THE SULTAN IS DEPOSED AND COMMITS SUICIDE.--THE WAR IN
SERVIA.--MASSACRES IN BULGARIA.--HOW WILL IT ALL END?
The last three chapters were written in Constantinople, near the close
of 1875. Since then a year has passed--and yet I do not need to change
a single word. All that was then said of the wretched character of the
Sultan, and of the hopeless decay of the empire, has proved literally
true. Indeed if I were to draw the picture again, I should paint it in
still darker colors. The best commentary upon it, and the best proof
of its truth, is that which has been furnished by subsequent events. A
rapid review of these will complete this political sketch up to the
present hour.
At the close of the chapter on Abdul Aziz, I suggested, as a possible
event in the near future, that the Turks might be driven out of Europe
into Asia, and their capital be removed from Constantinople back to
Broussa, (where it was four hundred and twenty years ago,) or even to
the banks of the Tigris, and that the Sultan might end his days as the
Caliph of Bagdad.
Was this a gloomy future to predict for a sovereign at the height of
power and glory? Alas for human ambition! Happy would it have been for
him if he could have found a refuge, in Broussa or in Bagdad, from the
troubles that were gathering around him. But a fate worse than exile
was reserved for this unhappy monarch. In six months from that time he
was deposed and dead, dying by his own hand. It is a short story, but
forms one of the most melancholy tragedies of modern times.
During the winter things went from bad to worse, till even Moslem
patience and stoicism were exhausted. There was great suffering in the
capital, which the sovereign was unable to relieve, or to which rather
he was utterly indifferent. Murmurs began to be heard, and not from
his Christian subjects, but from faithful Moslems. Employes of the
government, civil and military, were not paid. Yet even in this
extremity every caprice of the Sultan must be supplied. If money came
into the treasury, it was said that he seized it for his own use.
Feeling the pressure from without, the ministers, who had been
accustomed to approach their master like slaves, cowed and cringing in
his presence, grew bolder, and presumed to speak a little more
plainly. Reminding him as gently as possible of the public distress,
and especially of the fact that the army was not paid, they ventured
to hint that if his august majesty would, out of his serene and
benevolent wisdom and condescension, apply a little of his own private
resources (for it was well known that he had vast treasures hoarded in
the palace), it would allay the growing discontent. But to all such
intimations he listened with ill-concealed vexation and disgust. What
cared he for the sufferings of his soldiers or people? Not a pound
would he give out of his full coffers, even to put an end to mutiny in
the camp or famine in the capital. Dismissing the impertinent
ministers, he retired into the harem to forget amid its languishing
beauties the unwelcome intrusion.
But there is a point beyond which even Mohammedan fatalism cannot bow
in submission. Finding all attempts to move the Sultan hopeless, his
ministers began to look in each other's faces, and to take courage
from their despair. There was but one resource left--they must strike
at the head of the state. The Sultan himself must be put out of the
way.
But how can any popular movement be inaugurated under an absolute
rule? Despotism indeed is sometimes "tempered by assassination"! But
here a sovereign was to be removed without that resort. Strange as it
may seem, there is such a thing as public opinion even in
Constantinople. Though it is a Mohammedan state, there is a power
above Sultans and Caliphs; it is that of the Koran itself. The
government is a Theocracy as much as that of the Jews, and the law of
the state is the Koran, of which the priestly class, the Ulemas and
the Mollahs and the Softas, are the representatives. Mohammedanism has
its Pope in the Sheik-al-Islam, who is the authorized interpreter of
the sacred law, and who, like other interpreters, knows how to make
the most inflexible creed bend to the necessities of the state. His
opinion was asked if, in a condition of things so extreme as that
which now existed, the sovereign might be lawfully deposed? He
answered in the affirmative. Thus armed with a spiritual sanction, the
conspirators proceeded to obtain the proper civil authority and
military support.
The Sultan had had his suspicions excited, and had sought for safety
by a vigilant watch on Murad Effendi, who was kept under strict
surveillance, and almost under guard, like a state prisoner.
