The Sultan and His People

by C. Oscanyan

The usual method of warming the houses, is by the mangal and tandur. The mangal is generally made of brass highly polished, somewhat in the form of an hour-glass, about a foot and a half high, and two, or two and a half in diameter; and contains a large pan of ignited charcoal.

The tandur consists of a wooden frame about the height and size of a table, lined with tin, under which a pan of fire is placed, and the whole is covered with a thickly wadded quilt. This is surrounded by sofas, and they sit with their legs and feet under the covering.

More cozy than any capacious arm-chair, or softly yielding fauteuil, is this same tandur. The genial warmth excites a wonderful sympathy in its occupants. They warm to each other, and to the world in general, and never neglect to take cognizance of their neighbor’s affairs and doings. From the palace of the sultan to the cottage of the crone, they benignantly travel, bestowing on each and all a blessing, or when necessary, even a cursing. The ups and downs of pashas, probable and accomplished—whispers of the sultan’s favorites, or of the efendi’s coquettish ladies—the style of Adilé Sultan’s feradjé, or the grand vezir’s fess, are each and all passed in review, until you wonder how ever a set of miserable imprisoned women should be such arrant gossips. Ah! one cannot believe the fair sex so unjust to themselves, even in Turkey, as to neglect the observation of those interesting little items of public or retired life, which become great and weighty affairs, when discussed by ruby lips, and in the cadence of sweet-toned voices.

They possess a most lady-like love of chit-chat, and so little do they covet repose for their delicate jaws, that should conversation lag, they keep them in motion by the use of mastic, which is always in readiness, preserved in little jewelled boxes.

It is only of late years, that those hot, repelling machines called stoves, have been introduced; but they have by no means superseded the social and old-fashioned tandur, whose warmth, and luxurious cushions, often beguile its occupants to slumber, during which the fire is overturned, and thus occur many of the conflagrations so frequent in Turkey.

There are two occasions when the still air resounds with the echoes of human voices. The chant of the Muezzin from the minaré, slowly and musically vibrating through the atmosphere, enticing all to linger at the casement or in the thoroughfare to catch its melodious accents; and the terrible cry of yangun var! Fire! Fire! accompanied by the reverberations of the watchman’s club striking upon the pavement.

A thrill of horror pervades every heart, for there are no bounds to the devouring element.

There are two towers, one at the Seraskér’s in the city itself, and the other on the Galata hill, which command an extensive isometrical view of the whole metropolis and its suburbs.

Here guards are stationed, who descry the first indications of fire, and immediately give, from the top of the towers, the requisite signal, by hoisting, in the day-time, an immense globe, painted red, and at night by producing a bright and steady light—these signals remain until the fire is extinguished.

At Candilly, on the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus, and half way up the stream, there are a battery and a flag-staff stationed on the mountain top called Kenan-tepessy; as soon as the signals are seen, the fire globe ascends the flag-staff, and the battery discharges a certain number of guns, according to the locality of the conflagration.