Sir,
Send me ten guineas and take one or ten volumes as you please.
Yours obediently, etc.
No. vi. is the fussy and troublesome subscriber who gives more bother than he
is worth, and who takes a VICIOUS pride in not paying till pushed to the last
point. The professional subscriber fights hard for the most favourable terms,
and holds it his vested right to "part" by dribblers. And lastly comes the
dishonest subscriber who does not pay at all. I must however, in justice own
that species No. viii. is rare: of one thousand the proportion was only about
a score.
In mid-June, '85, I returned to London and began at once to prepare for
issuing the book. Having found the publisher peculiarly unsatisfactory--with
one single and remarkable exception my venerable friend, Mr. Van Voorst,
whilome of Paternoster Row--I determined, like Professor Arber, to do without
him, although well aware how risky was the proceeding, which would, in the
case of a work for general reading, have arrayed against me the majority of
the trade and of their "hands," the critics. Then I sought hard, but sought in
vain, for the agency of a literary friend or friends, men of name and note,
like those who assisted in the Villon version: all feared the responsibility
and the expected storm of abuse which, however, failed to burst.
Under these circumstances "The Printing Times," a professional periodical
produced by Messieurs Wymans, was pleased (August 25, '85) to be unpleasantly
intrusive on the subject of my plan. "We always heard associated with the
publication of this important work, the name of Mr.----, which is now
conspicuous by its absence, nor is, apparently the name of any other leading
publishing house to be identified with its production" (The Printer's Devil
is, I presume, responsible for the English!) The writer then warns me in all
(un-)friendliness that if the printers forget to add their imprint, they would
become liable to a legal penalty; that the work is unsafe for literal
translation and, lastly that although printed by private subscription, "It is
likely enough to be pronounced an injury to public morals to the danger of the
author and his printers." The unhappy article concludes, "We await the issue
of the first volume since much will depend upon the spirit(!) in which the
translation has been undertaken; certainly the original text is not suitable
for general circulation (connu!) unless edited with the utmost care and
discretion."
To this production so manifestly inspired by our old friend £s. d., I replied
in The Aademy (August 7, '85), the gist of the few lines being as follows:--
In answer to many inquiries from friends and others, will you allow me to
repeat through your columns, that my translation of the "Arabian Nights" will
be strictly limited to 1,000 copies, each sent to picked subscribers, and to
renew the promise which I before made, that no cheaper edition shall be
printed? Correspondents have complained that I have not stated the price; but
I have mentioned over and over again that there are ten volumes, at one guinea
each--my object in making it so expensive being to keep it from the general
public. I am also troubled with inquiries as to who is my publisher I am my
own publisher, inaugurating (Inshallah!) a golden age for authors. Jesting
apart the book has no publisher. It is printed by myself for the benefit of
Orientalists and Anthropologists, and nothing could be more repugnant to me
than the idea of a book of the kind being published or being put into the
hands of any publisher.
The first volume dated "Benares: MDCCCLXXXV: Printed by the Kamashastra
Society for Private Subscribers only," did not appear till September 12, '85:
it had been promised for March and had been delayed by another unavoidable
detention at Trieste. But my subscribers had no further cause of complaint;
ten tomes in sixteen months ought to satisfy even the most exigent.
No. i. volume was accompanied by a circular earnestly requesting that the book
might not be exposed for sale in public places or permitted to fall into the
hands of any save curious students of Moslem manners. Yet the birth of the
first-born was accompanied (I am fain to confess) with no small trouble and
qualms to the parent and to all who assisted at the parturition. Would the
"little stranger" robed in black and gold, the colours of the Abbaside
Caliphs, with its brick-red night-cap after the fashion of ecclesiastical
bandings, be kindly welcomed or would it be regarded as an abortion, a
monster? The reader will readily understand how welcome to an author in such
perplexity came the following article from the Standard (September 12),
usually attributed to the popular and trenchant pen of Mr. Alfred Austin. I
must be permitted to quote it entire, because it expresses so fully and so
admirably all and everything I could desire a reviewer to write. And the same
paper has never ceased to give me the kindest encouragement: its latest notice
was courteous and appreciative as its earliest.
