Chapter VI: Wise Sayings of the Rabbis (3)

[28] What may be an older form of this jest is found in the
_Kathá Manjarí_, a Canarese collection, where a wretched
singer dwelling next door to a poor woman causes her to
weep and wail bitterly whenever he begins to sing, and
on his asking her why she wept, she explains that his
"golden voice" recalled to her mind her donkey that died
a month ago.--The story had found its way to our own
country more than three centuries since. In _Mery Tales
and Quicke Answeres_ (1535), under the title "Of the
Friar that brayde in his Sermon," the preacher reminds a
"poure wydowe" of her ass--all that her husband had left
her--which had been devoured by wolves, for so the ass
was wont to bray day and night.

_Apropos_ of misers, our English facetiæ books furnish many examples of their ingenuity in excusing themselves from granting favours asked of them by their acquaintances; and, human nature being much the same everywhere, the misers in the East are represented as being equally adroit, as well as witty, in parrying such objectionable requests. A Persian who had a very miserly friend went to him one day, and said: "I am going on a journey; give me your ring, which I will constantly wear, and whenever I look on it, I shall remember you." The other answered: "If you wish to remember me, whenever you see your finger _without_ my ring upon it, always think of me, that I did not give you my ring." And quite as good is the story of the dervish who said to the miser that he wanted something of him; to which he replied: "If you will consent to a request of mine, I will consent to whatever else you may require"; and when the dervish desired to know what it was, he said: "Never ask me for anything and whatever else you say I will perform."

II

THE TWO DEAF MEN AND THE TRAVELLER--THE DEAF PERSIAN AND THE HORSEMAN--LAZY SERVANTS--CHINESE HUMOUR: THE RICH MAN AND THE SMITHS; HOW TO KEEP PLANTS ALIVE; CRITICISING A PORTRAIT--THE PERSIAN COURTIER AND HIS OLD FRIEND--THE SCRIBE--THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE WIT--THE PERSIAN AND HIS CAT--A LIST OF BLOCKHEADS--THE ARAB AND HIS CAMEL--A WITTY BAGHDÁDÍ--THE UNLUCKY SLIPPERS.

It is well known that deaf men generally dislike having their infirmity alluded to, and even endeavour to conceal it as much as possible. Charles Lamb, or some other noted wit, seeing a deaf acquaintance on the other side of the street one day while walking with a friend, stopped and motioned to him; then opened his mouth as if speaking in a loud tone, but saying not a word. "What are you bawling for?" demanded the deaf one. "D'ye think I can't hear?"--Two Eastern stories I have met with are most diverting examples of this peculiarity of deaf folks. One is related by my friend Pandit Natésa Sastrí in his _Folk-Lore of Southern India_, of which a few copies were recently issued at Bombay.[29] A deaf man was sitting one day where three roads crossed, when a neatherd happened to pass that way. He had lately lost a good cow and a calf, and had been seeking them some days. When he saw the deaf man sitting by the way he took him for a soothsayer, and asked him to find out by his knowledge of magic where the cow would likely be found. The herdsman was also very deaf, and the other, without hearing what he had said, abused him, and said he wished to be left undisturbed, at the same time stretching out his hand and pointing at his face. This pointing the herd supposed to indicate the direction where the lost cow and calf should be sought; thus thinking (for he, too, had not heard a word of what the other man had said to him), the herd went off in search, resolving to present the soothsayer with the calf if he found it with the cow. To his joy, and by mere chance, of course, he found them both, and, returning with them to the deaf man (still sitting by the wayside), he pointed to the calf and asked him to accept of it. Now, it so happened that the calf's tail was broken and crooked, and the deaf man supposed that the herdsman was blaming him for having broken it, and by a wave of his hand he denied the charge. This the poor deaf neatherd mistook for a refusal of the calf and a demand for the cow, so he said: "How very greedy you are, to be sure! I promised you the calf, and not the cow." "Never!" exclaimed the deaf man in a rage. "I know nothing of you or your cow and calf. I never broke the calf's tail." While they were thus quarrelling, without understanding each other, a third man happened to pass, and seeing his opportunity to profit by their deafness, he said to the neatherd in a loud voice, yet so as not to be heard by the other deaf man: "Friend, you had better go away with your cow. Those soothsayers are always greedy. Leave the calf with me, and I shall make him accept it." The poor neatherd, highly pleased to have secured his cow, went off, leaving the calf with the traveller. Then said the traveller to the deaf man: "It is, indeed, very unlawful, friend, for that neatherd to charge you with an offence which you did not commit; but never mind, since you have a friend in me. I shall contrive to make clear to him your innocence; leave this matter to me." So saying, he walked away with the calf, and the deaf man went home, well pleased that he had escaped from such a serious accusation.

[29] Messrs. W. H. Allen & Co., London, have in the press a
new edition of this work, to be entitled "_Tales of the
Sun; or, Popular Tales of Southern India_." I am
confident that the collection will be highly appreciated
by many English readers, while its value to
story-comparers can hardly be over-rated.

