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His earlier and less ambitious, though perhaps more charming, book was rejected by several publishers, but proved an immense success. It caught the popular fancy at once, and after the lapse of more than fifty years still maintains an honourable position. In the year after its first appearance it passed through three editions, containing several variations from the editio princeps which have attracted the attention of those who are interested in bibliography. It is only fair to reprint the book with these corrections, which seem mostly due to the author’s laudable desire for greater accuracy. For instance, he was apparently seized with qualms as to his assertion (end of chap. xiii.) that when he emerged from the Dead Sea after bathing therein his “skin was thickly encrusted with sulphate of magnesia,” and cautiously substituted “salts” for the more chemical expression. Yet I observe that the most recent Encyclopædia states that “the water of the Dead Sea is characterised by the presence of a large quantity of magnesian salts,” so perhaps his first statement was not so wrong after all. He also found that he had talked of Jove when he should have said Neptune in his account of the Troad, and, conceiving a mistrust of the former deity, removed his name not only from this passage but also from chap. xviii., in which he altered “That touch was worthy of Jove” into “In that touch was true hospitality.” I confess that I think this regard for truth might have moved him to expunge his account of the advances made to him by the young ladies of Bethlehem (end of chap. xvi.); I cannot believe that narrative to be even probable, but anyone may retort that my scepticism is due to the absence of those attractive qualities which Kinglake possessed.

In chap. xvi. he says that shrouds are dipped in the holy water of the Jordan and “preserved as a burial dress which shall inure” (later editions “enure”) “for salvation in the realms of death.” Some critical scholar of eminence should be called upon to emend or explain this mysterious passage. At least, if people are allowed to print such things in the nineteenth century what right have we to emend the classical authors when they choose to be unintelligible?

The truth is that Eothen, despite its great literary merits, is often comfortably slipshod. And very properly so, for if there is to be any correspondence between subject and style, it must be inappropriate for a traveller recounting confidentially his diversions and mishaps to adopt the phraseology of Gibbon. Matthew Arnold, in his “Essay on the Literary Influence of Academies,” selected the History of the Crimean War as an example of what he called the Corinthian style. Eothen certainly presents specimens of this manner, but they are hardly characteristic; it is often “urbane,” and has “the warm glow, blithe movement, and pliancy of life,” which, according to the critic’s definition, Corinthians lack. It is not devoid of unity, but it is many sided and kaleidoscopic. The author varies from the trivial to the solemn, from boisterous exuberance to careful austerity, from flippancy to rhapsody, and is perhaps never quite serious. One wonders whether one is reading a clever but somewhat slangy letter, or a long-meditated essay polished and repolished by incessant labor limæ. Perhaps between 1834 and 1844 he worked up and rearranged old spontaneous effusions, as indeed his preface suggests. He often writes like a schoolboy, and sometimes like a philosopher; he is at his best when he records what he has seen in phrases not without rhetoric and not without humour, but distinct and clear as his own impressions. “The foot falls noiseless in the crumbling soil of an Eastern city, and silence follows you still. Again and again you meet turbans, and faces of men, but they have nothing for you—no welcome—no wonder—no wrath—no scorn—they look upon you as we do upon a December’s fall of snow—as a ‘seasonable,’ unaccountable, uncomfortable work of God, that may have been sent for some good purpose to be revealed hereafter.” How vivid and how true!

