CHAPTER I

=Columbia University=

_STUDIES IN COMPARATIVE LITERATURE_

THE ORIENTAL TALE IN ENGLAND

IN THE

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

This monograph has been recommended by the Department of Comparative

Literature as a contribution to the literature of the subject worthy of

publication.

J. B. FLETCHER,

_Professor of Comparative Literature_.

THE

ORIENTAL TALE IN ENGLAND

IN THE

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

BY

MARTHA PIKE CONANT, PH.D.

[Illustration: Crowned emblem showing an open book beneath a crown; the

left page reads “1754 Columbia 1839,” the right page reads “University

Press,” with a scroll below bearing a Latin motto.]

=New York=

THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS

1908

_All rights reserved_

COPYRIGHT, 1908,

BY THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS.

Set up and electrotyped. Published January, 1908.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

=To=

MY SISTER

CHARLOTTE HOWARD CONANT

PREFACE

This essay is a study in eighteenth-century English literature. The

author disclaims any knowledge of the oriental languages and attempts no

discussion of the ultimate sources of those genuine oriental tales that

appeared in English in the eighteenth century. Such a discussion is not

the purpose of this study. The aim here is rather to give a clear and

accurate description of a distinct component part of eighteenth-century

English fiction in its relation to its French sources and to the general

current of English thought. The oriental fiction that was not original

in English came, almost without exception, from French imitations or

translations of genuine oriental tales; hence, as a study in comparative

literature, a consideration of the oriental tale in England during the

eighteenth century possesses distinct interest. Moreover the presence of

this oriental and pseudo-oriental fiction in England,—as in France,—and

the mingled enthusiasm and disapproval with which in both countries it

was greeted, testify to the strength of established classicism and to

the advent of the new romantic spirit. The history of the oriental tale

in England in the eighteenth century might be called an episode in the

development of English Romanticism.

No general survey such as the present volume undertakes, has before been

made. Certain chapters in _Die Vorläufer der Modernen Novelle im 18ten

Jahrhundert_ (1897), by Dr. Rudolph Fürst, approach most nearly to the

present treatment and have given valuable suggestions; H. W. Weber’s

_Introduction_ to his _Tales of the East_ (1812) contains useful data;

M. Pierre Martino’s work, _L’Orient dans la littérature française au

XVII^e et au XVIII^e siècle_ (1906), came to hand after this essay was

practically completed, but has proved of distinct value; and M. Victor

Chauvin’s monumental _Bibliographie des ouvrages arabes_ (1892–1905) is

indispensable to any student of this subject. The _Bibliography,

Appendix B, II._, pp. 294–306, of this volume gives the full titles of

these and other books of reference to which I am indebted. None of

these, however, gives anything except incidental or partial treatment of

this subject. No attempt has hitherto been made to consider in a single

survey all the oriental and pseudo-oriental fiction that appeared in

England during the eighteenth century.

It is a pleasure to take this opportunity of thanking the many friends

whose assistance I have found invaluable. This book is the fruit of

studies begun under the inspiration of Professor George Edward

Woodberry,—an inspiration best appreciated by those students who had the

rare privilege of hearing his lectures and receiving his illuminating

and kindly criticism. To Dr. Frank W. Chandler, Professor of English in

the Brooklyn Polytechnic Institute and formerly Instructor in

Comparative Literature in Columbia University, I owe my first definite

interest in the English Romantic Movement. To Dr. J. E. Spingarn,

Adjunct-Professor of Comparative Literature, I am deeply indebted for

friendly criticisms and counsel. To Professor Jefferson B. Fletcher, of

the Department of Comparative Literature, I am especially grateful for

constant assistance during the past year—assistance as generous as it

was helpful; without it I could hardly have brought my work to

completion. To many of my fellow-students at Columbia University I am

under obligations: to Miss Mary Gertrude Cushing, now of the Department

of Romance Languages and Literatures at Mount Holyoke College, for

transcriptions made at the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris; to Mr. A. D.

Compton, Instructor in English in the College of the City of New York,

for notes on certain oriental tales; to Dr. John S. Harrison, of the

English Department of Kenyon College, for assistance in research; to Mr.

S. L. Wolff, Adjunct-Professor of English in the University of

Tennessee, for a study of oriental allusions in the eighteenth-century

periodicals; to Mr. Wolff and to Dr. S. M. Tucker, Professor of English

in the Florida State College for Women, for valuable suggestions. I

would acknowledge also the courtesies extended by the Librarians of the

British Museum, by Mr. T. J. Kiernan of the Harvard University Library,

and by the authorities of the Columbia University Library, especially

Mr. Frederic W. Erb. For assistance in research at the British Museum I

would thank my sister, Charlotte H. Conant; for similar work at Harvard

and in the Boston Libraries, Miss Mary H. Buckingham. Miss Buckingham

enriched my initial bibliography by examining the entire _Catalogue of

Printed Books_ of the British Museum. Finally, to Dr. Duncan B.

Macdonald and Dr. Edward Everett Hale I wish to express my appreciation

of their kindness in lending me valuable books.

The Appendices to the present volume comprise _Appendix A, Notes_,

chiefly concerning the indebtedness of Byron and others to the oriental

tales; and _Appendix B, I._, a _Chronological Table_, giving full titles

of the oriental tales considered, and _II._, a _Bibliography_ of the

books of reference most useful in a study of this subject. Each book in

_Appendix B, I._ and _II._, is numbered, and will be referred to in

footnotes by number when it is unnecessary to cite the full title;

_e.g._ in the footnote on p. 2, “Cf. App. B, I., No. 4, p. 269,”

reference is made to the full title of the earliest known edition of the

_Arabian Nights_, as given on p. 269. The date following the first

mention of an oriental tale is, unless otherwise specified, the date of

the first English edition, _e.g._ on p. 13, “1714” following “the

_Persian Tales_ or the _Thousand and One Days_.” Complete lists of the

oriental tales by the eighteenth-century essayists will be found in App.

B, I., _e.g._ No. 11, pp. 271, 272, _Addison_. Unknown essayists are

grouped, _e.g._ No. 12, p. 272.

M. P. C.

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY,

June, 1907.

CONTENTS

PAGE

INTRODUCTION xv

CHAPTER I

THE IMAGINATIVE GROUP 1

CHAPTER II

THE MORALISTIC GROUP 73

CHAPTER III

THE PHILOSOPHIC GROUP 112

CHAPTER IV

THE SATIRIC GROUP 155

CHAPTER V

LITERARY ESTIMATE 226

APPENDIX A. NOTES 257

APPENDIX B. I. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 267

APPENDIX B. II. BOOKS OF REFERENCE 294

INDEX 307

INTRODUCTION

In a study of the oriental tale in England in the eighteenth century,

the high lights fall upon the _Arabian Nights_, Dr. Johnson’s

_Rasselas_, Goldsmith’s _Citizen of the World_, and Beckford’s _Vathek_.

The present volume aims to depict clearly the interesting orientalizing

tendency of which these apparently isolated works were the best

manifestations—a tendency itself a part of the larger movement of

English Romanticism. By “the oriental tale in England” I mean all the

oriental and pseudo-oriental fiction—chiefly prose—that appeared in

English, whether written originally in English or translated from the

French. Much of the fiction I shall consider deserves distinctly to be

called pseudo-oriental, _Rasselas_, for instance, and _The Citizen of

the World_; on the other hand, much of it, such as the _Arabian Nights_

and kindred literature, is genuinely oriental despite its

eighteenth-century dress. By “oriental” I mean pertaining to or derived

from “those countries, collectively, that begin with Islam on the

eastern Mediterranean and stretch through Asia,”[1] with—so far as this

specific treatment of the subject goes—one notable exception, Palestine.

To the Western mind to-day the Holy Land occupies, as Professor Pierre

Martino has pointed out, a unique position somewhat apart from other

oriental countries, a position which is of course due to the inherited

traditions of Christianity.[2] In the eighteenth century this feeling

was far more pronounced than it is in these days of modern scholarship;

and therefore, from the eighteenth-century “oriental” literature under

consideration we may legitimately exclude Hebrew literature and its

imitations. “Oriental,” then, includes here what it included according

to Galland, the first translator of the _Arabian Nights_ into French:

“Sous le nom d’Orientaux, je ne comprends pas seulement les Arabes et

les Persans, mais encore les Turcs et les Tartares et presque tous les

peuples de l’Asie jusqu’à la Chine, mahométans ou païens et

idolâtres.”[3]

The scope of our subject in time is less readily defined; since, as in

the case of most literary tendencies, both beginning and end were

gradual and transitional. The prelude was sounded in the late

seventeenth century by the first English translation of Marana’s satire,

_The Turkish Spy_. Yet, broadly speaking, the period began between the

years 1704 and 1712, with the first English version of the _Arabian

Nights_, a book so different in character from any oriental fiction then

known in England, and so far-reaching in influence, that it forms the

natural point of departure. The period drew to a close with the advent

of the more modern and scholarly translations of various works made

directly from oriental languages, which influenced later the poetry of

Southey, Moore, Byron, and others. For the approximate date we may take

1786. In that year was published _Vathek_,[4] the last notable oriental

tale of the century, itself foreshadowing the coming work of scholars

and poets. Only two years earlier Sir William Jones, the great

orientalist, had given his inaugural lecture as first president of the

Asiatic Society of Bengal. Yet the date 1786 is approximate only; for in

the sixties and seventies, some direct translations were made; and in

the eighties and nineties oriental tales appeared, so similar in

character to those of this period that they must logically be included.

For the period as a whole, despite the transitional nature of the

beginning and the end, has a distinctive character. It is obviously

different from the period that followed. The latter, beginning with the

direct translations by orientalists, has, from the days of Sir William

Jones to those of Kipling, been characterized by an increasing knowledge

of the Orient at first hand. By travel and residence in the East, by

contact with Eastern peoples, as well as by study of oriental history,

literature, and philosophy, Englishmen of the nineteenth and twentieth

centuries have learned to know more of the “inscrutable Orient” than

their ancestors of the eighteenth century ever imagined possible.[5]

This fact at once and radically differentiates these later centuries

from the period we are to consider. A brief glance over the history of

oriental fiction in England previous to the eighteenth century will make

the distinction equally clear from that side.

Oriental fiction had been borne to England from an early period by

various waves of influence. As far back as the eleventh century,

fictitious descriptions of the marvels of India are found in Anglo-Saxon

translations of legends concerning Alexander the Great. During the

Middle Ages many Eastern stories drifted across Europe by way of Syria,

Byzantium, Italy, and Spain. Merchants and travelers like Marco Polo,

missionaries, pilgrims, and crusaders aided the oral transmission of

this fiction; and scholars gave to Europe Latin translations of four

great collections of genuine oriental tales: _Sendebar_; _Kalila and

Dimna_, or _The Fables of Bidpai_; _Disciplina Clericalis_; and _Barlaam

and Josaphat_. A definite, though not large, share in this

treasure-trove fell to the lot of England and appeared in the form of

metrical romances, apologues, legends, and tales of adventure. The

_fabliau_ of _Dame Siriz_, _The Proces of the Sevyn Sages_, Mandeville’s

_Voiage_, Chaucer’s _Squier’s Tale_,—possibly several other _Canterbury

Tales_,—are typical instances.

