A GROUP OF
EASTERN ROMANCES
AND STORIES
FROM THE PERSIAN, TAMIL, AND URDU.

WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND APPENDIX
By W. A. CLOUSTON,
AUTHOR OF “POPULAR TALES AND FICTIONS” AND THE “BOOK OF NOODLES”; EDITOR OF THE “BOOK OF SINDIBAD,” THE “BAKHTYAR NAMA,” ETC.

“Who is he, that is now wholly overcome with idleness or otherwise involved in a labyrinth of worldly cares and troubles and discontents, that will not be much lightened in his mind by reading some enticing story, true or feigned?”—Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.

PRIVATELY PRINTED.

MDCCCLXXXIX.

Edition—300 Copies.

TO
FORSTER FITZGERALD ARBUTHNOT, ESQ.,
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL ASIATIC SOCIETY OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND.

My Dear Arbuthnot,

Since you have always been warmly interested in my own works as well as in Oriental Literature generally, allow me to Dedicate to you the present collection of Eastern Tales. This I do with the greater pleasure, knowing that no man is more able than yourself to appreciate their value for the comparative study of popular fictions, and also to recognise their entertaining qualities.

Believe me,

Yours ever faithfully,

W. A. CLOUSTON.

Glasgow, April, 1889.

PREFACE.

It has been justly remarked that “the literature of a nation furnishes the best guide to researches into its character, manners, and opinions, and no department of literature contains a more ample store of data in this respect than the light and popular part consisting of tales, romances, and dramatic pieces.” The lighter literature of mediæval Europe affords us an insight into customs, manners, and superstitions which have long passed away; but in “the unchanging East” the literature of the Asiatic races, produced at the same period, continues to reflect the sentiments and habits of the Hindús, Buddhists, and Muslims at the present day. For among Asiatics belief in astrology, magic, divination, good and bad omens, and evil spirits (rákshasas, dívs, jinn, etc.) who are ever eager to injure human beings is still as prevalent as when the oldest of their popular tales and romances were first written. The child-like, wonder-loving Oriental mind delights in stories of the supernatural, and the more such narratives exceed the bounds of human possibility the greater is the pleasure derived from them;—like our own peasantry, who believed (and not so long since) in “ghosts, fairies, goblins, and witches,” as well as in the frequent apparition of Satan in various forms to delude the benighted traveller, and were fond of listening to “tales of the wild and wonderful” during the long winter evenings.

The following collection comprises fairly representative Eastern tales; some of which are of common life and have nothing in them of the supernatural, while in others may be found all the machinery of typical Asiatic fictions: gorgeous palaces constructed of priceless gems; wealth galore; enchantments; magical transformations; fairies and jinn, good and evil. Those who think that they are “sensible, practical men” (and are therefore not sensible) would not condescend to read “such a pack of lies”; but there be men, I wot, who entertain no particularly high opinion of themselves, to whom what poor Mr. Buckle called “the lying spirit of Romance” is often a great solace amidst the stern realities of work-a-day life, and, carried away in imagination to regions where all is as it ought to be, they for a brief season quite forget “life and its ills, duns and their bills.”

But few words are necessary to explain the design of the present work. I found the four romances diverting and many of their incidents peculiarly interesting from a comparative folk-lore point of view; and I felt encouraged by the friendly reception of my Book of Sindibád to reproduce them as a companion volume and as a farther contribution to the study of popular fictions. It may be considered by some readers that my notes are too copious. I know that foot-notes have been likened to runaway knocks, calling one downstairs for nothing; but as the book is not specially designed for Eastern scholars (who indeed require none of the information that I could furnish), I was desirous that nothing likely to be obscure to the ordinary reader should pass without explanation and illustration; and since these foot-notes have considerably swelled the bulk of the book and I shall certainly not profit by them, I trust they will not prove altogether useless or superfluous. The abstract of the romance of Hatim Taï—which was an afterthought—and the other matter in the Appendix will be, I venture to think, interesting to readers “of all ranks and ages.”

It only remains to express my thanks, in the first place, to the learned Orientalist Mr. Edward Rehatsek, of Bombay, for kindly permitting me to reprint his translations from the Persian, with which I have taken a few liberties, but had he revised them himself, I feel sure he would have made very similar alterations: I much regret that want of space prevented me from reproducing more of the shorter stories. In the next place, I (and the reader also, if I am not mistaken) have to thank Pandit Natésa Sástrí, of Madras, for his translation of the Tamil romance, which I have entitled “The King and his Four Ministers.” I must also acknowledge my great indebtedness to Dr. Chas. Rieu, of the British Museum, whose courtesy, great as everybody knows it is, I fear was very frequently sorely tried by my “anxious inquiries”; and to Prof. E. Fagnan, of the École des Lettres, Algiers, and Mr. E. H. Whinfield, who has done good work in Persian literature, for their kind investigations regarding an inedited Turkish story-book. Private friends want no public recognition, but I should consider myself ungrateful did I omit to place also on record my obligations in the course of this work to Dr. David Ross, Principal of the E.C. Training College, Glasgow, to Mr. Leonard C. Smithers, Sheffield, and finally, but certainly not least of all, to my old and trusty friend Mr. Hugh Shedden, Grangemouth. With so much help it may well be thought my work might have been of higher quality than I fear is the case; but there is an ancient saying about expecting “grapes of thorns,” which I have made my excuse in a former work.

W. A. C.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

INTRODUCTION.

Man has been variously described as a laughing, a cooking, and a clothes-wearing animal, for no other animal laughs, or cooks, or wears clothes. Perhaps another definition might be added, namely, that he is a story-telling animal. From bleak Greenland to the sunny islands that be-gem the South Pacific, there seems to be no race so low in the scale of humanity as not to possess a store of legends and tales, which take their colouring from the ways of life and the habits of the people among whom they are found domiciled. But notwithstanding the very considerable number of popular tales that have been collected from various parts of the world, their origin and general diffusion are still involved in obscurity. The germs from which some of them sprang may have originated soon after men became sentient beings. It is possible, though not very probable, that the ideas on which are based the more simple fictions which are found to be similar—mutatis mutandis—among Non-Aryan as well as Aryan races were independently conceived; but this concession does not apply to tales and stories of more elaborate construction, where the incidents and their very sequence are almost identical—in such cases there must have been deliberate appropriation by one people from another. And assuredly not a few of the tales which became orally current in Europe during the middle ages through the preaching monks and the merry minstrels were directly imported from the East. But even when a tale has been traced through different countries till it is discovered in a book, the date of which is known to be at least 200 B.C., it does not follow, of course, that the author of the book where it occurs was the actual inventor of it. Men are much more imitative than inventive, and there is every reason to believe that the Buddhists and the Bráhmans alike simply adapted for their own purposes stories and apologues which had for ages upon ages been common to the whole world. All that is now maintained by the so-called “Benfey school” is that many of the Western popular tales current orally, as well as existing in a literary form, during the mediæval times which are found in old Indian books reached Europe from Syria, having travelled thither from India through Persia and Arabia, and that this importation of Eastern fictions had been going on long before the first crusades.

Whatever our modern European authors may do in the production of their novels (the novel has no existence in the East), it is certain that Asiatic writers do not attempt the invention of new “situations” and incidents. They have all along been content to use such materials as came ready to hand, both by taking stories out of other books, and dressing them up according to their own taste and fancy, and by writing down tales which they had heard publicly or privately recited.[1] Indeed they usually mention quite frankly in the prefaces to their books from whence they derived their materials. Thus, Somadeva tells us that his Kathá Sarit Ságara (Ocean of the Streams of Story), of the 11th century, is wholly derived from a very much older Sanskrit work, of the 6th century, the Vrihat Kathá (Great Story), of Gunadhya; and Nakhshabí states that his Túti Náma (Parrot Book) is chiefly an abridgment, in more elegant language, of an older Persian work composed in a prolix style, which was translated from a book “originally written in the Indian tongue.” So we need not expect to find much originality in later Eastern collections,[2] though they are of special interest to students of the genealogy of popular tales in so far as they contain incidents, and even entire stories and fables, out of ancient books now lost, which have their parallels and analogues in European folk-lore.

The first two romances in the present work form the third báb, or chapter, of a Persian collection of moral tales and anecdotes entitled Mahbúb ul-Kalúb, or the Delight of Hearts, written by Barkhurdár bin Mahmúd Turkman Faráhí, surnamed Mumtáz, concerning whom all that is known is given by himself in what Dr. Rieu terms “a diffuse preface, written in a stilted and ambitious style.” In early life[3] he quitted his native place, Faráh, for Marv Sháhiján, where he entered the service of the governor, Aslán Khán, and two years afterwards he proceeded to Ispahán and became secretary to Hasan Kulí Khán Shámlú: both amírs flourished during the reign of Sháh Sultan Husain, A.H. 1105-1135 (A.D. 1693-1722). At Ispahán he heard in an assembly a pleasing tale, which, at the request of his friends, he “adorned with the flowers of rhetoric,” under the title of Hikáyát-i Ra’ná ú Zíbá. In course of time he added other stories, until he had made a large collection, comprising no fewer than four hundred tales and anecdotes, divided into an introduction, eight bábs, and a khátimah, or conclusion, and he entitled the work Mahfil-árá—‘Adorner of the Assembly.’ After a visit to his native place, he went to Herát, where he remained for some time, and thence he set out on a pilgrimage to the shrine at Mashad. But on his way he was attacked by a band of Kuzzaks in the desert, who robbed him of everything, including the precious manuscript of his Mahfil-árá. Returning to Ispahán, it may be presumed, though he does not specify “the place of security,” he re-wrote from memory his collection of tales, dividing the work into an introduction, five bábs, and a khátimah. The work is formed on the plan of the Gulistán, or Rose-Garden, of the illustrious Persian poet Sa’dí, each section being devoted to the exemplification of a special subject or theme. The introduction comprises dissertations

(1) On the necessity of Politeness;

(2) On the behaviour of a householder, so as to obtain for himself happiness in this world and the next;

(3) On the Education of Children;

(4) On the advantages of following a Trade or Profession;

(5) On Hospitality;

(6) On gratitude for the benefits received from God.

Then follow Five Chapters:

I—On Civility, Humility, and Modesty, the virtues on which amicable intercourse with all conditions of men is based.

II—On Good Manners and abstention from injuring others by word or deed.

III—On Equanimity in Prosperity and Adversity, and Resignation to the will of God in all things.

IV—On Friendship, or Association: the choice of a suitable Companion, and the rejection of an uncongenial or base one.

V—On the Advantages of Contentment and the Meanness of Envy and Covetousness.

Conclusion: Story of Ra’ná and Zíbá.

The Persian text of this large collection of Tales was printed at Bombay in 1852. There are two MS. copies in the British Museum, one of which is described by Dr. Rieu as being embellished with two ’unváns, or ornamental head-pieces, gold-ruled margins, and 55 miniatures in the Persian style.

In 1870 Mr. Edward Rehatsek published, at Bombay, a translation of the two Tales contained in the third chapter of the Mahbúb ul-Kalúb under the title of Fortune and Misfortune, which are reproduced in the present volume as the History of Nassar (properly Násir) and the History of Farrukhrúz, the Tales being quite distinct from each other.

I—In the History of Nassar, son of the Merchant of Baghdád, the motif is that Fate, or Destiny, is paramount in all human affairs, and so long as Fortune frowns all the efforts of men to better their condition are utterly futile: an essentially Asiatic notion, and quite foreign to the sentiments of the more manly and self-relying Western races. It must be allowed, however, that there seems to be a mysterious factor in human life which we call “luck,” against which it were vain to struggle;—only it is seldom to be recognised until it has worked out its purpose! How, for example, are we to account for a soldier escaping uninjured after taking an active part in many battles, while his comrade by his side is shot dead at the first fire of the enemy? There are certainly lucky and unlucky men who have done little or nothing to bring about their own good or ill fortune. “Fate,” says Defoe, “makes footballs of men: kicks some upstairs and some down. Some are advanced without honour, and others are suppressed without infamy. Some are raised without merit; some are crushed without crime. And no man knows, by the beginning of things, whether his course will end in a peerage or a pillory.” And a Persian poet chants in melancholy strain:

Strive not to grapple with the grasp of Fate;

Canst thou with feebleness success combine?

All vain, ’gainst Destiny thy watchful state;

Go thou, and to its force thyself resign.

But the Bard of Rydal Mount—the Christian Philosopher, whose grand poetry is out of vogue in these “double-distilled” days—tells us that

One adequate support

For the calamities of mortal life

Exists—one only: an assured belief

That the procession of our fate, howe’er

Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being

Of infinite benevolence and power;

Whose everlasting purposes embrace

All accidents, converting them to good.

And it may be safely asserted that no great things were ever done by any man whose actions were controlled by a belief in mere “luck.” The great American poet lustily sings:

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

The Sinhalese have a number of proverbs about “luck” which might very suitably serve as mottoes for the Tale of Násir and the subordinate stories of Mansúr and of Shoayb; for instance, they say: “It hails whenever an unlucky man goes abroad”; and again: “Even if the unlucky man have a gold coin in his purse, he is sure to be accused of having stolen it.” In the tale of Prince Kasharkasha, when the ruined merchant comes to the young king whom he had formerly befriended, he is dismissed with a small sum of money, the king fearing lest his old friend’s ill-luck should also affect him: an idea which is constantly cropping up in Asiatic stories; though, by the way, it does not appear that the worthy merchant had himself any such fear when he so generously relieved the prince from his bitter distress.

It can hardly be said that the “moral” to be drawn from the career of Násir is a very elevating one. The three pieces of wholesome advice bestowed on him by his father’s ancient friend, and enforced with such appropriate stories, did the young traveller little good; for we find him go on blundering out of one scrape into another, until his “lucky star” is once more in the ascendant. And in the case of poor Mansúr, though he does ultimately attain wealth and ease through his own exertions, yet he was in the first instance indebted to sheer luck in discovering a treasure-crock in an old ruin. From one point of view, there is droll humour in some of the incidents in these tales, more especially in Násir’s unlucky exhibitions of his accomplishments before the king; and in the narrative of the misfortunes of poor Shoayb, whom another king strove so persistently to benefit, disregarding the counsel of his prime minister and setting at defiance the evident decree of Fate;—though one cannot help regretting that he should have been expelled from the country after all he had suffered. Let us believe that ere long his “run of ill-luck” came to an end!

II—The History of Farrukhrúz may be considered as exemplifying the Sinhalese proverb which asserts that “the teeth of the dog that barks at the lucky man will fall out;” for did not all the vile schemes of the envious vazírs, to compass the death of this Favourite of Fortune, turn to his advantage and finally to their own well-merited destruction? True, he was very near losing his good fortune when he parted with the talismanic ring, and, by the art magic of Kashank the ’Ifrít, was changed to an old barber in Damascus; but here again have we not an illustration of another Sinhalese proverb which says that “you cannot even kick away good luck”? In this spirited little romance the interest is well sustained throughout, and the scene in Damascus will, I think, favourably compare with some of the facetious tales in the Arabian Nights. Variants and analogues of the principal incidents are given in the Appendix.

III—The King and his Four Ministers, which is now for the first time presented in English, has been translated from the Tamil, at my suggestion, by my friend Pandit S. M. Natésa Sástrí, of Madras, who is already known in this country to students of the migrations of popular tales from his Folk-Lore in Southern India, published at Bombay, and his translation of another Tamil romance, Madanakámarájankadai, under the title of Dravidian Nights Entertainments, published at Madras: London agents for both works, Messrs. Trübner & Co. The Tamil title is Alakésa Kathá, or Story of (King) Alakésa, and a short but not quite accurate account of it is given by Dr. H. H. Wilson in his most valuable Descriptive Catalogue of the Oriental MSS. etc. in the Mackenzie Collection, published at Calcutta, 1828, vol. i, p. 220. Dr. Wilson describes the work as “a story of the rájá of Alakapúr and his four ministers, who, being falsely accused of violating the sanctity of the inner apartments, vindicate their innocence and disarm the king’s wrath by narrating a number of stories.” It is, however, only one of the ministers who is believed by the rájá and the rání to have thus offended, and his three colleagues successively urge the rájá to inquire into all the circumstances of the affair before proceeding to punish him, and they support their arguments with Tales showing the deplorable evils which may result from inconsiderate actions. An aged minister of the rájá’s father then comes before the king and relates a story to the same purpose, and he is followed by the accused minister, who also tells a story as a warning against hasty decisions, after which he not only makes his innocence manifest, but shows how he had saved the rájá and his spouse from a terrible fatality.[4]

In the Appendix of the present work will be found abstracts of Bengalí and Kashmírí oral variants of this Tale, the frame of which was evidently suggested by that of the Book of Sindibád, of which the numerous European versions are commonly known under the title of the History of the Seven Wise Masters of Rome, where a young prince is falsely accused, as Joseph was by the wife of Potiphar, and his father the king orders him to be put to death; but he alternately reprieves and condemns him during seven days, in consequence of his Seven Vazírs, day after day, and the Lady, night after night, relating to the king stories of the wickedness of women and of the depravity of men, till at length the innocence of the prince is proved, and the wanton, treacherous lady is duly punished.—The leading tale of the Turkish History of the Forty Vazírs (which has been completely translated into English by Mr. E.J.W. Gibb; London: Mr. George Redway) is on the same plan, though the stories related by the Vazírs and the Lady are almost all different.

To the sporadic part of the great Sindibád family of romances belongs also the Persian work entitled Bakhtyár Náma, in which a stranger youth becomes the king’s favourite and is raised to a position of great honour and dignity, which excites the envy of the king’s Ten Vazírs, who cause him to be accused of violating the royal haram, and the young man is reprieved from day to day through his relating eloquently stories showing the lamentable consequences of precipitation, and he is ultimately found to be guiltless, and, moreover, to be the king’s own son, whom he and his queen had abandoned in a desert when newly born, as they were flying for their lives.—Another group of tales pertaining to the same cycle is found in the Breslau printed Arabic text of the Alf Layla wa Layla (Thousand and One Nights), under the title of “King Shah Bakht and his Vazír Er-Rahwan,” where the king is induced by the machinations of some of his courtiers to believe that his favourite minister Er-Rahwan should slay him within twenty-eight days; and the Vazír, being condemned to death, obtains a respite by relating to the king each night an interesting story until the supposed fatal period is past, when the king is convinced of his fidelity.[5]

Neither the name of the author nor the date of the Alakésa Kathá is known, but it is supposed to have been written in the 16th century. It is one of the very few Asiatic collections in which the tales are all unobjectionable, and while these are found in much older Indian story-books, they present some curious variations, and are moreover of considerable interest as illustrating Hindú popular beliefs and superstitions.

