Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 327, January, 1843

From this professional display, the Marquis adjourned to the "Grand Promenade," where the sultanas see the world, unseen themselves, in their carriages. "Though," as he writes, "I never had an opportunity of verifying any thing like Miss Pardoe's anecdote of the 'sentries being ordered to face about when presenting arms,' rather than be permitted to gaze on the tempting and forbidden fruit; but, on the contrary, witnessed soldiers escorting all the sultanas' carriages: it is nevertheless true, that a gruff attendant attacked and found fault with me for daring to raise my eyes to a beautiful Turkish woman, whom it was quite impossible I could admire beyond her forehead and two large black eyes, eyebrows, and lashes, which glanced from under her yashmack." But the Marquis has no mercy on the performances of poor Miss Pardoe.

The sultana-mother was a personage of high importance at this time, from her supposed influence over her son. Her equipage was somewhat European—a chariot, with hammer-cloth, (apparently lately received from Long-Acre.) The coachman drove four large bay horses, with a plurality of reins. There were attendants, running Turks, and guards before to clear the way. Two open barouches, ornamented after the manner of the country, followed, and the rear of the sultanas' procession was closed by arebas (or covered and gilded vans) full of women and slaves.

But the most characteristic display of all is the "Cabinet." "On the side of this drive is a long colonnade of shops; and, at the bottom of it, a barber's, in which all the ministers of the divan and the pasha assemble! They sit on cushions in grand conclave and conference; and, while affecting to discuss the affairs of the state, the direction of their eyes, and their signs to the recumbent houris in the carriages, show their thoughts to be directed to other objects."

What should we think of the chancellor, the premier, and the three secretaries of state, sitting in council at a fruiterer's in Regent Street, and nodding to the ladies as they pass? But this is not all. The sultan, in his kiosk, sits at one end of the drive, inspecting the whole panorama. Still, it is not yet complete; at the lower end of the colonnade there is a woman-market, where each slave, attended by a duenna, passes and parades, casting her languishing eyes through the files of lounging officers and merchants, who crowd this part of the promenade. All this is essentially Turkish, and probably without any thing like it in the world besides.

The beauty of the Turkish women is still a matter of dispute. When beauty is an object of unlimited purchase, its frequency will be probably found a safe admission. But Turkish women occasionally unveil, and it is then generally discovered that the veil is one of their principal charms. They have even been described as merely good-humoured looking "fatties"—a sufficiently humble panegyric. Lord Londonderry gives it as his opinion, that they are "not generally handsome, but all well-built and well-grown, strong, and apparently healthy. Their eyes and eyebrows are invariably fine and expressive; and their hair is, beyond measure, superior to that of other nations. The thickness of its braidings and plaits, and the masses that are occasionally to be seen, leave no doubt of this."

Long and luxuriant tresses belong to all the southern nations of Europe, and seem to be the results of heat of climate; and there are few facts in physiology more singular than the sudden check given to this luxuriance on the confines of Negroland. There, with all predisposing causes for its growth, it is coarse, curled, and never attains to length or fineness of any kind. The Georgians and Circassians were once the boast of the harem; but the war and the predominance of the Russian power in the Caucasus, have much restricted this detestable national traffic—a circumstance said to be much to the regret of both parents and daughters; the former losing the price, and the latter losing the preferment, to which the young beauties looked forward as to a certain fortune. But later experience has told the world, that the charms of those Armidas were desperately exaggerated by Turkish romance and European credulity; that the general style of Circassian features, though fair, is Tartarish, and that the Georgian is frequently coarse and of the deepest brown, though with larger eyes than the Circassian, which are small, and like those of the Chinese. The accounts written by ladies visiting the harems are to be taken with the allowance due to showy dress, jewels, cosmetics, and the general effect of a prepared exhibition, scarcely less than theatrical. It is scarcely possible that either the human face or form can long preserve symmetry of any kind in a life almost wholly destitute of exercise, in the confined air of their prison, and in the full indulgence of their meals. Activity, animation, and grace—the great constituents of all true beauty—must soon perish in the harem.

The Marquis (an excellent judge of a horse) did not much admire the steeds of the pashas. On a visit to the Seraskier's stables, the head groom brought out fourteen, with light Tartars on them to show their points. Their stables were miserable. The horses were without stalls or litter, in a dark, ill-paved barn. They were heavily covered with rugs. Three or four were very fine Arabs; but the rest were of Turkish blood, with large heads, lopped ears, and thick necks, of indifferent action, and by no means desirable in any shape.

