Chapter VII: The Return to His Father (18)

While this recital engaged the attention of Bensirak, Chamsada, his spouse, although less troubled than on the preceding days, was not altogether in a tranquil state. The events had become too important for her. She endeavoured to find out with what design the Sultan, after having questioned her, had departed so abruptly. She had not been able to learn what he had done, nor what was become of him, since the confession which she had made to him. She was indulging these reflections, and continued sunk in the sleep in which the Sultan seemed to surprise her. All at once twenty slaves, carrying flambeaux, came to illuminate her apartment; they walked before the Sultan, who conducted by the hand and looked with kindness on the beloved son of the most virtuous of mothers. He had caused Shaseliman to be dressed in the most magnificent garments; he was adorned with beautiful diamonds, in which Bensirak had delighted to be decked on the days of triumph.

"Soothe your sorrows, adorable Chamsada," cried he, throwing himself into her arms. "The favour of Heaven restores to you a husband and a son, whose feelings and affection secure your felicity for ever."

Shaseliman, on his knees, kissed the hands of his mother; and tears of consolation expressed the sentiments of the son and of the delighted pair.

As soon as day had succeeded this happy night, the Sultan assembled the best of his troops, and put himself at their head, accompanied by Shaseliman. He took the road for Persia, causing heralds go before him, and announce to the people of that kingdom that he was about to re-establish on the throne their rightful King, assassinated, persecuted, and dethroned by the usurper Balavan. Scarcely had they reached the frontiers of Persia, when a party of the faithful subjects of the old King Selimansha, always attached to the blood of this august family, came to range themselves under the banners of the Sultan of Egypt and of Shaseliman. The perfidious Balavan heard this intelligence, and endeavoured to assemble his forces, in order to dispute the ground with a powerful enemy who came to overwhelm him; but no one would repair to his colours, and he was obliged to shut himself up in his capital with his usual guard and the few subjects on whose fidelity he thought he could depend.

But if virtue, pursued by a superior force, is so often deserted, where are the resources of guilt?

Ispahan is invested, and Balavan, betrayed by his ministers, is delivered up to the Sultan Bensirak, who, turning his eyes from a monster who had dishonoured the throne by the most dreadful crimes, and directing himself to Shaseliman,

"My son," said he, "to you I commit the scourge of your subjects and your father's murderer; dispose of his lot, and give orders for his punishment."

"O my benefactor! O my father! it belongs not to me to dispose of him," replied Shaseliman; "vengeance must come down from above. Let him go to the frontiers to guard that dangerous post with which I was entrusted. If he is innocent, he will be preserved as I have been; but if he is guilty, his decree is pronounced, and nothing can suspend its execution."

The Sultan approved of the decision of Shaseliman, and Balavan set out to make head against the infidels. But divine justice was now prepared to inflict its stroke. He was taken, chained, and thrown into the fatal well, where gnawing remorse and dreadful despair continued to torment him till the moment of his death.

Meanwhile the presumptive heir of the Persian crown, the happy Shaseliman, seated on the throne of his ancestors, received the oaths of his people. He commenced a reign of which the wisdom and piety recalled to the Persians the sublime virtues of the Grand Caliph Moavie. The Sultan of Egypt, after having seen this young Sovereign shine in the splendour of the most distinguished virtues, and having tenderly embraced him, returned to his dominions, and by his presence completed the joy of Chamsada. Nothing afterwards disturbed the repose of this happy pair, and having reached at last the term allotted to human greatness, they fell asleep in that peace which is the portion of faithful Mussulmans.

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"Sire," said Aladin to King Bohetzad, after having finished his recital, "see by what secret and wonderful ways Providence delivered Shaseliman from the hands of persecution! See how it led Balavan into the very gulf he had dug for another! No, Allah will never suffer guilt to triumph and innocence to be punished. His vigilance and justice nothing can escape, and sooner or later He will tear asunder the veil with which the wicked are covered. As for me, sire, encouraged by my conscience and convinced that man cannot alter the decrees of my destiny, I am always firm and hopeful. I only fear that your justice will light on your Viziers, my accusers."

At this discourse, equally firm, wise, and modest, the King was left still more irresolute than ever.

"Let the execution of the sentence be suspended," said he; "let this young man be conducted back to prison. The silence of the night, and the reflections which his recital will occasion, may enlighten my judgment, and to-morrow I shall more easily take my resolution."

As soon as Aladin had been led back to his dungeon, one of the Viziers began:

"Sire, your Majesty suffers yourself to be overcome by the magic of this young impostor's discourses. The great Prophet preserve you from yielding to sentiments of mercy in his behalf! When guilt remains unpunished, the splendour of the throne is obscured. You are seated there for no other purpose but to administer justice: the crime of this villain is evident, and his punishment ought to be signal; the most awful should be fixed upon, that it may serve as an example to such."

"Let orders be immediately given," interrupted Bohetzad eagerly, "to erect a scaffold without the walls of the city, on the most elevated situation. Let the dread of death terrify those who might attempt to follow his footsteps. Such is my final resolution, and let it be announced to the people by the public criers."

The ten Viziers were well pleased to hear this resolution. They hoped at length, by their secret plots, to make the object of their envy fall beneath the sword of justice, and were eager to order the apparatus of punishment.