In the sixteenth century, that great period of translation, were

published the first English editions of the _Gesta Romanorum_ and of the

_Fables of Bidpai_, the latter entitled _The Morall Philosophie of

Doni_ ... _englished out of Italian by Thomas North_ ... (1570). During

the reign of Elizabeth an entirely new line of intercourse between

England and the East was established by the voyages of exploration,

discovery, and commerce, characteristic of the Renaissance. Moreover,

since the Fall of Constantinople (1453), the Turks had been an

increasing menace to Europe. Their ascendancy culminated in the reign of

Soliman the Magnificent (1520–1566), and their continual advance upon

Christendom was checked only by their great defeat at the battle of

Lepanto (1571). Throughout the century, as a natural result of these

events and of the voyages referred to above, interest was aroused in

oriental—especially Turkish—history and fiction. In Painter’s _Palace of

Pleasure_, for instance, we find the stories _Mahomet and Irene_, and

_Sultan Solyman_; in the drama such plays as the _Soliman and Perseda_,

usually ascribed to Kyd; _Alaham_, and _Mustapha_, by Fulke Greville,

Lord Brooke; and Marlowe’s _Tamburlaine_. In Shakespeare’s plays, one

incident, _The Induction to the Taming of the Shrew_, has been traced

with a good deal of plausibility to Eastern fiction; otherwise, his

works show no oriental elements of importance. “The farthest steep of

India” as a part of Oberon’s fairy kingdom is possibly drawn from Lord

Berners’s prose version of _Huon of Bordeaux_. That the scene of _Antony

and Cleopatra_ is partly in the East does not make it anything but a

Roman play.

In the seventeenth century, interest in the Orient was shown by the

works of travelers, historians, translators of French heroic romances,

dramatists, and orientalists. Knolles’s famous _Generall History of the

Turks_ appeared in 1603, a result of the new interest in Turkey

mentioned above, and itself a notable factor in extending that interest

for years to come. Toward the middle of the century the pseudo-oriental

heroic romances of Mlle. de Scudéry and others were translated and won

great popularity. After the Restoration numerous heroic plays on similar

subjects followed in rapid succession. A few of these heroic romances

were reprinted in the eighteenth century and thus form one link between

the fiction of the two periods. Another link is Sir Roger L’Estrange’s

version of _The Fables of Bidpai_.[6] Still another is the Latin

translation by Edward Pococke (1648–1727), son of the Oxford

orientalist, of the Arabian philosophical romance _Hai Ebn Yockdhan_,

which appeared first in English in the eighteenth century. Marana’s

_Turkish Spy_ has already been mentioned as a late seventeenth-century

prelude to the oriental tale of our period.

Such was the oriental fiction that had entered England previous to 1700,

and had contributed to a more or less vague and general imaginative

acquaintance with the Orient. The sudden advent of the _Arabian Nights_,

full of the life, the colour, and the glamour of the East—even in the

Gallicized version of Antoine Galland—naturally opened a new chapter in

the history of oriental fiction in England.

The same had been true in France; in fact, the entire English movement

echoed to a certain extent the similar French movement. That,

also,—preluded by _The Turkish Spy_,—was inaugurated by the _Arabian

Nights_, first introduced into Europe by Galland in the famous

translation just referred to. Meeting with instant and great—though not

unanimous—favour, the _Arabian Nights_ was followed at once by the

equally popular translations by Pétis de la Croix, _L’histoire de la

Sultane de Perse et des Vizirs, Contes Turcs_ (1707), and _Les Mille et

un Jour [sic], Contes Persans_ (1710–1712). The time was ripe in France

for this new literary material. At the beginning of the new century

there were especial reasons for the welcome given to oriental stories

and to Perrault’s fairy tales, the chief reason being a natural reaction

from the dominant classicism of Boileau. From Fairy-land and the Far

East two streams began to flow into the main current of French

Romanticism. The romanticists of that day went wild over the fascinating

tales of “merchants, cadis, slaves, and calendars,” in a manner

foreshadowing the nineteenth-century romanticists who enthusiastically

welcomed _Les Orientales_.

Moreover, interest in the Orient had been growing throughout the

seventeenth century in connection with the colonial and commercial

expansion of France in the reign of Louis XIV. Merchants, Jesuit

missionaries, travelers, and ambassadors had returned with information

and entertaining or tragic stories.[7] Galland and Pétis de la Croix, in

their turn, found an enthusiastic reception.[8] Their collections were

succeeded by a swarm of preposterous imitations, such as those of

Gueullette, pretending also to be translated from oriental manuscripts

and catering to the inordinate popular demand for things oriental.

Fantastic elements from the fairy tales of Perrault and his successors

were mingled with the extravagances of oriental stories, until the

torrent of enthusiasm rapidly spent its force and left several new

channels open to French fiction. Satire on both oriental tales and fairy

stories inevitably appeared, and proved a sharp weapon in the hands of

Hamilton, Caylus, and a score of others. Philosophical satirists like

Montesquieu (_Lettres Persanes_, 1721) found the oriental tale a

convenient medium for scarcely veiled criticism of French society; and

the versatile genius of Voltaire perceived the latent capabilities of

this fiction as a vehicle for philosophy as well as for satire. The

coarseness present in many oriental tales, even in Galland’s expurgated

and Gallicized _Arabian Nights_, undoubtedly afforded to Crébillon

_fils_, and others, a starting point for their numerous _contes

licencieux_, which satirized the extravagance of the fairy stories and

the oriental tales and ridiculed the moralizing tendency as well. The

latter propensity was prominent in France toward the middle of the

century, witness the numerous works of Marmontel, the founder of the

so-called _conte moral_, or tale of manners and morals. Three of his

tales are oriental in setting. Parody and the use of the genre as a

vehicle for satire and didacticism assisted its decline.

In England the general development of the oriental tale was similar,

partly because of the direct influence of numerous translations from the

French and partly because of the presence of tendencies in England

analogous to those in France. The propensity to moralize and to

philosophize, the love of satire, and the incipient romantic spirit,

were common to both countries, although present—as we shall see—in

varying degrees. In England this fiction falls naturally into four

groups,—imaginative, moralistic, philosophic, and satiric. The

imaginative group, the earliest, and, at the beginning of the century,

the most significant, diminished as the other groups increased in

strength, but revived again near the end of our period in Beckford’s

_Vathek_. The moralistic and philosophic groups are prominent in the

periodical essays from Addison to Dr. Johnson. The philosophic group

comprises besides _Rasselas_ several translations from Voltaire’s

_contes philosophiques_. The satiric group is chiefly exemplified by the

pseudo-letters culminating, in English, in Goldsmith’s _Citizen of the

World_, and by Count Hamilton’s entertaining parodies. One work, indeed,

belonging in the imaginative group, was influential throughout the whole

period: the _Arabian Nights_—as numerous editions testify—was a

permanent factor in the development of the oriental tale in England.

Chapters I., II., III., and IV. of this volume will be devoted to a

description of the most important characteristics of these successive

groups, and the final chapter will present a literary estimate of the

genre as a whole.

THE ORIENTAL TALE IN ENGLAND

CHAPTER I

THE IMAGINATIVE GROUP

Of all the wide lands open to the wandering imagination none has a more

perennial charm than the mysterious East. To that magical country the

_Arabian Nights_, ever since its first appearance in English in the

early years of the eighteenth century, has proved a favourite gateway,

over which might well be inscribed:—

“Be glad, thou reder, and thy sorwe of-caste,

Al open am I; passe in, and by the faste!”

With the exception of the Hebrew Scriptures, the Orient has given us no

book that has become so intimate a part of our imaginative inheritance.

“Aladdin’s lamp,” the “Open Sesame,” “changing old lamps for new,” “the

Old Man of the Sea,” have entered into familiar household speech. Many a

reader has echoed the mood of Hawthorne, “To Persia and Arabia and all

the gorgeous East I owed a pilgrimage for the sake of their magic

tales.”[9]

It would be superfluous to describe this familiar book in detail. That

ground has been well covered by such translators and essayists as Sir

Richard Burton and Mr. John Payne. Our purpose is rather to examine

briefly the general character of the _Arabian Nights_[10] in order to

understand the significance of its sudden entrance into the England of

Queen Anne. The earliest collection of oriental tales to appear in

English in the century, it is also the richest in pure imaginative power

and therefore has a twofold right to first consideration in this

chapter.

One of the chief elements of charm in the _Arabian Nights_ has already

been suggested—the sense of mystery and magic. The arrangement of the

stories enhances this impression. At first glance the form seems simple.

The frame-tale, that well-known device believed to be of oriental

origin, is the story of the beautiful Scheherezade telling tales to the

cruel sultan for a thousand and one nights. But within this simple

setting the stories are so interwoven and so varied—apologues, romances,

anecdotes, and fables—that the total effect is as intricate as the

design of an oriental carpet. One strange story follows another in

bewildering profusion until the reader seems to be walking in a dream

“in the days of Haroun Alraschid,” when the unexpected always happens.

In this land of wonder and enchantment any threatening cloud may assume

the form of an enormous genie, white-bearded, terrific, with torch in

hand and a voice like thunder, “a Slave of the Lamp,” ready to carry a

sleeping prince a thousand leagues through the air or to erect over

night a palace of dazzling splendour; any serpent may be an enchanted

fairy; any beautiful woman may be a disguised princess or a cruel

sorceress with power to transform human beings into dogs or black

stones; and at every turn one may meet African magicians who can

pronounce the “Open Sesame” to subterranean treasure-caves. In the

bazaars fairies disguised as old women sell magic carpets to fortunate

princes; by the wayside an aged dervish sits for the sole purpose of

directing seekers toward the talking bird, the singing tree, and the

yellow water. “The wondrous horse of brass” is no more marvelous than

the roc, “a white bird of monstrous size and of such strength that it

takes elephants from the plains to the tops of the mountains.” In the

world of the _Arabian Nights_ is to be found the magic mirror that

reveals character by remaining unsullied only in the presence of the

pure in heart. On the sea furious storms arise and drive ships to sure

disaster against the black mountain of adamant. Shipwrecked Sindbad

meets strange dwarfs; “tremendous black giants, one-eyed and as high as

a tall palm-tree”; and, most dangerous of all, the terrible Old Man of

the Sea. Shark-headed monsters and beautiful mermaids arise from the

deep; and, if one could only look down far enough, one would see in the

ocean depths vast kingdoms of boundless wealth and unutterable beauty,

ruled over by the flamebreathing princes of the sea. In these enchanted

domains it is not surprising to find superlatively horrible monsters

“with the head of an elephant and the body of a tiger”; or to encounter

blinding flashes of lightning, “followed by most tremendous thunder, ...

hideous darkness, ... a dreadful cry, ... and an earthquake such as

Asrayel is to cause on the day of judgment.” The same naïve love of

magical unreality that adorns these stories with such transcendent

horrors produces the scenes of “surpassing beauty,” which have made the

splendour of the _Arabian Nights_ proverbial.[11] Aladdin’s magnificent

palace—jeweled windows and all—is eclipsed by the palace of the third

Calendar, “more splendid than imagination can conceive.”

