unnecessary for me, I thought it might be requisite for a vizier,” observed the pacha.
“Reading may be necessary, I will allow,” replied Mustapha; “but I trust I can soon prove to your highness that writing is as dangerous as it is useless. More men have been ruined by that unfortunate acquirement, than by any other; and dangerous as it is to all, it is still more dangerous to men in high power. For instance, your sublime highness sends a message in writing, which is ill-received, and it is produced against you; but had it been a verbal message, you could deny it, and bastinado to death the Tartar who carried it, as a proof of your sincerity.”
“Very true, Mustapha.”
“The grandfather of your slave,” continued the barber-vizier, “held the situation of receiver-general at the custom-house; and he was always in a fury when he was obliged to take up the pen. It was his creed, that no government could prosper when writing was in general use. ‘Observe, Mustapha,’ said he to me one day, ‘here is the curse of writing—for all the money which is paid in, I am obliged to give a receipt. What is the consequence? that government loses many thousand sequins every year; for when I apply to them for a second payment, they produce their receipt. Now if it had not been for this cursed invention of writing, Inshallah! they should have paid twice, if not thrice over. Remember, Mustapha,’ continued he, ‘that reading and writing only clog the wheels of government.’ ”
“Very true, Mustapha,” observed the pacha, “then we will have no writing.”
“Yes, your sublime highness, every thing in writing from others, but nothing in writing from ourselves. I have a young Greek slave, who can be employed in these matters. He reads well. I have lately employed him in reading to me the stories of ‘Thousand and one Nights.’ ”
“Stories,” cried the pacha; “what are they about? I never heard of them; I’m very fond of stories.”
“If it would pleasure your sublime highness to hear these stories read, the slave will wait your commands,” replied the vizier.
“Bring him this evening, Mustapha; we will smoke a pipe, and listen to them; I’m very fond of stories—they always send me to sleep.”
The business of the day was transacted with admirable precision and despatch by the two quondam barbers, who proved how easy it is to govern, where there are not “three estates” to confuse people. They sat in the divan as highwaymen loiter on the road, and it was “Your money or your life” to all who made their appearance.
At the usual hour the court broke up, the guards retired, the money was carried to the treasury, the executioner wiped his sword, and the lives of the pacha’s subjects were considered to be in a state of comparative security, until the affairs of the country were again brought under their cognisance on the ensuing day.
In obedience to the wish expressed by the pacha, Mustapha made his appearance in the afternoon with the young Greek slave. The new vizier having taken a seat upon a cushion at the feet of the pacha, the pipes were lighted, and the slave was directed to proceed.
The Greek had arrived to the end of the First Night, in which Schezehezerade commences her story, and the Sultan, who was anxious to hear the termination of it, defers her execution to the following day.
“Stop,” cried the pacha, taking the pipe from his lips; “how long before the break of day did that girl call her sister?”
“About half an hour, your sublime highness.”
“Wallah! Is that all she could tell of her story in half an hour?—There’s not a woman in my harem who would not say as much in five minutes.”
The pacha was so amused with the stories, that he never once felt inclined to sleep; on the contrary, the Greek slave was compelled to read every afternoon, until his legs were so tired that he could hardly stand, and his tongue almost refused its office; consequently, they were soon finished; and Mustapha not being able to procure any more, they were read a second time. After which the pacha, who felt the loss of his evening’s amusement, became first puzzled how to pass away his time; then he changed to hypochondriacism, and finally became so irritable, that even Mustapha himself, at times, approached him with some degree of awe.
“I have been thinking,” observed the pacha, one morning, when under the hands of Mustapha, in his original capacity, “that it would be as easy for me to have stories told me, as the caliph in the Arabian Nights.”
“I wonder not that your highness should desire it. Those stories are as the opium to Theriarkis, filling the soul with visions of delight at the moment, but leaving it palsied from over-excitement, when their effect has passed away. How does your sublime highness propose to obtain your end; and in what manner can your slave assist to produce your wishes?”
“I shall manage it without assistance; come this evening and you shall see, Mustapha.”
Mustapha made his appearance in the afternoon, and the pacha smoked his pipe for some time, and appeared as if communing with himself; he then laid it down, and clapping his hands, desired one of the slaves to inform his favourite lady, Zeinab, that he desired her presence.
Zeinab entered with her veil down. “Your slave attends the pleasure of her lord.”
“Zeinab,” said the pacha, “do you love me?”
“Do not I worship the dust that my lord treads on?”
“Very true—then I have a favour to request: observe, Zeinab—it is my wish that,”—(here the pacha took a few whiffs from his pipe)—“The fact is—I wish you to dishonour my harem as soon as possible.”
“Wallah sel Nebi!!—By Allah and the Prophet your highness is in a merry humour this evening,” replied Zeinab, turning round to quit the apartment.
“On the contrary, I am in a serious humour; I mean what I have said; and I expect that you will comply with my wishes.”
“Is my lord mad? or has he indulged too freely in the juice of the grape forbidden by our Prophet? Allah kebur! God is most powerful—The hakim must be sent for.”
“Will you do as I order you?” said the pacha angrily.
“Does my lord send for his slave to insult her! My blood is as water, at the dreadful thought!—Dishonour the harem!—Min Allah! God forbid!—Would not the eunuch be ready and the sack?”
“Yes, they would, I acknowledge; but still it must be done.”
“It shall not be done,” replied the lady:—“Has my lord been visited by Heaven? or is he possessed by the Shitan?”—And the lady burst into tears of rage and vexation as she quitted the apartment.
“There’s obstinacy for you—women are nothing but opposition. If you wish them to be faithful, they try day and night to deceive you; give them their desires and tell them to be false, they will refuse. All was arranged so well, I should have cut off all their heads, and had a fresh wife every night until I found one who could tell stories; then I should have rose up and deferred her execution to the following day.”
Mustapha, who had been laughing in his sleeve at the strange idea of the pacha, was nevertheless not a little alarmed. He perceived that the mania had such complete possession, that, unless appeased, the results
