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       *       *       *       *       *

Multum in Parvo Library.

_Entered at Post Office as Second-Class matter._

Vol. I. SEPTEMBER, 1894. No. 9.

_Published Monthly._




The Secrets of The Harem.


  By one who has been there.

  _Smallest Magazine in the World. Subscription price, 50 cts. per
  year. Single copies, 5 cents each._

  PUBLISHED BY A. B. COURTNEY, Boston.




In the Harem.


Many people have an idea that Turkish women absolutely do nothing that
is either useful or ornamental aside from the decoration of their own
persons, but that is not altogether true, as my residence of over a
year in their country taught me, for they are really dextrous with the
needle and do work which is as fine as that done by the sisters in the
convents, or that of the wives of the feudal noblemen of olden times.

The favorite pastime of the Turkish women is the bath, which brings
together the wives and slaves of all the well-to-do Turks, and it is
like a picnic of school children.

These wives, most of them very young--some, indeed, not over twelve or
fourteen years old--take their lunch along, and they eat and steam,
plunge and splash, and play pranks upon each other in the wildest glee
the whole day long. No fear of an angry husband haunts their minds, for
they are not expected to do anything, and their husbands very rarely
enter the harems before six o’clock. By this time they are all back,
rosy and sweet from their bath.

At the baths there is often an old woman who has the faculty of
relating stories, and she is eagerly listened to by the grown-up
children; the stories are generally of the Arabian nights order, full
of genii, beautiful ladies, and charming youths and jealous husbands.
Many a lesson is given as how to outwit the most jealous of men
through these stories--a lesson they are neither slow to learn nor
practise.

The way they are watched and confined always made me think of the woman
who cautioned her innocent children not to put blue beans in their
noses while she was out. The magic lantern entertainments amuse these
ignorant caged birds. Dancing girls, singing and playing the lute,
playing with the babies and occasionally quarrelling with each other
take up some of their time; a weekly tour of the bazaars and once in a
while a visit to the harem of some other Turk, still leave much time
on their hands that the rare calls of their husbands, the eating of
sweetmeats or smoking of cigarettes cannot fill, and so they give their
poor little minds to fancy work. They very seldom learn how to read, or
perhaps books would help them through, and they never make their own
clothes, though they do sometimes decorate them very elaborately after
others have made them.

They have frames made on which their embroidery is worked, and on
velvet, satin or that beautiful and durable Broussa gauze they
embroider with exquisite fineness and taste. The most of their
embroidery is done in durable and admirably-arranged colors, in
subdued tones, which seem to me remarkable in women who are so fond
of brilliant primary colors and ill-assorted contrasts. They have no
patterns, but work out graceful and beautiful fantasies, and all done
with the most extreme care and fineness, requiring patience and extra
good eyesight.

We might suppose that these women would take pleasure in making and
embroidering their babies’ clothes as do other women, but as babies
are simply swathed in endless rollers, like a mummy, until they are
six months old, ornament is unnecessary. At the end of six months boy
babies are put into pantaloons and girls into loose trousers, both
being usually made of large flowered chintz.

About the only thing I ever noticed the Turkish women do for their
little children was to make toys for them, and they make the most
grotesque-looking dogs, lions, cows, rabbits, elephants, camels and
doll babies out of rags for their amusement. They never nurse their
babies for fear of spoiling the shape of the bust. They are very poor
mothers, as they are too ignorant themselves to understand their
responsibilities or to teach their children. They alternately slap them
or caress and indulge them just as their own humor happens to be good
or bad.

The little girls are taught to sew and embroider, how to walk
gracefully, and recline in the most negligent manner upon the divans,
how to play by ear a little on the lute, and to sing their interminable
love songs. Their songs are like Barbara Allen, Lovely Young Caroline
of Edinboro Town, the Brown Girl, or Gipsy Dave--all long, and telling
a whole romance to a plaintive chant.

I never learned to speak Turkish, but I got so that I could seize upon
the meaning of these songs. The singer always puts all the life and
sentiment she can into her music, and often sheds tears as she sings,
as do her listeners. I have even seen one or two of them faint away
at the most pathetic part. This is a very common trait among Turkish
women, and I have not yet been able to decide whether it is the result
of a weak will or extreme sensibility, but they faint on every possible
occasion.

The Turkish women love music passionately, and nearly all of them can
play some instrument with taste and feeling, though almost always by
ear. Their native music is always sad and plaintive, and often full
of such a piercing sorrow that it is no wonder it brings tears. They
love flowers, too, and you rarely see one without a flower in her hand
when it is possible to get them, and they are fond of birds, and raise
a great many themselves. Many of the Turkish women show considerable
talent in drawing and painting, though the poor things never have any
chance to learn. They simply “pick it up.”