The other story is 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, 'Peace be with thee'; next he will ask, 'What is the depth of this river?' and after that he will ask, how many _máns_ of wheat I have with me." (A _mán_ is a Persian weight, which seems to vary in different places.) But the deaf man's surmises were all in vain; for when the horseman came up to him, 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!" The deaf one rejoined: "To my neck and bosom." The horseman said: "Dust be on thy mouth!" The deaf man answered: "Eighty _máns_ of it."

* * * * *

The laziness of domestics is a common complaint in this country at the present day, but surely never was there a more lazy servant than the fellow whose exploits are thus recorded: A Persian husbandman one night desired his servant to shut the door, and the man said it was already shut. In the morning his master bade him open the door, and he coolly replied that, foreseeing this request, he had left it open the preceding night. Another night his master bade him rise and see whether it rained. But he called for the dog that lay at the door, and finding his paws dry, answered that the night was fair; then being desired to see whether the fire was extinguished, he called the cat, and finding her paws cold, replied in the affirmative.--This story had gained currency in Europe in the 13th century, and it forms one of the mediæval _Latin Stories_ edited, for the Percy Society, by Thos. Wright, where it is entitled, "De Maimundo Armigero." There is another Persian story of a lazy fellow whose master, being sick, said to him: "Go and get me some medicine." "But," rejoined he, "it may happen that the doctor is not at home." "You will find him at home." "But if I do find him at home he may not give me the medicine," quoth the servant. "Then take this note to him and he will give it to you." "Well," persisted the fellow, "he may give me the medicine, but suppose it does you no good?" "Villain!" exclaimed his master, out of all patience, "will you do as I bid you, instead of sitting there so coolly, raising difficulties?" "Good sir," reasoned this lazy philosopher, "admitting that the medicine should produce some effect, what will be the ultimate result? We must all die some time, and what does it matter whether it be to-day or to-morrow?"

* * * * *

The Chinese seem not a whit behind other peoples in appreciating a good jest, as has been shown by the tales and _bon mots_ rendered into French by Stanislas Julien and other eminent _savans_. Here are three specimens of Chinese humour:

A wealthy man lived between the houses of two blacksmiths, and was constantly annoyed by the noise of their hammers, so that he could not get rest, night or day. First he asked them to strike more gently; then he made them great promises if they would remove at once. The two blacksmiths consented, and he, overjoyed to get rid of them, prepared a grand banquet for their entertainment. When the banquet was over, he asked them where they were going to take up their new abodes, and they replied--to the intense dismay of their worthy host, no doubt: "He who lives on the left of your house is going to that on the right; and he who lives on your right is going to the house on your left."

There is a keen satirical hit at the venality of Chinese judges in our next story. A husbandman, who wished to rear a particular kind of vegetable, found that the plants always died. He consulted an experienced gardener as to the best means of preventing the death of plants. The old man replied: "The affair is very simple; with every plant put down a piece of money." His friend asked what effect money could possibly have in a matter of this kind. "It is the case now-a-days," said the old man, "that where there is money _life_ is safe, but where there is none death is the consequence."

The tale of Apelles and the shoemaker is familiar to every schoolboy, but the following story of the Chinese painter and his critics will be new to most readers: A gentleman having got his portrait painted, the artist suggested that he should consult the passers-by as to whether it was a good likeness. Accordingly he asked the first that was going past: "Is this portrait like me?" The man said: "The _cap_ is very like." When the next was asked, he said: "The _dress_ is very like." He was about to ask a third, when the painter stopped him, saying: "The cap and the dress do not matter much; ask the person what he thinks of the face." The third man hesitated a long time, and then said: "The _beard_ is very like."

* * * * *

And now we shall revert once more to Persian jests, many of which are, however, also current in India, through the medium of the Persian language. When a man becomes suddenly rich it not unfrequently follows that he becomes as suddenly oblivious of his old friends. Thus, a Persian having obtained a lucrative appointment at court, a friend of his came shortly afterwards to congratulate him thereon. The new courtier asked him: "Who are you? And why do you come here?" The other coolly replied: "Do you not know me, then? I am your old friend, and am come to condole with you, having heard that you had lately lost your sight."--This recalls the clever epigram:

When Jack was poor, the lad was frank and free;
Of late he's grown brimful of pride and pelf;
You wonder that he don't remember me?
Why, don't you see, Jack has forgot himself!

The humour of the following is--to me, at least--simply exquisite: A man went to a professional scribe and asked him to write a letter for him. The scribe said that he had a pain in his foot. "A pain in your foot!" echoed the man. "I don't want to send you to any place that you should make such an excuse." "Very true," said the scribe; "but, whenever I write a letter for any one, I am always sent for to read it, because no one else can make it out."--And this is a very fair specimen of ready wit: During a season of great drought in Persia, a schoolmaster at the head of his pupils marched out of Shíráz to pray (at the tomb of some saint in the suburbs) for rain, when they were met by a waggish fellow, who inquired where they were going. The preceptor informed him, and added that, no doubt, Allah would listen to the prayers of innocent children. "Friend," quoth the wit, "if that were the case, I fear there would not be a schoolmaster left alive."

