LETTER XXVII.
My dear Frederick,
So long as the route of my journey lay through European regions, little presented itself respecting human nature of such very great novelty as to excite admiration or awaken curiosity. In all the various Nations through which we have passed, a certain parity of sentiment, arising from the one great substratum, Christianity, gave the same general colouring to all the scenes, however they might differ from each other in their various shadings. Whatever dissimilitude the influence of accident, climate, or local circumstance, may, in the revolutions of ages, have introduced into their manners, customs, municipal laws, and exterior forms of worship—the great Code of Religion and Moral Sentiment remains nearly the same with all: and right and wrong, good and evil, being defined by the same principles of reason, and ascertained by the same boundaries, bring the rule of conduct of each to so close an approximation with that of the others, that, when compared with those we are now to attend to, they may really be considered as one and the same people.
In the Empire now before us, were we to leave our judgment to the guidance of general opinion of Christian Nations, we should have, on the contrary, to contemplate Man under a variety of forms and modifications, so entirely different from those to which habit has familiarised our minds, as at first to impress us with the idea of a total disruption from our nature, and induce us, as it has already the generality of our people, to divorce them from a participation of all those sympathetic feelings which serve to inforce the discharge of mutual good offices among men. Deducing all their principles, not only of moral conduct, but municipal government, from a religion radically different from, and essentially adverse to, ours; deluded by that system into a variety of opinions which liberality itself must think absurd; unaided by that enlightened philosophy which learning, and learned men, acting under the influence of comparative Freedom, and assisted by the art of Printing, have diffused through the mass of Europeans; and living under a climate the most unfavourable to intellectual or bodily exertion, they exhibit a spectacle which the philosophic and liberal mind must view with disapprobation, regret and pity—the illiberal fierce Christian with unqualified detestation and disgust: while, on their part, bigoted to their own principles and opinions, they look on us with abhorrence, and indulge as conscientious a contempt of, and antipathy to Christians, which I apprehend no lapse of time, without a great change of circumstance, will be able to eradicate. Should Mahomedanism and Christianity ever happen to merge in Deism (but not otherwise), the inhabitants of Syria and Europe will agree to consider each other even as fellow-creatures. In Spain and Portugal, Jew, Turk, and indeed Protestant, are without distinction called hogs. In Turkey, Jews and Christians are indiscriminately called dogs; each thinking the other completely excluded from the pale of humanity, and well worthy the dagger of any TRUE BELIEVER who would have the piety to apply it.
You will allow, my dear Frederick, that it must have been rather an important contemplation to your Father, to have perhaps two thousand miles to travel through the immense and almost trackless wilds of a country inhabited by such people, without the consolation of any others to accompany him in his journey; for, unless a public dispatch was to overtake me, there was little probability of my having a single European partner of my fatigue and perils.
However, as the period was not yet arrived at which I was to go forward, or even determine my mode of travelling, I endeavoured to soothe my mind as much as I could into content, and to take advantage of my stay at Aleppo, to acquire all the knowledge possible of the place, that is to say, of that city in particular, and of the Turkish government and manners in general.
A distant view of Aleppo fills the mind with expectations of great splendour and magnificence. The mosques, the towers, the large ranges of houses with flat roofs, rising above each other, according to the sloping hills on which they stand, the whole variegated with beautiful rows of trees, form altogether a scene magnificent, gay, and delightful: but, on entering the town, all those expected beauties vanish, and leave nothing in the streets to meet the eye, but a dismal succession of high stone walls, gloomy as the recesses of a convent or state prison, and unenlivened by windows, embellished, as with us, by the human face divine. The streets themselves, not wider than some of the meanest alleys in London, overcast by the height of the prison-houses on either side, are rendered still more formidably gloomy by the solitude and silence that pervade them; while here and there a lattice towards the top, barely visible, strikes the soul with the gloomy idea of thraldom, coercion and imprisonment.
This detestable mode of building, which owes its origin to jealousy, and the scandalous restraints every man is empowered by the laws and religion of the place to impose upon the women consigned either by sale or birth to his tyranny, extends not to the inside of the houses, many of which are magnificent and handsome, and all admirably suited to the exigencies of the climate, and the domestic customs and manner of living of the inhabitants.