THE SILLY SON.
Among the favourite jests of all peoples, from Iceland to Japan, from
India to England, are the droll adventures and mishaps of the silly son,
who contrives to muddle everything he is set to do. In vain does his
poor mother try to direct him in "the way he should go": she gets him a
wife, as a last resource; but a fool he is still, and a fool he will
always be. His blunders and disasters are chronicled in penny chap-books
and in nursery rhymes, of infinite variety. Who has not heard how
Simple Simon went a-fishing
For to catch a whale,
But all the water he had got
Was in his mother's pail?
an adventure which recalls another nursery rhyme regarding Simon's still
more celebrated prototypes:
Three men of Gotham
Went to sea in a bowl;
If the bowl had been stronger,
My tale had been longer.
Then there is the prose history of _Simple Simon's Misfortunes; or,
his Wife Marjory's Outrageous Cruelty_, which tells (1) of Simon's
wedding, and how his wife Marjory scolded him for putting on his
roast-meat clothes (_i.e.,_ Sunday clothes) the very next morning
after he was married; (2) how she dragged him up the chimney in a
basket, a-smoke-drying, wherein they used to dry bacon, which made him
look like a red herring; (3) how Simon lost a sack of corn as he was
going to the mill to have it ground; (4) how Simon went to market with a
basket of eggs, but broke them by the way: also how he was put into the
stocks; (5) how Simon's wife cudgelled him for not bringing her money
for the eggs; (6) how Simon lost his wife's pail and burnt the bottom of
her kettle; (7) how Simon's wife sent him to buy two pounds of soap, but
going over the bridge, he let his money fall in the river: also how a
ragman ran away with his clothes. No wonder if, after this crowning
misfortune, poor Simon "drank a bottle of sack, to poison himself, as
being weary of his life"!
Again, we have _The Unfortunate Son; or, a Kind Wife is worth Gold,
being full of Mirth and Pastime_, which commences thus:
There was a man but one son had,
And he was all his joy;
But still his fortune was but bad,
Though he was a pretty boy.
His father sent him forth one day
To feed a flock of sheep,
And half of them were stole away
While he lay down asleep!
Next day he went with one Tom Goff
To reap as he was seen,
When he did cut his fingers off,
The sickle was so keen!
Another of the chap-book histories of noodles is that of _Simple John
and his Twelve Misfortunes_, an imitation of _Simple Simon_; it
was still popular amongst the rustics of Scotland fifty years ago.
* * * * *
The adventures of Silly Matt, the Norwegian counterpart of our typical
English booby, as related in Asbjornson's collection of Norse
folk-tales, furnish some curious examples of the transmission of popular
fictions:
The mother of Silly Matt tells him one day that he should build a bridge
across the river and take toll of every one who wished to go over it; so
he sets to work with a will, and when the bridge is finished, stands at
one end--"at the receipt of custom." Three men come up with loads of
hay, and Matt demands toll of them, so they each give him a wisp of hay.
Next comes a pedlar, with all sorts of small wares in his pack, and Matt
gets from him two needles. On his return home his mother asks him what
he has got that day. "Hay and needles," says Matt. Well! and what had he
done with the hay? "I put some of it in my mouth," quoth he, "and as it
tasted like grass, I threw it into the river." She says he ought to have
spread it on the byre-floor. "Very good," replies the dutiful Matt;
"I'll remember that next time." And what had he done with the needles?
He stuck them into the hay. "Ah," says the mother, "you should rather
have stuck them in and out of your cap, and brought them home to me."
Well! well! Matt will not forget to do so next time. The following day a
man comes to the bridge with a sack of meal and gives Matt a pound of
it; then comes a smith, who gives him a gimlet: the meal he spread on
the byre-floor, and the gimlet he stuck in and out of his cap. His
mother tells him he should have come home for a bucket to hold the meal,
and the gimlet he should have put up his sleeve. Very good! Matt will
not forget next time. Another day some men come to the bridge with kegs
of brandy, of which Matt gets a pint, and pours it into his sleeve; next
comes a man driving some goats and their young ones, and gives Matt a
kid, which he treads down into a bucket. His mother says he should have
led the goat home with a cord round its neck, and put the brandy in a
pail. Next day he gets a pat of butter and drags it home with a string.
After this his mother despairs of his improvement, till it occurs to her
that he might not be such a noodle if he had a wife. So she bids him go
and see whether he cannot find some lass who will take him for a
husband. Should he meet any folk on his way, he ought to say to them,
"God's peace!" Matt accordingly sets off in quest of a wife, and meets a
she-wolf and her seven cubs. "God's peace!" says Matt, and then returns
home. When his mother learns of this, she tells him he should have
cried, "Huf! huf! you jade wolf!" Next day he goes off again, and
meeting a bridal party, he cries, "Huf! huf! you jade wolf!" and goes
back to his mother and acquaints her of this fresh adventure. "O you
great silly!" says she; "you should have said, 'Ride happily, bride and
bridegroom!'" Once more Matt sets out to seek a wife, and seeing on the
road a bear taking a ride on a horse, he exclaims joyfully, "Ride
happily, bride and bridegroom!" and then returns home. His mother, on
hearing of this new piece of folly, tells him he should have cried, "To
the devil with you!" Again he sets out, and meeting a funeral
procession, he roars, "To the devil with you!" His mother says he should
have cried, "May your poor soul have mercy!" and sends him off for the
fifth time to look for a lass. On the road he sees some gipsies busy
skinning a dead dog, upon which he piously exclaims, "May your poor soul
have mercy!" His mother now goes herself to get him a wife, finds a lass
that is willing to marry him, and invites her to dinner. She privately
tells Matt how he should comport himself in the presence of his
sweetheart; he should cast an eye at her now and then. Matt understands
her instruction most literally: stealing into the sheepfold, he plucks
out the eyes of all the sheep and goats, and puts them in his pocket.
When he is seated beside his sweetheart, he casts a "sheep's eye" at
her, which hits her on the nose.[1]
This last incident, as we have seen, occurs in the _Tales of the Men
of Gotham ("ante_, p. 41" in original. This section is to be found
immediately after the reference to Chapter II, Footnote 9 in this
e-text), and it is also found in a Venetian story (Bernoni,
_Fiabe_, No. 11) entitled "The Fool," of which the following is the
first part:
Once upon a time there was a mother who had a son with little brains.
One morning she said, "We must get up early, for we have to make bread."