And yet, despite all this misty atmosphere of wonder and magic, there is

in the _Arabian Nights_ a strange sense of reality in the midst of

unreality, a verisimilitude which accounts in large part for the steady

popularity the book has enjoyed with the English people. The cities of

Bagdad and Cairo, the countries of the East, the Seven Seas, are real

places, though so far-away that they seem on the borders of fairy-land.

Time as well as space is an actuality, however remote and vague.

Plausible introductory phrases imitate the manner of a veracious

historian, _e.g._, “There was a Sultan named Mirza who had peaceably

filled the throne of India many years.” It is easy for the reader to

imagine himself present at the scenes described, _e.g._, the opening of

the divan of the mock caliph in the _Sleeper Awakened_, when “the grand

vizier Giafar and the judge of the police ... first bowed themselves

down before him and paid him the salutations of the morning.” In the

bezesteins silk merchants, glass dealers, and jewelers sit by their

wares and fall in love with veiled ladies; venders of roses, dervishes,

and beggars crowd past; and dogs who may be enchanted princes tell false

coin from true to the delight of the lookers-on. At the water-gate of

the palace on the Tigris, the favourite slave of the sultaness Zobeide

outwits the crabbed old eunuch and secures safe admission for the trunk

containing her lover. Prince Houssain tells us travelers’ tales of the

brazen temple in which “the principal idol was ... of massive gold; its

eyes were rubies, so artificially set, that it seemed to look at the

spectator in whatever direction he stood.” When the king of Serendib

appears in public, he has a throne fixed on the back of an elephant and

is surrounded by attendants clad in silk and cloth of gold; “and the

officer before him cries out occasionally, ‘Behold ... the potent and

redoubtable sultan of the Indies, whose palace is covered with an

hundred thousand rubies, ... greater than the greatest of princes!’

After which the officer who is behind cries out, ‘This monarch, so

great, so powerful, must die, must die, must die.’ The officer who is

before replies, ‘Praise be to him who liveth forever.’”[12]

Other customs are described in equally vivid detail. The obsequies of a

prince include long processions of lamenting guards, anchorites, and

maidens; marriage ceremonies are accompanied by feasting, music,

dancing, and the bride’s seven-fold salutation of her husband. “The pure

religion of our holy prophet” is contrasted with the cruel rites of

fire-worshipers. Devout Mussulmans pass through the streets to the

mosques and make pilgrimages to Mecca.

But of all the glimpses of Eastern life the most interesting is the

constantly recurring picture of the oriental story-teller. Everywhere—in

the bazaars, by the wayside, in palace gardens or fishermen’s cottages,

during the feasts or before the caliph’s tribunal, by night and by

day—the teller of tales is sure of an interested audience. The variety

of stories in the _Arabian Nights_ makes credible the theory of recent

editors, that the ultimate sources were equally diverse,—an hypothesis

that goes far toward explaining the artistic excellences and limitations

of the collection.

What wonder that, with listeners clamouring like children for another

story, each narrator exerted his ingenuity to outdo his predecessors

and, like Scheherezade herself, promised greater marvels next time? In

most of the tales one surprising adventure succeeds another with

kaleidoscopic rapidity, unconnected except by the mere presence of the

hero. In that respect these tales resemble the modern historical

romance. The chief appeal is to the listener’s or reader’s curiosity,

and little thought is given to the structural unity of the narrative.

There is a succession of events, but rarely any causal sequence. Even in

so capital a story as _Aladdin_ the two elements of the climax—Aladdin’s

marriage and the magician’s resolve upon vengeance—are loosely knit by

chance and by magic. The close of the average story is usually as

movable a point as the climax. If the narrator thinks of another

incident, he merely adds a postscript. Witness the _Story of the

Barber’s Sixth Brother_, in which the misfortunes of Shacabac after the

Barmecide’s death are foisted upon the admirably dramatic tale of the

Barmecide’s feast.

But, though the majority of the tales possess little structural unity,

many individual incidents are perfect dramatic sketches, cleverly

introduced, wrought to a climax, developed to a dénouement, and

characterized by compression and rapid movement no less than by

brilliant descriptive phrases and good dialogue. Such are the disastrous

day-dream of Alnaschar the glass merchant, the adventure of the barber’s

blind brother, and the ruse of Abon Hassan and his wife to win gifts

from the caliph and Zobeide by feigning death.[13] The dénouement of the

last will readily be recalled. The perplexed caliph offered a thousand

pieces of gold to any one who could prove which of the two, Abon Hassan

or his wife, died first. “Instantly a hand was held out, and a voice

from under Abon Hassan’s pall was heard to say, ‘I died first, Commander

of the Faithful, give me the thousand pieces of gold.’” This dramatic

instinct for situation or incident is especially noticeable in the

numerous clever introductions. The favourite device of the disguised

caliph Haroun wandering through the city in search of adventure never

fails to awaken interest. Mysterious scenes of grief or sudden

exclamations stimulate curiosity at once. “‘For God’s sake, sir,’

replied the stranger, ‘let me go! I cannot without horror look upon that

abominable barber!’”

Beyond incident and situation, however, the dramatic instinct of the

story-teller does not go. He shows little psychological insight. His

characters are wooden automata, picturesque truly, but neither

individualized nor alive. Various figures recur repeatedly: the prodigal

youth, forsaken by his fair-weather friends; the tyrant sultan; the

clever man; the superlative hero; the unjust judge; good and bad

viziers; and good and bad sons. They might be shifted from one story to

another with no more shock than Aladdin’s palace felt when lifted and

set down again. The _Arabian Nights_ contains, fortunately, little or no

direct moralizing, but in these abstract types it offered suggestions

not lost upon the eighteenth-century writers of moralistic oriental

tales. Even familiar figures like Aladdin and Sindbad owe their

existence as individuals to the reader’s sympathetic imagination. They

are interesting, not in themselves, but on account of their marvelous

adventures.

For, after all, one supreme attraction of the _Arabian Nights_ is the

charm of pure adventure, the story for the sake of the story.

Sentimental tales are exceptional; in only eight is love the chief

interest. Adventurous tales of the _Sindbad_ type are more

characteristic. It is noticeable that in many of the stories where

picaresque or farcical realism is strong, magic plays no part. But in

all the tales, whether magical or realistic, the emphasis is thrown on

events. Exciting incidents are given verisimilitude by picturesque

details, until the reader, forgetting for the moment the absence of the

deeper realities of character, comes under the spell of pure romance,—as

in the case of _Robinson Crusoe_, the novels of Dumas, or the

folk-ballads,—and must himself “mitdichten.” The magical atmosphere, the

rich variety of dramatic incident, the spirit of adventure, and the

brilliant background, atone in part for the lack, in the _Arabian

Nights_, of structural unity and characterization. Across the scene

moves the seemingly endless, ever shifting pageant of _dramatis

personæ_, all sorts and conditions of men: princes and viziers,

ropemakers and fishermen, dervishes and cadis, sheiks and slaves, queens

and beggar-women. One can see them, hear them speak, and guess at their

characters as one might in observing passers-by in the bazaars of some

strange Eastern city. For the time being it is easy to follow Ali Baba

to the forest to gather wood; or to share the fright of the fisherman

who liberates the genie; or to hear the tired porter Hindbad railing at

Fortune as he rests in the cool street sprinkled with rose-water, while

the white-bearded, travel-wise Sindbad listens from his palace window

and summons the poor man in; or to feel the human interest in the

dramatic scene that serves as the general background—Scheherezade saving

the lives of her countrywomen by telling her tales to the sultan.

The collection of oriental tales next in order of importance is the

_Persian Tales_ or the _Thousand and One Days_[14] (1714), the

companion-piece to the _Arabian Nights_. The plan is similar: a

frame-tale which introduces and concludes the collection and links the

successive stories. But in the _Persian Tales_, instead of a sultan who

has lost faith in women, the central figure is the princess of Casmire,

who, having dreamed that she saw an ungrateful stag forsaking a hind,

has lost faith in men and has decided never to marry. Her beauty drives

men mad; the king, her father, is in despair; and her old nurse,

Sutlememé, undertakes to convert her by tales of faithful lovers. For a

thousand and one days the tales are told, but each hero is criticized by

the skeptical and obdurate princess. She is finally persuaded to marry

the prince of Persia only by the magic powers and religious authority of

a holy dervish. The conclusion of the frame-tale is unnecessarily

complicated by the introduction of the witch Mehrefsa, a Persian Circe.

There is at the close an attempt to recall the introduction by the story

of the prince’s dream that the princess, “fairer than a houri,” appeared

to him in a flowery meadow and told him of her dream and consequent loss

of faith in mankind. But this incident gives only a superficial unity to

the frame-tale; structural unity is lacking. The same criticism holds

true of the majority of individual stories in the _Persian Tales_.

Considerable unity of feeling, however, is given to the collection by

the fact that Sutlememé’s avowed purpose holds her chiefly to one

theme,—true love,—which often rises above the sensuous or the

ridiculously sentimental and throws a pleasant light over the stories as

a whole.

This characteristic differentiates the _Persian Tales_ at once from the

_Arabian Nights_. For instance, a typical story in the _Persian Tales_

begins as follows: the hero, Couloufe, a youth of noble birth, having

wasted his substance, wanders to a far-off city. A mysterious slave in

the bazaar beckons him. He follows into a palace; enters one hall after

another, each more glorious than the last; and beholds pillars of “massy

gold,” silver trees with emeralds for leaves, singing birds behind

golden lattices, fragrant roses growing around marble basins of crystal

water, banquets on sandalwood tables, little pages offering wine in cups

made of single rubies; and, finally, the princess arrayed in

“rose-coloured taffeta, thick-sown with pearls,” seated on a golden

throne, surrounded by “radiant damsels” singing to the lute or dulcimer,

“Love but once, but love forever.” “Couloufe imagined that he saw the

moon surrounded by the stars, and fainted, quite overpowered with the

sight of this ravishing object.” To faint seems, in fact, the customary

mode of showing affection. In another tale, the heroine on the slightest

provocation melts into “floods of tears” and the hero is not far behind

with his tears and swoons. Reproached by his mistress, he says, “It

struck me to my very soul, and in the height of my grief ... I fell into

a fit and swooned away at the foot of the throne.” Violent agitation, “a

languishing air,” transports of passion or of wrath, remorse which

causes death, call to mind the eighteenth-century novel of sentiment.

