A blind man of Orvieto, of the name of Cola, hit upon a device to
recover a hundred florins he had been cheated of, which showed he was
possessed of all the eyes of Argus, though he had unluckily lost his
own. And this he did without wasting a farthing either upon law or
arbitration, by sheer dexterity; for he had formerly been a barber, and
accustomed to shave very close, having then all his eyes about him,
which had been now closed for about thirty years. Alms seemed then the
only resource to which he could betake himself, and such was the
surprising progress he in a short time made in his new trade that he
counted a hundred florins in his purse, which he secretly carried about
him until he could find a safer place. His gains far surpassed anything
he had realised with his razor and scissors; indeed, they increased so
fast that he no longer knew where to bestow them; until one morning
happening to remain the last, as he believed, in the church, he thought
of depositing his purse of a hundred florins under a loose tile in the
floor behind the door, knowing the situation of the place perfectly
well. After listening some time without hearing a foot stirring, he very
cautiously laid it in the spot; but unluckily there remained a certain
Juccio Pezzichernolo, offering his adoration before an image of San
Giovanni Boccadoro, who happened to see Cola busily engaged behind the
door. He continued his adorations until he saw the blind man depart,
when, not in the least suspecting the truth, he approached and searched
the place. He soon found the identical tile, and on removing it with the
help of his knife, he found the purse, which he very quietly put into
his pocket, replacing the tiles just as they were, and, resolving to say
nothing about it, he went home.
At the end of three days the blind mendicant, desirous of inspecting his
treasure, took a quiet time for visiting the place, and removing the
tile searched a long while in great perturbation, but all in vain, to
find his beloved purse. At last, replacing things just as they were, he
was compelled to return in no very enviable state of mind to his
dwelling; and there meditating on his loss, the harvest of the toil of
so many days, by dint of intense thinking a bright thought struck him
(as frequently happens by cogitating in the dark), how he had yet a kind
of chance of redeeming his lost spoils. Accordingly in the morning he
called his young guide, a lad about nine years old, saying, “My son,
lead me to church,” and before setting out he tutored him how he was to
behave, seating himself at his side before the entrance, and
particularly remarking every person who should enter into the church.
“Now, if you happen to see any one who takes particular notice of me,
and who either laughs or makes any sign, be sure you observe it and tell
me.” The boy promised he would; and they proceeded accordingly and took
their station before the church.
When the dinner-hour arrived, the father and son prepared to leave the
place, the former inquiring by the way whether his son had observed any
one looking hard at him as he passed along. “That I did,” answered the
lad, “but only one, and he laughed as he went past us. I do not know his
name, but he is strongly marked with the small-pox and lives somewhere
near the Frati Minori.” “Do you think, my dear lad,” said his father,
“that you could take me to his shop, and tell me when you see him
there?” “To be sure I could,” said the lad. “Then come, let us lose no
time,” replied the father; “and when we are there tell me, and while I
speak to him you can step on one side and wait for me.” So the sharp
little fellow led him along the way until he reached a cheesemonger’s
stall, when he acquainted his father, and brought him close to it. No
sooner did the blind man hear him speaking with his customers than he
recognised him for the same Juccio with whom he had formerly been
acquainted during his days of light. When the coast was a little clear,
our blind hero entreated some moments’ conversation, and Juccio, half
suspecting the occasion, took him on one side into a little room,
saying, “Cola, friend, what good news?” “Why,” said Cola, “I am come to
consult you, in great hopes you will be of use to me. You know it is a
long time since I lost my sight, and being in a destitute condition, I
was compelled to earn my subsistence by begging alms. Now, by the grace
of God, and with the help of you and of other good people of Orvieto, I
have saved a sum of two hundred florins, one hundred of which I have
deposited in a safe place, and the other is in the hands of my
relations, which I expect to receive with interest in the course of a
week. Now if you would consent to receive, and to employ for me to the
best advantage, the whole sum of two hundred florins, it would be doing
me a great kindness, for there is no one besides in all Orvieto in whom
I dare to confide; nor do I like to be at the expense of paying a notary
for doing business which we can as well transact ourselves. Only I wish
you would say nothing about it, but receive the two hundred florins from
me to employ as you think best. Say not a word about it, for there would
be an end of my calling were it known I had received so large a sum in
alms.” Here the blind mendicant stopped; and the sly Juccio, imagining
he might thus become master of the entire sum, said he should be very
happy to serve him in every way he could, and would return an answer the
next morning as to the best way of laying out the money. Cola then took
his leave, while Juccio, going directly for the purse, deposited it in
its old place being in full expectation of soon receiving it again with
the addition of the other hundred, as it was clear that Cola had not yet
missed the money. The cunning old mendicant on his part expected that he
would do no less, and trusting that his plot might have succeeded, he
set out the very same day to the church, and had the delight, on
removing the tile, to find his purse really there. Seizing upon it with
the utmost eagerness, he concealed it under his clothes, and placing the
tiles exactly in the same position, he hastened home whistling,
troubling himself very little about his appointment of the next day.
