The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29
We crossed the Golden Horn in caiques, and first visited the gardens and
palaces on Seraglio Point. The Sultan at present resides in his summer
palace of Beshiktashe, on the Bosphorus, and only occupies the Serai
Bornou, as it is called, during the winter months. The Seraglio covers the
extremity of the promontory on which Constantinople is built, and is
nearly three miles in circuit. The scattered buildings erected by
different Sultans form in themselves a small city, whose domes and pointed
turrets rise from amid groves of cypress and pine. The sea-wall is lined
with kiosks, from whose cushioned windows there are the loveliest views of
the European and Asian shores. The newer portion of the palace, where the
Sultan now receives the ambassadors of foreign nations, shows the
influence of European taste in its plan and decorations. It is by no means
remarkable for splendor, and suffers by contrast with many of the private
houses in Damascus and Aleppo. The building is of wood, the walls
ornamented with detestable frescoes by modern Greek artists, and except a
small but splendid collection of arms, and some wonderful specimens of
Arabic chirography, there is nothing to interest the visitor.
In ascending to the ancient Seraglio, which was founded by Mahomet II., on
the site of the palace of the Palaeologi, we passed the Column of
Theodosius, a plain Corinthian shaft, about fifty feet high. The Seraglio
is now occupied entirely by the servants and guards, and the greater part
of it shows a neglect amounting almost to dilapidation. The Saracenic
corridors surrounding its courts are supported by pillars of marble,
granite, and porphyry, the spoils of the Christian capital. We were
allowed to walk about at leisure, and inspect the different compartments,
except the library, which unfortunately was locked. This library was for a
long time supposed to contain many lost treasures of ancient
literature--among other things, the missing books of Livy--but the recent
researches of Logothetos, the Prince of Samos, prove that there is little
of value, among its manuscripts. Before the door hangs a wooden globe,
which is supposed to be efficacious in neutralizing the influence of the
Evil Eye. There are many ancient altars and fragments of pillars scattered
about the courts, and the Turks have even commenced making a collection of
antiquities, which, with the exception of two immense sarcophagi of red
porphyry, contains nothing of value. They show, however, one of the brazen
heads of the Delphian tripod in the Hippodrome, which, they say, Mahomet
the Conqueror struck off with a single blow of his sword, on entering
Constantinople.
The most interesting portion of the Seraglio is the ancient throne-room,
now no longer used, but still guarded by a company of white eunuchs. The
throne is an immense, heavy bedstead, the posts of which are thickly
incrusted with rubies, turquoises, emeralds, and sapphires. There is a
funnel-shaped chimney-piece in the room, a master-work of Benevenuto
Cellini. There, half a century ago, the foreign ambassadors were
presented, after having been bathed, fed, and clothed with a rich mantle
in the outer apartments. They were ushered into the imperial presence,
supported by a Turkish official on either side, in order that they might
show no signs of breaking down under the load of awe and reverence they
were supposed to feel. In the outer Court, adjoining the Sublime Porte, is
the Chapel of the Empress Irene, now converted into an armory, which, for
its size, is the most tasteful and picturesque collection of weapons I
have ever seen. It is especially rich in Saracenic armor, and contains
many superb casques of inlaid gold. In a large glass case in the chancel,
one sees the keys of some thirty or forty cities, with the date of their
capture. It is not likely that another will ever be added to the list.
We now passed out through the Sublime Porte, and directed our steps to the
famous _Aya Sophia_--the temple dedicated by Justinian to the Divine
Wisdom. The repairs made to the outer walls by the Turks, and the addition
of the four minarets, have entirely changed the character of the building,
without injuring its effect. As a Christian Church, it must have been less
imposing than in its present form. A priest met us at the entrance, and
after reading the firman with a very discontented face, informed us that
we could not enter until the mid-day prayers were concluded. After taking
off our shoes, however, we were allowed to ascend to the galleries, whence
we looked down on the bowing worshippers. Here the majesty of the renowned
edifice, despoiled as it now is, bursts at once upon the eye. The
wonderful flat dome, glittering with its golden mosaics, and the sacred
phrase from the Koran: "_God is the Light of the Heavens and the Earth_,"
swims in the air, one hundred and eighty feet above the marble pavement.