On the morning of the following day, which was the eleventh since the confinement of Aladin, the ten Viziers went to the King.

"Sire," said they, "your orders are obeyed; your pleasure is known, and the people assembled round the spot wait only for him who is to die there."

Bohetzad gave orders that the criminal should be brought to him. As soon as he appeared the ten Viziers lifted up their voices against him.

"Wretch! offspring of villains!" said they to him, "the scythe of death is raised over thy head; thy stratagems are exhausted, and thou art about to receive the reward of thy crimes and rashness."

"Audacious ministers," said Aladin, looking at them with a confident but modest air, "it belongs not to you to mark my forehead with the seal of death! If the decree which strikes me comes not from Heaven, what could all your attempts avail? Guilt alone can be afraid of them. But since I have nothing wherewith to reproach myself, had I even my head under the fatal sword, I should be preserved from the stroke, like the slave who was accused although innocent."

"Sire," interrupted all the Viziers at once, "impose silence on this audacious fellow; he wishes still to deceive your Majesty by a new tale."

"I wish not to impose upon the King," said Aladin; "it is you who cherish falsehood and imposture."

"Stop!" said Bohetzad to him; "I will yet put my patience to a last effort, and agree to hear the history of your slave and of his deliverance."

"Oh, the clemency of my King!" replied Aladin. "May truth at length reach your heart, which is so difficult of access! I wish not by a false relation to deceive your Majesty; the story I am going to relate is well known throughout all Chaldea."

HISTORY OF THE KING OF HARAM, AND OF THE SLAVE.

The King of Haram, uneasy at the manner in which his Viziers and Cadis administered justice in the provinces of his empire, went one night from his palace disguised, and only escorted by two eunuchs. By chance he passed near a dungeon, from whence he heard a plaintive and lamentable voice. He learned that this place served as a prison, in which criminals condemned to death were shut up; and approaching nearer it in order to hear distinctly the doleful accents, which appeared to come from the bowels of the earth, he heard these words:

"O powerful Allah! Thou who watchest constantly over the unfortunate, stooping under the burden of his misery, wilt Thou suffer innocence, falsely accused, to sink under presumptions which a fatal destiny hath heaped upon it? Infinite mercy! none of Thy creatures are insignificant in Thy eyes; Thou hearest the cries of a worm; listen to that of Thy slave; and if my death is not determined by Thy providence, arrest the stroke with which I am threatened."

A silence, interrupted only by sighs, succeeded this prayer. The King of Haram returned to his palace with a heart moved by these lamentations, and a spirit troubled with this adventure. In vain did he seek repose: the idea of the death of an innocent person agitated him, and he only waited the return of day to clear up this mystery.

As soon as the sun had enlightened the earth, he called together his ministers, and described to them the place from which the cries came that had excited his pity. They informed him that the unfortunate person confined in this dungeon was destined to die that very day upon the scaffold. They gave him an account of his trial, from which the crime appeared clear, and two witnesses certified that the slave, whom his Majesty had heard, was the perpetrator of it. The King of Haram could not resist what human justice reckons evidence, and immediately confirmed the order for his execution.

The slave, convicted of the crime, was taken from the dungeon: he walked to punishment with a firm and modest countenance; his hands bound, and his eyes lifted up to Heaven, which was now his only hope. He was at the foot of the scaffold; the executioners were preparing to strip him of his clothes, when an unexpected noise entirely changed the aspect of this scene of death. A hostile party, having formed the design of making themselves masters of the city, waited until the people, attracted by curiosity to see the execution, should have gone out of it. They hastily quitted the ambuscade in which they were concealed, fell upon the guard, and dispersed it. All those who endeavoured to defend it either fell by the sword or were made prisoners; not one escaped except the unhappy slave who was about to suffer an ignominious death.

The enemy, dreading the approach of the King, then withdrew to a distance in order to increase their forces, carrying with them the booty they had got, and deferred to another time the consummation of their enterprise.

Meanwhile, the slave, delivered from his chains by the hands of the enemy, and still fearing lest people should be dispatched to pursue him, gained the country, and walked day and night without stopping. At length, overcome with fatigue, he stopped under the shade of a laurel, which, from its size and height, appeared coeval with the world, and sat down. Opposite to this tree, and very near it, was the entrance of a dark cave; two torches threw a dreadful light around it, without altogether dispelling its darkness. His attention was fixed with astonishment on these objects, which inspired him with terror, when he thought he observed these two lights move and advance towards him. These bright fires were nothing but the glaring eyes of a monstrous lion, which came out of the cave and slowly approached the unhappy slave, who had nothing with which he could defend himself. The animal seized him, and, without hurting him, carried him into the cave. He instantly went out of it again, tore down the enormous laurel under which the man had been formerly seated, and, having placed it at the mouth of the cave in order to shut up its passage, ran into the desert in search of its mate, whom the need of food for their whelps had carried far from their common haunt.

The mouth of this cave, shut up by the trunk of the tree, was inaccessible to all human power. However, there was still sufficient light left for the slave to view the inside of this dreadful habitation, to distinguish its inhabitants, and to see there the fragments of bones and food with which the ground was covered. He saw likewise two young lions couching on a heap of moss, who were not frightened by his presence. In an opposite corner he perceived a heap of human bones, the sad remains of the unfortunate whom the same destiny that had brought him there had drawn toward this frightful abode. Nevertheless, amid these objects, fear did not damp his courage: he turned towards the south, and, like a faithful Mussulman, addressed his prayer to the great Prophet with as much zeal and fervour as if he had been in the most splendid mosque and in the most secure asylum.

Full of confidence in the Sovereign Arbiter of Destiny, he then cast his eyes into the dark cavities of this den. There were many clothes in it: he put his hand into the pockets of one garment, and found there a stone and a piece of steel for striking fire; the earth was covered with a dry moss, which served as litter to the savage inhabitants of this dwelling. The possibility of getting out revived his courage; and scarcely was the enterprise conceived when it was put in execution. He set fire to the moss which he had collected at the mouth of the cave; the flames penetrated the moist bark of the laurel's roots, and the fire speedily increasing, the tree lost its support and fell upon its side with a crash, so as to leave the mouth of the cave quite open. In examining this cave he had seen a bow, sabres, and poniards, which might serve for his defence. He had also discovered, by the light, a pan with coined gold, and pieces of this metal, with precious jewels of different kinds. Provided in this manner, with everything which could assist his escape, he armed himself with what was necessary, cut away with his sabre the burning branches which opposed his passage, and, blessing Heaven, at length recovered his liberty.

Scarcely had the slave got out of this dangerous cave, when he perceived the lion at the distance of four bowshots, and the lioness somewhat farther off in the plain. He put upon his bow a deadly arrow; and the lion, thinking to dart upon his prey, ran with great rapidity against the arrow, which was discharged at him. The steel reached his heart, and he fell lifeless.

The slave, freed from this enemy, soon had the other also to contend with. He darted another arrow, but it made only a slight wound. The animal, rendered still more furious, rushed forwards to throw him on the ground. The slave opposed her with his poniard, and plunged it into her side. The lioness, roaring aloud, made a new effort; but with his scimitar he struck off one of her fore-paws, and disabled her for further combat. She rolled along the earth, making the echoes resound with her roaring: the young lions from the cave answered her with hideous cries, which would have filled the most warlike soul with terror. In the meantime the conqueror secured his victory by piercing the animal in the vital parts, till at length she sank under the vigour of his arm. He ran immediately to kill the whelps, and drew them out of the cave. After this feat of valour, he looked in the plain for a tree, the fruit of which might afford him nourishment, and a stream in which he might quench his thirst; and still aided by Providence, everything seemed subject to his desires and offered itself to his hand.

Having at length recruited his strength, exhausted by so much fatigue, he re-entered the cave whose inhabitants he had destroyed, made himself master of the treasures it contained, shut up its entrance with the branches of a tree, and, armed to as much advantage as possible, and furnished with gold and silver to satisfy his wants, he took the road to his native country. He arrived there at the end of some days, and gave an account of his history to his relations. Camels and slaves were dispatched to bring away the precious effects which were left in the lions' den. Possessed of so much riches, the beneficent slave shared them with the indigent. Not far from his habitation he built an asylum for caravans, pilgrims, and travellers who might be obliged to take that road; and from the spoils of a lions' den he erected a temple of charity.

* * * * *

"Sire," added Aladin, after having finished his relation, "you see how this slave, condemned to perish upon the scaffold, on the false evidence of his enemies, and in danger of being devoured by lions, was miraculously delivered from these dangers; while his accusers and enemies, eager to feast their eyes with the sight of his tortures, were massacred and punished. The King of Haram, deprived of part of his subjects, suffered the punishment of his negligence in not examining the proceedings himself, and not listening sufficiently to complaints which, although they moved his pity, had not armed his justice."

Bohetzad felt an unusual struggle betwixt his own power, the relations and reflections of Aladin, and the solicitations of his ministers. A voice within him pleaded powerfully against the judgment he had pronounced; yet the orders which he had given publicly, the scaffold already prepared without the walls of the city, the crowd of people impatient to enjoy this execution, so long delayed, all seemed to increase the embarrassment of the King. His Viziers, seeing him hesitate again, were eager to fix his resolution by the strongest remonstrances; and going over all the arguments they had already alleged, they ended by alarming the King respecting the duration of his power.

"I feel in spite of you," said the King, "that my heart revolts at what I am doing; nevertheless, as the safety of my kingdom depends upon this decree, I yield to your reasons. Let the criminal be conducted to punishment."

That very instant the guard seized Aladin. He was bound with cords, loaded with chains, and led without the city to the place where he was to terminate his existence. The King himself, mounted upon an elephant, and followed by his whole Court, repaired to the place of punishment: he was seated upon a throne from which he would behold the execution. The unfortunate Aladin was already on the scaffold, when suddenly a stranger, rushing through the crowd, and removing the guards and every obstacle that opposed his passage, threw himself into the arms of Aladin.

"Oh, my son! my dear son!" exclaimed he, the tears flowing in a torrent from his eyes. He could say no more, for grief stopped his utterance.

This unexpected event threw the people into commotion, and the King gave orders that the stranger should be brought before him.

"Sovereign monarch," said he to him, embracing his knees, "save the life of the unfortunate young man whom you have condemned to death. If a criminal must die, give orders for my punishment: I await it at your feet."

"Who are you?" said the King. "What interest have you in this criminal?"

"Sire, I am the chief of a band of robbers. Searching one day in the desert for a fountain to allay the thirst of my company, I found upon the grass, on the brink of a fountain, and at the feet of five palm-trees, which covered it with their shadow, a piece of cloth interwoven with gold, and some swaddling-clothes, on which an infant lay. Moved with compassion for this innocent creature, I carried him to my house, where my wife became his nurse. This child was not ours, sire; but he was to us a gift from Heaven, and became dearer to us than our own. He was endowed with such excellent qualities and so many virtues, that we regretted our having abandoned those which the exercise of our profession had made us forget; for in short--to my shame I avow it, sire--we were robbers. He followed us in our expeditions, and distinguished himself on every occasion by deeds of valour and humanity. We lost him in a conflict with your troops."

No other circumstance was necessary to inform the King that he who was about to die by his command was his only son! He rushed from his throne, flew to Aladin, with his own poniard struck the cords off him, and clasped him in his arms, with marks of the most tender affection.

"Ah! my son," exclaimed he, "I have been on the point of plunging in my heart the dagger of endless repentance. My heart must have been torn at the sight of a cruel punishment, and it has been mercifully converted into a spectacle of triumph and joy, whose ravishing splendour my soul can with difficulty support!"

He again embraced Aladin, set him upon his elephant, and returned to the palace, amid the din of trumpets and the acclamations of the people.

Baherjoa had been already informed of his unexpected happiness in finding a son for whose fate she had been so often alarmed. In a short time the King himself presented to her this dear child, dressed in such splendid garments that it was not easy to discover the alteration which a tedious confinement had produced upon him. The joy of this event soon spread through all ranks in the kingdom. Courtiers, merchants, and artists partook of it; the mosques were opened, and the people crowded thither to render thanks to Allah and His Prophet; public rejoicings testified the general happiness; the city of Ispahan was on this day transformed into a scene of pleasure; and everything, even the birds of heaven, sang the glory of the monarch and the deliverance of Aladin.

The ten Viziers alone, far from participating in the public happiness, were thrown into a dark dungeon, where the remorse of their consciences anticipated the punishment which, at the end of the thirty days that had been appointed for feasting, they were doomed to suffer. At length, by the orders of the Sovereign, they were brought to the foot of the throne, which was now become so formidable to them. Aladin was seated at his father's right hand. They turned away their guilty eyes, and after a silence that imposed respect and terror, Bohetzad thus addressed them:

"Pretended supports of my throne!" said he to them, "ministers so jealous of my glory! behold this criminal whom, with so much cruel obstinacy and such distinguished eagerness, you pursued. I ought to have sent him to punishment without hearing him! by listening to his stories, I exposed my glory, my safety, and the peace of my subjects! Justify yourselves if you can: you have liberty to speak."

In vain did the King endeavour to make these guilty ministers open their mouths. They were seized with a mortal coldness; their eyes, fixed on the ground, could not be drawn from it; their lips quivered; their feeble limbs bent under their knees and seemed ready to fail them.

"Speak," said Aladin to them in his turn: "where now is that attachment to the rules of justice which rendered you so eloquent against the son of a chief of the robbers, whose mere mistake was in your eyes a crime which ought to be expiated by the most infamous punishment? Are your courage and your zeal for the glory of the kingdom annihilated? Guilt weighs you down, remorse preys upon you, and you are confounded with shame."

"Your sentence, already written in heaven," resumed Bohetzad, "is about to be executed on earth. On the scaffold where my son was to suffer let these ten wretches finish their days, and let the public criers announce this decree to the people."

The order was instantly executed.

Bohetzad then leading back his son to the palace, continually renewed the tender proofs of his affection.

"Ah, dear son!" would he say, "how were you so little intimidated by the death which threatened you as to recollect all the circumstances you related? Whence have you drawn those numerous maxims and judicious reflections which can only be the fruit of experience and study?"

"Sire," replied Aladin, "it was not I who spoke, but Heaven which inspired me. In my infancy I had not been neglected; and since the happy moment in which I had the good fortune to be placed near your Majesty, I have been perfected in wisdom. The woman, whom I took for my mother, early directed my attention to the divine Koran, by whose sacred precepts, she told me, I ought to regulate my conduct. And that which will appear most extraordinary to you, sire, is, that her husband, led away by the force of habit, brought up in guilt almost from his infancy, and not hesitating in the least to plunder caravans, should yet be afraid of breaking his word. He was a faithful husband, a kind master to his slaves, to me more than an affectionate father, and of all men the least greedy of plunder. He cherished me; and as at that time I was not so well informed as I am at present, I honoured him as a benefactor and loved him as a parent."

"Enough respecting him, my son," replied the King. "Returning from the awful scene they have just beheld, and warned by the signal which the Muezzins have sounded from the tops of the mosques, the people are about to fill them. Order my treasurer to follow you; let plentiful alms and charity everywhere accompany your steps, and announce, in a suitable manner, the heir, whom, for the prosperity of my empire, Heaven has restored to my arms."

As soon as the religious ceremonies were finished, the King ordered the chief of the robbers, who was known to have remained at Issessara, to be conducted to the bath, to be decently dressed, and brought to the palace, that he might enjoy the triumph of his adopted son. Far from reproaching him with his former manner of life, but presuming on the natural principles of this man, whom example had not corrupted, whom opportunities had not seduced, and whom want had not provoked, he appointed him to the command of a frontier province, where he must necessarily command respect by his activity and military talents.

Bohetzad, Baherjoa, and Aladin, reunited by the ties of blood, of love, and of friendship, passed many years in unalterable affection, continually finding means to draw closer the knots which bound them together. At length, the monarch, feeling from his age and strength that it was time to resign the sceptre into more steady hands, assembled his divan, his ministers, Viziers, Cadis, lawyers, princes, lords, and all the grandees of the realm.

"Nature," said he to them, "hath called my son to succeed me; but, in his miraculous preservation, Heaven has given a clear indication of its will. In putting the crown upon his head this day, I only obey its decrees, and give you a master more worthy than I to command."

The Adventures of Urad; or, The Fair Wanderer.

On the banks of the river Tigris, far above where it washes the lofty city of the Faithful, lived Nouri, in poverty and widowhood, whose employment it was to tend the worm who clothes the richest and the fairest with its beautiful web. Her husband, who was a guard to the caravans of the merchants, lost his life in an engagement with the wild Arabs, and left the poor woman no other means of supporting herself, or her infant daughter Urad, but by her labours among the silk-worms, which were little more than sufficient to support nature, although her labours began ere the sunbeams played on the waters of the Tigris, and ended not till the stars were reflected from its surface. Such was the business of the disconsolate Nouri, when the voluptuous Almurah was proclaimed Sultan throughout his extensive dominions; nor was it long before his subjects felt the power of their Sultan; for, Almurah resolving to inclose a large tract of land for hunting and sporting, commanded the inhabitants of fourteen hundred villages to be expelled from the limits of his intended inclosure.

A piteous train of helpless and ruined families were in one day driven from their country and livelihood, and obliged to seek for shelter amidst the forests, the caves, and deserts, which surround the more uncultivated banks of the Tigris.

Many passed by the cottage of Nouri the widow, among whom she distributed what little remains of provision she had saved from the earnings of her labours the day before; and, her little stock being exhausted, she had nothing but wishes and prayers left for the rest.

It happened, among the numerous throngs that travelled by her cottage, that a young man came with wearied steps, bearing on his shoulders an old and feeble woman; setting her down on the ground before the door of Nouri, he besought her to give him a drop of water, to wash the sand and the dust from his parched mouth.

Nouri, having already distributed the contents of her pitcher, hastened to the river to fill it for the wearied young man; and, as she went, she begged a morsel of provisions from a neighbour, whose cottage stood on a rock which overlooked the flood.

With this, and her pitcher filled with water, the good Nouri returned, and found the feeble old woman on the ground, but the young man was not with her.

"Where," said Nouri, "O afflicted stranger, is the pious young man that dutifully bore the burden of age on his shoulders?"

"Alas!" answered the stranger, "my son has brought me hither from the tyranny of Almurah, and leaves me to perish in the deserts of Tigris. No sooner were you gone for the water, than a crowd of young damsels came this way, and led my cruel son from his perishing mother. But, courteous stranger," said she to Nouri, "give me of that water to drink, that my life fail not within me, for thirst, and hunger, and trouble are hastening to put an end to the unhappy Houadir."

The tender and benevolent Nouri invited Houadir into the cottage, and there placed her on a straw bed, and gave her the provisions, and a cup of water to drink.

Houadir, being somewhat refreshed by the care of Nouri, acquainted her with the cruel decree of Almurah, who had turned her son out of his little patrimony, where, by the labour of his hands, he had for many years supported her, and that till that day she had ever found him a most dutiful and obedient son, and concluded with a wish that he would shortly return to his poor helpless parent.

Nouri did all she could to comfort the wretched Houadir, and, having persuaded her to rest awhile on the bed, returned to the labours of the day.

When her work was finished, Nouri, with the wages of the day, purchased some provisions, and brought them home to feed herself and the little Urad, whose portion of food, as well as her own, had been distributed to the unhappy wanderers.

As Nouri was giving a small morsel to Urad, Houadir awaked, and begged that Nouri would be so kind as to spare her a bit of her provisions.

Immediately, before Nouri could rise, the little Urad ran nimbly to the bed and offered her supper to the afflicted Houadir, who received it with great pleasure from her hands, being assured her mother would not let Urad be a loser by her benevolence.

Houadir continued several days with the widow Nouri, expecting the return of her son; till, giving over all hopes of seeing him, and observing that she was burdensome to the charitable widow, she one evening, after the labours of the day, thus addressed her hospitable friend:

"I perceive, benevolent Nouri, that my son has forsaken me, and that I do but rob you and your poor infant of the scanty provision which you, by your hourly toil, are earning: wherefore, listen to my proposal, and judge whether I offer you a suitable return. There are many parts of your business that, old as I am, I can help you in, as the winding your silk and feeding your worms. Employ me, therefore, in such business in the day as you think me capable of performing; and at night, while your necessary cares busy you about the house, give me leave (as I see your labour allows you no spare time) to instruct the innocent Urad how to behave herself, when your death shall leave her unsheltered from the storms and deceits of a troublesome world."

Nouri listened with pleasure to the words of Houadir.