The sly thief Juccio set out accordingly the next morning to see his
friend Cola, and actually met him on the road. “Whither are you going?”
inquired Juccio. “I was going,” said Cola, “to your house.” The former,
then taking the blind man aside, said, “I am resolved to do what you
ask; and since you are pleased to confide in me, I will tell you of a
plan that I have in hand for laying out your money to advantage. If you
will put the two hundred florins into my possession, I will make a
purchase in cheese and salt meat, a speculation which cannot fail to
turn to good account.” “Thank you,” quoth Cola, “I am going to-day for
the other hundred, which I mean to bring, and when you have got them
both, you can do with them what you think proper.” Juccio said, “Then
let me have them soon, for I think I can secure this bargain; and as the
soldiers are come into the town, who are fond of these articles, I think
it cannot fail to answer; so go, and Heaven speed you.” And Cola went;
but with very different intentions from those imagined by his
friend—Cola being now clear-sighted, and Juccio truly blind. The next
day Cola called on his friend with very downcast and melancholy looks,
and when Juccio bade him good day, he said, “I wish from my soul it were
a good, or even a middling, day for me.” “Why, what is the matter?” “The
matter?” echoed Cola; “why, it is all over with me; some rascal has
stolen a hundred florins from the place where they were hidden, and I
cannot recover a penny from my relations, so that I may eat my fingers
off for anything I have to expect.” Juccio replied, “This is like all
the rest of my speculations. I have invariably lost where I expected to
make a good hit. What I shall do I know not; for if the person should
choose to keep me to the agreement I made for you, I shall be in a
pretty dilemma indeed.” “Yet,” said Cola, “I think my condition is still
worse than yours. I shall be sadly distressed, and shall have to amass a
fresh capital, which will take me ever so long. And when I have got it,
I will take care not to conceal it in a hole in the floor, or trust it,
Juccio, into any friend’s hands.” “But,” said Juccio, “if we could
contrive to recover what is owing by your relations, we might still make
some pretty profit of it, I doubt not.” For he thought, if he could only
get hold of the hundred he had returned it would still be something in
his way. “Why,” said Cola, “to tell the truth, if I were to proceed
against my relations, I believe I might get it; but such a thing would
ruin my business, my dear Juccio, for ever: the world would know I was
worth money, and I should get no more money from the world; so I fear I
shall hardly be able to profit by your kindness, though I shall always
consider myself as much obliged as if I had actually cleared a large
sum. Moreover, I am going to teach another blind man my profession, and
if we have luck you shall see me again, and we can venture a speculation
together.” So far the wily mendicant, to whom Juccio said, “Well, go and
try to get money soon, and bring it; you know where to find me, but look
sharp about you and the Lord speed you; farewell.” “Farewell,” said
Cola; “and I am well rid of thee,” he whispered to himself; and going
upon his way, in a short time he doubled his capital; but he no longer
went near his friend Juccio to know how he should invest it. He had
great diversion in telling the story to his companions during their
feasts, always concluding, “By St. Lucia! Juccio is the blinder man of
the two: he thought it was a bold stroke to risk his hundred to double
the amount.”