On the eastern and western sides, it rests on two half domes; which again
rise from or rest upon a group of three small half-domes, so that the
entire roof of the mosque, unsupported by a pillar, seems to have been
dropped from above on the walls, rather than to have been built up from
them. Around the edifice run an upper and a lower gallery, which alone
preserve the peculiarities of the Byzantine style. These galleries are
supported by the most precious columns which ancient art could afford:
among them eight shafts of green marble, from the Temple of Diana, at
Ephesus; eight of porphyry, from the Temple of the Sun, at Baalbek;
besides Egyptian granite from the shrines of Isis and Osiris, and
Pentelican marble from the sanctuary of Pallas Athena. Almost the whole of
the interior has been covered with gilding, but time has softened its
brilliancy, and the rich, subdued gleam of the walls is in perfect harmony
with the varied coloring of the ancient marbles.
Under the dome, four Christian seraphim, executed in mosaic, have been
allowed to remain, but the names of the four archangels of the Moslem
faith are inscribed underneath. The bronze doors are still the same, the
Turks having taken great pains to obliterate the crosses with which they
were adorned. Around the centre of the dome, as on that of Sultan Achmed,
may be read, in golden letters, and in all the intricacy of Arabic
penmanship, the beautiful verse:--"God is the Light of the Heavens and the
Earth. His wisdom is a light on the wall, in which burns a lamp covered
with glass. The glass shines like a star, the lamp is lit with the oil of
a blessed tree. No Eastern, no Western oil, it shines for whoever wills."
After the prayers were over, and we had descended to the floor of the
mosque, I spent the rest of my time under the dome, fascinated by its
marvellous lightness and beauty. The worshippers present looked at us with
curiosity, but without ill-will; and before we left, one of the priests
came slyly with some fragments of the ancient gilded mosaic, which, he was
heathen enough to sell, and we to buy.
From St. Sophia we went to Sultan Achmed, which faces the Hippodrome, and
is one of the stateliest piles of Constantinople. It is avowedly an
imitation of St. Sophia, and the Turks consider it a more wonderful work,
because the dome is seven feet higher. It has six minarets, exceeding in
this respect all the mosques of Asia. The dome rests on four immense
pillars, the bulk of which quite oppresses the light galleries running
around the walls. This, and the uniform white color of the interior,
impairs the effect which its bold style and imposing dimensions would
otherwise produce. The outside view, with the group of domes swelling
grandly above the rows of broad-armed sycamores, is much more
satisfactory. In the tomb of Sultan Achmed, in one corner of the court, we
saw his coffin, turban, sword, and jewelled harness. I had just been
reading old Sandys' account of his visit to Constantinople, in 1610,
during this Sultan's reign, and could only think of him as Sandys
represents him, in the title-page to his book, as a fat man, with bloated
cheeks, in a long gown and big turban, and the words underneath:--
"_Achmed, sive Tyrannus._"
The other noted mosques of Constantinople are the _Yeni Djami,_ or Mosque
of the Sultana Valide, on the shore of the Golden Horn, at the end of the
bridge to Galata; that of Sultan Bajazet; of Mahomet II., the Conqueror,
and of his son, Suleyman the Magnificent, whose superb mosque well
deserves this title. I regret exceedingly that our time did not allow us
to view the interior, for outwardly it not only surpasses St. Sophia, and
all other mosques in the city, but is undoubtedly one of the purest
specimens of Oriental architecture extant. It stands on a broad terrace,
on one of the seven hills of Stamboul, and its exquisitely proportioned
domes and minarets shine as if crystalized in the blue of the air. It is a
type of Oriental, as the Parthenon is of Grecian, and the Cologne
Cathedral of Gothic art. As I saw it the other night, lit by the flames of
a conflagration, standing out red and clear against the darkness, I felt
inclined to place it on a level with either of those renowned structures.
It is a product of the rich fancy of the East, splendidly ornate, and not
without a high degree of symmetry--yet here the symmetry is that of
ornament alone, and not the pure, absolute proportion of forms, which we
find in Grecian Art. It requires a certain degree of enthusiasm--nay, a
slight inebriation of the imaginative faculties--in order to feel the
sentiment of this Oriental Architecture. If I rightly express all that it
says to me, I touch the verge of rapsody. The East, in almost all its
aspects, is so essentially poetic, that a true picture of it must be
poetic in spirit, if not in form.
