LETTER XLV.

Natural Statue of Niobe—The Thorn of Syria and its Tradition—Approach to Magnesia—Hereditary Residence of the Family of Bey-Oglou—Character of its Present Occupant—The Truth about Oriental Caravanserais—Comforts and Appliances they yield to Travellers—Figaro of the Turks—The Pilaw—Morning Scene at the Departure—Playful Familiarity of a Solemn old Turk—Magnificent Prospect from Mount Sypilus.

Three or four hours more of hard riding brought us to a long glen, opening upon the broad plains of Lydia. We were on the look-out here for the “natural statue of Niobe,” spoken of by the ancient writers as visible from the road in this neighbourhood; but there was nothing that looked like her, unless she was, as the poet describes her, a “Niobe,alltears,” and runs down toward the Sarabat, in what we took to be only a very pretty mountain rivulet. It served for simple fresh water to our volunteer companion, who darted off an hour before sunset, and had finished his ablutions and prayers, and was rising from his knees as we overtook him upon its grassy border. Almost the only thing that grows in these long mountain passes, is the peculiar thorn of Syria, said to be the same of which our Saviour’s crown was plaited. It differs from the common species, in having a hooked thorn alternating with the straight, adding cruelly to its power of laceration. It is remarkable that the flower, at this season withering on the bush, is a circular golden-coloured leaf, resembling exactly the radiated glory usually drawn around the heads of Christ and the Virgin.

Amid a sunset of uncommon splendour, firing every peak of the opposite range of hills with an effulgent red, and filling the valley between with an atmosphere of heavenly purple, we descended into the plain.

Mount Sypilus, in whose rocks the magnetic ore is said to have been first discovered, hung over us in bold precipices; and, rounding a projecting spur, we came suddenly in sight of the minarets and cypresses ofMagnesia(not pronounced as if written in an apothecary’s bill), the ancient capital of the Ottoman empire.

On the side of the ascent, above the town, we observed a large isolated mansion, surrounded with a wall, and planted about with noble trees, looking, with the exception that it was too freshly painted, like one of the fine old castle palaces of Italy. It was something very extraordinary for the East, where no man builds beyond the city wall, and no house is very much larger than another. It was the hereditary residence, we afterwards discovered, of almost the only noble family in Turkey—that of the Bey-Oglou. You will recollect Byron’s allusion to it in the “Bride of Abydos:”

“We Moslem reck not much of blood,But yet the race of Karaisman,Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood,First of the bold Timareot bandsWho won, and well can keep, their lands;Enough that he who comes to wooIs kinsman of the Bey-Oglou.”

“We Moslem reck not much of blood,

But yet the race of Karaisman,

Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood,

First of the bold Timareot bands

Who won, and well can keep, their lands;

Enough that he who comes to woo

Is kinsman of the Bey-Oglou.”

I quote from memory, perhaps incorrectly.

The present descendant is still in possession of the title, and is said to be a liberal-minded and hospitable old Turk, of the ancient and better school. His camels are the finest that come into Smyrna, and are famous for their beauty and appointments.

Our devout companion left us at the first turning in the town, laying his hand to his breast in gratitude for having been suffered to annoy us all day with his brilliant equitation, and we stumbled in through the increasing shadows of twilight to the caravanserai.

It is very possible that the reader has but a slender conception of anoriental hotel. Supposing it, at least, from the inadequacy of my own previous ideas, I shall allow myself a little particularity in the description of the conveniences which the travelling Zuleikas and Fatimas, the Maleks and Othmans, of eastern story, encounter in their romantic journeys.

It was near the farther outskirt of the large city of Magnesia (the accent, I repeat, is on the penult), that we found the way encumbered with some scores of kneeling camels, announcing our vicinity to a khan. A large wooden building, rather off its perpendicular, with a great many windows, but no panes in them, and only here and there a shutter “hanging by the eyelids,” presently appeared, and entering its hospitable gateway, which had neither gate nor porter, we dismounted in a large court, lit only by the stars, and pre-occupied by any number of mules and horses. An inviting staircase led to a gallery encircling the whole area, from which opened thirty or forty small doors; but, though we made as much noise as could be expected of as many men and horses, no waiter looked over the balustrades, nor maid Cicely, nor Boniface, or their corresponding representatives in Turkey, invited us in. The suridjee looked to his horses, which was his business, and to look to ourselves was ours; though, with our stiff limbs and clamorous appetites, we set about it rather despairingly.

