The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862

Many of the Mussulmans (Turks) of Stamboul come over the Golden Horn to Pera, to witness the merry scenes of the Christian Carnival. They do not select the most fashionable places of resort, and consequently fall into rather doubtful company. They come sometimes with a companion or two, but prefer to have only their own people with them, or at most a toady or two to keep them in countenance. Such a person finds a conspicuous place, where he can see what is going on, throws off his more than half European coat, puts on his loose pelisse, calls for his Tchibook, or pipe, and, it must be added, something very much like hot punch, and goes in for the full enjoyment of the evening. In an hour or two, he is rather 'pulverized,' and very disregardful of what he says and does. The true semi-barbarian then comes to view; he becomes very ostentatious, and is disposed to act the fast man; a friend will always find him a lady, whom he invites to accompany him over to his konak, (private dwelling in Stamboul,) which she refuses; he urges her to play faro or rouge et noir with his money, which she does, until his purse is rather light, and by this time our Turk is so far insensible as to require to be conveyed to his carriage by the toadies or private attendants above mentioned. This he thinks is all right, and calls it à la Franka, or conformably with European civilization and fashion.

The Armenian and Greek ladies, too, are adopting the same ideas of reform and improvement in social life. One of the former, a fair, married lady, of good family, having lately fallen in with a young and handsome foreigner attached to one of the legations, allowed his visits to become more and more frequent, so that one day her husband, returning home rather sooner than expected, caught the couple in flagrante delicto. This was carrying European civilization somewhat to a delicate point; but she shielded herself against the husband's reproaches by the assertion that it was à la Franka, and the matter was compromised without any 'secession movement.'

The late Sultan built a theatre, and had a corps of ballet-girls for private amusement. He frequently gave entertainments at the former to the foreign legations, and one season even attended a bal paré at the British Embassy, and a bal en ordinaire at the French. This rather startled some of his subjects; but as such things were considered à la Franka, it passed over without any serious results. At the former, it is said, an amusing incident occurred, which, if not altogether true, is bon troveto. The late Sultan was extremely sensitive about coming in close contact with non-believers in the principles of the blessed Prophet. He never could touch the letter accrediting a foreign ambassador without hastening to perform ablutions, and as to conforming to the custom of shaking hands with an infidel, it was too horrible to be thought of for a moment. All animals, except horses, he held in abhorrence, and changed his entire costume several times a day, if he happened to have occasion to expose himself even to the winds blowing from the direction of the infidel hill on which Pera, the residences of the Christians, are built. On his arrival at the ball in question, he was, as is customary, shown into a private apartment, for a moment's repose previous to entering the salon in which hundreds of gay visitors were collected. The apartment happened to be that of the lady of the Ambassador, in fact, her boudoir, in which her poodle-dog, Bijou, had been accustomed to stay. Scarcely had the Sultan taken a seat, before poor Bijou made his appearance, and was at once driven away by some of the frightened attendants; but soon after returning unnoticed, the spiteful brute approached the Sultan, and offered the greatest indignity in his power to the pantaloons of the sensitive monarch. Imagine the indignation which occurred, and the designs of the wily British Ambassador to civilize the Turkish Sultan would have been wholly frustrated had not the chief gardien of the Sultan's wardrobe fortunately brought with him a full fresh suit for his master, in case of eventualities.

On the same occasion, the British Ambassador, for the same laudable purpose of civilizing the various clergy of the Ottoman capital, had insisted upon the Armenian, Greek, and Catholic Armenian Bishops and the Greek Rabbi of the Jews appearing at his bal paré in their canonicals! Against this they strongly remonstrated, but the influence of the Ambassador was greater than their own, and they had to make their débût at his ball in full dress. But this was, however, soon forgotten, as it was all à la Franka.