Constantinople has been terribly ravaged by fires, no less than fifteen
having occurred during the past two weeks. Almost every night the sky has
been reddened by burning houses, and the minarets of the seven hills
lighted with an illumination brighter than that of the Bairam. All the
space from the Hippodrome to the Sea of Marmora has been swept away; the
lard, honey, and oil magazines on the Golden Horn, with the bazaars
adjoining; several large blocks on the hill of Galata, with the College of
the Dancing Dervishes; a part of Scutari, and the College of the Howling
Dervishes, all have disappeared; and to-day, the ruins of 3,700 houses,
which were destroyed last night, stand smoking in the Greek quarter,
behind the aqueduct of Valens. The entire amount of buildings consumed in
these two weeks is estimated at between _five and six thousand_! The fire
on the hill of Galata threatened to destroy a great part of the suburb of
Pera. It came, sweeping over the brow of the hill, towards my hotel,
turning the tall cypresses in the burial ground into shafts of angry
flame, and eating away the crackling dwellings of hordes of hapless Turks.
I was in bed; from a sudden attack of fever, but seeing the other guests
packing up their effects and preparing to leave, I was obliged to do the
same; and this, in my weak state, brought on such a perspiration that the
ailment left me, The officers of the United States steamer _San Jacinto_,
and the French frigate _Charlemagne_, came to the rescue with their men
and fire-engines, and the flames were finally quelled. The proceedings of
the Americans, who cut holes in the roofs and played through them upon the
fires within, were watched by the Turks with stupid amazement.
"Mashallah!" said a fat Bimbashi, as he stood sweltering in the heat; "The
Franks are a wonderful people."
To those initiated into the mysteries of Turkish politics, these fires are
more than accidental; they have a most weighty significance. They indicate
either a general discontent with the existing state of affairs, or else a
powerful plot against the Sultan and his Ministry. Setting fire to houses
is, in fact, the Turkish method of holding an "indignation meeting," and
from the rate with which they are increasing, the political crisis must be
near at hand. The Sultan, with his usual kindness of heart, has sent large
quantities of tents and other supplies to the guiltless sufferers; but no
amount of kindness can soften the rancor of these Turkish intrigues.
Reschid Pasha, the present Grand Vizier, and the leader of the party of
Progress, is the person against whom this storm of opposition is now
gathering.
In spite of all efforts, the Ottoman Power is rapidly wasting away. The
life of the Orient is nerveless and effete; the native strength of the
race has died out, and all attempts to resuscitate it by the adoption of
European institutions produce mere galvanic spasms, which leave it more
exhausted than before. The rosy-colored accounts we have had of Turkish
Progress are for the most part mere delusions. The Sultan is a
well-meaning but weak man, and tyrannical through his very weakness. Had
he strength enough to break through the meshes of falsehood and venality
which are woven so close about him, he might accomplish some solid good.
But Turkish rule, from his ministers down to the lowest _cadi_, is a
monstrous system of deceit and corruption. These people have not the most
remote conception of the true aims of government; they only seek to enrich
themselves and their parasites, at the expense of the people and the
national treasury. When we add to this the conscript system, which is
draining the provinces of their best Moslem subjects, to the advantage of
the Christians and Jews, and the blindness of the Revenue Laws, which
impose on domestic manufactures double the duty levied on foreign
products, it will easily be foreseen that the next half-century, or less,
will completely drain the Turkish Empire of its last lingering energies.
Already, in effect, Turkey exists only through the jealousy of the
European nations. The treaty of Unkiar-iskelessi, in 1833, threw her into
the hands of Russia, although the influence of England has of late years
reigned almost exclusively in her councils. These are the two powers who
are lowering at each other with sleepless eyes, in the Dardanelles and the
Bosphorus. The people, and most probably the government, is strongly
preposessed in favor of the English; but the Russian Bear has a heavy paw,
and when he puts it into the scale, all other weights kick the beam. It
will be a long and wary struggle, and no man can prophecy the result. The
Turks are a people easy to govern, were even the imperfect laws, now in
existence, fairly administered. They would thrive and improve under a
better state of things; but I cannot avoid the conviction that the
regeneration of the East will never be effected at their hands.
Chapter XXIX.
Farewell to the Orient--Malta.
Embarcation--Farewell to the Orient--Leaving Constantinople--A
Wreck--The Dardanelles--Homeric Scenery--Smyrna Revisited--The Grecian
Isles--Voyage to Malta--Detention--La Valetta--The Maltese--The
Climate--A Boat for Sicily.
"Farewell, ye mountains,
By glory crowned
Ye sacred fountains
Of Gods renowned;
Ye woods and highlands,
Where heroes dwell;
Ye seas and islands,
Farewell! Farewell!"
Frithiof's Saga.
In The Dardanelles, _Saturday, August_ 7, 1852.
