There was, in days long past and in the country of Aderbaijan, a king

who administered justice and cherished wisdom; the tiller of his

equity-loving nature kept the garden of his kingdom always free of the

chaff and rubbish of oppression, and preserved, with the light of the

torch of high-mindedness and gifts, the surface of the breasts of those

who hoped and solicited from the darkness of hardship and destitution.

By means of his discernment he became acquainted with the worth and

station due to men of skill, and always honoured the high polish of the

speculum of accomplishments and perfections with the throne of dignity

and the place of respect. One day, while he was seated in the palace of

pomp and splendour, dispensing justice and retribution, and engaged in

diving into the depths of the circumstances of the people, two men took

hold of the collar of complaint before him, one of whom had no trade,

while the other was skilful and accomplished; and, although the former

brought forward arguments and evidence in support of his claim, and it

became clear that he was in the right, the king purposely turned the

scales in favour of the clever man, and ordered him that was without a

trade to be punished.

The king had a vazír equal to Plato in science, who always drew upon the

book of circumstances with the pen of propriety of opinion and prudence

of arrangement. Wondering at the decision of the king, he rose from his

place and said: “O thou leader of the caravan of prosperity of realms,

by the strokes of whose world-conquering scimitar the peace of the

breasts of opponents is destroyed, and from the fruits of whose convoy

of success the countries of the hearts of the amicable are made populous

and flourishing! I have a request to make: first, that the skyward-flying

humaí of your gracious disposition may pervade the atmosphere of

compliance with my solicitation.” The king said: “Explain.” And the

vazír continued: “I pray that the life of this innocent youth, whose

guiltlessness must be visible upon the mirror of your majesty’s mind,

may be spared for my sake; and that it might be disclosed to me why your

majesty pardoned the guilty one and condemned the innocent.” The king

replied: “I have absolved him whom you called guilty because I have

arrived at the certainty that he is unblameable and has the right on his

side. But I do not consider this the proper time to explain the matter,

which, however, will be done as soon as we are alone.”

When the tree of the assembly had shed the leaves and fruits of its

multitude and the lamp of the apartment of privacy was trimmed and made

bright, the king spake thus to his vazír:

“Thou quintessence of acuteness, something happened to me once which

plunged me into the sea of astonishment. From that time I made a vow to

show favour to a man who has a profession, even should he be blameworthy

otherwise, and to punish him who has no trade or occupation, even though

he should be my own son; so that the high and the low, seeing this,

should be induced to have their children taught trades in due conformity

with their circumstances.

“Know, then, that when my father was yet walking in the garden of life,

and was sitting upon the throne of happiness and government, on a

certain day those who were present at the audience were discussing the

advantages of trades and accomplishments; and, although I had made myself

acquainted with several sciences and accomplishments befitting a royal

prince, I was desirous of learning some useful craft. I therefore caused

each one of the tradesmen of the city to exhibit his skill before me,

in order that I might apply myself to the craft which I should prefer.

After having seen them all, none pleased me so much as mat-making,

because the master of that art had introduced into the specimen which he

wrought all sorts of pretty figures. The instructor was engaged, and I

was taught until I became skilful in this business. One day I happened to

entertain a desire to make a pleasure excursion on the sea, and, having

taken leave of the king, embarked in a boat with a number of companions.

We amused ourselves for two days with fishing, but, as all mortals are

subject to the vicissitudes of Fortune, on the third day a dreadful storm

arose, the sea was lashed into furious waves, our boat went to pieces,

and my attendants became food for the palate of the whale of destiny. I

floated about on a broken plank with two of my associates for several

days, drifting like chaff in the ebb and flow of the abyss, and having

our throats choked every moment by the gripe of mortal fear. We humbled

ourselves at the footstool of the Answerer of prayer, because no one ever

besought him in vain; and by his favour the wind drove the broken plank

towards the shore, and all three of us, having landed in safety, made

our way to an oasis in which were various fruits and aromatic plants,

numerous beyond conception. We travelled through this oasis, resting

during the night on trees, for fear of wild beasts, and at length reached

the city of Baghdád. I possessed several rings of great value, and went

to the bazár, accompanied by my friends, in order to procure food. Having

sold a ring, we entered the shop of a cook, who displayed a great variety

of dishes, and in whose service a handsome boy was busying himself. We

handed the master of the shop a few dirhams desiring him to furnish us

with some food. He cast a glance at us and said: ‘Young men, nobility

and greatness shine from your foreheads. In this city it is considered

disgraceful that youths like yourselves should be eating their food in

the bazár. There is a handsome room in the neighbourhood to which persons

like you are accustomed to resort: do me the favour to proceed thither,

and I will supply something worthy of you.’ He sent his boy with us, and

we soon reached the house, which was very neat and tastefully ornamented.

And we were beginning to amuse ourselves by examining the beautiful

paintings upon the walls, when the boy said: ‘I am going to fetch your

food.’ As soon as he was gone the floor of the house began to move as

if a great earthquake had occurred, and we were all precipitated into a

deep well, which was dark like the graves of infidels[255] and black as

their hearts.

“Now that cook was a Jew, and an enemy of the Faith; and it was his

practice to decoy Muslims into this house, and, having thus entrapped

them and put them to death, to roast their flesh and sell it to other

Muslims.[256] Our necks were pledged in this affair, and we were in

expectation of what turn it would take when the same youth descended

into the well, sword in hand, with the intention of murdering us,

upon which we said to him: ‘Friend, what advantage will you derive by

killing us unhappy wretches? If gain be your object, we know the trade

of mat-making, which is very profitable in this city. Bring hither the

tools and materials necessary for that business, and we will make a mat

every day.’ The youth hastened to inform his master of our proposal,

and we were furnished with the required materials, and began at once

to make mats, receiving each day a loaf of barley bread. After being

in this condition for some time, a plan occurred to me through which

our release might be achieved. I finished a mat with all possible care,

and worked into the borders of it an account of my circumstances in the

Arabic language. This was during the reign of Harún er-Rashíd, and I

thought that if this mat were offered to the khalíf it might be the means

of our release. The greediness of the Jew having become an obstacle to

his circumspection and regard of consequences, he carried the mat to the

palace of the khalíf, who highly approved of it; but after examining it

more minutely he discovered the meaning of the characters in the borders,

and demanded of the Jew whose work it was and where he had got it. He

answered: ‘I have a friend in Basra who sent it to me.’ The khalíf said:

‘Wait a little, that I may present thee with a reward worthy of it.’ Then

calling a servant to him he whispered something in his ear, upon which he

came and delivered us from the well and conducted us into the presence of

Harún. When the Jew saw us he began to tremble, and the khalíf demanded

of him: ‘Who are these men?’ The Jew struck with his hand the ring of

the door of negation, and replied: ‘I do not know.’ Then the instruments

of torture were ordered to be brought, and when the Jew heard this he

confessed everything. The khalíf commanded the Jew to be hung upon the

tree of punishment, and the poison of perdition to be poured into the

throat of his existence.

“My plan was highly approved of, and I was sent to the bath and presented

with rich clothes. The khalíf then asked me about my adventures, which I

related to him from beginning to end. As the long service of my father

had laid the khalíf under many obligations to him, and the khalíf knowing

well that I was as the apple of my father’s eye, he was the more kind

to me, and said: ‘Be of good cheer. Please God, we will help you to

return to your own country.’ After entertaining me for several days, he

presented me with ten strings of camels and all sorts of things which are

necessary or useful to grandees, and dismissed me, with a letter to my

father and a guard of fifty men. When I arrived in this city the corpse

of my father was just being carried to the cemetery. Having mourned for

the death of my father, I established myself firmly upon the throne

of dominion. Although my peace was for some time in jeopardy from the

misfortunes I had endured, yet it was by the help of a trade that I

was saved. I have perfect confidence in skilful men, and have decided

always to honour men who have a profession and despise those that have

none.”[257]

THE HIDDEN TREASURE.

There dwelt in Damascus a man of the name of Zayn al-Arab, with the honey

of whose life the poison of hardship was always mixed. Day and night he

hastened like the breeze from north to south in the world of exertion,

and he was burning brightly like straw, from his endeavours, in the oven

of acquisition, in order to gain a loaf of bread and to feed his family.

In course of time, however, he succeeded in accumulating a considerable

sum of money, but as he had tasted the bitterness and poison of

destitution, and had for a very long time borne the heavy load of poverty

upon his back, and fearing to lose his property by the chameleon-like

changes of Fortune, one night he carried his money out of the city and

buried it under a tree. After some time had passed he began to miss the

presence of his treasure and betook himself to the tree, in order that

he might refresh his eyes with the sight of it. But when he had dug the

ground at the foot of the tree he discovered that his soul-exhilarating

deposit was refreshing the palate of some one else. The morning of his

prosperity was suddenly changed into the evening of bitterness and of

disappointment. He was perplexed as to what friend to confide his secret,

and to what remedy to fly for the recovery of his treasure. The lancet of

grief had pierced the liver of his peace; and the huntsman of distress

had tied up the wings and feet of the bird of his serenity.

One day he went on some business to a learned and wise man of the city,

with whom he was on a footing of intimacy, who said to him: “I have for

some time past observed the glade of your circumstances destroyed by

the burning coals of restlessness, and a sad change in your health, the

cause of which I do not know, nor do I know what thorn of misfortune has

pierced the foot of your heart, nor what dawn of hardship has risen in

the east of your mind.” Zayn al-Arab wept tears of sadness and replied:

“O thou standard coin from the mint of love! the treachery of Fortune has

brought a strange accident upon me, and the bow of Destiny has let fly

an unpropitious arrow upon my feeble target. I have a heavy heart and a

great sorrow. Were I to reveal it to you perhaps it would be of no use,

and might also plunge you into grief.” The learned man said: “Since the

hearts of intimate friends are like looking-glasses, and are receiving

the figures of mutual secrets, it is at all times necessary that they

should communicate to each other any difficulties which they may fall

into, in order that they may be overcome by taking together steps which

prudence should dictate.” Zayn al-Arab answered: “Dear friend, I had some

gold, and fearing lest it should be stolen, I carried it to such a place

and buried it under a tree; and when I next visited the spot I found

the garment of my beloved Joseph sprinkled with the blood of the wolf of

deception.” The learned man rejoined: “This is a serious mischance, and

it will be difficult to get on the track of your gold. Perhaps you were

seen by some person when you concealed it: he who has taken it away will

surely have to account for it in the next world, for God is omniscient.

Give me ten days for consideration of this matter, and it may be that

something will occur to me when I have examined the book of expedients

and stratagems.”

That knowing man sat down for the space of ten days in the school of

meditation; but after turning over the leaves of the volume of his mind

from the preface to the epilogue he could devise no plan. On the tenth

day they met in the street, and he said to Zayn al-Arab: “Although the

diver of my mind has plunged and searched most diligently into this deep

sea, he has been unable to take hold of the precious pearl of a wise

plan of operation. May God recompense you from the stores of his hidden

treasury!” They were conversing in this way when a lunatic met them and

asked: “Well, my boys, what is all your secret-mongering about?” The

learned man said to Zayn al-Arab: “Come, let us relate our case to this

crazy fellow, and see whether some flower will bloom in his mind.” Zayn

al-Arab replied: “Dear friend, when you with all your knowledge have

failed to devise aught during ten days’ cogitation, how can we expect to

obtain any information from this unfortunate, who does not know whether

it is day or night?” Quoth the learned man: “There is no telling what

he might say to us; but you are aware that the most foolish as well as

the wisest have ideas, and a remark, uttered perhaps at random, often

furnishes a clue by which the desired end is attained.” Meanwhile a

little boy had approached, and seeing the crazy fellow stopped to observe

his antics.

The two friends explained their case to the lunatic, who, after being

apparently immersed in thought for some time, remarked: “He who took the

root of that tree for a medicine also took the gold,” and then turning

his back to them went his way. They consulted with each other as to the

meaning of the crazy man’s observation, when the little boy asked what

kind of a tree it was. Zayn al-Arab replied that it was a jujube-tree.

