guitar, which they twang most unmercifully, as they pour forth their
lays of love, or their tales of tradition, in a heavy, monotonous,
sleep-inspiring drawl, never seeming themselves to become inspired by
their subject; while their hearers, apparently quite insensible to the
soporific medium through which the legends are conveyed, frequently
betray extreme emotion as they listen, grasping the hilts of the
_handjars_[53] in their girdles, setting their teeth firmly, clenching
their fingers rigidly upon their palms, and drawing their breath hard, as
though their respiration were impeded.
The Hebrew music already mentioned comprises several performers, and the
instruments are commonly a small Arab drum, two or three bad guitars, and
a tambourine; these are relieved by the voices of the younger boys, which
are generally very thin and shrill, and they sometimes accompany their
songs with a heavy languishing movement—a caricature of the graceful
dance of the Harem.
That some of these establishments, however, not only emulate, but even
exceed in luxury and magnificence the most costly and fashionable
European “Clubs,” we have the evidence of Mr. St. John, (no mean
authority on oriental subjects,) who thus describes one visited by
himself during a season of high festival:—
“We now proceeded to the coffee-house of Kodjia Ben Lolo, near the great
_Hammams_,[54] the approaches to which were so crowded, that it was with
much difficulty we found our way in. This establishment, which is on a
grand scale, corresponds in a great measure with our ideas of Oriental
splendour. Erected, like a caravanseraï, about a spacious quadrangular
court, it contains an infinite number of magnificent rooms, paved with
marble, and furnished with superb divans of crimson velvet, bordered with
gold fringe a foot deep. The windows are glazed, if one may so speak,
with large panes of gypsum,[55] gorgeously painted in various colours;
and in the midst of the principal apartment, an elegant marble fountain,
constantly playing, maintains an agreeable freshness in the air. None
but opulent Turks frequent this establishment, the expense of the
entertainment being considerable....
“Small brazen censers, placed on the summit of pyramidal flower-stands,
and constantly burning, filled the apartment with the perfume of
sandal-wood, benzoin, and wood of aloes, intermingled with the rich
odours of Indian myrtle, jasmine, and other rare or sweet plants.”[56]
In establishments, such as the one here described, the most rare and
costly coffee and tobacco is served to the guests, by the owner of the
house; but in the common run of Coffee-kiosques, each individual brings
his own tobacco in a small bag, which he carries amid the folds of the
shawl that he wears about his waist, or, should he have adopted the new
costume, in his bosom. A brazier, full of heated charcoal, stands in
the apartment, and the stranger is no sooner seated, and has filled his
chibouque, (two almost simultaneous operations,) than the cafèjhe seizes
a small live coal in a pair of iron pincers, and deposits it on the
summit of the tobacco. When the customer has smoked a few long whiffs,
he calls for coffee, which is made over another and larger brazier,
and handed to him in its minute cup of porcelain, standing in a metal
_zarf_;[57] and the few paras which, on departing, are paid for the
coffee, are considered a sufficient compensation to the attentive cafèjhe
for his house-room, his goblets of clear cool water, and his exhausted
charcoal, as well as for the article for which they profess to pay.
There is a marked difference in the method of smoking pursued by the
upper class of Turks and that practised by the poorer orders. The wealthy
and fastidious Effendi fills the _boudaka_[58] of his chibouque with the
mild and costly tobacco of Salonica, which he inhales, until round the
edges of the bowl a circle of white ash is formed, which rises buoyantly
from the superincumbent morsel of heated charcoal, when he immediately
empties the _boudaka_, and flings the exhausted weed away, for its
aroma has then perished, and the tobacco, to a connoisseur, has become
worthless; while the boatmen and mechanics smoke the strong, coarse
produce of Latakia, even to the last fragment. There are other varieties
of the “scented weed” imported from the Crimea, Ormus, Circassia, and
different parts of the East, but the two already quoted are by far the
most popular, and the most extensively consumed.
There were, formerly, establishments at Constantinople, called Teriarki
Tcharchi, or opium-houses, but these exist no longer; they were conducted
on the same principle as the Coffee-Kiosques; but in the Teriarki
Tcharchi, the comparatively innoxious use of tobacco was accompanied by
that of opium, which was handed from guest to guest, made up into pills.