The "harmless, necessary cat" has often to bear the blame of depredations in which she had no share--especially the "lodging-house cat"; and, that such is the fact in Persia as well as nearer our own doors, let a story related by the celebrated poet Jámí serve as evidence: A husband gave a _mán_ of meat to his wife, bidding her cook it for his dinner. The woman roasted it and ate it all herself, and when her husband asked for the meat she said the cat had stolen it. The husband weighed the cat forthwith, and found that she had not increased in weight by eating so much meat; so, with a hundred perplexing thoughts, he struck his hand on his knee, and, upbraiding his wife, said: "O lady, doubtless the cat, like the meat, weighed one _mán_; the meat would add another _mán_ thereto. This point is not clear to me--that two _máns_ should become one _mán_. If this is the cat, where is the meat? And if this is the meat, why has it the form of the cat?"

Readers of our early English jest-books will perhaps remember the story of a court-jester being facetiously ordered by the king to make out a list of all the fools in his dominions, who replied that it would be a much easier task to write down a list of all the wise men. I fancy there is some trace of this incident in the following Persian story, though the details are wholly different: Once upon a time a party of merchants exhibited to a king some fine horses, which pleased him so well that he bought them, and gave the merchants besides a large sum of money to pay for more horses which they were to bring from their own country. Some time after this the king, being merry with wine, said to his chief vazír: "Make me out a list of all the blockheads in my kingdom." The vazír replied that he had already made out such a list, and had put his Majesty's name at the top. "Why so?" demanded the king. "Because," said the vazír, "you gave a great sum of money for horses to be brought by merchants for whom no person is surety, nor does any one know to what country they belong; and this is surely a sign of stupidity." "But what if they should bring the horses?" The vazír readily replied: "If they should bring the horses, I should then erase your Majesty's name and put the names of the merchants in its place."[30]

[30] A similar incident is found in the 8th chapter of the
Spanish work, _El Conde Lucanor_, written, in the 14th
century, by Prince Don Juan Manuel, where a pretended
alchemist obtains from a king a large sum of money in
order that he should procure in his own distant country
a certain thing necessary for the transmutation of the
baser metals into gold. The impostor, of course, did not
return, and so on, much the same as in the above.--Many
others of Don Manuel's tales are traceable to Eastern
sources; he was evidently familiar with the Arabic
language, and from his long intercourse with the Moors
doubtless became acquainted with Asiatic story-books.
His manner of telling the stories is, however, wholly
his own, and some of them appear to be of his own
invention.--There is a variant of the same story in
_Pasquils Jests and Mother Bunches Merriments_, in which
a servant enters his master's name in a list of all the
fools of his acquaintance, because he had lately lent
his cousin twenty pounds.

Everybody knows the story of the silly old woman who went to market with a cow and a hen for sale, and asked only five shillings for the cow, but ten pounds for the hen. But no such fool was the Arab who lost his camel, and, after a long and fruitless search, anathematised the errant quadruped and her father and her mother, and swore by the Prophet that, should he find her, he would sell her for a dirham (sixpence). At length his search was successful, and he at once regretted his oath; but such an oath must not be violated, so he tied a cat round the camel's neck, and went about proclaiming: "I will sell this camel for a dirham, and this cat for a hundred dínars (fifty pounds); but I will not sell one without the other." A man who passed by and heard this exclaimed: "What a very desirable bargain that camel would be if she had not such a _collar_ round her neck!"[31]

[31] A variant of this occurs in the _Heptameron_, an
uncompleted work in imitation of the _Decameron_,
ascribed to Marguerite, queen of Navarre (16th century),
but her _valet de chambre_ Bonaventure des Periers is
supposed to have had a hand in its composition. In Novel
55 it is related that a merchant in Saragossa on his
death-bed desired his wife to sell a fine Spanish horse
for as much as it would fetch and give the money to the
mendicant friars. After his death his widow did not
approve of such a legacy, but, in order to obey her late
husband's will, she instructed a servant to go to the
market and offer the horse for a ducat and her cat for
ninety-nine ducats, both, however, to be sold together.
A gentleman purchased the horse and the cat, well
knowing that the former was fully worth a hundred
ducats, and the widow handed over one ducat--for which
the horse was nominally sold--to the mendicant friars.

For readiness of wit the Arabs would seem to compare very favourably with any race, European or Asiatic, and many examples of their felicitous repartees are furnished by native historians and grammarians. One of the best is: When a khalíf was addressing the people in a mosque on his accession to the khalífate, and told them, among other things in his own praise, that the plague which had so long raged in Baghdád had ceased immediately he became khalíf; an old fellow present shouted: "Of a truth, Allah was too merciful to give us both _thee_ and the plague at the same time."