As European mediæval writers were in the habit of piously prefixing the sign of the cross to their compositions, and Muhammedan authors invariably begin their books with the formula, “In the Name of God, the most Merciful, the most Compassionate,” so Hindú writers always commence by invoking the assistance of Ganesa, the god of wisdom. Accordingly the Alakésa Kathá opens thus: “Before relating in Tamil the story of the Four Ministers, which is admired by the whole world, O Mind! adore and serve him who is the elder of the trident-armed and the remover of obstacles”—that is, Ganesa, who is said to be the son of Siva and his spouse Parvati, or of the latter only. Ganesa is represented as having the head of an elephant, which was perhaps originally a symbol of his sagacity, but is accounted for in one of the later legends regarding this deity as follows: The goddess Parvati wished to take a bath one day in her mansion, Kailasa, during the absence of her lord, Siva. Her female attendants were engaged in some domestic duties, but she must have her bath, and there must be a servant to guard the door. So Parvati rubbed her body with her hands, and of the scurf created a man, whom she ordered to watch outside the door, and allow no one to enter. It so happened that Siva returned before his spouse had finished bathing, and he was opposed by the newly-formed man, whose head he immediately struck off, and then he entered the bath-room. This intrusion Parvati regarded as a very great insult, and when she learned that her guard at the door was slain her rage knew no bounds. She demanded that her first son, as she termed him, should be restored to life, and Siva, vexed at his rashness, told his ganas (armies of dwarfs: troops of celestials) to search for him who slept with his head to the north, to kill him, and place his head on the neck of the murdered guard. The ganas, after wandering long and far, found only an elephant asleep in that position, so they brought his head and fixed it on the neck of the man whom Siva had slain, when, lo! he at once rose up alive, a man in body, with the head of an elephant. Siva then appointed him lord of his ganas (Ganesa) and adopted him as his son.—This curious legend is the cause of all Hindús never sleeping with their heads to the north. Ganesa is said to have written down the Mahábhárata from the dictation of Vyasa, the reputed author of that epic. He is represented with four hands, in one of which he holds a shell, in another a discus, in the third a trident, or club, and in the fourth a water-lily.[6]

IV—The Rose of Bakáwalí was originally written, in the Persian language, by Shaykh Izzat Ulláh, of Bengal, in the year of the Hijra 1124, or A.D. 1712. It was translated into Urdú in the beginning of the present century, by Nihál Chand, a native of Delhi, but, from his residence in Lahore, surnamed Lahorí. He entitled his version of the romance Mazhab-i ’Ishk, which signifies the Doctrine of Love; but when the Urdú text was first printed, under the care of Dr. Gilchrist, at Calcutta, in 1804, it bore the original Persian title, Gul-i Bakáwalí; the second edition, published in 1814, by T. Roebuck, bears the Urdú title.

M. Garcin de Tassy published an abridgment (in French) of the Urdú version of the Rose of Bakáwalí in the Journal Asiatique, vol. xvi, 1835, omitting the snatches of verse with which the author has liberally garnished his narrative.[7] A complete English translation, with the verses done into prose, by Lieut. R. P. Anderson, was published at Delhi in 1851, and the Urdú version was again rendered into English, with the poetry done into tolerably fair verse, by Thomas Philip Manuel, and published at Calcutta in 1859. For the version in the present work I have used both G. de Tassy’s French abridgment and Manuel’s English translation, following the former when the narrative seemed to be rather prolix, and the latter when I found the French savant too brief in specially interesting episodes, thus, I trust, making a readable version of this charming romance.

In the Appendix will be found copious parallels, analogues, and illustrations of the chief incidents in the Rose of Bakáwalí, which therefore calls for only a few general remarks in this place. It cannot be said that there is much originality in the romance, most of the incidents being common to the folk-tales of the several countries of India, but they are here woven together with considerable ingenuity, and the interest of the narrative never flags. It may in fact be regarded as a typical Asiatic Tale, in which is embodied much of the folk-lore of the East. Like all fairy tales, it has no particular “moral,” for the hero achieves all his wonderful enterprises with the aid of super-human beings and by means of magical fruits, etc. The various and strange transformations which he undergoes in the course of his adventures are still believed to be quite possible by Muslims and Hindús alike. We very frequently read in Eastern tales of fountains the waters of which have the property of changing a man who drinks of them or bathes in them into a woman, and of transforming a monkey into a man, and vice versa. But this romance is, I think, singular in representing the hero, after having been changed into a young woman, as actually becoming a mother! In the account of his transformation to an Abyssinian, and beset by a shrewish wife and a pack of clamorous children, there is not a little humour. The magical things which he obtains through overhearing the conversation of birds are familiar to the folk-tales of Europe as well as to those of Asia, and I have treated of them fully in the first volume of my Popular Tales and Fictions.

We must regard the first part of this romance—down to the end of the third chapter—as belonging to the wide cycle of folk-tales in which a number of brothers set out in quest of some wonderful and much desired object, and the youngest is always the successful one; but he is deprived of the prize by his envious and malicious brothers, who generally throw him into a well, and returning home claim the credit of the achievement. In the end, however, the young hero exposes the fraud, and his rascally and cowardly brethren are put to shame. Several of the incidents in the brothers’ quest of the magical Rose with which to cure their father’s sight are paralleled in the story of the Water of Life, in Grimm’s Kinder und Hausmärchen, and in the Norse and German stories of the Golden Bird. Thus in our romance the four elder princes, through their pleasure-seeking disposition, fall into the toils of an artful courtesan, while the youngest pluckily proceeds to fairyland and procures the Rose of Bakáwalí, of which his brothers deprive him on his way home. In such stories as I have mentioned the elder brothers, if not deservedly enchanted in some manner on the road, waste their time at a wayside inn, and the younger is aided in his quest by some animal, troll, or dwarf, to whom he had done a friendly turn: in our romance the young prince is helped by a good-natured dív, or demon.

The prediction of the astrologers, with which the romance begins, that if the king should ever cast his eyes on his newly-born son he should instantly become blind, has many analogues in other Eastern tales. For example, in the Bakhtyár Náma we read that a king of Persia, after being long childless, one night, in a dream, is addressed by an aged man: “The Lord has complied with thy request and to-morrow thou shalt have a son, but in his seventh year a lion shall seize and carry him off to the top of a mountain, from which he shall fall, rolling in blood and clay.” The vazírs say that the decrees of Destiny cannot be withstood, but the king declares that he will do so, and then summons his astrologers, who say that the king after twenty years shall perish by the hand of his own son. The king causes an underground dwelling to be constructed, in which he places his child and the nurse. When the prince is seven years of age, a lion rushes into the cave, devours the nurse, carries off the boy, and drops him down a mountain. The child is found by one of the king’s secretaries, who causes him to be properly educated. In course of time the youth is appointed armour-bearer to the king, who, of course, does not know that he is his own son, and in fighting with an enemy who had invaded his kingdom, in the confusion of the battle, the youth cuts off the king’s hand, supposing him to be on the enemy’s side, and before dying the king ascertains that his son had caused his death.

In the Bagh o Bahár (see the Appendix, page [478]), a young prince, in consequence of a prediction of the astrologers that he was menaced with great danger until his fourteenth year, is confined in a vault lined with felt, in order that he should not behold the sun and the moon till the fatal period was passed. In Mr. Ralston’s Tibetan Tales, the diviners declare to a king that he shall have a son who shall take his life and usurp the royal power, setting the diadem on his own head. And we have a familiar instance in the Arabian tale of the Third Calender, where the astrologers having predicted that the newly-born son of a jeweller should be killed when fifteen years old by ’Ajíb the son of King Khasib, the child is placed in an underground apartment in an island. In the Turkish story-book known as the History of the Forty Vasírs, the soothsayers predict that a king’s son shall be much afflicted and wander in strange lands, with tribulation and pain for his companions, from his thirtieth till he has attained his sixtieth year. In the Norwegian story of Rich Peter the Pedlar the star-gazers foretell that his daughter should one day wed a poor man’s son. And in classical legends we have the story of Danae, the daughter of Acrisius, king of Argos, by Eurydice, who was confined in a brazen tower because an oracle had said that his daughter’s son should put him to death.

V—The Persian Stories have been selected from a collection translated by Mr. Edward Rehatsek, and published at Bombay in 1871, under the title of Amusing Stories. They occur in the Persian work, Mahbúb ul-Kalúb, of which some account has been given in connection with the first two romances in the present volume. The first of these stories, that of the Three Deceitful Women, is very diverting, and, as I have shown in the Appendix, has its counterparts in France and Spain. It belongs to the numerous stories of the Woman’s Wiles cycle, and certainly represents the ladies in no very amiable character. But as a set-off to this tale of the depravity of women—the subject of many European mediæval stories and jests, as well as of Asiatic fictions—we have also stories of the wickedness of men, such as that of the Envious Vazír and that of the Kází of Ghazní—“blackguards both”!

HISTORY OF NASSAR.

HISTORY OF NASSAR, THE SON OF KHOJA HUMAYUN, THE MERCHANT OF BAGHDAD.

During the reign of the Abbaside Khalífs there lived in the city of Baghdád a merchant called Khoja[8] Humáyún, who was very rich, highly respected, and prosperous in all his dealings. The caravan of his good fortune had for a long time travelled in the lands of success; the hand of detriment was never extended towards the skirts of his wealth; nor did the simúm of loss and misfortune ever blow in the gardens of his prosperity; so that he passed all his days in the cradle of happiness and content. One day he happened to repose in a retired part of his mansion on the couch of gladness, when he beheld suddenly two kites overhead contending for something. After the Khoja had been looking at them for some time, he perceived that from the claws of one something was hanging which the other wanted to snatch away. Whilst he was wondering the object fell to the ground, and on examining it he found it to be a small bundle which contained three rubies, a diamond, and four pearls, all of unequalled beauty and price. The Khoja was at first highly pleased at this occurrence, and joyfully considered it as an additional sign of his good fortune, and recited this distich:

Whom prosperity favours,

Jewels rain upon his head.

But, as he was a man of great discernment and experience, he looked at this affair in another light, on second thoughts, and considered it as a mystery, which made him uneasy. He had a grown and intelligent son, called Nassar, whom he privately addressed thus: “My beloved son, it is well-nigh eighty years since I began to navigate the ocean of life in the skiff of prosperity, and it has never deserted me, nor have the autumnal blasts of reverse ever withered the freshness of my affluence. But as the splendour of every morn of happiness is followed by the darkness and night of decrease and misfortune, and the leaves of the rosy volume of comfort are scattered by the whirlwind of distress; and as

Fate has not lit a lamp of content

Which the storm of adversity has not extinguished;

I conclude from this incident that as the humái[9] of my good success has reached the zenith, the caravan of my prosperity will soon deflect from the path of my destiny: the ship of my happiness may become wrecked in the ocean of adversity; and, for all I know, the treasure I possess may become a prey to the whale of reverse, poverty and misery. This anticipation may be realised very soon, but as I have spent a life of happiness and content, and have gratified all the desires of a man, I wish for nothing more; therefore, if misfortune beset me, I trust I shall be able patiently to endure its bitterness. But since you have not seen the ups and downs of life, or experienced any reverse, I do not think it fitting that you should continue to live with me, and it is in conformity with the dictates of prudence that you spend some time in travelling; for wise men have said that travel is a polish which rubs off the rust of carelessness from the speculum of a man’s mind and a sovereign cure for inexperience:

Travel lights the lamp of perfection in a man;

When a pearl is taken out of the sea it is appreciated.[10]

In Shíráz, the seat of learning,” continued the Khoja, “I have a friend named Khayrandísh, who was my companion in several journeys, and to whom I have done some good. You must go to him and say: ‘I wish you to surrender to me the deposit my father entrusted you with when you were companions on the road of Bahrayn.’ After receiving that article from Khayrandísh, take prudence and caution for your guide and go to the Maghrabí country,[11] because there is much chance of acquiring worldly goods there, and no one ever returned from it empty-handed. Consider that precious object as a means to procure you a livelihood, for by presenting it to one of the kings or grandees of those parts it will soon ensure you attention; and I for my part shall make over all I possess to my relatives and friends, and shall devote myself solely to the worship of God.”

Nassar made his preparations and departed for Shíráz, the seat of learning; but he had scarcely proceeded two stages in that direction when a eunuch in the Khalíf’s service, intending to abscond, had at midnight absented himself from the royal haram with a casket of jewels which he had abstracted. He walked with great apprehension through the streets in search of the dwelling of his accomplice, whence he intended to proceed farther at the break of day; but as the night was very dark he missed the house, and, by the decree of Fate, entered the mansion of Khoja Humáyún, which happened to be open. On looking round he soon discovered his mistake, so he wandered about the house trying to find his way out, but the Khoja’s slaves having in the meantime locked the entrance as usual, he had no alternative but to conceal himself in a corner and there remain till morning.

But the Khalíf’s treasurer soon discovered that the eunuch had decamped with the casket, and caused proclamation to be made, that any person harbouring the culprit should at once hand him over to the police, failing which his property should be confiscated. The royal officials made fruitless search all night, but at break of day, when the eunuch of night had retired and the prince of morn established himself in the palace of the horizon, one of the attendants of the court, who was a mortal enemy of Khoja Humáyún, passing his house, perceived the eunuch and took him before the Khalíf; and, considering this a good opportunity of avenging himself on his foe, he said: “Khoja Humáyún, who trusted in his wealth and dignity, has committed this crime by instigating the eunuch to the deed and afterwards secreting him in his house.” The Khalíf well knew the Khoja’s loyalty and honesty, had often bestowed favours upon him, and was aware that such an act was not at all consistent with his disposition; but as the sun of prosperity, in consequence of the celestial rotations, had deflected from him and set in the west of misfortune;[12] and the night of distress was intent on obscuring the precincts of his comfort and destroying the volume of his happiness with the scissors of extinction; and as the stratagems of enemies have results like the bites of snakes and scorpions, the insidious words of the adversary so inflamed the Khalíf’s wrath that he ordered Khoja Humáyún’s property to be confiscated, his house razed, and himself expelled from the city without giving him the least opportunity of uttering a word in his own defence.

On the same day when the simúm of this catastrophe destroyed Khoja Humáyún’s rose-garden of prosperity, Nassar’s courser of safety also met with an accident on his journey. In the vicinity of Shíráz a party of robbers fell upon him and deprived him of everything he possessed; and, exchanging the robes of affluence and wealth for poverty and nudity, he arrived in the city in great distress, and having found the dwelling of Khayrandísh, he made him acquainted with his father’s injunction. Khayrandísh received him in the most friendly manner possible, and said: “Dear youth, I am entirely at your service, and was desirous to be honoured by a message from your father, whose casket with his seal upon it is in my charge. But the laws of hospitality require that a guest who adorns my poor hut with the light of his presence should abide with me during three days, in order that I may entertain him to the best of my ability;[13] and this applies especially to you, whose presence I consider as a great blessing. After the expiration of three days I shall deliver the deposit into your hands.” To this proposal Nassar agreed, and Khayrandísh rejoiced him with his amity, and provided him with a very handsome wardrobe.

When the golden lamp of the glorious sun entered the lantern of the west, and the amber-haired belle of evening removed the veil from her face, Khayrandísh placed the best food and drink on the table of intimacy, and after conversing on various subjects with his guest, he spoke to him as follows: “Friend, it appears that worldly prosperity has left Khoja Humáyún, and that he has sent you in pursuit of it; for I have lately had a fearful dream and was very uneasy about his circumstances. So tell me now what you intend to do with the deposit.” Nassar acquainted him with his intention to go to the Maghrabí country, and with the injunctions of his father. Khayrandísh replied: “As the travellers in the path of rectitude and probity ought to guide those who wander in the desert of error and inexperience, and as I am under great obligations to your father, I consider it my duty to be useful to you. Since you have never before been from home and have spent all your days in affluence, I fear you will not be able to perform the journey satisfactorily:

Travel is not easy—its dangers are boundless;

Difficulties accompany it in all directions.

But as divine grace is the escort of all who intend to journey in the path of trust in God, I leave you to the guardianship of divine mercy to protect you from all dangers. I shall, however, give you three counsels, and hope you will profit by them.” Nassar rejoined: “It is the first duty of young men to listen to the counsels of intelligent and upright men; therefore speak, for I shall follow them.” Khayrandísh then spake thus:

First Advice.

“Though the deceitful bride of the world may look at you from the corner of her eye, and may try to bias your mind by her coquettish movements, lose not the reins of self-possession from your hands, because worldly prosperity is unsubstantial as the mirage, and the honey of its favour leaves only the bitterness of deception.

Give not thy heart to the love of the world,

For it has destroyed thousands like thee.

When the humái of worldly prosperity spreads its wings over you, covet not its favours, for it will change at last and regret only will remain.

Be not intent on riches and dignity;

For, like henna, they are not lasting.[14]

Prosperity is fickle, and when it has turned its back, all efforts to recall it are futile. The favours and frowns of the world are the harbingers of the caravan of prosperity and adversity, for both depend in every individual case from the propitious or unpropitious consequences of the rotation of the stars of the times, and are connected with them like the sun with shadows;[15] nor can they be altered by the foresight of Lukman, or by the wisdom of a thousand Platos. And such efforts may be compared to the vain longings of procuring spring in the depth of winter, or for the light of day at midnight. Thus all the struggles of Shah Manssur were fruitless, and he reaped only sorrow from them.” Nassar asked: “What is the story of Shah Manssur?” Khayrandísh thereupon related the

Story of Shah Manssur.

Once upon a time there was a man called Shah Manssur, from the neighbourhood of Nishapúr, who lived in affluence, but deceitful fortune had spread the chess-board of hypocrisy, had mated and abandoned him in the desert of affliction. After he lost all his property, he sat down in the lap of misery, and finding all his efforts to better his condition fruitless, he set out for India. When he arrived in Kabúl he was equally disappointed, so he went one day into the bazár, hoping to find employment as a porter. There he waited till evening, and every man found occupation excepting himself. He began involuntarily to shed tears, and one of the principal merchants, who was returning home from the palace of the Amír, saw him, and, concluding that he was suffering from some wrong done to him, asked him the cause of his distress. Manssur informed him of his circumstances, upon which the merchant took him to his house, and next morning told him that as he was in need of an attendant he might stay until he could find something more to his advantage. Shah Manssur accordingly entered into the merchant’s service, and gained by his diligence the approbation of his master, but raised the envy of his fellow servants and incurred the ill-will of his mistress. One day he felt somewhat indisposed, and the merchant’s wife sent him some poison as a medicine,[16] but as his distemper was slight he made no use of the remedy, and kept it in his pocket. Now the merchant had a little son whom Shah Manssur was wont to carry about, and who was so much accustomed to him that whenever he cried Manssur only could quiet him. It so happened that this day the child would not cease weeping, and Shah Manssur was obliged to take him into the street, hoping to divert him by looking at the passers-by. Having a little business to despatch, he set the child for a moment against a wall, which unfortunately fell and covered him. Shah Manssur was in despair and made a great outcry, whereupon the merchant came out and asked him why he made such a noise. He told his master of the accident, at which the merchant was disconsolate, and the people flocked from all directions wishing to kill Shah Manssur. Meanwhile the ruins of the wall were removed, and on the child being extricated he was found alive and perfectly uninjured. The father and mother of the child were in an ecstasy of joy at his fortunate escape, and all the people wondered. Shah Manssur fell on his knees and thanked the Most High, and everybody rejoiced. A man in the crowd proposed that a medicine be administered to the child, and Shah Manssur immediately produced from his pocket that sent to him by the merchant’s wife, and handed it to his master, but as soon as the child had swallowed it he fell into convulsions and expired. The child’s parents were in despair, especially the mother, who threatened to commit suicide if Shah Manssur were suffered to live, because, as she said, he had poisoned her son. Hereupon the merchant’s servants tied Manssur to a post, and ill-treated him so much that he fainted, and was abandoned for dead.