One of them, no longer appropriated to its original purpose, but rapidly
mouldering to decay, may still be seen in the neighbourhood of the
Mosque of Solimaniè. It differs in nothing from a common coffee-house,
save in its extent, which is considerable; and the miserable victims to
this singular vice, so painfully described by the Baron de Tott, nearly
a hundred years ago, are fortunately no longer to be seen, as the use
of opium is now considered disgraceful by the Turks; and an individual
addicted to its use, is regarded as that almost obsolete animal, a sot,
would be among ourselves.
The motive of such of the population as still adhere to this disgraceful
practice in private—a practice reprobated by the respectable portion of
the community, and formally forbidden by the government, is, as they
express it, to _make kef_; a phrase perfectly untranslatable, but which
would seem to mean the creation of a species of unnatural but pleasurable
excitement, unconnected with any physical exertion, as _kef_ may be
made where the person under the operation of the drug lies quietly on
his cushions, wrapped in a sort of drowsiness indicative of no emotion
whatever to the lookers-on; although it is asserted that there are
frequent cases where the effects of the _kef_ would be well worthy the
attention of any oriental police-office.
The habit of opium-eating, is, however, rapidly declining among the
Turks. Denounced by the government, despised by the bulk of the
population, and only practised by the dissipated and the depraved, it
will probably soon cease to exist altogether; while the legitimate
Coffee-Kiosque, quiet, orderly, and moderate, is as essential a feature
of the country as the Mosque, the Khan, or the Tcharchi.
THE BOSPHORUS.
The chain is forged, the web is wrought,
Woven of memory and thought;
And to myself each link is set
Alike with fondness and regret.
Oh! could I only call to view
Each scene in its own fairy hue,
And the same brightness that it wore
For me, on Bosphor’s lovely shore,
The eye, in lingering o’er my line,
Would see the gilded minaret shine,
Trace the stern mountain’s lofty peak.
Bound onward with the swift caïque.
And count the thousand glories o’er
Of either palace-girdled shore;
Spell-bound by thy bright witcheries,
Fair city of the Triple seas!
MS.
Ere I take my leave of the reader, whom I have endeavoured, in
conjunction with Mr. Bartlett, to interest in one of the most glorious
portions of the earth, I cannot deny myself the gratification of once
more addressing him in my own proper person.
In the volume which is now nearly completed, space was not permitted to
me for mention of many things on which it would have been a pleasure
to expatiate; nor have I made an effort towards this self-indulgence.
The work is a purely descriptive one, and I have followed the talented
artist wheresoever he has led me, and have found him no inefficient
guide. Together we have visited mosques, wandered in burial-places,
clombe mountains, and glided over the sun-lighted Bosphorus: and there
were times when such a pilgrimage would have been deemed no trifling
undertaking; but STEAM has now annihilated both time and space; and we
can only hope that our pictorial and literary pictures may induce the
traveller on his summer trip to Palmyra, Balbek, or Jerusalem, not to
overlook in his haste the fair city of Byzantium.
[Illustration: ENVIRONS OF CONSTANTINOPLE; WITH THE THRACIAN BOSPHORUS.
Drawn & Engraved by W. Hughes.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
Snatches of exquisite poetry have frequently been written on the subject
of the Bosphorus; from the days of Lady Mary Wortley Montague to our own,
every pilgrim-bard has wooed the glorious “ocean-stream” in song—every
traveller has freely offered to it the meed of his admiration; yet
still I feel convinced that those who know it only by verse and story
cannot form a correct or adequate idea of its peculiar beauties. The
description of one tourist gives a balloon view of the whole channel,
sweeping it from the Euxine to the Sea of Marmora, levelling mountains,
prostrating forests, and making curved lines straight; while an eminent
French traveller and _literateur_, in an eloquent and elegant burst
of imaginative genius, setting fact at defiance, removes some of the
windings of the Strait, and enlarges the range of vision with true
poetic license, in order to present a more rich and animated _tableau_
at a single _coup-d’œil_, instead of distinguishing the series of points
in keeping with the original. This bold and energetic style of verbal
painting may produce a powerful picture, well calculated to impress the
mind of the reader, but it by no means does justice to its subject,
for the surpassing beauty of the Bosphorus is its exquisite variety.
