Chapter V: Letter I (2)

I had here an instance of the fickleness and instability of that which, in the world’s opinion, constitutes nobility. For when, on noticing some young women, whose persons had an air of better breeding than the rest, I inquired whether they belonged to some high family, I was told that they were descended from great Bulgarian princes, and, in some cases, even from royal ancestors, but were now married to herdsmen and shepherds. So little value is attached to high birth in the Turkish realm. I saw also, in other places, descendants of the imperial families of the Cantacuzeni[104] and Palæologi, whose position among the Turks was lower than that of Dionysius at Corinth. For the Turks do not measure even their own people by any other rule than that of personal merit. The only exception is the house of Othman; in this case, and in this case only, does birth confer distinction.

It is supposed that the Bulgarians,[105] at a time when many tribes were migrating of their own accord or under compulsion, left the Scythian river Volga to settle here, and that they are called Bulgarians (an equivalent for Volgarians) from that river.

They established themselves on the Balkan range, between Sophia and Philippopolis, in a position of great natural strength, and here they long defied the power of the Greek Emperors.

When Baldwin[106] the elder, Count of Flanders, gained possession of the imperial throne, they took him prisoner in a skirmish, and put him to death. They were not able to withstand the power of the Turks, who conquered them, and subjected them to their heavy yoke. They use the language of the Illyrians, as do the Servians and Rascians.[107]

In order to descend to the level country in front of Philippopolis it is necessary to cross the mountain by a very rough pass. This pass the Turks call ‘Capi Dervent’[108]—that is to say, The Narrow Gate. On this plain the traveller soon meets with the Hebrus, which rises at no great distance in Mount Rhodope. Before we had crossed the pass I mentioned above, we had a good view of the summit of Rhodope, which stood out cold and clear with its snowy covering. The inhabitants, if I am not mistaken, call the mountain Rulla. From it, as Pliny tells us, flows the Hebrus, a fact generally known from the couplet of Ovid:—

‘Quâ patet umbrosum Rhodope glacialis ad Hæmum,
Et sacer amissas exigit Hebrus aquas.’

In this passage the poet seems to refer to the river’s want of depth and its scant supply of water; for though a great and famous stream, it is full of shallows. I remember, on my return, crossing the Hebrus by a ford close to Philippopolis, in order to reach an island, where we slept under canvas. But the river rose during the night, and we had great difficulty next day in recrossing and regaining our road.

There are three hills which look as if they had been torn away from the rest of the range. On one of these Philippopolis is situated, crowning the summit with its towers. At Philippopolis we saw rice in the marshes growing like wheat.

The whole plain is covered with mounds of earth, which, according to the Turkish legends, are artificial, and mark the sites of the numerous battles which, they declare, took place in these fields. Underneath these barrows, they imagine, lie the victims of these struggles.

Continuing our route, we followed pretty closely the banks of the Hebrus, which was for some time on our right hand, and leaving the Balkans, which ran down to the Black Sea, on our left, we at last crossed the Hebrus by the noble bridge built by Mustapha, and arrived at Adrianople, or, as it is called by the Turks, Endrene. The name of the city was Oresta until Hadrian enlarged it and gave it his own name. It is situated at the confluence of the Maritza, or Hebrus, and two small streams, the Tundja and Arda, which at this point alter their course and flow towards the Ægean Sea. Even this city is of no very great extent, if only that portion is included which is within the circuit of the ancient walls; but the extensive buildings in the suburbs, which have been added by the Turks, make it a very considerable place.

After stopping one day at Adrianople, we set out to finish the last stage of our journey to Constantinople, which is not far distant. As we passed through these districts we were presented with large nosegays of flowers, the narcissus, the hyacinth, and the tulipan (as the Turks call this last). We were very much surprised to see them blooming in midwinter, a season which does not suit flowers at all. There is a great abundance of the narcissus and hyacinth in Greece; their fragrance is perfectly wonderful, so much so, that, when in great profusion, they affect the heads of those who are unaccustomed to the scent. The tulip has little or no smell; its recommendation is the variety and beauty of the colouring.

The Turks are passionately fond of flowers, and though somewhat parsimonious in other matters, they do not hesitate to give several aspres for a choice blossom. I, too, had to pay pretty dearly for these nosegays, although they were nominally presents, for on each occasion I had to pull out a few aspres as my acknowledgment of the gift. A man who visits the Turks had better make up his mind to open his purse as soon as he crosses their frontier, and not to shut it till he quits the country; in the interval he must sow his money broadcast, and may thank his stars if the seed proves fruitful. But even assuming that he gets nothing else by his expenditure, he will find that there is no other means of counteracting the dislike and prejudice which the Turks entertain towards the rest of the world. Money is the charm wherewith to lull these feelings in a Turk, and there is no other way of mollifying him. But for this method of dealing with them, these countries would be as inaccessible to foreigners as the lands which are condemned (according to the popular belief) to unbroken solitude on account of excessive heat or excessive cold.

