After a moment’s silence he resumed: “I would give you this trembling bird, for you are my child, and I love you; but it will not abandon me. It is my friend, my playfellow, my child when you are away. It will not leave me, though I am mad—And yet, why do they tell you that I am mad? It is not so—Do I not know you? Am I not your father? Is it because I am sorrowful that they have told you this?” And again the pale face was bowed down; and one heavy sob which seemed to rise from the very depths of a crushed spirit terminated the sentence. We hurried on—it was profanation to make a spectacle of such an agony—mindless though it was.
Nor was the next individual with whom we came in contact less painfully interesting. Strikingly handsome, and not above five-and-thirty, he had already passed four miserable years in the Madhouse of Solimaniè. An Armenian by birth, and a Catholic by faith, he had been induced to embrace Mahomeddanism, but he had paid with his reason the price of his apostacy; and this one memory haunted him in his wretched lunacy. As we paused before the grating of his cell, he bowed his head upon his breast, and murmured out; “In Nomine Patri, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, Amen.”
His look was fastened upon my father, and some faint and long-effaced image seemed to rise before him, for he smiled sadly, and extended towards him his white and wasted hand; nor could any other of the party succeed in diverting his attention. Twice, thrice, the same words were uttered, and always in an accent of the most thrilling anguish. Surely his sin will be expiated on earth, and forgiven at the last day!
Some were merry, and exhausted themselves in song and jest; and some, with a latent leaven of worldliness, asked alms, and laughed out their soulless joy as the coins which we flung to them rang on the stone-work of the window. The Juggler of Sultan Selim—He who had taught the great ones of the land to believe him gifted with a power more than human—He who had raised the laughter of amusement, and the exclamation of wonder—whose very presence had awakened mirth and merriment—He, too, was here—caged, and chained—the mad prisoner of three-and-thirty weary years!—the palest, the saddest, and the most silent of the whole miserable company. His beard fell to his girdle—his matted locks half concealed his haggard countenance—his hands were clasped upon his breast—and he did not turn his head as we approached him.
From the madhouse we proceeded to the slave-market; a square court, three of whose sides are built round with low stone rooms, or cells, beyond which projects a wooden peristyle. There is always a painful association connected with the idea of slavery, and an insurmountable disgust excited by the spectacle of money given in exchange for human beings; but, beyond this, (and assuredly this is enough!) there is nothing either to distress or to disgust in the slave-market of Constantinople. No wanton cruelty, no idle insult is permitted: the slaves, in many instances, select their own purchaser from among the bidders; and they know that when once received into a Turkish family they become members of it in every sense of the word, and are almost universally sure to rise in the world if they conduct themselves worthily. The Negroes only remain in the open court, where they are squatted in groups, until summoned to shew themselves to a purchaser; while the Circassians and Georgians, generally brought there by their parents at their own request, occupy the closed apartments, in order that they may not be exposed to the gaze of the idlers who throng the court. The utmost order, decency, and quiet prevail; and a military guard is stationed at the entrance to enforce them, should the necessity for interference occur, which is, however, very rarely the case.
I expected to have had much to write on the subject of the slave-market, but I left it only with an increased conviction of the great moral beauty of the Turkish character. I am aware that this declaration will startle many of my readers; but I make it from a principle of justice. I knew that the establishment existed—I never thought of it without a shudder, nor shall I ever remember it without a pang; but I am, nevertheless, compelled to declare that I did not witness there any of the horrors for which I had prepared myself. The Turks never make either a sport or a jest of human suffering, or human degradation. Not a word, not a glance escaped them, calculated to wound the wretched beings who were crouching on the ground under the hot sunshine—They made their odious bargain seriously and quietly; and left the market, followed by the slaves whom they had purchased, without one act of wanton cruelty, or unnecessary interference.
I felt glad when, escaping from this painful scene, bitter and revolting even under the most favourable aspect, we found ourselves in the Charshee, surrounded by all the glittering temptations of the East, and deep in the mysteries of tissues and trinkets. The morning had been a trying one, and I rejoiced to be enabled to divert my thoughts from the scenes through which we had passed. A thousand brilliant baubles were spread out before us—a thousand harangues replete with hyperbole were exhausted on us—all was bustle and excitement; and I forgot for a while the weeping father and the spirit-stricken apostate of Solimaniè.