The Figaro of the Turks is a caféjee, who, besides shaving, making coffee, and bleeding, is supposed to be capable of every office required by man. He is generally a Greek, the Mussulman seldom having sufficient facility of character for the vocation. In a few minutes, then, the nearest Figaro was produced, who scarce dissembling his surprise at the improvidence of travellers who went about without pot or kettle, bag of rice or bottle of oil, led the way with his primitive lamp to our apartment. We might have our choice of twenty. Having looked at the other nineteen, we came back to the first, reconciled to it by sheer force of comparison. Of its two windows, one alone had a shutter that would fulfill its destiny. It contained neither chair, table, nor utensil of any description. Its floor had not been swept, nor its walls whitewashed since the days of Timour the Tartar. “Kalo! Kalo!” (Greek foryou will be very comfortable), cried our commissary, throwing down some old mats to spread our carpets upon. But the mats were alive with vermin, and, for sweeping the room, the dust would not have been laid till midnight. So we threw down our carpets upon the floor, and driving from our minds the too luxurious thoughts of clean straw, and a corner in a warm barn, sat down, by the glimmer of a flaring taper, to wait, with what patience we might, for a chicken still breathing freely on his roost, and turn our backs as ingeniously as possible on a chilly December wind, that came in at the open window, as if it knew the caravanserai were free to all comers. There is but one circumstance to add to this faithful description—and it is one which, in the minds of many very worthy persons, would turn the scale in favour of the hotels of the East, with all its disadvantages—there was nothing to pay!

Ali Bey, in his travels, predicts the fall of the Ottoman empire from the neglected state of the khans; this inattention to the public institutions of hospitality, being a falling away from the leading Mussulman virtue. They never gave the traveller more than a shelter, however, in their best days; and to enter a cold, unfurnished room, after a day’s hard travel, even if the floor were clean, and the windows would shut, is rather comfortless. Yet such is Eastern travel, and the alternative is to take “the sky for a great coat,” and find as soft a stone as possible for your pillow.

We gathered around our pilaw, which came in the progress of time, and consisted of a chicken, buried in a handsomely-shaped cone of rice and butter, forming, with a large crater-like black bowl in which it stood, the cloud of smoke issuing from its peak, and the lava of butter flowing down its sides, as pretty a miniature Vesuvius as you would find in a modeller’s window in the Toledo. Encouraging that sin in Christians, which they would not commit themselves, they brought us some wine of the country, the sin of drinking which, one would think, was its own sufficient punishment. With each a wooden spoon, the immediate and only means of communication between the dish and the mouth, we soon solved the doubtful problem of the depth of the crater, and then casting lots who should lie next the window to take off the edge of the December blast, we improved upon some hints taken from the fig-packers of Smyrna, and with an economy of exposed surface which can only be learned by travel, disposed ourselves in a solid body to sleep.

The tinkling of the camels’ bells awoke me as the day was breaking, and my toilet being already made, I sprang readily up and descended to the court of the caravanserai. It was an eastern scene, and not an unpoetical one. The patient and intelligent camels were kneeling in regular ranks to receive their loads, complaining in a voice almost human, as the driver flung the heavy bales upon the saddles too roughly, while the small donkey, no larger than a Newfoundland dog, leader of the long caravan, took his place at the head of the gigantic file, pricking back his long ears as if he were counting his spongy-footed followers, as they fell in behind him. Here and there knelt six or seven, with their unsightly humps still unburdened, eating with their peculiar deliberateness from small heaps of provender, and scattered over the adjacent fields, wandered separately the caravan of some indolent driver, browsing upon the shrubs, and looking occasionally with intelligent expectation toward the khan, for the appearance of their tardy master. Over all rose the mingled music of the small bells with which their gay-covered harness was profusely covered, varied by the heavy beat of the larger ones borne at the necks of the leading and last camels of the file, while the retreating sounds of the caravans already on their march, came in with the softer tones which completed its sweetness.