Then said the boy: “This is a simple affair. You ought to inquire of

all the doctors in the city for whom a medicine compounded of the roots

of that tree has been prescribed.” The learned man greatly approved

of the boy’s acuteness and also of the crazy man’s lucky thought; and

being very well acquainted with all the physicians of the city, he made

his inquiries till he was informed by one of them that about twenty

days before he had prescribed for a merchant named Khoja Samander, who

suffered from asthma, and that one of the remedies was the root of that

jujube-tree. The learned man soon discovered the merchant’s house, found

him enjoying perfect health, and thus addressed him: “Ah, Khoja, all

the goods of this world ought to be given up to purchase health. By the

blessing of God, you have recovered your health, and you ought to restore

what you found at the foot of the jujube-tree, because the owner of it

is a worthy man, and it was his only possession.” The honest merchant

replied: “It is true, I have found it, and it is with me. If you will

tell me the amount of the gold I shall deliver it into your hands;” and

when Zayn al-Arab stated the exact sum he obtained his lost money.

THE DEAF MAN AND HIS SICK FRIEND.

A deaf man had a friend, the garden of whose health became withered by

the autumnal breeze of sickness, and by it he was laid prostrate on the

bed of infirmity, and once went on a visit of condolence to him. On the

road he said to himself: “When I meet the sick man I shall ask him how he

is. And he will certainly reply: ‘I feel a little better.’ Then I will

say: ‘God be praised!’ After that I will inquire who his physician is,

and he will give me the name of the doctor. Then I will say: ‘He is very

skilful, and he will soon free you from your disease.’ After that I will

ask what food and medicine he takes. He will tell me, and then I will

say: ‘Both of them are very appropriate for your distemper;’ and having

recited the _Fátiha_,[258] I shall depart.”

He exercised himself in these questions and answers till he reached the

house of his sick friend, who happened at the time to labour under great

nausea and depression of spirits. The deaf man asked him: “How do you

feel, my friend?” Said the sick man, in peevish tones: “Do not ask me—I

am ready to give up the ghost.” The deaf man smiled and said: “God be

praised! My prayer has been heard.” After that he asked: “Who is your

physician, my friend?” Quoth the sick man: “The angel of death.” This

puzzled the deaf man a little, but he answered: “That is well. I also

had him in view, because he is so skilful, and cures every patient he

treats.” Then he asked what his food and medicine were. The sick man

replied: “Pain and distress.” Said the deaf man: “May they redound to

your welfare; both are very proper for your disease.” Then he began to

recite the _Fátiha_, and the sick man said: “May God forgive you,” and

the deaf man took his leave.

THE GARDENER AND THE LITTLE BIRD.

It is related that a rich man in the city of Balkh possessed a garden

pleasant to behold as the roses on the cheeks of fairies, adorned with

various fragrant plants, blossoming flowers, and fruit-bearing trees. In

that garden a little bird took up its abode and amused itself by casting

the fruits, whether they were ripe or not, on the ground. Whenever the

gardener entered and beheld the damage thus occasioned, the bottom of

his heart was stung with the thorn of grief, and the blooming verdure of

the spring of his joy became withered by the cold blasts of the autumn

of that event. Though he rubbed the hands of regret much on each other,

he could not remedy the evil until he had spread a net in the haunts of

the bird, which was soon made a prisoner. When the gardener discovered

his good fortune he joyfully leaped from his ambush, caught hold of the

little bird, intending to despatch it to the regions of non-existence. In

its extremity the feathered captive thus spoke to the gardener: “Ornament

of the world of intelligence! may the paradise of your good wishes always

be the recipient of various divine favours! Consider that if you destroy

me, your loss cannot be repaired, and that he who dies is saved from

all the troubles of this world. But as I am to be killed for acts which

you deem improper, the love of life impels me to make a statement, if

you will permit me, after which you may do as you choose; but remember

that patience is a virtue of the high-minded, and hastiness a failing of

foolish men.”[259] The gardener, whose wrath had somewhat abated during

the address of the little bird, replied: “Before the whirlwind of death

blows in the field of your life, you are at liberty to say what you

desire to say.”

The little bird then said: “Wise gardener, be aware that in the west

there is an oasis which my tribe inhabits, but I left my relatives and

came to this spot. The pleasantness of this garden attracted me, and

for some time I reposed myself on the branch of a tree. A nightingale

and a lapwing were sitting together on the top of a date-tree, and a

locust was flying towards them which both of them wished to catch. The

nightingale was fortunate enough to seize it, but the lapwing snatched

it from its captor’s beak. Hereon the nightingale said: ‘O lapwing, are

you not ashamed to possess yourself of my prey? If you are able, why do

you not catch your own game?’ The lapwing replied: ‘Silence! To get the

prey is no honour, but it is so to deprive the hunter of his prey.’ Said

the nightingale: ‘This may be true; so I give it up. But, lapwing, I

have heard the other birds speak a great deal about you, and now that we

have met, and as your species has in the service of the Lord Sulayman

(salutation to our Prophet and to him!) enjoyed greater proximity to him

than has been the lot of any other kind of birds, I wish to know what

gifts or rewards you have obtained from him for the account which you

furnished him of the city of Sabá and your help in other matters.’[260]

The lapwing replied: ‘King Sulayman bestowed on our species three gifts:

(1) Whenever the earth is being dug up for water, we are able to tell

at what depth it may be found; (2) our heads have been adorned with

the crest of nobility; and (3) we are acquainted with the qualities of

fruits, and know that this year the garden in which we are at present

has been subjected to a visitation of God, so that whosoever should eat

of any of its fruits must immediately die.’ Then the lapwing asked: ‘Has

your species been favoured with any other gifts?’ And the nightingale

answered: ‘We have also been granted three favours: (1) a very melodious

voice, which is pleasing to all hearers; (2) we possess the property of

being awake during the night, which we enjoy in common with ascetics and

pious men; and (3) we have been invested with the gaudy robes of love,

and roses have been assigned for our spouses, whose society we enjoy

without let or hindrance, and in the aspect of whose heart-ravishing

cheeks we perpetually delight.’

“O most intelligent gardener,” the little bird continued, “when I heard

from the lapwing that the fruits of this garden were become deleterious,

I made haste to pluck and to throw them down, lest any person should

eat of them and be injured. And now if you will promise to liberate me,

I will communicate to you three maxims, by means of which you may be

happy in this world and the next, and friends and foes will alike obey

you.” The gardener said: “Speak!” And the little bird proceeded: “First,

never trust persons of a low and uncongenial disposition; secondly,

never believe impossibilities; and thirdly, never repent of anything

that cannot be remedied.” So the gardener relaxed his hold, and the

little bird flew away, perched on a tree, and stretching out its neck,

exclaimed: “O gardener, if you knew what a treasure you have allowed to

slip from your hand, you would end your own life. Verily, I have deceived

you!” Said the gardener: “How?” “In my body is a gem as large as a duck’s

egg, the like of which has never been discovered by the diver into the

region of imagination. Had you obtained possession of this jewel you

might have lived happily during your whole earthly existence.” When the

gardener heard these words he tore his robe from top to bottom, strewed

the ashes of repentance upon his head, and the brambles of confusion and

uneasiness sprouted in the wilderness of his heart. As he looked to the

right and the left how he might again get hold of the little bird, it

flew to a high tree and said: “Having now by my cunning escaped from

your grasp, I shall take care not to fall into it again. Do not flatter

yourself that you will get hold of me a second time.” The gardener began

to weep and heaved every moment deep sighs from the bottom of his heart,

but the little bird said jeeringly: “It is a pity that the name of man

should be applied to a silly fellow like yourself. I just communicated

to you three maxims, all of which you have already forgotten. I advised

you not to be deceived by mean and uncongenial persons;—why, then,

have you believed my words and set me free? I farther told you not to

believe impossibilities;—then why do you put faith in my words, seeing

that nothing could be more absurd than the idea of a weak little bird

like myself having in its body a gem as large as a duck’s egg? Lastly, I

advised you not to repent of anything which is irreparable, nevertheless

you now moan and lament.” After uttering these words the little bird

disappeared from the sight of the gardener.

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

HATIM TAÏ AND THE BENEVOLENT LADY—p. 46.

This story seems to have been written down from recollection of some

of the incidents in the Persian Romance which purports to recount the

adventures of the renowned Hatim et-Ta’í, the generous Arab chief—a work

of uncertain authorship or date. It was probably written about the end

of the 17th or beginning of the 18th century, as the MS. copy used by

Dr. Duncan Forbes for his English translation, published in 1830, which

he procured in 1824, he considered to be at least a hundred years old.

The opening of our version—if indeed such it may be styled—is absurdly

inconsistent with all that is traditionally recorded of Hatim. This

is how the incident of Hatim and the Darvesh is related in a Persian

story-book, according to Dr. Jonathan Scott’s rendering in his _Tales,

Anecdotes, and Letters from the Arabic and Persian_, published in 1800,

p. 251:

Hatim had a large storehouse having 70 entrances, at each of which

he used to bestow alms on the poor. After his death his brother, who

succeeded him, wished to imitate his great example, but his mother

dissuaded him from such an attempt, saying: “My son, it is not in thy

nature.” He would not attend to her advice, upon which she one day,

having disguised herself as a mendicant, came to one of the doors, where

her son relieved her; she went to another door and was relieved once

more; she then went to a third door, when her son said: “I have given

thee twice already, and yet thou importunest me again.” “Did I not tell

thee, my son,” said the mother, discovering herself, “that thou couldst

not equal the liberality of thy brother? I tried him as I have tried

thee, and he relieved me at each of the 70 doors without asking me a

question; but I knew thy nature and his. When I suckled thee, and one

nipple was in thy mouth, thou didst always hold thy hand upon the other,

but thy brother the contrary.”

* * * * *

It is quite ludicrous to represent Hatim as setting out for China to see

a lady who was declared by a wandering darvesh to be far more liberal

than himself. From the following abstract of the Romance—which begins

where our story ends—it will be seen that Hatim was actuated by nobler

motives in undertaking his several adventures. The opening of the romance

is reproduced almost in full from Forbes’ translation.

ABSTRACT OF THE ROMANCE OF HATIM TAÏ.

In the kingdom of Khurasan, during the reign of Kardán Sháh, there lived

a worthy merchant, of great dignity, named Burzakh, who was on intimate

terms with the king. He died, leaving an only daughter as his heir,

twelve years of age, and the king took her under his protection, saying:

“She is my daughter.” Husn Bánú esteemed her wealth as no better than

sand, and she began to distribute it in charity. One day a darvesh,

attended by forty slaves[261] passed her house while she was seated in

her balcony. He was the king’s spiritual guide. Husn Bánú sent a servant

to invite him to an entertainment at her house, and he promised to come

the next day. She prepared for an offering to him nine suits of silken

garments, embroidered with gold, and seven trays of pure solid gold and

baskets of fruit. The pride of this darvesh was such that he would not

touch the earth when he walked, but had his path paved with bricks of

gold and silver, and on these alone he placed his feet. On entering the

house of Husn Bánú he was presented with trays full of gold and silver.

He was amazed at the display of wealth, and resolved that very night to

seize the treasure. Accordingly he and his forty slaves broke into the

house, killed such as resisted them, and carried off all the treasure.

Husn Bánú and her nurse, concealed in the lattice, saw the thieves and

knew them. Next day, she complained to the king that the darvesh had

robbed her house. This the king refused to believe, calling the darvesh

the most holy man of the age; but she declared that he was the fiend

of the age. Upon this the king in a rage ordered Husn Bánú and her

attendants to be stoned to death, as a warning to others. But the chief

minister reminded him that she was the daughter of Burzakh the merchant,

and that by putting her to death he would estrange the hearts of his

subjects. So the king spared her life, but caused her to be expelled from

the city.

In the desert, under a shady tree, Husn Bánú and her old nurse fell

asleep; and in a dream a man appeared to Husn Bánú, and told her that

beneath that tree was buried the treasure of the seven regions, hidden

there by the King of Truth, for her sake, and she was to arise and take

possession thereof. “I am a woman,” she replied, “and how can I bring

it out of the earth?” The apparition said: “Dig the earth with a little

spade: let the means be applied by thee, and God will grant success.

