The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oriental Tales, by Various.

ORIENTAL TALES,
FOR THE
ENTERTAINMENT OF YOUTH:
SELECTED FROM THE
MOST EMINENT ENGLISH WRITERS.

ORIENTAL TALES.

A certain merchant had two sons, the eldest of whom was of so bad a disposition as to behave with great hatred and ill-nature towards the younger, who was of a temper more mild and gentle. It happened that the old gentleman, after having acquired a large estate by his trade, left it by his will to his eldest son, together with all his ships and stock in merchandize, desiring him to continue in the business, and support his brother.

The father was no sooner dead than the elder[4] began to shew his ill-will to his brother. He desired him to leave his house, and, without giving him any thing for his support, turned him loose into the wide world. The young man was much dejected with this treatment; but, considering that in his father’s life-time he had acquired some knowledge of business, he applied to a neighbouring merchant, offering to serve him in the way of trade.

The merchant received him into his house, and finding from long experience that he was prudent, virtuous, and diligent in his business, gave him his daughter and only child in marriage, and, when he died, bequeathed to him his whole fortune. The young man, after the death of his father-in-law, retired with his wife into a distant part of the country, where he purchased a fine estate, with a splendid dwelling; and there he lived with great credit and reputation.

The elder brother, after the father’s death, for some time had great success in trade. At length, however, a violent storm tore to pieces many of his ships, which were coming home richly laden. About the same time some persons failing, who[5] had much of their money in his hands, he was reduced to great want. To complete his misfortunes, the little which he had left at home was consumed by a sudden fire, which burnt his house, and every thing in it; so that he was brought into a state of beggary.

In this forlorn condition, he had no other resource to keep himself from starving than to wander up and down the country, imploring the assistance of well-disposed persons. It happened one day, that having travelled many miles, and obtained but little relief, he saw a gentleman walking in the fields, not far from a fine seat. To this gentleman he addressed himself, and having laid before him his misfortunes and his present necessitous condition, he earnestly entreated him to grant him some assistance. The gentleman, who happened to be no other than his own brother, did not at first know him; but after some discourse with him, he perceived who he was. At first, however, he did not make it appear that he had any knowledge of him, but brought him home, and ordered his servants to[6] take care of him, and furnish him for that night with lodgings and victuals.

In the mean time he resolved to discover himself to his brother next morning, and offer him a constant habitation in his house, after he had got the consent of his wife to the proposal. Accordingly, next morning, he ordered the poor man to be sent for. When he was come into his presence, he asked if he knew him. The poor man answered, he did not. I am, said he, bursting into tears, your only brother! and immediately fell on his neck, and embraced him with great tenderness. The elder, quite astonished at this accident, fell to the ground, and began to make many excuses, and to beg pardon for his former cruel behaviour. To whom the other answered, “Brother, let us forget those things; I heartily forgive you all that is past; you need not range up and down the world; you shall be welcome to live with me.” He readily accepted the proposal, and they lived together with great comfort and happiness till death.

As Mencius, the philosopher, was travelling in pursuit of wisdom, night overtook him at the foot of a gloomy mountain, remote from the habitations of men. Here, as he was straying, (while rain and thunder conspired to make solitude still more hideous) he perceived a hermit’s cell, and approaching, asked for shelter. “Enter,” cries the hermit in a severe tone; “men deserve not to be obliged; but it would be imitating their ingratitude to treat them as they deserve. Come in: examples of vice may sometimes strengthen us in the ways of virtue.”

After a frugal meal, which consisted of roots and tea, Mencius could not repress his curiosity to know why the hermit had retired from mankind, whose actions taught the truest lessons of wisdom. “Mention not the name of man,” cried the hermit with indignation; “here let me live retired from a base ungrateful world; here, in the forest I shall find no flatterers. The lion is an open enemy, and the dog a faithful friend; but man, base man, can poison the bowl, and[8] smile when he presents it.” “You have then been used ill by mankind?” interrupted the philosopher drily. “Yes,” replied the hermit; “on mankind I have exhausted my whole fortune; and this staff, that cup, and those roots, are all that I have in return.”—“Did you bestow your fortune among them, or did you only lend it?” returned Mencius. “I bestowed it, undoubtedly,” replied the other; “for where were the merit of being a money lender?”—“Did they ever own that they received your benefits?” still adds the philosopher. “A thousand times,” cries the hermit; “they every day loaded me with professions of gratitude for favours received, and solicitations for future ones.”—“If, then, (says Mencius smiling) you did not lend your fortune in order to have it returned, it is injustice to accuse them of ingratitude; they owned themselves obliged; you expected no more; and they certainly earn a favour who stoop to acknowledge the obligation.”—The hermit was struck with the reply; and, surveying his guest with emotion, “I have heard of the great Mencius, and thou certainly art the man.[9] I am now fourscore years old, but still a child in wisdom; take me back to the world, and educate me as one of the most ignorant, and youngest, of thy disciples.”

Schacabac being reduced to great poverty, and having eat nothing for two days together, made a visit to a noble Barmecide, in Persia, who was very hospitable, but withal a great humourist.—The Barmecide was sitting at his table, that seemed ready covered for an entertainment. Upon hearing Schacabac’s complaint, he desired him to sit down and fall on. He then gave him an empty plate, and asked him how he liked his rice-soup. Schacabac, who was a man of wit, and resolved to comply with the Barmecide in all his humours, told him it was admirable, and at the same time, in imitation of the other, lifted up the empty spoon to his mouth with great pleasure. The Barmecide then asked him if he ever saw whiter bread? Schacabac, who saw[10] neither bread nor meat, If I did not like it, you may be sure, says he, I should not eat so heartily of it. You oblige me mightily, replied the Barmecide, pray let me help you to this leg of goose. Schacabac reached out his plate, and received nothing on it with great chearfulness. As he was eating very heartily of this imaginary goose, and crying up the sauce to the skies, the Barmecide desired him to keep a corner of his stomach for a roasted lamb, fed with pistachio-nuts, and after having called for it, as though it had really been served up, Here is a dish, says he, that you will see at nobody’s table but my own. Schacabac was wonderfully delighted with the taste of it, which is like nothing, says he, I ever eat before. Several other nice dishes were served up in idea, which both of them commended, and feasted on after the same manner. This was followed by an invisible desert, no part of which delighted Schacabac so much as a certain lozenge, which the Barmecide told him was a sweet-meat of his own invention. Schacabac at length, being courteously reproached by the Barmecide, that he had no stomach[11], and that he eat nothing, and at the same time being tired with moving his jaws up and down to no purpose, desired to be excused, for that really he was so full that he could not eat a bit more. Come, then, says the Barmecide, the cloth shall be removed, and you shall taste of my wines, which I may say, without vanity, are the best in Persia. He then filled both their glasses out of an empty decanter. Schacabac would have excused himself from drinking so much at once, because he said he was a little quarrelsome in his liquor; however, being prest to it, he pretended to take it off, having before-hand praised the colour, and afterwards the flavour. Being plied with two or three other imaginary bumpers of different wines equally delicious, and a little vexed with this fantastic treat, he pretended to grow fluttered, and gave the Barmecide a good box on the ear; but immediately recovering himself, Sir, says he, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I told you before, that it was my misfortune to be quarrelsome in my drink. The Barmecide could not but smile at the humour of his guest, and instead of being angry with him,[12] I find, says he, thou art a complaisant fellow, and deservest to be entertained in my house. Since thou canst accommodate thyself to my humour, we will now eat together in good earnest. Upon which calling for his supper, the rice-soup, the goose, the pistachio-lamb, the several other nice dishes, with the desert, the lozenges, and all the variety of Persian wines, were served up successively one after another; and Schacabac was feasted, in reality, with those very things which he had before been entertained within imagination.

When the plains of India were burnt up by a long continuance of drought, Hamet and Raschid, two neighbouring shepherds, faint with thirst, stood at the common boundary of their grounds, with their flocks and herds panting round them, and in extremity of distress prayed for water. On a sudden the air was becalmed, the birds ceased to chirp, and the flocks to bleat.[13] They turned their eyes every way, and saw a being of mighty stature advancing through the valley, whom they knew upon his nearer approach to be the Genius of Distribution. In one hand he held the sheaves of plenty, and in the other, the sabre of destruction. The shepherds stood trembling, and would have retired before him; but he called to them with a voice gentle as the breeze that plays in the evening among the spices of Sabæa: “Fly not from your benefactor, children of the dust! I am come to offer you gifts, which only your own folly can make vain. You here pray for water, and water I will bestow; let me know with how much you will be satisfied: speak not rashly; consider, that of whatever can be enjoyed by the body, excess is no less dangerous than scarcity. When you remember the pain of thirst, do not forget the danger of suffocation. Now, Hamet, tell me your request.”

