LETTER XLVII.
Smyrna—Charms of its Society—Hospitality of Foreign Residents—The Marina—The Casino—A narrow Escape from the Plague—Departure of the Frigate—High Character of the American Navy—A Tribute of Respect and Gratitude—The Farewell.
What can I say of Smyrna? Its mosques and bazaars scarce deserve description after those of Constantinople. It has neither pictures, scenery, nor any peculiarities of costume or manners. There are no “lions” here. It is only one of the most agreeable places in the world, exactly the sort of thing, that (without compelling private individuals to sit for their portraits),[[19]] is the least describable. Of the fortnight of constant pleasure that I have passed here, I do not well know how I can eke out half a page that would amuse you.
The society of Smyrna has some advantages over that of any other city I have seen. It is composed entirely of the families of merchants, who, separated from the Turkish inhabitants, occupy a distinct quarter of the town, are responsible only to their consuls, and having no nobility above, and none but dependants below them, live in a state of cordial republican equality that is not found even in America. They are of all nations, and the principal languages of Europe are spoken by everybody. Hospitality is carried to an extent more like the golden age than these “days of iron;” and, as a necessary result of the free mixture of languages and feelings, there is a degree of information and liberality of sentiment among them, united to a free and joyous tone of manners and habits of living, that is quite extraordinary in men of their care-fraught profession. Our own country, I am proud to say, is most honourably represented. There is no traveller to the East, of any nation, who does not carry away with him from Smyrna, grateful recollections of one at least whose hospitality is as open as his gate. This living over warehouses of opium, I am inclined to think, is healthy for the heart.
After having seen the packing of figs, wondered at the enormous burdens carried by the porters, ridden to Bougiar and the castle on the hill, and admired the caravan of the Bey-Oglou, whose camels are the handsomest that come into Smyrna, one has nothing to do but dine, dance, and walk on the Marina. The last is a circumstance the traveller does well not to miss. A long street extends along the bay, lined with the houses of the rich merchants of the town, and for the two hours before sunset every family is to be seen sitting outside its door upon the public pavement, while beaux and belles stroll up and down in all the gaiety of perpetual holiday. They are the most out-of-doors people, the Smyrniotes, that I have ever seen. And one reason perhaps is, that they have a beauty which has nothing to fear from the daylight. The rich, classic, glowing face of the Greeks, the paler and livelier French, the serious and impassioned Italian, the blooming English, and the shrinking and fragile American, mingle together in this concourse of grace and elegance like the varied flowers in the garden. I would match Smyrna against the world for beauty. And then such sociability, such primitive cordiality of manners as you find among them! It is quite a Utopia. You would think that little republic of merchants, separate from the Christian world on a heathen shore, had commenced de novo, from Eden—ignorant as yet of jealousy, envy, suspicion, and the other ingredients with which the old world mingles up its refinements. It is a very pleasant place, Smyrna!
The stranger, on his arrival, is immediately introduced to the Casino—a large palace, supported by the subscription of the residents, containing a reading-room, furnished with all the gazettes and reviews of Europe, a ball-room frequently used, a coffee-room whence the delicious mocha is brought to you whenever you enter, billiard-tables, card-rooms, &c. &c. The merchants all are members, and any member can introduce a stranger, and give him all the privileges of the place during his stay in the city. It is a courtesy that is not a little drawn upon. English, French, and American ships-of-war are almost always in the port, and the officers are privileged guests. Every traveller to the East passes by Smyrna, and there are always numbers at the Casino. In fact, the hospitality of this kindest of cities has not the usual demerit of being rarely called upon. It seems to have grown with the demand for it.
Idling away the time very agreeably at Smyrna, waiting for a vessel to go—I care not where. I have offered myself as a passenger in the first ship that sails. I rather lean toward Palestine and Egypt, but there are no vessels for Jaffa or Alexandria. A brig, crowded with hajjis to Jerusalem, sailed on the first day of my arrival at Smyrna, and I was on the point of a hasty embarkation, when my good angel, in the shape of a sudden caprice, sent me off to Sardis. The plague broke out on board immediately on leaving the port, and nearly the whole ship’s company perished at sea!
