Chapter II: The Moralistic Group

If among the imaginative tales there are some that approach the moralistic, on the other hand there are among the moralistic tales at least three thoroughly imaginative. Two are translations of _contes_ by Marmontel: _The Watermen of Besons_ and _Friendship put to the Test_; the third is Thomas Parnell’s poem, _The Hermit_. Marmontel’s two tales share the characteristics of his _Contes Moraux_ in general, “light, elegant, and graceful beyond anything to which I can compare them in English: their form is exquisite, and they are sometimes imagined with a fineness, a poetic subtlety, that is truly delicious. If the reader can fancy the humor of some of the stories in the _Spectator_ turned wit, their grace indefinitely enhanced, their not very keen perception of the delicate and the indelicate indefinitely blunted, their characterization sharpened almost to an edge of cynicism at times, he will have something like an image of the _Moral Tales_ in his mind.”[68] In fact, as Mr. Howells suggests in the same essay, “The _Moral Tales_ of Marmontel are moral, as the _Exemplary Novels_ of Cervantes are exemplary; the adjectives are used in an old literary sense, and do not quite promise the spiritual edification of the reader, or if they promise it, do not fulfil the promise ... they are not such reading as we might now put into young people’s hands without fear of offending their modesty, but they must have seemed miracles of purity in their time, and they certainly take the side of virtue, of common sense, and of nature, whenever there is a question of these in the plot.” Marmontel himself says that he has endeavoured “de rendre la vertu aimable”; and he adds: “Enfin j’ai tâché partout de peindre ou les mœurs de la societé, ou les sentiments de la nature; et c’est ce qui m’a fait donner à ce Recueil le titre de Contes Moraux.”[69]

Clearly, then, Marmontel stands half-way between purely imaginative writers and weightier moralists like Dr. Johnson, who paraphrased Horace:—

“Garrit aniles
Ex re fabellas.”
—_Sat._, II., VI., 76.

“The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail,
Conceals the moral counsel in a tale.”[70]

_The Watermen of Besons_[71] is a story of multifarious adventures. The beautiful and virtuous heroine, a young French girl, is slave successively to a sultan, a prince, an old Cypriote, and a Knight of Malta; preserves both life and honour; and is ultimately reunited to her faithful lover André, the Waterman of Besons. He, meanwhile, has been hither and yon in the Orient, as prisoner, vizier, and cook, escaping from one farcical predicament after another. The scenes change from France to Persia, India, and Syria. The oriental setting is picturesque, if slight, and assists in emphasizing the virtue and piety of the heroine and in exalting the simple country life of the boatman and his family in contrast to the luxury and vain pleasures of the sultan’s court. The story is cleverly told from introduction to close; and, except for some ostentatious moralizing and a few questionable incidents, is thoroughly attractive. In _Friendship put to the Test_,[72] there is more moralizing and less art. It is a commonplace tale of the self-sacrifice of a youth who relinquishes his bride to his friend on discovering their mutual love. The heroine is a young East Indian, daughter to a pious Bramin who worships Vishnu by the sacred Ganges. The author endeavours to give additional local colour by referring to “the custom of flattering a widow before she is burned.” He satirizes European bigotry by describing the Brahmin’s tolerance toward other creeds; makes one of his oriental personages criticize European etiquette in the manner of the _Lettres Persanes_; and praises simplicity and the ingenuous emotions of nature quite after the fashion of Rousseau.[73]

Marmontel’s tales have been praised by no less a critic than Ruskin as being “exquisitely finished.” With them, so far as careful structure and polished style are concerned, _The Hermit_[74] of Thomas Parnell may not unreasonably be classed. The poem is so well-known that only a brief comment is necessary here. It is a good example of the beauty and force given to an exceedingly simple narrative by the power of style. The tale was not original with Parnell, but was an inheritance from the earlier stores of oriental fiction given to Europe by the East during the Middle Ages. Pope writes: “The poem is very good.” The story was written originally in Spanish [whence probably Howell had translated it into prose, and inserted it in one of his letters].[75] Gaston Paris mentions the same story, _L’ange et l’Ermite_ among the _contes dévots_ of the Middle Ages, and says it is “juif sans doute d’origine.”[76] Wilhelm Seele[77] enumerates various versions and mentions that of Parnell as one of the accepted sources of _Zadig_.

The opening lines of Parnell’s poem describing the peaceful life of the hermit are characteristic:—

“Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell;
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from man, with God he pass’d the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.”