Moreover, no one is able forcibly to deprive thee of the treasure. Arise

and build a city on this spot.” Husn Bánú having told of her dream to her

nurse, they both set to work and dug with a piece of wood, when instantly

they saw a pit full of yellow gold, chests full of jewels, cups full of

rubies, and costly pearls the size of ducks’ eggs. Husn Bánú rendered

thanks to the Most High, then giving some gold to her nurse desired

her to return to the city and fetch food and raiment, architects and

labourers. Just then her foster-brother, in a mendicant’s garb, passed

by, and he recognised her. Telling him how God had given her wealth

again, she requested him to bring thither his relations.

The foster-brother soon returned with a builder named Mu’amír. She bids

him begin to build a city, but he explains that the king’s permission

must be first obtained. So Husn Bánú dresses herself in man’s apparel,

and takes for a present a cup full of rubies and a casket full of

brilliant jewels. She gives valuable gifts to the king’s officers,

representing herself as a merchant newly arrived from abroad and desirous

of offering presents to the king. His majesty is astonished to see the

priceless gifts and asks: “Sir, whence art thou?” She replies that her

father was a merchant of Irán, who died at sea; that she was an orphan

and without kindred; had heard of his good qualities; had pitched tents

in a tract of desert, and desired leave to build a city there. The

king presents her with a dress of honour and adopts her as his son; and

suggests that she should rather build her city near the capital and call

it Sháhábád (_i.e._ king’s city). But Husn Bánú prefers the desert, so

the king gives her the required permission.

The city was built in about two years, and Husn Bánú visited the king

once every month. One day he tells her that he is about to visit his

darvesh and prevails on her to accompany him. She invites the darvesh

to her house, and on his consenting she observes: “But my house is far

distant, and in the capital there is the unoccupied house of Burzakh the

merchant.” The king makes it over to her as a free gift. Finding her

father’s house has fallen to decay, she has it repaired and furnished

splendidly. On the day appointed the darvesh came, and he declined the

jewels offered to him by Husn Bánú, who had also displayed vast wealth

throughout the apartment; and even at the banquet he pretended that he

could not partake of dainty dishes. When the darvesh and his attendants

had taken their leave, Husn Bánú caused all the golden dishes, etc. to be

left as at the banquet, and warned the captain of the watch that she had

reason to fear being robbed. At night the darvesh and his forty slaves

entered the house, and having tied up the valuables in bundles were about

to be off with their plunder—the darvesh himself carrying a cup full of

rubies in his hand—when the night watch rushed in, seized and secured the

robbers, and laid them in prison. Next day when the king opened his court

Husn Bánú appeared,[262] and the kutwál brought the prisoners, each with

his bundle of booty hanging from his neck, and made his report. The king

thought the leader of the gang resembled a certain darvesh. Thereupon

Husn Bánú told her story, and the king ordered all the robbers to be

instantly put to death. Her father’s property, of which she had been

formerly robbed, was found in the house of the darvesh, and she presented

it all to the king. Soon after this occurrence the king visited Husn Bánú

at Sháhábád, and she gave him much gold; then pointing out the source of

her wealth desired him to cause his attendants to convey it to his own

treasury. But when they began to handle the gold, it turned into serpents

and dragons, which convinced the king that it was devoted to her sole

use. She built a house for the entertainment of travellers, each of whom

received a handsome present on leaving, and the fame of her generosity

was noised abroad.

* * * * *

Husn Bánú, being young, beautiful, and passing rich, had of course many

suitors for her hand in marriage, and she one day consulted with her

nurse as to the best means of securing herself from the importunity of

worldly men. The nurse said she had seven questions (or tasks), which

Husn Bánú should propose to every suitor, and he who complied with the

terms which they embraced should be her husband, to which she agreed.

Her fame being spread far and wide, Prince Munir, the son of the king

of Kharizm, sent a painter to draw her portrait, which he did from the

reflection of her face in a vessel full of water[263] and brought it to

the prince, who on seeing it became quite frantic from love, and that

same night he set out privily for Sháhábád. Obtaining an interview with

Husn Bánú and declaring his passion, she replied: “You must first answer

me seven questions. There is a man who constantly exclaims: ‘_What I

once saw I long to see a second time_.’ Inform me where he lives and

what he saw, and then I will put the second question.” The prince takes

his leave and wanders about all sad at heart. He is met by Hatim Taï,

who learns from him the cause of his evident sorrow, and undertakes to

perform the task for him. Having entertained the prince for three days,

Hatim takes him back to Sháhábád, and they go into the caravanserai

there; but Hatim refusing both the food and the gold always presented to

travellers, he is taken before Husn Bánú, who asks him the reason of this

strange conduct. Hatim only desires to look at her face. She tells him

that he must first bring her the solution of seven questions, to which

Hatim agrees, on the condition that she would become at his disposal in

the event of his succeeding, which condition was at once written and

signed and confirmed by witnesses. Then Hatim, leaving the love-struck

prince at the caravanserai, sets out to obtain an answer to Husn Bánú’s

_First Question_.

* * * * *

After many surprising adventures, Hatim at length reaches a desert where

an old man is crying: “_What I once saw I long to see a second time_,”

and learns from him that once he was walking on the border of a lake,

when he saw a damsel who took him by the hand and leaped with him into

the water, whereupon he found himself in a magnificent garden and beheld

a lovely female form closely veiled; and on venturing to raise the veil

he was instantly struck to the ground, and opening his eyes found himself

in that desert, where he had ever since wandered about, restless and

forlorn, wishing to see that beauteous fairy once more. Hatim—for whom

nothing was too difficult, for he had all sorts of talismans—conducts

the old man to the fairy, after which he returns with the required

information to Husn Bánú.

* * * * *

His _Second Adventure_ is to ascertain why a man has above his door these

words: “_Do good, and cast it on the water_;” who he is, and where his

house is situated. In the course of this expedition he performs three

additional tasks in order to obtain for another distracted lover the

daughter of a merchant for his wife, the second of which is: Who is the

man that cries every Friday and why does he cry: “_I have done nothing

that will benefit me this night_”? Hatim comes to a sand-hill (having

been directed to the spot by the grateful inhabitants of a town, whose

lives he had saved by slaying a man-eating monster), and hears the voice.

As he advances he discovers a number of the dead rising out of their

graves, with angelic countenances and apparelled in splendid robes—all

save one, who was covered with dust and ashes and sat on the cold ground,

while the others sat on thrones drinking nectar, and never gave him to

drink thereof. This wight sighed heavily and exclaimed: “_Alas, I have

not done that which might benefit me this night!_” He tells Hatim that

he was a merchant and those around him had been his servants. He was

a great miser, but his servants fed the hungry and clothed the naked.

On a journey a gang of robbers attacked and murdered him and all his

followers. “Here they rest as martyrs—_they_ are crowned with glory,

while I am plunged in misery. In the capital of China, my native country,

are my grandchildren living in abject poverty. In a certain chamber

of my house is buried an immense treasure, of which no living man has

knowledge.” Hatim inquires whether it was possible for him to minister to

his relief. “Proceed to the capital of China,” says the miser’s shade,

“and find out my house. My name is Yúsuf, and in my day I was well

known in all parts of the city. Seek my descendants; tell them of the

treasure; divide it into four equal portions; bestow one portion on my

grandchildren, and the other three on the poor of the city; then perhaps

my case may be ameliorated.” Hatim goes at once to the capital of China,

but before he is allowed to enter he must answer three questions put to

every stranger by the governor’s daughter. Of course Hatim gives correct

solutions of the enigmas, and then complies with the directions of the

miser’s ghost.

He now addresses himself seriously to the solution of the Second

Question of Husn Bánú, but he has many wondrous experiences before he

comes at length to the bank of a large river, on which is a lofty mansion

of stone, and over the door is written the motto: “_Do good, and cast

it on the water_.” Ushered by attendants into the house, Hatim sees a

venerable man of a hundred years seated upon a throne, who receives him

with great courtesy and causes him to be supplied with refreshments. When

Hatim asks the meaning of the motto over the door, the old man relates

his history: In his youth he was a great robber, yet every day he made

two large loaves mixed with sweet oil and sugar, which he threw into

the river, saying: “This I give away, to propitiate Heaven.” One day,

continues the old robber, “I was seized with a sickness and I thought a

man grasped me by the hand and pointing to the infernal regions said:

‘There is the place destined for thee.’ But two youths, divinely fair,

came up and laid hold of me, saying: ‘We will not permit this man to

be cast into hell, sinful though he has been. His future state is in

Paradise, and thither let us carry him.’” They conveyed him accordingly

to the regions of bliss, and an angel of exalted rank telling them that

he had a hundred years yet to live, they brought him back to his house,

and explained that they were the two loaves he was wont to cast into the

water for fishes to feed on. His health was at once restored and he made

two loaves as before. When he went to cast them into the water he found

a hundred dínars, which he took up and carried to the village, where he

caused it to be proclaimed that such a sum of money had been found, but

no one came to claim it. Next day when he went to the river with the two

loaves he found another hundred dínars, and this continued till the eve

of the eleventh day, when a man appeared to him in the visions of the

night and said: “Servant of the Almighty, thy two loaves have pleaded thy

cause in heaven: the merciful Creator has forgiven thy sins. The dínars

which thou receivest are for thy subsistence, and what is superfluous

do thou bestow in charity.” Since then the old robber had built that

mansion and written the motto over the door, and every day when he went

to throw the loaves into the river he found a hundred dínars.[264]

* * * * *

Hatim returns with this story to Husn Bánú, and she forthwith despatches

him on his _Third Adventure:_ “There is a man who constantly cries:

‘_Injure no one; if you do, evil will overtake you_.’ Find out where that

man lives, what injury he has done, and what evil has overtaken him.”

After having performed a difficult task on behalf of a despairing lover

whom he met on his way, Hatim at length, aided by a band of fairy troops,

arrives at the outskirts of Himyar, where he hears a voice crying these

words, and discovers a blind man confined in a cage, which is suspended

from a branch of a tree. Hatim having promised to mend his condition and

relieve him, the blind man related his history, as follows:

“I am by occupation a merchant, and my name is Hamír. When I became of

age, my father had finished the building of this city, and he called the

same after my name. Shortly after my father departed on a sea voyage and

left me in charge of the city. I was a free-hearted and social young man,

and so in a short time expended all the property left under my care by my

father. Thus I became surrounded with poverty and want; and as I knew

that my father had hidden treasures somewhere in his house I resolved to

discover them if possible. I searched everywhere, but found nothing; and,

to complete my woe, I received the news of my father’s death, the ship in

which he sailed being wrecked.

“One day as I was sauntering, mournful and dejected, through the bazár,

I espied a learned man who cried out: ‘If any one has lost his money

by theft or otherwise, my knowledge of the occult sciences enables me

to recover the same, but on condition that I receive one fourth of

the amount.’ When I heard this seasonable proclamation, I immediately

approached the man of science, and stated to him my sad condition and

how I had been reduced from affluence to poverty. The sage undertook to

restore my wealth, and above all to discover the treasures concealed in

my father’s house. I conducted him to the house and showed him every

apartment, which he carefully examined one after another. At length by

his art he discovered the stores we were in search of; and when I saw

the gold and silver and other valuables, which exceeded calculation,

the demon of fraud entered my heart, and I refused to fulfil my promise

of giving a fourth of the property to the man of wisdom. I offered him

only a few small pieces of silver; instead of accepting which, he stood

for a few moments in silent meditation, and with a look of scorn said:

‘Do I thus receive the fourth part of your treasure, which you agreed

to give me? Base man, of what perjury are you guilty!’ On hearing this

I became enraged, and having struck him several blows on the face I

expelled him from my house. In a few days, however, he returned, and

so far ingratiated himself into my confidence, that we became intimate

friends; and night and day he displayed before my sight the various

hidden treasures contained within the bowels of the earth. One day I

asked him to instruct me in this wonderful science, to which he answered

that no instruction was requisite. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is a composition of

surma, and whoever applies the same to his eyes, to him will all the

wealth of this world become visible.’[265] ‘Most learned sir,’ I replied,

‘if you will anoint my eyes with this substance, I promise to share with

you the half of all such treasures as I may discover.’ ‘I agree,’ said my

friend: ‘meanwhile let us retire to the desert, where we shall be free

from interruption.’

