
island-studded Propontis; and on the other, the entrance of the Black
Sea, with the “blue symplegades” in the dim distance, looking as if they
were indeed fulfilling the ancient superstition, and wandering over the
waters of the “storm-vexed Euxine.”
The instrument to which the fatal cord used in strangling the Janissaries
was attached, is an old Roman bow of extraordinary strength; and the
place of execution was a portion of the covered way that connects the
towers throughout the fortress; and it is painful to look from this place
of death upon the brightness and the beauty of nature, and to remember
how many have so looked for the last time! The blue, sun-lighted sky—the
sparkling water—the fantastic and changeful shadows cast by the broad
leaves of the wild fig-trees upon the earth—the song of the wild-birds
from the underwood beneath the ramparts—all seem to conspire in investing
the world with a dearer charm, and in lending to life a value which must
enchance tenfold the bitterness of death.
The few houses built within the walls of the fortress are in good
repair, and are surrounded by pleasant gardens. Their tenants marry and
intermarry continually, not being permitted to form any alliance with
families unconnected with the Castle; and, altogether, the celebrated
Roumeli Hissari, (a sealed book, save in one recent instance, to all
European travellers,) possesses a great moral interest, as well as
extreme picturesque beauty.
FOUNTAIN OF THE ASIAN SWEET WATERS.
“A glowing scene of water, leaves, and light,
And white-veil’d dames, and turban’d men are there;
And all around the earth and sea are bright
And beautiful in the sunshiny air;
Soft ripples dance upon the channel’s breast,
Light breezes sweep along the mountain’s crest,
And woman’s voice, and childhood’s laugh of glee,
Come blended on the ear harmoniously.”
MS. POEM.
The Valley of Guiuk-Suy, charmingly situated about midway of the
Bosphorus, and called by Europeans the Asian Sweet Waters, owes its charm
and its popularity (like the glen of Kyat-Khana, already described,) to
the circumstance of its being intersected by a pretty stream of fresh
water, which, after flowing along under the shadows of tall and leafy
trees, finally mingles its pigmy ripples with the swifter waves of the
channel. The Anadoli Hissari, or Castle of Asia, stands upon its margin,
and painfully recalls the mind to the darker and sterner realities of
life; or the visitor to Guiuk-Suy might fancy himself in Arcadia, so
lovely is the locality.
On Fridays, (the Mahommedan Sabbath,) the valley is thronged with
holiday-keeping idlers; and here the Frank traveller may see more of
the habits and _morale_ of the Turkish women than he can hope to do
elsewhere; for here, being on Asiatic ground, they appear to feel more
at home, and less trammelled by the restrictions of their creed than in
any other environ of the capital; their yashmacs are less scrupulously
arranged, they are more accessible to strangers, and they do the honours
of their lovely valley with a gentle courtesy extremely pleasing.
[Illustration: FOUNTAIN NEAR THE ASIAN VALLEY OF SWEET WATERS, ON THE
BOSPHORUS.
W. H. Bartlett. H. Griffiths.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
All ranks alike frequent this sweet and balmy spot. The Sultanas move
along in quiet stateliness over the greensward in their gilded arabas,
drawn by oxen glittering with foil, and covered with awnings of velvet,
heavy with gold embroidery and fringes; the light carriages of the
Pashas’ harems roll rapidly past, decorated with flashing draperies,
the horses gaily caparisoned, and the young beauties within pillowed on
satins and velvets, and frequently screened by shawls of immense value;
while the wives of many of the Beys, the Effendis, and the Emirs, leave
their arabas, and seated on Persian carpets under the leafy canopy of
the superb maple-trees which abound in the valley, amuse themselves for
hours, the elder ladies with their pipes, and the younger ones with their
hand-mirrors; greetings innumerable take place on all sides; and the
itinerant confectioners and water-venders reap a rich harvest.
The Fountain of Guiuk-Suy stands in the midst of a double avenue of
trees, which fringe the border of the Bosphorus. It is built of delicate
white marble, is extremely elegant in design, and elaborately ornamented
with arabesques. The spot which it adorns is a point of reunion for the
fair idlers of the valley, when the evening breeze upon the channel
renders this portion of the glen more cool and delicious than that in
which they pass the earlier hours of the day; and is only separated from
it by the stream already named, which is traversed by a heavy wooden
bridge.
