wonderful people have remained unchanged; and how, from the days of
Jacob downwards, they have believed and swindled!
The Rhodian Jews, with their genius for filth, have made their
quarter of the noble desolate old town the most ruinous and
wretched of all. The escutcheons of the proud old knights are
still carved over the doors, whence issue these miserable greasy
hucksters and pedlars. The Turks respected these emblems of the
brave enemies whom they had overcome, and left them untouched.
When the French seized Malta they were by no means so delicate:
they effaced armorial bearings with their usual hot-headed
eagerness; and a few years after they had torn down the coats-of-
arms of the gentry, the heroes of Malta and Egypt were busy
devising heraldry for themselves, and were wild to be barons and
counts of the Empire.
The chivalrous relics at Rhodes are very superb. I know of no
buildings whose stately and picturesque aspect seems to correspond
better with one's notions of their proud founders. The towers and
gates are warlike and strong, but beautiful and aristocratic: you
see that they must have been high-bred gentlemen who built them.
The edifices appear in almost as perfect a condition as when they
were in the occupation of the noble Knights of St. John; and they
have this advantage over modern fortifications, that they are a
thousand times more picturesque. Ancient war condescended to
ornament itself, and built fine carved castles and vaulted gates:
whereas, to judge from Gibraltar and Malta, nothing can be less
romantic than the modern military architecture; which sternly
regards the fighting, without in the least heeding the war-paint.
Some of the huge artillery with which the place was defended still
lies in the bastions; and the touch-holes of the guns are preserved
by being covered with rusty old corselets, worn by defenders of the
fort three hundred years ago. The Turks, who battered down
chivalry, seem to be waiting their turn of destruction now. In
walking through Rhodes one is strangely affected by witnessing the
signs of this double decay. For instance, in the streets of the
knights, you see noble houses, surmounted by noble escutcheons of
superb knights, who lived there, and prayed, and quarrelled, and
murdered the Turks; and were the most gallant pirates of the inland
seas; and made vows of chastity, and robbed and ravished; and,
professing humility, would admit none but nobility into their
order; and died recommending themselves to sweet St. John, and
calmly hoping for heaven in consideration of all the heathen they
had slain. When this superb fraternity was obliged to yield to
courage as great as theirs, faith as sincere, and to robbers even
more dexterous and audacious than the noblest knight who ever sang
a canticle to the Virgin, these halls were filled by magnificent
Pashas and Agas, who lived here in the intervals of war, and having
conquered its best champions, despised Christendom and chivalry
pretty much as an Englishman despises a Frenchman. Now the famous
house is let to a shabby merchant, who has his little beggarly shop
in the bazaar; to a small officer, who ekes out his wretched
pension by swindling, and who gets his pay in bad coin.
Mahometanism pays in pewter now, in place of silver and gold. The
lords of the world have run to seed. The powerless old sword
frightens nobody now--the steel is turned to pewter too, somehow,
and will no longer shear a Christian head off any shoulders. In
the Crusades my wicked sympathies have always been with the Turks.
They seem to me the better Christians of the two: more humane,
less brutally presumptuous about their own merits, and more
generous in esteeming their neighbours. As far as I can get at the
authentic story, Saladin is a pearl of refinement compared to the
brutal beef-eating Richard--about whom Sir Walter Scott has led all
the world astray.
When shall we have a real account of those times and heroes--no
good-humoured pageant, like those of the Scott romances--but a real
authentic story to instruct and frighten honest people of the
present day, and make them thankful that the grocer governs the
world now in place of the baron? Meanwhile a man of tender
feelings may be pardoned for twaddling a little over this sad
spectacle of the decay of two of the great institutions of the
world. Knighthood is gone--amen; it expired with dignity, its face
to the foe: and old Mahometanism is lingering about just ready to
drop. But it is unseemly to see such a Grand Potentate in such a
state of decay: the son of Bajazet Ilderim insolvent; the
descendants of the Prophet bullied by Calmucs and English and
whipper-snapper Frenchmen; the Fountain of Magnificence done up,
and obliged to coin pewter! Think of the poor dear houris in
Paradise, how sad they must look as the arrivals of the Faithful
become less and less frequent every day. I can fancy the place
beginning to wear the fatal Vauxhall look of the Seraglio, and
which has pursued me ever since I saw it: the fountains of eternal
wine are beginning to run rather dry, and of a questionable liquor;
the ready-roasted-meat trees may cry, "Come eat me," every now and
then, in a faint voice, without any gravy in it--but the Faithful
begin to doubt about the quality of the victuals. Of nights you
may see the houris sitting sadly under them, darning their faded
muslins: Ali, Omar, and the Imaums are reconciled and have gloomy
consultations: and the Chief of the Faithful himself, the awful
camel-driver, the supernatural husband of Khadijah, sits alone in a
tumbledown kiosk, thinking moodily of the destiny that is impending
over him; and of the day when his gardens of bliss shall be as
vacant as the bankrupt Olympus.
