Part 8

In the midst of the crowds in the Turkish capital, the women present a curious spectacle, wandering about as they do covered with white dominos, or rather winding-sheets. The lot of this portion of the Mussulman population is much less unhappy than one would be led to expect. They certainly hold a secondary station in society, but, brought-up as they are in the most complete ignorance, they are unconscious of their degraded position, and know not that there is a better. They are, in general, treated very kindly by their husbands and masters, and do not undergo, as it is supposed, either capricious or brutal treatment. Although in Europe they still believe a Turk to be constantly surrounded by a multitude of odalisques, to whom, as it suits his fancy, he throws in turn his handkerchief, at Constantinople there are very few Osmanlees who have three or even two wives, and even these they lodge in separate mansions, in general far distant from each other. Almost all the Turks, with the exception of the very few above mentioned individuals, possess in general but one wife, to whom they are most faithful. The grand seignior alone is a Sultan in the full and voluptuous acceptation of the term. He is possessor of a magnificent palace, where no noise from without ever penetrates, and where immense riches have collected together all the wonders of luxury. Marble baths, lovely gardens bounded by a sparkling sea, and vaulted by an indigo sky, legions of slaves, who have no will but his, no law but his caprices; and in this Eden three or four hundred women chosen from out of the most beautiful in the universe; this is the world, this is the life of that man: and yet, although he be so young, all who know him say that the present Sultan is morose, sad, and splenetic.

On mounting, at sixteen, upon the throne of Turkey, Abdul Medjid announced it to be his intention to change nothing that his father Mahmood had established, and declared himself a partisan of the system of reform commenced by that sovereign. Notwithstanding the custom, rendered almost sacred by tradition, he renounced the turban and was _crowned_ with the fez. Contrary to the usage of former Sultans, who on their accession put to death or closely imprisoned all their brothers, he allowed his brother Abdul Haziz not only his life, but full liberty.

The Hatti-sherif of Gulhanch, published on the 19th of November 1839, and which has been viewed in so many and different lights, proved at least the good intentions of this sovereign, called so young to support so weighty a burden. At various times he has manifested a desire for instruction, and has taken lessons in geography and in Italian; he has also travelled over a part of his empire.

It is usual at Constantinople for the Sultan to proceed every Friday (the Mussulman Sabbath) to pray in one of the mosques. The one chosen is named in the morning, and he proceeds thither on horseback or in his caick, according to the quarter in which it is situated. This weekly ceremony is almost the sole occasion on which foreigners can see his highness. During my stay at Constantinople, I had several opportunities of gazing upon the descendant of the Prophet. He is a young man, of slender frame, of grave physiognomy, and a most _distingue_ appearance. A crowd of officers and eunuchs formed his suite, and all heads bowed low at his approach. Abdul Medjid, who was the twentieth-born child of his father Mahmood, was born at Constantinople on the 19th of April 1823. His black and stiff beard cause him to appear older than he is in reality. His eye is very brilliant, and his features regular. His face is somewhat marked with the smallpox; but this is not very apparent, as the young sultan, according to the custom of the harem, has an artificial complexion for days of ceremony. Naturally of a delicate frame, excesses have much enfeebled his constitution; his continual ill-health, his pallor, and his teeth already decayed, announce, that though so young in years, he is expiating the pleasures of a Sultan by a premature decrepitude. Abdul Medjid has several children, who are weak and sickly like their father, and the state of their health inspires constant anxiety.

