I cannot conceive it possible to imagine a greater contrast than an Asiatic, and more particularly a Central Asiatic, who, as late as two years ago, wrapt in his national garb of ample width, hanging about him in loose folds, was feeding on the simple and primitive fare of a nomadic people, and who, at the present moment, booted and spurred, moves about in the closely-fitting costume of the Hungarians, and is already accustomed to the food and manners of the West; one, who, destined to lead the life of a Mollah, once spent his time in the lonely cell of the Medresse Mehemmed Emin at Khiva, absorbed either in prayer or in the doctrines of Islamism, and who is now seen turning over the large folios in the library of a European academy, acquainted with books on philosophy, or the history of the world and religion, Greek and Latin literature, and numberless authors besides; who scarcely ever had heard the name of Europe, or had heard it mentioned only in terms of the utmost abhorrence; who knew no other institutions, no other phases or aspects of men and things, but those in his own wild Eastern world, and recognised these alone as true and reasonable;—and who now is reading the leading articles of European newspapers, discussing the different politics of Western countries, and unhesitatingly making the boldest comparisons between the Eastern and Western hemispheres.

These are certainly clear and sharply-defined contrasts, and such contrasts my friend the Mollah exhibits "in propri personÂ,"—the Hadji whom I brought with me from Central Asia, whom I met with whilst on his way to Mekka, who became my companion and associate, and who, instead of the holiest of holy cities, now lives with me in the metropolis of Hungary. How I succeeded in inducing him to form this resolution has been to many a matter of the liveliest curiosity to know; nor were their enquiries less eager as to the impression made upon him by my metamorphosis from the pious dervish into the European traveller. One fundamental error ran through all these enquiries,—namely, the strange belief that my change had been as sudden as that of the chrysalis to the butterfly. It was, on the contrary, extremely gradual, and its various phases are the more interesting, since they illustrate in a striking manner the difference between Eastern and Western life. The history of my transformation, in fact, deserves to be given in detail.

I first met my Tartar, as I mentioned before, in Khiva. A Mollah, young and animated with a desire for travelling, he was in search of a companion on his journey to Mekka, and in the full belief to find in me a Turk and a Mohamedan, the most suitable fellow-traveller, he at once attached himself to me with the utmost ardour and devotion. During the early part of our acquaintance he saw in me merely the learned Mollah, the wild zealot, whom he approached with the greatest veneration, listening most attentively to every word that fell from my lips. Such was the relation that existed between us throughout our journey to Bokhara, Samarkand, and Karshi, as far as the banks of the Oxus. Here I became more confidential towards him: occasionally I put off somewhat the disguise of my affected sanctity; we grew more and more intimate by degrees; our slender store of provisions was put into one common bag, and as he was thoroughly honest and true-hearted, his sincere and loyal friendship became a great support and comfort to me on my solitary and perilous journey. Only slowly, and with difficulty, could he accustom himself to a real and mutual intimacy; and on our begging expeditions he would take upon himself, as his own undisputed task, to collect the heavy contributions, such as wood, flour, &c., whilst he left to me the less onerous business of collecting the pence. In the evening he made it his duty to prepare the supper, and, after having served the rice on a piece of rag or a board, it was always a matter of conscience with him not to touch it until I had twice helped myself with my hands. I do not know whether veneration or conscience inspired him with this excessive respect, but, be the cause what it may, he invariably shrank from placing himself in a position of equality. Not wishing to spoil his pleasure, I therefore let him do exactly as he pleased.

