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and besought the gaoler to let them forth ; they
supplicated to be taken from the place of terror;
they prayed, they wept, they beat the door like
madmen, and when the gaoler inquired into the
cause of their clamour, and was told the plague
was raging in the crowded dungeon, they were
told the plague must end in the place where it
commenced, and till it did, no human being
should cross the threshold.

No language can give an adequate idea of the
despair of the poor wretches ; they tore their
garments, flung themselves on the floor, and
filled the dungeon with their cries. Every time
their miserable pittance of bread and water was
put through the wicket, the same appalling


scene took place ; and when night came, four of
the poor wretches more were added to the sick.

A melancholy night it was as ever passed
over the heads of human beings ; nothing was
heard but piteous moans and frenzied shrieks,
the cries of the parched throat, and the ravings
of the burning brain ; and all the theme was
AV^ater ! water !

No man dreamed of assisting his companion,
his own individual pangs, whether those of pain
or terror, absorbed his thoughts ; the supplica-
tions of the sick were drowned in curses ; hi-
deous laughter was occasionally mingled with
the shrieks of pain ; and the small shrill voice of
mortal anguish was heard at intervals during
the night, followed by the inarticulate accents
of the low thick muttering of madness.

When the morning dawned on the walls of
the prison, and some feeble rays found a passage
to the dungeon through the narrow aperture
in the door, which was called a window, a sorry
sight presented itself to view ; the floor was
covered with extended bodies ; hideous gestures,
disfigured the features of some, convulsed throes
distorted the limbs of others, exhaustion had


suspended the faculties of many, their suffer-
ings — no! they slumbered, but even in their sleep
they writhed in anguish. Three of them slept
well, they breathed no more ; and noisome ani-
mals were already crawling over their remains.

It was noon before a wretch was stirring, and
when the sufferers did awake, it was to the
renewal of all the horrors of the preceding day ;
before sun-set, nine other devoted beings were
marked for death ; their mien was ghastly as that
of their companions, the hand and seal of fate
was on their foreheads. From this time, the
closeness of the dungeon every hour became
more dreadful ; the pestiferous breath of the
surviving was mingled with the effluvia from
the dead, and the empoisoned exhalation was
condensed on the damp walls, and was seen trick-
ling down in drops of poison to the ground.
Days passed over, and the pestilence raged with
increased fury ; " the hand of the Most High was
out-stretched, and the people were smote, and
they were cut off" from the earth ;" victim fol-
lowed victim with terrible rapidity, and in nine
days, five miserable men were in existence.
Surrounded by the loathsome bodies of their


companions, they breathed, but that was all;
their looks were exanivnate as those of their
dead comrades ; their eyes were sunken, their
cheeks were hollow, their tongues were swollen,
their black baked lips were streaked with gore,
their aspects were horrible to one another.

Mourad was one of the unfortunate survivors :
the poor man who attended on him at the com-
mencement of the disorder, paid him unremit-
ting attention, but he was at length attacked ;
and, like the sick Machaon, he needed the
help he gave another. For the last three days,
the wretched Mourad was left destitute of sus-
tenance ; the water jar was in sight, but not
within his reach ; his hand many a time was ex-
tended towards it, his dim eye was riveted on
it, he attempted to rise, but it was a hopeless
effort. He uttered no complaint ; the voice of
lamentation was no longer heard in the dun-
geon, the silence of death was there ; want was
present, but the stillness of inanition pre-
vailed ; and if a sound was heard, it was the
name of Allah, or the feeble moan which the
death-pang wrung from the sufferer. Another
morning sent its rays through the grated wiu-

p 5


dow of the dungeon ; another dawn lit up the
chamber of death, and presented the livid mass
of mortahty which reeked around to the eyes of
the surviving sufferei's. But it was the last
which was ever to send its light to Mourad — it
was the final day of life's long misery — it was
the farewell beam to his dejected visage, and
it shone upon him as if its parting light was
meant to bless him. Sunset came, and he still
was living ; the rays of another morning broke
upon his features, but they were fixed for ever;
its beams played over his lips^ but they moved
no more; its light fell on his lids, but the orbs
beneath were wrapped in darkness ; its heat
struck on his breast, but the heart it held was
cold as ice. There lay the remains of the once
buoyant Mourad, the earthly tenement of his
daring spirit, the mortal coil of pride and pas-
sion. No one stood over his corpse to recall his
crimes, no weeping friend was there to soften
down the obloquy they had incurred. But if
there were none to palliate his faults, there
still were none to revive his errrors ; there were
none to exaggerate or extenuate his crimes —
none to say his depravity was unredeemed hy


