Pera, upon the Golden Horn and the long bridges streaming with their
picturesque processions, upon the Bosphorus and its palaces, and
thousands of sails, steamers, and caïques, and the shining heights of
Scutari. Overhanging the slope is the kiosk or summer palace of Sultan
Moorad, a Saracenic octagonal structure, the interior walls lined with
Persian tiles, the ceilings painted in red arabesques and gilded
in mosaics, the gates of bronze inlaid with mother-of-pearl; a most
charming building, said to be in imitation of a kiosk of Bagdad. In it
we saw the Sultan's private library, a hundred or two volumes in a
glass case, that had no appearance of having been read either by the
Sultan or his wife.
The apartment in the Seraglio which is the object of curiosity and
desire is the treasure-room. I suppose it is the richest in the world in
gems; it is certainly a most wearisome place, and gave me a contempt for
earthly treasure. In the centre stands a Persian throne,—a chair upon
a board platform, and both incrusted with rubies, pearls, emeralds,
diamonds; there are toilet-tables covered to the feet with diamonds,
pipe-stems glistening with huge diamonds, old armor thickly set with
precious stones, saddle-cloths and stirrups stiff with diamonds and
emeralds, robes embroidered with pearls. Nothing is so cheap as wealth
lavished in this manner; at first we were dazzled by the flashing
display, but after a time these heaps of gems seemed as common in our
eyes as pebbles in the street. I did not even covet an emerald as large
as my fist, nor a sword-hilt in which were fifteen diamonds, each as
large as the end of my thumb, nor a carpet sown with pearls, some of
which were of the size of pigeon's eggs, nor aigrettes which were
blazing with internal fires, nor chairs of state, clocks and vases, the
whole surfaces of which were on fire with jewels. I have seen an
old oaken table, carved in the fifteenth century, which gave me more
pleasure than one of lapis lazuli, which is exhibited as the most costly
article in this collection; though it is inlaid with precious stones,
and the pillars that support the mirror are set with diamonds, and the
legs and claws are a mass of diamonds, rubies, carbuncles, emeralds,
topazes, etc., and huge diamond pendants ornament it, and the deep
fringe in front is altogether of diamonds. This is but a barbarous,
ostentatious, and tasteless use of the beautiful, and I suppose gives
one an idea of the inartistic magnificence of the Oriental courts in
centuries gone by.
This treasure-house has, I presume, nothing that belonged to the
Byzantine emperors before the Moslem conquest, some of whom exceeded
in their magnificence any of the Osmanli sultans. Arcadius, the first
Eastern emperor after the division of the Roman world, rivalled, in
the appointments of his palace (which stood upon this spot) and in
his dress, the magnificence of the Persian monarchs; and perhaps the
luxurious califs of Bagdad at a later day did not equal his splendor.
His robes were of purple, a color reserved exclusively for his sacred
person, and of silk, embroidered with gold dragons; his diadem was of
gold set with gems of inestimable worth; his throne was massy gold, and
when he went abroad he rode in a chariot of solid, pure gold, drawn by
two milk-white mules shining in harness and trappings of gold.
No spot on earth has been the scene of such luxury, cruelty, treachery,
murder, infidelity of women, and rapacity of men, as this site of
the old palace; and the long record of the Christian emperors—the
occasionally interrupted anarchy and usurpation of a thousand
years—loses nothing in these respects in comparison with the Turkish
occupation, although the world shudders at the unrevealed secrets of
the Seraglio. At least we may suppose that nobody's conscience was
violated if a pretty woman was occasionally dropped into the Bosphorus,
and there was the authority of custom for the strangling of all the
children of the sisters of the Sultan, so that the succession might not
be embarrassed. In this court is the cage, a room accessible only by
a window, where the royal children were shut up to keep them from
conspiracy against the throne; and there Sultan Abdul Aziz spent some
years of his life.
We went from the treasure-room to the ancient and large Church of St.
