Farewell to the Orient--Malta.
Embarcation--Farewell to the Orient--Leaving Constantinople--A
Wreck--The Dardanelles--Homeric Scenery--Smyrna Revisited--The Grecian
Isles--Voyage to Malta--Detention--La Valetta--The Maltese--The
Climate--A Boat for Sicily.
"Farewell, ye mountains,
By glory crowned
Ye sacred fountains
Of Gods renowned;
Ye woods and highlands,
Where heroes dwell;
Ye seas and islands,
Farewell! Farewell!"
Frithiof's Saga.
In The Dardanelles, _Saturday, August_ 7, 1852.
At last, behold me fairly embarked for Christian Europe, to which I bade
adieu in October last, eager for the unknown wonders of the Orient. Since
then, nearly ten months have passed away, and those wonders are now
familiar as every-day experiences. I set out, determined to be satisfied
with no slight taste of Eastern life, but to drain to the bottom its
beaker of mingled sunshine and sleep. All this has been accomplished; and
if I have not wandered so far, nor enriched myself with such varied
knowledge of the relics of ancient history, as I might have purposed or
wished, I have at least learned to know the Turk and the Arab, been
soothed by the patience inspired by their fatalism, and warmed by the
gorgeous gleams of fancy that animate their poetry and religion. These
ten months of my life form an episode which seems to belong to a separate
existence. Just refined enough to be poetic, and just barbaric enough to
be freed from all conventional fetters, it is as grateful to brain and
soul, as an Eastern bath to the body. While I look forward, not without
pleasure, to the luxuries and conveniences of Europe, I relinquish with a
sigh the refreshing indolence of Asia.
We have passed between the Castles of the two Continents, guarding the
mouth of the Dardanelles, and are now entering the Grecian Sea. To-morrow,
we shall touch, for a few hours, at Smyrna, and then turn westward, on the
track of Ulysses and St. Paul. Farewell, then, perhaps forever, to the
bright Orient! Farewell to the gay gardens, the spicy bazaars, to the
plash of fountains and the gleam of golden-tipped minarets! Farewell to
the perfect morn's, the balmy twilights, the still heat of the blue noons,
the splendor of moon and stars! Farewell to the glare of the white crags,
the tawny wastes of dead sand, the valleys of oleander, the hills of
myrtle and spices! Farewell to the bath, agent of purity and peace, and
parent of delicious dreams--to the shebook, whose fragrant fumes are
breathed from the lips of patience and contentment--to the narghileh,
crowned with that blessed plant which grows in the gardens of Shiraz,
while a fountain more delightful than those of Samarcand bubbles in its
crystal bosom I Farewell to the red cap and slippers, to the big turban,
the flowing trousers, and the gaudy shawl--to squatting on broad divans,
to sipping black coffee in acorn cups, to grave faces and _salaam
aleikooms_, and to aching of the lips and forehead! Farewell to the
evening meal in the tent door, to the couch on the friendly earth, to the
yells of the muleteers, to the deliberate marches of the plodding horse,
and the endless rocking of the dromedary that knoweth his master!
Farewell, finally, to annoyance without anger, delay without vexation,
indolence without ennui, endurance without fatigue, appetite without
intemperance, enjoyment without pall!
La Valetta, Malta, _Saturday, August_ 14, 1852.
My last view of Stamboul was that of the mosques of St. Sophia and Sultan
Achmed, shining faintly in the moonlight, as we steamed down the Sea of
Marmora. The _Caire_ left at nine o'clock, freighted with the news of
Reschid Pasha's deposition, and there were no signs of conflagration in
all the long miles of the city that lay behind us. So we speculated no
more on the exciting topics of the day, but went below and took a vapor
bath in our berths; for I need not assure you that the nights on the
Mediterranean at this season are anything but chilly. And here I must note
the fact, that the French steamers, while dearer than the Austrian, are
more cramped in their accommodations, and filled with a set of most
uncivil servants. The table is good, and this is the only thing to be
commended. In all other respects, I prefer the Lloyd vessels.
