Volume 2 — Appendix. VARIANTS AND ANALOGUES OF SOME OF THE TALES IN THE SUPPLEMENTAL NIGHTS. VOLS. I. AND II.

By W. A. CLOUSTON.

AUTHOR OF “POPULAR TALES AND FICTIONS: THEIR MIGRATIONS AND TRANSFORMATIONS,” ETC.

THE SLEEPER AND THE WAKER.—Vol. I. p. 1.

Few of the stories in the “Arabian Nights” which charmed our marvelling boyhood were greater favourites than this one, under the title of “Abou Hassan; or, the Sleeper Awakened.” What recked we in those days whence it was derived?—the story—the story was the thing! As Sir R. F. Burton observes in his first note, this is “the only one of the eleven added by Galland, whose original has been discovered in Arabic;”^[484] and it is probable that Galland heard it recited in a coffee-house during his residence in Constantinople. The plot of the Introduction to Shakspeare’s comedy of “The Taming of the Shrew” is similar to the adventure of Abú al-Hasan the Wag, and is generally believed to have been adapted from a story entitled “The Waking Man’s Fortune” in Edward’s collection of comic tales, 1570, which were retold somewhat differently in Goulart’s “Admirable and Memorable Histories,” 1607; both versions are reprinted in Mr. Hazlitt’s “Shakspeare Library,” vol. iv., part 1, pp. 403–414. In Percy’s “Reliques of Ancient English Poetry” we find the adventure told in a ballad entitled “The Frolicksome Duke; or, the Tinker’s Good Fortune,” from the Pepys collection: “whether 292it may be thought to have suggested the hint to Shakspeare or is not rather of later date,” says Percy, “the reader must determine”:

Now as fame does report, a young duke keeps a court,

One that pleases his fancy with frolicksome sport:

But amongst all the rest, here is one, I protest,

Which will make you to smile when you hear the true jest:

A poor tinker he found lying drunk on the ground,

As secure in a sleep as if laid in a swownd.

The duke said to his men, William, Richard, and Ben,

Take him home to my palace, we’ll sport with him then.

O’er a horse he was laid, and with care soon convey’d

To the palace, altho’ he was poorly arrai’d;

Then they stript off his cloaths, both his shirt, shoes, and hose,

And they put him in bed for to take his repose.

Having pull’d off his shirt, which was all over durt,

They did give him clean holland, this was no great hurt:

On a bed of soft down, like a lord of renown,

They did lay him to sleep the drink out of his crown.

In the morning when day, then admiring^[485] he lay,

For to see the rich chamber both gaudy and gay.

Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,

Till at last knights and squires they on him did wait;

And the chamberling bare, then did likewise declare,

He desired to know what apparel he’d ware:

The poor tinker amaz’d, on the gentleman gaz’d,

And admired how he to this honour was rais’d.

Tho’ he seem’d something mute, yet he chose a rich suit,

Which he straitways put on without longer dispute;

With a star on his side, which the tinker offt ey’d,

And it seem’d for to swell him no little with pride;

For he said to himself, Where is Joan my sweet wife?

Sure she never did see me so fine in her life.

From a convenient place, the right duke his good grace

Did observe his behaviour in every case.

To a garden of state, on the tinker they wait,

Trumpets sounding before him: thought he this is great:

Where an hour or two, pleasant walks he did view,

With commanders and squires in scarlet and blew.

A fine dinner was drest, both for him and his guests,

He was placed at the table above all the rest,

In a rich chair, or bed, lin’d with fine crimson red,

With a rich golden canopy over his head:

As he sat at his meat, the musick play’d sweet,

With the choicest of singing his joys to compleat.

293While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine.

Rich canary with sherry and tent superfine,

Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,

Till at last he began for to tumble and roul

From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did snore,

Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him amain,

And restore him his old leather garments again:

’Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they must,

And they carry’d him strait, where they found him at first;

Then he slept all the night, as indeed well he might,

But when he did waken, his joys took their flight.

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,

That he thought it to be but a meer golden dream;

Till at length he was brought to the duke, where he sought

For a pardon as fearing he had set him at nought;

But his highness he said, Thou’rt a jolly bold blade,

Such a frolick before I think never was plaid.

Then his highness bespoke him a new suit and cloak,

Which he gave for the sake of this frolicksome joak;

Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of ground,

Thou shalt never, said he, range the counteries round,

Crying old brass to mend, for I’ll be thy good friend,

Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess attend.

Then the tinker reply’d, What! must Joan my sweet bride

Be a lady in chariots of pleasure to ride?

Must we have gold and land ev’ry day at command?

Then I shall be a squire I well understand:

Well I thank your good grace, and your love I embrace,

I was never before in so happy a case.

The same story is also cited in the “Anatomy of Melancholy,” part 2, sec. 2, memb. 4, from Ludovicus Vives in Epist.^[486] and Pont. Heuter in Rerum Burgund., as follows:

“It is reported of Philippus Bonus, that good Duke of Burgundy, that the said duke, at the marriage of Eleonora, sister to the King of Portugal, at Bruges in Flanders, which was solemnized in the deep of winter, when as by reason of the unseasonable (!) weather he could neither hawk nor hunt, and was now tyred with cards, dice, &c., and such other domestical sports, or to see ladies dance, with some of his courtiers, he would in the evening walk disguised all about the town. It so fortuned as he was walking late one night, he found a country fellow dead drunk, snorting on a bulk; he caused his followers to bring him to his palace, and there stripping him of his old clothes, and attiring him after 294the court fashion, when he waked, he and they were all ready to attend upon his excellency, persuading him that he was some great duke. The poor fellow, admiring how he came there, was served in state all the day long; after supper he saw them dance, heard musick, and the rest of those court-like pleasures; but late at night, when he was well tipled, and again fast asleep they put on his old robes, and so conveyed him to the place where they first found him. Now the fellow had not made them so good sport the day before, as he did when he returned to himself; all the jest was to see how he looked upon it. In conclusion, after some little admiration, the poor man told his friends he had seen a vision, constantly beleeved it, would not otherwise be perswaded; and so the jest ended.”

I do not think that this is a story imported from the East: the adventure is just as likely to have happened in Bruges as in Baghdád; but the exquisite humour of the Arabian tale is wanting—even Shakspeare’s Christopher Sly is not to be compared with honest Abú al-Hasan the Wag.

This story of The Sleeper and the Waker recalls the similar device practised by the Chief of the Assassins—that formidable, murderous association, the terror of the Crusaders—on promising novices. Von Hammer, in his “History of the Assassins,” end of Book iv., gives a graphic description of the charming gardens into which the novices were carried while insensible from hashish:

In the centre of the Persian as well as of the Assyrian territory of the Assassins, that is to say, both at Alamut and Massiat, were situated, in a space surrounded by walls, splendid gardens—true Eastern paradises. There were flower-beds and thickets of fruit-trees, intersected by canals, shady walks, and verdant glades, where the sparkling stream bubbled at every step; bowers of roses and vineyards; luxurious halls and porcelain kiosks, adorned with Persian carpets and Grecian stuffs, where drinking-vessels of gold, silver, and crystal glittered on trays of the same costly materials; charming maidens and handsome boys of Muhammed’s Paradise, soft as the cushions on which they reposed, and intoxicating as the wine which they presented. The music of the harp was mingled with the songs of birds, and the melodious tones of the songstress harmonized with the murmur of the brooks. Everything breathed pleasure, rapture, and sensuality. A youth, who was deemed worthy by his strength and resolution to be initiated into the Assassin service, was invited to the table and conversation of the grand master, or grand prior, he was then intoxicated with hashish and carried into the garden, which on awaking he believed to be Paradise; everything around him, the houris in particular, contributing to confirm the delusion. After he had experienced as much of the pleasures of Paradise, which the Prophet has promised to the faithful, as his strength would admit; after quaffing enervating delight from the eyes of the houris and intoxicating wine from the glittering goblets; he sank into the lethargy produced by debility and the opiate, on awakening from which, after a few hours, he again found himself by the side of his superior. The latter endeavoured to convince 295him that corporeally he had not left his side, but that spiritually he had been wrapped into Paradise and had there enjoyed a foretaste of the bliss which awaits the faithful who devote their lives to the service of the faith and the obedience of their chiefs.

THE TEN WAZIRS; OR, THE HISTORY OF KING ÁZÁDBAKHT AND HIS SON.—Vol. I. p. 55.

The precise date of the Persian original of this romance (“Bakhtyár Náma”) has not been ascertained, but it was probably composed before the beginning of the fifteenth century, since there exists in the Bodleian Library a unique Turkí version, in the Uygur language and characters, which was written in 1434. Only three of the tales have hitherto been found in other Asiatic story-books. The Turkí version, according to M. Jaubert, who gives an account of the MS. and a translation of one of the tales in the Journal Asiatique, tome x. 1827, is characterised by “great sobriety of ornament and extreme simplicity of style, and the evident intention on the part of the translator to suppress all that may not have appeared to him sufficiently probable, and all that might justly be taxed with exaggeration;” and he adds that “apart from the interest which the writing and phraseology of the work may possess for those who study the history of languages, it is rather curious to see how a Tátár translator sets to work to bring within the range of his readers stories embellished in the original with descriptions and images familiar, doubtless, to a learned and refined nation like the Persians, but foreign to shepherds.”

