What soft, yet awful, dignity!
What meek, yet manly, grace!
What sweetness dances in his eye,
And blossoms in his face.
CHINESE POEM.
Kazim postponed from day to day his application for employment at any
of the schools of the capital, until at length, seeing his store of
wealth wearing gradually away, he found himself compelled to make a
vigorous effort for the future maintenance of his family. He proceeded,
therefore, in the first instance, to the principal college, where the
sons of several of the omrahs, and other noblemen, were educated, and
stated his object, as well as his pretensions, in the most modest
manner. But every office to which he aspired was already full; and even
if that had not been the case, he was told that his pronunciation of
the Persian was provincial, and not sufficiently pure for the capital.
Undepressed by this disappointment, Kazim next presented himself to the
governor of another college of the first rank, who looked upon him as
a great deal too young for the functions of a master. When obliged to
mention, in his own defence, that he had passed through the university
of Samarcand, not without distinction, and that he had perused most
of the works which treated of the sciences, history, philosophy, and
poetry, he was asked what books on divinity he had read. He confessed
that he had given but a small portion of his time to that study, as
very few of the compositions that met his eye upon that subject, seemed
to him to discuss it in a satisfactory manner. Unfortunately for Kazim,
the person whom he addressed had been a most voluminous author in the
theological line; his dismissal followed, of course, without being
softened by the slightest appearance of ceremony.
It was not without much difficulty, and many pangs of wounded
pride, that Kazim, after these rebuffs from the higher academical
establishments, made up his mind to offer himself to one of the
inferior grades, as a lecturer in the very rudiments of learning.
His only fear was, that he should be too readily accepted, and thus
fixed for life in a subordinate rank, from which he might never be
promoted. But these, too, he found crowded in every department. By
some his applications were treated with a cold civility; by others he
was sneered at as a Tartar,--one of the nation especially hated by
the Hindoos. When in the extremity of the misery which he felt under
such repeated failures, he talked of his family, and threw out an
intimation of his apprehensions for their fate, if he could meet with
no employment, he was looked upon as an intruder and an adventurer,
without connexions or character, and was more than once advised to go
back to the wilds whence he came, for that there were too many already
of his class in Lahore!
When returning to Mangeli on these occasions, after walking about
the capital the whole day to no purpose, the agony of his mind was
overwhelming. The morning generally kindled a faint ray of hope in his
breast; he knew not but that before night he might at length succeed
in obtaining the object of his now humbled wishes. But as the day
advanced, and disappointment followed disappointment, that feeble light
again vanished, leaving his mind in a state of utter despair. His
power of thought seemed to have abandoned him sometimes altogether.
He leant against the corner of a street, and pressing his hand to his
forehead, gazed wildly around him, as if he were in a dream, and knew
not where he was or whither he was going. Often, overcome with fatigue,
he could hardly trail one foot after another, as night after night he
sought his home, with the same tale of misfortune. The point of sight
in the prospect of his existence, which he thought he had found with
so much certainty, when first he bent his way towards the Himalas, he
now seemed to have irrecoverably lost. All was a dreary waste before
him: the only relief of which his soul was susceptible, sprung from the
unaltered affection of Mangeli, and the smiles of delighted recognition
with which he was always received by the cherub she held out to kiss
him on his arrival.
As a last resort, Kazim procured a little inkstand, and a few reeds,
and having hired a stall in one of the principal streets, he sat there
under an awning of coarse grass, and copied out some of the poems
which he had committed to memory, and also a few of his own stanzas,
the compositions of happier days. These he was enabled to sell for a
few cowries to students who passed by his stall to the colleges. But
when he found that his poems were laughed at by the critics of Lahore,
by whom they were designated, with an insulting ambiguity, as the
“beggar ballads,” he ceased to offer any more of his own compositions
for sale, confining himself to those which he could collect from other
sources. His hand-writing, which was of the most elegant description,
gradually obtained for him, however, more profitable employment among
the merchants who resorted to the neighbouring bazaars, for whom he
drew up accounts, and letters on matters of business. The emolument
which he thus earned was not much on the whole, but it was something
to a frugal household; it dissipated the dense gloom that had for some
time shrouded his intellect, and opened once more a prospect, though a
faint one, of a favourable change in his fortune.
Sometimes, persons of the lowest order came to the amanuensis,
requesting that he would prepare petitions for them to the nobility
and the courts of justice; and it was remarked by a muslin weaver,
near whose shop his stall was situated, that trifling as the pittance
was which he received from these people, he always listened to their
instructions with cheerfulness, and executed them with zeal. His own
misfortunes had touched his heart with sympathy for the poor, whenever
they solicited the aid of his penmanship. Nor were the many private
histories of distress with which he had thus become acquainted, during
the seven long years he was obliged to dedicate to his new profession,
without their effect upon his feelings. He learned from them, that
however short of the visions of youth his condition had fallen, it was
by no means at the lowest degree on the scale of existence.
