Chapter XVII: Geuzna. Fever Epidemic in Mersina (1)

_July 21st._—The heat of the sun as he rose above the horizon was very great, and we felt it severely as we had no shelter; we hastened therefore to breakfast and start, but not before leaving a few medicines for the patient of last night, who is in a dangerous state. This valley must be a very hotbed of fever; the dampness is excessive, and the air heavy and enervating. It is always so in valleys at the foot of lofty mountain ranges. Our course was parallel with the river, over undulating hills and across ravines half cleared of forest and full of rich herbage. High chains of mountains shut in the valley north and south. In about an hour we entered the virgin forest. Here in the valley it consists entirely of juniper trees (ardidj), but very fine indeed. This forest is too distant for the “tahtajis” to cut, and the trees, from springing up closely together, grow tall and tapering, not like junipers usually are, very thick at bottom, then quickly tapering and short. Here excellent masts for the largest ships might be cut; I saw hundreds together, straight and taper as a dart, and from seventy to eighty feet high. The heights above are covered with an equally luxuriant growth of pine (tcham) and “ketràn.” All the mountain ranges from this point along the coast of Karamania westwards—one may say almost all the way to Smyrna—are full of forest. But the noblest forests of all, are between Selefke (Seleucia) and Anamour (Anemurium). There, the trees grow as they have grown for centuries; it is only of late years that the woodman’s axe has been heard in those stately woods, and as yet much of the forests of South Karamania are virgin.

At length we emerged from the woods of juniper, passed some extensive clearings and a tchiftlik (farm), and began to approach the river. Its banks here are fringed with magnificent planes; a little way back are groves of walnut and oak; the mountains all along, are densely covered with pine and ketràn. The river itself resembles an English trout stream, and the most beautiful glades and bits of natural meadow-land occur along it at intervals. There seem to be scarcely any inhabitants, and from Efrenk downwards we only saw two or three Yourouks.

After following the stream about an hour and a quarter, we turned up the mountain side to our left; a very steep ascent brought us to the summit; here we found a small encampment of villagers. As yet I had not been able to discover our route on the map, and was uncertain where we were, but one of the elder villagers came up while we were resting and allowing the horses to graze, and on questioning him, I found that we had come much farther to the north than I had supposed. He pointed out the direction of Deirmen Deresi, Nemroun, and Geuzna; then turning to me, “But I have never seen you, Effendim, in Mersina; Ajeba! have you come to farm the dîme?” We laughed heartily at the tone in which he asked the question.

At last we saw the back of the ranges which overhang Mersina, of broken and very beautiful outline, and overspread with dense forest. Through this portion of the chain, which forms the outposts of Bulghar Dagh, three rivers make their way to the plain—the river of Pompeiopolis, the river of Ichma, and the river of Mersina, the same whose head waters we had crossed above Efrenk, and along whose course we had been all the morning advancing. The ravines of these rivers are bordered by walls of red limestone, not perhaps so great as some of the vast precipices I had seen in the interior, but still very grand and imposing. There was one of these precipice-bordered ravines just below the spot at which we now left the river, and the strip of land in the river bottom was richly cultivated, and green as an emerald.

I asked the name of this spot from several wayfarers whom we met. At last I learned it was called Soundrass or Soundratch. The village of the same name is on the west side of the river, opposite to the spot where we turned off eastwards; near the village a magnificent spring bursts from the rock and falls into the river, and this source forms the main water supply of the town of Mersina.

We were now gradually approaching the last mountain bulwark which separated us from the plain and from the sea, but many and steep were the ascents and descents before the last great descent was reached. The country was extremely picturesque, full of deep rocky dells, and broad hills with precipitous sides; the open spaces brown and yellow with grain crops, which the people were busily reaping; everywhere patches of forest, and the whole surface of the country green as in England in “the leafy month of June.”

At length from the top of the last ridge I saw the sea, and the plain thickly covered with a curtain of cloud and mist. Pleasant thoughts of home gave me fresh strength, though I was much exhausted by the hard work and bad fare of the last few days, for we had been in the saddle eight hours and a half on the 19th, nine and a half on the 20th, and to-day, instead of four or five, as we had been told, we rode eight hours and a quarter before we reached our halting place—Geuzna. But we had wandered a little out of our way, and the direct road from Efrenk to Geuzna occupies only six hours and a half.

The descent to the plain was down one of the great clefts in the chain, such as I have before described, and bordered on either side by great precipices of limestone or sandstone, furrowed by deep rifts, and full of caverns. The change of climate and of vegetation was here very sudden and remarkable. Instead of the dry, cold, bracing, and healthy air on the plateaux and mountains of the interior, there is a warm, damp, enervating atmosphere; instead of the towering pine forest, with almost no undergrowth of brushwood or vegetation, a region succeeded full of the densest underwood, and of trees altogether different—a curious mixture of Northern European and semi-tropical vegetation—the oak, ash, ivy, hawthorn, bramble, honeysuckle, and other trees and shrubs of Northern Europe, but mixed with myrtle, arbutus, jujube, Judas tree, wild olive, clematis, and other southern trees and shrubs. The most beautiful ferns and creepers abounded. The season of flowers is past; in the spring and early summer these romantic ravines and river dells must be full of a charming flora, but with the returning heat comes malaria, and fever lurks in every corner! This richness of vegetation is due to the abundant rainfall which occurs daily along this the most southern line of the mountain range.