Few sovereigns have been more diversely judged than Mahmood, the father of the present Sultan. Lauded to the skies by some, lowered to the dust by others, he died before Europe was properly enlightened as to his intentions. Now that his work has undergone the ordeal of time, one can appreciate it at its real value. Ascending the throne at an epoch of anarchy and disorder, having at one and the same time to oppose the invasion of Russia, and to put down the rebellion of the Pashas, who were raising their pashalicks into sovereignties, Mahmood gave proofs, during several years, of a force of character almost inconceivable in a man enervated from his childhood by the pleasures of the harem. Unfortunately his intellect was unequal to his obstinacy: every abuse he put down gave rise to or made way for new abuses, which he could not foresee, and was unable to destroy. The established order of affairs, which he fought against, was a hydra, from which, for one head cut off, twenty sprang up. Far from augmenting his power, his greatest enterprises merely tended to enfeeble it. The repression of Ali the Pasha of Janina, cost Mahmood the kingdom of Greece; and had not the powers of Europe intervened, the war against Mehemet Ali would have cost him his throne. Even the destruction of the Janissaries, which was considered so great a cause of triumph by the Sultan, was it in reality so? It is surely permitted to doubt the circumstance. That powerful militia, scattered through the empire, was in some sort the focus of that spirit of fatalism, which had till then been the principal prop of the imperfect work of the Arabian impostor; to destroy it was to strike a death-blow to that society which breathed as it were in war alone. In overthrowing an obstacle which paralysed his power, Mahmood dug an abyss into which the Turkish empire must sooner or later fall; for the spirit of religious enthusiasm which he destroyed has been replaced by no other incentive.

The chief fault of Mahmood was the cutting down without thinking of sowing; for without properly understanding the extent of what he was doing, he too hastily cast from its old course, without placing it in a better, a dull stupid nation, to transform which required both time and patience. Above all, Mahmood was guided solely by the impulses of an indomitable pride, and seems to have much less considered the interests of his empire, than the satisfying of his own vanity. He hastened to change the aspect and surface of things, deluding himself into the idea that he had metamorphosed an Asiatic people into a European state. Hurried away by the desire of innovation, and at the same time cramped by the effects of a religion which resists all progress, striving in vain to make the precepts of the Koran compatible with civilisation, Mahmood moved during the whole of his reign within a fatal circle, and, dying of an ignoble malady, he left his empire tottering to its fall.

HORAE CATULLIANAE.

LETTER TO EUSEBIUS.

You desire, then, my dear Eusebius, to hear more of the Curate's difficulty. We left him, you remember, with Gratian, who took him by the arm, and walked off to see what his authority would do to quell the parochial disturbance. You have seen the general opinion upon the countenance Gratian would give to delinquents; you will not, therefore, augur very favourably of this expedition. Loving a little mischief, as you do, you will, perhaps, be not quite agreeably disappointed. Had Gratian trusted alone to his character, he would have failed; which shows that sometimes it is dangerous to have too good a one.