The interview with the Sultan was the last, and was interesting and characteristic. The Marquis had naturally expected to find him in the midst of pomp. Instead of all this, on entering a common French carpeted room, he perceived, on an ordinary little French sofa, the sovereign crosslegged, and alone; two small sofas, half-a-dozen chairs, and several wax-lights, were all the ornaments of this very plain saloon. But the Sultan was diamonded all over, and fully made amends for the plainness of his reception-room. As to his person, Abdul-Mehjid is a tall sallow youth of nineteen or twenty, with a long visage, but possessing fine eyes and eyebrows, so that, when his face is lighted up, it is agreeable and spiritual.

We must now close our sketch of those diversified and pleasant volumes. We regret to hear that their distinguished and active author has lately met with a severe accident in following the sports of his country; but we are gratified with the hope of his recovery, and the hope, too, of seeing him undertake more excursions, and narrate them with equal interest, truth, and animation.

THE CURSE OF GLENCOE 12

BY B. SIMMONS

The fair calm eve on wood and wold Shone down with softest ray, Beneath the sycamore's red leaf The mavis trill'd her lay, Murmur'd the Tweed afar, as if Complaining for the day. And evening's light, and wild-bird's song, And Tweed's complaining tune; And far-off hills, whose restless pines Were beckoning up the moon— Beheld and heard, shed silence through A lofty dim saloon. The fruits of mellow autumn glow'd Upon the ebon board; The blood that grape of Burgundy In other days had pour'd, Gleam'd from its crystal vase—but all Untasted stood the hoard. Two guests alone sat listlessly That lavish board beside; The one a fair-haired stripling, tall, Blithe-brow'd and eager-ey'd, Caressing still two hounds in leash, That by his chair abide. Right opposite, in musing mood, A stalwart man was placed, With veteran aspect, like a tower By war, not time, defaced, Whose shatter'd walls exhibit Power Contending still with Waste. And as the ivy's sudden veil Will round the fortress spring, Some grief unfading o'er that brow Its shadow seemed to fling, And made that stalwart man's whole air A sad and solemn thing. And so they sat, both Youth and Years, An hour without a word— The pines that beckon'd up the moon Their arms no longer stirr'd, And through the open windows wide The Tweed alone was heard. The elder's mood gave way at last, Perhaps some sudden whine Of the lithe quest-hounds startled him, Or timepiece striking nine; "Fill for thyself, forgotten Boy," He said, "and pass the wine." "A churlish host I ween am I To thee, who, day by day, Thus comest to cheer my solitude With converse frank and gay, Or tempt me with thy dogs to course The moorlands far away. "But still the fit returns"—he paused, Then with a sigh resumed, "Remember'st thou how once beneath, Yon chestnut, when it bloom'd, Thou ask'd'st me why I wore the air Of spirit disentomb'd; "And why, apart from man, I chose This mansion grim and hoary, Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd, Nor ancient name, to glory? I shunn'd thy questions then—now list, And thou shalt hear the story— "With a brief preface, and thro' life Believe its warning true— That they who (save in righteous cause) Their hands with blood imbrue— Man's sacred blood—avenging heaven Will long in wrath pursue. "A curse has fallen upon my race; The Law once given in fire, While Sinai trembled to its base, That curse inflicted dire, TO VISIT STILL UPON THE SON, THE OFFENCES OF THE SIRE. "My fathers strong, of iron hand, Had hearts as iron hard, That never love nor pity's touch, From ruthless deeds bebarr'd. And well they held their Highland glen, Whatever factions warr'd. "When Stuart's great but godless race Dissolved like thinnest snow Before bright Freedom's face, my clan, The Campbells, served their foe. —Boy—'twas my grandsire" (soft he said) "Commanded at Glencoe." The stripling shrank, nor quite suppress'd His startled bosom's groan; Forward and back the casements huge By sudden gust were blown, And at the sound one dreaming hound Awaken'd with a moan. "Glencoe—ay, well the word may stir, The stoutest heart with fear, Or burn with monstrous shame the face Of man from year to year, As long as Scotland's girdling rocks The roar of seas shall hear. "Enough—Glenlyon redly earn'd The curse he won that night, When rising from the social hearth He gave the word to smite, And all was shriek and helplessness, And massacre and flight. "And such a flight!