You cannot pass the Palace of Azmè Sultane, the elder sister of the Sultan, without being saluted by the sounds of music. The ladies of her harem are many of them consummate musicians, according to Turkish ideas of harmony; and the tinkle of the zebec, the long notes of the violin, the ringing rattle of the tambourine, and a chorus of female voices, are so constantly sweeping over the water through the closed lattices, that your boatmen universally slacken their pace as they reach the Seraïl. Oriental music requires distance to mellow it: and when it floats along the water, as though it rose from the ocean caves; and you suffer your imagination to dwell upon the white arms which are tossed in air as the silver wheels of the elastic tambourine ring out; and the delicate fingers that press the strings, and the rich red lips and large dark eyes that lend new grace to the wild and bounding melodies of the country—you are almost ready to fancy for the moment, that Apollo must have first swept his lyre in a Turkish harem.
While you look fixedly towards the lattices, as though to search for the embodiment of your romantic fancies, you may discover proofs that the community is not one vowed to the rosary, though it may wear the veil. Here it is an orange attached by a lock of hair to the outer frame of the small centre window of the trellice-work; there it is a marigold suspended by a red ribbon; while, partially concealed, and twined amid the minute squares of the jealous screen, you may perhaps discover a small cluster of roses.
This is the very land of practical romance!
An arrow’s flight beyond the Palace of the elder Sultana, stands that of the Imperial bride of Saïd Pasha; a long, irregular, rose-coloured pile, pleasantly situated at the mouth of a lovely bay, whose shores are bright with groves and many-tinted villas; while in the distance, where the channel again narrows, the castles of Europe and Asia may be seen looming out against the pure blue of the sky. We loitered at this sweet spot for a brief space, and then, darting once more forward, soon arrived under the “Hill of the Thousand Nightingales.” Rightly is it named, for the mid-day air was vocal with their melody, and the dense foliage of the forest trees quivered with their song; while, as the melancholy music came to us along the water, its sadness was deepened by the aspect of a few scattered tombs gleaming out amid the rank underwood. The variety of timber which clothed the eminence formed such varying shades of green; from the bright soft tint of the water-willow, whose flexile branches swayed in the breeze like silken streamers, to the tall, dark, silent cypresses, that it was a study for a landscape painter.
Beyond this lovely hill, the shore is edged with Greek, Armenian, and Turkish houses; and here commences the moral interest of the locality. The dwellings of the raïahs are, when of any extent, almost universally painted of two different colours on the outside, in order to give them the appearance of separate tenements, and thus deceive the passers-by; while those of the Turks themselves are perfectly illustrative of the momentary condition of their owners.
The Osmanli is the creature of the present; he never falls back upon the past; he has no glorious memories to wile him from himself; every page of his history is shadowed over by some gloomy recollection—nor dare he dwell upon the future, for he is the subject of a despotic government: the proud Pasha of to-day may be headless, or at best houseless to-morrow; and hence, the premature decay of three-fourths of the Turkish dwellings.
When an individual becomes possessed of power, he buys or builds a residence suited to his brightened fortunes: he lavishes his revenue—why should he hoard it? it can only excite the cupidity of the Sultan, and accelerate his disgrace; or awaken the jealousy of his rivals, and insure his ruin. He makes his house gay without, and convenient within; but all its accessories are ephemeral—the paint which he spreads over the surface remains fresh for a year, and that suffices him. Perchance it may outlast his favour; should it not do so, it is no unpleasant task to renew it; and if it should, he contents himself with the weather-stained walls of a more golden season. Once in disgrace, he repairs only just sufficiently to defy the weather, and troubles himself no further. And thus, after you have been a few months in the country, and have studied in some degree the nature and habits of the people, you may give a shrewd guess as you ride along, at the past and present position of the owner of every edifice that fringes the Bosphorus.
The courtier has raised a pile which looks as though it had been finished only yesterday; the walls are so bright, and the lattices are so perfect—the blue ripple chafes against the marble steps that lead to the columned portico; and the feathery acacias nestle among their blossoming boughs, gilded kiosks, and lordly terraces.
The slighted favourite has still servants lounging about his door, and a stately landing-place beside which his caïque dances on the wave; but a shade has past over the picture: the summer sun and the winter wind have deadened the bright blue or the soft olive of the edifice, and here and there a slender bar is rent away from the discoloured lattices. The fair forest trees still wave along the covered terrace, but the steps are grass-grown, and the flower-vases are overthrown—they might be replaced; but it is better policy to let them suffer with their master.
The dwelling of the exile is still more distinguishable. The shutters are hanging loose and beating in the wind; the broken casements no longer exclude the weather; the lattices are wrenched away; the terrace-wall is falling inch by inch into the wave; the rank grass is forcing its way through the crevices of the marble floor; the garden kiosks are roofless; and the green fresh boughs are flaunting in the sunshine, mocking the desolation which they dominate.