More sentimental than the _Arabian Nights_, the _Persian Tales_ is also

more fantastic. The talking bird of the prophet Isaac, which came to aid

Aboulfouaris on the desert island, had a blue head, red eyes, yellow

wings, and a green body. We are not surprised when the hero says, “I had

never seen one like it.” This remarkable bird is, however, eclipsed in

the same story by an ugly Afrite with a nose like an elephant’s trunk

and with one eye blood-red, the other blue, who led Aboulfouaris past

roaring lions, huge dragons, and fierce griffins. The Afrite and the

griffins themselves seem commonplace beside the prophet Elias, who is

pictured as a cavalier wearing a green turban set with rubies and riding

a rose-coloured horse under whose feet the earth immediately produces

flowers. In describing scenes of beauty or of horror the _Persian Tales_

is far more lavish than the _Arabian Nights_. The princess Tourandocte,

asking riddles of Prince Calaf, “not satisfied with putting this

question to him, ... maliciously threw off her veil, to dazzle and

confound him with the luster of her beauty. Her despite and shame [at

his having guessed her other riddles] had given her a blush which added

new charms, ... her head was adorned with ... flowers; ... and her eyes

shone brighter than the stars, brighter than the sun when he shines in

his full glory at the opening of the black cloud. The amorous son of

Timurtasch, at the sight of this incomparable princess ... stood mute.”

Scenes of horror are equally marvelous. The Persian Old Man of the Sea,

for instance, is a huge monster with tiger’s eyes and an impenetrable

skin, who meets his death only by battling with “the greatest roc that

was ever seen.”

Like the _Arabian Nights_, the _Thousand and One Days_ carries us to a

land of magic and enchantment. There we find the magic mountain of

polished steel which draws all ships to it with fatal power; the ring

with Solomon’s seal; and the magic chest that transports its occupant

through the air when guided by pressure of certain springs, like the

horse of brass. There are bad genii, black and lean with sparkling eyes

and horns; and there are good spirits, clothed in white like “religious

Sophis.” There are magicians like the witch Bedra, who sits in a dismal

cavern with a great book open upon her knees, in which she reads before

a furnace of gold, wherein there is a pot of silver, full of black earth

that boils without fire. Caverns of treasure contain kings and

princesses in magic sleep. One amusing variation from the ordinary

treasure-cave is the cavern of books. Avicena, the sage, says: “Towards

the Caspian Sea there is a mountain which is called the Red Mountain,

because it is covered with roses throughout the year.” At the foot is a

cavern of vast extent, the doors of which by virtue of a talisman open

once a year of their own accord and shut again in half an hour and

fifteen minutes, and if “any bookish man, too intent upon his choice of

authors,” stay, he is sure to be starved to death. “The wise Chec

Chehabeddin” gathered there twenty thousand books, which treat of the

philosopher’s stone, of the method of discovering hidden treasure, of

changing men into beasts, and of giving souls to vegetables: “all the

secrets of nature.”[15] Apparently this remarkable library was carefully

catalogued and efficiently watched by genii, who seized all persons that

neglected to return books and “tormented them cruelly, ... even to

death.”[16]

One of the greatest charms of the _Persian Tales_, as of its

better-known rival, lies in the mingling of reality and unreality.

Genuine glimpses of oriental customs and beliefs alternate with strange

adventures. The scenes are laid in real places, but the Eastern names

have a magic all their own. We see Aboulfouaris, “the Great Voyager,”

sailing down the Gulf of Basra, between Persia and Araby the Blest,

toward Ormus and the kingdom of Indes. It is easy for the fancy to fly

as on a magic carpet from the vale of Cashmere, from Carisme and

Candahar to Golconda and Samarcande; or to sail past China to the Isle

of Cheristany till our ship drives “to the Strait of the Moluccas, south

of the Philippines into seas unknown to our mariners.”

Strange customs are described with a lavish and yet plausible use of

detail. The throne of the king of China was “made of Catai steel in the

form of a dragon, about three cubits high; over it was a canopy of

yellow satin adorned with diamonds supported by four lofty pillars of

the same Catai steel.” The king, when disposed “to take the diversion of

fowling, ... was clothed in a straight caffetan, and his beard was tied

up in a black bag.” Grief of the Chinese courtiers for their king’s

death was expressed by dyeing their faces yellow and strewing rose

leaves before the throne. In the story of Aboulfouaris’s first voyage

occurs an elaborate description of the suttee—the funeral pyre, the

ablutions, the gorgeous apparel, and the voluntary suicide of the widow.

Other customs described are masquerades, visits, and feasts. On one

festival night fireworks were set off, sherbets and sweetmeats were

offered to every one, dancing to the tambours and deffs took place in

the square, and “Calenders ran to and fro in the street like men

transported with frenzy.” “The shops in all the great streets and

squares were hung with tapestry ... illuminated with sashes that

contained some verse out of the Alcoran; ... the sacred book might be

read entire as you walked the streets. It seemed as if the Angel Gabriel

had brought it down to our great prophet a second time in characters of

light.” The most binding oath is, “I swear by the black stone of the

sacred temple of Mecca and by the holy grove of Medina, where the tomb

of our prophet lies.” “There is no other God but one, and Mahomet is his

prophet.” Belief in the divine pen of fire that writes on a tablet of

light is referred to in the story of _Couloufe_. “I know not whether God

wills that I die or live for you, but at least I know well that it will

never be written in heaven that I shall repudiate you.” There are

several curious references to Eastern philosophies, _e.g._, the captive

princess who has just stabbed herself says: “[I learned in infancy] the

doctrine of Xaca, and you need not then wonder I had the courage to do

this. I am returning to my original nothing.” The king replies, “May

you ... after having passed through the nine hells, be born again

daughter of another sovereign as at the first transmigration.” In the

tale of _Fadlallah and Zemroude_ the idea of transmigration is

prominent.

Scattered through the _Persian Tales_ are incidents and phrases

suggesting familiar European stories. It is interesting to note the

resemblances, but impossible to say whether the original source was

oriental or European.[17] For instance, this version of the _Ballad of

the Heir of Linne_ occurs. Atalmulc, the spendthrift son of a rich

jeweler, had been told by his dying father that after he had wasted all

his patrimony, he should tie a rope to the branch of a certain tree in

the garden and “prevent the miseries of poverty.” Atalmulc, thinking his

father had suggested suicide, endeavoured to hang himself. The branch

broke, disclosing the careful father’s hoard of jewels. In the story of

_King Ruzvanchad_ the king marries the princess of the genii with the

promise never to reprove her, but to say, “She is a genie and has

special reasons for her actions.” He breaks his promise, after great

provocation; and she vanishes, to return after ten years to reward his

constancy. There is a resemblance here to the story of _Undine_. Both

tales, like _Lohengrin_ and _Cupid and Psyche_, are variants on the

world-wide theme: Lack of faith means loss of love. Other incidents in

_Ruzvanchad_ might find parallels in Celtic, or Teutonic, or Greek

legends. The king meets a white doe, “beautifully sprinkled with blue

and black spots; with rings of gold upon her feet; and upon her back a

yellow satin, bordered round with embroidery of silver.” She disappears

into a fountain; the king, thinking her a nymph in disguise, falls

asleep to be awakened by “a ravishing symphony” coming from “a very

magnificent palace all illuminated,” which has been raised by superhuman

power. Later he finds a melancholy lady in torn garments, who says: “I

am the daughter and the wife of a king, and yet not what I say. I am a

princess, and yet not what I am.” Her misfortunes prove to be due to the

machinations of a witch who, Duessa-like, has assumed her form and won

away her husband. In the _History of Two Brothers, Genies_ [_sic_],

_Adis and Dahy_, a tale in some respects coarse and repulsive, there is

a curious description of an island where ideas of beauty are topsyturvy;

the wrinkles and decrepitude of old age are adored and the loveliness of

youth despised—characteristics recalling the Topsyturvy land of European

story. In the same tale the costume of the islanders seems borrowed from

the _san benito_. They wore “long robes of cotton on which were painted

several figures of demons in red, green, and yellow, with flames and

other odd conceits.” In _The History of Malek and the Princess

Schirine_, Malek, by flying in a magic chest, gains entrance to the

apartment of the princess and persuades her and her father that he is

the prophet Mahomet and her destined husband. There are touches of

humour here, a rare quality in these tales. “I had eat up all my

provisions and spent all my money. The prophet Mahomet was reduced to as

low a state of want as ever man was that had asked alms.” Throughout the

tale there is a spirit of mockery, of practical joking, not unlike that

of a Spanish story. One cannot help surmising that Le Sage’s

collaboration with Pétis de la Croix went further than strictly

editorial work. In fact, in view of the resemblances to European legend

noted above, it is most probable that Pétis de la Croix himself, taking

advantage of the wave of enthusiasm recently aroused by Galland’s _Mille

et une Nuit_,[18] treated his oriental manuscripts far more freely even

than Galland, added decorative incidents from European sources, and

invented the title _Mille et un Jour_.[19] in direct imitation of

Galland’s title.

In general the _Persian Tales_ resembles the _Arabian Nights_ in the

mingling of magic and reality, of strange enchantments and oriental

customs almost as strange; in dramatic presentation of picturesque

incident and background; in lack of characterization and, with few

exceptions, of structural unity. But the _Persian Tales_ is far more

sentimental, more fantastic, more brilliant in colour. Here the reader

is in a fairy-land of charming or grotesque surprises, while in the

_Arabian Nights_, despite the misty clouds of enchantment, there is

substantial ground under foot. May not this be one reason why the

_Arabian Nights_ has always been a greater favourite in England than the

_Persian Tales_; and why, in France, the popularity of the _Persian

Tales_ has equaled, if not surpassed, that of the _Arabian Nights_?

The _Turkish Tales_, the third important collection, was translated from

French into English in 1708, and appeared also in a version called _The

Persian and the Turkish Tales Compleat [sic]_ (1714).[20] It is a

version of the old oriental story of _Sendebar_, best known to English

students in the Middle English form, _The Seven Sages of Rome_. The

frame-tale in this version is briefly as follows: Queen Canzade’s evil

passion for her stepson turns to hatred upon his rejection of her love

and her scheme to murder the king. The prince is bound to forty days’

silence for fear of a mysterious calamity predicted by his tutor. The

latter, meanwhile, to avoid questions retires discreetly into a cave.

Canzade persuades the king to decree the prince’s death; the forty

viziers successively plead for him by stories of wicked women and loyal

sons; the queen endeavours to win her way by tales of evil viziers and

murderous princes; until finally the tutor is unearthed, the prince

justified, and the queen condemned in his stead. The Tales are

appropriately called by the Turks “Malice of Women,” for the queen’s

stories reveal her malice and the vizier’s tales defend the prince more

by attacking women in general, and the queen in particular, than by

praising him.

In this satirical spirit the _Turkish Tales_ affords a marked contrast

to the _Persian Tales_. The two collections are similar in use of magic

and of oriental customs, lack of structural unity, absence of

characterization, and emphasis on the story for the story’s sake. The

_Turkish Tales_ differs in that it contains no elaborate descriptions.

