The original organization of all these institutions is said to be good, but unfortunately the regulations are not carried out. The absence of a proper system of control and strict discipline, a want of attention on the part of the students, and of competence on that of the professors, are the chief characteristics of most of them.
In addition to the educational establishments of the capital, Rushdiyés have also been opened in all large country towns, and in some even Idadiyés. It is, perhaps, hardly necessary to state that there are no schools of any kind in country villages; the three R’s are there regarded as wholly superfluous luxuries.
Had the Turks followed up more systematically the movement thus happily begun; had it become general throughout the country, and been marked by proper care and perseverance, many of the evils which now beset Turkey might perhaps have been avoided. The contempt for the Christian generally displayed by the Moslem, engendered through ignorance and fanaticism, might have been softened into tolerance, and a more friendly feeling might have been created between them.
Education, however, received another impetus during the administration of Ali and Fouad Pashas, who by their united efforts succeeded in creating new schools and slightly improving those already existing.
Most of these institutions, excepting the medical college, were formerly open to Christian children only in name; under Ali and Fouad they became open in reality to a few, who took their places by the side of the Mohammedan boys.
The following is a list of the Turkish schools in the town of Salonika, which contains about 15,000 Mohammedan inhabitants, including 2500 Dulmés, or Jews converted to the faith of the Prophet:—seven Mahallé Mektebs, or “National” schools; one Mekteb Rushdiyé, or Government school; one small private school for Turkish girls, established about twelve mouths ago; and two special schools for the Dulmés, one for girls and another for boys. The Mekteb Rushdiyé is supported by the Government, and has one superintendent and two masters, and is attended by 219 children, all day pupils. Teaching is divided into four classes; the first comprises poetry, the Turkish, Arabic, and Persian languages; the second, logic, mathematics, elementary arithmetic, and the rudiments of geography; the third, cosmography, Ottoman and universal history, writing; the fourth, preparatory lessons for beginners.
The mathematical and historical teaching is very deficient, and the whole system of instruction needs much improvement. Students on leaving this school may enter the Harbiyé, or military school, at Monastir, or continue their studies at the Medressé, where the Softas and Ulema graduate, or may attach themselves to some Government office as unsalaried Kyatibs, or scribes, called Chaouch, until a vacancy or some other chance helps them to a lucrative post.
The Dulmés, who are found in large numbers only at Salonika, have of late years shown a great desire to promote education among both sexes of their small but thriving community. The course of study followed in their boys’ school is similar to that of the Rushdiyé, and, of course, includes the very elementary curriculum of the National schools. It has four classes, subdivided each into three forms; three masters, aided by monitors, superintend the studies. I visited this school, and found a great lack of order and discipline. First-class boys, seated on benches and before desks, were mixed up with the little ones, who, I was told, were placed there in order to be broken in to the school routine—a strange arrangement, unlikely to benefit either; at least it had been better for these mere infants to be placed in a class where lessons and exercises suited to their years were taught. Some of the big boys were examined, and, as far as I was able to judge, seemed well advanced in writing and in the knowledge of the Turkish language, but they did not appear equally well versed in mathematics or the scientific branches of study, which were evidently taught in a very elementary form, if one might judge by the simple questions put by the masters. This examination was concluded by the senior boys chanting in chorus the names of the days of the week and the months of the year! It must be borne in mind, however, that this establishment, which is said to be the best in the town, was opened only eighteen months ago.
With regard to the higher branches of study, I was far more edified during an examination of the Rushdiyé and Harbiyé schools at Adrianople, where some of the pupils had produced well-executed maps and drawings, and had also distinguished themselves in mathematics; the schools of that town seemed to be of a higher standard than those of Salonika, although, like all Turkish schools, they left much to be desired in good principles, refinement, and general enlightenment, to all of which a marked disregard is universally displayed. The comparative progress made in the above-mentioned subjects should not, however, be considered a criterion of the cultivation of art and science in general. In spite of the simplicity with which these various branches of science and of art may now be taught, they are not likely to make much advancement among the Mohammedans. These people display an astonishing apathy and a total absence of the spirit of inquiry and research with regard to everything. They confide the secrets of nature, to the supreme care of Allah, and deem it superfluous to trouble themselves with such subjects beyond the extent required for their common wants. All mental effort is in direct opposition to the listless habits of the Turk, and, since he is not the man to run against the will of Providence, who fashioned his disposition, is therefore seldom attempted. Professional men are rare among them, and such as there are can only be ranged in the class of imitative mediocrities, who have not the genius to improve or develop any useful branch of science.
The Dulmé girls’ school of Salonika was held in a house containing a number of small rooms, in which the pupils were huddled together. One of these rooms was fitted up with desks and benches that might have accommodated about thirty children; when I entered all the pupils were doing needlework; Shemshi Effendi, the director, a young man of some enterprise and capacity and a good deal of intelligence, led the way and ordered all to stand up and salaam; a lesson I hope they will condescendingly bear in mind and practise later on in life in their intercourse with Christians. They were learning plain sewing, crochet, tapestry, and other ornamental work, taught by a neat-looking Greek schoolmistress. A good many of the pupils were grown-up girls, who sat with veils on. The master pointed them out to me, saying that most of those young ladies were engaged to be married; “I have not, therefore, attempted to teach them reading or writing, as they are too old to learn, and their time here is very short, but with the little ones I hope in time to do more.” Some of the latter were examined before me in reading, writing, and arithmetic, in which they seemed to have got on very fairly considering the short time they had attended the school and the utter want of order and system prevailing in it.