The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
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Brousa is a very long, straggling place, extending for three or four miles
along the side of the mountain, but presenting a very picturesque
appearance from every point. The houses are nearly all three stories high,
built of wood and unburnt bricks, and each story projects over the other,
after the manner of German towns of the Middle Ages. They have not the
hanging balconies which I have found so quaint and pleasing in Kiutahya.
But, especially in the Greek quarter, many of them are plastered and
painted of some bright color, which gives a gay, cheerful appearance to
the streets. Besides, Brousa is the cleanest Turkish town I have seen. The
mountain streams traverse most of the streets, and every heavy rain washes
them out thoroughly. The whole city has a brisk, active air, and the
workmen appear both more skilful and more industrious than in the other
parts of Asia Minor. I noticed a great many workers in copper, iron, and
wood, and an extensive manufactory of shoes and saddles. Brousa, however,
is principally noted for its silks, which are produced in this valley,
and others to the South and East. The manufactories are near the city. I
looked over some of the fabrics in the bazaars, but found them nearly all
imitations of European stuffs, woven in mixed silk and cotton, and even
more costly than the silks of Damascus.
We passed the whole length of the bazaars, and then, turning up one of the
side streets on our right, crossed a deep ravine by a high stone bridge.
Above and below us there were other bridges, under which a stream flowed
down from the mountains. Thence we ascended the height, whereon stands the
largest and one of the oldest mosques in Brousa. The position is
remarkably fine, commanding a view of nearly the whole city and the plain
below it. We entered the court-yard boldly, Francois taking the precaution
to speak to me only in Arabic, as there was a Turk within. Mr. H. went to
the fountain, washed his hands and face, but did not dare to swallow a
drop, putting on a most dolorous expression of countenance, as if
perishing with thirst. The mosque was a plain, square building, with a
large dome and two minarets. The door was a rich and curious specimen of
the _stalactitic_ style, so frequent in Saracenic buildings. We peeped
into the windows, and, although the mosque, which does not appear to be in
common use, was darkened, saw enough to show that the interior was quite
plain.
Just above this edifice stands a large octagonal tomb, surmounted by a
dome, and richly adorned with arabesque cornices and coatings of green and
blue tiles. It stood in a small garden inclosure, and there was a sort of
porter's lodge at the entrance. As we approached, an old gray-bearded man
in a green turban came out, and, on Francois requesting entrance for us,
took a key and conducted us to the building. He had not the slightest idea
of our being Christians. We took off our slippers before touching the
lintel of the door, as the place was particularly holy. Then, throwing
open the door, the old man lingered a few moments after we entered, so as
not to disturb our prayers--a mark of great respect. We advanced to the
edge of the parapet, turned our faces towards Mecca, and imitated the
usual Mohammedan prayer on entering a mosque, by holding both arms
outspread for a few moments, then bringing the hands together and bowing
the face upon them. This done, we leisurely examined the building, and the
old man was ready enough to satisfy our curiosity. It was a rich and
elegant structure, lighted from the dome. The walls were lined with
brilliant tiles, and had an elaborate cornice, with Arabic inscriptions in
gold. The floor was covered with a carpet, whereon stood eight or ten
ancient coffins, surrounding a larger one which occupied a raised platform
in the centre. They were all of wood, heavily carved, and many of them
entirely covered with gilded inscriptions. These, according to the old
man, were the coffins of the Ottoman Sultans, who had reigned at Brousa
previous to the taking of Constantinople, with some members of their
families. There were four Sultans, among whom were Mahomet I., and a
certain Achmet. Orchan, the founder of the Ottoman dynasty, is buried
somewhere in Brousa, and the great central coffin may have been his.
Francois and I talked entirely in Arabic, and the old man asked: "Who are
these Hadjis?" whereupon F. immediately answered: "They are Effendis from
Baghdad."
We had intended making the ascent of Olympus, but the summit was too
thickly covered with clouds. On the morning of the second day, therefore,
we determined to take up the line of march for Constantinople. The last
scene of our strange, eventful history with the katurgees had just
transpired, by their deserting us, being two hundred piastres in our debt.
They left their khan on the afternoon after our arrival, ostensibly for
the purpose of taking their beasts out to pasture, and were never heard of
more. We let them go, thankful that they had not played the trick sooner.
We engaged fresh horses for Moudania, on the Sea of Marmora, and
dispatched Francois in advance, to procure a caique for Constantinople,
while we waited to have our passports signed. But after waiting an hour,
as there was no appearance of the precious documents, we started the
baggage also, under the charge of a _surroudjee_, and remained alone.