a single virtue ; and none to make allowance
for the controlling; influence of a vicious
education, directed in after-life by the tide of
circumstances, perhaps no less than by the
current of the passions.

Death might well stumble in the dung-eon of
the Bagnio ; like the dim-sighted camel of Aad,
the victims of his tyranny were thickly scattered
around, horror was accumulated on horror, and
when the monster in human shape, who kept his
fellow men immured in that terrible dungeon
till the poison of the putrid atmosphere found
its way througli the prison, opened the doors,
two miserable beings were in life, and when they
were dragged forth, one poor wretch died on
the threshold.

The disease extended no farther. The pru-
dent conduct of the gaoler was represented to
the Sultan ; his Highness began to entertain
some hopes of carrying his plans of reform into
effect : this was the first attempt at quarantine ;
it was a European custom, and as it worked
well, it was one of the great reforms to which
Turkey was to owe her regeneration. The
noise of it even reached the countr.y of the Fran-



^is ; the British statesmen hailed the auspicious
omen as an indication of energy in the Porte ;
the resolution of the Sultan was praised, and
that highly too, and the prime-minister of the
Giaours talked of the carcase of Thrace becom-
ing a phoenix, out of whose ashes the triumphant
Crescent was to rise, and expressed a hope of
soon congratulating Christianity on the event.

The minister was applauded by all parties ;
the energetic Sultan and his amiable people had,
somehow or other, become great favourites
in England ; nothing went down with the pub-
lic but encomiums on Turkey. The men made
a miserable attempt at a Turkish beard ; they
suffered their whiskers to encompass their chins,
and when they looked like Jews, they fancied
they were more hirsute than the Grand Seig-
nior. Even the ladies forgot their horror of
husbands with four wives, and consulted the
most recondite quartos touching the fashion of
Turkish sleeves. Heaven knows where it would
have ended, had not an untoward and unfore-
seen event arisen which it would be a misprision
of treason to notice here.

Suffice it to say, in the country of those infi-


dels who have the honour to supply the subjects
of the Grand Turk with penknives, there is a
fashion in opinions as well as in attire, and he
who outrages the novelty of either, is in danger
of being hooted out of all genteel society.



Thus far with rough and all unable pen,
Our bending author hath pursued his story,
In little room confining little men,
Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.

King Henry V.

Abou Rassed daily visited the prison during
the ilhiess of Mourad, but was denied admis-
sion to his dungeon ; and when he was no more,
he even sought permission to bury his remains,
and was refused.

The Dervish had related to him the parti-
culars of his early history, and its recital had
interested the old man warmly in the fate of the
poor fellow. He reproached the imprudent
Dervish repeatedly with the ruin he had brought
on him, and with his cruelty in refusing to ap-
prise him of his danger.


The Dervish made many excuses for his con-
duct, but none of them redeemed him in the
opinion of Abou Rassed. The only motive he
could give for not going to him, when he had
promised to do so, was his apprehension of having
offended the young man some days before. " He
had met him," he said, "in the bazaars, stroll-
ing from one place to another, more dejected in
his appearance than he had ever seen him. His
dress was in disorder, and such was the exhaus-
tion of his look, that he seemed not to have
slept for many nights before. When I inquired
what Avas the matter with him, he said, nothing-
ailed him ; he was happier than he had been
for a long time ; he was entirely content. I
thought he did not look so. I told him what I
thought, but he was not pleased."

*' Fool V said he, " what has the heart to do
with looks.'' Cannot the murderer smile when
his thoughts are deadly ? Cannot the sorrow-
ful man give laughter to his lip when his soul
is troubled ? Cannot the traitor give sparkling
truth to his regard, when he is plotting against
his friend's peace .^ ' Away, Dervish !' said he,
' you know nothing of humanity.'


