The look-down from the high gallery into the nave, which was well filled with worshippers, was most interesting. The wretched little glass lamps, with which the Turks light up their mosques, are excessively ugly and out of keeping.
The Hippodrome now no more resembles a Roman Circus than Trafalgar Square does. Every trace of the ancient structure has disappeared, and the square is surrounded by Turkish mosques and houses. The large obelisk, that stands in the middle, shows however that this was the site of the splendid Hippodrome which was adorned by an infinite number of the finest Greek statues in marble and bronze. The famous horses of Lysippus, which once stood here, I remembered to have seen over the portals of St. Mark in Venice.
The least beautiful, but not the least interesting sight, is the gallery where the costumes of the Janizaries are exhibited. Most persons will remember that this Turkish soldiery, the formidable opponents of all progress and civilization in the Turkish Empire, the terror of the Sultans and the tyrants of the people, were burnt and massacred by thousands in the year 1826, by order of Sultan Mahmud II., who probably, in doing so, conferred an inestimable benefit upon the nation. A large number of lay figures, representing the principal functionaries of the household of the Sultan, the officers of the Janizaries, and the Janizaries themselves, who were not obliged to wear a uniform, stand there in the very dresses these people used to wear, and which are the strangest costumes the barbarous taste of a wild and haughty people could invent. They look a ghastly host now. I don’t know that I ever felt more uncomfortable than during the time I found myself in their company. I would not stop a night alone in those galleries, not for all the treasures those terrible looking men possessed when alive.
I gladly turn my thoughts from this “dread abode” to the more cheerful life of the Bazaars of Stamboul, where you can buy sparkling diamonds and golden slippers, and all the “perfumes of Arabia.” There is little besides the unavoidable atta of roses and embroidered slippers to tempt a not over acquisitive disposition. Ladies that are fond of diamonds can get them cheaper there than in London or Paris. But then one does not go to the Bazaars only for the purpose of purchasing at the stalls, every one of them is a new and striking picture. The principal figure in it is now an old grey-bearded Turk, who still wears his national dress, sitting on his carpet or reclining on his cushion, smoking his chibouque. He hardly changes his comfortable position, when your dragoman asks him for some article you want, and only rises if he cannot reach it while reclining. Or it is a lively black-eyed young Greek, who spreads out before you as you pass his stall, a gold embroidered table-cover, or holds up some bright glittering beads, in order to excite your desire to purchase; or it is a long bearded Jew, in his oriental dress, that begins to talk to you in English, French and German, all at once, and offers to sell you every thing you can possibly want at the lowest possible price. What different figures are these from the London shopmen in their eternal black coats and white cravats, and the young shopwomen, their companions, in their everlasting black alpaca dresses, always standing behind the counter, even if there is nobody to serve.
The workshops, which like the stalls of the Bazaars are quite open towards the street, are also interesting to look at. You see the tailor cutting out his work, the cooper making barrels, the turner at his work, the coppersmith, the baker, the pastry-cook, &c. &c. Whenever the work allows it the workmen sit, and they do not look as if they laboured very hard.
As I wished much to visit some Harems in Constantinople, and see a little more of the Turkish women, my husband, in order to gratify my wish, procured for us introductions to some people of note, and took me to the Pashas and smoked chiboques with them, although I know he would have much preferred to take a kaik, and go to Bujuk Dere, or the sweet waters of Europe with me; for a row on the Bosphorus, or the Golden Horn, was what he most enjoyed at Constantinople. Before we visited the Pashas in Stamboul, I paid however my promised visit to Mme. Conemenos, the Greek lady, whose acquaintance I had made on the steamboat from Corfu to Sira. She was staying with her parents in Yeni Keui on the Bosphorus, where M. d’Aristarchi, her father, has a beautiful palace, a present of the late Sultan’s, under whose reign M. d’Aristarchi, who is brother of the Prince of Samos, filled high offices of state. I remember my visit to this amiable family with great pleasure, for in going to Yeni Keui, which is one of the prettiest villages on the Bosphorus, I saw the beauty of that unrivalled spot for the first time. I spent a whole day there, and never was tired of looking on the beautiful scenery around, sitting near the window of some cool airy room of the palace, or walking through the shady and flowery garden that rises in terraces high above the blue waters of the Bosphorus.