Some years ago, the late Sultan, on the occasion of the circumcision of one or two of his sons, gave a series of entertainments to his own functionaries, and one to the foreign diplomatic corps, in one of the valleys on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, called Hyder Pacha. With the view of properly amusing the foreign legations, à la Franka, the Sultan got up an extemporary theatre, adjoining the splendid pavilion, in which his guests were assembled. The play selected as best calculated for the purpose, was the Milliner's Shop, the like of which the Sultan had noticed while passing through the great street of Pera—the windows filled with bonnets, dress-caps, crinolines, etc., and very handsome dolls, some quite as 'large as life,' decollé, and thanks to the miniature crinolines, often showing very well-made chaussures and ankles. The little stage was not much raised above the green sward of the valley—a ditch had been dug out for the use of the orchestra, and the counter of the milliner separated this from the audience. As the whole affair had been got up rather hurriedly, the entrepreneur had not been able to procure a sufficient number of blocks on which to exhibit the bonnets and caps, and as men were readily obtained for the purpose, holes were cut in the counter, through which these thrust their heads, and on them rested the articles in question. A man also figured against the wall, on whom to hang up a ready-made dress or two, while his head also served as a block for a first-rate bonnet with flowers and feathers to suit the occasion. Now the weather had threatened a change, and much to the regret of the Sultan and his Court, who had it at heart to give such an entertainment to the diplomatic corps of Europe as would tell largely in the papers, and prove the great progress made by him in civilization, just as the play commenced, the rain began to fall in torrents. In their pavilion, the foreign ambassadors, etc., were somewhat secure, but not so the dramatis personæ. The ditch soon filled with water, and the orchestra had to hold their instruments above their heads, while the water rose to their waists, and finally drove them to open 'secession.' But the man-blocks which supported the millinery were still more to be pitied. Their heads were fast in the holes made, and partially closed again in the centre, so that they were unable to escape from the rain which deluged the whole affair. The water fell in torrents over the gay bonnets, caps, crinolines, etc., until they became a mass of tawdry, and the bare pates of those under them came ludicrously into view. It required the assistance of a carpenter and his aids to get the poor fellows free from their bondage, and enable them to seek safety in flight. As to the man fastened against the wall, he bore his torture, and the merriment which he occasioned among the audience, for some time, but finally was compelled to put an end to his part of the entertainment by a timely retreat.

Sultan Mahmoud was the first reformer of the Ottoman Empire, and his second son, Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz, the last. The reforms of the late Sultan, Abd-ul-Mejid, nearly ruined him, and the consequence is, that the present sovereign has wisely concluded to fall back upon some of the older fashions of his people. Mahmoud thought to drive away the remembrance of the Dervish-Janissaries whose violences seldom allowed a Sultan to die of disease, and never of old age. To effect this, he disbanded their several corps, and created new ones, in another dress. Perhaps this was wise at the time, but the object once reached, he might—or his successor, at most—have restored the broken spirit of his people, by a return to their national costume. It was only by force and fear that he induced his new troops to adopt the dress of the deeply detested Ghiaours, and the measure greatly alienated the respect and affections of his subjects, especially those of the interior of the empire. The higher classes of the capital assumed it with less reserve, on account of the economy which it admitted, and because it was à la mode, but the lower were less disposed to lay that one aside which had been worn by their ancestors, and served to designate the true Mussulman. The picturesque costume of the natives of Arabia, of Egypt, Syria, and Albania, had to be thrown aside for the tight pantaloons and coat of the Infidel, and Mahmoud went so far even as to require the Bombardiers of his army to wear a head-dress, black, and tall as a hat, differing from it by the absence of a rim, and open on the top, covered only with a bag of dark silk, drawn together with a cord. This, how-ever, disappeared in the reign of his successor.

The present Sultan has adopted a middle course. Without either restoring the costumes of the Janissaries, or even assimilating the habiliments of his troops to that which they wear in their own country, which would have inspired a strong and useful esprit de corps, he has accepted the uniform of the Zouave and Turcos of the French army. It is sufficiently Oriental to meet the object desired, and is very popular in the Sultan's army. It leaves to the wearer the free use of his limbs, but as a parade-dress will not show so favorably, to European eyes, as the more dignified dress of the Guards. The most difficult part of a military costume is the head-dress; and the common red cap of the Turks, called the Fez, is even more objectionable than the unseemly slouched hat worn in the regular army of the United States. Around this cap the Sultan has had a small turban bound, in one or two folds, which is a relief to the eye, and easily kept in order. It is readily taken off, in case of need, and may be bound around the waist as a sash, or girdle.