Half way between Constantinople and Adrianople lies a little town called Tchourlou, famous as the place where Selim was defeated by his father, Bajazet. Selim,[109] who was only saved by the speed of his horse Caraboulut (i.e. the dark cloud), fled to the Crimea, where his father-in-law exercised supreme power.

Just before we reached Selimbria, a small town lying on the coast, we saw some well-preserved traces of an ancient earthwork and ditch, which they say were made in the days of the later Greek emperors, and extended from the Sea of Marmora to the Danube.

These fortifications were intended to defend the land and property of the people of Constantinople which lay within their defences, against the inroads of barbarians. They tell of an old man in those days who declared that the existence of these works did not so much protect what was inside, as mark the surrender of the rest to the barbarians, and so encourage them to attack, while it damped the spirit of the defenders.

At Selimbria we stopped awhile to enjoy the view over the calm sea and pick up shells, while the waves rolled merrily on to the shore. We were also attracted by the sight of dolphins sporting in the waters; and, in addition to all these sights, we enjoyed the heat of that delicious clime. I cannot tell you how warm and mild the air is in this charming spot. As far as Tchourlou there was a certain amount of cold, and the wind had a touch of the North about it; but on leaving Tchourlou the air becomes extremely mild.

Close to Constantinople we crossed over bridges, which spanned two lovely bays.[110] If these places were cultivated, and nature were to receive the slightest assistance from art, I doubt whether in the whole world anything could be found to surpass them in loveliness. But the very ground seems to mourn its fate, and complain of the neglect of its barbarian master. Here we feasted on most delicious fish, caught before our eyes.

While lodging in the hostels, which the Turks call Imaret, I happened to notice a number of bits of paper stuck in the walls. In a fit of curiosity I pulled them out, imagining that there must be some reason for their being placed there. I asked my Turks what was written on the paper, but I could not find that they contained anything which could account for their being thus preserved. This made me all the more eager to learn why on earth they were kept; for I had seen the same thing done in other places. My Turks made no reply, being unwilling to answer my question, either because they were shy of telling me that which I should not credit, or because they did not wish to unfold so mighty a mystery to one outside the pale of their religion. Some time later I learned from my friends among the Turks, that great respect is paid to a piece of paper, because there is a possibility that the name of God may be written on it; and therefore they do not allow the smallest scrap to lie on the ground, but pick it up and stick it quickly in some chink or crack, that it may not be trodden on. There is no particular fault, perhaps, to be found with all this; but let me tell you the rest.

On the day of the last judgment, when Mahomet will summon his followers from purgatory to heaven and eternal bliss, the only road open to them will be over a red-hot gridiron, which they must walk across with bare feet. A painful ordeal, methinks. Picture to yourself a cock skipping and hopping over hot coals! Now comes the marvel. All the paper they have preserved from being trodden on and insulted, will appear unexpectedly, stick itself under their feet, and be of the greatest service in protecting them from the red-hot iron. This great boon awaits those who save paper from bad treatment. On some occasions our guides were most indignant with my servants for using paper for some very dirty work, and reported it to me as an outrageous offence. I replied that they must not be surprised at such acts on the part of my servants. What could they expect, I added, from people who are accustomed to eat pork?

This is a specimen of Turkish superstition. With them it is a fearful offence for a man to sit, even unwittingly, on the Koran (which is their Bible); in the case of a Christian the punishment is death. Moreover, they do not allow rose-leaves to lie on the ground, because they think that the rose sprang from the sweat of Mahomet, just as the ancients believed that it came from the blood of Venus. But I must leave off, or I shall tire you with these trifling matters.

I arrived at Constantinople on January 20, and there I found the colleagues I mentioned above, Antony Wranczy and Francis Zay. The Sultan was away in Asia with the Turkish army, and no one was left at Constantinople except the eunuch Ibrahim Pasha, governor of the city, and Roostem, who had been deprived of his office. Nevertheless, we visited the ex-chief-Vizier, showed him every courtesy, and gave him presents to mark our esteem; for we did not forget the great influence he once had, and his prospect of shortly regaining it.

Now that I am speaking of Roostem, I may as well tell you how he came to be deprived of his high office. Solyman had a son by a concubine, who came from the Crimea, if I remember rightly. His name was Mustapha, and at the time of which I am speaking he was young, vigorous, and of high repute as a soldier. But Solyman had also several other children by a Russian woman (Roxolana).[111] To the latter he was so much attached that he placed her in the position of a wife, and assigned her a dowry, the giving and receiving of which constitutes a marriage amongst the Turks. In taking her as his wife, he broke through the custom of his later predecessors on the throne, none of whom, since the days of Bajazet the elder, had a lawful wife. For of all the indignities which the vanquished Sultan endured, when he and his wife fell into the hands of Tamerlane,[112] nothing seemed more dreadful than the insults which his wife received before his eyes. His humiliation made so deep an impression on his successors that, up to the time of Solyman, they abstained from contracting a legal marriage with any woman, by way of insuring themselves, under all circumstances, against a similar misfortune. The mothers of their children were women in the position of slaves, the idea being that, if they were insulted, the disgrace to the Sultan would not be so great as in the case of a lawful wife. You must not be surprised at this, for the Turks do not consider the position of the children of concubines and mistresses inferior to that of the offspring of wives; both have precisely the same rights of inheritance to their father’s property.