In the evening he began to revive and moaned piteously. The merchant was an intelligent man and could hardly believe Shah Manssur to have been so ungrateful as to kill his child deliberately with poison, so he approached the supposed culprit and besought him to speak the truth. Manssur said that as he was deeply grateful for the kindness he had received from his master and greatly attached to the child, the thought of committing such a crime could not have entered his mind; and that he had only given to the child a remedy which had been sent to himself by his mistress when he was slightly indisposed. The merchant at once perceived his wife’s treachery and was convinced of Shah Manssur’s innocence; but nevertheless he told him that he could no longer retain him in his service; so he loosed his bonds and dismissed him. Naked and wounded, as he was, Shah Manssur walked away and took refuge in the outskirts of the city with an old woman, at whose house he used to stay in better times when on his commercial journeys. Having explained to her his case, she received him kindly and set about curing his wounds. This old woman had a son who was carrying on an amorous intrigue with a neighbour’s wife. He happened to be absent on that night at a friend’s house, but his paramour was ignorant of this, and having waited till her husband was asleep she hastened to her lover’s house, which she found in darkness, and mistaking Shah Manssur for him she approached his couch. The wounded man thought it was his old landlady, and began to thank her for her kind solicitude. In the meantime the husband of the adulterous woman had missed her and made his appearance in the old woman’s house. She had just got up to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and on perceiving a man standing with a naked sword at the door, she concluded he was a thief, and at once ran up to the roof of her house and raised an alarm, which caused all the people of the district to sally forth with sticks and swords; but the adulterous woman ran off by way of the river, which was the shortest, to her house and went instantly to bed. In the confusion her husband was struck by many stones thrown at him when making his escape, but at last he arrived home and overwhelmed his wife with reproaches; she, however, yawned, pretended to awake from sleep, turned from one side to the other, and asked what was the hour of the night. But the infuriated husband would not be deceived by this subterfuge, but vehemently accused her of being unfaithful, and even drew his sword. Upon this the woman cried aloud: “O Muslims! my husband is killing me!” and the police officers, who were at that moment returning from the alarm that had been raised by the old woman, caught the words and ran to the house, when the husband violently struck one of them with his sword, and after a brief struggle was taken into custody.

After the woman had thus got rid of her husband the wasps of lust again stung her, and being anxious to know whether her lover was sick she once more approached Shah Manssur’s couch, awoke him and began her overtures. The old woman’s son, who had been at a neighbour’s, hearing of the disturbance in his mother’s house, went home. On his way, however, when passing near the dwelling of his paramour, he went in, and finding the house empty he concluded that she had gone in search of himself. He was not aware, of course, of Shah Manssur being the guest of his mother, and when he reached home he lit a candle and went into his room, where beholding his paramour with a strange man, he exclaimed: “I have got a curious substitute to-night!” The woman fled in terror, but Shah Manssur fell into the grasp of the young man. The noise of the struggle again awoke the old woman, who, as before, thought that thieves had broken into the house, and ran to the roof of the house and screamed loudly. Her son, supposing Shah Manssur to be the thief, told her that he had taken him. The old woman tried in vain to undeceive him; but he, incited by his jealousy and rage, struck her, on which she raised a great noise, accusing him of wishing to kill her, till some neighbours came and dragged him off to prison.

Notwithstanding all that had taken place the adulterous woman could not rest and again repaired to Shah Manssur, who was this time frightened at her re-appearance, ascribing to her all the mischief that had happened during the night, and believing her to be an evil spirit was considering how he might get rid of her. The old woman’s sister, overhearing the conversation, approached the door to listen. Meanwhile the imprisoned husband had bribed his jailor, escaped from custody, and made his appearance at the old woman’s house, where mistaking her sister for his own wife he wounded her with his sword. The noise again made the landlady get up, and in the tumult the faithless wife took to her heels, as did also her husband, who believed that he had grievously wounded her and chuckled in his heart at the deed. She was, however, very swift-footed, and when he reached home he found her again in bed and to all appearance asleep. Pretending to be just awaking, she asked what he wanted, and he told her he was greatly astonished to behold her safe and sound after he had killed her at the old woman’s house. The wife sarcastically remarked that men are once a-year subject to lunatic influences which affect their minds. Quoth the man: “Possibly this may be the case with me, as I have been greatly disturbed in my mind during the last two days; you have done well to inform me of this.”

When the old woman came out from her house she saw no one except her sister, who was severely wounded. She was amazed, and said to herself: “All the tumult and mischief of this night occurred on account of the presence of this man.” So when it was morning she spoke to Shah Manssur, saying: “Dear sir, as these misfortunes have happened, my son has been thrown into prison, and my sister will perchance die of her wound; and as, moreover, my son is very self-willed and incensed against you, it will be best for you to remove from this house.” Shah Manssur accordingly left the place and began with great pains to travel towards Gaznín, bearing the load of misery on the back of sorrow, and reading the threnody of his misfortunes.[17]

After some time he was overtaken by a man riding on a camel, who accosted him and had compassion for his wretched condition. The man informed him that his name was Baba Fys, that his camel was laden with silk belonging to Khoja Fyra, the vazír of the Amír of Gaznín, who was of a very benevolent disposition and would no doubt assist him. He then took Shah Manssur on his camel, and, dreading the dangers of the night, he proceeded with great speed. The swift motion and his wounds so distressed Shah Manssur that he earnestly desired Baba Fys to set him down again, in order that he might pass the night in tranquility and thus be able to continue his journey in the morning. But his companion told him that to stop at such a place was by no means advisable, since in the vicinity there was a mountain pass to which many animals resorted under the leadership of a monkey named Paykar, who had plundered many caravans. By the prayers of the Lord Sulayman, they could now do mischief only during the night, and therefore they kept the pass obstructed all day, so that travellers must necessarily hasten through it in the night, but after that the road was quite safe, and then he might rest himself. Shah Manssur, however, was in such great distress, and so determined to alight, that Baba Fys, unwilling to abandon him to his fate, was obliged to comply with his request. They agreed to sleep and relieve each other by turns, but had rested only a short time when they perceived a camel approaching them, ridden by a monkey and guided by a bear. Many other animals of dreadful aspect also came running and attacked the camel. Hereupon Baba Fys began to lament, and accused Shah Manssur of having brought him into all this trouble. This attracted the attention of the monkey, who made a sign to the wild beasts, which immediately pulled Baba Fys to the ground, bit off his ears and then retired. This incident so disconcerted Baba Fys that he was ashamed to continue his journey to Gaznín, and, after bitterly upbraiding his companion for being the cause of his mishap, he returned to Kabúl.

Shah Manssur, though wretched and on foot, resumed his journey, and at last reached Gaznín. As it was winter and the city noted for its coldness, he strolled about till he came to a bath-house, when he said to himself: “This is a warm place, so I will spend the night in it.” Accordingly, saluting the keeper, he walked in. The keeper said: “Young man, you appear to be a stranger; where do you come from? where are you travelling to? and what is your occupation?” Manssur replied: “I am a traveller, and the caravan of misfortunes has brought me to this country.” The bath-keeper then asked him: “Did you happen to meet on your way a camel-rider named Baba Fys?” He replied: “We were companions, but in the desert we were attacked by wild beasts, who bit off his ears, and therefore he has returned to Kabúl.” On hearing this the heart of the bath-keeper became hot as a blacksmith’s furnace, seething from the flames of grief, and he exclaimed: “What more distressing news could you tell me? He is my brother; the camel was my property; and I borrowed the price of the silk. I must of necessity go home to-night and consult my relatives on this affair; and as the vazír, who is the owner of this bath and is at present sick, intends to come here in the morning, I was ordered to warm the bath well. Do you therefore put fire into it, and to-morrow I will pay you for your trouble. Take care, however, to stir up the fuel from time to time, so that the bath may become properly heated.” After giving these instructions to Manssur, he departed to his house. But as Manssur was fatigued and glad to be in a warm place, he soon fell asleep; and on awaking he found the fire was extinguished, so he got up, and in his anxiety and inexpertness he stirred the fire so as to break part of the floor above it, in consequence of which the water in the reservoir rushed down and completely put out the fire again, at the same time scalding Manssur, who fled from the place in great fear. When the vazír arrived at the bath in the morning he began to tremble from the cold, and his malady so increased that he fainted. His attendants immediately seized the bath-keeper, who asserted, in excuse, that it was all the fault of the fireman, who had run away. But the vazír suddenly dying in consequence of having caught cold, his son gave orders that both the bath-keeper and the fireman should be put to death.

Manssur, however, had made good his escape from Gaznín, and was journeying towards Lahore when he fell in with a caravan, of which one of the merchants engaged him as his servant. As Manssur was well acquainted with his duties, he diligently guarded his master’s goods, and soon gained his confidence. When the caravan had entered into one of the pargannas of Lahore, as all the provisions were exhausted, each merchant gave his servant a quantity of goods to exchange for victuals. Manssur bartered the goods he had received from his master very profitably, and returned with various kinds of provisions before any of his companions, at which his master was so well pleased that he said to him: “I hear that there are many wealthy persons in this parganna. Take therefore some goods of high price and dispose of them, and I will give you half the profits.” Accordingly, Manssur selected merchandise of nearly the value of five hundred tománs,[18] which he sold for a thousand and returned. His master gave him three hundred tománs, saying: “Let this sum be the capital of your business, which you will in a short time increase and be thus enabled to return to your own country.” Shah Manssur gratefully received the merchant’s generous gift, and, having bought suitable goods, again repaired to the parganna, and hawked them about till he arrived at the gate of an elegant and magnificent mansion, which he concluded to be the property of some noble or grandee, and thought the owner might possibly buy all his stock of merchandise. So he deposited his wares in the shade of a wall and leaned against it, watching the door of the house. Presently a maiden resembling a húrí[19] in stature, with the serenity of the moon in her countenance, and with bewitching eyes, came out of the house with a pitcher in her hand for the purpose of taking water from the river; and Shah Manssur thus addressed her: “I am at your service—

The glances of your eyes are wonderful;

Whoever beholds them is on the top of felicity.”

But the maiden replied:

“This is not the place where every caravan stops;

The lion of every desert is here distrusted.”

Having thus spoken the damsel went her way, leaving Shah Manssur disappointed. But after a while she returned and inquired of him: “Why do you stop here?” He answered: “I am waiting on rosy-cheeked ladies, and my heart is stored with all sorts of services for them.” Quoth the damsel: “Bring your goods into the house that I may buy them.” So he took up his wares and followed the girl, who walked very rapidly. They passed through a corridor with several doors, and arrived in the court-yard of the mansion, which was a great and lofty edifice of much beauty, having many apartments elegantly furnished, but untenanted. When he had looked around and rested himself for a while, he perceived that the maiden had disappeared. At last he concluded it would be best for him to leave the place; but as he was roaming from one apartment to another he lost his way, and finding no way of exit became frightened, yet continued his search until he reached a hall from the ceiling of which a golden disk was suspended by chains encrusted with precious stones. On both sides of the disk small globular bells were dangling, and upon it there was a phial of glass. The statue of a lion of marble bound in chains occupied one side of the apartment. While Shah Manssur viewed this scene with amazement, the same girl entered with a rod in her hand. As he was about to address her, she exclaimed: “Ha! madman, you have walked into the trap at last!” and struck the lion so that he began to roar, and the disk, the chains, and the little bells shook and jingled, accompanied by great noises, shoutings, and lamentations, which terrified Shah Manssur, who anxiously wished to make his escape. Meanwhile the phial on the disk emitted a green substance mingled with flames, which ascended into the air and filled the apartment with darkness: Shah Manssur almost fainted; and when the smoke and the flame had subsided, a viper lifted its head out of the phial, from which it finally emerged and entered the mouth of the lion. Soon after this the lion sneezed, and from his brains a spider escaped, which gradually increased in size until it became as large as a sheep; when it made a still greater effort its skin burst, from which an old hag of miserable aspect, dreadful as a goblin and ugly as a satyr, came forth, embraced Shah Manssur very ardently, kissed him, and emitted from her cadaverous mouth a disgusting liquid which covered his face. Her putrid breath was like burning sulphur, and made him cough and almost give up the ghost. This dreadful hag, however, doubled her caresses, and would not leave him until he fainted away. When he came to his senses he cried out piteously: “O most gracious lady, deliver me from this calamity!” But she replied: “Your request cannot be gratified;” and then, giving him a substance to smell at, he again became unconscious.

Thus Shah Manssur continued during nearly forty days in the grasp of misfortune. The wretched hag made her appearance once every day, tormenting him, and causing him to faint for the gratification of her wicked lust. One day, however, when she was about the same business, she pulled out a mirror from her pocket and looking into it with great consternation, was suddenly transformed into a spider, crawled into the mouth of the lion, whence she again issued in the form of a serpent, ascended to the disk and disappeared in the phial. Then Shah Manssur went into the court-yard and tried whether he could escape from the place. There the girl met him and said: “I am astonished that she has not thrown you into a trance;” upon which Manssur told her all that had occurred, and the girl said: “She has a foe in Jábolká, whose machination she learns from that mirror, because whenever he attempts to ruin this wicked fairy his figure appears in it, and the accursed one departs to combat him.” Then exclaimed Shah Manssur bitterly: “O cruel and merciless woman! the torments which I have suffered in this house are the consequences of my having by your coquetry been decoyed into it; and now perhaps you will be compassionate enough to let me depart.” The damsel replied: “Young man, I have, like yourself, been caught in this shoreless whirlpool, and have been made the instrument of alluring poor victims, whom she was in the habit of using for the gratification of her wicked desires and afterwards destroying. Whenever I disobeyed her she punished me severely. Her name is Hennána the Witch, and she is a descendant of the sorcerers of the time of Kolyas, whom the accursed Pharaoh sent against the Lord Moses (salutation to him).[20] This iniquitous wretch keeps a similar establishment in Hindústán: she is able, like the wind, to transport herself in a moment from the eastern to the western parts of the world, and to carry the flames of misfortune to all places.”

Shah Manssur then asked the girl: “How did you fall into her power?” She replied: “Know that my father is the chief of Agra and is possessed of great wealth. He had betrothed me to my cousin, who set out for Banáres to procure the paraphernalia of the wedding ceremony; and when the report of my beauty and other qualities had spread through that city, the Amír verified it, was desirous to marry me, and said to my relatives: ‘I have heard that you have a beautiful girl, and I wish to take her for a wife.’ My father and my relatives consented; but as I was deeply in love with my uncle’s son, I became very indignant and exclaimed: ‘To how many men will you give your daughter? It is many years since you betrothed me to my cousin, and though he is absent at Banáres for the purpose of procuring the things needful for a household, I consider myself as under his protection, and shall never accept of another husband as long as I am alive. Do not try to force me, for I would rather commit suicide.’ This resolute declaration had the effect I desired, and, after holding a consultation with our relatives, my father determined that we should all flee to Banáres. I was dressed in male garments, and when night approached was taken out of the city and given in charge of two confidential servants who were to explain everything to my cousin, and we began our journey on fleet Arab steeds. After we had travelled for three days a fearful wind and thunderstorm overtook us in the desert, during which I became separated from my escort and was left alone. As I was roaming about I arrived at a green spot where I discovered a fountain, and feeling thirsty I alighted from my horse, which at once took to flight, and in my vain pursuit of it I chanced to meet an old woman who was weeping piteously and crying aloud: ‘O unhappy fate! have you at last in my old age and weakness thrown me into such a state that I must become the prey of wild beasts? Would to God some friend could take me by the hand and deliver me from this danger!’ I came forward and said: ‘Old woman, what has happened to you?’ She answered: ‘I was going on a pilgrimage to Makka, and when our caravan entered this desert it was plundered by robbers. Here have I been for two days without a morsel of food. Young man, have pity on my age and helplessness; deliver me from this calamity, and convey me to a place of security, that you may be rewarded for your good act.’ I had compassion on the wretched old woman and was considering what I could do for her, when she handed me an apple, of which I had no sooner eaten a small piece than I sneezed and fainted; nor was I sensible of aught until I again opened my eyes and found myself in this place with that accursed witch. When she saw me pale and frightened, she exclaimed: ‘Let nothing dismay you, for your life is not in danger from me;’ and thinking I was a man, she commenced to fondle me, but I soon undeceived her. Since that time four years have elapsed, during which, being myself miserable, I was compelled to entice helpless men into her snares. Nevertheless, one day I conceived that I might escape and secretly left the house, but I was instantly transformed into a she-dog, and was pursued by all the dogs in the town, so that I was again obliged to return to this place. But now I shall propose to you a means of escape, on condition that you convey me in safety to my friends.” Shah Manssur eagerly replied: “I promise to do whatever you require of me,” and the girl went on to say: “When the phial is broken the witch must die; request her therefore to give you tidings concerning your family, and as soon as she disappears you must strike the phial with a stone so as to break it.”[21]

Whilst they were conversing they perceived the accursed hag approaching. So the maiden left the apartment; and when the witch saw Shah Manssur weeping she asked him the reason, to which he answered: “It is now a long time since I was separated from my country, and I have had a fearful dream which afflicts me sorely.” Quoth the hag: “Be not distressed; I shall instantly give you information regarding your relatives;” so saying, she went to the phial, disappeared and quickly returned, and minutely described to him the dwelling as well as the condition of his parents and relatives. Manssur was astonished at the accuracy of her description, but, dissembling, said to her: “I cannot believe all this, because my country is far distant and you have returned in half a minute. Unless you bring me a token that you have really been there I cannot trust you.” Quoth the witch: “What kind of token do you desire?” Manssur replied: “In the garden of our house is a tree on which I once climbed, when a portion of my belt was torn off, which I tied to a branch. If you bring me a rag of the belt I shall then believe you.” When he had said this the witch went again to the phial, and, as before, disappeared. This time the girl brought Shah Manssur a stone; he invoked the aid of God the Most High, and striking the phial, it flew into pieces. Then the lion roared, the chains clanked, the little bells jingled, a fearful noise was heard, some blood dripped from the ceiling of the apartment to the ground, and the magical apparatus, the furniture, the chambers, and the entire edifice vanished, leaving Shah Manssur and the maiden standing together in a cemetery, and both poured forth their thanks to the Most High. Then the girl said: “My dear friend, from hence to Agra is ten days’ journey;” and handing him some costly pearls she added, “try to convey me quickly to my parents, and buy with these pearls all that is necessary for me on the way.” Shah Manssur purchased a camel with a litter and a slave for the damsel, and sent her off to her own country, after which he set out on foot, and in a destitute condition, for Burhanpúr.

When Shah Manssur arrived at his destination he heard that the Amír of Burhanpúr, while hunting, had lost a precious gem from the hilt of his sword, and had issued an order that all the citizens should go next morning to the hunting ground in search of it. So rich and poor, gentle and simple, left the city and roamed about. Shah Manssur joined the crowd, and was fortunate enough to find the lost gem. On presenting it to the Amír he was highly pleased, praised him greatly, and questioned him as to his connections and circumstances; after which he gave him in charge of one of his chamberlains to provide for him as soon as possible. It happened, however, that the Amír died suddenly, and the reward promised to Manssur came to nothing.