So they both rose early, and began to make bread. The mother made the
loaves, but took no pains to make them the same size. Her son said to
her finally, "How small you have made this loaf, mother." "Oh," said
she, "it does not matter whether they are big or little, for the proverb
says, 'Large and small, all must go to mass.'" "Good! good!" said her
son. When the bread was made, instead of taking it to the baker's, the
son took it to the church, for it was the hour for mass, saying, "My
mother said that, 'large and small, all must go to mass.'" So he threw
the loaves down in the middle of the church. Then he went home to his
mother, and said, "I have done what you told me to do," "Good! Did you
take the bread to the baker's?" "O mother, if you had seen how they all
looked at me!" "You might also have cast an eye on them in return," said
his mother. "Wait; wait. I will cast an eye at them too," he exclaimed,
and went to the stable and cut out the eyes of all the animals, and
putting them in a handkerchief, went to the church, and when any man or
woman looked at him, he threw an eye at them.[2]
Silly Matt has a brother in Russia, according to M. Leger's _Contes
Populaires Slaves_, published at Paris in 1882: An old man and his
wife had a son, who was about as great a noodle as could be. One day his
mother said to him, "My son, thou shouldst go about among people, to get
thyself sharpened and rubbed down a little." "Yes, mother," says he;
"I'm off this moment." So he went to the village, and saw two men
threshing pease. He ran up to them, and rubbed himself now on one and
then on the other. "No nonsense!" cried the men. "Get away." But he
continued to rub himself on them, till at last they would stand it no
longer, and beat him with their flails so lustily that he could hardly
crawl home. "What art thou crying about, child?" asked his mother. He
related his misfortune. "Ah, my child," said she, "how silly thou art!
Thou shouldst have said to them, 'God aid you, good men! Do you wish me
to help you to thresh?' and then they would have given thee some pease
for thy trouble, and we should have had them to cook and eat." On
another occasion the noodle again went through the village, and met some
people carrying a dead man. "May God aid you, good men!" he exclaimed.
"Do you wish me to help you to thresh?" But he got himself well thrashed
once more for this ill-timed speech. When he reached home, he howled,
"They've felled me to the ground, beaten me, and plucked my beard and
hair!" and told of his new mishap. "Ah, noodle!" said his mother, "thou
shouldst have said, 'God give peace to his soul!' Thou shouldst have
taken off thy bonnet, wept, and fallen upon thy knees. They would then
have given thee meat and drink." Again he went to the village, and met a
marriage procession. So he took off his bonnet, and cried with all his
might, "God grant peace to his soul!" and then burst into tears. "What
brute is this?" said the wedding company. "We laugh and amuse ourselves,
and he laments as if he were at a funeral." So they leaped out of the
carriages, and beat him soundly on the ribs. Home he returned, crying,
"They've beaten me, thrashed me, and torn my beard and hair!" and
related what had happened. "My son," said his mother, "thou shouldst
have leaped and danced with them." The next time he went to the village
he took his bagpipe under his arm. At the end of the street a cart-shed
was on fire. The noodle ran to the spot, and began to play on his
bagpipe and to dance and caper about, for which he was abused as before.
Going back to his mother in tears, he told her how he had fared. "My
son," said she, "thou shouldst have carried water and thrown it on the
fire, like the other folks." Three days later, when his ribs were well
again, the noodle went through the village once more, and seeing a man
roasting a little pig, he seized a vessel of water, ran up with it, and
threw the water on the fire. This time also he was beaten, and when he
got home, and told his mother of his ill-luck, she resolved never again
to allow him to go abroad; so he remains by the fireside, as great a
fool as ever.
This species of noodle is also known in Japan. He is the hero of a
farce entitled _Hone Kaha_, or Ribs and Skin, which has been done
into English by Mr. Basil Hall Chamberlain, in his _Classical Poetry
of the Japanese_. The rector of a Buddhist temple tells his curate
that he feels he is now getting too old for the duties of his office,
and means to resign the benefice in his favour. Before retiring to his
private chamber, he desires the curate to let him know if any persons
visit the temple, and bids him, should he be in want of information
regarding any matter, to come to him. A parishioner calls to borrow an
umbrella. The curate lends him a new one, and then goes to the rector
and informs him of this visitor. "You have done wrong," says the rector.
"You ought to have said that you should have been happy to comply with
such a small request, but, unfortunately, the rector was walking out
with it the other day, when, at a place where four roads meet, a sudden
gust of wind blew the skin to one side and the ribs to another; we have
tied the ribs and skin together in the middle, and hung it from the
ceiling. Something like that," adds the rector, "something with an air
of truth about it, is what you should have said." Next comes another
parishioner, who wishes to borrow a horse. The curate replies with great
politeness, "The request with which you honour me is a mere trifle, but
the rector took it out with him a few days since, and coming to the
junction of four cross roads, a gust of wind blew the ribs to one side
and the skin to another, and we have tied them together, and hung them
from the ceiling; so I fear it would not suit your purpose." "It is a
horse I want," said the man. "Precisely--a horse: I am aware of it,"
quoth the curate, and the man went off, not a little perplexed, after
which the curate reports this new affair to the rector, who says it was
to an umbrella, not to a horse, that such a story was applicable. Should
any one come again to borrow a horse, he ought to say, "I much regret
that I cannot comply with your request. The fact is, we lately turned
him out to grass, and becoming frolicsome, he dislocated his thigh, and
is now lying, covered with straw, in a corner of the stable." "Something
like that," adds the rector, "something with an air of truth about it,
is what you should say." A third parishioner comes to invite the rector
and the curate to a feast at his house. "For myself," says the curate,
"I promise to come; but I fear it will not be convenient for the rector
to accompany me." "I presume then," says the man, "that he has some
particular business on hand?" "No, not any particular business," answers
the curate; "but the truth is, we lately turned him out to grass, and
becoming frisky, he dislocated his thigh, and now lies in a corner of
the stable, covered with straw." "I spoke of the rector," says the
parishioner. "Yes, of the rector. I quite understand," responds the
curate, very complaisantly, upon which the man goes away, not knowing
what to make of such a strange account of the rector's condition. This
last affair puts the rector into a fury, and he cuffs his intended
successor, exclaiming, "When was I ever frisky, I should like to know?"
As great a jolterhead as any of the foregoing was the hero of a story
in Cazotte's "Continuation" of the _Arabian Nights_, entitled
"L'Imbécille; ou, L'Histoire de Xailoun,"[3] This noodle's wife said to
him one day, "Go and buy some pease, and don't forget that it is pease
you are to buy; continually repeat 'Pease!' till you reach the
market-place." So he went off, with "Pease! pease!" always in his mouth.
He passed the corner of a street where a merchant who had pearls for
sale was proclaiming his wares in a loud voice, saying, "In the name of
the Prophet, pearls!" Xailoun's attention was at once attracted by the
display of pearls, and at the same time he was occupied in retaining the
lesson his wife had taught him, and putting his hand in the box of
pearls, he cried out, "Pease! pease!" The merchant, supposing Xailoun
played upon him and depreciated his pearls by wishing to make them pass
for false ones, struck him a severe blow. "Why do you strike me?" said
Xailoun. "Because you insult me," answered the merchant. "Do you suppose
I am trying to deceive people?" "No," said the noodle. "But what must I
say, then?" "If you will cry properly, say as I do, 'Pearls, in the name
of the Prophet!'" He next passed by the shop of a merchant from whom
some pearls had been stolen, and his manner of crying, "Pearls!" etc.,
which was not nearly so loud as usual, appeared to the merchant very
suspicious. "The man who has stolen my pearls," thought he, "has
probably recognised me, and when he passes my shop lowers his voice in
crying the goods." Upon this suspicion he ran after Xailoun, and
stopping him, said, "Show me your pearls." The poor fool was in great
confusion, and the merchant thought he had got the thief. The supposed
seller of pearls was soon surrounded by a great crowd, and the merchant
at last discovered that he was a perfect simpleton. "Why," said he, "do
you cry that you sell pearls?" "What should I say, then?" asked Xailoun.