History and fable go hand in hand, walking over its waters, and awakening
pleasant memories of the past; but it needed not these additional
incitements to admiration, for nature has woven so powerful a spell about
its shores that the present scarcely asks the _prestige_ of the past.
The liveliest creations of the fancy are not likely to be disappointed
on the spot; and hence there is no reason why even the most enthusiastic
tourist should overcharge the colouring, or aim at additional ornament in
grouping the details.
The true charm of the Bosphorus, as I have already remarked, lies in
its endless variety of perspective: it is like a garland, woven by the
hand of beauty, of which each blossom is brighter than the last; not
a rock, not a tree, not a tower, could be displaced without injury to
the whole. Rival castles, looking each upon the other from the shores
of Europe and of Asia, stand on the nearest point of approach between
the two coasts, and seem at one interval to close the entrance of the
channel; but, as the rapid caïque starts onward, they yield to laughing
groves, and painted palaces, and hamlets scattered along the lip of the
water, and mirrored in the waves; and the beautiful curve is lost only
to be succeeded by another, and another. At almost every boat’s length
the vista changes, and presents new combinations; inlets and glens at
intervals peeping out in their pleasant greenery, break the rigid outline
of the rocks; valleys, such as even Rasselas might have loved to dwell
in, studded with trees to the very edge of the current which their
branches overhang, are sheltered by the woods on the sloping sides of the
adjacent heights—the cypress and pine retaining throughout the year their
deep perpetual green, and the brighter foliage ever shifting under the
breeze, and wearing new shapes and hues as it sweeps over them.
A range of populous villages, composed of party-coloured houses,
intermingled with trees and gardens, and handsome mansions backed by
lofty hills, extends for about twelve miles on either shore; the finest
sites being occupied by the palaces and kiosques of the court, either
erected or embellished by the present Sultan, with their bright façades
and fanciful parapets glittering in the sun-light; while numerous private
villas are interspersed among them, always gaily and fancifully painted
when belonging to a Turk, and in sober grey or lead colour when tenanted
by an Armenian or a Greek, Christians not being permitted to use any
other colours on the exterior of their dwellings; while the houses of the
Jews are invariably black. These villas frequently have terraces, formed
into parterres and flower-beds, cut in the face of the precipitous rocks,
and leading by winding steps to the pretty kiosque, or pavilion, pitched
like an eyrie on the cliff above; others have gardens laid out along
the banks of the channel, whose rose-wreaths, suspended from the walls,
almost drop into the current; while their fading blossoms, scattering
their loosened petals on the tide, freight it as with a fleet of fairy
barks!
One Imperial Kiosque, perched on the apex of a cone-like rock on the
Asiatic coast, about midway of the strait, is a very conspicuous object.
From below it appears as though it covered the whole summit of the
height; not a tree breaks its beautiful Grecian outline as it stands out
in strong relief against the intense blue of the sky, and it is very
appropriately called the “Kiosque of the Sun.”
It has been said that travellers should never set foot in the city of
Constantinople, in order not to dispel by unsightly contacts in its
mean and narrow streets the glorious illusion of the spectacle from
the waters. This assertion is hyper-fastidious, and must have emanated
from a mind totally unable to appreciate the treasures to which those
streets conduct. Should the Tchernberlè Tasch remain unvisited because
the unsavoury lanes in its vicinity are disagreeable to traverse? Should
the Palace of Belisarius be avoided because Jews burrow among the ruins?
Should the Mosques, the Khans, the Tcharchi, and the Seraï, continue
unexplored, because the wandering Sybarite cannot walk to them over
rose-leaves? Surely some sacrifice may well be made in order to insure a
pilgrimage round the old, ivy-clad, historical walls of Byzantium, or a
glance into one of its stately Mosques—some annoyance undergone to obtain
an opportunity of studying the national character, and judging of the
national manners.
