“Mustapha,” said the pacha, taking his pipe out of his mouth, after half an hour’s smoking in silence, “I have been thinking it very odd that our holy prophet (blessed be his name!) should have given himself so much trouble about such a son of Shitan as that renegade rascal, Huckaback, whose religion is only in his turban.  By the sword of the prophet, is it not strange that he should send him to command my fleet?”

“It was the will of your sublime highness,” replied Mustapha, “that he should command your fleet.”

“Mashallah! was it not the will of the prophet?”

Mustapha smoked his pipe, and made no reply.

“He was a great story-teller,” observed the pacha, after another pause.

“He was,” drily replied Mustapha.  “No Kessehgou of our true believers could equal him; but that is now over, and the dog of an Isauri must prove himself a Rustam in the service of your sublime highness.  Aware that your highness would require amusement, and that it was the duty of your slave, who shines but by the light of your countenance, to procure it, I have since yesterday, when the sun went down, despairing to find his glory eclipsed by that of your sublime highness, ordered most diligent search to be made through the whole of the world, and have discovered, that in the caravan now halted on the outskirts of the town, there was a famous Kessehgou proceeding to Mecca to pay his homage to the shrine of our prophet; and I have dispatched trusty messengers to bring him into the presence of the Min Bashi, to whom your slave, and the thousands whom he rules, are but as dust:”  and Mustapha bowed low.

“Aferin, excellent:”  exclaimed the pacha; “and when will he be here?”

“Before the tube now honoured by kissing the lips of your highness shall have poured out in ecstasy the incense of another bowl of the fragrant weed, the slippers of the Kessehgou will be left at the threshold of the palace.  Be chesm, on my eyes be it.”

“’Tis well, Mustapha.  Slave,” continued the pacha, addressing the Greek who was in attendance, with his arms folded and his eyes cast down to the ground; “coffee ­and the strong water of the Giaour.”

The pacha’s pipe was refilled, the coffee was poured down their respective throats, and the forbidden spirits quaffed with double delight, arising from the very circumstance that they were forbidden.

“Surely there must be some mistake, Mustapha.  Does not the Koran say, that all that is good is intended for true believers; and is not this good?  How then can it be forbidden?  Could it be intended for the Giaours?  May they, and their fathers’ graves, be eternally defiled!”

“Amen!” replied Mustapha, laying down the cup, and drawing a deep sigh.

Mustapha was correct in his calculations.  Before the pacha had finished his pipe, the arrival of the story-teller was announced; and after waiting a few minutes from decorum, which seemed to the impatient pacha to be eternal, Mustapha clapped his hands, and the man was ushered in.

“Kosh amedeid! you are welcome,” said the pacha, as the Kessehgou entered the divan:  he was a slight, elegantly moulded person, of about thirty years of age.

“I am here in obedience to the will of the pacha,” replied the man in a most musical voice, as he salaamed low.  “What does his highness require of his slave Menouni?”

“His highness requires a proof of thy talent, and an opportunity to extend his bounty.”

“I am less than dust, and am ready to cover my head with ashes, not to feel my soul in the seventh heaven at the condescension of his highness; yet would I fain do his bidding and depart, for a vow to the prophet is sacred, and it is written in the Koran ­”

“Never mind the Koran just now, good Menouni; we ask of thee a proof of thy art.  Tell me a story.”

“Most proud shall I be of the honour.  Will not my face be whitened to all eternity?  Shall your slave relate the loves of Leilah and Majnoun?”

“No, no,” replied the pacha; “something that will interest me.”

“Then will I narrate the history of the Scarred Lover.”

“That sounds well, Mustapha,” observed the pacha.

“Who can foresee so well as your sublime highness?” replied Mustapha.  “Menouni, it is the pleasure of the pacha that you proceed.”

“Your slave obeys.  Your sublime perspicuity is but too well acquainted with geography ?”

“Not that I know of.  Hath he ever left his slippers at our threshold, Mustapha?”

“I suspect,” replied Mustapha, “that he goes all over the world, and therefore he must have been here.  Proceed, Menouni, and ask not such questions.  By virtue of his office, his sublime highness knows every thing.”

“True,” said the pacha, shaking his beard with great dignity and satisfaction.

“I did but presume to put the question,” replied Menouni, whose voice was soft and silvery as a flute on a summer’s silent eve, “as, to perfectly understand the part of the world from which my tale has been transmitted, I thought a knowledge of that science was required; but I have eaten dirt, and am covered with shame at my indiscretion, which would not have occurred, had it not been that the sublime sultan, when I last had the honour to narrate the story, was pleased to interrupt me, from his not being quite convinced that the parts of the world were known to him.  But I will now proceed with my tale, which shall go forward with the majestic pace of the camel, proud in his pilgrimage over the desert, towards the shrine of our holy prophet.”

THE SCARRED LOVER.