Another hour passed by, and yet another, and the Bey was still occupied in
sleeping off his hunger. Mr. Harrison, in desperation, went to the office,
and after some delay, received the passports with a vise, but not, as we
afterwards discovered, the necessary one.
It was four o'clock by the time we left Brousa. Our horses were stiff,
clumsy pack-beasts; but, by dint of whips and the sharp shovel-stirrups,
we forced them into a trot and made them keep it. The road was well
travelled, and by asking everybody we met: "_Bou yol Moudania yedermi_?"
("Is this the way to Moudania?"), we had no difficulty in finding it. The
plain in many places is marshy, and traversed by several streams. A low
range of hills stretches across, and nearly closes it, the united waters
finding their outlet by a narrow valley to the north. From the top of the
hill we had a grand view, looking back over the plain, with the long line
of Brousa's minarets glittering through the interminable groves at the
foot of the mountain Olympus now showed a superb outline; the clouds hung
about his shoulders, but his snowy head was bare. Before us lay a broad,
rich valley, extending in front to the mountains of Moudania. The country
was well cultivated, with large farming establishments here and there.
The sun was setting as we reached the summit ridge, where stood a little
guard-house. As we rode over the crest, Olympus disappeared, and the Sea
of Marmora lay before us, spreading out from the Gulf of Moudania, which
was deep and blue among the hills, to an open line against the sunset.
Beyond that misty line lay Europe, which I had not seen for nearly nine
months, and the gulf below me was the bound of my tent and saddle life.
But one hour more, old horse! Have patience with my Ethiopian thong, and
the sharp corners of my Turkish stirrups: but one hour more, and I promise
never to molest you again! Our path was downward, and I marvel that the
poor brute did not sometimes tumble headlong with me. He had been too long
used to the pack, however, and his habits were as settled as a Turk's. We
passed a beautiful village in a valley on the right, and came into olive
groves and vineyards, as the dusk was creeping on. It was a lovely country
of orchards and gardens, with fountains spouting by the wayside, and
country houses perched on the steeps. In another hour, we reached the
sea-shore. It was now nearly dark, but we could see the tower of Moudania
some distance to the west.
Still in a continual trot, we rode on; and as we drew near, Mr. H. fired
his gun to announce our approach. At the entrance of the town, we found
the sourrudjee waiting to conduct us. We clattered through the rough
streets for what seemed an endless length of time. The Ramazan gun had
just fired, the minarets were illuminated, and the coffee-houses were
filled with people. Finally, Francois, who had been almost in despair at
our non-appearance, hailed us with the welcome news that he had engaged a
caique, and that our baggage was already embarked. We only needed the
vises of the authorities, in order to leave. He took our teskeres to get
them, and we went upon the balcony of a coffee-house overhanging the sea,
and smoked a narghileh.
But here there was another history. The teskeres had not been properly
vised at Brousa, and the Governor at first decided to send us back. Taking
Francois, however, for a Turk, and finding that we had regularly passed
quarantine, he signed them after a delay of an hour and a half, and we
left the shore, weary, impatient, and wolfish with twelve hours' fasting.
A cup of Brousan beer and a piece of bread brought us into a better mood,
and I, who began to feel sick from the rolling of the caique, lay down on
my bed, which was spread at the bottom, and found a kind of uneasy sleep.
The sail was hoisted at first, to get us across the mouth of the Gulf, but
soon the Greeks took to their oars. They were silent, however, and though
I only slept by fits, the night wore away rapidly. As the dawn was
deepening, we ran into a little bight in the northern side of a
promontory, where a picturesque Greek village stood at the foot of the
mountains. The houses were of wood, with balconies overgrown with
grape-vines, and there was a fountain of cold, excellent water on the very
beach. Some Greek boatmen were smoking in the portico of a cafe on shore,
and two fishermen, who had been out before dawn to catch sardines, were
emptying their nets of the spoil. Our men kindled a fire on the sand, and
roasted us a dish of the fish. Some of the last night's hunger remained,
and the meal had enough of that seasoning to be delicious.