He was not rich, it was true; but then he was free from the anxiety
which riches always bring, and especially from those imaginary
sufferings, worse than real woes, that haunt the mind when it is
disengaged from the pursuit of the actual necessaries of life. He had
not attained any portion of that celebrity, or a single step of that
rank, amongst his fellow men, to which some years ago he had looked
forward with so much ardour. But celebrity created envy, and rank only
augmented ambition. Better to remain in obscurity, than to be spoken of
and pointed at in the circles of the great as a Tartar adventurer, on
whom they would be delighted to impose every kind of mortification. He
had few acquaintances and no friends; but he possessed a well stored
mind, whose sphere he extended according to his means, from day to day,
which rendered him independent of society. In Mangeli, the light of
his home, and in his daughter, whom his neighbours familiarly called
Mher-ul-Nissa, “the sun of her sex,” from her remarkably graceful form
and brilliant countenance, shining already with more than the beauty
even of her mother, he had a fund of happiness in itself more precious
than the sceptre of an empire.
One morning as Kazim was seated in his stall, waiting for any customer
who might wish to employ his pen, a dervish addressed him, at the
same time producing an ancient manuscript, which he said he wished
to have copied as speedily as possible, as he was to wait upon the
prime-minister, Abul Fazeel, with both the copy and the original, in a
few days. The composition was of some length, and upon looking over it,
Kazim found that it related to the geography of Bengal.
“You must be aware,” said the dervish, “that Abul Fazeel has only just
returned to Lahore, after an absence of several years, which he has
spent in travelling through the provinces of the empire, with a view
to ascertain and place on record the nature of the soil, the produce,
the climate, the manufactures, and the population, by which they
are individually distinguished. From the continuation of the civil
war which prevails in Bengal, he has not been able to traverse that
magnificent region. Here is a full and a very accurate survey of that
country, made a century ago, by a learned Arabian; it is, however,
much soiled, and I fear, in some parts, illegible. Copy it in the best
manner you can, and here will be your reward,” putting into Kazim’s
hand a gold rupee.
In a few days the copy was complete, and the dervish took it away,
thanking Kazim for the elegance and accuracy with which the transcript
was executed. On presenting the original roll to Fazeel, the dervish
also unfolded the copy before the minister, which he looked over for
some time, with the most intense interest.
“This is, indeed,” said the minister, “a most valuable document--a
master-piece in every respect. The details are clear, and sufficiently
ample for my purpose. But this hand-writing I have seen before--it must
be that of a young man in whose fortunes I once felt a lively interest,
but of whom I have never heard since that fatal expedition to”----
Here Fazeel checked himself, as if he felt that he had already gone
farther than he intended.
“To Arjun,” added the dervish. “I was there too; you have heard Acbar,
doubtless, speak of a poor dervish, who resided in the garden hut near
Karaman”----
“And saved his life!--and ours! Excellent man--we never can
sufficiently thank you!--You must come with me to the emperor.”
“No--my habit would ill befit the court of Acbar. Protect Kazim Ayas--I
seek no further reward.”
“Ah! this is indeed his hand. Bring the young man to me instantly. The
emperor will, I am sure, be delighted to advance the fortunes of our
former companion in adversity.”
The dervish returned without delay to the stall, where he found Kazim,
as usual, industriously employed.
“I bear good tidings, young man,” said he, his features glistening with
heartfelt pleasure;--“Shut up your stall, and come with me just as you
are.”
Kazim, trembling with joy, did as he was desired, and as they proceeded
to the palace the words, “To Hindostan, I say, when the snows are
gone!” which he had for some time forgotten as a mere delusion of the
fancy, now returned to his memory in a flood of light. Were they, then,
the whisper of a vision, or was this the dervish who pronounced them?
On arriving at the palace, his companion, who in a decided, though
friendly tone, stipulated that no enquiries should be made, as to
himself, led Kazim into a spacious gallery that overlooked the royal
gardens. As there was a crowd of courtiers waiting to see the minister,
the dervish directed Kazim’s attention, while they were waiting for
their turn to be called, to the stately trees and fountains with which
the gardens were ornamented. Presently the sound of a musquet, and the
smoke with which the explosion was accompanied, at the lower end of
the gardens, excited Kazim’s surprise. He had never seen arms of that
description before. The dervish explained the nature of the instrument,
while the sounds were again and again repeated, each explosion being
followed by a shout of laughter from a group of young men, who appeared
to be amusing themselves by firing at a target.
“It is a favourite sport of the prince Selim,” said the dervish.--
“See--here he comes, with his companions.”
“What a very handsome person,” observed Kazim; “I should at once have
known him for a prince!”