The sea breeze, loaded with moisture, begins to blow about ten o’clock A.M. Soon the mountain tops are covered with vapour, and heavy rain ensues at intervals. It was so now; the thunder clouds gathered, and a heavy downpour descended on us.

At 5 P.M. we reached the bottom of the descent, but did not advance into the plain. The nearest village in the plain was still several hours distant, and we hoped to reach Geuzna by sunset. There we should find Europeans, and hear news of Mersina and Europe.

The precipice on our left receded gradually, and it was on the other face of the mountain to which this belonged, that Geuzna was situated. We turned towards the left near a small ruined Saracenic fort, and began to mount transversely the face of the mountain, through a wood more like a thick English wood than anything I had before seen in the East, following a path made by the cattle through the tangled brush and thick underwood, the rain all the while falling heavily. Night had closed in when we saw above us in a deep cleft the lights of the village of Geuzna. The music of plashing runnels from many a fountain struck pleasantly upon the ear, and at length, after passing numerous houses amid umbrageous gardens, we reined in our tired horses under a wide-spreading plane tree near a resounding source, and Nahli went to search for a lodging. He found one in the house of the Austrian Consul, Mr. Castravelli (since dead). He was himself in Mersina, but his housekeeper offered me a room. It was more difficult to find food for the horses, and an hour and a half passed before Nahli could procure barley and straw (“saman”) for them, and then only by paying exorbitantly.

On his return Nahli told me, with the peculiar laugh he always had when there was disagreeable news to communicate, or the misfortunes of anyone to relate, that “cholera had appeared in Syria and was spreading both in Damascus and Beyrout; that the Ottoman Government had imposed a quarantine of ten days at least on all arrivals from Syria; that the Russian line of steamers would be suspended, the next steamer being the last that would call at Mersina; and it was even reported that the service of the French line of steamers also would be discontinued.” This was indeed unpleasant news, especially to one who knows what quarantine signifies in the Levant; for in nearly all these countries the quarantine establishments are perfectly atrocious! I bitterly repented now not having gone on from Isaura to Smyrna. By this time we should have been more than a third of the way there; but regrets were useless.

_July 22nd._—The balcony of Mr. Castravelli’s house commanded nearly the whole of this pretty little settlement, the yaila of the Europeans of Mersina, and partly also of Tarsus and Adana. It is situated in a gorge, a depression at the top of the first high range between the coast and Bulghar Dagh. Many intermediate heights of less elevation rise between it and the plain, and down the gorge Mersina with its shipping—few indeed just now—and a long line of coast could be distinctly seen. On all sides the cliffs, as on yesterday’s route, were thickly covered with trees and brushwood, from base to summit. The rainfall is very great here, and almost every day several heavy showers fall. The houses of the village are scattered about along the sides of the gorge, almost every one has its garden and orchards. Several were pointed out to me as having once belonged to an English gentleman, a certain Captain Dingwall, who some fifteen years ago came out to Cilicia, and either from a spirit of reckless speculation, or deceived by false representations, invested a vast sum of money in the province. His first speculation—a large purchase of cotton—was most lucrative; but soon afterwards the American civil war came to an end, and heavy losses succeeded to the previous profits. Then he began to import Manchester goods, but to such an enormous extent, as to glut the market completely. Prices were depressed not less than 50 per cent., and even then sales could only be effected on credit. At that time the money-lenders of the country were in the habit of advancing money to the cultivators, on the security of their crops, at the usurious interest of 5 and 6 per cent. per month, and in order to recoup his enormous losses this unfortunate gentleman, through the agency of some Syrians resident in the province, began to make advances to the native cultivators on the additional security of the borrowers’ land and real property. But with such recklessness was this done, that at last even his agents refused to act, and sent back some of the sums consigned to them for investment. In the meanwhile the state of the country became continually worse; no money could be recovered from the debtors, land was unsaleable, matters came to a complete dead-lock, and for six years, incredible as it may seem, no communication took place between Captain Dingwall and his agents; at length, about the year 1871, he came out to Cilicia. His agents handed over to him all that was left out of the wreck of his fortune, but he was completely ruined; the shock proved fatal, and I saw his tomb in the Greek cemetery at Mersina.

When a vessel becomes derelict, no wonder if plunderers use the opportunity. The Dingwall succession was in this position. It fell into the hands of a knot of dishonest Syrian Christians, and a large portion even of what had been left, disappeared, so that when at length liquidators were sent out from England, the mischief was past remedy, and I believe not much above five per cent. of the moneys invested was ever recovered. I am credibly informed that the value in all of about 90,000_l._ in money and goods was lost. This extraordinary case is far too complicated to relate in full, but the main facts are as I have given them, and I relate them as a warning. The island of Cyprus has lately become a part of the British Empire, and it is to be feared that much too sanguine expectations have been formed concerning it. Cyprus is doubtless rich in resources, but if it at all resemble Karamania, those resources will require a long time to develop; probably much British capital will disappear in the process, and it is certain that the ports of the Levant abound with clever, plausible, and dishonest persons,—notably some of the native Christians able to speak English—who in their own country are adepts in every kind of chicanery.