After giving our men an hour's rest, we set off for the Princes' Islands,
which now appeared to the north, over the glassy plain of the sea. The
Gulf of Iskmid, or Nicomedia, opened away to the east, between two
mountain headlands. The morning was intensely hot and sultry, and but for
the protection of an umbrella, we should have suffered greatly. There was
a fiery blue vapor on the sea, and a thunder-cloud hid the shores of
Thrace. Now and then came a light puff of wind, whereupon the men would
ship the little mast, and crowd on an enormous quantity of sail. So,
sailing and rowing, we neared the islands with the storm, but it advanced
slowly enough to allow a sight of the mosques of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed, gleaming far and white, like icebergs astray on a torrid sea.
Another cloud was pouring its rain over the Asian shore, and we made haste
to get to the landing at Prinkipo before it could reach us. From the
south, the group of islands is not remarkable for beauty. Only four of
them--Prinkipo, Chalki, Prote, and Antigone--are inhabited, the other five
being merely barren rocks.
There is an ancient convent on the summit of Prinkipo, where the Empress
Irene--the contemporary of Charlemagne--is buried. The town is on the
northern side of the island, and consists mostly of the summer residences
of Greek and Armenian merchants. Many of these are large and stately
houses, surrounded with handsome gardens. The streets are shaded with
sycamores, and the number of coffee-houses shows that the place is much
frequented on festal days. A company of drunken Greeks were singing in
violation of all metre and harmony--a discord the more remarkable, since
nothing could be more affectionate than their conduct towards each other.
Nearly everybody was in Frank costume, and our Oriental habits, especially
the red Tartar boots, attracted much observation. I began to feel awkward
and absurd, and longed to show myself a Christian once more.
Leaving Prinkipo, we made for Constantinople, whose long array of marble
domes and gilded spires gleamed like a far mirage over the waveless sea.
It was too faint and distant and dazzling to be substantial. It was like
one of those imaginary cities which we build in a cloud fused in the light
of the setting sun. But as we neared the point of Chalcedon, running along
the Asian shore, those airy piles gathered form and substance. The
pinnacles of the Seraglio shot up from the midst of cypress groves;
fantastic kiosks lined the shore; the minarets of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed rose more clearly against the sky; and a fleet of steamers and
men-of-war, gay with flags, marked the entrance of the Golden Horn. We
passed the little bay where St. Chrysostom was buried, the point of
Chalcedon, and now, looking up the renowned Bosphorus, saw the Maiden's
Tower, opposite Scutari. An enormous pile, the barracks of the Anatolian
soldiery, hangs over the high bank, and, as we row abreast of it, a fresh
breeze comes up from the Sea of Marmora. The prow of the caique is turned
across the stream, the sail is set, and we glide rapidly and noiselessly
over the Bosphorus and into the Golden Horn, between the banks of the
Frank and Moslem--Pera and Stamboul. Where on the earth shall we find a
panorama more magnificent?
The air was filled with the shouts and noises of the great Oriental
metropolis; the water was alive with caiques and little steamers; and all
the world of work and trade, which had grown almost to be a fable,
welcomed us back to its restless heart. We threaded our rather perilous
way over the populous waves, and landed in a throng of Custom-House
officers and porters, on the wharf at Galata.
Chapter XXVI.
The Night of Predestination.
Constantinople in Ramazan--The Origin of the Fast--Nightly
Illuminations--The Night of Predestination--The Golden Horn at
Night--Illumination of the Shores--The Cannon of Constantinople--A Fiery
Panorama--The Sultan's Caique--Close of the Celebration--A Turkish
Mob--The Dancing Dervishes.
"Skies full of splendid moons and shooting stars,
And spouting exhalations, diamond fires." Keats.
Constantinople, _Wednesday, July_ 14, 1862.
Constantinople, during the month of Ramazan, presents a very different
aspect from Constantinople at other times. The city, it is true, is much
more stern and serious during the day; there is none of that gay, careless
life of the Orient which you see in Smyrna, Cairo, and Damascus; but when
once the sunset gun has fired, and the painful fast is at an end, the
picture changes as if by magic. In all the outward symbols of their
religion, the Mussulmans show their joy at being relieved from what they
consider a sacred duty. During the day, it is quite a science to keep the
appetite dormant, and the people not only abstain from eating and
drinking, but as much as possible from the sight of food. In the bazaars,
you see the famished merchants either sitting, propped back against their
cushions, with the shawl about their stomachs, tightened so as to prevent
the void under it from being so sensibly felt, or lying at full length in
the vain attempt to sleep. It is whispered here that many of the Turks
will both eat and smoke, when there is no chance of detection, but no one
would dare infringe the fast in public. Most of the mechanics and porters
are Armenians, and the boatmen are Greeks.
