In 1670 an adventure beckoned the Rev. John from afar, and his heart leapt to greet it. The Constantinople chaplaincy had fallen vacant by the retirement of the learned Dr. Thomas Smith (known to history as “Rabbi” Smith). There was the romance of the East with its new skies and seas and lands; there were curious old creeds to be investigated, a strange world of Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Jews, Franks, with their various ways of life: by all means let us go! He obtained the appointment from the Levant Company, and from the King a dispensation which enabled him to retain his Fellowship at the same time. Thus, while drawing at Constantinople a handsome salary and considerable perquisites for the little he did, our lucky divine also received from Cambridge, for doing nothing at all, “all and singular the profits, dividends, stipends, emoluments, and dues belonging to his Fellowship in as full and ample manner to all intents and purposes as if he were actually resident in the College.”[63]
It may be doubted whether a happier Englishman ever trod the soil of the Grand Signor than the Rev. John. He revelled in the rich colours and savours of the Levant. The ceremonies of the Turkish Court and the rites of the Greek Church were a perennial fountain of interest to him, while the noisy wrangles of theology touched a vibrant chord in his sympathetic breast. Did Eastern Christians believe that the bread and wine in the Eucharist turned into flesh and blood, or did they believe that it remained bread and wine? This riddle raged just then at Constantinople; and the reverberations of the controversy, expanding in wider and yet wider circles, reached Rome, Paris, London, stirring up everywhere suitably attuned minds to intense, passionate, and to us almost incomprehensible virulence. The Rev. John plunged into the transubstantial vortex with all the polemical zest of a theologian and with a vague notion of writing a big book about it one day. He discussed the holy and unwholesome question with everybody—Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant—he could lay hands on, always ending at the point whence he started—the creed of Christ’s College, Cambridge. Not less eagerly did our Chaplain plunge into the ecclesiastical politics than into the metaphysical polemics of the place. The age-long feud between Greek and Latin was then blended with the squabbles of rival Greek pretenders to the Patriarchal throne of Constantinople: Patriarchs arose and Patriarchs fell as Grand Vizirs did formerly; anathematising their predecessors cordially and being as cordially anathematised by their successors, to the Rev. John’s indescribable delight.[64] That was life, pardieu—the absorbing interplay of warm human hearts and even warmer human heads.
Though Covel devoted some attention to archaeology, it was with a lack of interest which he is at no pains to conceal. He could hardly express his scorn for the “whiflers” who came out of England and France and careered over the Ottoman Empire buying or stealing classical antiques. The lore he really loved was folklore: Greek legends, Turkish songs, living superstitions. If we except manuscripts dealing with early Heresies, for which he had a passion (even the sanest of us are mad), the Rev. John only collected curios that appealed to his sense of the beautiful—if he came across them cheap. For the same reason he had an appreciative eye for costumes, jewels, carpets, and other articles of personal or domestic adornment: they all served to make life pleasant. On all these topics our Chaplain would talk and scribble with unflagging volubility—“at full gallop,” to use his own racy simile—repeating himself, digressing, returning to the subject, straying from it again, losing himself in a labyrinth of minute irrelevancies. Fond of shooting and riding, a friend of gay young men and no enemy to gay young women, especially pretty ones, the Rev. John was immensely popular with our factors, who found in him a “papas”[65] after their own hearts.
To the Ambassador also the Rev. John was very acceptable. Going everywhere, seeing everybody, and hearing everything, the divine had much to say that was useful for a diplomat to know, particularly about Greek Patriarchs, Latin friars and their quarrels; a subject, as we shall see hereafter, by no means foreign to an English ambassador’s business in those days. Precluded by his dignity from crossing the water in person, Sir John could employ the Rev. John as a channel of communication between Pera and the Phanar. And the Rev. John, as one gathers from his own voluminous writings, was versatile enough to act as the friend of all contending parties in turn, according to the exigencies of the political vane, far too worldly-wise to let consistency interfere with preferment. For Covel, though content with the present, never forgot the future; he was not less anxious to get on than Rycaut, only built on softer, more supple and sinuous lines, he glided where the other stumbled.[66] Altogether an astonishingly brisk, jovial, garrulous parson of six-and-thirty this, full of harmless little vanities, human levities, and healthy little profanities.