The climate of Geuzna is mild and agreeable, but extremely damp, and I much doubt if it be healthy now, but the autumnal months must be charming here, and it is inhabited by a few of the natives all the year round, although winter brings with it a deep snowfall.

Just as we were about to start, our souriji appeared. He objected to go down to Mersina; he wished to be paid, as he desired to return at once to Karaman. Had I consented, this would have entailed another day’s delay. Nahli advised me to let him go, and deduct some of his pay, but this did not suit me. I told him “he had agreed to carry my baggage down to Mersina, and unless he fulfilled his agreement, I should not pay him. He must not suppose he could treat me as he pleased; we were not now in Kara Dagh or Allah Dagh” (at which he looked somewhat taken aback). I then asked him what he meant to do. To which, after a little hesitation, he replied, “Neh yapaim?” “What can I do? I will go.”

We started at 10 A.M. The road, though very steep, is good, and in some places well made of large blocks of stone fitted together. It is one continual descent through lovely dells and romantic river valleys, (Karanlik Dere and Dalak Dere) to the plain. It is a descent from moist, cool spring, to burning and yet _damp_ heat, far worse than the worst autumnal weather in Egypt. The side ravines, the richly cultivated lands in the dells, the fine trees in the river bottoms, the luxuriant vegetation along the whole route, are perfectly charming. At eleven heavy rain came on and lasted an hour and a half. At 2 P.M. we came to a small café, but it was full, literally, of people sick of fever. More than a dozen were lying on the floor, or in the balcony, in various stages of the sickness; some rolled up in thick rugs, were shivering with the deadly chill, although the heat indoors was now above 85° Fahrenheit. Others had passed out of the cold stage, and were lying exhausted, with dull glazed eyes, and sallow, shrunken faces. The cafeji was too ill to attend to us. It was a very ill-omened sight, and on the road we met several other sick people on their way to Geuzna, in order to escape the heat and malaria of the plain. Alas! too many only carry their death with them, so deadly and obstinate is sometimes the form of malarious fever which prevails on the lowlands of Cilicia!

At 3 P.M. we came to the little village of Boloukli; it is on a rocky height, about 500 feet above the level of the plain, and close upon its edge. The air of the place, though far from being good, is yet a little fresher than the air of the town, and it is near, being only an hour and a quarter’s ride from Mersina, so that many of the business people of the town have country houses there.

Here I found Mr. Tattarachi, the British Vice-Consul, sick of fever and dysentery. Although recovering, he is still miserably weak, too weak, indeed, for a sea voyage, even if quarantine did not deter him from leaving.

At 6 P.M. we started to cross the plain to Mersina. Although so late in the day, the sun was still very powerful, and the stifling heat of the town and plain quite overpowering. As we approached Mersina through the gardens which surround it, I saw many sick people lying on mattresses spread upon the ground at the door of their houses. They had been brought out for air; as for coolness, it was not to be had, day and night being almost equally hot. The mortality during the past two months has been very great, and several of my interpreter’s personal friends had died. I hoped, however, to be on the sea in two days, but as we entered the town we heard that in all probability the Russian steamer would not call at Mersina.

There was yet another disappointment: we halted at Nahli’s house, but found that during his absence his brother-in-law had sublet it; so our only shelter was the khan, which, however, is good and clean, being new, and open only to respectable people. Sleep was impossible; the damp and stifling heat quite prevented it, not to mention the incessant attacks of sandflies and mosquitoes.

_July 23rd._—Rose utterly exhausted. Nahli has engaged himself in the Government service as a collector of the dîme, and has brought me his young brother-in-law to wait upon me. He offers to buy from me the horse he has ridden on the journey; the price is very low, but he has acted so well throughout, that I have done him this little favour on condition that if all the lines of steamers should be suspended (as it is reported will be the case), the sale shall be void, and in that case he is to give up the Government service and come with me overland to Smyrna, for I cannot pass all the summer in Asia Minor.

Went out together to breakfast at a little Greek restaurant, and found the cookery tolerable. The number of people who are sick in the town is truly astonishing. The news from Damascus is bad—cholera reported on the increase, and it is feared that it may appear any day at Adana. The agent of the Russian steamer cannot say whether or not the steamer is coming—in his opinion, _not_. This will entail at least eight days’ stay either in Mersina or Boloukli, or in Geuzna. A room in Mr. Mavromati’s house at Boloukli has been offered to me, but the house is empty—not so much as a divan in it—no company, and no place at which I can obtain food, and I know no one there except Tattarachi, who is still very sick. Geuzna is even worse in these respects, and six hours distant. But the heat of Mersina was so oppressive that I prepared to start for Boloukli. At the last minute, however, I decided upon staying in the town, as it is just possible—though unlikely now—that the Russian steamer may call, and I must not throw away any chance.