On our journey from the Oxus to Herat, my feigned devoutness visibly decreased in exact proportion as the distance between me and fanatic Bokhara kept increasing. Prayers, ablutions, pious meditations—all became less frequent. My Tartar, no doubt, observed this, but it did not seem to trouble him, and he accommodated himself ungrudgingly to his master. His questions on religion were fewer, but he listened instead with more eager attention to my descriptions and narratives of the foreign land of the 'Frengi,' and the pictures I drew of those marvellous countries of the West. Such lectures as these were usually delivered during our night marches, when we were riding alone in intimate converse, and at some distance from the caravan. The pleasure I felt in being able to talk of my beloved West in a barbarous country, surrounded as I was with dangers in so doing, was not greater than my Tartar's astonishment when he heard that there were towns more beautiful than Bokhara, and countries where it was possible to travel without fear of robbers or of dying with thirst. He was especially struck when I assured him that the 'Frengis,' so far from being the savage, pitiless cannibals, such as they had been represented to him, possessed heart and feeling, and that they were infinitely superior to their reputed character in the East. Under different circumstances he might have doubted the truth of my assertions; but as I, the Efendi, his teacher and master, assured him of these facts, he placed implicit belief in all I told him. No wonder that I was pleased with his thirst for knowledge and his loyalty, and that I in return became greatly attached to my young Tartar. Moreover, he kept as much as possible aloof from the other Central Asiatics, his countrymen, uniting himself more closely to my society. As soon as I perceived—which I could not fail to do before long—that something could be made of the young man, I resolved not to let him leave me, but, if possible, to take him with me to Europe. If such was my determination long before we came to Herat, it was still further strengthened by the brilliant proofs of his attachment and fidelity which he showed to me during our residence in this town. Here, as is already known, my sufferings and privations reached their climax. Totally without means, I had not unfrequently to bear all the torments of hunger; and whenever, at this advanced season of the year, the cold prevented my sleeping during the night, it was my young Tartar who honestly shared with me his poor thin rags, in order to procure for me a warmer covering and a quiet sleep. During these six weeks that we spent in Herat we suffered, indeed, greatly; but I tried to strengthen the courage of my companion by assuring him that we should meet with certain help in Persia. The idea that a pious Sunnite should fare well in the heretical country of the Shiites, appeared to him sufficiently droll; but the child-like innocence of his heart, and his unaffected confidence in me, prevented his making any further conjectures. He looked, like myself, with intense longing to the frontiers of Iran, and the capital of Khorassan.

At last we arrived in Meshed. The hearty friendship of the English officer here, and his kindness towards me as well as my companion, were at first a great puzzle to my Tartar. He knew Dolmage was a Frengi;—what strange thoughts must have crossed his mind, in his astonishment at seeing me, the pious Mohamedan, his "chef spirituel," sit for hours in the company of an unbeliever, talking with him in a foreign language, nay, eating with him out of one and the same dish. The servants of the English officer, and indeed every one in the town, repeatedly declared to him their opinion that his master was a Frengi in disguise. He shuddered at the thought, and although he heard these suspicions with feelings of anger and indignation, yet he never questioned me on this point, and his firm faith in me remained unshaken. Moreover, his attachment to me naturally increased, from finding in me at all times a friend and protector, especially on our journey to Teheran, when, on account of his Tartar costume, he had frequently to encounter the ill-will of the vindictive Shiites. On my part, again, it was, I consider, no small risk, to travel for a whole month alone with this man, to pass whole nights alone with him in desolate spots. Let one single evil thought arise in his heart, and it would have been an easy matter for him to kill me during my noon-day slumbers on the open road, and, carrying with him my horses, weapons and money, to escape into the desert, northward to the Turkomans. But I never harboured any such suspicion. Fully confiding in him, I entrusted to his charge my musket, sword and horse; when tired and fatigued I stretched myself out upon the sand and slept soundly and securely, whilst he acted as sentinel; for at the very beginning of our acquaintance I had discovered that he had a true heart, and I cannot say that I have ever once been mistaken in this respect.

It was in Shahrud where he saw me for a second time embrace an unbeliever. He was struck by it, and said: "My master, thou art truly wise, in always associating with the Frengis; for these Persians, although they believe in the Koran and in Mohammed, are, by heaven! a hundred times worse than the unbelievers!" On this occasion he expressed to me also, after having met a second Englishman, his surprise at finding these Frengis, both "outwardly and inwardly, such agreeable persons," and yet he found it difficult to approach them. He would stare at them and scrutinize them for hours, proving clearly that, although he had partly got rid of his deeply-rooted prejudices, a certain degree of shyness and reserve was still clinging to him.

During the latter part of our march towards the Persian capital, my joyous feelings occasionally woke within me some long-forgotten song or melody. I began first to whistle, and then to sing, popular airs of certain operas. Whistling is not practised in the East, and regarded as extremely frivolous and indecorous; nevertheless, he was greatly pleased with the charming melodies from the Troubadour, Lucia, and others. He asked me with great naÏvetÉ, whether in Mekka people recited the Koran with these accompaniments, and was greatly astonished when I replied in the negative.

It was at the post station of Ahuan for the first time he heard me called by my European name. This name touched the tenderest fibres of his heart, and no doubt he struggled long and painfully before he found the courage to question me. I replied, that I would give him an answer in Teheran, and this set him at rest for a time. On my arrival in Teheran, I lodged with my old friends in the Turkish embassy. The young Efendis, who represented the Sultan, were fashionable European diplomatists, bearing the signs of Frengiism in far stronger colours than myself. This lessened his suspicions; and when I enlightened him on the modern civilization of his Sunnitic brethren in the West, he gradually became aware of the immense gulf between Stamboul and Bokhara. He was told of the continuous efforts of the Osmanlis to assimilate themselves as much as possible to the Western countries and their culture, and he could not help following this example himself. If we take into account, that he saw and heard nothing but what was good and excellent of the few Frengis whom he had hitherto had the opportunity of knowing, it was natural that his hatred and his prejudices should vanish day by day.