At last, behold me fairly embarked for Christian Europe, to which I bade
adieu in October last, eager for the unknown wonders of the Orient. Since
then, nearly ten months have passed away, and those wonders are now
familiar as every-day experiences. I set out, determined to be satisfied
with no slight taste of Eastern life, but to drain to the bottom its
beaker of mingled sunshine and sleep. All this has been accomplished; and
if I have not wandered so far, nor enriched myself with such varied
knowledge of the relics of ancient history, as I might have purposed or
wished, I have at least learned to know the Turk and the Arab, been
soothed by the patience inspired by their fatalism, and warmed by the
gorgeous gleams of fancy that animate their poetry and religion. These
ten months of my life form an episode which seems to belong to a separate
existence. Just refined enough to be poetic, and just barbaric enough to
be freed from all conventional fetters, it is as grateful to brain and
soul, as an Eastern bath to the body. While I look forward, not without
pleasure, to the luxuries and conveniences of Europe, I relinquish with a
sigh the refreshing indolence of Asia.
We have passed between the Castles of the two Continents, guarding the
mouth of the Dardanelles, and are now entering the Grecian Sea. To-morrow,
we shall touch, for a few hours, at Smyrna, and then turn westward, on the
track of Ulysses and St. Paul. Farewell, then, perhaps forever, to the
bright Orient! Farewell to the gay gardens, the spicy bazaars, to the
plash of fountains and the gleam of golden-tipped minarets! Farewell to
the perfect morn's, the balmy twilights, the still heat of the blue noons,
the splendor of moon and stars! Farewell to the glare of the white crags,
the tawny wastes of dead sand, the valleys of oleander, the hills of
myrtle and spices! Farewell to the bath, agent of purity and peace, and
parent of delicious dreams--to the shebook, whose fragrant fumes are
breathed from the lips of patience and contentment--to the narghileh,
crowned with that blessed plant which grows in the gardens of Shiraz,
while a fountain more delightful than those of Samarcand bubbles in its
crystal bosom I Farewell to the red cap and slippers, to the big turban,
the flowing trousers, and the gaudy shawl--to squatting on broad divans,
to sipping black coffee in acorn cups, to grave faces and _salaam
aleikooms_, and to aching of the lips and forehead! Farewell to the
evening meal in the tent door, to the couch on the friendly earth, to the
yells of the muleteers, to the deliberate marches of the plodding horse,
and the endless rocking of the dromedary that knoweth his master!
Farewell, finally, to annoyance without anger, delay without vexation,
indolence without ennui, endurance without fatigue, appetite without
intemperance, enjoyment without pall!
La Valetta, Malta, _Saturday, August_ 14, 1852.
My last view of Stamboul was that of the mosques of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed, shining faintly in the moonlight, as we steamed down the Sea of
Marmora. The _Caire_ left at nine o'clock, freighted with the news of
Reschid Pasha's deposition, and there were no signs of conflagration in
all the long miles of the city that lay behind us. So we speculated no
more on the exciting topics of the day, but went below and took a vapor
bath in our berths; for I need not assure you that the nights on the
Mediterranean at this season are anything but chilly. And here I must note
the fact, that the French steamers, while dearer than the Austrian, are
more cramped in their accommodations, and filled with a set of most
uncivil servants. The table is good, and this is the only thing to be
commended. In all other respects, I prefer the Lloyd vessels.
Early next morning, we passed the promontory of Cyzicus, and the Island of
Marmora, the marble quarries of which give name to the sea. As we were
approaching the entrance to the Dardanelles, we noticed an Austrian brig
drifting in the current, the whiff of her flag indicating distress. Her
rudder was entirely gone, and she was floating helplessly towards the
Thracian coast. A boat was immediately lowered and a hawser carried to her
bows, by which we towed her a short distance; but our steam engine did
not like this drudgery, and snapped the rope repeatedly, so that at last
we were obliged to leave her to her fate. The lift we gave, however, had
its effect, and by dexterous maneuvering with the sails, the captain
brought her safely into the harbor of Gallipoli, where she dropped anchor
beside us.
Beyond Gallipoli, the Dardanelles contract, and the opposing continents
rise into lofty and barren hills. In point of natural beauty, this strait
is greatly inferior to the Bosphorus. It lacks the streams and wooded
valleys which open upon the latter. The country is but partially
cultivated, except around the town of Dardanelles, near the mouth of the
strait. The site of the bridge of Xerxes is easily recognized, the
conformation of the different shores seconding the decision of
antiquarians. Here, too, are Sestos and Abydos, of passionate and poetic
memory. But as the sun dipped towards the sea, we passed out of the narrow
gateway. On our left lay the plain of Troy, backed by the blue range of
Mount Ida. The tamulus of Patroclus crowned a low bluff looking on the
sea. On the right appeared the long, irregular island of Imbros, and the
peaks of misty Samothrace over and beyond it. Tenedos was before us. The
red flush of sunset tinged the grand Homeric landscape, and lingered and
lingered on the summit of Ida, as if loth to depart. I paced the deck
until long after it was too dark to distinguish it any more.
