graceful too; for the true poetic feeling is ineradicable; it colours a man's life-is not coloured by it. And when he had reached a great old age, it befell that Alexander's sight grew dim, and his spirit was weary of the great city, and his memory grew weak, and he forgot parchments, and dates, and reports, and he began to remember as though it was yesterday-the pleasant fields, where he had played among the lambs and the butter-cups in the morning of his days. And the old man said calmly, "Vixi!" Therefore now I will go down, and see once more those pleasant fields; and I will sit in the sun a little while; and then I will lie beside my father in the old church-yard. And he did so. It is near a hundred years ago now. So Anne Oldfield sleeps in Westminster Abbey, near the poets whose thoughts took treble glory from her while she adorned the world. And Alexander Oldworthy lies humbly beneath the shadow of the great old lofty spire in the town of Coventry. Requiescant in pace! "And all Christian souls, I pray Heaven." RIDDLE. WHATEVER to my charge in trust is placed, M. A. B. THE PRESENT SULTAN. BY A DIPLOMATIST RESIDENT AT CONSTANTINOple. THERE is a large crowd assembled on the shores of the Bosphorus to see an Ambassador, who is going to pay his visit of ceremony to the Sultan. Let us suppose him, for the sake of example, to be the Austrian Internuncio. He will do as well as any other. The new Austrian Internuncio (therefore let us say), and his splendid suite, embark in their gilded caique, to have their first official audience of His Imperial Majesty the Sultan. The Internuncio is not only accompanied by his secretaries, attachés, interpreters, and a whole host of minor officials, but his suite is considerably swelled in number, and its splendour vastly increased by a flock of Austrian Naval officers, who have come up from the Dardanelles, and by the magnificent uniforms of several strangers of distinction, who have arrived here to see one of the last acts of a most splendid and wonderful Historical Drama. Preceded by some half dozen cavasses, a kind of body-guard allowed to the foreign missions in Turkey, the glittering crowd marches on, with not a little clanking of spurs and trailing of sabres; all of which increase the dignity and imposing nature of a grand state occasion of course considerably. Meantime our fancy is busy with their reception. The Internuncio and his suite, however splendid, will surely not proceed at once into the presence of so mighty a potentate as the Sultan. Although most of the Turks of rank and consideration have been told quite often enough of their weakness and decay to understand it perfectly; and although the mild prince who now sits upon the tottering throne of Constantinople, is said to be far, very far, from vain-glorious, yet the magnificent traditions of the East can hardly be yet quite forgotten. The bitter humiliation and consciousness of his own impotence, which must have weighed so heavily on the kind heart of Abdul-Medjid of late years, do not, we think, prevent his being surrounded with a certain faded state, which will have something imposing in it; I had almost said touching. The incense of his own courtiers, we fancy indeed, must sound like a most mournful and unreal mockery to him, when he is torn away from it so often, to submit to the stern lecture of first this stiff-necked ambassador, and then the other; but his own rare efforts to keep up his dignity may be respected, as we would respect the fallen fortunes of any man or thing, that has been great, and is sorely humbled. Let us follow the Internuncio and his suite, however, and we shall judge for ourselves. When they arrive at the palace, they are conducted by some stragglers who happen to be about the lace, through a little garden formally laid out in the old French style-one of those gardens which have nothing but the name; pa a garden with little patches of flower-beds cut into triangles and crescents, and having hard, dry, pebbly, useless, paths betweenwhich nobody ever does or could walk upon. This garden may, perhaps, cover a quarter of an acre of ground, not more; and it is soon passed. The Internuncio and his train have entered into a low stone passage, with many mysterious doors here and there. This passage too is very dark, and rather damp, and particularly bare. It has nothing of oriental magnificence in it, yet we are within the Imperial Palace, and the Sultan is, I dare say, within hearing of us somewhere. Meantime some half dozen straggling servants and officials appear to be as busy as Orientals ever are, in showing us up stairs into the state apartments. There is nothing splendid about them either. Except for their red caps, they might easily enough be mistaken for German artizans in their Sunday clothes; they are quite as heavy, as awkward, with as solemn a sense of dignity, and with as baggy trousers. A few guards, dressed in brown, with dirty gold sashes, and having no arms but sabres, are also posted about, without order or regularity. The day is wet and drizzly; indeed nothing can be altogether more common-place or uncomfortable. Things change a little for the better as we ascend the stairs, in spite of the dinginess which still seems to hang about everything. Upon the first landing is posted one of the palace guards of the Sultan, and he is dressed in clothes which are at least meant for a uniform. The intention is not very successfully carried out; but it is obvious that it has existed. We are satisfied; here is at least a commencement. Up the dingy stairs therefore we go with the splendid cortège of the Internuncio, and from the dingy stairs into a dingy room-oh! how dingy; dingier I vow than a Lawyer's offices in Lincoln's Inn. It is ill-furnished; and there are not chairs enough for the ambassador's suite; more are brought in from another apartment; but there are still not enough, so that a fresh supply must be sent for. Then the carpet, which is dingier really than anything ever seen except the sofas, does not half cover the room, but this perhaps is merely Oriental fashion, so we must not be surprised. At last the Grand Vizier is brought in, and the Grand Interpreter, (a high officer in Turkey,) then the Minister for Foreign Affairs, all dressed in ill-made European clothes; and they are followed by the usual pipes and coffee. The pipes are handsome; they have richly jewelled mouthpieces of amber, and their value is sometimes as preposterous as an English race-horse. The coffee also is served