The Pacha of Many Tales

“What sayeth the Frank, Mustapha?” inquired the pacha.

“He is struck dumb with astonishment at the splendour of your majesty, and all that he beholds.”

“It is well said, by Allah!”

“I suppose I may just as well come to an anchor,” said the sailor, suiting the action to the word, and dropping down on the mats. “There,” continued he, folding his legs in imitation of the Turks, “as it’s the fashion to have a cross in your hawse, in this here country, I can be a bit of a lubber as well as yourselves. I wouldn’t mind if I blew a cloud, as well as you, old fusty-musty.”

“What does the Giaour say? What son of a dog is this, to sit in our presence?” exclaimed the pacha.

“He sayeth,” replied Mustapha, “that in his country, no one dare stand in the presence of the Frankish king; and, overcome by his humility, his legs refuse their office, and he sinks to the dust before you. It is even as he sayeth, for I have travelled in their country, and such is the custom of that uncivilised nation. Mashallah! but he lives in awe and trembling.”

“By the beard of the Prophet, he does not appear to show it outwardly,” replied the pacha; “but that may be the custom also.”

“Be chesm, on my eyes be it,” replied Mustapha, “it is even so. Frank,” said Mustapha, “the pacha has sent for you that he may hear an account of all the wonderful things which you have seen. You must tell lies, and you will have gold.”

“Tell lies! that is, spin a yarn; well, I can do that, but my mouth’s baked with thirst, and without a drop of something, the devil a yarn from me; and so you may tell the old Billy-goat, perched up there.”

“What sayeth the son of Shitan?” demanded the pacha, impatiently.

“The unbeliever declareth that his tongue is glued to his mouth from the terror of your highness’s presence. He fainteth after water to restore him, and enable him to speak.”

“Let him be fed,” rejoined the pacha.

But Mustapha had heard enough to know that the sailor would not be content with the pure element. He therefore continued, “Your slave must tell you, that in the country of the Franks, they drink nothing but the fire water, in which the true believers but occasionally venture to indulge.”

“Allah acbar! nothing but fire water? What then do they do with common water?”

“They have none but from heaven—the rivers are all of the same strength.”

“Mashallah! how wonderful is God! I would we had a river here. Let some be procured, then, for I wish to hear his story.”

A bottle of brandy was sent for, and handed to the sailor, who put it to his mouth; and the quantity he took of it before he removed the bottle to recover his breath, fully convinced the pacha that Mustapha’s assertions were true.

“Come, that’s not so bad,” said the sailor, putting the bottle down between his legs; “and now I’ll be as good as my word, and I’ll spin old Billy a yarn as long as the maintop-bowling.”

“What sayeth the Giaour?” interrupted the pacha.

“That he is about to lay at your highness’s feet the wonderful events of his life, and trusts that his face will be whitened before he quits your sublime presence. Frank, you may proceed.”

“To lie till I’m black in the face—well, since you wish it; but, old chap, my name a’r’nt Frank. It happens to be Bill; howsomever, it warn’t a bad guess for a Turk; and now I’m here, I’d just like to ax you a question. We had a bit of a hargument the other day, when I was in a frigate up the Dardanelles, as to what your religion might be. Jack Soames said that you warn’t Christians, but that if you were, you could only be Catholics; but I don’t know how he could know any thing about it, seeing that he had not been more than seven weeks on board of a man of war. What may you be—if I may make so bold as to ax the question?”

“What does he say?” inquired the pacha, impatiently.

“He says,” interrupted Mustapha, “that he was not so fortunate as to be born in the country of the true believers, but in an island full of fog and mist, where the sun never shines, and the cold is so intense, that the water from heaven is hard and cold as a flint.”

“That accounts for their not drinking it. Mashallah, God is great! Let him proceed.”

“The pacha desires me to say, that there is but one God, and Mahomet is his Prophet; and begs that you will go on with your story.”

“Never heard of the chap—never mind—here’s saw wood.”

