Harding went up to his lonely tent. Like a wounded animal, he sought his lair, and the memory of the many solitary hours he had passed there, even at this sad moment, refreshed his spirit. There he could be alone—away from men's eyes—free from their curiosity, from their comments, or, what would be worse, from their pity.
He had made himself comparatively rich; he had built up a home, as it were, in the wilderness; he had even tried, and with some success, to gain men's esteem—and what were all these worth to him now?
Such bitter thoughts as these filled Harding's mind as he arranged his coarse pallet, and then, throwing himself upon it, sought to forget his grief during the short space that remained before daylight. He was awakened, almost instantly, it seemed to him—although, in fact, three hours had passed—by the sharp crack of a rifle. Harding leaped up and ran to his door.
It was a dull, gray dawn—the sky overcast, but the air free from wind or rain. A little below Harding's tent there spread a plain about a mile wide. This extended along the bank of the river, and terminated in a clump of redwoods which grew far up the mountain beyond. Here and there on the plain were scattered a few small trees and copses of manzanita; but for the most part it was clear from the outskirts of the village up to the redwoods.
On this plain Harding now saw a remarkable sight. A man was running from tree to tree, striving always to get nearer the mountain. Perhaps three hundred yards behind him were five or six armed pursuers trying to close in on the fugitive, and occasionally firing at him. As Harding gazed, three shots were discharged in rapid succession. Yet the man still held on his way, apparently unhurt, and it looked as if he would quickly gain the cover of the forest. But there was one behind him far swifter than the rest, who ran like an Indian on the river or further side from Harding, and who threatened in a few moments to get dangerously near. It was because this man was so distant from himself that Harding did not at first recognize his own partner, Jack Storm, although he was in his usual well known Mexican dress. Now, Storm was the best rifle shot on Bullion Flat.
It appeared that the fugitive knew this. At all events, as if suddenly realizing his peril, he turned and ran straight toward Storm, resolved to draw his fire, apparently, and by confusing his aim to have a better chance of escape. Storm's ready rifle flew up to his shoulder instantly, and Harding saw the pale blue ring of smoke and heard the quick report. Still the fugitive sped on. He was plainly unscathed, or in any case not disabled; and in his hand there now flashed a bright something which Harding knew was a bowie-knife. With that, although the combatants were a mile away, Harding seized a revolver, and dashed at his highest speed down the hill. Almost at the same moment, there also started in company from Bullion Flat three figures on horseback. These were Miss Tinsel, the "Demon," Mr. Bellario, and Judge Carboy. All who were now making for the scene of the combat heard in sharp repetition five or six shots from revolvers; but after the last of these, all was still. When they got to the spot they found Jack Storm fainting from loss of blood, but hurt only with flesh wounds; and they were told that the other man, his opponent, was mortally wounded, and had been taken, by his own request, up on the mountain side, among the redwoods, to die.
With a choking cry, Miss Tinsel galloped on, and in a few moments Chester Harding and she were again face to face over the dying man's body. Ghastly white as he was, all dabbled with blood, and the foam oozing from his lips, her lover at once knew Jane's visitor of the night before. What had happened had been hurriedly revealed to Harding—in broken whispers by the bystanders—before Jane came up.
The man had robbed several rooms at the "Bella Union" during the night, and had succeeded in gathering a large sum. Among the treasures stolen were all the loose funds belonging to the "Combination Troupe," the night's winnings of Mr. Copperas's faro bank, and Miss De Montague's diamonds. But just as the robber, toward daylight, was on the point of making off in safety, he met a lion in the path in Jack Storm. It happened that Jack wanted to have a talk with his partner, Harding, and, as they were then very busy on the claim, made up his mind to compass this purpose bright and early, before getting to work. Stumbling on the marauder, the latter was secured after a struggle, and "the boys" speedily determined to make an example of him. The man begged for a chance of life, and after some debate, had been given the option of the halter or running the gauntlet, with three hundred yards' start, in the way we have described. In the subsequent struggle he had been shot through the lungs, and terribly cut with his own bowie-knife—wrested from him by Jack Storm—and his life was now fast ebbing away.
As she came up Jane sprang from her horse, and threw herself on the ground beside the dying man. They had propped his head on a hillock of turf, and some charitable soul had brought water from the river. Judge Carboy quickly put a flask of brandy to the sufferer's lips, and he opened his eyes:
"Ja—Jane," he gasped, "my pretty Jane—this is the end—the end of it—a dog's death—and deserved, too-but—I—I—always loved you!"
She burst into tears and began sobbing over him and fondling his head.
"Don't, darling—don't, little Jenny—it won't be long—I am better away—better for you—there—there! I'm sliding away somewhere—and——"
His voice failed, and his dark face began to grow blue. The doctor, who had ridden hastily up, forced between the man's teeth some strong restorative.
"I want you to remember—always—that I was drunk when I did it—drunk and crazy. I was bad—vile—but not so bad as that. Don't tell who—who I am. It will only disgrace you—only disgrace you—I'm going, little Jenny——"
"Oh,father!father!" and the poor child bowed down her pretty head on the breast of the wretched thief and murderer, and wept as if her heart would break.
"No—no," he muttered; "no, little Jenny, I'm not worth it. Only—don't think worse—worse of me than I deserve. Perhaps mother—in heaven—has forgiven me! She knows—knows—I was mad when I did it."
"Yes—yes—I shall remember," whispered she, "always. Now don't talk more—not now."
"No—I shan't talk—much more"—a strange wan smile came over his face—"not much more, little Jenny." He put up his hand and stroked her sunny hair.