* * * * *

The story of the Unlucky Slippers in Cardonne's _Mélanges de Littérature Orientale_ is a very good specimen of Arabian humour:[32]

[32] Cardonne took this story from a Turkish work entitled
"_Ajá'ib el-ma'ásir wa ghará'ib en-nawádir_ (the Wonders
of Remarkable Incidents and Rarities of Anecdotes)," by
Ahmed ibn Hemdem Khetkhody, which was composed for
Sultan Murád IV, who reigned from A.D. 1623 to 1640.

In former times there lived in the famous city of Baghdád a miserly old merchant named Abú Kasim. Although very rich, his clothes were mere rags; his turban was of coarse cloth, and exceedingly dirty; but his slippers were perfect curiosities--the soles were studded with great nails, while the upper leathers consisted of as many different pieces as the celebrated ship Argos. He had worn them during ten years, and the art of the ablest cobblers in Baghdád had been exhausted in preventing a total separation of the parts; in short, by frequent accessions of nails and patches they had become so heavy that they passed into a proverb, and anything ponderous was compared to Abú Kasim's slippers. Walking one day in the great bazaar, the purchase of a large quantity of crystal was offered to this merchant, and, thinking it a bargain, he bought it. Not long after this, hearing that a bankrupt perfumer had nothing left to sell but some rose-water, he took advantage of the poor man's misfortune, and purchased it for half the value. These lucky speculations had put him into good humour, but instead of giving an entertainment, according to the custom of merchants when they have made a profitable bargain, Abú Kasim deemed it more expedient to go to the bath, which he had not frequented for some time. As he was undressing, one of his acquaintances told him that his slippers made him the laughing-stock of the whole city, and that he ought to provide himself with a new pair. "I have been thinking about it," he answered; "however, they are not so very much worn but they will serve some time longer." While he was washing himself, the kází of Baghdád came also to bathe. Abú Kasim, coming out before the judge, took up his clothes but could not find his slippers--a new pair being placed in their room. Our miser, persuaded, because he wished it, that the friend who had spoken to him about his old slippers had made him a present, without hesitation put on these fine ones, and left the bath highly delighted. But when the kází had finished bathing, his servants searched in vain for his slippers; none could be found but a wretched pair, which were at once identified as those of Abú Kasim. The officers hastened after the supposed thief, and, bringing him back with the theft on his feet, the kází, after exchanging slippers, committed him to prison. There was no escaping from the claws of justice without money, and, as Abú Kasim was known to be very rich, he was fined in a considerable sum.

On returning home, our merchant, in a fit of indignation, flung his slippers into the Tigris, that ran beneath his window. Some days after they were dragged out in a fisherman's net that came up more heavy than usual. The nails with which the soles were thickly studded had torn the meshes of the net, and the fisherman, exasperated against the miserly Abú Kasim and his slippers--for they were known to everyone--determined to throw them into his house through the window he had left open. The slippers, thrown with great force, reached the jars of rose-water, and smashed them in pieces, to the intense consternation of the owner. "Cursed slippers!" cried he, tearing his beard, "you shall cause me no farther mischief!" So saying, he took a spade and began to dig a hole in his garden to bury them. One of his neighbours, who had long borne him ill-will, perceiving him busied in digging the ground, ran at once to inform the governor that Abú Kasim had discovered some hidden treasure in his garden. Nothing more was needful to rouse the cupidity of the commandant. In vain did our miser protest that he had found no treasure; and that he only meant to bury his old slippers. The governor had counted on the money, so the afflicted man could only preserve his liberty at the expense of a large sum of money. Again heartily cursing the slippers, in order to effectually rid himself of them, he threw them into an aqueduct at some distance from the city, persuaded that he should now hear no more of them. But his evil genius had not yet sufficiently plagued him: the slippers got into the mouth of the pipe and stopped the flow of the water. The keepers of the aqueduct made haste to repair the damage, and, finding the obstruction was caused by Abú Kasim's slippers, complained of this to the governor, and once more was Abú Kasim heavily fined, but the governor considerately returned him the slippers. He now resolved to burn them, but, finding them thoroughly soaked with water, he exposed them to the sun upon the terrace of his house. A neighbour's dog, perceiving the slippers, leaped from the terrace of his master's house upon that of Abú Kasim, and, seizing one of them in his mouth, he let it drop into the street: the fatal slipper fell directly on the head of a woman who was passing at the time, and the fright as well as the violence of the blow caused her to miscarry. Her husband brought his complaint before the kází, and Abú Kasim was again sentenced to pay a fine proportioned to the calamity he was supposed to have occasioned. He then took the slippers in his hand, and, with a vehemence that made the judge laugh, said: "Behold, my lord, the fatal instruments of my misfortune! These cursed slippers have at length reduced me to poverty. Vouchsafe, therefore, to publish an order that no one may any more impute to me the disasters they may yet occasion." The kází could not refuse his request, and thus Abú Kasim learned, to his bitter cost, the danger of wearing his slippers too long.