Tale of the English Sailor

I was born at Shields, and bred to the sea, served my time out of that port, and got a berth on board a small vessel fitted out from Liverpool for the slave trade. We made the coast, unstowed our beads, spirits, and gunpowder, and very soon had a cargo on board; but the day after we sailed for the Havannah, the dysentery broke out among the niggers—no wonder, seeing how they were stowed, poor devils, head and tail, like pilchards in a cask. We opened the hatches, and brought part of them on deck, but it was of no use, they died like rotten sheep, and we tossed overboard about thirty a day. Many others, who were alive, jumped overboard, and we were followed by a shoal of sharks, splashing and darting, and diving, and tearing the bodies, yet warm, and revelling in the hot and bloody water. At last they were all gone, and we turned back to the coast to get a fresh supply. We were within a day’s sail of the land, when we saw two boats on our weather bow; they made signals to us, and we found them to be full of men; we hove-to, and took them on board, and then it was that we discovered that they had belonged to a French schooner, in the same trade, which had started a plank, and had gone down like a shot, with all the niggers in the hold.

“Now, give the old gentleman the small change of that, while I just wet my whistle.”

Mustapha having interpreted, and the sailor having taken a swig at the bottle, he proceeded.

We didn’t much like having these French beggars on board; and it wasn’t without reason, for they were as many as we were. The very first night they were overheard by a negro who belonged to us, and had learnt French, making a plan for overpowering us, and taking possession of the vessel; so when we heard that, their doom was sealed. We mustered ourselves on the deck, put the hatches over some o’ the French, seized those on deck, and—in half an hour they all walked a plank.

“I do not understand what you mean,” said Mustapha.

“That’s ’cause you’re a lubber of a landsman. The long and short of walking a plank is just this. We passed a wide plank over the gunnel, greasing it well at the outer end, led the Frenchmen up to it blindfolded, and wished them ‘bon voyage,’ in their own lingo, just out of politeness. They walked on till they toppled into the sea, and the sharks did’nt refuse them, though they prefer a nigger to any thing else.”

“What does he say, Mustapha?” interrupted the pacha. Mustapha interpreted.

“Good; I should like to have seen that,” replied the pacha.

Well, as soon as we were rid of the Frenchmen, we made our port, and soon had another cargo on board, and, after a good run, got safe to the Havannah, where we sold our slaves; but I did’nt much like the sarvice, so I cut the schooner, and sailed home in summer, and got back safe to England. There I fell in with Betsey, and as she proved a regular out and outer, I spliced her; and a famous wedding we had of it, as long as the rhino lasted; but that wasn’t long, the more’s the pity; so I went to sea for more. When I came back after my trip, I found that Bet hadn’t behaved quite so well as she might have done, so I cut my stick, and went away from her altogether.

“Why didn’t you put her in a sack?” inquired the pacha, when Mustapha explained.

“Put her head in a bag—no, she wasn’t so ugly as all that,” replied the sailor. “Howsomever, to coil away.”

I joined a privateer brig, and after three cruises I had plenty of money, and determined to have another spell on shore, that I might get rid of it. Then I picked up Sue, and spliced again; but, Lord bless your heart, she turned out a regular built tartar—nothing but fight fight, scratch scratch, all day long, till I wished her at old Scratch. I was tired of her, and Sue had taken a fancy to another chap; so says she one day, “As we both be of the same mind, why don’t you sell me, and then we may part in a respectable manner.” I agrees; and I puts a halter round her neck, and leads her to the market-place, the chap following to buy her. “Who bids for this woman,” says I.

“I do,” says he.

“What will you give?”

“Half-a-crown,” says he.

“Will you throw a glass of grog into the bargain?”

“Yes,” says he.

“Then she’s yours; and I wish you much joy of your bargain.” So I hands the rope to him, and he leads her off.

“How much do you say he sold his wife for?” said the pacha to Mustapha, when this part of the story was repeated to him.

“A piastre, and a drink of the fire water,” replied the vizier.

“Ask him if she was handsome?” said the pacha.

“Handsome,” replied the sailor to Mustapha’s inquiry; “yes, she was as pretty a craft to look at as you may set your eyes upon; fine round counter—clean run—swelling bows—good figure-head, and hair enough for a mermaid.”

“What does he say?” inquired the pacha.

“The Frank declareth that her eyes were bright as those of the gazelle—that her eyebrows were as one—her waist as that of the cypress—her face as the full moon; and that she was fat as the houris that await the true believers.”

“Mashallah! all for a piastre. Ask him, Mustapha, if there are more wives to be sold in that country?”

“More,” replied the sailor in answer to Mustapha; “you may have a ship full in an hour. There’s many a fellow in England who would give a handful of coin to get rid of his wife.”

“We will make further inquiry, Mustapha; it must be looked to. Say I not well?”