"Tell them about this last—that I was desperate—I had broke jail—knew the officers were on my track—and was penniless. Give me—more—brandy. So. Why, I can't see you any more, little Jenny—and yet it is morning, isn't it, not night!" He gasped for breath and clutched feebly at the air. "Kiss me—little Jenny—mer—mercy—Lord Jesus—better—better times—hereafter!"
A shudder, and the man was dead, and Jane was left all alone in the world. Poor, besotted, frantic Michael Green, all sin-scorched as he was, had passed from the judgment of men to the more merciful judgment beyond. Yet the orphan, if alone, lacked neither sympathy nor protection. Nor did she ever lack from that moment the respect and confidence of the man of whose heart she had from the first been mistress. So that the true happiness came in time which is so often the sweeter for being deferred.
Henry Sedley.
Give me your hand—nay, both, as I confront you.Let me look in your eyes, as once before.I gaze, and gaze. Oh, how they change and soften!I stand within the portal: lo! a door—A door close shut and barred. I knock and listen.No sound, no answer. Doubtingly I wait.Oh! for one glance beyond that guarded entrance,The power that mystic realm to penetrate.I touch the barrier with hands entreating,If it would yield to me, and none beside.What bitter pain, what sense of loss and failure,To come so near, and come to be denied!Softly I call, but only silence answers—Silence, and the quick throbbing of my heart.Immovable, the frowning bar abideth:Kneeling, I kiss the threshold and depart.
Give me your hand—nay, both, as I confront you.Let me look in your eyes, as once before.I gaze, and gaze. Oh, how they change and soften!I stand within the portal: lo! a door—
A door close shut and barred. I knock and listen.No sound, no answer. Doubtingly I wait.Oh! for one glance beyond that guarded entrance,The power that mystic realm to penetrate.
I touch the barrier with hands entreating,If it would yield to me, and none beside.What bitter pain, what sense of loss and failure,To come so near, and come to be denied!
Softly I call, but only silence answers—Silence, and the quick throbbing of my heart.Immovable, the frowning bar abideth:Kneeling, I kiss the threshold and depart.
Mary L. Ritter.
It is published that in England a man has been undergoing an aggregate imprisonment of ten years for breaking a shop window, at different times, and that when recently pardoned he immediately broke the same window again for the purpose of being again arrested. One who knows nothing more than this of the facts cannot presume to determine what punishment should in justice be given to this particular offender; but the case is interesting as an extreme example of what frequently occurs in a less striking degree in this country. Police courts become acquainted with a class of criminals who would rather go to jail for their dinner, especially in winter, than earn a dinner by hard work. They are the confirmed vagabonds from whom the army of summer tramps is chiefly recruited. They never feel truly virtuous and happy in cold weather except when they have committed a petty offence and are on the way to "punishment," which consists in accepting from a thoughtful public a warm shelter and all the food they want. It is their business to live, at times if not constantly, in this way. Sending them to jail for their offences is known by the courts that send them to be nothing but a sorry farce.
There is another equally incorrigible class, who commit greater crimes, but not chiefly for the sake of "punishment." Detectives keep themselves advised of the sentences of these offenders, and prepare to shadow them anew whenever they are released from confinement. It is not expected that incarceration will have any reformatory effect. The question of reforming them, as of reforming those who offend to get rid of the trouble of taking care of themselves, comes to be left out of consideration, after a little experience, by the officers whose duty it is to deal with them. Only intimidation remains for a considerable number. With these, rather than with the English window-breaker, should probably be classed the subject of this item from a late newspaper: "Charles Dickens is dead, and died of honest work; but the German prisoner, Charles Langheimer, whom he saw in the penitentiary at Philadelphia thirty-three years ago, and over whose punishment by solitary confinement he lamented in 'American Notes,' describing him as 'a picture of forlorn affliction and distress of mind,' still lives at the age of seventy-five, and has just been sent back to his old quarters the sixth time, for his chronic offence of petty theft, which has kept him in jail full half his long life."
That punishment for crime is necessary, and therefore a public duty, is admitted, and every community professes to impose it. But what of the criminals whom punishment as now administered does not punish—who actually commit crimes for the purpose of receiving it? It would seem that society has not the power or has not the wisdom to protect itself. It has the right, of course. It has the power also.
The law does not succeed in what it attempts and professes to do. At present when we find a criminal who has sufficient good in him to feel our methods, we punish him in proportion to his—goodness. When we find one so vile that our methods are like water on a duck's back, we do not punish him—except as water punishes a duck. He goes unpunished because he is so bad, while a better man is punished because he is better. What is this but rewarding insensibility? It is very creditable to the hearts of the lawmakers—perhaps—but it is fraud on the community. It is legalized wickedness. It permits incarnate nuisances to wax fat, and prey upon honest industry, and increase and multiply, until they become the only prosperous and protected class.
It has been suggested that a criminal on his second conviction be deemed a professional, and incarcerated for life. It would no doubt be cheaper for the public to shut him up thus and support him permanently. But there is the objection that the punishment would generally be out of proportion to the crime, if it were a punishment at all; and if it were not a punishment, we would be offering a greater premium on vice than we now are. To punish petty larceny as if it were as great a crime as manslaughter or murder would be too unjust to be long possible. The case seems to demand a new medicine rather than a greater dose of one which has failed when tried in any practicable quantities.
There is one remedy, so far as the infliction of real punishment is a remedy, although those who administer justice as above described will hold up their hands in horror at the mention of it. If it be a fact that the punishment of criminals is necessary, and if it be a fact that a class of them is impervious to any punishment except physical pain, then we are bound to either inflict this pain or else abandon the principle of punishment. There is no third course if the two facts are admitted—and to those who will not admit them an unprejudiced reading of the criminal news of the past three hundred and sixty-five days is commended. If one man's heart is callous to what will break another's, all men's backs are of nearly equal tenderness. It is doubtful whether the whipping-post ever had a fair trial without proving that it might be made a good thing under such circumstances as we must very soon, if we do not now, confront.
