stir, as the streets of the city are not lighted, and so ill-paved that it would be not only difficult, but almost dangerous, to traverse them in the dark. If occasionally some loud voice of dispute, or some ringing peal of laughter, should scare the silence of night, it is sure to be the voice or the laughter of an European, for the Turk is never loud, even in his mirth; a quiet, internal chuckle, rather seen upon the lips than sensible to the ear, is his greatest demonstration of enjoyment; and while the excitable Greek occasionally almost shrieks out his hilarity, the Musselmaun will look on quietly, with the smile about his mouth, and the sparkle in his eye, which are the only tokens of his anticipation in the jest.
The Turks are the most practical philosophers on earth; they are always contented with the present, and yet ever looking upon it as a mere fleeting good, to which it were as idle to attach any overweening value, as it would be to mourn it when it escapes them. Honours and wealth are such precarious possessions in the East, that men cannot afford to waste existence in weak repinings at their loss; nor are they inclined to do so, when they remember that the next mutation of the Imperial will may reinstate them, unquestioned and untrammelled, in their original position.
It is true that the sharpest sting of worldly misfortune is spared to the Turk, by the perfect similarity of habit and feeling between the rich and the poor; and he also suffers less morally than the European, from the fact that there exists no aristocracy in the country, either of birth or wealth, to ride rough-shod over their less fortunate fellow-men. The boatman on the Bosphorus, and the porter in the streets—the slave in the Salemliek, and the groom in the stables, are alike eligible to fill the rank of Pasha—there is no exclusive clique or caste to absorb “the loaves and fishes” of office in Turkey—the butcher of to-day may be the Generalissimo of to-morrow; and the barber who takes an Effendi by the nose on Monday may, on Tuesday, be equally authorized to take him by the hand.
To this circumstance must be attributed, in a great degree, the impossibility of a revolution in Turkey; but another may also be adduced of at least equal weight. In Europe, the subversion of order is the work of a party who have everything to gain, and who, from possessing no individual interest in the country, have consequently nothing to lose. To persons of this class, every social change offers at least the prospect of advantage; but, throughout the Ottoman empire, nearly every man is the owner of a plot of land, and is enabled to trim his own vine, and to sit under the shadow of his own fig-tree—he has an interest in the soil—and thus, although popular commotions are of frequent occurrence, they merely agitate, without exasperating the feelings of the people.
The Osmanli is, moreover, mentally, as well as physically, indolent—he is an enemy to all unnecessary exertion; and the subjects of Sultan Mahmoud have never threatened him with rebellion because he refused to grant any change in their existing privileges and customs, but, on the contrary, because he sought to introduce innovations for which they had never asked, and for which they had no desire. “Why,” they exclaim in their philosophy, “why seek to alter what is well? If we are content, what more can we desire?” And, acting upon this principle, they resist every attempt at change, as they would a design against their individual liberty.
This feeling has induced the great unpopularity of the Sultan; who, in his zeal to civilize the Empire, has necessarily shocked many privileges and overturned many theories. That he is unpopular, unfortunately admits of no doubt, even in the minds of those most attached to his interests—the very presence of Russian arms within his Imperial territory sufficiently attest the fact: and it is to be feared that he will discover, when too late, that these apparent means of safety were the actual engines of his destruction. Be this as it may, it is certain that the Russian alliance has given great and rational umbrage to the bulk of his people; and, combined with his own mania for improvement and innovation, has caused a want of affection for his person, and a want of deference for his opinions, which operate most disadvantageously for his interests.
That the Russian influence has negatived the good effects of many of his endeavours is palpable, and forces itself daily on the notice of those who look closely and carefully on the existing state of things at Constantinople. It is the policy of Russia to check every advance towards enlightenment among a people whom she has already trammelled, and whom she would fain subjugate. The Turk is vain and self-centered, and consequently most susceptible to flattery. Tell him that he is “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,” and his own self-appreciation leads him immediately to put firm faith in the sincerity of your assertion; the effect of this blind trust is evident at once—it paralyzes all desire of further improvement: he holds it as supererogatory to “gild refined gold, and paint the lily,” and he thus stops short at the threshold, when he should press forward to the arena.
These sober statements are sad innovators on our European ideas of Eastern magnificence, but they are, nevertheless, too characteristic to be passed over in silence.
To all the brute creation the Turks are not only merciful but ministering friends; and to so great an extent do they carry this tenderness towards the inferior animals, that they will not kill an unweaned lamb, in order to spare unnecessary suffering to the mother; and an English sportsman, who had been unsuccessful in the chase, having, on one occasion, in firing off his piece previously to disembarking from his caïque, brought down a gull that was sailing above his head, was reproached by his rowers with as much horror and emphasis as though he had been guilty of homicide.
I have elsewhere remarked on the singular impunity enjoyed by the aquatic birds which throng the harbour of Constantinople, and sport among the shipping; on the divers, that may be knocked down by the oar of every passing caïque, so fearless are they of human vicinity; and the gulls, which cluster like pigeons on the roofs of the houses—on the porpoises that crowd the port, and the dogs that haunt the streets. It may not be unamusing to state the forfeit inflicted on an individual for destroying one of these animals, as it is both curious and characteristic. The dead dog is hung up by the tail in such a manner as to suffer his nose to touch the ground; and his murderer is compelled to cover him entirely with corn or millet seed, which is secured by the proper authorities, and distributed to the poor. This ceremony generally costs the delinquent about a thousand piastres.
Another distinguishing trait in the Turkish character is their strong parental affection; indeed I may say love of children generally. Nothing can be more beautiful than the tenderness of a Turkish father; he hails every demonstration of dawning intellect, every proof of infant affection, with a delight that must be witnessed to be thoroughly understood; he anticipates every want, he gratifies every wish, he sacrifices his own personal comfort to ensure that of his child; and I cannot better illustrate this fact than by mentioning a circumstance which fell under my own observation.
The Reiss Effendi, or Minister for Foreign Affairs, had a grandchild whose indisposition caused him the most lively uneasiness; it was in vain that his English physician assured him of the total absence of danger; his every thought, his every anxiety, were with this darling boy; in the midst of the most pressing public business, he would start up and hasten to the chamber of the little patient, to assure himself that everything was going on favourably; he would leave his friends, in an hour of relaxation, to sit beside the sick bed of the child; and at length, when a strict and rigid system of diet was prescribed, which was to be of a fortnight’s duration, he actually submitted himself, and compelled all his establishment to submit, to the same monotonous and scanty fare, lest the boy should accidentally see, or otherwise become conscious of the presence of, any more enticing food, for which he might pine, and thus increase his malady.
It may be thought that I have cited an extreme instance, but such is, in reality, far from being the case; indeed, to such a pitch do the Osmanlis carry their love for children, that they are constantly adopting those of others, whom they emphatically denominate “children of the soul.” They generally take them into their families when mere infants; they rear them with the most extreme care and tenderness: and finally portion them on their marriage, as though the claim were a natural, rather than a gratuitous, one. The adopted child of Turkey is not like the protégé of Europe, the