In a short time my companions joined me, and we started for a walk in the town. The necessity of attending the daylight prayers makes all Mussulmans early risers, and we found the streets already crowded, and the merchants and artificers as busy as at noon. Turning a corner to get out of the way of a row of butchers, who were slaughtering sheep revoltingly in front of their stalls, we met two old Turks coming from the mosque one of whom, with the familiarity of manners which characterises the nation, took from my hand a stout English riding-whip which I carried, and began to exercise it on the bag-like trowsers of his friend. After amusing himself a while in this manner, he returned the whip, and, patting me condescendingly on the cheek, gave me two figs from his voluminous pocket, and walked on. Considering that I stand six feet in my stockings, an unwieldy size, you may say, for a pet, this freak of the old Magnesian would seem rather extraordinary. Yet it illustrates the Turkish manners, which, as I have often had occasion to notice, are a singular mixture of profound gravity and the most childish simplicity.

We found a few fine old marble columns in the porches of the mosques, but one Turkish town is just like another, and after an hour or two of wandering about among the wooden houses and narrow streets, we returned to the khan, and, with a cup of coffee, mounted and resumed our journey.

I have never seen a finer plain than that of Magnesia. With an even breadth of seven or eight miles, its length cannot be less than fifty or sixty, and throughout its whole extent it is one unbroken picture of fertile field and meadow, shut in by two lofty ranges of mountains, and watered by the full and winding Hermus. Without fence, and almost without human habitation, it is a noble expanse to the eye, possessing all the untrammelled beauty of a wilderness without its detracting inutility. It is literally “clothed with flocks.” As we rode on under the eastern brow of Mount Sypilus, and struck out more into the open plain, as far as we could distinguish by the eye, spread the snowy sheep in hundreds, at merely separating distances, checkered here and there by a herd of the tall jet-black goats of the East, walking onward in slow and sober procession, with the solemn state of a funeral. The road was lined with camels coming into Smyrna by this grand highway of nature, and bringing all the varied produce of Asia Minor to barter in its busy mart. We must have passed a thousand in our day’s journey.

LETTER XLVI.

The Eye of the Camel—Rocky Sepulchres—Virtue of an old Passport, backed by Impudence—Temple of Cybele—Palace of Crœsus—Ancient Church of Sardus—Return to Smyrna.

Unsightly as the camel is, with its long snaky neck, its frightful hump, and its awkward legs and action, it wins much upon your kindness with a little acquaintance. Its eye is exceedingly fine. There is a lustrous, suffused softness in the large hazel orb that is the rarest beauty in a human eye, and so remarkable is this feature in the camel, that I wonder it has never fallen into use as a poetical simile. They do not shun the gaze of man like other animals, and I pleased myself often when the suridjee slackened his pace, with riding close to some returning caravan, and exchanging steady looks in passing with the slow-paced camels. It was like meeting the eye of a kind old man.

The face of Mount Sypilus, in its whole extent, is excavated into sepulchres. They are mostly ancient, and form a very singular feature in the scenery. A range of precipices, varying from one to three hundred feet in height, is perforated for twenty miles with these airy depositories for the dead, many of them a hundred feet from the plain. Occasionally they are extended to considerable caves, hewn with great labour in the rock, and probably from their numerous niches, intended as family sepulchres. They are now the convenient eyries of great numbers of eagles, which circle continually around the summits, and poise themselves on the wing along the sides of these lonely mountains, in undisturbed security.

We arrived early in the afternoon at Casabar, a pretty town at the foot of Mount Tmolus. Having eaten a melon, the only thing for which the place is famous, we proposed to go on to Achmet-lee, some three hours farther. The suridjee, however, whose horses were hired by the day, had made up his mind to sleep at Casabar, and so we were at issue. Our stock of Turkish was soon exhausted, and the hajji was coolly unbuckling the girths of the baggage-horse without condescending even to answer our appeal with a look. The Mussulman idlers of the café opposite, took their pipes from their mouths and smiled. The gay caféjee went about his arrangements for our accommodation, quite certain that we were there for the night. I had given up the point myself, when one of my companions, with a look of the most confident triumph, walked up to the suridjee and tapping him on the shoulder, held before his eyes a paper with the seal of the pacha of Smyrna in broad characters at the top. After the astonished Turk had looked at it for a moment, he commenced in good round English, and poured upon him a volume of incoherent rhapsody, slapping the paper violently with his hand and pointing to the road. The effect was instantaneous. The girth was hastily rebuckled, and the frightened suridjee put his hand to his head in token of submission, mounted in the greatest hurry and rode out of the court of the caravanserai. The caféjee made his salaam, and the spectators wished us respectfully a good journey. The magic paper was an old passport, and our friend had calculated securely on the natural dread of the incomprehensible, quite sure that there was not one man in the village that could read, and none short of Smyrna who could understand his English.