The fact that it was once used and then abandoned does not settle the case. It was erected for those who could have been otherwise dealt with, and for those who deserved no punishment at all. It was not reserved for only those deserving punishment, on whom our more refined penalties had been tried and had failed. It is not a fair trial of it to put it into the hands of a drunken or passionate ship's captain; or the hands of a religious bigot; or the hands of a slave-driver; or the hands of a tyrant or autocrat of any kind; or the hands of an incompetent judge; or the hands of any judge in a ruder age than this. If an ignorant or brutal use of it in the past condemns an enlightened use of it now, we should abandon life-taking and imprisonment, for these have been even more abused. We have no fear that the death penalty will be misused hereafter because men have been hung for petty larceny heretofore. When the lash is wielded by a barbarous hand, as it generally has been, of course we abhor it. But how about it when the hand of Christ wields it in the temple? Although the incarnation of charity made him a scourge for those who needed it, yet we cannot follow His example because Torquemadas have made scourges for those who did not need them. Such is the logic of those who would cite the past in this matter. The truth is, the lash was abandoned in the humane belief that criminals could be punished without it; and the truth also is, some criminals are now proving that they cannot be punished without it.
Go over the subject as we may, we come back to the question, Is the lash or something equally unrefined necessary to accomplish all the law now attempts? It must be looked at in the cold light of certain very sad facts, as well as in the warm blaze of "chromo" civilization. If we are not yet compelled to answer it in the affirmative, there is so much evidence pointing toward such an answer, that it is well to consider very respectfully indeed whatever can be said on the unpopular side. It need not frighten those who accept the idea so tersely presented by the Hare Brothers—of which one is strongly reminded by Mr. Greg in the "Enigmas of Life," although perhaps he does not expressly state it—that the tendency of civilization is to barbarism.
Of course flogging is not a panacea; but it is for those who profit by nothing gentler; and the more enlightened society becomes the more certainly can these be identified. The generous feeling that has discontinued it would not cease to be a guarantee against its abuse. Our courts cannot depart far from public sentiment. We can trust judges and juries to determine who deserves castigation just as safely as to determine who deserves imprisonment or death. Most of the censure they now receive in their treatment of the hopelessly depraved is for their lenity and not their rigor. There is no offender would not dread and wish to avoid whipping. Certainly no one would offend for the purpose of receiving it; and it would probably discourage a man in less than ten years from breaking the same window. It would be inexpensive, and would have the merit of being short and sharp, if not decisive. Punishment, intimidation, is what is here considered, and the point is whether it shall be administered to all who deserve it, or whether the law society finds necessary for its protection shall be a falsehood, at war with itself—a sham. The law cannot shrink from anything that is necessary to its purpose without impeaching its purpose.
And is it more inhuman to hurt the back of one who cannot be made to feel anything else than it is to pain the heart and hurt the soul of one who can? How can Christians so exalt the flesh above the spirit? They did not do it in the primitive days of the faith. Is it more barbarous to scourge the body than to gall it with irons, or poison and debilitate it by confinement, or wear it out by inches at hard labor? We have not abolished corporeal punishment—only rejected a form of it which is frequently more merciful, if more dreaded, than some that are retained.
All wrongs right themselves by "inhumanity," if permitted to go far enough. You are told by good authority, and you know without telling, that if you find a burglar in your house at night, you perform a public duty by shooting him dead rather than see him escape. From the humanitarian point of view, this is certainly more dreadful than it would have been to stop, by flogging, any minor offences that led him into your house. Indeed, if the penalty for the burglary itself were a "barbarous" laceration of his back, it would doubtless have more effect in keeping him from the burglary and from a bloody death, than does the risk of imprisonment. We must not whip him in obedience to the law, but we may safely shoot him dead without regard to it. It is our tenderness that becomes "inhuman" if it be not wisely bestowed. Would it be quite in keeping with the pretensions of "advanced" civilization to see the matrons and maids of the rural neighborhoods going about their dairies and summer kitchens with revolvers in their belts, and bowie-knives in their bosoms? That is the spectacle the "tramp" nuisance promises to produce. Would the whipping-post, set up in the slums of the great cities, where the miscreants among the tramps breed and form their characters, look any more like barbarism? The voluntary tramp has but shown the countryman during the summer what the city suffers during the winter. He is simply trying to distribute and equalize himself, and while enjoying his country air, collects the same taxes he collects all the rest of the year in town. Let the city continue to rear him tenderly, and not hurt his precious carcass, and feed and warm him, and punish only his sensitive spirit, until the country people get down their shot-guns and make a barbarous end of him. And this is being true to the cause of humanity.
It is noble for the law to withhold its hand when one who has taken a wrong step can be won back to a good life by other means; and if the wretches hopelessly saturated with vice can be intimidated by anything milder than flogging, by all means be mild; but when we find one who cannot, why not acknowledge the fact and act on it?
The reason why we do not so act is only a sentimental one. A sentimental reason, however, may be a very good one. Society feels that it is better to suffer, and to see its laws become a mockery to this degree, than to shock its own best instincts. This sentiment that obstructs absolute vindication of the law is respectable so long as it can be respected with tolerable safety and public satisfaction. But it interferes with justice by courtesy, and not by right. It is all very well so long as society does not complain. But if its mouthpieces are to be believed, society does complain. The public is not satisfied with the present punishment of certain offenders—indicated with sufficient accuracy by the tough old Langheimer and the English window-breaker—and is restive under the pecuniary burden they impose.