But perhaps the reader may ask, as I ask myself, whether an introduction to Eothen is really necessary. The book is so simple and complete in itself that it seems to require no explanation or commentary. But for the benefit of those who are not acquainted with the Levant of to-day, it is well to explain that the sixty-four years which have elapsed since Kinglake made his Eastern tour have brought about important changes in the extent, and some few in the condition, of the Turkish Empire. The “unchanging East” is a popular phrase which is only true in a very limited sense. It has arisen chiefly from the habit of pious publishers of representing Abraham in the costume of a modern Bedouin Sheikh, and it is peculiarly audacious to apply it to regions like Constantinople and Egypt, which have witnessed exceptional vicissitudes and undergone remarkable changes—political, religious, and linguistic. It is however just to say that the Turk is unchanging—and it is to the presence of the Turk that are due the peculiar characteristics of the Levant, as the region visited by Kinglake may conveniently be termed; like the Bourbons, he forgets nothing and learns nothing; as he was on the day when he entered Europe, so he was in 1834 and so he is now. The boundaries of Turkey have changed; there are now no Pashas at Belgrade, or even at Sofia; and Ottoman territory is no longer plague-stricken. But whenever one crosses the Turkish frontier, one may find functionaries like the delightful potentate of Karagholookoldour, and be conscious of effecting within the space of a few hundred yards a change greater than can be experienced in any amount of travel in other European countries, including Russia. One passes from regions where people have roughly the same habits and ideas as ourselves—where they believe in political economy, get drunk in public, sit upon chairs, and do not feel there is anything indelicate in mentioning their wives—to a land where people do none of these things, where the naked desolation of the country at the side of the railway offers a startling contrast to the smug prosperity of the Balkan States, where people prefer to sit curled up on hard sofas, and where it is bad taste to condole with a man on his wife’s death.

In 1834, the year of Kinglake’s journey, Turkey in Europe was considerably more extensive than at the present day. Greece had already revolted and been recognised as an independent state. Wallachia and Moldavia were in process of securing their freedom. But the territories now known as Bulgaria, Bosnia, and Herzegovina were still integral portions of the Ottoman Empire; and though Servia (in which the scene of the opening chapters of Eothen is laid) had been constituted a principality under Milosh Obrenovich as prince, in 1830, several of the fortresses were still garrisoned by Ottoman troops, which accounts for the presence of the Pasha at Belgrade. It is interesting to observe that though our Author must have proceeded to Adrianople straight across Bulgaria, he never mentions the name of that country. This apparently strange omission is really quite natural. The Bulgarians, though in some ways the most vigorous element among the Balkan races, passed through greater trials than the Servians or Roumanians, and for a time lost their national consciousness more completely. They were nearer Constantinople, and therefore any political movement was more easily kept in check; while all the religious and educational establishments of the country were in the hands of Greek priests who practically proscribed the Bulgarian language. I have been informed by a gentleman who has resided forty years in Turkey, that when he first entered the Ottoman dominions every educated Bulgarian called himself a Greek, and would have been ashamed to employ his national designation, which was hardly in general use before the movement of 1860. Another striking omission of Eothen is that it contains hardly any allusion to the Sultan. At the present day the descendant of Osman, who claims to be also the successor of the Prophet, is a well-known figure to the British public. The Pall Mall Gazette familiarly calls him “The Shadow.” [xiv] The friends of the Armenians hold him personally responsible for the massacres; and a modern Kinglake, even if bent on avoiding “political disquisitions,” would certainly describe the Selamlik or weekly visit of the Sovereign to the mosque. You cannot travel in Turkey without hearing the name of “Our Master” (Effendimiz) or “the Imperial Person” (Zat-i-Shahane) daily mentioned, and feeling that his wishes (which usually do not coincide with those of European travellers, and affect the minutest details) are the only real power in the country. This state of things is due almost entirely to the personal energy of the present occupant of the Ottoman throne, who for good or evil has succeeded in concentrating all power into his hands, and in displaying the greatest example of practical autocracy ever seen. In 1834 Mahmoud was Sultan, one of the most vigorous of Ottoman princes, but then near his end, and doubtless wearied out by a reign of constant reverse and ineffectual efforts at reform.

