As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat,
musing on the varieties of merchandize which the shops offered to his
view, and observing the different occupations which busied the multitudes
on every side, he was awakened from the tranquility of meditation by a
crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief
vizier, who having returned from the divan, was entering his palace.
Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and being supposed to have some
petition for the vizier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the
spaciousness of the apartments, admired the walks hung with golden
tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets, and despised the
simple neatness of his own little habitation.
Surely, said he to himself, this palace is that seat of happiness where
pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no
admission. Whatever nature has provided for the delight of sense, is
here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine which
the master of this palace has not obtained. The dishes of luxury cover
his table, the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes
the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the
cygnets of the Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes,
and his wish is gratified; all whom he sees obey him; and all whom he
hears flatter him. How different, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art
doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire, and who hast no
amusement in thy power that can withhold thee from thy own reflections!
They tell thee that thou art wise, but what does wisdom avail with
poverty? None will flatter the poor, and the wise have very little power
of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the
sons of wretchedness who lives with his own faults and follies always
before him, and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and
veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will
from this moment endeavour to be rich.
Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his chamber for six
months, to deliberate how he should grow rich; he sometimes proposed to
offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India, and sometimes
resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One day, after
some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly
seized him in his chair; he dreamed that he was ranging a desart country,
in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich! and as he
stood on the top of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to
direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing before him.
“Ortogrul,” said the old man, “I know thy perplexity; listen to thy
father, turn thine eye on the opposite mountain.” Ortogrul looked, and
saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder,
and scattering its foam on the impending woods. “Now,” said his father,
“behold the valley that lies between the hills.” Ortogrul looked, and
espied a little well, out of which issued a small rivulet. “Tell me now,”
said his father, “dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour
upon thee like the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual increase,
resembling the rill gliding from the well?” “Let me be quickly rich,”
said Ortogrul; “let the golden stream be quick and violent.” “Look round
thee,” said his father, “once again.” Ortogrul looked, and perceived the
channel of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the
well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant,
kept always full. He waked, and determined to grow rich by silent profit,
and persevering industry.
Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandize, and in twenty years
purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to
that of the vizier, to which he invited all the ministers of pleasure,
expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he imagined riches able to
afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to be
persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courteous and liberal; he
gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should
please him hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and
every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his
flatters without delight, because he found himself unable to believe
them. His own heart told him its frailties, his own understanding
reproached him with his faults. “How long,” said he, with a deep sigh,
“have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at last is
useless. Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise
to be flattered.”