Although the history of the whipping-post is nearly worthless to one seeking to know what its value might be under all the favorable conditions with which it could be surrounded now and here, yet it is possible to point readily to one trial that should have been, and probably was, a fair one. A very few years ago—perhaps four or five—garroting became a terror to the London pedestrian. For assault and robbery, without intent to kill, the death penalty was too terrible, and the other penalties failed to intimidate, as they generally do when the crime is lucrative, easily accomplished, and not immediately dangerous. It could not be trifled with, and something had to be done. A "barbarous" whipping of the bare back was resorted to, and garroting subsided. The result was what the public wanted. Sentimental eyes may show their whites, horrified hands may go up, floods of twaddle may come forth in sympathy with the discouraged garroter, but men of common sense, especially if they have been garroted themselves, will say the end was worth what it cost, and believe in the inhumanity that achieved it.
Nothing has been said of Delaware. No valuable lesson could be drawn from her without considerable investigation, and perhaps not then. She may do too much flogging, or she may not do enough. Her ministers of justice may be models of enlightenment, or they may be models of debasement. The lash there may be still a class instrument, or it may not. She has no great city—an exceedingly important consideration—and two portions of her people are jostling each other as nominal equals in the race of life, who but the other day held the relation of master and slave. She is probably not indifferent to a good name, and her retention of the whip under all the sneers she receives is some evidence that she at least regards it as still having a defensible use.
Chauncey Hickox.
Could I recall thee from that silent shoreWhence never word may reach our longing ears,To gaze upon thee thro' my happy tears,And call thee back to life and joy once more,Could I refrain? If at my touchDeath's door Would open for thee, and thy glad eyes shineWith swift surprise of life, straight into mine,And we might dwell with love for evermore,Could I forbear? God knows, who still denies.Yet being dead, thou art all mine again:No fear of change can break that perfect rest,Nor can I be where thou art not; thine eyesSmile at me out of heaven, and still my pain,And the whole pitying earth is at thy breast.
Kate Hillard.
"The last word in the Eastern Question," said Lord Derby, "is Constantinople." If for Constantinople we read not merely the city itself, but that half of Turkey in Europe bordering upon the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora, and understand the real point to be, Shall or shall not Russia have it? we have the whole Eastern Question in a nutshell. Russia is bound by every consideration of policy and interest to get it if she can. Great Britain is bound by every consideration of interest, and even of self-preservation, to prevent it if she can. Germany, Austria, and France are bound to prevent it, if possible, unless they can at the same time gain equivalent advantages which shall leave them relatively to each other, and especially to Russia, not less powerful than they now are. The other nations of Europe may be left out of view in considering the question; for their interest in it is less vital, and they could do little toward the result, except as allies to one side or the other, in case of a general European war in which the great Powers should be quite evenly balanced, when their comparatively small weight might turn the scale.
A glance at the map will show the paramount importance to Russia of the acquisition of this territory. Comprising more than half of all Europe, she is practically cut off from the navigable seas. She has, indeed, a long coast-line upon the Arctic ocean, but she has there only the inconsiderable port of Archangel, and this can be reached only by rounding the North Cape and sailing far within the Arctic Circle, while the port itself is blocked up by ice seven months of the year. She also borders for seven hundred miles upon the Baltic and the Gulf of Bothnia; but here, in the northwestern corner of her territory, she has only two tolerable ports, Cronstadt and Riga, and these are frozen up for nearly half the year; but from these ports is carried on three-fourths of her foreign commerce. She next touches salt water in the Black Sea, almost 1,500 miles from St. Petersburg, on the extreme south of her territory. This sea, half of whose shores belongs to Russia, is 720 miles long, and 380 miles wide at its broadest point, covering an area, including the connected Sea of Azof, of nearly 200,000 square miles—more than twice that of all the great lakes of North America. Russia wishes to be a great maritime power. The Black Sea has good harbors and abundant facilities for building ships and exercising fleets. Into it fall all the great rivers of the southern half of Russia, except the Volga, whose mouth is in the Caspian; and the Volga may properly be considered a Black Sea river, for a railway, or perhaps even a canal of a few leagues, would connect it with the Don and the other rivers of the Black Sea system. The Black Sea is emphatically a Russian sea; but Russia enjoys the valuable use of it only by the sufferance of whomsoever holds Constantinople. By the treaty of Paris, concluded in 1856, after the reverses of the Crimean war, Russia agreed not to maintain a fleet there; and it was not till 1870 that taking advantage of the critical position of the other great Powers, she declared that this article of the treaty was abrogated. She has now a strong fleet of iron-clads and other steamers in the sea, but the actual strength of this fleet is unknown except to herself. It was certainly powerful three years ago, and is doubtless much more powerful now. A vessel and crew which has navigated the "Bad Black Sea." as the Turks call it, has nothing to fear from the broadest ocean. But this sea is liable at any moment to be a closed one to Russia. No Russian man-of-war has, we believe, ever sailed into or out of it; no merchantman can enter or leave it except by the Bosporus and the Dardanelles, which are its gates, and of these gates Turkey holds the keys.
The Black Sea is joined to the deep, narrow Sea of Marmora by the straits of the Bosporus, twenty miles long and from three-quarters of a mile to two and a half miles wide. Just where the straits open out into the Sea of Marmora stands Constantinople, a spot marked out by nature as the one on the whole globe best fitted for the site of a great metropolis. At its western extremity the Sea of Marmora—about one hundred miles long, with a maximum breadth of forty-three miles—contracts into the straits usually called the Dardanelles, which is properly the name of four castles, which, two on each side, command the passage, here less than a mile wide. Both straits could easily be so fortified as to be impassable by the combined navies of the world; and even now we suppose that only the best armored iron-clads could safely undertake to force the passage, in or out, of the Dardanelles.
