The two straits by which Constantinople is approached, are marked at their entrance by clusters of islands. The traveller, before he enters the Dardanelles, passes through the Cyclades; as he approaches the Bosphorus, he finds himself among a similar group, forming an Archipelago in the Propontis, if not so extensive, yet still more lovely than that in the Egean.
The Cyclades of the Propontis was anciently called Demonesca, or the “islands of spirits;” but under the Lower Empire they assumed another denomination. Irené, the widow of Fl. Leo, had put out the eyes of her son, in order that she herself might reign in his place; for this she was banished by his successor, to these islands; and, having built a monastery on one of them, to atone for her guilt, and erected edifices where females of the imperial family were educated, the group was called, therefore, after her, the “Princess’ Islands.” They are nine in number, of different sizes, and are distinguished by Greek names, indicating some peculiarity of each.[5] The four smaller are uninhabited; they lie between the European and Asiatic coasts, about 10 miles from each, and the same distance from the mouth of the Bosphorus; and to the houses of the streets built on the eminences, both of Pera and Constantinople, exhibit a picturesque and striking prospect.
The water which flows round them is not less pure than the air is balmy; they seem to float in a sea of singular transparency, so clear and lucid that objects are distinctly seen at the greatest depths; and the caïque which glides over it seems supported by a fluid less dense than water, and nearly as invisible and transparent as air. From various circumstances, it is conjectured that the islands were originally one mass, and torn asunder by some convulsion of nature; abrupt promontories in the one correspond with bays and indentations in the opposite, and the space between is so deep, that the large ships of Admiral Duckworth’s fleet anchored everywhere among them with perfect safety, when they passed into the Propontis, to menace the capital. Fish of many kinds abound in the streights, and their capture is one of the employments and amusements of the residents. The fishing carried on by night is very picturesque. The boats proceed with blazing faggots lighted in braziers of iron projecting from their bow and stern; and at certain times the shores are illuminated every night, by innumerable moving lights floating round them.
The islands labour under two disadvantages; one is, the want of water: there are no streams, and the springs found are impregnated with mineral ingredients, everywhere mixed up with the soil, particularly in the island of Chalki. To remedy this, the houses, and particularly the convents, have deep excavations, forming reservoirs into which the rain is received; so sacred is this deposit, that the wells are covered with iron stopples, carefully locked, and only opened with great caution at stated times. On the smaller deserted islands, deep cisterns of former times exist, where passing ships and boats at this day draw up water.
The next is, the sudden hurricanes to which they are subject in the most calm and beautiful weather. The air seems to stagnate, and a death-like stillness succeeds; then a dark lurid spot appears near the horizon, which suddenly bursts, as it were, and an explosion of wind issues from it, which sweeps everything before it. The doors and windows of the houses are instantly burst open, and every thing on land seems splitting to pieces; the sea is raised into mountains of white foam; and the only hope of safety for ships is to drive before it. The boats of the islands are sometimes overtaken thus in their passage to the capital: the boatmen at once lose all power of managing their caïques, and throw themselves on their faces in despair, crying out “For our sins, for our sins!” In this state the vessel turns over, and goes down with all her passengers. Accidents of this kind happen every year.
The islands are exceedingly beautiful and salubrious; unlike many of their kindred in the Egean, there is nothing bare or rugged in their aspect. They are generally crowned with arbutus, pine, cypress, myrtle, and different kinds of oak, particularly the kermes or evergreen, so that they preserve their leaves unchanged at all seasons, and render the islands at all times verdant and romantic. The arbutus grows with such luxuriance, that it ripens its berries into large mellow fruit, which is sold in the markets, and furnishes a rich dessert; they are eaten as strawberries, which they nearly resemble in shape, colour, and taste. There are, besides, various other trees, which, though deciduous, seldom lose their foliage; such as the terebinth or cypress turpentine, which yields a resinous aroma, so that a stranger, in making his way through these romantic thickets, as he presses aside the branches, is surprised at the grateful odours exhaled about him: but the shrubs which most abound, are the various species of the gum-cistus; they cover large tracts, and sometimes so tint the surface of the hills, that the islands are suffused with a rich hue from their bright blossoms. The fragrance of these spots is exceedingly rich and grateful. As the traveller moves through the low shrubs, and disturbs them with his feet, a dense vapour of odoriferous particles ascends, and the air seems loaded, as it were, with a palpable fragrance.[6] This gratification of the senses has conferred upon the islands the character of luxurious enjoyment, which has at all times distinguished them; they were, therefore, considered the Capreæ of the Lower Empire, and became the Capua of the Turks; when their rude military energy degenerated, they retired there, to gratify themselves with indulgences which were prohibited even in the license of the capital. Whenever the plague rages, they are crowded with Frank and Raya fugitives, who escape to this asylum from the pestilential atmosphere of the city.