I hear that our Yourouk friend, Mustafa Tekerlèk, is likely to fall into great trouble; indeed, it is thought that he will be sent to the Government arsenal at Larnaca, in Cyprus, where in all probability he would soon die, accustomed as he is to the free life and pure air of the mountains; for it is a most unhealthy place. It seems that years ago he used to rob travellers and caravans passing through his district, whenever the opportunity offered; but when the Government began to be severe on such practices he turned over a new leaf. By his own account he was a thoroughly honourable man, who looked tenderly after the welfare of travellers. It seems, however, that of late he has begun to resume his old practices, being rendered a little desperate owing to the seizure of his wheat by the Kaimakam of Mersina for arrears of taxes. The people here said that he had treated us with much courtesy, “for him,” partly because of the letter of recommendation to him from the man at Ibrala, partly because it is dangerous to molest Europeans—above all, those who are known to the authorities—and I cannot help thinking that our pistols had some little effect, and all the more in consequence of Nahli’s exaggerations about them. Our informant also said that Mustafa was not hospitable, and seldom or never gave any refreshment to strangers. Certainly, what we had received from him was not much, all the supper I could obtain being a small cup of milk, and a little bit of native bread! Our breakfast next morning we purchased of one of the other Yourouks. The troublesome fellow, too, who was so pertinacious in his attendance, was well known to the police of Mersina as a suspicious character and associate of thieves, and I am convinced that the object of his coming so often was to spy out the contents of my zinc case. On the principle, I suppose, that two of a trade never agree, Mustafa did not like our souriji. Certainly the latter, as I have said, is no souriji by profession. He seems to know little or nothing about the duties of such a calling; and since he has been in Mersina he has sold one of his mares, and is haunting the drinking shops all the day long—by no means like a good Muslim! Happily for us, no harm arose from it all. To rob a European so near the coast would make too much noise—farther inland it would be very different—besides, they would at least _expect_ to be resisted, and with good European arms, whatever resolution the traveller might himself come to on the point! Still, if the people of the country were determined to rob travellers they could very easily do it, and all resistance would be worse than useless. This must be remembered to their credit; nor in so wild and thinly peopled a country would malefactors find much difficulty in concealing themselves.[27]

_July 24th._—The Russian steamer has not arrived, nor is it telegraphed. It is certain now that she will not come, so I must wait yet a week for the French Messageries boat; but it is rumoured that even that will not come! The heat and malaria here are awful. Should the French steamer fail, nothing will remain but either to go up to Geuzna or Kulek Boghaz, and wait till the cholera ceases, quarantine is relaxed, and the steamers again call, or else to make my way as best I can, overland to Smyrna—a journey of some twenty-three days. Nahli has promised to see me through; but shall I be able to stand the journey? Every day in this heat enfeebles me more and more. Should I ever again travel in this country, on no account will I stay so late in the season. Although it is a most beautiful and interesting land, yet the pleasure is balanced by the pain, danger, and trouble inseparable from such a journey so late in the season.

Passed a dreadful night; the air of the room—nay, of the whole town—is like that of a damp, yet hot, oven. How the people can endure it at all, is to me most strange! As it is, the amount of sickness is appalling! In every street are many poor fever-stricken patients, lying at their doors, with sallow, shrunken faces and dull eyes. Many who are not actually prostrate are still so ill that they can hardly crawl. Greek, Turk, and Syrian all suffer alike. I have seen several of the people from the mountains lying for days together in the street facing the sea, and no one seems to take any notice of them, or to offer them any help. The hospital is crowded; the poor khanji who has charge of my horse is a wretched spectacle. Most of these poor people either cannot afford to buy quinine, or what they can procure is of bad quality; and there is no other remedy to be obtained here.

Breakfasted at the Greek restaurant, and fell in with the Austrian naturalist, Haberhauer, whom I had seen at Tchukour Bagh, near Kulek Boghaz. He was on his way to Europe, and he gave me good news that a telegram had just been received from Constantinople announcing the departure of an Ottoman steamer from Smyrna. She would come to Mersina, and leave again on the same day, so that we should escape quarantine. This report, however, proved unfounded.

At about 7 P.M. went out to Boloukli. I think that another three days’ stay in Mersina would have caused me a dangerous sickness; the climate now is perfectly pestilential. I was strong and vigorous when I came down from the mountains, but now all my strength is gone. Nahli’s brother-in-law, Gabriel, a young lad of seventeen, came out to wait on me; but though a native of the place, and accustomed to the climate, he suffers as much as myself!

As we passed through the village of Christian Keui (formerly Giaour Keui), half-way between Mersina and Boloukli, I saw that the inhabitants were suffering just as in Mersina, and the souriji, a mountaineer, who was bringing out what I needed, muttered to himself, as his eye fell on the poor people lying about, “Sitma! sitma!” (fever! fever!).

Arrived at Mr. Mavromati’s country house, I managed to fit up a kind of plank bedstead on trestles. Tattarachi lent me a few necessaries, but it was very uncomfortable. Slept heavily, but was not refreshed.