This absence of stage-setting, as it were, focuses attention on the plot

and throws the characters into bolder relief. A few of the tales, as a

result, are admirable narratives. The best is the most famous of the

collection, _The Santon Barsisa_, quoted by Steele in the _Guardian_,

No. 148, and in that form suggesting to Lewis—according to his own

statement—the idea of _The Monk_.[21] The story here is brief and crude,

but swift in movement and powerful in a way not unlike early versions of

the Faust saga. The dialogues between the devil and the saint are

thoroughly dramatic; no mention has been made of the devil at all, and

the reader is as utterly unprepared for his sudden stage-entrance as is

the saint himself. An evil idea arises in the santon’s mind and, quick

as thought, “the devil, taking this opportunity, whispered in his ear

thus: ‘O santon, do not let slip such a fortunate minute.’” The santon

yields, commits one crime after another, is detected, and condemned to

be hanged. On the scaffold he hears a whisper in his ear: “‘O santon, if

you will worship me, I will extricate you out of this difficulty and

transport you two thousand leagues from here, into a country where you

shall be reverenced by men as much as you were before this

adventure.’—‘I am content,’ says Barsisa; ‘deliver me and I will worship

thee.’ ‘Give me first a sign of adoration,’ replies the devil; whereupon

the santon bowed his head and said, ‘I give myself to you.’ The devil,

then raising his voice, said, ‘O Barsisa, I am satisfied; I have

obtained what I desired’; and with these words, spitting in his face, he

disappeared, and the wretched santon was hanged.”

Of the other tales, six deserve mention. Two were quoted in the

_Spectator_: _Chec Chehabeddin and the Sultan of Egypt_ in No. 94; _The

Fable of the Sultan Mahmoud and the Two Owls_ in No. 512. The third, the

story of the _King of Aad_,[22] has an interesting resemblance to an

incident in _Gulliver’s Travels_. The fourth and fifth are

characteristic of the collection, _The History of the Brahman and the

Young Fiquay_, a Turkish version of the Aladdin story, and the oriental

apologue of _King Togrul-Bey_. The sixth, _The History of the Prince of

Carizme and the Princess of Georgia_, may be noted as exceptionally

fantastic, and as containing the song attributed to John Hughes:—

“Eternal are the chains which here

The generous souls of lovers bind,” etc.[23]

After the _Arabian Nights_, the _Persian Tales_, and the _Turkish

Tales_, the best imaginative oriental tales are the English versions of

the so-called pseudo-translations. The first to appear in English was

_The Travels and Adventures of the Three Princes of Serendip_[24] ...

(1722) from the French of De Mailli [or Mailly], whose version was in

turn from the Italian _Peregrinaggio_ ... by Armeno (1557).[25] The

events of the story, in De Mailli’s rendering, are said to have occurred

“in the happy time when kings were philosophers and sent each other

important problems to solve,”—a sentiment lacking in the Italian, and

characteristic of a French eighteenth-century version. The frame-tale

recounts the travels of three “equally beautiful and gifted” princes,

who seek culture and win success in various enterprises. In the Emperor

Behram’s country, their first adventure is the one probably imitated by

Voltaire in _Zadig_. They tell a camel driver that his lost camel is

blind, lame, and laden with honey, butter, etc., but that they have not

seen him. When accused of theft, they inform the judge that their close

observation of the camel’s footprints, the cropped herbage, etc., has

led them to infer the truth. Another achievement is their recovery of

the Emperor’s lost mirror of justice, which has the extraordinary

property of detecting false accusations. If a slanderer look into the

mirror, his face turns black and can be restored only by public

confession and penance. Many of the stories are apparently based on

Italian _novelle_ of shepherdesses, Venetian ladies, clever goldsmiths,

and other similar characters, and are unoriental. There is one story of

metempsychosis, however, similar to the oriental tale, _Fadlallah and

Zemroude_, in the _Persian Tales_. But “the general plan of the

_Peregrinaggio_ is more inflexible and homogeneous than is usual in

oriental tales.”[26] The English version stands by itself in being

perhaps the only pseudo-translation which came by way of

eighteenth-century France from sixteenth-century Italy.

One of the most facile and prolific of French writers of

pseudo-translations was Thomas Simon Gueullette (1683–1766). Four of his

collections were translated into English under the names: _Chinese

Tales, or the Wonderful Adventures of the Mandarin Fum-Hoam_ ... (1725);

_Mogul Tales, or the Dreams of Men Awake: being Stories Told to Divert

the Sultanas of Guzarat, for the Supposed Death of the Sultan_ (1736);

_Tartarian Tales; or, a Thousand and One Quarters of Hours_ (1759); and

_Peruvian Tales Related in One Thousand and One Hours by One of the

Select Virgins of Cuzco, to the Inca of Peru_ ... (1764, Fourth (?)

Edition).[27] The last named is a worthless collection, oriental or

rather pseudo-oriental in everything except _locale_ and interesting

only as an example of the ultra-fantastic, degenerate oriental tale. One

bit of unconscious humour rewards the reader; the author gives local

colour to the terrors of Peru by mentioning “muskettas, reptiles, and

other insects.”

Of the three other collections, the _Chinese Tales_ may serve as the

type. The frame-tale is as follows: The sultan of China in disguise wins

the love of the princess Gulchenraz, kills the usurper of her kingdom,

tests her love by the suit of a mock-sultan, and is accepted by her on

condition that her Mahometan faith be unmolested. She agrees to listen

to the Mandarin Fum-Hoam, who tells her tales to convert her to belief

in transmigration; and the sultan promises that, if she remain

unconverted, he will become a Mahometan. Fum-Hoam tells many tales, and

at the end reveals himself as her lost brother, who is wise as Solomon,

and who has brought to pass all the events of the story. He then

transports them to his kingdom, Georgia, and admits that there is no

truth in the transmigration theory, and that he has told his tales

solely to make the sultan keep his promise of embracing Mahometanism.

The frame-tale closes with the implication that they all lived happily

ever after. The oriental colouring is very slight. Transmigration is

mentioned only to be ridiculed. Reference is made to the suttee, to

pilgrimages to Mecca, and to the fast of Ramadan according to the Koran.

Descriptions of emotion are absurd; one hero dies of grief, with

lamentations “like the roarings of a lion.” The narratives are often

grotesque, _e.g._ the journey to the Country of Souls,[28] where the

soul can be put into a bag to be brought back to the land of the living

and reëmbodied by placing the bag at the mouth of the corpse. The

author’s fancy runs riot as to the successive transmigrations of

Fum-Hoam, who assumes in tedious succession numerous forms, such as

those of a dog, a maid, a flea, and a bat. There is surprisingly little

satire, considering the opportunities for observing mankind possible to

the ubiquitous Fum-Hoam. In the use of magic, the _Chinese Tales_

follows conventional lines—the elixir of life or water of youth, the

secret of transmuting metals to gold, the mysterious words of Solomon

which command the genii; cabalistic prayers, which reveal black marble

staircases leading to subterranean treasure-caves; and incantations in

the manner of Theocritus. Many other incidents imply a knowledge of

European legend and literature. One story tells of Grecian shepherds;

another of Kolao, the wild man, and his Robinson Crusoe life; another

recalls Pandora; another, the fairy tale of brothers rewarded for

helping fairies in the form of animals. One incident might easily be a

masque of Neptune—a venerable man rising from the sea in a chariot of

mother-of-pearl, drawn by sea-horses, and accompanied by mermaids. The

adventure of the prince in the haunted tower of the forty virgins serves

as sequel to a story similar to the _Pied Piper of Hamelin_. A dwarf

agreed for a certain sum to free the city of Ispahan from rats by

playing on tabor and pipe. When the people refused payment, they were

threatened with dire punishments by the dwarf’s mother, “a genie in the

shape of an old black woman above fifty feet high ... with a whip in her

hand,” unless they brought at once forty of their most beautiful

daughters. To the sound of the genie’s leather trumpet, “these unhappy

victims of their father’s perfidy” were led to the tower and seen no

more until rescued by the prince. The _Chinese Tales_ contains less

moralizing than the other pseudo-translations. There is one reference to

the happiness of a tranquil life away from court, from lawsuits, and

from women; one moral drawn as to the ill results of educating women: “I

am, from my own experience, fully satisfied that the care to govern her

family should be the only employ of a virtuous wife; and that it is next

to a miracle, if pride, or some other more dangerous passion, make not a

woman neglect her duty, when she once comes to apply herself to the

study of learning, and affects to surpass the rest of her sex.” We find,

also, the poetical fancy common in Persian literature that even the

palace of the king is but an inn, for its successive inhabitants are but

travelers upon earth toward the same common end,—death;[29] and the

equally familiar figure in which life is compared to a game of chess.

“Some act the kings, the queens, the knights, the fools, and simple

pawns. There is a vast difference between them, while they are in

motion; but when once the game is over, and the chess-board shut, they

are all thrown promiscuously together into the same box, without any

sort of distinction—all then become equal; and there is nothing but our

good works and charity towards our neighbours, that will give us the

superiority.”

Gueullette’s two other collections, the _Mogul Tales_ and the _Tartarian

Tales_, are similar in plan and treatment. Extravagant in the use of

magic, fantastic in description and incident, employing European legends

freely and oriental colouring very slightly, sometimes moralizing,

sometimes coarse, seldom satirical, imitating the faults rather than the

excellences of genuine oriental translations, these narratives are

frequently entertaining, but possess little intrinsic value.

One special point of interest in the _Mogul Tales_ must not be

omitted,—the incident of the sinners with flaming hearts,—since this was

probably the source of the parallel passage in Beckford’s _Vathek_. It

is worth remark as external evidence that the _Mogul Tales_ is in the

catalogue of Beckford’s library. The points of similarity and the

superiority of _Vathek_ are obvious, if the quotations from _Vathek_,

pp. 62–65 of this chapter, are compared with the following extract from

the _Mogul Tales_ (Weber’s _Tales of the East_, Edinburgh, 1812, Vol.

III., p. 58 _et seq._). Aboul-Assam tells how he saw “a flambeau ...

carried by a little man ... entering a subterranean passage.... We went

down together ... into the mountain; at last we traversed a long alley

of black marble; but so finely polished, that it had the appearance of a

looking-glass; ... we reached a large hall, where we found three men

standing mute, and in postures of sorrow. They were looking earnestly on

a triangular table, whereon lay a book, with clasps of gold; on its back

was this inscription: ‘Let no man touch this divine treatise that is not

perfectly pure’ ... I wish, said I ... that this peace may continue

always among you. Peace is banished from these sad places, replied the

eldest of the three, with an air of sternness.... We wait, said the

second, in this sepulcher, for the just judgment of God.—You are then,

continued I, great sinners.—Alas! cried the third, we are continually

tortured for our evil actions ... they unbuttoned their waistcoats, and

through their skin, which appeared like crystal, I saw their hearts

compassed with fire, by which, though burnt without ceasing, yet [they

were] ... never consumed; I then was at no loss for the reason of their

looking so ghastly and affrighted.” Aboul-Assam is then shown paintings

representing their crimes, rebukes them in horror, is in turn rebuked by

a picture of his own past sins, and condemned to blindness for seven

years. Vathek is also punished, but the genius of Beckford chooses a

more dramatic and awful penalty.

In connection with _Vathek_, the _Adventures of Abdalla, Son of

Hanif_ ... by Jean Paul Bignon, translated into English by William

Hatchett (1729),[30] is of even greater interest than the _Mogul Tales_.