Not a parishioner but would have looked upon the patronage of Gratian to the Curate as resulting from the weakness--those who meant to turn it to compliment would say, the excessive kindness, of his nature. A little malice interposing, they were by no means disposed, if they loved Gratian, "to love his dog,"--in the light of which comparison they now looked upon the Curate. Gratian's sly wit, however, availed more than his authority. It seems they had not proceeded very far when they met Prateapace. The Curate having some business in another direction, left Gratian with the maiden-lady. You can imagine his first advances, complimenting her upon her fresh morning looks. Then taking her by the arm, as if for familiar support, transferring his stick to the other hand, and looking his cajolery inimitably, and with a low voice saying, "My dear Miss Lydia, what is all this story I hear that you charge the Curate with?" "Oh, no, not I!" interrupted the maiden; "it is you have done that. I only know that I heard you reprove him for his behaviour to some one or other, whom you seriously declared either must be or ought to be his wife." "My dear _young_ lady," said Gratian, "that is now quite a mistake of yours:" he then, as he reports, told her what they had been reading, and that his remarks were upon the book, and the author of it, and had nothing to do with the Curate. To all which she nodded her head incredulously, and laughingly said, "Oh, you good, _good_-natured man; and pray who may that improper author be?" "Why," quoth Gratian, "Miss Lydia Prateapace wouldn't, I know, have me recommend her any _improper_ author." "Oh, no, no!--I don't ask with any intention to read him, I assure you," she replied. Gratian went on, "Believe me, he is a very old author, a Roman." "A Roman indeed!" she quite vociferated--"one of those horrid Papists, I suppose! A Roman is he? Then the Curate--why should he read Papistical books, and learn such tricks from them?" It was in vain for Gratian to endeavour to explain. Miss Prateapace had but one notion of the Romans--that there never was one that had not kissed the Pope's toe. So here he very wisely took another tack, and drawing her a little aside, as if he would not have even the very hedges hear him, and with no little affected caution, looking about him, he said, in a half whisper--"Now let me, my dear young lady, tell you a bit of a secret. All this is an idle tale, and is just as I have told you; but this I tell you, that to my certain knowledge, the Curate's _affections_"--laying stress on the word affections--"are seriously engaged;" at which Miss Lydia stared, and looked the personification of curiosity. "Engaged is he, did you say?" "No, _he_ is not engaged," said Gratian, "but I happen to know that his affections are--" "Then," quoth she, "I suppose he has declared as much to the object." "Ah--no!--there is the very point--you are quite mistaken--she has not the slightest suspicion of it." This was scarcely credible to the lady's notion of love-making, but the earnest manner of Gratian was every thing. "No," said he; "he is a most exemplary conscientious young man, and so far avoids the making any show of his feelings, that he affects, I really believe, more indifference towards that lady than to any other. He tells me that he thinks it would not be honourable in his present circumstances and position to engage _her_ affections; but he looks forward, as his prospects are fair." Miss Lydia was interested--pondered awhile, and then said, "You dear good man, do tell me who the lady is!" "No," replied Gratian, "I dare not betray a secret; but be assured, my dear Miss Lydia Prateapace, that if our Curate marries, he will make his choice not very far from this." "You don't say so!" cried she: "Really now, who can it be?" "I can only say one thing more," replied our fox Gratian, "and perhaps that is saying too much; but--" whispering in her ear--"of all the letters in the alphabet, her name begins with Lydia." Whereupon he made a start, put his finger upon his lips, as if he had in his hurry told the secret; and she started back a pace in another direction, looked in his face to see if he was in jest; finding there nothing but apparent simplicity, she looked a little confused, and evidently took the compliment and the _hopes_ into her own bosom. When she could sufficiently collect her thoughts, she expressed her sorrow for any mischief she might have done, unintentionally; and added, that she would do all in her power to set all things right again. At this point the Curate returned: he addressed her somewhat distantly, which to her was a sign stronger than familiarity, upon the power of which she gave him her hand _of encouragement_. Gratian took care to leave well alone--let go her arm, and leaning upon the Curate's wished her good morning, with a gracious smile about his insidious mouth, to which he put his finger significantly as if entreating her silence upon the subject of their conversation. I have told you the particulars of this interview, Eusebius, as I could gather them from Gratian's narration; and he has a way of acting what he says, as if he had studied in that school where the first requisite for an orator is--action; the second--action; the third--action!

Our friend Gratian, Eusebius, made no matter of conscience of this fibbing--did not hesitate--wanted no "ductor dubitantium"--as he told it to us. He gave, it is true, his limb a smarter tapping; but it was no twinge of conscience that caused the movement of the stick, and there is nothing of the Franciscan about our friend. Did he _say_ a word that was not perfect truth?

But what was the intention?--did he mean to deceive? But this is not a question to discuss with you. You will do more than acquit him. So I am answered, and silent. Gratian's answer was this. In his fabulous mood, he asked--"If you should see a lion, an open-mouthed lion of the veritable [Greek: chasm' odonton] breed, traversing a wood, and he should accost you thus, 'Pray, sir, did you chance to see a man I am looking after go this way?' would you point out his lurking place, his path of escape? or would you not, if you knew he went to the right, direct the lion by all means to continue his pursuit on the left? Then, sir, which will your worshipful morality prefer, to be the accessary to the murder, or the principal in the deceit?"

