From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

In his pleasures the Sultan is a man of frivolous tastes, rather than of gross vices. From some vices he is free, and (as I would say every good word in his favor) I gladly record this. He is not a drunkard (as were some of his predecessors, in spite of the Mohammedan law against the use of strong drinks); and, what is yet more remarkable for a Turk, he does not smoke. But if he does not drink, he eats enormously. He is, like Cardinal Wolsey, "a man of unbounded stomach," and all the resources of the Imperial cuisine are put in requisition to satisfy his royal appetite. It is said that when he goes to the opera he is followed by a retinue of servants, bearing a load of dishes, so that if perchance between the acts his sublime Majesty should need to refresh himself, he might be satisfied on the instant.

For any higher pleasures than mere amusements he has no taste. He is not a man of education, as Europeans understand education, and has no fondness for reading. In all the great palace I did not see a single book—and but one picture. [The Mohammedans do not like "images," and so with all their gorgeous decorations, one never sees a picture. This was probably presented to the Sultan from a source which he could not refuse. It was a landscape, which might have been by our countryman, Mr. Church.] But he does not care for these things. He prefers to be amused, and is fond of buffoons and dancing girls, and takes more delight in jugglers and mountebanks than in the society of the most eminent men of science in Europe. A man who has to be treated thus—to be humored and petted, and fed with sweetmeats—is nothing more or less than a big baby—a spoiled child, who has to be amused with playthings. Yet on the whims and caprices of such a creature may depend the fate of an empire which is at this moment in the most critical situation, and which needs the most skilful statesmanship to guide it through its dangers. Is it that God intends to destroy it, that He has suffered such a man to come to the throne for such a time as this?

It is a most instructive comment on the vanity of all earthly things, that this man, so fond of pleasure, and with all the resources of an empire at command, is not happy. The Spanish Minister tells me that he never saw him smile. Even in his palace he sits silent and gloomy. Is it that he is brooding over some secret trouble, or feels coming over him the shadow of approaching ruin?

Notwithstanding all his outward state and magnificence, there are things which must make him uneasy; which, like Belshazzar's dream, must trouble him in the midst of his splendor. Though an absolute monarch, he cannot have everything according to his will; he cannot live forever, and what is to come after him? By the Mohammedan law of succession the throne passes not to his son, but to the oldest male member of the royal house—it may be a brother or a nephew. In this case the heir apparent is Murad Effendi, a son of the late Sultan. But Abdul Aziz (unmindful of his dead brother, or of that brother's living son) is very anxious to change the order of succession in favor of his own son (as the viceroy of Egypt has already done,) but he does not quite dare to encounter the hostility of the bigoted Mussulmans. Formerly it was the custom of the Sultan, in coming to the throne, to put out of the way all rivals or possible successors, from collateral branches of the family, by the easy method of assassination. But somehow that practice, like many others of the "good old times," has fallen into disuse, and now he must wait for the slow process of nature. Meanwhile Murad Effendi is kept in the background as much as possible. He did not appear in the procession to the mosque, and is never permitted to show himself in state, while the son of the Sultan, whom he would make his heir, is kept continually before the public. Though he is personally insignificant, both in mind and in body, this poor little manikin is made the commander-in-chief of the army, and is always riding about in great state, with mounted officers behind his carriage. All this may make him a prince, but can never make him a man.

What is to be the future of the Sultan, who can tell? His empire seems to be trembling on the verge of existence, and it is not likely that he could survive its fall. But if he should live many years he may be compelled to leave Constantinople; to leave all his beautiful palaces on the Bosphorus, and transfer his capital to some city in Asia. Broussa, in Asia Minor, was the former capital of the Ottoman Empire, before the Turks conquered Constantinople, four hundred and twenty years ago, and to that they may return again; or they may go still farther, to the banks of the Tigris, or the shores of the Persian Gulf, and the Sultan may end his days as the Caliph of Bagdad.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE EASTERN QUESTION.—THE EXODUS OF THE TURKS.

It is impossible to be in Constantinople without having forced upon us the Eastern Question, which is just now occupying so much of the attention of Europe. A child can ask questions which a philosopher cannot answer, and a traveller can see dangers and difficulties which all the wisdom of statesmen cannot resolve.

Twenty years ago France and England went to war with Russia for the maintenance of Turkey, and they are now beginning to ask, whether in this they did not make a great mistake; whether Turkey was worth saving? If the same circumstances were to arise again, it is doubtful whether they would be so ready to rush into the field. All over Europe there has been a great revulsion of feeling caused by the recent financial breakdown of Turkey. Within a few weeks she has virtually repudiated half the interest on her national debt; that is, she pays one-half, and funds the other half, promising to pay it five years hence. But few believe it will then be paid. This has excited great indignation in France and England and Italy,[10] where millions of Turkish bonds are held, and they ask, have we spent our treasure and shed our blood to bolster up a rotten state, a state that is utterly faithless to its engagements, and thus turns upon its benefactors?