As I found the Turkish women--and I happened to have obtained, by a
fortunate circumstance, a chance to know them in their homes accorded
to very few foreign women, and to absolutely no foreign man--they are
gentle, submissive, loving, and with many natural gifts in addition
to their beauty. If they were educated they would be the equal of any
women in Europe.

It does not seem to me that they are unhappy in their peculiar marriage
relations. They reminded me of a lot of irresponsible young girls in
a boarding-school, and the only jealousy such as might be felt of
the “teacher’s pet.” Instead of the poisoned and vindictive murder I
supposed always ready to be inflicted upon each other, the worst they
ever do is to pull each other’s hair occasionally or box each other’s
ears.

Girls reach their majority at nine and are frequently married a year
later, though not usually until fifteen. By that time all the education
they get is acquired. Instead of being taught all the abstruse
sciences she is taught all the caressing words and gestures possible
to imagine--how to walk, sit, look and speak so as to appear the most
seductive in the eyes of the husband who gets her.

No Turkish wife of the better class is ever expected to do any
domestic labor whatever, nor to make any of the household linen, nor
any garments for herself or members of the household, nor to sew any
buttons on, nor, above all, to make her husband’s shirts; therefore it
can be seen at once that almost every source of domestic disagreement
is done away with, and the Turkish husband never expects his wife to
get on her knees to hunt for his collar button, nor scold her if the
dinner is badly cooked; so that in many respects life in a harem is
not so very bad after all, and one-tenth of a good husband is better
than the whole of a bad one.




Secrets of the Harem.


The harem is that part of a polygamist’s house which is set apart
for the use of his wives and their attendants; it also denotes this
collective body of women. In all Mohammedan countries it is customary
for wealthy men to keep a harem; for, though four is the number of
wives to which the faithful are restricted by the Koran, there is no
limit to the number of concubines a man may have, except his ability to
maintain them. The mention of a harem naturally suggests to most people
the female portion of the royal households of Turkey and Persia and
Egypt. In the sultan’s harem each wife--he alone can have seven--has a
separate suite of apartments, and a separate troop of female slaves to
wait upon her and do her bidding.

All the female slaves or odalisques throughout the harem are, however,
at the disposal of their royal master. She who first gives birth to
an heir, whether wife or slave, is instantly promoted to the rank of
chief wife. The title sultana is borne, not by the sultan’s wives,
but by his mother, sisters and daughters. The real ruler of the harem
is the sultan’s mother, but under her is the lady superintendent of
the harem, usually an old and trusted favorite of the sultan. The
duties of guarding the harem or seraglio, as it is sometimes called,
are intrusted to a small army of eunuchs, the chief officer of whom
generally enjoys considerable political influence. The inmates of the
harem lead a very secluded life.




The Sultan’s Seraglio.


Seraglio is the palace of the sultan at Constantinople. It stands in a
beautiful situation on a head of land projecting into the sea, known as
the Golden Horn, and is enclosed by walls seven and one-half miles in
circuit. Within the walls are a variety of mosques, gardens and large
edifices, capable of containing 20,000 people, though the whole number
of the inhabitants scarcely ever reaches the half of this.

The principal entrance is a kind of pavilion, which is constantly
guarded by capidjis, or officers of the seraglio, and consists of a
group of houses and gardens, one of each being possessed by each of the
sultan’s wives, and of the habitations of the concubines and slaves.

The harem is ruled by the Kiaja-Khatun, or inspector of the women,
who is under the sultan’s authority alone, and is supplied with what
they require by the Kislar-aga or chief of the black eunuchs, who form
the principal or inner guard of the harem. The second and outer guard
is given to the white eunuchs under their chief the Kapu-agassy, or
Kapu-oghlan.

Other classes of household officers are the mutes, who, till recently,
were the executors of the sultan’s orders, especially those in which
the utmost secrecy was required; the bostanjis, or gardeners; the
batajis, or clearers of wood; and the itsh-oghlans, or attendants of
the sultan. The sultan’s mother always resides within the seraglio, but
his sisters do not. Access may easily be had to the seraglio, with the
exception of the harem, which is scrupulously guarded from even the
eyes of strangers. The English have improperly confounded the two terms
“seraglio” and “harem.”




Dervishes.


A Dervish, in Mohammedan countries, is a class of people resembling
in many respects the monks of Christendom. The dervishes are divided
into many different brotherhoods and orders. They live mostly in well
endowed convents, called Tekkije or Changah, and are under a chief
with the title of a Sheik. Some of the monks are married, and allowed
to live out of the monastery, but must sleep there some nights weekly.
Their devotional exercises consist in meetings for worship, prayers,
religious dances, and mortifications. As the convent does not provide
them with clothing, they are obliged to work more or less.