This change in the dress of his army has given to his people the idea that their new Sultan is anti-Christian, and will restore the Ottoman Empire to its former state and condition. How far this will be verified, still rests to be seen. Reforms not entirely needed, and but half carried out, leave the recipients in that transitory state which weakens and demoralizes without effecting any permanent and real benefit. An external change is certainly less efficient than a moral one, but it goes far toward influencing the feelings of patriotism and loyalty which are so essential to man in his political condition, and it is more than probable that the anti-reforms of Sultan Abd-ul-Aziz will effect more real good in his capital, and elsewhere, than the boasted reforms of his illustrious father.

WITCHES, ELVES, AND GOBLINS

The creative power of man, though so much boasted, is after all but a mere phantom—a vapor which rises from the ground and floats with little change of form from place to place. The diapason which we thought so extensive, appears, on inquiry, to consist of only a few notes, and the changes that may be rung upon them, may almost be counted upon the fingers. Homer's fables are near of kin to those of Shakspeare; the legends of ancient Greece find their details mirrored exactly in the traditions of Spain, Scotland, and Scandinavia. Whether in the remoter fogs of the past some glimmering traces of light may lead us to discover a common origin, a universal fountain, whence proceed pure and limpid all the streams that are contaminated by baser contact in their later course, is a question which might mightily task the most powerful minds. The gods of Greece and Rome are reproduced in Odin and Thor, Freia, and Gerda and Tduna. Aphrodite at Athens, Venus on the Seven Hills, Freia in the North, differ but in name. Dark hair and coal-black eyes, and a warm, sunny beauty may please the ardent inhabitants of Greece and Rome; the Swedes and Germans may bow before golden hair and blue eyes, fair and blooming cheeks. But transport the Grecian Aphrodite to the Dofrefield glaciers, and she will soon grow white as their snow, her eyes will fade to the pale cold blue of their skies, and with the winter frosts her hair will turn like fall leaves, golden yellow; and under the sun of Italy, Freia will tan to the burning, dark-hued, voluptuous Venus of the South. The two soils naturally breed the one cold statues, the other passionate life, but these two different phases are in themselves identical, Thor's hammer, and the various wonderful exploits of the Northern gods and goddesses, their dim, ill-defined notions of creation, of time and space, and of future worlds, are but natural growths from the nature of the North. Their gods, like their men, are all action, and to raise their actions above those of the human race, they naturally invest them with peculiar supernatural physical endowments, and a strange, mysterious mode of action. The powers of magic come to their aid; they are not absolutely omnipotent. Dwarfs forge them invincible arms in subterranean caverns; earth, air, fire, and water, conspire to assist them. The elements rage or are appeased at their command.

In the same way the gods of Greece and Rome are all repose. Their actions acquire a superiority over those of man not by supernatural agencies or extraordinary developments of physical power; their preëminence lies in the quiet assumption of power, in the immediate sequence of action on volition. Their divinity is esoteric, consisting in attributes innate and not assumed. Action with them is power; but in the North power must be superadded.

Thus we find all the various attributes embodied in the gods of the South, likewise deified and modified in the North, Thus Loke is the Mercury of the ancients. He is the same sly rogue as Hermes, though he has not some of the better qualities of that god. He is essentially the god of deceit. His deceptions are more subtle and deep-laid than those of the Grecian adept. He combines with the Pagan element something of the old Christian Satanic element. Without the horn and hoof of the Christian devil, he has all his peculiar mental qualities, and uses them to the great prejudice and harm of the other gods. So, likewise, with many of the more human μυθοι. We find the same ideas to spring up in the agora of Athens, the wilds and snows of Norway, and the heathers and hills of Scotland. The fable of the Sirens finds an exact counterpart in the North. Like Ulysses, Duke Magnus and innumerable others escape with difficulty from the charms and enticements of sea-nymphs. Sometimes it is their wonderful song which the earth and the elements obey as they did Orpheus, that attracts them. Sometimes it is by more sensual blandishments, and sometimes by sweet and tender persuasion, suadæ medullâ. Mountain elves start from the ground, and from unseen caverns, and attempt to entice brave knights to their ruin; they dance round them beneath the trees, and endeavor to make them join in their dances. The natural fortitude of the stalwart champions is rarely able to resist the temptation, and they are always on the point of falling, when some unoffending barn-yard fowl sounds the signal for retreat, or some Christian word is uttered, or sign made, and the fair visions vanish, either naturally or in divers shapes with odors of brimstone and sulphur. The differences between the Grecian and the Northern conceptions are striking. In the Greek the forms are clear and vivid. The sirens are beautiful women, with angelic voices and vulture's talons. There are nothing but conceivable realities in their story. There is nothing strange or supernatural in their accessories. But in the Scandinavian elves the case is different. They vanish and reäppear at different times; they have no actual, permanent existence. The crow of a cock or the sign of the cross is enough to drive them back to their hiding-places. They shun daylight and fixed, customary spots. They generally surprise casual travelers, and upon them in lone, romantic spots, practice all their arts of enticement and seduction. There is always something of magic, of the supernatural, connected with them. The Greek sirens are not like common women; but once conceive of their physical existence, and you understand them thoroughly. Their laws of action are purely human, and we do not find them one half so unnatural as our neighbor that has a splay foot or a hunchback. The Northern witches, however, are formed like human females, but obey unknown and mysterious powers. The commonest words and associations of men are bans to them. Only so long do they have power as nothing human disturbs and overthrows their supernatural spells.