In the north-eastern parts of the vast peninsula of India, there did exist a flourishing and extended kingdom, eminent for the beauty of the country, the fertility of the soil, and the salubrity of the climate.  This kingdom was bounded on the east by a country named Lusitania, that lies northerly towards the coast of Iceland, so called from the excessive heat of the winter.  On the south it was bounded by a slip of land, the name of which has slipped my memory; but it runs into the seas under the dominion of the Great Cham of Tartary.  On the west it is bounded by another kingdom, the name of which I have also forgotten; and on the north, by another kingdom, the name of which I do not remember.  After this explanation, with your sublime highness’s knowledge, to which that of the sage Lochman was but in comparison as the seed is to the water-melon, I hardly need say that it was the ancient kingdom of Souffra.

“Menouni, you are quite right,” observed the pacha.  “Proceed.”

“Fortunate is your slave to stand in the presence of so much wisdom,” continued Menouni, “for I was in doubt:  the splendour of your presence had startled my memory, as the presence of the caravan doth the zebra foal of the desert.”

In this delightful kingdom, where the nightingales sang away their existence in their love for the rose, and the roses gave forth their perfume until the air was one continued essence of delight, such as is inhaled by the true believers when they first approach the gates of paradise, and are enchanted by the beckoning of the Houris from the golden walls, there lived a beautiful Hindu princess, who walked in loveliness, and whose smile was a decree to be happy to all on whom it fell; yet for reasons which my tale shall tell, she had heard the nightingale complain for eighteen summers, and was still unmarried.  In this country, which at that time was peopled by Allah with infidels, to render it fertile for the true believers, and to be their slaves upon their arrival, which did occur some time after the occurrences which I now relate; it was not the custom for the females of Souffra to lead the life of invisibility, permitted only to those who administer to the delights of the followers of the Koran; and although it was with exceeding modesty of demeanour, still did they, on great occasions, expose their charms to the public gaze, for which error, no doubt if they had had souls, beautiful as they were, they would have been damned to all eternity.  Civilisation, as Menou hath said, must extend both far and wide, before other nations will be so polished as to imitate us in the splendour, the security, and the happiness of our harems; and when I further remark to your highness ­

“Proceed, good Menouni,” interrupted Mustapha; “his highness is not fond of remarks.”

“No, by our beard,” rejoined the pacha; “it is for you to tell your story, and for me to make remarks when it is over.”

“I stand in the presence of wisdom,” said Menouni, who bowed low and proceeded.

The beauteous Babe-bi-bobu, for such was the name of the princess, and which, in the language of the country, implied “the cream-tart of delight,” was left Queen of the Souffrarians by the death of her father; and by his will, sworn to by all the grandees of the empire, she was enjoined, at twelve years of age, to take to herself a husband; but it was particularly expressed that the youth so favoured should be of the same high caste as herself, and without scar or blemish.  When, therefore, two years after her father’s death, the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu had attained the age of twelve years, swift runners on foot, and speedy messengers mounted upon the fleetest dromedaries and Arab horses of the purest race, were dispatched through all the kingdom of Souffra to make known the injunctions of the will; the news of which at last flew to the adjacent kingdoms, and from them to all the corners of the round world, and none were ignorant.  In the kingdom of Souffra, from which the choice was to be made, all the youth of caste were in a state of fermentation, because they had a chance of obtaining the honour; and all those of lower caste were in a state of fermentation, to think they had no chance of obtaining such an honour; and all the women of high caste, or low caste, or no caste, were all in a state of fermentation, because ­because ­

“Because they always are so,” interrupted the pacha.  “Proceed, Menouni.”

“I thank your sublime highness for having relieved me in my case of difficulty; for who can give reasons for the conduct of women?”

It is sufficient to say, that the whole country was in a state of fermentation, arising from hope, despair, jealousy, envy, curiosity, surmising, wondering, doubting, believing, disbelieving, hearing, narrating, chattering, interrupting, and many other causes, too tedious to mention.  At the first intelligence every Souffrarian youth new-strung his mandolin, and thought himself sure to be the happy man.  Hope was triumphant through the land, roses advanced to double their price:  the attar was adulterated to meet the exorbitant demand; and nightingales were almost worshipped; but this could not last.  Doubt succeeded to the empire of hope, when reflection pointed out to them, that out of three millions of very eligible youths, only one could be made happy.  But when the counsellors are so many, the decision is but slow; and so numerous were the meetings, the canvassings, the debates, the discussions, the harangues, and the variety of objections raised by the grandees of the country, that at the age of eighteen, the beauteous bird of paradise, still unmated, warbled her virgin strain in the loneliness of the royal groves.

“But why,” interrupted the pacha, “why did they not marry her, when there were three millions of young men ready to take her?  I can’t understand the cause of six years’ delay.”

The reason, most sublime, was, that the grandees of Souffra were not endowed with your resplendent wisdom, or the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu had not so long languished for a husband.  All this delay was produced by doubt, which the poets truly declare to be the father of delay.  It was a doubt which arose in the mind of one of the Brahmíns, who, when a doubt arose in his mind, would mumble it over and over, but never masticate, swallow, or digest it; and thus was the preservation of the royal line endangered.  For years had the aspirants for regal dignity, and more than regal beauty, hovered round the court, each with his mandolin on his arm, and a huge packet of love-sonnets borne behind him by a slave, and yet all was doubt; and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.