The plain between Casabar and Achmet-lee, is quite a realisation of poetry. It is twelve miles of soft, bright greensward, broken only with clumps of luxurious oleanders, an occasional cluster of the “black tents of Kedar” with their flocks about them, and here and there a loose and grazing camel indolently lifting his broad foot from the grass as if he felt the coolness and verdure to its spongy core. One’s heart seems to stay behind as he rides onward through such places.

The village of Achmet-lee consists of a coffee-house with a single room. We arrived about sunset, and found the fire-place surrounded by six or seven Turks squatted on their hams, travellers like ourselves, who had arrived before us. There was fortunately a second fire-place, which was soon blazing with faggots of fir and oleander, and with, a pilaw between us, we crooked our tired legs under us on the earthen floor, and made ourselves as comfortable as a total absence of every comfort would permit. The mingled smoke of tobacco and the chimney drove me out of doors as soon as our greasy meal was finished, and the contrast was enough to make one in love with nature. The moon was quite full, and pouring her light down through the transparent and dazzling sky of the East with indescribable splendour. The fires of twenty or thirty caravans were blazing in the fields around, and the low cries of the camels and the hum of voices from the various groups, were mingled with the sound of a stream that came noiselessly down its rocky channel from the nearest spur of Mount Tmolus. I walked up and down the narrow camel-path till midnight; and if the kingly spirits of ancient Lydia did not keep me company in the neighbourhood of their giant graves, it was perhaps because the feet that trod down their ashes came from a world of which Crœsus and Abyattis never heard.

The sin of late rising is seldom chargeable upon an earthen bed, and we were in the saddle by sunrise, breathing an air that, after our smoky cabin, was like a spice-wind from Arabia. Winding round the base of the chain of mountains which we had followed for twenty or thirty miles, we ascended a little, after a brisk trot of two or three hours, and came in sight of the citadel of ancient Sardis, perched like an eagle’s nest on the summit of a slender rock. A natural terrace, perhaps a hundred feet above the plain, expanded from the base of the hill, and this was the commanding site of the capital of Lydia. Dividing us from it ran the classic and “golden-sanded” Pactolus, descending from the mountains in a small, narrow valley, covered with a verdure so fresh, that it requires some power of fancy to realise that a crowded empire ever swarmed on its borders. Crossing the small, bright stream, we rode along the other bank, winding up its ascending curve, and dismounted at the ruins of the temple of Cybele, a heap of gigantic fragments strewn confusedly over the earth, with two majestic columns rising lone and beautiful into the air.

A Dutch artist, who was of our party, spread his drawing-board and pencils upon one of the fallen Ionic capitals, the suridjee tied his horses’ heads together, and laid himself at his length upon the grass, and the rest of us ascended the long steep hill to the citadel. With some loss of breath, and a battle with the dogs of a gipsy encampment, hidden so as almost to be invisible among the shrubbery of the hill-side, we stood at last upon a peak, crested with one tottering remnant of a wall, the remains of a castle whose foundations have crumbled beneath it. It looks as if the next rain must send the whole mass into the valley.

It puzzled my unmilitary brain to conceive how Alexander and his Macedonians climbed these airy precipices, if taking the citadel was a part of his conquest of Lydia. The fortifications in the rear have a sheer descent from their solid walls of two or three hundred perpendicular feet, with scarce a vine clinging by the way. I left my companions discussing the question, and walked to the other edge of the hill, overlooking the immense plains below. The tumuli which mark the sepulchres of the kings of Lydia, rose like small hills on the opposite and distant bank of the Hermus. The broad fields, which were once the “wealth of Crœsus,” lay still fertile and green along the banks of their historic river. Thyatira and Philadelphia were almost within reach of my eye, and I stood upon Sardis—in the midst of the sites of the Seven Churches. Below lay the path of the myriad armies of Persia, on their march to Greece; here Alexander pitched his tents after the battle of Granicus, wiling away the winter in the lap of captive Lydia; and over the small ruin just discernible on the southern bank of the Pactolus, “the angel of the church of Sardis” brooded with his protecting wings till the few who had “not defiled their garments,” were called to “walk in white,” in the promised reward of the Apocalypse.