I must not omit to tell you that a few days ago Gratian and the Curate spent a pleasant day with the Bishop, who was not a little amused at their narration of the circumstances that produced the singular parochial epistle, which his lordship had duly received. The Bishop's hospitality is well seasoned with conversational ease, and perfect agreeability, and has besides that

"Seu quid suavius elegantiusve est"

which our Catullus promises to his friend Fabullus. The Bishop, a ripe scholar, spoke much and critically of Catullus, and laid most stress upon the extreme suavity of his measures, especially in the "Acmen Septimius." There were present two archdeacons and a very agreeable classical physician. All had at one time or other, they acknowledged, translated "Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus." The physician said he had only satisfied himself with three lines, and yet he thought their only merit was the being line for line. He repeated both the original and his translation:--

"Soles occidere et redire possunt: Nobis, quum semel occidit brevis lux, Nox est perpetua una dormienda.

"Suns die, but soon their light restore, While we, when our brief day is o'er, Sleep one long night to wake no more."

The Curate, with the jealousy of a rival translator, objected to "suns _die_," and thought "suns _set_" would be quite as well and a closer translation. The Physician assented. The Bishop smiled, and said, "suns _die_" was probably a professional lapsus. The Physician replied, that such would be a very unprofessional lapsus; and Gratian quoted the passage from Fielding, who says it is an unjust misrepresentation that "physicians are the friends of death," and instanced the two physicians who, in the case of the death of Captain Blifil, "dismissed the corpse with a single fee, but were not so disgusted with the living patient." At parting, the Bishop took the Curate most kindly by the hand, and recommended him by all means to cultivate the amiability of versification.

After this, Gratian and the Curate had much business in hand, and we did not meet for some time. Gratian stirred a little in this affair of the Curate's, and with effect. We did meet, however, and recommenced the

HORAE CATULLIANAE.

You now see us again in the library--time, after tea. Gratian enjoys his easy-chair; a small fire--for it is not cold--just musically whispers among the coals, comfort. Gratian says he has had a busy day of it, and, though not wearied, is in that happy state of repose to enjoy rest, and of excitement to enjoy social converse; and after a little, preliminary chat, asked if there was any thing lately from Catullus.

AQUILIUS.--Yes. He is returned from his unprofitable travel, and you seem to be in that state of sensitive quiescence, to feel with him the pleasures of home. He is now at his own villa, and thus welcomes, and acknowledges the welcome offered him by his beloved Sirmio.

AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM.

My Sirmio, thou the very gem and eye Of islands and peninsulas, that lie In that two-fold dominion Neptune takes Of the salt sea and sweet translucent lakes! Oh! with what joy I visit thee again, Scarce yet believing, how, left far behind, The tedious Thynian and Bithynian plain, I see thee, Sirmio, with this peaceful mind. Oh, what a blessed thing is the sweet quiet, When the tired heart lays down its load of care, And after foreign toil and sickening riot, Weary and worn, to feel at last we are At our own home--and our own floor to tread, And lie in peace on the long-wish'd-for bed! This, this alone, repays all labours past. Hail to thee, lovely Sirmio! gladly take Thine own, own master home to thee at last: And all ye sportive waters of my lake, Laugh out your welcome to my cheerful voice, And all that laughs at home, with me rejoice.

GRATIAN.--I well remember this singularly sweet, kind, affectionate address. It is the best version of "Home is home, be it ever so homely," I know. You have needlessly repeated _own_. Why not say, loved master?

CURATE.--Don't you think the _acquiescimus lecto_ would be better rendered "sink to rest?" I fancy the Latin expresses the sinking down of the wearied limbs, or rather, whole person, into the soft and deep feather bed.