“I doubt whether we shall ever come to the doubt,” interrupted the pacha impatiently, “or the princess to a husband.”

The doubt shall now be laid at your excellency’s feet.  It was, as to the exact meaning of the words, without scar or blemish, and whether moles were to be considered as scars or blemishes.  The Brahmin was of opinion that moles were blemishes, and many others agreed with him; that is, all those who had no moles on their persons were of his opinion; while, on the other hand, those who were favoured by nature with those distinguishing marks, declared that so far from their being scars or blemishes, they must be considered as additional beauties granted by heaven to those most favoured.  The dispute ran high, and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.  This great question was at last very properly referred to the mufti; these sages handled it, and turned it, and twisted it, added to it, multiplied it, subtracted from it, and divided it, debated it fasting, debated it on a full stomach, nodded over it, dreamt on it, slept on it, woke up with it, analysed it, criticised it, and wrote forty-eight folio volumes, of which twenty-four were advocates of, and twenty-four opponents to, the question; the only conclusion which they could come to at last was, that moles were moles:  and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.

The question was then taken up by the dervishes and fakirs of the country in a religious point of view; they split into two parties, tried the question by a dispute under a banyan tree, which lasted eighteen months, and still not half of the holy men had given their sentiments upon the question; tired of talking, they proceeded to blows, and then to anathematisation and excommunication of each other; lastly, they had recourse to impalement to convince each other; more than a thousand perished on each side:  and still the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.

The colleges and schools of the kingdom took up the question, and argued it metaphysically, and after having irrecoverably lost, between the two sides, twenty-two millions of threads of arguments, the question was as fresh as ever, and the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.

But this was not all; for at last the whole nation joined in the quarrel, splitting into violent and angry factions, which divided town against town, inhabitants against inhabitants, house against house, family against family, husband against wife, father against son, brother against sister; and in some cases, where he had doubts on both sides, a man against himself.  The whole nation flew to arms, distinguishing themselves as Molists and Anti-Molists; four hundred insurrections, and four civil wars, were the consequence; and what was a worse consequence, the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu remained unmarried.  Your sublime highness must allow that it was a very nice question ­

“What is your opinion, Mustapha?” demanded the pacha.

“Is your slave to speak?  Then I would say, that it was absurd to make such a mountain of a mole-hill.”

“Very true, Mustapha.  This princess will never be married; so proceed, good Menouni.”

I should observe to your sublime highness, that the Molists were the strongest party, and the most arrogant; not content with wearing the marks of nature, they stuck upon their faces fictitious moles of every hue and colour, and the most violent partisans appeared as if they were suffering from some cutaneous disorder.  It was also a singular circumstance, that no Molist was ever known to change sides, whereas, after bathing, many of the Anti-Molists were found most shamefully to apostatise.  Everything was disastrous, and the country in a state of anarchy and confusion, when the question was most fortunately settled by the remark of a little slave about twelve years old, who was regularly flogged by his master every morning that he got up, upon a suspicion of Molism, and as regularly every evening by his mistress, on a second suspicion of Anti-Molism.  This poor little fellow whispered to another boy, that moles were blemishes or not, just as people happened to think them, but, as for his part, he thought nothing about the matter.  The espionage at that time was so strict, that even a whisper was to be heard at the distance of miles, and this observation was reported; it certainly was new because it was neutral, when neutrality was not permitted or thought of; it was buzzed about; the remark was declared wonderful, it ran like wildfire through the suburbs, it roared through the city, it shook the very gates of the palace; at last it reached the holy in divan, who pronounced it to be inspiration from the Deity, and immediately there was issued a solemn edict, in which it was laid down as a most positive and important article of Souffrarian faith, that moles were not scars, and only blemishes when they were considered so to be.  Everyone praised the wisdom of this edict; it was read and subscribed to as an article of faith; towns greeted towns, house congratulated house, and relations shook hands; what was still stranger was, husbands and wives were reconciled ­and what was even more delightful, there was now some chance of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu no longer remaining unmarried.

