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From reading the preceding pages the reader will easily gather how it was that, after so many years of hard fighting and struggling, my labour brought its own triumph and gave me the gratification of my dearest wishes.

The psychological problem is clear enough, and the solution is not hard. Other children of men, animated by a desire to produce something new, give themselves neither rest nor peace in the pursuit of their object, but they hide the true motive which instigates them under a mask of modesty; they pretend to be the unwilling instruments of fate. I frankly admit that what animated me was the indomitable ambition to do something out of the common, something that would make me famous. I think I must have been born with this fire in my veins, this devil in my flesh. The confession brings no blush of shame to my face, for now in my seventieth year, looking back upon the thorny path of my life, I am fully convinced it was this longing for fame and the insatiable thirst for activity in the early stages of my career which were at the bottom of all the inconsistencies of my life. On the one hand, the desire to put to some practical use the experience and the knowledge I had gained urged me on to take an active part in whatever was going on in Europe or Asia, while, on the other, my natural propensities, or, perhaps more correctly, the poverty and simplicity of my bringing up, made me lean more towards a quiet, contemplative life and the retirement of my own study. The severe rules of etiquette and the demands of society, where everybody is so important in his own eyes, have ever been distasteful to me, and often when I mixed with the leading people of the diplomatic world or of high life I felt wearied with the empty talk and hollow, would-be importance of these folks. These feelings were not calculated to lit me for a diplomatic career, for, notwithstanding my eminently practical turn of mind, I was anything but a man of the world.

In these circumstances it would have been only reasonable if, after settling down in Austro-Hungary as a writer, I devoted myself henceforth solely to literary pursuits. Quietly seated at my writing-table I learned to appreciate the sweet fruits of liberty and independence. Here I was safe against the chicaneries and whims of superior persons and the constraint of social forms; the moral reward which honest work never withholds was worth more to me than all the vain glamour of rank and position coveted by all the world round me. Without wishing it, perhaps against my own will, the force of circumstances finally landed me on the right track, and I found a vocation more in keeping with my past career. An active participation in Asiatic affairs might possibly have made me richer and more noted, but certainly not happier or more contented, for although I am not blind to the fact that literary fame can never, either with the public at large or in the higher circles, boast of the same recognition which birth and position claim as their due, I have nevertheless noticed with satisfaction that the fruit of intellectual labour is more real and lasting, more worth fighting for than all the pomp and vanity people are so fond of displaying. Whatever may be said in disparagement of writing, it remains true that the pen is a power, and its victories greater, more durable, and nobler than the advantages which other careers, be they ever so brilliant, have to offer. The pen needs not the gracious nod of high personages; it depends on none save on the hand that wields it; and if, in the face of the amount of general and light literature produced in our days, some might incline to think that the pen has lost its power, that its influence is gone, and that for a writer to rise from obscurity and the lowest position to the pedestal of esteem and appreciation is no longer possible, the story of my life will help to reveal the fallacy of such views. Even as the strenuous labour of my younger days raised me, the quondam servant and Jewish teacher, to attract the attention of all cultured Europe, even so my unremittent efforts in literary work have secured me a position far beyond my merits and surpassing my wildest expectations.

I have already mentioned the widespread popularity of my writings, extending over three continents; I will only add here that, with regard to some exclusively literary works, certain circles--not ordinarily given to express admiration--could not help expressing their appreciation of them, and the Press of England, which for years had laughed at my political utterances, had at last ruefully to admit that I was right, that I had rendered the State great service, and that I had contributed many a brick to the building up of the wall of defence around the Indian Empire. During a lecture which I delivered in 1889 in Exeter Hall the late Commander-in-Chief of India, Sir Donald Stewart, remarked that my writings had often stimulated the sinking courage of the officers in India and stirred them up to endure to the end. Frequently I received letters of appreciation from various parts of India thanking me for my watchfulness over occurrences in Central Asia, and the constant attacks I made on English statesmen who were so easily rocked to sleep in false security.

The Mohammedans of India were particularly friendly, on account of my relations with the Sultan, and invited me to give lectures in some of their towns, an invitation which tempted me very much, as I was rather curious to see the effect of a Persian speech delivered by a European among these genuine Asiatics. An open letter to the Mohammedans of India did much to strengthen these friendly feelings, and if it had not been for the sixty years which weighed on my shoulders I should long ere now have made a trip to Hindustan.

