place only a few years back, in this singular spot. He has shadowed forth
the adventure of a young, spirited, high-hearted Englishman, who, on his
visit to the vault, was so excited by the wild mystery of the place—its
undefined limits, its deep silence, its dim majesty, and the desire of
being the first to discover its extent, that he resolved to put forth
alone in a small boat, which at that period was moored beside one of the
columns.
Vain were all the expostulations of the worthy old Effendi, in the garden
of whose house the accidental revelation of the Yèrè-Batan-Seraï had
taken place; vain were the examples of previous failure repeated to the
reckless adventurer by his anxious dragoman;[38] equally vain the threats
of foul air, imaginary Afrits, and visionary dangers, marshalled in long
array before him;—when did an Englishman ever yield to such arguments? He
laughed at the terrors of his companions, and declared his determination
to explore the subterranean. What was it but a cistern—the work of men’s
hands? and would they weakly endeavour to persuade him that he could not
achieve his purpose? Opposition did but render him the more resolved; and
such was the power of his excited eloquence, that he almost persuaded
his hearers of the certainty of his success; he did all, indeed, save
engage them to become his partners in the attempt: and when they had
furnished him with the torches of bitumen which were to light him on his
way, and that he had gaily pushed off his little bark, laughing at the
pusillanimity of those who stood to witness his departure, until the
echoes of his reckless mirth rang through the dim arches, and died away
in hollow mutterings deep in the distance; they flung themselves down
upon the earth on their soft mats, and prepared their chibouques, with a
strong faith in the success of his hardy adventure.
[Illustration: YÈRÈ BATAN SERAÏ.
W. H. Bartlett. J. T. Willmore.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
Gradually a crowd, to whom the bold attempt of the young Frank had been
whispered, stole one by one into the garden of the Effendi, and clustered
about the cistern. At times they fancied that they distinguished strange
sounds sweeping through the subterranean, and mingling with the fall of
the large drops which gathered on the vaulted roofs, grew into size and
weight, and then plashed heavily on the broad sheet of water beneath; at
others, some one among them, deceived by a sun-glint shimmering through
the leaves of the noble trees of the garden, and reflected in the still
basin, proclaimed the return of the boat, and the flashing of the torch;
but the boat came not. Hours passed away, and the watchers wearied at
their post; expectation became weakened; hope waxed fainter and fainter;
the brief twilight softened for a short interval the face of nature; and
then down fell the darkness, glooming athwart the net-work of the silvery
stars that were woven over the deep blue of the tranquil heavens.
A low whisper grew audible among the awe-struck group: their watch had
endured long; it was now almost unavailing—the reckless Infidel had met
his fate! Each went to his home, and told the tale in his harem; and many
a fair cheek paled, and many a bright eye grew dim with tears that night,
in the city of the Moslem.
Morning came—bright, rosy, laughing morning—and all was fair, and gay,
and sunny, in that happy clime; and as the watchers resumed their station
upon the brink of the subterranean, each turned a long searching gaze
into its depths: but they looked in vain—the boat and its doomed freight
never appeared again!
The brain grows dizzy as it attempts to follow in idea the mysterious
progress of the fated wanderer over those mysterious waters! Rapid was
the splash of his oar as the little bark bounded away; the torch-light
flashed broadly upon the gleaming columns of the vault, and were cast
back from the marble far over the rippleless sheet beneath; his reckless
laughter made wild music until it was lost in the distance, and that he
could no longer distinguish the anxious group whom he had left behind;
and then—_then_—all was still, and dark, and solitary about him! Above,
dome succeeded dome; around, column rose beside column; beneath, far
as the eye could penetrate the gloom, the still, waveless water spread
itself out, to the right and to the left, before and behind—the same
wild, stern, chilling monotony reigned throughout the subterranean!
For a time, perchance, he rowed on in a straight line—his watery path
could thus be easily retraced—and still the vista lengthened as he went.
