Chapter XXVI: The New Broom (2)

But we must leave this pretty scene to describe the night’s lodging at the next halt, which gives us an insight into Turkish beds and bedrooms. No bedsteads are used. ‘One or two mattresses are laid on the floor; the _yorgan_, a silk quilt lined with linen and stuffed with feathers, taking the place of sheets and blankets. These yorgans are heirlooms in a Turkish family, and are handed down from father to son. It is a mark of high respect when a host gives you his wedding yorgan to sleep under. Captain Burnaby found the honour a trying one, as many generations of fleas shared it with him. Osman grew eloquent on the subject of yorgans. He had one so beautiful that neither his wife nor himself liked to use it.

Hearing that he was married, Captain Burnaby questioned him about his wife. Did he love her? Was she pretty? To which Osman replied: ‘She is a good cook. She makes soup. Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for her. For my present wife I gave only ten liras (or Turkish pounds); but she did not weigh more than one hundred pounds. She was very cheap. Her eyes are not quite straight, but she can cook. Looks don’t last; but cooking is an art that the Prophet himself did not despise.’

At every place a cordial reception awaited the traveller. The Turks are not ungrateful; and English help during the Crimean War is still remembered. At Angora, a town of importance, there was an English vice-consul, a married man, living in a house furnished with every English comfort. He is the only Englishman, or rather Scotchman, in the place. A Turkish gentleman gave a dinner-party in honour of the traveller. These Turkish dinner-parties are compared to Turkish music, and declared to consist of a series of surprises. ‘In music the leader of an orchestra goes from andante to a racing pace without any crescendo whatever. The cook in the same manner gives first a dish as sweet as honey, and then astonishes our stomach with a sauce as acid as vinegar. Now we are eating fish, another instant blanc-mange. And so on throughout the feast were the startling contrasts continued. Servants were abundant and pressing. Each guest ate with his fingers, helping himself according to his rank or social status.’ When dinner was over the host rose, not forgetting to say his grace: ‘Praise be to God.’ A servant then poured water over the hands of each, according to his rank, for precedence is duly observed in the veriest trifle; and then they all adjourned to another room to smoke and drink coffee.

Nothing can exceed the hospitality and generosity of the Turk. Admire what belongs to him, and he begs you to accept it, be it a book, a horse, or a servant. Talking of servants, it was amusing to hear Osman railing at the man in charge of the pack-horse for allowing the horse that carried the valuables, in the form of groceries and cartridges, to lie down in a river, thus injuring the contents of his pack. The Eastern method of abuse is to attack a man’s female relatives—a point on which all Easterns are most sensitive—in language the reverse of choice.

In Anatolia and in most parts of Asia Minor, every man is his own architect and builder, on the following simple principles. When old enough to marry, a man chooses a bit of oblong ground, on the side of a hill if he can, and digs out the earth to the depth of several feet. ‘Hewing down some trees, he cuts six posts, each about ten feet high, and drives them three feet into the ground, three posts being on one side of the oblong, three on the other. Cross-beams are fastened to the top of these uprights, and branches of trees, plastered with clay, cover all.’ The doorway is of rude construction. In the interior, a wooden railing divides the room into two, one-half of which is occupied by the animals, the other by the family. A hole in the ceiling is the only mode of ventilation, and in cold weather this is stopped up. The ‘family’ often consists of twelve in number, and at night they lie huddled on the floor, which in poorer houses is covered with coarse rugs of camels’ hair, and Persian rugs among the wealthier. The close proximity to livestock invites a third and irrepressible population of fleas in most of these houses. The misery of a night spent with legions of these insects must be felt to be thoroughly understood and appreciated. They formed the chief discomfort of the travellers, whose English skins were not case-hardened to the assaults of the lively banqueteers. When sickness overtook them (as it did when they had advanced far on their journey) and sleep became imperative, the misery of our travellers grew serious. To be ravaged by fever as well as by fleas would at once try the strongest. At last in one village a hint was given that if the Effendi’s skin were attacked, no bucksheesh would follow. Instantly the host had a remedy at hand. He had a cart in his yard; and the Effendi at last had the comfort of a few hours of undisturbed slumber.