Let us now consider the fearful preponderance which Russia would gain by the possession of these straits, including of course that half of European Turkey bordering upon them. We have seen that the shores of the Black Sea furnish every facility for the construction of a navy of any required strength, and its waters afford ample space for its training. With these approaches in her grasp, Russia might in ten years construct and discipline her fleet there, perfectly safe from molestation by the navies of Europe. Fleets built and equipped at Sebastopol, Kherson, and Nicolaief, could sweep through the Dardanelles, closed to all except themselves, enter the Archipelago and the Mediterranean, and dominate over their shores and over the commerce of every nation which has to use these waters as a highway. In case of its happening at any time to find itself overmatched, the Russian fleet could repass the gates of the Dardanelles, and be as safe from pursuit as an army would be if sheltered behind the rocks of Gibraltar.
Great Britain would be first and most immediately menaced by this; for a strong military and naval power established on the Bosporus would hold in command the shortest way of communication with her possessions in India. The Czar would hold in control the route by way of the Suez canal: or at best Great Britain could keep it open only by maintaining a vastly superior fleet in theMediterranean; and it would be difficult for her to maintain there a fleet which would not be practically overmatched by one which Russia could easily keep up in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora. The days are past when a Hood or a Nelson might safely risk a battle if the odds against him were much less than two to one. A British admiral must henceforth make his count upon meeting skill and seamanship equal to his own, and whatever advantage he gains must be gained by sheer preponderance of force.
If Great Britain is to retain her Indian empire, a collision there between her and Russia is a foregone conclusion. An empire which, under a succession of sovereigns of very different character, has steadily pressed its march of conquest through the deserts of Turkistan, will not be likely to look without longing eyes upon the fertile valley of the Indus; and here Russia would have a fearful advantage in position. The Suez route practically closed, as it would be in the event of a war, Britain could only reach India by the long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope, while Russia would have broad highways for the march of her troops to the banks of the Indus, whence she could menace the whole peninsula of Hindostan.
We indeed do not think that the possession of her Indian empire adds anything to the power of Great Britain. She has never derived any direct revenue from it. The Indian expenditures to-day exceed, and are likely in the future to exceed, the revenues. All the vast amounts of plunder and "loot" which individuals, the East India Company, or the Crown have gained, have cost to get them more than they were worth. Unlike Australia and the Dominion of Canada, India offers no field for colonization for men of British blood, where they or their children may build up a new Britain under strange stars. It has come to be an accepted fact that Englishmen cannot long retain health and vigor in India, and that their offspring, born there, rarely survive childhood unless sent "home" at an early age. Britain holds India purely and absolutely as a conquered and subjugated territory. Whether British rule in India is, upon the whole, a blessing or a curse to the natives, is a matter of grave doubt; that it is most unwillingly borne, is beyond all question. It is a despotism pure and unmixed, and a despotism of the most galling kind—a despotism exercised by a horde alien in race and religion, alien in habits and modes of thought, in life and manners, in customs and ideas. Macaulay, when in power in India, forty years ago, said of it the best that can be said: "India cannot have a free government; but she may have the next best thing—a firm and impartial despotism." To maintain this despotism, even against the feeble natives alone, imposes a heavy strain upon the British government. The British empire in India is only a thin crust overlying a bottomless quagmire, into which it is in peril of sinking at any moment by a force from above or an upheaval from below. How nearly this came to pass during the accidental Sepoy mutiny of twenty years ago, is known to all men. Had that mutiny chanced to have broken out three years before, during the Crimean war, it is safe to say that the course of the world's history would have taken a different turn. Since then Great Britain has apparently somewhat consolidated this crust, but it is yet thin, and the weight of Russia thrown upon it could scarcely fail to break it through.
The commercial value of India to Great Britain is, we think, vastly exaggerated. India, in proportion to her population, has always been, and is likely long to be, a very poor country. The trade of Great Britain with India—exports and imports—is not much greater than that with France, considerably less than that with Germany, and far less than that with the United States; and we see no reason to suppose that it is perceptibly increased by the subjugation of India to the British crown. India sells to Great Britain what she can, and buys from her what she wants and can pay for, and would continue to do so in any case. Still, we do not imagine that the British government or people will ever be brought to take our view of the value of India to them. It will be held to the last extremity of the national power, and will only be abandoned under stress of the direst necessity. And for her secure possession of India it is absolutely essential, for reasons which have been stated, that whoever else may have Constantinople in the future, Russia shall not have it. England's interest in the question is a purely selfish one. She is content to have the Turks there because for the time being they keep the Russians out. Whatever worth may formerly have been in the sentimental averment that it is the duty of the European family of nations to see to it that no weak member of it is gravely wronged by a stronger one is past and gone. It is from no love for the Turks that Great Britain desires that the Sultan should continue to hold at least nominal sovereignty over Turkey in Europe, and the actual custody of the keys of the Black Sea. An able English writer says:[H]
The position of the Turk at Constantinople is no choice of ours, nor any creation of our policy. We do not maintain him for any love of himself, nor because we rely on his strength to guard the post—though that is absurdly underrated. His corruption and weakness are at least as great an embarrassment to us as an injury to the nations of his empire. But the whole Eastern question hangs upon the fact that he is there, and has been there with a long prescriptive right which he is not likely to yield, or to have wrested from his grasp till after a frantic struggle of despair. Nor is any practical mode apparent by which he will be soon displaced, save that, after a convulsion which would involve all Europe, the Czar should be enthroned upon the Bosporus. To prevent that catastrophe, and to avert the horrors that must precede it, is our real Eastern policy.