" There was a wildness in his glance which I
had never before observed. I thought he had
been among the theriakis ; but I v/as wrong in
thinking so. I said I would not leave him in
such a state as I then found him ; I besought
him to allow me to accompany him. He ap-
peared to be moved by my attention.

" ' No, my friend/ said he, ' I am not going
home ; I do not need your assistance ; I am
not intoxicated ; my health is unimpaired, but
all is not well with my peace. I have had ill
news of late ; but I will endeavour to forget it,
and when we meet again, you will find me an
altered man.'

" We did meet, Abou Rassed, and I found
him indeed an altered man : it was a terrible
alteration. I cautioned him to avoid the crowd-
ed places in which I had lately found him. He
made no reply ; he left me; and when I saw
him next, the pestilence was on him."

" Poor young man !" said Abou Rassed,
" that intelligence he talked of was news of no
common calamity ; but he is at rest. No cala-
mity can now come near him ; no evil news can
give him farther pain. I wish you had made


me acquainted with him at an earlier period, I
might have been able to have rescued him from
the baneful influence of his evil star ; I might
have given him counsel to have guided him in
his trials, and comfort to have sustained him in
the midst of his afflictions."

While the good old man was thus expressing
his regret at not having been able to be
serviceable to the ill-fated Mourad, he was sum-
moned to Yussufs dwelling. He lost no time
in repairing to his house ; he was ushered into
his chamber, and there he found him laid on a
mattress in the middle of the room, and sur-
rounded by numerous attendants. There was
no kind neighbour by the bedside, no " troops
of friends'" in the anti-chamber ; the servants
looked happy, and those who stood behind their
master were jesting with their comrades. The
door leading to the harem was ajar ; the gig-
gling of women was heard. Abou Rassed
thought he heard a prayer for the sick man's

" He is not dangerously ill, I hope.''" whis-
pered the old man to one of the attendants.

" He in danger !" replied the smiling groom ;


" Oh, no, the favourites of the Shitan are always
long-lived." The astrologer raised his eyes to
Heaven. " He in danger !" continued the me-
nial, " if there were an execution to-morrow, he
would be stirring at the dawn."

" Allah defend me," thought Abou Rassed,
" from such a sick bed ! He gazed on the in-
valid, — the anxiety of his regard was striking;
he glanced at the attendants, — they all looked
joyous. On every countenance the sick man
threw his eyes there was gladness. When the
cup was put to his lips, it was pushed with vio-
lence ; Avhen the flies were flapped from his
face, it was done with such rudeness as to
startle the unfortunate man every time he
dropped asleep.

At length he observed the astrologer. " Abou
Rassed," said he, turning to the astrologer, " if
you have a word of comfort to give me, speak
it, I beseech you ; but if you have none to
offer, leave me to my misery. Do not talk to
me of what I have done ; it is in vain to re-
mind me of that which you warned me to
avoid. If I have erred, I am sorely punished ;


the affliction I feared more than death itself is
on me."

" Min Allah !" said Abou Rassed, " God
forbid that I should upbraid you ! your own
reriections render reproof superfluous. How
long have you been ill, Effendi ?''''

" Since the fatal day," replied Yussuf,
" when I clasped a wretch in my embrace who
had the plague upon him. I knew it not at
the time ; but when I was informed of the peril
I encountered, I felt his hot breath still glow-
ing on my cheek ; the touch of his burning-
hand became perceptible to my heart ; I trem-
bled for the result : my blood melted into
water ; I prayed to the Apostle to defend me
from infection. But I felt the contamination
of his touch in my vitals; the sensation of his
hot breath, as if it issued from a furnace, on
my face, never left me ; the more I endeavour-
ed to escape from the terrible apprehension of
pestilence, the more was I pursued by the ap-
palling phantom. Its livid aspect was ever
present to my mind ; its loathsome form met
me at every step ; it was the subject of my


dreams, the tlienie of my discourse; every fa-
culty of my soul was absorbed in the mortal
apprehension of the plague. The fear of mad-
ness ; the terror of being abandoned by my
friends; the dread of not having a draught of
water to slake my thirst — these have preyed
upon me, till the horrible certainty of the dis-
ease has come at last. Look on me with pity —
rescue me, I conjure you, from the horrors
of my state — save me, I beseech you, from the
sufferings which, I fear, are reserved for me."