Thus, then, matters stood. Mustapha’s high qualities and matured years marked him out, to the soldiers who loved, and the people who supported him, as the successor of his father, who was now in the decline of life. On the other hand, his step-mother, by throwing the claim of a lawful wife into the scale, was doing her utmost to counterbalance his personal merits and his rights as eldest son, with a view to obtaining the throne for her own children. In this intrigue she received the advice and assistance of Roostem, whose fortunes were inseparably linked with hers by his marriage with a daughter she had had by Solyman. Of all the Pashas at Solyman’s court none had such influence and weight as Roostem; his determined character and clear-sighted views had contributed in no small degree to his master’s fame. Perhaps you would like to know his origin. He was once a pig-driver;[113] and yet he is a man well worthy of his high office, were his hands not soiled with greed. This was the only point as to which the Sultan was dissatisfied with him; in every other respect he was the object of his love and esteem. However, this very fault his master contrived to turn to his advantage, by giving him the management of the privy purse and exchequer, Solyman’s chief difficulties being on the score of finance. In his administration of this department he neglected no gain, however trivial, and scraped up money from the sale of the vegetables and flowers which grew in the imperial gardens; he put up separately to auction each prisoner’s helmet, coat-of-mail, and horse, and managed everything else after the same fashion.

By these means he contrived to amass large sums of money, and fill Solyman’s treasury. In short, he placed his finances in a sound position. His success in this department drew from a very bitter enemy of his an expression, which will surprise you as coming from a Turk. He declared that, even had he the power to hurt Roostem, he would not use it against one whose industry, zeal, and care had re-established his master’s finances. There is in the palace a special vault, where these hoards are kept, and on it is this inscription, ‘The moneys acquired by the care of Roostem.’

Well, inasmuch as Roostem was chief Vizier, and as such had the whole of the Turkish administration in his hands, he had no difficulty, seeing that he was the Sultan’s adviser in everything, in influencing his master’s mind. The Turks, accordingly, are convinced that it was by the calumnies of Roostem and the spells of Roxolana, who was in ill repute as a practiser of witchcraft, that the Sultan was so estranged from his son as to entertain the design of getting rid of him. A few believe that Mustapha, being aware of the plans of Roostem and the practices of his stepmother, determined to anticipate them, and thus engaged in designs against his father’s throne and person. The sons of Turkish Sultans are in the most wretched position in the world, for, as soon as one of them succeeds his father, the rest are doomed to certain death. The Turk can endure no rival to the throne, and, indeed, the conduct of the Janissaries renders it impossible for the new Sultan to spare his brothers; for if one of them survives, the Janissaries are for ever asking largesses. If these are refused, forthwith the cry is heard, ‘Long live the brother!’ ‘God preserve the brother!’—a tolerably broad hint that they intend to place him on the throne. So that the Turkish Sultans are compelled to celebrate their succession by imbruing their hands in the blood of their nearest relatives. Now whether the fault lay with Mustapha, who feared this fate for himself, or with Roxolana, who endeavoured to save her children at the expense of Mustapha, this much at any rate is certain—the suspicions of the Sultan were excited, and the fate of his son was sealed.

Being at war with Shah Tahmasp, King of the Persians, he had sent Roostem against him as commander-in-chief of his armies. Just as he was about to enter the Persian territory, Roostem suddenly halted, and hurried off despatches to Solyman, informing him that affairs were in a very critical state; that treason was rife everywhere; that the soldiers had been tampered with, and cared for no one but Mustapha; that he (the Sultan) could control the soldiers, but that the evil was past his (Roostem’s) curing; that his presence and authority were wanted; and he must come at once, if he wished to preserve his throne. Solyman was seriously alarmed by these despatches. He immediately hurried to the army, and sent a letter to summon Mustapha to his presence, inviting him to clear himself of those crimes of which he was suspected, and indeed openly accused, at the same time assuring him that, if he proved innocent, no danger awaited him. Mustapha had now to make his choice. If he obeyed the summons of his angry and offended father, the risk was great; but if he excused himself from coming, it would be tantamount to an admission of treason. He determined to take the course which demanded most courage and involved most danger.

He left Amasia, the seat of his government, and went to his father’s camp, which lay at no great distance,[114] either trusting in his innocence, or feeling confident that no evil would happen to him in the presence of the army. However that may be, he fell into a trap from which there was no escape.

