themselves—while the latest comers were removing their yashmacs and cloaks, and exchanging greetings with their acquaintance.
As I had previously resolved to visit every part of the establishment, I followed the example of my companion, who had already undergone the fatigue of an Oriental bath, and exchanged my morning dress for a linen wrapper, and loosened my hair: and then, conducted by the Greek waiting-maid who had accompanied me, I walked barefooted across the cold marble floor to a door at the opposite extremity of the hall, and, on crossing the threshold, found myself in the cooling-room, where groups of ladies were sitting, or lying listlessly on their sofas, enveloped in their white linen wrappers, or preparing for their return to the colder region whence I had just made my escape.
This second room was filled with hot air, to me, indeed, most oppressively so; but I soon discovered that it was, nevertheless, a cooling-room; when, after having traversed it, and dipped my feet some half dozen times in the little channels of warm water that intersected the floor, I entered the great bathing-place of the establishment—the extensive octagon hall in which all those who do not chuse, or who cannot afford, to pay for a separate apartment, avail themselves, as they find opportunities, of the eight fountains which it contains.
For the first few moments, I was bewildered; the heavy, dense, sulphureous vapour that filled the place, and almost suffocated me—the wild, shrill cries of the slaves pealing through the reverberating domes of the bathing-halls, enough to awaken the very marble with which they were lined—the subdued laughter, and whispered conversation of their mistresses murmuring along in an under-current of sound—the sight of nearly three hundred women only partially dressed, and that in fine linen so perfectly saturated with vapour, that it revealed the whole outline of the figure—the busy slaves, passing and repassing, naked from the waist upwards, and with their arms folded upon their bosoms, balancing on their heads piles of fringed or embroidered napkins—groups of lovely girls, laughing, chatting, and refreshing themselves with sweetmeats, sherbet, and lemonade—parties of playful children, apparently quite indifferent to the dense atmosphere which made me struggle for breath—and, to crown all, the sudden bursting forth of a chorus of voices into one of the wildest and shrillest of Turkish melodies, that was caught up and flung back by the echoes of the vast hall, making a din worthy of a saturnalia of demons—all combined to form a picture, like the illusory semblance of a phantasmagoria, almost leaving me in doubt whether that on which I looked were indeed reality, or the mere creation of a distempered brain.
Beside every fountain knelt, or sat, several ladies, attended by their slaves, in all the various stages of the operation; each intent upon her own arrangements, and regardless of the passers-by; nor did half a dozen of them turn their heads even to look at the English stranger, as we passed on to the small inner cabinet that had been retained for us.
The process of Turkish bathing is tedious, exhausting, and troublesome; I believe that the pretty Greek who attended me spent an hour and a half over my hair alone. The supply of water is immense, and can be heated at the pleasure of the bather, as it falls into the marble basin from two pipes, the one pouring forth a hot, and the other a cold, stream. The marble on which you stand and sit is heated to a degree that you could not support, were the atmosphere less dense and oppressive; and, as the water is poured over you from an embossed silver basin, the feeling of exhaustion becomes almost agreeable. Every lady carries with her all the appliances of the bath, as well as providing her own servant; the inferior ranks alone availing themselves of the services of the bathing women, who, in such cases, supply their employers with every thing requisite.
These bathing-women, of whom I saw several as I traversed the great hall, are the most unsightly objects that can be imagined; from constantly living in a sulphureous atmosphere, their skins have become of the colour of tobacco, and of the consistency of parchment; many among them were elderly women, but not one of them was wrinkled; they had, apparently, become aged like frosted apples; the skin had tightened over the muscles, and produced what to me at least was a hideous feature of old age.
Having remained in the bath about two hours and a half, I began to sicken for pure air and rest; and, accordingly, winding a napkin with fringed ends about my head, and folding myself in my wrapper, I hastily and imprudently traversed the cooling-room, now crowded with company, looking like a congregation of resuscitated corpses clad in their grave-clothes, and fevered into life; and gained the outer hall, where the napkin was removed from my head, my hair carefully plaited without drying, and enveloped in a painted muslin handkerchief; and myself buried among the soft cushions of the divan.
A new feature had been added to the scene since my departure; most of the ladies were at dinner. The crimson glow of the bath, which throws all the blood into the head, had passed from most of their faces, and was replaced by the pure, pale, peach-like softness of complexion that its constant use never fails to produce. Numbers of negresses were entering with covered dishes, or departing with the reliques of those which had been served up; and, as the Turkish mode of eating lends itself to these pic-nic species of repasts, the fair ladies appeared to be as much at home squatted round their plated or china bowls, spoon in hand, in the hall of the bath, as though they were partaking of its contents in the seclusion of their own harems.
Sherbet, lemonade, mohalibè, a species of inferior blanc-manger, and fruit, were constantly handed about for sale; and the scene was altogether so amusing, that it was almost with regret that I folded myself closely in my cloak and veil, and bowed my farewell to the several groups which I passed on my way to the door.
I should be unjust did I not declare that I witnessed none of that unnecessary and wanton exposure described by Lady M. W. Montague. Either the fair Ambassadress was present at a peculiar ceremony, or the Turkish ladies have become more delicate and fastidious in their ideas of propriety.
The excessive exhaustion which it induces, and the great quantity of time which it consumes, are the only objections that can reasonably be advanced against the use of the Turkish bath.
CHAPTER IX.
Cheerful Cemeteries—Burial-ground of Pera—Superiority of the Turkish Cemeteries—Cypresses—Singular Superstition—The Grand Champs—Greek Grave-yard—Sultan Selim’s Barrack—Village of St. Demetrius—European Burial-ground—Grave-stones—The Kiosk—Noble View—Legend of the Maiden’s Tower—Plague Hospital of the Turks—The Plague-Caïque—Armenian Cemetery—Curious Inscriptions—Turkish Burial-place—Distinctive Head-stones—Graves of the Janissaries—Wild Superstition—Cemetery of Scutari—Splendid Cypresses—Ancient Prophecy—Extent of Burial-ground—The Headless Dead—Exclusive Enclosures—Aspect of the Cemetery from the Summer Palace of Heybetoullah Sultane—Local Superstition—The Damnèd Souls.
I have alluded elsewhere to the apparent care with which the Turks select the most lovely spots for burying their dead, and how they have, by such means, divested death of its most gloomy attributes. Like the ancient Romans, they form grave-yards by the road-side; and, like them, they inscribe upon their tombs the most beautiful lessons of resignation and philosophy.
The Cemetery of Pera offers a singular spectacle; and the rather that the “Champ des Morts” is the promenade of the whole population, Turk, Frank, Greek, and Armenian; the lesser burial-place, or Petit Champs, is sacred to the Mussulmauns, and fringes with its dark cypresses the crest of the hill that dominates the port; it is hemmed in with houses—overlooked by a hundred casements—grazed by cattle—loud with greetings and gossipry—and commands an extensive view of the shipping in the harbour and the opposite shore. There are footpaths among the funereal trees; sunny glades gleaming out amid the dark shadows; head-stones clustered against the grassy slopes, and guard-houses, with their portals thronged with