The son of the Amír succeeded his father. One day a merchant presented him with a parrot that could speak with great eloquence, and the new Amír entrusted it to the care of the chamberlain, who took the bird home, and having sent for Manssur said to him: “Take the utmost care of this parrot, for it may become the means of introducing you to the Amír, and of your obtaining the reward which his father promised you.”[22] Manssur took charge of the bird and carried it away; but when he got into the street the people were all so anxious to see it and pressed so much upon him that he thought it would be better to take the parrot out of the cage and carry it in his hand. But unluckily it escaped from his grasp and flew to the top of the chamberlain’s haram. Manssur had great trouble in climbing the wall, and just as he had succeeded the parrot again flitted away and alighted on the roof of one of the haram apartments. Shah Manssur was so frightened that he said nothing to the eunuch and other servants, but threw up a cord, by means of which he contrived to reach the spot; but once more the parrot started off, and in so doing moved a tile which fell on the head of the chief lady of the chamberlain’s haram and killed her there and then. The eunuchs and maid-servants, on discovering this fatal mishap, raised their voices in lamentation, which caused the chamberlain to leave his office and run into the haram, where he found everyone in a state of great agitation, and Shah Manssur a captive in the hands of the eunuchs, and he at once ordered the culprit to be beaten and thrown into prison, where the poor fellow was kept for some time and tormented every day until he found a favourable opportunity and escaped.

Shah Manssur fled to Guzerat, where he wandered about in great distress, sometimes hiring himself out as a labourer and sometimes as a porter. One day, when he was unable to obtain either food or employment, he determined to sell the ring with which the neighbour’s wife had presented him.[23] He was chiefly induced to take this step by sniffing the appetising fumes of roast meat in passing a cook’s shop, the owner of which he approached, and requesting something to eat offered the ring in pledge for the price. But when the cook looked at the ruby set in the beazle and then at the poverty-stricken figure of Shah Manssur, he felt sure that he could not be the lawful possessor of such a gem but must have stolen it, and that, not knowing its real value, he was ready to part with it for a meal. Now it chanced that during the preceding night some thieves had broken into the treasury of the Amír and stolen a great quantity of gold, silver, precious stones, and valuables of all kinds; and this audacious robbery had become known throughout the city and the police were busy searching the bazárs and private houses for the thieves. So the cook said to Shah Manssur: “Friend, you do not look like the owner of such a ring as this;—come, tell me where you got it?” “What business have you thus to question me?” replied Manssur. “Either give me something to eat or return me the ring.” These words gave rise to a dispute, which culminated in a fight, wherein the neighbours took the part of the cook, and on the arrival of the police on the scene they took the ring from the cook, and thinking it to be one of the articles stolen from the treasury they dragged Shah Manssur before their superintendent, and reported that they had recovered a portion of the stolen treasure and captured the thief.

It happened that a notorious robber named Obayd was at that time, with forty companions, carrying on great depredations which the police were unable to prevent, and his fame had so widely spread through Hindústán that day and night no one could breathe in peace. It is even said that a few days before the robbery of the Amír’s treasury Obayd sent a message to the police superintendent, to be on his guard, as he was coming. Consequently, when the superintendent saw Manssur he supposed him to be Obayd, loaded him with heavy chains, and sent him to the Amír, together with the ring, for the purpose of ingratiating himself and displaying his zeal in the service. But when the Amír looked at Shah Manssur, he said: “I have always heard that Obayd is a powerful and strong man; this fellow is weak and looks like an arrant coward: he may possibly be an accomplice, but he cannot be Obayd himself.” The superintendent, however, replied: “May your highness live for ever! This man, who seems so feeble, is strong and bold, and so nimble that he can jump through a finger-ring. But now that he has been captured by me his powerful limbs have shrunk together from fear; and I shall put him to the torture forthwith to compel him to tell the truth.” Said the Amír to Shah Manssur: “Who are you? and whence have you obtained this ruby?” He replied, “May the Amír live long! I am a stranger, and the ring is my own property. I have come to this country on account of the great name and the good report which I have heard of the Amír. I have fallen into the hands of the police, but I have no knowledge at all of the robbery of your highness’ treasury.” The apparatus of torture was then brought, and Shah Manssur, being suspended by the heels of punishment, forgot in his misery the name of Obayd and said, “I am Zubayr, and have robbed the treasury.” Now there was a famous robber of the name of Zubayr, so the Amír believed the poor fellow’s statement and remarked: “He may be Zubayr.” The superintendent said to his men: “Take good care of this man to-night, and in the morning we shall again examine him.” Accordingly they took Manssur to prison, all believing him to be the robber Zubayr. On the way all the people who had been robbed by Zubayr rushed up to Manssur and demanded their property; but the superintendent said: “Do not be uneasy. I shall get back to the last farthing everything he has taken from you.”

When night set in special watchmen were appointed to guard the prison, and vaunting their own bravery and fidelity, they took charge of the four corners thereof. Shah Manssur was unable to sleep, and was thinking how the morning would dawn on his innocent head, when he heard sounds of striking and digging. It was midnight, and he hearkened to the sounds with fear and trembling, till suddenly the wall opened, from which a hand grasping a sword protruded, at which Manssur became so terrified that he nearly fainted, for he weened it was a man belonging to the police. A voice, however, exclaimed: “Friend, be not afraid. I have come to save you. We have no time to lose in explanations;” and with these words a strong man seized Shah Manssur with his fetters and chains, carried him out of the prison, let him down the wall of the fort by a rope, and conveyed him quickly to a ruin at a distance of nearly three farasangs. When he arrived there he placed Manssur on his feet, and raising a great stone which covered the entrance to an underground chamber, they descended into it, and there he set poor Manssur free from his heavy bonds, after which he thus addressed him: “Young man, be comfortable and rest yourself, for I know you have suffered much.” Then placing before him different kinds of delicious food, he added: “Eat cheerfully, for your misfortunes are now ended.”

After Shah Manssur had eaten he went to sleep; and when he awoke he spoke thus to his deliverer: “Generous and kind man, although honesty radiates from your august countenance and I feel happy in your company, yet, as it is my fate to wander in the desert of grief and to fall perpetually from one calamity to another, you would greatly relieve my apprehensions by informing me of the motives of your kind act.” The man replied: “I am the robber of the Amír’s treasury! But when I learned that you, an innocent man, had been imprisoned in my stead, I considered it my duty to liberate you, and for that purpose I have been obliged to kill many of the watchmen. To-morrow, when everything becomes known, there will be great excitement and the police will be in pursuit of me. This is a secure refuge where no one can discover you; and when the storm is over I shall find means to convey you out of all danger.” Shah Manssur replied by expressing his deep feeling of gratitude to his deliverer.

Next morning at sun-rise the superintendent was informed that a number of watchmen had been killed and that Zubayr had been carried off through an opening in the wall. At this unpleasant news he was much disconcerted, and ran at once to the palace to make his report. The Amír was furious and exclaimed: “You rascal! is this how you have taken care of your prisoner? This comes only through your gross negligence. I shall hear none of your excuses. Produce the man, else I shall punish you and ignominiously expel you from my service.”

When the people of the town learned what had happened, all who had been plundered by Zubayr accused the superintendent of having connived at the prisoner’s escape and clamoured for the restitution of their property. So he asked for a month’s respite and despatched three thousand men in search of the robber. But after vainly searching in all directions they returned, and those who had been robbed confiscated the superintendent’s property, and the Amír expelled him from the city.

Meanwhile the deliverer of Shah Manssur kept him company during the day and went forth at night in order to ascertain what was going on in the city; and when he heard of the superintendent’s downfall he hastened back and said to Manssur: “Praise be to God! the danger is over, and it is time for me to send you to your own country.” But quoth Shah Manssur: “Dear friend, I have a difficulty which I wish you to solve for me.” Said the man: “Speak.” Shah Manssur continued: “Since I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, I have discovered nothing improper in your character; but it is utterly incomprehensible to me how you, who are endowed with such noble sentiments, can have selected the occupation of a robber.” His liberator answered:

“My occupation was formerly quite different. Know that my name is Junayd Muhtashim, and I am a scion of a noble and opulent family. In this neighbourhood there is a tract of country with flowing rivers, spacious meadows, fertile lands, many houses and numberless gardens. All that district belonged to me and was inhabited by my retainers and servants, and I cheerfully paid all taxes to the Amír, who was for many years my friend. In course of time, however, the exactions of the government officials became very heavy; judges, tax-gatherers, and accountants were sent to me whose rapacity it was difficult to satisfy, and I became greatly distressed. I repeatedly made complaints to the Amír, and endeavoured to convince him that he could be powerful only so long as he treated his subjects with justice, and that oppression could result in nothing but unhappiness and confusion. But all my advice proved futile, and when his delegates came again I took refuge in a fort and answered therefrom. After several days had passed in this way, I heard that it was the intention of the Amír to plunder me, so I conveyed all my moveable property into the stronghold and prepared to stand a siege. When the Amír became aware that he could not very easily get at me, he seized the sheep and cattle which I possessed outside of the city, and ultimately I was able to take refuge with my retainers in Hyderábád, whither some persons came and bought of me all the landed property I had in Guzerat; but as I could in no other way recover the value of the goods and cattle which the Amír had forcibly taken from me, I secretly returned to Guzerat to pay myself from his own treasury or in any other way, and no one has been able to interfere with me.[24] But you, my friend, must no longer remain in this place. I have a courser, swift like lightning, to whom fifty farasangs are an easy stage: mount and ride on him to Hyderábád, where I shall induce my friends to send you comfortably to Nishapúr.”

Having written a few words to his relatives, explained to Shah Manssur the position of his house, and presented him with a costly diamond, he took affectionate leave of him, wished him God-speed, led him out of the underground apartment, and said: “Wait a moment till I bring you a horse.” He presently returned with a steed, which when Manssur had mounted, “This courser,” said his deliverer, “well knows the road, and when you reach Hyderábád you must throw the reins on his neck, and he will carry you without fail to the threshold of my house;” so saying, he led him on to the highway and again bade him farewell.

Shah Manssur prosecuted his journey with great rapidity till he arrived at Hyderábád, and remembering the injunctions he had received, allowed the horse to go where it pleased. Thus he rode through the streets till suddenly a man recognised the horse, and proceeding to Junayd’s house intimated that a stranger was coming mounted on his horse. Some of Junayd’s relatives at once went out and asked Shah Manssur where he got the animal he bestrode. He replied: “The horse is my own, and you have no right to question me.” These words so incensed the people that they instantly surrounded him and pulled him off the horse, saying: “This animal belongs to us. Come—tell us the truth as to how you obtained it.” Shah Manssur, believing them to be a pack of rascals who wished to deprive him of the horse, began to use insulting language towards them. By this time a great number of people had gathered round the horse and they cried out: “We know this animal: it belongs to Junayd, and these are his relatives. You must produce some token of your honesty.” As soon as Manssur learned that these were the friends of Junayd he began to fumble in his pocket for the letter he had received from him, but could not find it—on the road he had lost both the letter and the diamond; so all his assertions that the horse had been given to him by the owner were discredited. They declared to him plainly that he had either killed Junayd or robbed him; and then they beat Manssur most cruelly and imprisoned him until the matter could be cleared up. He was kept in confinement till one of his accusers fell dangerously ill, and tormented by the stings of his conscience, when he was set at liberty.

Shah Manssur now reflected: “My remaining in Hindústán is of no use, for calamities dog me at every step. Alas for the time which I have lost in roaming about in this country! It were better that I should return home, and if the Most High please, he can make me happy and cause me to prosper there.” A caravan was proceeding from Hyderábád to Irán,[25] and Manssur, sad and disappointed, travelled along with it. On reaching the outskirts of Nishapúr, he said to himself: “To make my appearance in this destitute and miserable condition, after a journey from Hindústán, would distress my friends and cause my enemies to rejoice. Therefore I will remain here until nightfall and then enter the town and go to my friends.” He took refuge in a dilapidated building, where he mourned and wept over his sad fate. After a while an owl flew in, pursued by an eagle, and sought protection of Shah Manssur, who took up a stone to throw at the eagle. The stone, however, struck the wall and displaced a brick, when a quantity of gold ashrafís[26] fell to the ground. Shah Manssur ran to the place and there found a pot full of gold and silver. He stuffed his pockets with gold coins and then concealed the pot in an obscure corner of the ruin, fervently thanking God for this happy termination of his travels and misfortunes.[27]

He remained in the ruin all night, and in the morning he did not enter Nishapúr but went to Kazvyn, where he took an apartment in the caravanserai, changed his habiliments, and bought a large quantity of the finest merchandise, a string of camels, and three slaves, and made his entrance into Nishapúr rejoicing. He was most kindly received by his relatives and friends, and in course of time he removed the whole of the treasure from the ruin to his own house. Thus he lived in comfort and prosperity, made several journeys to the country of Rúm and to that of the Franks,[28] by which he obtained large profits, so that he finally became the owner of seven hundred strings of valuable camels.

One day when he was sitting with his friends and relating his unhappy adventures in Hindústán, he mentioned also the affair of the witch, and asked whether they had seen her about the place. They replied: “We were sitting together one day in this very house, when a strange cat made its appearance, looked at each of us attentively, and instantly vanished. Not long afterwards it came again, ran with great speed up yonder tree, and immediately falling down, seemed to be in the agony of death, but when we went up to the animal it had already expired.” Quoth Shah Manssur: “That was the same witch whose captive I had been for some time, until at last I contrived to send her here and escape;” and at this explanation they were greatly amazed.[29]

Shah Manssur once took a large quantity of merchandise, with many attendants, to the country of Tabríz, which was at that time under the Turkish government. He waited on the Amír of Tabríz, associated with him, and so gained his favour that he made him his vazír; and when the Amír died, the citizens, being pleased with the kind and just disposition of Shah Manssur in his capacity of vazír, petitioned the sultan to make him Amír, a request which was readily granted, and Shah Manssur governed in Tabríz for many years until he died.

“My dear Nassar,” continued Khayrandísh, “I have related this narrative to make you understand that a man cannot attain the object of his desires by irregular wanderings and inordinate appetites; but if he be patient he will succeed. The world is a coquette, and the more she is courted the more coy and prudish she becomes, but if left unnoticed she will try to gain our favours.”

Second Advice.

“It is necessary to guard oneself from the wiles and snares of our fellow-beings, and not to trust implicitly in persons whose character is neither known nor tried. Whoever walks among thorns must do so with great care and precaution. This world resembles a picture-gallery with many apartments, each of which has its own peculiar attractions; but a man who should spend all his time in the contemplation and enjoyment thereof, to the neglect and disregard of his daily avocations, would injure his own interests. Therefore he is prudent who runs not after every fleeting illusion, but bridles his desires lest he be disappointed and rendered unhappy, like the geomancer, the washerman, and the painter, who lost control of their passions and were drowned in the ocean of misfortunes and errors, grieving over their troubles, which they were unable to remedy.” Then Khayrandísh told Nassar the

Story of Hatim Taï and the Benevolent Lady.

It is related that when Hatim Taï[30] was dispensing his bounty one day in a hall which had forty doors, by every one of which the destitute might be admitted, a darvesh entered and thus addressed him: “O vernal cloud of liberality! the mead of hope expects to be irrigated by you. O husbandman of the field of beneficence, the aspirants to your favours are in attendance to receive your refreshing showers, and this gleaner from the store-houses of your bounty was by the guide of hope directed to the prosperous mansion of your generosity!

Bestow gifts, O noble individual,

For liberality is the lamp in the assembly of Faith.

Whoever gives a dirham to a mendicant

Is favourably regarded by God.

The umbrella of victory, in both worlds,

Overshadows the glorious heads of the liberal.”

Hatim ordered one hundred dínars[31] to be given to the darvesh, who again entered by another door and reiterated his petition, and again obtained one hundred dínars. Thus he repeated his request until he had come in by all the forty doors, and had obtained the same sum at each of them. After that he reappeared at the first door and proffered the same request, upon which an attendant said to him: “Darvesh, you have made the round of all the entrances and were disappointed at none. How is it that your greediness is not yet satisfied, and that you have exposed yourself to a refusal?” The darvesh heaved a deep sigh and replied: “The fame of Hatim, which extends over the whole world, has induced me to travel from China to this place. But in that country there is a lady more liberal than he, inasmuch as her largesses surpass the most extravagant expectations of those who receive them, so that a hundred Hatims could not equal in many years the sums which she disburses in one day.” When the darvesh had thus spoken he disappeared, and Hatim became desirous of ascertaining the truth of his statement, so he departed for China, and, arrived there, considering how he might accomplish his object, he walked about the streets.

He perceived great crowds of people hastening away and inquired the reason, when a man answered: “In this city there was a man of the name of Nassar-ullah, who possessed immense riches. He left a daughter who distributes in great profusion—and has done so for several years—money to all persons. If you wish to know whether I speak the truth, you have only to follow the crowd.” Accordingly Hatim went along with the people, and arrived at a beautiful palace where servants dressed in rich garments received everyone who wished to enter. Within the palace Hatim saw a large assembly reposing on silken couches, with tables before them on which the finest dainties were placed in rich variety and abundance. After the repast was over a confidential servant appeared with a platter full of pieces of paper on which different sums were written; and to every person who was about to depart he handed one of those papers. When Hatim’s turn came he also received one, and the assembly broke up. As the people arrived at the gate each man handed his paper to a servant, who gave him in return a bag full of gold according to the amount specified on the little ticket. Hatim was so much astonished at what he had seen that he was constantly thinking of the immense riches of the lady, and was extremely anxious to obtain an interview with her. So he requested a chamberlain to procure him the honour of an audience, and on being admitted into the presence of that queen he addressed her as follows: “Most exalted lady of the mansions of liberality, and húrí of the castles of felicity!

May the rose of your nature constantly

Be blooming joyfully in the spring of generosity!

The hand of your liberality, beauteous fairy,

Is shedding jewels like the vernal cloud.

Your servant has a difficulty,

Which causes him great anxiety:

If you grant my petition,

I shall humbly explain it.”

That idol of high prosperity gave permission, and Hatim spake thus: “I hear that the stream of your extraordinary liberality has for several years flowed with undiminished vigour, and I am curious to know how you obtained such enormous wealth.” Quoth the lady: “Every assembly receives light from its lamp, and the destiny of every individual is traced out on his forehead by the hand of divine providence.

Love was the bulbul’s, and beauty the rose’s share;

Liberal persons are the treasurers of the mercy of God.

The state of my affairs is connected with a tale which I shall communicate to you on two conditions: First, I am informed that at present there exists a man of the name of Hatim, whose liberality is so far famed that in spite of my having for a number of years made it my business to grant to all persons the richest and most abundant gifts, my name is not even heard of except in this country; therefore I am so jealous of Hatim that I wish you to kill him. Secondly, I have heard that in the neighbourhood of Khatá there is an exceedingly high mountain, in a cave of which a blind man has dwelt for many years, who never utters any words save these:

‘If you possess one barley-corn of justice,

You will never have half a grain of sorrow,’

and I desire to know his reason for constantly repeating these words.”

Hatim drew the finger of acquiescence over the face of content, took his leave, and set out for the cave indicated by the lady. There he found a blind man, whom he requested to relate his adventures. But the blind man replied: “My good friend, what can have instigated you to make such a request? I have no doubt that your mind is often exercised with problems which you cannot solve; and I pray you to consider this question as one of them.” Hatim, however, went on to say: “Persons of a kindly disposition generally comply with the requests of the importunate, and I hope you will not allow me to depart from this place without affording me the desired information.” Then quoth the blind man: “I shall withdraw the veil from the surface of the mystery on one condition: It is long since I heard that there is a washerman in Khatá who goes every morning to the bank of the river and does nothing but look at a tree which is there, leap about like a madman, sigh deeply, and repeat these verses:

‘Alas, that your picture has left my sight,

And left my golden chalice empty of the wine of joy!

