“This large tower is called the Galata Tower, and from the top the fire-signal is made; and I can assure you that in the winter its guardians have something to do, as there is a fire every day or night. Lower down, towards the bridge, is called Galata, where all mercantile and commercial, as well as naval, business is transacted. Every rich merchant of Pera has a counting-house there. The building at the bottom is the Custom-house, or, as it should be called, the confusion-house; for if unfortunately you get goods in, ‘tis a hundred to one if you ever get them out again. The rough bridge you see yonder has only existed these last twenty years. Before that was built, people were obliged to cross from Stamboul to the European shore in caiques; and now, when three or four large vessels have to pass through the bridge, it remains open for several hours, keeping passengers waiting for that time. Two more light bridges lower down cross the Golden Horn, and the navigation terminates about two miles above the last bridge. In caiques you can go as far as the sweet waters of Europe, which are about five miles further up.”
“Thank you,” said I; “pray be less prolix in your descriptions.”
“Well, now, sir, as we are come to Stamboul, or the real city of Constantinople, allow me to explain to you the names of some of those beautiful mosques with which you see this vast city is crowded. The first and most important is the Mosque of Sultan Bajazid, very remarkable for the number of its volatile inhabitants, consisting of several thousands of beautiful tame pigeons. That high tower behind it is called the Seraskier’s Tower, and also serves the purpose of a signal-tower in case of fire, the same as that of Pera. Then follow the mosques of Sultan Selim, Mahomet, Sedya Tamissi, Solimaniek, Bayazid, Osmanliek, Sultan Achmet, Irene, and the great Saint Sophia, which I would in particular advise you to visit.”
“Of course I shall do that, you may be certain.”
“On the prominent part of this side of Saint Sophia the ceremony of the Bairam is celebrated, at the close of the great feast of the Ramazan. All the nobility of the Empire are in duty bound to appear in new and most gaudy costumes at this magnificent Oriental pageant, which this year will take place at the end of June, at about three o’clock in the morning.”
“What a singular hour for so great a ceremony!” I remarked.
“Oh, that cannot be helped,” he replied, “as it is regulated by the revolution of the moon. An old Turk, with whom I am well acquainted, told me that he recollected its having happened at twelve o’clock in the day, and in the middle of winter.”
“A strange custom,” said I.
“Well, sir, if you feel interested in Turkish habits and religion, you should inquire about the six weeks of Rhamadhan, when they starve all day, and get intoxicated to madness at night.”
“Thank you for your information; but pray continue your description.”
“I will. Near the very spot where this festival takes place is the Sultan Mahmoud’s palace, the top of which you can see through those high trees.”
“Pray, what are those rows of small domes, like well-corked bottles?”
“They are the kitchen chimneys.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, sir; I have often been there, and know well enough that, although the Sultan no longer inhabits it, two or three hundred men-cooks remain in the kitchens.”
“For what purpose, my friend, if no one lives there?”
“Oh, somebody does. I believe there is a college for some of the favourite sons of high Turkish families. Here,” he continued, “look at this uneven row of houses with lattices. Do you know what they are?”
“No; pray what are they?”
“Why, Sultan Mahmoud’s harem; and it is most probably still inhabited by a few of his old favourites and their suites, which are very numerous.”
“Well, upon my word, those species of châlets put me very much in mind of chicken-cages.”
The English officer’s wife, to whom I have before referred, and with whom I had some conversation during the passage, came upon deck while my dragoman was describing the surrounding scenery, and listened with vivid interest, taking notes of the most interesting passages. The dragoman, turning quickly round—“Madam,” said he, “you see that colossal spout shooting out at a sharp incline towards the water. That is the spot from whence, if any of the Turkish ladies prove disobedient or faithless to their imperial lord and master, they are stitched up in a sack alive, accompanied by a starving cat and a venomous serpent, and shot into that mighty watery grave, the Bosphorus.”
“Monsieur Soyer, do you think that is true?”
“I believe such things have been done, madam, for it was pointed out to me the first thing this morning as having been used for that purpose. I recollect some years since reading the same tale either in a French or English work; I believe it was French. At all events, European manners and customs are progressing throughout the world, and have even reached Turkey. I hear from every one, that the Sultan is a most amiable and humane man. I would therefore recommend you to reserve your look of horror and indignation for more modern calamities. You may be certain, if such things have happened, they will never happen again, for, thank Heaven, we live in a civilized era.”
“We should, perhaps, doubt such reports.”
“You are quite right, madam.”
“There is another curious tale related of the Leander Tower,” said the lady.
“There is; but my dragoman tells me the proper name for it is La Tour de la Jeune Fille, as they say in French, or the Maiden’s Tower.”
“I was here when a French tutor came to Constantinople,” said my dragoman, “and the first thing he asked me was—‘Where is the Maiden’s Tower?’ as the English call it. At all events, madam, the story runs thus:—A great beauty, the daughter of some pacha, had her fortune told by a celebrated gipsy, who apprised her that she would never marry, as she was fated to die young. The girl, terrified at the prediction, ran, and in tears related to her father the fatal destiny said to be in reserve for her. He immediately sent for the old witch, and she repeated the fatal prophecy, adding, moreover, that the young girl would die from the bite of a serpent or some such venomous reptile. The pacha having repeatedly asked the old woman if that was the only kind of speedy death with which his daughter was menaced, and having received a reply in the affirmative, parted upon very friendly terms with the hag, who was possessed, as he said, by an evil spirit. He then caused this tower to be built for his daughter’s residence, and for several years she lived in this picturesque place, without being visited by any one but her father, who continually supplied her with provisions of the most delicate kind, and nosegays of the finest flowers. It happened one day, that, on taking up one of the bouquets in order to inhale the perfume, a small insect stung her on the lip, and in a few hours she expired in great agony, before any succour could be obtained, as there was no communication with the land, nor any antidote in readiness. So awful an event, in so secluded a spot, had never been contemplated. The pacha’s intention had been to keep his daughter there till she was of age to be married, and thus break the spell of the old sorceress. The legend was thus related to me by an Armenian gentleman who has lived here nearly all his lifetime.”
“Well, I admit that I have not only heard the story before, but I recollect the incident of the death of the young girl, from the bite of a reptile, very well; and I also heard that the name of the Tower of Leander is applied to it; but it has not the least relation to the legend of the two lovers celebrated by Lord Byron, who also swam from Sestos to Abydos.”