“O Being, kind and beneficent,” says Hamet, “let thine eye pardon my confusion. I entreat a little brook, which in summer shall never be dry, and in winter never overflow.” “It is[14] granted,” replies the Genius; and immediately he opened the ground with his sabre, and a fountain bubbling up under their feet, scattered its rills over the meadows; the flowers renewed their fragrance, the trees spread a greener foilage, and the flocks and herds quenched their thirst.

Then turning to Raschid, the Genius invited him likewise to offer his petition. “I request,” says Raschid, “that thou wilt turn the Ganges through my grounds, with all his waters, and all their inhabitants.” Hamet was struck with the greatness of his neighbour’s sentiments, and secretly repined in his heart, that he had not made the same petition before him; when the Genius spoke, “Rash man, be not insatiable! remember, to thee that is nothing which thou canst not use; and how are thy wants greater than the wants of Hamet?” Raschid repeated his desire, and pleased himself with the mean appearance that Hamet would make in the presence of the proprietor of the Ganges. The Genius then retired towards the river, and the two shepherds stood waiting the event. As Raschid was looking[15] with contempt upon his neighbour, on a sudden was heard the roar of torrents, and they found by the mighty stream that the mounds of the Ganges were broken. The flood rolled forward into the lands of Raschid, his plantations were torn up, his flocks overwhelmed, he was swept away before it, and a crocodile devoured him.

A certain Cham of Tartary going a progress with his nobles, was met by a Dervise, who cried with a loud voice, whoever will give me a hundred pieces of gold, I will give him a piece of advice. The Cham ordered him the sum: upon which the Dervise said, begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end.

The courtiers upon hearing this plain sentence, smiled, and said with a sneer, “The dervise is well paid for his maxim.” But the king was so well satisfied with the answer, that he ordered it to be written in golden letters in several[16] places of his palace, and engraved on all his plate. Not long after, the king’s surgeon was bribed to kill him with a poisoned lancet at the time he let him blood. One day, when the king’s arm was bound, and the fatal lancet in the surgeon’s hand, he read on the bason, begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end. He immediately started, and let the lancet fall out of his hand. The king observed his confusion, and enquired the reason: the surgeon fell prostrate, confessed the whole affair, and was pardoned, and the conspirators died. The Cham, turning to his courtiers who heard the advice with contempt, told them, “that counsel could not be too much valued, which had saved a king’s life.”

Omar, the hermit of the mountain Aubukabis, which rises on the east of Mecca, and overlooks the city, found one evening a man sitting pensive and alone, within a few paces of his cell.[17] Omar regarded him with attention, and perceived that his looks were wild and haggard, and that his body was feeble and emaciated: the man also seemed to gaze stedfastly on Omar; but such was the abstraction of his mind, that his eye did not immediately take cognizance of its object. In the moment of recollection he started as from a dream, he covered his face in confusion, and bowed himself to the ground.—“Son of affliction,” said Omar, “who art thou, and what is thy distress?” “My name,” replied the stranger, “is Hassan, and I am a native of this city: the Angel of adversity has laid his hand upon me; and the wretch whom thine eye compassionates, thou canst not deliver.” “To deliver thee,” said Omar, “belongs to Him only, from whom we should receive with humility both good and evil; yet hide not thy life from me; for the burthen which I cannot remove, I may at least enable thee to sustain.” Hassan fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained some time silent; then fetching a deep sigh, he looked up at the hermit, and thus complied with his request.

It is now six years since our mighty lord the Calif Almalic, whose memory be blessed, first came privately to worship in the temple of the holy city. The blessings which he petitioned of the Prophet, as the Prophet’s vicegerent, he was diligent to dispense; in the intervals of his devotion, therefore, he went about the city, relieving distress, and restraining oppression: the widow smiled under his protection, and the weakness of age and infancy was sustained by his bounty. I, who dreaded no evil but sickness, and expected no good beyond the reward of my labour, was singing at my work, when Almalic entered my dwelling. He looked round with a smile of complacency; perceiving that though it was mean, it was neat, and that though I was poor, I appeared to be content. As his habit was that of a pilgrim, I hastened to receive him with such hospitality as was in my power; and my cheerfulness was rather increased than restrained by his presence. After he had accepted some coffee, he asked me many questions; and though by my answers I always endeavoured to excite him to mirth, yet I perceived that[19] he grew thoughtful, and eyed me with a placid but fixed attention. I suspected that he had some knowledge of me, and therefore inquired his country and his name. “Hassan,” said he, “I have raised thy curiosity, and it shall be satisfied: he who now talks with thee is Almalic, the sovereign of the faithful, whose seat is the throne of Medina, and whose commission is from above.” These words struck me dumb with astonishment, though I had some doubt of their truth: but Almalic, throwing back his garment, discovered the peculiarity of his vest, and put the royal signet upon his finger. I then started up, and was about to prostrate myself before him, but he prevented me: “Hassan,” said he, “forbear; thou art greater than I, and from thee I have at once derived humility and wisdom.” I answered, “Mock not thy servant, who is but as a worm before thee; life and death are in thy hand, and happiness and misery are the daughters of thy will.” “Hassan,” he replied, “I can no otherwise give life or happiness than by not taking them away: thou art thyself beyond the reach of my bounty, and possessed of felicity[20] which I can neither communicate nor obtain.—My influence over others fills my bosom with perpetual solicitude and anxiety; and yet my influence over others extends only to their vices, whether I would reward or punish. By the bow-string, I can repress violence and fraud; and by the delegation of my power, I can transfer the insatiable wishes of avarice and ambition from one object to another; but with respect to virtue, I am impotent: if I could reward it, I would reward it in thee. Thou art content, and hast therefore neither avarice nor ambition: to exalt thee, would destroy the simplicity of thy life, and diminish that happiness which I have no power either to increase or continue.” He then rose up, and, commanding me not to disclose his secret, departed.

As soon as I recovered from the confusion and astonishment in which the Calif left me, I began to regret that my behaviour had intercepted his bounty; and accused of folly, that cheerfulness which was the concomitant of poverty and labour. I now repined at the obscurity of my station, which my former insensibility had perpetuated:[21] I neglected my labour, because I despised the reward; I spent the day in idleness, forming romantic projects to recover the advantages which I had lost; and at night, instead of losing myself in that sweet and refreshing sleep, from which I used to rise with new health, cheerfulness, and vigour, I dreamt of splendid habits and a numerous retinue, of gardens, palaces, eunuchs, and women, and waked only to regret the illusions that had vanished. My health was at length impaired by the inquietude of my mind; I sold all my moveables for subsistence: and reserved only a mattrass, upon which I sometimes lay from one night to another.

In the first moon of the following year, the Calif came again to Mecca, with the same secrecy, and for the same purposes. He was willing[22] once more to see the man, whom he considered as deriving felicity from himself. But he found me, not singing at my work, ruddy with health, and vivid with cheerfulness; but pale and dejected, sitting on the ground, and chewing opium, which contributed to substitute the phantoms of imagination for the realities of greatness. He entered with a kind of joyful impatience in his countenance, which, the moment he beheld me, was changed to a mixture of wonder and pity. I had often wished for another opportunity to address the Calif; yet I was confounded at his presence, and throwing myself at his feet, I laid my hand upon my head, and was speechless. “Hassan,” said he, “what canst thou have lost, whose wealth was the labour of thy own hand; and what can have made thee sad, the spring of whose joy was in thy own bosom?—What evil has befallen thee? Speak, and if I can remove it, thou art happy.” I was now encouraged to look up, and I replied, “Let my Lord forgive the presumption of his servant, who rather than utter a falsehood, would be dumb for ever. I am become wretched by the loss of that[23] which I never possessed: thou hast raised wishes which indeed I am not worthy thou shouldst satisfy: but why should it be thought, that he who was happy in obscurity and indigence, would not have been rendered more happy by eminence and wealth?”

When I had finished this speech, Almalic stood some moments in suspense, and I continued prostrate before him. “Hassan,” said he, “I perceive, not with indignation but regret, that I mistook thy character; I now discover avarice and ambition in thy heart, which lay torpid only because their objects were too remote to rouse them. I cannot, therefore, invest thee with authority, because I would not subject my people to oppression; and because I would not be compelled to punish thee for crimes which I first enabled thee to commit.

“But as I have taken from thee that which I cannot restore, I will at least gratify the wishes that I excited, lest thy heart accuse me of injustice, and thou continue still a stranger to thyself. Arise, therefore, and follow me.” I sprung from the ground as it were with the wing of an eagle;[24] I kissed the hem of his garment in an extasy of gratitude and joy; and when I went from my house, my heart leaped as if it had escaped from the den of a lion. I followed Almalic to the caravansary in which he lodged; and after he had fulfilled his vows, he took me with him to Medina. He gave me an apartment in the seraglio; I was attended by his own servants; my provisions were sent from his own table; and I received every week a sum from his treasury, which exceeded the most romantic of my expectations. But I soon discovered, that no dainty was so tasteful, as the food to which labour procured an appetite; no slumbers so sweet as those which weariness invited; and no time so well enjoyed, as that in which diligence is expecting its reward. I remembered these enjoyments with regret; and while I was sighing in the midst of superfluities, which though they encumbered life, yet I could not give up, they were suddenly taken away.