Solyman had brought with him his son’s death doom, which he had prepared before leaving home. With a view to satisfying religious scruples, he had previously consulted his mufti. This is the name given to the chief priest among the Turks, and answers to our Pope of Rome. In order to get an impartial answer from the mufti, he put the case before him as follows:—He told him that there was at Constantinople a merchant of good position, who, when about to leave home for some time, placed over his property and household a slave to whom he had shown the greatest favour, and entrusted his wife and children to his loyalty. No sooner was the master gone than this slave began to embezzle his master’s property, and plot against the lives of his wife and children; nay, more, had attempted to compass his master’s destruction. The question which he (Solyman) wished the mufti to answer was this: What sentence could be lawfully pronounced against this slave? The mufti answered that in his judgment he deserved to be tortured to death. Now, whether this was the mufti’s own opinion, or whether it was pronounced at the instigation of Roostem or Roxolana, there is no doubt that it greatly influenced Solyman, who was already minded to order the execution of his son; for he considered that the latter’s offence against himself was quite as great as that of the slave against his master, in the case he had put before the mufti.

There was great uneasiness among the soldiers, when Mustapha arrived in the camp. He was brought to his father’s tent, and there everything betokened peace. There was not a soldier on guard, no aide-de-camp, no policeman, nothing that could possibly alarm him and make him suspect treachery. But there were in the tent certain mutes—a favourite kind of servant among the Turks—strong and sturdy fellows, who had been appointed as his executioners. As soon as he entered the inner tent, they threw themselves upon him, and endeavoured to put the fatal noose around his neck. Mustapha, being a man of considerable strength, made a stout defence, and fought—not only for his life, but also for the throne; there being no doubt that if he escaped from his executioners, and threw himself among the Janissaries, the news of this outrage on their beloved prince would cause such pity and indignation, that they would not only protect him, but also proclaim him Sultan. Solyman felt how critical the matter was, being only separated by the linen hangings of his tent from the stage, on which this tragedy was being enacted. When he found that there was an unexpected delay in the execution of his scheme, he thrust out his head from the chamber of his tent, and glared on the mutes with fierce and threatening eyes; at the same time, with signs full of hideous meaning, he sternly rebuked their slackness. Hereon the mutes, gaining fresh strength from the terror he inspired, threw Mustapha down, got the bowstring round his neck, and strangled him. Shortly afterwards they laid his body on a rug in front of the tent, that the Janissaries might see the man they had desired as their Sultan. When this was noised through the camp, the whole army was filled with pity and grief; nor did one of them fail to come and gaze on that sad sight. Foremost of all were the Janissaries, so astounded and indignant that, had there been anyone to lead them, they would have flinched from nothing. But they saw their chosen leader lying lifeless on the ground. The only course left to them was to bear patiently that which could not be cured. So, sadly and silently, with many a tear, they retired to their tents, where they were at liberty to indulge their grief at the unhappy end of their young favourite. First they declared that Solyman was a dotard and a madman. They then expressed their abhorrence of the cruel treachery of the stepmother (Roxolana), and the wickedness of Roostem, who, between them, had extinguished the brightest light of the house of Othman. Thus they passed that day fasting, nor did they even touch water; indeed, there were some of them who remained without food for a still longer time.

For several days there was a general mourning throughout the camp, and there seemed no prospect of any abatement of the soldiers’ sorrow, unless Roostem were removed from office. This step Solyman accordingly took, at the suggestion (as it is generally believed) of Roostem himself. He dismissed him from office, and sent him back to Constantinople in disgrace.

His post was filled by Achmet Pasha, who is more distinguished for courage than for judgment. When Roostem had been chief Vizier he had been second. This change soothed and calmed the spirits of the soldiers. With the credulity natural to the lower orders, they were easily induced to believe that Solyman had discovered Roostem’s machinations and his wife’s sorceries, and was coming to his senses now that it was all too late, and that this was the cause of Roostem’s fall. Indeed, they were persuaded that he would not even spare his wife, when he returned to Constantinople. Moreover, the men themselves met Roostem at Constantinople, apparently overwhelmed with grief and without the slightest hope of recovering his position.

Meanwhile, Roxolana, not contented with removing Mustapha from her path, was compassing the death of the only son he had left, who was still a child; for she did not consider that she and her children were free from danger, so long as his offspring survived. Some pretext, however, she thought necessary, in order to furnish a reason for the murder, but this was not hard to find. Information is brought to Solyman that, whenever his grandson appeared in public, the boys of Ghemlik[115]—where he was being educated—shouted out, ‘God save the Prince, and may he long survive his father;’ and that the meaning of these cries was to point him out as his grandsire’s future successor, and his father’s avenger. Moreover, he was bidden to remember that the Janissaries would be sure to support the son of Mustapha, so that the father’s death had in no way secured the peace of the throne and realm; that nothing ought to be preferred to the interests of religion, not even the lives of our children; that the whole Mussulman religion (as they call it, meaning ‘the best religion’) depended on the safety of the throne and the rule of the house of Othman; and that, if the family were to fall, the foundations of the faith would be overthrown; that nothing would so surely lead to the downfall of the house as disunion among its members; for the sake, therefore, of the family, the empire, and religion itself, a stop must be put to domestic feuds; no price could be too great for the accomplishment of such an end, even though a father’s hands had to be dipped in his children’s blood; nay, the sacrifice of one’s children’s lives was not to be esteemed of any great account, if the safety of the faith was thereby assured. There was still less reason, they added, for compunction in this case, inasmuch as the boy, as Mustapha’s son, was already a participator in his father’s guilt, and there could be no doubt that he would shortly place himself at the head of his father’s partisans.