Still more emphatic is the declaration of Lord Derby, the British Premier, when defending the action of the Government in sending the Mediterranean fleet, last May, to Besika Bay, at the mouth of the Dardanelles: "We have in that part of the world great interests which we must protect.... It is said that we sent the fleet to the Dardanelles to maintain the Turkish empire. I entirely deny it.We sent the fleet to maintain the interests of the British empire."
Let us now glance rapidly at Turkey in Europe, the coveted prize in this case. Nominally, and upon the maps, it comprises all except the southern apex of the great triangular peninsula bounded on the east by the Black Sea, the Sea of Marmora, and the Archipelago; on the west by the Adriatic; on the north, the broad base of the peninsula, it is bounded by Austria; on the south, the narrow apex, by Greece. Russia touches it only on the northeast corner. Its area is in round numbers 200,000 square miles, not differing materially from that of France or Germany, or about five-sixths of that of Austria. No other part of Europe, of anything like equal extent, combines so many natural advantages of geographical position, soil, and climate. The population is variously estimated at from 13,000,000 upward; we think that 17,000,000 is a tolerably close approximation. Of these, in round numbers, only about 2,000,000 are Turks, or, as they style themselves, Osmanlis; 11,500,000 are of various Sclavonic races; 1,500,000 are Albanians; 1,000,000 Greeks; the remainder Armenians, Jews, and Gipsies. In religion there, there are about 4,800,000 Mohammedans, nearly half of whom are not Osmanlis, the remainder being of Sclavonic descent, whose ancestors embraced Islam in order to save their estates; they are, however, quite as devoted Mussulmans as are the Osmanlis themselves. There are now about 12,000,000 Christians, of whom some 11,000,000 belong to the Greek Church, and nearly 1,000,000 are in communion with the Church of Rome. The name Ottomans is officially given to all the subjects of the empire, irrespective of race or religion; all except Mussulmans are specifically designated asRayahs, "the flock." Nominally, at least, by the new Constitution promulgated in December, 1876, while Islam is the religion of the State, all subjects are equal before the law, and all, without distinction of race or creed, are alike eligible for civil and military positions.
But a very considerable part of this territory is not properly included in the Ottoman empire. The principality of Roumania, in the northeastern corner, made up of what was formerly known as Wallachia and Moldavia, with a population of about 4,500,000, is practically independent, under a prince of the house of Hohenzollern, elected in 1866. It merely acknowledges the suzerainty of the Sultan, to whom it pays an annual tribute of some $200,000. Servia, on the north, bordering upon Austria, with a population something less than 1,500,000, has for years been really independent, merely paying a tribute of less than $100,000.
Roumania and Servia are strongly under Russian influence. Besides these is the little State of Montenegro, on the Adriatic, with a population of less than 200,000, which disowns the suzerainty of the Sultan, and has for many months waged a fierce but desultory war against him.
Of what properly constitutes Turkey in Europe, with a population of some 11,000,000, the following are the principal divisions, designating them by their former names, by which they are still best known: south of Roumania, and between the Danube and the Balkhan mountains, is Bulgaria; south of Bulgaria is Roumelia, in which Constantinople is situated; in the northwest is Herzegovina; between which and Servia is Bosnia; on the west, along the Adriatic, is Albania. In estimating the defensive strength of the Ottoman empire we must take main account of Turkey in Asia, with a population of some 17,000,000, by far the larger portion of whom are Osmanlis, devoted to Islam, warlike by nature, and fully capable, as was shown in the Crimean war, of being moulded into excellent soldiers. But our present concern is with Turkey in Europe.
If the ingenuity of man, working through long centuries of misrule, had set itself to the task of developing a form of government the most potent for evil and the least powerful for good, the system could not have been worse than that which exists in European Turkey; and the worst of it is that no one but the most hopeful optimist can perceive in it the slightest hope of reform or practical amendment. In theory the Sultan is the recognized organ of all executive power in the State. The dignity is hereditary in the house of Osman; but the brother of a deceased or deposed Sultan takes precedence of the son, as being nearer in blood to the great founder of the house. A Sultan, therefore, must see in his brother a possible rival, who must, in case his life is spared, be kept immured in the seclusion of the harem. A Sultan who succeeds his brother naturally comes to the throne at a somewhat mature age, but as ignorant as a babe of all that belongs to the duties of government; lucky it is if he is not also physically and mentally worn out by debauchery and excess. Turkish history is full of instances where one of the first acts of a Sultan has been to order the execution of his brothers and nephews. Thus Mahmoud II. put to death his infant nephew, the son of his predecessor, and caused three pregnant inmates of the harem to be flung into the Bosporus in order to make sure the destruction of their unborn offspring. The actual task of government is in some sort divided between the Sultan and the "Porte," a term which is used to designate the chief dignitaries of the State. The "Sublime Porte" is the Council of the Grand Vizier, who presides over the Council of State, consisting of the ministers for home affairs, for foreign affairs, and for executive acts, with several secretaries, one of whom is supposed to be answerable that the acts of the ministry are in conformity with, the supreme law of the Koran. The Porte of the Defterdar, or Minister of Finance, whose council is styled the "Divan," consists of several ministers and other functionaries. The "Agha" formerly comprised many civil and military officials whose duties were in some way immediately connected with the person of the Sultan, not very unlike what we call a "kitchen cabinet." The foregoing are all designated as "Dignitaries of the Pen." The "Dignitaries of the Sword" are the viceregal and provincial governors, styled pachas and beys. They are at once civil and military commanders; and, most important of all, tax-gatherers, and not infrequently farmers as well as receivers of taxes. If they forward to the Porte the required sum of money, little care is had as to the manner in which their other duties are performed or neglected. The manifold extortions of the local pachas keep one part or another of the empire, not only in Europe, but in Asia, in a state of perpetual insurrection, of which little is ever heard abroad.