FOOTNOTE:

At the English Court

AT THE ENGLISH COURT

In proportion as my works found consideration in the most obscure parts of the Old and of the New World, their effect in Europe was felt even in the highest Government circles, and it is not surprising that the travelling staff and the pen brought the obscure author into contact with sovereigns and princes. In England, where, in spite of the strict rules of Court etiquette, the genealogical relations of the self-made man are not considered of such great importance, my ardent defence of British interests could not be overlooked.

It was in the year 1889, on the occasion of my stay in London, that I received a card bearing the following invitation.--

It was a noble company in whose ranks my name was to figure, for the book was full of signatures of crowned heads, princes, great artists, learned men, and noted soldiers of the day. As I prepared to comply with the request the uncertainty of the date of my birth suddenly occurred to me, and as I gazed hesitatingly before me Sir Henry asked me with a pleasant smile the reason of my embarrassment.

"Sir," I said, "I do not know the exact date of my birth, and I should not like to enter a lie in the royal book."

When I had told him the circumstances written on the first page of these Memoirs he took me by the hand, remarking pleasantly, "You need not be ashamed of that. Her Majesty lays less weight upon the birth of her guests than upon their actions and merits."

So I entered the conventional date of the 19th of March, 1832, and am quite sure that among the many guests at Windsor there was never another to whom the day and year of his entry into this world were unknown.

With the exception of this rather unpleasant, but otherwise comical, episode my stay at Windsor was a most pleasant one. The Court officials, whose acquaintance I made at lunch, vied with each other in their amiability to the foreign defender of British interests in Asia, and this was especially the case among the military officers, who soon struck up a political conversation with me. An Englishman, be he courtier, soldier, or an ordinary mortal, speaks unreservedly of his political opinions without any consideration for the party in office, and I was much surprised to hear one of the higher Court officials, an ardent admirer of Mr. Gladstone, speak in very sharp terms of the politics of the Conservative, Lord Salisbury, even drawing me into the criticism.

My apartments were in one of the round towers of the Castle, so full of historical memories, and as I gazed at the lovely landscape, with the Thames winding in and out among the trees, and remembered the ideas I had formed of this royal castle when I read Shakespeare, I was deeply moved at the wonderful change in my position. If some one had told me in the days gone by that I, who was then living in the poorest circumstances, and even suffering hunger, should one day be the honoured guest of the Queen of England and Empress of India at Windsor, that men in high position would lead me through the ancient halls, show me the royal treasures, and that I should sit next but two to the Queen at table, I should, in spite of my lively imagination, have thought him a fool and have laughed in his face. The crown jewels never dazzled me to such an extent as to force me to worship their wearer. But every one must agree that the natural simplicity of Queen Victoria's manner, her rare amiability and kindness of heart, and the way in which she knew how to honour Art and Science, had a most fascinating effect on those who came into contact with her. It is a great mistake to imagine that this princess, placed at the head of the monarchical republic, as England may be called on account of its constitution, was only the symbolical leader of the mighty State, having no influence on its wonderful machinery. Queen Victoria had a remarkable memory; she knew the ins and outs of every question, took a lively interest in everything, and in spite of her earnest mien and conversation, sparks of wit often lighted up the seemingly cold surface and reminded one of the fact that she was a talented princess and a clever, sensible woman.

Queen Victoria has often erroneously been depicted as a woman cold in manner, reserved, and of a gloomy nature, who, with her carefully worded questions and answers made a rather unfavourable impression on her visitor. This idea is quite incorrect. She certainly was a little reserved at first, but as soon as her clever brain had formed an opinion as to the character and disposition of the stranger, her seeming coldness was cast aside, and was replaced by a charming graciousness of manner, and she warmed to her subject as her interest in it grew.

When, at Sandringham, I had the honour of walking in the park next to her little carriage drawn by two donkeys, she seemed at first to be paying scant attention to my conversation with the gentleman-in-waiting who accompanied us, but when I began to speak about my adventures and experiences in Central Asia, her interest visibly increased, and she made inquiries as to the smallest details. What most surprised me was that she not only retained all the strange Oriental names, but pronounced them quite correctly, a rare thing in a European, especially in a lady; she even remembered the features and peculiarities of the various Asiatics who had visited her Court, and the opinions she formed were always correct.