At least three different versions are known to the Malays—different in the frame, or leading story, if not in the subordinate tales. One of those is described in the second volume of Newbold’s work on Malacca, the frame of which is similar to the Persian original and its Arabian derivative, excepting that the name of the king is Zádbokhtin and that of the minister’s daughter (who is nameless in the Persian) is Mahrwat. Two others are described in Van den Berg’s account of Malay, Arabic, Javanese and other MSS. published at Batavia, 1877; p. 21, No. 132 is entitled “The History of Ghulám, son of Zádbukhtán, King of Adán, in Persia,” and the frame also corresponds with our version, with the important difference that the robber-chief who had brought up Ghulám, “learning that he had become a person of consequence, came to his residence to visit him, but finding him imprisoned, he was much concerned, and asked the king’s pardon on his behalf, telling him at the same time how he had formerly found Ghulám in the jungle; from which the king knew that Ghulám was his son.” The second version noticed by Van den Berg (p. 32, No. 179), though similar in title to the Persian original, “History of Prince Bakhtyár,” differs very materially in the leading story, the outline of 296which is as follows: “This prince, when his father was put to flight by a younger brother, who wished to dethrone him, was born in a jungle, and abandoned by his parents. A merchant named Idrís took charge of him and brought him up. Later on he became one of the officers of state with his own father, who had in the meanwhile found another kingdom, and decided with fairness, the cases brought before him. He was, however, put in prison, on account of a supposed attempt on the king’s life, and would have been put to death had he not stayed the execution by telling various beautiful stories. Even the king came repeatedly to listen to him. At one of these visits Bakhtyár’s foster-father Idrís was present, and related to his adopted son how he had found him in the jungle. The king, on hearing this, perceived that it was his son who had been brought up by Idrís, recognised Bakhtyár as such, and made over to him the kingdom.”—I have little doubt that this romance is of Indian extraction.

STORY OF KING DADBIN AND HIS WAZIRS. Vol. I. p. 94.

THIS agrees pretty closely with the Turkí version of the same story (rendered into French by M. Jaubert), though in the latter the names of the characters are the same as in the Persian, King Dádín and the Wazírs Kámgár and Kárdár. In the Persian story, the damsel is tied hands and feet and placed upon a camel, which is then turned into a dreary wilderness. “Here she suffered from the intense heat and from thirst; but she resigned herself to the will of Providence, conscious of her own innocence. Just then the camel lay down, and on the spot a fountain of delicious water suddenly sprang forth; the cords which bound her hands and feet dropped off; she refreshed herself by a draught of the water, and fervently returned thanks to Heaven for this blessing and her wonderful preservation.” This two-fold miracle does not appear in the Turkí and Arabian versions. It is not the cameleer of the King of Persia, but of King Dádín, who meets with the pious damsel in the wilderness. He takes her to his own house and one day relates his adventure to King Dádín, who expresses a wish to see such a prodigy of sanctity. The conclusion of the Persian story is quite dramatic: The cameleer, having consented, returned at once to his house, accompanied by the king, who waited at the door of the apartment where the daughter of Kámgár was engaged in prayer. When she had concluded he approached, and with astonishment recognised her. Having tenderly embraced her, he wept, and entreated her forgiveness. This she readily granted, but begged that he would conceal himself in the apartment while she should converse with Kárdár, whom she sent for. When he arrived, and beheld her with a thousand expressions of fondness, he inquired how she had escaped, and told her that on the day the king banished her into the wilderness, 297he had sent people to seek her and bring her to him. “How much better would it have been,” he added, “had you followed my advice, and agreed to my proposal of poisoning the king, who, I said, would one day destroy you as he had done your father! But you rejected my advice, and declared yourself ready to submit to whatever Providence should decree. Hereafter you will pay more attention to my words. But now let us not think of what is past. I am your slave, and you are dearer to me than my own eyes.” So saying, he attempted to clasp the daughter of Kámgár in his arms, when the king, who was concealed behind the hangings, rushed furiously on him and put him to death. After this he conducted the damsel to his palace, and constantly lamented his precipitancy in having killed her father.—This tale seems to have been taken from the Persian “Tútí Náma,” or Parrot-book, composed by Nakhshabí about the year 1306;^[487] it occurs in the 51st Night of the India Office MS. 2573, under the title of “Story of the Daughter of the Vazír Khássa, and how she found safety through the blessing of her piety:” the name of the king is Bahram, and the Wazírs are called Khássa and Khalássa.

STORY OF AYLAN SHAH AND ABU TAMMÁM.—Vol I. p. 112.

The catastrophe of this story forms the subject of the Lady’s 37th tale in the text of the Turkish “Forty Vezírs,” translated by Mr. E. J. W. Gibb. This is how it goes:

In the palace of the world there was a king, and that king had three vezírs, but there was rivalry between them. Two of them day and night incited the king against the third, saying, “He is a traitor.” But the king believed them not. At length they promised two pages much gold, and instructed them thus: “When the king has lain down, ere he yet fall asleep, do ye feign to think him asleep, and while talking with each other, say at a fitting time, ‘I have heard from such a one that yon vezír says this and that concerning the king, and that he hates him; many people say that vezír is an enemy to our king.’” So they did this, and when the king heard them, he said in his heart, “What those vezírs said is then true; when the very pages have heard somewhat it must indeed have some foundation. Till now, I believed not those vezírs, but it is then true.” And the king executed that vezír. The other vezírs were glad and gave the pages the gold they had promised. So they took it and went to a private place, and while they were dividing it one of them said, “I spake first; I want more.” The other said, “If I had not said he was an enemy to our king, the king would not have killed him; I shall take more.” And while they 298were quarrelling with one another the king passed by there, and he listened attentively to their words, and when he learned of the matter, he said, “Dost thou see, they have by a trick made us kill that hapless vezír.” And he was repentant.

STORY OF KING SULAYMAN SHAH AND HIS NIECE. Vol. I. p. 131.

The Persian original has been very considerably amplified by the Arabian translator. In the “Bakhtyár Náma” there is not a word about the two brothers and their fair cousin, the attempted murder of the infant, and the adventures of the fugitive young prince. This story has also been taken from the “Tútí Náma” of Nakhshabí, Night the 50th of the India Office MS. 2573, where, under the title of “Story of the Daughter of the Kaysar of Roum, and her trouble by reason of her son,” it is told somewhat as follows:

In former times there was a great king, whose army was numerous and whose treasury was full to overflowing; but, having no enemy to contend with, he neglected to pay his soldiers, in consequence of which they were in a state of destitution and discontent. At length one day the soldiers went to the prime minister and made their condition known to him. The vazír promised that he would speedily devise a plan by which they should have employment and money. Next morning he presented himself before the king, and said that it was widely reported the Kaysar of Roum had a daughter unsurpassed for beauty—one who was fit only for such a great monarch as his Majesty; and suggested that it would be advantageous if an alliance were formed between two such great potentates. The notion pleased the king well, and he forthwith despatched to Roum an ambassador with rich gifts, and requested the Kaysar to grant him his daughter in marriage. But the Kaysar waxed wroth at this, and refused to give his daughter to the king. When the ambassador returned thus unsuccessful, the king, enraged at being made of no account, resolved to make war upon the Kaysar; so, opening the doors of his treasury, he distributed much money among his troops, and then, “with a woe-bringing host, and a blood-drinking army, he trampled Roum and the folk of Roum in the dust.” And when the Kaysar was become powerless, he sent his daughter to the king, who married her according to the law of Islam.

Now that princess had a son by a former husband, and the Kaysar had said to her before she departed, “Beware that thou mention not thy son, for my love for his society is great, and I cannot part with him.”^[488] But the princess 299was sick at heart for the absence of her son, and she was ever pondering how she should speak to the king about him, and in what manner she might contrive to bring him to her. It happened one day the king gave her a string of pearls and a casket of jewels. She said, “With my father is a slave who is well skilled in the science of jewels.” The king replied, “If I should ask that slave of thy father, would he give him to me?” “Nay,” said she, “for he holds him in the place of a son. But if the king desire him, I will send a merchant to Roum, and I myself will give him a token, and with pleasant wiles and fair speeches will bring him hither.” Then the king sent for a clever merchant who knew Arabic eloquently and the language of Roum, and gave him goods for trading, and sent him to Roum with the object of procuring that slave. But the daughter of the Kaysar said privily to the merchant, “That slave is my son; I have, for a good reason, said to the king that he is a slave; so thou must bring him as a slave, and let it be thy duty to take care of him.” In due course the merchant brought the youth to the king’s service; and when the king saw his fair face, and discovered in him many pleasing and varied accomplishments, he treated him with distinction and favour, and conferred on the merchant a robe of honour and gifts. His mother saw him from afar, and was pleased with receiving a secret salutation from him.