The whole _coup-d’œil_ is charming; slaves hurry hither and thither,
carrying water from the fountain to their respective mistresses, in
covered crystal goblets, or vases of wrought silver. Fruit-merchants
pass and repass with amber-coloured grapes and golden melons; Sclavonian
musicians collect a crowd about them, which disperses the next moment to
throng round a gang of Bedouin tumblers; serudjhes gallop over the soft
grass in pursuit of their employers; carriages come and go noiselessly
along the turf at the beck of their fair occupants; a fleet of caïques
dance upon the ripple, ready to convey a portion of the revellers to
their homes on the European shore; and the beams of the bright sun fall
full on the turretted towers of the Castle of Europe, on the opposite
side of the channel, touching them with gold, and contrasting yet more
powerfully their long and graceful shadows upon the water.
AQUEDUCT NEAR PYRGO.
“Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts.”
BYRON.
This fine remain of by-gone industry and taste is indifferently ascribed
to the Emperor Valens, and to Justinian; no positive record of its date
or founder being now in existence. It spans a lovely hill-embosomed
valley near Pyrgo, and is one of several aqueducts still in existence
between the city of Constantinople, and the beautiful, romantic, and
Frank-peopled hamlet of Belgrade, on the Black Sea.
The necessity of an ample supply of water to a population of nearly eight
hundred thousand souls, and the frequency of drought in the capital, have
led to great care and some ingenuity in its conveyance to the cisterns
and reservoirs of the city from the numerous streams that fall from the
mountains which fence the Euxine, and the rivulets that irrigate the
valleys among them. Every rill, however apparently trifling, is arrested
in its progress, when it descends from a height into the lower lands; by
which means the valleys become inundated, and form deep and extensive
lakes, whence the water is conveyed in tile pipes along the mountains,
to pour its volume into the aqueducts which span the valleys, and give a
noble character to the wild landscape. These artificial reservoirs are
called bendts, and were originally formed by the Greeks; and the dams
by which they are shut in are mounds, faced with marble, sculptured in
oriental devices and characters, which are extremely imposing, and even
magnificent. The Turks are, however, suffering the aqueducts of their
predecessors to fall slowly to decay; and have supplied their places
by detached square hydraulic pillars, sufficiently ingenious in their
construction to merit description. A small reservoir is on the summit of
each; and tubes, similar to those laid along the heights, pour the water
into this tank on one side, and discharge it on the other. Each pillar is
six inches lower than that which preceded it; and thus a gradual descent
is produced along the tops of these _suy-terrasi_, or columns, from the
mountains to Stamboul; and as they are spread in considerable numbers
over the country, the supply is generally abundant, though it sometimes
fails when the season is unusually dry, as in the years 1822 and 1836.
[Illustration: AQUEDUCT OF THE EMPEROR VALENS, NEAR PYRGO.
W. H. Bartlett. R. Wallis.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
At such periods, the terror of a people like the Osmanlis, who not only
connect ideas of comfort and convenience with the pure element, but to
whom it is essential in the offices of their religion, may be readily
conceived; and not the least affecting of its demonstrations is the
appearance of a Dervish on the crest of the Jouchi-Daghi, or Giant’s
Mountain, whose duty it is to watch for, and to announce to the thirsting
city, the anxiously-awaited appearance of a small, lowering, heavy cloud,
hovering above the waves of Marmora, or the Euxine—a certain indication
of coming rain, which causes the Christian sojourner in the East to
revert at once to the Sacred Volume, whose holy truths are constantly
recalled to his memory in the land of the Infidel.
The artist seized a happy moment in which to transfer to his sketch-book
the Aqueduct of Pyrgo. The sunshine rested lovingly on the old grey
stones of the stupendous pile at one extremity, while the cool shadows of
the mountain, with its flowery mantle of cistus, caper-plants, and wild
vines, were flung in soft contrast over the other. A party of travellers,
with their _serudjhes_,[13] sumpter mules, and araba drawn by buffaloes,
were about to halt for their mid-day meal; and the sounds of human life
and human laughter joyously awoke the echoes of the arch-spanned valley.