I have endeavored to ascertain the origin of this fast month. The Syrian
Christians say that it is a mere imitation of an incident which happened
to Mahomet. The Prophet, having lost his camels, went day after day
seeking them in the Desert, taking no nourishment from the time of his
departure in the morning until his return at sunset. After having sought
them thus daily, for the period of one entire moon, he found them, and in
token of joy, gave a three days' feast to the tribe, now imitated in the
festival of Bairam, which lasts for three days after the close of Ramazan.
This reason, however, seems too trifling for such a rigid fast, and the
Turkish tradition, that the Koran was sent down from heaven during this
month, offers a more probable explanation. During the fast, the
Mussulmans, as is quite natural, are much more fanatical than at other
times. They are obliged to attend prayers at the mosque every night, or to
have a _mollah_ read the Koran to them at their own houses. All the
prominent features of their religion are kept constantly before their
eyes, and their natural aversion to the Giaour, or Infidel, is increased
tenfold. I have heard of several recent instances in which strangers have
been exposed to insults and indignities.
At dusk the minarets are illuminated; a peal of cannon from the Arsenal,
echoed by others from the forts along the Bosphorus, relieves the
suffering followers of the Prophet, and after an hour of silence, during
which they are all at home, feasting, the streets are filled with noisy
crowds, and every coffee-shop is thronged. Every night there are
illuminations along the water, which, added to the crowns of light
sparkling on the hundred minarets and domes, give a magical effect to the
night view of the city. Towards midnight there is again a season of
comparative quiet, most of the inhabitants having retired to rest; but,
about two hours afterwards a watchman comes along with a big drum, which
he beats lustily before the doors of the Faithful, in order to arouse them
in time to eat again before the daylight-gun, which announces the
commencement of another day's fast.
Last night was the holiest night of Islam, being the twenty-fifth of the
fast. It is called the _Leilet-el-Kadr,_ or Night of the Predestination,
the anniversary of that on which the Koran was miraculously communicated
to the Prophet. On this night the Sultan, accompanied by his whole suite,
attends service at the mosque, and on his return to the Seraglio, the
Sultana Valide, or Sultana-Mother, presents him with a virgin from one of
the noble families of Constantinople. Formerly, St. Sophia was the theatre
of this celebration, but this year the Sultan chose the Mosque of
Tophaneh, which stands on the shore--probably as being nearer to his
imperial palace at Beshiktashe, on the Bosphorus. I consider myself
fortunate in having reached Constantinople in season to witness this
ceremony, and the illumination of the Golden Horn, which accompanies it.
After sunset the mosques crowning the hills of Stamboul, the mosque of
Tophaneh, on this side of the water, and the Turkish men-of-war and
steamers afloat at the mouth of the Golden Horn, began to blaze with more
than their usual brilliance. The outlines of the minarets and domes were
drawn in light on the deepening gloom, and the masts and yards of the
vessel were hung with colored lanterns. From the battery in front of the
mosque and arsenal of Tophaneh a blaze of intense light streamed out over
the water, illuminating the gliding forms of a thousand caiques, and the
dark hulls of the vessels lying at anchor. The water is the best place
from which to view the illumination, and a party of us descended to the
landing-place. The streets of Tophaneh were crowded with swarms of Turks,
Greeks and Armenians. The square around the fountain was brilliantly
lighted, and venders of sherbet and kaimak were ranged along the
sidewalks. In the neighborhood of the mosque the crowd was so dense that
we could with difficulty make our way through. All the open space next the
water was filled up with the clumsy _arabas_, or carriages of the Turks,
in which sat the wives of the Pashas and other dignitaries.
We took a caique, and were soon pulled out into the midst of a multitude
of other caiques, swarming all over the surface of the Golden Horn. The
view from this point was strange, fantastic, yet inconceivably gorgeous.
In front, three or four large Turkish frigates lay in the Bosphorus, their
hulls and spars outlined in fire against the dark hills and distant
twinkling lights of Asia. Looking to the west, the shores of the Golden
Horn were equally traced by the multitude of lamps that covered them, and
on either side, the hills on which the city is built rose from the
water--masses of dark buildings, dotted all over with shafts and domes of
the most brilliant light. The gateway on Seraglio Point was illuminated,
as well as the quay in front of the mosque of Tophaneh, all the cannons of
the battery being covered with lamps. The commonest objects shared in the
splendor, even a large lever used for hoisting goods being hung with
lanterns from top to bottom. The mosque was a mass of light, and between
the tall minarets flanking it, burned the inscription, in Arabic
characters, "Long life to you, O our Sovereign!"