The Armenian question, like the Bulgarian, is of recent date, and we consequently find that Kinglake says as little of the one as of the other; but he often speaks of the doings of Mehemet Ali and his son Ibrahim Pasha, which at this period formed one of the chief preoccupations of the Porte. Mehemet Ali was a native of Cavalla who held a military command in Egypt. In the troubles which succeeded the French occupation of that country, at the beginning of the century, he succeeded in making himself head of the popular party in Cairo, ousted the Turkish Governor, and established himself in his place. He was recognised by the Porte in 1805, and the Khediviate was subsequently made hereditary in his family. At this time the Mamluks (or descendants of the Turkish Guard instituted by the Sultans of Egypt in the thirteenth century) occupied a position somewhat similar to that of the Janissaries at Constantinople. Mehemet Ali, like Sultan Mahmoud, felt that this military imperium in imperio rendered fixed Government impossible, and determined to consolidate his own rule by breaking the power of the Mamluks. He did so by inviting their leaders to a banquet, at which they were surprised and massacred. The Sultan, in return for his recognition of Mehemet Ali as ruler of Egypt, made use of him during some years to keep in order various rebellious provinces of the Empire. He was first ordered to quell the Wahabi insurrection in Arabia, and his campaign there is alluded to in chap. xviii. These people were a sort of Mohammedan Puritans [xvi] who had made themselves masters of the Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina. Mehemet Ali sent against them his son Tosun, who captured Mecca in 1813, but died, and was replaced by his younger brother Ibrahim Pasha, who is often mentioned in Eothen. He finally concluded the Wahabi war in 1818, and is next heard of fighting against Greece, which was beginning the struggle for independence. Mehemet Ali was again called upon to assist the Sultan in suppressing rebellion, and again sent his son to represent him. Ibrahim captured Missolonghi in 1825, but was defeated in 1827 by the united fleets at Navarino, under Sir Edward Codrington, and retired from Greece. In return for these services Mehemet Ali claimed that the Pashalik of Syria should be added to his dominions. The Sultan refused the request of his powerful vassal; but the latter picked a quarrel with the Turkish governor of Syria, and sent Ibrahim to invade the province. Ibrahim not only made a triumphal entry into Damascus, but defeated the Turkish Army at Beilan and advanced into Asia Minor, where he routed a second force, sent against him by the Sultan, near Konia, in December 1832. The defeated Turkish troops joined the Egyptians, Ibrahim advanced victoriously to Broussa, and had Constantinople at his mercy. The Sultan in his extremity called the Russians to his assistance. The Treaty of Unkiar Iskelesi was concluded in 1833; Ibrahim was obliged to retire, but the Pashaliks of Syria and Adana were given to Mehemet Ali, and treated with great rigour, as mentioned in chap. xv. At the time of Kinglake’s visit to Egypt the plague seems to have been the one absorbing preoccupation of everyone in Cairo, and we learn little from him of the normal state of the country at this period. The most remarkable of his Egyptian sayings is the prophecy at the end of the chapter called “The Sphinx.” “The Englishman leaning far over to hold his loved India will plant a firm foot on the banks of the Nile and sit in the seats of the faithful.” To have made this prediction at a time when India was still under the Company, when we had no interests in North-East Africa or the Red Sea, before the Suez Canal was a serious project, perhaps before we had occupied Aden, [xvii] is indeed an example of no ordinary political foresight.

Such was the political condition of the lands which Kinglake visited, and of many aspects of which he gives a most living picture. In his diverting preface he disclaims all intention of being instructive, of describing manners and customs, still less of discussing political and social questions. Perhaps his narrative sometimes reminds the reader of his statement (chap. viii.) that a story may be false as a mere fact but perfectly true as an illustration. Some great writers impart durability to their work by selecting from a mass of details such traits as are important and characteristic, and passing lightly over what is transitory. For instance, the main impression left by Thackeray’s novels is not that the life there described is old-fashioned, but that it is in essentials the life of to-day. So, too, in Eothen a reader acquainted with the East hardly notices anachronisms. Judged as a description of the Levant of 1898, it is inaccurate, or rather inadequate, almost exclusively on account of its omissions. But the principal descriptions, incidents, and portraits—the Mohammedan quarter at Belgrade, the conversation between the Pasha and the Dragoman, the meeting of the two Englishmen in the desert, Dimitri and Mysseri—are, if considered as types, as true to nature to-day as they were sixty years ago, and doubtless will be sixty years hence.