Early next morning, we passed the promontory of Cyzicus, and the Island of
Marmora, the marble quarries of which give name to the sea. As we were
approaching the entrance to the Dardanelles, we noticed an Austrian brig
drifting in the current, the whiff of her flag indicating distress. Her
rudder was entirely gone, and she was floating helplessly towards the
Thracian coast. A boat was immediately lowered and a hawser carried to her
bows, by which we towed her a short distance; but our steam engine did
not like this drudgery, and snapped the rope repeatedly, so that at last
we were obliged to leave her to her fate. The lift we gave, however, had
its effect, and by dexterous maneuvering with the sails, the captain
brought her safely into the harbor of Gallipoli, where she dropped anchor
beside us.
Beyond Gallipoli, the Dardanelles contract, and the opposing continents
rise into lofty and barren hills. In point of natural beauty, this strait
is greatly inferior to the Bosphorus. It lacks the streams and wooded
valleys which open upon the latter. The country is but partially
cultivated, except around the town of Dardanelles, near the mouth of the
strait. The site of the bridge of Xerxes is easily recognized, the
conformation of the different shores seconding the decision of
antiquarians. Here, too, are Sestos and Abydos, of passionate and poetic
memory. But as the sun dipped towards the sea, we passed out of the narrow
gateway. On our left lay the plain of Troy, backed by the blue range of
Mount Ida. The tamulus of Patroclus crowned a low bluff looking on the
sea. On the right appeared the long, irregular island of Imbros, and the
peaks of misty Samothrace over and beyond it. Tenedos was before us. The
red flush of sunset tinged the grand Homeric landscape, and lingered and
lingered on the summit of Ida, as if loth to depart. I paced the deck
until long after it was too dark to distinguish it any more.
The next morning we dropped anchor in the harbor of Smyrna, where we
remained five hours. I engaged a donkey, and rode out to the Caravan
Bridge, where the Greek driver and I smoked narghilehs and drank coffee in
the shade of the acacias. I contrasted my impressions with those of my
first visit to Smyrna last October--my first glimpse of Oriental ground.
Then, every dog barked at me, and all the horde of human creatures who
prey upon innocent travellers ran at my heels, but now, with my brown face
and Turkish aspect of grave indifference, I was suffered to pass as
quietly as my donkey-driver himself. Nor did the latter, nor the ready
_cafidji_, who filled our pipes on the banks of the Meles, attempt to
overcharge me--a sure sign that the Orient had left its seal on my face.
Returning through the city, the same mishap befel me which travellers
usually experience on their first arrival. My donkey, while dashing at
full speed through a crowd of Smyrniotes in their Sunday dresses, slipped
up in a little pool of black mud, and came down with a crash. I flew over
his head and alighted firmly on my feet, but the spruce young Greeks,
whose snowy fustanelles were terribly bespattered, came off much worse.
The donkey shied back, levelled his ears and twisted his head on one side,
awaiting a beating, but his bleeding legs saved him.
We left at two o'clock, touched at Scio in the evening, and the next
morning at sunrise lay-to in the harbor of Syra. The Piræus was only
twelve hours distant; but after my visitation of fever in Constantinople,
I feared to encounter the pestilential summer heats of Athens. Besides, I
had reasons for hastening with all speed to Italy and Germany. At ten
o'clock we weighed anchor again and steered southwards, between the groups
of the Cyclades, under a cloudless sky and over a sea of the brightest
blue. The days were endurable under the canvas awning of our quarter-deck,
but the nights in our berths were sweat-baths, which left us so limp and
exhausted that we were almost fit to vanish, like ghosts, at daybreak.