Nature and art, the present and the past, were before him; and the result
has been not only a faithful, but a strikingly characteristic sketch.
THE MAUSOLEUM OF SOLYMAN “THE MAGNIFICENT.”
“A dome with convoluted roof, whose fold
Projected o’er a gate of polished stone;
A hoary tree, in stateliness grown old,
The germ of by-past ages, now unknown;
A wild vine wreathing round the regal gold
And azure of the tinted pane; a tone
Of sadness sighing through the lofty gloom
Of a tall cypress.”
MS. POEM.
A beautiful covered way, leading from the outer court of Solimaniè, and
richly trellised with those luxuriant and leafy parasites so common in
the East, leads to the splendid tomb of Solyman; a light and elegant
sexangular building of white marble, overshadowed by one of those
enormous plane-trees which defy all calculation of their age, and seem
each a mimic forest in themselves. Clusters of the rare and beautiful
purple lily, grow, as it were, out of the foundation of the edifice,
and intrude their imperial blossoms within the sculptured screen that
protects the arched colonnade by which it is surrounded. The whole
exterior of the tomb is graceful and attractive; and it looks rather
like a temple dedicated to cheerfulness, than a shrine for the ashes of
the dead. The sunshine struggles through the fresh green leaves of the
giant-tree, and falls flickeringly upon the marble steps, painting them
with a thousand fantastic figures; and the blue doves which nestle amid
its branches fill the air with their soft cooings, destroying the deep
silence of the sacred spot. Altogether, the Mausoleum of the magnificent
Solyman conveys no idea of death and the grave, nor is it forced upon
you even when you step across the threshold on to the richly carpeted
floor, and see before you the sarcophagi of the imperial founder of the
building, of his successor, of Sultan Akhmet, and of the two daughters
of Solyman. Those of the Sultan’s are surmounted by lofty and curiously
folded turbans of white muslin, decorated with aigrettes; while those of
the princesses are simply covered with shawls of green cashmere, much
dilapidated by time. On a stand near the entrance, rests an admirable
model of the Mosque at Mecca, and the Prophet’s tomb, with parties of
pilgrims on their way to and from the holy city; it is well executed, and
bears an appearance of great accuracy.
A few paces from the resting-place of Solyman is that of his favourite
wife, the far-famed and tiger-hearted Roxalana, who, in the feelings of
the mother, suffered those of the woman to be extinguished, and turned
the holiest of virtues into crime. She also rests under a dome of marble,
and her sarcophagus is overlaid with costly shawls. The same plane-tree
darkens over the two tombs, but the vermilion patches flung by the
painted windows on the bier of the inexorable Roxalana, seem like records
of the innocent blood shed to feed her ambition. Not satisfied with the
proud distinction of having given birth to the Sultan’s eldest son, and
of seeing the bitter tears wept over his grave by Solyman, who, to mark
his grief for the untimely death of the ill-fated Mahomet, released a
number of slaves on the day of his burial, that they might ever look
back with veneration to his memory; the renegade Sultana, false alike
to her God and to her sex, excited the infatuated sovereign to murder
Mustapha, another of his sons by a rival beauty. Heavy accusations, laid
by a reckless enemy, who possessed the ear and perverted the judgment
of Solyman, were all-sufficient to secure the ruin of the young and
high-hearted Mustapha; who, moreover, when summoned to the presence of
his imperial father, entertained no suspicion of the treachery to which
he was about to fall a victim.
[Illustration: MAUSOLEUM OF SOLYMAN THE MAGNIFICENT AND ROXALANA.