A doubt of the wisdom and power of Providence impels him to go out into the world to observe the ways of God with men. A beautiful youth becomes his companion and startles him by committing strange crimes culminating in apparently wanton murder. The hermit, in anger, begins to rebuke the youth:—

“‘Detested wretch!’—but scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seem’d no longer man:
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet;
His robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glitter’d on the Day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.”

The angel explains each apparent crime as in reality a deed of benevolence; the hermit learns to trust the mysterious ways of Providence and returns in peace to his cell. The poem has been called Parnell’s masterpiece; and is, indeed, an admirable example of the _conte moral_ in verse.

We suggested, above, two meanings of the word “moral”: one, that of Marmontel, referring chiefly to manners; the other, that of Dr. Johnson, emphasizing conduct. It is the latter meaning that best characterizes the numerous moral oriental tales in eighteenth-century England—the tales which we designate as “moralistic.”

Even in the hands of Addison and Steele the oriental tale was speedily utilized to inculcate right living and was made into a story “with a purpose,”—in a word, became moralistic. The avowed aim of the _Spectator_ and the _Tatler_ was to reconcile wit and morality, to entertain and to preach, to hold the mirror of kindly ridicule up to society, to smile away the follies or vices of the world, and to present serene, temperate, and beautiful ideals of thought and of conduct. Hence, even the fiction that frequently constitutes a vital part of the essays is permeated with the same spirit. This holds true of the character-sketches of Addison’s real and imaginary correspondents and acquaintances, including even Sir Roger himself. It is true, also, of the frequent allegorical visions and dreams, of the numerous classical stories, and of the occasional oriental tales. To these various forms of fiction Addison turned, “rambling,” as he says, “into several stories, fetching one to my present purpose.” Attracted as the great essayists were by the touch of extravagance, the strange dress and colouring, the unfamiliar nomenclature and oriental fancies in these tales, they felt constrained, nevertheless, to apologize for such unclassical material and to justify their use of it. In the _Spectator_, No. 512, on the fable as the best form of giving advice, Addison tells the entertaining story of the Sultan Mahmoud and the vizier who pretended to understand birds’ conversation, and introduces it by saying: “[There is] a pretty instance of this nature in a Turkish Tale, which I do not like the worse for that little oriental extravagance which is mixed with it.” “The virtue of complaisance in friendly intercourse” is “very prettily illustrated by a little wild Arabian tale,” the story of _Shacabac and the Barmecide’s Feast_.[78]

The story of the _Santon Barsisa_[79] is praised by Steele for suggesting serious reflections and an obvious Christian moral. _Alnaschar_ from the _Arabian Nights_ is used to conclude an essay upon the transitoriness of human life and the vain hope of worldly ambitions. Addison says, “What I have here said may serve as a moral to an Arabian fable which I find translated into French by Monsieur Galland [and which is marked by] a wild but natural simplicity.”[80] In the story of the _Persian Emperor’s Riddle_,[81] the question, “What is the tree that has three hundred and sixty-five leaves, black and white?” is one of the riddles in the story of the _Princess of China_ (_Persian Tales_). The same answer is given, “A year,” but Addison affixes the reflection that the leaves represent the king’s acts, which look white to his friends and black to his enemies. The “Persian story” of the just sultan, who executed a culprit in the dark, though he knew that it might be his son, concludes an essay on justice.[82] The riddle-like acts of the sultan and his final explanation seem characteristically oriental.

Two tales are apparently original with Addison: the _Story of Helim and Abdallah_[83] and the _Story of Hilpa, Harpath, and Shalum_.[84] The former Addison says he found “lately translated out of an Arabian manuscript.” It has, he thinks, “very much the turn of an oriental tale; ... never before printed; ... [and doubtless will be] highly acceptable to the reader.” From such an introduction the reader naturally infers that Addison invented the tale. The character of the story confirms this inference. Helim, the great physician, educates Ibrahim and Abdallah, sons to the tyrant Alnareschin, who has killed thirty-five wives and twenty sons. Abdallah and Balsora, the daughter of Helim, fall in love; the king covets Balsora; Helim gives her a sleeping potion; and she wakes in a tomb with Abdallah.[85] They escape past the guards in the guise of spirits and live happily in a beautiful retreat on a mountain. After the tyrant’s death Helim reunites Ibrahim and Abdallah, and ultimately Abdallah’s son succeeds Ibrahim. For oriental colouring Addison refers to the seal of Solomon, Persia, Mahomet, etc. His characters are the commonplace types: the tyrant, the wise physician, the beautiful girl, and others. He employs fanciful touches in describing the black marble palace with its hundred ebony doors guarded by negroes and its five thousand lamps; and also in recounting the lovers’ escape by moonlight as spirits in white and azure silk robes. No direct moral is drawn, but virtue is rewarded and vice thwarted. The other moral oriental tale by Addison is called by him “an antediluvian novel,”[86] the _Story of Hilpa, Harpath, and Shalum_. He pretends to have found it in Chinese records, “the only antediluvian _billet-doux_ in existence,” and attempts to give verisimilitude by localizing it in places with fictitious names that have an oriental sound, and by using flowery language. A humorous effect of mock antiquity is obtained by exaggerating the age of the characters,—Hilpa, for instance, is a beautiful girl of seventy,—and a touch of satire, by implying that only an antediluvian woman would marry for money. The feeble characterization—if characterization it can be called—of the haughty and contemptuous Harpath and the good and gentle Shalum forecasts the later efforts of Johnson and Hawkesworth. Although the tale contains no explicit moral, it is used to illustrate a “kind of moral virtue”—the planting of trees. Antediluvians had an advantage over us in that they outlived the trees they planted. The lack of direct moralizing in these two original tales is unusual: at least half the oriental tales quoted or adapted in the Addisonian periodicals enunciate an express moral lesson. The morality, like the philosophy, is not distinctly oriental in character. Industry and economy, health and cleanliness, prudence and justice, kindly “complaisance,” the art of giving advice and seeking instruction, serenity in the face of calumny and death,—it is the Addisonian code of virtues in oriental guise.

In thus utilizing the oriental tale for moralistic purposes and—as we shall see later[87]—for philosophic ends also, Addison gave the prelude and the direction to two distinct tendencies of the entire period.[88] The strength of the moralizing proclivity may be illustrated from the translation of the imaginative _Mogul Tales_ of Gueullette. On the title-page of the edition of 1736, the anonymous English translator quotes:—

“In pleasing Tales, the artful Sage can give
Rules, how in Happiness and Ease to live:
Can shew what Good should most attract the Mind,
And how our Woes we from our Vices find;
Delighting, yet instructing thus our Youth,
Who catch at Fable—How to gather Truth.”

He then gives a prefatory “Discourse on the Usefulness of Romances,”[89] in the course of which he says that romances are useful in that they “Engage Young People to love Reading,” instil in them “Address, Politeness, and a high sense of Virtue,” and teach them the geography and customs of foreign countries. “Clownish People, and Persons long doom’d to what is called Low-Life ... ought on their coming into the World to be treated as Children and these Books recommended to them. By them they are led at once into Courts and into Camps, are taught the Language of the Toilette and the Drawing-Room, and are made acquainted with those superior Sentiments which inhabit only great Souls, and distinguish true Heroes from the Vulgar. By turning over such Volumes, Rusticity is quickly polished, and the Beauties of a gentile Behaviour set in such a light, as must attract a Heart not entirely Savage.... The late Humour of reading Oriental Romances, such as the Arabian, Persian, and Turkish Tales, though I will not contend, it has much better’d our Morals, has, however, extended our Notions, and made the Customs of the East much more familiar to us than they were before, or probably ever would have been, had they not been communicated to us by this indirect, and pleasant Way. Now these are certainly very great Advantages, and very valuable Acquirements, even to Men; and many giddy young Fellows have been, by amusing themselves with such Trifles, taught to conceive clearly, and to converse properly, in relation to Things which otherwise they would have known nothing about.” The writer then proceeds to bring out the moral which, in his opinion, is latent in oriental tales, especially in this collection. “The grand Moral of these ingenious Tales is contained in this Sentence: True Virtue alone is capable of standing all Trials, and persisting therein is the only means of attaining solid Happiness. The Author has illustrated the Truth of this Maxim by a Multitude of Instances, all of them probable, and some of them I have Reason to think founded upon matters of Fact. Human Nature is represented ... with strict regard to Truth, and in a manner which cannot fail of improving, as well as entertaining, the considerate Reader. From the perusal of these Sheets, he will have it in his Power to make a hundred Reflections, which may produce very happy Effects, if apply’d to the Regulation of his own Conduct. He will, for Example, see how ridiculous it is for a Man in Years to hope for Satisfaction from engaging in new Amours, and vainly flattering himself that Fondness and grey Hairs will ever attach the Soul of a sprightly young Woman.... The Misfortunes of the Blind Man of Chitor, cannot fail of putting him who reads them, in Mind of the Danger there is in making an ill Use of Court Favour, and of studying nothing but the gratification of sensual Appetites; what is supernatural in that Story, is certainly wrought with great Strength of Genius, and gives us a fine Idea of the Wisdom and Justice of Providence, in punishing the Offenses of Mankind,” and so on to the end. Similar sentiments, though less explicit, are found in Gueullette’s own dedication of the _Tartarian Tales_ to the Duke of Chartres. “The Book ... is of the Nature of those which are improving as well as entertaining. Though the Subject appear light, yet it conduces to something useful on Account of the Morality couched in it.”[90]

In addition to giving a general moralistic direction to the uses of oriental or pseudo-oriental material, Addison initiated the method employed in writing moral oriental tales. The similarities between the two oriental tales written by Dr. Johnson for the _Rambler_, and Addison’s original stories in the _Spectator_, are obvious and afford another instance of Johnson’s well-known emulation of the earlier essayist. In each case the result was insignificant in literary value.[91] Yet the attitude Addison took toward this oriental material and the use he made of it are exceedingly interesting to the student of the period, even though the actual tales he composed are so few and so trifling. The same is true of Dr. Johnson, and although his “clumsy gambols,”[92] and those of his contemporary imitator, Dr. John Hawkesworth, need not detain us long, they must not be overlooked.

Addison’s touch is lighter, as might be expected, while Johnson’s manner is certainly clumsy; but in childish simplicity of plan, of characterization, and of oriental colouring, such a tale as _Hamet and Raschid_[93] is not unlike _Hilpa, Harpath, and Shalum_.[94] Hawkesworth followed Johnson closely in these respects.

“Ingenious Hawkesworth to this school we owe
And scarce the pupil from the tutor know.”[95]

The only detailed description containing local colour is the picture of Bozaldab’s son upon “the throne of diamonds.” He is seated beside a princess “fairer than a Houri” and is surrounded by Rajahs of fifty nations. The hall is adorned with jasper statues and ivory doors with hinges of Golconda gold. A few customs are briefly mentioned, _e.g._ pressing the royal signet to the forehead in token of obedience, and meeting at the well in the desert where caravans stop.[96] Neither Johnson nor Hawkesworth attempts to localize the action beyond alluding to Bagdad, the plains of India, or “all the East.”

One curious characteristic differentiating these two later essayists from Addison, is their far more elaborate care to adorn their narratives with what they style “the pompous language of the East.” Orientalized phrases are found in Addison’s tales, but are far simpler and less frequent. Hawkesworth carries the mannerism to extremes. “Amurath, Sultan of the East, the judge of nations, the disciple of adversity, records the wonders of his life.” “As the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, its freezing influence extended to his bosom.” The flutter of the Angel’s wings is like “the rushing of a cataract,” a beautiful valley is “the Garden of Hope,” a dog is “thy brother of the dust.” “Despair has armed [his hand] with a dagger.” Figures of speech in Biblical phraseology are frequent, _e.g._ a smile “diffused gladness like the morning,” “the straight road of piety,” “the cup of consolation,” the “Angel of Death came forward like a whirlwind.” In Johnson’s tales and to a certain extent in Hawkesworth’s _Carazan_,[97] the phrases are frequently dignified as well as sonorous, but in other tales by Hawkesworth and Warton the language is absurdly “elevated,”—“the hoary sage”; “the fatal malignity,” _i.e._ the cup of poison; “the screams of the melancholy birds of midnight that flit through the echoing chambers of the Pyramids.” Such diction is noticeable in contrast to the plain English of Hawkesworth’s non-oriental tales, _e.g._ the story of _Melissa_,[98] and indicates unmistakably that “pompous language” was one essential in the eighteenth-century concept of the oriental tale. This is the more curious, since in the genuine oriental tales known in England at the time Johnson and Hawkesworth were writing, such language is the exception rather than the rule.[99] In the _Persian Tales_, for instance, the collection where one might expect to find figurative language, reference is made once or twice to the nightingale as lover of the rose, but figures such as the following are noticeably rare: “I lie down upon the thorns of uneasiness; the poison of your absence preys upon my heart and insensibly consumes my very life.” “Your forehead is like a plate of polished silver; your brows resemble two spacious arches; your eyes sparkle beyond diamonds; ... your mouth is a ruby casket that holds a bracelet of pearls.” The rarity of such language is worth noting, for, as has been suggested, the later pseudo-orientalists thought they must fill their pages with such figures in order to be “oriental”—a delusion satirized by Goldsmith. “They believe,” he says, “that in an oriental tale nothing is required but sublimity ... all is great, obscure, magnificent, and unintelligible.”[100].

Not only in language, but also in incident, Hawkesworth is far more fantastic than either Addison or Johnson. Obidah, in _Obidah, the son of Abensima, and the Hermit, an Eastern Story_,[101] follows a pleasant but misleading path, is overtaken by a storm, and meets a Hermit who preaches to him on the journey of life and the necessity of following the right road. The _Story of the Shepherds Hamet and Raschid_[102] is equally brief and unintricate. The fields of the two shepherds, who lived on the plains of India, were suffering from drought. A genius appeared with the offer of gifts. Hamet asked a little, steady brook; Raschid demanded the Ganges. The moral is as prompt and complete as in an old-fashioned Sunday-school tale. Hamet’s grounds prospered; Raschid’s were swept away, and—“a crocodile devoured him”! Hawkesworth is not content with such childlike simplicity. His _Ring of Amurath_[103] is as ingenious as it is moral. The sultan Amurath is presented with a magic ring by a Genius, who warns him that the ring will grow pale and press his finger whenever he sins. Amurath degenerates into a cruel and sensual tyrant, vainly pursues Selima, the daughter of his vizier, throws away the painful ring, and is transformed by the Genius into a “monster of the desert.” Captured and cruelly abused, he finally saves the life of his keeper, and in reward for this, his first good act, is changed into a dog. In this form, entering by chance the city of lawless pleasure, he beholds the horrors of unrestrained crime, and is poisoned. In his next form, that of a white dove, he reaches—again by chance—a hermit’s cave, where he beholds Selima telling her story to the hermit. Amurath feels “the sentiments of pure affection” and, in consequence, resumes human shape. The hermit, who is the Genius, preaches a final sermon and dismisses them to reign over Golconda. They will now be happy, he says, because they have learned to be wise and virtuous. Equally fantastic and more fortuitous are the events in the sketch, _Transmigration of a Soul_,[104] a story told by a flea, a realistic, disagreeable account of cruelties inflicted by men on animals. Sometimes Hawkesworth’s tales are free from grotesque fancies, _e.g._ the story of Carazan[105] the miser, who dreams he is before the Judgment Seat and condemned to eternal solitude. He awakens, reforms, and gives a great feast to the poor. Such a tale is commonplace, but in its simplicity is not entirely unimpressive. In the majority of Hawkesworth’s tales, however, the fantastic elements predominate.

Of _Almoran and Hamet_ (1761), the best known of Hawkesworth’s tales outside of the periodicals, much the same may be said. The story is similar to _Nouraddin and Amana_, but is more elaborate. The _deus ex machina_ is a genius who gives supernatural aid to the tyrant Almoran in pursuing his evil desires. A magic talisman enables Almoran to assume other persons’ forms, prodigies apparently from heaven alarm his opponents; yet each of his wishes is frustrated by the virtuous acts of his brother Hamet and the beautiful Almeida, until in the end he is metamorphosed into a rock, and they are left to reign in peace. The oriental colouring is thin and the characterization feeble. Yet the tale won, for a time, great popularity, due partly to the melodramatic interest, partly to the moralizing tone.[106] The author discourses on the essentials of good government, the duties of a king, the question of immortality, and the idea that the pursuit of pleasure alone defeats its own end. In certain ways the story reminds one of _Vathek_ and again of _Seged_.[107] Almoran, like Vathek, longs for the gratification of every desire. “If I must perish,” said he, “I will at least perish unsubdued. I will quench no wish that nature kindles in my bosom; nor shall my lips utter any prayer but for new powers to feed the flame.” In answer to these words, the Genius appears, “one of those delusive phantoms, which, under the appearance of pleasure, were leading him to destruction.” Like Seged, Almoran finds that the deliberate attempt to be happy at any cost ends in greater pain. Both tales represent an idea that was persistent in the philosophy of the eighteenth century, and was to find its most artistic expression in _Rasselas_ and _The Vanity of Human Wishes_.

Two other moral tales, Langhorne’s _Solyman and Almena_ (1762),[108] and Mrs. Sheridan’s _Nourjahad_ (1767),[109] similar to Hawkesworth’s stories, likewise enjoyed considerable popularity. Nourjahad narrates the experiences of a sultan’s favourite, whose chief desires are inexhaustible riches and “prolongation of his life to eternity to enjoy them.” The sultan causes the apparent fulfilment of these wishes, and Nourjahad rapidly degenerates through selfish indulgence in pleasures of the senses into an impious and murderous tyrant. His acts are accompanied by increasing unhappiness: the loss of his mistress, Mandana, the ingratitude of his son, the desertion of all his servants except one, Cozro, who acts as his conscience, recapitulates his sins, and demonstrates that, “by the immutable laws of Heaven ... either in this world or the next, vice will meet its just reward.” Cozro teaches the repentant Nourjahad the happiness that comes from generosity to the poor and suffering, and the faith in one’s own rectitude and in Heaven, that makes man superior to death. Nourjahad is finally brought to despise riches; to desire to save Cozro’s life by losing his own; and, when that is unavailing, to accept the prospect of death rather than bribe his jailer. At the last moment the sultan reveals to Nourjahad that he has been disguised as Cozro, that Mandana still lives and has impersonated Nourjahad’s guardian genius, and that the whole series of events has been arranged to test and to purify Nourjahad’s character.

The story has a certain amount of interest. The illusion is well sustained, and the dénouement comes with considerable force. There is an attempt at oriental colouring in the descriptions of the omnipotent sultan, the forests and gardens, the mourning in the city for the sultan’s death, the bribery of cadi and jailers, and the urns full of gold pieces and rare jewels in the subterranean treasure-vault. But the colouring is faint and serves only as a vague background for the story. There is unity in the development of the central idea of Nourjahad’s evil desires, their result and his change of heart; there is, however, no real characterization. The burden of the moral and of the inflated, pompous diction is heavy, but the narrative is clear and often vivid.

In _Solyman and Almena_ the oriental colouring is paler even than in _Nourjahad_. “In the pleasant valley of Mesopotamia on the banks of the Irwan lived Solyman, son of Ardavan the sage,” who worshipped the sacred Mithra. Names, places, mention of a few oriental customs like the suttee, occasional metaphors, suffice in the eyes of the author to make the tale oriental. His chief delight is to moralize and philosophize in gentle and leisurely fashion. The story begins with Solyman’s desire to travel in order to gain knowledge of mankind and of God. It advances slowly because frequently broken by generalizations, by descriptions of places like the “frowning” ruins of Persepolis and emotions aroused thereby, and also by digressions on the state of literature and manners in England. The extreme sentimentality of the lovers and their floods of tears often delay the progress of events. The language used is eminently suitable. When Solyman found that “to all the elegant graces of female softness, she [Almena] added the virtues of benevolence, his friendship for her was heightened into the most refined affection.” On the whole, although the story is stiff, tedious, and over-moralistic, it has an attractive kind of purity and sweetness like the fragrance from an old-fashioned garden.

In many respects similar to the fiction discussed above, but superior in narrative directness and force is the moral tale by Miss Edgeworth, _Murad the Unlucky_. It was not published until 1804,[110] and therefore would fall outside of our study, were it not so similar in character to the fiction under consideration. The starting point of this story is a query by the Sultan of Constantinople concerning the tale of _Cogia Hassan, the Rope-maker, and the Two Friends Saad and Saadi_ in the _Arabian Nights_. The Sultan, like Haroun Alraschid, is amusing himself by going at night, in disguise, through the streets of his city. Recollecting the tale of _Cogia Hassan_, he declares to his companion, the vizier, that “fortune does more for men than prudence.” The vizier takes the opposite view and cites as instances two brothers, called Murad the Unlucky and Saladin the Lucky. The brothers recount the stories of their lives, and at the close the Sultan says to his vizier: “I acknowledge that the histories of Saladin the Lucky and Murad the Unlucky favour your opinion, that prudence has more influence than chance in human affairs. The success and happiness of Saladin seem to me to have arisen from his prudence: by that prudence Constantinople has been saved from flames and from the plague. Had Murad possessed his brother’s discretion, he would not have been on the point of losing his head for selling rolls which he did not bake; he would not have been kicked by a mule or bastinadoed for finding a ring; he would not have been robbed by one party of soldiers or shot by another; he would not have been lost in a desert, or cheated by a Jew; he would not have set a ship on fire; nor would he have caught the plague, and spread it through Grand Cairo; he would not have run my sultana’s looking-glass through the body, instead of a robber; he would not have believed that the fate of his life depended on certain verses on a china vase; nor would he, at last, have broken this precious talisman by washing it with hot water. Henceforward, let Murad the Unlucky be named Murad the Imprudent; let Saladin preserve the surname he merits, and be henceforth called Saladin the Prudent.”[111] Such a quotation readily shows how far removed from the _Arabian Nights_ were the moralistic tales, imitating, as they did, the manner only and not the spirit of their prototypes.

Of Ridley’s _Tales of the Genii_ (1764),[112] the translation of Le Camus’s _Abdeker, or the Art of Preserving Beauty_ (1754),[113] and _The Vizirs, or the Enchanted Labyrinth, an Oriental Tale_ (1774)[114] by Mme. Fauques de Vaucluse, the same may be said with even greater emphasis. The subtitle of the first, “Delightful Lessons of Horam the Son of Asmar,” betrays the author’s purpose, which proves to be to disguise “the true doctrines of morality under the delightful allegories of romantic enchantment.” The disguise is thin, though the “enchantment” is plentiful. Incantations, genii, sudden transformations, flowery valleys, crystal palaces, deserts, volcanoes, shipwrecks, are all lavishly employed. The attempt to accumulate horrors results once in unconscious humour: the description of the “horrid” sorcerer, who lurks in his lurid den, cherishing “his tube burning with the fœtid herb tobacco, filling the cave with its poisonous odour.” But the narratives, in general, are tedious, and the continual moralizing is anything but “delightful.” _Abdeker_ is also unimportant but curious—an awkward combination of an Eastern love story with recipes for cosmetics and lectures on hygiene. The form is a frame-tale in which a few minor tales, such as _Zinzima and Azor_, are inserted. _The Vizirs_ is a fanciful, tediously moralized story of the complicated adventures of several Eastern princes and princesses.

One curious instance of the general propensity to moralize is _Dinarbas, a Tale, being a Continuation of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia_ (1790).[115] The idea of such a sequel was suggested to the author by Sir John Hawkins’s statement that Dr. Johnson “had an intention of marrying his hero and placing him in a state of permanent felicity.”[116] The author’s purpose is to show that love, friendship, and virtuous, altruistic conduct bring happiness. Rasselas is the hero of the book; Dinarbas is his friend. Rasselas quells a rebellion against his father, the Emperor; is falsely accused, imprisoned, and, by aid of Dinarbas, liberated; succeeds to the throne of Abyssinia, marries the sister of Dinarbas, and gives his sister Nekayah to Dinarbas. The story closes with their visit to the Happy Valley to set free its inhabitants. Throughout the book the author inculcates resignation, rectitude, courage, usefulness, and other virtues, and endeavours “to afford consolation or relief to the wretched traveler, terrified and disheartened at the rugged paths of life.” _Dinarbas_ is obviously inferior to its predecessor; its value is not literary but historical—as an evidence of the desire to moralize everything, even the philosophic tales.

It is not surprising to find in this period several editions of the _Fables of Pilpay_ [or _Bidpai_], a version of the ancient _Kalila and Dimna_, which had been known in England since the Middle Ages. The moralistic note in addition to the perennial interest of these stories made an especial appeal to eighteenth-century readers. In 1743 appeared _The Instructive and Entertaining Fables of Pilpay, an ancient Indian Philosopher, containing a number of excellent rules for the conduct of persons of all ages_. London, 1743. As early as 1711 there had appeared a book of extracts: _Æsop naturaliz’d: in a collection of diverting fables and stories from Æsop, Lockman, Pilpay, and others_. London, 1711; 1771.[117]

The name of the minor moralists of this period is Legion. It would be superfluous to do more than mention briefly the titles of a few works: _Contentment, a Fable_;[118] _Hassan_ (178-?);[119] _The History of Arsaces, Prince of Betlis by the editor of Chrysal_ (1774);[120] _The Caliph of Bagdad, Travels before the Flood, an Interesting Oriental record of men and manners in the antediluvian world interpreted in fourteen evening conversations between the Caliph of Bagdad and his Court, translated from Arabic_ (1796);[121] _The Grateful Turk_, in _Moral Tales by Esteemed Writers_ (1800?);[122] _Hamet and Selinda an Eastern Tale_ in _The Baloon or ærostatic Spy, a novel containing a series of adventures of an aerial traveller_ (1786).[123]

In the last half of the century several collections of such oriental tales, chiefly moralistic, were made. “Mr. Addison’s” _Interesting Anecdotes, memoirs, Allegories, essays, and poetical fragments, tending to amuse the fancy and inculcate morality_ (1797)[124] in sixteen volumes, contains a great variety of oriental and unoriental tales taken, usually without naming the author, from the _Rambler_, the _Adventurer_, and other sources. A similar collection is _The Orientalist, a volume of Tales after the Eastern taste, by the author of Roderick Random, Sir Lancelot Greaves, etc., and Others_ (1773).[125] Some of these tales are fanciful; many moralizing. One is a direct and unacknowledged translation of Marmontel’s _Soliman II._[126] No authors’ names are given. The tales are brief, uninteresting, and, with a few exceptions such as _Soliman II._, of little value. The tendency, found in France earlier in the century, to “moralize” oriental stories and fairy tales for the edification of children is exemplified by a collection popular for several years after its publication: _The Blossoms of Morality. Intended for the Amusement and Instruction of Young Ladies and Gentlemen by the Editor of the Looking Glass for the Mind_ (1789).[127] In this collection are a few “oriental” tales, _e.g._ _The Pleasures of Contentment_, a “tedious brief” story of the good vizier Alibeg, unjustly exiled, discovered contentedly living as a hermit, surrounded by affectionate domestic animals. Recalled to office by popular demand, Alibeg sheds a few tears upon leaving his pastoral retreat, but returns to the city, rules wisely, and is content always and everywhere. The same collection contains _An Oriental Tale_; _Generosity Rewarded_; _The Anxieties of Royalty_; _The Generous Punishment_;—all, tales with “oriental” traces;—and _The Beautiful Statue_, a diluted version of the admirable tale of _Zeyn Alasnam_ in the _Arabian Nights_, pitiably moralized. Finally, _The Oriental Moralist_ appeared, in which “_the Beauties of the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_” were “accompanied with suitable reflections adapted to each story,” by the Rev. Mr. Cooper (1790?).[128] The editor’s preface needs no comment: “During a trip which I lately made to the Continent, I accidentally met with (at an Inn where I had occasion to halt a short time) a French edition of the _Arabian Nights’ Entertainments_; having no other book at hand I was induced to wade through it. When I had finished ... it struck my imagination, that those tales might be compared to a once rich and luxuriant garden, neglected and run to waste, where scarce anything strikes the common observer but the weeds and briars with which it is overrun, whilst the more penetrating eye of the experienced gardener discovers ... some ... delightful flowers. Full of this idea, I determined to turn florist, and to traverse this wild and unweeded spot with a cautious and discriminating eye, ... to cull a pleasing nosegay for my youthful friends. Quitting the simile, I have endeavoured to select a few of the most interesting tales, have given them a new dress in point of language, and have carefully expurgated everything that could give the least offense to the most delicate reader. Not satisfied barely with these views, I have added many moral reflections, wherever the story would admit of them. I have, in many instances, considerably altered the fables, and have given them a turn, which appeared to me the most likely to promote the love of virtue, to fortify the youthful heart against the impressions of vice, and to point out to them the paths which lead to peace, happiness, and honour.” In accordance with this purpose Cooper gave the following new ending to _Aladdin_: “Sir, said the Sultana, after she had finished the story of the Wonderful Lamp, your majesty, without doubt, has observed, in the person of the African magician, a man abandoned to the passion of possessing immense treasures by the most horrid and detestable means. On the contrary, your majesty sees in Aladdin a person of mean birth, raised to the regal dignity, making use of the same treasures ... just as he had occasion for them, or when an opportunity offered of applying them to the relief of the necessitous, or in rewarding industry and encouraging the practice of virtue.” After that, the instant execution of the Sultana would have been, on the part of his majesty, justifiable homicide. Hawkesworth, in the concluding number of the _Adventurer_, confesses—hardly to the surprise of the reader who has perused the previous one hundred and thirty-nine essays—that he is a moral writer, and that he has found it necessary, in writing for “the Young and the Gay,” to amuse the imagination “while approaching the heart.” The editor of the _Observer_ declares that simply to say that he has “written nothing but with a moral design would be saying very little, for it is not the vice of the time to countenance publications of an opposite tendency; to administer moral precepts through a pleasing medium seems now the general study of our essayists, dramatists, and novelists, ... to bind the rod of the moralist with the roses of the muse.” Beyond such didacticism no moralist could go.

If we pause to consider the Moralistic Group as a whole, our strongest impression is that of the general paucity of literary merit. Aside from Parnell’s _Hermit_, Marmontel’s _contes_, some of the tales quoted by Addison and Steele, and the _Fables of Bidpai_, there is nothing of noticeable intrinsic value. The moral oriental tales composed by Addison, Johnson, and Miss Edgeworth are the least valuable part of their work, far inferior, for instance, to the philosophic oriental tales, _The Vision of Mirza_ and _Rasselas_. Only unusual genius can make an art of moralizing. Average writers,—like the authors of the fifteenth-century morality plays or the eighteenth-century moralists when they turned to oriental fiction,—in their desire to express a universal truth concerning human character or conduct, eliminate so many individualizing traits that their personages become mere abstractions. They do not know the secret of embodying these abstract ideas in concrete and appropriate types, and hence their work lacks the beauty and universal human interest of the _Pilgrim’s Progress_, the _Faerie Queene_, or the parables of Scripture. Yet the minor writers of any period—and the same is true of minor works by great writers—frequently reflect most clearly the current opinions of their age.[129] For that reason the Moralistic Group of oriental tales possesses a distinct historical value.