_July 25th._—So utterly exhausted that I lay in a half stupor all day, and seemed to be sickening for a severe fever; my head all wrong, and all sorts of horrid dreams and visions present; at times I was almost delirious. Can remember Gabriel coming in now and then and looking at me, but can remember nothing else. Towards sunset came the crisis, as it were a severe struggle going on in my head, and a feeling as if something was being driven out of my brain. Very profuse perspiration came on, and I was able to rise and take a strong dose of quinine, and give a dose to Gabriel, who is also suffering. At about 8.30 crawled into Tattarachi’s house to beg a little food, as the young lad is too ill to procure anything for me, and there is no one else to do it. Passed a tranquil night, but could not sleep.

_July 26th._—Tattarachi, who is better, came up to see me. I was just taking another dose of quinine (about five grains). He laughed and said that was too little; that he has often been obliged to take doses of fifteen and twenty grains at a time. Only very strong doses would stop the fever of this country. Can this be so? Surely the quinine must be adulterated.

Boloukli is a bad place for an invalid. There is nothing to be had—no meat, no milk, no butter—or else my poor attendant is too ill to go about and forage. It seems to be a choice between fever in Mersina and starvation here. I am like a prisoner in my room. I have a plank bedstead and two or three rush chairs, and I shift uneasily from one to the other all the day long. The position of the house is very good; it is at the highest point of the village, commanding a view of Mersina, Christian Keui, and the plain and sea. There is a small enclosed garden attached to it, but quite uncultivated; and at one corner of it a spring bursts out from under the rock with a volume of water as large as a man’s thigh.

The heat is tolerable till about 8 A.M. At about 10 A.M. the sea-breeze begins to blow, but at this season of the year it is extremely slight. Owing to the position of Mersina, shut in by lofty mountain ranges, there is almost a stagnation of the air except for the sea-breeze; this comes in, charged and saturated with moisture, but only serves now to render the air yet more oppressive and relaxing. It dies out at about 4 P.M. Then follows stifling, steamy heat, till, at some uncertain hour in the night, a breeze blows from the mountains. It hardly deserves the name of a breeze now, for it is scarcely perceptible, and resembles the softest possible sigh. Still it produces some little effect, and at least renders the early morning cool and pleasant. In short, Boloukli is a wretched place, and yet its air is certainly better than the air of Mersina.

_July 27th._—Tranquil night, determined to ride into Mersina every morning, and return to Boloukli each night. But found it very hard to pass the time in Mersina. All places in the town seem to be alike. Never have I felt so utterly exhausted. Mind and body alike lose all spring and energy in this enervating air and heat. The sickness in the town increases daily, and many funerals pass under my window. This morning I counted five in a very short time.

At sunset returned to Boloukli. The chief crop round Mersina at this season is sesame seed. The grain crops have long been reaped, but much of the soil is uncultivated and covered with brush.

_July 28th._—Slight improvement in the weather, but only for one day. News to-day from Syria worse. Every one fears an outbreak of cholera in Adana, and consequently its appearance also at Tarsus and Mersina. If so, there will be nothing left but to make my way as best I may, across Asia Minor to Smyrna. The ride to and from Boloukli is not unpleasant. I am generally accompanied by some of the people who are settled for the summer at Boloukli, mostly Greeks or Syrians; nearly all speak French. It is remarkable how great an influence France has upon the Roman Catholic population of Syria. After the burning day in Mersina, the cool spring in the garden of my dwelling is most refreshing, but I am cautioned not to drink much of it, as the water is of bad quality. The water of the town, which is good, though not cool, is supplied by an aqueduct from the river to the west of the town. A few years ago the only water supply came from wells; it was extremely unwholesome, and caused deadly fevers.

I dispensed with Gabriel’s attendance at Boloukli. The former owner of the house is permitted by Mr. Mavromati to live there still, and he looks to my horse and makes my coffee.

_July 29th._—No record. Same monotonous life.

_July 30th._—Roused early by a visit from Nahli. He looks dispirited, and is disgusted with the Government service. It seems he had been sent to some villages near Tarsus, to take account of the dîme. Many villages purchase the dîme of their own crops, and at harvest time a Government officer is sent round to estimate the amount due to the Government, which is then paid in directly by the villagers. It is the most advantageous arrangement for both parties, but at the same time offers great scope for fraud, if only the inspector can be bribed—usually no very difficult matter in this country. It seems the village he first visited is inhabited by Nusairiyeh (“fellahhin,” as Nahli called them), and the owner of the land was the Kaimakam of Mersina, himself a Nusairi. When Nahli arrived, he had a very discourteous reception. The grain was yet in the sheaf, unthreshed, and the villagers insisted on his estimating the dîme of the crop in that condition, telling him “it was the custom” there. When he refused to do this, and said “that he could not estimate the crop until the grain had been threshed out,” high words arose. Nahli tried to mount his horse and go away, but the men would not allow him to leave; and it was evident that had he resisted he would have been seriously maltreated. At length they forced him to affix his signet to a paper, already prepared, to the effect that “he had estimated the dîme of their harvest, and it amounted to so much.” Afraid to go to any other of the Nusairiyeh villages in his district, he returned to Mersina and complained to the Medjlis (Town Council). They, however, were unwilling to quarrel with the Kaimakam, and advised him “not to trouble about the matter, but to leave things as they were,” and they would give him another district. The fact is, the man is too honest for this country; and the advice I gave him was rather “politic” than “high principled”—viz. “to float with the stream,” “that he could not expect to reform the prevalent abuses; that he would only stir up for himself a host of enemies, without effecting any good result.”