In Teheran he made the acquaintance of a countryman of mine, Mr. SzÁntÓ, who frequently came to see me, and with whom he was soon on terms of intimacy. SzÁntÓ told him with no small joy, that he and his master (he meant me) were the only Magyars in Persia. The Magyars, moreover, the philologizing tailor added, are the kindred of the Osmanlis,—a statement the Tartar felt surprised at, but which did not exactly disquiet him, our long intercourse and friendship reconciling him to all he saw and heard. And seeing in me more affection and kindness than in the genuine Turk, the trifling difference as to nationality troubled him very little. He roved about cheerfully in Teheran, making himself acquainted with the manners and language of the Persians, and was extremely glad, when, after a residence of several weeks, we were saddling our horses once more for our journey to Constantinople.

Hitherto no other plan had been talked of, but that he was to accompany me as far as Constantinople, and from thence go on to Mekka by Alexandria. But soon I perceived that this original plan no longer pleased him, and that he intended to do otherwise. Our life in the Turkish embassy in Teheran, where everything was arranged after the European manner, and our frequent intercourse with other embassies, had shown him a part of Western life in a very pleasant aspect, and awakened in him the desire to visit with me these wonderful countries. Nor is it difficult to understand how his original longing, to prostrate himself upon the grave of the holy Prophet, receded more and more into the background. His sound understanding was not long in penetrating this religious humbug; and, having naturally a great love for adventure, he soon resolved, instead of the illustrious Mekka, to go and visit Frengistan, a country formerly thought of with dread and detestation.

I pretended not to observe what was passing in his mind, and putting him on shore at Constantinople, I was about to take leave of him, after having amply provided him with money. The young Tartar looked at me fixedly with tears in his eyes, and in spite of the sight of the proud minaret, in spite of the crowd of orthodox worshippers who surrounded him here on every side, he felt constrained to say to me, in a voice trembling with emotion, and interrupted by frequent sobs: "Efendi, do not leave me here behind alone. Thou hast brought me from Turkestan into this strange land: I know here no one but thee. I follow thee, gladly, whithersoever thou goest!"—"What, wilt thou come with me to Frengistan?" I asked him; "from thence it is very far to Mekka; there are no mosques and public baths, no Mussulman food; how wilt thou live there?" For a moment he seemed perplexed; but after a brief silence he replied: "The Frengis are such good and kind people; I should like to see their country; and afterwards I will return to Stamboul." I required no more. Fully understanding the character of my Central Asiatic friend, I embarked with him once more on the shore of the Bosphorus, and in three days he was already upon a steamer on the Danube, surrounded by Europeans, and on his way to the not far distant capital of Hungary. On board the steamer I found him often absorbed in thought. Not yet venturing to taste European food, he gazed at everything around him with a shy timidity, but gradually he grew accustomed to the novelty of the scene, and a few days later he promenaded the streets of Pesth in Bokhara costume. During the first few days he could scarcely find words, so full was he of amazement. Everything, indeed, appeared to him like an enchantment. He admired all he saw, from the square-hewn paving stones in the streets to the lofty buildings and towers; and it can easily be imagined what singular, and at times comical, remarks he made;—he, the son of the desert, in the midst of one of the first cities in Europe. He was much struck with the quick walking of people in the streets, and the rapid movements of the vehicles; but, above all, the women arrested his attention; and he could not understand how the Frengi, clever and sensible people as they are, could allow their women-folk to appear in public in such clumsy and uncouth attire, and without any protection. In the day time I often saw him standing by the telegraph wires, listening to the sounds that passed along them. At night he would stare at the gas lamps, full of curiosity to discover whether it was the iron that was burning. At the hotel, the luxury and magnificence that surrounded him filled him with astonishment. Judging of every person he met by his dress, he regarded every one as some mighty lord or potentate, and frequently exclaimed: "Oh! this is a happy country! Here seems to be not a single poor man!" He soon grew accustomed to the looks of curiosity that followed him wherever he went. His former dread of the Frengi had entirely disappeared; he had a pleasant face for every one, and frequently entered eagerly into conversation with the first person he met, forgetting, in his characteristic manner, that no one could understand him; and he would go on talking to his heart's content, without being in the least disturbed by the surprise exhibited by those he was thus addressing.

