their excuse, but when there was a rush after them they quickly returned. Then James, Cardinal-priest of St. Anastasia: "I add my accession to the Bishop of Siena." At that a more complete stupefaction descended on the assembly, and every one lost the power of speech, as men might do in a house shaken by mysterious earthquakes. One voice was yet lacking from the twelve that would make Aeneas Pope. Grasping the situation, Prosper Colonna thought great would be his fame if his sole voice proclaimed the Pontiff, and, rising to his feet, made as if he would give the customary vote with becoming dignity. In the middle of his sentence the Archbishop of Nice and William of Rouen seized upon him, with bitter reproaches against his designed accession to Aeneas. When he stood by his resolve they struggled with might and main to drag him from the place; grasping him, the one by the right, the other by the left arm, they tried to drag him away and rescue the Pontificate for the latter.

'Prosper Colonna, however, though his written vote was for the Archbishop, was bound to Aeneas by a long-standing friendship, and, with "A fig for your bombast!" turned towards the other Cardinals. "I also give accession to the Cardinal Bishop of Siena, and so make him Pope." As the words dropped from his lips, the spirit of opposition vanished, the whole intrigue fell to pieces, and the Cardinals, without a moment's delay, one and all prostrated themselves before Aeneas, and hailed him as Pope without a murmur of dissent. Then Cardinal Bessarion, the Archbishop of Nice, speaking for himself and the other partisans of William, remarked: "Your Holiness, we give our heartiest approval to your elevation, which is, without doubt, the will of the Almighty. We always thought you as thoroughly worthy of this dignity as we do now. Our only reason for not voting for you was your indifferent health; nothing but your gout appears to us to mar your perfect efficiency. We do obeisance to you as Pope; we elect you over again, as far as we are concerned; and we shall give you our loyal support."

"You have treated our faults, dear Bishop, far more leniently than we should do," replied Aeneas. "You lay blame upon us for naught but an ailment of our feet, and we are aware that it is widely known that our shortcomings could scarce be numbered, and that we might have been fairly disqualified by them for the Apostolic seat. We can think of no merits that have raised us to this position. We should have confessed our utter unworthiness and refused to embrace the proffered dignity did we not respect the voice that summons us. For what two-thirds of the Sacred College have done may be taken for an act of the Holy Spirit, and it would have been sin to withstand it. We therefore obey God's behest, and honour you, dear Bishop, and those who agreed with you, if you but followed the guidance of your conscience, and disapproved of our election on the ground of our deficiencies. You shall all alike be our friends, for we owe our voca

tion not to this man or that man, but to the whole College, and to God Himself, from whom cometh everything that is good and every perfect gift."

'Without any further speech Aeneas doffed his former garments and received the white tunic of Christ, and to the question, "By what name do you elect to be known?" replied, "Pius the Second"... The valets of the Cardinals in Conclave at once rifled the new Pope's cell. The rascals made loot of all his money-not much of a prize!-and made off with his books and his clothes. . . . Outside the evening shadows were drawing in, when bonfires flashed forth in every public square, from the top of every tower; songs burst upon the ear, neighbour hailed neighbour to festivity. North and south, east and west, echoed trumpets and bugles; every corner of the city was alive with cheering crowds. Old men used to tell that they had never in Rome seen such an outburst of popular enthusiasm.'

ALFRED N. MACFADYEN.

THERE is a tourbé, or mausoleum, at Brussa, the ancient capital of the Ottoman Turks, which is altogether so lovely to the outward eye, and so satisfying to the artistic sense, that one is almost tempted to wish that one could repose in it one's self. A high compliment this to any place of sepulture. But since we must all lie somewhere, unless sealed up in cinerary urn, one might well wish that it could be in a spot so cheerful and so beautiful; devoid of all the ghastly and mouldy associations which generally go to make such places disagreeable, and in one that the beholder can contemplate with so much true pleasure.

The graves of Turkish Sultans and princes of the blood-as all who have seen them may remember-are almost invariably above ground, the body being inclosed in what looks like a long wooden ark, draped with rich silken brocades; and in such an ark, thus draped, the chief occupant of this beautiful tourbé is lying in royal state, with some few of his kinsfolk sleeping around him. The Persian tiles which ornament the walls of the temple are hexagon in form, and reflect, in hue, the plumage of the peacock and the blossom of the rose, whilst the light of heaven falls softly through panes that seem set as though with glistening jewels. Without, roses bloom and fountains trickle, under the shade of such giant plane trees as are only to be met with in Asia. With these mingle the more sombre spires of the cypress (a grove of these trees-very Titans amongst their fellows. towering hard by-is said to be of the same age as the tourbé itself), and below the wide valley of Brussa stretches away to the base of the far blue mountains. It is a spot that, once seen, is likely to be ever remembered.

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The tourbé-dar, or the white-turbaned Imam who unlocks the carven door of the temple, will tell you that this is the last restingplace of Prince Jem;' but beyond the slight sense of surprise occasioned by meeting with what sounds like so familiar an English name in such a place, this information will convey little to the mind of the ordinary traveller. It is for the benefit of the ordinary traveller, therefore, and not with a view of insulting the cultured student of history, who will, of course, know all about him, that it

has occurred to me to set down briefly, and mostly from memory, a few of the chief incidents in the life of this interesting young man, about whom so many wise and royal personages were only too eager to occupy themselves in bygone days, and who now rests for ever from his troubles in so pleasant a place.

