“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.”