—O, outraged Heaven, How could'st thou, since, have smiled? A fathom deep the frozen snow Lay horrid on the wild, Where fled to perish youth and age, And wife and feeble child. "My couch is soft—yet dreams will still Convert that couch to snow, And in my slumbers shot and shout Are ringing from Glencoe." That stalwart man arose and paced The chamber to and fro, While to his brow the sweat-drop sprung Like one in mortal throe. "Glenlyon died, be sure, as die All desperate men of blood, And from my sire (his son) our lands Departed sod by sod, Till the sole wealth bequeathed me was A mother fearing God. "She rear'd me in that holy fear, In stainless honour's love, And from the past she warned me, Whate'er my fate should prove, To shrink from bloodshed as a sin. All human sins above. "I kept the precept;—by the sword Compell'd to win me bread, A soldier's life of storm and strife For forty years I led, Yet ne'er by this reluctant arm Has friend or foeman bled. "But still I felt Glencoe's dark curse My head suspended o'er, —Look, this reluctant hand, for all, Is red with human gore!" Again that white-lipp'd man arose And strode the echoing floor. "A prosperous course through life was mine On rampart, field, and wave, Though more my warrior skill than deeds, Command and fortune gave. Years roll'd away, and I prepared To drop the weary glaive. "'Twas when beyond th' Atlantic foam, To check encroaching France, Our war spread wide, and, on his tide, In many a martial glance, St Lawrence saw grey Albyn's plumes And Highland pennons dance. "E'en while I waited for the Chief, By whom relieved at last, Heart-young, though time-worn, I was free To hail my country's blast— That on a sentry, absent found, The doom of death was pass'd. "POOR RONALD BLAIR! a fleeter foot Ne'er track'd through Morvern moss The wind-hoof'd deer; nor swimmer's arm More wide the surge could toss Than his, for whom dishonour's hand Now dug the griesly fosse. "Suspicion of those hunter tribes, Along whose giant screen Of shadowy woods our host encamp'd, The early cause had been Of rule, that none of Indian race Should come our lines within. "The law was kept, yet, far away, Amid the forests' glade, The fair-hair'd warriors of the North Woo'd many a dusky maid, Who charm'd, perhaps, not less because In Nature's garb array'd. "And warm and bright as southern night, When all is stars and dew, Was that dark girl, who, to the banks, Where lay her light canoe, Lured Ronald's footsteps, day by day, What time the sun withdrew. "Far down the stream she dwelt, 'twould seem, Yet stream nor breeze could bar Her little boat, that to a nook, Dark with the pine-tree's spar, Each evening Ronald saw shoot up As constant as a star. "Alone she came—she went alone:— She came with fondest freight Of maize and milky fruits and furs Her lover's eyes to greet; She went—ah, 'twas her bosom then, Not bark, that bore the weight! "How fast flew time to hearts like theirs! The ruddy summer died, And Arctic frosts must soon enchain St. Lawrence' mighty tide; But yet awhile the little boat Came up the river-side. "One night while from their northern lair With intermittent swell, The keen winds grumbled loud and long, To Ronald's turn it fell Close to the shore to keep the lines, A lonely sentinel. "'Twas now the hour was wont to bring His Indian maid; and hark! As constant as a star it comes, That small love-laden bark, It anchors in the cove below— She calls him through the dark. "He dared not answer, dared not stir, Where Discipline had bound him; Nor was there need—led by her heart The joyous girl has found him; She understands it not, nor cares, Her raptured arms are round him. "He kiss'd her face—he breathed low Those brook-like, murmuring words That, without meaning, speak out all The heart's impassion'd chords, The truest language human lip To human lip affords. "He pointed towards the distant camp, Her clasping arms undid, And show'd that till the morrow's sun Their meeting was forbid; She went—her eyes in tears—he call'd, And kiss'd them from the lid. "She went—he heard her far below Unmoor her little boat; He caught the oars' first dip that sent It from the bank afloat; Next moment, down the tempest swept With an all-deafening throat. "Loud roar'd the storm, but louder still The river roar'd and rose, Tumbling its angry billows, white And huge as Alpine snows; Yet clear through all, one piercing cry His heart with terror froze. "She shrieks, and calls upon the name She learn'd to love him by; The waves have swamp'd her little boat— She sinks before his eye! And he must keep his dangerous post, And leave her there to die! "One moment's dreadful strife—Love wins; He plunges in the water; The moon is out, his strokes are stout, The swimmer's arm has caught her, And back he bears, with gasping heart, The Forest's matchless daughter! "'Twas but a chance!—her life is gain'd, And his is gone—for, lo! The picquet round has come, and found, Left open to the foe, The dangerous post that Ronald kept So short a time ago. "They met him bearing her—he scorn'd To palter or to plead: Arrested—bound—ere beat of drum, The Judgment-court decreed That Ronald Blair should with his life Pay forfeit for his deed. "He knew it well—that deed involved Such mischief to the host, While prowling spy and open foe Watch'd every jealous post, That, of a soldier's crimes, it call'd For punishment the most. "On me, as senior in command, The charge I might not shun Devolved, to see the doom of death Upon the culprit done. The place—a league from camp; the hour— The morrow's evening sun. "Meanwhile some touches of the tale That reach'd the distant tent Of Him who led the war in Chief, Won justice to relent. That night, in private, a REPRIEVE Unto my care was sent, "With secret orders to pursue The sentence to the last, And when the prisoner's prayer was o'er, And the death-fillet past, But not till then, to read to him That Pardon for the past. "The morrow came; the evening sun Was sinking red and cold, When Ronald Blair, a league from camp We led, erect and bold, To die the soldier's death, while low The funeral drum was roll'd. "With arms reversed, our plaided ranks The distance due retire, The fatal musqueteers advance The signal to require: 'Till I produce this kerchief blue, Be sure withhold your fire.' "His eyes are bound—the prayer is said— He kneels upon his bier; So dread a silence sank on all, You might have heard a tear Drop to the earth. My heart beat quick With happiness and fear, "To feel conceal'd within my vest A parting soul's relief! I kept my hand on that REPRIEVE Another moment brief; Then drew it forth, but with it drew, O God! the handkerchief. "He fell!—and whether He or I Had died I hardly knew— But when the gusty forest breeze Aside the death-smoke blew, I heard those bearing off the dead, Proclaim that there were two. "They said that as the volley ceased, A low sob call'd them where They found an Indian maiden dead, Clasping in death's despair One feather from a Highland plume And one bright lock of hair. "I've long forgot what follow'd, save That standing by his bier, I shouted out the words some fiend Was whispering in my ear— 'My race is run—the curse of Heaven And of Glencoe is here!'13 "From that dark hour all hope to me, All human hope was gone; I shrank from life a branded man— I sought my land alone, And of a stranger's purchased halls I joy'd to make my own. "Thou'st known me long as Campbell—now Thou know'st the Campbell's story, And why, apart from man, I chose This mansion grim and hoary, Nor in my ancient lineage seem'd, Nor ancient name, to glory. "Though drear my lot, yet, noble boy, Not always I repine; Come, wipe those watery drops away That in thine eyelids shine; Fill for thyself," the old man said, "Once more, and pass the wine."

