The store-keepers sat despondingly behind their counters while the
hinges of their doors rusted from the absence of in-comers. It was
impossible to rouse them from their state of mercantile coma, except by
one word, which had a magnetic effect upon their nervous
system---"Custom House."
"I suppose you have no difficulty at the Custom House, Mr.--in this
simple island?" This was invariably the red rag to the bull.
"No difficulty, Sir!--no difficulty?--it is THE difficulty--we are
absolutely paralysed by the Custom House. Every box is broken open and
the contents strewed upon the ground. The duty is ad valorem upon all
articles, and an ignorant Turk is the valuer. This man does not know the
difference between a bootjack and a lemon-squeezer: only the other day
he valued wire dish-covers as `articles of head-dress,' (probably he had
seen wire fencing-masks). If he is perplexed, he is obliged to refer the
questionable article to the Chief Office,--this is two hundred yards
from the landing place:--thus he passes half the day in running
backwards and forwards with trifles of contested value to his superior,
while crowds are kept waiting, and the store is piled with goods most
urgently required." . . .
I immediately went to see this eccentric representative of Anglo-Turkish
political-and-mercantile-combination, and found very little
exaggeration in the description, except that the distance was 187 paces
instead of 200 which he had to perform, whenever the character of the
article was beyond the sphere of his experience.
