In some particular cases, it may even be affirmed that the exercise of consular authority in reference to passports amounts to actual illegality. Captain B., an Englishman, in the winter 1836-7, was about to leave the Sardinian States, and made his arrangements accordingly, but neglected to settle a debt which he had contracted at a shop kept also by an Englishman. The creditor immediately went to the English vice-consul, and requested he would not deliver the captain’s passport until the bill was paid: and it was accordingly stopped, although Captain B. had taken his passage by the steamboat. This case is by no means singular; for many English consuls consider themselves justified in acting in the same way under similar circumstances. Now, the question at issue is—has a consul a right to do this? The answer will be found in the fact that no such right is known to the English constitution, and that, therefore, the conduct of the consul is unconstitutional and illegal. The British government has no power over the movements of an individual, except under the warrant of a magistrate. English legislation knows nothing of passports, except as a usage resorted to by foreign governments, to which British subjects must submit while they are within the range of their operation. But the consul, as a British officer, cannot recognize a passport otherwise than as a formality exacted by the government of the country in which he resides; he cannot, without laying himself open to a serious responsibility (which it is a great pity he should not be made to discharge) employ a passport as an instrument for the detention or arrest (for such it amounts to, in fact) of any free-born subject of Great Britain. Even the British consul at Havre did not feel himself authorised to stop Mr. Papineau’s passport on his way to Paris, although Mr. Papineau was denounced as a traitor and an outlaw by the British government.
Captain B.’s creditor ought to have applied to the Piedmontese police, and not to the English vice-consul, who was a native of the place. And this is one of the crying evils of our consular system. Instead of appointing meritorious half-pay officers, or other deserving gentlemen, born in Great Britain, to such offices, we frequently bestow them upon inhabitants of the place, who are bound by religious, social, and domestic ties, to prefer the interests of the country in which they live to those of the country which they represent, and who hold in much greater fear and respect the local authorities of the neighbourhood than the distant authority to which they owe no allegiance beyond that of official forms, which they can in most cases violate or misrepresent with impunity. Our consular system is open to many objections, but this is one of the most palpable and disgraceful.
[7] The defection of the Ottoman fleet to Mahomet Ali and the treachery of the Captain Pasha furnish a remarkable illustration. One cannot but be struck with the extraordinary fact of a whole crew’s not having, in hint or word, given the slightest intimation to Captain Walker of what was going on. Slight as may have been his knowledge of the Turkish language, yet one would have supposed some expression let fall must have betrayed their intention. He must have had servants likewise, who, mixing with the ship’s company and with the servants of the officers, might have heard some allusion dropped as to the council held to deliberate on so important a measure. But the newspapers said he was ignorant of the plot up to the last moment: and from my own experience I can believe such a thing very readily.
CHAPTER III.
Lady Hester’s mode of life—Boghoz Bey—The insurrection of the Druzes—Character of the Emir Beshýr—Ibrahim Pasha—Lady Charlotte Bury—Preparations for the reception of Prince Pückler Muskau.