The discharge of a cannon announced the Sultan's departure from his
palace, and immediately the guns on the frigates and the batteries on both
shores took up the salute, till the grand echoes, filling the hollow
throat of the Golden Horn, crashed from side to side, striking the hills
of Scutari and the point of Chalcedon, and finally dying away among the
summits of the Princes' Islands, out on the Sea of Marmora. The hulls of
the frigates were now lighted up with intense chemical fires, and an
abundance of rockets were spouted from their decks. A large Drummond light
on Seraglio Point, and another at the Battery of Tophaneh, poured their
rival streams across the Golden Horn, revealing the thousands of caiques
jostling each other from shore to shore, and the endless variety of gay
costumes with which they were filled. The smoke of the cannon hanging in
the air, increased the effect of this illumination, and became a screen of
auroral brightness, through which the superb spectacle loomed with large
and unreal features. It was a picture of air--a phantasmagoric spectacle,
built of luminous vapor and meteoric fires, and hanging in the dark round
of space. In spite of ourselves, we became eager and excited, half fearing
that the whole pageant would dissolve the next moment, and leave no trace
behind.
Meanwhile, the cannon thundered from a dozen batteries, and the rockets
burst into glittering rain over our heads. Grander discharges I never
heard; the earth shook and trembled under the mighty bursts of sound, and
the reverberation which rattled along the hill of Galata, broken by the
scattered buildings into innumerable fragments of sound, resembled the
crash of a thousand falling houses. The distant echoes from Asia and the
islands in the sea filled up the pauses between the nearer peals, and we
seemed to be in the midst of some great naval engagement. But now the
caique of the Sultan is discerned, approaching from the Bosphorus. A
signal is given, and a sunrise of intense rosy and golden radiance
suddenly lights up the long arsenal and stately mosque of Tophaneh, plays
over the tall buildings on the hill of Pera, and falls with a fainter
lustre on the Genoese watch-tower that overlooks Galata. It is impossible
to describe the effect of this magical illumination. The mosque, with its
taper minarets, its airy galleries, and its great central dome, is built
of compact, transparent flame, and in the shifting of the red and yellow
fires, seems to flicker and waver in the air. It is as lofty, and
gorgeous, and unsubstantial as the cloudy palace in Cole's picture of
"Youth." The long white front of the arsenal is fused in crimson heat, and
burns against the dark as if it were one mass of living coal. And over all
hangs the luminous canopy of smoke, redoubling its lustre on the waters of
the Golden Horn, and mingling with the phosphorescent gleams that play
around the oars of the caiques.
A long barge, propelled by sixteen oars, glides around the dark corner of
Tophaneh, and shoots into the clear, brilliant space in front of the
mosque. It is not lighted, and passes with great swiftness towards the
brilliant landing-place. There are several persons seated under a canopy
in the stern, and we are trying to decide which is the Sultan, when a
second boat, driven by twenty-four oarsmen, comes in sight. The men rise
up at each stroke, and the long, sharp craft flies over the surface of
the water, rather than forces its way through it. A gilded crown surmounts
the long, curved prow, and a light though superb canopy covers the stern.
Under this, we catch a glimpse of the Sultan and Grand Vizier, as they
appear for an instant like black silhouettes against the burst of light on
shore.
After the Sultan had entered the mosque, the fires diminished and the
cannon ceased, though the illuminated masts, minarets and gateways still
threw a brilliant gleam over the scene. After more than an hour spent in
devotion, he again entered his caique and sped away to greet his new wife,
amid a fresh discharge from the frigates and the batteries on both shores,
and a new dawn of auroral splendor. We made haste to reach the
landing-place, in order to avoid the crowd of caiques; but, although we
were among the first, we came near being precipitated into the water, in
the struggle to get ashore. The market-place at Tophaneh was so crowded
that nothing but main force brought us through, and some of our party had
their pockets picked. A number of Turkish soldiers and police-men were
mixed up in the melee, and they were not sparing of blows when they came
in contact with a Giaour. In making my way through, I found that a
collision with one of the soldiers was inevitable, but I managed to plump
against him with such force as to take the breath out of his body, and was
out of his reach before he had recovered himself. I saw several Turkish
women striking right and left in their endeavors to escape, and place
their hands against the faces of those who opposed them, pushing them
aside. This crowd was contrived by thieves, for the purpose of plunder,
and, from what I have since learned, must have been very successful.