Kinglake treats the Levant in the only way it ought to be treated if it is to be enjoyed—half-seriously. Those whom business or philanthropy oblige to devote to it any real exertion, sentiment, or interest, lay up for themselves nothing but disillusion and disappointment, for, whether they are fascinated by the picturesque and manly virtues of the Moslems, or roused to honourable indignation by the slaughter and oppression of their fellow-Christians, they will find in the end that, as Lord Salisbury once said, they have put their money on the wrong horse. In the Eastern Derby there are no winning horses. One after another they have all disappointed their backers; the faults of Eastern Christendom brought about and still keep up the rule of the Turk, and few who have an adequate knowledge of the facts of the case believe either that the Christians are happy under that rule or that they furnish in themselves the elements of anything much better.

Yet this dreary tragedy—this daily round of oppression and misgovernment, varied by outbursts of interracial fury—has a brighter side. To the mere spectator, to the intelligent traveller with literary taste and a sense of humour, the surface of Levantine life is a stream of perpetual amusement, often broadening into comedy, and sometimes bursting all bounds and breaking into a screaming farce. The number and variety of races and languages afford infinite possibilities of misunderstanding and mistranslation (which it must be admitted are the basis of many good stories); the Orientalised European and the Europeanised Oriental are alike inexpressibly droll. Their very crimes have an element of the burlesque, which seems to disarm censure and remove the whole transaction to a non-moral sphere where ordinary rules of right and wrong do not apply. The Turk, if not precisely witty himself, is at least the cause of wit in others. Extreme Asiatic dignity amidst ludicrously undignified European surroundings, a mixture of pomp and homeliness, power and childishness, give rise to humorous anecdotes of a peculiar and very characteristic flavour, examples of which may be found in several works besides Eothen, notably Robert Curzon’s Monasteries of the Levant. Another excellent illustration is supplied by Vazoff’s Under the Yoke, a translation of which has been published in English. It is an historical novel, written by a Bulgarian burning with indignation against the Ottoman rule. Yet the Turkish Caimmakam, as drawn by a bitter enemy, is no bloody tyrant, but an exquisitely diverting old gentleman whose every appearance is hailed by the reader with impatient delight. As the violence of the Turk, so also the dishonesty and corruption of the Rayah seem to lose their enormity when viewed in this gentle, humorous light. The swindling is so palpable, and yet so gravely decorous in its external forms, that it ceases to shock; it is so universal that in the end no one seems to have suffered much wrong. To vary the celebrated remark about the Scilly Islanders, one may say that these people gain a precarious livelihood by taking bribes from one another. Again the elaborate and ceremonious phraseology essential to all literary composition in the East enables a writer to make intrinsically preposterous assertions with a gravity which renders criticism impossible. What reply can be given to the officials who assert that Armenians commit suicide in order to throw suspicion on certain excellent Kurds residing in their neighbourhood? or who when called upon to explain why they have incarcerated a foreign traveller under circumstances of extreme indignity, blandly reply that “the said gentleman was indeed hospitably entertained in the Government buildings”?