Nahli tells me a strange tale of the audacity of the wolves. A certain Mr. Geoffroi (a French subject residing in Mersina) and some others, had a flock of 104 choice sheep feeding in the plain close to Mersina, on the east side of the town. The usual guard of dogs and shepherds was with them. No one could have supposed them in danger from wild animals; but about a week ago a troop of fourteen or fifteen wolves came down from the mountains in the night, drove off the dogs, and in a very few minutes killed twenty-six of the sheep, and fearfully mangled many more. Some had a portion of the tail—so large in the Karamanian sheep—torn away; others had the throat bitten through. Out of the whole number, only about forty escaped uninjured. The shepherds gave the alarm, great fires of straw and brushwood were kindled, and a chase of the wolves began; but, though many shots were fired at them, not one was killed. There is nothing, or very little, to eat in the interior, as the flocks have perished, and the wolves are pressed by hunger; but such an incursion as this was never heard of before in Mersina. If they are so bold and fierce now, what will they be in winter? Sometimes, although rarely, accidents occur—e.g. about three winters ago, a Greek was devoured by wolves near the cemetery, quite close to the town. There was deep snow in the mountains, and the animals were fierce with hunger.

Whilst I was breakfasting with Nahli at the Greek restaurant, my former interpreter, Hanna, came in. He was in no wise abashed, although he slightly started back at first. When I reproached him for his bad treatment of me, he defended himself; utterly denied that he had cheated us; laid all the blame on my friend’s severity and harsh language to him; said that his pay had been less than Nahli’s, and therefore he had only done himself justice by going off with our money. In short, he is an impudent rascal, and, from what I now hear of his character, capable of any bad action; so I was well rid of him (and, indeed, I have often thought how easy it would have been to do me some serious mischief in one of those out-of-the-way places in the interior; no one would have ever been the wiser, and the people here tell me that this man is perfectly capable of such a deed. I may have done him wrong by admitting such a thought, but here he bears a very bad character). Hanna did, however, admit that he had not acted well in leaving me in a strange place, with the care of the poor sick patient. I had the barren satisfaction of telling him, before all the company, and in the most concise and forcible terms I could use, that he was dishonest and untruthful; but he took it all with the utmost equanimity, and only smiled. Said Nahli, as we went out, “Did you ever notice what round eyes Hanna has? We have a proverb in Turkish, ‘Beware of a man with round eyes.’” As we left the restaurant, the Greeks and Syrians present gathered round him to hear his account of the matter. About two hours after this, I met him in the street, and he saluted me very politely. I could not help laughing at the fellow’s impudence. But, with all that, I believe I unwittingly escaped a very serious risk when Hanna left me at Adana; and I could not have fallen in with a more agreeable and more honourable man, and one at the same time better adapted for a travelling companion in these countries, than my good friend Nahli Sabbagh.

Nahli rode out with me to Boloukli in the evening. He wished to show me the hot springs at Ichma, but the place lay some little distance out of our way, and I preferred to go quietly to Boloukli, being too wearied and indifferent to explore any more at present. My horse is in very bad condition, owing to hard work and insufficient food, but I have sold him for T. 10_l._ to a good master. He has served me well. I bought him for T. 12½_l._, and I have ridden him throughout the whole journey. He has never once stumbled; never been sick; has borne the longest and most difficult marches (often with very insufficient food) with the utmost fire and spirit; in short, it was a fortunate purchase. On the other hand, he could never agree with other horses, and his fierce pugnacity often caused us much trouble.

_July 31st._—To my great joy, saw the French mail steamer coming up to the anchorage soon after daybreak. Being now sure of the means of departure, I can telegraph home.

Again and again, as we rode across the plain into Mersina, I turned to look once more at that stately line of heights which walls in the lowlands.

Never, probably, again shall I visit this country, but to the last day of my life I shall retain a vivid recollection of its entrancing beauty and absorbing interest. Yet beautiful and interesting though it be, it has many dangers. Not the least of these is its climate, and I carried away with me the seeds of a dangerous fever, which at one time threatened the most serious consequences, and which, during nearly a year after I had left Cilicia, prostrated me again and again.

This was entirely due to the delay in the plain, for I was in good health, and cared little for fatigue, privation, and exposure when I descended from the mountains; and could I have left Cilicia at once, I should no doubt have escaped these unpleasant consequences. But a few days’ stay in the deadly air and heat of the lowlands during summer is enough to break down the strongest.

Herr Haberhauer, a veteran traveller, and a strong, robust man, suffered as much as myself. “Ah,” he said to me, one day, “we are both blackened now by the sun; but if we stay here a few days more in this damp heat, we shall be bleached.”