This fortunate edict, by which it was clear that those who believed a mole to be a blemish were quite safe, and those who did not believe it, were in no manner of danger, set everything to rights; the metropolis was again filled with aspirants, the air tortured with the music of the mandolins, and impregnated with the attar of roses.  Who can attempt to describe the sumptuousness of the palace, and the splendour of the hall in which the beautiful princess sat, to receive the homage of the flower of the youth of her kingdom.  Soothingly soft, sweetly, lovingly soft, were the dulcet notes of the warbling Asparas, or singing girls, now ebbing, now flowing in tender gushes of melody, while down the sides of the elegant and highly pillared hall, now advancing, now retreating, the dancing girls, each beautiful as Artee herself in her splendour, seemed almost to demand, in their aggregate, that gaze of homage due only to the peerless individual who at once burned and languished on her emerald throne.  Three days had the princess sat in that hall of delight, tired and annoyed with the constant stream of the Souffra youths, who prostrated themselves and passed on.  The fourth morning dawned, and none could say that either by gesture, sigh, or look, they had been distinguished by even a shadow of preference.  And the noble youths communed in their despair, and murmured among themselves; many a foot was stamped with unbecoming impatience, and many a moustache twisted with a pretty indignation.  The inhabitants of the capital blamed the impetuosity of the youths; to say the least of it, if it were not disloyal, it was ungallant, and what was worse, they showed no regard for the welfare of the citizens, over whom they each aspired to reign as sovereign, for they must be aware that now was the time that the citizens, from such an influx of aspirants, were reaping a golden harvest.  And they added, with great truth, that a princess who had been compelled to wait six years to satisfy the doubts of others, had a most undeniable right to wait as many days to satisfy her own.  On the fourth day, the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu again took her seat on the golden cushions, with her legs crossed, and her little feet hidden under the folds of her loose, azure-coloured satin trousers, and it was supposed that there was more brightness in her eyes, and more animation in her countenance than on the previous days; but still the crowd passed on unnoticed.  Even the learned Brahmíns, who stood immovable in rows on each side of her throne, became impatient:  they talked about the fickleness of the sex, the impossibility of inducing them to make up their minds; they whispered wise saws and sayings from Ferdistan and others, about the caprice of women, and the instability of their natures, and the more their legs ached from such perpetual demand upon their support, the more bitter did they become in their remarks.  Poor, prosing old fools! the beauteous princess had long made up her mind, and had never swerved from it through the tedious six years during which the doubts and discussions of those venerable old numskulls had embroiled the whole nation in the Molean and Anti-Molean controversy.

It was about the first hour after noon that the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu, suddenly rising from her recumbent attitude, clapped her pretty little hands, the fingers of which were beautifully tipped with henna, and beckoning to her attendants, retired gracefully from the hall of audience.  The surprise and commotion was great, and what made her conduct more particular was, that the only son of the chief Brahmin who had first raised the question, and headed the Anti-Molist party, was at the moment of the princess’s departure, prostrate before the throne, with his forehead, indeed, to the ground, but his bosom swelling high with hope and ambition.

Within a bower of orange trees, in the deep recesses of the royal gardens, to which she had hastened, sat the panting princess.  She selected some flowers from those which were scattered round her, and despatched them to her favourite musician and attendant, Acota.  Who was there in the whole kingdom of Souffra who could so sweetly touch the mandolin as Acota?  Yet, who was there, not only in Souffra, but in all the adjacent countries, who struck such occasional discordant notes as Acota, and that in the ear of the beautiful princess Babe-bi-bobu, who, far from being displeased, appeared to approve of his occasional violence, which not only threatened to crack the strings of the instrument, but the tympanums of those who were near, who longed to escape, and leave the princess to enjoy the dissonance alone, little thinking that the discord was raised that their souls’ harmony might be undisturbed by the presence of others, and that the jarring of the strings was more than repaid to the princess, by the subsequent music of Acota’s voice.

Acota seated himself, at a signal from the princess, and commenced his playing, if such it could be called, thrumming violently, and jarring every chord of his instrument to a tone of such dissonance, that the attendant girls put their fingers into their ears, and pitied the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu’s bad taste in music.

“Ah!  Acota,” said the princess, opening upon him all the tenderness of her large and beaming eyes, “how weary am I of sitting on my cushion, and seeing fop after fop, fool after fool, dawdle down upon their faces before me; and, moreover, I am suffocated with perfumes.  Strike your mandolin again louder, beloved of my soul ­still louder, that I may be further relieved of this unwished-for crowd.”

Thereupon, Acota seized his mandolin, and made such an unaccountable confusion of false notes, such a horrid jarring, that all the birds within one hundred yards shrieked as they fled, and the watchful old chamberlain, who was always too near the princess, in her opinion, and never near enough, in his own, cried out, “Yah ­yah ­baba senna, curses on his mother, and his mandolin into the bargain!” as his teeth chattered; and he hastened away, as fast as his obesity would permit him.  The faithful damsels who surrounded the princess could neither stand it nor sit it any longer ­they were in agonies, all their teeth were set on edge; and at last, when Acota, with one dreadful crash, broke every string of his instrument, they broke loose from the reins of duty, and fled in every direction of the garden, leaving the princess and Acota alone.

“Beloved of my soul,” said the princess, “I have at last invented a plan by which our happiness will be secured!” and in a low tone of voice, but without looking at each other, that they might not attract the observation of the chamberlain, they sweetly communed.  Acota listened a few minutes to the soft voice of the princess, and then took up his broken-stringed mandolin, and with a profound reverence for the benefit of the old chamberlain, he departed.