At various places the Armenian churches were visited. It is the custom among the Armenians, as among the Jews, to separate the women from the men during divine service. The Armenians take the further precaution of hiding the women behind a screened lattice-work. Great pity was expressed for our English clergymen when it was found they used no such precaution in their churches, and it was remarked: ‘They must find it difficult to keep the attention of their flock, if the ladies are as pretty as they are said to be.’ In the Armenian churches, however, the precaution is used to keep the women devotional; but such is the power of attraction, that in many places Captain Burnaby noticed that the lattice had been broken away! The interior of an Armenian church resembles a mosque, and is carpeted with thick Persian rugs. As the Armenian Christians worship pictures, the walls are hung with several in gaudy frames. The service is ritualistic in the extreme, and politic to temporal no less than spiritual rulers; for on the occasion of Captain Burnaby’s attendance, the service opened with two songs sung by the choir—one in honour of the Queen of England, out of compliment to the visitor present; the other for the Sultan. Some of their traditions are curious. One is, that a prince of theirs, a leper, living at the same time as Christ, heard of his miracles, and wrote a letter to the Saviour, inviting him to come and take up his abode in Armenia and cure him of his disease. The Lord is supposed to have replied: ‘After I have gone, I will send one of my disciples to cure thy malady and give life to thee and thine.’ With the letter, Christ is supposed to have sent at the same time a handkerchief which had received the image of his face by being pressed to it; and it is this tradition which they adduce to justify their adoration of pictures.

The Turk’s religion is a compound of faith and fatalism, sprinkled occasionally with due precaution. Here is an instance of their fatalism. When Captain Burnaby was at Kars, the streets were in such a filthy condition, owing to the sewage of the town being thrown in front of the buildings, that the hospitals were full of typhoid, and cholera was anticipated; and yet neither soldiers nor inhabitants would stir a finger to remove the source of their miseries out of the streets; the soldiers declaring that they were not scavengers, and the inhabitants making some other excuse. When warned of the consequences, each took refuge in kismet or fate. Allah was great and able to perform miracles. If Allah saw fit, there would be no cholera—although their streets were reeking with the seeds of disease.

In most of the towns, excitement prevailed in organising battalions for the seat of war. The Turks are essentially a warlike nation, and fight for their country without a murmur, in the face of such disadvantages as bad food and long arrears of pay.

We have not before spoken of a new travelling companion who took Osman’s place—one Mohammed by name, who was as faithful as the Prophet himself. Osman turned out a very bad bargain. His fidelity to the Effendi’s purse became at last greater even than his love of prayer; and his keen eye after an exorbitant percentage was worthy of a London usurer. Remonstrance was in vain. At last he was dismissed, having been caught thieving, and Mohammed reigned in his stead, to the comfort of all parties. He was a soldier and a mountaineer, brave and hardy on land, but a coward at sea. He loved his lord the Effendi, and dearly loved his ‘brother’ Radford’s cooking. His ‘brother’s’ opinion of him at parting was characteristic: ‘That Mohammed was not such a bad chap after all, sir. Them Turks have stomachs, and like filling them they do; but they have something in their hearts as well.’ And so Mohammed shewed—for in illness he was a kind nurse, and faithful to his ‘lord’s’ interests throughout. On one occasion, Mohammed complained of rheumatism, and Radford applied a mustard paper. What a sensation it created among the Kurd villagers—some of whom were spectators of course—when they heard that the wet paper had produced the fire under which Mohammed lay writhing and groaning. It was a miracle; and forthwith the Effendi was hailed everywhere as a _hakim_ or doctor, and his fame spread from place to place on the road. A Persian asked, and even admitted him into his harem, to prescribe for his pretty wife, to whom he gave small doses of quinine. Another time a Kurd asked him to cure his toothache; but mustard papers were powerless here; so Radford was called in consultation, and said it ought to come out. But there were no instruments at hand, and the operation had to be declined. ‘Give me something for my stomach then,’ asked the Kurd. Three pills were then handed to him, which he chewed deliberately, declaring, when he had finished them, his tooth was better!

