Graves

These tombs and the common or garden graves

An environment of peace and of hoary age broods over these tombs and the common-or-garden graves that crowd shut about them. Mulberry-trees, fig-trees, and cypresses throw patches of shade on the tough grey pavement, wherein is a small oval pool, stuffed with water lest the little birds ought to go thirsty. A vine straggles over a wall close to by; weeds and lots more and plenty of vivid yellow flowers mix their humble efforts to be ornamental; and the decision to prayer drops down from the mighty minarets to this unusual backyard of stones, yellow flowers, and weeds, the place the lovers relaxation within the midst of Stamboul, which as soon as feared and adored them. They had been two criminals, however there was power of their wickedness, power of their satisfaction and their ardour. Romance attended their footsteps, and romance nonetheless lingers close to them.

One morning, as I sat beneath the noble fig-tree which guards Roxalana’s tomb, and listened to the voice of the muezzin floating over outdated Stamboul, and watched the birds fortunately consuming on the fringe of their little basin within the pavement, I considered the affect of cities. Doesn’t Stamboul ceaselessly incite to intrigue, to lawlessness, to bloodshed? The muezzin calls to prayer, however from outdated Stamboul arises one other voice sending forth an opposing sum-mons. Suleiman heard it echoed by Roxalana, and slew his son; Roxalana heard and obeyed it; and what number of others have listened and been fatally moved by it! It has sounded even throughout the waters of the ocean and over the forests of Yildiz; and Armenians have been slain by hundreds whereas Europe appeared on. And maybe in our day, and after we’re gone, outdated Stamboul will command from its seven hills and shall be horribly obeyed.

The small mosque of Rustem Pasha

I shall at all times bear in mind, amongst many much less well-known buildings, the small mosque of Rustem Pasha close to the Egyptian Bazaar, with its stunning arcade and its unusually confused inside, stuffed with loveliness and dangerous style, of atrocious trendy portray and oleographic horrors, mingled with beautiful marble and excellent tiles. The wall of the arcade gleams with lustrous faience, purple and crimson, azure and milk-white, and with patterns of nice flowers with inexperienced facilities and turquoise leaves. I recall, too, the Mosaic Mosque, as soon as the church of the monastery of the Chora, which stands on a hill from which Stamboul appears like a wonderful village embowered in inexperienced, cheerful and gaily fascinating. The church is ugly exterior, yellow and lead-colored, with a white plaster minaret, and it’s surrounded by wood shanties like cubicles. However its mosaics are very fascinating and exquisite, and its chief muezzin, Mustafa Effendi, is a enjoyment of his lengthy golden gown and his yellow turban.

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