Almalic, in the midst of the glory of his kingdom, and in the full vigour of his life, expired suddenly in the bath; such, thou knowest, was[25] the destiny which the Almighty had written upon his head.

His son Aububeker, who succeeded to the throne, was incensed against me, by some who regarded me at once with contempt and envy: he suddenly withdrew my pension, and commanded that I should be expelled the palace; a command which my enemies executed with so much rigour, that within twelve hours I found myself in the streets of Medina, indigent and friendless, exposed to hunger and derision, with all the habits of luxury, and all the sensibility of pride. O! let not thy heart despise me, thou whom experience hast not taught, that it is misery to lose that which it is not happiness to possess. O! that for me, this lesson had not been written on the tablets of Providence! I have travelled from Medina to Mecca: but I cannot fly from myself. How different are the states in which I have been placed! The remembrance of both is bitter; for the pleasures of neither can return. Hassan, having thus ended his story, smote his hands together, and looking upwards, burst into tears.

Omar, having waited till this agony was past, went to him, and taking him by the hand, “My son,” said he, “more is yet in thy power than Almalic could give, or Aububeker take away. The lesson of thy life the Prophet has in mercy appointed me to explain.

“Thou wast once content with poverty and labour, only because they were become habitual, and ease and affluence were placed beyond thy hope; for when ease and affluence approached thee, thou wast content with poverty and labour no more. That which then became the object, was also the bound of thy hope; and he, whose utmost hope is disappointed, must inevitably be wretched. If thy supreme desire had been the delights of Paradise, and thou hadst believed that by the tenor of thy life these delights had been secured, as more could not have been given thee, thou wouldst not have regretted that less was not offered. The content which was once enjoyed was but the lethargy of the soul; and the distress which is now suffered, will but quicken it to action. Depart, therefore, and be thankful for all things: put thy trust in Him, who alone can[27] gratify the wish of reason, and satisfy the soul with good: fix thy hope upon that portion, in comparison of which the world is as the drop of the bucket, and the dust of the balance. Return, my son, to thy labour; thy food shall be again tasteful, and thy rest shall be sweet: to thy content also will be added stability, when it depends not upon that which is possessed upon earth, but upon that which is expected in Heaven.”

Hassan, upon whose mind the Angel of instruction impressed the counsel of Omar, hastened to prostrate himself in the temple of the Prophet. Peace dawned upon his mind like the radiance of the morning: he returned to his labour with cheerfulness; his devotion became fervent and habitual: and the latter days of Hassan were happier than the first.

A Dervise, travelling through Tartary, went into the king’s palace by mistake, as thinking it[28] to be a public inn, or caravansary. Having looked about him for some time, he entered into a long gallery, where he laid down his wallet, and spread his carpet, in order to repose himself upon it, after the manner of the eastern nations.

He had not been long in this posture before he was discovered by some of the guards, who asked him what was his business in that place? The dervise told them that he intended to take up his night’s lodging in that caravansary. The guards told him, in a very angry manner, that the house he was in was not a caravansary, but the king’s palace. It happened that the king himself passed through the gallery during this debate; and, smiling at the mistake of the dervise, asked him how he could possibly be so dull as not to distinguish a palace from a caravansary.

Sir, says the dervise, give me leave to ask your majesty a question or two. Who were the persons that lodged in this house when it was first built? The king replied, his ancestors. And who, says the dervise, was the last person that lodged here? The king replied, his father. And who is it, says the dervise, that lodges here at[29] present? The king told him that it was himself. And who, says the dervise, will be here after you? The king answered, the young prince his son. “Ah, Sir,” said the dervise, “a house that changes its inhabitants so often, and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, is not a palace, but a caravansary.”

Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five years in honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had filled his house with gold and silver; and whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage.

Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, the curls of beauty fell from his head, strength departed from his hands, and agility from his feet.[30] He gave back to the calif the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life than the converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good.

The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent; Omar admired his wit and loved his docility. Tell me, said Caled, thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which you have gained power and preserved it, are to you no longer necessary or useful; impart to me the secret of your conduct, and teach me the plan upon which your wisdom has built your fortune.

Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twentieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solicitude, I said thus to myself, leaning[31] against a cedar which spread its branches over my head: Seventy years are allowed to man; I have yet fifty remaining: ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries; I shall be learned, and therefore shall be honoured; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed will store my mind with images which I shall be busy through the rest of my life in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for every moment, and shall never more be weary of myself. I will, however, not deviate too far from the beaten track of life, but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide; with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. I will then retire to a rural dwelling, pass my last days in obscurity and contemplation, and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution,[32] that I will never depend upon the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts: I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with affairs of state. Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory.

The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge; and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest honour and the most engaging pleasure; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them. I now postponed my purpose of travelling; for why should I go abroad while so much remained to be learned at home? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges; I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions, and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with attention,[33] I was consulted with confidence, and the love of praise fastened on my heart.

I still wished to see distant countries, listened with rapture to the relations of travellers, and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty; but my presence was always necessary, and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage.

In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past, and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left but retirement, and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from public employment.

Such was my scheme, and such has been its consequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge,[34] I trifled away the years of improvement; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I have always resided in the same city; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried; and with unalterable resolutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat.

In the midst of that vast ocean, commonly called the South-Sea, lie the islands of Solomon. In the centre of these lies one not only distant from the rest, which are immensely scattered round it, but also larger beyond proportion. An ancestor of the prince, who now reigns absolute in this central island, has, through a long descent of ages, entailed the name of Solomon’s Islands on the whole, by the effect of that wisdom wherewith he polished the manners of his people.

A descendant of one of the great men of this happy island, becoming a gentleman to so improved[35] a degree as to despise the good qualities which had originally ennobled his family, thought of nothing but how to support and distinguish his dignity by the pride of an ignorant mind, and a disposition abandoned to pleasure. He had a house on the sea-side, where he spent great part of his time in hunting and fishing; but found himself at a loss in pursuit of those important diversions, by means of a long slip of marsh land, overgrown with high reeds, that lay between his house and the sea. Resolving, at length, that it became not a man of his quality to submit to a restraint in his pleasures, for the ease and convenience of an obstinate mechanic; and having often endeavoured, in vain, to buy out the owner, who was an honest poor basket-maker, and whose livelihood depended on working up the flags of those reeds, in a manner peculiar to himself, the gentleman took advantage of a very high wind, and commanded his servants to burn down the barrier.

The basket-maker, who saw himself undone, complained of the oppression in terms more suited to his sense of the injury, than the respect[36] due to the rank of the offender; and the reward this imprudence procured him, was the additional injustice of blows and reproaches, and all kinds of insult and indignity.

There was but one way to a remedy, and he took it: for going to the capital, with the marks of his hard usage upon him, he threw himself at the feet of the king, and procured a citation for his oppressor’s appearance; who, confessing the charge, proceeded to justify his behaviour by the poor man’s unmindfulness of the submission due from the vulgar to gentlemen of rank and distinction.

“But pray,” replied the king, “what distinction of rank had the grand-father of your father, when, being a cleaver of wood in the palace of my ancestors, he was raised from among those vulgar you speak of with such contempt, in reward for an instance he gave of his courage and loyalty in defence of his master? Yet his distinction was nobler than yours: it was the distinction of soul, not of birth; the superiority of worth, not of fortune! I am sorry I have a gentleman in my kingdom who[37] is base enough to be ignorant that ease and distinction of fortune were bestowed on him but to this end, that, being at rest from all cares of providing for himself, he might apply his heart, head, and hand, for the public advantage of others.”

Here the king, discontinuing his speech, fixed an eye of indignation on a sullen resentment of mien which he observed in the haughty offender, who muttered out his dislike of the encouragement this way of thinking must give to the commonality, who, he said, were to be considered as persons of no consequence, in comparison of men who were born to be honoured. “Where reflection is wanting,” replied the king, with a smile of disdain, “men must find their defects in the pain of their sufferings. Yanhuma,” added he, turning to a captain of his gallies, “strip the injured and the injurer; and, conveying them to one of the most barbarous and remote of the islands, set them ashore in the night, and leave them both to their fortune.”

The place in which they were landed was a[38] marsh; under cover of those flags the gentleman was in hopes of concealing himself, and giving the slip to his companion, whom he thought it a disgrace to be found with: but the lights in the galley having giving an alarm to the savages, a considerable body of them came down, and discovered in the morning the two strangers in their hiding-place. Setting up a dismal yell, they surrounded them; and advancing nearer and nearer with a kind of clubs, seemed determined to dispatch them, without sense of hospitality or mercy.

Here the gentleman began to discover that the superiority of his blood was imaginary; for between the consciousness of shame and cold, under the nakedness he had never been used to; a fear of the event from the fierceness of the savages approach; and the want of an idea whereby to soften or divert their asperity, he fell behind the poor sharer of his calamity, and with an unsinewed, apprehensive, unmanly sneakingness of mien, gave up the post of honour, and made a leader of the very man whom he had thought it a disgrace to consider as a companion.

The basket-maker on the contrary, to whom the poverty of his condition had made nakedness habitual, to whom a life of pain and mortification represented death as not dreadful, and whose remembrance of his skill in arts, of which these savages were ignorant, gave him hopes of becoming safe, from demonstrating that he could be useful, moved with bolder and more open freedom; and having plucked a handful of the flags, sat down without emotion, and making signs that he would shew them something worthy of their attention, fell to work with smiles and noddings; while the savages drew near, and gazed with expectation of the consequence.

It was not long before he had wreathed a kind of coronet of pretty workmanship; and rising with respect and fearfulness, approached the savage who appeared the chief, and placed it gently on his head; whose figure, under this new ornament, so charmed and struck his followers, that they all threw down their clubs, and formed a dance of welcome and congratulation round the author of so prized a favour.

There was not one but shewed the marks of[40] his impatience to be as fine as the captain: so the poor basket-maker had his hands full of employment: and the savages, observing one quite idle, while the other was so busy in their service, took up arms in behalf of natural justice, and began to lay on arguments in favour of their purpose.

The basket-maker’s pity now effaced the remembrance of his sufferings; so he arose and rescued his oppressor, by making signs that he was ignorant of the art; but might, if they thought fit, be usefully employed in waiting on the work, and fetching flags to his supply, as fast as he should want them.

This proposition luckily fell in with a desire the savages expressed to keep themselves at leisure, that they might crowd round, and mark the progress of a work they took such pleasure in. They left the gentleman therefore to his duty in the basket-maker’s service; and considered him, from that time forward, as one who was, and ought to be treated as inferior to their benefactor.

Men, women, and children, from all corners[41] of the island, came in droves for coronets; and, setting the gentleman to work to gather boughs and poles, made a fine hut to lodge the basket-maker; and brought down daily from the country such provisions as they lived upon themselves, taking care to offer the imagined servant nothing till his master had done eating.

Three months reflection, in this mortified condition, gave a new and just turn to our gentleman’s improved ideas; insomuch that, lying weeping and awake one night, he thus confessed his sentiments in favour of the basket-maker. “I have been to blame, and wanted judgment to distinguish between accident and excellence. When I should have measured nature, I but looked to vanity. The preference which fortune gives, is empty and imaginary; and I perceive, too late, that only things of use are naturally honourable. I am ashamed, when I compare my malice, to remember your humanity; but if the gods should please to call me to a repossession of my rank and happiness, I would divide all with you, in atonement for my justly punished arrogance.”

He promised, and performed his promise: for the king, soon after, sent the captain who had landed them with presents to the savages, and ordered him to bring both back again. And it continues to this day a custom in that island, to degrade all gentlemen who cannot give a better reason for their pride, than they were born to do nothing: and the word for this due punishment is, send him to the basket-maker.

Almet, the dervise, who watched the sacred lamp in the sepulchre of the Prophet, as he one day rose up from the devotions of the morning, which he had performed at the gate of the temple, with his body turned towards the east, and his forehead on the earth, saw before him a man in splendid apparel, attended by a long retinue, who gazed stedfastly at him, with a look of mournful complacence, and seemed desirous to speak, but unwilling to offend.

The Dervise, after a short silence, advanced, and saluting him with the calm dignity which independence confers upon humility, requested that he would reveal his purpose.

“Almet,” said the stranger, “thou seest before thee a man whom the hand of prosperity has overwhelmed with wretchedness. Whatever I once desired as the means of happiness, I now possess; but I am not yet happy, and therefore I despair. I regret the lapse of time, because it glides away without enjoyment; and as I expect nothing in the future but the vanities of the past, I do not wish that the future should arrive. Yet I tremble lest it should be cut off; and my heart sinks when I anticipate the moment in which eternity shall close over the vacuity of my life, like the sea upon the path of a ship, and leave no traces of my existence more durable than the furrow which remains after the waves have united. If in the treasures of thy wisdom there is any precept to obtain felicity, vouchsafe it to me: for this purpose am I come; a purpose which yet I feared to reveal, lest, like all the former, it should be disappointed.”

Almet listened, with looks of astonishment and pity, to this complaint of a being, in whom reason was known to be a pledge of immortality; but the serenity of his countenance soon returned; and stretching out his hand towards heaven, “Stranger,” said he, “the knowledge which I have received from the Prophet, I will communicate to thee.

“As I was sitting one evening at the porch of the temple, pensive and alone, mine eye wandered among the multitude that was scattered before me; and while I remarked the weariness and solicitude which was visible in every countenance, I was suddenly struck with a sense of their condition. ‘Wretched mortals,’ said I, ‘to what purpose are you busy? Do the linens of Egypt, and the silks of Persia, bestow felicity on those who wear them, equal to the wretchedness of yonder slaves, whom I see leading the camels that bring them? Is the fineness of the texture, or the splendour of the tints, regarded with delight by those to whom custom has rendered them familiar? or can the power of habit render others insensible of pain, who live only[45] to traverse the desart; a scene of dreadful uniformity, where a barren level is bounded only by the horizon; where no change of prospect, or variety of images, relieves the traveller from a sense of toil and danger, of whirlwinds which in a moment may bury him in the sand, and of thirst, which the wealthy have given half their possessions to allay? Do those on whom hereditary diamonds sparkle with unregarded lustre, gain from the possession what is lost by the wretch who seeks them in the mine; who lives excluded from the common bounties of nature; to whom even the vicissitude of day and night is not known; who sighs in perpetual darkness, and whose life is one alternative of insensibility and labour? If those are not happy who possess, in proportion as those are wretched who bestow, how vain a dream is the life of man! and if there is, indeed, such difference in the value of existence, how shall we acquit of partiality the hand by which this difference has been made?”

While my thoughts thus multiplied, and my heart burned within me, I became sensible of a[46] sudden influence from above. The streets and the crowds of Mecca disappeared; I found myself sitting on the declivity of a mountain, and perceived at my right hand an angel, whom I knew to be Azoran, the minister of reproof. When I saw him I was afraid. I cast mine eye upon the ground, and was about to deprecate his anger, when he commanded me to be silent. “Almet,” said he, “thou has devoted thy life to meditation, that thy counsel might deliver ignorance from the mazes of error, and deter presumption from the precipice of guilt; but the book of nature thou hast read without understanding: it is again open before thee: look up, consider it, and be wise.”

I looked up, and beheld an inclosure, beautiful as the gardens of Paradise, but of a small extent. Through the middle there was a green walk; at the end a wild desart; and beyond, impenetrable darkness. The walk was shaded with trees of every kind, that were covered at once with blossoms and fruit; innumerable birds were singing in the branches; the grass was intermingled with flowers, which impregnated[47] the breeze with fragrance, and painted the path with beauty; on one side flowed a gentle, transparent stream, which was just heard to murmur over the golden sands that sparkled at the bottom; and on the other were walks and bowers, fountains, grottoes, and cascades, which diversified the scene with endless variety, but did not conceal the bounds.

While I was gazing in a transport of delight and wonder on this enchanting spot, I perceived a man stealing along the walk with a thoughtful and deliberate pace; his eyes were fixed upon the earth, and his arms crossed on his bosom; he sometimes started, as if a sudden pang had seized him; his countenance expressed solicitude and terror; he looked round with a sigh, and having gazed a moment on the desart that lay before him, he seemed as if he wished to stop,[48] but was impelled forwards by some invisible power; his features however soon settled again in a calm melancholy; his eye was again fixed on the ground; and he went on as before, with apparent reluctance, but without emotion. I was struck with his appearance; and turning hastily to the angel, was about to enquire what could produce such infelicity in a being surrounded with every object that could gratify every sense; but he prevented my request: “The book of nature,” said he, “is before thee; look up, consider it, and be wise.” I looked, and beheld a valley between two mountains that were craggy and barren; on the path there was no verdure, and the mountains afforded no shade; the sun burned in the zenith, and every spring was dried up; but the valley terminated in a country that was pleasant and fertile, shaded with woods, and adorned with buildings. At a second view, I discovered a man in this valley, meagre indeed and naked, but his countenance was cheerful, and his deportment active; he kept his eye fixed upon the country before him, and looked as if he would have run, but that he[49] was restrained, as the other had been impelled, by some secret influence: sometimes, indeed, I perceived a sudden impression of pain, and sometimes he stepped short, as if his foot was pierced by the asperities of the way; but the sprightliness of his countenance instantly returned, and he pressed forward without appearance of repining or complaint.

I turned again towards the angel, impatient to enquire from what secret source happiness was derived, in a situation so different from that in which it might have been expected: but he again prevented my requested: “Almet,” said he, “remember what thou hast seen, and let this memorial be written upon the tablets of thy heart. Remember, Almet, that the world in which thou art placed, is but the road to another; and that happiness depends not upon the path, but the end; the value of this period of thy existence is fixed by hope and fear. The wretch who wished to linger in the garden, who looked round upon its limits with terror, was destitute of hope, and was perpetually tormented by the dread of losing that which yet[50] he did not enjoy; the song of the birds had been repeated till it was not heard, and the flowers had so often recurred, that their beauty was not seen; the river glided by unnoticed; and he feared to lift his eye to the prospect, lest he should behold the waste that circumscribed it. But he that toiled through the valley was happy, because he looked forward with hope. Thus to the sojourner upon earth it is of little moment whether the path he treads be strewed with flowers or with thorns, if he perceives himself to approach these regions, in comparison of which the thorns and the flowers of this wilderness lose their distinction, and are both alike impotent to give pleasure or pain.

“What then has Eternal Wisdom unequally distributed? That which can make every station happy, and without which every station must be wretched, is acquired by virtue, and virtue is possible to all. Remember, Almet, the vision which thou hast seen; and let my words be written on the tablet of thy heart, that thou mayest direct the wanderer to happiness, and justify God to men.”

While the voice of Azoran was yet sounding in my ear, the prospect vanished from before me, and I found myself again sitting at the porch of the temple. The sun was gone down, the multitude was retired to rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight concurred with the resolution of my doubts to complete the tranquillity of my mind.

Such, my son, was the vision which the Prophet vouchsafed me, not for my sake only, but for thine. Thou hast sought felicity in temporal things; and, therefore, thou art disappointed. Let not instruction be lost upon thee, as the seal of Mahomet in the well of Aris: but go thy way, let thy flock clothe the naked, and thy table feed the hungry; deliver the poor from oppression, and let thy conversation be Above. Thus shalt thou “rejoice in Hope,” and look forward to the end of life as the consummation of thy felicity.

Almet, in whose breast devotion kindled as he spake, returned into the temple, and the stranger departed in peace.

In the time when Bassora was considered as the school of Asia, and flourished by the reputation of its professors, and the confluence of its students, among the students that listened round the chair of Albumazar was Gelaleddin, a native of Taurus, in Persia, a young man, amiable in his manners, and beautiful in his form, of boundless curiosity, incessant diligence, and irresistible genius, of quick apprehension and tenacious memory, accurate without narrowness, and eager for novelty without inconstancy.

No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, than his virtues and abilities raised him to distinction. He passed from class to class rather admired than envied by those whom the rapidity of his progress left behind; he was consulted by his fellow-students as an oraculous guide, and admitted as a competent auditor to the conference of the sages.

After a few years, having passed through all the exercises of probation, Gelaleddin was invited to a professor’s seat, and intreated to increase the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin affected to deliberate on the proposal, with which, before he considered it, he resolved to comply; and next morning retired to a garden planted for the recreation of the students, and entering a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his future life.

“If I am thus eminent,” said he, “in the regions of literature, I shall be yet more conspicuous in any other place: If I should now devote myself to study and retirement, I must pass my life in silence, unacquainted with the delights of wealth, the influence of power, the pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, with all that man envies and desires, with all that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, therefore, depart to Tauris, where the Persian monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute dominion: my reputation will fly before me, my arrival will be congratulated by my kinsmen and[54] friends; I shall see the eyes of those who predicted my greatness sparkling with exultation, and the faces of those that once despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeiting kindness by artificial smiles. I will show my wisdom by my discourse, and my moderation by my silence; I will instruct the modest with easy gentleness, and repress the ostentatious by seasonable superciliousness. My apartments will be crowded by the inquisite and the vain, by those that honour and those that rival me; my name will soon reach the court; I shall stand before the throne of the emperor; the judges of the law will confess my wisdom, and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon me. If I shall find that my merit, like that of others, excites malignity, or feel myself tottering on the seat of elevation, I may at last retire to academical obscurity, and become, in my lowest state, a professor of Bassora.”

Having thus settled his determination, he declared to his friends his design of visiting Tauris, and saw with more pleasure than he ventured to express, the regret with which he[55] was dismissed. He could not bear to delay the honours to which he was destined, and therefore hastened away, and in a short time entered the capital of Persia. He was immediately immersed in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his father’s house. He entered, and was received, though not unkindly, yet without any excess of fondness, or exclamations of rapture. His father had, in his absence, suffered many losses, and Gelaleddin was considered as an additional burthen to a fallen family.

When he recovered from his surprise, he began to display his acquisitions, and practised all the arts of narration and disquisition; but the poor have no leisure to be pleased with eloquence; they heard his arguments without reflection, and his pleasantries without a smile. He then applied himself singly to his brothers and sisters, but found them all chained down by invariable attention to their own fortunes, and insensible of any other excellence than that which could bring some remedy for indigence.

It was now known in the neighbourhood that Gelaleddin was returned, and he sat for some[56] days in expectation that the learned would visit him for consultation, or the great for entertainment. But who would be pleased or instructed in the mansions of poverty? He then frequented places of public resort, and endeavoured to attract notice by the copiousness of his talk. The sprightly were silenced, and went away to censure in some other place his arrogance and his pedantry; and the dull listened quietly for a while, and then wondered why any man should take pains to obtain so much knowledge which would never do him good.

He next solicited the viziers for employment, not doubting but his service would be eagerly accepted. He was told by one, that there was no vacancy in his office; by another, that his merit was above any patronage but that of the emperor; by a third, that he would not forget him; and by the chief vizier, that he did not think, literature of any great use in public business. He was sometimes admitted to their tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his knowledge; but he observed, that where, by[57] endeavour or accident, he had remarkably excelled, he was seldom invited a second time.

He now returned to Bassora, wearied and disgusted, but confident of resuming his former rank, and revelling again in satiety of praise. But he who had been neglected at Tauris, was not much regarded at Bassora; he was considered as a fugitive, who returned only because he could live in no other place; his companions found that they had formerly over-rated his abilities, and he lived long without notice or esteem.

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[58] 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[59] 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[60] 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,[61] 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.[62] Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered.”

It is a precept oftentimes inculcated, that we should not entertain an hope of any thing in life which lies at a great distance from us. The shortness and uncertainty of our time here, makes such a kind of hope unreasonable and absurd. The grave lies unseen between us and the object which we reach after: where one man lives to enjoy the good he has in view, ten thousand are cut off in the pursuit of it.

Men of warm imaginations and towering thoughts are apt to overlook the goods of fortune which are near them, for something that glitters in the sight at a distance; to neglect solid and substantial happiness, for what is showy and superficial; and to contemn that good that lies within their reach, for that which they are not capable of attaining. Hope[63] calculates its schemes for a long and durable life; presses forward to imaginary points of bliss; and grasps at impossibilities; and consequently very often insnares men into beggary, ruin, and dishonour.

What I have here said, may serve as a moral to an Arabian fable, which I find translated into French by Monsieur Galland. The fable has in it such a wild, but natural symplicity, that I question not but my reader will be as much pleased with it as I have been, and that he will consider himself, if he reflects on the several amusements of hope which have sometimes passed in his mind, as a near relation to the Persian Glass-man.

Alnaschar, says the fable, was a very idle fellow, that never would set his hand to any business during his father’s life. When his father died, he left him to the value of an hundred drachmas in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out in glasses, bottles, and the finest earthenware. These he piled up in a large open basket, and having made choice of a very little[64] shop, placed the basket at his feet, and leaned his back upon the wall, in expectation of customers. As he sat in this posture, with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing train of thought, and was overheard by one of his neighbours, as he talked to himself in the following manner:

“This basket,” says he, “cost me, at the wholesale merchant’s, an hundred drachmas, which is all I have in the world. I shall quickly make two hundred of it, by selling it in retail. These two hundred drachmas will in a very little while rise to four hundred, which of course will amount in time to four thousand. Four thousand drachmas cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon as by this means I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside my trade of a glass-man, and turn jeweller. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts of rich stones. When I have got together as much wealth as I can well desire, I will make a purchase of the finest house I can find, with lands, slaves, eunuchs, and horses. I shall then begin to[65] enjoy myself, and make a noise in the world. I will not, however, stop there, but still continue my traffic, until I have got together an hundred thousand drachmas. When I have thus made myself master of an hundred thousand drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the footing of a prince, and will demand the grand vizier’s daughter in marriage, after having represented to that minister the information which I have received of the beauty, wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his daughter possesses. I will let him know at the same time, that it is my intention to make him a present of a thousand pieces of gold, on our marriage night. As soon as I have married the grand vizier’s daughter, I will buy her twelve black eunuchs, the youngest and best that can be bought for money. I must afterwards make my father-in-law a visit, with a great train of equipage. And when I am placed at his right hand, which he will do of course, if it be only to honour his daughter, I will give him the thousand pieces of gold which I promised him, and afterwards, to his[66] great surprise, will present him with another purse of the same value, with some short speech, as, ‘Sir, you see I am a man of my word; I always give more than I promise.’

“When I have brought the princess to my house, I shall take a particular care to breed her in a due respect to me, before I give the reins to love and dalliance. To this end I shall confine her to her own apartment, make her a short visit, and talk but little to her. Her women will represent to me that she is inconsolable by reason of my unkindness, and beg me, with tears, to caress her, and let her sit down by me; but I shall still remain inexorable, and will turn my back upon her all the first night. Her mother will then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated upon my sofa. The daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg of me to receive her into my favour. Then will I, to imprint in her a thorough veneration for my person, draw up my legs and spurn her from me with my foot, in such a manner that[67] she shall fall down several paces from the sofa.”

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chimerical vision, and could not forbear acting with his foot what he had in his thoughts; so that unluckily striking his basket of brittle ware, which was the foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked his glasses to a great distance from him into the street, and broke them into ten thousand pieces.

Carazan, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent throughout all the East for his avarice and his wealth: his origin was obscure, as that of the spark, which by the collision of steel and adamant, is struck out of darkness; and the patient labour of persevering diligence alone had made him rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent, he was thought to be generous; and he was still acknowledged to be inexorably[68] just. But whether in his dealings with men he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or whether in proportion as he accumulated wealth he discovered his own importance to increase, Carazan prized it more as he used it less; he gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power; and as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freezing influence extended to his bosom.

But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer; he performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid his vows at the temple of the Prophet. That devotion which arises from the love of God, and necessarily includes the love of man, as it connects gratitude with beneficence, and exalts that which was moral to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the object not only of affection but of reverence. On the contrary, the devotion of the selfish, whether it be thought to avert the punishment which every one wishes to be inflicted,[69] or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy with guilt, never fails to excite indignation and abhorrence. Carazan, therefore, when he had locked his door, and turning round with a look of circumspective suspicion proceeded to the mosque, was followed by every eye with silent malignity: the poor suspended their supplication when he passed by; and though he was known by every man, no one saluted him.

Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such was the character which he had acquired, when notice was given by proclamation, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the centre of the city, that his table should be spread for the public, and that the stranger should be welcome to his bed, the multitude soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they beheld him distributing bread to the hungry, and apparel to the naked, his eye softened with compassion, and his cheek glowing with delight. Every one gazed with astonishment at the prodigy; and the murmur of innumerable voices increasing like the sound of approaching thunder, Carazan beckoned with his hand; attention suspended[70] the tumult in a moment, and he thus gratified the curiosity which had procured him audience.

To him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the Almighty and the Most Merciful, be everlasting honour! he has ordained sleep to be the minister of instruction, and his visions have reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my Haram, with my lamp burning before me, computing the product of my merchandize, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I fell into a deep sleep, and the hand of him who dwells in the third heaven was upon me. I beheld the angel of death coming forward like a whirlwind, and he smote me before I could deprecate the blow. At the same moment I felt myself lifted from the ground, and transported with astonishing rapidity through the regions of the air.—The earth was contracted to an atom beneath; and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of Paradise was new in sight; and I was intercepted by a sudden brightness which no human eye could behold: the irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced; my day of probation was past: and[71] from the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor could any thing be added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the powers of nature could reverse, my confidence totally forsook me; and while I stood trembling and silent, covered with confusion, and chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by the radiance that flamed before me:—

“Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted, because it was not prompted by love of God: neither can thy righteousness be rewarded, because it was not produced by love of man: for thy own sake only hast thou rendered to every man his due; and thou hast approached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou hast not looked up with gratitude, nor around thee with kindness. Around thee, thou hast indeed beheld vice and folly; but if vice and folly could justify thy parsimony, would they not condemn the bounty of heaven? If not upon the foolish and the vicious, where shall the sun diffuse his light, or the clouds distil the dew? Where shall the lips of the spring breathe fragrance, or the hand[72] of autumn diffuse plenty? Remember, Carazan, that thou hast shut compassion from thine heart, and grasped thy treasures with a hand of iron: thou hast lived for thyself; and, therefore, henceforth for ever thou shalt subsist alone. From the light of heaven, and from the society of all beings shalt thou be driven; solitude shall protract the lingering hours of eternity, and darkness aggravate the horrors of despair.” At this moment I was driven by some secret and irresistible power through the glowing system of creation, and passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As I approached the verge of nature, I perceived the shadows of total and boundless vacuity deepen before me, a dreadful region of eternal silence, solitude, and darkness! Unutterable horror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation burst from me with all the vehemence of desire: “O! that I had been doomed for ever to the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt! there society would have alleviated the torment of despair, and the rage of fire could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or, if I had been condemned to reside in a comet, that would[73] return but once in a thousand years to their regions of light and life; the hope of these periods, however distant, would cheer men in the dread interval of cold and darkness, and the vicissitude would divide eternity into time.” While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was quenched in utter darkness. The agonies of despair every moment increased, as every moment augmented my distance from the last habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thousand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach of all but that power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward into an immense abyss of darkness, through which I should still drive without succour and without society, farther and farther still, for ever and for ever. I then stretched out my hand towards the regions of existence, with an emotion that awaked me. Thus have I been taught to estimate society, like every other blessing, by its loss. My heart is warmed to liberality; and I am zealous to communicate the happiness which I feel, to those from whom it is[74] derived; for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride of prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, in the dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, have been more highly prized than the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda.

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly silent, and looked upward in ecstacy of gratitude and devotion. The multitude were struck at once with the precept and example; and the Caliph, to whom the event was related, that he might be liberal beyond the power of gold, commanded it to be recorded for the benefit of posterity.

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[75] 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[76] 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[77] 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[78] 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[79] 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[81] 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.”

Bozaldab, Calif of Egypt, had dwelt securely for many years in the silken pavilions of pleasure, and had every morning anointed his head with[82] the oil of gladness, when his only son Aboram, for whom he had crowded his treasuries with gold, extended his dominions with conquests, and secured them with impregnable fortresses, was suddenly wounded, as he was hunting, with an arrow from an unknown hand, and expired in the field.

Bozaldab, in the distraction of grief and despair, refused to return to his palace, and retired to the gloomiest grotto in the neighbouring mountain: he there rolled himself on the dust, tore away the hairs of his hoary beard, and dashed the cup of consolation that Patience offered him to the ground. He suffered not his minstrels to approach his presence; but listened to the melancholy birds of midnight, that flit through the solitary vaults and echoing chambers of the Pyramids. “Can that God be benevolent,” he cried, “who thus wounds the soul, as from an ambush, with unexpected sorrows, and crushes his creatures in a moment with irremediable calamity? Ye lying Imans, prate to us no more of the justness and the kindness of an all-directing and all-loving Providence! He, whom[83] ye pretend reigns in heaven, is so far from protecting the sons of men, that he perpetually delights to blast the sweetest flowerets in the garden of Hope; and like a malignant giant to beat down the strongest towers of happiness with the iron mace of his anger. If this Being possessed the goodness and the power with which flattering priests have invested him, he would doubtless be inclined and enabled to banish those evils which render the world a dungeon of distress, a vale of vanity and woe.—I will continue in it no longer!”

At that moment he furiously raised his hand, which Despair had armed with a dagger, to strike deep into his bosom; when suddenly thick flashes of lightning shot through the cavern, and a being of more than human beauty and magnitude, arrayed in azure robes, crowned with amaranth, and waving a branch of palm in his right hand, arrested the arm of the trembling and astonished Calif, and said with a majestic smile, “Follow me to the top of this mountain.”

“Look from hence,” said the awful conductor; “I am Caloc, the Angel of Peace; Look from hence into the valley.”

Bozaldab opened his eyes and beheld a barren, a sultry, and solitary island, in the midst of which sat a pale, meagre, and ghastly figure: it was a merchant just perishing with famine, and lamenting that he could find neither wild berries, nor a single spring in this forlorn and uninhabited desert; and begging the protection of heaven against the tigers that would now certainly destroy him, since he had consumed the last fuel he had collected to make nightly fires to affright them. He then cast a casket of jewels on the sand, as trifles of no use; and crept, feeble and trembling, to an eminence, where he was accustomed to sit to watch the setting sun, and to give signal to any ship that might haply approach the island.

“Inhabitant of heaven,” cried Bozaldab, “suffer not this wretch to perish by the fury of wild beasts!”

He looked again, and behold a vessel arrived at the desolate isle. What words can paint the rapture of the starving merchant, when the captain offered to transport him to his native country,[85] if he would reward him with half the jewels of his casket? No sooner had this pityless commander received the stipulated sum, than he held a consultation with his crew, and they agreed to seize the remaining jewels, and leave the unhappy exile in the same helpless and lamentable condition in which they discovered him. He wept and trembled, intreated and implored in vain.

“Will Heaven permit such injustice to be practised?” exclaimed Bozaldab. “Look again,” said the angel, “and behold the very ship in which, short-sighted as thou art, thou wishedst the merchant might embark, dashed in pieces on a rock: dost thou not hear the cries of the sinking sailors? Presume not to direct the Governor of the Universe in his disposal of events. The man whom thou hast pitied shall[86] be taken from this dreary solitude, but not by the method thou wouldst prescribe. His vice was avarice, by which he became not only abominable, but wretched; he fancied some mighty charm in wealth, which, like the wand of Abdiel, would gratify every wish and obviate every fear. This wealth he has now been taught not only to despise but abhor: he cast his jewels upon the sand, and confessed them to be useless; he offered part of them to the mariners, and perceived them to be pernicious: he has now learnt, that they are useful or vain, good or evil, only by the situation and temper of the possessor. Happy is he whom distress has taught wisdom! But turn thine eyes to another and more interesting scene.”

The Calif instantly beheld a magnificent palace, adorned with the statues of his ancestors wrought in jasper; the ivory doors of which, turning on hinges of the gold of Golconda, discovered a throne of diamonds, surrounded with the Rajas of fifty nations, and with ambassadors in various habits, and of different complexions; on which sat Aboram, the much-lamented son of[87] Bozaldab, and by his side a princess fairer than a Houri.

“Gracious Alla!—it is my son,” cried the Calif—“O let me hold him to my heart!” “Thou canst not grasp an unsubstantial vision,” replied the angel: “I have now shewn thee what would have been the destiny of thy son, had he continued longer on the earth.” “And why,” returned Bozaldab, “was he not permitted to continue? Why was not I suffered to be a witness of so much felicity and power?” “Consider the sequel,” replied he that dwells in the fifth heaven. Bozaldab looked earnestly, and saw the countenance of his son, on which he had been used to behold the placid simplicity and the vivid blushes of health, now distorted with rage, and now fixed in the insensibility of drunkenness: it was again animated with disdain, it became pale with apprehension, and appeared to be withered by intemperance; his hands were stained with blood, and he trembled by turns with fury and terror. The palace so lately shining with oriental pomp, changed suddenly into the cell of a dungeon, where his son lay stretched out on the[88] cold pavement, gagged and bound, with his eyes put out. Soon after he perceived the favourite Sultana, who before was seated by his side, enter with a bowl of poison, which she compelled Aboram to drink, and afterwards married the successor to his throne.

“Happy,” said Caloc, “is he whom Providence has by the angel of death snatched from guilt! from whom that power is withheld, which, if he had possessed, would have accumulated upon himself yet greater misery than it could bring upon others.”

“It is enough,” cried Bozaldab; “I adore the inscrutable schemes of omniscience!—From what dreadful evil has my son been rescued by a death, which I rashly bewailed as unfortunate and premature; a death of innocence and peace, which has blessed his memory upon earth, and transmitted his spirit to the skies!”

“Cast away the dagger,” replied the heavenly messenger, “which thou wast preparing to plunge into thine own heart. Exchange complaint for silence, and doubt for adoration. Can a mortal look down, without giddiness and stupifaction,[89] in the vast abyss of Eternal Wisdom? Can a mind that sees not infinitely, perfectly comprehend any thing among an infinity of objects mutually relative? Can the channels, which thou commandest to be cut to receive the annual inundations of the Nile, contain the waters of the ocean? Remember, that perfect happiness cannot be conferred on a creature; for perfect happiness is an attribute as incommunicable as perfect power and eternity.”

The Angel, while he was speaking thus, stretched out his pinions to fly back to the Empyreum; and the flutter of his wings was like the rushing of a cataract.

Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigourous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and saw[90] the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of Paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices: he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.

Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and[91] gain the rewards of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He therefore still continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At last the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.

Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind[92] inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth and divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amusements the hours passed away unaccounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle.[93] While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.

He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of Nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in hand, for the beasts of the desart were in motion, and on every hand were mingled howls of rage and fear, and savage expiration; all the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.

Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment[94] drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length not fear but labour began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld through the branches the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

When the repast was over, “Tell me,” said the hermit, “by what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.” Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

“Son,” said the hermit, “let the errors and follies, the dangers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day: we rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of[95] expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the strait road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not at least turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for awhile, keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence,[96] and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors, and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.”

A Dervise, venerable by his age, fell ill in the house of a woman who had been long a widow, and lived in extreme poverty in the suburbs of Balsora. He was so touched with the care and zeal with which she had assisted him, that at his departure he said to her, “I have remarked that you have wherewith to subsist alone, but that you have not subsistence enough to share it with your only son, the young Abdallah. If you will trust him to my care, I will endeavour to acknowledge, in his person, the obligations I have to you for your care of me.” The good woman received this proposal with joy; and the Dervise departed with the young man, advertising her, that they must perform a journey which would last nearly two years. As they travelled he kept him in affluence, gave him excellent instructions, cured him of a dangerous disease with which he was attacked; in fine, he took the same care of him as if he had been his own son. Abdallah a hundred times testified his gratitude to him for all his bounties; but the old[98] man always answered, “My son, it is by actions that gratitude is proved; we shall see in a proper time and place, whether you are so grateful as you pretend.”

One day, as they continued their travels, they found themselves in a solitary place, and the Dervise said to Abdallah, “My son, we are now at the end of our journey; I shall employ my prayers to obtain from Heaven, that the earth may open and make an entrance wide enough to permit thee to descend into a place where thou wilt find one of the greatest treasures that the earth incloses into her bowels. Hast thou courage to descend into this subterraneous vault?” continued he. Abdallah swore to him, he might depend upon his obedience and zeal. Then the Dervise lighted a small fire, into which he cast a perfume; he read and prayed for some moments, after which the earth opened, and the Dervise said to him—“Thou mayest now enter, my dear Abdallah, remember that it is in thy power to do me a great service; and that this is, perhaps, the only opportunity thou canst ever have of testifying to me that thou art not ungrateful: Do not let thyself be dazzled by all the riches thou wilt[99] find there; think only of seizing upon an iron candlestick with twelve branches, which thou wilt find close to a door; that is absolutely necessary to me; come up immediately, and bring it to me.” Abdallah promised every thing, and descended boldly into the vault. But forgetting what had been expressly recommended to him, whilst he was filling his vest and bosom with gold and jewels, which this subterraneous vault inclosed in prodigious heaps, the opening by which he entered closed of itself. He had, however, presence of mind enough to seize on the iron candlestick, which the Dervise had so strongly recommended to him; and though the situation he was in was very terrible, he did not abandon himself to despair; and thinking only in what manner he should get out of a place which might become his grave, he apprehended that the vault had closed only because he had not followed the order of the Dervise; he recalled to his memory the care and goodness he had loaded him with; reproached himself with his ingratitude, and finished his meditation by humbling himself before God. At length, after much pains and inquietude,[100] he was fortunate enough to find a narrow passage which led him out of this obscure cave; though it was not till he had followed it a considerable way, that he perceived a small opening covered with briars and thorns, through which he returned to the light of the sun. He looked on all sides, to see if he could perceive the Dervise, but in vain; he designed to deliver him the iron candlestick he so much wished for, and formed a design of quitting him, being rich enough with what he had taken out of the cavern, to live in affluence without his assistance.

Not perceiving the Dervise, nor remembering any of the places through which he had passed, he went on as fortune had directed him, and was extremely astonished to find himself opposite to his mother’s house, which he imagined he was at a great distance from him. She immediately enquired after the holy Dervise. Abdallah told her frankly what had happened to him, and the danger he had run to satisfy his unreasonable desires; he afterwards shewed her the riches with which he was loaded. His mother concluded, upon the sight of them, that the Dervise only designed to make trial of his courage and obedience,[101] and that they ought to make use of the happiness which fortune had presented to them; adding, that doubtless such was the intention of the holy Dervise. Whilst they contemplated upon these treasures with avidity; whilst they were dazzled with the lustre of them, and formed a thousand projects in consequence of them, they all vanished away before their eyes. It was then that Abdallah sincerely reproached himself for his ingratitude and disobedience; and, perceiving that the iron candlestick had resisted the enchantment, or rather the just punishment which those deserve who do not execute what they promise, he said, prostrating himself, “What happened to me is just; I have lost what I had no design to restore, and the candlestick which I intended to deliver to the Dervise, remains with me: It is a proof that it rightly belongs to him, and that the rest was unjustly acquired.” As he finished these words, he placed the candlestick in the midst of their little house.