At one place, after passing over a narrow wooden bridge that spanned the Euphrates—only forty yards wide at this point—the travellers crossed the Hasta Dagh (mountain); presently they came to a glacier, the frozen surface of which extended a hundred yards, the decline being steeper than the roof of an average English house. ‘Should it be taken?’ was the question asked with much consternation, and decided in the affirmative. The guide rode his horse to the glacier. The poor animal trembled when it reached the brink; but a reminder from Mohammed’s whip hastened the poor brute’s decision, and he stretched his forelegs over the declivity, almost touching the slippery surface with his girth. Another crack from Mohammed, and horse and guide were whirling down the glacier, and only pulled up at last by finding themselves buried in a snowdrift six feet deep. When his turn came, Captain Burnaby describes the sensation as if he were ‘waltzing madly down the slippery surface.’ To witness the descent of the others was something fearful; though not so dangerous as it appeared. When Radford emerged from his snowy burial, he exclaimed: ‘I never thought as how a horse could skate before. It was more than sliding, that it was; a cutting a figure of eight all down the roof of a house.’

Our travellers at last reached Batoum, where they parted from Mohammed, and where we must part from them, not without sincere regret. After this, they took ship across the Black Sea to Constantinople, and all adventures were over. We shall not quickly forget the two thousand miles of ground so graphically described, and over a portion of which we have travelled with them in the saddle. Nor will the reader of Captain Burnaby’s volume of travels throughout the land of the Osmanli, easily forget the scenes and incidents and people so graphically depicted. We omit with regret many good stories we should like to have told; but space is inexorable. To those who are inclined to echo this regret, we can only say: ‘Do as we have done, and take the ride with Burnaby for yourselves.’

WEDDING EXTRAVAGANCES.

The following sensible observations on the wastefulness which often takes place on marriage occasions, are from the pen of Camilla Crosland—our old and esteemed contributor originally known as Camilla Toulmin. They appear in _Social Notes_, a weekly periodical not unlike our own, edited by Mr S. C. Hall, and which has our best wishes for its success.

‘How many people there are who in fine clothes and with smiling faces “assist” at a modern wedding, yet in their heart of hearts think the profuse outlay and the general festive arrangements usual on the occasion a piece of tiresome folly! Few, however, like to make a dead set against time-honoured customs, unless strong personal feelings or personal interests are concerned.

‘Marriage may certainly lay claim to being the most important event in life, and as such there must ever be solemnity associated with it. In fact our Prayer-book speaks of the solemnisation of matrimony. Of course it is right that there should be a certain publicity attached to every marriage ceremony, and probably in this fact originated the custom of inviting friends to be present on the occasion, till by degrees wedding-parties have become more and more crowded, and now it is a common thing for a vast assembly to congregate at them. Of course where there is great wealth, and people love this sort of display, and bride and bridegroom have nerve for it, and are, moreover, happy in possessing “troops of friends,” there is no reason why money should not circulate—the confectioner revel in _chefs-d’œuvre_, the florist realise a week’s ordinary income in bouquets, and the milliner make her mint of money by rich toilets. But a vice of the English middle class is to ape the rank above it; and I confess it has often to me seemed pitiable to know at what a cost of after self-denial a showy wedding has taken place.

‘It is desirable that when two young people, suitable in age, character, station, are warmly attached, they should be married as soon as prudence permits. Let us take, for instance, the case of an accomplished but portionless young lady, the eldest of several daughters, who has been accustomed to utilise her talents in the home circle. She has been engaged, say four years, to a gentleman in a government office with a slowly rising salary. He is about thirty, she five or six and twenty. He has saved enough money to furnish a pretty little suburban dwelling, and she will be provided by her father with a modest _trousseau_, and they think it now high time to “settle.” Their income, even including a fatherly allowance for pin-money, will be considerably less than five hundred pounds per annum, and they, being good arithmeticians, know they must live quietly, visit and entertain only in a homely, friendly manner, and neither go to nor give formal parties. Of what use is the costly white silk bridal dress, which in all human probability will never in its original state be worn again? It will, of course, be laid up carefully, and looked at occasionally with tender sentimental interest; but by-and-by, in a year or two, it will seem old-fashioned, and most probably be picked to pieces and dyed some serviceable colour. Then there were probably at least four bride’s-maids, each to be presented with a jewelled _souvenir_ by the not too affluent bridegroom, and the costly wedding-breakfast to be provided by the father. One mischief of the thing being that the whole arrangement becomes a precedent, so that the next sister who marries would seem slighted if she were to have a less stylish wedding.

‘Perhaps the costly entertainment—which is often a great trial to the feelings of the parties most chiefly concerned—can only be given by dipping into a very slender capital, or by relinquishing the autumn seaside holiday. The worst of the matter is that the class a little below the one I have attempted to describe, imitates the bad example in its own way and to its own detriment.’