“It is well said,” replied Mustapha. “My heart is burnt as roast meat at the recollection of the women of the country; who are, indeed, as he hath described, houris to the sight. Proceed, Yaha bibi, my friend, and tell his—”

“Yaw Bibby! I told you my name was Bill, not Bibby; and I never yaws from my course, although I heaves-to sometimes, as I do now, to take in provisions.” The sailor took another swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and continued. “Now for a good lie.”

I sailed in a brig for the Brazils, and a gale came on, that I never seed the like of. We were obliged to have three men stationed to hold the captain’s hair on his head, and a little boy was blown over the moon, and slid down by two or three of her beams, till he caught the mainstay, and never hurt himself.

“Good,” said Mustapha, who interpreted.

“By the beard of the Prophet, wonderful!” exclaimed the pacha.

Well, the gale lasted for a week; and at last one night, when I was at the helm, we dashed on the rocks of a desolate island. I was pitched right over the mountains, and fell into the sea on the other side of the island. I swam on shore, and got into a cave, where I fell fast asleep. The next morning I found that there was nothing to eat except rats, and they were plentiful; but they were so quick, that I could not catch them. I walked about, and at last discovered a great many rats together; they were at a spring of water; the only one, as I afterwards found, on the island. Rats can’t do without water; and I thought I should have them there. I filled up the spring, all but a hole which I sat on the top of. When the rats came again, I filled my mouth with water, and held it wide open; they ran up to drink, and I caught their heads in my teeth, and thus I took as many as I wished.

“Aferin, excellent!” cried the pacha, as soon as this was explained.

Well, at last a vessel took me off, and I wasn’t sorry for it, for raw rats are not very good eating. I went home again, and I hadn’t been on shore more than two hours, when who should I see but my first wife, Bet, with a robin-redbreast in tow. “That’s he!” says she. I gave fight, but was nabbed and put into limbo, to be tried for what they call biggery, or having a wife too much.

“How does he mean? desire him to explain,” said the pacha, after Mustapha had conveyed the intelligence. Mustapha obeyed.

“In our country one wife is considered a man’s allowance; and he is not to take more, that every Jack may have his Jill, I had spliced two; so they tried me, and sent me to Botany Bay for life.”

This explanation puzzled the pacha. “How—what sort of a country must it be, when a man cannot have two wives? Inshallah! please the Lord, we may have hundreds in our harem! Does he not laugh at our beards with lies? Is this not all bosh, nothing?”

“It is even so, as the Frank speaketh,” replied Mustapha. “The king of the country can take but one wife. Be chesm, on my eyes be it, if it is not the truth.”

“Well,” rejoined the pacha, “what are they but infidels? They deserve to have no more. Houris are for the faithful. May their fathers’ graves be defiled. Let the Giaour proceed.”

Well, I was started for the other side of the water, and got there safe enough, as I hope one day to get to Heaven, wind and weather permitting: but I had no idea of working without pay, so one fine morning, I slipt away into the woods, where I remained with three or four more for six months. We lived upon kangaroos, and another odd little animal, and got on pretty well.

“What may the dish of kangaroos be composed of?” inquired Mustapha, in obedience to the pacha.

“’Posed of! why a dish of kangaroos be made of kangaroos, to be sure.”

But I’ll be dished if I talked about any thing but the animal, which we had some trouble to kill; for it stands on its big tail, and fights with all four feet. Moreover, it be otherwise a strange beast; for its young ones pop out of its stomach, and then pop in again, having a place there on purpose, just like the great hole in the bow of a timber ship; and as for the other little animal, it swims in the ponds, lays eggs, and has a duck’s bill, yet still it be covered all over with hair like a beast.

The vizier interrupted. “By the Prophet, but he laughs at our beards!” exclaimed the pacha, angrily. “These are foolish lies.”

“You must not tell the pacha such foolish lies. He will be angry,” said Mustapha. “Tell lies, but they must be good lies.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” replied the sailor, “if the old beggar don’t doubt the only part which is true out of the whole yarn. Well, I will try another good un to please him.”

After I had been there about six months I was tired; and as there was only twenty thousand miles between that country and my own, I determined to swim back.

“Mashallah! swim back—how many thousand miles?” exclaimed Mustapha.

“Only twenty thousand—a mere nothing.”

So one fine morning I throws a young kangaroo on my shoulder, and off I starts. I swam for three months, night and day, and then feeling a little tired, I laid-to on my back, and then I set off again; but by this time I was so covered with barnacles, that I made but little way. So I stopped at Ascension, scraped and cleaned myself, and then, after feeding for a week on turtle, just to keep the scurvy out of my bones, I set off again; and as I passed the Gut, I thought I might just as well put in here; and here I arrived, sure enough, yesterday about three bells in the morning watch, after a voyage of five months and three days.