Irene, which is now the arsenal of the Seraglio, and become, one might
say, a church militant. The nave and aisles are stacked with arms, the
walls, the holy apse, the pillars, are cased in guns, swords, pistols,
and armor, arranged in fanciful patterns, and with an ingenuity I have
seen nowhere else. Here are preserved battle-flags and famous trophies,
an armlet of Tamerlane, a sword of Scanderbeg, and other pieces of cold,
pliant steel that have a reputation for many murders. There is no way so
sure to universal celebrity as wholesale murder. Adjoining the arsenal
is a museum of Greek and Roman antiquities of the city, all in Turkish
disorder; the Cyprus Collections, sent by General di Cesnola, are
flung upon shelves or lie in heaps unarranged, and most of the cases
containing them had not been opened. Near this is an interesting museum
of Turkish costumes for the past five hundred years,—rows on rows of
ghastly wax figures clad in the garments of the dead. All of them are
ugly, many of them are comical in their exaggeration. The costumes of
the Janizaries attract most attention, perhaps from the dislike with
which we regard those cruel mercenaries, who deposed and decapitated
sultans at their will, and partly because many of the dresses seem more
fit for harlequins or eunuchs of the harem than for soldiers.
When the Church of Santa Sophia, the House of Divine Wisdom, was
finished, and Justinian entered it, accompanied only by the patriarch,
and ran from the porticos to the pulpit with outstretched arms,
crying, “Solomon, I have surpassed thee!” it was doubtless the most
magnificently decorated temple that had ever stood upon the earth. The
exterior was as far removed in simple grandeur as it was in time from
the still matchless Doric temples of Athens and of Pæstum, or from the
ornate and lordly piles of Ba'albek; but the interior surpassed in
splendor almost the conception of man. The pagan temples of antiquity
had been despoiled, the quarries of the known world had been ransacked
for marbles of various hues and textures to enrich it; and the gold, the
silver, the precious stones, employed in its decoration, surpassed in
measure the barbaric ostentation of the Temple at Jerusalem. Among its
forest of columns, one recognized the starred syenite from the First
Cataract of the Nile; the white marble of Phrygia, striped with
rose; the green of Laconia, and the blue of Libya; the black Celtic,
white-veined, and the white Bosphorus, black-veined; polished shafts
which had supported the roof of the Temple of the Delian Apollo, others
which had beheld the worship of Diana at Ephesus and of Pallas Athene
on the Acropolis, and, yet more ancient, those that had served in the
mysterious edifices of Osiris and Isis; while, more conspicuous
and beautiful than all, were the eight columns of porphyry, which,
transported by Aurelian from the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis to
Home, the pious Marina had received as her dowry and dedicated to the
most magnificent building ever reared to the worship of the True God,
and fitly dominating the shores of Europe and Asia.
One reads of doors of cedar, amber, and ivory; of hundreds of sacred
vessels of pure gold, of exquisitely wrought golden candelabra, and
crosses of an hundred pounds' weight each; of a score of books of the
Evangelists, the gold covers of which weighed twenty pounds; of golden
lilies and golden trumpets; of forty-two thousand chalice-cloths
embroidered with pearls and jewels; and of the great altar, for which
gold was too cheap a material, a mass of the most precious and costly
stones imbedded in gold and silver. We may recall also the arches and
the clear spaces of the walls inlaid with marbles and covered with
brilliant mosaics. It was Justinian's wish to pave the floor with
plates of gold, but, restrained by the fear of the avarice of his
successors, he laid it in variegated marbles, which run in waving lines,
imitating the flowing of rivers from the four corners to the vestibules.
But the wonder of the edifice was the dome, one hundred and seven
feet in span, hanging in the air one hundred and eighty feet above the
pavement. The aerial lightness of its position is increased by the two
half-domes of equal span and the nine cupolas which surround it.
More than one volume has been exclusively devoted to a description of
the Mosque of St. Sophia, and less than a volume would not suffice. But
the traveller will not see the ancient glories. If he expects anything
approaching the exterior richness and grandeur of the cathedrals of
Europe, or the colossal proportions of St. Peter's at Rome, or the
inexhaustible wealth of the interior of St. Mark's at Venice, he will
be disappointed. The area of St. Peter's exceeds that of the grand
Piazza of St. Mark, while St. Sophia is only two hundred and thirty-five
feet broad by three hundred and fifty feet long; and while the Church
of St. Mark has been accumulating spoils of plunder and of piety
for centuries, the Church of the Divine Wisdom has been ransacked by
repeated pillages and reduced to the puritan plainness of the Moslem
worship.