It is the wish of my heart that once more I may meet her.’

Now, my good friend, if you acquaint me with the story of that washerman, I shall have no objection to relate to you my own history.”

Accordingly Hatim proceeded in quest of the washerman, and finding the blind man’s account of him perfectly accurate, he was not a little astonished at his actions and said to him: “Friend, if you would kindly inform me why you act in this strange manner, I might be able to help you in your troubles and perhaps liberate you from your affliction.” But the washerman sighed and only said in reply: “The wound of my heart no medicine can heal, nor can any advice help me. I am incurable, and the grief of my heart would only be augmented were I to reveal it.

I had better hide my sorrow from empirics;

Perchance the divine mercy will cure my grief.”

Quoth Hatim: “Young man, stand not on ceremony with me, for I shall not quit hold of your skirt until you have told me your adventures.” Then said the washerman: “I also have a great curiosity regarding a certain matter, and if you will satisfy it I shall relate to you my story. Know that in Máchin there is a man who paints on a board, during the whole year, a picture of the handsomest kind, which he sells in the bazár at the end of the year for a thousand dínars, and then returns the money and breaks his picture to pieces. I wish to learn the reason of this proceeding.” “Alas, and woe is me!” exclaimed Hatim. “Into what a labyrinth of troubles have I fallen, to be thus required to solve one enigma after another!” He had, however, no alternative but to go to the city of Máchin, and it so chanced that he arrived there at the time when the painter had brought his picture to the bazár and was surrounded by such a great crowd of people that Hatim could only get near him as a bidder, and assisted at the sale until the painter broke his picture and gathered up the fragments, when the crowd dispersed with exclamations of regret. Hatim then visited the painter and addressed him, saying: “Young man, what is your opinion regarding hospitality?” In reply the painter recited these verses:

“A guest is a flower from the garden of prosperity and mercy;

He is the fruit of the spring of happiness.

Whoever is inhospitable injures his own soul.”

He received Hatim in a very friendly manner, and inquired of him: “To what circumstance may I ascribe the happiness of being visited by you?” Quoth Hatim: “The mysterious force which attracts kindred spirits to each other has made me trespass on your retirement.” After an interchange of courtesies they became quite intimate, and Hatim, anxious to attain his object, said to the painter: “Dear friend, I conjure you, by the obligations which you have already conferred on me, to explain the cause of what I have witnessed this day,” and he thus complied:

The Painter’s Story.

In former times, when the refreshing clouds of youth and strength watered the grove of my life, I decked out my imagination with the variegated robes of pleasure, and during the greater portion of that period the buds of all kinds of desires blossomed, and the ardent longings to embrace the fairy of enjoyment took possession of my heart. I had a delightful garden in which I walked about one day according to my usual custom, when I beheld two serpents fighting. One was black, the other white; the latter seemed to be the weaker and about to succumb to its antagonist; and, as every one who removes a thorn from the path of a bare-footed person performs a good action, I drew my scymetar and struck off the head of the black serpent. That very moment the sky became darkened, something roared in the air, a phial fell to the earth and was shattered to pieces, at the same time the white serpent disappeared. I was astonished at what had taken place, but again returned to the garden next day to walk about in it. In passing near the bank of a river I observed a white hand protruding from the water, each finger of which was adorned with a ring set with precious stones of a brilliancy never before seen by the eyes of man. The desire of possessing such gems incited me to seize one of the fingers, when the hand drew me instantly into the river, and on opening my eyes I found myself in a garden like Paradise, full of the most beautiful flowers and trees. When I had recovered from my confusion and astonishment I began to stroll about that spacious garden until I reached a splendid building, which I entered, and discovered a person seated on a throne surrounded by attendants. I approached and humbly saluted him; he received me kindly, called me nearer, and said: “I am surprised to behold you in this place.” To which I answered: “May it please your exalted majesty, I have not intruded, but was forced to come into this region,” and I explained the whole affair. Then quoth he: “On account of the benefit you have conferred on our family, we were extremely anxious to see you.” On hearing these words I began to consider to what nation this man might belong, and what good service I could possibly have rendered him, when he proceeded to say: “I know that you are thinking of me. My name is Zayn al-Mafakhir. From Ma-varannahr, which is inhabited by men, the country as far as China is in my power; and, except my ancestors, none of the fairies or genii can enter it. I am obeyed by more than thirty thousand genii and fairies. I have a daughter called Subayha, who is innocent and beautiful. One of the chief genii had fallen in love with her and wished to marry her, and with this object had sent a messenger to enter into negotiations; but, as enmity and strife existed between us, I refused to have anything to do with him. This so incensed the suitor that he despatched a genie to steal my daughter; but my spies having informed me of his proceedings, I constantly watched the girl. She was, however, wont to visit your garden, and two days ago she happened to be there when Jarbua assumed the form of a black serpent, and had almost effected his purpose when you passed by and killed him. Subayha told me of this, and I resolved to make you her husband.”

When the maiden was shown to me, her bewitching eye at once captured the fawn of the repose of my heart; and on beholding the extraordinary attractions of her person I fell ardently in love with her; and Zayn al-Mafakhir said: “Subayha belongs to you. But, as the nature of a fairy is entirely different from that of a human being, you must never contradict or irritate her, but obey her in all things, lest the thread of your affection be snapped in twain.” I promised to follow these injunctions most faithfully; married Subayha; obtained all the necessaries for housekeeping; and Zayn al-Mafakhir went to reside in another place, leaving his palace with all its furniture and servants for our use. In due course my wife gave birth to a son, and at the moment a wolf appeared, to whom she threw the infant, and he walked off with it. On seeing this act of cruelty my heart was sorely grieved for my child, but on account of my promise I could not say anything, and renewed my intimacy with her. After this we had three more children, two of whom she threw to wolves and the third into the fire; and each time I was overwhelmed with sorrow, until one day, when a grandee of that region sent me some rich food, and I was just about to begin to eat it with perfect zest when my wife dashed it from me, at which patience forsook me, and I said to her: “Darling, in every thing my only desire is to please you, and I have never failed in my duty towards you. But what gave occasion for your unkindness? Three of my children you have given to wolves, the fourth you have cast into the fire, and sorrow for their loss had well-nigh killed me, though I did not complain to you; and now you have thrown away the most delicious food. Surely these are all tokens of your displeasure and even hatred!” The fuel of these words set the oven of the lady’s anger in a blaze, and she exclaimed:

“To expect fidelity from a weak man

Is like mistaking a drop of water for a pearl.

Young man, on the day of our union you promised not to ask the reason of anything I should do. The children whom you thought I had given to wolves and thrown into the fire were simply delivered to their nurses, and all are alive and well.” Hereupon she showed me our four children, who were extremely beautiful. Then she continued: “The food which I threw away had been poisoned by a malevolent genie, and had you eaten of it you would have immediately perished. But now that you have been so thoughtless I can no longer remain with you.” Having thus spoken, she became suddenly changed into a dove and darkness covered the sky. When it was daylight, the palace, with its furniture and ornaments, its garden and servants, had disappeared, and I found myself in a cemetery, dressed in the same garb as on the day when I went to walk in my garden.

For some time after this event I wandered about the streets and bazárs like a madman, until my relatives applied various remedies which quieted the excited condition of my mind; but no medicine could heal my grief. In our neighbourhood there dwelt a painter who was well skilled in drawing portraits, and I became his pupil to enable myself to perpetuate the memory of my love and soothe my grief. I attained skill to paint the likenesses of my wife and children, in which occupation I take such delight that I complete every year a large picture and sell it for a high price; but, as my jealousy does not allow me to let such precious treasures fall into the possession of strangers, I break the picture to pieces. O my friend, the felicity I enjoyed is gone for ever, and I spend my life in misery.

As soon as Hatim had heard this narrative he hastened back to the washerman and related it to him, who in his turn now told Hatim the story of his adventures, as follows:

The Washerman’s Story.

I have followed the business of a washerman for many years. My occupation brought me every day to this place, and once, when I was here as usual, I observed a dove alighting on a tree. The bird was so beautiful that I left off my work to admire it. After a while it shook its wings, its skin opened, and a húrí-like damsel was revealed to my sight. She descended from the tree and seated herself in my lap. I rubbed the sleeve of astonishment over my eyes and exclaimed: “What happiness has fallen to my lot! O most beauteous lady, I am ready to sacrifice my life to you, and to make you the companion of my joys and sorrows.” But the damsel replied: “Young man, this is not a fitting time for jesting. I have come a long way, and feeling very weary I wish to repose for a while.” So she laid her head in my lap and fell asleep, while I pondered my good fortune and future enjoyment. Meantime another and still more beautiful dove settled on a branch of the tree, and presently turned into a heart-ravishing maiden. Desirous to please her, I expressed some compliments, to which she thus responded: “Men are of weak intellects and so fickle that they bestow every moment their affection on a new object. One eye needs not two pupils and one scabbard cannot contain two swords. Let no one be thirsty in a river, or wish for flowers in a garden.” On hearing these sarcastic remarks I gently removed the head of the first lady from my lap and said to the second: “I renounce a thousand mistresses like this for half a glance of your eyes,” adding many other complimentary expressions which pleased her so much that she also laid her head in my lap and fell asleep. Soon afterwards a third dove alighted on the tree, and was like the others transformed into a beautiful girl. Forgetting what I had said to the other ladies, I fell violently in love with her, but while I was trying to ingratiate myself with the new comer, the two others awoke, and all three upbraided me in this strain: “O faithless and ignorant wretch! are you not ashamed of your unsteady and chameleon-like nature, and do you not know that the first condition of love is fidelity! Who could ever expect attachment from thee?

The morning brings light, the evening night;

Nor can a bat perceive the sun.”

When they had thus spoken they assumed the forms of doves again and flew away, leaving me to regret my folly and repent of my fickleness. Many years have come and gone since then, but I can never forget the happiness which I might have enjoyed, and so I roam about in despair.

Hatim took leave of the washerman and proceeded to the cave in the mountain where he related the history of the fickle lover to the blind man, who now told him his own history in these words:

The Blind Man’s Story.

In former times I was a skilful geomancer,[32] and one day I visited a tradesman in the town with whom I had some business, on the conclusion of which he requested me to cast his horoscope. I complied, and it appeared that he was to find a treasure. I informed him of this, but he smiled incredulously and said: “I am too well acquainted with my own destitute condition. What you say is impossible, and I cannot permit you to jest at my expense.” I repeated the operation, and the result being the same, I swore that there was no joke at all in the matter. Quoth he: “Where, then, is this treasure?” Said I: “In this very house.” The door was then locked and we both began to dig with great energy until we came upon a large stone, which having removed, we found that it had covered a well. After consultation it was agreed that he should go down and I was to remain above to receive the treasure. Accordingly, my friend having provided himself with a basket, I let him down by a rope, and when he had filled the basket with gold, I drew it up, and thus we continued until an immense heap of gold and gems lay beside me. Then I thought to myself: “It is possible that if I pull him up again he may try to get rid of me, and so deprive me of my life as well as of a share of this treasure. I had better leave him in the well, remove these riches privily, and pass the rest of my life in comfort.” When my friend found that I did not again lower the basket he began to suspect my design, and cried to me from the bottom of the well: “Brother, do not harbour any evil thoughts about me, for I shall never forget your kindness, and we shall make an equal division of the whole treasure. Draw me up, I beseech you.” But I would not comply, because I considered that a secret in the possession of two persons is soon divulged, and both are disappointed. I therefore took no notice of his lamentations, and was thinking how I might remove the treasure without the knowledge of any one, and concluded that the first thing to be done was to cover up the well so that I should be freed from any apprehensions concerning my partner, and then carry off the gold and silver by piecemeal. With these ideas I walked about the house and considered that it would be advisable to wait till nightfall, when I should cover the well and take away a portion of the treasure. But when the night set in it occurred to me that I might be attacked by robbers or that some other mishap might befal me, so I thought it would be more prudent to wait for the break of day, and then with a quiet mind carry off my wealth, and thus thinking, I fell asleep.

Now my friend happened to have a mortal enemy who was waiting for an opportunity to kill him, and being desirous that night of giving effect to his purpose he came to the house, fastened a rope to the wall, and by means of it climbed to the roof, from which he descended into the apartment where I was sleeping. The sound of the man’s footsteps awoke me, and I leapt up affrighted, crying: “Who is there?” The man, mistaking me for the owner of the house, caught hold of me and threw me violently on the floor. “Friend,” said I, “if you want gold and silver, take it, but spare my life.” “Do you wish to deceive me,” said the ruffian, “and escape by such a subterfuge? You are as poor as a beggar, and I shall make you walk the streets as one.” Thereupon he took an awl and piercing both my eyes with it blinded me for ever, he being in the hand of Providence the instrument of punishing me for my covetousness. After having thus avenged himself on his enemy, as he thought, the man wished to leave the house, but in the darkness he tumbled into the well and broke his leg. The tradesman, supposing it was myself who had thus fallen into the well, exclaimed: “Friend, you are wonderfully covetous, and thereby have not only brought me to this misery but have yourself now become my partner in misfortune.” But his enemy, mistaking him for some one whom the tradesman had thus confined, said to him: “I have punished the man who has imprisoned you in this well.” Presently, however, he began to cry out from the pain occasioned by his broken leg, when the tradesman at once discovered it was not I who had become his fellow-prisoner. I need hardly say that I passed the night in great pain from my blinded eyes.

Next day the tradesman’s son returned home from a journey to foreign lands, where he had gained much wealth. On entering the house he was astonished to find me holding both my hands to my eyes and a heap of treasure by the side of the open well, and to hear me exclaiming: “I was comfortable without this treasure, but my covetousness has for ever deprived me of my sight,” and the lamentations of the two men at the bottom of the well. He ordered a slave to draw them up, and to his surprise and joy the first to appear was the young man’s father, who told him all that had occurred, and when the other man had also been pulled out, he discovered that his enemy was uninjured and that it was I whom he had blinded. The tradesman forgave us both, but his enemy died soon after these occurrences.

I was conveyed to this cave, and every day, morning and evening, two small loaves are thrown in to me. I have been in this place many years, but have never ceased to repent of my covetousness.

Hatim, having thus ascertained the histories of those three men, at once returned to the bountiful lady and related them to her, after which she told him her own story, as she had promised:

The Benevolent Lady’s Story.

My father was a wealthy merchant of this country, and very intimate with all its ruling powers, until he died, when I inherited his property and lived in comfort. One day as I was sitting at a window I observed a large company of devotees, preceded by a man reputed to be of great sanctity, who bore the marks of piety in his countenance. Whenever he stopped a chair was placed for him, and the people stood reverently around him, wiping with their sleeves the dust from his skirts and shoes; and in this manner the procession entered the city. Seeing the stature of that person invested with the robe of piety and devotion, I was curious to ascertain what famed hermit or saint he might be, and despatched a servant to make inquiries. He returned soon and said: “This is Mullah Tamurtash, the ascetic, who has in the school of abstinence studied the divine laws and performs his devotions in the hermitage of Abú Tuchmah and is now come to the city at the invitation of the people to preach and pray.” On learning this I considered it incumbent on me to pay a compliment to so holy a personage, so the next day I made up a few presents and said to a slave: “Take this to the holy ascetic, and request his prayers for me at the throne of Grace.” My messenger was received with great kindness, and examined on every circumstance connected with my affairs. During the ensuing night an alarm of “thieves” was raised in my house, and when I awoke I found that a number of men had walked off with all the valuables they could lay hands on, and I sent a servant in pursuit of them to discover where they deposited my property. The servant on his return informed me that everything had been conveyed to the abode of the ascetic. I immediately proceeded to the king’s palace and stated my case to him, but was not a little surprised to receive this reply: “This foolish and impudent woman,” said the king, “speaks like an infidel, and ought to be expelled from the city lest some calamity should befall us on account of her wickedness. To asperse the character of a man who has all his life walked in the path of virtue is enough to call down the wrath of God on our own heads.” I was accordingly driven out of the city, poor and helpless, and journeyed on foot till I reached a village, where I obtained shelter in the house of a respectable man; and having, as my sole property, a ruby ring, I managed, by means of my host, to sell it for ten thousand dirhams, and as one of the agents of my father was established in Hindústán I determined to go to that country. Having purchased a camel and a slave, I set out on my journey and in due time arrived safely at the house of my father’s agent, to whom I related my misfortunes. In short, I remained some time in Hindústán and engaged in commerce, through which I accumulated immense wealth. I then resolved to return to China, and, having provided myself with seventy powerful, valiant, and intelligent slaves and put on men’s attire, proceeded to trade from town to town until I reached my native city. I readily obtained an audience of the king, to whom I presented a number of valuable gifts, and soon it was reported far and wide that a very rich merchant had arrived from Hindústán with a great company of attendants. One day I gave a quantity of gold and silver to a slave and ordered him to carry it to Tamurtash the ascetic, with my humble request that he would remember me in his prayers. At night I ordered all my attendants to arm themselves and to be on the alert, but keep quiet and concealed. I was not deceived in my expectation, for about the middle of the night the ascetic with his followers came, and throwing ropes over the wall got into the courtyard with the design of plundering my house. Suddenly my servants leapt forth from their ambush and captured the ascetic with his forty accomplices, all of whom I caused to be confined in chains. As soon as morning dawned I went to the palace and made my statement, when the king ordered the police immediately to search for the thieves. “O King,” said I, “all the robbers are already captured, and if you will permit, I shall bring them into your presence.” When the king and his courtiers beheld Tamurtash the ascetic and his disciples they were amazed, and the king straightway caused them all to be put to death, saying: “That woman stated the truth the first time also, but we gave no credit to her words; she has suffered innocently, and now we have no means to make good our error.” But I replied, smiling: “That poor woman am I, O King,” and related the whole affair. The king approved of what I had done, and made over to me all the property of the ascetic.[33]

“Now, my friend,” continued the lady, “years have passed since I commenced to bestow the most abundant gifts from that property, and no diminution appears in it. But in spite of all my liberality my fame is not known beyond this country, while that of Hatim is patent and manifest in the world like the sun. You have promised to bring me the head of Hatim, but you have not kept your word.” Hatim answered: “I am myself Hatim, and my head is at your disposal,” and drawing his sword he laid it before the lady. She was greatly moved and said: “True greatness consists not merely in liberality but in hazarding our lives for those of our friends, and that you have done. The pre-eminence is therefore yours. Hitherto I have abstained from accepting the addresses of any man, but your beauty and liberality induce me to offer you my hand.” Hatim was highly pleased, drew the hand of response over the eyes of acquiescence, married her, and lived with her happily for many years until they were parted by death.

When Khayrandísh had ended this tale he said to Nassar: “I have related these stories to impress on your mind the fact that whoever abandons the reins of his heart to the promptings of foolish illusions, and the vain imaginings of his animal passions, will fare like the Painter, the Washerman, and the Blind Man, will reap only disappointment, carry on his back the load of bitter memories, and during his whole life taste nothing but the beverage of shame and repentance.”

Third Advice.

