St. Maximos' Hut

Upon visiting a monastery in what is now Syria, Kinglake discovered that the monks had a fine wine cellar:

Christianity permits and sanctions the drinking of wine; ande of all the holy brethren in Palestine there are none who hold fast to this gladsome rite so strenuously as the monks of Damascus, not that they are more zealous Christians than the rest of their fellows in the Holy Land, but that they have better wine. Whilst I was at Damascus, I had my quarters at the Franciscan convent there; amd very soon after my arrival I asked one of the monks to let me know something of the spots that deserved to be seen. I made my inquiry in reference to the associations which the city had with St. Paul. "There is nothing in all Damascus," said the good man, "half so well worth seeing as our cellars," and forthwith he invited me to go, see, and admire the long range of liquid treasure that he and his brethren had laid up for themselves on earth. And these, I soon found, were not as the treasures of the miser that lie in unprofitable disuse; for day by day, and hour by hour, the golden juice ascended from the dark recesses of the cellar to the uppermost brains of the friars. Dear old fellows! in the midst of that solemn land, their Christian laughter rang loudly and merrily--their eyes kept flashing with joyful fire, and their heavy woolen petticoats could no more weigh down the springiness of their paces, than the filmy gauze of a danseuse can clog her bounding step.

p. 104.

He's such a clever writer, that I can't help quoting him again - and this passage seemed especially relevant given that it is the start of the Advent fast this week:

The fasts, too, of the Greek Church, produce an ill effect upon the character of the people, for they are not a mere farce, but are carried to such an extent, as to bring about a real mortification of the flesh. The febrile irritation of the frame, operating in conjunction wiht the depression of the spirits occasioned by abstinence, will so far answer the objects of the rite, as to engender some religious excitement, but this is of a morbid and gloomy character; and it seems to be certain, that along with the increase of sanctity, there comes a fiercer desire for the perpetuation of dark crimes. The number of murders committed during Lent, is greater, I am told, than at any other time of the year. A man under the influence of a bean dietary (for this is the principal food of the Greeks during their fasts) will be in an apt humour for enriching the shrine of his saint, and passing a knife through his next-door neighbor. The moneys deposited upon the shrines are appropriated by the priests. The priests are married men, and have families to provide for; they "take the good with the bad," and continue to recommend fasts.

p. 58.

It seems that Alexander Kinglake was unimpressed with Orthodoxy, at least in Greece:

I think that the change which has taken place in the character of the Greeks, has been occasioned, in great measure, by the doctrines and practice of their religion. The Greek Church has animated the Muscovite peasant, and inspired him with hopes and and ideas which, however humble, are still better than none at all; but the faith, and the forms, and the strange ecclesiastical literature which act so advantageously upon the mere clay of the Russian serf, seem to hang like lead upon the ethereal spirit of the Greek. Never in any part of the world, have I seen religious performances so painful to witness as those of the Greeks. The horror, however, with which one shudders at their worship, is attributable, in some measure, to the mere effect of costume.

(p. 57). I suppose I might take offense at this, but it seems so funny that I can't find it in myself to be offended. Maybe that just means I am more like a Russian peasant than a Greek and so the doctrines "animate" me rather than hang on me like lead.

I've been reading Eothen, a travel memoir from 1837 by an Englishman named Alexander Kinglake. According to the editor's note, it was the first of the modern travel narratives, going beyond the "aren't the Pyramids huge" school of travel writing that dominated up until then.

Kinglake is far from a PC writer, of course, and anyone easily offended by 19th century English views of non-English cultures should avoid the book (and the quote below). In particular, his view of the Ottoman Empire is extremely harsh. He's not that fond of Greeks either or of Orthodoxy - but I found many of his comments on that topic funny rather than offensive.

The reason it might be interesting to the rest of you is that he includes some perceptive economic comments. Here's his description of bargaining for goods in a Turkish bazaar:

The seller is for ever demanding a price immensely beyond that for which he sells at last, and so occasions unspeakable disgust in many Englishmen, who cannot see why an honest dealer should ask more for his goods than he will really take — the truth is, however, that an ordinary tradesman of Constantinople has no other way of finding out the fair market value of his property. His difficulty is easily shown by comparing the mechanism of the commercial system in Turkey with that of our own people. In England, or in any other great mercantile country, the bulk of the things bought and sold goes through the hands of a wholesale dealer, and it is he who higgles and bargains with an entire nation of purchasers by entering into treaty with retail sellers. The labour of making a few large contracts is sufficient to give a clue for finding the fair makret value of goods sold throughout the country; but in Turkey, from the primitive habits of the people, and partly from the absence of great capital and great credit, the importing merchant, the warehouseman, the wholesale dealer, the retail dealer, and the shopman, are all one person. Old Moostapha, or Abdallah, or Hadgi Mohamed, waddles up from the water's edge with a small packet of merchandise, which he has bought out of a Greek brigantine, and when at last he reaches his nook in the bazaar, he puts his goods before the counter, and sits himself upon it; then laying fire to his tchibouque he "sits in permanence," and patiently waits to obtain "the best price that can be got in an open market." This is his fair right as a seller, but he has no means of finding out what the best price is, except by actual experiment. He cannot know the intensity of the demand, or the abundance of the supply, otherwise than by the offers which may be made for his little bundle of goods; so he begins by asking a perfectly hopeless price, and then descends the ladder until he meets a purchaser, for ever

"striving to attain
By shadowing out the unattainable."

This is the struggle which creates the continual occasion for debate. The vendor perceiving that the unfolded merchandise has caught the eye of a possible purchaser, commences his opening speech. He covers his bristling broadcloths and his meagre silks with the golden broidery of oriental praises, and, as he talks, along with the slow and graceful waving of his arms, he lifts his undulating periods, upholds, and poises them well till they have gathered their weight and their strength, and then hurls them bodily forward, with grave, momentous swing. The possible purchaser listens to the whole speech with deep and serious attention; but when it is over, his turn arrives; he elaborately endeavors to show why he ought not to buy the things at a price twenty times larger than their value: bystanders attracted to the debate take a part in it as independent members--the vendor is heard in reply, and coming down with his price, furnishes the material for a new debate.

From pp. 41-42 of the Konemann edition.