"It is not true," said the merchant, not listening to him. "It is not
true," exclaimed the noodle. "Let me repeat, 'It is not true,' that I
may not forget it;" and as he went on he kept crying, "It is not true."
His way led him towards a place where a man was proclaiming, "In the
name of the Prophet, lentils!" Xailoun, induced by curiosity, went up to
the man, his mouth full of the last words he remembered, and putting his
hand into the sack, cried, "It is not true." The sturdy villager gave
him a blow that caused him to stagger, saying, "What d'ye mean by giving
me the lie about my goods, which I both sowed and reaped myself?" Quoth
the noodle, "I have only tried to say what I ought to say." "Well,
then," rejoined the dealer, "you ought to say, as I do, 'Lentils, in the
name of the Prophet!'" So our noodle at once took up this new cry, and
proceeded on his way till he came to the bank of the river, where a
fisherman had been casting his net for hours, and had frequently changed
his place, without getting any fish. Xailoun, who was amused with every
new thing he saw, began to follow the fisherman, and, that he should not
forget his lesson, continued to repeat, "Lentils, in the name of the
Prophet!" Suddenly the fisherman made a pretence of spreading his net,
in order to wring and dry it, and having folded in his hand the rope to
which it was fastened, he took hold of the simpleton and struck him some
furious blows with it, saying, "Vile sorcerer! cease to curse my
fishing." Xailoun struggled, and at length disengaged himself. "I am no
sorcerer," said he. "Well, if you are not," answered the fisherman, "why
do you cause me bad luck by your words every time I throw my net?" "I
didn't mean to bring you bad luck," said the noodle. "I only repeat what
I was told to repeat." The fisherman then concluded that some of his
enemies, who wished to do him an ill turn without exposing themselves,
had prevailed upon this poor fellow to come and curse his fishing, so he
said, "I am sorry, brother, for having beaten you, but you were wrong to
pronounce the words you did, thereby bringing bad luck to me, who never
did you any harm." Quoth the simpleton, "I only tried to say the words
my wife told me not to forget." "Do you know them?" "Yes." "Well, place
yourself beside me, and each time I cast my net you must say, 'In the
name of the Prophet, instead of one, seven of the greatest and best!'"
But Xailoun thought what his wife had said was not so long as that.
"Oh, yes, it was," said the fisherman; "and take care you don't miss a
single word, and I shall give you some of the fish to take home with
you." That he might not forget, Xailoun repeated it very loud, but as
'he was afraid of the cord whenever he saw the fisherman drawing in his
net, he ran away as fast as he could, but still repeating, "In the name
of the Prophet, instead of one, seven of the greatest and best!" These
words he pronounced in the midst of a crowd of people, through which the
corpse of the kází (magistrate, or judge) was being carried to the
burying ground, and the mullahs who surrounded the bier, scandalised by
what they thought a horrible imprecation, exclaimed, "How darest thou,
wicked wretch, thus blaspheme? Is it not enough that Death has taken one
of the greatest men of Baghdád?" The poor simpleton was skulking off in
fear and trembling, when his sleeve was pulled by an aged slave, who
told him that he ought to say, "May Allah preserve his body and save his
soul!" So our noodle went on, repeating this new cry till he came to a
street where a dead ass was being carted away. "May Allah preserve his
body and save his soul!"' he exclaimed. "How he blasphemes!" said the
folk, and they set upon him with their fists and sticks, and gave him a
sound drubbing. At length he got clear of them, and by chance came to
the house of his wife's mother, but he only ventured to stand at the
door and peep within. He was recognised, however, and asked what he
would have to eat--goat's flesh? rice? _pease?_ Yes, it was pease
he wanted, and having got some, he hastened home, and after relating all
his mishaps, informed his wife, that her sister was very sick. His wife,
having prepared herself to go to her mother's house, tells the simpleton
to rock the baby should it awake and cry; feed the hen that was sitting;
if the ass was thirsty, give her to drink; shut the door, and take care
not to go to sleep, lest robbers should come and plunder the house. The
baby awakes, and Xailoun rocks it to sleep again; so far, well. The hen
seems uneasy; he concludes she is troubled with insects, like himself.
So he takes up the hen, and thinking the best way to kill the insects
was to stick a pin into them, he unluckily kills the hen. This was a
serious matter, and while he considers what he should do in the
circumstances, the ass begins to bray. "Ah," says he, "I've no time to
attend to you just now; but when I am on your back, you can carry me to
the river." Then he opened the door and let out the ass and her colt.