" Calm yourself, my son," replied Abou Kas-
sed ; " the plague is not always a mortal ma-
lady, and every fever that burns in the blood is
not a pestilence. Are you sure you have the
plague ?"

" As sure," cried the patient, " as that this
throbbing head, these aching limbs are mine.
The hakkim has been here, and every symptom
he described, I feel ; he doubted at first, but
when I told him how immediately I was at-
tacked, after coming in contact with the dis-
ease ; when I informed him how my limbs tot-
tered, how I reeled like a drunken man, he
shook his head ; he did not tell me with his


lips that I was infected, but I read his opinion
in his awful look."

Abou Rassed made no reply for some mi-
nutes ; his keen eye ran over the features of
the patient ; he felt his wrist, and the result of
his examination was the conviction that terror
was the malady of the Eftendi, and not plague.

The hakkim, however, had declared it to be
the latter, and it was not for him to dispute the
word of a physician ; he merely hinted at the pos-
sibility of his being mistaken. The sick man
manifested much impatience ; he told the as-
trologer he knew his disease too well, and it
was not to doubt, but to q.yercome it, if it were
possible, that he sent for him.

" Well, then," said Abou Rassed, somewhat
piqued by the latter observation ; " since it is the
]:)lague, it can be no other malady, and Allah,
in his mercy, bring you through it ! I would
be glad to know what medicine the hakkim has
ordered you to take .f*"

" He has prescribed for me," replied Yussuf,
" the customary remedy of a dish full of ca-
viare in the four-and twenty hours."

Abou Rassed turned up his eyes; he thought


the inordinate dose was sufficient to make a
hale man sick ; he imagined no other but the
stomach of a Greek could support such a re-

*' Answer me, Abou Rassed !" exclaimed
Yussuf, in a tremulous voice, "am I to recover?
or is this terrible malady to bring me to the
grave ?"

" You ought to recover," repHed the astrolo-
ger, " and, if it please God, you may ; but
before I give a definite answer, I must consult
your horoscope, and see what destiny has de-
creed for you."

" If there be any thing good to tell me," cried
Yussuf, " the sooner you return the better ;
but if you have no hopes to give me, never
come near me more.""

" I will obey your words, Effendi," repUed
Abou Rassed, " but remember it is not for the
man who reads the stars to control their in-
fluence ; an astrologer may learn your fate, Ef-
fendi, without being able to prevent its accom-

The old man took his leave ; the interview


had not apparently raised the Effendi in his
opinion, for he manifested little alacrity in con-
sulting the horoscope of the patient. Three
days passed over, but he did not return ; and it
was only on the fourth, when he received a mes-
sage to attend him, that he reluctantly obeyed
the summons. He found theattendants in great
confusion, the grave-faced hakkim at the bed-
side, and the unfortunate patient, in a low deli-
rium, which he was informed had succeeded a vio-
lent paroxysm of fever. His appearance was very
much altered since the period of Abou Rassed's
last seeing him, and the "great anxiety of his
countenance showed that some serious malady
had seized upon him. The old man questioned
the hakkim concerning the disease, but it was
lono- before the technicalities of art became suffi-
ciently intelligible to common sense, to allow
the doctor's meaning to be got at.

One time he said the disorder was plague,
at another that it was only a fever in the blood ;
and when Abou Rassed suggested the idea of
its being a malignant fever, the poor doctor was
obliged to concur in his opinion, but he pre-


mised, at the same time, that tlic diseases only
diflPered in degree, and that caviare was apph-
cable to botli.