The most celebrated view in the environs is that from the Bulgurlhu
Daghi, behind Scutari, overlooking the Marmora, the city, the harbour,
and the whole line of coast in the direction of Asia Minor; but, by
ascending some other peak a few miles from the shore, the oblique and
narrow strait of the Bosphorus may be traced in all its windings,
until diminished in appearance to a mere meadow rivulet; while at each
extremity of the horizon, seemingly linked together by this silver chain,
the Euxine and the Propontis spread their broad waters.
A ramble over the mountain-heights of the Asian coast is delicious: the
pure cool wind comes lovingly to your cheek, untainted by one touch of
earth; and the silence is unbroken, save by the shrill whistle of the
shepherd, and the responsive bark of his trusty dog; the call of the
goat-herd to his truant flock; the short keen stroke of the woodcutter;
or, frequently, the rustle of a pheasant springing from the copse beside
you, rather startled than alarmed, and sailing away in all his primitive
glory and wildness, such as he is still found in his native woods of the
Phasis.
The Bosphorus wears the most animated appearance early in June, when
the trees are in full foliage, and every leaf is redolent of life, ere
the heats have withered the herbage, and when a light southerly wind
is wafting hundreds of vessels up the strait towards the Black Sea,
the inner tiers almost touching the houses with their spars; while all
the caïques are plying busily between the city and the villages on the
channel, laughter is ringing out on the clear air, roses blossoming along
the banks, and the waters are buoyant with life and motion, and adding to
the magic of the landscape.
But to be seen in all its beauty, it should be looked upon by moonlight.
Then it is that the occupants of the spacious mansions which overhang
its waters enjoy to the fullest perfection the magnificence of the scene
around them. The glare of noonday reveals too fully the colours of the
picture, and the garish sun withers as it shines; while the deep, purple,
star-encrusted sky, the pure moonlight, and the holy quiet of evening,
lend to it, on the contrary, a mysterious indistinctness which doubles
its attraction.
The inhabitants of the capital are conscious of this fact; and, during
the summer months, when they occupy their marine villas, one of their
favourite recreations is to seat themselves upon their seaward terraces
to enjoy the passing music of the caïques which skim over the ripple,
freighted with amateur minstrels gliding from house to house, and
warbling their good-night at each, to the accompaniment of a guitar; or
in listening to the evening hymns of the seamen on board the Italian and
Greek vessels anchored in the strait; amused at intervals by the rolling
by of a huge shoal of porpoises on their way to the harbour, (where they
frequently abound,) gambolling in the moonlight, and plunging among the
waves with a sound like thunder; while, in the distance, loom out the
dark mountains of the Asian coast, casting their long dusky shadows far
across the water; and close beside them are the quivering summits of the
tall trees on the edge of the channel, sparkling like silver, and lending
the last touch of loveliness to a landscape, perhaps unparalleled in the
world.
The Bay of Naples—the fairest and most picturesque points of the
Rhine—the approach to sea-seated Venice—the entrance of the Tagus—and
the noblest portions of the Danube, have each in turn been quoted
as all-excelling, and unsurpassable in natural beauty; but who that
has anchored in the Golden Horn, just where beyond the shadow of the
Guz-Couli, his eye could wander onward along the channel, will not at
once yield the palm to the “rolling seas between the Bosphorus?” Truly,
the Bay of Naples boasts its volcanic mountain, which in sublimity must
stand unrivalled; but it has not the freshness, the changefulness, the
never-ending variety of the Golden Horn; and it, moreover, wants the
strait which renders the site of the Moslem city unique in its character.
The great German streams, noble and majestic as they may be, are devoid
of those lovely breaks and varied vistas which render the Bosphorus so
beautiful, and divest it of all tameness and monotony; grandeur and
softness vie with each other upon its banks; and it is, moreover, the
swift ocean-tide which flows between them, while the shores of the
Danube and the Rhine are laved only by the waters of one of its humble
tributaries.
And now my pleasant task is ended. I have exhausted the artist’s
portfolio, and I have nothing left to do, save to take leave of the
reader, who has wandered with me in idea under the sunny skies of the
fair East.