This last instance shows that Oriental travelling must not be undertaken without due precautions. A certain retinue, and sufficient influence to secure the courtesy of the authorities (which Kinglake evidently had), are essential. With them the traveller acquires a feeling, often manifest in Eothen, that he is a sultan possessed of absolute authority over his surroundings. There is just enough hardship to make comparative comfort seem luxury, just enough danger to make it pleasant, when all is over, to hear from what perils one has escaped. Should, however, any reader be inclined to use Eothen as a practical manual, he must be cautious in following some of its precepts. Kinglake constantly insists that intimidation, haughtiness, and defiance of all regulations are the only means of impressing Orientals; and chronicles with great satisfaction his own exploits in this line, concluding with “the Surprise of Satalieh.” What he says is true enough as long as the Oriental believes that the traveller is a prince in his own country, and that any interference with his mad whims will bring severe punishment. But unfortunately the secret is out. Enlightened officials are well aware that many Englishmen are not cousins of the Queen, and have a shrewd suspicion that hindrances placed in the way of the prying European are not displeasing to the Imperial Government. The “Lord of London,” who fifty years ago obtained a firman which made every provincial official bow before him, may now be kept waiting days or weeks for a travelling passport; and, unless he uses tact as well as bumptiousness, may find himself in a position to write to the Times about the interior of Turkish provincial prisons, and become the subject of a Blue Book. Still even now, if travellers will be cautious and polite in dealing with people of whose language and customs they are profoundly ignorant, and not bluster unless they know very well what they are about (for I admit that bluster has its uses), they will find travelling more interesting, diverting, and enjoyable in the Levant than in any other part of the world.

I write these lines as I sit in the hall of the largest hotel in New York, a newly arrived stranger, somewhat dazed by the bustle and the glare. The whole establishment is on a greater scale than anything else in the world—except its own bills. Everything is made of gold and marble, including, I fancy, the food—at least this hypothesis plausibly reconciles the quality and texture of the viands with the value the vendors seem to attach to them. Enormous lifts shoot their living freights up into spheres unseen, or engulf them in abysmal chasms. All round people are ringing electric bells, telephoning, telegraphing, stenographing, polygraphing, and generally communicating their ideas about money to their fellow-creatures by any means rather than the voice which God put in the larynx for the purpose of quiet conversation. On one side an operatic concert is being performed, on the other porters and luggage jostle a brilliant throng of fashionably dressed people. It is as if someone had given an evening party at a railway station. “Whirr! whirr! all by wheels! whizz! whizz! all by steam!” and electricity, as the immortal Pasha of Karagholookoldour would have said. Now my mind (like the Pasha’s) comprehends locomotives, and I am an enthusiast for progress, but amidst all the whizz and whirr and ringing of electric bells, my memory turns somewhat regretfully to a hotel where I resided not long ago in the “Exalted Country”—that fine old Stamboul’s jargon is so much more soothing to the tongue than the strange abbreviations and initials they use over here—which was certainly more interesting, and not, I think, more uncomfortable than this Transatlantic Caravanserai. Perhaps I shall write an introduction congenial to the Shade of Kinglake (if indeed the Shades are interested in new editions of their works) if instead of instituting a comparison between the Levant of to-day and of 1834, I recount a journey to the town of Karakeui in the year of grace 1898, and describe the local hotel. Let not the reader in pursuit of that “sound learning” which Kinglake kept at arm’s length rashly identify Karakeui with the first town he finds on the map bearing that name. The Turk has not a great variety of local designations. When possible he adopts one from some other language, treating it with the scant courtesy which long-winded, infidel polysyllables deserve (e.g. Edirné, Fílibé, for Adrianople and Phílippopoli); but when forced to have recourse to his own invention he calls most places Karakeui (or Blacktown), except those which are dubbed Oldtown, Newtown, or Whitetown.

It has been justly said that the East begins on the other side of Vienna, but, out of deference to the susceptibilities of the Magyars, who consider themselves in the van of civilisation, the Orient Express affects to be extremely European during its transit through Hungary. It bustles and shakes, and is very uncomfortable. In Servia it is more at its ease, though it still makes a pretence of thinking that time is money by only stopping ten minutes at every station. In Bulgaria it ceases to imitate Western ways, and becomes frankly Oriental, reposing for half an hour at spots where there are no passengers and no traffic. The part of the journey which lies on Turkish territory follows a singularly tortuous and corkscrew course, across a perfectly level plain which presents no obvious engineering difficulties. The Porte confided the construction of this line to an eminent Israelite at a remuneration of so much for every kilometre built. The eminent Israelite was straightway possessed by the spirit of his ancestors, and made a large fortune by laying the rails along a road as lengthy and complicated as that selected by Moses when he spent forty years in traversing a distance which anyone else can accomplish in a few days.