W. H. Bartlett. J. Carter.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE MAUSOLEUM OF SULTAN SOLYMAN.
W. H. Bartlett. W. Radclyffe.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
To render the tragedy more complete, Mustapha, when he received the
summons of the Sultan, was not alone; Zeangir, the son of Roxalana, to
whom he was tenderly attached, was beside him; who, when the message was
communicated to the prince, immediately determined on accompanying him to
the camp of their common parent. On their arrival at the imperial tent,
Mustapha was disarmed; and then first suspecting treachery, he advanced
in silence beyond the line of guards who were posted over the person of
the Sultan, and had scarcely done so, when four mutes sprang upon him,
armed with the fatal bowstring; but life was young and strong in the
betrayed prince, and he burst from their hold, and flung them from him
with indignant pride, as he turned to alarm the troops, by whom he was
greatly beloved, and in whom he felt, even at that awful moment, that
he might depend. But no time was allowed him for the effort, for as he
sought to escape, Solyman himself appeared at the entrance of the tent;
and one look of rage, one gesture of vengeance, recalled the scattered
senses of the mutes, who once more seizing their victim, strangled him
under the eyes of his infuriated father, and then flung his quivering
body on the carpet at his feet. It was the work of a moment; and the
paralyzed Zeangir beheld the brother whom he fondly loved, and who had
stood beside him in health and pride but a moment back, a livid and
distorted corpse, like an unnatural barrier suddenly raised by crime
between him and his father. From his wolf-hearted mother he had long
shrank, for his gentle nature quailed before the dark workings of her
iron spirit; and now two holy links were wrenched asunder which could
never again be united—he had no longer a parent; and his brave brother,
the idol of the troops and of the people, he was gone! Without a word,
without a tear, the young prince cast himself upon the corse of the
murdered Mustapha; and when the officious pity of some court parasite
would have separated him from his dead brother, he was unconscious of the
attempt: he was not born for blood, and his heart had burst upon the body
of the victim! Once again Roxalana stood beside a dead son; but there
was no compunction in her eyes, as they rested on the pale face of him
whom her cruelty had murdered: there was no shadow over them, as when the
grief of earth seems to throw a veil over the decrees of Heaven. They
were bright with intense light—vivid with fearful brilliancy—they told a
tale of vengeance!
The arrow was shot by a sure hand! Solyman, enslaved by the personal
beauty, and cowed by the resistless passions of his wife, became the
puppet of her will; and the moon had not yet grown old, when Roxalana
once more held a death-warrant signed by the misguided Sultan. Mustapha
had left behind him a son, a fair boy who had scarcely numbered ten
summers—brave, and beautiful, and, until now, beloved. This was the new
victim; but the implacable Sultana, fierce as she was, knew all the
intensity and watchfulness of a mother’s love, and she felt that the
vigilance of the new-made widow must be eluded. The boy was, therefore,
on some fair pretence dispatched to a kiosque near Broussa, attended by
a proper guard, and accompanied by his mother in a covered litter. In
the plain beyond Moudania, the litter broke down; and the eunuch who was
entrusted with the death-warrant, proposed to the little prince that they
should together gallop forward to the city, and send back assistance.
The gallant boy complied; and as he sprang from his horse at the door of
the kiosque, the executioner stopped him on the threshold, and extending
towards him the bowstring, intimated to him that such was the will of the
Sultan.
“God is great!” said the brave boy, “and the Sultan is his shadow upon
earth—I am ready.” And when she reached Broussa, the widow of Mustapha
found that she was childless!
YENI DJAMI.
“Lightly tread, ’tis hallowed ground.”
The beautiful mosque of Yeni Djami, known also as that of Sultana Validè,
was built by the mother of Mahomet IV., and is esteemed one of the most
magnificent in the capital. The minarets are peculiarly elegant, each
being encircled by no less than three galleries, of the most minute
and thickly-perforated sculpture, in the Saracenic taste. The portal
is of ponderous size, and the brazen gates are thickly studded with
mother-of-pearl; three lofty arches enclose an open peristyle, terraced
in, and sufficiently spacious to contain more than a hundred persons.
The double range of exterior galleries, running along the façade of the
temple, are of fine and delicate workmanship, and the arches by which
they are formed, are chastely and beautifully designed. The principal
dome springs majestically from the centre of the spacious roof, and rests
upon four lesser ones, which appear to lift it to the clouds; while the
tomb of the illustrious founder nestles beneath the more lofty edifice,
comparatively minute in size, but equally elegant in construction.
[Illustration: YENI DJAMI, OR MOSQUE OF THE SULTANA VALIDÈ.
W. H. Bartlett. J. C. Varrall.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1838.]