III

THE YOUNG MERCHANT OF BAGHDÁD; OR, THE WILES OF WOMAN.

Too many Eastern stories turn upon the artful devices of women to screen their own profligacy, but there is one, told by Arab Sháh, the celebrated historian, who died A.D. 1450, in a collection entitled _Fakihat al-Khalífa_, or Pastimes of the Khalífs, in which a lady exhibits great ingenuity, without any very objectionable motive. It is to the following effect:

A young merchant in Baghdád had placed over the front of his shop, instead of a sentence from the Kurán, as is customary, these arrogant words: "VERILY THERE IS NO CUNNING LIKE UNTO THAT OF MAN, SEEING IT SURPASSES THE CUNNING OF WOMEN." It happened one day that a very beautiful young lady, who had been sent by her aunt to purchase some rich stuffs for dresses, noticed this inscription, and at once resolved to compel the despiser of her sex to alter it. Entering the shop, she said to him, after the usual salutations: "You see my person; can anyone presume to say that I am humpbacked?" He had hardly recovered from the astonishment caused by such a question, when the lady drew her veil a little to one side and continued: "Surely my neck is not as that of a raven, or as the ebony idols of Ethiopia?" The young merchant, between surprise and delight, signified his assent. "Nor is my chin double," said she, still farther unveiling her face; "nor my lips thick, like those of a Tartar?" Here the young merchant smiled. "Nor are they to be believed who say that my nose is flat and my cheeks are sunken?" The merchant was about to express his horror at the bare idea of such blasphemy, when the lady wholly removed her veil and allowed her beauty to flash upon the bewildered youth, who instantly became madly in love with her. "Fairest of creatures!" he cried, "to what accident do I owe the view of those charms, which are hidden from the eyes of the less fortunate of my sex?" She replied: "You see in me an unfortunate damsel, and I shall explain the cause of my present conduct. My mother, who was sister to a rich amír of Mecca, died some years ago, leaving my father in possession of an immense fortune and myself as sole heiress. I am now seventeen, my personal endowments are such as you behold, and a very small portion of my mother's fortune would quite suffice to obtain for me a good establishment in marriage. Yet such is the unfeeling avarice of my father, that he absolutely refuses me the least trifle to settle me in life. The only counsellor to whom I could apply for help in this extremity was my kind nurse, and it is by her advice, as well as from the high opinion I have ever heard expressed of your merits, that I have been induced to throw myself upon your goodness in this extraordinary manner." The emotions of the young merchant on hearing this story, may be readily imagined. "Cruel parent!" he exclaimed. "He must be a rock of the desert, not a man, who can condemn so charming a person to perpetual solitude, when the slightest possible sacrifice on his part might prevent it. May I inquire his name?" "He is the chief kází," replied the lady, and disappeared like a vision.

The young merchant lost no time in waiting on the kází at his court of justice, whom he thus addressed: "My lord, I am come to ask your daughter in marriage, of whom I am deeply enamoured." Quoth the judge: "Sir, my daughter is unworthy of the honour you design for her. But be pleased to accompany me to my dwelling, where we can talk over this matter more at leisure." They proceeded thither accordingly, and after partaking of refreshments, the young man repeated his request, giving a true account of his position and prospects, and offering to settle fifteen purses on the young lady. The kází expressed his gratification, but doubted whether the offer was made in all seriousness, but when assured that such was the case, he said: "I no longer doubt your earnestness and sincerity in this affair; it is, however, just possible that your feelings may change after the marriage, and it is but natural that I should now take proper precautions for my daughter's welfare. You will not blame me, therefore, if, in addition to the fifteen purses you have offered, I require that five more be paid down previous to the marriage, to be forfeited in case of a divorce." "Say ten," cried the merchant, and the kází looked more and more astonished, and even ventured to remonstrate with him on his precipitancy, but without effect. To be brief, the kází consented, the ten purses were paid down, the legal witnesses summoned, and the nuptial contract signed that very evening; the consummation of the marriage being, much against the will of our lover, deferred till the following day.

When the wedding guests had dispersed, the young merchant was admitted to the chamber of his bride, whom he discovered to be humpbacked and hideous beyond conception! As soon as it was day, he arose from his sleepless couch and repaired to the public baths, where, after his ablutions, he gave himself up to melancholy reflections. Mingled with grief for his disappointment was mortification at having been the dupe of what now appeared to him a very shallow artifice, which nothing but his own passionate and unthinking precipitation could have rendered plausible. Nor was he without some twinges of conscience for the sarcasms which he had often uttered against women, and for which his present sufferings were no more than a just retribution. Then came meditations of revenge upon the beautiful author of all this mischief; and then his thoughts reverted to the possible means of escape from his difficulties: the forfeiture of the ten purses, to say nothing of the implacable resentment of the kází and his relatives; and he bethought himself how he should become the talk of his neighbourhood--how Malik bin Omar, the jeweller, would sneer at him, and Salih, the barber, talk sententiously of his folly. At length, finding reflection of no avail, he arose and with slow and pensive steps proceeded to his shop.

His marriage with the kází's deformed daughter had already become known to his neighbours, who presently came to rally him upon his choice of such a bride, and scarcely had they left when the young lady who had so artfully tricked him entered with a playful smile on her lips, and a glancing in her dark eye, which speedily put to flight the young merchant's thoughts of revenge. He arose and greeted her courteously. "May this day be propitious to thee!" said she. "May Allah protect and bless thee!" Replied he: "Fairest of earthly creatures, how have I offended thee that thou shouldst make me the subject of thy sport?" "From thee," she said, "I have received no personal injury." "What, then, can have been thy motive for practising so cruel a deception on one who has never harmed thee?" The young lady simply pointed to the inscription over the shop front. The merchant was abashed, but felt somewhat relieved on seeing good humour beaming from her beautiful eyes, and he immediately took down the inscription, and substituted another, which declared that "TRULY THERE IS NO CUNNING LIKE UNTO THE CUNNING OF WOMEN, SEEING IT SURPASSES AND CONFOUNDS EVEN THE CUNNING OF MEN." Then the young lady communicated to him a plan by which he might get rid of his objectionable bride without incurring her father's resentment, which he forthwith put into practice.

Next morning, as the kází and his son-in-law were taking their coffee together, in the house of the former, they heard a strange noise in the street, and, descending to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, found that it proceeded from a crowd of low fellows--mountebanks, and such like gentry, who had assembled with all sorts of musical instruments, with which they kept up a deafening din, at the same time dancing and capering about, and loudly felicitating themselves on the marriage of their pretended kinsman with the kází's daughter. The young merchant acknowledged their compliments by throwing handfuls of money among the crowd, which caused a renewal of the dreadful clamour. When the noise had somewhat subsided, the kází, hitherto dumb from astonishment, turned to his son-in-law, and demanded to know the meaning of such a scene before his mansion. The merchant replied that the leaders of the crowd were his kinsfolk, although his father had abandoned the fraternity and adopted commercial pursuits. He could not, however, disown his kindred, even for the sake of the kází's daughter. On hearing this the judge was beside himself with rage and mortification, exclaiming: "Dog, and son of a dog! what dirt is this you have made me eat?" The merchant reminded him that he was now his son-in-law; that his daughter was his lawful wife; declaring that he would not part with her for untold wealth. But the kází insisted upon a divorce and returned the merchant his ten purses. In the sequel, the young merchant, having ascertained the parentage of the clever damsel, obtained her in marriage, and lived with her for many years in happiness and prosperity.[33]

[33] This story has been taken from Arab Sháh into the
Breslau printed Arabic text of the _Thousand and One
Nights_, where it is related at great length. The
original was rendered into French under the title of
"Ruses des Femmes" (in the Arabic _Ked-an-Nisa_,
Stratagems of Women) by Lescallier, and appended to his
version of the Voyages of Sindbád, published at Paris in
1814, long before the Breslau text of _The Nights_ was
known to exist. It also forms part of one of the Persian
Tales (_Hazár ú Yek Rúz_, 1001 Days) translated by Petis
de la Croix, where, however, the trick is played on the
kází, not on a young merchant.

IV

ASHAAB THE COVETOUS--THE STINGY MERCHANT AND THE HUNGRY BEDOUIN--THE SECT OF SAMRADIANS--THE STORY-TELLER AND THE KING--ROYAL GIFTS TO POETS--THE PERSIAN POET AND THE IMPOSTOR--"STEALING POETRY"--THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR POET.

Avaricious and covetous men are always the just objects of derision as well as contempt, and surely covetousness was quite concentrated in the person of Ashaab, a servant of Othman (seventh century), and a native of Medina, whose character has been very amusingly drawn by the scholiast: He never saw a man put his hand into his pocket without hoping and expecting that he would give him something. He never saw a funeral go by, but he was pleased, hoping that the deceased had left him something. He never saw a bride about to be conducted through the streets to the house of the bridegroom but he prepared his own house for her reception, hoping that her friends would bring her to his house by mistake. If he saw a workman making a box, he took care to tell him that he was putting in one or two boards too many, hoping that he would give him what was over, or, at least, something for the suggestion. He is said to have followed a man who was chewing mastic (a sort of gum, chewed, like betel, by Orientals as a pastime) for a whole mile, thinking he was perhaps eating food, intending, if so, to ask him for some. When the youths of the town jeered and taunted him, he told them there was a wedding at such a house, in order to get rid of them (because they would go to get a share of the bonbons distributed there); but, as soon as they were gone, it struck him that possibly what he had told them was true, and that they would not have quitted him had they not been aware of its truth; and he actually followed them himself to see what he could do, though exposing himself thereby to fresh taunts from them. When asked whether he knew anyone more covetous than himself, he said: "Yes; a sheep I once had, that climbed to an upper stage of my house, and, seeing a rainbow, mistook it for a rope of hay, and jumping at it, broke her neck"--whence "Ashaab's sheep" became proverbial among the Arabs for covetousness as well as Ashaab himself.

