TELMESSUS—BEYROUT
There should have been a poet in our company to describe that charming
little bay of Glaucus, into which we entered on the 26th of September,
in the first steam-boat that ever disturbed its beautiful waters. You
can’t put down in prose that delicious episode of natural poetry; it
ought to be done in a symphony, full of sweet melodies and swelling
harmonies; or sung in a strain of clear crystal iambics, such as Milnes
knows how to write. A mere map, drawn in words, gives the mind no
notion of that exquisite nature. What do mountains become in type, or
rivers in Mr. Vizetelly’s best brevier? Here lies the sweet bay,
gleaming peaceful in the rosy sunshine: green islands dip here and
there in its waters: purple mountains swell circling round it; and
towards them, rising from the bay, stretches a rich green plain,
fruitful with herbs and various foliage, in the midst of which the
white houses twinkle. I can see a little minaret, and some spreading
palm-trees; but, beyond these, the description would answer as well for
Bantry Bay as for Makri. You could write so far, nay, much more
particularly and grandly, without seeing the place at all, and after
reading Beaufort’s “Caramania,” which gives you not the least notion of
it.
Suppose the great Hydrographer of the Admiralty himself can’t describe
it, who surveyed the place; suppose Mr. Fellowes, who discovered it
afterwards—suppose, I say, Sir John Fellowes, Knt., can’t do it (and I
defy any man of imagination to got an impression of Telmessus from his
book)—can you, vain man, hope to try? The effect of the artist, as I
take it, ought to be, to produce upon his hearer’s mind, by his art, an
effect something similar to that produced on his own by the sight of
the natural object. Only music, or the best poetry, can do this.
Keats’s “Ode to the Grecian Urn” is the best description I know of that
sweet old silent ruin of Telmessus. After you have once seen it, the
remembrance remains with you, like a tune from Mozart, which he seems
to have caught out of heaven, and which rings sweet harmony in your
ears for ever after! It’s a benefit for all after life! You have but to
shut your eyes, and think, and recall it, and the delightful vision
comes smiling back, to your order!—the divine air—the delicious little
pageant, which nature set before you on this lucky day.
Here is the entry made in the note-book on the eventful day:- “In the
morning steamed into the bay of Glaucus—landed at Makri— cheerful old
desolate village—theatre by the beautiful sea-shore— great fertility,
oleanders—a palm-tree in the midst of the village, spreading out like a
Sultan’s aigrette—sculptured caverns, or tombs, up the mountain—camels
over the bridge.”
Perhaps it is best for a man of fancy to make his own landscape out of
these materials: to group the couched camels under the plane- trees;
the little crowd of wandering ragged heathens come down to the calm
water, to behold the nearing steamer; to fancy a mountain, in the sides
of which some scores of tombs are rudely carved; pillars and porticos,
and Doric entablatures. But it is of the little theatre that he must
make the most beautiful picture—a charming little place of festival,
lying out on the shore, and looking over the sweet bay and the swelling
purple islands. No theatre-goer ever looked out on a fairer scene. It
encourages poetry, idleness, delicious sensual reverie. O Jones! friend
of my heart! would you not like to be a white-robed Greek, lolling
languidly, on the cool benches here, and pouring compliments (in the
Ionic dialect) into the rosy ears of Neaera? Instead of Jones, your
name should be Ionides; instead of a silk hat, you should wear a
chaplet of roses in your hair: you would not listen to the choruses
they were singing on the stage, for the voice of the fair one would be
whispering a rendezvous for the mesonuktiais horais, and my Ionides
would have no ear for aught beside. Yonder, in the mountain, they would
carve a Doric cave temple, to receive your urn when all was done; and
you would be accompanied thither by a dirge of the surviving Ionidae.
The caves of the dead are empty now, however, and their place knows
them not any more among the festal haunts of the living. But, by way of
supplying the choric melodies sung here in old time, one of our
companions mounted on the scene and spouted,
“My name is Norval.”
On the same day we lay to for a while at another ruined theatre, that
of Antiphilos. The Oxford men, fresh with recollections of the
little-go, bounded away up the hill on which it lies to the ruin,
measured the steps of the theatre, and calculated the width of the
scene; while others, less active, watched them with telescopes from the
ship’s sides, as they plunged in and out of the stones and hollows.