"Yes," said she, "benevolent stranger, you well advise me how to portion my poor infant, Urad, whom I could neither provide for by my industry nor instruct without losing the daily bread I earn for her. I perceive a little is sufficient for your support; nay, I know not how, I seem to have greater plenty since you have been with me than before; whether it be owing to the blessing of Heaven on you I know not."

"Far be it from me," said Houadir, "to see my generous benefactress deceived; but the thinness of inhabitants, occasioned by the tyranny of Almurah, is the cause that your provisions are more plentiful; but yet I insist upon bearing my part in the burden of the day, and Urad shall share my evening's labour."

From this time Houadir became a useful member of the family of Nouri, and Urad was daily instructed by the good old stranger in the pleasures and benefits of a virtuous, and the horrors and curses of an evil, life.

Little Urad was greatly rejoiced at the lessons of Houadir, and was never better pleased than when she was listening to the mild and pleasing instructions of her affable mistress.

It was the custom of Houadir, whenever she taught Urad any new rule or caution, to give her a peppercorn; requiring of her, as often as she looked at them, to remember the lessons which she learnt at the time she received them.

In this manner Urad continued to be instructed; greatly improving, as well in virtue and religion, as in comeliness and beauty, till she was near woman's estate; so that Nouri could scarcely believe she was the mother of a daughter so amiable and graceful in person and manners. Neither was Urad unskilled in the labours of the family, or the silk-worm; for, Nouri growing old and sickly, she almost constantly, by her industry, supported the whole cottage.

One evening, as Houadir was lecturing her attentive pupil, Nouri, who lay sick on the straw bed, called Urad to her.

"My dear daughter," said Nouri, "I feel, alas! more for you than myself: while Houadir lives, you will have indeed a better instructor than your poor mother was capable of being unto you; but what will my innocent lamb, my lovely Urad do, when she is left alone, the helpless prey of craft or power? Consider, my dear child, that Allah would not send you into the world to be necessarily and unavoidably wicked; therefore always depend upon the assistance of our holy Prophet when you do right, and let no circumstance of life, nor any persuasion, ever bias you to live otherwise than according to the chaste and virtuous precepts of the religious Houadir. May Allah and the Prophet of the Faithful ever bless and preserve the innocence and chastity of my dutiful and affectionate Urad!"

The widow Nouri spoke not again; her breath for ever fled from its confinement, and her body was delivered to the waters of the Tigris.

The inconsolable Urad had now her most difficult lesson to learn from the patient Houadir; and scarcely did she think it dutiful to moderate the violence of her grief.

"Sorrows," said Houadir, "O duteous Urad, which arise from sin or evil actions, cannot be assuaged without contrition or amendment of life; there the soul is deservedly afflicted, and must feel before it can be cured: such sorrows may my amiable pupil never experience! But the afflictions of mortality are alike the portions of piety or iniquity: it is necessary that we should be taught to part with the desirable things of this life by degrees, and that by the frequency of such losses our affections should be loosened from their earthly attachments. While you continue good be not dejected, my obedient Urad; and remember, it is one part of virtue to bear with patience and resignation the unalterable decrees of Heaven; not but that I esteem your sorrow, which arises from gratitude, duty, and affection. I do not teach my pupil to part with her dearest friends without reluctance, or wish her to be unconcerned at the loss of those who, by a marvellous love, have sheltered her from all those storms which must have overwhelmed helpless innocence. Only remember that your tears be the tears of resignation, and that your sighs confess a heart humbly yielding to His will who ordereth all things according to His infinite knowledge and goodness."

"O pious Houadir," replied Urad, "just are thy precepts: it was Allah that created my best of parents, and Allah is pleased to take her from me; far be it from me, though an infinite sufferer, to dispute His will; the loss indeed wounds me sorely, yet will I endeavour to bear the blow with patience and resignation."

Houadir still continued her kind lessons and instructions, and Urad, with a decent solemnity, attended both her labours and her teacher, who was so pleased with the fruits which she saw spring forth from the seeds of virtue that she had sown in the breast of her pupil, that she now began to leave her more to herself, and exhorted her to set apart some portion of each day to pray to her Prophet, and frequent meditation and recollection of the rules she had given her, that so her mind might never be suffered to grow forgetful of the truths she had treasured up. "For," said the provident Houadir, "when it shall please the Prophet to snatch me also from you, my dear Urad will then have only the peppercorns to assist her."

"And how, my kind governess," said Urad, "will those corns assist me?"

"They will," answered Houadir, "each of them (if you remember the precepts I gave you with them, but not otherwise), be serviceable in the times of your necessities."

Urad, with great reluctance, from that time was obliged to go without her evening lectures; which loss affected her much, for she knew no greater pleasure in life than hanging over Houadir's persuasive tongue, and hearing, with fixed attention, the sweet doctrines of prudence, chastity, and virtue.

As Urad, according to her usual custom (after having spent some few early hours at her employment), advanced toward the bed to call her kind instructress, whose infirmities would not admit her to rise betimes, she perceived that Houadir was risen from her bed.

The young virgin was amazed at the novelty of her instructress's behaviour, especially as she seldom moved without assistance, and hastened into a little inclosure to look after her; but not finding Houadir there, she went to the neighbouring cottages, none of the inhabitants of which could give any account of the good old matron; nevertheless the anxious Urad continued her search, looking all around the woods and forest, and often peeping over the rocks of the Tigris, as fearful that some accident might have befallen her. In this fruitless labour the poor virgin fatigued herself, till the sun, as tired of her toils, refused any longer to assist her search; when, returning to her lonely cot, she spent the night in tears and lamentations.