“We immediately set out, and when we arrived here I was surprised at

seeing this cage, and asked my companion whose it was. I received for

answer, that it belonged to no one. In short, we both sat down at the

foot of this tree, and the sage, having produced the surma from his

pocket, began to apply it to my eyes. But, alas! no sooner had he applied

this composition than I became totally deprived of sight. In a voice of

sorrow I asked him why he had thus treated me, and he replied: ‘Such is

the reward of treachery; and if you wish to recover your sight, you must

for some time undergo penance in this cage. You must utter no complaint

and you shall exclaim from time to time: “Do no evil to any one; if

you do, evil will befall you.”’ I entreated the sage to relieve me,

saying: ‘You are a mere mortal like myself, and dare you thus torment

a fellow-creature? How will you account for your deeds to the Supreme

Judge?’ He answered: ‘This is the reward of your treachery.’ Seeing him

inexorable, I begged of him to inform me when and how my sight was to be

restored; and he told me, that a noble youth should one day visit me,

and to him I was to make known my condition, and farther state that in

the desert of Himyar there is a certain herb called the Flower of Light,

which the youth was to procure and apply to my eyes, by means of which my

sight should be restored.

“It is now three years since he left me in this prison, which, though

quite open, I cannot quit. Were I to attempt to leave my confinement,

I should feel the most excruciating pain in my limbs, so as not to

have the power of moving, and thus I am compelled to remain. One day,

shortly after my companion left me, I reflected that I could do nothing

for myself while I continued like a bird in this cage, and accordingly

resolved to quit it at all hazards; but the moment I was outside of

it the pain that seized my whole body almost killed me. I immediately

returned to my prison, and have since that time resigned myself to my

fate, exclaiming at stated times the words which have attracted your

attention. Many people have passed by me, but on learning my condition

they left me as they found me.”

When the man in the cage had ended his story, Hatim bade him be of good

cheer, for he would at once endeavour to relieve him. By the aid of the

fairies who had conducted him thither and now carry him through the air

for the space of seven days, he arrives in the desert where the Flowers

of Light shine brilliant as lamps on a festival night, diffusing the

sweetest perfume far and wide; and, recking naught for the serpents,

scorpions, and other beasts of prey which infest the place (for he was

guarded by a powerful talisman), he advances and plucks three of the

largest and most brilliant flowers. Returning in the same manner as he

had come, he reaches the spot where the blind man Hamír is imprisoned.

Taking down the cage, he releases the wretched man, compresses the stalk

of the flower so that the juice should drop upon his sightless eyeballs,

and when this has been repeated three times Hamír opens his eyes, and,

seeing Hatim, falls prostrate at his feet with a profusion of thanks.

* * * * *

The _Fourth Adventure_ is: “Who is the man that has this motto over

his door: ‘_He who speaks the truth is always tranquil_’; wherein has

he spoken the truth, and what degree of tranquility does he enjoy in

consequence?” Passing through regions of enchantment, Hatim then comes

to a city, and discovers the motto written above the gate of a splendid

mansion. He enters and is received graciously by an old man, who

entertains him hospitably. Next day he relates his story: He is eight

hundred years old. In youth he was a great gambler, and having lost all

his substance he became a robber. One night he broke into the king’s

palace, entered one of the chambers, where the daughter of the king was

sleeping, and seizing all her jewels and a golden lamp that burned beside

her he made his escape. He fled to a desert, where he found a gang of

thieves dividing their plunder, to whom he showed his own booty, and

their avarice was aroused so that they were proceeding to take it from

him by force, when a tremendous voice was heard close by, at which they

ran off in different directions. Presently a figure appeared before him

and demanded: “Who art thou?” He told his story. “’Tis well for thee,”

said the figure, “that thou hast related the whole truth; therefore I

forgive thy crime, and leave the treasure to thy enjoyment. But swear

never to gamble again.” He took the required oath. “Well, keep thy oath,

and the years of thy life shall reach nine hundred.” Returning to the

city with his plunder, his comrades envied his prosperity, and reported

him to the chief of the police, who brought him before the king, to whom

he told the whole truth as to the source of his wealth, and the king

pardoned him and gave him more gold. Then he wrote that motto over his

door.

* * * * *

Hatim’s _Fifth Adventure_ is to bring an account of Mount Nida, whence a

voice from time to time proceeds, crying: “Come quickly!” Whereupon one

of the citizens in the neighbourhood is seized with an uncontrollable

frenzy, rushes away to the mountain and is seen no more. This strange

occurrence Hatim learns is the manner in which the inhabitants taste of

death: when the doomed person approached a rock it split asunder, and

as soon as he had entered the opening it closed behind him and his soul

quitted his body.

* * * * *

The _Sixth Adventure_ is to procure Husn Bánú a pearl similar to one

she already possesses, which is as large as a duck’s egg. Hatim learns

from the conversation of a pair of Nitka birds that their species used

to “lay” such pearls once in thirty years, but this faculty had ceased

since the days of Solomon; that only two were on the face of the earth

now (all others being at the bottom of the sea), one being in the

possession of Husn Bánú, the other in the treasury of a fairy, who has

an only daughter: he who can tell the history of that pearl (which Hatim

has heard from the well-informed birds) shall have her in marriage and

the pearl for her dowry. Needless to add that Hatim is successful in

his quest, bestows the young fairy on her lover, who had been unable to

comply with her father’s condition, and returns with the pearl to Husn

Bánú.

* * * * *

Hatim’s _Seventh Adventure_, and the last, is to bring the lady an

account of the bath of Badgird—an enchanted palace erected for the

preservation of a peerless and priceless diamond by its owner, a powerful

magician. The stone is in the body of a parrot, Hatim is told by a bird

of the same species before entering the hall, and whoever enters shall

never return unless he obtain possession of the gem. He will find a bow

and three arrows laid on a sofa in the hall, and must shoot the arrows

at the parrot, and if he hit right through its head he will break the

spell, but if not, he will, like all others before him, be turned to

marble. Nothing daunted, Hatim shoots one arrow, and, missing, he becomes

marble up to his knees; the second arrow also missing, he becomes marble

up to his middle; but (placing his reliance in God) when he shoots the

third arrow it pierces the head of the parrot and it falls lifeless to

the ground. This achievement is immediately followed by a storm of wind,

thunder, lightning—darkness. And Hatim can see no palace or parrot, but

at his feet are the bow and arrow and a diamond of dazzling brilliance.

No sooner had Hatim seized the diamond than all the marble statues

started into life, being freed from the spell of the enchanter.

Returning to Sháhábád, Hatim presented the diamond to Husn Bánú, and,

as he had now fulfilled all her conditions, she was straightway married

to Prince Munir, who thus reached the summit of happiness. Hatim then

returned to the capital of Yaman, where he was affectionately received

by his father and mother, and his arrival was hailed with universal joy,

while every house resounded with music and mirth. Shortly after this

Hatim’s father resigned the reins of government into his hand and lived

in retirement for the remainder of his life, which amounted to twelve

years, seven months, and nine days. Hatim reigned long and happily in

Yaman.[266]

* * * * *

Such is the substance of the wonderful Adventures of Hatim Taï, though I

have necessarily omitted many details and some rather curious incidents:

like a tale in the _Arabian Nights_, out of which spring several other

tales, each of Hatim’s expeditions led him on to others, which had to be

accomplished before he could attain the end for which he originally set

out. He undergoes some extraordinary experiences, too, such as being

swallowed alive and unhurt by a dragon of such monstrous dimensions that

he kept tramping to and fro in its stomach till it was at last obliged,

for its internal peace, to eject him and be off; dipping his hand into

a lake in order to drink of the waters, and finding it instantly turned

into pure silver—where, O where is _that_ lake?—and coming to another,

which had the property of restoring the _argentine_ member to flesh and

blood; not to speak of the scenes of enchantment, which indeed seem to

have been begot of hashish or a like narcotic. With all its absurdities,

however, the _morale_ of the romance is excellent: the hero goes about

constantly doing good; benevolent towards bird and beast as well as to

mankind; feeding the hungry, relieving the distressed, and binding up the

broken heart.—This work is still a first favourite among the Persians,

who continue to entertain a firm belief in dívs, parís, and many other

kinds of spirits, good and evil.

* * * * *

Of the three stories which are interwoven with our tale of Hatim and the

Benevolent Lady but one is represented in the Romance, that of the Blind

Man, namely, but the details are very different in the two versions.

_The Painter’s Story (p. 53)_

begins with an account of a fight which he witnessed in his garden

between a white snake and a black snake, and seeing the former was about

to succumb he slew the black snake. This incident also occurs in the

Romance, when Hatim is returning from his second expedition, only the

magnanimous hero does not kill—or even _scotch_—the black snake: he

simply shouts, when it lets go its hold of the other and wriggles off.

The white snake then becomes a handsome young man, and tells Hatim that

he is the son of a king of the jinn, that the black snake is his father’s

slave, and bears a most deadly enmity towards himself, and so forth—an

incident found in many Asiatic story-books. The Painter’s subsequent

experiences in the subaqueous palace of the king of the jinn do not occur

in the romance, though the story is known to several collections, and,

introduced by the incident of the two snakes, it is found, as follows, in

_Turkish Evening Entertainments_, a translation,[267] by J. P. Brown, of

a Turkish story-book entitled _’Ajá’ib el-ma’ásir wa ghara’ib en-nawádir_

(Wonders of Remarkable Incidents and Rarities of Anecdote), by Ahmed ibn

Hemden, the Ketkhoda, surnamed Suhaylí (_i.e._ Canopus), who composed it

for Murád, the fourth Ottoman sultan, who reigned between A.D. 1623 and

A.D. 1640:

In ancient times the sovereign of the country of Sabá was a man called

Yeshrah. One day, when this excellent prince was travelling, he came to

an extensive plain where were two serpents resembling frightful dragons.

One of these was white, the other black. They were entwined around each

other in desperate conflict, and the white one had received a wound in a

most tender part of its body. The black serpent being thus victorious,

the strength of the white one was exhausted; it could move no more,

and the black one wreaked its vengeance upon the helpless animal. King

Yeshrah, touched with pity, went to the assistance of the white snake,

and aided it in its conquered state. He placed a diamond-pointed arrow

in his bow, and, taking aim at the black snake, he let fly and instantly

killed it. The white snake, thus released, crawled away.

One day the king received a visit from a youth of a handsome exterior,

who informed him that he belonged to the race of the jinn, and was the

white serpent rescued by him. The youth then made proffers of service to

the king, which he declined, upon which he offered the king his sister

in marriage. The king, enchanted by her beauty, accepted her, and the

marriage took place on the king undertaking to consent to everything

which his wife did, were it good or evil. Soon after the birth of his

first son, a dog approached the queen, who suddenly cast the child into

the dog’s mouth, and the dog ran away with it, to the king’s great grief.

Their next child, a girl, the queen cast into a brazier, where the infant

was immediately consumed. The king was now exceedingly afflicted; but the

birth of a second daughter, who was so delicately beautiful on account of

her resembling the húrís of Paradise that she was called Bilkís, somewhat

reconciled him to his loss. The king implored her not to treat this child

as she had done the two others, for which she severely rebuked him.

Soon after this a powerful enemy attacked the king, and his own vazír,

secretly allying himself with the enemy, poisoned the provisions designed

for the king’s army. The queen destroyed the provisions, at which the

king in wrath demanded her reason. The queen explained the affair to her

husband, and gave the remaining bread to an animal which fell dead after

eating it. She then said that the king having broken the condition made

on his marriage with her, all intercourse must now cease between them,

and informed him that the son thrown to the dog was still alive, and

had been brought up by a nurse in that form, and that the daughter was

also in perfect health, nursed by the fire. Beseeching him to be mindful

of their daughter Bilkís, who should succeed to the throne and become

a great and illustrious queen, and promising to send to his succour an

army of jinn-soldiers, she disappeared from the king’s sight for ever.

The troops of jinn came to his assistance as promised, routed the enemy’s

forces, and restored the king to his throne. But still he was afflicted

by the loss of his wife. At length the fatal moment arrived, and he died;

and his daughter Bilkís succeeded him on the throne, and her history has

been written elsewhere in a detailed manner.