By a prescription, some time established, the islands have been entirely abandoned to the Greeks, and no Turk is allowed to take up his residence there, except temporarily, on official business. Even the aga who superintends them, resides on the opposite coast of Asia, and never visits them except to collect the haratch. No mosque or other Moslem edifice was allowed to raise its crescent-head; but the larger islands had one or more Greek monasteries crowning their summits, and forming the most conspicuous objects. They were erected in the time of the Lower Empire, and were the asylums to which the sovereigns retired when compelled to abdicate the throne: many of them were the retreats of those who were mutilated or blinded by their successors; many were the receptacles where guilt and remorse sought, by solitude and penance, to atone for past crimes. Some of these monasteries are now in ruins, and their “ivy-mantled towers” add to the picturesque scenery; some are still kept in good repair, and the residence of Caloyers, having chapels eminent for their sanctity, to which not only the people of the islands, but many families of the Fanal, resort, and celebrate their festivals with much pomp and devotion.
On the greater islands are towns called by the same names. They possess fleets of caïques of a larger size than ordinary, which keep up a daily communication with the capital in conveying goods and passengers. Every morning these fleets leave the islands at sunrise, and return by sunset. The merry disposition of the people is nowhere more displayed than in these passage-boats, which the gravity and taciturnity of a Turk, who is an occasional passenger, cannot suppress. It sometimes happens that this levity is severely punished: on a charge of some real or supposed delinquency, the crews are cited before the cadi, when they land at Tophana. His carpet is spread on the ground, and where he sits cross-legged smoking his nargillai, the laughing culprits are brought before him, and he dispenses justice in a summary manner. He waves his hand−the delinquent is seized by two men who throw him on his back, while two more raise his feet between poles, presenting their soles. Executioners then, provided with angular rods as thick as a man’s thumb, lay on the shrieking wretch till he faints, or the cadi, by another wave of his hand, intimates to them to cease: this punishment of the unfortunate caïquegees of the islands, is very frequent, and sometimes is inflicted on the whole of the boats’ crews. It often happens to be so severe, that the legs swell as high as the hips, and the victim is in danger of dying of a mortification; notwithstanding, it is soon forgotten by the sufferers. On their return, they only laugh at each other, and the next day repeat the fault for which they were punished.
During the Greek revolution, these islands were made the prison of the suspected. The families of the Fanal were sent here, to be kept in sale custody till their fate was decided in the capital; every day some unfortunate victim was taken away, and never re-appeared, yet this seemed to make little impression on the survivors. They were constantly seen in groups under some favourite trees, playing dominos, chess, or other games, and entering with as much earnestness and disputation into the chances, as if they were in a state of perfect security. Sometimes a caïque was seen approaching, and the turbaned head of a chaoush appeared over the gunwale−he landed, approached the groups of players, and laid a black handkerchief on the shoulder of one of them; the doomed man rose from his seat, followed the chaoush to the caïque, and never returned again. His place was supplied by another, and the game was continued as if nothing extraordinary had happened. The bouyancy and reckless character of the Greeks, during the perils of their revolution, was nowhere, perhaps, so displayed as on these occasions; they saw their friends daily taken from the midst of them, and knew they were led away to be strangled or decapitated, yet it seemed but little to affect the careless hilarity of the daily decreasing survivors.
Among the suspected shut up in one of these insular prisons was the venerable and learned archbishop of Mount Sinai. After the execution of the patriarch and his prelates, he hourly expected his mortal summons; yet it never affected his cheerfulness: he was engaged in a work on the ancient and modern state of Constantinople, and his only wish, unfounded then on any hope, was, that he might be allowed to live and finish it. His wishes, contrary to his expectations, were fulfilled. I left him in his Patmos, every day looking for death; and I found him, on my return to Turkey, some years after, elevated to the patriarchal throne. His susceptibility to the beauties of nature that smiled here in his prison, was not impaired by any dismal apprehensions. In his work, since published, he describes with enthusiasm the view presented from his island: “The prospect from hence,” said he, “formed by the circle of lovely objects around, is inimitable on the earth; it stands like the varied representations of some grand amphitheatre, and the astonished and delighted eye, at sunset, sees the exceeding splendour of nature’s scenery.”