Hours crept slowly by, and his vigorous arm relaxed somewhat of its
strength; and the atmosphere grew dense, and engendered strange vapours,
which pressed upon his brain, and induced a languor that caused him to
draw in his oars, and ruminate for a while upon the scene around him. The
torch had grown more feeble in its effects, and the shadowy darkness of
the vaulted aisles by which he was encompassed on all sides pressed more
closely upon him, and he strained his eye-balls to look deeper into their
black depths! His breathing, too, became impeded; and the hand was less
firm than its wont, which loosened the kerchief about his neck: while in
the act of doing so, he suffered the little boat to swing round, and at
once became conscious that he no longer recognised the avenue by which he
had entered the vault.
As the frightful truth flashed upon him, he again seized the oars with
the impulse of despair, and laboured until big drops of moisture rolled
down his clammy brow, and every nerve quivered; but what availed his
toil? He knew not in what direction he was advancing—whether he were
indeed returning to his friends, and to that world which he had so rashly
abandoned; or only plunging further into the mysterious subterranean.
Meanwhile, who can doubt that the fœtid and unwholesome atmosphere was
slowly and surely doing its work, and that the high heart sank gradually,
sickening beneath the horrors of this living death—the victim sitting
motionless for a time to ascertain whether the slightest under-current
from some hidden spring might not give a faint impetus to the boat, and
thus afford a hope of escape; and learning, as the still caïque lay like
a log upon the water, that there was _no_ hope! And then the doomed one
laughed—laughed long and loudly, until the echoes of that unnatural mirth
were cast back in mockery upon the idiot who had given it voice; and ten
thousand gibbering fiends seemed to be coining it into foul and bitter
words, and bandying them to and fro with fierce and wanton industry! Then
came clouds of dusky and unnatural forms, woven out of the darkness,
pressing upon each other to board the little boat, and to overset it—and
then he shrieked as the icy waters rose to his chin, and he gasped for
breath—when suddenly he was saved, he knew not how; and he lay on the
fresh greensward of a sweet meadow near his old ancestral home, with his
head on his mother’s lap, and a fair girl bending over him, and singing
in a low soft voice, to which his ear had been long familiar, a simple
ballad, which he had loved from his boyhood; and he listened long, until
at length he dropped asleep to that fond familiar music.
He awoke once more—awoke to madness and despair! He remembered all—_all!_
and his brain failed beneath the horrors of the retrospect! He was again
a maniac; and in his first fierce paroxysm, he dashed the still burning
torch into the hissing waters, and the darkness fell upon him—crushed
him—pressed upon his heart, and upon his throat—and who shall say how
that wild tragedy was terminated?
Other, but more prudent attempts have since been made, but, as yet, no
determined limits have been assigned to the Yèrè-Batan-Seraï; in three
other directions the roof has failed, but these have occurred in such
distant quarters of the city, that far from resolving to the curious the
question of its extent, they have only been enabled to arrive at the
fact, that it stretches under a great portion of Constantinople, and even
beyond its walls; and that the same apparently endless avenues of arches,
multiplied, _ad infinitum_, on the right and left, stretch in dim,
mysterious, monotonous, and chilling silence beneath the crowded streets
of a busy capital—canopied by darkness, while all is light above—and
yawning like a vast sepulchre to receive the load of human life and human
treasure, which time must ultimately hurl in one huge ruin into its
greedy depths!
The Yèrè-Batan-Seraï is, without any exception, the noblest remain of
Roman intellect and industry in Constantinople.
MOSQUE OF SULTAN BAJAZET.
——“This enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round:
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here.”
BYRON.
The Mosque of Sultan Bajazet is situated in the angle of a large open
area, known as the “Square of the Seraskier,” from the circumstance
that his palace, or rather its extensive court, forms another side of
the enclosure; its large and lofty projecting gate, elaborately wrought
and fretted with gold, and surmounted by a dome crowned with an immense
gilded star, being, perhaps, the most oriental feature of the scene.