All the town of Rhodes has this appearance of decay and ruin,
except a few consuls' houses planted on the sea-side, here and
there, with bright flags flaunting in the sun; fresh paint; English
crockery; shining mahogany, &c.,--so many emblems of the new
prosperity of their trade, while the old inhabitants were going to
rack--the fine Church of St. John, converted into a mosque, is a
ruined church, with a ruined mosque inside; the fortifications are
mouldering away, as much as time will let them. There was
considerable bustle and stir about the little port; but it was the
bustle of people who looked for the most part to be beggars; and I
saw no shop in the bazaar that seemed to have the value of a
pedlar's pack.
I took, by way of guide, a young fellow from Berlin, a journeyman
shoemaker, who had just been making a tour in Syria, and who
professed to speak both Arabic and Turkish quite fluently--which I
thought he might have learned when he was a student at college,
before he began his profession of shoemaking; but I found he only
knew about three words of Turkish, which were produced on every
occasion, as I walked under his guidance through the desolate
streets of the noble old town. We went out upon the lines of
fortification, through an ancient gate and guard-house, where once
a chapel probably stood, and of which the roofs were richly carved
and gilded. A ragged squad of Turkish soldiers lolled about the
gate now; a couple of boys on a donkey; a grinning slave on a mule;
a pair of women flapping along in yellow papooshes; a basket-maker
sitting under an antique carved portal, and chanting or howling as
he plaited his osiers: a peaceful well of water, at which knights'
chargers had drunk, and at which the double-boyed donkey was now
refreshing himself--would have made a pretty picture for a
sentimental artist. As he sits, and endeavours to make a sketch of
this plaintive little comedy, a shabby dignitary of the island
comes clattering by on a thirty-shilling horse, and two or three of
the ragged soldiers leave their pipes to salute him as he passes
under the Gothic archway.
The astonishing brightness and clearness of the sky under which the
island seemed to bask, struck me as surpassing anything I had seen-
-not even at Cadiz, or the Piraeus, had I seen sands so yellow, or
water so magnificently blue. The houses of the people along the
shore were but poor tenements, with humble courtyards and gardens;
but every fig-tree was gilded and bright, as if it were in an
Hesperian orchard; the palms, planted here and there, rose with a
sort of halo of light round about them; the creepers on the walls
quite dazzled with the brilliancy of their flowers and leaves; the
people lay in the cool shadows, happy and idle, with handsome
solemn faces; nobody seemed to be at work; they only talked a very
little, as if idleness and silence were a condition of the
delightful shining atmosphere in which they lived.
We went down to an old mosque by the sea-shore, with a cluster of
ancient domes hard by it, blazing in the sunshine, and carved all
over with names of Allah, and titles of old pirates and generals
who reposed there. The guardian of the mosque sat in the garden-
court, upon a high wooden pulpit, lazily wagging his body to and
fro, and singing the praises of the Prophet gently through his
nose, as the breeze stirred through the trees overhead, and cast
chequered and changing shadows over the paved court, and the little
fountains, and the nasal psalmist on his perch. On one side was
the mosque, into which you could see, with its white walls and
cool-matted floor, and quaint carved pulpit and ornaments, and
nobody at prayers. In the middle distance rose up the noble towers
and battlements of the knightly town, with the deep sea-line behind
them.