in little cups of jewelled filigree, of which the best are made at Malta. Neither the coffee nor tobacco is very good, and the former is served without sugar, and unstrained, according to the fashion of the East. There is not much conversation; everybody feels very cold and strange. Everybody also is ignorant of the etiquette of the place, and does not like to commit himself. There might, perhaps, be plenty to say, for men must be dull indeed who cannot talk to a Minister for Foreign affairs; but to make a remark is rather too serious a business to be repeated often. Thus, for instance, the Internuncio observes, for want of anything else to say, "that it is a cold day." No sooner is the observation out of his Excellency's mouth, than the head Dragoman leaves off snorting over his scalding coffee, and dropping what remains over his knees, rises with an expression of pain and confusion. A tear of intense anguish is in one of his eyes. "It is a cold day," repeats the Internuncio, nodding; for he is a pleasant, cheery man. The Dragoman does not hear or does not catch the words. "It is a cold day, tell him," says the First Secretary, in a sharper tone. "Whisper to Nooderl to say it is a cold day," says one of the attachés, who likes the interpreter, speaking to another who does not. "I won't speak to the fellow, tell him yourself," is the answer, in the same under tone. Grand Vizier (who thinks the Internuncio is impatient to see the Sultan:-All in good time. Minister for Foreign Affairs:-Let us go! Grand Interpreter (taking his pipe out of his mouth):-That is not it! Internuncio :-What does he say? Dragoman :-His Excellency the Minister for Foreign Affairs is anxious to know what your Excellency said. Internuncio (who supposes the whole affair of the cold day has been settled long ago):-I?-I said nothing! What was said to me? The Dragoman is puzzled. The friendly attaché pulls the Dragoman by the skirts of his coat, and communicates the first observation of the Internuncio. Dragoman :-His excellency the Internuncio takes advantage of this opportunity to observe that it is a cold day. Minister for Foreign Affairs (who has been whispering anxiously to his colleagues) is much relieved, and murmurs :-God is Great! amidst general silence. Internuncio (smiling pleasantly) :-Eh? What? "His Excellency the Minister for Foreign Affairs observes to your Excellency that God is Great!' "Oh, yes! Of course! I dare say! It is a Turkishunder tone) but when are we going in to the Sultan ?" -(in an The Internuncio looks bored, and the pipes having been changed for others still more magnificent, the whole party rise. They take their way through a passage and pass through a dingy curtain; after which they find themselves in a suite of rooms of considerable size but miserably furnished. A freshly-lit fire of coal burns sulkily in one or two of the grates, and I know of nothing more dreary and dispiriting. The rain rattles solemnly against the windows of the palace. The noses of the guards ranged in a line are quite red with cold, and their hands are blue. Let us go on. The last room of the suite is smaller than the rest. It would be used as a refreshment-room, if Strauss or Jullien were to give a ball in the palace. A coal fire burns very sluggishly in the grate, and there is a plain sofa without a back, placed next to the wall at the extreme end. As the Internuncio enters with his suite, an individual is seen to rise slowly from this sofa, and he stands up to receive the visitors. He is a dark, wearied looking man, in appearance about forty, though in reality some ten years younger. He is dressed in a dark-blue frock coat, with a Russian collar. The sleeves and the collar of it are embroidered with gold and diamonds both his coat and trousers are much too large for him. He wears no ornament but the nisham, a large medal of gold set with diamonds and hung round his neck, and a heavy Turkish sabre, set with diamonds also, but dirty. On his head is a red cap, and on his feet black jean French boots with varnished tops; but so large it is marvellous how he walks in them. This is Abdul Medjid, the Sultan of Turkey. As the ambassador and his suite approach, it is painful to see the embarrassment of the monarch. It appears to amount to constitutional nervousness, and is evidenced in many ways. His eyes wander here and there, like those of a schoolboy called upon to repeat a lesson he does not know. He changes his feet continually, and makes spasmodic movements with his hands. I am sure his beard- -a very fine one-is uncomfortable to him, and that he feels as if he had a hair shirt on. I am still more sure that he feels literally ambassadored to death. One was at him yesterday; here is another to-day; and to-morrow is not the ambassador of ambassadors announced, the terrible Sir Hector Stubble. Oh, for a little rest! Oh for his ride where the "sweet waters flow!" Oh! for repose on the one true bosom which waits his coming in the harem, and who will soothe his aching temples, and lull him softly to sleep with her lute. The Internuncio stands forward, his suite fall back, and he begins to speak, while the cold drops gather upon the Sultan's forehead, and his thumbs are never still a minute. His excellency, however, has not much to say; a few of the common-place civilities which are always paid to royalty, and a flourishing encomium on the power and glory of his own nation, nothing more. The Sultan replies. What he says nobody knows. Not the best oriental scholar in the room, though he listen with strained ears, can make anything of it. Certain dislocated sentences are jerked painfully from his majesty's lips in gasps, that is all. The imperial interpreter, however, is by no means at a loss. He, at least, has got a neat little speech cut and dried: he learned it by heart at mosque yesterday. So he begins to bob and duck with great assiduity. He is a fat little man, whose clothes are too tight for him, and he does not appear to advantage, but he delivers himself successfully. The Sultan looks hopelessly up at the ceiling, then down at his boots; and once (oh! how lovingly,) at the door. There is silence: you might hear a pin fall, while every eye is turned upon the changing countenance of the monarch. Then comes a bustle: strangers must withdraw; and the ambassador with his interpreter, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the interpreter of the Porte remain alone. No wonder his majesty looked so bored. He is safely tied down for an hour's advice |