These sober statements are sad innovators on our European ideas of Eastern magnificence, but they are, nevertheless, too characteristic to be passed over in silence.
To all the brute creation the Turks are not only merciful but ministering friends; and to so great an extent do they carry this tenderness towards the inferior animals, that they will not kill an unweaned lamb, in order to spare unnecessary suffering to the mother; and an English sportsman, who had been unsuccessful in the chase, having, on one occasion, in firing off his piece previously to disembarking from his caïque, brought down a gull that was sailing above his head, was reproached by his rowers with as much horror and emphasis as though he had been guilty of homicide.
I have elsewhere remarked on the singular impunity enjoyed by the aquatic birds which throng the harbour of Constantinople, and sport among the shipping; on the divers, that may be knocked down by the oar of every passing caïque, so fearless are they of human vicinity; and the gulls, which cluster like pigeons on the roofs of the houses—on the porpoises that crowd the port, and the dogs that haunt the streets. It may not be unamusing to state the forfeit inflicted on an individual for destroying one of these animals, as it is both curious and characteristic. The dead dog is hung up by the tail in such a manner as to suffer his nose to touch the ground; and his murderer is compelled to cover him entirely with corn or millet seed, which is secured by the proper authorities, and distributed to the poor. This ceremony generally costs the delinquent about a thousand piastres.
Another distinguishing trait in the Turkish character is their strong parental affection; indeed I may say love of children generally. Nothing can be more beautiful than the tenderness of a Turkish father; he hails every demonstration of dawning intellect, every proof of infant affection, with a delight that must be witnessed to be thoroughly understood; he anticipates every want, he gratifies every wish, he sacrifices his own personal comfort to ensure that of his child; and I cannot better illustrate this fact than by mentioning a circumstance which fell under my own observation.
The Reiss Effendi, or Minister for Foreign Affairs, had a grandchild whose indisposition caused him the most lively uneasiness; it was in vain that his English physician assured him of the total absence of danger; his every thought, his every anxiety, were with this darling boy; in the midst of the most pressing public business, he would start up and hasten to the chamber of the little patient, to assure himself that everything was going on favourably; he would leave his friends, in an hour of relaxation, to sit beside the sick bed of the child; and at length, when a strict and rigid system of diet was prescribed, which was to be of a fortnight’s duration, he actually submitted himself, and compelled all his establishment to submit, to the same monotonous and scanty fare, lest the boy should accidentally see, or otherwise become conscious of the presence of, any more enticing food, for which he might pine, and thus increase his malady.
It may be thought that I have cited an extreme instance, but such is, in reality, far from being the case; indeed, to such a pitch do the Osmanlis carry their love for children, that they are constantly adopting those of others, whom they emphatically denominate “children of the soul.” They generally take them into their families when mere infants; they rear them with the most extreme care and tenderness: and finally portion them on their marriage, as though the claim were a natural, rather than a gratuitous, one. The adopted child of Turkey is not like the protégé of Europe, the plaything of a season, and ultimately too often the victim of a whim: the act of adoption is with the Turks a solemn obligation; and poverty and privation would alike fail to weary them of well-doing where their affections as well as their word were pledged.
An equally beautiful feature in the character of the Turks is their reverence and respect for the author of their being. Their wives advise and reprimand unheeded—their words are bosh—nothing—but the mother is an oracle; she is consulted, confided in, listened to with respect and deference, honoured to her latest hour, and remembered with affection and regret beyond the grave. “My wives die, and I can replace them,” says the Osmanli; “my children perish, and others may be born to me; but who shall restore to me the mother who has passed away, and who is seen no more?”
These are strong traits, beautiful developments, of human nature; and, if such be indeed the social attributes of “barbarism,” then may civilized Europe, amid her pride of science and her superiority of knowledge, confess that herein at least she is mated by the less highly-gifted Musselmauns.
The philosophy and kindly feeling of the Turk is carried even beyond the grave. He looks upon death calmly and without repugnance; he does not connect it with ideas of gloom and horror, as we are too prone to do in Europe—he spreads his burial places in the sunniest spots—on the crests of the laughing hills, where they are bathed in the light of the blue sky; beside the crowded thoroughfares of the city, where the dead are, as it were, once more mingled with the living—in the green nooks that stretch down to the Bosphorus, wherein more selfish spirits would have erected a villa, or have planted a vineyard. He identifies himself with the generation which has passed away—he is ready to yield his place to that which is to succeed his own.
Nor must I omit to remark on the devout and unaffected religious feeling that exists in Turkey, not only among the Musselmauns, who, however imperative may be their avocations, never neglect to pray five times during the day; but equally among the Greeks and Armenians, whose fasts are so severe that those of the Roman Catholics are comparatively feasts. If you meet a Turk and inquire after his health, he replies—“Shukiur Allah!—Praise be to God, I am well.” Every thing is referred to the Great First Cause. There is none of that haughty self-dependence, that overweening morgue, so strongly marked in Europeans. Among men, the Osmanli considers himself the first, but only among men; when he puts off his slippers at the door of the mosque, he carries no pomp with him into the presence of his God. The luxurious inhabitant of the East, who, in his own salemliek is wont to recline on cushions, and to be served by officious slaves, does not pass into the house of God to tenant a crimson-lined and well-wadded pew, and to listen to the words of inspiration beside a comfortable stove, in dreamy indifference: he takes his place among the crowd—the Effendi stands beside the water-carrier—the Bey near the charcoal-vender—he is but one item among many—he arrogates to himself no honour in the temple where all men are as one common family; and he insults not the Divine Majesty by a bended knee and a stubborn brow.
That the generality of the Turks hold every Frank in supreme contempt, admits of no doubt; and could they, to use their own phrase, “make our fathers and mothers eat dirt,” I am afraid that our respectable ancestors would never again enjoy a comfortable meal; but this feeling on their part is rather amusing than offensive, and only enhances the merit of their politeness when they show courtesy to the stranger and the Giaour.
If, as we are all prone to believe, freedom be happiness, then are the Turkish women the happiest, for they are certainly the freest individuals in the Empire. It is the fashion in Europe to pity the women of the East; but it is ignorance of their real position alone which can engender so misplaced an exhibition of sentiment. I have already stated that they are permitted to expostulate, to urge, even to insist on any point wherein they may feel an interest; nor does an Osmanli husband ever resent the expressions of his wife; it is, on the contrary, part and parcel of his philosophy to bear the storm of words unmoved; and the most emphatic and passionate oration of the inmates of his harem seldom produces more than the trite “Bakalum—we shall see.”
It is also a fact that though a Turk has an undoubted right to enter the apartments of his wives at all hours, it is a privilege of which he very rarely, I may almost say, never avails himself. One room in the harem is appropriated to the master of the house, and therein he awaits the appearance of the individual with whom he wishes to converse, and who is summoned to his presence by a slave. Should he, on passing to his apartment, see slippers at the foot of the stairs, he cannot, under any pretence, intrude himself in the harem: it is a liberty that every woman in the Empire would resent. When guests are on a visit of some days, he sends a slave forward to announce his approach, and thus gives them time and opportunity to withdraw.
A Turkish woman consults no pleasure save her own when she wishes to walk or drive, or even to pass