For my own part, I think the blind must possess a more acute intellect
than other people, inasmuch as the light, exhibiting such a variety of
objects to view, is apt to distract the attention, of which many
examples might be adduced. For instance, two gentlemen may be conversing
together on some matter of business, and in the middle of a sentence a
fine woman happens to pass by, and they will suddenly stop, gazing after
her; or a fine equipage, or any other object is enough to turn the
current of their thoughts. And then we are obliged to recollect
ourselves, saying, “Where was I?” “What was it that I was observing?”—a
thing which never occurs to a blind man. The philosopher Democritus very
properly on this account knocked his eyes out in order to catch objects
in a juster light with his mind’s eye.
It is impossible to describe Juccio’s vexation on going to church and
finding the florins were gone. His regret was far greater than if he had
actually lost a hundred of his own; as is known to be the case with all
inveterate rogues, half of whose pleasure consists in depriving others
of their lawful property.
* * * * *
There are many analogous stories, one of which is the well-known tale of
the merchant, who, before going on a journey, deposited with a dervish
1,000 sequins, which he thought it prudent to reserve in case of
accidents. When he returned and requested his deposit, the dervish
flatly denied that he ever had any of his money. Upon this the merchant
went and laid his case before the kazi, who advised him to return to the
dervish and speak pleasantly to him, which he does, but receives nothing
but abuse. He informed the kazi of this, and was told not to go near the
dervish for the present, but to be at ease for he should have his money
next day. The kazi then sent for the dervish, and after entertaining him
sumptuously, told him that, for certain reasons, he was desirous of
removing a considerable sum of money from his house; that he knew of no
person in whom he could confide so much as himself; and that if he would
come the following evening at a late hour, he should have the precious
deposit. On hearing this, the dervish expressed his gratification that
so much confidence should be placed in his integrity, and agreed to take
charge of the treasure. Next day the merchant returned to the kazi, who
bade him go back to the dervish and demand his money once more, and
should he refuse, threaten to complain to the kazi. The result may be
readily guessed: no sooner did the merchant mention the kazi than the
rascally dervish said, “My good friend, what need is there to complain
to the kazi? Here is your money; it was only a little joke on my part.”
But in the evening, when he went to receive the kazi’s pretended
deposit, he experienced the truth of the saw, that “covetousness sews up
the eyes of cunning.”
A variant of this is found in the continental “Gesta Romanorum” (ch.
cxviii. of Swan’s translation), in which a knight deposits ten talents
with a respectable old man, who when called upon to refund the money
denies all knowledge of it. By the advice of an old woman, the knight
has ten chests made, and employs a person to take them to the old man
and represent them as containing treasure; and while one of them is
being carried into his house the knight enters and in the stranger’s
presence demands his money, which is at once delivered to him.
* * * * *
In Mr. Edward Rehatsek’s translated selections from the Persian
story-book “Shamsa ú Kuhkuha” (see _ante_, p. 329), printed at Bombay in
1871, under the title of “Amusing Stories,” there is a tale (No. xviii.)