* * * * *

Thus, if we may place any credit in the foregoing story, the

thrice-renowned Queen of Sheba was jinn-born: no wonder, therefore, if

she was a miracle of beauty and wisdom! It does not appear, however,

why her fairy-mother did not dispose of her soon after she was born,

in the same extraordinary manner as she “made away” with her previous

babes.—Regarding the notion that when a human being unites with one of

a supernatural order there are certain conditions always imposed by the

latter, the breaking of which must result in their separation, generally

temporary, I take leave to refer the reader to my _Popular Tales and

Fictions_, vol. i, p. 212 ff.

In more or less different forms the same story is found in the following

works: in _Les Mille et un Jours_, which purports to have been

translated, by Petis de la Croix, from a Persian collection entitled

_Hazár ú Yek Rúz_, the Thousand and one Days, by a darvesh named Mukhlis,

of Isfahán, from whom M. Petis obtained a copy in 1675, where it is

entitled “Histoire du Roi Ruzvanschad et de la Princesse Cheheristani,”

but in this version the king’s fairy-wife leaves him only for a time;

in a Turkish story-book, entitled _Al-Faraj ba’d al-Shiddah_, Joy after

Distress, a work written not later than the 15th century;[268] and in a

collection described by Dr. Chas. Rieu in his _Catalogue of Persian MSS.

in the British Museum_, vol. ii, p. 759, Or. 237, which has no specific

title, the compiler, whose poetical name was Hubbí, merely calling his

work, _Hikáyát-i’Agíb ú Gharíb_, Wonderful and Strange Tales. In this

last work, the MS. of which is unfortunately imperfect, the final story,

No. 34, relates how a king of Yaman, while hunting, saw two snakes,

a white one and a black one, engaged in deadly combat. He sends an

attendant to kill the black snake and rescue the white one, which was

half dead; which being done, he causes the rescued snake to be laid down

beside a spring of water, under the shade of a tree. The snake rallies,

and after a while crawls away. When the king is asleep at night, the wall

of his chamber suddenly opens and a fair youth appears. “I am,” says he,

“the king of the parís (fairies). You rescued me from the black snake.

I am now come to requite your kind act. If you wish it, I will make you

rich with many treasures.” No more of the MS. remains,[269] but it is not

unlikely that the sequel was similar to that of the Turkish story cited

above.

* * * * *

The battle between the two snakes, which is found so often reproduced

in Arabian and Persian story-books—though I cannot recollect having met

with it in any Indian collection—seems reflected in two incidents in the

Voyage of Saint Brandan. One day the saint and his companions discover a

monstrous sea-serpent on the surface of the water, exhaling fire from its

nostrils, as it were the roaring flame of a furnace; and while the pious

voyagers could not measure its length they were more successful with its

breadth, which was “full fifteen feet, I trow”; presently a monster of

the same species appears, and a terrific combat takes place between the

two, until one is torn by his antagonist into _three_ pieces, when the

victor sinks down into the sea. After this they see a deadly conflict in

the air between a griffin and a dragon.—It is well known to students of

the history of popular fictions that many Eastern tales and incidents

had found their way into Western literature long before the collection

commonly but incorrectly called the _Arabian Nights_, in its existing

form, was compiled.

Among the countless absurdities abounding in the _Toldoth Jeshu_, a

scurrilous “life” of Jesus Christ of Jewish invention—the text of which,

with a Latin translation, is given at the end of the second volume of

Wagenseil’s _Tela Ignea Satanæ_, 1681—is an aërial conflict between

Jeshu and Rabbi Judas before Queen Helena: “And when Jeshu had spoken

the incommunicable Name,[270] there came a wind and raised him between

heaven and earth. Thereupon Judas spake the same Name, and the wind

raised him also between heaven and earth. And they flew, both of them,

around in the regions of the air, and all who saw it marvelled. Judas

then spake again the Name, and seized Jeshu and sought to cast him to

the earth. But Jeshu also spake the Name, and sought to cast Judas

down, and they strove one with the other.” Ultimately Judas prevails

and casts Jeshu to the ground, and the elders seize him; his power

leaves him; and he is subjected to the tauntings of his captors. Being

rescued by his disciples, he hastened to the Jordan; and when he had

washed therein his power returned, and with the Name he again wrought

his former miracles.[271] This “story”—to employ the term in its nursery

sense—strongly resembles the equally apocryphal legend of the aërial

contest at Rome between St. Peter and Simon Magus, in which the apostle

overthrew the magician.

_The Washerman’s Story (p. 58)_

calls for but slight remark. The fairies who alighted in succession

on the tree in the form of doves, and putting off their feather-dress

appeared as the most beautiful damsels, belong, of course, to the

Bird-Maiden class, and the Washerman, by his own showing, did not deserve

to possess any one of them. Could he have decided—but perhaps the trial

was too much for him—he might have secured even the last and most

bewitching of the three, by taking possession of her feather-robe, when

she would have no alternative but to follow him wheresoever he might go:

but evidently he did not know this. (See the chapter on “Bird-Maidens” in

my _Popular Tales and Fictions_, vol. i. p. 182 ff.)

_The Blind Man’s Story (p. 60)_

differs considerably from its representative in the Romance, the story

of the blind man Hamír in the cage (_ante_ p. 464ff.); and it is also

observable that in our story Hatim does nothing to mitigate the poor

man’s wretchedness. Both versions agree in treasure being found in a

dwelling house; but in our story it is the geomancer who is the blind

man, and his eyes are blinded in mistake by a vindictive neighbour of

the friend whom he thought to entrap;—while in the other story it is

the man in whose house the treasure was discovered who is blinded by

the geomancer, in revenge of the ill-treatment he had received at his

hands; and it is by the application of _surma_ to his eyes, by means of

which he expected to behold all the hidden treasure of the world, that

he is deprived of sight. The analogous tale in our common version of the

_Arabian Nights_, of the Blind Man Baba Abdullah (it has not yet been

found in any Arabic text of the collection), is wholly different in all

its details until it reaches the catastrophe, when the greedy cameleer,

after getting back from the darvesh all his share of the treasure,

returns to request the box of salve, which, after having had applied to

his left eye and thereby been enabled to see all concealed treasure, he

insists—in spite of the repeated warning of the darvesh—on being also

applied to his right eye, whereupon he instantly becomes stone-blind.

Widely as the three stories differ one from the other, in details,

however, it is very evident, I think, that they have been independently

adapted from a common source.

* * * * *

The very climax of absurdity is surely reached by the author of our

version of the story of Hatim when he represents the _benevolent_ Lady as

saying (p. 50) that she is so jealous of the wide-spread fame of Hatim

for liberality that she wishes him to be killed; and when, on his return,

she reproaches him for not having brought her Hatim’s head, he replies

that he is himself Hatim and that his head is at her disposal, whereupon

the lady, struck with such magnanimity, at once consents to marry him.

According to tradition, an enemy of Hatim despatched one of his officers

to slay him and bring his head. When he reached the encampments of the

tribe of Ta’í, he was courteously greeted by an Arab, and invited into

his tent, where he was treated most hospitably; and in the morning he

told his host that he had been sent thither by his master to slay Hatim

and bring back his head. The host smilingly replied: “I am Hatim; and

if my head will gratify your master, smite it off without delay.” The

man hastened away in confusion; and returning to his master told him of

his adventure, and the enemy of Hatim ever afterwards loved and esteemed

him.—This seems to be the tradition adapted so incongruously by our

author.

* * * * *

The idea of our tale of Hatim and the Benevolent Lady may have been

partly taken from the Story of the Third Darvesh in the Persian work,

_Kissa-i Chehár Darvesh_ (Romance of the Four Darveshes), an anonymous

book, of uncertain date,[272] where the narrator, a Persian prince, tells

how he tried to imitate the generosity of Hatim, by causing a great

palace to be erected with four gates, at each of which he distributed

gold and silver to all comers. One day a wandering darvesh receives money

at each of the gates in succession, and then begins to beg again at

the first gate, upon which the prince upbraids him for his greediness,

and the darvesh retorts, as in our story, that there is a lady to

whose liberality there is absolutely no bound. The prince learns that

this generous lady is the princess of Basra, and donning the robe of a

darvesh he sets out for that city, where he is sumptuously entertained

for several days by the servants of the princess, after which he writes

her a letter, declaring his rank and offering her marriage. He is told

that the princess has resolved to marry only him who should bring her

the explanation of the singular conduct of a youth in the city of Namrúz

who appeared once a month riding on a bull, carrying a vase of gold

and jewels in his hand, which he smashed in the market-place, and then

smote off the head of one of his slaves, immediately afterwards riding

away again, foaming at the mouth. The royal mendicant undertakes to

ascertain the cause of the youth’s madness (he proves to be in love

with a fairy, like the Painter in our tale), and before setting out

for Namrúz is admitted into the private chamber of the princess, who

is concealed behind a curtain, where a slave-girl relates the history

of her mistress: how she was one of seven daughters of a king, and was

driven out of the palace because she would not acknowledge that she

derived her good fortune from her father, but maintained that it was from

God. In the wilderness she meets a darvesh, and discovers underground

immense treasures, and so forth.—This story of the princess of Basra is

one of the numerous parallels or analogous tales cited by my friend Mr.

E. Sidney Hartland in a very able and interesting paper on the “Outcast

Child” cycle, in the _Folk-Lore Journal_, 1886, vol. iv, p. 308 ff.

STORY OF PRINCE KASHARKASHA.

The latter part of this tale—where the merchant Sadullah befriends the

imprudent prince, bestows his own wife on him, afterwards becomes ruined

in fortune, and visits the now prosperous sovereign, on whom he had

lavished such favours (pp. 89-97)—has long been current in Europe as well

as in the East, in various forms. It occurs in the collection of Persian

Tales translated into French by Petis de la Croix, under the title of

_Les Mille et un Jours_ (first published in 1710-12, 5 vols.), where it

is entitled: “Histoire de Nasiraddole, roi de Mousel; d’Abderrahmane,

marchand de Baghdad; et de la belle Zeineb,” and it is to the following

effect:

A rich young merchant named Abd er-Rahman, meets with a stranger in a

confectioner’s shop in Baghdád, and the two soon become very intimate

friends. After some time the stranger informs the merchant that he must

now return to Mosúl. The merchant says that he himself may soon have to

visit that town, and begs to know his friend’s name, so that he may be

able to inquire for him there. The stranger bids him to come and see him

at the palace. Abd er-Rahman goes to Mosúl on business and discovers

that the stranger is no less a personage than King Nasír ad-Dole, who

is delighted to see him and entertains him in the palace for a whole

year, after which he returns to Baghdád, the king parting with him very

reluctantly. Arrived in Baghdád, the merchant regales his friends and

acquaintances in the most sumptuous manner, and purchases a number of

slave-girls, with one of whom, a Circassian beauty called Zaynib, he

becomes greatly enamoured. The king of Mosúl comes again to Baghdád,

without attendants, and is the honoured and cherished guest of his friend

the merchant Abd er-Rahman. One day the king boasts of some beautiful

slave-girls in his haram in Mosúl, when the merchant, inflamed with wine,

leads the king into an inner apartment, magnificently furnished, where

are seated thirty lovely damsels, adorned profusely with the rarest

diamonds. The king is perfectly amazed on beholding the peerless beauty

of Zaynib, and on the following day, in a melancholy tone, informs his

friend that he intends returning at once to Mosúl. “Has your majesty

aught to complain of, that you have formed this sudden resolution?” the

merchant inquired anxiously. “All my complaint,” replied the king, “is

of my destiny”; but when he is about to depart his friend learns from

him that he is desperately in love with the fair Zaynib, and then the

king takes his leave and sets out for Mosúl. Abd er-Rahman then reflects

that he should not have shown Zaynib to the king, who must now lead a

sorrowful life. At length he resolves to send the damsel to his royal

friend, and, having ordered her litter to be prepared, sends for Zaynib

and tells her that she does not now belong to him, but to the king of

Mosúl, whom she saw yesterday;—“he is in love with you, and is himself

lovely.” Zaynib bursts into tears and exclaims: “Ah, you no longer love

me—some other damsel has taken your heart from me!” “Not so,” says he.

“I swear that I have never loved you so much as I do at this moment.”

“Why, then, do you part with me?” “Because I cannot bear the thought of

my friend’s sorrow.” So a number of attendants are sent with Zaynib to

Mosúl, but the king had arrived there before them. When she is ushered

into the palace, the king perceives that she is sorrowful, and that his

presence is distasteful to her—evidently she cannot forget the merchant.

