THE OPIUM EATER’S DREAM:
OR THE MODERN FORTUNATUS.
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FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORGE DÖRING.
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I passed some time, a few months ago, in the seven-hilled city of the Bosphorus—in beautiful, but muddy Constantinople. I had seen and admired every thing that was to be seen and admired, as far as the Turks allow to a Christian dog. Often had I stood at the portal of the mosque of St. Sophia, and gazed with longing sighs upon the imperial seraglio just opposite, in the vain hope that some veiled beauty would appear at one of the balconies, observe me, and then raise her veil, that I might at home, in my native place—Gelnhaus—describe a Turkish Sultana; for my susceptible heart had been trained in every way, by repeated journeys to large towns and capitals. One evening, however, I remarked that several black slaves eyed me attentively and suspiciously: I imagined also something threatening and dangerous in their gestures; and as, at the same time, several shots were heard from the interior of the seraglio—which seemed to intimate that capital punishment was being inflicted upon criminals, whose crimes were, perhaps, nothing worse than a few longing sighs, wafted to the imprisoned fair ones—a panic seized me, which drove me from the spot in tempestuous haste, whilst I inwardly swore a solemn oath never again to venture within a hundred yards of the sultan’s palace.
Be it known to the world that I am the traveling agent for the house of Messrs. Steinlein & Son, wine-merchants of Frankfort on the Main. I myself am called Gabriel Mostert, born in the town which, on account of the old legend, I call the Barbarossa town; and which deserves quite as wide a reputation as the town of Pisa, in Italy, for it contains just such a leaning tower. My countenance is round and ruddy, my eyes are lively and intellectual, my form powerful and muscular—five-feet-three. I am possessed by a spirit of speculation. I am determined to establish a famous house—not what they call famous in Frankfort, Leipzig, or Hamburg—no, I will establish the firm only for my Barbarossa town, and my little Kate, whose father gives her to me only upon condition that I settle down respectably in Gelnhaus, as a dealer in dry goods, in Drap de Zephire, in Crêpe de Chine, and in veritable eau de Cologne. On this account, I persuaded my honored principals to a Constantinople speculation, which offered a fair profit. I had, in fact, read in the best papers of the day, that the present sultan was busy in placing every thing upon a European footing. There can be no European footing without a European head; and what is a European head without the inspiration of Champagne, Burgundy, and Johannisburg? My principals agreed to every thing: I sailed from Trieste with casks and bottles, anchored in the Bosphorus, and the next day was employed in preparations to attract the worshipers of Islam to my European inspiration.
The thing succeeded; my wines disappeared with charming celerity. Even the Mufti honored me with a visit, and assured me—while he tried my costly Johannisburg, of 1822, with the smack of a connoisseur—that his friend, the Abbot of Fulda, had done well to exalt this wine to his closet—it did indeed deserve to be drank in solitude, when not a breath, not a word could disturb the full enjoyment of the liquid gold. He tried a couple of bottles, and the European inspiration began then to beam so brilliantly from his eyes, that I verily believe, had any cunning missionary been at hand, he would have embraced Christianity.
My affairs then were prosperous, and yet not so; for although the wines had found purchasers, the money for them was not forthcoming. From time to time I paid a visit to my Turkish debtors. I was kindly received with pipes and coffee, but of my money—not a word. I look care never rudely to remind them of it, having been assured by some Armenian friends that the Moslems could bear no dunning, and that unpleasant hints were often rewarded with a most unpleasant bastinado. I was sure of my money in the end, for I had already heard that it was the custom of all distinguished Turks to pay off all their debts on a certain day of the year, just before the Ramazan. The Ramazan was not very distant, and until then I had to wait with patience. It is a dreadful thing for a fiery young merchant, whose fancy revels in interest and commission, to have to parade up and down the streets of Constantinople in useless, idle patience.