In the reign of Jenghiz Khan, conqueror of the East, in the city of
Samarcand, lived Nouradin the merchant, renowned throughout all the
regions of India for the extent of his commerce, and the integrity of
his dealings. His warehouses were filled with all the commodities of
the remotest nations; every rarity of nature, every curiosity of art,
whatever was useful, hastened to his hand. The streets were crowded with
his carriages; the sea was covered with his ships; the streams of Oxus
were wearied with conveyance, and every breeze of the sky wafted wealth
to Nouradin.
At length Nouradin felt himself seized with a slow malady; he called to
him Almamoulin, his only son; and, dismissing his attendants, “My son,”
says he, “behold here the weakness and fragility of man; look backward
a few days, thy father was great and happy. Now, Almamoulin, look upon
me withering and prostrate; look upon me, and attend. My purpose was,
after ten months more spent in commerce, to have withdrawn my wealth to
a safer country; to have given seven years to delight and festivity, and
the remaining part of my days to solitude and repentence; but the hand of
death is upon me; I am now leaving the produce of my toil, which it must
be thy business to enjoy with wisdom.”—The thought of leaving his wealth,
filled Nouradin with such grief, that he fell into convulsions, became
delirious, and expired.
Almamoulin, who loved his father, was touched a while with honest
sorrow, and sat two hours in profound meditation, without perusing the
paper which he held in his hand. He then retired to his own chamber,
as overborn with affliction, and there read the inventory of his new
possessions, which swelled his heart with such transports, that he no
longer lamented his father’s death.
He was now sufficiently composed to order a funeral of modest
magnificence, suitable at once to the rank of Nouradin’s profession, and
the reputation of his wealth. The two next nights he spent in visiting
the tower and the caverns, and found the treasures greater to his eye
than to his imagination.
Almamoulin had been bred to the practice of exact frugality, and had
often looked with envy on the finery and expences of other young men: he
therefore believed, that happiness was now in his power, since he could
obtain all of which he had hitherto been accustomed to regret the want.
He immediately procured a splendid equipage, dressed his servants in rich
embroidery, and covered his horses with golden caparisons. He showered
down silver on the populace, and suffered their acclamations to swell him
with insolence. The nobles saw him with anger, the wise men of the state
combined against him, the leaders of armies threatened his destruction.
Almamoulin was informed of his danger: he put on the robe of mourning in
the presence of his enemies, and appeased them with gold, and gems, and
supplication.
He then sought to strengthen himself, by an alliance with the princes of
Tartary, and offered the price of kingdoms for a wife of noble birth. His
suit was generally rejected, and his presents refused; but a princess of
Astracan once condescended to admit him to her presence. She received him
sitting on a throne, attired in the robe of royalty, and shining with the
jewels of Golconda; command sparkled in her eyes, and dignity towered on
her forehead. Almamoulin approached and trembled. She saw his confusion,
and disdained him: How, says she, dares the wretch hope my obedience,
who thus shrinks at my glance? Retire, and enjoy thy riches in sordid
ostentation; thou wast born to be wealthy, but never canst be great.
He then contracted his desires to more private and domestic pleasures.
He built palaces, he laid out gardens, he changed the face of the land,
he transplanted forests, he levelled mountains, opened prospects into
distant regions, poured fountains from the tops of turrets, and rolled
rivers through new channels.
These amusements pleased him for a time; but languor and weariness soon
invaded him.
He therefore returned to Samarcand, and set open his doors to those whom
idleness sends out in search of pleasure. His tables were always covered
with delicacies; wines of every vintage sparkled in his bowels, and
his lamps scattered perfumes. The sound of the flute, and the voice of
the singer, chased away sadness; every hour was crowded with pleasure;
and the day ended and began with feasts and dances, and revelry and
merriment. Almamoulin cried out, “I have at last found the use of riches:
I am surrounded by companions, who view my greatness without envy; and I
enjoy at once the raptures of popularity, and the safety of an obscure
station.—What trouble can he feel, whom all are studious to please, that
they may be repaid with pleasure? What danger can he dread, to whom every
man is a friend?”
Such were the thoughts of Almamoulin, as he looked down from a gallery
upon the gay assembly, regaling at his expence; but in the midst of this
soliloquy, an officer of justice entered the house, and in the form of
legal citation, summoned Almamoulin to appear before the emperor. The
guests stood awhile aghast, then stole imperceptibly away, and he was
led off without a single voice to witness his integrity. He now found
one of his most frequent visitors accusing him of treason, in hopes of
sharing his confiscation; yet, unpatronized, and unsupported, he cleared
himself by the openness of innocence, and the consistence of truth; he
was dismissed with honour, and his accuser perished in prison.
Almamoulin now perceived with how little reason he had hoped for justice
or fidelity from those who live only to gratify their senses; and being
now weary with vain experiments upon life, and fruitless researches
after felicity, he had recourse to a sage, who, after spending his
youth in travel and observation, had retired from all human cares, to
a small habitation, on the banks of Oxus, where he conversed only with
such as solicited his counsel. “Brother,” said the philosopher, “thou
hast suffered thy reason to be deluded by idle hopes, and fallacious
appearances. Having long looked with desire upon riches, thou hast
taught thyself to think them more valuable than nature designed them,
and to expect from them what, as experience has now taught thee, they
cannot give. That they do not confer wisdom, thou mayest be convinced
by considering at how dear a price they tempted thee, upon thy first
entrance into the world, to purchase the empty sound of vulgar
acclamation. That they cannot bestow fortitude or magnanimity, that
man may be certain, who stood trembling at Astracan before a being not
naturally superior to himself. That they will not supply unexhausted
pleasure, the recollection of forsaken palaces, and neglected gardens,
will easily inform thee. That they rarely purchase friends, thou didst
soon discover, when thou wert left to stand thy trial uncountenanced and
alone. Yet think not riches useless; there are purposes to which a wise
man may be delighted to apply them: they may, by a rational distribution
to those who want them, ease the pains of helpless disease, still the
throbs of restless anxiety, relieve innocence from oppression, and raise
imbecility to chearfulness and vigour. This they will enable thee to
perform, and this will afford the only happiness ordained for our present
state, the confidence of divine favour, and the hope of future reward.”