Meanwhile Abd er-Rahman falls into a languishing condition, and one day

the grand vazír sends officers to apprehend him on a trumped-up charge

of having spoken disrespectfully of the Khalíf in his cups, made by

two envious courtiers, his enemies. The merchant’s house is razed, his

wealth is confiscated, and he is to be put to death the next day. But

the gaoler, whom the merchant had formerly befriended, takes pity on him

and secretly sets him at liberty. When the vazír learns of this he sends

for the gaoler and tells him that if the merchant is not re-captured in

the course of twenty-four hours he will certainly suffer in his place.

The gaoler answers that he believes the merchant to be innocent of the

crime charged against him. In the meantime Abd er-Rahman is concealed

in a friend’s house and the police are scouring the country in search

of him, and during their absence from the city he escapes and takes the

road to Mosúl. When he enters the palace there, the king simply orders

his treasurer to give him two hundred gold sequins. The poor merchant is

surprised that the king should bestow such a paltry sum on him, after

the sacrifice he had made by presenting the fair Zaynib to his majesty.

He takes the money, however, and tries all means of increasing it by

trade. At the end of six months he returns to the king and informs him

that he has lost fifty of the two hundred sequins by his unfortunate

speculations. The king bids his treasurer give him fifty more sequins,

again to the surprise of the merchant, who departs once more on a trading

expedition, but this time he gains a hundred sequins and returning to

Mosúl he acquaints the king of his success. “Misfortunes are contagious,”

said the king. “I had heard of your disgrace and dared not receive you

into my palace again, fearing that your ill luck should affect me and

put it out of my power to assist you when your star should look more

favourably on you. But now you shall live with me.” Next day the king

tells the merchant that he purposes giving him a good wife. “Alas,” says

he, “I cannot think of any woman after my beloved Zaynib.” But the king

insists, and that same night the merchant is agreeably surprised to find

that the wife given him by his royal friend is none other than Zaynib,

whom the king has all along regarded as a sister. Not long after this Abd

er-Rahman learns that one of his accusers has confessed, and he goes to

Baghdád and recovers part of his wealth, and passes the rest of his life

at the court of Mosúl.[273]

* * * * *

In another form the tale of the Two Friends is found in the _Disciplina

Clericalis_ of Peter Alphonsus, a Spanish Jew, of the twelfth century,

whence it was probably taken into the _Gesta Romanorum_, the celebrated

mediæval monkish collection of “spiritualised” stories for the use

of preachers (page 196 of Herrtage’s edition, published by the Early

English Text Society). It is also found in Boccaccio’s _Decameron_ (Day

x, novelle 8); and Lydgate, the monk of Bury, of the fifteenth century,

turned it into verse under the title of “Fabula duorum mercatorum,”

beginning:

“In Egipt whilom as I rede and fynde”

(Harleian MS. 2251, lf. 56, preserved in the British Museum); and it

forms one of the _Fabliaux_ in Le Grand’s collection, of which this is a

translation:

Two merchants had been for a long time connected in business. They had

never seen each other, one residing at Baldak [Baghdád?] and the other in

Egypt; notwithstanding which, from their long correspondence and mutual

services, they entertained a reciprocal esteem and friendship as if they

had passed their lives together. The Syrian merchant at last became

very desirous to have an interview with his correspondent, and set out

on his journey with that intention, after having apprised his friend

of it. The Egyptian rejoiced heartily at the news, and on his friend’s

approach went out several leagues to meet him. On his arrival he lodged

the Syrian in his own house, and, making a display of his riches and

all that he possessed, told him that everything was at his disposal. In

order to amuse his guest, he invited several persons successively to his

table. For a week together there was nothing but feasting and pleasure;

but in the midst of their enjoyment the traveller was so struck with the

beauty of a lady who had one day been present that he fell dangerously

ill. Immediately all the best physicians of the country were sent for. At

first, neither by his pulse nor by any other symptom could they discover

the nature of the merchant’s disorder; but at length by his profound

melancholy they conjectured that love was the cause. The Egyptian on

hearing this conjured him to disclose his secret, that the remedy might

if possible be found. His guest, thus called upon and pressed to declare

it, acknowledged that he was in love and that without possession of the

object of his affection he could not endure life. “But where to find her

I know not. I am wholly unacquainted with her name and abode. My eyes

beheld her once, to my great misfortune, but day and night her image is

present and without her I shall certainly die.” He then fainted away.

For several hours he continued in this trance, and was even thought

dead. Awaking at length, he cast his eyes about the room to discover

the object of his passion, but in vain. She was not among the persons

present. His friend at last, in order to obtain for him, if possible, a

sight of his beloved, thought of bringing successively to his bedside

all the ladies who had been invited to the feasts, or whom he could have

seen since his arrival in the country. But she was not of the number.

Ultimately the people of the house recollected that there was in an inner

chamber a young lady whom the Egyptian merchant loved to distraction,

and had brought up with the greatest care, intending her soon to be his

wife. She was by his desire introduced. Instantly on seeing her the

Syrian exclaimed: “That is she to whom I am to owe either my life or my

death!” The Egyptian merchant demurred for some time; but, with a heroic

resolution sacrificing his passion to his friendship, he presented the

lady to his guest. He not only consented to their union but even insisted

on giving her a marriage portion. He made her presents of rich stuffs and

money, and himself took charge of the nuptials, to which he did not fail

to invite minstrels, who sang pantomimic songs and enlivened the feast

with all manner of gaiety.

When all these carousals were ended the merchant proceeded to take leave

of his generous host and to return into his own country. His friends

on his arrival pressed forward to congratulate him. There was a fresh

celebration of the nuptials with rejoicings which lasted for a fortnight,

after which the merchant and his spouse lived happily together. But

in the meantime sad misfortunes occurred to the Egyptian merchant: he

met with such losses that he was entirely ruined. In this deplorable

situation he thought of having recourse to his friend at Baldak, and

determined to visit him there, reckoning on his gratitude for the eminent

services which he had rendered him. He was obliged to make this long

journey on foot and to suffer both hunger and thirst, to endure both heat

and cold, extremes of misery to which he had hitherto been unaccustomed.

At length after much fatigue he arrived about nightfall at Baldak. But at

the moment when he was about to enter the city the state of wretchedness

in which he was excited in him a feeling of shame at proceeding farther.

He thought that if he presented himself in the dark to his friend in

that miserable state he would not recollect him, and therefore he judged

it better to wait till morning. With this intention he entered a temple

which was hard by. No sooner did he find himself in this dismal, lonely

place than a multitude of melancholy ideas assailed him. “Good God!”

cried he, “to what a wretched condition has thy will reduced me! Alas, my

former affluence renders it still more miserable. I had all that I could

desire, and now I find myself an outcast, without property and without

friends! Surely in such circumstances death is preferable to existence.”

While he was speaking thus to himself he suddenly heard a great noise in

the temple. A murderer had taken flight thither and some of the citizens

were following to seize him. They asked the Egyptian whether he had seen

the assassin. He, who wished to die and thus terminate at once his shame

and his sufferings, declared himself the guilty person. He was instantly

seized, bound, and thrown into prison. The next day he was brought before

the judge and being convicted was condemned to the gallows. When the time

for the execution arrived a great number of people flocked to the place,

and amongst them the friend whose life he had saved and in quest of whom

he had left his native country. He had not forgotten the obligation, and

luckily he recognised his friend. But what could he do at this juncture

to save his life? He could think only of one method, and that was to

devote himself for his friend. Having taken this sudden resolution, he

exclaimed: “Good people, take care what you are about, and do not be

guilty of the sin of punishing an innocent man. It was I who committed

the murder.” This declaration astonished the assembly. The execution

was suspended, the merchant was arrested, and they began to unloose the

stranger. But the real assassin happened to be there, and when he saw

them binding the merchant he was seized with remorse. “What!” cried he

to himself, “shall this honest man die for my crimes whilst I escape? I

cannot escape the vengeance of God! No! I will not charge my conscience

with a second offence, but will rather expiate my crime by suffering here

than subject myself to the indignation of the Deity, who can punish for

ever.” He then made a full confession and was brought before the judges,

who, being puzzled at this extraordinary case, referred it to the king,

who, no less perplexed than they, sent for the three prisoners, and

promising them pardon if they would declare the truth, interrogated them

himself. Each then recounted with fidelity what had happened, and the

consequence was that they were all three pardoned and discharged. The

Syrian went home with his friend, whom he in his turn had had the good

fortune to save. He ordered some refreshments to be served up to him, and

said: “If you choose to reside here, my friend, I call God to witness

that you shall never be in want of anything, but shall be as much master

as myself of all I possess. If you prefer returning to your own country,

I offer you the half of my wealth, or whatever part you may please to

take of it.” The Egyptian declared his desire was rather to return home,

and he departed, charged with presents.

* * * * *

Under the title of the “Mirror of Friends,” the Spanish novelist Matias

de los Reyes (1634) relates this favourite story, varying the incidents

of the _fabliau_ version as above, and with a tragical catastrophe. This

is an abstract of Reyes’ tale, following Roscoe’s translation, in his

_Spanish Novelists_, ed. 1832, pp. 17-39:

A young man[274] is placed at the university of Bologna, under the

guardianship of a friend of his father, named Federico, whose son

Lisardo and he at once become most intimate friends. There was so close

a resemblance between the two youths in person and features that one was

often mistaken for the other. Four years after entering the university,

he falls in love with a pretty girl whom he saw seated at a balcony—it

is not said how he got introduced to her—and she returns his affection,

but insists on their engagement being kept a profound secret. Shortly

after this, the father of Laura—such was the sweet name of our youth’s

secret _fiancée_—proposes that she should marry Lisardo, to which his

father Federico most willingly consents, as the young lady’s family are

of high station and very wealthy. This comes like a thunder-clap upon our

poor love-sick youth, but he cannot get himself to confess to Lisardo his

devoted attachment to Laura. As the time draws near for the marriage he

falls dangerously ill—“sick of love”; and if his friend tried to “stay

him with flagons and comfort him with apples,” he did so in vain—albeit

we have high authority for the efficacy of such remedies. At length

Lisardo comes to him one day, and insists upon knowing the secret cause

of his illness and melancholy, otherwise their friendship must be at an

end. He then confesses his love for Laura and their private betrothal.

Lisardo reproaches him for not having told him of this before, since he

would willingly sacrifice his life for his friend; but even now he will

contrive means whereby his friend should be united to the young lady

instead of himself.

On the morning of the marriage-day Lisardo makes his friend dress himself

in his wedding-garments, and, as they were so like each other, none

present at the ceremony suspected but that it was Lisardo who led the

bride to the altar. Next day, at an early hour, the bridegroom goes into

Lisardo’s room and receives his hearty congratulations; but now comes the

question of how to disclose the affair to Lisardo’s father. After some

discussion they go to Federico and confess the deception that had been

practised. At first he is very angry but at length consents to explain

everything to Laura’s father, which he does accordingly, at the same time

stating that the match is quite as good as was intended, and this is

ere long confirmed by the receipt of documents from our youth’s father

conveying property and money to him. Soon afterwards the loving couple

set out for the husband’s home.

Two years pass away, during which Lisardo has not once communicated with

his friend, who now goes to Bologna to ascertain how he fares. He finds

that Lisardo’s father is dead and himself gone no one knows where. Then

he visits all the chief towns and ports of Italy in quest of him, but

without success. Entering Naples for the second time, he perceives a

large concourse of people in the great square, where there is a scaffold

erected, on which he sees a youth with his arms pinioned, and the

executioner, sword in hand, by his side. He recognises in the unhappy

young man his friend Lisardo, and, breaking through the crowd, rushes on

to the scaffold, exclaiming: “This man is innocent—I am the guilty one!”