THE MARTYRS' MONUMENT

A MONOLOGUE Now glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band— And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland; And glory evermore to those who the battle first began, For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man. Ye citizens of Mary-le-bone! 'twas yours to point the way How freemen best might mock the laws which none but slaves obey; How classic fanes should rise to mark the honour that we owe To all who hated Church and King, and planned their overthrow. O fresh and bright shone reason's light through superstition's gloom, When one and all ye heard the call of honest Joseph Hume; When listening to his flowing words, than honey-dew more sweet, Ye sate, dissolved in holy tears, at that Gamaliel's feet! How touchingly he spoke of those now gather'd to their rest, By knaves and laws upbraided, but by righteous patriots bless'd; How brightly gleamed his eagle eye, as he poured his ancient grudge On that foul throng that wrought them wrong—on Jury and on Judge! Well may ye boast among the host of patriots tried and true, That to your bold humanity the foremost place is due; Yet others follow fast behind, though ye have led the van, In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man! Dun-Edin's civic Councillors come closely in your wake, They, too, can feel for injured truth, and blush for Scotland's sake; Well have they wiped the stain away, affix'd in former years Upon the citizens of France, and on their bold compeers. Let women moan and maunder against the glorious time, When France arose in all her might, when loyalty was crime; When prison shambles stream'd with blood, and red the gutters ran, In the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man! When piled within the crazy boats, chain'd closely to the beam, By hundreds the aristocrats sank in the sullen stream; When age and sex were no respite, and merrily and keen, From morning until night, rush'd down the clanking guillotine. 'Tis ours to render homage, where homage most is due— Now glory be to DANTON, and to his valiant crew— And glory to those mighty shades, who never stoop'd to spare, The virtuous regicides of France, and the hero, ROBESPIERRE. But greater glory still to those, who strove within our land, To hoist the cap of liberty, and bare the British brand, To drag our ancient Parliament from its place of honour down, To ride rough-shod upon the Lords, and spit upon the Crown. What though the bigots of the bench declared their treason vile— What though they languish'd slowly in the felon's distant isle— Shall we, the children of Reform, withhold our just applause From those who loved the people and, of course, despised the laws? We'll rear a stately monument—we'll build it fair and high, And on the porch this graven verse shall greet the passers-by— "IN HONOUR OF THE MARTYRS WHO THE BATTLE FIRST BEGAN FOR THE CAUSE OF JUST FRATERNITY, AND THE EQUAL RIGHTS OF MAN!" 'Twill be a proud memorial, when we have pass'd away, Of old Dun-Edin's loyalty, and the Civic Council's sway; And it shall stand while earth is green and skies are summer blue, Eternal as the sleep of those who fell at Peterloo! Were I a chosen Councillor—a tetrarch of the town, I'd drag from off their pedestals these Tory statues down; I'd make a universal sweep of all that serves to show How vilely the aristocrats have used us long ago. The column rear'd to victory in that detested war, When the Tricolor went down before our flag at Trafalgar, The column that hath taught our sons to mutter Nelson's name, I'd level straightway with the dust, and with it sink our shame. Yes! in that place a classic fane should stand where Nelson's stood, With new baptismal cognizance from famous THISTLEWOOD; His bust should in the centre shine, and round it, placed on guard, The effigies of HATFIELD, INGS, and of the good DESPARD. There's Pitt, the Lar of Frederick Street—O shame to us and ours! Was it not he whose policy struck back the Gallic powers? Was it not he whose iron hand so ruthlessly kept down The tide of bold democracy, and saved the British crown? I'd fetch him from his lofty perch; I'd dash him on the stones; I'd serve the lifeless bronze the same as I'd have served his bones; And on the empty stance I would in radiant metal show, A bolder and a braver man—the patriot PAPINEAU. Down, down, I say, with George the Fourth!—for him there's no delay; Let all askance direct their glance, for virtue's sake, we pray; So says our new Pygmalion, the purist of the town, 'Twere shame that he compelled should be, in passing, to look down. Let's find another statue of the brave old English breed, A worthy of an earlier age—a champion good at need; No cause were then to seem ashamed, though slaves might feel afraid, When emancipated bondsmen bow'd to the image of JACK CADE. There's room enough where Royal Charles sits stiffly in the Square, To rear a double effigy—Why not of BURKE and HARE? Though not in freedom's cause they died, remember'd let it be, That science has its martyrdom, as well as liberty. A monument to Walter Scott!—A monument forsooth! What has that bigot done for us, for freedom, or for truth? He always back'd the Cavalier against the Puritan, And sneer'd at just fraternity, and the equal rights of man. What good to us have ever done his Legends of Montrose, Of Douglas and of dark Dundee, the fellest of our foes? What care we for the Border chiefs, or for the Stuart line, Or the thraldom of the people in "the days of auld langsyne?" Men dream'd not of equality in days so darkly wild, Nor was the peasant's bantling then mate for the baron's child; But we've learn'd another lesson since the golden age drew near, And working men may keep the wall, and jostle prince and peer. Ye fools! take down your monument—or rear it, if ye will, But choose another effigy that lofty niche to fill. None better, say ye? Pause awhile, and I will tell you one, Who never bent the servile knee at altar or at throne. No fond illusions dull'd his eye, no tales of wither'd eld; No childish faith was his to trust aught save what he beheld; No sovereignty would he allow save Reason's rightful reign; No laws save those of Nature's code—and such was THOMAS PAINE. Place him within your Gothic arch, the only fit compeer Of those whose martyr monument the Council seek to rear; Since traitors to the laws of man may boldly look abroad, Towards the image of their friend who broke the laws of God. Since anarchy must have its meed, let's leave no statue here, That might from other lips than ours provoke a cynic sneer: If temples must be built to crime, we'll worship there alone, Nor leave a mark of loyalty or honour in the stone. Then glory to our Councillors, that true and trusty band— And glory to each gallant heart that loathes its fatherland; And glory evermore to those who the battle first began, For the cause of just fraternity, and the equal rights of man!