One evening, I think it was at Sandringham, she conversed with me for a long time about the East, chiefly about Turkey. She remembered all the Turkish ambassadors of half a century, and after having spoken for some time about Fuad Pasha, I took courage, and asked her if the following anecdote which I had often heard in the East were true:--

"They say," I began, "that during one of his missions to the English Court, Fuad Pasha brought your Majesty a beautiful brooch as a present from the Sultan, Abdul Medjid, and that some years afterwards your Majesty had a pair of earrings made of it. When on another mission Fuad Pasha saw and admired the earrings, your Majesty is said to have remarked: 'N'est ce pas, sa Majest? le Sultan sera bien fach? d'entendre, que j'ai g?t? la broche dont il m'a fait cadeau?' Fuad Pasha is said to have given the following witty answer: 'Au contraire, Madame, mon souverain sera enchant? d'entendre que votre Majest? pr?te l'oreille ? tout ce qui vient de sa part.'"

The Queen listened silently, then remarked--

"It is a pretty story, but it is not true."

Discretion forbids me to say more of Queen Victoria, and I will only add that the graciousness with which she received me, and the words in which she acknowledged my literary efforts on England's behalf, will always be more precious to me than all the orders and treasures with which sovereigns think to have repaid the author.

A few days later I received the following communication.--

"MARLBOROUGH HOUSE,

"PALL MALL, S. W.,

"Dear PROFESSOR VAMB?RY,--I am commanded by the King to inform you, that he has much pleasure in conferring upon you the third class of the Victorian Order on your 70th birthday, as a mark of his appreciation of your having always proved so good and constant a friend to England, and as a token of His Majesty's personal regard towards you.

"I beg to remain, dear Professor Vamb?ry,

"Yours very faithfully,

"FRANCIS KNOLLYS."

This proof of royal favour naturally caused a sensation abroad, and also at home, where Government had taken but scant notice of my festival, and it was generally highly appreciated. As to why Hungary on this occasion again tried to prove the truth of the adage that no man is a prophet in his own country I have spoken in another part of this book.

As though to prove the truth of the proverb, "The fruit never falls far from the tree," the present Prince of Wales distinguishes himself in the same way, and by his amiability he has already won all hearts. At the time of my visit to Sandringham I lived in the apartments of the late Duke of Clarence, who was absent at the time, and thus I became the neighbour of Prince George, as he was then called. One afternoon, while I was occupied with my correspondence, I received an invitation from the Queen to join her in the garden; as I wished to wash my hands before going down I rang several times for warm water, but no one came. At length the young Prince came to my door, and asked me what I wanted. I told him, and he disappeared, returning in a few minutes with a large jug in his hand, which he placed, smiling, on my washstand.

Not at all bad, I thought, for the poor Jewish beggar-student of former years to be waited upon by a Prince! I have often laughed at the recollection of this incident, and have since dubbed the future sovereign of Great Britain, "The Royal Jug-bearer."

I was just going to make some excuse when the Princess remarked: "Why, Papa, Professor Vamb?ry ought to have pinned some of his books on to his coat; they would be the most suitable decorations."

My Intercourse with Sultan Abdul Hamid

MY INTERCOURSE WITH SULTAN ABDUL HAMID

Speaking of royal appreciation, I cannot leave unmentioned the reception I had from the Sultan of Turkey, a curious contrast indeed to my former life in Constantinople.

On the morning after my arrival I could have stood for hours gazing out of the window on the Bosphorus, recalling a hundred different episodes enacted on this spot, but I was wakened out of these sweet dreams by an adjutant of the Sultan who called to conduct me to an audience at the Yildiz Palace. As I passed through the great entrance hall of the Chit-Kiosk, where the Sultan was wont to receive in the morning, marshals, generals, and high court officials rose from their seats to greet me, and on many faces I detected an expression of astonishment, why, how, and for what their imperial master was doing so much honour to this insignificant, limping European, who was not even an ambassador. When I appeared before the Sultan he came a few steps towards me, shook hands, and made me sit down in an easy chair by his side. At the first words I uttered--of course I made my speech as elegant as I could--surprise was depicted on the face of the Ruler of all True Believers, and when I told him that I remembered him as a twelve-year-old boy in the palace of his sister, Fatma Sultan, the wife of Ali Ghalib Pasha, attending the French lesson which I was giving the princess, the ice was broken at once, and the otherwise timid and suspicious monarch treated me as an old acquaintance. At a sign the chamberlain on duty left the hall, and I remained quite alone with Sultan Abdul Hamid--a distinction thus far not vouchsafed to many Europeans, and not likely to be, as the Sultan is not acquainted with European languages, and therefore, according to the rules of court etiquette, cannot hold a face-to-face interview with foreigners. The conversation turned for the greater part upon persons and events of thirty years past, upon his father, Sultan Abdul Medjid, to whom I had once been presented, Reshid Pasha, Lord Stratford Canning, whom the Sultan remembered distinctly, and many other persons, questions, and details of that time. As the conversation progressed the splendour and the nimbus of majesty disappeared before my eyes. I saw merely a Turkish Pasha or Effendi such as I had known many in high Stambul society, only with this difference, that Sultan Abdul Hamid, by his many endowments, a wonderful memory, and a remarkable knowledge of European affairs, far surpasses many of his highly gifted subjects. Of course I became gradually freer in my conversation, and when the Sultan offered me a cigarette and with his own hand struck a match for me to light it, I was quite overcome by the affability of the absolute Ruler, Padishah, and Representative of Mohammed on earth, or "Shadow of God," as he is also called.