Our last glimpse of the Morea--Cape Matapan--faded away in the moonlight,
and for _two_ days we travelled westward over the burning sea. On the
evening of the 11th, the long, low outline of Malta rose gradually against
the last flush of sunset, and in two hours thereafter, we came to anchor
in Quarantine Harbor. The quarantine for travellers returning from the
East, which formerly varied from fourteen to twenty-one days, is now
reduced to one day for those arriving from Greece or Turkey, and three
days for those from Egypt and Syria. In our case, it was reduced to
sixteen hours, by an official courtesy. I had intended proceeding directly
to Naples; but by the contemptible trickery of the agents of the French
steamers--a long history, which it is unnecessary to recapitulate--am left
here to wait ten days for another steamer. It is enough to say that there
are six other travellers at the same hotel, some coming from
Constantinople, and some from Alexandria, in the same predicament. Because
a single ticket to Naples costs some thirty or forty francs less than by
dividing the trip into two parts, the agents in those cities refuse to
give tickets further than Malta to those who are not keen enough to see
through the deception. I made every effort to obtain a second ticket in
time to leave by the branch steamer for Italy, but in vain.
La Valetta is, to my eyes, the most beautiful small city in the world. It
is a jewel of a place; not a street but is full of picturesque effects,
and all the look-outs, which you catch at every turn, let your eyes rest
either upon one of the beautiful harbors on each side, or the distant
horizon of the sea. The streets are so clean that you might eat your
dinner off the pavement; the white balconies and cornices of the houses,
all cleanly cut in the soft Maltese stone, stand out in intense relief
against the sky, and from the manifold reflections and counter
reflections, the shadows (where there are any) become a sort of milder
light. The steep sides of the promontory, on which the city is built, are
turned into staircases, and it is an inexhaustible pastime to watch the
groups, composed of all nations who inhabit the shores of the
Mediterranean, ascending and descending. The Auberges of the old Knights,
the Palace of the Grand Master, the Church of St. John, and other relics
of past time, but more especially the fortifications, invest the place
with a romantic interest, and I suspect that, after Venice and Granada,
there are few cities where the Middle Ages have left more impressive
traces of their history.
The Maltese are contented, and appear to thrive under the English
administration. They are a peculiar people, reminding me of the Arab even
more than the Italian, while a certain rudeness in their build and motions
suggests their Punic ancestry. Their language is a curious compound of
Arabic and Italian, the former being the basis. I find that I can
understand more than half that is said, the Arabic terminations being
applied to Italian words. I believe it has never been successfully reduced
to writing, and the restoration of pure Arabic has been proposed, with
much reason, as preferable to an attempt to improve or refine it. Italian
is the language used in the courts of justice and polite society, and is
spoken here with much more purity than either in Naples or Sicily.
The heat has been so great since I landed that I have not ventured outside
of the city, except last evening to an amateur theatre, got up by the
non-commissioned officers and privates in the garrison. The performances
were quite tolerable, except a love-sick young damsel who spoke with a
rough masculine voice, and made long strides across the stage when she
rushed into her lover's arms. I am at a loss to account for the exhausting
character of the heat. The thermometer shows 90° by day, and 80° to 85° by
night--a much lower temperature than I have found quite comfortable in
Africa and Syria. In the Desert 100° in the shade is rather bracing than
otherwise; here, 90° renders all exercise, more severe than smoking a
pipe, impossible. Even in a state of complete inertia, a shirt-collar will
fall starchless in five minutes.
Rather than waste eight more days in this glimmering half-existence, I
have taken passage in a Maltese _speronara_, which sails this evening for
Catania, in Sicily, where the grand festival of St. Agatha, which takes
place once in a hundred years, will be celebrated next week. The trip
promises a new experience, and I shall get a taste, slight though it be,
of the golden Trinacria of the ancients. Perhaps, after all, this delay
which so vexes me (bear in mind, I am no longer in the Orient!) may be
meant solely for my good. At least, Mr. Winthrop, our Consul here, who has
been exceedingly kind and courteous to me, thinks it a rare good fortune
that I shall see the Catanian festa.