FATE OF A TURKISH JOURNALIST.
Clutha Leader, Rōrahi XIV, Putanga 679, 22 Hōngongoi 1887, Page 7
FATE OF A TURKISH JOURNALIST.
(Fall Mall Onjiotto.) A Constantinople correspondent writes ; — ' [t has been well said that to condemn the King of Terrors with all his a(l righting dresses is a bravo act j but where life, is more terrible than death, then the truest valor is to daro to live. Among those who have latterly chosen wilfully to abridge their days with a bare bodkin, none seem-3 to us more entitled to pity for his fate than Bcchir Faud Bey, a young Turkish journalist, whose recent suicide in Stam bo ul has created a great sensation. ' Faud Boy began life as an officer in the Ottoman arniv, where he gained distinction. But two years ago, upon coming into a fortune of L 20,000, he left the service and took to journalism, His literary talent easily gained him the position of assistant, editor of the Hakikat, one of the leading organs of the Turkish press. With the Tarik, a truly solemn, ponderous production, this journal reflects the views of the Ottoman Government. Needless to say both prints are amazingly serious, and amnzingly dull. Howbeit, al! Faud Bey's intelligence and energy were pressed into the service of the Hakikat until a recent Saturday, when he returned to his home in the evening, about nine o'clock. After writing four letters to the police, to Midhat Effendi, proprietor of the Hakikat, to a sister, and to his mistress, a French actress, Faud Bey locked the door, and stripped himself of all clothing. Then lie proceeded to inoculate his left arm with cocaine, so as to dull the pain, and afterwards opened the veins of it in four different places, severing the carotid artery with a razor. While his life-blood was thus ebbing away he sat down at his wiiting-table and put upon paper a hurried record of his sensations during his last moments. With the ink yet wet upon it, the following description was found upon his desk: — "My operation is performed. 1 felt no pain — only slight prickings after the loss of blood. At this moment my sister knocks at the door. But I have told her lam busy. Happily, she does not insist upon entering. ... I can imagine no sweeter death than this. Now J lift my arm to let the blood gush out more freely. My head swims. ... lam faint." . ' The narration stops there ; he never finished it. Extinguishing his lamp, Faud Bey fell back in his death agony upon the bed. His cry in falling brought his sister and the servants to his help. Tt was too late. " Doctor," he feebly murmured to the physician, who came just in time to see him die, " doctor, take no care to save me — it is useless, i have only live more minutes to live..' 1 And then, with a deep sigh, he died. 'In his letter to the police Bachir Fand Bey absolved everyone from blame in his death, for which he claimed to be alone responsible. The letter addressed to his mistress contained a statement to the o fleet that, fearing to end his life in a madhouse, as his mother had done, and as the doctors had prophesied, he had resolved to kill himself, now that all his fortune had been squandered, and that he felt unable to face dishonor. Faud Bey, although only 30 years of age, had already earned respect as an authority on military matters. He was the translator of works by Victor Hugo and Voltaire, and' his intelligence and wit made him universally popular; but, like Oliatterton, the world proved too strong for him — he has left it " as a traveller Goes to discover countries yet unknown."' BMUuisag«»a ■» i ii*«im'il