The Koran is the acknowledged source of all law, civil and ecclesiastical. Its interpreter is theSheikh-ul-Islam, "the Chief of the Faithful," sometimes styled the "Grand Mufti." He is the head of theUlemi, or "Wise Men," comprising the body of great jurists, theologians, andliterati, any or all of whom he may summon to his council. He is appointed for life by the Sultan, and may be removed by him. His office is in theory, and sometimes in practice, one of great importance. To him and his council the Sultan is supposed to refer every act of importance. He does not declare war or conclude peace until the Grand Mufti has formally pronounced the act "conformable to the law." It is only in virtue of hisfetwa, or decree, that the deposition of a Sultan is legalized. Afetwafrom him would summon around the standard of the Prophet all the fanatical hordes of Islam to fight to the death against the infidels, in the firm belief that death on the battlefield is a sure passport to Paradise. With the Koran as the supreme law, and the Sheikh-ul-Islam its sole interpreter, nothing can be more futile than the provision of the new Constitution of December, 1876, that "the prerogatives of the Sultan are those of the constitutional sovereigns of the West."
It is necessary here to touch only briefly upon the rise and decline of the Turkish empire in Europe. The Osmanlis take their name from Osman, the leader of a Tartar horde driven out from the confines of the Chinese empire, who overran Asia Minor. His great-grandson, Amurath I., crossed into Europe, took Adrianople in 1361, and overran Bulgaria and Servia. Several of his successors pushed far into Hungary and Poland. Mohammed II. took Constantinople in 1453, and brought the Byzantine empire to a close. Selim I. (1512-'20) extended his dominion over Mesopotamia, Syria, and Egypt. Solyman II., "the Magnificent" (1520-1566), raised the Turkish power to its highest point. He took Buda in 1529; and in 1532 besieged Vienna with a force of 300,000 men, but was routed by the Polish John Sobieski, with a force hardly a tenth as great. But for another half century the Turkish power was sufficient to inspire terror in all Christendom. With the death of Solyman, the power of the Turks began to wane, slowly but surely, and at the close of the last century the expulsion of the Turks from Europe seemed close at hand. The great wars of the French Revolution gave them a new lease of possession, and at its close Sultan Mahmoud II., who was by blood half French,[I]endeavored to introduce reforms which some men hoped and others feared would restore the Ottoman Empire. But the result showed the impossibility of patching up rotten garments with new cloth. The Greek revolution broke out, and at its close the Sultan found himself no match for his vassal, Mehemet Ali, Pacha of Egypt, and it was only the intervention of Russia, Austria, and Great Britain which prevented the Pacha from establishing at Constantinople the seat of a new empire, which, be it what it might, would not have been Turkish. What were the reasons of Great Britain and France it is not now easy to say. Those of Russia are patent: she wanted Constantinople to remain in the hands of the Turks until she herself was in a position to seize it. From that time the Ottoman Empire became the "sick man of Europe," around whose bedside all the other powers were watching, each determined that none of the others should gain the greater share in his estates when he died. In 1844 they formally adopted him into the family of the nations of Europe, and promised that his safety should be the common care of all.
Russia, in the mean while, was busy in endeavoring to make herself the patron of the Christian subjects of the Sultan, and when the time appeared ripe, entered upon those overt acts which led to the Crimean war. Out of this war the Ottoman Empire came with considerable apparent advantage. The man supposed to be sick unto death showed that there was unexpected vitality—of a spasmodic sort indeed—in his Asiatic members; and again there were hopes and fears of his ultimate convalescence, if not of restoration to robust health. That those hopes and fears were baseless is now clear enough. Never was the sick man so feeble as within the last five years.
The existing crisis in the Eastern Question came about in the ordinary course of things. In the summer of 1875 the pecuniary needs of the Sublime Porte were more than usually urgent, and the tax-gatherers were even more than usually exacting. The normal result ensued: there were local risings in Bosnia and Herzegovina. A secret Bulgarian revolutionary committee, favored by Russia, has for years existed in Bucharest, the capital of Roumania. They sent emissaries into Bulgaria to excite an insurrection in that province. The plan was to set fire to Adrianople and Philippopolis, each in scores of places, to burn other towns, mainly inhabited by Mussulmans, and force all the Bulgarian Rayahs to join the uprising. The insurrection broke out prematurely in May, 1876, and only a few were actively engaged in it. Two or three thousand troops would have been sufficient to have quelled the rising; but there were none in the province, and despite the urgent appeals of the Pacha none were sent. The Mussulmans, who are in a fearful minority there, were thrown into a panic; and the Pacha gave orders for calling an ignorant and fanatical population to arms. Regular troops were at last sent. The Turks gained an easy victory, and perpetrated those ineffable atrocities, the recital of which sent a thrill of horror throughout Christendom. The Bulgarians fled northward toward Servia, pursued by the Turks, who it is said made predatory incursions. Prince Milan made some extraordinary demands upon the Sultan, among which were that the government of Bulgaria should be committed to him and that of Bosnia to Prince Nicholas of Herzegovina. The Grand Vizier refused to listen to these demands; whereupon the Prince called the Servians to arms, declared war against the Sultan, invaded Bulgaria, and soon assumed the title of King of Servia. His invasion of Bulgaria met with ill success. Although aided by many Russian soldiers and officers, absent on special leave from their regiments, the Servians were driven back over their frontiers; and the war was finally suspended by a truce for six months. We suppose that there can be no doubt that the rising in Bulgaria and the action of Servia were favored, if not by the Czar personally, yet by the Russian government, although it would, if possible, have withheld Prince Milan from declaring war when he did. The Servian Bishop Strossmayer expressly affirms that the insurrection in Herzegovina was prematurely commenced against the advice of Russia, and that Servia and Montenegro went to war of their own accord, though they have naturally accepted the Russian aid since accorded to them. He adds that Prince Gortschakoff, who in the Russian government is all that Prince Bismarck is in that of Germany, the year before last "informed Prince Milan that Russia was unprepared; that only within three years did she count on taking Constantinople; and that only then would she call on the Sclaves of the South to plant the Greek cross on the dome of St. Sophia."