The next morning we dropped anchor in the harbor of Smyrna, where we
remained five hours. I engaged a donkey, and rode out to the Caravan
Bridge, where the Greek driver and I smoked narghilehs and drank coffee in
the shade of the acacias. I contrasted my impressions with those of my
first visit to Smyrna last October--my first glimpse of Oriental ground.
Then, every dog barked at me, and all the horde of human creatures who
prey upon innocent travellers ran at my heels, but now, with my brown face
and Turkish aspect of grave indifference, I was suffered to pass as
quietly as my donkey-driver himself. Nor did the latter, nor the ready
_cafidji_, who filled our pipes on the banks of the Meles, attempt to
overcharge me--a sure sign that the Orient had left its seal on my face.
Returning through the city, the same mishap befel me which travellers
usually experience on their first arrival. My donkey, while dashing at
full speed through a crowd of Smyrniotes in their Sunday dresses, slipped
up in a little pool of black mud, and came down with a crash. I flew over
his head and alighted firmly on my feet, but the spruce young Greeks,
whose snowy fustanelles were terribly bespattered, came off much worse.
The donkey shied back, levelled his ears and twisted his head on one side,
awaiting a beating, but his bleeding legs saved him.
We left at two o'clock, touched at Scio in the evening, and the next
morning at sunrise lay-to in the harbor of Syra. The Piraeus was only
twelve hours distant; but after my visitation of fever in Constantinople,
I feared to encounter the pestilential summer heats of Athens. Besides, I
had reasons for hastening with all speed to Italy and Germany. At ten
o'clock we weighed anchor again and steered southwards, between the groups
of the Cyclades, under a cloudless sky and over a sea of the brightest
blue. The days were endurable under the canvas awning of our quarter-deck,
but the nights in our berths were sweat-baths, which left us so limp and
exhausted that we were almost fit to vanish, like ghosts, at daybreak.
Our last glimpse of the Morea--Cape Matapan--faded away in the moonlight,
and for _two_ days we travelled westward over the burning sea. On the
evening of the 11th, the long, low outline of Malta rose gradually against
the last flush of sunset, and in two hours thereafter, we came to anchor
in Quarantine Harbor. The quarantine for travellers returning from the
East, which formerly varied from fourteen to twenty-one days, is now
reduced to one day for those arriving from Greece or Turkey, and three
days for those from Egypt and Syria. In our case, it was reduced to
sixteen hours, by an official courtesy. I had intended proceeding directly
to Naples; but by the contemptible trickery of the agents of the French
steamers--a long history, which it is unnecessary to recapitulate--am left
here to wait ten days for another steamer. It is enough to say that there
are six other travellers at the same hotel, some coming from
Constantinople, and some from Alexandria, in the same predicament. Because
a single ticket to Naples costs some thirty or forty francs less than by
dividing the trip into two parts, the agents in those cities refuse to
give tickets further than Malta to those who are not keen enough to see
through the deception. I made every effort to obtain a second ticket in
time to leave by the branch steamer for Italy, but in vain.
La Valetta is, to my eyes, the most beautiful small city in the world. It
is a jewel of a place; not a street but is full of picturesque effects,
and all the look-outs, which you catch at every turn, let your eyes rest
either upon one of the beautiful harbors on each side, or the distant
horizon of the sea. The streets are so clean that you might eat your
dinner off the pavement; the white balconies and cornices of the houses,
all cleanly cut in the soft Maltese stone, stand out in intense relief
against the sky, and from the manifold reflections and counter
reflections, the shadows (where there are any) become a sort of milder
light. The steep sides of the promontory, on which the city is built, are
turned into staircases, and it is an inexhaustible pastime to watch the
groups, composed of all nations who inhabit the shores of the
Mediterranean, ascending and descending. The Auberges of the old Knights,
the Palace of the Grand Master, the Church of St. John, and other relics
of past time, but more especially the fortifications, invest the place
with a romantic interest, and I suspect that, after Venice and Granada,
there are few cities where the Middle Ages have left more impressive
traces of their history.