I have said little—almost nothing, of the inhabitants of the “City of
the Sultan;” not because I could not have said much, very much, which
might have gratified both them and myself, but because the nature of
the present work did not admit of my doing so; and it is only now, at
the “eleventh hour,” that I permit myself to remark, that the courtesy,
kindness, and friendship, which I universally experienced from the
natives of the country, and the veneration which I felt for their many
virtues, tended greatly to endear to my heart “The Beauties of the
Bosphorus.”
CONCLUSION.
“——upon mine honour,
I free you from it. You are not to be taught
That you have many enemies, that know not
Why they are so, but, like to village curs,
Bark when their fellows do.”
KING HENRY VIII.
At this crisis, when both the political and transition state of
Turkey render it a subject of more than usual importance to all who
are interested in Oriental affairs, a work on the Bosphorus would be
incomplete if wanting a record of the most remarkable period of its
modern history, during the presence of the Russian expedition, which
arrived upon its shores in February, 1833; and this I am fortunately
enabled to give through the kindness of a diplomatic friend who was
resident at Constantinople at the time, and who obligingly furnished me
with the very interesting details.
It was known that the Sultan had accepted the offer of Russian
assistance, after having in vain applied to France and England in the
extremity to which he was driven by Mehemet Ali. But the design had been
decidedly disapproved of in a grand council of his people and ministers,
summoned to take it into consideration:—“Were it the English, they might
bid them welcome; but to invite the Muscovite infidel, their bitter and
hereditary foe, was inadmissible; they would rather leave the event to
Providence.” Not so judged the Sultan, who had seen no reason to change
his mind. The battle of Konia was his last cast, and had been lost; he
had no army left, and the people would not fight in his cause; whilst
Ibrahim, at the head of his victorious troops, had advanced to within a
fortnight’s march of the capital, and menaced the throne. The order for
relief from Russia had been despatched by the Envoy, under discretionary
authority from his Court, and never been recalled; a circumstance of
which only a few Europeans were aware, besides the parties to the
arrangement. Various rumours on the subject were afloat, and the public
in anxious suspense, when all doubt was ended by the intelligence that
the Russian fleet had appeared in sight. Hearing the news, numbers of
persons crowded the windows of the houses which commanded a view of the
passage from the Black Sea, whence they could discern one or two large
ships already advanced within the channel, followed by several others,
looming in the distance. The blue cross in a white field soon became
visible, salutes were interchanged with the Turkish batteries, and,
in another hour, a Russian squadron of seven line-of-battle ships was
anchored at Buyukdèrè.
Never before had a naval force visited these waters since they owned the
sway of the Crescent, but what bore its emblem. A single frigate, or,
occasionally, a two-decker, conveying an Ambassador, was admitted as a
favour—their mission being regarded as a tribute to the sublime dignity
of the Porte. Even the English, the heroes of the sea, and countrymen
of Nelson, had, under Duckworth, ventured only in sight of the bristled
walls of Stamboul, but not in reach of their cannon; and the granite
masses launched from the huge guns of the Dardanelles, had taken revenge
on their return for their audacity in forcing an entrance. For nearly
four centuries since its conquest from the Greeks, the Imperial City of
Islamism had not bowed to the dominion of strangers.
The Ghiaours, the fleet of the Muscov Ghiaours, arrived! It seemed
incredible to the astonished and bewildered Turks. They would not at
first believe the assurances of eye-witnesses of the fact; and numbers
ascended the channel, and gazed on the ships, before they were fully
satisfied. “Ah! where are our own that fought so manfully at Navarino?”
some exclaimed. Others, “Why did we not make a stand in defence of our
Sultan and country, when we might have squeezed like paste (as truly they
could) the handful of infidels that crossed the Balkans with Diebitch?”
Mehemet Ali was also a favourite with the populace, and they wished him
success in order to keep out the Russians, with hopes of better fortune
under his command. A Turkish workman standing by as their ships entered,
cast one look at them, and then quietly resumed his labour, with the
ejaculation, “Zavali Mehemet Ali yeldizin caboul edemez;” It was not your
destiny, Mehemet Ali—your star would not permit.