After this he sat down on the eggs, and took the baby in his arms. His
wife returning, knocks at the door. "Let me in, you fool," she cries. "I
can't, for I am nursing the baby and hatching the eggs." At length she
contrived to force open the door, and running up to her idiot of a
husband, fetched him a blow that caused him to crush all the
half-hatched eggs. Luckily she had met the ass and her foal on the road,
so the amount of mischief done by her stupid spouse in her absence was
not so great, all things considered.[4]
The misadventures of the Arabian idiot in his expedition to purchase
pease present a close analogy to those of the typical English booby,
only the latter end tragically:
A woman sent her son one day to buy a sheep's head and pluck, and, lest
he should forget his message, he kept bawling loudly as he went along,
"Sheep's head and pluck! sheep's head and pluck!" In getting over a
stile he fell and hurt himself, and forgot what he was sent for, so he
stood a little to consider; and at last he thought he recollected it,
and began to shout, "Liver and lights and gall and all!" which he was
repeating when he came up to a man who was very sick. The man, thinking
the booby was mocking him, laid hold of him, and after cuffing him, bade
the booby cry, "Pray God, send no more up!" So he ran along uttering
these words till he came to a field where a man was sowing wheat, who,
on hearing what he took for a curse upon his labour, seized and thrashed
him, and told him to repeat, "Pray God, send plenty more!" So the young
jolterhead at once "changed his tune," and was loudly singing out these
words when he met a funeral. The chief mourner punished him for what he
thought his fiendish wish, and bade him say, "Pray God, send the soul to
heaven!" which he was bawling when he met a he and a she-dog going to be
hanged. The good people who heard him were greatly shocked at his
seeming profanity, and striking him, strictly charged him to cry, "A he
and a she-dog going to be hanged!" On he went, accordingly, repeating
this new cry, till he met a man and a woman going to be married. When
the bridegroom heard what the booby said, he gave him many a good thump,
and bade him say, "I wish you much joy!" This he was crying at the top
of his voice when he came to a pit into which two labourers had fallen,
and one of them, enraged at what he thought his mockery of their
misfortune, exerted all his strength and scrambled out, then beat the
poor simpleton, and told him to say, "The one is out; I wish the other
was!" Glad to be set free, the booby went on shouting these words till
he met with a one-eyed man, who, like the others, taking what he was
crying for a personal insult, gave him another drubbing, and then bade
him cry, "The one side gives good light, and I wish the other did!" So
he adopted this new cry, and continued his adventurous journey till he
came to a house, one side of which was on fire. The people, hearing him
bawling, "The one side gives good light, and I wish the other did!" at
once concluded that he had set the house a-blazing; so they put him in
prison, and the end was, the judge put on the black cap and condemned
him to be hanged![5]
* * * * *
When the noodle is persuaded, as in the following case of a Sinhalese
wittol, by a gang of thieves to join them in a plundering expedition,
they have little reason to be pleased with him, for he does not make a
good "cat's-paw." The Sinhalese noodle joined some thieves, took readily
to their ways, and was always eager to accompany them on their marauding
excursions. One night they took him with them, and boring a large hole
in the wall of a house,[6] they sent him in, telling him to hand out the
heaviest article he could lay hands upon. He readily went in, and seeing
a large kurakkan-grinder,[7] thought that was the heaviest thing in the
room, and attempted to remove it. But it proved too much for him alone,
so he gently awoke a man who was sleeping in the room, and said to him,
"My friend, pray help me to remove this kurakkan-grinder." The man
immediately guessed that thieves had entered the house, and gave the
alarm. The thieves, who were waiting outside quite expectant, rushed
away, and the noodle somehow or other managed to escape with them.
Next night they again took him along with them, and after boring a hole
in the wall of another house, sent him in with strict injunctions not to
make a noise or wake anybody. He crept in noiselessly and entered a
large room, in which was an old woman, fast asleep by the fire, with
wide-open mouth. An earthen chattie, a wooden spoon, and a small bag of
pease were also placed by the fire. The noodle first proceeded to roast
some pease in the chattie. When they were roasted to a nice brownish
colour, and emitted a very tempting smell, he thought that the old woman
might also enjoy a mouthful. He considered for a while how he might best
offer some to her. He did not wish to wake her, as he was ordered not to
wake anybody. Suddenly a bright idea struck him. Why should he not feed
her? There she was sleeping with her mouth wide open. Surely it would be
no difficult task to put some pease into her mouth. Taking some of the
hot, smoking pease into the wooden spoon, he put the contents into her
mouth. The woman awoke, screaming with all her might. The noise roused
the other inmates of the house, who came rushing to the spot to see what
was the matter. This time also the noodle managed to escape with the
thieves; but in a subsequent adventure he, as well as the thieves, came
to grief.[8]
The silly son of Italian popular tales is represented as being sent by
his mother to sell a piece of linen which she had woven, saying to him,
"Now listen attentively to what I say: Walk straight along the road.
Don't take less than such a price for this linen. Don't have any
dealings with women who chatter. Whether you sell it to any one you meet
on the way, or carry it into the market, offer it only to some quiet
sort of body whom you may see standing apart and not gossiping or
prating, for such as they will persuade you to take some sort of price
that won't suit me at all." The booby answers, "Yes, mamma," and goes
off on his errand, keeping straight on, instead of taking the turnings
leading to villages. It happened, as he went along, that the wife of the
syndic of the next town was driving out with her maids, and had got out
of the carriage, to walk a short distance, as the day was fine. Her maid
tells her that there goes the simple son of the poor widow by the brook.
"What are you going to do, my good lad?" kindly asks the lady. "I'm not
going to tell you," says the booby, "because you were chattering." "I
see your mother has sent you to sell this linen," continues the lady; "I
will buy it of you," and she offers to pay twice as much as his mother
had said she wanted. "Can't sell it to you," replies he, "for you were
chattering," and he continues his journey. Farther along he comes to a
plaster statue by the roadside, so he says to himself, "Here's one who
stands apart and doesn't chatter; this is the one to sell the linen to,"
then aloud, "Will you buy my linen, good friend?" The statue maintained
its usual taciturnity, and the booby concluded, as it did not speak, it
was all right, so he said, "The price is so-and-so; have the money ready
by the time I come back, as I have to go on and buy some yarn for
mother." On he went accordingly, and bought the yarn, and then came back
to the statue. Some one passing by had in the meantime taken the linen.
Finding it gone, "It's all right," says he to himself; "she's taken it,"
then aloud, "Where's the money I told you to have ready?" The statue
remained silent. "If you don't give me the money, I'll hit you on the
head," he exclaimed, and raising his stick, he knocked the head off, and
found it filled with gold coin. "That's where you keep your money, is
it? All right; I can pay myself." So saying, he filled his pockets with
the coin and went home. When he handed his mother the money, and told
her of his adventure with the quiet body by the roadside, she was afraid
lest the neighbours should learn of her windfall if the booby knew its
value, so she said to him, "You've only brought me a lot of rusty nails;
but never mind: you'll know better what to do next time," and put the
money in an earthen jar. In her absence, a ragman comes to the house,
and the booby asks him, "Will you buy some rusty nails?" The man desires
to see them. "Well," quoth he on beholding the treasure, "they're not
much worth, but I'll give you twelve pauls for the lot," and having
handed over the sum, went off with his prize. When his mother comes
home, the booby tells her what a bargain he had made for the rusty
nails. "Nails!" she echoes, in consternation. "Why, you foolish thing,
they were gold coins!" "Can't help that now, mamma," he answers
philosophically; "you told me they were old rusty nails." By another
lucky adventure, however, the booby is enabled to make up his mother's
loss, finding a treasure which a party of robbers had left behind them
at the foot of a tree.
