The Pacha of Many Tales | Page 2

the flowers of
the Cistus, one morning in all their splendour, on the next, are strewed
lifeless on the ground to make room for their successors. Speaking of
such ephemeral creations, it will be quite sufficient to say, "There was a
Pacha."

Would you inquire by what means he was raised to the distinction? It is
an idle question. In this world, preeminence over your fellow-creatures
can only be obtained, by leaving others far behind in the career of
virtue or of vice. In compliance with the dispositions of those who rule,
faithful service in the one path or the other will shower honour upon
the subject, and by the breath of kings he becomes ennobled to look
down upon his former equals.
And as the world spins round, the why is of little moment. The honours
are bequeathed, but not the good, or the evil deeds, or the talents by
which they were obtained. In the latter, we have but a life interest, for
the entail is cut off by death. Aristocracy in all its varieties is as
necessary, for the well binding of society, as the divers grades between
the general and the common soldier are essential in the field. Never
then inquire, why this or that man has been raised above his fellows;
but, each night as you retire to bed, thank Heaven that you are not a
King.
And if I may digress, there is one badge of honour in our country,
which I never contemplate without serious reflection rising in my mind.
It is the bloody hand in the dexter chief of a baronet,--now often worn, I
grant, by those who, perhaps, during their whole lives have never raised
their hands in anger. But my thoughts have returned to days of
yore--the iron days of ironed men, when it was the symbol of faithful
service in the field--when it really was bestowed upon the "hand
embrued in blood;" and I have meditated, whether that hand, displayed
with exultation in this world, may not be held up trembling in the
next--in judgment against itself.
And I, whose memory stepping from one legal murder to another, can
walk dry-footed over the broad space of five-and-twenty years of
time,--but the "damned spots" won't come out--so I'll put my hands in
my pockets and walk on.
Conscience, fortunately or unfortunately, I hardly can tell which,
permits us to form political and religious creeds, most suited to disguise
or palliate our sins. Mine is a military conscience, and I agree with
Bates and Williams, who flourished in the time of Henry V., that it is

"all upon the King:" that is to say, it was all upon the king; and now our
constitution has become so incomparably perfect, that "the king can do
no wrong;" and he has no difficulty in finding ministers, who
voluntarily impignorating themselves for all his actions in this world,
will, in all probability, not escape from the clutches of the great
Pawnbroker in the next--from which facts I draw the following
conclusions:--
1st. That his Majesty (God bless him!) will go to heaven.
2ndly. That his Majesty's ministers will all go to the devil.
3rdly. That I shall go------on with my story.
As, however, a knowledge of the previous history of our pacha will be
necessary to the development of our story, the reader will in this
instance be indulged. He had been brought up to the profession of a
barber; but, possessing great personal courage, he headed a popular
commotion in favour of his predecessor, and was rewarded by a post of
some importance in the army. Successful in detached service, while his
general was unfortunate in the field, he was instructed to take off the
head of his commander, and head the troops in his stead; both of which
services he performed with equal skill and celerity. Success attended
him, and the pacha, his predecessor, having in his opinion, as well as in
that of the sultan, remained an unusual time in office, by an accusation
enforced by a thousand purses of gold, he was enabled to produce a
bowstring for his benefactor; and the sultan's "firman" appointed him to
the vacant pachalik. His qualifications for office were all superlative:
he was very short, very corpulent, very illiterate, very irascible, and
very stupid.
On the morning after his investment, he was under the hands of his
barber, a shrewd intelligent Greek, Mustapha by name. Barbers are
privileged persons for many reasons: running from one employer to
another to obtain their livelihood, they also obtain matter for
conversation, which, impertinent as it may sometimes be, serves to
beguile the tedium of an operation which precludes the use of any
organ except the ear. Moreover, we are inclined to be on good terms

with a man, who has