In the course of the morning I sent off a telegram to England. The line through Koniah was occupied in transmitting Government messages; but the chief of the telegraph, a young Greek, most kindly sent my telegram to a friend at Diàrbekìr, with a request that he would forward it immediately. While I was still waiting in the office, a reply was received from Diàrbekìr that it had been safely received, and had been sent on at once to Pera.

The telegram, which was in English, was thus sent back from Cilicia to the frontiers of Mesopotamia, and thence through Constantinople to England. It was duly received at its destination the same afternoon, and correctly, excepting that the address was given wrongly by the telegraphic agent in the place to which it was addressed, who wrote “Muscat,” and then “Messina,” till, on reference to London, the correct name was given, “Mersina.”

I had felt unwell all day, and on going to the office of the Messageries to take my passage for Marseilles I was seized with a sudden chill and shivering, and forced to go back to my lodgings. At about six o’clock I was well enough to proceed to the ship. Although she lay only about 400 yards from the shore, the boatmen would not take me off under two medjidiehs (8_s._). They laughingly declared that “it was not every day they had the chance of meeting an European ‘hawaja,’ and I must pay!” All these boatmen, and indeed almost all the labouring people of Mersina, are Arabs of Syria. Arrived at the ‘Ilyssus,’ I bade Nahli a hearty farewell. A good-natured Turk—one of the passengers on board—carried my baggage up the ladder, for I was too weak to do it myself, and none of the crew seemed inclined to do it—and, adieu Mersina.

_August 1st._—Towards sundown the ‘Ilyssus’ left her anchorage. The whole expanse of plain between the mountains and the sea was covered by a curtain of deep blue and silvery haze, which in places mounted like the vapour of a furnace, and marked the extreme humidity of the air. It seemed to throw a soft, mysterious veil over the deeper purple of the hills and nearer heights, and set off in strong contrast the rich orange tones of the higher ranges, still coloured by the setting sun. As our ship stood out to sea, the rose-tinted cones of Harpalik and Metdesis, the loftiest snow peaks of Bulghar Dagh, were faintly outlined against the sky, till evening slowly faded into night, and the long line of colonnade at Pompeiopolis could be just distinguished as we came abreast of the old city, the last object on which my eyes rested in this lovely, but dangerous, land.

The ship was crowded with Syrians from Beyrout and the coast towns, escaping from the cholera; and the ex-Pasha of Bagdad, with his suite, was on board _en route_ for Constantinople. Half the quarter-deck was curtained off for the women and children of the party.

The Pasha had brought with him several of the fine white Hedjazi donkeys, and some tolerably good horses, but none equal to five or six Arab horses from the Syrian desert, exported from Alexandretta by an English officer, Captain Upton, who had purchased them from (I think) the Anazi tribe. He had been obliged to go nearly to the river Euphrates before he could obtain any, and had paid high prices for these. I never saw any horses with so broad a forehead between the eyes, or with such deep jaws. Though rather small, they were beautifully formed, and the eye was very lustrous and intelligent.

In about thirty hours from Mersina we came to Rhodes. We had been in sight of the highlands of Karamania for nearly the whole distance, and the night before were near enough in shore to see an immense conflagration in the forest.

The voyage was most tedious; we were three days in quarantine at Vourla (Klazomenæ), (not being permitted to approach Smyrna). We could not, of course, land at Messina or Palermo. The heat, though not so great as in Cilicia, was still most oppressive, and I was laid up half the voyage, from fever.

Arrived at Marseilles, we were placed in quarantine for four days in the Island of Frioul, and finally released on August 17th, when I hastened homewards towards the north.

What an immense change has come over the Ottoman Empire since I left Cilicia!

What unutterable misery has been brought upon its people!

Is there a heart so hard, as not to feel deep commiseration for the poor victims, Christian and Muslim, of that Nineteenth Century Crusade, that “more than knightly mission” of a cruel, treacherous, hypocritical despotism?

Doubtless, the inscrutable wisdom of the Most High is visiting on the Osmanli people the many and deadly sins of its ancestors. National punishment follows inevitably upon national sin; but in our just detestation of the evil Osmanli _Government_, let it not be forgotten that there is also an unfortunate Osmanli _people_, and let us not exclude _them_ from our human sympathies.

The vast majority of _them_, at least, contributed nothing to the causes which led to the late atrocious war; _they_ could exercise no influence on the march of events!

And if the Osmanlis are suffering in great measure for the sins of their fathers, must we not also believe that in His own time the justice of the Almighty will bring to judgment that system of organized hypocrisy and cruelty—that incarnation of brute force and injustice—the Russian Government and the Russian Imperial rule?

The poet’s words are as true of nations as of individuals—

“Raro antecedentem scelestum
Deseruit pede Pæna claudo.”

CONDITION OF THE MUSLIM PEASANT IN ASIATIC TURKEY.