There are plenty of vessels bound to Trieste and the United States, but there would be nothing new to me in Illyria and Lombardy; and much as I love my country, I am more enamoured for the present of my “sandal-shoon.” Besides, I have a yearning to the South, and the cold “Bora” of that bellows-like Adriatic, and the cutting winter winds of my native shore, chill me even in the thought. Meantime I breathe an air borrowed by December of May, and sit with my windows open, warming myself in a broad beam of the soft sun of Asia. With such “appliances,” even suspense is agreeable.
The commodore sailed this morning for his winter quarters in Minorca. I watched the ship’s preparations for departure from the balcony of the hotel, with, a heavy heart. Her sails dropped from the yards, her head turned slowly outward as the anchor brought away, and with a light breeze in her topsails, the gallant frigate moved majestically down the harbour, and in an hour was a speck on the horizon. She had been my home for more than six months. I had seen from her deck, and visited in her boats some of the fairest portions of the world. She had borne me to Sicily, to Illyria, to the isles and shores of Greece, to Marmora and the Bosphorus, and the thousand lovely pictures with which that long summer voyage had stored my memory, and the thousand adventures and still more numerous kindnesses and courtesies, linked with these interesting scenes, crowded on my mind as the noble ship receded from my eye, with an emotion that I could not repress.
There is a “pomp and circumstance” about a man-of-war, which is exceedingly fascinating. Her imposing structure and appearance, the manly and deferential etiquette, the warlike appointment and impressive order upon her decks, the ready and gallantly-manned boat, the stirring music of the band, and the honour and attention with which her officers are received in every port, conspire in keeping awake an excitement, a kind of chivalrous elation, which, it seems to me, would almost make a hero of a man of straw. From the hoarse “seven bells, sir!” with which you are turned out of your hammock in the morning, to the blast of the bugle and the report of the evening gun, it is one succession of elevating sights and sounds, without any of that approach to the ridiculous which accompanies the sublime or the impressive on shore.
From the comparisons I have made between our own and the ships-of-war of other nations, I think we may well be proud of our navy. I had learned in Europe, long before joining the “United States,” that the respect we exact from foreigners is paid more to Americans afloat, than to a continent they think as far off at least as the moon. They see our men-of-war, and they know very well what they have done, and from the appearance and character of our officers, what they might do again—and there is a tangibility in the deductions from knowledge and eyesight, which beats books and statistics. I have heard Englishmen deny, one by one, every claim we have to political and moral superiority; but I have found no one illiberal enough to refuse a compliment, and a handsome one, to Yankee ships.
I consider myself, I repeat, particularly fortunate to have made a cruise on board an American frigate. It is a chapter of observation in itself, which is worth much to any one. But, in addition to this, it was my good fortune to have happened upon a cruise directed by a mind full of taste and desire for knowledge, and a cruise which had for its principal objects improvement and information. Commodore Patterson knew the ground well, and was familiar with the history and localities of the interesting countries visited by the ship, and every possible facility and encouragement was given by him to all to whom the subjects and places were new. An enlightened and enterprising traveller himself, he was the best of advisers and the best and kindest of guides. I take pleasure in recording almost unlimited obligations to him.
And so, to the gallant ship—to the “warlike world within”—to the docks I have so often promenaded, and the moonlight watches I have so often shared—to the groups of manly faces I have learned to know so well—to the drum-beat and the bugle-call, and the stirring music of the band—to the hammock in which I swung and slept so soundly, and last and nearest my heart, to the gay and hospitable mess with whom for six happy months I have been a guest and a friend, whose feelings I have learned but to honour my country more, and whose society has become to me even a painful want—to all this catalogue of happiness, I am bidding a heavy-hearted farewell. Luck and Heaven’s blessing to ship and company!
| [19] | A courteous old traveller, of the last century, whose book I have somewhere fallen in with, indulges his recollections of Smyrna with less scruples. “Mrs. B.,” he says, “who has travelled a great deal, is mistress of both French and Italian. The Misses W. are all amiable young ladies. A Miss A., whose name is expressive of the passion she inspires, without being beautiful, possesses a je ne sais quoi, which fascinates more than beauty itself. Not to love her, one must never have seen her. And who would not be captivated by the vivacity of Miss B.?” How charming thus to go about the world, describing the fairest of its wonders, instead of stupid mountains and rivers! |
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