Solyman was easily induced by these arguments to sign the death-warrant of his grandson. He commissioned Ibrahim Pasha to go to Ghemlik with all speed, and put the innocent child to death.

On arriving at Ghemlik, Ibrahim took special care to conceal his errand from the lad’s mother, for that she should be allowed to know of her son’s execution, and almost see it with her eyes, would have seemed too barbarous. Besides, his object, if it got wind, might provoke an insurrection, and so his plans be frustrated.

By the following artifice he threw her off her guard. He pretended he was sent by Solyman to visit her and her son; he said his master had found out, when too late, that he had made a terrible mistake in putting Mustapha to death, and intended, by his affection for the son, to atone for his injustice to the father.

Many stories of this kind he told, in order to gain credence with the fond mother, whose fears had, at that time, been to a great extent dispelled by the news of Roostem’s fall. After thus flattering her hopes, he presented her with a few trifling gifts.

A couple of days later he threw in a word about the confined atmosphere of the city, and the desirability of change of air, and so obtained her consent to their setting out next day for a seat near the city. She herself was to go in a carriage, and her son to ride in front of the carriage on horseback. There was nothing in these arrangements that could excite suspicion, and so she agreed. A carriage was got ready, the axle-tree of which was so put together as to ensure its breaking when they came to a certain rough place, which they needs must cross. Accordingly, the mother entered the carriage, and set forth, poor woman, on her journey into the country. The eunuch rode well in front with the lad, as if to take the opportunity for a chat; the mother followed with what speed she might. When they reached the rough ground I told you of, the wheel struck violently against the stones, and the axle broke. The mother, whom this accident filled with the worst forebodings, was in the greatest alarm, and could not be kept from leaving the carriage, and following her son on foot, attended only by a few of her women. But the eunuch had already reached his destination. As soon as he had crossed the threshold of the house which was to be the scene of the murder, he uttered the sentence of death: ‘The order of the Sultan is that you must die.’ The boy, they say, made answer like a true Turk, that he received the decree, not as the order of the Sultan, but the command of God; and, with these words on his lips, suffered the fatal noose to be placed round his neck. And so—young, innocent, and full of promise—the little fellow was strangled. When the deed was done the eunuch slipped out by a back door, and fled for his life. Presently came the mother. She had already guessed what had taken place. She knocked at the door. When all was over, they let her in. There lay her son before her eyes, his body still warm with life, the pulses throbbing, the breath hardly departed from him. But we had better draw a veil over the sad scene. What a mother’s feelings must have been to see her son thus entrapped and murdered, it were easier to imagine than describe.

She was then compelled to return to Ghemlik. She came into the city with her hair dishevelled and her robe rent, filling the air with her shrieks and moanings. The women of Ghemlik, high and low, gathered round her; and when they heard of the fearful deed that had been perpetrated, like frenzied Bacchantes they rushed out of the gates. ‘Where’s the eunuch? Where’s the eunuch?’ is their cry. And woe to him had he fallen into their hands. But he, knowing what impended, and fearing to be torn in pieces by the furious women, like a second Orpheus,[116] lost no time in making his escape.

But I must now return to my subject. A messenger was despatched to Solyman, with a letter announcing my arrival. During the interval, while we were waiting for his answer, I had an opportunity of seeing Constantinople at my leisure. My chief wish was to visit the Church of St. Sophia; to which, however, I only obtained admission as a special favour, as the Turks think that their temples are profaned by the entrance of a Christian. It is a grand and massive building, well worth visiting. There is a huge central cupola, or dome, lighted only from a circular opening at the top. Almost all the Turkish mosques are built after the pattern of St. Sophia. Some say it was formerly much bigger, and that there were several buildings in connection with it, covering a great extent of ground, which were pulled down many years ago, the shrine in the middle of the church alone being left standing.