The incident of a simpleton selling something to an inanimate object and
discovering a hidden treasure occurs, in different forms, in the
folk-tales of Asiatic as well as European countries. In a manuscript
text of the _Arabian Nights_, brought from Constantinople by
Wortley Montague, and now preserved in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, a
more elaborate version of the Italian booby's adventure with the statue
is found, in the "Story of the Bang-eater and his Wife:"
In former times there lived not far from Baghdad a half-witted fellow,
who was much addicted to the use of bang. Being reduced to poverty, he
was obliged to sell his cow, which he took to the market one day, but
the animal being in such a poor condition, no one would buy it, and
after waiting till he was weary he returned homeward. On the way he
stopped to repose himself under a tree, and tied the cow to one of the
branches, while he ate some bread, and drank an infusion of his bang,
which he always carried with him. In a short time it began to operate,
so as to bereave him of the little sense he had, and his head was filled
with ridiculous reveries. While he was musing, a bird beginning to
chatter from her nest in the tree, he fancied it was a human voice, and
that some woman had offered to purchase his cow, upon which he said,
"Reverend mother of Solomon,[9] dost thou wish to buy my cow?" The bird
again chattered. "Well," replied he, "what wilt thou give? I will sell
her a bargain." The bird repeated her noise. "Never mind," said the
fool, "for though thou hast forgotten to bring thy purse, yet, as I
daresay thou art an honest woman, and hast bidden me ten dinars, I will
trust thee with the cow, and call on Friday for the money." The bird
renewed her chattering; so, leaving the cow tied to a branch of the
tree, he returned home, exulting in the good bargain he had made for the
animal. When he entered the house, his wife inquired what he had got for
the cow, and he replied that he had sold her to an honest woman, who had
promised to pay him ten pieces of gold next Friday. The wife was
contented; and when Friday arrived, her noodle of a husband having, as
usual, taken a dose of bang, repaired to the tree, and hearing the bird
chattering as before, said, "Well, good mother, hast thou brought the
gold?" The bird croaked. The blockhead, supposing the imaginary woman
refused to pay him, became angry, and threw up a stone, which
frightening the bird, it flew from its nest in the tree and alighted on
a heap of ruins at some little distance. He now concluded that the woman
had desired him to take his money from the heap, into which he
accordingly dug, and found a copper vessel full of coin. This discovery
convinced him he was right, and being withal an honest fellow, he only
took ten pieces; then replacing the soil, "May Allah requite thee for
thy punctuality, good mother!" he exclaimed, and returned to his wife,
to whom he gave the money, informing her at the same time of the great
treasure his friend the imaginary old woman possessed, and where it was
concealed.
The wife waited till night, when she brought away the pot of gold, which
her foolish husband observing, he said, "It is dishonest to rob one who
has paid us so punctually; and if thou dost not return it to its place,
I will inform the walí" (governor of the city). She laughed at his
simplicity, but fearing that he would execute his threat, she planned a
stratagem to render it of no avail. Going to market, she purchased some
meat and fish ready cooked, which she brought privately home, and
concealed in the house. At night, while her husband was sleeping off the
effects of his favourite narcotic, she strewed the provisions she had
brought outside the door, and then awakening him, cried out, "Dear
husband, a most wonderful thing has occurred: there has been a violent
storm while you slept, and, strange to tell, it has rained pieces of
broiled meat and fish, which now lie at the door!" The blockhead got up,
and seeing the food, was persuaded of the truth of his wife's story. The
flesh and fish were gathered up, and he partook with much glee of the
miraculous treat, but still said he would tell the walí of her having
stolen the treasure of the honest old woman.
In the morning he actually repaired to the walí, and informed him that
his wife had stolen a pot of gold, which she had still in her
possession. Upon this the walí had the woman apprehended. She denied the
accusation, and was then threatened with death. "My lord," said she,
"the power is in your hands; but I am an injured woman, as you will find
by questioning my husband, who is deranged in his intellect. Ask him
when I committed the theft." The walí did so, and the simpleton
answered, "It was the evening of that night when it rained broiled fish
and ready-cooked flesh." On hearing this, "Wretch!" exclaimed the walí
in a fury, "dost thou dare to utter falsehoods before me? Who ever saw
it rain anything but water?" "As I hope for life," replied the fool, "I
speak the truth; for my wife and myself ate of the fish and flesh which
fell from the clouds." The woman, being appealed to, denied the
assertion of her husband. The walí, now convinced that the man was
crazy, released the woman, and sent her husband to the madhouse, where
he remained for some days, till his wife, pitying his condition,
contrived to get him set at liberty. She visited her husband, and
counselled him, should any one ask him if he had seen it rain fish and
flesh, to answer, "No; who ever saw it rain anything but water?" Then
she informed the keeper that he was come to his senses, and suggested he
should question him; and on the poor fellow answering properly he was
released.
* * * * *
In a Russian variant, an old man had three sons, one of whom was a
noodle. When the old man died, his property was shared between the
brothers, but all that the simpleton received was one ox, which he took
to the market to sell. On his way he chanced to pass an old birch-tree,
which creaked and groaned in the wind. He thinks the tree is offering to
buy his ox, and so he says, "Well, you shall have it for twenty
roubles." But the tree only creaked and creaked, and he fancied it was
asking the ox on credit. "Very good," says he. "You'll pay me tomorrow?
I'll wait till then." So he ties the ox to the tree and goes home. His
brothers question him about his ox, and he tells them he has sold it for
twenty roubles and is to get the money to-morrow, at which they laugh;
he is, they think; a greater fool than ever. Next morning he went to the
birch-tree, and found the ox was gone, for, in truth, the wolves had
eaten it. He demanded his money, but the tree only creaked and groaned,
as usual. "You'll pay me to-morrow?" he exclaimed. "That's what you said
yesterday. I'll have no more of your promises." So saying, he struck the
old birch-tree with his hatchet and sent the chips flying about. Now the
tree was hollow, and it soon split asunder from his blows; and in the
hollow trunk he found a pot full of gold, which some robbers had hidden
there. Taking some of the gold, he returns home, and shows it to his
brothers, who ask him how he got so much money. "A neighbour," he
replies, "gave it to me for my ox. But this is nothing like the whole of
it. Come along, brothers, and let us get the rest." They go, and fetch
the rest of the treasure, and on their way home they meet a diachok (one
of the inferior members of the Russian clerical body, though not one of
the clergy), who asks them what they are carrying. "Mushrooms," say the
two clever brothers; but the noodle cries, "That's not true; we're
carrying money: here, look at it." The diachok, with an exclamation,
flung himself upon the gold and began stuffing it into his pockets. At
this the noodle grew angry, dealt him a blow with his hatchet, and
killed him on the spot. The brothers dragged the body to an empty
cellar, and flung it in. Later in the evening the eldest said to the
other, "This business is sure to turn out badly. When they look for the
diachok, Simpleton will be sure to tell them all about it. So we had
better hide the body in some other place, and kill a goat and bury it in
the cellar." This they did accordingly. And after several days had
passed the people asked the noodle if he had seen the diachok. "Yes," he
answered. "I killed him some time ago with my hatchet, and my brothers
carried him to the cellar." They seize upon him and compel him to go
down into the cellar and bring out the body. He gets hold of the goat's
head, and asks, "Was your diachok dark-haired?" "He was." "Had he a
beard?" "Yes." "And horns?" "What horns are you talking of?" "Well, see
for yourselves," said he, tossing up the head to them. They saw it was a
goat's head, and went away home.
