AN ADVENTURE IN RHODES.
BY AN OLD WANDERER.
A good many years ago it was my lot to visit Rhodes. It seems odd to me now, it seemed very odd then, that I of all people should come to be so circumstanced. It is over an interval of some fifty years that I am taking my retrospect. As matters stand at this present moment I should scarcely be surprised at having to visit any part of the habitable globe. I am quite aware that for all that has come and gone, I may turn up some fine day as ambassador at the court of Dahomey. But as all the world knows, things were not so ordered fifty years ago, when travelling, pur et simple, was the luxury of the few, and, so far as commercial purposes were concerned, the demand for individuals as agents abroad was very limited.
My start in life was as a clerk in the great mercantile firm of Robson and Dick, of Crutched Friars. Robson, the senior partner, was some sort of Scotch cousin to my aunt Priscilla. It was a very far-fetched relationship, and did not authorise anything like familiarity between my employers and myself; but it was worth something, for it procured me my situation in the house, which was the first step in that very tolerably prosperous career which has eventually conducted me to this my pretty villa at Ball’s Pond, and the comforts generally of my retirement. I remember, as if it were yesterday, all about my coming to town. There was the letter from my Aunt Priscy; there was the anxiety of feeling that we were at the moment which was to decide whether or not her grand relation would notice her petition; and then came my mother’s tears and my father’s hearty congratulations. I saw the question was settled in my favour, before I heard a word of the letter itself; and I never shall forget the exultation of the moment. With many a warning from my parents as to my conduct, I started for London. It was particularly enjoined on me that I must avoid anything like forwardness or familiarity with Mr. Robson, and I was made to get by rote the precise formula in which my thanks were to be returned. My poor parents gave themselves a deal of unnecessary trouble. They knew little of the economy of one of our large houses. There was little fear of my troubling the senior member of the firm, for this good reason, that I never had the opportunity. I will not say that he was otherwise than cognisant of the fact of my occupying a stool in his counting-house; but he certainly gave no outward token of having observed me, at least not for many months, and then it seemed to come about quite in the way of business. We had large dealings with the Levant, and at certain seasons were in the habit of making direct shipments there, to various foreign ports, chiefly South American, round the Horn. We had a duly accredited local agent, who resided principally in one of the towns on the Dardanelles. It was his business to collect produce from the surrounding district, and to have it brought in from the various islands and points of the coast. This service was performed in country boats, so that at times he would have a veritable fleet under his orders. Of course these proceedings necessitated an enormous amount of correspondence, which correspondence was apt to be of a most polyglot character. Signor Litti (so was our agent named) was an Italian who had dwelt so long in the East, that he was able to deal with all likely requirements of this kind. He could converse and write in Turkish, Greek, Spanish, or Dutch. But he did not understand a word of English. This may seem strange in a commercial agent for an English house, but so it was. His communications with us were carried on in French, and it was but rarely that we had to call into requisition any other language. Sometimes complications on the spot would arise, rendering it necessary to transmit to us vouchers or applications from the native merchants. We had no one in our establishment capable of dealing with the documents, and, therefore, on such rare occasions, were obliged to have recourse to the services of an old Armenian, whom we called John, though, of course, that was not his real name. He was a bill-broker in the City, and a very honest man, and for many years his assistance had been found most valuable.
In preparing me for commerce, my parents had had the forethought to make me pay particular attention to the French language while at school, and this qualification of mine had been quoted by my Aunt Priscy in her letter of application. She was not likely, good old soul, to lose any opportunity of singing my praises. I only wish (if it’s worth while wishing about such old bygones) that she would have learned to spare my blushes, on occasions when I was a present auditor. Perhaps, however, this once her praises may have been of real sterling value, and turned the scale in my favour at the critical moment.
I was yet raw in the office when I became acquainted with Signor Litti’s caligraphy. I remember the dismal sense of incompetence that came over me when brought to this test. It was a most detestable scrawl, quite illegible at first sight. Which was the top and which the bottom I could not have confidently asserted, save for the broken line which marked the beginning. Truly, they had taught us at school to read French, but not to decipher the scrawl in which foreigners are apt to express their intentions. I think it would be a good thing if commercial schoolmasters would be at the pains to provide themselves with autograph specimens for their pupils, as preliminary exercises of their ingenuity. As this had not been done in my case, I was at first and for a long time all abroad in the exercise of my speciality. But perseverance overcomes most difficulties; and so, at last, after infinite trouble, I proved myself