It might be supposed from the complaints of certain English orators, that the Muslims _as a class_ systematically oppressed the rayahs _as a class_. So far as my own experience extends, this is not the case. Both classes suffer alike: both have to bear the burden of a corrupt and immoral bureaucracy; both are crushed under a taxation which, though in itself not excessive, is, compared with their resources, most burdensome.

Certainly the rayah, besides the very real and tangible grievances which he has in common with his Muslim fellow-subjects, has also grievances of his own (e.g. he is practically excluded for the most part from State employ), and grievances too of sentiment; but in most _essential_ points he is on the same footing as the Muslim; and not once, but several times, Christians in the interior of Karamania have admitted to me that the Central Government _at least tried_ to act justly towards both classes alike.

The misfortune is that so much depends on the character of provincial governors, and of the leading members in the provincial councils (medjlis), for these give the tone to the administration. If such administration as that of Midhat Pasha in Bulgaria was more common, less would be heard of complaint against the Central Government; unfortunately, such governors are very rare. Such grievances, however, can hardly be cured by mere legislation, but the natural course of events is gradually removing them. The Greek and Armenian Christians, for instance, are rapidly rising in numbers, wealth, and education, while the Muslim is stationary, or even falling back, in these respects, and this in a short time must have an effect.

Turkey is essentially agricultural and pastoral. Her manufactures are inconsiderable, and constantly diminishing under the influence of European imports. But she is a vast producer of raw material. Her climate and much of her soil are magnificent, but she has neither the population nor the capital requisite for developing the gifts of nature. Immigration—the grand resource of all under-peopled countries—is for her impracticable. European colonization on a small scale has been tried, and failed; immigration of Europeans on a large scale would be dangerous while Europeans can claim at pleasure foreign support and enjoy special immunities such as no other class in the empire possesses.

The State is in theory the owner of the land in Turkey, and any land lying uncultivated for five years, reverts _ipso facto_ to the State, and can be granted afresh. Even Europeans can obtain land by submitting to the same conditions as the natives, and renouncing (in so far as they become landowners) the special privileges secured to them by the Capitulations.

But though the experiment has been often tried by private individuals, it has never succeeded; sooner or later the European landowner has been obliged from one cause or other to retire, often with heavy loss.

Nor must it be assumed that there is an unlimited quantity of waste land capable of cultivation. At least one-fourth of the surface of Anatolia, and much more in Karamania, never can be utilized except as pasture land. No doubt such districts as the great plain of Cilicia, and many of the river valleys, contain much waste land, and would easily support threefold their present population, but their climate is unhealthy; even the natives prefer the poorer mountain lands to the rich soil of these plains. How, then, could the European colonist thrive, or even live in such positions?

What the population of Asiatic Turkey is, can only be guessed. I have heard the most ludicrous discrepancies in the estimates made by Turkish officials as to the population even of the town in which they lived, and a census is impossible. It is supposed, however, that the Muslim population of Asiatic Turkey exceeds the rayah by at least tenfold.

It is therefore on the former that the great amount of the State burdens fall. There is no difference in the taxes paid by these classes, for, be it remembered, it is not the _man_, nor even the _land_, but the _crop_, which pays, and the days are nearly past when a pasha or Government official could plunder, imprison, or put to death with impunity, the provincials subject to his rule. Still less will such deeds be possible in future should the Turkish parliament begin to exercise an influence in the State. And even already the much-reviled Khatti Humayoon has secured a great deal for the rayah.

The backbone of the State, then, is the Muslim peasant, holding his land directly from the Government, or cultivating in partnership the land of another, somewhat on the “metayer” system.

In general the peasant is miserably poor, for in the first place he is not industrious. His wants are few, and neither the climate nor his surroundings tend to render him enterprising. Partly from these reasons, partly from lack of skill, of capital, and want of communications with the outside world, he does not draw from his land nearly as much as he might. At least a third of his arable land must lie fallow every year. At intervals of a few years, drought ruins his crop—this is a constantly recurring trouble; his son is drafted as a conscript into the army (a fate which the rayah avoids, or has avoided hitherto, at the moderate cost of from five to ten shillings per annum); the Government inexorably exacts its dues. Too often, sooner or later, the unfortunate peasant is obliged to resort to the money-lender (who is nearly always a Christian, for his religion forbids the Muslim to lend money on interest), and then his fate is sealed!

Even when the seasons are favourable, and the harvest abundant, this is of no permanent benefit to him; the Osmanli never seems to accumulate capital; he lives from hand to mouth; his surplus resources (if any) are never expended on some remunerative undertaking. A pilgrimage to Mecca on a larger scale than usual, a new wife, or some such folly, speedily absorbs all his profits, and then when the pinch comes, there is nothing between him and want. This was abundantly proved during the great famine year of 1873-74.

The Government taxes him, but does almost nothing for him. There are not a dozen roads in the empire; and though a heavy debt has been contracted, there is very little internal improvement to show for it. Still it would be unjust to lay all the blame upon the Government. The character and spirit of the people, their prevailing form of religion, their unhappy political position, and the accumulated evils of centuries of misrule, all, in various degrees, tend to make the Ottoman empire what it is—a scandal to civilization, and a constant source of trouble to Europe.