But the most striking personality among the English residents, and the one Sir John Finch had most to do with, was the Treasurer of the Levant Company at Constantinople, the Honourable (afterwards Sir) Dudley North, younger son of Lord North,—a handsome man of thirty-three, already eminent and destined to be famous. In literary attainments North fell far short of Rycaut and Covel, but in natural intelligence, in initiative, in resource, in tenacity, in self-command, in knowledge of the world, and in the other qualities which conduce to success in life, he was surpassed by no man of his time. His career is one of the most deeply interesting documents that have come down to us from the seventeenth century; even episodes apparently trifling in themselves become full of meaning when viewed in connection with the general character of the times.
Like all younger sons Dudley had to carve his own way to independence. One of his brothers went to the Bar,—ending as Lord Keeper of the Great Seal in succession to Sir John Finch’s own brother,—another went into the Church. Dudley might have followed in the footsteps of either. But the Bar required much reading, the Church imposed many restraints. Dudley, not studious enough for the one profession and too lively for the other, revealed at an early age the calling for which Nature designed him. At school, while proving himself a hopeless dunce at book-work, he drove a most profitable trade among the other boys, buying cheap and selling dear. Manifestly commerce was his metier.
In seventeenth-century England no social cleavage existed between the world of commerce and the world of the Court. Since Feudalism had expired in the Wars of the Roses, differences of birth had ceased to divide the landed from the moneyed classes. All the county families had their kinsmen in the towns, and the ambition of many a nobleman’s younger son was to become an alderman, to attain which eminence he had to serve his apprenticeship behind the counter and to work with his hands like a menial. The snobbishness which again divides the two worlds in our day did not set in until the latter part of the eighteenth century. It is necessary to emphasise this fact in order to correct an erroneous impression promulgated by brilliant and superficial historians.[67]
So young Dudley was forthwith placed in a London “writing school” to acquire the arts of book-keeping and penmanship. At that school he gave further evidence of his financial genius by extricating himself from the clutches of his creditors through the simple device of presenting his noble parents with faked bills of expenses—not crudely, as an amateur might, but as a born artist would. The next step in our promising youth’s fortunes was his being bound apprentice to a Turkey Merchant. By this time Dudley, with remarkable precocity, had sown his wild oats and had made up his mind on the one thing needful. As his master’s limited business left him ample leisure, he employed it in helping his landlord, a packer, at the packing-press, whereby he not only eked out his slender allowance, but also acquired experience which was to be of great value to him—the skilful packing of cloth sent to Turkey being one of the first mysteries of the trade a novice had to master. His initiation over, North at the age of eighteen was sent out to Smyrna as a factor. For capital to trade with on his own account he had only four hundred pounds advanced him by his family, and he depended therefore chiefly on the commissions from his master, supplemented by an occasional order from some other Turkey Merchants he had ingratiated himself with in London by officiously doing odd jobs for them. These resources were very meagre, and the standard of living in the Smyrna Factory, as at the other Levant factories, was very high. Nowhere did conviviality reach greater heights.[68] With extraordinary strength of mind young North refused to bow to fashion. He lodged humbly, dressed plainly, fed simply, kept no horses, dogs, or hawks, made in every way a virtue of penury; his settled principle being to save abroad that he might one day be able to spend at home. From that principle neither the gibes of his fellows nor the impulses of his own young blood ever swayed him. Once the others pressed him very earnestly to go a-hunting with them. The wise youth, not to give offence, complied—but with characteristic originality, instead of buying a horse he hired an ass.
In this thrifty way, mindful of his high aim and philosophically indifferent to public opinion, North passed several years at Smyrna, working hard, thinking hard, conciliating by his wit the young whom his eccentricity would otherwise have alienated, earning by his capacity the respect of the old, and making his company sought after by “the top merchants of the Factory.” His letters are full of acute observations and mature reflections on all matters that fell within his vision. His curiosity was as voracious as Covel’s, but it did not feed on the external aspect of things. North took nothing for granted. He burnt with a desire to know the cause and reason of everything—from an earthquake to a fever, from the navigation of a ship or the construction of a building to the government of an empire. He was perpetually on the path of inquiry and discovery, never allowing his faculties to rest or rust. While engaged in the practice of commerce, he brought his vigorous analytical mind to bear on its underlying laws, striking out, in opposition to the generally accepted views of his day, a theory of trade which anticipated David Hume’s and Adam Smith’s economic philosophy by nearly a hundred years.