I should most gladly have taken him on with me to London, had I not deemed it better for him to leave him for the while behind in Hungary. A friend of mine, who lived in the country, received him kindly into his house; and when, after a year's absence, I returned from England, I was not a little surprised to find my young Tartar dressed in the Hungarian costume, and, instead of the turban, with his hair nicely curled and trimmed, with a rather droll air and demeanour, and a certain stiff gravity in his manner. He had learned the Hungarian language in a very short time; he was everywhere liked and heartily welcomed, and when, for the first time, I saw him smartly dressed, and with gloves on his hands, talking most courteously and earnestly to a lady in her drawing-room, I could scarcely refrain from laughter. Two years ago a Mollah of a Medresse, he is now grown into half a dandy:—in truth what cannot be made of an Oriental? Being able to write as well as speak Hungarian, my friends kindly procured him an appointment as assistant-librarian in the Academy, which position he fills at the present moment. When I question him about his new life, and talk to him of the difference between Eastern and Western manners and habits, I find that his past life floats like a dream across his mind, which he cherishes only as a distant reminiscence, but which he would not on any account exchange for his present existence. He rarely feels any longing for his native home, and he loves our Western civilisation for the following reasons. In the first place, he is particularly pleased with the perfect security that society affords to the individual, and the absence of any arbitrary tyranny on the part of the Government. In Central Asia a man's bare life is not safe on the roads from robbers; in the towns he is threatened with constant danger from the barbarous decrees of the authorities. The frequent cruel executions, the desolating civil wars in his country, have never struck him until now, when he has become aware how thousands of persons come in daily contact with each other, without quarrels, fighting, or bloodshed ensuing—all consequences of frequent occurrence in his native country. Secondly, the comfort which Europeans enjoy, at once benefits and captivates him. He finds the house of a simple citizen better appointed than the palace of his sovereign. The cleanliness in dress and food, the reciprocal offices of kindness and courtesies of society, are magnets which attract him and make him forget his rude and uncivilised home. Thirdly, it is a special delight to him to find that the various differences of religion and nationality are scarcely ever felt here, whilst in the East they form the strongest barriers between man and man. With him at home the mere notion of visiting the country of the Frengi would have been certain death, and now he lives in the very heart of their land, not only without encountering hostility, but actually received with cordiality and affection.

With regard to his feelings on Islamism, his own speculations had already in some degree enlightened him. He observed that the nearer he approached the West, the more Mahometan fanaticism decreased, and as he, in proportion with its decrease, drew nearer and nearer to humanity and order, he could not help suspecting very soon that Islamism, or at least the Islamism he knew and confessed, was the declared enemy of civilisation and refinement of life, such as he met with in Europe. He has never yet uttered a word of aversion or reproach when referring to the doctrines of the Arabian prophet, but his subtle and speculative theories sufficiently indicate that a strong revolution has been wrought within him. Without wishing to assign the cause of this great contrast between the East and the West solely to the influence of Christianity, he has, nevertheless, arrived so far in his conclusions as to comprehend that our western culture and mode of life are incompatible with the teachings of Mahomet. He has never yet distinctly expressed to me his preference of either one or the other religion, and it will probably be long before he will venture to give expression to any thought of the kind. His allusions and fragmentary remarks, however, prove that his mind is occupied with questions of this nature, and that the great struggle with himself has begun.

Such, indeed, is the history of every Mussulman, whether Tartar, Arab, Persian, or Turk, as soon as he becomes thoroughly acquainted with our western civilisation—a complete transformation but seldom occurs. The highly important question, whether the civilisation of the East or West is the better—whether the teaching of Christ or of Mohammed is the true religion, will long remain undecided by the nations of Asia;—nay, so long, I feel inclined to say, as the rays of the sun produce with us a temperate, with them a burning, heat; so long as distance separates the east and the west. Were it possible to bring the doctrines of Christianity more into conformity with their views, by setting aside those of the Incarnation and the Trinity, and were these tenets, thus modified, put into the place of the Koran, an opportunity might be presented of a small, but only a very small, step in advance. I say advisedly a small step, since Christianity, though sprung from an Eastern soil, has long ago proved to be a plant which can only flourish in the West. And who would deny that the Koran and Vedas, created as they are by an Eastern mind and in the spirit of Eastern nations, are prized and revered by them above everything besides? Their disappearance would bring new and similar productions into existence. I venture almost to assert that the Christian tenets would, after a time, become transformed, on Eastern soil, into a sort of Koran or Vedas, in order to be the typical embodiment of oriental sentiment, and be recognised by orientals as their real and peculiar property. Are not the Nestorians, Armenians, and other followers of the Eastern Church, all disciples of Christianity? but as great as the difference is between them and their co-religionists in Europe, so little do they differ in their mode of thought, their feelings, and views of life, from their Mohammedan fellow-countrymen in the East.