The Mosque of Bajazet is built in the immediate neighbourhood of the
great Tcharchi, or Bazār, and hence the square is constantly thronged
with merchants, traders, and strangers, passing to and from this vast
commercial mart; while groups of _khamals_, or street-porters, lounge on
every side with their baskets, waiting to be hired by such visitors to
the Tcharchi as chance to make purchases. Numbers of Greek and Armenian
_mahalibè_[39] and _yahourt_[40] merchants are also perpetually to
be seen; the first with their dainty fare temptingly set forth upon
fine linen cloths, and protected from the sun by huge white umbrellas,
looking like gigantic mushrooms; and the others, wandering from side to
side, balancing the large wooden scales on which the small basins of
red clay, containing the _yahourt_, are arranged with extreme care and
cleanliness; while, at intervals, the water-venders cross the path, with
their classically-moulded earthen pitchers on their shoulders, and their
capacious goblets of crystal, carried on a narrow tray attached to the
leathern girdle about their waists; giving out, as they move along, the
low, plaintive, and by no means unmusical cry peculiar to their calling;
and exerting a very successful rivalry with the sherbetjhes, who plant
their portable fountains under the cool shadows of some lofty wall, and
invite customers by the fairy chime of the metal bells which the flow of
the beverage keeps in perpetual play.
[Illustration: MOSQUE OF BAJAZET, WITH THE SERASKIER’S GATE.
_MOSQUÉE DE BAJAZET AVEC LA PORTE DU SÉRASKIER._ _DIE MOSCHEE DES BAJAZET
UND DER EINGANG ZUM SCHLOSS DES SERASKIERS._
W. H. Bartlett. H. Griffiths.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
[Illustration: COURT OF THE MOSQUE OF BAJAZET.
_COUR DE LA MOSQUÉE DE BAJAZET._ _DER HOF DER MOSCHEE BAJAZET._
W. H. Bartlett. T. Higham.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1840.]
Occasionally, a detachment of the Seraskier’s guard pass into the square,
and after having demurely walked their horses from beneath the august
_kapousi_, or gate, suddenly break into a brisker pace as they speed on
their errand, scattering the lounging populace to the right and left, as
their eager horses bound from the stroke of the iron stirrup. And well
may they hasten on their way, for those errands frequently involve a
question of life and death; all criminals taken in _flagrante delicto_
within the precincts of the city being first committed to the prisons
of the Seraskier, whence the tidings of their crime and capture are
transmitted to the Porte.
The portal of the Mosque is very beautiful, being elaborately wrought
in the Saracenic taste, with those receding dentated arches which look
as though they were formed by stalactites; and the battans of the gate
itself being skilfully inlaid with mother-of-pearl, in arabesques. Its
exterior galleries are also very gracefully designed, and the form and
fashion of its two slender minarets singularly pleasing.
The court of the Mosque is a favourite rendezvous with the merchants
trading in the Tcharchi, who frequently retire for a time from their
shops to smoke a chibouque beside the fountain, under the shadow of the
maple-trees; or to complete there a bargain more legitimately commenced
in the great mart itself; all commercial transactions of any extent being
uniformly concluded over a pipe, or broken off with the same ceremony.
Nor may it be uninteresting to remark, that, whenever a Turkish trader
decides on retiring for an hour’s relaxation from the labours of his
calling, he does not trouble himself to place his merchandise under lock
and key, even in this extensive thoroughfare; but simply letting fall a
tapestry curtain above the platform on which he is accustomed to sit and
to display his wares, as a signal that he is away, he goes quietly to the
coffee-kiosque without one misgiving as to the safety of his property,
which is sacred during his absence; a trust in the public integrity which
was never in any instance known to be violated.
But the most remarkable object in the vicinity, is decidedly the _Yanguen
Kiosque_, or Fire-Tower, which occupies a portion of the palace court. It
is of immense height, of a circular form, and entirely surrounded almost
at its summit by windows, which command a view of every quarter of the
city; the apartment from which they open being the head-quarters of the
fire-guard, six of whom are constantly on duty day and night, relieving
each other every second hour like military sentinels. At sunset, in order
to counteract the feeling of weariness which grows upon the watchers as
the darkness gathers about them, the individual on duty wears a pair of
wooden slippers, with double heels, the lower of which beats against the
floor by a spring at every step of the wearer, keeping up a perpetual
noise quite sufficient to assist his efforts against sleep, although,
when he resigns his watch, he throws himself down upon his mat, and
slumbers in happy heedlessness of the dissonance.