In the meantime, a rumour was spread abroad that at sunset a public examination of all the candidates was to take place on the bank of the rapid-flowing river, which ran through a spacious meadow near to the city, in order to reject those candidates who might prove, by any scar or blemish not to come expressly within the meaning of the old king’s will.  Twelve old fakirs, and twenty-four mollahs with spectacles, were appointed as examining officers.  It was supposed, as this was a religious ceremony, that all the females of Souffra, who were remarkable for their piety, would not fail to attend ­and all the world were eager for the commencement of the examination.  O then it was pleasant to see the running, and mounting, and racing, among the young Souffrarian rayahs, who were expected to be examined; and a stranger would have thought that a sudden pestilence had entered the city, from the thousands upon thousands who poured out from it, hastening to the river side, to behold the ceremony.  But to the astonishment of the people, almost all the rayahs, as soon as they were mounted, left the city in an opposite direction, some declaring, that they were most surely without scar or blemish, but still they could not consent to expose their persons to the gaze of so many thousands; others declared, that they left on account of scars and honourable wounds received in battle, and until that afternoon, the Souffrarians were not aware of how much modesty and how much courage they had to boast in their favoured land; and many regretted, as they viewed the interminable line of gallant young men depart, that the will of the late king should have made scars received in battle to be a bar to advancement; but they were checked by the Brahmíns, who told them that there was a holy and hidden mystery contained in the injunction of the old king’s will.

“By the beard of the prophet, it takes a long time to get a husband for this princess of yours, Menouni,” observed the pacha with a yawn.

“Your sublime highness will not be surprised at it, when you consider the conditions of the old king’s will.”

The examination was most strict, and even a small cut was sufficient to render a young man ineligible; a corn was considered as a blemish ­and a young man even having been bled by a leech to save his life, lost him all chance of the princess.

“Pray may I ask, if a barber had cut the skin in shaving their heads, was that considered as a scar?”

“Most decidedly, your highness.”

“Then those fakirs and mollahs, with their spectacles, and the Brahmíns, were a parcel of fools.  Were they not, Mustapha?”

“Your highness’s wisdom is like the overflowing of the honey pot,” replied Mustapha.

“Your know, Mustapha, as well as I do, that it is almost impossible not to draw blood, if there happens to be a pimple, or a bad razor; but, however, proceed, Menouni, and if possible marry this beautiful princess.”

About two hours before sunset the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu, “the cream-tart of delight,” more splendidly dressed than before, again entered the hall of audience, and found to her surprise, that there remained out of the many thousands of young rayahs, not fifty who could pretend to the honour of her hand and throne.  Among them, no longer dressed as a musician, but robed in the costume of his high caste, stood the conscious and proud Acota, and, although his jewels might not have vied with those worn by others who stood by him, yet the brightness of his eyes more than compensated.  Next to Acota stood Mezrimbi, the son of the chief Brahmin, and he, only, could be compared to Acota in personal beauty; but his character was known ­he was proud, overbearing, and cruel.  The beauteous Babe-bi-bobu feared him, for there was a clause in her father’s will, by which, if the first choice of the princess should prove by any intermediate accident to be ineligible, his father, the chief Brahmin, was empowered to make a selection for the princess, and his decision was to be equally inviolable.  The beauteous eyes of the princess first lighted upon the form of Mezrimbi, and she trembled, but the proud bearing of Acota reassured her, and waving her hand as she sat, she addressed the assembled youths as follows: ­

“Faithful and gentle rayahs, impute it to no want of modesty that, for once, I sink the graceful bashfulness of the virgin, and assume the more forward deportment of the queen.  When all appear to possess such merit, how can I slight all but one by my decision?  Let me rather leave it to the immortal Vishnu to decide who is most worthy to reign over this our kingdom of Souffra.  Let Vishnu prompt you to read your destiny; I have placed a flower in this unworthy bosom, which is shortly to call one of you its lord.  Name then, the flower, and he who first shall name it, let him be proclaimed the lawful king of Souffra.  Take then, your instruments, noble rayahs, and to their sounds, in measured verse, pour out the name of the hidden flower, and the reason for my choice.  Thus shall fate decide the question, and no one say that his merits have been slighted.”

Having finished her address, the beauteous princess let fall her veil, and was silent.  A shout of applause was followed by wild strummings and tunings of mandolins, and occasional scratching of heads or turbans, to remember all that Hafiz had ever written, or to aid their attempts at improviso versification.  Time flew on, and no one of the young rayahs appeared inclined to begin.  At last one stepped forward, and named the rose, in a borrowed couplet.  He was dismissed with a graceful wave of the hand by the princess, and broke his mandolin in his vexation, as he quitted the hall of audience.  And thus did they continue, one after another, to name flower after flower, and quit the hall of audience in despair.  Then might these beautiful youths, as they all stood before the princess, be compared, themselves, to the most beauteous flowers, strong rooted in their hopes, and basking in the sun of her presence; and, as their hopes were cut off, what were they but the same flowers severed from their stalks, and drooping before the sunny beams, now too powerful to be borne, or loaded with the dew of tears, removed to fade away unheeded?  There were but few left, when Mezrimbi, who had, as he thought, hit upon the right name, and who, watching the countenance of Acota, which had an air of impatient indifference upon it, which induced Mezrimbi to suppose that he had lighted upon the same idea, and might forestall him, stepped forward with his mandolin.  Mezrimbi was considered one of the best poets in Souffra; in fact, he had every talent, but not one virtue.  He bent forward in an elegant attitude, and sang as follows: ­

  “Who does the nightingale love?  Alas! we
  Know.  She sings of her love in the silence of
  Night, and never tells the name of her adored one.

  “What are flowers but the language of love? 
  And does not the nightingale rest her breast
  Upon the thorn as she pours out her plaintive notes?

  “Take then out of thy bosom the sweet flower of May
  Which is hidden there, emblematical of thy love,
  And the pleasing pain that it has occasioned.”

When Mezrimbi had finished the two first verses, the beauteous princess started with fear that he had gained her secret, and it was with a feeling of agony that she listened to the last; agony succeeded by a flow of joy, at his not having been successful.  Impatiently she waved her hand, and as impatiently did Mezrimbi depart from her presence.

Acota then stepped forward, and after a prelude, the beauty of which astonished all those around the queen’s person, for they had no idea that he could play in tune, sang in a clear melodious voice the following stanzas: ­

  “Sweet, blushing cheek! the rose is there,
  Thy breath, the fragrance of its bowers;
  Lilies are on thy bosom fair,
  And e’en thy very words seem flowers.

  “But lily, rose, or flower, that blows
  In India’s garden, on thy breast
  Must meet its death ­by breathing sweets
  Where it were ecstasy to rest.

  “A blossom from a nettle ta’en,
  Is in thy beauteous bosom bound,
  Born amid stings, it gives no pain,
  ’Tis sweetness among venom found.”

Acota was silent.  The beauteous princess, as the minstrel finished, rose slowly and tremulously from her cushions, and taking the blossom of a nettle from her bosom, placed it in the hands of the happy Acota, saying, with a great deal of piety, “It is the will of Heaven.”

“But how was it possible for Acota to find out that the princess had a nettle blossom in her bosom?” interrupted the pacha.  “No man could ever have guessed it.  I can’t make that out.  Can you, Mustapha?”

“Your sublime highness is right; no man ever could have guessed such a thing,” replied Mustapha.  “There is but one way to account for it, which is, that the princess must have told him her intentions when they were alone in the royal garden.”

“Very true, Mustapha ­well, thank Allah, the princess is married at last.”

“I beg pardon of your sublime highness, but the beauteous princess is not yet married,” said Menouni; “the story is not yet finished.”

“Wallah el nebí!” exclaimed the pacha.  “By God and his prophet, is she never to be married?”

“Yes, your sublime highness, but not just yet.  Shall I proceed?”

“Yes, Menouni, and the faster you get on the better.”

“Amidst the cries of ‘Long live Acota, Souffraria’s legitimate king.’”

“Legitimate.  Pray, good Menouni, what may that word mean?”

“Legitimate, your sublime highness, implies that a king and his descendants are chosen by Allah to reign over a people.”

“Well, but I don’t see that Allah had much to do with the choice of Acota.”

“Nor with the choice of any other king, I suspect, your sublime highness; but still the people were made to believe so, and that is all that is sufficient.  Allah does not interfere in the choice of any but those who reign over true believers.  The Sultan is the Holy Prophet’s vicegerent on earth ­and he, guided by the prophet, invests virtue and wisdom with the Kalaats of dignity, in the persons of his pachas.”

“Very true,” said the pacha, “the Sultan is guided by Allah, and,” continued he in a low tone to Mustapha, “a few hundred purses to boot.  Menouni, you may proceed.”

Amidst the cries of “Long live Acota, Souffraria’s legitimate king!” Acota was led to the throne by the attendant grandees of the nation, where he received the homage of all present.  It was arranged by the grandees and mollahs that the marriage should take place the next day.  The assembly broke up, and hastened in every direction to make preparations for the expected ceremony.

But who can describe the jealousy, the envy, and the indignation which swelled in the breasts of Mezrimbi and his father, the chief Brahmin?  They met, they consulted, they planned, and they schemed.  Acota was not yet king, although he was proclaimed as such ­he was not king until his marriage with the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu, “the cream-tart of delight,” and should he be scarred or blemished before the marriage of the ensuing day, then must the Brahmin, by the will of the old king, choose his successor; and who could he choose but his own son?

“Father,” said young Mezrimbi, his beautiful countenance distorted by the vilest passions of Jehanum, “I have planned as follows: ­I have mutes ready to obey my wishes, and a corrosive burning acid, which will eat deeply into the flesh of the proud Acota.  I know that he will pass the time away in the garden of the royal grove.  I know even the bower in which he hath wooed and won the fair princess.  Let us call these mutes, explain to them what we wish, and by to-morrow’s sun the throne of Souffraria will fall to the race of Mezrimbi.  Are we not of the purest blood of the plains, and is not Acota but a rayah of the mountains?”