It is similar in general character to its predecessors. The frame-tale,

which recounts Abdalla’s search for the fountain of youth, includes all

his adventures and the past history of all the people he meets, and is

so bewilderingly entangled that the _Arabian Nights_, by contrast, seems

simplicity itself. The tales are more or less interesting stories[31] of

adventure and love, and are melodramatic, humorous, moralizing, and

satirical. Magic abounds, European legends and previous oriental tales

are freely utilized, and great stress is laid upon the “horrid,” the

grotesque, the fantastic. Given these characteristics, it is easy to see

how _Abdalla_ appealed to the author of _Vathek_. That it did make a

strong appeal is shown by Beckford’s numerous borrowings. In every

instance he improved upon his original. The author of _Abdalla_

describes rest in a delightful country place surrounded by “flowers of

remarkable beauty,” “birds of every colour,” and “very fine trees.”

Beckford’s similar description gives concrete images—fountains, roses,

jessamines, violets, nightingales, doves, orange trees, palms, and

pomegranates. Dilsenguin, the hero in _Abdalla_, “precipitated himself

into a subterranean apartment,” seeking “detestable volumes” of magic.

The phantoms seized Dilsenguin by the feet and threw him into the well,

head foremost. When he reached the hall of Eblis, he found it an immense

temple of black and white marble. At the keystone of one of the arches

he saw “a globe of fire, which, sometimes obscure and sometimes

brilliant, filled the temple with unsteady flashes of light.” The globe

opened and there descended from it a huge old man in a yellow robe,

holding a scepter of gold. He “seated himself upon the throne. It was

the formidable Eblis.... His looks were horrid, his beard and hair

bristled.... [He had] a hole in the place of a nose,” etc. When

Dilsenguin thanked him for his magic books, Eblis, “enraged that a

mortal should break silence in his temple,” kicked him so violently that

he lost consciousness. Contrast the impressive description of Vathek’s

reception by “the formidable Eblis” enthroned upon the globe of fire.

“His person was that of a young man, whose noble and regular features

seemed to have been tarnished by malignant vapours; in his large eyes

appeared both pride and despair; his flowing hair retained some

resemblance to that of an angel of light; in his hand, which thunder had

blasted, he swayed the iron scepter that causes the monster Ouranabad,

the Afrits, and all the powers of the abyss to tremble; at his presence

the heart of the Caliph sunk within him, and for the first time, he fell

prostrate on his face.” Beckford’s Eblis is a faint but not wholly

unworthy echo of Milton’s Satan, while Bignon’s Eblis is merely the

grotesque ogre of the fairy tale.

The last pseudo-translation that need be noticed is the _New Arabian

Nights_ (1792), from the French of Dom Chavis and M. Cazotte.[32] The

book purported to be a continuation of the _Arabian Nights_, translated

from the Arabic. Modern scholars believe that the “translators”

undoubtedly utilized Arabic manuscripts as a basis, but made so many

changes that the book is to be regarded as a pseudo-translation. It may

be dismissed as a weak imitation of the _Arabian Nights_, redeemed in

part by two admirable tales: _The Robber Caliph_ and _The History of

Maugraby[33] the Magician_. The latter has additional interest in that

it suggested to Southey the germinal idea of _Thalaba_.[34] Maugraby,

the evil enchanter, half human, half genie, carries away children to his

magical domains under Mt. Atlas, and by tortures and caresses enslaves

them for his master Zatanai [Satan]. If obedient, they are taken to the

caverns under the sea adjoining the Dom Daniel near Tunis,—the school of

magic and the magnificent court of Asmodeus,—where evil magicians

assemble in the wane of the moon. The hero of this tale is the captive

prince Habed, who after exciting adventures compasses the destruction of

Maugraby and the liberation of his prisoners, including the princess of

Egypt. The story closes with the marriage of the prince and the

princess. The narrative is marred by coarse incidents and a few long

digressions, but contains several interesting passages, _e.g._ the

introductory scenes between Maugraby, the vizier, the buffoon,[35] and

the king; the descriptions of the wiles of the magician; and the account

of Habed’s life in the fairy palace. The interest is always centered on

the hero’s terrible task of fighting the powers of darkness, led by

Maugraby. The latter possesses no countenance peculiar to himself, but

changes even his features according to the passion of the moment and

transfers his evil soul from one body to another. “He takes every method

to engage the kings of the earth to part with their first-born sons to

him that they may become powerful instruments in his hands; ... he

prowls about the houses of those that are discontented. If a father ...

be displeased with his son and happen to curse him, he seizes the child;

if, on the other hand, the son should curse his father, still the child

is made his prey.... If a caravan set out for Upper Egypt ... through

the desart [_sic_], the magician mounts on the wind schirak ... in order

to destroy them. When the unfortunate company are reduced to the last

extremity, he appears ... as a benefactor ... on condition that they

shall surrender themselves soul and body to him, to Zatanai [Satan] and

the great Kokopilesobe [Lucifer]. The caravan agreeing, presently

arrives at his retreat, and, instead of two or three hundred beasts of

burden, there are now above four hundred; for all the merchants and

other persons are metamorphosed into brutes.... Though he was handsome

in his youth, his person is now become a mass of deformity, as well as

his mind. His decrepitude is such as may be expected from his great age,

which exceeds a century and a half. His human body is a mere chimera; he

can, however, assume every form he chooses, and nothing discovers him

but the sinister expression of his eye.”[36]

The other tale, _The Robber Caliph_, is farcical and amusing—very

different from _Maugraby_. Haroun Alraschid, tired of elaborate court

festivals, escapes to his beloved streets of Bagdad in the disguise of

an Arab robber-chief, “Il Bondocani.” His thirst for adventure is

gratified by the rescue of a white-handed beggar-woman, who proves to be

the princess of Persia. She, likewise, wanders disguised through the

city, and unwittingly rouses Haroun’s jealousy of a young officer,

Yemalledin. The latter and the princess are imprisoned. Again the

disguised caliph goes forth, finds a poor old woman with a marvelously

beautiful daughter, Zutulbe, and sends the mother to order the cadi to

marry Zutulbe and “Il Bondocani.” The old woman’s mystification, the

cadi’s haughty behaviour and his sudden obsequiousness at the name of

“Il Bondocani” are amusing; and so are the sudden preparations for the

gorgeous wedding-feast and the more sudden dispersal of clamouring

neighbours by the display of “Il Bondocani’s” ring. The caliph discovers

from the old woman’s talk the innocence of her son Yemalledin, reveals

his identity, restores Yemalledin to honour, and gives him the Princess

of Persia. Of course all live happily ever after. The dramatic effect

throughout is capital, for the reader is in the secret and enjoys with

Haroun the complication and the resolution of the plot. There are many

admirable touches in dialogue, description, and oriental setting. On the

whole, the story deserves to rank with the true _Arabian Nights_.

Following these pseudo-translations, three small groups of imaginative

oriental fiction deserve brief notice: the heroic romances, the

realistic tales, and the eclogues. Of little intrinsic value, they are

interesting chiefly as evidence of the diffusion of the orientalizing

tendency. The first group includes reprints and imitations of a few of

the heroic romances of the previous century. _The Beautiful Turk_ (1720)

is another translation of the French romance by G. de Brémond translated

as _Hattige, or the Amours of the King of Tamaran ..., a Novel_ (a

_roman à clef_ concerning Charles II. and the Duchess of Cleveland),

published Amsterdam, 1680, and also in Vol. I. (1679 or 1683?), of R.

Bentley’s _Modern Novels_, London (1679–1692).[37] The _Bajazet_ of J.

Regnauld de Segrais was reprinted in 1725.[38] Mrs. Aubin’s _Noble

Slaves, or the Lives and Adventures of Two Lords and Two Ladies_

(1722?)[39] is Spanish in plot and character, but contains minor

personages,—Chinese, Persian, etc.,—who recount their experiences. In

1733 appeared a translation from the French of D’Orville: _The

Adventures of Prince Jakaya, or the Triumph of Love over Ambition, being

Secret Memoirs of the Ottoman Court_,[40] a romantic tale. Jakaya, the

true heir to the Ottoman sultanate, flees in disguise from his brother’s

murderous wrath, has many adventures, marries for love, and renounces

ambition. The story is imaginative, but is too frequently moralistic and

didactic. Yet, with others of the same type, it is interesting as

constituting the last feeble wave of the receding tide of

seventeenth-century heroic romances. It is true that these romances were

read far into the eighteenth century; witness Mrs. Lennox’s satire, _The

Female Quixote_, and George Colman’s _Polly Honeycomb_. But by 1740

imitations had ceased to be written; the wave had spent its force and

ebbed away in stories like _The Adventures of Prince Jakaya_.

The second group referred to at the beginning of the preceding

paragraph, also of little intrinsic value, is of even greater

consequence as a touchstone of the times. The realistic oriental tales

connect the orientalizing tendency, if one may so call it, with the more

profound and widespread tendency of the age toward realism.

Appropriately enough, the first great writer of realistic fiction in the

century, was also the first to utilize—though very slightly—the oriental

material in a realistic tale. In _The Farther Adventures of Robinson

Crusoe_ (1719),[41] the hero travels through China, where he meets

mandarins, sees porcelain houses, and witnesses “incredible

performances.” In Muscovy he destroys a village idol, escapes in safety,

fights Cossacks, etc.—incidents in the manner of travelers’ accounts. In

1755 a feeble imitation of _Robinson Crusoe_ appeared, with some

resemblance to an oriental tale. It is best described by the title: _The

Life and surprizing Adventures of Friga Reveep, of Morlaix, France, who

was Sixteen years in an uninhabited Part of Africa and how he met with a

young Virgin who was bannish’d and in what manner they liv’d together

and had two children, a Son and a Daughter, the latter dying when she

was six years of Age; together with their surprizing Deliverance to

their own Country again with a faithful Relation of all that past during

the Time that he was there. Written in French by himself and translated

into English by Mr. Transmarine_ (1755).[42] Four or five other members

of this realistic group, though comparatively unimportant, are worth

notice, because they are possibly founded on tales brought home from the

East by English merchants, and thus bear witness to the growing interest

of England in the Orient. In _The History of Rodomond and the Beautiful

Indian_,[43] an English merchant, saved from treacherous natives by an

East Indian girl, escapes with her to England and marries her. _The

History of Henrietta de Bellgrave_[43] is the story of a girl, who,

shipwrecked in the East Indies, escapes from pirates, leads a Robinson

Crusoe life, and is finally married to a “Banyan.” _The Disinterested

Nabob_ (1788)[44] is an anonymous “novel, interspersed with genuine

descriptions of India, its Manners and Customs.” The scene is laid

partly in India, and there is an unsuccessful attempt at local colour.

The story is in reality a mediocre imitation of _Sir Charles Grandison_.

_The Asiatic Princess_, by Mrs. Pilkington (1800),[45] is oriental only

in so far as the heroine is the Princess Merjee of Siam and references

are made to Eastern treatment of slaves and to the suttee. The princess

is intrusted to an English lady and her husband to be educated by

travel. Her instructors moralize on the differences between oriental and

English ways, and endeavour to guide her by moral tales. Another

realistic story, _The Female Captive_, has far more life. The entire

title reads, _The Female Captive, a narrative of Facts which happened in

Barbary in the Year 1756, written by herself_. London, 1769.[46] It has

many evidences of being a true story. The heroine, engaged to an

Englishman, sails for home from Minorca under the care of a Mr. Crisp.