The first audience lasted over half an hour, and when, after being escorted to the door by the Sultan, I again passed through the entrance hall crowded with high dignitaries, the surprise of these men was even greater than before, and for days together the topic of conversation in the circles of the Porte at Stambul, and in the diplomatic circles of Pera, was the extraordinary familiarity existing between the generally timid and reserved Sultan and my humble self. As this intimacy has also been commented upon and explained in various ways in Europe, I will shortly state what was the real motive of the Sultan's attentions to me, and why I have been so anxious to retain his favour.

The third, and perhaps the most valid, reason for the Sultan's attentions to me lay in the international character of my pen, and more especially in the notice which England had taken of my writings. Sultan Abdul Hamid, a skilful diplomatist and discerner of men, one of the most cunning Orientals I have ever known, attached great importance to the manner in which he was thought and talked of in Europe. Public opinion in the West, scorned by our would-be important highest circles of society--although they cannot hide their chagrin in case of unfavourable criticism--has always seemed of very great moment to the Sultan; and in his endeavours to incline public opinion in his favour this clever Oriental has given the best proof that he has a keener insight into the political and social conditions than many of his Christian fellow-sovereigns. Fully conscious that his ultimate fate depends on Europe, he has always endeavoured to make himself beloved, not at one single court, but by the various people of Europe, and is anxious to avoid all cause of blame and severe criticism. England's opinion he seemed to think a great deal of; for although he simulated indifference and even assumed an air of hostility, in his innermost mind he was firmly convinced that England from motives of self-interest would be compelled to uphold the Ottoman State, and at the critical moment would come to the rescue and lend a helping hand. To hide this last anchor of hope he has often coquetted with France, even with Russia, in order to annoy the English and to make them jealous; but how very different his real inmost feelings and expectations were I have often gathered from his conversations. Sultan Abdul Hamid has always been of a peculiarly nervous, excitable nature; against his will he often flew into a passion, trembled in every limb, and his voice refused speech. On one occasion he told me how he had been brought up with the warmest sympathies for England, how his father had spoken of England as Turkey's best friend, and how now in his reign, through the politics of Gladstone and the occupation of Egypt, he had had to undergo the most painful experiences. Then every appearance of dissimulation vanished, and I could look right down into the heart of this extraordinary man.

Like Feth Ali Shah, and even more than he, Sultan Abdul Hamid hated all liberal forms of government. He never made a secret of this opinion, and during the many years of our acquaintance the Sultan repeatedly expressed his views on this matter frankly and without palliation. In one way, as already mentioned, it was my thorough Turkishness in language and behaviour--he always addressed me as Reshid Effendi and also treated me as such--which led him to make these confidences and to overcome his innate timidity and suspicion. Then, again, my relations with the successor to the English throne carried weight with him, and the invitation I had received from Queen Victoria induced him to see in me something more than an ordinary scholar and traveller; in fact, he looked upon me as a confidant of the English court and Government--two ideas which to him were inseparable--to whom he might freely and safely open his heart.