Suspecting the fidelity of the Minister of War, he sent to demand his
immediate presence at the palace. But as the latter was deep in the
plot, he pleaded illness as an excuse for his non-appearance. But this
alarm hastened the decisive blow. The ministers met at the war office,
and thither Murad Effendi was brought secretly in the night of Monday,
May 29th, and received by them as Sultan, and made to issue an order
for the immediate arrest of his predecessor, Abdul Aziz, an order
which was entrusted to Redif Pasha, a soldier of experience and nerve,
for execution. Troops were already under arms, and were now drawn
around the palace, while the officer entered to demand the person of
the Sultan. Passing through the attendants, he came to the chief of
the eunuchs, who kept guard over the sacred person of the Padishah,
and demanded to be led instantly to his master. This black major-domo
was not accustomed to such a tone, and, amazed at such audacity,
laughed in the face of the intruder. But the old soldier was not to be
trifled with. Forcing his way into the apartments of the Sultan, he
announced to him that he had ceased to reign, and must immediately
quit his palace. Then the terrible truth began to dawn upon him that
he was no longer a god, before whom men trembled. He was beside
himself with fury. He raved and stormed like a madman, and cursed the
unwelcome guest in the name of the Prophet. His mother rushed into the
room, and added her cries and imprecations. But he could not yet
believe that any insolent official had the power to remove him from
his palace. He told the Pasha that he was a liar! The only answer was,
Look out of the window! One glance was enough. There in thick ranks
stood the soldiers that had so long guarded his person and his throne,
and would have guarded him still, if his own folly had not driven them
to turn their arms against him. Then he changed his tone, and promised
to yield everything, if he might be spared. He was told it was too
late, and was warned to make haste. Time was precious. The boats were
waiting below. The Sultan had often descended there to his splendid
caique to go to the mosque, when all the ships in the harbor fired
salutes in honor of his majesty. Now not a gun spoke. Silently he
embarked with his mother and sons, and fifty-three boats soon followed
with his wives and servants. And thus in the gray of the morning they
moved across the waters to Seraglio Point, where Abdul Aziz, but an
hour ago a sovereign, now found himself a prisoner.
The same forenoon another retinue of barges conveyed Murad Effendi
across the same waters to the vacant palace, and the ships of war
thundered their salutes to the new Sultan.
Was there ever such an overthrow? The humiliation was too great to be
borne by a weak mind, which could find no rest but in the grave. Five
days after he shut himself up in his room, and when the attendants
opened the door he was found weltering in his blood. Scissors by his
side revealed the weapon by which had been wrought the bloody deed.
Suspicions were freely expressed that he had not died by his own hand,
but by assassination. But a council of physicians gave a verdict in
support of the theory of suicide. The next day a long procession wound
through the streets of old Stamboul, following the dead monarch to his
tomb, where at last he found the rest he could not find in life.
Such was the end of Abdul Aziz, who passed almost in the same hour
from his throne and from life. Was there ever a more mournful sight
under the sun? As we stand over that poor body covered with blood, we
think of that brilliant scene when he rode to the mosque, surrounded
by his officers of state, and indignation at his selfish life is
almost forgotten in pity for his end. We are appalled at the sudden
contrast of that exalted height and that tremendous fall. He fell as
lightning from heaven. Did ever so bright a day end in so black a
night? With such solemn thoughts we turn away, with footsteps sad and
slow, from that royal tomb, and leave the wretched sleeper to the
judgment of history and of God.
His successor had not a long or brilliant reign. Calamity brooded over
the land, and weighed like a pall on an enfeebled body and a weak
mind, and after a few months he too was removed, to give place to a
younger brother, who had more physical vigor and more mental capacity,
and who now fills that troubled throne.
I said also that "the curtain might rise on great events in the East
before the close of the present century." _It has already begun to
rise._ The death of the Sultan relieved the State of a terrible
incubus, but it failed to restore public tranquillity and prosperity.
Some had supposed that it alone would allay discontent and quell
insurrection. But instead of this, his deposition and death seemed to
produce a contrary effect. It relaxed the bonds of authority. It
spread more widely the feeling that the empire was in a state of
hopeless decay and dissolution, and that the time had come for
different provinces to seek their independence. Instead of the
Montenegrins laying down their arms, those brave mountaineers became
more determined than ever, and the insurrection, instead of dying out,
spread to other provinces.
Servia had long been chafing with impatience. This province was
already independent in everything but the name. Though still a part of
the Turkish Empire, and paying an annual tribute to the Sultan, it had
its own separate government. But such was the sympathy of the people
with the other Christian populations of European Turkey, who were
groaning under the oppression of their masters, that the government
could not withstand the popular excitement, and at the opening of
summer rushed into war.