The very next day we paid a visit to Omer Pasha, and were of course interested to see this great soldier of the Turkish Empire. He spoke with my husband about the Turkish army, agriculture, and horse breeding; to me about his two little children, a little girl of fifteen months, and a baby boy, who was then a few weeks old. These are his only children, besides a married daughter. He spoke with apparent regret that these children should have been given to him so late in life, and said that he could not hope to see them grow up, but as in spite of his advanced years, and a slight indisposition of which he complained, he still looked a fine man, I told him to trust in Providence, which might spare him still for many years. We parted after a visit of two hours, mutually well pleased I think, and with a promise to renew our acquaintance in London, which he intended visiting in the course of the summer. I did not enter his Harem, as his wife had been so lately confined, and could not receive visitors.
As Omer Pasha is a German by birth, and Ishmael Pasha is of Greek extraction, it was only when I visited Sami Pasha, that I knew I was with a real Mussulman, and I think it was partly for that reason that the visit to his house in Stamboul interested me more than the others I had paid. Sami Pasha, ex-Minister of Public Instruction, and member of the Privy Council, lives in a fine old mansion in Stamboul, which is separated from the bustle and noise of the city, by large court yards and gardens which surround the house on all sides. The house itself is one of the oldest and finest in Constantinople; the halls, and rooms, and staircases, are to an English eye very spacious, and the reception room, which is entirely of finely carved and richly gilded oak, and commands a splendid view of Stamboul, is very beautiful.
Sami Pasha is quite an old man, with a very intelligent look, and the manners of a courtier. He has been Governor of many provinces, and seemed pleased to hear that he was still remembered at Crete, where he was Governor at the time the turbulent Greeks threatened a new insurrection, which his moderation and firmness had prevented from breaking out. He had years ago visited England and France, and was interested in all that concerned those countries. He had known many of our statesmen personally, as Sir Robert Peel and Lord Aberdeen; he inquired after Lord Palmerston, and seemed pleased that his Lordship, of whom he appeared to be a contemporary, was, like himself, still in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Although a member of the Privy Council, he holds no longer any special office, preferring quiet and retirement. He told me that his time was now entirely devoted to study and reflection, and that he was just then writing a treatise on morals. I had expressed a wish to see the “ladies of the house.” I could not in this case ask to see his wife, as I knew he had two legitimate ones; it is not often the case that Turks have more than one wife, partly I believe because it entails a large expenditure, each lady having entirely separate households, with their large suites of apartments, and numerous male and female slaves and attendants. After I had been announced to the ladies, a son of Sami Pasha, a young man of about seventeen years of age, with pleasant, courteous manners, led me into the Harem. All the doors that lead into it had been unlocked, perhaps in order not to shock my western prejudices, so that we walked freely into the ante-chamber of the Harem, where I met the first Hanum, who, looking rather embarrassed but not unkind, conducted me to another room. She was a stout lady of about thirty-five years of age, the mother of the young man that served us as interpreter. She was dressed in green silk, now the fashionable colour among the Turkish ladies, and had a many-coloured handkerchief, in a not unbecoming manner, wound round her head. I had just time to answer the questions these ladies generally ask, viz., how many children I had, their sex, ages, etc., when another lady entered through the open door, who seemed to be very nearly of the same age as the first, and who was dressed in exactly the same way, as sisters often are in England. She sat down on a divan opposite us, and I had to answer very nearly the same questions, when Sami Pasha joined us, and introduced his children to me. Both ladies have many children, among those of the younger there was a very pretty little girl of about three years of age, who, with her blue eyes and fair silken hair, might have been taken for an English child.
The Harem of Sami Pasha is very splendid, as becomes his rank and station. The windows, all overlooking the inner garden, are unlatticed, which was pleasant to me. The little stands which hold the Turkish coffee-cups were set with diamonds. All the slaves, and there seemed to be a very large number, were well dressed, some in silk, others in muslin, and they wore much jewellery. Most of them were Circassians, and, although no such great beauties as they are reported to be, were good-looking, comely young women.