On Horseback Through Asia Minor, Volume 1 (of 2) — Background and Themes

Marble and Mud: A Landscape of Contrasts

Burnaby repeatedly notes the juxtaposition of classical wealth and contemporary poverty. Near Sekili, he describes hovels 'built of marble' with roofs of mud-covered beams, the 'pure white rock presenting a striking contrast to its filthy surroundings.' Marble blocks lie scattered, remnants of ancient quarries that once supplied palaces. The author's reflection is blunt: 'Poor Turkey, she has descended the steps of civilization, and not ascended them like European nations.' Yet he immediately qualifies this by asserting that the Turks themselves remain unchanged, their hospitality as abundant as in the days of Mohammed II. This pattern—decay of infrastructure paired with constancy of character—recurs throughout the excerpts.

Voices on the Eve of War

Burnaby records direct speech from locals, giving the narrative a documentary quality. An old farmer near Angora laments the famine that killed his cattle and goats, noting that snow blocked roads for three and a half months, leaving food aid undelivered. When asked about enthusiasm for war, the farmer replies: 'Immense... it is a question not only of religion but also of property.' He fears Russian assessors who would 'grind us down to the last piastre' and forced conversion. His son, eager to join the sultan's forces, is told by the father: 'Your time will come soon enough.' The farmer's final declaration—'Our land shall drink our blood ere we give up one foot of soil'—captures a defiant patriotism tempered by the sorrow of a parent who has seen men return killed from Servia.

The Pace of Travel and the Rahvan Horse

Burnaby's account is grounded in the physical realities of horseback travel. When his grey horse goes lame after a kick from the guide's animal, he swaps mounts with Osman, who is lighter. He describes the 'Rahvan, or ambling horse,' whose pace is 'easy for the rider' at about five miles an hour, compared to the ordinary walk of Turkish horses at 'not much above three.' Such details anchor the narrative in specific, practical observations. The journey's pace also shapes the scope of Burnaby's observations: limited leave meant only a few days in each town, yet this constraint becomes a strength, forcing him to rely on roadside encounters rather than official interviews.

Burnaby's preface frames the work as a record of impressions, not a comprehensive study. Readers should approach the text as a snapshot of Anatolia in 1876–77, filtered through the author's military background and his evident sympathy for Turkish hospitality. The volume ends without resolution of the war's outcome; the second volume continues the journey. Pay attention to the way Burnaby weaves his own physical discomfort—laming horses, bad roads, limited time—into the larger story of a struggling empire.

Reading Burnaby’s mud hovels beside those marble ruins, I remembered a dusty afternoon with Through Timbuctu and across the great Sahara — Text and Context—that same ache of layered time, how a place holds both its glory and its ruin without flinching. Both books left me staring out a window, quietly undone.