“Although Fortune may smile on a man,” continued Khayrandísh, “and distinguish him above his peers, he should be provident and prudent, and must not despise the counsel of his friends. He must also be on his guard against enemies, else he will, like Kasharkasha the son of the king of Fars,[34] fall into the power of his foes, and the rose-grove of his contentment will be withered by the autumn of grief, and all his life he will be a wanderer in the deserts of repentance.” Nassar asked: “How was that?” And Khayrandísh began to relate the

Story of Prince Kasharkasha.

There was a king of Fars called Farídún[35] who had a son named Kasharkasha, whom he educated and kept with himself till he was seventy years old. The young prince then, wishing to visit India, said to his father: “Since travel enlightens the understanding and entails experience, it is my desire to wander by land and sea in the capacity of a merchant.” Quoth the king: “Beloved son, I would please you in all things, but separation from you will break my heart, and I am unwilling to part with you.” But neither these words nor any other entreaties could induce the prince to forego his purpose, and he was at last allowed to depart. His father gave him abundance of money and a number of faithful attendants, and said to him: “Travelling, my son, is often attended by misfortunes; and in case you should fall into distress, I advise you to visit the merchant Sadullah, who lives in Baghdád, and is greatly devoted to and willing to do anything for me.” Then giving his seal-ring to Kasharkasha he added: “Show Sadullah this signet as a voucher for your family and connections.”[36]

Kasharkasha bade adieu to his father, assumed the dress of a merchant, and journeyed to India, where he acquired large profits by commerce, and then went to the country of the Franks, and became so rich that he bought a thousand Indian and Turkish slaves, who constantly waited on him. But a craving for dominion and power is inherent in the nature of all scions of royalty, and therefore all Kasharkasha’s great wealth could not satisfy him, and he coveted a crown. He said to himself: “Every undertaking must succeed if the proper means be employed in its pursuit. A kingdom is gained by valour and a good army; and, thanks be to God, I possess both, and prosperity will second my efforts. Indeed, which of my ancestors ever debased himself by trading? I cannot live in such an unworthy manner; for voluntarily to descend from a high to a lower position is against common sense and betokens a mean disposition. In these regions there are many towns and principalities which I may easily conquer, and in truth most of the royal personages who attained great fame began only on a small scale and enlarged their possessions by degrees.” After this Kasharkasha travelled from place to place in the country of the Franks, seeking for an opportunity to carry out his design. One day he approached a great city, and beheld an army composed entirely of cavalry, which belonged to the king of the city, who, on discovering the squadron of Kasharkasha, imagined it to be that of an enemy and sent a messenger to make inquiries. The young prince stated to the envoy that he was a merchant from Hindústán, and in his turn asked some questions, to which the envoy replied: “This is Tytmyran, and this is the Jalyák of Tytmyran, who is on a hunting excursion.” When the messenger returned with the answer of the young prince, the Jalyák of Tytmyran rode to visit Kasharkasha, who met him half-way and saluted him courteously, because the lamp of politeness emits so great a glare as to conceal and overshadow any plans that men harbour in their minds.

On seeing the courteous demeanour of Kasharkasha the Jalyák at once concluded that he could not but be of lofty birth, and invited him to make an excursion into the surrounding country. The young prince gracefully complied, and their intimacy increased more and more during the day. They came to a high building, near which the king alighted, and went into it. After a short space he again came out, and in tears. Kasharkasha asked the cause of his grief, but the king replied that on another occasion he would acquaint him with the particulars. When they entered the city a suitable place was assigned to the young prince and his followers, and the king taking the hand of Kasharkasha thus addressed him: “Every man bears in his countenance signs of his character, and in our first interview I discovered you to be of noble descent and the scion of a royal family. I also had a son of extraordinary beauty and accomplishments. He was very fond of hunting and roaming everywhere, and once he took leave of me for two months and departed with a number of trustworthy attendants. I counted the days of his absence impatiently, and when the time for his return elapsed I dreaded that some misfortune had befallen my son, and despatched some of my officers in search of him, all of whom returned without success. I was so overpowered by melancholy that I wept day and night, until at last, after a whole year had passed, my son made his appearance quite alone, in a destitute condition and almost naked. As soon as I saw him I exclaimed: ‘Beloved son, how has the dust of this languidness settled on the skirts of your happy disposition? and how has your beauty faded? What has become of your servants and goods?’

“My son replied: ‘Dear father, my heart suffers from a wound which no medicine can cure. Do not ask me any questions, because my case is a sad one.’ Then he took from his bosom a portrait, which he contemplated, saying:

‘When I began to worship the person of my love,

My soul ascended to my lips and I lost my peace.

A ray of love’s favour had alighted on my head,

But, alas! I have lost my love!’

‘Dear father,’ he continued, ‘after we embarked in our boat we sailed pleasantly for almost a week, when a contrary wind arose and we lost all control over our vessel. Thus we were tossed about during forty days, when the tempest ceased and we came in sight of land. We made haste to go on shore, but we knew not to what country or nation it belonged. We strolled about and came to a beautiful meadow luxuriant with vegetation, where we hunted and thus advanced till we arrived at a cultivated tract of land in which was a magnificent palace. On asking a man for information regarding this country he answered: “You are in Kashmír, and that palace is the abode of the daughter of Khoja Fayssur, the vazír of Kashmír. She is wont to pass a few months here every year during the season of flowers.” In one of my rambles I chanced to meet a lady of exquisite beauty, and though I had fallen in love with her I did not dare to address her, but sent her a fervent declaration of my love through an old woman, requesting the favour of an interview. The reply which I received was most discouraging; nevertheless I continued my rambles in the grounds of the palace to enjoy the happiness of an occasional glance at my idol. While I was thus standing one day, she dropped a paper from above, and on opening it I found it contained her portrait. This was a great joy to me, but it was soon turned to grief when I heard that the lady had departed to the city. I could do nothing better than follow her and endeavour to obtain a meeting. At last my passion became a mania, and as I cared nothing for money affairs my attendants gradually deserted me, so that I was at last left alone and fell into a state of the utmost destitution. The dominant idea, however, still supported me that I should yet be happy although at present a houseless beggar in the streets. One night the police were about to seize me, but I ran off at the top of my speed and sought refuge in a house, exclaiming: “Is there anyone here who possesses kindness enough to save a man from the whirlpool of misery?” A person opened the door and admitted me, saying: “Rest yourself here this night, and trust in the mercy of God.” I was tired and reclined against the wall, when suddenly I heard the tones of a harp and of a woman’s voice in the adjoining apartment, and my curiosity prompted me to look through an aperture at the scene. I beheld a húrí-like maiden playing on a harp and warbling like a nightingale. The amorous melody and the tones of the instrument produced such an enervating effect on me that I could no longer stand, and falling on the floor, which was of weak construction, it gave way and I was precipitated with it on the master of the house, who was sitting in the room below, and he was killed on the spot. The girl who had been singing rose up and cried: “A robber has killed my master!” This soon brought all the neighbours into the house: they instantly seized and bound me, and gave me so many blows that my whole body was a mass of bruises. Then I was dragged before the Amír, who ordered me to be taken to prison. It chanced that the jailer was a man who had formerly been in my service, and he burst into tears on seeing me in such a condition. When I had informed him of my reason for coming to Kashmír and of the unhappy accident, he said: “Fear nothing—you are safe.” He dressed me in other clothes and sent me out to a friend of his own; while he put my garments on the corpse of a man who had died that day and been buried in the cemetery. When the police came in the morning to take me before the Amír to be beheaded, they were disappointed, and reported that the culprit had been so severely beaten on being captured that he had died during the night. The Amír remarked: “If the man was innocent, the guilt of his death cannot be attached to me,” to which the chief of the police rejoined: “That is true; but the people had no right to kill the man. This affair ought not to be lightly regarded, for those who beat him are guilty of murder.” The Amír then ordered him to carefully investigate the whole affair. Accordingly the chief of the police assembled all the inhabitants of that quarter of the town, intending to fine each one of them in a sum of money, and having caused the corpse to be brought before him, he said: “Ye impudent fellows, how many kings or governments are in this city?” They replied: “One.” He continued: “If there be but one king here, why have you taken justice in your own hand and killed this man?” The people asked in amazement: “Whom have we killed?” “This man,” said he, “who was captured on suspicion of being a robber and whom you have ill-treated so as to cause his death.” But when the people looked at the dead man they declared: “This is not the robber whom we seized and beat. He was a young man of fair complexion and having black hair; of strong make and healthy appearance. This is the body of a man who was of middle age and sickly; we know not who has killed him.” Quoth the superintendent: “There is no use in denying the matter,” and he called for the instruments of torture for the purpose of eliciting a confession; when one of the bystanders, having examined the features of the corpse, suddenly cried out: “This is my father, Khoja Fays, the gladiator, who not long since performed before the Amír of Kabúl, and returning home, drank some arrack, which gave him the colic, so that he was obliged to take to his bed. He was visited by some friends, who advised him to send for Ratyl the glazier, who is so famed for his skill that he excels all the physicians of the age. I brought him to the bedside of my father, and he prescribed something which was of no avail: my father died, and we buried him.” Here the superintendent exclaimed: “You stupid fellow, who asked for your testimony?” But the man would not submit to be brow-beaten, and said: “See what our chief of police has come to! For the sake of gain he takes believers who have died out of their graves! I shall at once bring the doctor, the muezzin, the grave-digger, and the mullah. To-morrow we shall bring the affair before the Amír, and you, my friends, will be my witnesses. Come with me.” A number of persons followed him, which vexed the superintendent, who said to those that still remained: “Do not be deceived by the ravings of that fool; for I shall not let you escape without a fine.” At these words another section of the crowd became excited and cried: “The superintendent is in league with a pack of scoundrels whom he sends out in the night to rob people, and gets his share of the plunder. When any robbers are caught he allows them to escape, and in their stead he substitutes disinterred corpses. Is there no king in this place? Is it not enough that one of us was killed, and now we are to pay a fine besides?” Just then the son of the dead man returned with his witnesses, all of whom accused the superintendent, who, however, was supported by his own officers and another crowd of armed men; so that presently both parties came to blows, blood was shed, and several men were killed and wounded. When the Amír heard that the superintendent was the cause of the disturbance, he was displeased, and his enemies so worked on the mind of the Amír that the superintendent was ordered to be hanged and the jailer who had saved my life was installed in his place. One day after these occurrences I perceived a multitude of people assembled in the streets and asked the cause of my friend, the new chief of police. His answer was: “To-day the daughter of the vazír has died, and all this popular excitement is on that account.” This news upset all my hopes and I at once quitted my friend’s house and journeyed till I came to the sea-shore where I found some men embarking for the country of the Franks; I accompanied them, and finally arrived here.’

“When my son had ended his recital,” continued the king, “he sighed heavily and added: ‘Beloved father, as a dutiful son I should have obeyed and never left you, and thus I should not have fallen into the misery I endure. I beseech you to sweep away my transgressions with the besom of kindness, and to wash away the filth of my sins with the limpid stream of pardon.’ Having uttered these words he expired. My grief for him can never be appeased, and the edifice from which I came out weeping is his tomb. As I have now no son, I often wonder which of my enemies will succeed to my kingdom when I am no more. You are, I am sure, a man of noble blood and good disposition. May I request you to acquaint me with your affairs?” Kasharkasha most willingly complied, and when he had concluded, the king spoke as follows: “I am prosperous in all things and respected by friend and foe. But I have passed the meridian of life, and purpose devoting the remainder of it to the duties I owe to my Creator. And though I have meditated about and sought for some one who might take upon himself a portion of my royal affairs and be a companion of my solitude, I have found none so worthy as yourself.” As Kasharkasha was ardently wishing for such a high station, he joyfully replied: “May the beautiful leaves of the king’s book of life never be scattered as long as the world-illuming sun moves in the firmament! I am ready to obey your commands.” Accordingly the Amír assembled the grandees of his kingdom and spake to them thus: “I inform you that this royal prince, Kasharkasha, who has dwelt for some time in this city, is by me appointed to be my successor, as I have no heir. Therefore I desire every one who loves and obeys me to obey him likewise.” All the vazírs and grandees drew the finger of acquiescence over the eyes of affirmation, and the Amír dressed the prince in the costly robe of a viceroy and said to him: “Dear friend, I have seven vazírs, yet I trust the direction of all important affairs to Khoja Bihrúz, whose sincere friendship I have tried on the touchstone of experience and never discovered a flaw in his noble character. Therefore, though you are endowed with the innate sagacity of noble personages, as you are not familiar with the laws and customs of this country, I recommend you never to act without his advice, in order that the affairs of our kingdom may prosper.” Then the Jalyák divorced the bride of royalty, married her to Kasharkasha, and retired to a corner of repose.[37] Kasharkasha, who had been so greatly favoured by his good luck, without any efforts on his own part, sat very joyfully on the throne of dignity and power, when, by the decree of Providence, the Jalyák was removed from this terrestrial abode; and as the desire of self-aggrandisement, coupled with unlimited dominion, destroys contentment and begets an inordinate longing for greater power, Kasharkasha indulged in ambitious schemes and resolved to conquer some of the neighbouring kingdoms. On this project he consulted all his vazírs, who readily approved of it, and even still more inflamed his ambition. When the turn of Bihrúz came he said: “May the ready-money of prosperity be always present in the treasury of the hopes of the king, and may the joyful season of perpetual spring always gladden his heart! This is not the time for attack, but rather for defence. Many potentates of the country of the Franks have attempted to conquer this land; they came with countless hosts, but were all repulsed by the Jalyák, whose fame is yet remembered among them: soon, however, they will learn of the change which has taken place, and your majesty will have enough to do in warding off their attacks.” Kasharkasha paid no attention to this warning, and, confiding in the approbation of all the other vazírs, he marched to Ráml, which is a country belonging to the Franks, and when he arrived there he halted, and despatched the following letter to Futtál Sháh, the king of Ráml:

“The title-ornament of this epistle is the name of that Sovereign of the volume of whose world-adorning book of omnipotence of existence of all creatures is but one dot. Secondly, as all nations of men are connected by the sameness of their species, and as it is incumbent upon the mighty to protect the feeble; and if they treat their subjects well they will reap blessings; therefore we send you our kind salutations, and inform you that as it is our intention to hunt in these regions, and as you would be unable to endure the brightness of our countenance, even as a bat cannot look at the sun, and we fear that if you were to behold a part of our army and warlike preparations, bodily and mental diseases might befall you;—we advise you to surrender the keys of your fortress to the bearer of this letter, on pain of incurring our displeasure.”

Futtál Sháh read the letter and returned his answer as follows: “We were astonished at the folly and presumption of your missive, and defy you to do your worst.” After despatching these lines the king hastened out with his forces to attack Kasharkasha, who had in the meanwhile received information from his spies that in his rear another king of the Frank country was in ambush. He was considering how to act with one enemy in front and another in his rear when the countless hosts of Futtál Sháh came in sight, and there was no option but to await the issue. The enemy advanced, attacked Kasharkasha, and the battle raged fiercely, for both armies fought with great bravery; at last, however, Futtál Sháh prevailed and Kasharkasha fled. In the morning he was a king, and in the evening a beggar, fleeing from his pursuers. On the second day his horse was so exhausted that he was obliged to walk on foot until he arrived at a spring, where having quenched his thirst he lay down and slept. A shepherd who had been searching for a lost sheep happened to come to the spot, and seeing a young man in costly garments stretched at full length, his covetousness induced him to throw a stone, which, however, missed the intended victim. Kasharkasha jumped up, and seeing a man of helpless appearance he asked: “Who are you?” The man replied: “I am a shepherd. Who are you yourself? and what right have you at the spring where I daily water the sheep of the king? Your inauspicious presence here has caused the water to become muddy. All my sheep are scattered over the desert, and how shall I answer for them to the king?” So saying, he suddenly leapt on Kasharkasha, divested him of his fine clothes and left him his own rags in exchange; then tying both the hands and feet of the prince, he went his way.

After Futtál Sháh had won the battle, captured the army of his foe, and plundered his treasury, he could find no trace of Kasharkasha; so he sent off a number of men in search of him, some of whom arrived at the spring, and discovering a man there with his hands and feet tied, asked him who he was. Kasharkasha guessed they were servants of Futtál Sháh who had come to look for him, and replied: “I am a shepherd, and came here with my flock, when a young man, from whose forehead the marks of royalty radiated, approached and asked me for a sheep, but I said they all belonged to the king and I was not at liberty to dispose of any of them. Upon this he became so incensed that he tied my hands and feet and then walked off with a sheep. Since you have arrived here so opportunely, I request you to liberate me from my bonds.” The men believed that he had given them information about Kasharkasha, so they loosed him, and giving him some food, hastened off in search of the fugitive. For this lucky escape Kasharkasha thanked the Most High, and speeding to a mountain not far from the spring, he found there refuge in a cave.

Meanwhile the emissaries of Futtál Sháh were scouring the plain and at length caught sight of the shepherd while he was trying to catch the horse of Kasharkasha. They said to each other: “We must not allow him to get at the horse;” and when the shepherd perceived that they meant to seize him he thought that they were the servants of Kasharkasha who had come in pursuit of him, so he cried out: “My good friends, I have committed an error. I hope you will pardon my transgression;” and he began to undress himself. But they replied: “Kasharkasha, we are not such fools as to let you go if you give us your clothes. We have been in quest of you for the last three or four days and have taken no rest. Your garments alone cannot reward our pains, and Futtál Sháh will require an account of you; so come along with us.” Quoth the shepherd: “The affair between your master and me has only taken place to-day; why should you be seeking me these three or four days?” The pursuers said to one another: “He has lost his kingdom and become crazy. We must convey him at once to our king.” On hearing these words the shepherd wished to make use of the sword of Kasharkasha, but being too awkward to do so, he threw it on the ground and wielded his own staff in such a manner as to kill one of his captors, when the others closed round him, tied his hands, and set him on a horse, saying: “Kasharkasha, do not struggle now that the boat of your prosperity has become a wreck and is sunk into the ocean of misfortune, for it will be of no use.” Quoth the shepherd: “I swear by the souls of Pír Siah Posh, Baják, Baba Ali Mest, and Mezar Mongal, that I had no idea he was a king. My covetousness induced me to rob him of his clothes; I hope you will pardon my incivility.” “You simulate folly,” they replied. “Do you not remember that you wrote a letter to the king, and after marching with so large an army against him do you not know that he is a sovereign? You say that you have robbed him of his clothes; but these words are very silly, considering that you were of elegant speech and great intellect, and that you sat on a royal throne.” “You are talking book-words,” said the shepherd: “I have never learned to read—what do I know about letters and armies? I have done no farther harm than taken his clothes. Besides, it is not usual for kings to come into the desert alone and on foot. As it is, he might have met with a worse man than myself, who would have killed him. I beseech you, for God’s sake, take the clothes and let me go; because there is no one to take care of my sheep, and if anything happen to them I shall have to atone for it by the loss of all that I possess.” The men now looked at each other and smiled. They then said: “Kasharkasha, if you have gone mad on account of the loss of your kingdom it is no wonder, but it is a marvel that you are still alive.” Quoth the shepherd: “Why have you changed my name? I am called Kallam ed-Dín Ahmed and you hail me always by the name of Kasharkasha. Perhaps you mean to sell me?” While they were thus going along, talking and laughing, they came to a small village, some of the inhabitants of which recognised the shepherd and asked him: “Where have you got these fine clothes? Who are these men? Why have they tied your hands?” He said: “I have robbed a man of these clothes, and these men have caught me and are taking me to the king. I am willing to abandon the clothes but they will not abandon me. I beseech you, by the favour of Pír Muhammed Jendah Poosh, to give them anything they ask for my freedom, and I shall repay you in goats.” Several of the headmen of the village now stepped forward and addressed the king’s messengers: “Good friends, Kallam ed-Dín Ahmed confesses his fault, and he has acted wrongly. But of what use would it be to take him before the king? We have agreed to prepare a good roast for you if you will let him go.” But they laughed and said: “This is Kasharkasha, the king of Tytmyran, who succeeded the Jalyák, and having wantonly attacked our sovereign was put to flight. The king has sent a thousand men in pursuit of him, and has promised to confer dignity and wealth on his captor. We have searched for him without resting for more than three days, and it is not likely that we shall now let him go free. All his speeches come from a disordered mind.” Hearing this the villagers were astonished and silenced.