When the tumult caused by this singular scene is somewhat allayed, the

chief magistrate orders both to be taken to prison in the meantime, and,

as a favour, they are both placed in the same cell. Lisardo reproaches

his friend for casting away his life, and he innocent of any crime,

but his friend replies that he is convinced that Lisardo is equally

innocent, for which Lisardo expresses his gratitude and then proceeds

to tell his story. His father died worth little money, although he had

a reputation of being very rich, and with a few jewels Lisardo departed

from Bologna. As he journeyed he was attacked by a band of robbers, who

plundered him and even stripped off his clothes. A humane cottager gave

him a ragged coat, and he wandered on, not knowing or caring whither he

went. He thought of his friend, but was ashamed to be seen by him in

such a plight. After being sick for six months in a public hospital, he

resumed his wanderings, and one night took shelter in a cavern. In the

morning he was rudely awakened by some peasants, who pointed to the dead

body of a man that lay in the cavern, and accused him of the murder.

Presently the police came and led him off to prison. At his trial he

said nothing in his own defence—for he was weary of life—and he was duly

condemned to death. Having heard this sad story, his friend is now more

than ever determined to save him by the sacrifice of his own life. But

while they are still conversing the cell door is thrown open, and the

prison officials inform them that the real murderers of the man have

just been captured in a gang of desperadoes, who were discovered to be

the same that had robbed Lisardo, his jewels having been found in their

possession. The reaction produced by this sudden intelligence proves too

much for Lisardo’s shattered frame; and, confessing to his friend that

he had from the first loved and had never ceased to love the beauteous

Laura, his devoted spirit took its flight from this earth, leaving his

friend for ever disconsolate: “I shall go to him, but he shall not return

to me!”

STORY OF THE UNLUCKY SHOAYB—p. 110ff.

Was there ever, I wonder, another Shoayb besides the hapless fellow

of this story? Not only did good fortune actually run after him and

he all the while flee from it, as if the pestilence were behind him,

but his very presence anywhere was the cause of manifold disasters! If

there be not, however, amidst the multitude of the world’s folk-tales

an exact parallel to the Story of Shoayb, there is one near akin to it,

from Western India, related by M. Putlibai D. H. Wadia, in the _Indian

Antiquary_, 1886, p. 221, as follows:

Once upon a time there lived in a certain country a merchant, who was

formerly very prosperous, but having suffered great losses in trade, he

came to be in such poor circumstances that starvation stared him in the

face. As the king of the country knew him well, his wife advised him to

go to court, feeling sure that the king would do something for him. The

merchant, however, felt reluctant to go to the king as a suitor, but

after suffering great privations for a long time, when he saw that there

was nothing left for his family but starvation, he made up his mind to

follow his wife’s advice, and one morning presented himself at the court,

which he found crowded with many persons, who had come there on the same

errand as himself. This sight rather unnerved him, and he devoutly hoped

the king would not recognise him. When his turn came, however, to be

ushered into the royal presence, the king recognised him at once, and

asked him what he could do for him. The merchant with great hesitation

related his case, and the king, being a very thoughtful man, feared that

he would hurt the dignity of one so respectable as the merchant if he

gave him pecuniary assistance before so many people. So he requested him

to wait till all had left the court, and then going into his private

apartments he ordered a water-melon to be brought to him, in which he

made a hole, and pouring out its contents, he filled it with gold coins.

Then summoning the merchant before him, he gave him the melon and said:

“Take this to your family, it is a refreshing fruit, and you will all

enjoy it this hot day.” The merchant thanked the king and returned

homeward very much grieved at receiving only a water-melon when he

expected something more substantial. As he was walking along on his way

home, he met two travellers, who were very thirsty and looked wistfully

at the melon he was carrying, and, being of a very generous disposition

and thinking that they needed the melon more than he did, he gave it to

them and walked quickly home empty-handed.

After passing many months of privation and misery, he was persuaded by

his wife to go to the king a second time, in the hope of better luck. The

king was, however, much surprised at the merchant’s paying him a second

visit so soon after the first; but when he heard that he was as poor as

before, he thought he had invested in trade the money he had given him

and lost it. He therefore filled a water-melon once more with gold coins

and presented it to him. The merchant was again disappointed at being

sent away with such a trifle, but he nevertheless made his obeisance to

the king and returned homewards. This time, however, he resolved not to

part with the fruit, knowing that it would be welcome to his starving

children. He had not gone very far, however, when he met a beggar who

asked alms of him, saying that he was very hungry. The merchant could not

resist this appeal, and, having no money, gave the melon to the beggar.

When he reached home his wife was sorely vexed at his bad luck, and

wondered very much why the king, who was reputed to be very charitable,

should treat her husband so shabbily as to send him away with a melon

every time he went into his presence. Being, however, of a persevering

nature, she once more persuaded him to go to court and ask the king for

help. He accordingly went there and stood in presence of the king as

before. But this time the king first asked him to explain what use he

had made of the two water-melons he had given him. The merchant related

how he had given the first to two travellers who were very thirsty, and

the second to a hungry beggar who asked him for alms. The king laughed

at the merchant for what he considered his folly, and told him what the

two melons contained. He then filled another water-melon with jewels in

the merchant’s presence, and gave it to him, admonishing him to be very

careful of it. The merchant went away rejoicing, full of hope that the

contents of the fruit would enable him to start in life anew. Now it

happened that as his house was situated on the other side of the river

which passed through the town he had to cross it, and in doing so his

foot slipped and the fruit fell into the water and was carried away by

the flood. The poor merchant wept over this misfortune, and returned

home, cursing his evil star.

He was now fully persuaded that it was the will of Iswara[275] that he

should remain poor; and, thinking it useless, therefore, to struggle

against Destiny, he resolved never to ask anybody for help again, but to

live as best he could till it should please Iswara that he should see

better days.

* * * * *

To the same class, also, belongs No. 104 of the selection of monkish

Latin Stories edited by Thomas Wright for the Percy Society, of which

this is a translation:

There were two blind men in the Roman state. One of them daily cried

through the town: “He is well helped whom the Lord wills to help.” The

other exclaimed: “He is well helped whom the emperor wills to help.” When

they had said this very often, daily, and the emperor had frequently

heard it, he caused a cake to be made and many talents to be put into

it, and ordered this cake filled with talents to be given to the blind

man [who said that he was well helped whom the emperor helped]. Having

received it, and feeling the cake heavy, and meeting the other blind man,

he sold him the cake for his children. He who bought the cake, coming

home and breaking it, finding it full of money, gave thanks to God, and

for the rest of his life ceased to beg. But the other continued to be as

formerly, and the emperor called him, and said to him: “Where is the cake

which I ordered to be given you yesterday?” He replied: “I sold it for

a trifle to my companion, because I thought it was raw.” “Truly,” said

the emperor, “he is well helped whom God helps!” And he turned away and

refused to aid the blind beggar.

A similar story is told by Gower in his _Confessio Amantis_, Book v, only

here the emperor causes two pasties to be made, into one of which he

puts some florins and into the other a capon, and the beggars exchange

pasties. Another analogue is found in _Past Days in India_ (London:

1874), pp. 169-171, where two _fakírs_ (Hindú religious mendicants) are

among the crowd at a grand royal festival, one of whom, to flatter the

king, bawls out: “Kings have all sublunary power, and they give to whom

they please; what, then, can the Ruler of Destiny do?” The other, an

honest fellow, rebuked him, saying: “When the Ruler of Destiny gives,

what can the greatest king do?” With limes in place of pasties, the

result is the same as in Gower’s story.[276]

HISTORY OF FARRUKHRÚZ

This most entertaining little romance, which all readers would wish

longer, may be considered as exemplifying—if we can allow ourselves to

suppose such strange occurrences to be possible—the adage that “it is

better to be born lucky than rich.” Unlike most heroes of romance, the

troubles of Farrukhrúz are comparatively few and of very brief duration;

and even while he is in tribulation we feel confident that he will

presently emerge from it, being so evidently a favourite of Fortune.

Several of the incidents in the tale are peculiarly interesting to

comparative “storiologists.”

_The Ungrateful Brothers_—pp. 149-152.

The diabolical treatment of Farrukhrúz by his two brothers was probably

adapted from the tale of “The Witch Shamsah and Táhir of Basra,” which

occurs in the Turkish story-book, _Al-Faraj ba’d al-Shiddah_, and of

which the following is the outline:

One day three jewels were brought to Harún er-Rashíd, who greatly admired

them, but his vazír, Fazl bin Rabí’, told him that a merchant of Basra,

called Táhir the dog-worshipper, possessed much finer ones. Táhir is

sent for, exhibits his thirty unequalled jewels, protests that he is

a good Mussulman, but admits that he has two dogs well cared for, and

then proceeds to relate his history: His father ’Asim had left a wealthy

estate to him and his two brothers, who soon squander their shares and

become destitute. He has pity for them and takes them with him on a

trading voyage. While he slept on deck, they threw him overboard. He

escapes on a plank and is cast ashore on the island of Gang, where he

finds his two brothers. They trump up a charge against him before the

king, to whom they had made a present of his favourite slave-girl, and he

is thrown into a dark pit, where he meets with a youth who is also the

victim of a treacherous brother, and whose sweetheart rescues them both.

Wandering forth, they fall in with a caravan, and here again Táhir meets

his brothers, who leave him wounded and almost dead on the road, where

he is found by a princess, who has his wounds dressed, and takes him to

her father’s palace. She is Kamar al-Bahr, the daughter of the king of

Gang, and falls in love with him. They are betrayed to the king, who is

about to slay them, but makes them over to his vazír, who puts them in a

boat. They fall in with pirates, who take the princess and leave Táhir in

the boat, which they send adrift. The pirates fight over their prize and

kill each other, all but one, whom the princess contrives to get rid of

by poison. Táhir, drifting in his boat is picked up by a passing ship,

where once more he finds his rascally brothers. They wish to put him to

death, but are persuaded to hand him over to the king of Iram, an island

on which they land.[277] There the two brothers find the princess of

Gang and present her to the king, who immediately becomes madly enamoured

of her, but she will not yield to his desires. Then he tries to terrify

her into submission by slaying a prisoner before her eyes, who happens

to be none other than Táhir. The king was raising his sword to cut off

his head but gave way to her entreaties and released him. By the advice

and with the help of a kind officer, Táhir crosses the sea to Jazíra-i

Firdaus,[278] the realm of the mighty sorceress Shamsah, where he finds

a paradise indeed, and enters a magnificent but untenanted palace.

Suddenly he hears an awful sound, and a dragon appears and ascends the

throne. It then changes into an old woman—Shamsah herself. She hears his

story, takes pity on him, and sends with him an innumerable host of wild

beasts to the conquest of Iram. He returns victorious to pay homage to

Shamsah, who gives him his beloved princess in marriage and along with

her a string of thirty jewels, and two magic vials of green and red oil,

one having the virtue of changing men into beasts, the other that of

restoring them to their natural shape. After a while Táhir returns with

his wife to Basra, whither he is soon followed by his two brothers, whom

he changes to dogs.—At the intercession of the Khalíf Harún er-Rashíd,

Táhir consents to forgive his brothers and restores them to their human

form.

* * * * *

If the idea of the ungrateful conduct of the two brothers towards

Farrukhrúz was derived from the foregoing tale of Táhir, the latter

in its turn, seems to have been adapted from the story of the

dog-worshipping merchant of Nishapúr, in the Persian _Kissa-i Chehár

Darvesh_, of which the _Bagh o Bahár_ is a modern Urdú version, and

in the latter we find the story told at very considerable length and

with more details and incidents than in the Turkish version, while

all that relates to the sorcerer Shamsah is peculiar to the latter.

It would occupy too much space, in view of what remains to be said

regarding other tales in our collection, to give even the outline of

the Persian original, but it may be mentioned that in place of the two

wicked brothers being changed to dogs they are confined in cages; while

the merchant’s dog, who had often saved his life when attempted by his

brothers, and continued faithful to him through all his vicissitudes,

is adorned with a collar set with priceless rubies and attended by two

slaves—the merchant thereby indicating, so to say, his approval of the

aphorism of the ancient Hindú sage, that “a grateful dog is better than

an ungrateful man.”—In our tale, it will be observed, the two wicked

brothers do not reappear after they cut Farrukhrúz adrift.

_The Three Expeditions_—p. 154 ff.

It is a very usual occurrence in folk-tales, as well as in tales of

more elaborate construction, for the hero, after becoming the king’s

chief favourite, to be the mark for the shafts of envy and malice.