which also bears some resemblance to that of the Melancholist and the
Sharper; and as Mr. Rehatsek’s little work is exceedingly scarce, I give
it in extenso as follows:
There was in Damascus a man of the name of Zayn el-Arab, with the honey
of whose life the poison of hardships was always mixed. Day and night he
hastened like the breeze from north to south in the world of exertion,
and he was burning brightly like straw, from his endeavours in the oven
of acquisition in order to gain a loaf of bread and feed his family. In
course of time, however, he succeeded in accumulating a considerable sum
of money, but as he had tasted the bitter poison of destitution, and had
for a very long time carried the heavy load of poverty upon his back,
and fearing to lose his property by the chameleon-like changes of
fortune, he took up his money on a certain night, carried it out of the
city, and buried it under a tree. After some time had passed he began
sorely to miss the presence of his treasure, and betook himself to the
tree to refresh his eyes with the sight of it. But when he dug up the
ground at the foot of the tree he discovered that his soul-exhilarating
deposit was refreshing the palate of some one else. The morning of his
prosperity was suddenly changed into the evening of bitterness and
disappointment. He was perplexed to what friend to confide his secret,
and to what remedy to fly for the recovery of his treasure. The lancet
of grief had pierced the liver of his peace, and the huntsman of
distress had tied up the wings and feet of the bird of his serenity. One
day he went on some business to a learned and wise man of the city with
whom he was on a footing of intimacy. This man said to him, “It is some
time since I perceived the glade of your circumstances to have been
destroyed by the burning coals of restlessness, and a sad change to have
taken place in your health. I do not know the reason, nor what thorn of
misfortune has pierced the foot of your heart, nor what hardship has
dawned from the east of your mind.” Zayn el-Arab wept tears of sadness
and said, “O thou standard coin from the mint of love! the treachery of
misfortune has brought a strange accident upon me, and the bow of
destiny has let fly an unpropitious arrow upon my feeble target. I have
a heavy heart and great sorrow, and were I to reveal it to you perhaps
it would be of no use and would plunge you also into grief.” The learned
man said, “Since the hearts of intimate friends are like looking-glasses
and are receiving the figures of mutual secrets, it is at all times
necessary that they should communicate to each other any difficulties
which they have fallen into, that they may remove them by taking in
common those steps which prudence and foresight should recommend.” Zayn
el-Arab replied, “Dear friend, I had some gold, and fearing lest it
should be stolen, I carried it to such and such a place and buried it
under a tree, and when I again visited the place, I perceived the
garment of my beloved Joseph to be sprinkled with the blood of the wolf
of deception.” The learned man said, “This is a grave accident, and it
will be difficult to get on the track of your gold. Perhaps some one saw
you bury it: he who has taken it will have to give an account of it in
the next world, for God is omniscient. Give me ten days’ delay, that I
may study the book of expedients and stratagems, when mayhap somewhat
will occur to me.”
That knowing man sat down for ten days in the school of meditation, and
how much so ever he turned over the leaves of the volume of his mind
from the preface to the epilogue, he could hit upon no plan. On the
tenth day they again met in the street, and he said to Zayn el-Arab,
“Although the diver of my mind has plunged deeply and searched
diligently in this deep sea, he has been unable to seize the precious
pearl of a wise plan of operation: may God recompense you from the
stores of His hidden treasury!” They were conversing in this way when a
lunatic met them and said, “Well, my boys, what secret-mongering have
you got between you?” The learned man said to Zayn el-Arab, “Come, let
us relate our case to this crazy fellow, to see the flower of the plant
that may bloom from his mind.” Zayn el-Arab replied, “Dear friend, you,
with all your knowledge, cannot devise anything during ten days: what
information are we likely to gain from a poor lunatic who does not know
whether it is now day or night?” The learned man said, “There is no
telling what he may say to us. But you know that the most foolish as
well as the most wise have ideas, and a sentence uttered at random has
sometimes furnished a clue by which the desired object may be attained.”
Meanwhile a little boy also came up, and perceiving the lunatic stopped
to see his tricks. The two friends explained their case to the lunatic,
who then seemed immersed in thought for some time, after which he said,
“He who took the root of that tree for a medicine also took the gold,”
and having thus spoken, he turned his back upon them and went his way.