On arriving in Turkey we are at once seized by the representatives of the Board of Health. After all, times have indeed changed since Eothen was written. Instead of being put in quarantine by Europe, Turkey now puts Europe in quarantine. It is true that good Moslems still hold that men’s souls leave their bodies when God calls them, and count it impious to suppose that neglect or precaution can hasten or delay the Divine summons. But though the Porte are not disposed to amend the sanitary condition of Mecca, they enforce quarantine regulations all round Constantinople with fanatical rigour. This is due partly to the fears of the Palace, and partly, I think, to a sense of humour. It is an excellent joke to apply a parody of European rules to Europeans in the name of sanitary science: to keep a set of fussy business people waiting a few days because they have come from a country which has not imposed quarantine on another country where there has been a doubtful case of cholera, or to detain a ship with a valuable cargo while embassies and merchants scream that thousands of pounds are being lost daily. On the present occasion we are told we must wait a day under inspection, to see if we develop the symptoms of any terrible malady, and are accordingly lodged in damp little wooden huts on a muddy plain, where we are certainly likely to fall ill even if hale and hearty on arriving. Turkish soldiers prevent us from crossing an imaginary line and contaminating the surrounding desert. The quarantine doctor, however, explains to me that he has a peculiar respect for my character, sanitary and general, and would like to take a walk with me outside the limits of the establishment. He has a remarkable pedigree. His father was a Bohemian monk who found convent life too narrow for his taste, and accordingly embraced Islam. Once within the true fold he made up for lost time by marrying as many wives as his new liberty allowed, and this is one of the results. He confides to me that his one ambition is to wear decorations, and that in return for his civilities strangers of distinction have procured for him the orders of their respective countries. The Siamese Minister, who recently passed through, made him a Commander of the Order of the White Elephant. Could I not obtain for him the Order of the Garter? Doubtless I possess it myself. With blushing mendacity I lead him to believe that I do, but explain that the distinction is only given to Englishmen and not to foreigners. I see that he does not believe me, and meditates revenge. Before we leave the quarantine station we have to be disinfected. The doctor attaches a garden hose to a reservoir filled with a fetid and corrosive fluid. The victims are led up one by one by the military authorities as if to execution, and the jet is turned upon them, causing their garments to burst out into leprous spots. I see by the doctor’s eye that he means to make me pay for my unfriendliness in the matter of the decoration, and therefore, casting scruple to the winds, I assure him that if he will only treat me gently he shall have the Fourth Class of the Garter. He is at once all civility and consideration, and when I am led up in front of his infernal machine, directs an odoriferous douche to the right and left, leaving me unwetted in the middle.

Truly the way into Turkey is beset with as many difficulties as the road to paradise. After the quarantine comes the Custom House. The entry of most things is absolutely prohibited, and those which do enter pay a high duty. Books are treated with incredible severity. No work is allowed to pass the frontier which hints that the Turks were ever defeated, or that the Ottoman Government or the Mohammedan religion have any imperfections. Turkish officials having found by experience that very little European literature comes up to their high standard, simply confiscate as “seditious” every publication which mentions Turkey or the Mohammedan East. Eothen, even without the present highly seditious preface, is placed on the index, as are also Shakespeare, Byron, Dante, the Encyclopædia Britannica, Baedeker, and Murray. In practice, of course, certain familiar argumenta ad hominem modify this Draconian system, but even the golden key sometimes fails to open the door. The officials watch one another, and know that they are much more likely to obtain a Turkish decoration by confiscating some infamous historian who is not ashamed to say that the Turks were once driven out of Hungary than they are to receive the Garter for letting his calumnies in. But there is an end to all troubles, even on the Turkish frontier, and at last we are allowed to proceed to Karakeui, where I ultimately alight at the hotel.

