of the inhabitants of the East; but in all that relates to social tactics he is very far inferior to the keen, shrewd, calculating, intriguing, Greek.
The Moslem will fix his eye upon a distant and important object, and work steadily onwards until he has attained it; but, meanwhile, the active Greek will have clutched a score of minor advantages, which probably, in the aggregate, are of more than equal weight. It is the collision of mind and matter—the elephant and the fox. Intellectual craft has been the safety-buoy of the Greeks; had they been differently constituted, they would long ere this have been swept from the face of the earth, or have become mere “hewers of wood and drawers of water.” As it is, there is so strong a principle of moral life in this portion of the Greek nation, that, were they only more united among themselves, and less a prey to intestine jealousies and heart-burnings, it is probable that in these times, when Turkey lies stretched like a worsted giant at the mercy of the European powers, the heel of the Greeks might be shod with an iron, heavy enough to press her down beyond all means of resuscitation; in possession, as they are, of the confidence of those in power.
Animal force has subjugated the Greeks—subjugated, but not subdued them; their physical power has departed, but their moral energy remains unimpaired; and it is doubtful whether human means will ever crush it.
CHAPTER VI.
Difficulty of Obtaining an Insight into Turkish Character—Inconvenience of Interpreters—Errors of Travellers—Ignorance of Resident Europeans—Fables and Fable-mongers—Turkey, Local and Moral—Absence of Capital Crime—Police of Constantinople—Quiet Streets—Sedate Mirth—Practical Philosophy of the Turks—National Emulation—Impossibility of Revolution—Mahmoud and his People—Unpopularity of the Sultan—Russian Interference—Vanity of the Turks—Russian Gold—Tenderness of the Turks to Animals—Penalty for Destroying a Dog—The English Sportsman—Fondness of the Turks for Children—Anecdote of the Reiss Effendi—Adopted Children—Love of the Musselmauns for their Mothers—Turkish Indifference to Death—Their Burial-places—Fasts—The Turks in the Mosque—Contempt of the Natives for Europeans—Freedom of the Turkish Women—Inviolability of the Harem—Domestic Economy of the Harem—Turkish Slaves—Anecdote of a Slave of Achmet Pasha—Cleanliness of Turkish Houses—The Real Romance of the East.
There is, perhaps, no country under heaven where it is more difficult for an European to obtain a full and perfect insight into the national character, than in Turkey. The extreme application, and the length of time necessary to the acquirement of the two leading languages, which bear scarcely any affinity to those of Europe, render the task one of utter hopelessness to the traveller, who consequently labours under the disadvantage of explaining his impressions, and seeking for information through the medium of a third person, inferentially, and it may almost be said totally, uninterested in both. The most simple question may be put in a manner calculated to influence the reply; as the rivulet takes the tinge of the soil over which it passes—a misplaced emphasis may change the nature of an assertion; and no one requires to be reminded of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of meeting with an individual so straightforward and matter-of-fact as to translate as though he were perpetually in foro conscientiæ. Thus the means of communication between the native and the stranger have an additional and almost insurmountable impediment in this respect, superadded to the natural and palpable obstacles presented by opposing and diffluent prejudices, customs, and opinions.
Flung back, consequently, upon his own resources; soured, perhaps somewhat, by the consciousness that he is so, and judging according to his own impressions, the traveller hazards undigested and erroneous judgments on the most important facts—traces effects to wrong causes—and, deciding by personal feeling, condemns much that, did he perfectly and thoroughly comprehend its nature and tendency, he would probably applaud. Hence arise most of those errors relative to the feelings and affairs of the East, that have so long misled the public mind in Europe; and, woman as I am, I cannot but deplore a fact which I may be deficient in the power to remedy. The repercussion of public opinion must be wrought by a skilful and a powerful hand, They are no lady-fingers which can grasp a pen potent enough to overthrow the impressions and prejudices that have covered reams of paper, and spread scores of misconceptions. But, nevertheless, like the mouse in the fable, I may myself succeed in breaking away a few of the meshes that imprison the lion; and, as I was peculiarly situated during my residence in the East, and enjoyed advantages and opportunities denied to the generality of travellers, who, as far as the natives are concerned, pass their time in Turkey “unknowing and unknown,” I trust that my attempt to refute the errors of some of my predecessors, and to advance opinions, as well as to adduce facts, according to my own experience, may not entail on me the imputation of presumption. I know not whether it may have been from want of inclination, but it is certain that Europeans are at this moment resident in Turkey, as ignorant of all that relates to her political economy, her system of government, and her moral ethics, as though they had never left their own country: and who have, nevertheless, been resident there for fifteen or twenty years. If you succeed in prevailing on them to speak on the subject, they never progress beyond exanimate and crude details of mere external effects. They have not exerted themselves to look deeper; and it may be supererogatory to add, that at the Embassies the great question of Oriental policy is never discussed, save en petit comité. It is also a well-attested fact that the entrée of native houses, and intimacy with native families, are not only extremely difficult, but in most cases impossible to Europeans; and hence the cause of the tissue of fables which, like those of Scheherazade, have created genii and enchanters ab ovo usque ad mala, in every account of the East. The European mind has become so imbued with ideas of Oriental mysteriousness, mysticism, and magnificence, and it has been so long accustomed to pillow its faith on the marvels and metaphors of tourists, that it is to be doubted whether it will willingly cast off its old associations, and suffer itself to be undeceived.
To the eye, Turkey is, indeed, all that has been described, gorgeous, glowing, and magnificent; the very position of its capital seems to claim for it the proud title of the “Queen of Cities.” Throned on its seven hills, mirrored in the blue beauty of the Bosphorus—that glorious strait which links the land-locked harbour of Stamboul to the mouth of the Euxine—uniting two divisions of the earth in its golden grasp—lording it over the classic and dusky mountains of Asia, and the laughing shores of Europe—the imagination cannot picture a site or scene of more perfect beauty. But the morale of the Turkish empire is less perfect than its terrestrial position; it possesses the best conducted people with the worst conducted government—ministers accessible to bribes—public functionaries practised in chicane—a court without consistency, and a population without energy.
All these things are, however, on the surface, and cannot, consequently, escape the notice of any observant traveller. It is the reverse of the picture that has been so frequently overlooked and neglected. And yet who that regards, with unprejudiced eyes, the moral state of Turkey, can fail to be struck by the absence of capital crime, the contented and even proud feelings of the lower ranks, and the absence of all assumption and haughtiness among the higher?
Constantinople, with a population of six hundred thousand souls, has a police of one hundred and fifty men. No street-riots rouse the quiet citizens from their evening cogitations—no gaming-house vomits forth its throng of despairing or of exulting votaries—no murders frighten slumber from the pillows of the timid, “making night hideous”—no ruined speculator terminates his losses and his life at the same instant, and thus bequeathes a double misery to his survivors—no inebriated mechanic reels homeward to wreak his drunken temper on his trembling wife—the Kavashlir, or police of the capital, are rather for show than use.
From dusk the streets are silent, save when their echoes are awakened by the footfalls of some individual who passes, accompanied by his servant bearing a lantern, on an errand of business