It was a rash step. Servia has less than a million and a half of
souls; and its army is very small, although, by calling out all the
militia, it mustered into the field a hundred thousand men. It hoped
to anticipate success by a rapid movement. A large force at once
crossed the frontier into Turkey, in order to make that country the
battle-ground of the hostile armies. The movement was well planned,
and if carried out by veteran troops, might have been successful. But
the raw Servian levies were no match for the Turkish regular army; and
as soon as the latter could be moved up from Constantinople, the
former were sacrificed. In the series of battles which followed, the
Turks were almost uniformly successful; forcing back the Servians over
the border, and into their own country, where they had every advantage
for resistance; where there were rivers to be crossed, and passes in
the hills, and fortresses that might be defended. But with all these
advantages the Turkish troops pressed on. Their advance was marked by
wasted fields and burning villages, yet nothing could resist their
onward march, and but for the delay caused by the interposition of
other powers, it seemed probable that the campaign would end by the
Turks entering in triumph the capital of Servia and dictating terms of
peace, or rather of submission, within the walls of Belgrade.
This is a terrible disappointment to those sanguine spirits who were
so eager to urge Servia into war, and who apparently thought that her
raw recruits could defeat any Turkish army that could be brought
against them. The result is a lesson to the other discontented
provinces, and a warning to all Europe, that Turkey, though she may be
dying, is not dead, and that she will die hard.
This proof of her remaining vitality will not surprise one who has
seen the Turks at home. Misgoverned and ruined financially as Turkey
is, she is yet a very formidable military power--not, indeed, as
against Russia, or Germany, or Austria, but as against any second-rate
power, and especially as against any of her revolted provinces.
Her troops are not mere militia, they are trained soldiers. Those that
we saw in the streets of Constantinople were men of splendid physique,
powerful and athletic, just the stuff for war. They are capable of
much greater endurance than even English soldiers, who must have their
roast beef and other luxuries of the camp, while the Turks will live
on the coarsest food, sleep on the ground, and march gayly to battle.
Such men are not to be despised in a great conflict. In its raw
material, therefore, the Turkish army is probably equal to any in
Europe. If as well disciplined and as well _commanded_, it might be
equal to the best troops of Germany.
So far as equipment is concerned, it has little to desire. A great
part of the extravagance of the late Sultan was in the purchase of the
most approved weapons of war, which seemed needless, but have now
come into play. His ironclads, no doubt, were a costly folly, but his
Krupp cannon and breech-loading rifles (the greater part made in
America) may turn the scale of battle on many a bloody field.
Further, these men are not only physically strong and brave; not only
are they well disciplined and well armed; but they are inflamed with a
religious zeal that heightens their courage and kindles their
enthusiasm. That such an army should be victorious, however much we
may regret it, cannot be a matter of surprise.
As the result of this campaign, however calamitous, was merely the
fortune of war, gained in honorable battle; whatever sorrow it might
have caused throughout Europe, it could not have created any stronger
feeling, had not events occurred in another province, which kindled a
flame of popular indignation.
Before the war began, indeed before the death of the Sultan, fearing
an outbreak in other provinces, an attempt had been made to strike
terror into the disaffected people. Irregular troops--the Circassians
and Bashi Bazouks--were marched into Bulgaria, and commenced a series
of massacres that have thrilled Europe with horror, as it has not been
since the massacre of Scio in the Greek revolution. The events were
some time in coming to the knowledge of the world, so that weeks
after, when inquiry was made in the British Parliament, Mr. Disraeli
replied that the government had no knowledge of any atrocities; that
probably the reports were exaggerated; that it was a kind of irregular
warfare, in which, no doubt, there were outrages on both sides.
Since then the facts have come to light. Mr. Eugene Schuyler, lately
the American Secretary of Legation at St. Petersburg, and now Consul
in Constantinople, has visited the province, and, as the result of a
careful inquiry, finds that not less than twelve thousand men, women,
and children (he thinks fifteen thousand) have been massacred. Women
have been outraged, villages have been burnt, little children thrown
into the flames. That peaceful province has been laid waste with fire
and slaughter.
The report, coming from such a source, and accompanied by the fullest
evidence, created a profound sensation in England. Meetings were held
in all parts of the country to express the public indignation; and not
only at the brutal Turks, but at their own government for the light
and flippant way in which it had treated such horrors: the more so
that among the powers of Europe, England was the supporter of Turkey,
and thus might be considered as herself guilty, unless she uttered her
indignant protest in the name of humanity and civilization.