On the first appearance of a fire, the sentinel gives the alarm to a
second division of the guard, occupying the lower portion of the Tower;
and having indicated the quarter of the city in which the conflagration
has burst forth, he returns to his post, and leaves them to do their
duty. This consists in summoning the firemen, who are a bold and hardy
band (less judiciously trained, perhaps, than those of England, but
yielding nothing to them in courage and perseverance)—in informing the
authorities of the misfortune, when every Pasha within reach is compelled
to repair to the spot, and to assist, by his counsels and exertions, in
repairing or subduing the evil—and in warning the inhabitants of the
city and suburbs of the impending catastrophe. This latter ceremony is
performed by traversing the streets, armed with a long staff shod with
iron, which is perpetually and violently struck against the rude pavement
by the fireman, who having thus “murdered sleep,” next shouts at the
pitch of his voice, “_Yanguen var_—There is a fire!” adding, an instant
afterwards, “_Scutari-a—Galata-a—Stamboul-da_”—as the case may be; thus
indicating to his anxious listeners the scene of terror, in order to
enable those who have friends or property in that neighbourhood to speed
to their rescue.
In a city of wood like Constantinople, where, save only the Mosques,
the Khans, and the Tcharchi, there are very few buildings of stone,
conflagrations are of frequent and almost continual occurrence, and
scarcely a night passes in which the trembling Frank is not awakened by
the hoarse cry of _Yanguen var_ beneath his window; casements are hastily
flung up; heads are anxiously protruded; and then there is a hurried
tramp along the streets, as with swift step and labouring breath those
hurry by who fear to be involved in the catastrophe; while others quietly
return to court a renewal of the rest which has been so rudely broken,
thanking Allah, or the Panagia,[41] according to their several creeds,
that their turn is not yet come!
Such is the use of the Fire-Tower, which, moreover, affords to the
lover of nature an enjoyment probably unrivalled in the world, as from
its immense height it commands a series of views, so varied and so
magnificent, as almost to defy competition. Immediately beneath it lies
the court of the Palace, with the noble dwelling of the Seraskier, the
long range of grated prisons, and the green tents of the guard, forming a
pigmy encampment; the dome and minarets of the Mosque of Bajazet appear
beyond the walls, beside the clustering and far-reaching roofs of the
Tcharchi; and this is, perhaps, the only point from which the traveller
can form a just estimate of the immense extent of the far-famed Bazārs of
Constantinople. But it is the distance—the stretch of sea and shore, of
isle and mountain, of lake and forest, of light and shadow—the infinite
variety, the surpassing majesty of nature in her brightest and most
beautiful of garbs, which make the pulses bound, and the brow burn, as
the traveller looks down and around him; awe-struck, spell-bound, and
silent, drinking in deep draughts of loveliness, and seeming to revel in
a new existence!
[Illustration: THE SEA OF MARMORA. (From the Seraskiers Tower.)
_MER DE MARMORA, VUE DE LA TOUR DU SÉRASKIER._ _DAS MARMOR-MEER, (VOM
SCHLOSS DES SERASKIER.)_
W. H. Bartlett. R. Brandard.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
On one side, the city of Constantinople is spread out beneath him like a
map; and he gazes on its thousand domes, and its five thousand minarets;
its majestic maples dwindled into bushes; and its dark cypresses seeming
like finger-posts indicating the scattered resting-places of the
dead—upon its busy khans, its crowded Tcharchi, its luxurious palaces,
and its gloomy prisons. The hand and mind of man are visible throughout,
and human pride swells high during the contemplation of human power; but
let the gazer move a few paces onward—only to the next window—and he
will be instantly rebuked. There stretches away the sea of Marmora—the
sunny Propontis—with its rocky islets, and its glittering waves, dancing
beneath the bright blue sky; Mount Olympus, stately with its crown of
snow and its mantle of vapour, perceptible on the verge of the horizon;
and the glorious Bosphorus, winding between its rich and peopled shores,
guiding his vision onward to the Sea of Storms. Another move, and the
Golden Horn is before him; a thousand barks safely moored within its
land-locked limits, pouring forth the riches of other lands, or lading
with the treasures of this; the flag of many nations flying proudly at
their masts, and the voices of many lands swelling upon the breeze. When
his eye is sated, and his mind is satisfied with this spirit-stirring
scene, a few feet onward he will find a spot whence he may repose his
excited vision on the dark and arid rocks which enclose the lovely
“Valley of the Sweet Waters;” the most delicious spot of earth that ever
was cinctured by a mountain-girdle; and lose himself in fancy amid its
woods and waters, the golden-latticed chambers of its summer-palace, and
the veiled beauties who inhabit them.