Captured by Moors, she passes for his sister, and later for his wife, to

save herself. After imprisonments and other hardships, she is given an

audience by the prince of the country and thoughtlessly repeats unknown

words a French boy interpreter asks her to say. They prove to be, “There

is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet,” and she is told by the

prince that her saying them has made her a Moor, subject to death by

fire if she prove renegade.[47] Through Mr. Crisp’s aid she escapes to

England. There she finds her fiancé unworthy, and is finally married to

Mr. Crisp. The narrative is by far the best of the realistic group.

There are frequent appeals to Virtue and Fortitude in true

eighteenth-century style, but the story is well told. Little direct

description of the narrator is given, yet from what she does and suffers

and what others do for her, it is easy to picture her as a fair English

girl, shy and brave—an attractive heroine.

_The Fair Syrian_, by Robert Bage (1787),[48] is a long and tedious

novel in letter-form, diversified by the adventures of the English

heroine among the Turks, and extolling her devotion to Virtue. _The

Anaconda_, by “Monk” Lewis, in _Romantic Tales_ (1808),[49] belongs in

certain respects to this group, being a realistic story of the

adventures of various English people and natives in the East in their

struggles with an anaconda. Before leaving these realistic tales, it may

be well to mention _The Unfortunate Princess_, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood

(1741),[50] a fantastic tale called by the author “a veracious history,”

but bearing every mark of invention. Extravagant in describing magic

storms and horrible monsters, coarse, didactic, and bombastic, the story

is valuable only as exemplifying both the moralizing and the fantastic

tendencies under the guise of realism.

The third group referred to above (p. 46) includes the oriental

eclogues, of which the chief writers were William Collins, Thomas

Chatterton, and John Scott.[51] The four brief poems by Collins

published in 1742 as _Persian Eclogues_,[52] and afterward (1757) called

_Oriental Eclogues_, include: I. _Selim, or the Shepherd’s Moral_, which

represents the shepherd Selim in “a valley near Bagdat” calling the

shepherdesses to practise various virtues; II. _Hassan, or the Camel

Driver_, being Hassan’s lament over the dangers of the desert; III.

_Abra, or the Georgian Sultana_, a poem praising the pastoral life of

the beautiful shepherdess who married the Sultan and brought him back

occasionally to the happy shepherd life for a vacation from the cares of

state; and IV. _Agib and Secander, or the Fugitives_. These eclogues

bear to the later and better work of Collins a relation similar to that

borne by Tennyson’s youthful experiments in versification to the poems

of his maturity. Collins’s eclogues are not remarkable as poetry, but

they are superior to Chatterton’s or Scott’s, and they possess something

of the delicate finish and the pensive note characteristic of the author

of _The Ode to Evening_. Chatterton’s _African Eclogues_[53] are three

in number: I. _Narva and Mored_ (May, 1770), recounting the love of the

priest Narva for the beautiful Mored, and their tragic death; II. _The

Death of Nicou_ (June, 1770), who avenged his sister and slew himself;

and III. _Heccar and Gaira_ (printed 1784; written January, 1770), the

vengeance wrought by Gaira for the enslaving of his family. These poems

are characterized by crude imaginative force and incoherent, almost

Ossianic, fervor. John Scott’s (1730–1783) _Oriental Eclogues_

(1782)[54] (I. _Zerad, or the Absent Lover, an Arabian Eclogue_; II.

_Serim, or the Artificial Famine, an East-Indian Eclogue_; and III.

_Li-po, or the Good Governor, a Chinese Eclogue_) are early examples of

the influence of the movement we have called the new scholarly movement.

The author refers to the “elegant and judicious essay” of the “learned

and ingenious Mr. Jones” [_i.e._ Sir William Jones]; and, like Moore and

Southey, though with less assimilative power, draws copiously from

numerous orientalists. Hence Scott’s use of oriental material forms an

interesting link between the simple Johnsonian manner of orientalizing

by a few phrases—a manner exemplified in the eclogues of Collins—and the

elaborate orientalization in the verse of Southey and of Moore.[55]

Two years after the death of Scott, in 1785, appeared one of the most

interesting of all the imaginative oriental tales: _Charoba_, translated

from the French, and published by Clara Reeve in _The Progress of

Romance_.[56] In addition to considerable intrinsic value, _Charoba_

deserves especial notice as the direct source of Landor’s poem, _Gebir_

(1798). The story of _Charoba_ is briefly as follows: Gebirus, the

fierce and gigantic king of the Gadites, determines to marry Charoba,

queen of Egypt, and take possession of her kingdom. His naïve motive is

the hope of being cured of an illness by the favourable climate of that

country. A prelude concerning Charoba gives an account of her father

Totis, a cruel despot, who, like Balak, seeks to propitiate God’s

servant—in this case, Abraham. Totis dies; Charoba, handsome,

“ingenious,” generous, and wise, is made queen, and receives from

Abraham a blessing, which distinctly foreshadows her victory over

Gebirus, and enhances the artistic effect: “Great God, give her subtilty

to deceive her enemies and to vanquish all those who shall arise to do

her harm and to strive with her for her land.” On the appearance of

Gebirus, Charoba’s nurse, a great enchantress, persuades him by rich

gifts and by Charoba’s promise to marry him when his task is done, to

build a city with the stones he has brought to dam the Nile. He makes no

progress, because the nurse employs demons of the sea to tear down the

work each night. At last he learns from a melancholy shepherd that every

evening a fair lady rises from the sea, overcomes the shepherd in

wrestling, and takes away a sheep; the flock is diminishing, and he is

pining for love of her. Gebirus in his stead overcomes the lady and wins

as price of her freedom the secret of circumventing the destructive

demons and of getting treasure from a magic cave. Thus he finishes his

city. Charoba, desperate, by her nurse’s advice poisons his army,

receives him with royal honours, and kills him with a poisoned robe.[57]

Three years later she dies from a serpent’s sting, and is buried in

Gebirus’s city.

The scene of the death of Gebirus is dramatic. The subtle nurse,

throwing over his shoulders the poisoned robe, sprinkled him with magic

water, and he fell at Charoba’s feet. The attendants raised him up and

seated him on a throne. The nurse said to him: “‘Is the king well

tonight?’—He replied—‘A mischief on your coming hither!—May you be

treated by others as you have treated me!—this only grieves me, that a

man of strength and valour should be overcome by the subtilty of a

woman.’ ‘Is there anything you would ask of me before you taste of

death?’ said the queen—‘I would only intreat,’ said he, ‘that the words

I shall utter may be engraven on one of the pillars of this palace which

I have built.’ Then said Charoba, ‘I give thee my promise that it shall

be done; and I also will cause to be engraven on another pillar, “This

is the fate of such men as would compel queens to marry them, and

kingdoms to receive them for their kings.” Tell us now thy last words.’

“Then the king said—‘I, Gebirus the Metaphequian, the son of Gevirus,

that have caused marbles to be polished,—both the red and the green

stone to be wrought curiously; who was possessed of gold, and jewels,

and various treasures; who have raised armies; built cities, erected

palaces:—who have cut my way through mountains; have stopped rivers; and

done many great and wonderful actions:—with all this my power and my

strength, and my valour and my riches, I have been circumvented by the

wiles of a woman; weak, impotent, and deceitful; who hath deprived me of

my strength and understanding; and finally hath taken away my

life:—wherefore, whoever is desirous to be great and to prosper; (though

there is no certainty of long success in this world)—yet, let him put no

trust in a woman, but let him, at all times, beware of the craft and

subtilty of a woman.’ After saying these words, he fainted away and they

supposed him dead; but after some time he revived again. Charoba

comforted him and renewed her promise to him. Being at the point of

death, he said: ‘Oh Charoba!—triumph not in my death!—for there shall

come upon thee a day like unto this, and the time is not very far

distant.—Then thou shalt reflect on the vicissitudes of fortune and the

certainty of death.’”[58]

The other notable scene, the victory of Gebirus over the sea-nymph,

recalls the Siegfried-Brunhilde story. The entire shepherd-episode, the

nightly destruction of the day’s work, and the incident of the poisoned

robe, are like classic legends. The strange demons of the sea, the

spell-bound statues, the enchanted cave, remind one of many oriental

tales. Magic in _Charoba_ is used with considerable skill, and is made

subsidiary to, and symbolic of, human subtlety. It is the cunning of

Charoba’s nurse, more than her witchcraft, that wins the final victory,

and both kinds of skill typify the desperate resistance of Charoba’s

will to the determination of Gebirus. But the characterization is faint,

as in other oriental tales; the characters are suggested rather than

wrought out. As a whole, _Charoba_ has a rude, tragic force far superior

to that of the average oriental tale. No wonder it kindled the

imagination of Landor.

The poet’s use of the material he found in _Charoba_ is characteristic

of his peculiar genius. He has kept the main features: the determined

wooing of the princess by Gebir, the building and destruction of his

city, the shepherd-episode, and the manner of Gebir’s death. He has

omitted the prelude concerning Totis and Abraham, and the sequel

concerning Charoba’s death. The poem closes with the death of Gebir,

consistently with Landor’s theme, which is not _The History of Charoba_,

but _Gebir_. For the same reason throughout the poem he has heightened

the character of Gebir into an heroic figure of almost epic proportions.

The Gebirus of the _History_, a fierce and rude giant, who covets Egypt

for selfish reasons, gives place to a patriotic hero, who invades Egypt

in revenge for ancestral wrongs, ambitious, brave, full of pity for his

brother Tamar and of love for Charoba, devout and reverent to the gods,

oppressed by impending fate, yet undaunted. It is the figure of the

traditional epic hero. To throw it into bolder relief, Landor has

changed Charoba from the proud queen to a love-sick girl, whose fear and

pride keep her from avowing her passion for Gebir. Her silence causes

Gebir’s death, for her nurse Dalica, inferring that she does not love

him, proceeds, unknown to Charoba, to compass his death. Dalica’s use of

magic gives Landor the opportunity of inserting one of his most striking

passages, describing her visit to the ruined city and incantations over

the poisoned robe. The magic in _Gebir_ is no longer the primitive

enchantment of _The History of Charoba_. The latter recalls Biblical and

oriental stories, such as the _Witch of Endor_ or the _Arabian Nights_;

but the former is rather the magic of classical legend,—incantations

like those in Theocritus and Homer. The descent into the subterranean

treasure-cave in _Charoba_ is replaced by the journey of Gebir to Hades,

where he is taught the futility of ambition and the certainty of

punishment for evil-doers and of reward for the righteous after death.

The shepherd-episode is developed into a story by itself after the

manner of Ovid, with descriptions of the nymph, the woods, the seashore,

the shepherd, and the wrestling-match. In such ways the poem assumes an

entirely different aspect from that of the _History_. It has lost the

crude and primitive simplicity of the conflict between the wills of

Charoba and of Gebirus, but it has gained in the heroic proportions of

the character of Gebir, in remarkable descriptive passages, and in blank

verse of great, though uneven, beauty.