AQUILIUS.--I Set it down so, but altered it, thinking the "lie in peace" was in reality more quiescent than any thing expressing an act--as sinking is a process _in transitu_--the result, lying in peace. It has often been translated, among others, by Leigh Hunt, and that prince of translators, Elton--though I think I was not satisfied with his translation of the Sirmio--of the others I do not remember a word.

CURATE.--Leigh Hunt overdid his work--there is more labour than ease in the line

"The loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed."

Not simple enough for Catullus; neither is this--a rather affected line--

"Laughs every dimple in the cheek of home."

GRATIAN.--No, that won't do--it is a conceit. One would imagine it borrowed or translated from some Italian poet.

AQUILIUS.--The "loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed," strikes me as rather of the ludicrous, and not unlike the description of himself by Berni in his fanciful palace, where he ordered a bed, adjoining that of the French cook's, which was to be large enough to swim in--"Come si fa nel mare."

GRATIAN.--Now then, Mr Curate, let us have your version.

CURATE.

TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO.

All hail to thee, delightful Sirmio! Of all peninsulas and isles the gem, Which lake or sea in its fair breast doth show With either Neptune's arms encircling them. What joy to find that Thynia, and that plain Bithynian gone, and see thee safe again! Charming it is to rest from care and cumber, When the mind throws its burden, and we come Wearied with pains of foreign travel home, And in the bed so longed for sink to slumber. This pays for all the toil, this quiet after-- Joy, my sweet Sirmio, for thy master's sake, Make merry, frolic wavelets of my lake-- Laugh on me, all ye stores of home-bred laughter.

GRATIAN.--I don't like "the mind _throws_ its burden:" lays it down is better--there is more weariness in it. You must alter that expression, or we see the mind like the "iniquae mentis ascellus," dropping back its ears, and _throwing_ its not agreeable and easy-sitting rider. Why not--

"When the mind lays its burden down, to come?"

But I see you have both of you translated away from the Latin the _Lydiae undae_. How comes it so?

AQUILIUS.--The reasons given for the word meaning Lydian seem to be insufficient; because it is said the Benacus resembles the Lydian rivers Hermus and Pactolus in having gold; or because the Benacus was in the district of the Thusci, who came from the Lydians. I adopted a conjecture once thrown out--and I think it was by the most accomplished scholar, W. S. Landor, that _Lydiae_ is the adjective of the word _Ludius--ludiae undae_, or _Lydiae undae_, the same thing, for that ludius is, as the dictionary tells us, "a Lydis, qui erant optimi saltatores." If so, _Lydiae_ would mean the sportive, or "dancing waters of the lake."

CURATE.--I took this hint from Aquilius, though I do not remember from whom the suggestion came. I would venture from the last line--

"Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum--"

a remark upon a passage, the celebrated expression in the _Prometheus_ of AEschylus, the [Greek: anerithmon gelasma]. Some call it "countless dimples." Now is it not possible Catullus may have thought of this, and as it were translated it by _quidquid est cachinnorum_? The question then would be, is it meant to speak to the ear or the eye? Is it of sound or vision? I am inclined to think it is the sound, the communicative laughter of the many waves. "Dimple" is too little for the gigantic conception of AEschylus, but the laughter of the multitudinous ocean-waves is more after his genius. No one could translate _cachinnus_ "a dimple." If, therefore, Catullus had in his mind the Greek passage, it shows his idea of the [Greek: anerithmon gelasma].

GRATIAN.--I have often admired how that can be _very_ beautiful which is of uncertain meaning. Is it that either construction conveys distinct thought--clear idea? I confess, I prefer the sound. What comes next?

CURATE.--Missing one or two, we take up his "Request to his friend Caecilius to come to him to Verona"--who, it seems, was a native of that place, and fellow townsman, as well as most dear friend of Catullus.

AQUILIUS.--Both poets--both kind-hearted; in fact, "The two gentlemen of Verona."

GRATIAN.--Well, that is saying something for Latin poets. Let us have your version, Curate.

CURATE.

INVITATION TO CAECILIUS.