When Mustapha translated all this to the pacha, the latter was lost in astonishment. “Allah wakbar! God is every where! Did you ever hear of such a swimmer? Twenty thousand miles—five months and three days. It is a wonderful story! Let his mouth be filled with gold.”

Mustapha intimated to the sailor the unexpected compliment about to be conferred on him, just as he had finished the bottle, and rolled it away on one side. “Well, that be a rum way of paying a man. I have heard it said that a fellow pursed up his mouth but I never afore heard of a mouth being a purse. Howsomever, all’s one for that; only, d’ye see, if you are about to stow it away in bulk, it may be just as well to get rid of the dunnage.”

The sailor put his thumb and forefinger into the cheek, and pulled out his enormous quid of tobacco. “There now, I’m ready, and don’t be afraid of choking me.” One of the attendants then thrust several pieces of gold into the sailor’s mouth, who spitting them all out into his hat, jumped on his legs, made a jerk of his head with a kick of the leg behind to the pacha; and declaring that he was the funniest old beggar he had ever fallen in with, nodded to Mustapha, and hastened out of the divan.

“Mashallah! but he swims well,” said the pacha, breaking up the audience.

Volume Three–Chapter Three

The departure of the caravan was delayed for two or three days by the vizier upon various pretexts—although it was his duty to render it every assistance—that Menouni might afford further amusement to the pacha. Menouni was well content to remain, as the liberality of the pacha was not to be fallen in with every day, and the next evening he was again ushered into the sublime presence.

“Khosh amedeid! you are welcome,” said the pacha, as Menouni made his low obeisance. “Now let us have another story. I don’t care how long it is, only let us have no more princesses to be married. That Babe-bi-bobu was enough to tire the patience of a dervish.”

“Your sublime highness shall be obeyed,” replied Menouni. “Would it please you to hear the story of Yussuf, the Water-Carrier?”

“Yes, that sounds better. You may proceed.”

The Water-Carrier

May it please your highness, it so happened that the great Haroun Alraschid was one night seized with one of those fits of sleepless melancholy with which it had pleased Allah to temper his splendid destiny, and which fits are, indeed, the common lot of those who are raised by fortune above the ordinary fears and vicissitudes of life.

“I can’t say that I ever have them,” observed the pacha. “How is that, Mustapha?”

“Your highness has as undoubted a right to them as the great caliph,” replied Mustapha, bowing, “but if I may venture to state my opinion,” continued he, drawing down to the ear of the pacha, “you have discovered the remedy for them in the strong water of the Giaour.”

“Very true,” replied the pacha; “Haroun Alraschid, if I recollect right, was very strict in his observances of the precepts of the Koran. After all, he was but a pastek—a water-melon. You may proceed, Menouni.”

The caliph, oppressed, as I before observed to your highness, with this fit of melancholy, despatched Mesrour for his chief vizier, Giaffar Bermuki, who, not unaccustomed to this nocturnal summons, speedily presented himself before the commander of the faithful. “Father of true believers! descendant of the Prophet!” said the minister, with a profound obeisance, “thy slave waits but to hear, and hears but to obey.”

“Giaffar,” replied the caliph, “I am overwhelmed with distressing inquietude, and would fain have thee devise some means for my relief. Speak—what sayest thou?”

“Hasten, O my prince, to thy favourite garden of the Tierbar, where, gazing on the bright moon, and listening to the voice of the bul-bul, you will await in pleasing contemplation the return of the sun.”

“Not so,” replied the caliph.

“By the beard of the Prophet! the caliph was right, and that Giaffar was a fool. I never heard that staring at the moon was an amusement before,” observed the pacha.

“Not so,” urged the caliph. “My gardens, my palaces, and my possessions, are no more to me a source of pleasure.”

“By the sword of the Prophet! now the caliph appears to be the fool,” interrupted the pacha.

“Shall we then repair to the Hall of the Ancients, and pass the night in reviving the memory of the wise, whose sayings are stored therein?” continued Giaffar.

“Counsel avails not,” replied the caliph; “the records of the past will not suffice to banish the cares of the present.”

“Then,” said the vizier, “will the Light of the world seek refuge from his troubles in a disguise, and go forth with the humblest of his slaves to witness the condition of his people?”

“Thou hast said well,” replied the caliph; “I will go with thee into the bazaar, and witness, unknown, the amusements of my people after the labours of the day.”

Mesrour, the chief eunuch, was at hand, and hastened for the needful disguises. After having clad themselves as merchants of Moussul, and tinged their faces of an olive hue, the caliph, accompanied by Giaffar and Mesrour, the latter armed with a scimitar, issued forth from the secret door of the seraglio. Giaffar, who knew from experience the quarter likely to prove most fertile in adventure, led the caliph past the mosque of Zobeide, and crossing the Bridge of Boats over the Tigris, continued his way to that part of the city on the Mesopotamian side of the river, which was inhabited by the wine-sellers and others, who administered to the irregularities, as well as to the wants, of the good people of Bagdad. For a short time they wandered up and down without meeting anybody; but passing through a narrow alley, their steps were arrested by the sound of a most potent pair of lungs, carolling forth a jovial song. The caliph waited awhile, in expectation of its ceasing; but he might apparently have waited until dawn of day, for verse was poured forth after verse; a small interval between them filled up by the musical gurgling of liquor from a bottle, and the gulps of the votary of Bacchus. At length, his patience being exhausted, the caliph ordered Mesrour to knock loudly at the singer’s dwelling. Hearing the noise, the fellow opened the jalousie, and came out into the verandah above. Looking down, and perceiving the three interrupters of his mirth, he bawled out—“What rascals are you that disturb an honest man at his devotions?—Begone!—fly!—away with you, scum of the earth!”

“Truly, charitable sir,” replied Giaffar in a humble tone, “we are distressed merchants, strangers in this city, who have lost our way, and fear to be seized by the watch—perhaps carried before the cadi. We beseech thee, therefore, to admit us within thy doors, and Allah will reward thy humanity.”

“Admit you within my doors!—not I, indeed. What, you wish to get into my house to gormandise and swill at my expense. Go—go!”

The caliph laughed heartily at this reply; and then called out to the man, “Indeed we are merchants, and seek but for shelter till the hour of prayer.”

“Tell me, then,” replied the man, “and mind you tell me the truth. Have you eaten and drunk your fill for the night?”

“Thanks and praise be to Allah, we have supped long since, and heartily,” returned the caliph.

“Since that is the case, you may come up; but recollect it is upon one condition, that you bind yourselves not to open your lips whatever you may see me do; no matter whether it please you or not.”

“What you desire is so reasonable,” called out the caliph, “that we should be ignorant as Yaboos, if we did not at once comply.”

The man gave one more scrutinising glance at the pretended merchants; and then, as if satisfied, descended and opened his door. The caliph and his attendants followed him up to his room, where they found a table laid out for supper, on which was a large pitcher of wine, half a roasted kid, a bottle of rakee, preserves, confections, and various kinds of fruit; odoriferous flowers were also on the table, and the lighting up of the room was brilliant. The host, immediately on their entering, tossed off a bumper of wine, as if to make up for the time he had lost, and pointing to a corner, bade the intruders to sit down there, and not to disturb him any more. He commenced his solitary feast; and after another bumper of wine, as if tired of his own company, he gruffly demanded, “Where do you fellows come from, and whither are you going?”

“Sir,” replied Giaffar, who had been whispering with the caliph, “we are merchants of Moussul, who have been to an entertainment at the country seat of a khan of Bagdad. We feasted well, and left our friend just as the day closed in. Whereupon we lost our way, and found ourselves in this street; hearing the musical accents of your voice, we exclaimed, ‘Are not those notes delightful?—one who has so sweet a voice, must be equally sweet in disposition. Let us entreat the hospitality of our brother for the remainder of the night, and in the morning we will depart in peace.’”

“I do not believe a word that you have said, you ill-looking thief. You are spies or thieves, who would profit by getting into people’s houses at unseasonable hours. You, barrel-stomach, you with whiskers like a bear,” continued he, to the vizier, “hang me if ever I saw such a rascally face as yours; and you, you black-faced nigger, keep the whites of your eyes off my supper-table, or by Allah I’ll send you all to Jehanum. I see you are longing to put your fingers on the kid; but if you do, I’ve a bone-softener, which, by the blessed Prophet, shall break every bone in your three skins.” So saying, the man, taking a large cudgel from the corner of the room, laid it by the dish of kid, into which he then plunged his fingers, and commenced eating heartily.