They consulted with each other what indication this remark might
furnish, when the little boy, who had overheard the conversation, asked
what kind of a tree it was. Zayn el-Arab replied that it was a jujube
tree. The boy said, “This is an easy matter: you ought to inquire of all
the doctors of this town for whom a medicine has been prescribed of the
roots of this tree.” They greatly admired the boy’s acuteness and also
of the lunatic’s lucky thought.[512] The learned man was well acquainted
with all the physicians of the city and made his enquiries, till he met
with one who informed him that about twenty days ago he had prescribed
for a merchant of the name of Khoja Semender, who suffered from asthma,
and that one of the remedies was the root of that jujube tree. The
learned man soon discovered the merchant’s house, found him enjoying
excellent health, and said to him, “Ah, Khoja, all the goods of this
world ought to be surrendered to procure health. By the blessing of God,
you have recovered your health, and you ought to give up what you found
at the root of that tree, because the owner of it is a worthy man and
possesses nothing else.” The honest merchant answered, “It is true, I
have found it, and it is with me. If you will describe it I will deliver
it into your hands.” The exact sum being stated, the merchant at once
delivered up the gold.
* * * * *
In the “Kathá Sarit Ságara,” Book vi. ch. 33, we have probably the
original of this last story: A wealthy merchant provided a Bráhman with
a lodging near his own house, and every day gave him a large quantity of
unhusked rice and other presents, and in course of time he received like
gifts from other great merchants. In this way the miserly fellow
gradually accumulated a thousand dínárs, and going into the forest he
dug a hole and buried it in the ground, and he went daily to carefully
examine the spot. One day, however, he discovered that his hoard had
been stolen, and he went to his friend the merchant near whose house he
lived, and, weeping bitterly, told him of his loss, and that he had
resolved to go to a holy bathing-place and there starve himself to
death. The merchant tried to console him and dissuade him from his
resolution, saying, “Bráhman, why do you long to die for the loss of
your wealth? Wealth, like an unseasonable cloud, suddenly comes and
goes.” But the Bráhman would not abandon his fixed determination to
commit suicide, for wealth is dearer to the miser than life itself. When
he was about to depart for the holy place, the king, having heard of it,
came and asked him, “Bráhman, do you know of any mark by which you can
distinguish the place where you buried your dínárs?” He replied, “There
is a small tree in the wood, at the foot of which I buried that money.”
Then said the king, “I will find the money and give it back to you, or I
will give it you from my own treasury;—do not commit suicide, Bráhman.”
When the king returned to his palace, he pretended to have a headache,
and summoned all the physicians in the city by proclamation with beat of
drum. And he took aside every one of them singly and questioned them
privately, saying, “What patients have you, and what medicines have you
prescribed for each?” And they thereupon, one by one, answered the
king’s questions. At length a physician said, “The merchant Mátridatta
has been out of sorts, O king, and this is the second day I have
prescribed for him _nágabalá_ [the plant _Uraria Lagopodioides_].” Then
the king sent for the merchant, and said to him, “Tell me, who fetched
you the _nágabalá_?” The merchant replied, “My servant, your highness.”
On hearing this, the king at once summoned the servant and said to him,
“Give up that treasure belonging to a Bráhman, consisting of a store of
dínárs, which you found when you were digging at the foot of the tree
for _nágabalá_.” When the king said this to him the servant was
frightened, and confessed immediately; and bringing the money left it
there. Then the king summoned the Bráhman and gave him, who had been
fasting meanwhile, the dínárs, lost and found again, like a second soul
external to his body. Thus did the king by his wisdom recover to the
Bráhman his wealth which had been taken away from the root of the tree,
knowing that that simple grew in such spots.
_TALE OF THE DEVOUT WOMAN ACCUSED OF LEWDNESS.—Vol. I. p. 270._
This is one of three Arabian variants of Chaucer’s Man of Law’s Tale
(the Story of Constance), of which there are numerous versions—see my
paper entitled “The Innocent Persecuted Wife,” pp. 365–414 of “Originals
and Analogues of some of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales.”