I readily promised my services, but soon realised that with all his apparent frankness, these confessions of a monarch brought up in strictly Oriental principles were not to be taken in real earnest, for when one day, in the heat of conversation, I made some slightly critical remarks, and ventured to question the expediency or the advisability of certain measures and plans of his Majesty, I noticed at once signs of displeasure and surprise on his countenance, and from that time little clouds have darkened the horizon of our mutual intercourse. And how could it be otherwise? Potentates, and above all Orientals, are far too much accustomed to incense; the coarse food of naked truth cannot be to their taste; and when an absolute ruler is superior to his surroundings, not only in actual power but also in intellectual endowments, an adverse opinion, no matter how thickly sugared the pill may be, is not easily swallowed. From the very beginning of his reign Sultan Abdul Hamid has never tolerated any contradiction; apparently he listened patiently to any proffered advice, but without allowing himself to be shaken in his preconceived opinion; and when some Grand-Vizier or other distinguished himself by steadfastness to his own individual views, as was the case, for instance, with Khaired-din Pasha, Kiamil Pasha, Ahmed Vefik Pasha, and others, they soon have had to retire. True, through his extraordinary acuteness the Sultan has mitigated many mistakes resulting from his defective education. In conversation he hardly ever betrayed his absolute lack of schooling, although he was not even well versed in his own mother-tongue. He said to me frequently, "Please talk ordinary Turkish!" His excellent memory enabled him to turn to good account a thing years after he had heard it, and his flowery language deceived many of his European visitors. But, taking him altogether, he was a great ignoramus and sadly needed to be taught, though in his sovereign dignity and exalted position of "God's Shadow on Earth," he had to fancy himself omniscient. Thoroughly convinced of this, I have, in my subsequent intercourse with the Sultan, exercised a certain amount of reserve; I learned to be ever more careful in my expressions, and when the Sultan noticed this I replied in the words of the Persian poem--

"The nearness of princes is as a burning fire,"

For several years I thus enjoyed the Sultan's favour and occupied this exceptional position at his court. As long as the Grand Seigneur saw in me a staunch Turcophile and defender of Islam, who, led by fanaticism, palliated all the mistakes and wrong-doings with which Europe charged all Oriental systems of government; as long as I regarded Turkey as an unwarrantably abused State, and European intervention as unjustifiable at all times, he gave me his undivided confidence and astonished me by his unfeigned candour.

Many years of experience in Turkish society had taught me that the Sultan is regarded as an almost Divine being, and consequently this extraordinary affability was all the more surprising. He treated me, so to speak, as a confidential friend, talked with me about State concerns, and the interests of his dynasty, as if I had been an Osmanli and co-regent of the empire. He conferred with me about the most delicate political questions, with a candour, which he never displayed even before his Grand-Vizier and his Ministers; and consequently my letters to him from Budapest were free and unrestrained, and such as this sovereign had probably never received before.

Now, if there had only been questions of purely Turkish interests, internal reforms and improvements, there would have been no occasion to shake the Sultan's confidence in me, but Sultan Abdul Hamid's mind was always busy with foreign politics, and because in regard to these I could not always unconditionally agree with him, this was bound to lead in process of time, if not to an absolute rupture, at any rate to a cooling of our former warm friendship. For some time the Egyptian Question was the chief point of discussion. The Sultan often complained to me about the unlucky star which ruled over his foreign politics; that he had lost so many of the inherited provinces, that the loss of the Nile-land, that precious jewel of his crown, was particularly grievous to him, and that the faithlessness of the English troubled him above all things. As a matter of course he vented his wrath especially upon the English Government; and although he was not particularly enamoured of any of the European Cabinets, nay, I might say, hated and feared them all alike, it was the St. James's Cabinet which, whether Liberal or Conservative, had always to bear the brunt of his ire. He was on very bad terms with the two English Ambassadors who shortly before and shortly after his accession to the throne represented the Cabinet of St. James's in Constantinople. Once, Lady Layard sent me for presentation to the Sultan, a picture of herself in a very valuable frame, and when I delivered it on the occasion of an evening audience the Grand Seigneur, generally so completely master of himself, became quite excited, and pointing to the portrait he said to me, "For this lady, whom you see there, I have the greatest respect; for during the war she has tended my wounded soldiers with great self-sacrifice, and I shall always feel grateful to her; but as for her husband," he continued, "I have torn him out of my heart, for he has shamefully abused my confidence." Thereupon he tore at his breast as if he would pull something out, and slinging his empty hand to the ground, he tramped excitedly on the floor, as if he were demolishing the heart of the absent delinquent. This act of passionate emotion I have noticed more particularly among Turkish women, and there are many traits in the Sultan's character which speak of the harem life. I tried to pacify the angry monarch by reminding him that Layard, as ambassador, had but done his duty in delivering the message, and that those gentlemen alone were to blame who had allowed such confidential communications to become public property. I quoted, moreover, the Koran passage which says, "La zewal fi'l sefirun" ; but it was all in vain, the name of this deserving English diplomat had quite upset the Sultan; he was unwilling and unable to distinguish between the actions of the statesman and of the private gentleman.

