Towers filled with irons,
chains, ancient arms, tombs, ruins, dungeons, cold and silent vaults, a
pit called _the well of blood_, the funeral cry of owls and of vultures,
mingled with the roar of the waves--such are the objects and sounds with
which the eye and ear are familiarized in these dreary abodes, according
to poor Ponqueville, the traveller, who speaks from experience--_within
the walls._ All this is a sorry picture for the
"--Gentlemen of England,
Who live at home at ease."
But the _state purposes_ to which the _Seven Towers_ are appropriated
boast of comparative comfort, "the prisoners detained here being
distinguished from all other prisoners of war by an allowance for the
table which is assigned them by the sultan, and by the appellation of
_mouzafirs_, or hostages.[1] It may, indeed," continues our traveller,
"be considered as a great favour to be regarded in this light, comparing
their situation with that of others, who fall into captivity among the
Turks." Moreover, this castle is dignified as _an imperial fortress_,
and governed by an aga with a guard and a band of music. Indeed, we
suppose it a sort of lock-up house preparatory to more rigorous
confinement; and its governorship is a peaceable and honourable post.
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