Of even greater significance than _Charoba_ is the _History of the

Caliph Vathek_,[59] the bizarre masterpiece of William Beckford, which

holds among all the oriental tales of the century a unique and

deservedly high place. It is indeed almost the only modern oriental

story “which might appear without disadvantage in the _Arabian Nights_,

with Aladdin on its right hand and Ali Baba on its left.”[60] Although

not a great book, it is entitled to live chiefly for the sake of one

remarkable scene—the catastrophe in the Hall of Eblis—in which the

author, having laid aside the mockery, the coarseness, and the flippancy

that reduce the first part of the book to the level of a mere _jeu

d’esprit_, shows himself capable of conceiving and depicting an

impressive catastrophe. From the moment when Vathek and Nouronihar

approach the dark mountains guarding the infernal regions until they

meet their doom, the note of horror is sustained. “A deathlike stillness

reigned over the mountain and through the air; the moon dilated on a

vast platform the shade of the lofty columns which reached from the

terrace almost to the clouds; the gloomy watch-towers were veiled by no

roof, and their capitals, of an architecture unknown in the records of

the earth, served as an asylum for the birds of darkness, which, alarmed

at the approach of such visitants, fled away croaking.” They proceeded,

and, “ascending the steps of a vast staircase, reached the terrace,

which was flagged with squares of marble, and resembled a smooth expanse

of water, upon whose surface not a leaf ever dared to vegetate; on the

right rose the watch-towers, ranged before the ruins of an immense

palace.” On the walls Vathek beheld an Arabic inscription permitting him

to enter the subterranean abode of Eblis. “He had scarcely read these

words before the mountain against which the terrace was reared,

trembled, and the watch-towers were ready to topple headlong upon them;

the rock yawned, and disclosed within it a staircase of polished marble

that seemed to approach the abyss; upon each stair were planted two

large torches, like those Nouronihar had seen in her vision, the

camphorated vapour ascending from which gathered into a cloud under the

hollow of the vault.” They descended to be welcomed by the malignant

Giaour who had first tempted Vathek, and to be led into a magnificent

hall radiant with light and fragrant with subtle odours, but containing

“a vast multitude incessantly passing, who severally kept their right

hands on their hearts,” as if in agony. Refusing to explain this ominous

mystery, the guide conducted them into the presence of “the formidable

Eblis,” the fallen archangel enthroned on a globe of fire.[61] He

received them and promised them treasures and talismans. But when they

eagerly followed the evil Giaour to an inner treasurechamber, they heard

from “the great Soliman” himself an account of his ambitions, his evil

deeds, and his terrible punishment. He “raised his hands toward

Heaven ... and the Caliph discerned through his bosom, which was

transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames.” To Vathek’s cry

of terror the malicious Giaour replied: “‘Know, miserable prince! thou

art now in the abode of vengeance and despair: thy heart also will be

kindled, like those of the other votaries of Eblis. A few days are

allotted to thee previous to this fatal period; employ them as thou

wilt; recline on these heaps of gold; command the Infernal

Potentates, ... no barrier shall be shut against thee; as for me, I have

fulfilled my mission: I now leave thee to thyself.’ At these words he

vanished.” When the inevitable hour came, their hearts “immediately took

fire, and they at once lost the most precious of the gifts of

Heaven—Hope.” Their mutual passion turned into hate and they “plunged

themselves into the accursed multitude, there to wander in an eternity

of unabating anguish.”

The rest of the book does not begin to equal the catastrophe. Perhaps,

indeed, one should not take it too seriously, but regard it rather as an

intentionally absurd and brilliant extravaganza. Beckford seems to have

begun merely with the idea of writing a clever oriental tale in the

lighter manner of Voltaire and Count Hamilton; but, as he went on

improvising one fantastic scene after another, the concept of the Hall

of Eblis fired his imagination and roused his real genius. The plot

follows the caprice of the narrator in turning aside for grotesque

episodes, but is clear in its main course. It begins with Vathek’s

impious building of a marvelously high tower from whence he studies

astrology. Suddenly “a hidious Giaour” appears at court and intensifies

the Caliph’s evil ambition for power and riches at any cost. Vathek

abjures his Mahometan faith, murders, or at least attempts to murder,

fifty innocent children after winning their confidence; with the aid of

his mother, a horrible sorceress, kills many of his faithful subjects;

insults holy dervishes; and finally violates the sacred hospitality of

the Emir Fakreddin by seducing his daughter Nouronihar. Her ambition

strengthens that of Vathek, and together they go on to their inevitable

fate. Throughout the story premonitions, ominous hints of impending

disaster, are skilfully used to prepare for the tragic outcome. Charming

scenes of quiet beauty—serene sunsets, children playing with butterflies

and flowers, nightingales singing among the roses—are almost invariably

followed by some sudden horror: an eclipse, streaks of blood across the

blue sky, a vast black chasm, and other terrifying portents. The whole

book gives the impression of an extraordinary dream. On one occasion

Nouronihar, led by a strange globe of fire, followed through the

darkness. “She stopped a second time, the sound of waterfalls mingling

their murmurs, the hollow rustlings amongst the palm-branches, and the

funereal screams of the birds from their rifted trunks, all conspired to

fill her with terror; she imagined every moment that she trod on some

venomous reptile; all the stories of malignant Dives and dismal Goules

thronged into her memory; but her curiosity was, notwithstanding,

stronger than her fears.” Such passages reveal the kinship of _Vathek_

with _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ and other “tales of terror.” An

interesting distinction is noticeable between the kind of horror present

here and that in tales like the _Arabian Nights_. In the latter it is

more objective and lacks the psychological, uncanny quality found in

_Vathek_ and the others. _Vathek_ is, however, a thoroughly oriental

tale of terror. The author handles his rich store of oriental allusions,

names, phrases, and imagery, so easily that one would hardly realize how

great the abundance is, if one were not confronted with the elaborate

annotations by the first editor, Henley. The exotic brilliance of the

various scenes is enhanced by references to the angels Munkir and Nekir,

who guard the bridge of death; to incantations and prayers; to the blue

butterflies of Cashmere; the loves of Megnoun and Leileh; cheeks the

colour of the blossom of the pomegranate, etc. Another element of charm

in _Vathek_ is the style, admirably clear and forcible, though

occasionally grandiose. Written by Beckford originally in French, the

book retains in the English version something of the French manner.

Always lucid, sometimes oratorical, frequently crisp and witty, the

style recalls that of Count Hamilton and of Voltaire. Beckford follows

his French prototypes, also, in his spirit of mockery and sarcasm, his

fitful humour, and intentional extravagance. When Vathek was angry “one

of his eyes became so terrible, that no person could bear to behold it,

and the wretch upon whom it was fixed instantly fell backward and

sometimes expired. For fear, however, of depopulating his domains and

making his palace desolate, he but rarely gave way to his anger.” Vathek

“wished to know everything, even sciences that did not exist.” In one of

the most grotesque scenes the Caliph and all his court were bewitched

into kicking the Giaour, who had rolled himself up into a ball, until he

disappeared into a chasm.

But Beckford’s mockery has frequently a repulsive quality; it is brutal

as well as cynical, and usually dwells with repellent emphasis on things

that appeal to the senses. His brief and brilliant descriptions of

sensuous beauty—colour, form, fragrance, melody—are also too frequently

tinged with sensuality. This does not preclude, however, the moralizing

tendency; in fact, the two propensities are often coexistent in the

oriental tales, as they are in other forms of literature. Besides

repulsive mockery and sensuality the most serious defect in _Vathek_ is

one we have noticed as distinctive of the oriental fiction under

discussion, _i.e._ lack of characterization. The hero himself is a mere

bundle of attributes, self-indulgent, voluptuous, cruel, and ambitious,

not a living individual. Hence even the impressive catastrophe lacks

vitality and fails to rouse either the tragic terror or the tragic pity.

_Vathek_ has been called a sporadic and isolated phenomenon in

eighteenth-century fiction. In one sense that is true; there was before

_Vathek_ no book just like it, and there has been none since. Yet it is

far more closely connected with its predecessors and successors than has

been generally acknowledged. We have already pointed out the obligations

of Beckford to the _Mogul Tales_ and the _Adventures of Abdalla_ and

suggested his indebtedness to Hamilton and Voltaire. The _Arabian

Nights_ was an obvious source of inspiration. The moralistic tales of

Dr. Johnson and of Hawkesworth, in which the hero is punished for evil

deeds, in all probability gave suggestions to Beckford. In the scene of

the Hall of Eblis, _Vathek_ is unique, and in a certain brilliance of

execution the book has few equals. Yet far from being sporadic or

abnormal, it is rather an epitome of many characteristic features of the

oriental tale: fantastic in plot and brilliant in colouring like the

_Arabian Nights_; weak in characterization, marred by sensuality, and

grotesque in incident like many oriental tales; witty and satirical like

some of the fiction of Voltaire and Hamilton; and tinged with the

moralizing spirit seen in Dr. Johnson’s tales. As a “tale of terror” it

exemplifies another contemporary tendency of English fiction. The wealth

of oriental allusion drawn from books reflects one more contemporaneous

movement, the revival of interest in the East by scholars like Sir

William Jones, and in so far foreshadows the similar use of similar

material by Moore, Southey, and Byron. To Byron,[62] moreover, as to

lesser writers like Barry Cornwall,[63] _Vathek_ was a direct source of

inspiration.[64] For all these reasons the book is especially

interesting to students of the literary history of the times.[65]

Half-way between the imaginative oriental tales and the moralistic is a

small group including such stories as _Amorassan, or the Spirit of the

Frozen Ocean_[66] and _The History of Abdalla and Zoraide, or Filial and

Paternal Love_. The former is one of the _Romantic Tales_ of M. G. Lewis

(1808), and is in part a close translation from _Der Faust der

Morgenländer_ by F. M. Klinger and in part original with Lewis. It is a

heavy and uninteresting story concerning a caliph, his brother, good and

bad viziers, genii, and fishermen. The spirit of the frozen ocean comes

to the good vizier Amorassan “to dispel illusions,” and shows him so

much of the truth about mankind that he is handicapped in all his

actions and exiled. He attains happiness only after dismissing the

uncomfortable monitor. The moral is explicit: Do not endeavour to dispel

illusions, “let benevolence and reason guide you: beyond that all is

Destiny.” There is a slight attempt at oriental colouring and at

fanciful descriptions, but the tale is of little value. _The History of

Abdalla and Zoraide_[67] (1750?) is recommended on the title-page as

“well worthy the perusal of every tender parent and dutiful child”; and,

as might be inferred, is a highly moral effort. It is interesting

chiefly in that it is the possible source of a tale used by Goldsmith to

embellish _The Citizen of the World_, and that it may, with _Amorassan_,

be taken as a type of the imaginative oriental tale so far removed from

purely imaginative fiction like the _Arabian Nights_, the _Persian

Tales_, or _Charoba_, as to be almost moralistic.