It is difficult to say when these religious orders took their rise.
From the earliest times, pious persons in the East have held it to
be meritorious to renounce earthly joys, to free themselves from the
trammels of domestic and social life, and to devote their thoughts
in poverty and retirement to the contemplation of God. In this sense,
poverty is recommended by Mohammed in the Koran. Tradition refers to
the origin of these orders to the earliest times of Islam, making the
califs Abubekr and Ali found such brotherhoods; but it is more probable
that they arose later.

Many Mohammedan princes and Turkish sultans have held dervishes in high
respect, and bestowed rich endowments on their establishments; and they
are still in high veneration with the people. The Kadris are commonly
known in the West as “the howling dervishes,” from the excited chant of
their religious services; the “dancing dervishes” are the Mevelevis.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOW TO TRAIN DOGS.


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       *       *       *       *       *

FAMOUS Dramatic Recitations.

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       *       *       *       *       *

OUR GREATEST OFFER

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       *       *       *       *       *

THE LADIES’ MODEL Fancy Work Manual

[Illustration]

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The Life of Popular Songs.


In the end, a popular song is killed by its own success; it is sung,
played, and whistled to death. The hand-organs hasten the catastrophe.
It is doubtful whether any popular song of to-day will have other than
an ephemeral existence, there are so many more people than there used
to be to wear it out. Some of the songs of forty years ago--notably,
“Swanee River,” “Old Folks at Home,” and the “Mocking Bird”--are still
frequently heard, which cannot be said of the popular songs of more
recent years.

The war for the Union gave birth to quite a number of good songs, and
“Marching through Georgia” will live as long as a soldier exists.
Soon after the war we had “Silver Threads Among the Gold” and “Put Me
in My Little Bed,” which were in everybody’s mouth, and put a great
deal of money into the pocket of their author. But they are seldom
heard nowadays; and the same may be said of “Captain Jinks of the
Hoss Marines,” who fed his horse on corn and beans, and “Walkin’ Down
Broadway.”

It is now some years ago since our ears were regaled with “Rock-a-Bye,
Baby,” “Climbin’ Up the Golden Stairs,” and “See-Saw.” These were
succeeded by “Maggie Murphy’s Home,” “McGinty,” “Annie Rooney,” the
famous “Ta-ra-ra,” and “Monte Carlo,” which have already been turned
down for “My Sweetheart’s the Man in the Moon,” “Daisy,” and the
latest rage--“After the Ball.” It is said, by the way, that the
author of the last-mentioned song is deriving a fortune from it. He
has already cleared more than a popular novelist realizes from a four
hundred page book.




Opportunity.


  I do not know, if, climbing some steep hill
  Through fragrant wooded pass, this glimpse I bought;
  Or whether in some mid-day I was caught
  To upper air, where visions of God’s will
  In pictures to our quickened sense fulfil
  His word. But this I saw:
                            A path I sought
  Through wall of rock. No human fingers wrought
  The golden gates which opened, suddenly, still,
  And wide. My fear was hushed by my delight.
  Surpassing fair the lands; my path lay plain;
  Alas! So spell-bound, feasting on the sight,
  I paused, that I but reached the threshold bright,
  When, swinging swift, the golden gates again
  Were rocky walls, by which I wept in vain!

  H. H.




What He Did.


The idea of refusing water to fever patients is, we are glad to say,
nearly a thing of the past. The following incident, related by a
sailor, serves as an illustration of the water treatment. “Some years
ago, when we were in Jamaica, several of us were sick with the fever,
and among the rest the second mate. The doctor had been giving him
brandy to keep him up, but I thought it was a queer kind of ‘keeping
up.’ Why, you see, it stands to reason that if you heap fuel on a fire,
it will burn the faster, and putting brandy to a fever is just the same
kind of thing.

“Well, the doctor gave him up, and I was sent to watch with him. No
medicine was left, for it was no use--nothing would help him; and I
had my directions what to do with the body when he was dead. Toward
midnight he asked for some water. I got him the coolest I could find,
and all he wanted; and if you’ll believe me, in less than three hours
he drank three gallons.

“The sweat rolled from him like rain. Then I thought sure he was gone;
but he was sleeping, and as sweetly as a child. In the morning when the
doctor came, he asked what time the mate died.

“‘Won’t you go in and look at him?’ I said.

“He went in and took the mate’s hand.

“‘Why,’ said he, ‘the man is not dead. He’s alive and doing well. What
have you been giving him?’

“‘Water, simply water, and all he wanted of it,’ said I.

“I don’t know as the doctor learned anything from that, but I did.”