We descended again to the temple of Cybele, and mounting our horses, rode down to the palace of Crœsus. Parts of the outer walls, the bases of the portico, and the marble steps of an inner court, are all that remain of the splendour that Solon was called upon in vain to admire. With the permission of six or seven storks, whose coarse nests were built upon the highest points of the ruins, we selected the broadest of the marble blocks, lying in the deserted area, and spreading our travellers’ breakfast upon it, forgot even the kingly builder in our well-earned appetites.

There are three parallel walls remaining of the ancient church of Sardis. They stand on a gentle slope, just above the edge of the Pactolus, and might easily be rebuilt into a small chapel, with only the materials within them. There are many other ruins on the site of the city, but none designated by a name. We loitered about, collecting relics, and indulging our fancies, till the suridjee reminded us of the day’s journey before us, and with a drink from the Pactolus, and a farewell look at the beautiful Ionic columns standing on its lonely bank, we put spurs to our horses and galloped once more down into the valley.

Our Turkish saddles grew softer on the third day’s journey, and we travelled more at ease. I found the freedom and solitude of the wide and unfenced country growing at every mile more upon my liking. The heart expands as one gives his horse the rein and gallops over these wild paths without toll-gate or obstacle. I can easily understand the feeling of Ali Bey on his return to Europe from the East.

Our fourth day’s journey lay through the valley between Tmolus and Semering—the fairest portion of the dominion of Timour the Tartar. How gracefully shaped were those slopes to the mountains! How bright the rivers! How green the banks! How like a new-created and still unpeopled world it seemed, with every tree and flower and fruit the perfect model of its kind!

Leaving the secluded village of Nymphi nested in the mountains on our left, as we approached the end of our circuitous journey, we entered early in the afternoon the long plains of Hadjilar, and with tired horses and (malgréromance) an agreeable anticipation of Christian beds and supper, we dismounted in Smyrna at sunset.

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 ofoneat 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 commencedde 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 averypleasant 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. Theyseeour 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, toYankee 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 aje 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!

THE END.

LONDON:BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

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BY GEORGE GROVE.

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A HISTORY OF CONVOCATION.

LAST GLIMPSES OF CONVOCATION IN

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THEREVIVAL OF THE FRENCH EMPERORSHIPANTICIPATED FROM THE NECESSITY OF PROPHECY.BY GEORGE STANLEY FABER, B.D.MASTER OF SHERBURN HOSPITAL, AND PREBENDARY OF SALISBURY.Third Ed. enlarged. Price 2s.Also by the same author,THE DIFFICULTIES OF ROMANISM INRESPECT TO EVIDENCE;OR,THE PECULIARITIES OF THE LATIN CHURCH EVINCED TO BEUNTENABLE ON THE PRINCIPLES OF LEGITIMATEHISTORICAL TESTIMONY.Third and Cheaper Ed., revised and remoulded. Price 10s.6d.THE COLONY:A POEM IN FOUR PARTS.12mo. cloth, gilt edges. Price 2s.A HUNDRED SHORT TALES FORCHILDREN.FROM THE GERMAN OF VON SCHMID.BY F. B. WELLS, M.A.RECTOR OF WOODCHURCH, KENT.Second Ed., 16mo. cloth. With Frontispiece and Vignette. Price 2s.6d.

THE

REVIVAL OF THE FRENCH EMPERORSHIP

ANTICIPATED FROM THE NECESSITY OF PROPHECY.

BY GEORGE STANLEY FABER, B.D.

MASTER OF SHERBURN HOSPITAL, AND PREBENDARY OF SALISBURY.

Third Ed. enlarged. Price 2s.

Also by the same author,

THE DIFFICULTIES OF ROMANISM IN

RESPECT TO EVIDENCE;

OR,

THE PECULIARITIES OF THE LATIN CHURCH EVINCED TO BE

UNTENABLE ON THE PRINCIPLES OF LEGITIMATE

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY.

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THE COLONY:

A POEM IN FOUR PARTS.

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A HUNDRED SHORT TALES FOR

CHILDREN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF VON SCHMID.

BY F. B. WELLS, M.A.

RECTOR OF WOODCHURCH, KENT.