The first volume of Captain Burton's long-expected edition of the "Arabian
Nights" was issued yesterday to those who are in a position to avail
themselves of the wealth of learning contained in this monumental labour of
the famous Eastern traveller. The book is printed for subscribers only, and is
sold at a price which is not likely to be paid by any save the scholars and
students for whose instruction it is intended. But though the Benares
"Kamashastra Society" are careful to let the world know that the "Thousand
Nights and a Night" is not "published" in the technical sense of the term, the
pages which will be read by a thousand purchasers may be fittingly regarded as
the property of the world at large. In any case, the day when the experience
of a life was embodied into this fresh translation of the "Alf Laylah wa
Laylah" marks a distinct stage in the history of Oriental research. The world
has had numerous versions of these stories. For at least a century and a half
they have delighted old and young, until Shahrazade and Dunyazade, the
Fisherman and the Jinn, and the tales told by the Tailor, the Kalendar, the
Nazarene broker, and the Hunchback. . . to say nothing of Aladdin, Ali Baba,
Sinbad the Sailor, and Camaralzaman and Badoura--seem like the most familiar
of friends. Yet many of those who know the ordinary epitome prepared for the
nursery and the drawing-room have little idea of the nature of the original.
Galland's abridgment was a mere shadow of the Arabic. Even the editions of
Lane and Habicht and Torrens and Von Hammer represented but imperfectly the
great corpus of Eastern folk-lore which Captain Burton has undertaken to
render into English, without regard to the susceptibilities of those who, not
having bought the book, are, therefore, in no way concerned in what is the
affair of him and his subscribers. The best part of two centuries have passed
away since Antoine Galland first turned some of the tales into French, and got
stigmatised as a forger for his pains. Never was there such a sensation as
when he printed his translations. For weeks he had been pestered by troops of
roysterers rousing him out of bed, and refusing to go until the shivering
Professor recited one of the Arab stories to the crowd under his window. Nor
has the interest in them in any way abated. Thousands of copies pass every
year into circulation, and any one who has ever stood in the circle around the
professional storyteller of the East must have noticed how often he draws on
this deathless collection. The camel-driver listens to them as eagerly as did
his predecessors ages ago. The Badawi laughs in spite of himself, though next
moment he ejaculates a startling "Astaghfaru'llah" for listening to the light
mention of the sex whose name is never heard amongst the Nobility of the
Desert. Or if the traveller is a scholar and a gentleman, he will pull out his
book for amusement of the company squatted round the camp fire, as did Captain
Burton many a time and oft in the course of his Eastern wanderings.
To Captain Burton the preparation of these volumes must have been a labour of
love. He began them in conjunction with his friend Steinhaeuser, soon after
his return from the Mecca pilgrimage, more than thirty years ago, and he has
been doing something to them ever since. In the swampy jungles of West Africa
a tale or two has been turned into English, or a poem has been versified
during the tedium of official life in the dank climate of Brazil. From Sind to
Trieste the manuscript has formed part and parcel of his baggage and though,
in the interval, the learned author has added many a volume to the shelf-full
which he has written, the "Thousand Nights and a Night" have never been
forgotten. And now when he nears the end of his labours it seems as if we had
never before known what the beauteous Shahrazad told the King who believed not
in the constancy of women. Captain Burton seems the one sober man among
drunkards. We have all the old company though they appear in dresses so
entirely new that one scans the lines again and again before the likeness is
quite recognised. However, Tajal-Mulook will no doubt be as knightly as ever
when his turn comes, for the Barber is garrulous, after the old fashion, and
the three Shaykhs relate their experiences with the Jinns, the gazelles, and
mules as vividly as they have done any time these thousand years or more. King
Yoonan and the Sage Dooban are here, and so are King Sindibad and his falcon,
the young Prince of the Black Islands, the envious Weezer and the Ghoolah, and
the stories of the Porter and the Ladies of Baghdad lose nothing of their
charm in the new, and, we may add, extremely unsophisticated version. For
Captain Burton's work is not virginibus puerisque, and, while disclaiming for
his version anything like intentional indecorum, he warns the readers that
they will be guilty of a breach of good faith should they permit a work
prepared only for students to fall into the hands of boys and girls. From the
first to almost the penultimate edition of these stories the drawing-room
alone has been consulted. Even Mr. Payne, though his otherwise faithful
version was printed for the Villon Society, had the fear of Mrs. Grundy before
his eyes. Moreover, no previous editor--not even Lane himself--had a tithe of
Captain Burton's acquaintance with the manners and customs of the Moslem East.