Meanwhile, on the news of the Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria, the Czar put his troops in motion toward the Turkish frontier, and made demands upon the Sultan which, if acceded to, would have practically made the Czar the actual sovereign of all Turkey in Europe north of the Balkhan. Great Britain sent her fleet to the mouth of the Dardanelles to "maintain the interests of the British empire" in that part of the world. Diplomatic notes and rejoinders passed between the cabinets of the great Powers; and early in January an International Conference was assembled at Constantinople to endeavor to settle, or at least to stave off the present crisis in the Eastern Question; Great Britain, through her representative, the Earl of Salisbury, apparently taking the lead. As we write, in the early days of February, all that is definitely known is: The Conference has utterly failed; the Sultan absolutely refused to accede to the propositions made to him; and the ambassadors of the great Powers have been withdrawn from Constantinople. Surmises and rumors as to what will next be done are rife; not the least significant or the least probable being that the Emperors of Germany, Russia, and Austria are consulting as to taking the matter into their own hands. Whatever the immediate issue may be—whether a peace of some kind; a partial war between Russia on the one side, and Turkey, with or without Great Britain, on the other; or a general European war—of one thing we may be certain: it will not cause Russia to more than postpone still longer her long-cherished determination to have Constantinople.
Mr. Carlyle has suggested, as a final settlement of the Eastern Question, that Turkey in Europe should be divided between Russia, Austria, and Great Britain. But, as is his wont, he leaves out some essential factors in the problem. No part of this territory would be of the slightest use to Great Britain, except perhaps the island of Candia as a sort of half-way house in the highway to India by the Suez canal. She has everything to lose and little more than nothing to gain by any such partition, which, as it necessarily must, would give Constantinople to Russia. Mr. Carlyle has so thorough a dislike to France—and with him dislike is nearly equivalent to contempt—that he naturally leaves her out of the problem. But it is surprising that he leaves out his favorite Germany, perhaps the most important factor of all.
We can conceive of a partition of Turkey between Russia and Austria which would be so manifestly and equally advantageous to both that they might agree to it. And the line of division is clearly indicated by nature. Austria, like every other great civilized nation, desires to be a maritime power; but she touches the sea only at one point, the head of the Adriatic, with the narrow strip known as Dalmatia, running half way down its eastern coast. There are only two considerable ports, Trieste and Fiume. Eastward, and back of Dalmatia, are Servia, Bosnia, and Herzegovina; and below these, on the Adriatic, is the long coast-line of Albania, with several good harbors. Across the narrowing isthmus is the Archipelago, with the excellent harbor of Salonika. Now look on any tolerable map, and one will see on the eastern borders of Servia, where the Danube breaks through the Carpathians, a range of mountains shooting southward to and crossing the Balkhan, from which it is continued still southward to the Archipelago, the whole dividing European Turkey into two almost equal halves. Let Russia take the eastern half, comprising Roumania, Bulgaria, and the half of Roumelia, including Constantinople, the whole shore of the Sea of Marmora and the Dardanelles—all that she really needs or cares for. Let Austria take the other half, which would give her the whole eastern coast of the Adriatic, and a large frontage on the Archipelago, and so a double access to the Mediterranean and thence to the ocean. She would acquire thereby an access of valuable territory equal to almost half of her present dominions, which would render her relatively to Russia fully as strong as she now is.
But such a partition could not be carried into effect without the concurrence of Germany, for Germany is undoubtedly as a military power much stronger than Russia. Germany certainly would never assent unless she could somewhere get something equivalent to that gained by Austria and Russia, and not an inch of Turkey would be of any use to her. But in quite another part of Europe is a territory comparatively small in extent, which would be of priceless value to Germany. This is the little kingdom of Holland, which is indeed physically a part of Germany, and essential to the rounding off of the boundaries of the new empire. It would give her an extended sea-front, which is what she also needs in order to become a great naval and commercial power. It would give her also in the Zuyder Zee a naval depot and harbor of refuge inferior only to that of the Black Sea, and immeasurably superior to any other in Europe. Furthermore, with Holland would go the possession of Java and as many other great islands in the Indian Ocean as she might choose to seize and colonize. To Holland, indeed, we think such an annexation would be a decided gain. Her people are in race, language, and religion closely allied to the Germans. It would be better for her to become a State, inferior only to Prussia, of the great German empire, than a feeble kingdom, always at the mercy of her powerful neighbors. But whether it would be for her good or not, would not be likely to be much taken into account should the great Powers agree upon a reconstruction of the political map of Europe. The interests of France would suffer no material damage from this, provided she were left free to extend her Algerian possessions over the whole Mediterranean coast of Africa, now almost a desert, but once the granary of the Roman empire, and abundantly capable of being restored to its ancient fertility; or in case she should think her dignity required something more, she might receive in Belgium far more than a counterpoise for her recent loss of Alsace-Lorraine.
Suppose that in some not remote future the policy of Russia, Germany, and Austria shall happen to be directed by statesmen as able and unscrupulous as Gortschakoff, Bismarck, and Von Beust, we think such a settlement of the Eastern Question by no means an improbable one. And should these Powers agree to effect it, all the rest of Europe could do nothing to the contrary.
A. H. Guernsey.