Mrs Crosland, in conclusion, mentions a case in which persons of respectable standing consulted economy and common sense in their marriage arrangements. ‘Due arrangements having been quietly made, the young lady one morning, dressed in ordinary attire, escorted by her father to “give her away,” and accompanied by a younger sister to serve as bride’s-maid, walked to the parish church, where the expectant bridegroom was ready to receive them. There the ceremony was performed, the little party returning to partake of the family luncheon before the wedded pair started on their tour. Was not this an example worthy under many circumstances to be followed?’

CANINE CUNNING.

The following is from a correspondent: ‘A near neighbour of mine has a large mongrel dog, a terrible nuisance to all passing the house, which unfortunately stands near the highway. The brute has the nasty habit of rushing out and attacking every passing vehicle. Complaints were loud and numerous; and at length the owner hit upon a plan which he thought would effectually cure his dog. He attached a small log of wood or a “clog” by a chain to his collar. This answered admirably; for no sooner did the dog start in pursuit of anything than the clog not only checked his speed but generally rolled him over into the bargain. Now this would not do. Doggie was evidently puzzled, and reflected upon the position; and if he did not possess reasoning powers, he certainly shewed something very like them, for he quickly overcame the difficulty, and to the surprise of all, was soon at his old work, nearly as bad as ever. And this is how he managed. No longer did he attempt to drag the clog on the ground and allow it to check and upset him, but before starting he caught it up in his mouth, ran before the passing horse, dropped it, and commenced the attack; and when distanced, would again seize the clog in his mouth, and resume his position ahead, and thus became as great a pest as ever. Even on his ordinary travels about he is now seen carrying his clog in his mouth, instead of letting it drag on the ground between his legs.’

LOST DOGS.

Few facts will better illustrate the vast scale on which almost everything presents itself in the English metropolis, even so humble a subject as that of poor dogs that have temporarily lost their masters, than one mentioned in the Annual Report of the Chief Commissioner of Police. He informs us that nearly nineteen thousand (more than 18,800) stray dogs were taken charge of by the police in the metropolis during the year 1876! A little romance might be mixed up with the story of most of these homeless wanderers, if we could but know it: how Carlo or Boxer was distressed at losing his protector. The animals were either taken for a while to the Dogs’ Home at Battersea, or were otherwise provided for.

IN MEMORIAM.

(M. A. W.—POETESS. ÆTAT 25.)

O Noble heart! so gentle, kind;
Thy life, like a brief summer wind,
Hath passed away,
And left me here on earth to mourn
Thine early flight to that sweet bourne
Where angels stay.

There may my soul from slumber ’wake
When heaven and earth their concord break,
And Time is o’er;
When Christ, in his enthroned array,
Proclaims aloud his Advent Day
From shore to shore!

There may we meet at last and find
(Mind, heart, and soul for aye entwined)
Eternal rest;
There tread together Eden’s bowers—
The land of life and light and flowers—
With souls as blest.

Brief was thy sojourn here, sweet girl;
And life, with all its glittering whirl,
Soon passed thee by;
Leaving the flower to droop unseen,
The world rolled on, not heeding e’en
Thy dying cry.

In that dark hour, thy fleeting soul,
Regardless of Death’s stern control,
Broke forth in song;
And as the falt’ring numbers came,
By angels fair thy hallowed fame
Was borne along.

O well-beloved! enseamed in light,
If thou canst gaze upon my night
Of lonely grief:
Behold me now, and mark the tears
That still must flow through future years
Without relief.

Yet the dread tomb which steals away
From brightest gem its purest ray—
The Life sublime!
Must know we can its power defy,
For thou art safe beyond the sky,
And for all time.

Yea; thou art safe with that great God
Who rules Creation with a rod
Of love and light;
The Being of a glorious mien,
Whose majesty is Grand, Serene,
And Infinite!

Oh, better far thou shouldst be there,
Removed from this world’s doubt and care—
A gloomy train;
Full-veiled in peerless robes of light,
Enthroned where comes nor storm, nor night,
Nor grief, nor pain.

And could I gaze above and see
The glow of immortality
That veils thy soul,
And feel thy holy presence near,
To guard me from ungodly fear,
And its control:

Then should I bless the hidden blow
That laid my darling’s bosom low
Within the grave;
And own that Love’s immortal Hand
Did guide the swift unerring brand
Which struck to save.

J. A. E.

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