Some years ago the Greek quarter of the city was illuminated on this anniversary, as well as the villages occupied principally by their nation: but the Turks no longer permit this demonstration of rejoicing, as well from jealousy of its subject, as from the danger attendant on all such manifestations in a city where fires are so frequent, and the nature of the buildings so unfortunately calculated to encourage the evil.
For my own part, after having passed a few nights in Constantinople, both in Turkish and Greek houses, I was only surprised that the frightful conflagrations which so frequently occur do not take place every week instead of ten or twelve times a-year. Like the husbandman who plants his vines, and sows his grain at the base of a volcano, apparently unconscious or careless that the next eruption may lay waste his lands, and negative his labour, the inhabitants of Stamboul appear never to reflect that fire is one of their deadliest enemies, but wander over their wooden dwellings with their lighted chibouks, or their unsnuffed candles; as heedlessly as though both were innoxious: while their attendants traverse carpeted and curtained apartments, carrying fragments of live coal between their iron pincers to supply the pipes.
Nor is this all. The Tandour is a fire-conductor of the first class: the wooden frame that covers the charcoal ashes is frequently very slight, and the silken draperies which veil it are generally lined with cotton, and not infrequently wadded with the same inflammable material. The effect of the Tandour is highly soporific; and it consequently occurs that persons who fall asleep under its influence, by some sudden movement overturn the frame-work, when their own clothes as well as the coverings of the Tandour come in contact with the hidden fire: the chintz-covered sofas are ready to feed the flame, and the natural consequence ensues.
Still more dangerous is the system of drying linen during the winter, which is universal throughout the city. A frame, formed of wooden laths, about three feet high, and shaped like a beehive, is placed above a small brazier, filled with heated charcoal; and the linen is flung over this frame, one garment above another, where it gradually dries. But should the laundress omit to remove the lower portions of it directly that they are free from damp, they ignite, and the whole becomes one burning mass.
That in a country where fires are so frequent, such reckless usages should be persisted in by individuals, or permitted by the authorities, appears incredible; while they account if not satisfactorily, at least fully, for the constant recurrence of the evil. Nor can you, even should you desire to do so, remain in ignorance of the calamity whenever it occurs; for you are constantly awakened in the night by the heavy strokes of an iron-pointed pike upon the rough pavement of the streets, and you hear the deep voice of the fire-guard announce the quarter where the flames have broken out.
As there is a regular sentinel, relieved every second hour, on the look-out for fires in the upper gallery of the Seraskier’s Tower, which is like a glass lantern, having windows on all sides; every conflagration, however unimportant, is instantly announced by the patroles appointed to the different quarters of the city; and thus a week rarely passes in which you are not startled by the boding cry of the guard—“Fire at Scutari—a—” “Fire at Galata—a”—Up go all the windows of the neighbourhood; and, when the locality of the accident is ascertained, those who have property or connexions in the quarter hasten to the scene of action: while those who have no individual interest in the misfortune, close their casements, and creep back to bed, rejoicing that they have escaped for the present the dreaded catastrophe.
All the Pashas resident in the Capital or its immediate neighbourhood are obliged to attend every fire that occurs, and to assist in its extinction; so that they frequently have a very busy time of it; and Namik Pasha—the fêted and favoured Namik Pasha—probably from personal experience of the dangers attendant on the employment, has, since his return to Turkey, cited, as his two most admirable memories of England, her Pantomimes and her Fire-men!
The Greek “Festival of Fire” has now, in consequence of the prohibition to which I have alluded, become local in its celebration: and the villages of Buyukdèrè, Therapia, and Yenekeui, have the exclusive honour of commemorating the conquest of the Cæsars.
We embarked on board our caïque at dusk, and having with some difficulty made our way through the floating crowd that thronged the stream, we landed, and proceeded to the house of Veronica, the heroine of Mac Farlane’s Novel of the “Armenians.” From the windows, which commanded the little bay where the rejoicings were to take place, we had a full view of the whole ceremony, and a most extraordinary exhibition it was.
Two artificial islands had been formed in the bay, and heaped with dried wood, and other inflammable materials, and on that which was furthest from the shore, the pile was surmounted by a caïque: another line of fires was prepared for a considerable distance along the coast; and in every direction men were flitting about with paper lanterns, conducting the different parties of visiters from their boats to the residences of their friends. Therapia was concealed behind a point of land; but Buyukdèrè was visible in the distance, like a line of fire hemming in the glittering waters which reflected afar off the unusual brilliancy. The flames, as they rose and fell, flashed and faded upon the casements of the houses that skirted the shore, with an effect quite magical: while the sombre coast of Asia, without one glimmering light to relieve its stately outline, cut in dusky magnificence along the cloudless sky.