But why should the people of Christian England wonder at these things,
or at any act of violence and blood done by such hands? The Turk has
not changed his nature in the four hundred years that he has lived, or
rather _camped_, in Europe. He is still a Tartar and half a savage.
Here and there may be found a noble specimen of the race, in some old
sheik, who rules a tribe, and exercises hospitality in a rude but
generous fashion, and who looks like an ancient patriarch as he sits
at his tent door in the cool of the day. Enthusiastic travellers may
tell us of some grand old Turk who is like "a fine old English
gentleman," but such cases are exceptional. The mass of the people are
Tartars, as much as when they roamed the deserts of Central Asia. The
wild blood is in them still, with every brutal instinct intensified by
religion. All Mussulmans are nursed in such contempt and scorn of the
rest of mankind, that when once their passions are aroused, it is
impossible for them to exercise either justice or mercy. No tie of a
common humanity binds them to the rest of the human race. The
followers of the Prophet are lifted to such a height above those who
are not believers, that the sufferings of others are nothing to them.
If called to "rise and slay," they obey the command without the
slightest feeling of pity or remorse.
With such a people it is impossible to deal as with other nations.
There is no common ground to stand upon. They care no more for
"Christian dogs," nor so much, as they do for the dogs that howl and
yelp in the streets of Constantinople. Their religious fanaticism
extinguishes every feeling of a common nature. Has not Europe a right
to put some restraint on passions so lawless and violent, and thus to
stop such frightful massacres as have this very year deluged her soil
with innocent blood?
The campaign in Servia is now over. An armistice has been agreed upon
for six weeks, and as the winter is at hand, hostilities cannot be
resumed before spring. Meanwhile European diplomacy will be at work to
settle the conflict without another resort to arms. Russia appears as
the protector and supporter of Servia. She asks for a conference of
the six powers--England, France, Italy, Germany, Austria, and
Russia--a conference to decide on the fate of Turkey, yet _from which
Turkey shall be excluded_. Already intimations are given out of the
nature of the terms which Russia will propose. Turkey has promised
reform for the protection and safety of her Christian populations. But
experience has proved that her promises are good for nothing. Either
they are made in bad faith, and are not intended to be kept, or she
has no power to enforce them in the face of a fanatical Mohammedan
population. It is now demanded, in order to secure the Christian
population absolute protection, that these reforms shall be carried
out under the eye of foreign commissioners in the different provinces,
_supported by an armed force_. This is indeed an entering wedge, with
a very sharp edge too, and driven home with tremendous power. If
Turkey grants this, she may as well abdicate her authority over her
revolted provinces. But Europe can be contented with nothing less, for
without this there is absolutely no safety for Christians in any
lands cursed by the rule of the Turk.
It is quite probable that the negotiations will issue in some sort of
autonomy for the disaffected provinces. This has been already granted
to Wallachia and Moldavia (which have been united under the name of
Roumania), the result of which has been to bring quietness and peace.
It has been granted to Servia. Their connection with the Porte is only
nominal, being limited to the payment of an annual tribute; while even
this nominal dependence has the good effect of warning off other
powers, such as Austria and Russia, from taking possession. If this
same degree of independence could be extended to Bulgaria and to
Bosnia and Herzegovina, there would be a belt of Christian states,
which would be virtually independent, drawn around Turkey, which would
confine within smaller space the range of Moslem domination in Europe.
And yet even that is not the end, nor will it be the final settlement
of the Eastern question. That will not be reached until some other
power, or joint powers, hold Constantinople. That is the eye of the
East; that is the jewel of the world; and so long as it remains in the
hands of the Turks, it will be an object of envy, of ambition, and of
war.
The late Charles Sumner used to say that "a question is never
_settled_ until it is settled _right_;" and it cannot be right that a
position which is the most central and regal in all the earth should
be held forever by a barbarian power.
There is a saying in the East that "where the Turk comes the grass
never grows." Is it not time that these Tartar hordes, that have so
long held dominion in Europe, should return into the deserts from
which they came, leaving the grass to spring up from under their
departing feet?
But some Christian people and missionaries dread such an issue,
because they think that it is a struggle between the Russian and the
Turk, and that if the Turk goes out the Russian must come in. But is
there no other alternative? Is there not political wisdom enough in
all Europe to make another settlement, and power enough to enforce
their will? England holds Malta and Gibraltar, and France holds
Algeria: cannot both hold Constantinople? Their combined fleets could
sweep every Russian ship out of the Black Sea, as they did in the
Crimean war. Drawn up in the Bosphorus, they could so guard that
strait that no Russian flag should fly on the Seraskier or Galata
towers. Why may not Constantinople be placed under the protection of
all nations for the common benefit of all? But for this, the first
necessity is that the Turk should take himself out of the way.