_THE WEAVER WHO BECAME A LEACH BY ORDER OF HIS WIFE.—Vol. I. p. 282._
Somewhat resembling this, but much more elaborate, is the amusing story
of Ahmed the Cobbler, in Sir John Malcolm’s “Sketches of Persia,” ch.
xx., the original of which is probably found in the tale of Harisarman,
book vi. ch. 30, of the “Kathá Sarit Ságara,” and it has many European
variants, such as the German story of Doctor Allwissend, in Grimm’s
collection, and that of the Charcoal Burner in Sir George Dasent’s
“Tales from the Fjeld.”—According to the Persian story, Ahmed the
Cobbler had a young and pretty wife, of whom he was very fond. She was
ever forming grand schemes of riches and splendour, and was firmly
persuaded that she was destined to great fortune. It happened one
evening, while in this frame of mind, that she went to the public baths,
where she saw a lady retiring dressed in a magnificent robe, covered
with jewels, and surrounded by slaves. This was the very condition she
had always longed for, and she eagerly inquired the name of the happy
person who had so many attendants and such fine jewels. She learned it
was the wife of the chief astrologer to the king. With this information
she returned home. Ahmed met her at the door, but was received with a
frown, nor could all his caresses obtain a smile or a word; for several
hours she continued silent, and in apparent misery; at length she said,
“Cease your caresses, unless you are ready to give me a proof that you
do really and sincerely love me.” “What proof of love,” exclaimed poor
Ahmed, “can you desire that I will not give?” “Give over cobbling; it is
a vile, low trade, and never yields more than ten or twelve dínárs a
day. Turn astrologer; your fortune will be made, and I shall have all I
wish and be happy.” “Astrologer!” cried Ahmed—“astrologer! Have you
forgotten who I am—a cobbler, without any learning—that you want me to
engage in a profession which requires so much skill and knowledge?” “I
neither think nor care about your qualifications,” said the enraged
wife; “all I know is that if you do not turn astrologer immediately, I
will be divorced from you to-morrow.” The cobbler remonstrated, but in
vain. The figure of the astrologer’s wife, with her jewels and her
slaves, took complete possession of her imagination. All night it
haunted her: she dreamt of nothing else, and on awakening declared she
would leave the house if her husband did not comply with her wishes.
What could poor Ahmed do? He was no astrologer; but he was dotingly fond
of his wife, and he could not bear the idea of losing her. He promised
to obey; and having sold his little stock, bought an astrolabe, an
astronomical almanac, and a table of the twelve signs of the zodiac.
Furnished with these, he went to the market-place, crying, “I am an
astrologer! I know the sun, and the moon, and the stars, and the twelve
signs of the zodiac; I can calculate nativities; I can foretell
everything that is to happen.” No man was better known than Ahmed the
Cobbler. A crowd soon gathered round him. “What, friend Ahmed,” said
one, “have you worked till your head is turned?” “Are you tired of
looking down at your last,” cried another, “that you are now looking up
at the stars?” These and a thousand other jokes assailed the ears of the
poor cobbler, who notwithstanding continued to exclaim that he was an
astrologer, having resolved on doing what he could to please his
beautiful wife.
