University of Virginia Library

108. LETTER CVIII.

What can I say of Smyrna? Its mosques and
bazars 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),[29] 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 honorably represented. There is no traveller
to the east, of any nation, who does not carry
away with him from Smyrna, grateful recollections of
one at 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
gayety of perpetual holyday. 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 faces 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 commenced de 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 a very pleasant 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, etc., etc.
The merchants are all 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 enamored 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 harbor, and

in an hour was a speak 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
Cicily, 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 honor
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. They see our 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,
to Yankee 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 decks 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 honor 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!