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THE ART OF CONVERSATION.BYCAPTAIN ORLANDO SABRETASH.Third Edition, 12mo, cloth. Price 2s.6d.A PRACTICAL TREATISE ON BUSINESS;OR,HOW TO GET MONEY, WITH AN INQUIRY INTO THE CHANCES OFSUCCESS, AND CAUSES OF FAILURE IN BUSINESS.BY EDWIN T. FREEDLEY.Sixth Ed. Enlarged. Price 2s.6d.THE SLAVE:AND OTHER POEMS, ENGLISH AND SPANISH.BY THELADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.Crown 8vo, cloth. Price 2s.6d.HALF-A-DOZEN BALLADS ABOUTAUSTRALIA.BY MARTIN F. TUPPER.12mo, sewed, price 6d.Also, by the same Author,THINGS TO COME.A PROPHETIC ODE ON TOPICS OF INSTANT AND EXTRAORDINARYINTEREST.8vo, 1s.

THE ART OF CONVERSATION.

CAPTAIN ORLANDO SABRETASH.

Third Edition, 12mo, cloth. Price 2s.6d.

A PRACTICAL TREATISE ON BUSINESS;

OR,

HOW TO GET MONEY, WITH AN INQUIRY INTO THE CHANCES OF

SUCCESS, AND CAUSES OF FAILURE IN BUSINESS.

BY EDWIN T. FREEDLEY.

Sixth Ed. Enlarged. Price 2s.6d.

THE SLAVE:

AND OTHER POEMS, ENGLISH AND SPANISH.

BY THE

LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.

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HALF-A-DOZEN BALLADS ABOUT

AUSTRALIA.

BY MARTIN F. TUPPER.

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THINGS TO COME.

A PROPHETIC ODE ON TOPICS OF INSTANT AND EXTRAORDINARY

INTEREST.

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Second Edition.THE BRITISH WEST INDIA COLONIESIN CONNECTION WITH SLAVERY, EMANCIPATION, Etc.BY ARESIDENT IN THE WEST INDIES FOR THIRTEEN YEARS.WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND CONCLUDING REMARKS,BY A LATE STIPENDIARY MAGISTRATE IN JAMAICA.8vo, sewed. Price 1s.Also by the same Author, price1s.6d.SUGGESTIONS RELATIVE TO THEIMPROVEMENT OF THE BRITISH WESTINDIA COLONIES.BY MEANS OF INSTRUCTION, BY MINISTERS OF RELIGION, AND SCHOOLS.THE RELATIONS OF PROPERTY AND LABOUR. AGRICULTURAL ANDOTHER INDUSTRIAL IMPROVEMENTS, &c. &c.WITH ESPECIAL REFERENCE TOTHE INCREASED CULTIVATION OF THE SUGAR CANE AND COTTON,IN JAMAICA AND BRITISH GUIANA.8vo, sewed. Price 1s.6d.&c.BY THELADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.Post 8vo, cloth, 10s.6d.

Second Edition.

THE BRITISH WEST INDIA COLONIES

IN CONNECTION WITH SLAVERY, EMANCIPATION, Etc.

BY A

RESIDENT IN THE WEST INDIES FOR THIRTEEN YEARS.

WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND CONCLUDING REMARKS,

BY A LATE STIPENDIARY MAGISTRATE IN JAMAICA.

8vo, sewed. Price 1s.

Also by the same Author, price1s.6d.

SUGGESTIONS RELATIVE TO THE

IMPROVEMENT OF THE BRITISH WEST

INDIA COLONIES.

BY MEANS OF INSTRUCTION, BY MINISTERS OF RELIGION, AND SCHOOLS.

THE RELATIONS OF PROPERTY AND LABOUR. AGRICULTURAL AND

OTHER INDUSTRIAL IMPROVEMENTS, &c. &c.

WITH ESPECIAL REFERENCE TO

THE INCREASED CULTIVATION OF THE SUGAR CANE AND COTTON,

IN JAMAICA AND BRITISH GUIANA.

8vo, sewed. Price 1s.6d.

&c.

BY THE

LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.

Post 8vo, cloth, 10s.6d.

Obvious printer and spelling errors have been corrected.

Inconsistent use of hyphens maintained.

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[The end ofSummer Cruise in the Mediterranean on board the American frigate, by N. (Nathaniel) Parker Willis]

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