It so happened that the king’s jeweller was passing by. He was in great
distress, having lost the richest ruby belonging to the king. Every
search had been made to recover this inestimable jewel, but to no
purpose; and as the jeweller knew he could no longer conceal its loss
from the king, he looked forward to death as inevitable. In this
hopeless state, while wandering about the town, he reached the crowd
around Ahmed, and asked what was the matter. “Don’t you know Ahmed the
Cobbler?” said one of the bystanders, laughing. “He has been inspired
and is become an astrologer.” A drowning man will catch at a broken
reed: the jeweller no sooner heard the sound of the word astrologer than
he went up to Ahmed, told him what had happened, and said, “If you
understand your art, you must be able to discover the king’s ruby. Do
so, and I will give you two hundred pieces of gold. But if you do not
succeed within six hours, I will use my influence at court to have you
put to death as an impostor.” Poor Ahmed was thunderstruck. He stood
long without being able to speak, reflecting on his misfortunes, and
grieving, above all, that his wife, whom he so loved, had, by her envy
and selfishness, brought him to such a fearful alternative. Full of
these sad thoughts, he exclaimed aloud, “O woman! woman! thou art more
baneful to the happiness of man than the poisonous dragon of the
desert!” Now the lost ruby had been secreted by the jeweller’s wife,
who, disquieted by those alarms which ever attend guilt, sent one of her
female slaves to watch her husband. This slave, on seeing her master
speak to the astrologer, drew near; and when she heard Ahmed, after some
moments of abstraction, compare a woman to a poisonous dragon, she was
satisfied that he must know everything. She ran to her mistress, and,
breathless with fear, cried, “You are discovered by a vile astrologer!
Before six hours are past the whole story will be known, and you will
become infamous, if you are even so fortunate as to escape with life,
unless you can find some way of prevailing on him to be merciful.” She
then related what she had seen and heard; and Ahmed’s exclamation
carried as complete conviction to the mind of the terrified lady as it
had done to that of her slave. The jeweller’s wife, hastily throwing on
her veil, went in search of the dreaded astrologer. When she found him,
she cried, “Spare my honour and my life, and I will confess everything.”
“What can you have to confess to me?” said Ahmed, in amazement. “O
nothing—nothing with which you are not already acquainted. You know too
well that I stole the king’s ruby. I did so to punish my husband, who
uses me most cruelly; and I thought by this means to obtain riches for
myself and have him put to death. But you, most wonderful man, from whom
nothing is hidden, have discovered and defeated my wicked plan. I beg
only for mercy, and will do whatever you command me.” An angel from
heaven could not have brought more consolation to Ahmed than did the
jeweller’s wife. He assumed all the dignified solemnity that became his
new character, and said, “Woman! I know all thou hast done, and it is
fortunate for thee that thou hast come to confess thy sin and beg for
mercy before it was too late. Return to thy house; put the ruby under
the pillow of the couch on which thy husband sleeps; let it be laid on
the side farthest from the door; and be satisfied thy guilt shall never
be even suspected.” The jeweller’s wife went home and did as she was
instructed. In an hour Ahmed followed her, and told the jeweller he had
made his calculations, and found by the aspect of the sun and moon, and
by the configuration of the stars, that the ruby was at that moment
lying under the pillow of his couch on the side farthest from the door.
The jeweller thought Ahmed must be crazy; but as a ray of hope is like a
ray from heaven to the wretched, he ran to his couch, and there, to his
joy and wonder, found the ruby in the very place described. He came back
to Ahmed, embraced him, called him his dearest friend and the preserver
of his life, gave him two hundred pieces of gold, declaring that he was
the first astrologer of the age.
Ahmed returned home with his lucky gains, and would gladly have resumed
his cobbling, but his wife insisting on his continuing to practise his
new profession, there was no help but to go out again next day and
proclaim his astrological accomplishments. By mere chance he is the
means of a lady recovering a valuable necklace which she had lost at the
bath, and forty chests of gold stolen from the king’s treasury, and is
finally rewarded with the hand of the king’s daughter in marriage.
_STORY OF THE KING WHO LOST KINGDOM, WIFE, AND WEALTH.—Vol. I. p. 319._
In the “Indian Antiquary” for June 1886 the Rev. J. Hinton Knowles gives
a translation of what he terms a Kashmírí Tale, under the title of
“Pride Abased,” which, he says, was told him by “a Brahman named Mukund
Báyú, who resides at Suthú, Srínagar,” and which is an interesting
variant of the Wazír Er-Rahwan’s second story of the King who lost his
Realm and Wealth: