Chapter XXX: Appendix: HATIM TAÏ AND THE BENEVOLENT LADY—p. 46 (5)

It seems to have been a favourite pastime from ancient times for Asiatic youngsters to play at “the King and his Ministers.” In the apocryphal Arabic gospel of the Saviour’s Infancy we read: “In the month of Adar, Jesus, after the manner of a king, assembled the boys together. They spread their clothes on the ground and he sat down on them. Then they put on his head a crown made of flowers, and like chamber-servants stood in his presence, on the right and on the left, as if he was a king, and whoever passed that way was forcibly dragged by the boys, saying: ‘Come hither and adore the king; and then go away.’” This passage finds a very remarkable parallel in the Mongolian tales of Ardshi Bordshi—the second part of Miss Busk’s _Sagas from the Far East_, derived from Jülg’s _Mongolische Märchen_, as follows: “In the neighbourhood of his [_i.e._ Ardshi Bordshi’s] residence was a hill where the boys who were tending the calves were wont to pass the time by running up and down. But they had also another custom, and it was that whichever of them won the race was king for the day—an ordinary game enough, only that when it was played in this place the boy-king thus constituted was at once endowed with such extraordinary importance and majesty that every one was constrained to treat him as a real king. He had not only ministers and dignitaries among his play-fellows, who prostrated themselves before him, and fulfilled all his behests, but whoever passed that way could not choose but pay him homage also.”

The Rev. J. Hinton Knowles, in a note to his _Folk-Tales of Kashmír_, thus describes the game of “Vazír Pádisháh,” also called “Suhul,” as it is played by the boys in Kashmír:

“It is generally played by four youngsters. Four little sticks are provided, of which the bark on one side is peeled off. Any of the four children throws first. If one should throw three sticks so that they all fall on the bark side, then he is appointed _pádisháh_, or king; but if not, they all try and throw till some one succeeds. The next thing is to find out the _vazír_. He who throws the sticks so that one of them falls with the bark side up, but the other three with the peeled sides up, is appointed to this office. Then an _asúr_, or thief, has to be fixed upon. He who throws so that two of his sticks fall with the bark side upwards is proclaimed the thief. Lastly a _sayd_, or honest man, has to be found. This part he has to play who throws the sticks so that three of them fall with the bark side upwards. If it should happen that all four of them fall with the bark sides up, that thrower has to try again.[303]

“Pádisháh, vazír, asúr, and sayd being known, the real play begins. The asúr, or thief, is brought before the king by the vazír, who says: ‘O king, peace and health to you; here is a thief.’ The king replies: ‘Whence has he come?’ Then the vazír tells him the whole case, and punishment has to be inflicted on the criminal. This is the most amusing part of the whole play. ‘Give him Bangálí cannon,’ says the king, and the vazír kicks the prisoner’s buttocks; or the king says: ‘Bring a dog in his place from the Ladák,’ when the vazír takes the prisoner a short distance, and then holding him by the ear pulls him back, while the prisoner barks like a dog; or the king says: ‘Take out the spindle,’ when the vazír draws a line with his thumb-nail on the inside of the arm from the elbow-joint to the wrist, and then hits the arm over the line as hard as he can with the first and second fingers of his right hand. There are many other words of punishment too numerous to mention here.”

Not a few Eastern stories turn upon the wonderful acuteness of boys in solving difficult questions which have perplexed the profound minds of their “grave and reverend” seniors. The reader will find a number of examples cited in my _Popular Tales and Fictions_, vol. ii, pp. 10, 12-14, one of which, a Mongolian tale, is analogous to that of the Arabian story of Alí Khoja’s “pot of olives.”

THE HIDDEN TREASURE—p. 442.

The indirect source of this story is probably the following tale, from the _Kathá Sarit Ságara_, vol. i, p. 298, of Prof. C. H. Tawney’s translation, published at Calcutta a few years ago:

There is a city named Srávastí, and in it there lived in old time a king of the name of Prasenajit, and one day a strange Bráhman arrived in that city. A merchant, thinking he was virtuous because he lived on rice in the husk, provided him a lodging there in the house of a Bráhman. There he was loaded by him every day with presents of unhusked rice and other gifts, and gradually by other great merchants also, who came to hear his story. In this way the miserly fellow gradually accumulated a thousand dínars, and going to the forest he dug a hole and buried it in the ground, and he went every day and examined the spot. Now one day he saw that the hole in which he had hidden his gold had been re-opened, and that all the gold was gone. When he saw that hole empty, his soul was smitten, and not only was there a void in his heart, but the whole universe seemed to be a void also. And then he came crying to the Bráhman in whose house he lived, and when questioned he told him his whole story; and he made up his mind to go to a holy bathing-place and starve himself to death. Then the merchant who supplied him with food, hearing of it, came there with others, and said to him: “Bráhman, why do you long to die for the loss of your wealth? Wealth, like an unseasonable cloud, suddenly comes and goes.” Though plied by him with these and similar arguments, he would not abandon his fixed determination to commit suicide, for wealth is dearer to the miser than life itself. But when the Bráhman was going to the holy place to commit suicide, the king Prasenajit himself, having heard of it, came and asked him: “Bráhman, do you know of any mark by which you can recognise the place where you buried your dínars?” When the Bráhman heard that, he said: “There is a small tree in the wood there; I buried that wealth at its foot.” When the king heard that he said: “I will find the wealth and give it back to you, or I will give it you from my own treasury; do not commit suicide, Bráhman.” After saying that, and so diverting the Bráhman from his intention of committing suicide, the king entrusted him to the care of the merchant, and retired to his palace. There he pretended to have a headache, and sending out the doorkeeper he summoned all the physicians in the city by proclamation with beat of drum. And he took aside every single one of them and questioned him privately in the following words: “What patients have you here, and how many, and what medicines have you prescribed for each?” And they thereupon, one by one, answered all the king’s questions. Then one among the physicians, when his turn came to be questioned, said this: “The merchant Mátridatta has been out of sorts, O king, and this is the second day that I have prescribed for him _nágabalá_” [the plant _Uraria Lagopodioides_]. When the king heard that he sent for the merchant and said to him: “Tell me who fetched you the _nágabalá_?” The merchant said: “My servant, your highness.” When the king got this answer from the merchant he quickly summoned the servant and said to him: “Give up that treasure belonging to a Bráhman, consisting of a store of dínars, which you found when you were digging at the foot of a tree for _nágabalá_.” When the king said this to him the servant was frightened, and confessed immediately; and bringing those dínars, left them there. So the king for his part summoned the Bráhman, and gave him, who had been fasting in the meanwhile, his dínars, lost and found again, like a second soul external to his body. Thus the king by his wisdom recovered to the Bráhman his wealth, which had been taken away from the tree, knowing that that simple grew in such spots.

* * * * *

Many stories of hidden treasure being stolen and recovered by a clever device are current in Europe as well as in the East. For example, in No. 74 of the _Cento Novette Antiche_, the oldest Italian collection of tales, a blind beggar conceals 100 florins under the floor of a church, and is observed by a sharper who next day takes the money away. When the blind man finds his treasure gone, he stands at the church-door at the time of service and bids his boy watch all who enter the church and let him know if any one should regard him (the beggar) as if with peculiar interest. The sharp-witted boy observes a man looking at his father and smiling, and when the beggar learns the name of the man, he scrapes acquaintance with him, tells him that he has 100 florins concealed under the floor of the church, and expects to receive 100 more in the course of a day or two, which he had lent out; and begs his new friend to meet him on such a day when they would lift the stone and deposit the additional money. The sharper, thinking to get this other sum as well, went privily and replaced the 100 florins he had stolen, and the blind man, anticipating he would do so, returned at night and took away his money, resolving to part with it no more.—The same story is found in the Breslau printed Arabic text of the ‘Thousand and one Nights’, and is translated by Mr. John Payne in his _Tales from the Arabic_, and also by Sir Richard F. Burton in the first volume of his _Supplemental Nights_, under the title of “The Melancholist and the Sharper.” A short version is given in Gladwin’s _Persian Moonshee_; and another analogous story of buried treasure will be found in Roscoe’s _Spanish Novelists_, ed. 1832, vol. iii, p. 215-234, entitled “A Prodigious Adventure,” by Isidro de Robles.

THE DEAF MAN AND HIS SICK FRIEND—p. 446.

Readers who are not familiar with the Kurán may like to see in English the Muslim “Lord’s Prayer,” called _Al-Fátihá_, which the Deaf Man recited in presence of his sick friend, so this is it, from Rodwell’s translation, p. 11:

“IN THE NAME OF GOD, THE COMPASSIONATE, THE MERCIFUL!
Praise be to God, Lord of the worlds!
The compassionate, the merciful!
King on the day of reckoning!
Thee [only] do we worship, and to thee do we cry for help.
Guide thou us on the straight path!
The path of those to whom thou hast been gracious; with whom thou
art not angry, and who go not astray.”

This _sura_ is esteemed as the quintessence of the Kurán, and is recited several times in the course of each of the five daily prayers, and on many other occasions.

* * * * *

It is well known that men afflicted with partial deafness are generally unwilling to acknowledge their infirmity, and even resent being talked to in a loud tone of voice; though they often betray themselves by the answers they give to questions asked of them, much to the amusement of their questioners.—A story is told of a deaf Persian who was taking home a quantity of wheat, and, coming to a river which he must cross, he saw a horseman approach; so he said to himself: “When that horseman comes up he will first salute me, saying, ‘Peace be with thee!’ Next he will ask, ‘What is the depth of this river?’ and then he will ask, how many _máns_ of wheat I have with me.” But the deaf man’s surmises were sadly amiss, for when the horseman came up he cried: “Ho! my man, what is the depth of this river?” The deaf one replied: “Peace be with thee, and the mercy of Allah and his blessing!” At this the horseman laughed and said: “May they cut off thy beard!” to which the deaf one rejoined: “Up to my neck.” The horseman then said: “Dust be on thy mouth!” The deaf one placidly replied: “Eighty máns of it.”

Here we have a very close parallel to the story of the Deaf Man and his Sick Friend, and there is a curious Norwegian variant in Sir George W. Dasent’s _Tales from the Fjeld_, under the title of “Goodman Axeshaft,” which is to this purpose:

The wife and daughter of an old ferryman, who was extremely deaf, by their extravagance plunge him into an ocean of debt and run away from home. The sheriff is to come and seize, and the old man wonders what he’ll say to him. “Ah, I’ll begin to cut an axeshaft, and the sheriff will ask me how long it is to be. I’ll answer, ‘Up as far as that twig sticks out.’ Then he’ll ask, ‘What’s become of the ferry boat?’ and I’ll say, ‘I’m going to tar her, and yonder she lies on the strand, split at both ends.’ Then he’ll ask, ‘Where’s your gray mare?’ and I’ll say, ‘She’s standing in the stable, big with foal.’ And then he’ll ask, ‘Whereabouts is your sheepcote?’ and I’ll answer, ‘Not far off; when you get a bit up the hill you’ll soon see it.’” But when the sheriff comes up he says “Good day” to the old man, who answers: “Axeshaft.” Then he asks: “How far off to the river?” to which the ferryman replies: “Up to this twig,” pointing a little way up the piece of timber. The sheriff stares and shakes his head. “Where’s your wife?” “I’m just going to tar her,” and so forth. “Where’s your daughter?” “In the stable,” and so on. “To the deuce with you!” exclaims the sheriff, in a rage. “Very good,” says the old man; “not far off—when you get a bit up the hill you’ll soon see it.” Upon this the sheriff goes off, in sheer despair.

THE GARDENER AND THE LITTLE BIRD—p. 448.

In mediæval times the ancient fable of the Fowler and the Little Bird was appropriated by several monkish compilers of _exempla_, designed for the use of preachers; but this version is unique, so far as my knowledge of other forms of the fable extends. It has, exclusively, the scene between the lapwing and the nightingale; the references to the Muslim legend of Solomon’s receiving from a lapwing, or hoopoe, intelligence of the city of Sabá (or Sheba) and Queen Bilkís; and the allegation of the nightingale to the gardener that the fruit the bird had destroyed was poisonous. The fable is found in the spiritual romance of Barlaam and Joasaph (not Josaphat, as the name is commonly written), which is said to have been composed in the first half of the 7th century, by a Greek monk named John, of the convent of St. Sabá, at Jerusalem, and—according to M. Hermann Zotenberg—redacted by Johannes Damascenus, a Greek Father, of the 8th century, and included in his works. It is now certain that the substance of this work was derived from Indian sources: the incidents in the youth of Joasaph correspond with those in the early years of Gautama, the founder of Buddhism; while some of the parables contained in the romance are found in the _Játakas_, or Buddhist Birth-stories and others in Hindú books. This is how the fable is told in _Barlaam and Joasaph_:

They who worship idols are like the bird-catcher who caught one of the smallest birds, which they call the nightingale. As he was about to kill and eat it, articulate speech was given to the bird, and it said: “What will the killing of me profit thee, man? Thou canst not fill thy belly with me. But if thou set me free, I will give thee three injunctions, which, if thou observe, will benefit thee all thy life.” He was amazed to hear the bird speak, and promised. Then said the nightingale: “Never try to reach the unattainable. Rue not a thing that is past. Never believe a thing that is beyond belief.” Away flies the bird; but, to test the man’s common sense, it cries to him: “How thoughtless thou art! Inside of my body is a pearl larger than the egg of an ostrich, and thou hast not obtained it!” Then he repented having let the bird go free, and tried to coax it back by fair offers. But the bird rebuked his folly in so soon forgetting all the three injunctions it had given him.

* * * * *

In this form the fable also occurs in the _Disciplina Clericalis_ of Petrus Alphonsus, a Spanish Jew, who was converted to Christianity in 1106, and who avowedly derived the materials for his work from the Arabian fabulists, and from this collection it was taken into the _Gesta Romanorum_ (see Swan’s translation, ed. 1824, vol. ii, p. 87). John Lydgate, the monk of Bury, of the 15th century, turned the fable into English verse, under the title of “The Chorle and the Bird, from a pamflete in Frenche,” which is conjectured to have been the _fabliau_ “Le Lai de l’Oiselet,” but this I think is rather doubtful. According to Lydgate’s poem, a little bird takes up its abode in a laurel-tree in a churl’s garden, and sings merrily all the livelong day. The churl sets a trap (_pantere_) to catch the bird.

It was a verray hevenly melodye,
Evyne and morowe to here the bryddis songe,
And the soote sugred armonye
Of uncouthe varblys and tunys drawen on longe,
That al the gardeyne of the noysè rong,
Til on a morwe, whan Tytan shone ful clere,
The birdd was trapped and kaute with a pantere.

The churl puts the little bird into a fine cage and orders it to sing, but says the bird:

“Song and prison have noon accordaunce,
Trowest thou I wolle syng in prisoun?
Song procedethe of joy and of plesaunce,
And prison causethe dethe and destruccioun;
Rynging of fetires makethe ne mery sounde,
Or how shuld he be gladde or jocounde
Agayne his wylle, that ligthe in chaynès bounde?”

“But let me out,” the bird goes on to say, “so that I may perch again on the laurel-tree, and then I will sing to thee, and moreover,

“I shal the yeve a notable gret gwerdoun,
Thre grete wysdoms according to resoun,
More of walewe, take hede what I do profre,
Thane al the golde that is shet in thi cofre.”

The three “great wisdoms” are the same as those in other versions, and then the little bird says that the churl by setting him free has missed gaining a rare treasure, for in his inside is a stone, fully an ounce in weight, which has many wonderful properties: making its possessor victorious in battle; he should suffer no poverty or indigence but have abundance of wealth; all should do him reverence; it would reconcile foes, comfort the sorrowful, and make heavy hearts light.[304] The churl is beside himself with vexation, and the bird calls him a fool for believing such a rank impossibility.[305]

Husain Vá’iz has re-told the apologue in his _Anvár-i Suhaylí_, or Lights of Canopus, a Persian rendering, in prose and verse, of the celebrated Fables of Bidpaï with additions, of which this is one. Here, however, the nightingale—having been entrapped by the gardener, because it destroyed his roses—does not, when liberated, give the gardener three maxims, but tells him that beneath such a tree is a vessel full of gold. The villager digs and finds the treasure, and then asks the bird how it was that he could see a vessel full of gold under the earth, yet not discover the snare above ground; to which the nightingale replies, like a good Muslim: “Hast thou not heard that ‘when Fate descends caution is in vain’?”[306]

* * * * *

The _fabliau_ version, “Le Lai de l’Oiselet,” as found in Méon’s edition of Barbazan’s collection, Paris, 1808, t. iii, 114, and (in modern French prose) in Le Grand, ed. 1784, t. iii, 430, can hardly have been the original of Lydgate’s poem, as may be seen from the following free rendering of Le Grand’s abridgment (in which, however, he omits the bird’s statement about the wonderful stone in its body), including a few lines from Way’s agreeable English metrical translation:

Once on a time there was a noble castle surrounded by a wide domain of field and forest, which was first owned by a worthy knight. His son and successor wasted his patrimony in riotous living—“ye know well,” quoth our poet, “that it needs but one spendthrift heir to bring great wealth to nought”; and now the fair castle and domain had become the property of a rich but sordid churl. This lofty and strong castle had been reared by magic art. A pebble-paved stream flowed round a beauteous orchard, where grew tall and shapely trees, flowers of every hue, and odorous plants; and such was the fragrance of the air that it might have arrested a man’s parting breath. In the midst of this fair scene a gushing fountain sparkled in the sunlight, while near it a lofty pine tree’s deathless verdure afforded grateful shade at noontide.

A marvellous bird had fixed his abode in this tufted pine, and ever he sat and sang his lay of love in such sweet and moving strains that, matched against his magic melody, the music of viol and full-toned harp were as nought. Such was the power of this wondrous feathered minstrel that his strains could create unutterable joy in the heart of the despairing lover; and should they cease, and the songster take his flight from this enchanted ground, then would all the goodly scene—castle, trees, flowers, forest—fade away and forever disappear.

“Listen, listen, to my lay
(Thus the merry note did chime),
All who mighty Love obey,
Sadly wasting in your prime,
Clerk and laic, grave and gay;
Yet do ye, before the rest,
Gentle maidens, mark me tell!
Store my lesson in your breast,
Trust me it shall profit well:
Hear and heed me, and be blest!”[307]

The little warbler had no sooner ended his lay of love when he discovered the churl, upon which the bird ordered the river to retire to its source, the flowers to fade, the fruit to wither, and the castle to sink into the earth; for a vile churl should not be suffered to dwell where the beautiful and the brave had once held sweet communion. The churl, having heard the melodious strains of the little bird, resolved to capture him and sell him for a large sum. Accordingly he set his snare and caught the feathered songster. “What injury have I done thee?” cried the little bird. “And why dost thou doom me to death?” “Fear not,” said the churl; “I only desire to hear thy song, and will get thee a fine cage and plenty of seeds and kernels to eat. But sing thou must, else I’ll wring thy neck and pick thy bones.” “Alas,” sighed the pretty captive, “who can sing in prison? And even were I cooked, I could scarce furnish thee with one mouthful.” Finding that all entreaties failed to move the hard-hearted churl, the bird then promised that, if set free, he would tell him three rare and precious secrets. This offer the churl could not resist, so he freed the little bird, who straightway flew to the summit of the pine tree, and then proceeded to disclose the three precious secrets. “First then,” said the bird: “_Yield not a ready faith to every tale._” “Is this all your secret?” quoth the fellow, in rising wrath. “I need it not.” “Yet,” said the bird, “you seemed but lately to have forgot it—but now you may hold it fast. My second secret is: _What is lost, ’tis wise to bear with patience._” At this the churl chafed more and more. “My third secret,” continued the bird, “is by far the best: _What good thou hast, do not cast lightly away._” So saying, the little bird fluttered his wings a moment, and then flew away; and immediately the castle sank into the ground; and the fountain flowed back to its source; and the fruits dropped withered from the trees; and the flowers faded—and all the beauteous scene was melted into thin air.

_ADDITIONAL NOTES._

_Page 206—Five hundred pons._—It is possible that _pon_, like hun, is another name of a pagoda, a gold coin of the value of 3½ rupís, which has not been coined in the mints of India since the early part of this century.

_Page 212—The Want of Children._—In the note on this subject I omitted to include Hannah, mother of Samuel, the illustrious Hebrew seer (First Book of Samuel, ch. i, v, 9-11, and 20).—Asiatics consider a son as the “light,” or the “lamp,” of the household; and so it is said of a king, in the opening of the Persian romance entitled _Bahár-i Dánish_, or Garden and Spring, by ’Ináyatu-’lláh: “In the house of his prosperity the light [_i.e._ a son], which is the hope of descending life, beamed not, as the blossoms of his house [_i.e._ his women] produced not the fruit of his wishes; for which he made grief his companion, and sat lonely, like a point in the centre of the circle of sorrow”—poor fellow!

_Page 391—The Story of the Envious Vazír._—I cannot call to mind any close parallel to this, but the incident upon which it turns, that of the old hag’s artifice in procuring the lady’s dress, recalls the story of “The Burnt Veil” in the Book of Sindibád, where a youth, desperately in love with the virtuous wife of a merchant, employs a crone—who, like too many of her sex in Muslim countries, went about evil-doing, in the guise of a devotee—to cause the lady’s husband to put her away on suspicion of her being unfaithful. But this slight resemblance is doubtless merely fortuitous. The tale of the Envious Vazír exhibits more art than is usually found in Eastern fictions, especially the _dénouement_, where the Khoja’s wife cleverly causes the malignant Vazír to convict himself of gross falsehood.

_Page 430_—The sentiment expressed to Sultan Mahmúd by the Independent Man has its analogue in one of the countless traditions of Hatim Taï, which goes thus: They asked Hatim: “Hast thou ever seen in the world any one more noble-minded than thyself?” He replied: “One day I had offered a sacrifice of 40 camels, and had gone out with some other chiefs to a corner of the desert. I saw a thorn-cutter, who had gathered together a bundle of thorns. I said to him: ‘Why goest thou not to share the hospitality of Hatim Taï, when a crowd has assembled at his feast?’ He replied: ‘Whoever can eat of the bread of his own labour will not put himself under an obligation to Hatim Taï.’ This man, in mind and magnanimity, I consider greater than myself.”

_Page 483_—For the original of the story of the Two Merchants see Méon’s edition of Barbazan’s collection of _Fabliaux_, Paris, 1808, tome i, 52, “Des Deux Bons Amis Loiax,” and for the modern French prose version see Le Grand’s _Fabliaux_, edition 1781, iii, 262.

_Page 499_—Mr. James Moir, Rector, Grammar School, Aberdeen, is the authority (after his mother) for a story in the _Folk-Lore Journal_, 1884, vol. ii, pp. 68-71, which presents an interesting parallel to the tale from Salsette, with a clever girl in place of Little John: Three young girls are abandoned in a wood by their poverty-stricken parents, because they have too many mouths to feed. The little maidens arrive at a giant’s house and are granted shelter for the night. The giant resolves to kill them and have them cooked for his breakfast in the morning. In order to distinguish in the dark his own three daughters from the stranger girls, he places “strae rapes” round the necks of the latter and gold chains round his daughters’ necks, with the result that he puts his own offspring to death. Mally Whuppie, the heroine, wakes her sisters softly and they all escape. They next come to a king’s house, and Mally and her sisters are to be married to the three sons of the king, provided he should obtain possession of three wonderful things from the giant: (1) his sword from the back of his bed; (2) his purse from beneath his pillow; and (3) the ring from off the giant’s finger. Mally is successful in her two first adventures, and though she is caught by the giant when drawing off his ring, she ultimately escapes by a clever _ruse_.

_Page 510_—The story of the King and his Falcon occurs in many collections, and perhaps one of the oldest versions of it is found in Capt. R. C. Temple’s _Legends of the Panjáb_, vol. i, p. 467, in the story of “Princess Niwal Dai,” where a snake is seen by the falcon to drop poison into the cup.

_Page 519—The Rose of Bakáwalí._—I find my conjectures regarding the construction of this romance are borne out by Garcin de Tassy (_Histoire de la Littèrature Hindouie_, second edition, Paris, 1870, tome i, p. 606), in his account of a version in the Hindústání Selections by the Sayyíd Husain, compiled by order of the Military Examiners’ Committee, and published at Madras in the year 1849, in 2 vols. He says: “Le second volume offre la reproduction, en 64 p., des deux tiers du _Gul-i Bakâwalî_ d’après la rédaction de Nihâl Chand, dont j’ai donné la traduction en français. Huçain s’arrête au mariage de Tâj ulmulûk et de Bakâwalî, où devrait en effet finir de récit, le reste étant un hors-d’œuvre tout à fait hindou.”

He describes a similar romance (tome ii, pp. 531, 532) by Rayhán ed-Dín, of Bengal, written in rhymed couplets (_masnaví_) and entitled _Khiyabán-i Rayhán_, or Parterres of the Divine Grace, A.H. 1212 (A.D. 1797-1798): “Cet ouvrage,” he says, “roule sur le même sujet que le _Gul-i Bakâwalî_; mais, outre qu’il est tout en vers, il est beaucoup plus long. Il se divise en quarante chapitres, intitulés chacun _Gul-gaschnî_ (Abondance de roses).… Au surplus, il est bon de rappeler ici ce que j’ai dit ailleurs, que le _Gul-i Bakâwalî_ est une légende indienne qui est reproduite dans plusieurs rédactions différentes et même dans le dialecte des Laskars du Bengale.”

Another tale, in Persian, entitled _Kissa-i Fírúz Sháh_, if not identical with our romance, seems to be on the same plan, judging from the all-too brief account given of it by Dr. H. H. Wilson in his _Descriptive Catalogue of the Mackenzie Collection of Oriental MSS._, vol. ii, p. 137: “The story of Firoz Shah, son of the king of Badakshán, who sought a marvellous flower to cure his father.”

_Page 520_—In the so-called _Suite des Mille et Une Nuits_, by Chavis and Cazotte (Story of Habíb, the Arabian Knight), the Amír Salamis weeps himself blind on hearing a false report of his son Habíb’s death. The hero, when he comes to know of this sore affliction, is told that the only remedy is to be found among the treasures of Solomon, preserved in a cavern, and going there he finds two flat opals fixed as eyes into a visor, which he takes away, and with them restores his father’s sight. And the Rabbins say that Jacob wept himself totally blind from grief at the reported death of his son Joseph, and he recovered his sight many years afterwards by applying to his eyes the garment of Joseph, which his brethren brought from Egypt.

_Page 529_—There can be no doubt that the Panjábí legend of Rasálú’s game with Sirikap and the story of the Prince and Dilbar are cousins, so to say, not far removed. In the former Rasálú makes it one of the conditions of sparing the life of the vanquished Sirikap that he must consent to have his forehead branded with a red-hot iron, “in token of his vassalage,” and another condition is that he forgive his daughter whom he had imprisoned. In the latter the hero compels Dilbar to liberate his four brethren, but she insists on first branding them on their backs, “in token of the state of slavery to which they had been reduced.”—It seems to me that in the earlier part of the Panjábí legend something must have dropped out in connection with Rasálú’s rescuing the ants and the hedgehog from the river (p. 525), since it is usual in folk-tales for “thankful animals” to requite their benefactor by rendering him signal services.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Story-telling has been quite an art in the East time out of mind. Mrs. Meer Hasan Ali, in her _Observations on the Mussulmans of India_, vol. ii, pp. 81, 82, says: “Many of the ladies entertain women companions, whose chief business is to tell stories and fables to their employer when she is composing herself to sleep. When the lady is fairly asleep the story is stayed, and the companion resumes her employment when the next nap is sought by her mistress. Among the higher classes the males also indulge in the same practice of being talked to sleep by their men slaves, and it is a certain introduction, with either sex, to the favour of their employer when one of these dependants has acquired the happy art of ‘telling the khánie’ (fable) with an agreeable voice and manner. The more they embellish a tale by flights of their versatile imaginations, so much the greater the merit of the rehearser in the opinion of the listeners.”—In the Book of Esther, ch. vi, 1, we read that on a certain night “could not the king sleep, and he commanded to bring the book of the records of the chronicles, and they were read before the king.” Well was it for the Hebrew bondsmen that Ahasuerus did not call for a story-teller instead of the “state journal”!—The practice of sleepless khalífs and sultans sending for story-tellers is referred to in many Eastern tales. For an account of public reciters of tales and romances see Lane’s _Modern Egyptians_.

[2] But are even the best novels of these days of grace marked by very much “originality”? Do not prolific novelists _repeat themselves_? Have they not, for the most part, a limited set of characters, which reappear in each succeeding novel? In short, may it not be truly said of them, as Burton (not he of _The Nights_, but he of _The Melancholy_) says of authors in general: “They weave the same web, twist and untwist the same rope, and make new books as apothecaries make new mixtures, by pouring out of one vessel into another”?

[3] The following particulars regarding the author and his work are derived from Dr. Charles Rieu’s _Catalogue of the Persian Manuscripts in the British Museum_, vol. ii, pp. 767-8, Add. 7619, and Or. 1370; and from Mr. F. F. Arbuthnot’s useful and interesting little work, _Persian Portraits: a Sketch of Persian History, Literature, and Politics_ (London: Quaritch), p. 119. The title of _Shamsah ú Kahkahah_, under which Mr. Arbuthnot describes this collection, is taken from the names of a Witch and a Vazír who figure in the second _báb_.

[4] There is another, but wholly different, Tamil tale, with the same title, which is described in Taylor’s _Catalogue Raisonné of Oriental Manuscripts in the Government Library, Madras_, vol. iii, page 460: “A king’s daughter forms an attachment at first sight to the stupid son of another king, who cannot read the writing which she conveys to him, but shows it to a diseased wretch, who tells him it warns him to flee for his life. The king’s daughter is imposed upon by the leper, kills herself, and becomes a disembodied evil spirit, haunting a choultry (or serai for travellers), whom during the night, if they do not answer aright to her cries, she strangles, and vampyre-like sucks their blood.” To be brief, the famous Tamil poetess Avaiyar gets leave of the people to sleep in the choultry in order to put an end to this calamity, and having three times composed a recondite stanza from the strange cries, the evil spirit owns herself conquered and departs. She is re-born as an exceedingly clever princess, and tests the learning and poetical skill of her suitors, till at last she is won by a poor student.—It will be readily supposed that the chief merit of this story consists in the poetical contests.

[5] The stories related to the king by Prince Bakhtyár, though calculated to caution him against rash judgments, have nothing in common with those contained in the Book of Sindibád; while the tales told by Er-Rahwan (which have been translated by Sir Richard F. Burton, and included in the first volume of his _Supplemental Nights_) are of a miscellaneous character—grave and gay, wise and witty—his sole object being to prolong his life by thus amusing the king. The Vazír’s recitals are of considerable importance to “storiologists”: we find among them analogues of Chaucer’s Man of Law’s Tale, Pardoner’s Tale, and Merchant’s Tale, and of the well-known legend of St. Eustache (or Placidus), which occurs in the _Gesta Romanorum_, and from which the mediæval metrical romances of _Sir Isumbras_, _Octavian_, _Sir Eglamour_, and _Sir Torrent of Portugal_ were derived.

[6] The Tamil text of THE KING AND HIS FOUR MINISTERS has been printed. Through the kindness of the Pandit, I possess two copies, of different dates, one of which, printed in 1887, has, by way of frontispiece, four figures, in profile, like those in Egyptian paintings, all looking in the same direction, with their hands raised and the palms joined, in respect to the prayer to Ganesa, which is on the opposite page. The first is the minister; the second is the king, with a crown not unlike the Pope’s tiara, and a sword on his shoulder; the third and fourth are devotees, whose clothing is rather scanty.

[7] “Abrégé du roman hindoustani intitulé la Rose de Bakâwalî, par M. le professeur Garcin de Tassy”: in _Nouveau Journal Asiatique_, tome xvi, p. 193ff. and p. 338ff. This has been reprinted along with other translations by the learned Professor.

[8] A Khoja is a master of a household, also a teacher; in the former acceptation it is somewhat equivalent to the old English “goodman.”—Gibb’s _History of the Forty Vezírs_, p. 33.

[9] The humái is a fabulous bird, supposed to bestow prosperity on any person who is overshadowed by its wings.

[10] Oriental writers frequently descant on the advantages of travel; not only because it enlarges the mind (for “home-keeping youths have ever homely wits”), but as a means of acquiring wealth. For some examples, see my _Book of Sindibád_.

[11] The name generally given by the Arabs and Persians to the districts of Northern Africa west of Egypt.

[12] Belief in judicial astrology—in the influence of the planets over the fortunes of men—prevails throughout the East, as it did in Europe until comparatively recent times; indeed the delusion appears to have its adherents in our own country, even in these “double-distilled” days, if it be true that _Zadkiel’s Almanack_ has a very large circulation. Truly “error dies hard!”—An Asiatic, before setting out on a journey, being married, or beginning any important affair, always consults an astrologer to learn the precise lucky moment. In one of the _Játakas_, or Buddhist Birth-Stories, a man having missed making a good match for his son, because he had been told by a spiteful astrologer that the day proposed for the nuptials was inauspicious, a wise old fellow shrewdly remarked: “What is the use of luck in the stars? Surely getting the girl is the luck!” and recited this stanza:

While the star-gazing fool is waiting for luck, the luck goes by;
The star of luck is luck, and not any star in the sky.

In the appendix to my edition of the Persian story-book entitled _Bakhtyár Náma_, pp. 218-223, may be found some rather droll anecdotes of the blunders of astrologers.

[13] This custom is observed by Muslims in compliance with the precept of Muhammed: “Whoever,” said he, “believes in God and the day of resurrection, must respect his guest; and the time of being kind to him is one day and one night; and the period of entertaining him is _three days_; and after that, if he does it longer, it benefits him more; but it is not right for a guest to stay in the house of his host so long as to incommode him.” In the introduction to the _Arabian Nights_, King Shahriyár entertains his brother, Shah Zamán, three days, and on the fourth he accompanies him a day’s journey and takes leave of him.

[14] Henna is a preparation made from the leaves of the Egyptian privet (_Lawsonia inermis_), with which women in the East stain the tips of their fingers, the palms of their hands, etc. It imparts a yellowish red or deep orange colour, which disappears in a fortnight or three weeks, when it has to be renewed.—See Lane’s _Modern Egyptians_, ch. i.

[15] See note on page 8.—We have in this passage the _motif_ of the romance throughout.

[16] “Hell has no fury like a woman scorned!” Besides, the virtuous youth might not keep the secret of her intended intrigue (for such is evidently to be understood) to himself.

[17] Stories, such as this, of unfaithful wives outwitting their husbands, with similar mischances, are common in Eastern collections; and the present well-told tale would probably have been very eagerly adapted by the early Italian novelists, had they known it, among whom, indeed, it has more than one analogue.

[18] A tomán is a Persian gold coin which has varied much in value at different periods; at present it is worth about 7s. 2d. of our money.

[19] The húrís (or, as the term is often written, houries) are the black-eyed nymphs of the Muslim Paradise, of whom Muhammed has promised seventy to each believer.

[20] One of the Egyptian magicians who “withstood Moses,” mentioned by Arabian writers: their chief was called Simeon, and among the eminent masters of the “art magic” were Sadhúr and Ghadúr, Jaath and Mossa, Waran and Lamán, each of whom came attended with his disciples, amounting in all to several thousands.—St. Paul, in his second epistle to Timothy, iii, 8, gives the names of two of the magicians as Jannes and Jambres.

[21] The notion of the life or heart of an ogre, witch, etc., being extraneous to the body and concealed in some object—usually very difficult to reach by the heroes who are in their power—is often the subject of the popular fictions of all countries. What is probably the oldest extant instance of this occurs in an Egyptian romance, preserved among the hieratic papyri in the British Museum, which bears to have been written more than 3000 years ago, or about the period when Moses was, in his youth, at the court of Pharaoh. The “curious” reader may find numerous other examples cited in my _Popular Tales and Fictions_, vol. i, pp. 347-351.

[22] Parrots often play important parts in Asiatic tales: here, however, the “intelligent” bird, as will be seen presently, works only mischief.

[23] It does not appear from the preceding part of the narrative that the hero received any ring from a “neighbour’s wife.” Perhaps something has been omitted by a copyist of the Persian text.

[24] Many an honest fellow, besides the generous-hearted Obayd, having been thus beggared by the rapacity of an Asiatic despot, has turned robber in self-defence.

[25] _i.e._, Persia.

[26] An ashrafí is worth about ten shillings.

[27] It is a favourite plan for extricating an impecunious hero out of his difficulties in Eastern fictions to represent him as finding a great treasure in a ruin. And no doubt such an incident has often occurred in Asiatic countries, where—in the absence of such institutions as banks—money and jewels are usually concealed in the earth, old wells, etc., lest the sovereign or one of his greedy ministers should come to know of any person possessing much wealth, and forthwith confiscate it.

[28] By “Rúm” (or Roum) Asiatics generally mean Europe, at least Eastern Europe, and “the land of the Franks” has the same meaning.

[29] This incident recalls popular tales current in our own country of witches turning themselves into cats, and some bold fellow smiting off a paw of one of the unholy sisterhood thus transformed, and next day a woman suspected of witchcraft being found in her bed with one of her hands apparently newly amputated.—Similar stories are told of _werwolves_, or men having the power of transforming themselves for a time into wolves.

[30] Hatim was chief of the Arab tribe of Taï, shortly before the advent of Muhammed, and so highly celebrated for his boundless generosity that at the present day in Muslim countries no greater compliment can be paid to an open-handed man than to call him “another Hatim.”

[31] A gold dínar is worth about ten shillings.

[32] “_Darb er-Ramal_, or geomancy, by which, from certain marks made at random on paper, or on sand (whence, according to some, its name), the professors pretend to discover past, passing, and future events, is, I am informed, mainly founded on astrology.”—Lane’s _Modern Egyptians_, ch. xii.

[33] In the East, as in the West, religion is often assumed as a cloak of villainy; and the half-naked darveshes who prowl through Muslim towns and villages, blowing their horns and bellowing their eternal “hakk! hakk!” are for the most part lewd rascals; and not a whit better are most of those who affect to live as hermits. Muhammed said that “there is no monkery in Islám,” which is true in one respect, viz., that while a monk must remain a monk all his life, a darvesh may at any time toss away his begging-bowl and return to his former station in society.

[34] Fars, or Farsistán, is a province of Persia, the capital of which is Shíráz, so much celebrated by Háfiz and other Persian poets. As the Neapolitans have their favourite saying, “See Naples, and die,” so the Persians say that “If Muhammed had tasted the pleasures of Shíráz, he would have begged Allah to make him immortal there.”

[35] This monarch is not to be confounded with that Farídún who was the sixth of the first dynasty (Píshdádí) of ancient Persian kings.

[36] Signet-rings were commonly used throughout the East from the earliest period of which any records have been preserved. When a king gave his signet to any one he was thereby empowered to act in the king’s name. Thus in the Book of Esther we read that King Ahasuerus took his ring from off his finger and gave it first to Haman and afterwards to Mordecai.

[37] In other words, the king resigned his throne in favour of the prince. It seems to have been a common practice for Oriental potentates, at a certain period of life, to retire from the cares of state and turn ascetics—which was very proper, if all the tales be true of their sanguinary doings!

[38] Al-Mu’tasim Billah, was the fourth son of the Khalíf Harún er-Rashíd, and succeeded his second brother, Al-Mámún, A.D. 833. He was the first of the Khalífs who added to his name the title of _Billah_, which is equivalent to the _Dei Gracia_ of Christian sovereigns. Al-Mu’tasim was the 8th Khalíf of the house of Abbas; was born on the 8th month (Shaban) of the year; ascended the throne in the 218th year of the Hijra; lived 48 years; and died on the 18th of the month Rabí I; he fought 8 battles; built 8 palaces; begat 8 sons and 8 daughters; had 8,000 slaves; and had 8,000,000 dínars and 80,000 dirhams [a dirham is a silver coin of the value of sixpence] in his treasury at his death;—whence Oriental historians gave him the name of Al-Musamman, or the Octonary.

[39] When a Persian monarch desires to show his special regard for any great man who has come to his court, he presents him with a _khil’at_, or robe of honour, which is often very valuable.

[40] Compared with this what was the archery feat of Locksley (_alias_ Robin Hood), as described in _Ivanhoe_? It seems to have been a common practice in Persia to suspend a finger-ring as the mark and prize in an archery competition. A story is told of a Sháh who, while on a pleasure excursion to Massala Shíráz, appointed an archery contest for the amusement of himself and his courtiers. He caused a gold ring, set with a valuable gem, to be fixed on the dome of ’Asád, and it was announced that whosoever should send an arrow through the ring should obtain it as the reward of his skill. The four hundred skilled archers forming the royal body-guard each shot at the ring without success. It happened that a boy on a neighbouring house-top was at the same time diverting himself with a little bow, when one of his arrows, shot at random, went through the ring. The boy, having thus obtained the prize, immediately burned his bow, shrewdly observing that he had done so in order that the reputation of this his first feat should never be impaired. (Sa’dí’s _Gulistân_, or Rose-Garden, ch. iii). The famous Persian poet and robber-chief Kurroglú had a band of 777 men under his command, and Demurchy-oglú (_i.e._ the son of the blacksmith) offered himself for a vacancy. Kurroglú, in order to test the nerve of the candidate, bade him sit down; then taking an apple from his pocket and a ring from his finger, he stuck the ring in the apple, and ordered one of his men to remove the cap from the head of the new comer. Having placed the apple on the young man’s head, Kurroglú rode to one side and bent his bow and continued to pass one arrow after another through the ring. Out of sixty arrows that were shot not one went astray. (Chodzko’s _Popular Poetry of Persia_, pp. 88, 89). Here we have the feat of William Tell—with a difference.

[41] The duty of the muezzin is to chant the call to prayer (_adán_) from the minaret of the mosque five times every day. Blind men are generally employed as muezzins, in order that they should not overlook the terraces, or flat roofs, of the houses, where the inmates generally sleep during very hot weather.

[42] The Súfís are the mystics of Islám, and profess to have attained, by meditation, so advanced a stage of spiritual perfection as to render the teachings of the Kurán and the ordinary religious observances quite unnecessary to them. They are generally considered by the “orthodox” as arrant infidels. For an interesting account of some of their public “religious” performances, see the chapter on the Dancing Darveshes in Lane’s _Modern Egyptians_.

[43] Muhammed.

[44] In primitive times even kings were proud of their skill in the art of cookery. Thus in the charming story of Nala and Damayanti (an episode of the great Hindú epic, the _Mahábhárata_) the good Rájá is recognised by his devoted wife, who had been long separated from him, by some meat of his dressing. And in the other grand Indian epic, the _Rámáyana_, the demi-god Rámá is represented as killing and cooking the dinner of his spouse Sitá and himself:

Their thirst allayed, the princes ply the chase,
And a fat stag soon falls beneath their arrows.
A fire they kindle next, and dress their prize;
Then, offering to the gods and manes made,
With Sitá they the social banquet share.

And readers of the _Arabian Nights_ will remember how young Bedr ed-Dín Hasan was discovered by the delicious tarts for the making of which he had been always famed.

[45] One of the signs of the Zodiac.

[46] Wrestling has been from the most ancient times a favourite sport in Persia, as it has also been among the Japanese. Due allowance must, of course, be made for the Oriental exaggeration here indulged in, of representing our hero as throwing two hundred men in succession;—still, the author is not inconsistent, for did not he, single-handed, lay about him boldly and scatter the gang of robbers in the mosque and prove more than a match for the townsfolk?

[47] I presume by the “Sun of Prophecy” is meant Muhammed. The “Court of Unity” is Heaven.

[48] This little story is evidently intended as a satire on ascetics whose notions of religious duties spring from their own foolish minds, and who are often held up to ridicule by the most eminent Persian poets and moralists.