This, I believe, will come; but it will not come without a struggle.
The Turks are not going to depart out of Europe at the first
invitation of Russia, or of all Europe combined. They have shown that
they are a formidable foe. When this war began, some who had been
looking and longing for the destruction of Turkey thought this was the
beginning of the end; enthusiastic students of prophecy saw in it "the
drying up of the Euphrates." All these had better moderate their
expectations. Admitting that the _final end_ will be the overthrow of
the Mohammedan power in Europe, yet this end may be many years in
coming. "The sick man" is _not dead_, and he will not die quietly and
peacefully, as an old man breathes his last. He will not gather up his
feet into his bed, and turn his face to the wall, and give up the
ghost. He will die on the field of battle, and his death-struggles
will be tremendous. The Turk came into Europe on horseback, waving his
scimitar over his head, and he will not depart like a fugitive, "as
men flee away in battle," but will make his last stand on the shores
of the Bosphorus, and fall fighting to the last. I commend this sober
view to those whose minds may be inflamed by reading of the atrocities
of the present war, and who may anticipate the march of events. The
end will come; but we cannot dictate or even know, the time of its
coming.
That end, I firmly believe, will be the exodus of the Turks from
Europe. Not that the people as a body will depart. There is not likely
to be another national migration. The expulsion of a hundred thousand
of the conquering race of the Osmanlis--or of half that number--may
suffice to remove that imperious element that has so long kept the
rule in Turkey, and by its command of a warlike people, been for
centuries the terror of Europe. But the Turkish power--the power to
oppress and to persecute, to kill and destroy, to perpetrate such
massacres as now thrill the world with horror--must, and _will_, come
to an end.
In expressing this confident opinion, I do not lay claim to any
political wisdom or sagacity. Nor do I attach importance to my
personal observations. But I _do_ give weight to the judgment of those
who have lived in Turkey for years, and who know well the government
and the people: and in what I say I only reflect the opinion of the
whole foreign community in Constantinople. While there I questioned
everybody; I sought information from the best informed, and wisdom
from the wisest; and I heard but one opinion. Not a man expressed the
slightest hope of Turkey, or the slightest confidence in its
professions of reform. One and all--Englishmen and Americans,
Frenchmen and Germans, Spaniards and Italians--agreed that it was past
saving, that it was "appointed to die," and that its removal from the
map of Europe was only a question of time.
So ends the year 1876, leaving Europe in a state of uncertainty and
expectancy--fearing, trembling, and hoping. The curtain falls on a
year of horrors; on what scenes shall the new year rise? We are in the
midst of great events, and may be on the eve of still greater. It may
be that a war is coming on which will be nothing less than a
death-struggle between the two religions which have so long divided
the lands that lie on the borders of Europe and Asia, and one in
which the atrocities now recorded will be but the prelude to more
terrible massacres until the vision of the prophet shall be fulfilled,
that "blood shall come up to the horses' bridles." But looking through
a long vista of years, we cannot doubt the issue as we believe in the
steady progress of civilization--nay, as we believe in the power and
justice of God.
We may not live to see it, and yet we could wish that we might not
taste of death till our eyes behold that final deliverance. Is it mere
imagination, an enthusiastic dream, that anticipates what we desire
should come to pass?
It may be that we are utterly deceived; but as we look forward we
think we see before many years a sadly impressive spectacle. However
the tide of battle may ebb and flow, yet slowly, but steadily, will
the Osmanlis be pushed backward from those Christian provinces which
they have so long desolated and oppressed, till they find themselves
at last on the shores of the Golden Horn, forced to take their
farewell of old Stamboul. Sadly will they enter St. Sophia for the
last time, and turn their faces towards Mecca, and bow their heads
repeating, "God is God, and Mohammed is his prophet." It would not be
strange that they should mourn and weep as they depart. Be it so! They
came into that sacred temple with bloodshed and massacre; let them
depart with wailing and sorrow. They cross the Bosphorus, and linger
under the cypresses of Scutari, to bid adieu to the graves of their
fathers; then bowing, with the fatalism of their creed, to a destiny
which they cannot resist, they turn their horses' heads to the East,
and ride away over the hills of Asia Minor.