Such is a faint outline of the majestic and varied scenes to be enjoyed
at the expense of the fatigue attendant on mounting the three hundred
and thirty steps of the _Yanguen Kiosque_—a physical exertion which is
forgotten at the first glance from its dizzy height upon the fairy
wonders of the surrounding objects; the busy breathing city—the sweet
still valley—the ocean-channel, linking two quarters of the globe as with
a silver string—and the wide sea, the unfathomable, trackless, mysterious
sea, bounding the vision, where it blends in one deep, rich, purple tint,
with the far horizon.
THE RIVEN TOWER, (NEAR THE TOP-KAPOUSI.)
“’Twas studded with old sturdy trees,
That bent not to the roughest breeze;
...
But these were few, and far between,
Set thick with shrubs more young and green,
Luxuriant with their annual leaves,
Ere strown by those autumnal eves
That nip the forest’s foliage dead,
Discolour’d with a lifeless red,
Which stands thereon like stiffen’d gore
Upon the slain when battle’s o’er.”
BYRON.
This very remarkable object overhangs the fosse, or ditch, surrounding
the city, and is one of the two hundred and eighteen towers surmounting
the walls. It is a singular monument of the last siege, when it was
stricken by one of the marble balls used by the Turks in their heavy
pieces of ordnance; which it is supposed must have been partially spent
ere it fell upon the tower, as although its weight rove it to the very
earth, cleaving through the solid masonry, and forcing the two portions
asunder, it failed to overthrow either; and there, after the lapse of
centuries, still stands, or rather leans, the ruin, nodding over the
moat like the remnant of some feudal castle, amid the wild fig-trees
and luxuriant foliage which now choak up the ditch, fill every rift
and chasm of the mouldering walls, and contend with the dense coating
of ivy, lichens, and other creeping plants by which they are clothed.
This striking monument of the fall of the Greek Empire stands near the
Top-Kapousi, or “Gate of the Cannon,” and, consequently, not far from
the spot where fell the last and bravest of the Paleologi; and beside
it grows a splendid specimen of the _Pistacia Terebinthus_, of unusual
size, whose bright leaves and scarlet berries are perfectly magnificent
during the season.
[Illustration: RIVEN TOWER NEAR THE TOP-KAPOUSI.
_TOUR CREVASSÉE PRÈS DE LA CIME KAPOUSI._ _TRÜMMER DES THURMS AN DER
SPITZE DES KAPOUSI._
W. H. Bartlett. E. Benjamin.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1838.]
Association is thus blent with natural beauty in wreathing about the
Riven Tower a distinct and powerful interest for the imagination; while
the extraordinary duration of the pile in so apparently insecure and
threatening a state, when, to the eye, it seems as though the next gust
of wind heaving its ivied drapery must inevitably prostrate it to the
earth, cannot fail to attract the notice of the curious in gravitation,
from whose law it appears to be so singularly exempt.
ISTENIA.
“——in famed Attica such lovely dales
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempè boast
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fails,
Though classic ground and consecrated most,
To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coast.”
BYRON.
The beautiful little village of Istenia, called by the Greeks Mirgheun,
and principally inhabited by that nation, is situated in one of the
prettiest spots on the Bosphorus; although the opposite shore is rocky,
sterile, and fantastically flung together; the edge of the water at the
base of the dusky chain of hills, being, however, fringed with houses,
and gay with trees.
The Moorish fountain, which forms the subject of the accompanying
sketch, is of an extremely graceful character, and built of a marble
whose whiteness is almost dazzling. It occupies the termination of the
main street of the village, where it touches upon the channel; and is
entirely overshadowed by the far-stretching branches of a glorious
maple-tree, which after spreading its gay green canopy over the dome and
richly-wrought roof of the fountain, finally mingles its leafy honours
with those of two other trees of the same description, beneath whose
shelter the cool wooden terraces of a couple of coffee-kiosques have been
erected.
[Illustration: ISTENIA, NEAR THERAPIA.
_ISTENIA PRÈS DE THÉRAPIA._ _ISTENIA BEI THERAPIA._
W. H. Bartlett. J. Cousen.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]