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Alexander William Kinglake. Eothen; Or, Traces of Travel Brought Home from the East
Eothen; Or, Traces of Travel Brought Home from the East
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I—OVER THE BORDER
CHAPTER II—TURKISH TRAVELLING
CHAPTER III—CONSTANTINOPLE
CHAPTER IV—THE TROAD
CHAPTER V—INFIDEL SMYRNA
CHAPTER VI—GREEK MARINERS
CHAPTER VII—CYPRUS
CHAPTER VIII—LADY HESTER STANHOPE [14]
CHAPTER IX—THE SANCTUARY
CHAPTER X—THE MONKS OF PALESTINE
CHAPTER XI—GALILEE
CHAPTER XII—MY FIRST BIVOUAC
CHAPTER XIII—THE DEAD SEA
CHAPTER XIV—THE BLACK TENTS
CHAPTER XV—PASSAGE OF THE JORDAN
CHAPTER XVI—TERRA SANTA
CHAPTER XVII—THE DESERT
CHAPTER XVIII—CAIRO AND THE PLAGUE [30]
CHAPTER XIX—THE PYRAMIDS
CHAPTER XX—THE SPHINX
CHAPTER XXI—CAIRO TO SUEZ
CHAPTER XXII—SUEZ
CHAPTER XXIII—SUEZ TO GAZA
CHAPTER XXIV—GAZA TO NABLUS
CHAPTER XXV—MARIAM
CHAPTER XXVI—THE PROPHET DAMOOR
CHAPTER XXVII—DAMASCUS
CHAPTER XXVIII—PASS OF THE LEBANON
CHAPTER XXIX—SURPRISE OF SATALIEH
APPENDIX—THE HOME OF LADY HESTER STANHOPE
Footnotes:
Отрывок из книги
Alexander William Kinglake
Published by Good Press, 2019
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I am bound to confess, however, that with all its charms a mud floor (like a mercenary match) does certainly promote early rising. Long before daybreak we were up, and had breakfasted; after this there was nearly a whole tedious hour to endure whilst the horses were laden by torch-light; but this had an end, and at last we went on once more. Cloaked, and sombre, at first we made our sullen way through the darkness, with scarcely one barter of words, but soon the genial morn burst down from heaven, and stirred the blood so gladly through our veins, that the very Suridgees, with all their troubles, could now look up for an instant, and almost seem to believe in the temporary goodness of God.
The actual movement from one place to another, in Europeanised countries, is a process so temporary—it occupies, I mean, so small a proportion of the traveller’s entire time—that his mind remains unsettled, so long as the wheels are going; he may be alive enough to external objects of interest, and to the crowding ideas which are often invited by the excitement of a changing scene, but he is still conscious of being in a provisional state, and his mind is constantly recurring to the expected end of his journey; his ordinary ways of thought have been interrupted, and before any new mental habits can be formed he is quietly fixed in his hotel. It will be otherwise with you when you journey in the East. Day after day, perhaps week after week and month after month, your foot is in the stirrup. To taste the cold breath of the earliest morn, and to lead, or follow, your bright cavalcade till sunset through forests and mountain passes, through valleys and desolate plains, all this becomes your mode of life, and you ride, eat, drink, and curse the mosquitoes as systematically as your friends in England eat, drink, and sleep. If you are wise, you will not look upon the long period of time thus occupied in actual movement as the mere gulf dividing you from the end of your journey, but rather as one of those rare and plastic seasons of your life from which, perhaps, in after times you may love to date the moulding of your character—that is, your very identity. Once feel this, and you will soon grow happy and contented in your saddle-home. As for me and my comrade, however, in this part of our journey we often forgot Stamboul, forgot all the Ottoman Empire, and only remembered old times. We went back, loitering on the banks of Thames—not grim old Thames of “after life,” that washes the Parliament Houses, and drowns despairing girls—but Thames, the “old Eton fellow,” that wrestled with us in our boyhood till he taught us to be stronger than he. We bullied Keate, and scoffed at Larrey Miller, and Okes; we rode along loudly laughing, and talked to the grave Servian forest as though it were the “Brocas clump.”
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