That Of Mahmoud Is Decorated
With The Imperial Aigrette.
In this dismal but splendid museum, I remarked two little tombs
with little red fezzes, very small, and for very young heads
evidently, which were lying under the little embroidered palls of
state.
I forget whether they had candles too; but their little
flame of life was soon extinguished, and there was no need of many
pounds of wax to typify it. These were the tombs of Mahmoud's
grandsons, nephews of the present Light of the Universe, and
children of his sister, the wife of Halil Pasha. Little children
die in all ways: these of the much-maligned Mahometan Royal race
perished by the bowstring. Sultan Mahmoud (may he rest in glory!)
strangled the one; but, having some spark of human feeling, was so
moved by the wretchedness and agony of the poor bereaved mother,
his daughter, that his Royal heart relented towards her, and he
promised that, should she ever have another child, it should be
allowed to live. He died; and Abdul Medjid (may his name be
blessed!), the debauched young man whom we just saw riding to the
mosque, succeeded. His sister, whom he is said to have loved,
became again a mother, and had a son. But she relied upon her
father's word and her august brother's love, and hoped that this
little one should be spared. The same accursed hand tore this
infant out of its mother's bosom, and killed it. The poor woman's
heart broke outright at this second calamity, and she died. But on
her death-bed she sent for her brother, rebuked him as a perjurer
and an assassin, and expired calling down the divine justice on his
head. She lies now by the side of the two little fezzes.
Now I say this would be a fine subject for an Oriental poem. The
details are dramatic and noble, and could be grandly touched by a
fine artist. If the mother had borne a daughter, the child would
have been safe; that perplexity might be pathetically depicted as
agitating the bosom of the young wife about to become a mother. A
son is born: you can see her despair and the pitiful look she
casts on the child, and the way in which she hugs it every time the
curtains of her door are removed. The Sultan hesitated probably;
he allowed the infant to live for six weeks. He could not bring
his Royal soul to inflict pain. He yields at last; he is a martyr-
-to be pitied, not to be blamed. If he melts at his daughter's
agony, he is a man and a father. There are men and fathers too in
the much-maligned Orient.
Then comes the second act of the tragedy. The new hopes, the fond
yearnings, the terrified misgivings, the timid belief, and weak
confidence; the child that is born - and dies smiling prettily - and
the mother's heart is rent so, that it can love, or hope, or suffer
no more. Allah is God! She sleeps by the little fezzes. Hark!
the guns are booming over the water, and His Highness is coming
from his prayers.
After the murder of that little child, it seems to me one can never
look with anything but horror upon the butcherly Herod who ordered
it. The death of the seventy thousand Janissaries ascends to
historic dignity, and takes rank as war. But a great Prince and
Light of the Universe, who procures abortions and throttles little
babies, dwindles away into such a frightful insignificance of
crime, that those may respect him who will. I pity their
Excellencies the Ambassadors, who are obliged to smirk and cringe
to such a rascal. To do the Turks justice - and two days' walk in
Constantinople will settle this fact as well as a year's residence
in the city - the people do not seem in the least animated by this
Herodian spirit. I never saw more kindness to children than among
all classes, more fathers walking about with little solemn
Mahometans in red caps and big trousers, more business going on
than in the toy quarter, and in the Atmeidan. Although you may see
there the Thebaic stone set up by the Emperor Theodosius, and the
bronze column of serpents which Murray says was brought from
Delphi, but which my guide informed me was the very one exhibited
by Moses in the wilderness, yet I found the examination of these
antiquities much less pleasant than to look at the many troops of
children assembled on the plain to play; and to watch them as they
were dragged about in little queer arobas, or painted carriages,
which are there kept for hire. I have a picture of one of them now
in my eyes: a little green oval machine, with flowers rudely
painted round the window, out of which two smiling heads are
peeping, the pictures of happiness. An old, good-humoured, grey-
bearded Turk is tugging the cart; and behind it walks a lady in a
yakmac and yellow slippers, and a black female slave, grinning as
usual, towards whom the little coach-riders are looking. A small
sturdy barefooted Mussulman is examining the cart with some
feelings of envy: he is too poor to purchase a ride for himself
and the round-faced puppy-dog, which he is hugging in his arms as
young ladies in our country do dolls.
All the neighbourhood of the Atmeidan is exceedingly picturesque -
the mosque court and cloister, where the Persians have their stalls
of sweetmeats and tobacco; a superb sycamore-tree grows in the
middle of this, overshadowing an aromatic fountain; great flocks of
pigeons are settling in corners of the cloister, and barley is sold
at the gates, with which the good-natured people feed them. From
the Atmeidan you have a fine view of St. Sophia: and here stands a
mosque which struck me as being much more picturesque and
sumptuous - the Mosque of Sultan Achmed, with its six gleaming white
minarets and its beautiful courts and trees.
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