When the night was come, without reflecting upon it, he placed the light in the candlestick. Immediately they saw a Dervise appear, who turned round for an hour, and disappeared, after[102] having thrown them an asper. The candlestick had twelve branches. Abdallah, who was meditating all the day upon what he had seen the night before, was willing to know what would happen the next night, if he put a light in each of them; he did so, and twelve Dervises appeared that instant; they turned round also for an hour, and each threw an asper as they disappeared. He repeated every day the same ceremony, which had always the same success; but he could never make it succeed more than once in twenty-four hours. This trifling sum was enough to make his mother and himself subsist tolerably: there was a time when they would have desired no more to be happy; but it was not considerable enough to change their fortune: it is always dangerous for the imagination to be fixed upon the idea of riches. The sight of what he believed he should possess; the projects he had formed for the employment of it; all these things had left such profound traces in the mind of Abdallah, that nothing could efface them. Therefore, seeing the small advantage he drew from the candlestick, he resolved to carry it back to the Dervise, in hopes that he might obtain[103] of him the treasure he had seen, or at least find again the riches which had vanished from their sight, by restoring to him a thing for which he testified so earnest a desire. He was so fortunate as to remember his name, and that of the city where he inhabited. He departed, therefore, immediately for Magrebi, carrying with him his candlestick, which he lighted every night, and by that means furnished himself with what was necessary on the road, without being obliged to implore the assistance and compassion of the faithful. When he arrived at Magrebi, his first care was to enquire in what house, or in what convent, Abounadar lodged; he was so well known that every body told him his habitation. He repaired thither directly, and found fifty porters who kept the gate of his house, having each a staff with a head of gold in their hands: the court of this palace was filled with slaves and domestics; in fine, the residence of a prince could not expose to view greater magnificence. Abdallah, struck with astonishment and admiration, feared to proceed. Certainly, thought he, I either explained myself wrong, or those to whom I addressed myself designed to make a[104] jest of me, because I was a stranger: this is not the habitation of a Dervise, it is that of a king. He was in this embarrassment when a man approached him, and said to him, “Abdallah, thou art welcome; my master, Abounadar, has long expected thee.” He then conducted him to an agreeable and magnificent pavilion, where the Dervise was seated. Abdallah, struck with the riches which he beheld on all sides, would have prostrated himself at his feet, but Abounadar prevented him, and interrupted him when he would have made a merit of the candlestick, which he presented to him. “Thou art but an ungrateful wretch,” said he to him: “Dost thou imagine that thou canst impose upon me? I am not ignorant of any one of thy thoughts; and if thou hadst known the value of this candlestick, thou would never have brought it to me: I will make thee sensible of its true use.” Immediately he placed a light in each of its branches; and when the twelve Dervises had turned round for some time, Abounadar gave each of them a blow with a cane, and in a moment they were converted into twelve sequins, diamonds, and other precious stones. “This,” said he, “is the proper[105] use to be made of this marvellous candlestick. As to me, I never desired it, but to place it in my cabinet, as a talisman composed by a sage whom I revere, and am pleased to expose sometimes to those who come to visit me: and to prove to thee,” added he, “that curiosity was the only occasion of my search for it; here are keys of my magazines, open them, and thou shalt judge of my riches: thou shalt tell me whether the most insatiable miser would not be satisfied with them.” Abdallah obeyed him, and examined twelve magazines of great extent, so full of all manner of riches, that he could not distinguish what merited his admiration most; they all deserved it, and produced new desires. The regret of having restored the candlestick, and that of not having found out the use of it, pierced the heart of Abdallah. Abounadar seemed not to perceive it; on the contrary, he loaded him with caresses, kept him some days in the house, and commanded him to be treated as himself. When he was at the eve of the day which he had fixed for his departure, he said to him, “Abdallah, my son, I believe by what has happened to thee, thou art corrected of the[106] frightful vice of ingratitude; however, I owe thee a mark of my affection, for having undertaken so long a journey, with a view of bringing me the thing I had desired: thou may’st depart, I shall detain thee no longer. Thou shalt find to-morrow, at the gate of my palace, one of my horses to carry thee; I make thee a present of it, as well as of a slave, who shall conduct thee to thy house; and two camels loaded with gold and jewels, which thou shalt choose thyself out of my treasures.” Abdallah said to him all that a heart sensible to avarice could express when its passion was satisfied, and went to lie down till the morning arrived, which was fixed for his departure.

During the night he was still agitated, without being able to think of any thing but the candlestick and what it produced. “I had it,” said he, “so long in my power; Abounadar, without me, had never been the possessor of it: what risks did I not run in the subterraneous vault? Why does he now possess this treasure of treasures? Because I had the probity, or rather the folly, to bring it back to him; he profits by my labour, and the danger I have incurred in so long a journey. And what does he give me in[107] return? Two camels loaded with gold and jewels; in one moment the candlestick will furnish him with ten times as much. It is Abounadar who is ungrateful: what wrong shall I do him in taking this candlestick? None, certainly, for he is rich: and what do I possess?” These ideas determined him, at length, to make all possible attempts to seize upon the candlestick. The thing was not difficult, Abounadar having trusted him with the keys of the magazines. He knew where the candlestick was placed; he seized upon it, hid it in the bottom of one of the sacks, which he filled with pieces of gold and other riches which he was allowed to take, and loaded it, as well as the rest, upon his camels. He had no other eagerness now than for his departure; and after having hastily bid adieu to the generous Abounadar, he delivered him his keys, and departed with his horse, and slave, and two camels.

When he was some days journey from Balsora, he sold his slave, resolving not to have a witness of his former poverty, nor of the source of his present riches. He bought another, and arrived without any obstacle at his mother’s, whom he would scarcely look upon, so much was he taken up with his treasure. His first care was to place the loads of his camels, and the[108] candlestick, in the most private part of the house; and, in his impatience to feed his eyes, with his great opulence, he placed lights immediately in the candlestick: the twelve Dervises appearing, he gave each of them a blow with a cane with all his strength, lest he should be failing in the laws of the talisman: but he had not remarked, that Abounadar, when he struck them, had the cane in his left hand. Abdallah, by a natural motion, made use of his right; and the Dervises, instead of becoming heaps of riches, immediately drew from beneath their robes each a formidable club, with which they struck him almost dead, and disappeared, carrying with them all his treasures, the camels, the horse, the slave, and the candlestick.

Thus was Abdallah punished by poverty, and almost by death, for his unreasonable ambition, which perhaps might have been pardonable, if it had not been accompanied by an ingratitude as wicked as it was audacious, since he had not so much as the resource of being able to conceal his perfidies from the too piercing eyes of his benefactor.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oriental tales, for the entertainment of youth

ORIENTAL TALES.

THE MERCHANT AND HIS SONS.

STORY OF MENCIUS.

THE STORY OF SCHACABAC.

HAMET AND RASCHID.

THE CHAM AND THE DERVISE.

THE STORY OF OMAR.

THE STORY OF OMAR.
(CONCLUDED.)

STORY OF A DERVISE.

OMAR’S PLAN OF LIFE.

THE BASKET MAKER.

THE STORY OF ALMET.

THE STORY OF ALMET,
CONCLUDED.

THE STORY OF GELALEDDIN OF BASSORA.

STORY OF ORTOGRUL OF BASRA.

THE STORY OF ALNASCHAR.

THE STORY OF CARAZAN.

THE STORY OF ALMAMOULIN.

THE STORY OF BOZALDAB.

THE STORY OF BOZALDAB.
(CONCLUDED.)

THE STORY OF OBIDAH.

INGRATITUDE PUNISHED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oriental tales, for the entertainment of youth

ORIENTAL TALES.

THE MERCHANT AND HIS SONS.

STORY OF MENCIUS.

THE STORY OF SCHACABAC.

HAMET AND RASCHID.

THE CHAM AND THE DERVISE.

THE STORY OF OMAR.

THE STORY OF OMAR. (CONCLUDED.)

STORY OF A DERVISE.

OMAR’S PLAN OF LIFE.

THE BASKET MAKER.

THE STORY OF ALMET.

THE STORY OF ALMET, CONCLUDED.

THE STORY OF GELALEDDIN OF BASSORA.

STORY OF ORTOGRUL OF BASRA.

THE STORY OF ALNASCHAR.

THE STORY OF CARAZAN.

THE STORY OF ALMAMOULIN.

THE STORY OF BOZALDAB.

THE STORY OF BOZALDAB. (CONCLUDED.)

THE STORY OF OBIDAH.

INGRATITUDE PUNISHED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

THE STORY OF OMAR.
(CONCLUDED.)

THE STORY OF ALMET,
CONCLUDED.

THE STORY OF BOZALDAB.
(CONCLUDED.)