And the chief Brahmin was pleased with his son’s proposal; the mutes were summoned, the black, tongueless, everythingless, hideous creatures, bowed in their humility, and followed their master, who, with the chief Brahmin, ventured by a circuitous route to invade the precincts of the royal grove.  Slowly and cautiously did they proceed towards the bower, where, as Mezrimbi had truly said, Acota was waiting for his beloved princess.  Fortunately, as they approached, a disturbed snake, hissing in his anger, caused an exclamation from the old Brahmin, which aroused Acota from his delicious reverie.  Through the foliage he perceived and recognised Mezrimbi, his father, and the mutes.  Convinced that they meditated mischief towards himself, he secreted himself among the rose-bushes, lying prostrate on the ground; but in his haste, he left his cloak and mandolin.  Mezrimbi entered the bower, and explained to the mutes by signs what it was which he desired, showed them the cloak and mandolin to make known the object of his wrath, and put into their hands the bottle of corrosive acid.  They satisfied him that they comprehended his wishes, and the party then retired, the chief Brahmin quitting the grove for his own house, the mutes lying in wait under some bushes for the arrival of Acota, and Mezrimbi walking away into the recesses of the grove, anxious as to the issue of the plot.  Acota, perfectly aware of what was intended, laughed in his sleeve, and thanked Allah for this fortunate discovery; he crawled away on his hands and knees, so as not to be perceived, and hid himself, with his cloak and mandolin, watching in turn the motions of the others ­and thus did all parties watch until the sun descended behind the blue hills which divided the kingdom of Souffraria from that of the other kingdom, which my treacherous memory has dared to forget in your highness’s sublime presence.  Mezrimbi was the only one who was not motionless:  he paced up and down in all the anxiety of anticipation and doubt, and at last he stopped, and, tired out with contending feelings, sat down at the foot of a tree, close to where Acota was concealed.  The nightingale was pouring forth her sweet melody, and, friendly to lovers, she continued it until Mezrimbi, who had listened to it, and whose angry feelings had been soothed with her dulcet strains, fell fast asleep.  Acota perceived it, and approaching him softly, laid his cloak over him, and taking up his mandolin, struck a chord, which he knew would not be lost upon the quick-eared mutes, although not so loud as to awake Mezrimbi.  Acota was right; in a minute he perceived the dark beings crawling through the underwood like jackals who had scented out their prey, and Acota was again concealed in the thick foliage.  They approached like shadows in the dark, and perceived the sleeping Mezrimbi with the cloak of Acota and the mandolin, which Acota, after striking it, had laid by his side.  It was sufficient.  Mezrimbi’s face was covered with the burning acid before even he was awakened; his screams were smothered in a shawl, and satisfied with having obeyed the injunctions of their master, the mutes hastened back to report their success, taking, however, the precaution of tying the hands and feet of Mezrimbi, that he might not go home to receive any help in his distress.  They escaped out of the gardens, and reported to the chief Brahmin the success of the operations, and how they had left him, Acota, in the woods.  The old Mezrimbi, upon reflection, thought it advisable that the person of Acota should be in his power, that he might be able to produce him when required upon the ensuing day.  He therefore desired the mutes to go back and bring Acota to the house, keeping a strict guard that he might not escape.

When the mutes had quitted Mezrimbi, Acota rose from his hiding place, and went towards the unfortunate wretch, who still groaned with pain, but his face was muffled up in the shawl, so that his features were hidden.  At first Acota had intended to have reviled and scoffed at his treacherous enemy, but his good heart forbade it.  Another idea then came into his head.  He took off the cloak of Mezrimbi, and substituted his own; he exchanged turbans and scimitars, and then left him and went home.  Shortly after Acota had quitted the wood, the mutes returned, lifted the miserable Mezrimbi on their shoulders and carried him to the house of the chief Brahmin, who having ordered him to be guarded in an outhouse, said his prayers and went to bed.

The sun rose and poured his beaming rays upon the land of Souffraria, and thousands and thousands of the inhabitants had risen before him, to prepare for the day of delight, the day on which they were to be blessed with a king ­the day on which the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu, the cream-tart of delight, was no longer to remain unmarried.  Silks and satins from China, shawls and scarfs from Cashmere, jewels, and gold, and diamonds ­horses, and camels, and elephants, were to be seen spread over the plains, and the city of Souffra.  All was joy, and jubilee, and feasting, and talking, for the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu was that day to be married.

“I wish to heaven she was,” observed the pacha, impatiently.

“May it please your sublime highness, she soon will be.”

At an early hour the proclamation was made that the princess was about to take unto herself a husband from the high caste youths of Souffra, and that all whom it might concern should repair to the palace, to be present at the ceremony.  As it concerned all Souffra ­all Souffra was there.  The sun had nearly reached to the zenith, and looked down almost enviously upon the gay scene beneath, broiling the brains of the good people of Souffra, whose heads paved, as it were, the country for ten square miles, when the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu made her appearance in the hall of audience, attended by her maidens and the grandees of Souffra, who were the executors to her father’s will.  At the head of them was the chief Brahmin, who looked anxiously among the crowd for his son Mezrimbi, who had not made his appearance that morning.  At last he espied his rich dress, his mantle, his turban and jewelled scimitar, but his face was muffled up in a shawl, and the chief Brahmin smiled at the witty conceit of his son, that of having his own beauteous person muffled as well as that of the now scarred Acota.  And then silence was commanded by a thousand brazen trumpets, and enforced by the discharge of two thousand pieces of artillery, ten square miles of people repeated the order for silence, in loud and reiterated shouts ­and at last silence obeyed the order, and there was silence.  The chief Brahmin rose, and having delivered an extemporaneous prayer, suitable to the solemnity and importance of the occasion, he proceeded to read the will of the late king ­he then descanted upon the Molean controversy, and how it was now an article of the Souffrarian faith, which it was heresy and impalement not to believe, that “moles were not scars, and only blemishes when they were considered so to be.”  The choice of the princess, continued the learned Brahmin, has however not been made; she has left to chance that which was to have proceeded from her own free will, and that without consulting with the ministers of our holy religion.  My heart told me yesterday that such was not right, and contrary not only to the king’s will, but the will of Heaven; and I communed deeply on the subject after I had prayed nine times ­and a dream descended on me in my sleep, and I was told that the conditions of the will would be fulfilled.  How to explain this answer from above I know not:  perhaps the youth who was fortunate in discovering the flower, is also the youth of the princess’s choice.