It really seemed as if everybody was to have a sort of sober
cheerfulness, and must yield to indolence under this charming
atmosphere. I went into the courtyard by the sea-shore (where a
few lazy ships were lying, with no one on board), and found it was
the prison of the place. The door was as wide open as Westminster
Hall. Some prisoners, one or two soldiers and functionaries, and
some prisoners' wives, were lolling under an arcade by a fountain;
other criminals were strolling about here and there, their chains
clinking quite cheerfully; and they and the guards and officials
came up chatting quite friendly together, and gazed languidly over
the portfolio, as I was endeavouring to get the likeness of one or
two of these comfortable malefactors. One old and wrinkled she-
criminal, whom I had selected on account of the peculiar
hideousness of her countenance, covered it up with a dirty cloth,
at which there was a general roar of laughter among this good-
humoured auditory of cut-throats, pickpockets, and policemen. The
only symptom of a prison about the place was a door, across which a
couple of sentinels were stretched, yawning; while within lay three
freshly-caught pirates--chained by the leg. They had committed
some murders of a very late date, and were awaiting sentence; but
their wives were allowed to communicate freely with them: and it
seemed to me that if half-a-dozen friends would set them flee, and
they themselves had energy enough to move, the sentinels would be a
great deal too lazy to walk after them.
possession of my friend the Schustergesell from Berlin. As soon as
he received his fee, he cut me at once, and went and lay down by a
fountain near the port, and ate grapes out of a dirty pocket-
handkerchief. Other Christian idlers lay near him, dozing, or
sprawling, in the boats, or listlessly munching water-melons.
Along the coffee-houses of the quay sat hundreds more, with no
better employment; and the captain of the "Iberia" and his
officers, and several of the passengers in that famous steamship,
were in this company, being idle with all their might. Two or
three adventurous young men went off to see the valley where the
dragon was killed; but others, more susceptible of the real
influence of the island, I am sure would not have moved though we
had been told that the Colossus himself was taking a walk half a
mile off.
CHAPTER IX: THE WHITE SQUALL
On deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the grey of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful wind's deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring
With universal nose.
I could hear the passengers snorting,
I envied their disporting:
Vainly I was courting
The pleasure of a doze.
So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy,
That whirled from the chimney neck:
In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.
Strange company we harboured;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, uubarbered,
Jews black, and brown, and grey;
With terror it would seize ye,
And make your souls uneasy,
To see those Rabbis greasy,
Who did nought but scratch and pray:
Their dirty children pucking,
Their dirty saucepans cooking,
Their dirty fingers hooking
Their swarming fleas away.
To starboard Turks and Greeks were,
Whiskered, and brown their cheeks were,
Enormous wide their breeks were,
Their pipes did puff alway;
Each on his mat allotted,
In silence smoked and squatted,
Whilst round their children trotted
In pretty, pleasant play.
He can't but smile who traces
The smiles on those brown faces,
And the pretty prattling graces
Of those small heathens gay.
And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling,
Went the brave "Iberia" bowling
Before the break of day -
When a SQUALL upon a sudden
Came o'er the waters scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled,
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship, and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle-dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing;
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers, whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;
And the captain he was bawling,
And the sailors pulling, hauling;
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;
And the steward jumps up, and hastens
For the necessary basins.
Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrowbones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.
And the Turkish women for'ard
Were frightened and behorror'd;
And, shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sung, "Allah Illah!
Mashallah Bismillah!"
As the warring waters doused them,
And splashed them and soused them;
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.
Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped up and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);
And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish gaberdine,
In woe and lamentation,
And howling consternation.
And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;
And they crawl from bales and benches,
In a hundred thousand stenches.
This was the White Squall famous
Which latterly o'ercame us,
And which all will well remember
On the 28th September:
When a Prussian Captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potztausend!
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend!"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,
And scorned the tempest's tussle.
And oft we've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm to laughter;
For well he knew his vessel
With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gaily he fought her,
And through the hubbub brought her,
And, as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER!"
And when, its force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And, as the sunrise splendid
Came blushing o'er the sea;
I thought, as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making
A prayer at home for me.
CHAPTER X: 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