" Star of medical science !" said Ahoii Rassed,
" suffer me to offer an opinion, if it be not im-
pertinent to do so, before so learned a physician,
I believe that fear was the first malady of the
Effendi, and that his body became sick through
the medium of his imagination. Imagination !
irreat hakkim, does miracles in medicine ; it
gives more efficacy to physic than many of the
faculty are aware of; it is the seat of more
maladies than the sick can be convinced of.
What doctor ever made a cure who possessed
not the confidence of his patient ? and when
cured, was it the physic which effected th.e re-
covery ? No ! it was the patient's belief that
the physic was to cure him. The first impres-
sion, in this case, was made on the imagination ;
you attacked it with caviare ; the eff*ect of your
remedy was to turn the disease of the mind to
the body much earlier than it might otherwise
have appeared there, and to aggravate its symp-
toms. In short, learned hakkim, it is my opi-


nion, that the EfFendi is mortally sick, and that
a cart-load of caviare cannot save him."

The doctor waxed wroth at the old man's
presumption ; but as he acknowledged having
mistaken the patient's complaint, he thought
it most prudent to hold his tongue.

Abou Rassed's prognostic turned out to be
a correct one ; the more caviare the unfortunate
patient swallowed, the more sick he became.
The low delirium never ceased, the prostration
of strength continued, the symptoms gradually
increased in violence, and on the fifteenth day
of his disorder, he expired.

There was little lamentation made over his
remains ; he was hated by his servants, he was
detested in his harem, and little respected in
his neighbourhood.

After his decease, the first act of his fol-
lowers was to pillage his effects, and the little
that was left was sold at a public auction, to
defray the expenses of his funeral.

Abou Rassed continued in the enjoyment of
health, and in the possession of his faculties, to
a good old age ; he consulted his giam, he con-



versed with the planets, he made horoscopes
and astrolabes to the last day of his existence ;
and when he was gathered to his people, the
Sun was his kebla ; for in spite of all the en-
deavours of his friend the Dervish to convert
him to the faith of the true believers, he died
as he had lived — a Pagan.

The Dervish returned to his convent, where,
in a short time, the fame of his virtues attracted
the attention of all the good Moslem, men and
women, in the vicinity. As years advanced, the
influence of the Goddess Beltha ceased to hold
dominion over his heart. He became remark-
able for decorum and gravity ; the respectabi-
lity of his conduct gained him the highest sta-
tion in his convent ; in a very little time he had
the reputation of doing miracles ; the convent
was besieged with pious supplicants from morn-
ing till night, old ladies suing for charms to
preserve them in the good graces of their lords,
young damsels begging amulets to insure the
affections of gay deceiving Effendis; and poor
women in the prime of widowhood, supplicat-
ing the prayers of the good Dervish for a new
establishment. In short, nothing could exceed


his reputation for sanctity ; liad he cut up his
kirkah, the shreds of it would have fetched at
least a dozen purses. The most wonderful
cures that were ever performed by a Dervish,
he had the credit of making ; cripples hung up
their crutches in the hall of the convent ; young
women, who had been afflicted with head-aches,
drove nails into the wall, with tresses of hair
hanging from them ; while others, who had not
been blessed with families for many years, sent
valuable presents to the superior. The good
people in the neighbourhood only waited for
his death, to build a great tomb, with a cupola
over his remains, to make him a saint. His
name was destined to flourish in the Turkish
calendar, and when at last he gave the worthy
people an opportunity of showing their respect
for his eminent sanctity, there was not a woman
of any piety in Stamboul, who did not contri-
bute her piastre to the erection of the tomb of
Dervish Ali.

When it was completed, thousands of de-
votees flocked to it. The interior was filled
with presents ; a guardian was appointed to it,
and am})ly paid for reciting his praises : there


never was such a saint in Turkey as Dervish
Ali. The votary of Beltha was transformed
into the saint of Islam : — there is but one step
in Stamboul between the ridiculous and the
sublime; the Dervish had made it, and his
apotheosis was perfect.

To those who have accompanied "' the Mus-
sulman"" so far, some apology is due for the
tedium of the journey ; the road, peradventure,
has not been always smooth, nor the prospect
pleasant. Fatigue may have exhausted " the
patient horse of toil and travel ;" the feebleness
of the companion of the way may have unfor-
tunately recalled the vigour of an old acquaint-
ance who travelled the same route, and the
comparison may have been invidious; how
could it be otherwise? the distance between
" The Greek" and all his followers is immea-




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