The messengers of Futtál Sháh proceeded to the city, and on their arrival the rumour soon spread that they had taken Kasharkasha. The shepherd was brought into the presence of the king, and the splendour of the court so dazzled him that he lost his speech, and the king thus addressed him: “You fool, do sovereigns and high personages indite such letters? Now shall I ignominiously kill you, as a warning to all presumptuous and foolish persons.” When the shepherd heard this sentence he was roused, and exclaimed: “O king, I swear, by the soul of Baba Nasym Sermest, that I made that very day a vow of repentance to go on pilgrimage to the tomb of Baba Jany and never again to commit such an act. Indeed the clothes are present and at hand. I possess several ewes big with young which I shall give you if you set me free. I have the sheep of one hundred men under my charge, and were any accident to befal them all my friends and relatives would be unable to make compensation on my account,” and he wept bitterly. Futtál Sháh asked in astonishment: “How does this reply agree with our question?” Upon this all the assembly smiled, and a merchant present, who had been at Tytmyran and knew the person of Kasharkasha, kissed the floor of civility, and said: “O king, this is not Kasharkasha. He is a man of handsome appearance and fair speech; this is an ignorant boor.” Hereupon the king first questioned the shepherd closely and then his captors, who stated their case, after which he declared: “Both parties are right; Kasharkasha was at the spring and has purposely misled you. At present there is no use of making further efforts, because he has gained time to go wherever he pleased.” Then he gave the shepherd five thousand dirhams and dismissed him.

Soon after Kasharkasha had concealed himself in the mountain cave he was driven out of it by hunger, and descending into the plain wandered from town to town, scratching the wound of the loss of his kingdom and of the treasure of prosperity with the nails of regret and sorrow, and keeping it fresh with the salt of repentance, until he arrived in Turkey. There it occurred to him one day that his father had told him, in case his good fortune should desert him, to visit the merchant Khoja Sadullah, who would aid him. So he proceeded to Baghdád and found the house of the merchant, who was a very kind-hearted man, and happened at the time to be going on a visit to the Khalíf, with whom he stood in high favour. On seeing Kasharkasha he concluded from his mean attire that he was a mendicant and ordered one of his attendants to give him alms, on receiving which the prince burst into tears. When Khoja Sadullah asked him why he wept, he produced his father’s signet, which when the Khoja examined, “This ring,” said he, “belongs to King Farídún of Fars. I gave it to him; but how came it into your possession?” Kasharkasha replied: “He is my father. The desire to travel has separated me from him, and the instability of fortune has reduced me to this pitiable state.” Khoja Sadullah warmly embraced and welcomed him, saying: “Forget all your troubles and be comforted; because you will again become lucky, and this unpropitious condition will depart from the horoscope of your felicity. All men are subject to reverses of fortune, but the end is frequently very happy. My life and property are at your service.” Then he sent the prince to the bath, provided him with a costly wardrobe, assigned to him a number of apartments fit for a royal personage, and appointed fifty slaves to wait on him, all of whom he ordered to obey and try to please him. Thus Fortune again smiled on Kasharkasha and he spent his days in comfort and felicity.

One day he was walking on the roof of the house and chanced to look into the haram of the Khoja, having mistaken it for that of another dwelling. The wife of the Khoja was in the open court-yard when his eye alighted on the countenance of that heart-ravishing beauty, which so captivated him that his person became more attenuated every day. He kept the matter to himself, but one of his attendants reported it to the Khoja, who seemed to pay no attention, but nevertheless went to his wife and said to her: “Darling of my soul, I have a request to make to you, but on condition that you swear to comply with it.” The lady took the required oath, and the Khoja continued: “I divorce you.” She asked: “Of what fault has the bud sprouted in the rose-grove of my imagination? And what crime have I committed to deserve your abhorrence and to be separated from you?” Quoth the Khoja: “God forbid that I should have experienced from you anything save kindness and love; but I have been compelled to part with you.”

The Khoja, having thus divorced his wife, went to Kasharkasha and spoke to him as follows: “I have been made aware of your condition, and your wish shall be gratified in a few days. The woman whom you have seen is the foster-sister of Farrukhzád the merchant. Her husband died a few days ago, and her time of mourning is not yet over. Her brother, my most intimate friend, is in Basra, and I have sent a man to him to sue for her hand in your behalf—be of good cheer.” Kasharkasha was highly pleased, and the Khoja amused him until the time required by the law was expired. Then he sent for the Kází, and Kasharkasha was married to the lady in due form. In the evening the Khoja led his former wife to the apartments of the prince; and, when she beheld the unparalleled beauty and comeliness of her new husband, she whispered to the Khoja: “Although you have divorced me, I thank God that I am to be the spouse of this youth.” When the Khoja had taken his leave, the prince asked the lady: “What did you just now whisper to the Khoja?” She replied: “Young man, I was the wife of the Khoja and we lived together very happily, but he has without any cause divorced me and married me to you; so I said to him, when I beheld you, and he had no longer any power over me: ‘Although you have divorced me without cause, I am delighted to be the wife of this young man, who seems to be a great deal better than yourself.’” As soon as Kasharkasha learned that she had been the wife of the Khoja he drew the hand of refusal over the breast of his desires and said:

“To overcome one’s own lust is victory;

To master one’s own passion is bravery indeed.

God forbid that I should touch this woman, for I consider her unlawful to me.” So he slept that night alone, and in the morning apologised to her, saying: “I was somewhat indisposed and unable to keep your company. Pray have patience for a few days till I recover fully.”

In this manner some days passed, when the prince, conversing with the Khoja about his own country, said to him: “It is now a long time since I left my dear father, and though I have in your company and by your kind services forgotten all my misfortunes, I nevertheless feel a very great desire to rejoin him.” Therefore the Khoja loaded twenty strings of camels with costly goods and sent them under the care of fifty trustworthy slaves with Kasharkasha. Taking affectionate leave of his benefactor and promising always most gratefully to remember his great kindness, the prince departed on the road to Fars. When he arrived in the vicinity of the capital he sent the glad tidings to his father, who hastened to meet him. They entered the city together, and King Farídún was so rejoiced at the happy event that he opened his treasury and distributed much money among the people. After some time he abdicated the government in favour of his beloved son, and died, leaving him his sole heir and successor.

In the meantime Kasharkasha’s kind-hearted benefactor suffered a reverse of fortune. One day Sadullah was informed that an agent whom he had despatched to Hindústán was returned, but had been shipwrecked and lost everything. The Khoja piously observed: “He from whose favour all that is in this world depends is able to make good this loss.” But a week later news reached him that another of his agents had been plundered by robbers. Soon after this second calamity the Khalíf of Baghdád died, and was succeeded by Mutassim,[38] who had long nourished ill-will against the Khoja, therefore he confiscated all the merchant’s property. Khoja Sadullah, now reduced to absolute poverty, determined to go to Fars and take refuge with Kasharkasha. He contrived to collect a sum of money among the merchants for the expenses of his journey, and quitting Baghdád proceeded as far as Tabríz, where he fell sick and spent all his little store of money. At last he recovered his health, but being unable to proceed on his journey he resolved to apply to the Amír for some assistance. During the preceding night a robbery had been committed in the Amír’s treasury, and a number of suspected persons were brought to the palace, among whom Sadullah unwittingly took his place, and was along with them committed to prison to await the trial. They were all kept in confinement for several months, and tortured daily to draw from them acknowledgment of their guilt, until at length the real thieves were discovered in another quarter and the suspected persons were all discharged.

With a broken heart Sadullah resumed his journey to Fars, and chanced to arrive at the royal palace at the time when Kasharkasha was holding a levee and receiving petitions from his subjects. He entered the hall of audience and made his obeisance, but, as Kasharkasha did not recognise him in his wretched plight, Sadullah’s salutation was not returned. After trying in vain to attract the notice of the king, Sadullah stepped a little apart from the crowd and thus addressed Kasharkasha: “O King, why does your highness disdain to look at me? I am Khoja Sadullah, the merchant, of Baghdád, who was always devoted to your family. But now fortune has turned its face from me, and I am come to seek refuge at your court.” The king turned to one of the attendants and said: “Give one hundred of the government sheep in charge of this man, and give him also two loaves every day.” Then he said to Sadullah: “My good friend, we have appointed you to be one of our shepherds; take good care of your flock.” Khoja Sadullah thought this proceeding very strange, and said to himself: “What meanness is this on the part of the king, to appoint me to be a shepherd! However, though I have occupied a high station, I must obey and perform the duties of a shepherd till something better turns up.” So he took a staff, a sling, a bag, and a dog, and went every day with the other shepherds to pasture his flock, and soon learned the business. But an epidemic broke out which carried off daily several of his sheep until every one had perished. Then thought Sadullah: “Since my entire flock has died, it seems that I am not even fit to be a shepherd.” One day the king observed the Khoja approaching with a great load on his back, and asked him: “How are the sheep?” Quoth Sadullah: “May the flock of the king’s health and comfort be always on the increase and remain unscathed by the touch of the wolf of misfortune, and abide under the protection of the Shepherd of divine favour! Thanks to my unlucky destiny, an epidemic has carried off all the sheep, and I have brought their brands.” The king smiled and said: “Give him another hundred sheep.” These, however, also died, and likewise a third hundred, so that the Khoja was ashamed to show his face. But the fourth flock entrusted to him became more plump every day; no evil befell them; all the ewes threw twin lambs; and when the king next called for the Khoja he made his appearance with a number of sprightly and nimble lambs, and a quantity of butter, cheese, and milk. The king said to him: “O Khoja, what do you now think of your sheep?” He answered: “May the game of prosperity and the fawn of life remain within the grasp of the brave lion of the king’s happiness, as long as the flock of stars browse in the meadow of the sky, and as long as the sun continues to travel in the firmament! Thanks be to the Most High, by the blessing of the king’s good fortune, the contrary wind of my ill-luck has become appeased, the lamp of success has been kindled, the sheep of the king are all safe and sound, and my disgrace is wiped off.” At these words the king rose from his place, fell on the Khoja’s neck, and exclaimed: “Dear friend, your fate had taken such a mischievous turn that had I entrusted you with my kingdom you would have lost it, and it was prudent to wait till your luck changed. It was against my will that I kept you in so mean an occupation until that calamity withdrew its foot from the circle of your destiny. But now the obscurity of misfortune has disappeared and the light of prosperity illumines the speculum of your hopes. Do whatever you please; you are welcome to govern my kingdom.” So saying, he seated the Khoja on the throne of intimacy, overwhelmed him every moment with renewed kindness, and said to him: “I have a foster-sister seated within the curtains of innocence and modesty; if you marry her you will oblige me greatly.” The Khoja consented, and was for the second time espoused to his own wife. When night set in the lady was brought to the Khoja, who recognised her with no little astonishment, exclaiming: “My love, I meet you again!” Said the lady: “Khoja, the prince learnt the first night the true circumstances and has never touched me, or even seen my face till the moment when he surrendered me back to you.” Kasharkasha made the Khoja his vazír, and they all lived happily together for many years until they at last quaffed the beverage of death, left this rewardless abode, and departed to the mansions of eternal joy.

When Khayrandísh had concluded this story he said: “Nassar, I have related this narrative to impress on your mind that self-conceit and presumptuousness are very great obstacles to happiness. Had Prince Kasharkasha followed the advice of his minister Bihrúz when he succeeded to the kingdom of Tytmyran, and not attacked Futtál Shah, his dominion would have been permanent, and the autumnal blasts of misfortune would not have injured the rose-garden of his comfort and happiness:

You will be happy in both worlds,

If you moderate your desires.”

Continuation of the History of Nassar.

After the usual three days of hospitality had passed and Khayrandísh had imparted his counsels to Nassar, he brought forth the deposit entrusted to him by Nassar’s father, and handing it to him, said: “Almost twenty years have elapsed since your father gave this casket into my charge, but I know not what it contains; if you have no objection we will see what is in it.” Nassar at once opened the packet and took out a mirror cut out of a piece of emerald and surrounded with a number of other precious stones. In the centre of the mirror was a peacock whose eyes were constantly moving and whose feathers changed their colours every moment; and the workmanship was so exquisite and delicate that Khayrandísh and Nassar were perfectly amazed, while the former exclaimed: “My dear friend, no sovereign has ever possessed so admirable an object, and it is probable that you will not be able to sell it to a private individual except at a price far below its real value. Therefore you should present it to some mighty king, and it may thus become to you the cause of great prosperity. Show it to no one during your journey, lest it should excite the cupidity of some person.” Nassar most willingly promised to follow his friend’s advice, and received from him a ring with the injunction that should any calamity befall him he must go to Aleppo and show it to a pious recluse called Abú Jurjás, who would do his utmost to help him. After taking leave of Khayrandísh he departed in the company of some men who were travelling to Egypt, where they all arrived in safety. Nassar happened to meet the king of that country, who was on a hunting excursion with a very numerous retinue. He saluted the monarch very humbly and presented to him the mirror as a gift, which the king accepted, and on his return to the capital invested Nassar with a robe of honour[39] in full court, and also took into his hand the mirror, the workmanship of which he greatly admired, as did also his courtiers. Then the king said to Nassar: “You appear to be well educated. Pray, what is your greatest accomplishment?” He replied: “Your majesty’s humble servant is skilled in several arts, but especially in archery.” After this the king gave him in charge of one of his officials, who took him to his house and showed him much attention.

During the night the official felt very unwell, and there being no servant at hand, he went to a cupboard and taking out an apple began to peel it; and while thus engaged some plaster fell down from the ceiling, which caused him to run out of the room in great fear, and stumbling in the dark he fell on the knife which he still held in his hand, and received from it a wound in consequence of which he expired on the spot. When this accident became known, the eunuchs, the servants, and the inmates of the haram were so confused that they accused each other of having murdered their master, and at last they came to blows, and several of them were wounded and killed. In the morning the unfortunate occurrence was reported to the king, who was much grieved at the loss of a most faithful minister, and appointed his son to succeed him in the service.

Some time afterwards Nassar ventured to make his appearance at court, and was respectfully standing in the line of persons near the throne, when the monarch observed him and exclaimed: “Young man, we have heard of your archery but have never seen it. Now we wish to have a proof of it.” Nassar desired that a ring should be tied to a hair and suspended at a distance of seventy paces. Then he shot an arrow through the ring without moving it, and repeated the feat thirty-nine times more.[40] The king and his courtiers were astonished at his skill, while the spectators uttered shouts of approbation; and the king was considering how to reward him when an explosion of gunpowder took place in the manufactory close by, which destroyed the building and killed more than a thousand persons; but Nassar escaped unhurt. This catastrophe so occupied the mind of the king that he rose up in a melancholy mood, forgot Nassar, and retired to his private apartments.

In course of time the king resumed his customary duties and amusements, and it happened one day while engaged in the chase that an eagle flew near him, when he called out: “Is there any one who can strike that eagle while he is flying?” Nassar immediately responded to the call, and the eagle fell to the ground pierced through by his arrow. The king wished to reward him on the spot, but the arrow, after passing through the eagle’s body, having struck the eye of the king’s horse it became restive, began to gallop, and a helter-skelter race followed, but the horse could not be stopped, until, one of its legs going into a hole in the ground, it threw its rider, and dragged him hanging by one foot in the stirrup, into a very rapid stream. When the attendants beheld their sovereign in such great peril they hastened to save him, which they did, but not before he had swallowed a great quantity of water, was wounded, and more dead than alive, and about five hundred men had been drowned. One of the king’s servants said to Nassar: “Your archery is very unlucky, since for every arrow that you shoot hundreds of men lose their lives.” The king was taken in a litter to the palace, and only recovered his health after forty days’ medical treatment.

When the bodies of the king’s followers were taken out of the water the other attendants pierced the heart of Nassar with the shafts of irony and disapprobation, and he concluded that, as he had been so many times thwarted in his purpose of deserving the favour of the king, it would be advisable for him to quit the scene of his exploits lest his life should be endangered. He was yet undecided where to go when he perceived on the opposite bank of the river a village, which he resolved to visit. The current was very rapid, but he entered the water saying to himself: “Let happen what will, my cup of bitterness is already brimful.” As he was crossing, the water became so deep that his horse began to swim, and the violence of the flood soon swept Nassar from its back. He was a good swimmer, but his arms and accoutrements were heavy, so that he was obliged to throw away everything, and landed on the other side in a state of nudity. He waited for the evening, being ashamed thus to enter the village, and when it was dark he roamed about the streets until he found a mosque, in a corner of which he concealed himself, naked, starving, and tired as he was. It happened that a party of thieves had plundered the house of the village headman, and about midnight brought their booty into the mosque for the purpose of dividing it. They kindled lights and made some noise, and Nassar, awaking from sleep and dazzled by the lights, fancied it was morning and that the people had come to prayer. As he had a good voice, he said to himself: “Great blessings and rewards are in store for those who call the faithful to prayer, and if I do so, possibly the Most High may open the portals of abundance to my destiny.” And so he ascended to the minaret and pronounced the usual form of invocation, which when the robbers heard they weened that the morning had already dawned while they had been so deeply absorbed in dividing their plunder as to forget the lapse of time. Therefore they made haste to finish the division, then extinguished the lights, and with their bundles on their backs were flying from the mosque when they were met by Nassar, who stopped them and said: “O ye bouquet-binders in the garden of piety and devotion, now is the opportune time to seek the benefits obtainable in the house of God, and this is the place for kindling the lamp of prayer and supplication! Whither are you going? Have you not heard that any person coming to the mosque for the performance of his matutinal duty must remain there till sunrise?” The thieves took him for the muezzin,[41] who wished to detain them till he could hand them over to justice, and, one of them having given him a box on the ear, they all ran off at the top of their speed. Nassar, now certain that they could not be of the pious, ran after the thieves, and being an excellent boxer and swordsman, attacked them boldly, and snatching the weapon from one of them he struck about him to such purpose that he killed one and wounded several of the others, upon which they abandoned their plunder and fled.