Karakeui lies on a plateau, under a range of snowy mountains which glitter with strange distinctness in the pure translucent air. A forest of minarets bears testimony to the piety of the place. It is the sacred month of Ramazan, and at sunset they will be festooned with lights and blaze like columns of fire, while in the mosque below myriads of little oil lamps will shed their soft glow on the bowing crowds, the plashing fountains, and the names of saints and prophets blazoned on the walls in green and red. In the streets is a motley throng of men and animals. Strings of camels and pack-horses, dogs, sheep, and turkeys are mixed up with the human crowd. Bulgarians and Servians quarrel in the bazaar, and denounce one another to the Turks. They each claim exclusive rights over the only Christian Church, and the Governor, to end the dispute, has shut it up altogether. A few Greeks are occupied in making large fortunes, and are ready to expatiate on the Hellenic Idea, and to explain how, from a certain peculiar point of view, the late war may be regarded as a victory for Greece. Albanians, armed with many weapons, and with moustaches as long as their own rifles, swagger through the crowd which respectfully makes way for them.

The hotel is kept by an Armenian, who left his native village on account of what are beautifully termed the “events” which occurred there. Having been inspired by these occurrences with a wholesome respect for the followers of the Prophet, he is a little apt to recoup himself at the expense of his co-religionists; but the local Ottoman authorities, to whose care I am duly recommended as being “one of those who wish well to the Sublime Government,” have sternly informed him that I am not to be fleeced. (I wonder if the Governor of New York would address a similar warning to the proprietor of this hotel.) The establishment is constructed in the form of a quadrangle. The central space is a quagmire, wherein are embedded, and, so to speak, held as hostages for payment, the vehicles in which the travellers have arrived. The ground floor of the surrounding buildings is devoted to stabling. Outside the first floor, and above the aforesaid quagmire, runs a gallery, from which open a number of cells, bare and whitewashed, devoid of all furniture, but, contrary to what might be expected, scrupulously clean. A marble bath is not, as in New York, attached to each apartment, but in response to a suitable shout a boy brings a brass jug and basin, pours water over your hands and wipes them on an embroidered towel. There is no table and no bed. When you are disposed to sleep, a pile of rugs is spread on the floor. If you want to write, you naturally sit on your heels and hold your paper in your hand—an attitude which, at least in the case of Europeans, tends to restrain exuberance and keep literary composition within due limits. At meal times a little table like a high stool is brought in. The guests squat round it on their heels, and eat with their fingers out of a large saucer set on a broad tin tray. Turkish dinners consist of a quantity of dishes, generally at least seven or eight, and sometimes as many as twenty; but each is only tasted and rapidly removed. At first it looks somewhat mysterious when people apparently wrap up some pieces of string in brown paper and eat the parcel with avidity. But the string is cheese drawn out like very attenuated vermicelli, and the brown paper sheets of very thin bread which serve as a tablecloth and napkin as well as for food. During Ramazan no Moslem may eat, drink, or smoke between sunrise and sunset. The latter phenomenon is announced by a cannon, and some minutes before the gun fires a hungry crowd is gathered round the table waiting for the blessed sound. Then follows half an hour of rapid, silent nutrition, for Turks do not talk at table. Afterwards, an hour or more of prayer; and then the earlier part of the night, until at least twelve or one, is devoted to visiting or attending the puppet show called Karagyöz. [xxxi] Half an hour before dawn people go round the town beating drums, and the faithful hurriedly take a last meal before the morning cannon announces the dawn.