As regards the position of the city, it is one which nature herself seems to have designed for the mistress of the world. It stands in Europe, Asia is close in front, with Egypt and Africa on its right; and though these last are not, in point of distance, close to Constantinople, yet, practically, the communication by sea links them to the city. On the left, are the Black Sea and the Sea of Azoff. Many nations live all round the coasts of these seas, and many rivers pour into them; so that, through the length and breadth of these countries, which border on the Black Sea, there is nothing grown for man’s use, which cannot, with the greatest ease, be brought to Constantinople by water. On one side the city is washed by the Sea of Marmora, on the other the creek forms a harbour which, from its shape, is called by Strabo ‘the Golden Horn.’ On the third side it is united to the mainland, so that its position may be described as a peninsula or promontory formed by a ridge running out between the sea on one side, and the frith on the other. Thus from the centre of Constantinople there is a most exquisite view over the sea, and of Mount Olympus in Asia, white with perpetual snow. The sea is perfectly crowded with shoals of fish making their way, after the manner of their kind, from the Sea of Azoff and the Black Sea through the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmora into the Ægean and Mediterranean, or again returning to the Black Sea. The shoals are so big, and so closely packed, that sometimes fish can be caught with the hand. Mackerel, tunnies, bigheads, bream, and sword-fish are to be had in abundance. The fishermen are, for the most part, Greeks, as they take to this occupation more readily than the Turks, although the latter do not despise fish when brought to table, provided they are of the kinds which they consider clean; as for the rest, they would as lief take a dose of poison as touch them. I should tell you, by the way, that a Turk would sooner have his tongue or teeth torn out, than taste anything which he considers unclean, as, for instance, a frog, a snail, or a tortoise. The Greeks are subject to the same superstition. I had engaged a lad of the Greek Church as purveyor for my people. His fellow-servants had never been able to induce him to eat snails; at last they set a dish of them before him, cooked and seasoned in such a way that he fancied it was some kind of fish, and helped himself to it most liberally. But when the other servants, laughing and giggling, produced the snail shells, and showed him that he had been taken in, his distress was such as to baffle all description. He rushed to his chamber, where there was no end to his tears, misery, and sickness. He declared that it would cost him two months’ wages, at the least, to obtain absolution for his sin; it being the custom of Greek priests to charge those who come for confession a price varying with the nature and extent of the offence, and to refuse absolution to those who do not comply with their demand.

At the end of the promontory I mentioned, stands the palace of the Turkish Sultan, which, as far as I can see—for I have not yet been admitted within its walls—has no grandeur of design or architectural details to make it worth a visit. Below the palace, on lower ground near the shore, lie the Sultan’s gardens fringing the sea. This is the quarter where people think that old Byzantium stood. You must not expect here to have the story of why in former days the people of Chalcedon were called blind,[117] who lived opposite Byzantium—the very ruins of Chalcedon have now well nigh disappeared; neither must you expect to hear of the peculiar nature of the sea, in that it flows downwards with a current that never stops nor changes; nor about the pickled condiments which are brought to Constantinople from the Sea of Azoff, which the Italians call moronellas, botargas, and caviare. Such matters would be out of place here; indeed, I think I have already exceeded the limits of a letter; besides, they are facts which can be read both in ancient and modern authors.

I now return to Constantinople. Nothing could exceed the beauty or the commercial advantages of its situation. In Turkish cities it is, as I told you before, useless to expect handsome buildings or fine streets; the extreme narrowness of the latter renders a good effect impossible. In many places are to be found interesting remains of ancient works of art, and yet, as regards number, the only marvel is that more are not in existence, when we remember how many Constantine brought from Rome. I do not intend to describe each of them separately, but I will touch on a few. On the site of the ancient hippodrome are a pair of bronze serpents,[118] which people go to see, and also a remarkable obelisk. There are besides two famous pillars at Constantinople, which are considered among the sights. One of them is opposite the caravanserai where we were entertained, and the other is in the market-place which the Turks call ‘Avret Bazaar,’ i.e. the female slave market. It is engraven from top to bottom with the history of the expedition of Arcadius, who built it, and by whose statue it was long surmounted. It would be more correct to call it a spiral staircase than a column, for there is inside it a set of steps, by ascending which one can reach the top. I have a picture of it. On the other hand, the column[119] which stands opposite the inn where it is usual for the imperial Ambassadors to be lodged, is formed, with the exception of its base and capital, of eight solid blocks of porphyry, united in such a way as to present the appearance of a single block. Indeed, the popular belief is that it is made out of one piece; for each separate joining is covered by a band running right round the column, on which laurels are carved. By this means the joinings are concealed from the eyes of those who look at it from the ground. Having been shaken by several earthquakes, and scorched by a fire in the neighbourhood, the column is splitting in many places, and is here and there belted with iron to prevent its coming to pieces. They say that it was at one time surmounted by a statue of Apollo, afterwards by one of Constantine, and lastly by that of Theodosius the elder, all of which were successively thrown down by a gale or an earthquake.