Two days after the scene was quite changed. We were out of sight of the
classical country, and lay in St. George’s Bay, behind a huge mountain,
upon which St. George fought the dragon, and rescued the lovely Lady
Sabra, the King of Babylon’s daughter. The Turkish fleet was lying
about us, commanded by that Halil Pasha whose two children the two last
Sultans murdered. The crimson flag, with the star and crescent, floated
at the stern of his ship. Our diplomatist put on his uniform and
cordons, and paid his Excellency a visit. He spoke in rapture, when he
returned, of the beauty and order of the ship, and the urbanity of the
infidel Admiral. He sent us bottles of ancient Cyprus wine to drink:
and the captain of Her Majesty’s ship “Trump,” alongside which we were
lying, confirmed that good opinion of the Capitan Pasha which the
reception of the above present led us to entertain, by relating many
instances of his friendliness and hospitalities. Captain G- said the
Turkish ships were as well manned, as well kept, and as well
manoeuvred, as any vessels in any service; and intimated a desire to
command a Turkish seventy-four, and a perfect willingness to fight her
against a French ship of the same size. But I heartily trust he will
neither embrace the Mahometan opinions, nor be called upon to engage
any seventy-four whatever. If he do, let us hope he will have his own
men to fight with. If the crew of the “Trump” were all like the crew of
the captain’s boat, they need fear no two hundred and fifty men out of
any country, with any Joinville at their head. We were carried on shore
by this boat. For two years, during which the “Trump” had been lying
off Beyrout, none of the men but these eight had ever set foot on
shore. Mustn’t it be a happy life? We were landed at the busy quay of
Beyrout, flanked by the castle that the fighting old commodore half
battered down.
Along the Beyrout quays civilisation flourishes under the flags of the
consuls, which are streaming out over the yellow buildings in the clear
air. Hither she brings from England her produce of marine-stores and
woollens, her crockeries, her portable soups, and her bitter ale.
Hither she has brought politeness, and the last modes from Paris. They
were exhibited in the person of a pretty lady, superintending the great
French store, and who, seeing a stranger sketching on the quay, sent
forward a man with a chair to accommodate that artist, and greeted him
with a bow and a smile, such as only can be found in France. Then she
fell to talking with a young French officer with a beard, who was
greatly smitten with her. They were making love just as they do on the
Boulevard. An Arab porter left his bales, and the camel he was
unloading, to come and look at the sketch. Two stumpy flat-faced
Turkish soldiers, in red caps and white undresses, peered over the
paper. A noble little Lebanonian girl, with a deep yellow face, and
curly dun- coloured hair, and a blue tattooed chin, and for all
clothing a little ragged shift of blue cloth, stood by like a little
statue, holding her urn, and stared with wondering brown eyes. How
magnificently blue the water was!—how bright the flags and buildings as
they shone above it, and the lines of the rigging tossing in the bay!
The white crests of the blue waves jumped and sparkled like
quicksilver; the shadows were as broad and cool as the lights were
brilliant and rosy; the battered old towers of the commodore looked
quite cheerful in the delicious atmosphere; and the mountains beyond
were of an amethyst colour. The French officer and the lady went on
chattering quite happily about love, the last new bonnet, or the battle
of Isly, or the “Juif Errant.” How neatly her gown and sleeves fitted
her pretty little person! We had not seen a woman for a month, except
honest Mrs. Flanigan, the stewardess, and the ladies of our party, and
the tips of the noses of the Constantinople beauties as they passed by
leering from their yakmacs, waddling and plapping in their odious
yellow papooshes.
And this day is to be marked with a second white stone, for having
given the lucky writer of the present, occasion to behold a second
beauty. This was a native Syrian damsel, who bore the sweet name of
Mariam. So it was she stood as two of us (I mention the number for fear
of scandal) took her picture.
So it was that the good-natured black cook looked behind her young
mistress, with a benevolent grin, that only the admirable Leslie could
paint.
Mariam was the sister of the young guide whom we hired to show us
through the town, and to let us be cheated in the purchase of gilt
scarfs and handkerchiefs, which strangers think proper to buy. And
before the following authentic drawing could be made, many were the
stratagems the wily artists were obliged to employ, to subdue the
shyness of the little Mariam. In the first place, she would stand
behind the door (from which in the darkness her beautiful black eyes
gleamed out like penny tapers); nor could the entreaties of her brother
and mamma bring her from that hiding-place. In order to conciliate the
latter, we began by making a picture of her too— that is, not of her,
who was an enormous old fat woman in yellow, quivering all over with
strings of pearls, and necklaces of sequins, and other ornaments, the
which descended from her neck, and down her ample stomacher: we did not
depict that big old woman, who would have been frightened at an
accurate representation of her own enormity; but an ideal being, all
grace and beauty, dressed in her costume, and still simpering before me
in my sketch- book like a lady in a book of fashions.