Exceedingly impressive, however, is the first view of the interior;
we stood silent with wonder and delight in the presence of the noble
columns, the bold soaring arches, the dome in the sky. The temple
is flooded with light, perhaps it is too bright; the old mosaics and
paintings must have softened it; and we found very offensive the Arabic
inscriptions on the four great arches, written in characters ten yards
long. They are the names of companions of the Prophet, but they look
like sign-boards. Another disagreeable impression is produced by
the position of the Mihrab, or prayer-niche; as this must be in the
direction of Mecca, it is placed at one side of the apse, and everything
in the mosque is forced to conform to it. Thus everything is askew; the
pulpits are set at hateful angles, and the stripes of the rugs on the
floor all run diagonally across. When one attempts to walk from the
entrance, pulled one way by the architectural plan, and the other by the
religious diversion of it, he has a sensation of being intoxicated.
Gone from this temple are the sacred relics which edified the believers
of former ages, such as the trumpets that blew down Jericho and planks
from the Ark of Noah, but the Moslems have prodigies to replace them.
The most curious of these is the sweating marble column, which emits a
dampness that cures diseases. I inserted my hand in a cavity which has
been dug in it, and certainly experienced a clammy sensation. It is said
to sweat most early in the morning. I had the curiosity to ascend the
gallery to see the seat of the courtesan and Empress Theodora,
daughter of the keeper of the bears of the circus,—a public and
venal pantomimist, who, after satisfying the immoral curiosity of her
contemporaries in many cities, illustrated the throne of the Cæsars by
her talents, her intrigues, and her devotion. The fondness of Justinian
has preserved her initials in the capitals of the columns, the imperial
eagle marks the screen that hid her seat, and the curious traveller may
see her name carved on the balustrade where she sat.
To the ancient building the Moslems have added the minarets at the four
corners and the enormous crescent on the dome, the gilding of which cost
fifty thousand ducats, and the shining of which, a golden moon in
the day, is visible at the distance of a hundred miles. The crescent,
adopted by the Osmanli upon the conquest of Jerusalem, was the emblem of
Byzantium before the Christian era. There is no spot in Constantinople
more flooded with historical associations, or more interesting to the
student of the history of the Eastern Empire, than the site of St.
Sophia. Here arose the church of the same name erected by Constantine;
it was twice burned, once by the party of St. John Chrysostom, and once
in a tumult of the factions of the Hippodrome. I should like to have
seen some of the pageants that took place here. After reposing in their
graves for three centuries, the bodies of St. Andrew, St. Luke, and St.
Timothy were transported hither. Fifty years after it was honored by
a still more illustrious presence; the ashes of the prophet Samuel,
deposited in a golden vase covered with a silken veil, left their
resting-place in Palestine for the banks of the Bosphorus. The highways
from the hills of Judæa to the gates of Constantinople were filled by
an uninterrupted procession, who testified their enthusiasm and joy, and
the Emperor Arcadius himself, attended by the most illustrious of the
clergy and the Senate, advanced to receive his illustrious guest, and
conducted the holy remains to this magnificent but insecure place of
repose. It was here that Gregory Nazianzen was by force installed upon
the Episcopal throne by Theodosius. The city was fanatically Arian.