* * * * *
The reader cannot fail to remark the close resemblance there is between
the first parts of the Arabian and Russian stories; and the second parts
of both reappear in many tales of the Silly Son. The goat's carcase
substituted for the dead man occurs, for instance, in the Norse story of
Silly Matt; in the Sicilian story of Giufa; in M. Rivière's _Contes
Populaires de la Kabylie du Djurdjura_; and "Foolish Sachúli," in
Miss Stokes' _Indian Fairy Tales_. The incident of the pretended
shower of broiled fish and flesh is found in Campbell's _Tales of the
West Highlands_ (porridge and pancakes); in Rivière's Tales of the
Kabaïl (fritters); "Foolish Sachúli" (sweetmeats); Giufà, the Sicilian
Booby (figs and raisins); and in M. Leger's _Contes Populaires
Slaves_, where, curiously enough, the trick is played by a husband
upon his wife. It is perhaps worth while reproducing the Russian story
from Leger, in a somewhat abridged form, as follows:
In tilling the ground a labourer found a treasure, and carrying it home,
said to his wife, "See! Heaven has sent us a fortune. But where can we
conceal it?" She suggested he should bury it under the floor, which he
did accordingly. Soon after this the wife went out to fetch water, and
the labourer reflected that his wife was a dreadful gossip, and by
to-morrow night all the village would know their secret. So he removed
the treasure from its hiding-place and buried it in his barn, beneath a
heap of corn. When the wife came back from the well, he said to her
quite gravely, "To-morrow we shall go to the forest to seek fish; they
say there's plenty there at present." "What! fish in the forest?" she
exclaimed. "Of course," he rejoined; "and you'll see them there." Very
early next morning he got up, and took some fish, which he had concealed
in a basket. He went to the grocer's and bought a quantity of sweet
cakes. He also caught a hare and killed it. The fish and cakes he
disposed of in different parts of the wood, and the hare he hooked on a
fishing-line, and then threw it in the river. After breakfast he took
his wife with him into the wood, which they had scarcely entered when
she found a pike, then a perch, and then a roach, on the ground. With
many exclamations of surprise, she gathered up the fish and put them in
her basket. Presently they came to a pear-tree, from the branches of
which hung sweet cakes. "See!" she cried. "Cakes on a pear-tree!" "Quite
natural," replied he; "it has rained cakes, and some have remained on
this tree; travellers have picked up the rest." Continuing their way to
the village, they passed near a stream. "Wait a little," said the
husband; "I set my line early this morning, and I'll look if anything is
caught on it." He then pulled in the line, and behold, there was a hare
hooked on to it! "How extraordinary!" cries the good wife--"a hare in
the water!" "Why," says he, "don't you know there are hares in the water
as well as rats?" "No, indeed, I knew it not." They now returned home,
and the wife set about preparing all the nice eatables for supper. In a
day or two the labourer found from the talk of his acquaintances that
his finding the treasure was no secret in the village, and in less than
a week he was summoned to the castle. "Is it true," said the lord, "that
you have found a treasure?" "It is not true," was his reply. "But your
wife has told me all." "My wife does not know what she says--she is mad,
my lord." Hereupon the woman cries, "It is the truth, my lord; he has
found a treasure and buried it beneath the floor of our cottage."
"When?" "On the eve before the day we went into the forest to look for
fish." "What do you say?" "Yes; it was on the day that it rained cakes;
we gathered a basketful of them, and coming home, my husband fished a
fine hare out of the river." My lord declared the woman to be an idiot;
nevertheless he caused his servants to search under the labourer's
cottage floor, but nothing was found there, and so the shrewd fellow
secured his treasure.
The silly son figures frequently in Indian story-books; sometimes a
number of fools' exploits are strung together and ascribed to one
individual, as in the tale of "Foolish Sachúli;" but generally they are
told as separate stories. The following adventure of Sachúli is also
found, in varied form, in Beschi's _Gooroo Paramartan_: One day
Sachúli climbed up a tree, and sat on a long branch, and began cutting
off the branch between the tree and himself. A man passing by called to
him, saying, "What are you doing up there? You will be killed if you cut
that branch off." "What do you say?" asked the booby, coming down. "When
shall I die?" "How can I tell?" said the man. "Let me go." "I will not
let you go until you tell me when I shall die." At last the man, in
order to get rid of him, said, "When you find a scarlet thread on your
jacket, then you will die." After this Sachúli went to the
_bazaar_, and sat down by some tailors, and in throwing away
shreds, a scarlet thread fell on his clothes. "Now I shall die!"
exclaimed the fool. "How do you know that?" the tailors inquired, when
he told them what the man had said about a scarlet thread, at which they
all laughed. Nevertheless, Sachúli went and dug a grave in the jungle
and lay down in it.
Presently a sepoy comes along, bearing a pot of _ghi_, or clarified
butter, which he engages Sachúli to carry for him, and the noodle, of
course, lets it fall in the midst of his calculations of the uses to
which he should put the money he is promised by the sepoy.
The incident of a blockhead cutting off the branch on which he is seated
seems to be almost universal. It occurs in the jests of the typical
Turkish noodle, the Khoja Nasr-ed-Dín, and there exist German, Saxon,
and Lithuanian variants of the same story. It is also known in Ceylon,
and the following is a version from a Hindú work entitled _Bharataka
Dwátrinsati_, Thirty-two Tales of Mendicant Monks:
In Elákapura there lived several mendicant monks. One of them, named
Dandaka, once went, in the rainy season, into a wood in order to procure
a post for his hut. There he saw on a tree a fine branch bent down, and
he climbed the tree, sat on the branch, and began to cut it. Then there
came that way some travellers, who, seeing what he was doing, said, "O
monk, greatest of all idiots, you should not cut a branch on which you
yourself are sitting, for if you do so, when the branch breaks you will
fall down and die." After saying this the travellers went their way. The
monk, however, paid no attention to their speech, but continued to cut
the branch, remaining in the same posture, until at length the branch
broke, and he tumbled down. He then thought within himself, "Those
travellers are indeed wise and truthful, for everything has happened
just as they predicted; consequently I must be dead." So he remained on
the ground as if dead; he did not speak, nor did he stand up, nor did he
even breathe. People who came there from the neighbourhood raised him
up, but he did not stand; they endeavoured to make him speak, but could
not succeed. They then sent word to the other monks, saying, "Your
associate Dandaka fell down from a tree and died." Then came the monks
in large numbers, and when they saw that he was "dead," they lifted him
up in order to carry him to the place of cremation. Now when they had
gone a short distance they came upon a spot where the road divided
itself before them. Then said some, "We must go to the left," but others
said, "It is to the right that we must go." Thus a dispute arose among
them, and they were unable to come to any conclusion. The "dead" monk,
who was borne on a bier, said, "Friends, quarrel not among yourselves;
when I was alive, I always went by the left road." Then said some, "He
always spoke the truth; all that he ever said was nothing but the simple
fact. Let us therefore take the left road." This was agreed upon, and as
they were about to proceed towards the left some people who happened to
be present said, "O ye monks, ye are the greatest of all blockheads that
ye should proceed to burn this man while he is yet alive." They
answered, "Nay, but he is dead." Then the bystanders said, "He cannot be
dead, seeing that he yet speaks." They then set down the bier on the
ground, and Dandaka persistently declared that he was actually dead, and
related to them with the most solemn protestations the prediction of the
travellers, and how it was fulfilled. Hereupon the other monks remained
quite bewildered, unable to arrive at any decision as to whether Dandaka
was dead or alive, until at length, after a great deal of trouble, the
bystanders succeeded in convincing them that the man was not dead and in
inducing them to return to their dwelling. Dandaka also now stood up and
went his way, after having been heartily laughed at by the people.[11]
A diverting story in the _Facetiæ_ of Poggius, entitled "Mortuus
Loqueus," from which it was reproduced in the Italian novels of Grazzini
and in our old collection _Tales and Quicke Answeres_, has a near
affinity with jests of this class, and also with the wide cycle of
stories in which a number of rogues combine to cheat a simpleton out of
his property. In the early English jest-book,[12] it is, in effect, as
follows:
There once dwelt in Florence a noodle called Nigniaca, upon whom a party
of young men resolved to play a practical joke. Having arranged their
plans, one of them met him early one morning, and asked him if he was
not ill. "No," says the wittol. "I am well enough." "By my faith," quoth
the joker, "but you have a pale, sickly colour," and went his way.