Again let us look for a moment at another division of Grecian fiction. The grim Cyclops who toils for Vulcan, working like mortal men, and forging divine things, it is true, like any Grecian blacksmith, has a counterpart of a somewhat different character in the North. The reality and vividness of the Greek changes as we approach the Pole. In deep caverns distorted, strange little dwarfs work by the aid of supernatural powers wondrous weapons, swords of incredible qualities, armor that defies mortal blades, bracelets of wondrous and cunning finish and singular properties—all here is miraculous, the workman, the process, and the work. The vividness with which Homer presents to us the one-eyed Polyphemus, with his tree-staff and his ponderous body, is exchanged by the Scandinavian for smallness, indistinctness of form and of power. The grand in the South is obtained by giving enlarged pictures of man as he is; in the North, by investing him with strange, magic, mysterious qualities. In mental as well as material nature, a general haziness of outline conveys the idea of greatness as strongly, though in another manner, as the sharp and perceptible outline of any thing really great.

This peculiarity we shall find running through the literature, the character, and the mind of the two nations. The North is misty, undefined, illimited; the Greek is clear as crystal, sharp and angular, on every side. Its conceptions are never vague, but are tangible, real, and human. Thus with the Greek, a vast ocean, like that they know, encircles the whole earth, and fixes its bounds and the limits which man shall not pass; the Northerns compassed it about with a vast serpent of immense size, which bounded infinity and space, time and eternity, thereby mirroring, in some degree, as it were, the ancient symbol for time and space without end, the snake biting his own tail, the circle with no one beginning nor end. The heaven of the Greeks is the summit of one of their own mountains, known to every peasant and inhabitant. Accessible only to the gods, there they live, as unconcernedly as though the earth were not. Thor, and Odin, and Freia live in the 'Shining Walhalla,' whither go the souls of brave and good warriors. Their way thither is over the heavenly bridge, the many-colored rainbow, thrown over between heaven and earth for the passage of the happy souls. And there in this dim, ghostly Walhalla they sit like the Grecian gods, and drink mead instead of ambrosia and nectar. They do not share in the earthly vices of the Southern gods. Thor never begat such a progeny as Jupiter.

