Punch (70.1876)

July 1, 1876.1 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

THICK darkness brooded over the blue waters of the Bosphorus and Golden Horn, and spread its black pall above the
gardens of the Serai and the dusty waste of the Bezestan, the domes of Aya-Sofiah, and the crumbling arch of the
Bab-i-Humayun. From the Port of Kara-Keui to the Tepeh-Bashi, the hill-top above the English Embassy, the busy buzz of
life was hushed through the crowded hives of Galata, and the eddies of traffic crossed and chafed no more in the steep and
stony high street of Pera.

In a word, Stamboul slept.

But in one inner room of one Konak there were eyes yet open and brains still wide awake. Tais was in the Inner
Chamber cf the Palace of Midhat Pasha, where sat A COUNCIL OP THREE. On the right, in the red fez and blue
surtout of Stamboul officialism, sat Midhat ; on the left, in the ample green turban of the Hadji and the flowing robe of
Osmanli orthodoxy, was the Sheikh-ul-Islam ; and in the centre, Turk for the nonce as to the outer man, Tartar to those
who might try to catch him, and True Briton, as ever, in heart, the " Pasha-in-Pasha " of endless tales—Punch !

Yes, I was there—in that pregnant moment big with the future of at least one Turkey, and, probably, several Eagles
—as the Representative of Great Britain, by a warranty over-riding Foreign Office credentials, and with higher than
mere diplomatic functions ; the confidant and secretaire intime of Britannia, the mouthpiece of John Bull.

I had found Midhat buried in what, in my playful manner I had ventured to call his " Mid-hat-ation3 among the
tombs,"—for, indeed, the blood of the wretched Abdul Aziz was scarce dry on the marble floor of the Cheragan Palace,
and the imperfectly cleansed stains of Captain Hassan's wholesale slaughter were still visible on the pavement and walls of
the Council Chamber in which we sat.

Yes. " Turks " were down with a vengeance ! Never did " Bull" under a heavy " contango " work more desperately
for a rise in the market, than did poor Midhat, now Master of the Situation—such a situation !—and the Sheikh-ul-Islam
work to get a diplomatic rise out of Punch !

" La Utah Allah illaha, wa Mahmoud rasoul ullah ! " I heard the Sheikh muttering, as he ran the beads of his chaplet
helplessly through his fingers.

" He means," interposed Midhat, with a rather sickly smile, " 'there is no power but England, and Punch is its pro-
phet; ' and you are here for our profit, too," he added, stooping, in his mortal anxiety, to what your dignified Turk rarely
condescends to—a pun. " Say it is so. The English are our friends. Yes—you are going to back us up once more against
those Kaffirs—those dogs, the Russia—as in the old Crimean days? Bono Johnny f"

" Distinguons," I said—it is so hard not to talk French in one's diplomatic moments. " There are ' friends ' and
' friends.' Your best 'friends,' just now, my dear Midhat, and my Venerable Sheikh, are those, believe me, who will tell
you disagreeable truths-"

" All truths are disagreeable," interposed Midhat, with a sigh.