The Greeks tell the following story about the obelisk in the hippodrome, which I mentioned above. They say that it was torn from its base, and lay on the ground for many years, and that in the time of the later Emperors, an architect was found who undertook to replace it on its pedestal. The contract being concluded, he set up a huge machine, which was chiefly worked by ropes and pulleys; by this means he got the huge stone into an upright position, and raised it within three inches of the blocks, on which it had to be placed. The spectators forthwith concluded that all the architect’s trouble, and the labour he had bestowed on his machine, had been to no purpose, and that the work would have to be begun afresh, at the cost of great toil and great expense. But the architect was not in the least alarmed, and, profiting by one of nature’s secrets, he ordered large supplies of water to be brought. With this for several hours the machine was drenched. As the ropes, by which the obelisk was suspended, got wet, they gradually contracted, and of course became shorter, so that the obelisk was raised higher and placed on the blocks, amid the cheers and admiration of the crowd.[120]

I saw at Constantinople wild beasts of different kinds—lynxes, wild cats, panthers, leopards, and lions, so subdued and tame that one of them, when I was looking on, suffered its keeper to pull out of its mouth a sheep that had that moment been thrown to it. The creature remained quite quiet, though its jaws were but just stained with blood.

I saw also a young elephant which could dance and play ball most cleverly. When you read this, I am sure you will not be able to suppress a smile. ‘An elephant,’ you will say, ‘dancing and playing ball!’ Well, why not? Is it more wonderful than the elephant which, Seneca tells us, walked on the tight rope, or that one which Pliny describes as a Greek scholar?

But I must make myself clear, lest you should think I am romancing, or misunderstand me. When the elephant was told to dance, it hopped and shuffled, swaying itself to and fro, as if it fain would dance a jig. It played ball after the following fashion:—On the ball being thrown to it, the elephant caught it cleverly, driving it back with his trunk, as we do with the palm of the hand. If this is not enough in your eyes to warrant the assertion that the animal danced and played ball, you must go to some one who can make up a story with less scruple and more wit than your humble servant.

Just before I reached Constantinople there was a camelopard (giraffe) in the menagerie; but at the time of my visit it was dead and buried. However, I had its bones dug up for the purpose of examining them. The creature is much taller in front than behind, and on that account unfit for carrying burdens or being ridden. It is called a camelopard because its head and neck are like a camel’s, while its skin is spotted like a pard (panther).

If I had not visited the Black Sea, when I had an opportunity of sailing thither, I should have deserved to be blamed for my laziness, since the ancients held it to be quite as great an exploit to have visited the Black Sea, as to have sailed to Corinth. Well, we had a delightful voyage, and I was allowed to enter some of the royal kiosks. On the folding doors of one of these palaces I saw a picture of the famous battle[121] between Selim and Ismael, King of the Persians, executed in masterly style, in tesselated work. I saw also a great many pleasure-grounds belonging to the Sultan, situated in the most charming valleys. Their loveliness was almost entirely the work of nature; to art they owed little or nothing. What a fairyland! What a landscape for waking a poet’s fancy! What a retreat for a scholar to retire to! I do declare that, as I said just now, these spots seem to grieve and ask for Christian help and Christian care once more; and still truer are these words of Constantinople, or rather of the whole of Greece. That land was once most prosperous; today it is subject to an unnatural bondage. It seems as if the country, which in ancient times discovered the fine arts and every liberal science, were demanding back that civilisation which it gave to us, and were adjuring us, by the claim of a common faith, to be its champion against savage barbarism. But it is all in vain. The princes of Christendom have other objects in view; and, after all, the Greeks are not under heavier bondage to the Turks, than we are to our own vices—luxury, intemperance, sloth, lust, pride, ambition, avarice, hatred, envy, malice. By these our souls are so weighed down and buried, that they cannot look up to heaven, or entertain one glorious thought, or contemplate one noble deed. The ties of a common faith, and the duty we owe our brethren ought to have drawn us to their assistance, even though glory and honour had no charm for our dull hearts; at any rate, self-interest, which is the first thing men think of nowadays, should have made us anxious to rescue lands so fair, with all their great resources and advantages, from the hand of the barbarian, that we might hold them in his stead. At present we are seeking across the wide seas the Indies[122] and Antipodes. And why? It is because in those lands there are simple, guileless creatures from whom rich booty may be torn without the cost of a single wound. _For these expeditions religion supplies the pretext and gold the motive._

This was not the fashion with our ancestors. They scorned to place themselves on the level of a trader by seeking those lands where gold was most plentiful, but deemed that land most desirable which gave them the best opportunity of proving their valour and performing their duty. They, too, had their toil; they, too, had their dangers; they, too, had their distant expeditions; but honour was the prize they sought, not profit. When they came home from their wars, they came home not richer in _wealth_, but richer in _renown_.[123]

These words are for your private ear, for perhaps some may hold it foul wrong for a man to suggest that the moral tone of the present day leaves aught to be desired. However that may be, I see that the arrows are being sharpened for our destruction; and I fear it will turn out that if we _will_ not fight for glory, we shall be _compelled_ to fight for existence.