My neighbour in the room on the right is a spy appointed by the Imperial Government to watch over my doings. He is a charming companion, and I fancy has a very pretty talent for the composition of imaginative literature. My only regret is that I have never seen the daily reports which he draws up on my conduct. They are, I believe, replete with incident, and are excellent specimens of a new and interesting variety of fiction. The room on my left is occupied by the Christian Vice-Governor of the Province, who was appointed some months ago under immense pressure from the Powers, met by such resistance on the part of the Porte that one might have supposed his nomination was a deadly blow to the Turkish Empire. It is a wise plan of the Porte’s never to make the most trivial concession without opposing a resistance, which is often successful, and always seems to enhance the importance of the point in dispute. But the concession once made, means are soon discovered to deprive it of all its value, and the positions of victors and vanquished in the game prove to be reversed. In the present case the Christian Vice-Governor found that none of his co-religionists were disposed to let him lodgings; and the local authorities, with a tender solicitude for his welfare, represented to him that there was a strong feeling against him in the town, and that he would be much more comfortable in the hotel; predicting (like Kinglake’s prophet, Damoor) that if he went out into the streets, or meddled in the administration, he would arouse that excitable sentiment known as Mussulman religious feeling. Like the Jews of Safet, the Christian Vice-Governor thought that the predictions of such practical men were not to be disregarded, and takes his ease in his inn with as good a grace as he can muster. Another interesting occupant of the hotel is the Turkish inspector of Reforms. To rightly understand the duties of this functionary it must be remembered that the Turkish Government is divided into two parts, which have no connection with one another: firstly, the real Government, which is hard to comprehend, but of which one gets a dim idea by observation on the spot; and secondly, the show Government, intended to impress Europe, and having as chief practical result the enrichment of telegraphic agencies. Two common manifestations of the show Government are circulars to the Powers, and commissions despatched to the Provinces to rectify abuses. The present Commissioner has come to inspect reforms, and from the official language used respecting him it may be supposed that his mission is to tend and water the new institutions which are springing up like a luxuriant vegetation in a favourable climate, but at the same time to exercise a fatherly control, prevent the country from rushing into downright republicanism, and not permit the Christians to positively oppress their weaker Mohammedan brethren. He is a very affable man, with a broad, smiling face, and an amiable rotundity of person which causes his gorgeous uniform to burst its buttons and gape at critical points. He pays me long visits for the purpose of political discussion, being, as he calls it, tout à fait dans les idées libérales, and in order that this outpouring of radical views may not be interrupted, he brings a soldier to mount guard over the door. No tortures could make me disclose the Commissioner’s confidences. I will merely observe that the long fasts of Ramazan are irksome to an enlightened mind, and that liberal theologians hold that a mixture of brandy and champagne does not fall under the Prophet’s ban, inasmuch as it cannot accurately be described as either wine or spirits.

Very different is the room at the end of the passage. No guard is needed here. The door stands proudly open, and all the world may see that no crumb of bread or drop of water enters from sunrise to sunset. In the middle of a low sofa sits, cross-legged, a Hodja, clad in striped silk. He is no ordinary country parson, but a noted preacher invited to tour in the provinces during Ramazan, and hold what in other countries would be called revival meetings. His thin nervous face shows that he is not a real Turk. Probably he is of Arab extraction, and in any case he burns with a Semitic indignation against those who “ascribe companions to God.” Round him sit in a solemn circle the notables of the town—stout, devout men of the churchwarden order, who, to judge from the heavy sighs and puffs which they occasionally emit, do not share the Hodja’s fierce joy in trampling on the desires of the flesh. To-morrow he will preach in the Great Mosque with a sword in his hand, in token that the building was once a Christian Church and has been won from the infidel. I tell the Commissioner for Reforms that I think this dangerous and injudicious. He explains that the whole point of the ceremony lies in the fact that the sword is sheathed, as a token that religious discord is at an end, and that an era of mutual love and toleration has commenced. But when I think of that nervous, fanatical face, the green garments, the ample turban, the amulets and the sword, I cannot help suspecting that it is better to be a Christian traveller than a Christian resident at Karakeui.