Theodosius proclaimed the Nicene creed, and ordered the primate to
deliver the cathedral and all the churches to the orthodox, who were few
in number, but strong in the presence of Gregory. This extraordinary man
had set up an orthodox pulpit in a private house; he had been mobbed by
a motley crowd which issued from the Cathedral of St. Sophia, “common
beggars who had forfeited their claim to pity, monks who had the
appearance of goats or satyrs, and women more horrible than so many
Jezebels”; he had his triumph when Theodosius led him by the hand
through the streets—filled with a multitude crowding pavement,
roofs, and windows, and venting their rage, grief, astonishment, and
despair—into the church, which was held by soldiers, though the
prelate confessed that the city had the appearance of a town stormed by
barbarians. It was here that Eutropius, the eunuch, when his career of
rapacity exceeded even the toleration of Arcadius, sought sanctuary,
and was protected by John Chrysostom, archbishop, who owed his
ecclesiastical dignity to the late sexless favorite. And it was up this
very nave that Mohammed II., the conqueror, spurred his horse through a
crowd of fugitives, dismounted at the foot of the altar, cried, “There
is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet!” and let loose his
soldiery upon the priests, virgins, and promiscuous multitude who had
sought shelter here.
I should only weary you with unintelligible details in attempting a
description of other mosques which we visited. They are all somewhat
alike, though varying in degrees of splendor. There is that of Sultan
Ahmed, on the site of the Hippodrome, distinguished as the only one
in the empire that has six minarets,—the state mosque of the Sultan,
whence the Mecca pilgrimages proceed and where the great festivals are
held. From a distance it is one of the most conspicuous and poetically
beautiful objects in the city. And there is the Mosque of Suleiman
the Magnificent, a copy of St. Sophia and excelling it in harmonious
grandeur,—indeed, it is called the finest mosque in the empire. Its
forecourt measures a thousand paces, and the enclosure contains, besides
the mosque and the tomb of the founder, many foundations of charity and
of learning,—three schools for the young, besides one for the reading
of the Koran and one of medicine, four academies for the four Moslem
sects, a hospital, a kitchen for the poor, a library, a fountain, a
resting-place for travellers, and a house of refuge for strangers. From
it one enjoys a magnificent view of the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus,
and the piled-up city opposite. When we entered the mosque hundreds of
worshippers were at prayer, bowing their turbans towards Mecca in silent
unison. The throng soon broke up into groups of from ten to forty, which
seated themselves in circles on the floor for the reading of the Koran.
The shoes were heaped in the centre of each circle, the chief reader
squatted at a low desk on one side, and all read together in a loud
voice, creating an extraordinary vocal tumult. It was like a Sunday
school in fancy dress.
Stamboul is a very interesting place to those who have a taste for
gorgeous sepulchres, and I do not know any such pleasant residences
of the dead as the turbehs, or tombs of the imperial family. Usually
attached to the mosques, but sometimes standing apart, they are elegant
edifices, such as might be suitable for the living; in their airy,
light, and stately chambers the occupants are deprived of no splendor to
which they were accustomed in life. One of the most beautiful of these
turbehs, that of Sultan Mahmood II., I mistook for a fountain; it is a
domed, circular building of white marble, with Corinthian pilasters,
and lighted by seven large windows with gilded grating. Within, in a
cheerful, carpeted apartment, are the biers of the sultan, his valideh
sultana, and five daughters, covered with cloths of velvet, richly
embroidered, upon which are thrown the most superb India shawls; the
principal sarcophagi are surrounded by railings of mother-of-pearl;
massive silver candlesticks and Koran-stands, upon which are beautiful
manuscripts of the Koran, are disposed about the room, and at the head
of the Sultan's bier is a fez with a plume and aigrette of diamonds.
In the court of Santa Sophia you may see the beautiful mausoleum of
Selim II., who reposes beside the Lady of Light; and not far from it the
turbeh containing the remains of Mohammed III., surrounded by the biers
of seventeen brothers whom he murdered. It is pleasant to see brothers
united and in peace at last. I found something pathetic in other like
apartments where families were gathered together, sultans and sultanas
in the midst of little span-long biers of sons and daughters, incipient
sultans and sultanas, who were never permitted by state policy, if I may
be allowed the expression, to hatch. Strangled in their golden cradles,
perhaps, these innocents! Worthless little bodies, mocked by the
splendor of their interments. One could not but feel a little respect
for what might have been a “Sublime Porte” or a Light of the
Seraglio.