Hence not unfrequently, they made ludicrous blunders and in no instance did
they supply anything like the explanatory notes which have added so greatly to
the value of this issue of "Alf Laylah wa Laylah." Some of these are startling
in their realism, and often the traveller who believed that he knew something
of the East, winces at the plainness with which the Wazir's daughter tells her
tales to Shahryar, King of the Banu Sasan. The language is, however, more
frequently coarse than loose, and smacks more of the childish plainness with
which high and low talk in the family circles from Tangier to Malayia, than of
prurience or suggestiveness. The Oriental cannot understand that it is
improper to refer in straightforward terms to anything which Allah has created
or of which the Koran treats. But in his conversation, as in his folk-lore,
there is no subtle corruption or covert licentiousness--none of the vicious
suggestion and false sentiment that pervade so many of the productions of the
modern romantic school.
It is, indeed, questionable whether there is much in these inimitable romances
half so objectionable as many of the chapters in Rabelais and Boccaccio. Nor
do the most archaic of the passages which Captain Burton declines to "veil in
the decent obscurity of a learned language" leave much room for the admirers
of Shakespeare, or Greene, or Nash, or Wycherley, or Swift, or Sterne to cry
shame. Their coarseness was a reflection of the times. The indelicacy was not
offensive to those who heard it. On the other hand, apart from the language,
the general tone of "The Nights" is exceptionally high and pure. The
devotional fervour, as Captain Burton justly claims, often rises to the
boiling-point of fanaticism and the pathos is sweet and deep, genuine and
tender, simple and true. Its life--strong, splendid, and multitudinous--is
everywhere flavoured with that unaffected pessimism and constitutional
melancholy which strike deepest root under the brightest skies. The Kazi
administers poetical justice with exemplary impartiality, and so healthy is
the morale that at times we descry through the voluptuous and libertine
picture "vistas of a transcendental morality--the morality of Socrates in
Plato." In no other work of the same nature is Eastern life so vividly
portrayed. We see the Arab Knight, his prowess and his passion for adventure,
his love and his revenge, the craft of his wives, and the hypocrisy of his
priests, as plainly as if we had lived among them. Gilded palaces, charming
women, lovely gardens, caves full of jewels, and exquisite repasts, captivate
the senses and give variety to the panorama which is passing before our eyes.
Yet we repeat that, though there is much in the excellent version now begun
which is very plain speaking, there is nothing intentionally demoralising.
Evidently, however the translator is prepared to hear this charge brought
against his labour of love. Indeed, there is a tinge of melancholy pervading
the preface in which the Editor refers to his "unsuccessful professional
life," and to the knowledge of which his country has cared so little to avail
itself. * * * * * Even in the recent Egyptian troubles--which are referred to
somewhat bitterly-- his wisdom was not utilised, though, after the death of
Major Morice, there was not an English official in the camps before Suakin
capable of speaking Arabic. On this scandal, and on the ignorance of Oriental
customs which was everywhere displayed, Captain Burton is deservedly severe.
The issue of the ten volumes now in the press, accompanied by notes so full of
learning as those with which they are illuminated, will surely give the nation
an opportunity for wiping away the reproach of that neglect which Captain
Burton seems to feel more keenly than he cares to express.
This was a sop to the friend and a sore blow dealt to the enemy. Moreover it
was speedily followed up by another as swashing and trenchant in the Morning
Advertiser (September 15, '85), of which long extracts are presently quoted.
The journal was ever friendly to me during the long reign of Mr. James Grant,
and became especially so when the editorial chair was so worthily filled by my
old familiar of Oxford days, the late Alfred Bate Richards, a man who made the
"Organ of the Licensed Victuallers" a power in the state and was warmly
thanked for his good services by that model conservative, Lord Beaconsfield.