Presently a second of the complotters came up to him, and asked him if
he was not suffering from an ague, for he certainly looked very ill. The
poor fellow now began to think that he was really sick, and was
convinced of this when a third man in passing told him that he should be
in his bed--he had evidently not an hour to live. Hearing this, Nigniaca
stood stock-still, saying to himself, "Verily, I have some sharp ague,"
when a fourth man came and bade him go home at once, for he was a dying
man. So the simpleton begged this fourth man to help him home, which he
did very willingly, and after laying him in his bed, the other jokers
came to see him, and one of them, pretending to be a physician, felt his
pulse and declared the patient would die within an hour.[13] Then,
standing all about his bed, they said to each other, "Now he is sinking
fast; his speech and sight have failed him; he will soon give up the
ghost. Let us therefore close his eyes, cross his hands on his breast,
and carry him forth to be buried." The simpleton lay as still as though
he was really dead, so they laid him on a bier and carried him through
the city. A great crowd soon gathered, when it was known that they were
carrying the corpse of Nigniaca to his grave. And among the crowd was a
taverner's boy, who cried out, "What a rascal and thief is dead! By the
mass, he should have been hanged long ago." When the wittol heard
himself thus vilified, he lifted up his head and exclaimed, "I wish, you
scoundrel, I were alive now, as I am dead, and I would prove thee a
false liar to thy face;" upon which the jokers burst into laughter, set
down the "body" and ran away--leaving Nigniaca to explain the whole
affair to the marvelling multitude.[14]
We read of another silly son, in the _Kathá Manjari_, whose father
said to him one day, "My boy, you are now grown big, yet you don't seem
to have much sense. You must, however, do something for your living. Go,
therefore, to the tank, and catch fish and bring them home." The lad
accordingly went to the tank, and having caused all the water--which was
required for the irrigation of his father's fields--to run to waste, he
picked up from the mud all the fishes he could find, and took them to
his father, not a little proud of his exploit.--In the _Kathá Sarit
Ságara_ it is related that a Bráhman told his foolish son one evening
that he must send him to the village early on the morrow, and thither
the lad went, without asking what he was to do. Returning home at night
very tired, he said to his father, "I have been to the village." "Yes,"
said the Bráhman, "you went thither without an object, and have done no
good by it."--And in the Buddhist _Játakas_ we find what is
probably the original of a world-wide story: A man was chopping a felled
tree, when a mosquito settled on his bald head and stung him severely.
Calling to his son, who was sitting near him, he said, "My boy, there is
a mosquito stinging my head, like the thrust of a spear--drive it off."
"Wait a bit, father," said the boy, "and I will kill him with one blow."
Then he took up an axe and stood behind his father's back; and thinking
to kill the mosquito with the axe, he only killed his father.
Among numerous variants is the story of the Sicilian booby, Giufà, who
was annoyed by the flies, and complained of them to the judge, who told
him that he was at liberty to kill a fly wherever he saw it: just then a
fly happened to alight on the judge's nose, which Giufà observing, he
immediately aimed at it so furious a blow with his fist, that he smashed
his worship's nose!
The hopelessness of attempting to impart instruction to the silly son is
farther illustrated by the story in a Sinhalese collection: A gúrú was
engaged in teaching one of his disciples, but whilst he was teaching the
youth was watching the movements of a rat which was entering its hole.
As soon as the gúrú had finished his teaching, he said, "Well, my son,
has all entered in?" to which the youth replied, "Yes, all has entered
in except the tail." And from the same work is the following choice
example of "a happy family": A priest went one day to the house of one
of his followers, and amongst other things he said, "Tell me now, which
of your four children is the best-behaved?" The father replied, "Look,
sir, at that boy who has climbed to the top of that thatched building,
and is waving aloft a firebrand. Among them all, he is the divinely
excellent one." Whereupon the priest placed his finger on his nose, drew
a deep, deep sigh, and said, "Is it indeed so? What, then, must the
other three be?"
The Turkish romance of the Forty Vazírs--the plan of which is similar to
that of the Book of Sindibád and its derivatives--furnishes us with two
stories of the same class, one of which is as follows, according to my
friend Mr. Gibb's complete translation (the first that has been made in
English), recently published:[15]
They have told that in bygone times there was a king, and he had a
skilful minstrel. One day a certain person gave to the latter a little
boy, that he might teach him the science of music. The boy abode a long
time by him, and though the master instructed him, he succeeded not in
learning, and the master could make nothing of him. He arranged a scale,
and said, "Whatsoever thou sayest to me, say in this scale." So
whatsoever the boy said he used to say in that scale. Now one day a
spark of fire fell on the master's turban. The boy saw it and chanted,
"O master, I see something; shall I say it or no?" and he went over the
whole scale. Then the master chanted, "O boy, what dost thou see?
Speak!" and he too went over all that the boy had gone over. Then the
turn came to the boy, and he chanted, "O master, a spark has fallen on
thy turban, and it is burning." The master straightway tore off his
turban and cast it on the ground, and saw that it was burning. He blew
out the fire on this side and on that, and took it in his hand, and said
to the boy, "What time for chanting is this? Everything is good in its
own place," and he admonished him.[16]
The other story tells how a king had a stupid son, and placed him in
charge of a cunning master, learned in the sciences, who declared it
would be easy for him to teach the boy discretion, and, before
dismissing him, the king gave the sage many rich gifts. After the boy
has been long under the tuition of his learned master, the latter,
conceiving him to be well versed in all the sciences, takes him to the
king, his father, who says to him, "O my son, were I to hold a certain
thing hidden in my hand, couldst thou tell me what it is?" "Yes,"
answers the youth. Upon this the king secretly slips the ring off his
finger, and hides it in his hand, and then asks the boy, "What have I in
my hand?" Quoth the clever youth, "O father, it first came from the
hills." (The king thinks to himself, "He knows that mines are in the
hills.") "And it is a round thing," continues he--"it must be a
millstone." "Blockhead!" exclaims the irate king, "could a millstone be
hidden in a man's hand?" Then addressing the learned man, "Take him
away," he says, "and _teach_ him."