* * * * *

Hospitality has ever been the characteristic virtue of the Arabs, and a mean, stingy disposition is rarely to be found among them. A droll story of an Arab of the latter description has been rendered into verse by the Persian poet Liwá'í, the substance of which is as follows: An Arab merchant who had been trading between Mecca and Damascus, at length turned his face homeward, and had reached within one stage of his house when he sat down to rest and to refresh himself with the contents of his wallet. While he was eating, a Bedouin, weary and hungry, came up, and, hoping to be invited to share his repast, saluted him, "Peace be with thee!" which the merchant returned, and asked the nomad who he was and whence he came. "I have come from thy house," was the answer. "Then," said the merchant, "how fares my son Ahmed, absence from whom has grieved me sore?" "Thy son grows apace in health and innocence." "Good! and how is his mother?" "She, too, is free from the shadow of sorrow." "And how is my beauteous camel, so strong to bear his load?" "Thy camel is sleek and fat." "My house-dog, too, that guards my gate, pray how is he?" "He is on the mat before thy door, by day, by night, on constant guard." The merchant, having thus his doubts and fears removed, resumed his meal with freshened appetite, but gave nought to the poor nomad, and, having finished, closed his wallet. The Bedouin, seeing his stinginess, writhed with the pangs of hunger. Presently a gazelle passed rapidly by them, at which he sighed heavily, and the merchant inquiring the cause of his sorrow, he said: "The cause is this--had not thy dog died he would not have allowed that gazelle to escape!" "My dog!" exclaimed the merchant. "Is my doggie, then, dead?" "He died from gorging himself with thy camel's blood." "Who hath cast this dust on me?" cried the merchant. "What of my camel?" "Thy camel was slaughtered to furnish the funeral feast of thy wife." "Is my wife, too, dead?" "Her grief for Ahmed's death was such that she dashed her head against a rock." "But, Ahmed," asked the father--"how came he to die?" "The house fell in and crushed him." The merchant heard this tale with full belief, rent his robe, cast sand upon his head, then started swiftly homeward to bewail his wife and son, leaving behind his well-filled wallet, a prey to the starving desert-wanderer.[34]

[34] A variant of this story is found in Le Grand's _Fabliaux
et Contes_, ed. 1781, tome iv, p. 119, and it was
probably brought from the East during the Crusades:
Maimon was a valet to a count. His master, returning
home from a tourney, met him on the way, and asked him
where he was going. He replied, with great coolness,
that he was going to seek a lodging somewhere. "A
lodging!" said the count. "What then has happened at
home?" "Nothing, my lord. Only your dog, whom you love
so much, is dead." "How so?" "Your fine palfrey, while
being exercised in the court, became frightened, and in
running fell into the well." "Ah, who startled the
horse?" "It was your son, Damaiseau, who fell at its
feet from the window." "My son!--O Heaven! Where, then,
were his servant and his mother? Is he injured?" "Yes,
sire, he has been killed by falling. And when they went
to tell it to madame, she was so affected that she fell
dead also without speaking." "Rascal! in place of flying
away, why hast thou not gone to seek assistance, or why
didst thou not remain at the chateau?" "There is no more
need, sire; for Marotte, in watching madame, fell
asleep. A light caused the fire, and there remains
nothing now."--Truly a delicate way of "breaking ill
news"!

The Samradian sect of fire-worshippers, who believe only in the "ideal," anticipated Bishop Berkeley's theory, thus referred to by Lord Byron (_Don Juan_, xi, 1):

When Bishop Berkeley said, "there was no matter,"
And proved it--'twas no matter what he said;
They say, his system 'tis in vain to batter,
Too subtle for the airiest human head.

Some amusing anecdotes regarding this singular sect are given in the Dabistán, a work written in Persian, which furnishes a very impartial account of the principal religions of the world: A Samradian said to his servant: "The world and its inhabitants have no actual existence--they have merely an ideal being." The servant, on hearing this, took the first opportunity to steal his master's horse, and when he was about to ride, brought him an ass with the horse's saddle. When the Samradian asked: "Where is the horse?" he replied: "Thou hast been thinking of an idea; there was no horse in being." The master said: "It is true," and then mounted the ass. Having proceeded some distance, followed by his servant on foot, he suddenly dismounted, and taking the saddle off the back of the ass placed it on the servant's back, drawing the girths tightly, and, having forced the bridle into his mouth, he mounted him, and flogged him along vigorously. The servant having exclaimed in piteous accents: "What is the meaning of this, O master?" the Samradian replied: "There is no such thing as a whip; it is merely ideal. Thou art thinking only of a delusion." It is needless to add that the servant immediately repented and restored the horse.--Another of this sect having obtained in marriage the daughter of a wealthy lawyer, she, on finding out her husband's peculiar creed, purposed to have some amusement at his expense. One day the Samradian brought home a bottle of excellent wine, which during his absence she emptied of its contents and filled again with water. When the time came for taking wine, she poured out the water into a gold cup, which Was her own property. The Samradian remarked: "Thou hast given me water instead of wine." "It is only ideal," she answered; "there was no wine in existence." The husband then said: "Thou hast spoken well; give me the cup that I may go to a neighbour's house and bring it back full of wine." He thereupon took the gold cup and went out and sold it, concealing the money, and, instead of the gold vase, he brought back an earthen vessel filled with wine. The wife, on seeing this, said: "What hast thou done with the golden cup?" He quietly replied: "Thou art surely thinking of an ideal gold cup," on which the lady sorely repented her witticism.[35]

[35] _The Dabistán, or School of Manners_. Translated from
the original Persian, by David Shea and Anthony Troyer.
3 vols. Published by the Oriental Translation Fund,
1843. Vol. i, 198-200. The author of this work is said
to be Moshan Fáni, who flourished at Hyderábád about the
end of the 18th century.

I do not know whether there are any English parallels to these stories, but I have read of a Greek sage who instructed his slave that all that occurred in this world was the decree of Fate. The slave shortly after deliberately committed some offence, upon which his master commenced to soften his ribs with a stout cudgel, and when the slave pleaded that it was no fault of his, it was the decree of Fate, his master grimly replied that it was also decreed that he should have a sound beating.

* * * * *

In _Don Quixote_, it will be remembered by all readers of that delightful work, Sancho begins to tell the knight a long story about a man who had to ferry across a river a large flock of sheep, but he could only take one at a time, as the boat could hold no more. This story Cervantes, in all likelihood, borrowed from the _Disciplina Clericalis_ of Petrus Alfonsus, a converted Spanish Jew, who flourished in the 12th century, and who avowedly derived the materials of his work from the Arabian fabulists--probably part of them also from the Talmud.[36] His eleventh tale is of a king who desired his minstrel to tell him a long story that should lull him to sleep. The story-teller accordingly begins to relate how a man had to cross a ferry with 600 sheep, two at a time, and falls asleep in the midst of his narration. The king awakes him, but the story-teller begs that the man be allowed to ferry over the sheep before he resumes the story.[37]--Possibly the original form of the story is that found in the _Kathá Manjarí_, an ancient Indian story-book: There was a king who used to inquire of all the learned men who came to his court whether they knew any stories, and when they had related all they knew, in order to avoid rewarding them, he abused them for knowing so few, and sent them away. A shrewd and clever man, hearing of this, presented himself before the king, who asked his name. He replied that his name was Ocean of Stories. The king then inquired how many stories he knew, to which he answered that the name of Ocean had been conferred on him because he knew an endless number. On being desired to relate one, he thus began: "O King, there was a tank 36,000 miles in breadth, and 54,000 in length. This was densely filled with lotus plants, and millions upon millions of birds with golden wings [called Hamsa] perched on those flowers. One day a hurricane arose, accompanied with rain, which the birds were not able to endure, and they entered a cave under a rock, which was in the vicinity of the tank." The king asked what happened next, and he replied that one of the birds flew away. The king again inquired what else occurred, and he answered: "Another flew away"; and to every question of the king he continued to give the same answer. At this the king felt ashamed, and, seeing it was impossible to outwit the man, he dismissed him with a handsome present.

[36] Pedro Alfonso (the Spanish form of his adopted name) was
originally a Jewish Rabbi, and was born in 1062, at
Huesca, in the kingdom of Arragon. He was reputed a man
of very great learning, and on his being baptised (at
the age of 44) was appointed by Alfonso XV, king of
Castile and Leon, physician to the royal household. His
work, above referred to, is written in Latin, and has
been translated into French, but not as yet into
English. An outline of the tales, by Douce, will be
found prefixed to Ellis' _Early English Metrical
Romances_.

[37] This is also the subject of one of the _Fabliaux_.--In
a form similar to the story in Alfonsus it is current
among the Milanese, and a Sicilian version is as
follows: Once upon a time there was a prince who studied
and racked his brains so much that he learned magic and
the art of finding hidden treasures. One day he
discovered a treasure in Daisisa. "O," he says, "now I
am going to get it out." But to get it out it was
necessary that ten million million of ants should cross
the river one by one in a bark made of the half-shell of
a nut. The prince puts the bark in the river, and makes
the ants pass over--one, two, three; and they are still
doing it. Here the story-teller pauses and says: "We
will finish the story when the ants have finished
crossing the river."--Crane's _Italian Popular Tales_,
p. 156.