The helpless Urad now gave herself up entirely to grief; and the remembrance of her affectionate mother added a double portion of sorrows to her heart: she neglected to open her lonely cottage, and went not forth to the labours of the silk-worm; but, day after day, with little or no nourishment, she continued weeping the loss of Houadir, her mild instructress, and Nouri, her affectionate mother.

The neighbouring cottagers, observing that Urad came no longer to the silk-worms, and that her dwelling was daily shut up, after some time knocked at her cottage, and demanded if Urad the daughter of Nouri was living. Urad, seeing the concourse of people, came weeping and trembling toward the door, and asked them the cause of their coming.

"O Urad," said her neighbours, "we saw you, not long ago, seeking your friend Houadir, and we feared you also were missing, as you have neither appeared among us, nor attended your daily labours among the worms, who feed and provide for us by their subtle spinning."

"O my friends," answered Urad, "suffer a wretched maid to deplore the loss of her dearest friends. Nouri, from whose breasts I sucked my natural life, is now a prey to the vulture on the banks of the Tigris; and Houadir, from whom I derive my better life, is passed away from me like a vision in the night."

Her rustic acquaintance laughed at these sorrows of the virgin Urad. "Alas!" said one, "Urad grieves that now she has to work for one, instead of three." "Nay," cried another, "I wish my old folks were as well bestowed." "And I," said a third, "were our house rid of the old-fashioned lumber that fills it at present (my superannuated father and mother), would soon bring a healthy young swain to supply their places with love and affection." "Ay, true," answered two or three more, "we must look out a clever young fellow for Urad; whom shall she have?" "Oh, if that be all," said a crooked old maid, who was famous for match-making, "I will send Darandu to comfort her, before night; and, if I mistake not, he very well knows his business." "Well, pretty Urad," cried they all, "Darandu will soon be here: he is fishing on the Tigris; and it is but just that the river which has robbed you of one comfort, should give you a better." At this speech, the rest laughed very heartily, and they all ran away, crying out, "Oh, she will do very well when Darandu approaches."

Urad, though she could despise the trifling of her country neighbours, yet felt an oppression on her heart at the name of Darandu, who was a youth of incomparable beauty, and added to the charms of his person an engaging air, which was far above the reach of the rest of the country swains, who lived on those remote banks of the Tigris. "But, O Houadir, O Nouri!" said the afflicted virgin to herself, "never shall Urad seek, in the arms of a lover, to forget the bounties and precepts of so kind a mistress and so indulgent a parent."

These reflections hurried the wretched Urad into her usual sorrowful train of thoughts, and she spent the rest of the day in tears and weeping, calling for ever on Nouri and Houadir, and wishing that the Prophet would permit her to follow them out of a world where she foresaw neither comfort nor peace.

In the midst of these melancholy meditations, she was disturbed by a knocking at the door. Urad arose with trembling, and asked who was there.

"It is one," answered a voice in the softest tone, "who seeketh comfort and cannot find it; who desires peace, and it is far from him."

"Alas!" answered Urad, "few are the comforts of this cottage, and peace is a stranger to this mournful roof: depart, O traveller, whosoever thou art, and suffer the disconsolate Urad to indulge in sorrows greater than those from which you wish to be relieved."

"Alas!" answered the voice without, "the griefs of the beautiful Urad are my griefs; and the sorrows which afflict her, rend the soul of the wretched Darandu!"

"Whatever may be the motive for this charitable visit, Darandu," answered Urad, "let me beseech you to depart; for ill does it become a forlorn virgin to admit the conversation of the youths that surround her: leave me, therefore, O swain, ere want of decency make you appear odious in the sight of the virgins who inhabit the rocky banks of the rapid Tigris."

"To convince the lovely Urad," answered Darandu, "that I came to soothe her cares and condole with her in her losses (which I heard but this evening), I now will quit this dear spot, which contains the treasure of my heart, as, however terrible the parting is to me, I rest satisfied that it pleases the fair conqueror of my heart, whose peace to Darandu is more precious than the pomegranate in the sultry noon, or the silver scales of ten thousand fishes enclosed in the nets of my skilful comrades."

Darandu then left the door of the cottage, and Urad reclined on the bed, till sleep finished her toils, and for a time released her from the severe afflictions of her unguarded situation.

Early in the morning the fair Urad arose, and directed her steps to the rocks of the Tigris, either invited thither by the melancholy reflections which her departed mother occasioned, or willing to take a nearer and more unobserved view of the gentle Darandu.

Darandu, who was just about to launch his vessel into the river, perceived the beauteous mourner on the rocks; but he was too well versed in love affairs to take any notice of her: he rather turned from Urad, and endeavoured by his behaviour to persuade her that he had not observed her, for it was enough for him to know that he was not indifferent to her.

Urad, though she hardly knew the cause of her morning walk, yet continued on the rocks till Darandu had taken in his nets, and, with his companions, was steering up the stream in quest of the fishes of the Tigris. She then returned to her cottage, more irresolute in her thoughts, but less than ever inclined to the labours of her profession.