One day the king had gone to the chase, and the palace remained void of rivals; so the mother called in her son, kissed his fair face, and told him the tale of her great sorrow. A chamberlain became aware of the secret, and another suspicion fell upon him, and he said to himself, “The harem of the king is the sanctuary of security and the palace of protection. If I speak not of this, I shall be guilty of treachery and shall have wrought unfaithfulness.” When the king returned from the chase, the chamberlain related to him what he had seen, and the king was angry and said, “This woman hath deceived me with words and deeds, and has brought hither her desire by craft and cunning. This conjecture must be true, else why did she play such a trick? And why did she hatch such a plot? And why did she send the merchant?” Then the king, enraged, went into the harem, and the queen saw from his countenance that the occurrence of the night before had become known to him, and she said, “Be it not that I see the king angry?” He said, “How should I not be angry? Thou, by craft, and trickery, and intrigue, and plotting, hast brought thy desire from Roum—what wantonness is this that thou hast done?” And then he thought to slay her, but he forebore, because of his great love for her. But he ordered the chamberlain to carry the youth to some obscure place, and straightway sever his head from his body. When the poor mother saw this, she well-nigh fell on her face, and her soul was near leaving her body. But she knew that sorrow would not avail, and so she restrained herself.

And when the chamberlain took the youth into his own house, he said to him, “O youth, knowest thou not that the harem of the king is the sanctuary of security? What great treachery is this that thou hast perpetrated?” The youth replied, “That queen is my mother, and I am her true son. Because of 300her natural delicacy, she said not to the king that she had a son by another husband. And when yearning came over her, she contrived to bring me here from Roum; and while the king was engaged in the chase, maternal love stirred in her, and she called me to her and embraced me.” On hearing this, the chamberlain said to himself, “What is passing in his mother’s breast? What I have not done I can yet do, and it were better that I preserve this youth some days, for such a rose may not be wounded through idle words, and such a bough may not be broken by a breath. For some day the truth of the matter will be disclosed, and it will become known to the king when repentance may be of no avail.” So he went before the king and said, “That which was commanded have I fulfilled.” On hearing this the king’s wrath was to some extent removed, but his trust in the Kaysar’s daughter was departed; while she, poor creature, was grieved and dazed at the loss of her son.

Now in the palace-harem there was an old woman, who said to the queen, “How is it that I find thee sorrowful?” And the queen told the whole story, concealing nothing. This old woman was a heroine in the field of craft, and she answered, “Keep thy mind at ease; I will devise a stratagem by which the heart of the king will be pleased with thee, and every grief he has will vanish from his heart.” The queen said that, if she did so, she should be amply rewarded. One day the old woman, seeing the king alone, said to him, “Why is thy former aspect altered? And why are traces of care and anxiety visible on thy countenance?” The king then told her all. Then said the old woman, “I have an amulet of the charms of Sulayman, in the Syriac language, and in the writing of the jinn (genii). When the queen is asleep, do thou place it on her breast, and whatever it may be, she will tell the truth of it. But take care, fall not thou asleep, but listen well to what she says.” The king wondered at this and said, “Give me that amulet, that the truth of this matter may be learned.” So the old woman gave him the amulet, and then went to the queen and explained what she had done, and said, “Do thou feign to be asleep, and relate the whole of thy story faithfully.”

When a watch of the night was past, the king laid the amulet upon his wife’s breast, and she thus began: “By a former husband I had a son, and when my father gave me to this king, I was ashamed to say I had a tall son. When my yearning passed all bounds, I brought him here by an artifice. One day that the king was gone to the chase I called him into the house, when, after the way of mothers, I took him in my arms and kissed him. This reached the king’s ears; he unwittingly gave it another construction, and cut off the head of that innocent boy, and withdrew from me his own heart. Alike is my son lost to me and the king angry.” When the king heard these words he kissed her and exclaimed, “O my life, what an error is this thou hast committed! Thou hast brought calumny upon thyself, and hast given such a son to the winds, and hast made me ashamed!” Straightway he called the chamberlain, and said, “That boy whom thou hast killed is the son of my beloved and the darling of my beauty! Where is his grave, that we may make there a guest-house?” The 301chamberlain said, “That youth is yet alive. When the king commanded his death, I was about to kill him, but he said, ‘That queen is my mother. Through modesty before the king, she revealed not the secret that she has a tall son. Kill me not; it may be that some day the truth will become known, and repentance profiteth not, and regret is useless.’” The king commanded them to bring the youth; so they brought him forthwith. And when the mother saw the face of her son, she thanked God and praised the Most High, and became one of the Muslims, and from the sect of unbelievers came into the faith of Islam. And the king favoured the chamberlain in the highest degree, and they passed the rest of their lives in comfort and ease.

FIRUZ AND HIS WIFE.—Vol. I. p. 185.

This tale, as Sir R. F. Burton remarks, is a rechauffé of that of the King and the Wazír’s Wife in the “Malice of Women,” or the Seven Wazírs (vol. vi. 129); and at p. 308 we have yet another variant.^[489] It occurs in all the Eastern texts of the Book of Sindibád, and it is commonly termed by students of that cycle of stories “The Lion’s Track,” from the parabolical manner in which the husband justifies his conduct before the king. I have cited some versions in the Appendix to my edition of the Book of Sindibád (p. 256 ff.), and to these may be added the following Venetian variant, from Crane’s “Italian Popular Tales,” as an example of how a story becomes garbled in passing orally from one generation unto another generation:

A king, averse from marriage, commanded his steward to remain single. The latter, however, one day saw a beautiful girl named Vigna and married her secretly. Although he kept her closely confined in her chamber, the king became suspicious, and sent the steward on an embassy. After his departure the king entered the apartment occupied by him, and saw his wife asleep. He did not disturb her, but in leaving the room accidentally dropped one of his gloves on the bed. When the husband returned he found the glove, but kept a discreet silence, ceasing, however, all demonstration of affection, believing his wife had been unfaithful. The king, desirous to see again the beautiful woman, made a feast and ordered the steward to bring his wife. He denied that he had one, but brought her at last, and while every one else was talking gaily at the feast she was silent. The king observed it, and asked the cause of her silence, and she answered with a pun on her own name, “Vineyard I was, and Vineyard I am. I was loved and no longer am. I know not for what reason the Vineyard 302has lost its season.” Her husband, who heard this, replied, “Vineyard thou wast, and Vineyard thou art: the Vineyard lost its season, for the lion’s claw.” The king, who understood what he meant, answered, “I entered the Vineyard; I touched the leaves; but I swear by my crown that I have not tasted the fruit.” Then the steward understood that his wife was innocent, and the two made peace, and always after lived happy and contented.

So far as I am aware, this tale of “The Lion’s Track” is not popularly known in any European country besides Italy; and it is not found in any of the Western versions of the Book of Sindibád, generally known under the title of the “History of the Seven Wise Masters;” how, then, did it reach Venice, and become among the people “familiar in their mouths as household words?” I answer, that the intimate commercial relations which long existed between the Venetian Republic and Egypt and Syria are amply sufficient to account for the currency of this and scores of other Eastern tales in Italy. This is not one of those fictions introduced into the south of Europe through the Ottomans, since Boccaccio has made use of the first part of it in his “Decameron,” Day I. nov. 5; and it is curious to observe that the garbled Venetian popular version has preserved the chief characteristic of the Eastern story—the allegorical reference to the king as a lion and his assuring the husband that the lion had done no injury to his “Vineyard.”

KING SHAH BAKHT AND HIS WAZIR AL-RAHWAN. Vol. I. p. 191.

While the frame-story of this interesting group is similar to that of the Ten Wazírs (vol. i. p. 55), insomuch as in both a king’s favourite is sentenced to death in consequence of the false accusations of his enemies, and obtains a respite from day to day by relating stories to the king, there is yet a very important difference: Like those of the renowned Shahrazád, the stories which Al-Rahwan tells have no particular, at least no uniform, “purpose,” his sole object being to prolong his life by telling the king an entertaining story, promising, when he has ended his recital, to relate one still “stranger” the next night, if the king will spare his life another day. On the other hand, Bakhtyár, while actuated by the same motive, appeals to the king’s reason, by relating stories distinctly designed to exhibit the evils of hasty judgments and precipitate conduct—in fact, to illustrate the maxim,

Each order given by a reigning king,

Should after long reflection be expressed;

For it may be that endless woe will spring

From a command he paused not to digest.

303And in this respect they are consistent with the circumstances of the case, like the tales of the Book of Sindibád, from which the frame of the Ten Wazírs was imitated, and in which the Wazírs relate stories showing the depravity and profligacy of women and that no reliance should be placed on their unsupported assertions, and to these the lady opposes equally cogent stories setting forth the wickedness and perfidy of men. Closely resembling the frame-story of the Ten Wazírs, however, is that of a Tamil romance entitled “Alakeswara Kathá,” a copy of which, written on palm leaves, was in the celebrated Mackenzie collection, of which Dr. H. H. Wilson published a descriptive catalogue; it is “a story of the Rájá of Alakepura and his four ministers, who, being falsely accused of violating the sanctity of the inner apartments, vindicate their innocence and disarm the king’s wrath by relating a number of stories.” Judging by the specimen given by Wilson, the well-known tale of the Lost Camel, it seems probable that the ministers’ stories, like those of Bakhtyár, are suited to their own case and illustrate the truth of the adage that “appearances are often deceptive.” Whether in the Siamese collection “Nonthuk Pakkaranam” (referred to in vol. i. p. 191) the stories related by the Princess Kankras to the King of Pataliput (Palibothra), to save her father’s life, are similarly designed, does not appear from Benfey’s notice of the work in his paper in “Orient und Occident,” iii. 171 ff. He says that the title of the book, “Nonthuk Pakkaranam,” is taken from the name of a wise ox, Nonthuk, that plays the principal part in the longest of the tales, which are all apparently translated from the Sanskrit, in which language the title would be Nandaka Prakaranam, the History of Nandaka.

Most of the tales related by the wazír Al-Rahwan are not only in themselves entertaining, but are of very considerable importance from the story-comparer’s point of view, since in this group occur Eastern forms of tales which were known in Italy in the 14th century, and some had spread over Europe even earlier. The reader will have seen from Sir R. F. Burton’s notes that not a few of the stories have their parallels or analogues in countries far apart, and it is interesting to find four of them which properly belong to the Eastern texts of the Book of Sindibad, with the frame-story of which that of this group has so close an affinity.

THE ART OF ENLARGING PEARLS.—Vol. I. p. 197.

“Quoth she, I have a bangle; sell it and buy seed pearls with the price; then round them and fashion them into great pearls.”

For want of a more suitable place, I shall here reproduce an account of the “Method of making false pearls” (nothing else being meant in the above 304passage), cited, from Postl. Com. Dict., in vol. xxvi. of “Rees’ Cyclopædia,” London, 1819:

“Take of thrice distilled vinegar two pounds, Venice turpentine one pound, mix them together into a mass and put them into a cucurbit, fit a head and receiver to it, and after you have luted the joints set it when dry on a sand furnace, to distil the vinegar from it; do not give it too much heat, lest the stuff swell up. After this put the vinegar into another glass cucurbit in which there is a quantity of seed pearls wrapped in a piece of thin silk, but so as not to touch the vinegar; put a cover or head upon the cucurbit, lute it well and put it in bal. Mariæ, where you may let it remain a fortnight. The heat of the balneum will raise the fumes of the vinegar, and they will soften the pearls in the silk and bring them to the consistence of a paste, which being done, take them out and mould them to what bigness, form, and shape you please. Your mould must be of fine silver, the inside gilt; you must also refrain from touching the paste with your fingers, but use silver-gilt utensils, with which fill your moulds. When they are moulded, bore them through with a hog’s bristle or gold wire, and then thread them again on gold wire, and put them into a glass, close it up, and set them in the sun to dry. After they are thoroughly dry, put them in a glass matrass into a stream of running water and leave them there twenty days; by that time they will contract the natural hardness and solidity of pearls. Then take them out of the matrass and hang them in mercurial water, where they will moisten, swell, and assume their Oriental beauty; after which shift them into a matrass hermetically closed to prevent any water coming to them, and let it down into a well, to continue there about eight days. Then draw the matrass up, and in opening it you will find pearls exactly resembling Oriental ones.” (Here follows a recipe for making the mercurial water used in the process, with which I need not occupy more space.)

A similar formula, “To make of small pearls a necklace of large ones,” is given in the “Lady’s Magazine” for 1831, vol. iv., p. 119, which is said to be extracted from a scarce old book. Thus, whatever mystery may surround the art in Asiatic countries there is evidently none about it in Europe. The process appears to be somewhat tedious and complicated, but is doubtless profitable.

In Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius there is a curious passage about pearl-making which has been generally considered as a mere “traveller’s tale”: Apollonius relates that the inhabitants of the shores of the Red Sea, after having calmed the water by means of oil, dived after the shell-fish, enticed them with some bait to open their shells, and having pricked the animals with a sharp-pointed instrument, received the liquor that flowed from them in small holes made in an iron vessel, in which it hardened into real pearls.—It is stated by several reputable writers that the Chinese do likewise at the present day. And Sir R. F. Burton informs me that when he was on the coast of Midian he found the Arabs were in the habit of “growing” pearls by inserting a grain of sand into the shells.

305

THE SINGER AND THE DRUGGIST—Vol. I. p. 203.

The diverting adventures related in the first part of this tale should be of peculiar interest to the student of Shakspeare as well as to those engaged in tracing the genealogy of popular fictions. Jonathan Scott has given—for reasons of his own—a meagre abstract of a similar tale which occurs in the “Bahár-i-Dánish” (vol. iii. App., p. 291), as follows:

PERSIAN VERSION.

A young man, being upon business in a certain city, goes on a hunting excursion, and, fatigued with the chase, stops at a country house to ask refreshment. The lady of the mansion receives him kindly, and admits him as her lover. In the midst of their dalliance the husband comes home, and the young man had no resource to escape discovery but to jump into a basin which was in the court of the house, and stand with head in a hollow gourd that luckily happened to be in the water. The husband, surprised to see the gourd stationary in the water, which was itself agitated by the wind, throws a stone at it, when the lover slips from beneath it and holds his breath till almost suffocated. Fortunately the husband presently retires with his wife into an inner room of the house, and thus the young man was enabled to make good his escape.

The next day he relates his adventure before a large company at a coffee-house. The husband happens to be one of the audience, and, meditating revenge, pretends to admire the gallantry of the young man and invites him to his house. The lover accompanies him, and on seeing his residence is overwhelmed with confusion; but, recovering himself, resolves to abide all hazards, in hopes of escaping by some lucky stratagem. His host introduces him to his wife, and begs him to relate his merry adventure before her, having resolved, when he should finish, to put them both to death. The young man complies, but with an artful presence of mind exclaims at the conclusion, “Glad was I when I awoke from so alarming a dream.” The husband upon this, after some questions, is satisfied that he had only told his dream, and, having entertained him nobly, dismisses him kindly.

The story is told in an elaborate form by Ser Giovanni Fiorentino, in “Il Pecorone” (The Big Sheep, or, as Dunlop has it, The Dunce), which was begun in 1378 but not published till 1554 (at Milan). It is the second novel of the First Day and has been thus translated by Roscoe:

SER GIOVANNI’S VERSION.

There were once two very intimate friends, both of the family of Saveli, in Rome; the name of one of whom was Bucciolo, that of the other, Pietro Paolo; 306both of good birth and easy circumstances. Expressing a mutual wish to study for a while together at Bologna, they took leave of their relatives and set out. One of them attached himself to the study of the civil law, the other to that of the canon law, and thus they continued to apply themselves for some length of time. But the subject of Decretals takes a much narrower range than is embraced by the common law, so Bucciolo, who pursued the former, made greater progress than did Pietro Paolo, and, having taken a licentiate’s degree, he began to think of returning to Rome. “You see, my dear fellow student,” he observed to his friend Paolo, “I am now a licentiate, and it is time for me to think of moving homewards.” “Nay, not so,” replied his companion; “I have to entreat you will not think of leaving me here this winter. Stay for me till spring, and we can return together. In the meantime you may pursue some other study, so that you need not lose any time;” and to this Bucciolo at length consented, promising to await his relative’s own good time.

Having thus resolved, he had immediate recourse to his former tutor, informing him of his determination to bear his friend company a little longer, and entreating to be employed in some pleasant study to beguile the period during which he had to remain. The professor begged him to suggest something he should like, as he should be very happy to assist him in its attainment. “My worthy tutor,” replied Bucciolo, “I think I should like to learn the way in which one falls in love, and the best manner to begin.” “O very good!” cried the tutor, laughing. “You could not have hit upon anything better, for you must know that if such be your object I am a complete adept in the art. To lose no time, in the first place go next Sunday to the church of the Frati Minori [Friars Minor of St. Francis], where all the ladies will be clustered together, and pay proper attention during service in order to discover if any one of them in particular happens to please you. When you have done this, keep your eye upon her after service, to see the way she takes to her residence, and then come back to me. And let this be the first lesson—the first part—of that in which it is my intention to instruct you.” Bucciolo went accordingly, and taking his station the next Sunday in the church, as he had been directed, his eyes, wandering in every direction, were fixed upon all the pretty women in the place, and upon one in particular, who pleased him above all the rest. She was by far the most beautiful and attractive lady he could discover, and on leaving church he took care to obey his master and follow her until he had made himself acquainted with her residence. Nor was it long before the young lady began to perceive that the student was smitten with her; upon which Bucciolo returned to his master and informed him of what he had done. “I have,” said he, “learned as much as you ordered me, and have found somebody I like very well.” “So far, good,” cried the professor, not a little amused at the sort of science to which his pupil had thus seriously devoted himself—“so far, good! And now observe what I have next to say to you: Take care to walk two or three times a day very respectfully before her house, casting your eyes about you in such a way that no one may catch you staring in her face; look in a modest and becoming manner, so 307that she cannot fail to notice and be struck with it. And then return to me; and this, sir, will be the second lesson in this gay science.”

So the scholar went and promenaded with great discretion before the lady’s door, who observed that he appeared to be passing to and fro out of respect to one of the inhabitants. This attracted her attention, for which Bucciolo very discreetly expressed his gratitude by looks and bows, which being as often returned, the scholar began to be aware that the lady liked him. He immediately went and told the professor all that had passed, who replied, “Come, you have done very well. I am hitherto quite satisfied. It is now time for you to find some way of speaking to her, which you may easily do by means of those gipsies who haunt the streets of Bologna, crying ladies’ veils, purses, and other articles for sale. Send word by her that you are the lady’s most faithful, devoted servant, and that there is no one in the world you so much wish to please. In short, let her urge your suit, and take care to bring the answer to me as soon as you have received it. I will then tell you how you are to proceed.”

Departing in all haste, he soon found a little old pedlar woman, quite perfect in the trade, to whom he said he should take it as a particular favour if she would do one thing, for which he would reward her handsomely. Upon this she declared her readiness to serve him in anything he pleased. “For you know,” she added, “it is my business to get money in every way I can.” Bucciolo gave her two florins, saying, “I wish you to go for me to-day as far as the Via Maccarella, where resides a young lady of the name of Giovanna, for whom I have the very highest regard. Pray tell her so, and recommend me to her most affectionately, so as to obtain for me her good graces by every means in your power. I entreat you to have my interest at heart, and to say such pretty things as she cannot refuse to hear.” “O leave that to me, sir,” said the little old woman; “I will not fail to say a good word for you at the proper time.” “Delay not,” said Bucciolo, “but go now, and I will wait for you here;” and she set off at once, taking her basket of trinkets under her arm. On approaching the place, she saw the lady before the door, enjoying the air, and curtseying to her very low, “Do I happen to have anything here you would fancy?” she said, displaying her wares. “Pray take something, madam—whatever pleases you best.” Veils, stays, purses, and mirrors were now spread in the most tempting way before the lady’s eyes. Out of all these things her attention seemed to be most attracted by a beautiful purse, which, she observed, if she could afford, she should like to purchase. “Nay, madam,” exclaimed the crone, “do not think anything about the price—take anything you please, since they are all paid for already, I assure you.” Surprised at hearing this, and perceiving the very respectful manner of the speaker, the lady rejoined, “Do you know what you are saying? What do you mean by that?” The old woman, pretending now to be much affected, said, “Well, madam, if it must be so, I shall tell you. It is very true that a young gentleman of the name of Bucciolo sent me hither; one who loves you better than all the world besides. 308There is nothing he would not do to please you, and indeed he appears so very wretched because he cannot speak to you, and he is so very good, that it is quite a pity. I think it will be the death of him, and then he is such a fine—such an elegant—young man, the more is the pity!” On hearing this, the lady, blushing deeply, turned sharply round upon the little old woman, exclaiming, “O you wicked creature! were it not for the sake of my own reputation, I would give you such a lesson that you should remember it to the latest day of your life! A pretty story to come before decent people with! Are you not ashamed of yourself to let such words come out of your mouth?” Then seizing an iron bar that lay across the doorway, “Ill betide you, little wretch!” she cried, as she brandished it. “If you ever come this way again, depend upon it, you will never go back alive!” The trembling old trot, quickly bundling up her wares, scampered off, in dread of feeling that cruel weapon on her shoulders, nor did she once think of stopping till she had reached the place where Bucciolo stood waiting her return. Eagerly inquiring the news and how she had succeeded, “O very badly—very badly,” answered the crone. “I never was in such a fright in all my life. Why, she will neither see nor listen to you, and if I had not run away, I should have felt the weight of a great iron bar upon my shoulders. For my own part, I shall go there no more; and I advise you, signor, to look to yourself how you proceed in such affairs in future.”

Poor Bucciolo became quite disconsolate, and returned in all haste to acquaint the professor with this unlucky result. But the professor, not a whit cast down, consoled him, saying, “Do not despair; a tree is not levelled at a single stroke, you know. I think you must have a repetition of your lesson to-night. So go and walk before her door as usual; notice how she eyes you, and whether she appears angry or not, and then come back again to me.” Bucciolo accordingly proceeded without delay to the lady’s house. The moment she perceived him she called her maid and said to her, “Quick, quick—hasten after the young man—that is he, and tell him from me that he must come and speak with me this evening without fail—without fail.” The girl soon came up with Bucciolo, and thus addressed him: “My lady, signor, my lady, Giovanna, would be glad of your company this evening, she would be very glad to speak with you.” Greatly surprised at this, Bucciolo replied, “Tell your lady I shall be most happy to wait upon her,” so saying, he set off once more to the professor, and reported the progress of the affair. But this time the master looked a little more serious; for, from some trivial circumstances put together, he began to entertain suspicions that the lady was (as it really turned out) no other than his own wife. So he rather anxiously inquired of Bucciolo whether he intended to accept the invitation. “To be sure I do,” replied his pupil. “Then,” said the professor, “promise that you will come here before you set off.” “Certainly I will,” answered Bucciolo readily, and took his leave.

Now Bucciolo was far from suspecting that the lady bore so near a relationship to his respected tutor, although the latter began to be rather uneasy as to the result, feeling some twinges of jealousy which were by no means pleasant. 309For he passed most of his winter evenings at the college where he gave lectures, and not unfrequently remained there for the night. “I should be sorry,” said he to himself, “if this young gentleman were learning these things at my expense, and I must therefore know the real state of the case.” In the evening his pupil called according to promise, saying, “Worthy master, I am now ready to go.” “Well, go,” replied the professor; “but be wise, Signor Bucciolo—be wise, and think more than once what you are about.” “Trust me for that,” said the scholar, a little piqued: “I shall go well provided, and not walk into the mouth of danger unarmed.” And away he went, furnished with a good cuirass, a rapier, and a stiletto in his belt. He was no sooner on his way than the professor slipped out quietly after him, dogging his steps closely, until, trembling with rage, he saw him stop at his own house-door, which, on a smart tap being given, was quickly opened by the lady herself and the pupil admitted. When the professor saw that it was indeed his own wife, he was quite overwhelmed and thought, “Alas, I fear this young fellow has learned more than he confesses at my expense;” and vowing to be revenged, he ran back to the college, where arming himself with sword and dagger, he then hastened to his house in a terrible passion. Arriving at his own door, he knocked loudly, and the lady, sitting before the fire with Bucciolo, instantly knew it was her husband, so taking hold of Bucciolo, she concealed him hurriedly under a heap of damp clothes lying on a table near the window ready for ironing, which done, she ran to the door and inquired who was there. “Open quickly,” exclaimed the professor. “You vile woman, you shall soon know who is here!” On opening the door, she beheld him with a drawn sword, and cried in well-affected alarm, “O my dearest life, what means this?” “You know very well what it means,” said he. “The villain is now in the house.” “Good Heaven! what is that you say?” exclaimed the lady. “Are you gone out of your wits? Come and search the house, and if you find anybody, I will give you leave to kill me on the spot. What! do you think I should now begin to misconduct myself as I never before did—as none of my family ever did before? Beware lest the Evil One should be tempting you, and, suddenly depriving you of your senses, draw you to perdition!” But the professor, calling for candles, began to search the house from the cellars upwards—among the tubs and casks—in every place but the right place—running his sword through the beds and under the beds, and into every inch of the bedding—leaving no corner or crevice of the whole house untouched. The lady accompanied him with a candle in her hand, frequently interrupting him with, “Say your beads—say your beads, good signor; it is certain that the Evil One is dealing with you, for were I half so bad as you esteem me, I would kill myself with my own hands. But I entreat you not to give way to this evil suggestion: oppose the adversary while you can.” Hearing these virtuous observations of his wife, and not being able to discover any one after the strictest search, the professor began to think that he must, after all, be possessed, and presently extinguished the lights and returned to the college. The lady, on shutting the door after him, called out to Bucciolo 310to come from his hiding place, and then, stirring the fire, began to prepare a fine capon for supper, with some delicious wines and fruits. And thus they regaled themselves, highly entertained with each other, nor was it their least satisfaction that the professor had just left them, apparently convinced that they had learned nothing at his expense.

Proceeding to the college next morning, Bucciolo, without the least suspicion of the truth, informed his master that he had something for his ear which he was sure would make him laugh. “How so?” demanded the professor. “Why,” said his pupil, “you must know that last night, just as I had entered the lady’s house, who should come in but her husband, and in such a rage! He searched the whole house from top to bottom, without being able to find me. I lay under a heap of newly-washed clothes, which were not half dry. In short, the lady played her part so well that the poor gentleman forthwith took his leave, and we afterwards ate a fine capon for supper and drank such wines—and with such zest! It was really one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life. But I think I’ll go and take a nap, for I promised to return this evening about the same hour.” “Then be sure before you go,” said the professor, trembling with suppressed rage, “be sure to come and tell me when you set out.” “O certainly,” responded Bucciolo, and away he went. Such was now the unhappy tutor’s condition as to render him incapable of delivering a single lecture during the whole day, and such was his extreme vexation and eagerness for evening, that he spent his time in arming himself with sword and dagger and cuirass, meditating only upon deeds of blood. At the appointed time came Bucciolo, with the utmost innocence, saying, “My dear master, I am going now.” “Yes, go,” replied the professor, “and come back to-morrow morning, if you can, and tell me how you have fared.” “I intend doing so,” said Bucciolo, and departed at a brisk pace for the house of the lady.

Armed cap-à-pie, the professor ran out after him, keeping pretty close to his heels, with the intention of catching him just as he entered. But the lady, being on the watch, opened the door suddenly for the pupil and shut it in her husband’s face. The professor began to knock and to call out with a furious noise. Extinguishing the light in a moment, the lady placed Bucciolo behind the door, and throwing her arms round her husband’s neck as he entered, motioned to her lover while she thus held his enemy to make his escape, and he, upon the husband’s rushing forward, slipped out from behind the door unperceived. She then began to scream as loud as she could, “Help, help! the professor has gone mad! Will nobody help me?” for he was in an ungovernable rage, and she clung faster to him than before. The neighbours running to her assistance and seeing the peaceable professor armed with deadly weapons, and his wife crying out, “Help, for the love of Heaven!—too much study hath driven him mad!” they readily believed such to be the fact. “Come, good signor,” they said, “what is all this about? Try to compose yourself—nay, do not struggle so hard, but let us help you to your couch.” “How can I rest, think you,” he replied, “while this wicked woman harbours paramours in 311my house? I saw him come in with my own eyes.” “Wretch that I am!” cried his wife. “Inquire of all my friends and neighbours whether any one of them ever saw anything the least unbecoming in my conduct.” The whole party with one voice entreated the professor to lay such thoughts aside, for there was not a better lady breathing, or one who set a higher value upon her reputation. “But how can that be,” said he, “when I saw him enter the house, and he is in it now?” In the meanwhile the lady’s two brothers arrived, when she began to weep bitterly, exclaiming, “O my dear brothers, my poor husband has gone mad—quite mad, and he even says there is a man in the house. I believe he would kill me if he could; but you know me too well to listen for a moment to such a story,” and she continued to weep.

The brothers then accosted the professor in no gentle terms: “We are surprised, signor—we are shocked to find that you dare bestow such epithets on our sister. What can have led you, after living so amicably together, to bring these charges against her now?” “I can only tell you,” answered the professor, “that there is a man in the house. I saw him enter.” “Then come, and let us find him. Show him to us,” retorted the incensed brothers, “for we will sift this matter to the bottom. Show us the man, and we will then punish her in such a way as will satisfy you.” One of the brothers, taking his sister aside, said, “First tell me, have you really got any one hidden in the house? Tell the truth.” “Heavens!” cried his sister, “I tell you, I would rather suffer death. Should I be the first to bring a scandal on our house? I wonder you are not ashamed to mention such a thing.” Rejoiced to hear this, the brothers, directed by the professor, at once commenced a search. Half frantic, he led them at once to the great bundle of linen, which he pierced through and through with his sword, firmly believing he was killing Bucciolo, all the while taunting him at every blow. “There! I told you,” cried his wife, “that he was mad. To think of destroying our own property thus! It is plain he did not help to get them up,” she continued, whimpering—“all my best clothes!”

Having now sought everywhere in vain, one of the brothers observed, “He is indeed mad,” to which the other agreed, while he again attacked the professor in the bitterest terms: “You have carried matters too far, signor; your conduct to our sister is shameful, and nothing but insanity can excuse it.” Vexed enough before, the professor upon this flew into a violent passion, and brandished his naked sword in such a way that the others were obliged to use their sticks, which they did so very effectively that, after breaking them over his head, they chained him down like a maniac upon the floor, declaring he had lost his wits by excessive study, and taking possession of his house, they remained with their sister all night. Next morning they sent for a physician, who ordered a couch to be placed as near as possible to the fire, that no one should be allowed to speak or reply to the patient, and that he should be strictly dieted until he recovered his wits; and this regimen was diligently enforced.^[490]

312A report immediately spread through Bologna that the good professor had become insane, which caused very general regret, his friends observing to each other, “It is indeed a bad business; but I suspected yesterday how it was—he could scarcely get a word out as he was delivering his lecture, did you not perceive?” “Yes,” said another, “I saw him change colour, poor fellow.” And by everybody, everywhere, it was decided that the professor was mad. In this situation numbers of his scholars went to see him, and among the rest Bucciolo, knowing nothing of what had happened, agreed to accompany them to the college, desirous of acquainting his master with last night’s adventure. What was his surprise to learn that he had actually taken leave of his senses, and being directed on leaving the college to the professor’s house, he was almost panic-struck on approaching the place, beginning to comprehend the whole affair. Yet, in order that no one might be led to suspect the real truth, he walked into the house along with the rest, and on reaching a certain apartment which he knew, he beheld his poor tutor almost beaten to a mummy, and chained down upon his bed, close to the fire. His pupils were standing round condoling with him and lamenting his piteous case. At length it came to Bucciolo’s turn to say something to him, which he did as follows: “My dear master, I am as truly concerned for you as if you were my own father, and if there is anything in which I can be of service to you, command me as your own son.” To this the poor professor only replied, “No, Bucciolo, depart in peace, my pupil; depart, for you have learned much, very much, at my expense.” Here his wife interrupted him: “You see how he wanders—heed not what he says—pay no attention to him, signor.” Bucciolo, however, prepared to depart, and taking a hasty leave of the professor, he proceeded to the lodging of his friend Pietro Paolo, and said to him, “Fare you well. God bless you, my friend. I must away; and I have lately learned so much at other people’s expense that I am going home.” So saying, he hurried away, and in due course arrived in safety at Rome.

The affliction of the professor of Giovanni’s sprightly tale will probably be considered by most readers as well-merited punishment; the young gallant proved an apt scholar in the art of love, and here was the inciter to evil repaid with the same coin!

Straparola also tells the story, but in a different form, in his “Pleasant Nights” (Piacevoli Notti), First Day, second novella; and his version is taken into a small collection entitled “Tarlton’s Newes out of Purgatorie,” first published in or before 1590—a catchpenny tract in which, of course, Dick Tarlton had never a hand, any more than he had in the collection of jests which goes under his name.

313

STRAPAROLA’S VERSION.^[491]

In Pisa, a famous cittie of Italye, there lived a gentleman of good linage and landes, feared as well for his wealth, as honoured for his vertue, but indeed well thought on for both; yet the better for his riches. This gentleman had one onelye daughter, called Margaret, who for her beauty was liked of all, and desired of many. But neither might their sutes nor her owne prevaile about her father’s resolution, who was determyned not to marrye her, but to such a man as should be able in abundance to maintain the excellency of her beauty. Divers yong gentlemen proffered large feoffments, but in vaine, a maide shee must bee still: till at last an olde doctor in the towne, that professed phisicke, became a sutor to her, who was a welcome man to her father, in that he was one of the welthiest men in all Pisa; a tall stripling he was and a proper youth, his age about foure score, his heade as white as milke, wherein for offence sake there was left never a tooth. But it is no matter, what he wanted in person he had in the purse, which the poore gentlewoman little regarded, wishing rather to tie herself to one that might fit her content, though they lived meanely, then to him with all the wealth in Italye. But shee was yong, and forcst to follow her father’s direction, who, upon large covenants, was content his daughter should marry with the doctor, and whether she likte him or no, the match was made up, and in short time she was married. The poore wench was bound to the stake, and had not onely an olde impotent man, but one that was so jealous, as none might enter into his house without suspition, nor shee doo any thing without blame; the least glance, the smallest countenance, any smile was a manifest instance to him that shee thought of others better then himselfe. Thus he himselfe lived in a hell, and tormented his wife in as ill perplexitie.

At last it chaunced that a young gentleman of the citie, comming by her house, and seeing her looke out at her window, noting her rare and excellent proportion, fell in love with her, and that so extreamelye, as his passions had no meanes till her favour might mittigate his heart sicke discontent. The yong man that was ignorant in amorous matters, and had never beene used to courte anye gentlewoman, thought to reveale his passions to some one freend that might give him counsaile for the winning of her love, and thinking experience was the surest maister, on a daye seeing the olde doctor walkinge in the churche that was Margaret’s husband, little knowing who he was, he thought this the fittest man to whom he might discover his passions, for that hee was olde and knew much, and was a phisition that with his drugges might helpe him forward in his purposes; so that seeing the olde man walke solitary, he joinde unto him, and after a curteous salute, tolde him that he was to impart a matter of great import to him, wherein, if hee would not onely be secrete, but indevour to pleasure him, his pains should bee every way to the full considered. You must imagine, 314gentleman, quoth Mutio, for so was the doctor’s name, that men of our profession are no blabs, but hold their secrets in their hearts bottome, and therefore reveale what you please, it shall not onely be concealed, but cured, if either my art or counsaile may doo it. Upon this, Lyonell, so was the young gentleman called, told and discourst unto him from point to point, how he was falne in love with a gentlewoman that was married to one of his profession, discovered her dwelling and the house, and for that he was unacquainted with the woman, and a man little experienced in love matters, he required his favour to further him with his advice. Mutio at this motion was stung to the hart, knowing it was his wife hee was fallen in love withall, yet to conceale the matter, and to experience his wive’s chastity, and that if she plaide false, he might be revenged on them both, he dissembled the matter, and answered that he knewe the woman very well, and commended her highly: but said she had a churle to her husband, and therefore he thought shee would bee the more tractable: Trye her, man, quoth hee, fainte harte never wonne faire lady, and if shee will not be brought to the bent of your bowe, I will provide such a potion as shall dispatch all to your owne content: and to give you further instructions for oportunitie, knowe that her husband is foorth every afternoone from three till sixe. Thus farre I have advised you, because I pitty your passions, as my selfe being once a lover, but now I charge thee reveale it to none whomsoever, least it doo disparage my credit to meddle in amorous matters.

The yong gentleman not onely promised all carefull secrecy, but gave him harty thanks for his good counsell, promising to meete him there the next day, and tell him what newes. Then hee left the old man, who was almost mad for feare his wife any way should play false: he saw by experience brave men came to beseige the castle, and seeing it was in a woman’s custodie, and had so weeke a governor as himselfe, he doubted it would in time be delivered up: which feare made him almost franticke, yet he drivde of the time great torment, till he might heare from his rival. Lionello he hastes him home and sutes him in his braverye, and goes downe toward the house of Mutio, where he sees her at the windowe, whome he courted with a passionate looke, with such humble salute as shee might perceive how the gentleman was affectionate. Margaretta, looking earnestlye upon him, and noting the perfection of his proportion, accounted him in her eye the flower of all Pisa, thinkte herselfe fortunate if shee might have him for her freend, to supply those defaultes that she found in Mutio. Sundry times that afternoone he past by her window, and he cast not up more loving lookes, then he received gratious favours, which did so incourage him that the next daye betweene three and sixe hee went to her house, and knocking at the doore, desired to speake with the mistris of the house, who hearing by her maid’s description what he was, commaunded him to come in, where she intertained him with all courtesie.

The youth that never before had given the attempt to court a ladye, began his exordium with a blushe; and yet went forward so well, that hee discourst unto her howe hee loved her, and that if it might please her to accept of his service, as 315of a freende ever vowde in all dutye to bee at her commaunde, the care of her honour should bee deerer to him than his life, and hee would be ready to prise her discontent with his bloud at all times. The gentlewoman was a little coye, but, before they part, they concluded that the next day at foure of the clock hee should come thither and eate a pound of cherries, which was resolved on with a succado des labras, and so with a loath to depart they tooke their leaves. Lionello as joyfull a man as might be, hyed him to the church to meete his olde doctor, where he found him in his olde walke: What newes, syr, quoth Mutio, how have you sped? Even as I can wishe, quoth Lionello, for I have been with my mistrisse, and have found her so tractable, that I hope to make the olde peasant, her husband, looke broadheaded by a paire of browantlers. How deepe this strooke into Mutio’s hart, let them imagine that can conjecture what jelousie is; insomuch that the olde doctor askte when should be the time. Marry, quoth Lionello, to-morrow, at foure of the clocke in the afternoone, and then Maister Doctor, quoth hee, will I dub the old squire knight of the forked order.

Thus they past on in that, till it grew late, and then Lyonello went home to his lodging and Mutio to his house, covering all his sorrowes with a merrye countenance, with full resolution to revenge them both the next day with extremitie. He past the night as patiently as he could, and the next daye, after dinner, awaye hee went, watching when it should bee foure of the clocke. At the hour justly came Lyonello and was intertained with all courtesie; but scarce had they kist, ere the maide cryed out to her mistresse that her maister was at the doore; for he hasted, knowing that a horne was but a litle while in grafting. Margaret, at this alarum, was amazed, and yet for a shift chopt Lionello into a great driefatte^[492] full of feathers,^[493] and sat her downe close to her woorke. By that came Mutio in blowing, and as though hee came to looke somewhat in haste, called for the keyes of his chambers, and looked in everye place, searching so narrowlye in everye corner of the house, that he left not the very privie unsearcht. Seeing he could not finde him, hee saide nothing, but fayning himselfe not well at ease, staide at home; so that poor Lionello was faine to staye in the drifatte till the olde churle was in bed with his wife; and then the maide let him out at a backe doore, who went home with a flea in his eare to his lodging.

Well, the next day he went againe to meete his doctor, whome he found in his wonted walke. What newes? quoth Mutio, how have you sped? A poxe of the olde slave, quoth Lyonello; I was no sooner in, and had given my mistresse one kisse, but the jelous asse was at the doore; the maide spied him, and cryed her maister; so that the poore gentlewoman, for very shifte, was 316faine to put me in a driefatte of feathers that stoode in an olde chamber, and there I was faine to tarrie while^[494] he was in bed and a-sleepe, and then the maide let me out, and I departed. But it is no matter; ’twas but a chaunce, and I hope to crye quittance with him ere it be long. As how? quoth Mutio. Marry, thus, quoth Lionello: shee sent me woord by her maide this daye that upon Thursday next the olde churle suppeth with a patient of his a mile out of Pisa, and then I feare not but to quitte^[495] him for all. It is well, quoth Mutio; fortune bee your frende. I thanke you, quoth Lionello: and so, after a little more prattle, they departed.

To bee shorte, Thursdaye came, and about sixe of the clocke, foorth goes Mutio no further then a freendes house of his, from whence he might descrye who went into his house; straight hee sawe Lionello enter in, and after goes hee, insomuche that hee was scarcelye sitten downe, before the mayde cryed out againe, my maister comes. The goodwife, that before had provided for after-claps,^[496] had found out a privie place between two seelings of a plauncher,^[497] and there she thrust Lionello, and her husband came sweting. What news, quoth shee, drives you home againe so soone, husband? Marry, sweete wife, quoth he, a fearfull dreame that I had this night, which came to my remembrance, and that was this: me thought there was a villaine that came secretlye into my house, with a naked poinard in his hand, and hid himselfe, but I could not finde the place; with that mine nose bled, and I came backe; and, by the grace of God, I will seeke every corner in the house for the quiet of my minde. Marry, I pray you doo, husband, quoth she. With that he lockt in all the doors, and began to search every chamber, every hole, every chest, every tub, the very well; he stabd every feather bed through, and made havocke like a mad man, which made him thinke all was in vaine; and hee began to blame his eies that thought they saw that which they did not. Upon this he rest halfe lunaticke, and all night he was very wakefull, that towards the morning he fell into a dead sleepe, and then was Lionello conveighed away.

In the morning when Mutio wakened, hee thought how by no meanes hee should be able to take Lionello tardy: yet he laid in his head a most dangerous plot; and that was this: Wife, quoth he, I must the next Monday ride to Vycensa, to visit an olde patient of mine; till my returne, which will be some ten dayes, I will have thee staye at our little graunge house in the countrey. Marry, very well content, husband, quoth she. With that he kist her, and was verye pleasant, as though he had suspected nothing, and away hee flings to the church, where he meetes Lionello. What, sir, quoth he, what news? is your mistresse yours in possession? No, a plague of the olde slave, quoth hee. I think he is either a witch, or els woorkes by magick; for I can no sooner enter into the doores, but he is at my backe, and so he was againe yesternight; for 317I was not warm in my seate before the maide cryed, my maister comes; and then was the poore soule faine to conveigh me betweene two seelings of a chamber, in a fit place for the purpose, wher I laught hartely to myself too see how he sought every corner, ransackt every tub, and stabd every feather bed, but in vaine; I was safe enough till the morning, and then, when he was fast asleepe, I lept out. Fortune frownes on you, quoth Mutio. I,^[498] but I hope, quoth Lionello, this is the last time, and now shee wil begin to smile; for on Monday next he rides to Vicensa, and his wife lyes at the grange house a little [out] of the towne, and there in his absence I will revenge all forepast misfortunes. God send it be so, quoth Mutio; and so took his leave.

These two lovers longd for Monday, and at last it came. Early in the morning Mutio horst himselfe and his wife, his maide and a man, and no more, and away he rides to his grange house, wher, after he had brok his fast, he took his leave, and away towards Vicensa. He rode not far ere, by a false way, he returned into a thicket, and there, with a company of cuntry peasants, lay in an ambuscade to take the young gentleman. In the afternoon comes Lionello galloping, and as soon as he came within sight of the house, he sent back his horse by his boy, and went easily afoot, and there, at the very entry, was entertained by Margaret, who led him up the staires, and convaid him into her bedchamber, saying he was welcome into so mean a cottage. But, quoth she, now I hope fortun shall not envy the purity of our loves. Alas! alas! mistris, cried the maid, heer is my maister, and 100 men with him, with bils and staves. We are betraid, quoth Lionel, and I am but a dead man. Feare not, quoth she, but follow me: and straight she carried him downe into a low parlor, where stoode an olde rotten chest full of writinges; she put him into that, and covered him with olde papers and evidences, and went to the gate to meet her husband.

Why, Signor Mutio, what meanes this hurly burly? quoth she. Vile and shameless strumpet as thou art, thou shalt know by and by, quoth he. Where is thy love? All we have watcht him and seen him enter in. Now, quoth he, shall neither thy tub of feathers or thy seeling serve, for perish he shall with fire, or els fall into my handes. Doo thy worst, jealous foole, quoth she, I ask thee no favour. With that, in a rage, he beset the house round, and then set fire on it. Oh, in what perplexitie was poore Lionello in that he was shut in a chest, and the fire about his eares! and how was Margaret passionat, that knew her lover was in such danger! Yet she made light of the matter, and, as one in a rage, called her maid to her and said: Come on, wench, seeing thy maister, mad with jelousie, hath set the house and al my living on fire, I will be revengd on him: help me heer to lift this old chest where all his writings and deeds are; let that burne first, and as soon as I see that on fire I will walke towards my freends, for the old foole will be beggard, and I will refuse 318him. Mutio, that knew al his obligations and statutes lay there, puld her back and bad two of his men carry the chest into the field, and see it were safe, himselfe standing by and seeing his house burnd downe sticke and stone. Then, quieted in his minde, he went home with his wife and began to flatter her, thinking assuredly that he had burnt her paramour, causing his chest to be carried in a cart to his house in Pisa. Margaret, impatient, went to her mother’s and complained to her and her brethren of the jealousie of her husband, who maintaned her it to be true, and desired but a daies respite to proove it.

Wel, hee was bidden to supper the next night at her mother’s, she thinking to make her daughter and him freends againe. In the meane time he to his woonted walk in the church, and there, præter expectationem, he found Lionello walking. Wondring at this, he straight enquires what newes. What newes, Maister Doctor, quoth he, and he fell in a great laughing; in faith yesterday, I scapt a scouring, for syrrha, I went to the grange-house, where I was appointed to come, and I was no sooner gotten up the chamber, but the magicall villeine, her husband, beset the house with bils and staves, and that he might be sure no seeling nor corner should shrowde me, he set the house on fire, and so burnt it downe to the ground. Why, quoth Mutio, and how did you escape? Alas, quoth he, wel fare a woman’s wit; she conveighed me into an old chest full of writings, which she knew her husband durst not burne, and so I was saved and brought to Pisa, and yesternight, by her maide, let home to my lodging. This, quoth he, is the pleasantest jest that ever I heard; and upon this I have a sute to you: I am this night bidden foorth to supper, you shall be my guest, onely I will crave so much favour, as after supper for a pleasant sporte, to make relation what successe you have had in your loves. For that I will not sticke, quoth he, and so he conveyed Lionello to his mother-in-lawe’s house with him, and discovered to his wive’s brethren who he was, and how at supper he would disclose the whole matter; For, quoth he, he knowes not that I am Margaret’s husband. At this all the brethren bad him welcome, and so did the mother to, and Margaret, she was kept out of sight. Supper time being come they fell to their victals, and Lionello was carrowst unto by Mutio, who was very pleasant, to drawe him into a merry humor, that he might to the ful discourse the effect and fortunes of his love. Supper being ended, Mutio requested him to tel to the gentlemen what had hapned between him and his mistresse. Lionello, with a smiling countenance, began to describe his mistresse, the house and street where she dwelt, how he fell in love with her, and how he used the councell of this doctor, who in all his affaires was his secretarye. Margaret heard all this with a great feare, and when he came to the last point, she caused a cup of wine to be given him by one of her sisters, wherein was a ring that he had given Margaret. As he had told how he had escapt burning, and was ready to confirme all for a troth, the gentlewoman drunke to him, who taking the cup and seeing the ring, having a quick wit and a reaching head, spide the fetch, and perceived that all this while this was his lover’s husband to whome hee had 319revealed these escapes; at this drinking the wine and swallowing the ring into his mouth he went forward. Gentlemen, quoth he, how like you of my loves and my fortunes? Wel, quoth the gentlemen; I pray you is it true? As true, quoth he, as if I would be so simple as to reveal what I did to Margaret’s husband; for, know you, gentlemen, that I knew this Mutio to be her husband whom I notified to be my lover; and for that he was generally known through Pisa to be a jealous fool, therefore, with these tales I brought him into paradice, which are follies of mine owne braine; for, trust me, by the faith of a gentleman, I never spake to the woman, was never in her companye, neyther doo I know her if I see her. At this they all fell in a laughing at Mutio, who was ashamde that Lionello had so scoft him. But all was well; they were made friends; but the jest went so to his hart that he shortly after died, and Lionello enjoyed the ladye.

Ser Giovanni’s story, Roscoe observes, is “curious as having through the medium of translation suggested the idea of those amusing scenes in which the renowned Falstaff acquaints Master Ford, disguised under the name of Brooke, with his progress in the good graces of Mrs. Ford. The contrivances likewise by which he eludes the vengeance of the jealous husband are similar to those recounted in the novel, with the addition of throwing the unwieldly knight into the river. Dunlop says that the same story has been translated in a collection entitled ‘The Fortunate, Deceived, and Unfortunate Lovers,’ and that Shakspeare may probably also have seen it in ‘Tarlton’s Newes out of Purgatorie,’ where the incidents related in the Lovers of Pisa are given according to Straparola’s story. Molière made a happy use of it in his ‘Ecole des Femmes,’ where the humour of the piece turns upon a young gentleman confiding his progress in the affections of a lady to the ear of her guardian, who believed he was on the point of espousing her himself.” Two other French plays were based upon the story, one of which was written by La Fontaine under the title of “La Maître en Droit.” Readers of “Gil Blas” will also recollect how Don Raphael confides to Balthazar the progress of his amour with his wife, and expresses his vexation at the husband’s unexpected return.

It is much to be regretted that nothing is known as to the date and place of the composition of the Breslau edition of The Nights, which alone contains this and several other tales found in the collections of the early Italian novelists.

320

THE KING WHO KENNED THE QUINTESSENCE OF THINGS.—Vol. I. p. 212.

Although we may find, as already stated, the direct source of this tale in the forty-sixth chapter of Al-Mas’údi’s “Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems,” which was written about A.D. 943, yet there exists a much older version—if not the original form—in a Sanskrit collection entitled, “Vetálapanchavinsatí,” or Twenty-five Tales of a Vampyre. This ancient work is incorporated with the “Kathá Sarit Ságara,” or Ocean of the Streams of Story, composed in Sanskrit verse by Somadeva in the 11th century, after a similar work, now apparently lost, entitled, “Vrihat Kathá,” or Great Story, written by Gunadhya, in the 6th century.^[499] In the opinion of Benfey all the Vampyre Tales are of Buddhist extraction (some are unquestionably so), and they probably date from before our era. As a separate work they exist, more or less modified, in many of the Indian vernaculars; in Hindí, under the title of “Baital Pachísí”; in Tamil, “Vedala Kadai”; and there are also versions in Telegu, Mahratta, and Canarese. The following is from Professor C. H. Tawney’s complete translation of the “Kathá Sarit Ságara” (it is the 8th recital of the Vetála):

INDIAN VERSION.

There is a great tract of land assigned to Bráhmans in the country of Anga, called Vrikshaghata. In it there lived a rich sacrificing Bráhman named Vishnusvámin. And he had a wife equal to himself in birth. And by her he had three sons born to him, who were distinguished for preternatural acuteness. In course of time they grew up to be young men. One day, when he had begun a sacrifice, he sent those three brothers to the sea to fetch a turtle. So off they went, and when they had found a turtle, the eldest said to his two brothers, “Let one of you take the turtle for our father’s sacrifice; I cannot take it, as it is all slippery with slime.” When the eldest brother said this, the two younger ones answered him, “If you hesitate about taking it, why should not we?” When the eldest heard that, he said, “You two must take the turtle; if you do not, you will have obstructed your father’s sacrifice, and then you will certainly sink down to hell.” When he told the younger brothers this, they laughed and said to him, “If you see our duty so clearly, why do you not see that your own is the same?” Then the eldest said, “What, do you not know how fastidious I am? I am very fastidious about eating, and I cannot be expected to touch what is repulsive.” The middle brother, when he heard this speech of his, said to his brother, “Then I am a more fastidious person than you, for I am a most 321fastidious connoisseur of the fair sex.” When the middle one said this, the eldest went on to say, “Then let the younger of you two take the turtle.” Then the youngest brother frowned, and in his turn said to the two elder, “You fools, I am very fastidious about beds; so I am the most fastidious of the lot.”

So the three brothers fell to quarrelling with one another, and being completely under the dominion of conceit, they left that turtle, and went off immediately to the court of the king of that country, whose name was Prasenajit, and who lived in a city named Vitankapura, in order to have the dispute decided. There they had themselves announced by the warder, and went in, and gave the king a circumstantial account of their case. The king said, “Wait here, and I will put you all in turn to the proof;” so they agreed and remained there. And at the time that the king took his meal, he had them conducted to a seat of honour, and given delicious food fit for a king, possessing all the six flavours. And while all were feasting around him, the Bráhman who was fastidious about eating alone of all the company did not eat, but sat there with his face puckered up with disgust. The king himself asked the Bráhman why he did not eat his food, though it was sweet and fragrant, and he slowly answered him, “I perceive in this food an evil smell of the reek from corpses, so I cannot bring myself to eat it, however delicious it may be.” When he said this before the assembled multitude, they all smelled it by the king’s orders, and said, “This food is prepared from white rice and is good and fragrant.” But the Bráhman who was so fastidious about eating would not touch it, but stopped his nose. Then the king reflected, and proceeded to inquire into the matter, and found out from his officers that the food had been made from rice which had been grown in a field near the burning ghát of a certain village. Then the king was much astonished, and, being pleased, he said to him, “In truth you are very particular as to what you eat; so eat of some other dish.”