LXII 



ONE is always led to imagine that the Arabian you find 

 in Constantinople in the imperial stables, or among the 

 rich or high in place and power is the creme de la creme. 

 But, in truth, while you do find some very splendid speci- 

 mens of horse-flesh under the shadow of the Sublime Porte, 

 most of the best of them are not Arabians. I have rarely 

 seen a finer lot of mounts than at Selamlik, one beautiful 

 Friday last April, when His Imperial Majesty, accom- 

 panied by his ministers and generals, and escorted by a 

 corps d' } elite of the Turkish army, went from the palace, 

 in state, to the mosque, where he might humble himself 

 in prayer. 



And let me here interpolate a word about the Sultan. 

 His Majesty is currently imagined to allow his ministers 

 to do all his work, while he himself lives a life of luxuri- 

 ous indolence, moving from one palace to another with his 

 large and well-filled harem. The very reverse is the rule. 

 The one man in all the Turkish dominions who works 

 morning, noon, and night, whose mind never rests from 

 effort to carry his people through the difficulties which 

 beset bad system and lack of means, is the monarch. The 

 ministers work little, the Sultan incessantly. Not only 

 is this well understood, but my old schoolmate, hereto- 

 fore referred to, is in daily attendance on his Majesty, 

 and my ideas, gleaned from him, have given me a hearty 

 respect for the personality of the present Bearer of the 

 Crescent. Since his accession he has scarcely left his 