One cannot altogether blame the Sultan either, when we think of the bitter experiences he so often has had to undergo; but in politics, justice and fairness have quite a different meaning from what they have in ordinary life, and Sultan Abdul Hamid most decidedly acted imprudently when, without taking into consideration England's most vital interests, he demanded of this State a policy which, on account of the altered general aspect of affairs, and on account of the growing insular antipathy against Turkey, had become impossible. That the Conservatives, in spite of all Mr. Gladstone's Atrocity-meetings, dared to appear with a fleet in the Sea of Marmora, to prevent Russia from taking Constantinople, has never been appreciated by the Sultan. He had always before his eyes the comedy of Dulcigno and Smyrna, instigated by the Liberal Government of England, and the occupation of Egypt appeared to him more perfidious than the challenge of Russia, and all the injury he had sustained from the Western Power.

I soon came to the conclusion that with a sovereign of this kind, there was not much good to be done, and without flatly contradicting him, I quietly adhered to my own political views. As I look at things now, it seems quite natural that I excited his displeasure, and that he looked askance at my English predilections. The Sultan expected of me unconditional approval of his political views; he wanted to have in me a friend, absolutely Turkish in my views, as opposed to the Christian world, and willing, like many a prominent man in Europe, to hold up the East as noble, sublime, humane, and just, and to put down the West as reprobate, crude, and rapacious. No, that was expecting a little too much of my Turkish sympathies! I have always been too much imbued with the high advantages of our Western culture, too fully convinced of the beneficial influences of nineteenth-century ideas, to lend myself to sing the unqualified praises of Asia--rotten, despotic, ready to die--and to exalt the Old World over the New! No, neither imperial favour nor any power on earth could have induced me to do this, and when the Sultan realised that, he began to treat me with indifference; he even told me once that he did not like children who could cling to two mothers, and without actually showing me any hostility or dislike, as my international penmanship was not quite a matter of indifference to him, he dismissed me, to all appearance, graciously. He was undeceived, but I remained what I always have been, a friend of Turkey.

Later on I also touched upon this subject in conversation with the Sultan. We were speaking about the comments made in Europe regarding the negligence in the fortifications at the entrance to the Black Sea, when the Sultan interrupted me and said, "Why should Europe criticise this? I have a house with two doors; what does it matter to anybody if I choose to close the one and open the other?" In a word, the Sultan has given me several irrefutable proofs that the persistent anti-Russian tendency of my publications was inconvenient to him, and that he would be better pleased if I attacked England or kept quiet altogether. Of course he would like best of all to banish pen and ink altogether from the world, and as it was impossible for me to support him in his absolute autocratic principles, a cooling of our mutual relationship was unavoidable.

Thus ended my intimate intercourse with Sultan Abdul Hamid. The only benefit it has been to me was a rubbing up of my impressions of life in the Near East, a renewal of old relationships, and the editing of a few valuable old Slav manuscripts which I found in the treasure-house of the Sultan, and which were lent me for a considerable length of time. But the renewal of my acquaintance with the Orient was void of that charm which it had for me on my first visit. The East and myself are both thirty years older; the East has lost much of the glory of its former splendour, and I have lost the vigour of my youth. I fancied myself an elderly man who, after thirty years meeting again the adored beauty of his youthful days, misses the wealth of her locks, the fire in her eyes, the brightness of her rosy cheeks. Old Stambul, the Bosphorus, and Pera--everything was changed. The Sultan's mad love of extravagance, the unfortunate war of 1878, and above all the loss of Bulgaria--in fact nearly the whole of Rumania--had reduced the dominating class almost to beggary. Gone were the rich Konaks in Stambul, empty the once glorious yalis on the Bosphorus, and of the Effendi world, flourishing and well-to-do in my time, only a few miserable vestiges remained.

The Christian element, as compared with the Moslem, has increased enormously; the European quarter of the city is full of life and animation, and the Turk, always wont to walk with bowed head, now bends it quite low on his breast as he loiters among the noisy, busy crowds of the Christian populace. He is buried in thought; but whether he will be able to pull himself together and recover himself is as yet an open question.

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