Plots are laid in order to bring about his destruction, and, commonly

through the suggestions of his enviers, the king is induced to despatch

him on most perilous adventures—almost invariably three in succession,

as in our little romance. Sometimes it is the hero’s brothers who are

envious of his good fortune and thus seek to cause his death; sometimes

a courtier whom he has supplanted in the king’s favour and patronage.

We have examples of both kinds of enviers in Geldart’s _Folk-Lore of

Modern Greece_, an entertaining collection, as well as useful to such as

are interested in the study of popular fictions. Thus, in the tale of

“Constantes and the Dragon,” the hero’s elder brother is jealous of his

favour with the king, and it is at his suggestion that Constantes is sent

to procure for the king (1) the Dragon’s diamond ring; (2) the Dragon’s

horse and bell; (3) the very Dragon himself. And in the tale of “Little

John, the Widow’s Son,” the hero, thus styled, becomes the king’s

hunter, and one day kills (1) a wild beast, whose skin was all covered

with precious gems. The king shows this treasure to his courtiers,

who declare they have seen nothing like it under heaven. The vazír,

however, says the skin is all very well, but if the king had the bones of

elephants to build a church with, all the kings of the earth would come

to admire it, and the skin as well. So the young hero is despatched to

procure (2) a sufficient quantity of elephants’ bones to build a church

with, and returns successful. He is then sent, at the suggestion of the

vazír, to bring the Dragon’s daughter to the king, in which, of course,

he also succeeds, and thus the vazír’s malice comes all to naught.

We have three examples from Sweden in _Thorpe’s Yule-Tide Stories_. In

No. I of “The Boy that stole the Giant’s Treasures” a peasant dies and

leaves his small property to his three sons. The two elder (as in the

story of the merchant of Nishapúr in the _Chehár Darvesh_, referred

to, page 495) take all that was valuable, leaving the youngest an old

split kneading-trough for his share. The lads all enter the service of a

king—the youngest helps in the royal kitchen and is liked by everybody.

His two elder brothers are envious of him and induce the king to send

him (1) for the Troll’s seven silver ducks; (2) his gold and silver

bed-quilt; and (3) his golden harp.[279]—In No. II three brothers set out

in quest of their fortune, and the two elder obtain employment as helpers

in the royal stables, while the youngest is taken as page to the king’s

young son. His brothers are sorely nettled at his preferment, and consult

how they might compass his disgrace. They tell the king of a wonderful

golden lantern that shed light over both land and water, and add that

it ill beseemed a king to lack so precious a treasure. The king asks,

excitedly, where this lamp is to be found and who could procure it for

him. The brothers reply: “No one can do that, unless it be our brother

Pinkel. He knows best where the lantern is to be found.” So the king

despatches Pinkel to get him the golden lantern, promising to make him

the chief person at court should he bring it. Pinkel goes off and returns

in safety with the (1) lantern; and the king made him the chief person at

court, as he had promised. The brothers, hearing of his success, become

more envious than before, and at their suggestion the king sends him to

procure (2) the beautiful goat that had horns of the purest gold, from

which little gold bells were suspended, which gave forth a pleasing sound

whenever the animal moved; and next (3) the Troll-crone’s fur cloak,

that shone like the brightest gold, and was worked with golden threads

in every seam; after which the king gave him his daughter in marriage,

and he thus became heir to the kingdom, but his brothers continued to be

helpers in the royal stable as long as they lived.—In No. III two poor

lads roam about the country in search of a livelihood. At length the

younger is received by the king among his pages, but the elder goes about

begging as before: through the influence of his brother, however, he is

shortly taken into the king’s service as a stable-boy. The elder brother

is continually thinking of how he might get the younger disgraced. One

day when the king visits his stables he praises a favourite horse, upon

which the stable-lad tells him that he knows of a golden horse that

excels all horses in the world, but only his brother could procure it. In

brief, the hero procures for the king (1) the golden horse; (2) the moon

lantern; and (3) a princess who had been enchanted.

In No. 8 of M. Legrand’s _Contes Populaires Grecs_ (Paris, 1881) the

hero, at the suggestion of the Beardless Man, is sent by the king (1)

for the ivory chamber; (2) for the nightingale and wall swallow; and (3)

for the belle of the world.—And in M. Renè Basset’s _Contes Populaires

Berbères_ (Paris, 1887), No. 27, the hero is despatched by the king, at

the instigation of his enemies, to procure (1) the coral tree; (2) the

palm tree of the wild beasts; (3) the woman with silver attire; and, of

course, returns successful from each perilous expedition. M. Renè Basset

in his Notes, pp. 163-166, refers to several parallels or analogues from

Brittany, Lorraine, the West Highlands of Scotland, etc.

A story from Salsette, entitled “Karne da Pequeno João,” by Geo. Fr.

D’Penha, in the _Indian Antiquary_, 1888, p. 327 ff., is full of interest

to folk-lorists, apart from its connection with the “envious brothers”

cycle: Three brothers, of whom Little John, the youngest, is as usual

the only clever one, set out to seek their fortunes. They rest for the

night in the abode of an ogre, who resolves to kill them while they are

asleep and eat all three for breakfast. The ogre has three daughters,

and he puts white caps on them and red caps on the youths. The two

elder brothers are soon fast asleep, not so Little John. He suspects

mischief is brewing, and changes caps with the ogre’s daughters, who are

consequently killed by their father in mistake for the three lads. Little

John rouses his two brothers and they cross the river, which the ogre

cannot do, being unable to swim. In the morning the ogre sees them, and

cries out that he will make John pay for it yet! They take service with a

king: John is made a shepherd, the others are given places of trust. John

puts on one of the caps (he had taken all of them with him) on his head

and begins to play on his pipe, whereupon all the sheep begin to caper

and dance. The princess sees this, and gets the cap from him, and so on

till she has got the sixth, on the promise of her love. The king, at the

instigation of the princess, pays John better wages, and his brothers are

envious of his good fortune. Soon after this the king falls ill, and the

two elder brothers suggest to him that John should be sent to fetch (1)

the ogre’s parrot. John manages to carry off the bird, and the ogre cries

after him that he’ll make him pay for it yet! But John says he’ll come

again. In short, John afterwards procures (2) the ogre’s mare; (3) his

diamond ring; (4) his sword; (5) his blanket; and (6) the ogre himself.

After each expedition John is promoted to a still higher station till he

is made vazír and finally marries the princess. He does not punish his

brothers, the good young man, but raises them to high offices of state.

In many instances, as in the case of Farrukhrúz, the hero is assisted

by fairies or other superhuman beings, but with the means by which the

seemingly impossible tasks are accomplished we have no present concern

and so I have passed them over. The third and last expedition of

Farrukhrúz, suggested by the envious vazírs of the king of Yaman—who was,

like the monarchs of Eastern fictions generally, a credulous blockhead—by

which they made sure to cause the death of the favourite, but which

ended so disastrously for themselves—thus illustrating the saying that

“he who digs a pit for another,” and so forth: the proverb is somewhat

musty—namely,

_The Expedition to Paradise (p. 183 ff.)_

has its close parallel in the Kalmuk _Relations of Siddhí Kúr_,[280]

which form the first part of Miss Busk’s _Sagas from the Far East_, a

work chiefly derived from Jülg’s German translation. In Miss Busk’s

book, the story is No. VIII and entitled “How Ananda the Woodcarver and

Ananda the Painter strove together,” and, pruned of some redundancies of

language, this is how it goes:

Long ago there lived two men, a wood-carver and a painter, both named

Ananda. While they appeared to be on very friendly terms, in reality

jealousy reigned in their hearts. One day the painter presented himself

before the Khán, and told him that his father of blessed memory had

been re-born in the kingdom of the gods, in proof of which he handed

the Khán a letter, forged by himself, which stated such to be the fact,

and directed the Khán to send forthwith Ananda the Woodcarver to the

kingdom of the gods, to adorn with his cunning a temple which he was

building—“the way and means of his coming shall be explained by Ananda

the Painter.” The Khán, believing all this to be true, at once sent for

the Woodcarver, informed him of his father the late Khán’s message, and

commanded him to prepare forthwith to depart for the kingdom of the gods.

The Woodcarver knew that this was the device of the Painter, and resolved

to meet craft with craft, but, dissembling his feelings, asked by what

means he was to win thither. Hereupon the Khán sent for the Painter, and

ordered him to declare the way and manner of the journey to the kingdom

of the gods. The Painter replied, addressing the Woodcarver: “When thou

hast collected all the materials and instruments appertaining to thy

calling, and hast gathered them at thy feet, thou shalt order a pile of

beams of wood well steeped in spirit distilled from sesame grain to be

heaped around thee. Then, to the accompaniment of every solemn-sounding

instrument, kindle the pile, and rise to the gods’ kingdom, borne on the

obedient clouds of smoke as on a swift charger.”

The Woodcarver durst not refuse the Khán’s behest, but obtained an

interval of seven days in order to collect the materials and implements

of his calling, and also to devise some plan of avenging himself upon

the Painter. Returning home he consulted with his wife, who proposed a

means of evading while seeming to obey the Khán’s command. In a field

belonging to her husband, not far from the house, she caused a large flat

stone to be laid, on which the sacrifice was to be consummated, and, at

night, beneath it she had an underground passage made communicating with

the house. And when the eighth day came, the Khán and all the people

were assembled round the pile of wood steeped in spirit distilled from

sesame grain in the Woodcarver’s field, and in the midst of it stood the

Woodcarver, calm and impassable, while all kinds of musical instruments

sent forth their solemn-sounding tones. And when the smoke began to rise

in concealing density, the Woodcarver pushed aside the stone with his

feet and returned to his house by the underground passage. The Painter,

never doubting but that he must have fallen a prey to the flames, rubbed

his hands, and, pointing to the curling smoke, cried to the people:

“Behold the spirit of Ananda the Woodcarver ascending to the kingdom of

the gods!” And all the people, believing him, echoed his words.

For the space of a whole month the Woodcarver remained secluded in his

house, daily washing his face with milk and keeping out of the sunshine.

Then his wife brought him a garment of white gauze, with which he covered

himself, and, taking with him a letter which he had forged, he went into

the presence of the Khán, who when he saw him said: “Thou art returned

from the kingdom of the gods—how didst thou leave my father?” Then he

gave the forged letter to the Khán, who caused it to be read aloud to the

people. The letter stated that the Woodcarver had executed the sculptures

well, but it was necessary that they should send thither Ananda the

Painter, in order that they should be suitably decorated. When the Khán

heard this letter read he was overjoyed, and he loaded the Woodcarver

with rich presents. And then he sent for Ananda the Painter, and told

him how his father in the kingdom of the gods required his services. On

hearing this the Painter was seized with great fear, but when he looked

at the Woodcarver, all white and radiant from the milk-washing, and clad

in celestial raiment, as if the light of the gods’ kingdom yet clove to

him, and that the fire had not burnt him, neither should it burn himself;

moreover, if he refused to go, death must be his portion, while if he

went he should, like the Woodcarver, also receive great wealth on his

return. So he consented to have his gear in readiness in seven days. And

when the prescribed day arrived, the Khán, in his robes of state, and

attended by his ministers and officers, and all the people assembled in

the Painter’s field, where was a great pile of wood steeped as before in

spirit, and in the midst of it they placed the Painter; and, amidst the

sound of all sorts of musical instruments, they set fire to the pile. At

first the Painter bore the torture, expecting to rise on the clouds of

smoke, but soon the extreme pain caused him to shout to the people to

come and release him. But the sound of the music—his own device to drown

the cries of the Woodcarver—prevailed against him: no one could hear his

cries, and he perished miserably in the flames.

* * * * *

This story is doubtless of Buddhist extraction; but it is not very

probable that our author was indebted to any Mongolian version such as

the foregoing for the materials of the tale he has told so well, in which

he represents the vile complotters against the life of Farrukhrúz as

crying out for mercy when they saw the awful doom they had brought upon

themselves, and the silly King of Yaman as still firm in the belief that

they should really go to Paradise and return in safety with his beatified

ancestors’ grand presents.

* * * * *

As a pendant, I may reproduce, from Professor Basil Hall Chamberlain’s

interesting collection of _Aino Folk-Tales_, privately printed for the

Folk-Lore Society, 1888, the story of “The Wicked Wizard Punished” (No.

XXV):