The Imperial Palace, the Church of Santa Sophia, the Hippodrome,—these
are the triangle of Byzantine history, the trinity of tyranny, religion,
and faction. The Circus of Constantinople, like that on the banks of the
Tiber, was the arena for the exhibition of games, races, spectacles, and
triumphs; like that, it was the arena of a licentious democracy, but
the most disorderly mob of Rome never attained the power or equalled
the vices of the murderous and incendiary factions of Byzantium. The
harmless colors that at first only distinguished the ignoble drivers
in the chariot races became the badges of parties, which claimed the
protection and enjoyed the favor of emperors and prelates; and the blue
and the green factions not only more than once involved the city in
conflagration and blood, but carried discord and frenzy into all the
provinces. Although they respected no human or divine law, they
affected religious zeal for one or another Christian sect or dogma; the
“blues” long espoused the orthodox cause, and enjoyed the partiality
of Justinian. The dissolute youth of Constantinople, wearing the livery
of the factions, possessed the city at night, and abandoned themselves
to any deed of violence that fancy or revenge suggested; neither the
sanctity of the church, nor the peace of the private house, nor the
innocence of youth, nor the chastity of matron or maid, was safe
from these assassins and ravishers. It was in one of their seditious
outbreaks that the palace and Santa Sophia were delivered to the flames.
The oblong ground of the Hippodrome is still an open place, although
a portion of the ground is covered by the Mosque of Ahmed. But the
traveller will find there few relics of this historical arena; nothing
of the marble seats and galleries that surrounded it. The curious may
look at the Egyptian obelisk of syenite, at the crumbling pyramid which
was the turning goal of the chariots; and he may find more food for
reflection in the bronze spiral column, formed by the twinings of three
serpents whose heads have been knocked off. It deserves to be housed and
cared for. There is no doubt of its venerable antiquity; it was seen
by Thucydides and Herodotus in the Temple of Delphi, where its three
branching heads formed a tripod upon which rested the dish of gold
which the Greeks captured among the spoils of the battle of Platæa. The
column is not more than fifteen feet high; it has stood here since the
time of Constantine.
This is the most famous square of Constantinople, yet in its present
unromantic aspect it is difficult to reanimate its interest. It is
said that its statues of marble and bronze once excelled the living
population of the city. In its arena emperors, whose vices have alone
saved their names to a conspicuous contempt, sought the popular applause
by driving in the chariot races, or stripped themselves for the sports
with wild beasts, proud to remind the spectators of the exploits
of Caligula and Heliogabalus. Here, in the reign of Anastasius,
the “green” faction, entering the place with concealed daggers,
interrupted a solemn festival and assassinated three thousand of the
“blues.” This place was in the first quarter of this century the
exercise and parade ground of the Janizaries, until they were destroyed.
Let us do justice to the Turks. In two memorable instances they
exhibited a nerve which the Roman emperors lacked, who never had either
the firmness or the courage to extirpate the Prætorian Guards.
The Janizaries set up, deposed, murdered sultans, as the Guards did
Emperors; and the Mamelukes of Egypt imitated their predecessors at
Rome. Mahmood II. in Constantinople, and Mohammed Ali in Cairo, had the
courage to extinguish these enemies of Turkish sovereignty.
In this neighborhood are several ancient monuments; the Burnt Column, a
blackened shaft of porphyry; the column called Historical; and that of
Theodosius,—I shall not fatigue you with further mention of them.
Not far from the Hippodrome we descended into the reservoir called A
Thousand and One Columns; I suppose this number is made up by counting
one as three, for each column consists of three superimposed shafts. It
is only partially excavated. We found a number of Jews occupying these
subterranean colonnades, engaged in twisting silk, the even temperature
of the cellar being favorable to this work.
As if we had come out of a day in another age, we walked down through
the streets of the artificers of brass and ivory and leather, to the
floating bridge, and crossed in a golden sunset, in which the minarets
and domes of the mosque of Mohammed II. appeared like some aerial
creation in the yellow sky.
XXVI.—SAUNTERINGS ABOUT CONSTANTINOPLE.
DURING the day steamers leave the Galata bridge every halfhour for the
villages and palaces along the Bosphorus; there is a large fleet of
them, probably thirty, but they are always crowded, like the ferry-boats
that ply the waters of New York Bay.