“Handsome he undoubtedly is,” rejoined the dervish; “rather too much
so for the heir of such an extensive empire, which will demand more
vigour, both of mind and limb, than I fear he will ever exhibit.”
While the dervish was still speaking, the prince and his friends
ascended from the gardens by the marble steps which led to the gallery.
“It is said,” whispered the dervish to Kazim, after they passed, “that
the prince is already well acquainted with the fascinations of the
wine-cup; nevertheless, although he is nearly thirty years of age, he
does not, as you see, look five-and-twenty.”
The crowds, in the ante-rooms, having at length sensibly diminished,
the dervish and Kazim were directed to attend the minister. They found
him in a splendidly decorated apartment, seated on a divan, with a
large bundle of papers in his hand, from which he raised his eyes but
for a moment, while he glanced at Kazim.
“Shew that young man,” said the minister to an attendant, “into my
writing room, and give him these papers, which he must set about
copying instantly.”
Kazim was too much abashed by the novelty of his situation, to notice
the features of the minister--though it struck him that the voice which
he had just heard, was not altogether strange to his ear. The dervish,
pressing his hand warmly, resigned him to the care of the attendant,
by whom he was conducted to an inner apartment, the floor of which was
covered with papers, scattered about in all directions. A spot having
been cleared for his use, and writing implements having been placed
before him, he was left alone to pursue the labours which had been
assigned him.
The minister again addressed the good dervish, and entreated him to
remain until the emperor, who was then at mid-day meal, should be
disengaged. But, he said, that having at length succeeded in placing in
the career of fame and fortune, one that would prove eminently worthy
of both, he could not postpone his departure for Cashmere, whither he
was bound on a pilgrimage. Fazeel could not even persuade him to accept
an onyx ring, which he took off his finger, and receiving the blessing
of the holy man, suffered him, with the greatest reluctance, to set out
upon his journey.
Kazim scarcely knew how many hours he had been in his new office, when
his attention was interrupted by the sound of steps. Immediately a door
behind him, which he had not before perceived, opened, and Fazeel, with
another person, clothed in a woven dress of silk and gold, bound at the
waist by a zone of diamonds and rubies, stood before Kazim, smiling, as
if they were amused by the attitude of astonishment which he naturally
assumed. He rose on his feet, looked first at one, then at the other,
while the reed with which he had been writing fell from his hand,
unnoticed on the floor, and his face was mantled in blushes.
“It must be Suleiman and Baba Seirami,” at length exclaimed Kazim.
“Whom you now behold as Acbar and his minister Abul Fazeel,” said
the emperor, embracing the young man with tokens of the most lively
pleasure. Kazim would have made his obeisance in the ordinary form, but
this Acbar would not permit.
“No--no, no ceremony to-day. We are both extremely happy, to find that
you have at last made your way to Hindostan, where you may count upon
my invariable friendship.”
“And Mangeli, too,” said Fazeel; “has she also come with you? Doubtless
as beautiful as ever!”
Kazim, overcome with emotion, knew scarcely how to reply to the
numerous questions which the emperor and the minister then put to him
rapidly one after another. He made no secret of any part of his story,
disclosing the leading circumstances of his life, as they had occurred
since he had last seen them. Acbar kindly expressed his concern, that
Kazim had not availed himself of the instructions, especially addressed
to him in the letter which Fazeel had sent from Karaman. Kazim, in
explanation, replied, that the letter duly reached the camp, but that
as it had been unfortunately worn into fragments, he was prevented
from becoming acquainted with the emperor’s generous intentions in his
behalf.
“Well! well!” observed the sovereign, “we must now endeavour to repair
the time you have lost. Fazeel will appoint you one of his principal
secretaries, and I hope often to see you, that we may talk over our
adventures in Arjun.”
“With respect to which, however,” added Fazeel, as Acbar retired by
the door at which he had entered, “it will be necessary for you to
be silent to all other persons. That expedition was, as you know, a
most unfortunate affair in every respect; one of those sudden and
irresistible resolutions, which the emperor’s extraordinary genius
for war sometimes acts upon, without the requisite deliberation. He
had nearly lost Hindostan, while endeavouring by rapid movements
and surprises, to break up a confederacy that had been preparing in
the north, the object of which was to pour down troops into the then
rebellious provinces of Cashmere and Lahore. The adoption of the name
of Suleiman, who was actually one of the chieftains engaged in the
conspiracy, was one of those stratagems which have sometimes served him
successfully in lieu of an army, although upon that occasion we were
indeed any thing but fortunate. It was well that we were enabled even
to make good our escape to Lahore, where, however, order has since been
in a great measure restored.”
Kazim listened to Fazeel with the deepest interest, rejoicing inwardly
in the delight which he should feel in imparting to Mangeli the sudden
alteration that had taken place in their fortunes.