At the return of the evening she was anxious lest Darandu should renew his visit--an anxiety which, though it arose from fear, was yet near allied to hope; nor was she less solicitous about provisions, as all her little stock was entirely exhausted, and she had no other prospect before her than to return to her labours, which her sorrows had rendered irksome and disagreeable to her.

While she was meditating on these things, she heard a knocking at the door, which fluttered her little less than the fears of hunger or the sorrows of her lonely life.

For some time she had not courage to answer, till, the knocking being repeated, she faintly asked who was at the door.

"It is Lahnar," answered a female: "Lahnar, your neighbour, seeks to give Urad comfort, and to condole with the distressed mourner of a mother and a friend."

"Lahnar," answered Urad, "is then a friend to the afflicted, and kindly seeks to alleviate the sorrows of the wretched Urad."

She then opened the door, and Lahnar entered with a basket on her head.

"Kind Lahnar," said the fair mourner, "leave your burden at the door, and enter this cottage of affliction. Alas! alas! there once sat Nouri, my ever-affectionate mother, and there Houadir, my kind counsellor and director; but now are their seats vacant, and sorrow and grief are the only companions of the miserable Urad!"

"Your losses are certainly great," answered Lahnar; "but you must endeavour to bear them with patience, especially as they are the common changes and alterations of life. Your good mother Nouri lived to a great age, and Houadir, though a kind friend, may yet be succeeded by one as amiable; but what I am most alarmed at, O Urad! is your manner of life. We no longer see you busied among the leaves of the mulberries, or gathering the bags of silk, or preparing them for the wheels. You purchase no provision among us; you seek no comfort in society; you live like the mole buried under the earth, which neither sees nor is seen."

"My sorrows indeed hitherto," replied Urad, "have prevented my labour; but to-morrow I shall again rise to my wonted employment."

"But even to-night," said Lahnar, "let my friend take some little nourishment, that she may rise refreshed; for fasting will deject you as well as grief; and suffer me to partake with you. And see, in this basket I have brought my provisions, some boiled rice, and a few fish, which my kind brother Darandu brought me this evening from the river Tigris."

"Excuse me, kind Lahnar," answered Urad, "but I must refuse your offer. Grief has driven away appetite to aught but itself far from me, and I am not solicitous to take provisions which I cannot use."

"At least," replied Lahnar, "permit me to sit beside you, and eat of what is here before us."

Upon which, without other excuses, Lahnar emptied her basket, and set a bowl of rice and fish before Urad, and began to feed heartily on that which she had brought for herself.

Urad was tempted by hunger and the example of Lahnar to begin, but she was doubtful about tasting the fish of Darandu; wherefore she first attempted the boiled rice, though her appetite was most inclined to the fish, of which she at last ate very heartily, when she recollected that as she had partaken with Lahnar, it was the same whatever part she accepted.

Lahnar having finished her meal, and advised Urad to think of some methods of social life, took her leave, and left the unsettled virgin to meditate on her strange visitor.

Urad, though confused, could not help expressing some pleasure at this visit; for such is the blessing of society, that it will always give comfort to those who have been disused to its sweet effects.

But Urad, though pleased with the friendship of Lahnar, yet was confounded when, some few minutes after, she perceived her again returning.

"What," said Urad, "brings back Lahnar to the sorrows of this cottage?"

"Urad," said Lahnar, "I will rest with my friend to-night, for the shades of night cast horrors around, and I dare not disturb my father's cottage by my late approach."

But as soon as she had admitted Lahnar, she perceived that it was Darandu disguised in Lahnar's clothes. Urad, greatly terrified, recollecting her lost friend Houadir, felt for a peppercorn, and let it fall to the ground.

A violent rapping was in a moment heard at the cottage, at which Urad uttered a loud cry, and Darandu, with shame and confusion, looked trembling toward the door.

Urad ran forward and opened it, when the son of Houadir entered, and asked Urad the reason of her cries.

"O thou blessed angel!" said Urad; "this wicked wretch is disguised in his sister's clothes."

But Darandu was fled, as guilt is ever fearful, mean, and base.

"Now, Urad," said the son of Houadir, "before you close your doors upon another man, let me resume my former features."

Upon which Urad looked, and beheld her old friend Houadir. At the sight of Houadir, Urad was equally astonished and abashed.

"Why blushes, Urad?" said Houadir.

"How, O genius," said Urad, "for such I perceive thou art--how is Urad guilty? I invited not Darandu hither: I wished not for him."

"Take care," answered Houadir, "what you say. If you wished not for him, you hardly wished him away, and, but for your imprudence, he had not entered your home. Consider how have your days been employed since I left you? Have you continued to watch the labours of the silk-worm? Have you repeated the lessons I gave you? or has the time of Urad been consumed in idleness and disobedience? Has she shaken off her dependence on Mahomet, and indulged the unavailing sorrows of her heart?"

"Alas!" answered the fair Urad, "repeat no more, my ever-honoured Houadir: I have indeed been guilty, under the mask of love and affection; and I now plainly see the force of your first rule, that idleness is the beginning of all evil and vice. Yes, my dearest Houadir, had I attended to your instructions I had given no handle to Darandu's insolence; but yet methinks some sorrows were allowable for the loss of such a mother and such a friend."