Heretofore, as it was stated at the time in the public prints, all the Emperors of Turkey had caused the male children of their own offspring to be destroyed, and thus provided most efficiently against future disputes relatively to the succession. The child on whom I now looked had not only been spared by its Imperial Grandsire, but public rejoicings had taken place on its birth—cannon had been fired, and ministers had been admitted to the Presence on audiences of congratulation. It was a noble boy, laughing and sporting in the arms of its nurse; and, as the caïques shot away, I busied myself with endeavouring to picture to my mind’s eye the joy of the fond mother on learning that her child was to be spared to her. The delight was, however, fated to be transient, for Mahmoud was ere long released from his incipient enemy, (if such the little prince were indeed destined one day to become) without dyeing his own hands in blood. Three days after our visit to Kahaitchana he expired in convulsions, induced by his sufferings in teething.
As I understood that His Highness was engaged at archery with some of his favourite Pashas, I resolved on endeavouring to obtain a sight of him; and accordingly one or two of our party detached themselves from the rest, and, making a circuit of the pleasure-grounds, we arrived opposite the spot where the Toxopholites were “speeding the winged arrow to the mark.” A heavy cloud that was passing over the valley had already shed a few of those large drops which fall upon the leaves with the sound and the weight of hail; and the Sultan was seated beneath a red umbrella, held over his sacred person by one of the Officers of the Imperial Household. The favoured Pashas were standing in a line along the façade of the building; and a number of servants were dispersed over the lawn, for the purpose of collecting the arrows.
Apropos of umbrellas—Until the present reign, the red umbrella was sacred to the use of the Sultan; but his present Highness probably deeming the monopoly a very inconsequent one, graciously removed the interdict; and I need scarcely add that red umbrellas are now the rage at Constantinople.
Archery is a passion with Sultan Mahmoud, who is extremely vain of his prowess; so much so indeed, that a long stretch of hilly country immediately in the rear of the Military College is dotted over with marble pillars fancifully carved, and carefully inscribed, erected on the spots where the arrows shot by himself from a terrace on the crest of the height are supposed to have fallen—I say supposed, for, as his foible is no secret, the Imperial pages who are employed to collect the shafts, and to measure the distances, generally pick up the arrow and run on twenty or thirty paces further, ere they affect to find it; by which means the Sultan shoots like the Prince Aimwell in the Fairy Tale; and the cunning varlets who restore his arrows earn many a backshish or present which more honest men would miss. I remember on one occasion, when on an exploring expedition, suddenly coming upon so handsome a marble column, inscribed with letters of gold, and surmounted by an urn, that I was curious to learn its purport; when, to my surprise, I discovered that this was a record-pillar of the same description; and as his Sublime Highness had on this occasion pulled a very long bow indeed, so he had perpetuated its memory by a handsomer erection than usual.
The archery party at Kahaitchana was amusing enough. First flew the arrow of the Sultan, and away ran the attendants; then each Pasha shot in his turn, taking especial care to keep within bounds, and not to out-Cæsar Cæsar. Some of them looked important, and others horridly bored: but there was no escape from an amateur who boasts that he has practised every week for the last forty years.
A little to the left of the spot occupied by the archers is a raised platform overshadowed by a weeping willow, beneath which rises a handsome head-stone. It is the grave of an Imperial Odalique, who died suddenly in the very zenith of her youth, her beauty, and her favour. She was buried in this lovely spot at the express command of the Sultan, who was so deeply affected by her loss that for two entire years he abandoned the valley. The platform is overlooked by the windows of the Salemliek, and every wind that sighs through the willow branches carries their voice to the ears of those who occupy its gilded chambers. Mahmoud, in a fit of poetical despair, is said to have written a pathetic ballad of which she was the subject. I endeavoured to procure it, but failed; and, as I was loath that she should remain unsung in Europe, I even tried my own hand in some wild stanzas, which I wrote hurriedly as I stood near her grave.
THE LOST ONE.
Spring is come back to us—the laughing Spring!
Sunlight is on the waters—
And many a bright, and many a beaming thing,