Tuesday, April 3, 1838.—I have frequently been asked this question in England—“How did Lady Hester pass her time in the solitude of the Lebanon?” and, if my answers were generally evasive, the reader of these pages can have no difficulty by this time in understanding the reason why. Another common inquiry was—“Is she writing her memoirs?” Some people were curious to know whether she read a great deal; and others fancied her to be riding in oriental splendour at the head of tribes of Arabs, or residing in a palace, where she sat on a throne of ivory and gold, robed in silk and brocade, and treading, when she walked from room to room, on cashmere shawls; elevating her, in fact, into the queen of realms which had as clear an existence in their imagination as the kingdoms in the thousand and one Arabian nights. Whoever has perused thus far this melancholy account will have seen how sad a reality has been substituted for such pleasing visions. Her memoirs, if ever they are written, must be found in her letters, of which many hundreds may yet be in the hands of her various correspondents: for her pen was very prolific. And, were it possible to hope that a sufficient number of these could be obtained from the individuals possessing them, on the pledge that they should be devoted to such a purpose, a compilation might be made, not less entertaining than instructive. Some of her letters on political subjects would be read with great attention by the world, both for the style and for the enlarged and original views they contain. Of these perhaps the most carefully written, at least since she came abroad, are those addressed to the late Mr. Coutts, the eminent banker. The letters she received, I believe, were very generally burned. I have entered her room when she had before her a pile of them squeezed up that would have filled an oven, which she was preparing to have consigned to the flames. She told me that, before Miss Williams’s death, a heap twice as large had been destroyed. This gave me some idea of the extent of her correspondence.[8]
The contrast between the way in which she actually employed her time and the way in which most people supposed she spent it affords a curious illustration of the strangely erroneous impressions which sometimes get abroad concerning remarkable individuals. For the last six or eight years, with the exception of her multifarious correspondence and the occasional visit of a traveller, her hours were filled up in counteracting the intrigues of her maids, or of the Emir Beshýr, or of Mahomet Ali—and I never could see that she attached much more importance to the one than the other: in doing acts of charity; in stimulating the Druzes to rise in arms against Ibrahim Pasha; in fostering the Sultan’s declining power; in bringing consuls to what she considered their true bearings; and in regulating her household. Who would suppose, for instance, that four long hours were spent this day in sorting napkins, table-cloths, quilts, pillows, &c., preparatory to the prince’s visit. Her minute directions in those matters would have worn out the most indefatigable housekeeper. Of what assistance I might be on such occasions I never could make out; but she generally requested me to be present, if it were only, she said, to be a voucher for her against the lies of the women, who often stood her out, when her orders were not executed, that she had not given them.
During the day she called in a Metouali servant-girl about thirteen years old, who perhaps had not been in her presence for a year: but, under the pretence of examining whether her hair had been kept in a cleanly condition, she really wanted to ascertain whether there were any appearances of levity about her. This led to a conversation concerning little children. “Were I a despotic sovereign,” observed she, “I would institute a foundling hospital upon a different plan to those now in existence, where children should be received, and placed in the care of the daughters of people in good circumstances, under the direction of old women, that these young persons might learn how to nurse, and dress, and dandle, and manage infants when they themselves became mothers. What is so shocking as to find English girls who are married, and have never seen how an infant is taken care of?[9] They bring one into the world, and know no more the duties of a mother—no, not so well as the sheep and the asses. What is the reason you always see little lambs and little foals gambolling about so, and little children always crying? there must be something wrong, and that I would obviate?”
Lady Hester spoke of Mahomet Ali and Boghoz Bey, his minister, once a penniless Armenian adventurer, who went to Egypt to seek his fortune. “I consider Boghoz,” said she, “as one of the most consummate politicians in Europe. He is not an Armenian, although he says he is—his mother was; so was his ostensible father, a rich merchant;—but I have found out his real father. His real father was a Turkish aga, named” (I forgot who) “who used to pay clandestine visits to her, and he is the fruits of them. When I wrote to him once, I gave him such a trimming!—something in this way.—‘Sir, I once knew, when I was in Egypt, a Mr. Boghoz, a polite and accomplished gentleman, who left very agreeable recollections of himself in my memory. I hear now there is a Boghoz Bey, the minister of his Highness the Viceroy of Egypt, and that he has joined in a revolution with his master against his legitimate sovereign. If Boghoz Bey would listen to me, I would tell him that partial revolutions never succeed, and that I never thought well of them. The lot of those who rise against their lawful sovereign has always been unfortunate. Show me an example of a usurper, who has not ended badly: even Buonaparte could not bear to be called one. I a usurper! were his words—I found a crown in the mud, and placed it on my head. When servants take a ride in their master’s coach, everybody scoffs and laughs at them, and they are sure to get overturned. The column of power, which Mahomet Ali has raised, will melt away, like snow before the sun, as soon as his good fortune has come to its zenith. I cannot change my opinion, and Boghoz Bey need not attempt to make me: for he might as well attempt to make a quaker uncover himself before a king, which several monarchs in Europe have not succeeded in doing.’”
Wednesday, April 4.—To-day, as usual, I did not see Lady Hester. Her maid told me she had ordered her window-shutters to be closed, and not to be disturbed on any account.