“Even so,” replied the princess, in a soft, melodious voice, “and therefore is my father’s will obeyed.”

“Where, then, is the fortunate youth?” said the chief Brahmin; “let him appear.”

Babe-bi-bobu, who, as well as others, had in vain looked round for Acota, was astonished at his not making his appearance, and still more so when he did, as they thought, appear, led in by the four black mutes, with his face enveloped in a shawl.

“This, then,” said the chief Brahmin, “is the favoured youth, Acota.  Remove the shawl, and lead him to the princess.”

The mutes obeyed, and to the horror of Babe-bi-bobu, there stood Acota, as she thought, with a face so scarred and burnt, that his features were not distinguishable.  She started from her throne, uttered one wild shriek, which was said to have been heard by the whole ten square miles of population, and fainted in the arms of her attendants.

“We know his dress, most noble grandees,” continued the chief Brahmin, “but how can we recognise in that object, the youth without scar or blemish?  It is the will of Heaven,” continued the chief Brahmin, piously and reverently bending low.  And all the other grandees replied in the same pious manner, “It is the will of Heaven.”  “I say,” continued the chief Brahmin, “that this must have been occasioned by the princess not having chosen as ordained by the will of her father, but having impiously left to chance what was to have been decided by free will.  Is not the hand, the finger of Providence made manifest?” continued he, appealing to the grandees.  And they all bowed low, and declared that the hand and finger of Providence were manifest; while the mutes, who knew that it was their hands and fingers which had done the deed, chuckled as well as they could with the remnants of their tongues.  “And now,” continued the chief Brahmin, “we must obey the will of the late king, which expressly states, that if any accident should happen after the choice of the princess had been made, that I, the chief of our holy religion, should select her husband.  By virtue, then, of my power, I call thee forth, my son, Mezrimbi, to take his place.  Bow down to Mezrimbi, the future king of Souffraria.”

Acota, muffled up to the eyes, and dressed in the garments of Mezrimbi, stepped forth, and the chief Brahmin, and all present, in pursuance to his order, prostrated themselves before Acota, with their foreheads in the dust.  Acota took that opportunity of removing the shawl, and, when they rose up, stood by the throne, resplendent in his beauty and his pride.  At the sight of him, the chief Brahmin raised a cry, which was heard, not only further than the shriek of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu, but had the effect of recalling her to life and recollection.  All joined in the cry of astonishment when they beheld Acota in the garments of Mezrimbi.

“Who, then, art thou?” exclaimed the chief Brahmin, to his son, in Acota’s dress.

“I am,” exclaimed his son, exhausted with pain and mortification, “I am ­I was Mezrimbi.”

“Grandees,” cried Acota, “as the chief Brahmin has already asserted, and as you have agreed, in that you behold the finger of Heaven, which ever punishes hypocrisy, cruelty, and injustice;” and the chief Brahmin fell down in a fit, and was carried out, with his unfortunate son Mezrimbi.

In the meantime the beauteous Princess Babe-bi-bobu had recovered, and was in the arms of Acota, who, resigning her to her attendant maidens, addressed the assembly in a speech of so much eloquence, so much beauty, and so much force, that it was written down in letters of gold, being considered the ne plus ultra of the Souffrarian language; he explained to them the nefarious attempt of Mezrimbi to counteract the will of Heaven, and how he had fallen into the snare which he had laid for others.  And when he had finished, the whole assembly hailed him as their king; and the population, whose heads paved, as it were, a space of ten square miles, cried out, “Long life to the king Acota, and his beautiful princess Babe-bi-bobu, the cream-tart of delight!”

Who can attempt to describe the magnificent procession which took place that evening, who can describe the proud and splendid bearing of king Acota, or the beaming eyes of the beautiful Princess Babe-bi-bobu.  Shall I narrate how the nightingales sang themselves to death ­shall I ­

“No, pray don’t,” interrupted the pacha, “only let us know one thing ­was the beautiful Babe-bi-bobu married at last?”

“She was, that very evening, your sublime highness.”

“Allah be praised!” rejoined the pacha.  “Mustapha, let Menouni know what it is to tell a story to a pacha, even though it is rather a long one, and I thought the princess would never have been married.”  And the pacha rose and waddled to his harem.