As far as his misfortunes were concerned, Prince Jem (often written Djem,' and short for Jemshid or Djemshid, also called 'Zizim' by Western historians) of the Ottoman Turks may bear comparison with some of the members of our own unhappy House of Stuart. He might even carry off the palm from Charles Edward himself, if any kind of recompense could have been awarded to the more unlucky of the two. There is a certain analogy, indeed, between the fates of these Princes, in spite of the centuries that separate them. Jem, like the more modern Pretender, came of the blood royal of the land, and, like him, he considered himself to be the rightful heir to a throne to which, but for certain adverse combinations, he would, in all probability, have succeeded. But the adverse combinations triumphed, and, like the Stuart Prince, after making several unsuccessful attempts to advance his cause, he passed the remainder of his days in exile, aggravated in his case by imprisonment.

Things have come to such a pass, in these latter days of Ottoman degeneracy, that it is almost impossible to imagine a Turkish prince who was of the fine old fighting order; eager to dare and do; one who could lead a rough camp-life in rough places; who journeyed about, saw some of the world, and displayed signs of energy and virility. But Prince Jem seems to have been all this, and more. Let us follow some of his adventures, and see by what tortuous ways he came at last to this quiet resting-place.

When Mohammed the Conqueror was gathered unto his fathers, he left two surviving sons, Bayezid, the elder, and this Jem, or Djem, who was then in his twenty-third year, having been born, of a Servian mother, in 1459. The fact that he was the Conqueror's second son did not, of necessity, preclude the chance of his succession in the good old times when Might was Right, and when he who came first was oftenest first served. Jem, indeed, had always made up his mind that he should enjoy the pleasures of empire, and his friends were of opinion that he possessed more of the qualities requisite for the making of a successful Sultan than did his brother.

But upon the death of Mohammed it was Bayezid who arrived first at Constantinople, and was forthwith proclaimed Sultan. There had been some hocus-pocus' about this, whereat Jem felt aggrieved, for the messenger who had been sent to apprise him of his father's death had been waylaid and murdered upon the road by a partisan of his brother, and so had never arrived at his destination with the news. After this his affairs went from bad to worse. Finding his brother established upon the throne, he took up arms against him, with the

result that he was more than once defeated. I have seen a curious old wood-engraving representing one of Jem's engagements with Bayezid. The two brothers are depicted as having come to close quarters; everybody is hacking and slashing at everybody else, and turbaned heads are rolling about upon the field like tennis-balls.

After his second defeat Jem, with his wife and family, took refuge in Egypt, where he was received by the Mameluk Sultan, Kaïtbaï, with royal honours. If such pomps and vanities could have consoled him in his misfortunes they were certainly not wanting, for his noble and attractive bearing, together with the charms of a highly cultivated mind, seems to have impressed even his gaolers with a due respect for his princely dignity.

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Jem is said to have resembled his father in face, and to have been extremely handsome, though upon the question of beauty opinions must always differ. "This brother of the Grand Turk,' says an old Italian chronicler, looks every inch like the son of an emperor.' Another historian describes him as having had a fair beard, a long nose, somewhat loose morals, but a most noble disposition withal.' Vertot (quoting Bosio, 'qui connaissait Djem personnellement') says of him, ‘Il avait le nez aquilin et si courbé qu'il touchait presqu'à la lèvre supérieure.' "1 He is said to have surpassed most of the princes of his day as a marksman, in horsemanship, and in all athletic exercises. He was a skilled musician, a sweet singer, and above all a fact which particularly attracted the present writer-an ardent lover of poetry, and accounted the best Turkish poet of his time. Never was there a truer exemplification of Heine's well-known lines (Aus meinen Thränen spriessen,' &c. &c.), for from his tears and sighs uprose a very garden of blossoms, a full choir of song. We find him during his wanderings continually turning off some ode or sonnet by the way; some description of an impressive scene; some lamentation at his sad destiny. His eye was perpetually 'in a fine. frenzy rolling,' and he trilled and quavered through the thirteen years of his imprisonment like a captive skylark. He also translated from the Persian, amongst other poems, that which is called Khorshid and Djemshid, and did much to enrich his national literature.

From Egypt Jem made a pilgrimage to the holy cities of Mecca and Medina; the only member of the reigning Ottoman family (with the exception of a daughter of Mohammed the First) who has ever undertaken this journey—a curious fact, when we remember what spiritual advantages are supposed to accrue from the pilgrimage. Bayezid the Second, who is said not to have been at all cruel (for a Sultan), would have willingly come to friendly terms with his brother at about this time. He proposed that the younger Prince should draw the revenues

1 The nose of Mohammed the Conqueror is said to have been also so hooked as to come over his lips and partly hide the mouth. A complimentary poet of the time compares it to the beak of a parrot resting upon cherries.'