I will now take you back to the sea which the ancients call Pontus and the Turks call Caradenis, or the Black Sea. It pours through a narrow outlet into the Thracian Bosphorus, down which it rolls, beating against the curving headlands with many an eddy till it reaches Constantinople after the space of one day. At this point it rushes into the Sea of Marmora by a passage almost as narrow as that by which it enters the Bosphorus. In the middle of the mouth next the Black Sea is a rock with a column, on the base of which a Roman name is written in Latin characters (‘Octavian,’ if I remember rightly); then on the European shore is a lofty tower, which serves as a lighthouse to ships by night. They call it Pharos.[124] Not far from it a brook flows into the sea, from whose bed we gathered some pebbles almost equal to the onyx and sardonyx; at any rate, when they are polished they are nearly as brilliant. A few miles from the entrance I mentioned are shown the straits across which Darius led his army in his expedition against the Scythians of Europe; then half-way between the northern and southern entrances to the Bosphorus stand two castles opposite each other, one in Europe and the other in Asia. The latter was held by the Turks a long time before the attack on Constantinople; the former was built by Mahomet, and fortified with strong towers, a few years before he stormed Constantinople. At present the Turks use it for the incarceration of prisoners of rank. Not long ago, Lazarus, an

Albanian chief, made his escape from it. He was recaptured with the Spaniards at Castel Nuovo,[125] and brought back to Constantinople. For this offence he suffered the fearful punishment of impalement, but bore his sufferings with wonderful composure.

And now, perhaps, you will want me to tell you something about the floating islands, called the Cyanean[126] islands, or Symplegades. I honestly confess that during the few hours I was there I was unable to discover any Cyanean islands, though possibly they had floated off somewhere else! If you are disposed to be curious on this head you will before long have a more accurate account from P. Gilles,[127] whose researches into all subjects of this kind are most precise; from me you must not expect to hear of more than meets the traveller’s eye.

One matter it would be unpardonable to pass by in silence, viz. that Polybius is utterly wrong in the conclusion which he deduces from various arguments, that in process of time the Black Sea would be so choked by the alluvial soil brought into it by the Danube, the Dneiper, and other rivers, as to become unnavigable. He is utterly wrong, I say, for there is not one atom more difficulty in sailing over the Black Sea now than there was in his days.

This is one of those numerous instances in which time and experience upset conclusions, which in theory seemed impregnable.

In former days everyone subscribed to the opinion that the lands under the torrid zone were uninhabitable, and yet the accounts of men who have visited those regions prove that they are for the most part quite as thickly populated as other countries; nay more, they tell us that at the very time when the sun is at its highest, and its rays fall perpendicularly on the earth, the heat[128] is tempered by continuous rains shading and cooling those lands.

When the Sultan had received the despatches announcing my arrival, orders were sent to the Governor of Constantinople to convey us over to Asia, and send us on to Amasia (or Amazeia, as it is spelt on ancient coins). Accordingly, we made our preparations, our guides were appointed, and on March 9 we crossed into Anatolia, as the Turks now call Asia. On that day we did not get further than Scutari. This village lies on the Asiatic shore opposite ancient Byzantium, on the very ground, or possibly a little below, where the site of the famous city of Chalcedon is supposed to be.

The Turks thought it quite sufficient progress for one day to get horses, carriages, luggage, and suite across the straits; their special reason for not going further on that day was, that, if they had forgotten anything necessary for the journey, (a very ordinary circumstance), they would not have far to send for it. Leaving Scutari on the next day, we passed through fields full of lavender, and other fragrant plants. Here we saw a great many big tortoises crawling about. They were not afraid of us, and we should have caught and eaten them with the greatest pleasure, had we not shrunk from hurting the feelings of the Turks who accompanied us; for had they touched them, or so much as seen them brought to our table, they would have held themselves to be defiled, and would have required endless washings to remove their imaginary pollution. You will remember my telling you of the extent to which both Greeks and Turks carry their superstition in avoiding contact with animals of this kind. Since no one, therefore, would snare as vermin a creature so harmless, and no one will eat it, the consequence is that tortoises swarm in these parts. I kept one which had two heads for several days, and it would have lived longer had I not neglected it.

That day we came to a village called Cartali. By the way, I shall from this point be glad to give you the names of our halting-places. The journey to Constantinople has been taken by many, but the road to Amasia has, to the best of my knowledge, been traversed by no European before us. From Cartali we came to Gebise, a town of Bithynia, which they think was formerly Libyssa, famous as the burial-place of Hannibal. From it there is a most lovely view over the sea and bay of Ismid; I observed also some cypresses of extraordinary height and girth.

Our fourth stage from Constantinople brought us to Nicomedia (Ismid). It is an ancient city of great renown; but we saw nothing in it worth looking at except its ruins and rubbish, which contained, in the remnants of column and architrave, all that is left of its ancient grandeur. The citadel, which stands on a hill, is in a better state of preservation. Shortly before our arrival, a long wall of white marble had been discovered under the earth by some people who had been digging, which, I am inclined to think, formed part of the ancient palace of the kings of Bithynia.