Repose is also, as hinted at, a characteristic of Southern mythology, while action, assisted by supernatural agencies, is the feature of the Northern deities. Thus Jupiter sits majestic and silent upon Olympus and nods his head, and the whole earth shakes. He is human in his character, but of an ideal and superior human nature—man immensely magnified. The gods of Norway are also human, but they are, in themselves, mere men. What makes them gods is the magic power which is joined with them, a mere adjunct not forming a part of them. They toil and act like men—they are never still. Thor bears the hammer, the emblem of physical strength, energy, and activity. He can at a draught half drain the sea, and cause the tides to rise and ebb; he can lift the serpent that surrounds the world; he can wrestle with Death himself, and almost come off victorious. The giants are his mortal enemies, and against them he wages war and bears deadly hatred, as Jupiter against the Titans. None but the warrior, who has fought long and well, enjoys the long dreamt-of mead of Walhalla. A death on one's own bed is almost as ignominious as that of the coward. The straw-death (strödod) they will endeavor to avoid by opening their own veins and bleeding to death, and as the warm life-blood pours forth, they sing triumphant death-songs, and see the portals gradually open to receive them, and Braga the Scald, seated at the gate with his magic-sounding harp, his fingers running through the golden strings, and in such ecstasies they give up the ghost. The Greek dies in a more quiet, philosophical, and practical manner. He does not fear the shame of a warm and soft bed. Achilles, and Ajax, and Diomed, are not the only inmates of Elysium. Socrates, and Plato, and Homer, Apelles and Zeuxis, are all there too. The poet and the philosopher, the painter and the sculptor, rank as high through pen, pencil, and chisel, as the warrior by his blade and his bloody exploits. Art, in the North, finds no existence, and strikes no sympathizing chord in the bosoms of the sturdy Northmen. Art, to be perfect, requires a distinctness of conception, and an assimilation to human nature in its subjects, entirely at variance with the dim, mysterious character of the Scandinavian imagination. Painting is a thing utterly unknown, and sculpture, where found, deals in shapeless blocks and huge, massive, ill-proportioned forms, analogous to the primitive Egyptian art. In the Northern mythology and legendary history, minstrels play an important part. They are as indispensable as the Welsh bards, though not invested with the same authority as they. At the table of the gods, Braga strikes his wonderful harp and chants the triumphal hymns of dead warriors as they enter the Walhalla. Round the boards of the rougher Vikings, among the muscular, sun-browned champions, hardened to blood and strife, the minstrel is ever present, and as the huge cups pass around the long line, they sing the triumphs and praises of their hosts. They are like the old Grecian minstrels; like Phemius and Demodocus, they chant old memories of great sea-kings and champions, legends of magic elves and dwarfs, and wondrous and often touchingly beautiful stories of love and passion. The vague impressions of music seem to harmonize marvelously with the Northern nature. It is wild and weird in its character, for much of it, with the innumerable ballads of those days, have reached us from father to son, and vividly recall the times whence they date, and the men whose characters they mirror. There is often a magic element connected with their music. The music of the elves is like that of the sirens and of Orpheus, often irresistible. Through many of their ballads runs the same legendary undertone. A maiden's song moves the king's heart, and one by one he offers in vain every gift in his power, to the very half of his kingdom, and ends by placing a crown of gold upon her head, and seating her beside him on his throne as his lawful queen. The story of the two sisters, one ugly and one beautiful, reappears in the North in various forms. The younger and more lovely of the two is murdered, and the elder is to wed her bride-groom. Pilgrims who meet with the body, make a lyre from the bones, and string it with the golden hair of the maiden, and as they play at the bridal, each string tells its tale of horror in turn, while the unhappy sister sinks under these inanimate accusations.

In the Greek myths we find none of these mysterious elements. The supernatural creations we meet with are innumerable, and no less strange in themselves. But there is nothing in Polyphemus, in Circe, in the Sirens, beyond their physical natures, which can make us look beyond ourselves to understand and fully sympathize with them. Once fully grasp their superhuman endowments, and you feel they act like men on a large scale. Not so with the Northern supernatural beings. In themselves they approach nearer to men, and are but little above them in endowments and character, but it is their mode of action which makes them superior to us; their divinity and power lie not in themselves, but in the agents, visible and mysterious, that they employ. They are not like Jupiter, omnipotent. They are brought to a stand quite as often as more humble mortals. Thor, without his hammer, is no longer Thor himself. His trusty Mjölner is more to him than the thunderbolt of Zeus to the Grecian father of the gods. The eagle and thunderbolt of Jove, the ægis of Minerva, the girdle of Venus and Mercury's wands, are mere emblems of what powers their own natures give them. With the Northern deities their whole strength lies in the possession of these. Without them they are powerless, and in spite of all their might, they are often obliged to call on one another for assistance, and sometimes even stand in need of mortal aid. We may, perhaps, consider the Grecian gods as mere personifications and idealities, but those of the North are essentially real. They are the creations of a powerful but vague imagination, forms which resemble a Norwegian mountain, distinct in itself by its glittering snows and icy rocks, but which shrouds its head in a perpetual mist, except when some adverse wind with its indiscreet blowing, displays it in all its nakedness, and plain though grand reality.