Nassar was at a loss what to do with the booty and the corpse, fearing lest he should be held responsible for all that had occurred, and thus fall into fresh danger. Some people, who lived near the mosque, having been aroused from their slumbers by the untimely call from the minaret, said one to another: “Surely that fellow has gone mad, since he calls to morning prayer before midnight is past;” and when they heard the noise of the scuffle they imagined that some vagabonds of the village, whom Satan had seduced to adopt the doctrines of the Súfís, were holding their nocturnal assembly in the mosque.[42] So they hastened thither to expel the intruders; but when they entered they saw only Nassar, who was saying to himself: “I wonder from what poor fellow the thieves have stolen this property.” When the folk beheld a man standing alone and muttering to himself they at once concluded he was a súfí in one of his ecstacies, who had thus stripped himself naked; and as they walked according to the commandments of the Most High and in conformity with the holy law of the Prophet, and hated all súfís, innovators, and enthusiasts, they burst into reproaches against them, crying: “O ye transgressors of the divine commands and destroyers of the ordinances of the Refuge of Prophecy;[43] who degrade the house of God to a brothel, by the wiles of Satan, who has made you his own, and is your guide in irreligious proceedings! What breach is this that you wish to make in Islám?” Nassar mistook them for the thieves who had come back to recover their plunder and wished to deceive him with such speeches, so he said: “You rogues, I shall not be circumvented by your tricks,” and seizing the sword which was still near him he wounded one of them and put the others to flight. Then he tied a rope to the neck of the wounded man and said: “Come, tell the truth. From what house have you stolen these goods?” But the man, knowing nothing of the robbers, believed him to be a súfí in a trance, speaking nonsense, and replied: “O you wretched vagabond and fanatic and transgressor of the divine commands! I know not what you say. Have I not come hither from my house on account of the tumult which you made?”

Meanwhile the other villagers who had been driven away by Nassar went to the officials and thus addressed them: “Is Islám no longer dominant in this country, that hypocrites and infidels are allowed to enter the mosque and desecrate it with their orgies? People who live near the mosque hear every night the diabolical revellings of a pack of vagabonds. Last night they again entered the mosque, and, contrary to law, shouted the call to prayer in the middle of the night. They have even sorely wounded one of the faithful, and we do not know what has become of him.” The officials ordered a party of constables to accompany them and to seize the law-breakers; and when they entered the mosque they found Nassar still engaged in examining his prisoner, and mistaking them also for the thieves he wounded one of them likewise. “Súfí,” they exclaimed, “what impudence and wickedness is this? Do pious and virtuous men ever fight and kill the servants of God in the mosque?” Quoth Nassar: “You vile robbers! you cannot deceive me. I intend to slay you all this night, to deserve the reward of God.” When they saw him speaking so boldly, naked as he was, they said: “Look at the presumption of this súfí, to behave in such a manner in the mosque!” By this time, the morning having dawned, numbers of the people came to prayer, and Nassar fled, with the sword in his hand, and wounded several persons who attempted to stop him. But he ran so fast that no one was able to overtake him, and his pursuers then returned to their homes. Soon afterwards, however, a company of súfís came into the village and were at once accused of having committed the robbery; a general tumult ensued and many men were slain or wounded. Ultimately the affair came before the king of Egypt, who caused the súfís to be punished and fined, although they were entirely innocent of the crime laid to their charge.

Nassar now wandered from town to town, pursued by misfortunes. One day the king of Egypt asked his courtiers what had become of him, but they could only reply that in consequence of the various calamities that followed his archery feat he had disappeared. His majesty observed that for these accidents Nassar was in no way accountable, because they had all occurred by the decree of Fate, and he despatched messengers in every direction to search for him. Nassar was at last discovered in a village, in a very destitute and miserable condition. He was carried to the capital, and before bringing him into the king’s presence it was necessary to take him to the bath, after which his majesty received him with great kindness and inquired of him: “Are you skilled in any other things besides archery?” Nassar bowed his head and replied: “I am acquainted with military tactics, mathematics, commerce, mineralogy, boxing, fencing, and also with cooking.”[44] Quoth the king: “All these accomplishments adorn the character of a man, none of them, however, can equal your skill in archery; but when you acquired it your destiny was unpropitious and the moon was evidently in the mansion of the Scorpion.[45] It will therefore be proper for you to abstain from shooting arrows and to practice other arts until the lucky hour comes when these calamities have disappeared from your horoscope. This day I wish to give a banquet, and you must exhibit your skill in boxing; and as you tell me that you also possess a knowledge of the art of cooking, I give you leave to prepare any dishes you please, for it is long since I was able to relish any kind of food.”

Accordingly Nassar made various savoury dishes, and when he had finished his work the king commanded him to show his skill in boxing until the dinner hour. Nassar said that he was ready to box and wrestle with two hundred men who excelled in these arts, and when they were produced he very easily vanquished them one after another.[46] The king gave orders that more men should be brought, but to his astonishment none could be found willing to encounter such a formidable antagonist. But recollecting that he possessed a Circassian slave named Fírúz Bakht, lately presented to him by the Sultan of Turkey, who was skilled in wrestling, he ordered him to attack Nassar. The slave caught Nassar about the loins so forcibly that his own hands bled, but he was unable to move him a hair’s breadth from the spot where he stood. To be brief, they wrestled long and skilfully, the Circassian trying two hundred different tricks without effect. At last, however, Nassar turned the game and lifted Fírúz Bakht from the ground with as much ease as if he were a child; but the slave so firmly grasped a pillar of the shed in which the sport was taking place that Nassar could not pull him from it; and making a final effort he tugged so hard that along with Fírúz Bakht he wrenched the pillar away, which killed the slave and about twenty of the spectators by a portion of the roof falling down on them after its support had been thus withdrawn. The king, with all his attendants, fled from the place in alarm, and the banquet, which was to be one of joy, became one of mourning.

Although the king was greatly affected by this sad accident he said to his courtiers: “As this event only took place by the immutable decree of Fate, I can in no way blame the young stranger; and if I lose my life together with my kingdom, a thousand accidents such as this will not influence me against him.” The courtiers tried to comfort the king, but as he was very melancholy their efforts were fruitless. When the table-decker made his appearance and announced that the dinner prepared by Nassar was ready to be served up, the king said: “Though we have at present no inclination to eat anything, yet, as the dinner is prepared, cause it to be brought in.” When, however, the king had tasted some of the dishes he found them to be more delicious than aught he had ever eaten before; and, thus seduced, he ate so heartily that he became ill, and having but lately recovered from sickness he was unable to digest the food, and only recovered after a long course of medicine.

But that magnanimous and kind-hearted monarch, albeit he had never been sick before he had come in contact with Nassar, would ascribe neither his indisposition nor the other calamities to that circumstance, but to the decrees of Fate, and bore him no ill-will. He invested Nassar with a robe of honour, made him various presents, and was about to appoint him to a high office, when one of the vazírs, who had by his natural sagacity guessed the king’s purpose, said that, although his majesty was of a liberal and kind disposition and Nassar a deserving person, yet it would be inadvisable to bestow on him any great favours at the present time, because experience had abundantly shown that the withering blasts of his unfortunate destiny had not yet ceased to blow, and only mischief would be the result. Therefore, he went on to say, it would be better to give him a considerable sum of money and dismiss him, with the injunction to remain in some other place until his destiny had changed for the better, when he might return to the service of the king, whose favours, if now bestowed, would be thrown away. He continued: “It is also certain that in the same way as all efforts to aid persons who are predestined to be unfortunate are in vain, so also the devotional and religious wishes of silly though well-meaning men are of little avail to them.” The king asked: “How is that?” Upon which the vazír related the

Story of the Foolish Hermit.

At the time of the rising of the Sun of Prophecy, the glance of an angel of the Court of Unity[47] chanced to alight on the hermitage of an ascetic, whom he beheld sedulously engaged in all the duties of religion; and he was so pleased that he was curious to know what should be the reward of all this piety. Then the allocution reached him from the Lord of Omniscience: “Angel, pray that this mystery be revealed to thee.” Accordingly the angel made his supplication and was informed that the reward of the ascetic should be very inconsiderable; whereat he was so astonished that he said: “O God! how can this be the reward of a whole life of piety? I consider it as insufficient for a single day. What wisdom is concealed in this matter?” Then he heard this order: “Visit him in human form, and learn the state of the case.” The angel obeyed, and, after being by the power of the Most High transformed into a man, he visited the hermit and became so intimate with him that he lived for several days in his cell, which being situated in a pleasant and fertile region, with abundance of springs and flowers, the angel said one day to the hermit: “Arise, let us enjoy a walk in this delightful place.” Accordingly they went out together, and when they entered a paradise-like meadow, and beheld the freshness of the parti-coloured vegetation, they praised the Almighty. Said the angel: “Hermit, be grateful to God for having adorned the neighbourhood of your cell like a paradise with springs and flowers and crowned every blade of grass with the diadem of loveliness and fertility.” The ascetic replied: “My dear brother, I always enjoy the pleasantness of this locality because it abounds in grass and water, so that many animals might be fattened here. But I am constantly burning with grief that God has no ass whom I might comfort and feed in this place, and might for his sake acquire a higher merit in the next world.” When the angel was thus made aware of the littleness of the hermit’s mind, by this silly wish, he left him, and resuming his proper form the divine allocution reached him: “Have you seen the intelligence and wisdom of the hermit?”[48]

The vazír continued: “A sovereign must also use very great care in the choice of his ministers, otherwise he may fare like the king of Basra, who had a very ambitious and wicked vazír.” Quoth the king of Egypt: “How was that?” and the minister began to relate the

Story of the Treacherous Vazír.

In ancient times there was a king of Basra who was very kind-hearted and liberal. He had a good vazír, worthy of his confidence, who assiduously attended to all his duties and was very faithful; but death overtook him, and the king, who was for some time undecided what to do, ultimately appointed in his place a man of great ambition, who secretly entertained a design of usurping the throne; and being in want of an accomplice he bribed a eunuch to introduce him to one of the ladies of the haram. But when he had become accustomed to the pleasures which awaited him in the fond embraces of love, he thought that it would be dangerous to carry out his purpose very hastily, so he drew the lady into his secret, and now neglected the eunuch who had assisted him thus far and who consequently made a vow to avenge himself on the ungrateful vazír.

One night the king had a very unpleasant dream: a scorpion crawled from his sleeve into his shoe, and when he attempted to take it out it bit him. In the morning the sultan related his dream to some of his courtiers, and as they could offer no satisfactory explanation of it he said: “You are only groping in the dark, and we must wait till a skilful interpreter can be found.”

The eunuch, who had heard the attendants conversing on the subject and thought this a favourable opportunity to revenge himself on the vazír, said that he was able to interpret the dream; and on being brought before the king spake as follows: “The interpretation is, that one of your majesty’s highest officials has withdrawn his head from the circle of obedience: by means of a eunuch he has gained admission into the royal haram, which he visits every night, and carries on a love-intrigue with one of the ladies; and moreover he entertains the most wicked design, at a fitting opportunity, of depriving your majesty of life (which God forbid!) and usurping the throne himself;—and there is a high degree of probability that the official is no other than the vazír.” On hearing this the king was wroth, but concealed his feelings, so that he should not compromise his dignity, and exclaimed: “Base wretch! there is nothing to warrant such a suspicion, unless, perhaps, some spite which you harbour against the vazír, and in consequence of which you malign him;” and he ordered the eunuch to be instantly put to death. But the king, though inclined to give some credit to the eunuch’s story, could hardly believe that a man such as his vazír, whom he had raised from a low position and made a sharer in the government of the kingdom, could be so ungrateful as to covet his throne and purpose depriving him of life.

During the past night the vazír had as usual visited his paramour, and they had then agreed to murder the king on the following night, but they wot not of what was in store for them. The king, who had been rendered uneasy by the revelation of the eunuch, entered his private apartments in the evening, and then secretly despatched a confidential servant to see whether the vazír was in his own house. When the messenger returned with the information that the vazír was not at home, the king had no longer any doubts, and knew that if the vazír had entered the haram he must have done so from the water-side. He quietly summoned all the watchmen and said to them: “Last night I dreamt that thieves entered the haram, and I am very uneasy; therefore I command you to kill any person either entering or issuing from it.” After the sentries had returned to their posts the king himself went into the haram, and, accompanied by some trusty eunuchs, rushed into the room where he supposed the vazír and the lady slept, and there discovering another guilty couple he slew them, and the former escaped.[49] While a eunuch ran after the vazír and his paramour, the king went out to see whether all the sentries were at their posts; and as soon as they perceived him they stabbed him to death, according to his own order. Meanwhile the eunuch pursued the vazír, who also went out by the water-side, was also mistaken in the darkness for a robber, and met the same fate as his master. Then the other eunuchs who were in search of the vazír, and were not aware of the king’s order, also issued by the same door and were all killed by the guards; so that in the morning when the dead bodies were counted they amounted to forty. On discovering the body of the king the people greatly deplored the misfortune, and, considering that he with all his attendants had been killed in consequence of a conspiracy, they laid hold of the watchmen and put them to death, after which the kingdom fell into a state of anarchy.

The vazír added that this narrative exemplified how one individual may become the cause of the death of many, and that from the misfortunes which followed Nassar’s exploits it plainly appeared that he was also one of the number of those ill-fated wretches, and that the misadventures of Shoayb of Baghdád likewise supported his statement. Quoth the king: “How is that?” whereupon the vazír related the

Story of the Unlucky Shoayb.

In days of yore there dwelt in the city of Baghdád a rich man called Shoayb, but various calamities befell him so that he became extremely poor and quitted the country, and his ill-luck followed him wheresoever he went, and in spite of all his diligence and skill he was unable to succeed in any affair which he undertook. One day he approached a river and discovered three men engaged in fishing, and as he had never seen this occupation exercised he looked on with much interest. The three fishermen, seeing that he was in a very destitute condition, easily induced him to enter their service, on condition that they should give him as his wages one fish for breakfast and another for supper.[50] After he had been a few days thus employed the river began to decrease in volume and also the fish in number, so that they caught only a tenth of the quantity which they used to get formerly. At last they could catch only one fish in a whole day, and were reduced to such straits that they resolved to go in quest of some other kind of work.

One day the sultan happened to pass that way and perceived to his great astonishment that there was scarcely any water in the river. He questioned the fishermen, who stated their case, when the vazír of the king, who was a very intelligent man, asked them: “Has any stranger come among you during these days and been taken into partnership with you?” They pointed to Shoayb and said: “This man is a stranger among us.” Then Shoayb was examined, and he recounted his former wealthy condition and his present destitution in such appropriate and eloquent language that the king and his vazír, as well as all the attendants, were greatly amazed, and when he had ended his narrative the vazír said: “To stay any longer in this place is contrary to the dictates of prudence!” So they all returned to the city, and on their way the king asked the vazír: “Why did you make those inquiries and then become so disconcerted by the answers you received that, by your declaration that it would be unsafe to stay any longer there, you almost forced us away from the place?” The vazír saluted the king and thus replied: “Most gracious sovereign, when your majesty asked for the cause of the river’s decrease I thought of three causes: First, that perhaps these fishermen had for several days forgotten God and the Prophet, and that therefore such a calamity had befallen them; because it is certain that when men give way to evil habits, the genii and demons are permitted to injure them and to destroy their prospects even as the withering blasts of autumn deprive the roses of their freshness and bloom. Secondly, that perchance these fishermen had in some way injured either your majesty or the inhabitants of this district, for which they were thus punished. Thirdly, that possibly a stranger had come amongst these fishermen, and that on account of the misfortunes which follow his heels they as his partners are compelled to participate in them, and therefore I questioned that stranger regarding his history; when I discovered that he had brought his ill-luck with him, in consequence of which the river itself has nearly dried up.” Quoth the king: “I have full confidence in your intelligence and experience, but I put no faith in your theories of good and ill-luck, because both are mere expressions and depend entirely upon circumstances. Thus, for instance, if a man be intelligent and honest, and manage his affairs properly, he will certainly have good luck, but a careless fool must naturally meet with ill luck:

Every man is master of his own fortune

According to his character and strength of mind:[51]

One, as Lukman,[52] wise and opportune;

The other as crazy Majnún[53] you will find.

The bulbul[54] among roses dwells,

The owl in ruins dark abides;

But intellect every ascent tells,

And the fool his own folly chides.”

The vazír responded: “What your majesty says is but the sequel of my assertion, because the intellectual qualities of every individual depend upon his horoscope and the propitious or unpropitious positions of the stars, and according to these a man is either lucky or unlucky. Moreover, we frequently see that intelligent and good men do not prosper, while fools and rogues succeed in all their undertakings.”[55] Quoth the king: “This I believe, because sometimes an intelligent man has not that practical turn required in the management of affairs and is thereby unable to overcome difficulties.”[56] To this the vazír rejoined: “What argument can your majesty adduce in favour of the prosperous condition of Hindús, Jews, Christians, and infidels, who are more powerful than the professors of Islám, most of whom are in need of the aid of those nations addicted to error?” To this question the king could give no satisfactory answer, but he nevertheless said: “No matter what arguments you may bring forward, I shall not believe your assertion.” The conversation was still turning on this subject when they entered the city, and the king said: “Let this matter stand over until I can prove that I am right;” to which the vazír replied: “If your majesty can prove the contrary of what I have stated, I am willing that my blood be spilled and lapped by the dogs in the streets.”

Next morning the king secretly called one of his confidential servants, and handing him a bag of gold said: “Go without the knowledge of any one to the river, take the young stranger to whom we spoke yesterday apart, and give him this gold. Bid him leave the company of the fishermen, go to the bath, put on good clothes, and wait the day after to-morrow on horseback in such a place until farther orders.” The attendant set out with the gold, and on coming up to the fishermen he was perplexed, as he could not distinguish which of them was the stranger. At last he called one of the fishermen aside and asked: “Which is the young stranger with whom the vazír conversed yesterday?” Quoth the man: “Why do you want him?” “I have some business with him,” answered the king’s messenger. The fisherman, who was a cunning fellow, suspected that the vazír had sent the stranger something, so he assumed a doleful aspect and said in a melancholy voice: “I am that poor stranger,” on which the servant took out the gold secretly, and giving it to the man, at the same time delivered the king’s message; and the fisherman did not return to his companions, but immediately ran to the city, where he purchased a fleet horse and fled in the direction of Tabríz.

On the appointed day the king took the vazír towards the river, and looked in all directions for Shoayb, whom they could not discover, until, reaching the bank, they saw him with two of the fishermen. The king at once surmised that the absence of the third was to be ascribed to the mistake of his servant; accordingly he said nothing to his vazír, but when he returned to the palace he reprimanded the careless attendant and sent him to prison. Then he took another bag of gold and delivered it to an intelligent servant with the same directions as before. He went to the river, and calling Shoayb privately apart, asked him: “Are you the stranger among the fishermen?” But Shoayb, suspecting that this man might be the precursor of a caravan of fresh misfortunes, answered: “I am one of the fishermen.” Then said the man: “Go and send the young stranger to me.” Shoayb went and told one of the fishermen that a servant of the king wanted to see him, and when he came the man handed him the bag of gold, without asking any questions, delivered the king’s orders, and departed. The fisherman was at first astonished at his good luck, but afterwards said to himself: “Gifts such as this are merely tokens of the munificence of sovereigns. Probably when the king was here and saw our distress the Most High inspired him with pity for us.” So he concealed the bag at a distance from Shoayb and his companion; but the latter, having watched all his movements and observed that a servant of the king had given him something which he was now hiding, resolved to make away with him and possess the treasure. Accordingly, having sent Shoayb to the city on some errand, he took the net and said to his comrade: “Come, let us throw the net, for I have just seen a very large fish.” His unsuspecting partner complied, and when he drew near, the intending murderer pushed him into the river, but his own hand becoming entangled in the net he also fell into the water and both perished.