This portrait was shown to the old woman, who handed it over to the
black cook, who, grinning, carried it to little Mariam—and the result
was, that the young creature stepped forward, and submitted; and has
come over to Europe as you see. {2}
A very snug and happy family did this of Mariam’s appear to be. If you
could judge by all the laughter and giggling, by the splendour of the
women’s attire, by the neatness of the little house, prettily decorated
with arabesque paintings, neat mats, and gay carpets, they were a
family well to do in the Beyrout world, and lived with as much comfort
as any Europeans. They had one book; and, on the wall of the principal
apartment, a black picture of the Virgin, whose name is borne by pretty
Mariam.
The camels and the soldiers, the bazaars and khans, the fountains and
awnings, which chequer, with such delightful variety of light and
shade, the alleys and markets of an Oriental town, are to be seen in
Beyrout in perfection; and an artist might here employ himself for
months with advantage and pleasure. A new costume was here added to the
motley and picturesque assembly of dresses. This was the dress of the
blue-veiled women from the Lebanon, stalking solemnly through the
markets, with huge horns, near a yard high, on their foreheads. For
thousands of years, since the time the Hebrew prophets wrote, these
horns have so been exalted in the Lebanon.
At night Captain Lewis gave a splendid ball and supper to the “Trump.”
We had the “Trump’s” band to perform the music; and a grand sight it
was to see the captain himself enthusiastically leading on the drum.
Blue lights and rockets were burned from the yards of our ship; which
festive signals were answered presently from the “Trump,” and from
another English vessel in the harbour.
They must have struck the Capitan Pasha with wonder, for he sent his
secretary on board of us to inquire what the fireworks meant. And the
worthy Turk had scarcely put his foot on the deck, when he found
himself seized round the waist by one of the “Trump’s” officers, and
whirling round the deck in a waltz, to his own amazement, and the huge
delight of the company. His face of wonder and gravity, as he went on
twirling, could not have been exceeded by that of a dancing dervish at
Scutari; and the manner in which he managed to enjamber the waltz
excited universal applause.
I forgot whether he accommodated himself to European ways so much
further as to drink champagne at supper-time; to say that he did would
be telling tales out of school, and might interfere with the future
advancement of that jolly dancing Turk.
We made acquaintance with another of the Sultan’s subjects, who, I
fear, will have occasion to doubt of the honour of the English nation,
after the foul treachery with which he was treated.
Among the occupiers of the little bazaar matchboxes, vendors of
embroidered handkerchiefs and other articles of showy Eastern
haberdashery, was a good-looking neat young fellow, who spoke English
very fluently, and was particularly attentive to all the passengers on
board our ship. This gentleman was not only a pocket-handkerchief
merchant in the bazaar, but earned a further livelihood by letting out
mules and donkeys; and he kept a small lodging-house, or inn, for
travellers, as we were informed.
No wonder he spoke good English, and was exceedingly polite and
well-bred; for the worthy man had passed some time in England, and in
the best society too. That humble haberdasher at Beyrout had been a
lion here, at the very best houses of the great people, and had
actually made his appearance at Windsor, where he was received as a
Syrian Prince, and treated with great hospitality by Royalty itself.
I don’t know what waggish propensity moved one of the officers of the
“Trump” to say that there was an equerry of His Royal Highness the
Prince on board, and to point me out as the dignified personage in
question. So the Syrian Prince was introduced to the Royal equerry, and
a great many compliments passed between us. I even had the audacity to
state that on my very last interview with my Royal master, His Royal
Highness had said, “Colonel Titmarsh, when you go to Beyrout, you will
make special inquiries regarding my interesting friend Cogia Hassan.”
Poor Cogia Hassan (I forget whether that was his name, but it is as
good as another) was overpowered with this Royal message; and we had an
intimate conversation together, at which the waggish officer of the
“Trump” assisted with the greatest glee.
But see the consequences of deceit! The next day, as we were getting
under way, who should come on board but my friend the Syrian Prince,
most eager for a last interview with the Windsor equerry; and he begged
me to carry his protestations of unalterable fidelity to the gracious
consort of Her Majesty. Nor was this all. Cogia Hassan actually
produced a great box of sweetmeats, of which he begged my Excellency to
accept, and a little figure of a doll dressed in the costume of
Lebanon. Then the punishment of imposture began to be felt severely by
me. How to accept the poor devil’s sweetmeats? How to refuse them? And
as we know that one fib leads to another, so I was obliged to support
the first falsehood by another; and putting on a dignified air—“Cogia
Hassan,” says I, “I am surprised you don’t know the habits of the
British Court better, and are not aware that our gracious master
solemnly forbids his servants to accept any sort of backsheesh upon our
travels.”
So Prince Cogia Hassan went over the side with his chest of sweetmeats,
but insisted on leaving the doll, which may be worth
twopence-halfpenny; of which, and of the costume of the women of
Lebanon, the following is an accurate likeness:-