Lastly, we have a somewhat different specimen of the silly son in the
doctor's apprentice, whose attempt to imitate his master was so
ludicrously unsuccessful. He used to accompany his master on his visits
to patients, and one day the doctor said to a sick man, to whom he had
been called, "I know what is the matter with you, and it is useless to
deny it;--you have been eating beans." On their way home, the
apprentice, admiring his master's sagacity, begged to be informed how he
knew that the patient had been eating beans. "Boy," said the doctor,
loftily, "I drew an inference." "An inference!" echoed this youth of
inquiring mind; "and what is an inference?" Quoth the doctor, "Listen:
when we came to the door, I observed the shells of beans lying about,
and I drew the inference that the family had had beans for dinner."
Another day it chanced that the doctor did not take his apprentice with
him when he went his rounds, and in his absence a message came for him
to visit a person who had been taken suddenly ill. "Here," thought the
apprentice, "is a chance for my putting master's last lesson into
practice;" so off he went to the sick man, and assuming as "knowing" an
air as he could, he felt his pulse, and then said to him severely,
"Don't deny it; I see by your pulse that you have been eating a horse. I
shall send you some medicine." When the doctor returned home he inquired
of his hopeful pupil, whether any person had called for him, upon which
the wittol proudly told him of his own exploit. "Eaten a horse!"
exclaimed the man of physic. "In the name of all that's wonderful, what
induced you to say such a thing?" Quoth the youth, simpering, "Why, sir,
I did as you did the other day, when we visited the old farmer--I drew
an inference." "You drew an inference, did you? And how did you draw the
inference that the man had eaten a horse?" "Why, very readily, sir; for
as I entered the house I saw a saddle hanging on the wall."[17]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Abridged from the story of "Silly Matt" in Sir George W. Dasent's
_Tales from the Fjeld_.
[2] Professor Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, p. 302. This actual
throwing of eyes occurs in the folk-tales of Europe generally.
[3] In _Le Cabinet des Fées, 1788_ (tome xxxviii., p. 337 ff.).--
There can be no such name as Xailoun in Arabic; that of the noodle's
wife, Oitba, may be intended for "Utba." Cazotte has so Frenchified the
names of the characters in his tales as to render their identification
with the Arabic originals (where he had any such) often impossible.
Although this story is not found in any known Arabian text of the
_Book of the Thousand and One Nights_, yet the incidents for the
most part occur in several Eastern story-books.
[4] On a similar occasion Giufà, the Sicilian brother to the Arabian
fool, did somewhat more mischief. Once his mother went to church and
told him to make some porridge for his baby-sister. Giufà made a great
pot of porridge and fed the baby with it, and burned her mouth so that
she died. Another time his mother on leaving home told him to feed the
hen that was sitting and put her back in the nest, so that the eggs
should not get cold. Giufà stuffed the hen with food so that he killed
her, and then sat on the eggs himself until his mother returned.--See
Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_, pp. 296-7.
[5] Abridged and modified from a version in the _Folk-Lore Record_,
vol. iii., pp. 153-5.
[6] The usual mode by which in the East thieves break into houses, which
are for the most part constructed of clay. See Job xxiv. 16.
[7] Kurakkan is a species of grain.
[8] _The Orientalist_, June, 1884, pp. 137-8.
[9] Ummu Sulayman. In Arabia the mother is generally addressed in this
way as a mark of respect for having borne children, and the eldest gives
the title. Our bang-eater supposed he was addressing an old woman who
had (or might have had) a son named Solomon.
[10] See Ralston's _Russian Folk-Tales._ [Transcriber's note:
Footnote reference missing from original, p. 153]
[11] From a paper on "Comparative Folk-lore," by W. Goonetilleke, in
_The Orientalist_, i., p. 122.
[12] _Mery Tales, Wittie Questions, and Quicke Answeres, very pleasant
to be Readde._ Imprinted at London by H. Wykes, 1567.
[13] Thus, too, Scogin and his "chamber-fellow" successively declared to
a rustic that the sheep he was driving were pigs. In Fortini's novels,
in like manner, a simpleton is persuaded that the kid he offered for
sale was a capon; and in the Spanish _El Conde Lucanor_, and the
German _Tyl Eulenspiegel_, a countryman is cheated out of a piece
of cloth. The original form of the incident is found in the
_Hitopadesa_, where three sharpers persuade a Bráhman that the goat
he is carrying for a sacrifice is a dog. This story of the Florentine
noodle--or rather Poggio's version--may have been suggested by a tale in
the _Gesta Romanorum_, in which the emperor's physician is made to
believe that he had leprosy. See my _Popular Tales and Fictions_,
where these and similar stories are compared in a paper entitled "The
Sharpers and the Simpleton."
[14] In Powell and Magnusson's _Legends of Iceland_ (Second Series,
p. 627), a woman makes her husband believe that he is dressed in fine
clothes when he is naked; another persuades her husband that he is dead,
and as he is being carried to the burying-ground, he perceives the naked
man, who asserts that he is dressed, upon which he exclaims, "How I
should laugh if I were not dead!" And in a _fabliau_ by Jean de
Boves, "Le Villain de Bailleul; _aliàs_, Le Femme qui fit croire à
son Mari qu'il était mort," the husband exclaims, "Rascal of a priest,
you may well thank Heaven that I am dead, else I would belabour you
soundly with my stick."--See M. Le Grand's _Fabliaux_, ed. 1781,
tome v., pp. 192, 193.
[5] _History of the Forty Viziers; or, The Forty Morns and Forty
Eves._ Translated from the Turkish, by E.J.W. Gibb, M.R.A.S. London:
G. Redway, 1886.
[16] A variant of this is found in John Bromyard's _Summa
Prædicantium_, A 26, 34, as follows:
Quidam sedebat juxta igneum, cujus vestem ignis intrabat. Dixit socius
suus, "Vis audire rumores?" "Ita," inquit, "bonos et non alios." Cui
alius, "Nescio nisi malos." "Ergo," inquit, "nolo audire." Et quum bis
aut ter ei hoc diceret, semper idem respondit. In fine, quum sentiret
vestem combustam, iratus ait socio, "Quare non dixisti mihi?" "Quia
(inquit) dixista quod noluisti audire rumores nisi placentes et illi non
erant tales."
[17] Under the title of "The Phisitian that bare his Paciente in honde
that he had eaten an Asse" this jest occurs in _Merry Tales and Quicke
Answeres_, and Professor Crane gives a Sicilian version in his
_Italian Popular Tales_.