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Title: Nourmahal, an oriental romance
Vol. 1 of 3
Author: Michael J. Quin
Release date: February 3, 2026 [eBook #77851]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Henry Colburn, 1838
Credits: Richard Illner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOURMAHAL, AN ORIENTAL ROMANCE ***
NOURMAHAL,
An Oriental Romance.
BY MICHAEL J. QUIN,
AUTHOR OF “A STEAM VOYAGE DOWN THE DANUBE,”
“A VISIT TO SPAIN,” ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1838.
PRINTED BY STEWART AND MURRAY,
OLD BAILEY.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. 1
CHAPTER II. 16
CHAPTER III. 36
CHAPTER IV. 48
CHAPTER V. 60
CHAPTER VI. 73
CHAPTER VII. 86
CHAPTER VIII. 100
CHAPTER IX. 114
CHAPTER X. 130
CHAPTER XI. 142
CHAPTER XII. 155
CHAPTER XIII. 167
CHAPTER XIV. 180
CHAPTER XV. 196
CHAPTER XVI. 211
CHAPTER XVII. 225
CHAPTER XVIII. 238
CHAPTER XIX. 251
CHAPTER XX. 266
CHAPTER XXI. 283
ADVERTISEMENT.
The reader is to suppose that the following romance is related by a
story-teller of Cashmere. Itinerant reciters of prose and poetical
fictions are still, as is well known to travellers, as common in the
East as they were in the days of Homer.
CHAPTER I.
Too much wisdom is folly: for time will produce events
of which thou canst have no idea; and _he_ to whom thou
gavest no commission, will bring thee unexpected news.
TARAFA.
In no part of our oriental world are there to be found bolder or more
picturesque mountain ranges, or a greater variety of climate, fruits,
flowers, and animals, than in that tract of country which lies beyond
the grand chain of the Himalas. Although the snow and the cloud seldom
disappear, which prevent their stupendous peaks from being seen in all
their naked majesty, nevertheless the wanderer looks with delight upon
their numerous declivities and valleys, clothed in green herbage,
interspersed with villages, and animated by herds and flocks, which
abundantly reward the cares of their pastoral population. Sometimes
standing upon an abrupt ridge, after having ascended through a wild
accumulation of rocks, he beholds, spreading at his feet, a dell
irrigated by streams that fall from the surrounding heights with a
pleasing murmur, and occupied by cottages near which the amaranth, the
convolvulus, the primrose and the hyacinth, blend their charms in gay
luxuriance. Passing through the hospitable valley, he clambers higher
up the mountain, and treads through copses, the haunt of the wild goat,
red and white deer, and a peculiar species of fox remarkable for it
fleetness. The copse leads to the forest, tenanted by that elegant
bird the bee-eater, whose brown back and yellow neck form so striking
a contrast with the bright emerald of his breast and wings; by the
flamingo, that sometimes lightens in the firmament like a meteor; the
ring-dove, the starling, the nightingale, and above all the ouzell,
whose body has stolen the blush of the rose, while its proud head seems
to have been just dipped in the azure of the skies.
More than a thousand years have passed since the volcano and the
earthquake filled that region with terror; but the traces of their
fearful visitation appear to be of yesterday. Enormous bulks of rocks,
rent asunder, present abysses through which the torrent rolls unseen,
but not unheard, as innumerable caverns multiply its voice of thunder,
while it contends against the fallen masses that momentarily resist its
course. And yet it is delicious to contemplate the borders of those
unfathomable channels, overhung by thickets of barberries and jasmines,
and myriads of flowering shrubs, which send forth a spicy fragrance,
and decorate the gloomy horror beneath with festoons of the most
exquisite beauty.
On the edge of one of those dangerous ravines, in the district of
Arjun, Kazim Ayas found himself expecting the return of his falcon,
that had plunged into it after a quail. He had brought out the bird
rather as a companion than for the purpose of sport, to which he was
not much addicted. He had but recently returned to his native village
among the mountains of Arjun, from the city of Samarcand, where he
had obtained his education, at the celebrated college founded by the
munificence of Ulug Beg. The poems of Nizami were much more delightful
to his ear than the sound of the hunter’s horn, especially those which
paint in such fascinating colours the loves of Leili and Mejnun. For
him, also, the moral compositions of Jami possessed peculiar charms.
The elegance of language and versification, the sublimity of thought,
the strain of religious and philosophical mysticism which characterise
the effusions of that bard, often held the soul of Kazim bound in
the spell of enchantment. Nor did he fail to render himself familiar
with almost every branch of science, and with the historians who have
related the fortunes of all the great empires.
As the sun was fast descending beneath a canopy of gold and purple
clouds, Kazim expected anxiously the re-appearance of the hawk, which
he would not have lost for a hundred-fold its weight in diamonds;
it was the first gift he had received from Mangeli, the idol of his
soul from infancy, to whom he had been already for three happy years
united. Holding by the branch of a willow which hung down low into
the ravine, he ventured to descend over broken rocks, whence, by the
aid of gigantic ferns depending from the sides of the fissure, he
lowered himself safely to a considerable distance from the summit.
Through the dim twilight, he perceived the hawk struggling with its
prey, among some fragments in the midst of the raging flood below. He
called it repeatedly by its well-known name; but the noble bird, bent
on victory, would not surrender the advantage it had already gained. In
the contest, both the combatants fell into the torrent, which bore them
away in an instant from his sight.
Kazim resolved to dare every danger rather than lose the falcon. Guided
by the sound of the torrent, he trod his way through the fissure, until
it closed above his head, excluding altogether the light of day. Though
exposed every moment to the risk of falling over precipices, made
slippery by the perpetual dropping of water from the masses overhead,
nevertheless he penetrated through the dark hollows of the mountain,
until his steps were checked by what he afterwards discovered to be a
lake, in whose ample bosom the roar of the waters, which had almost
stunned his ear, was subdued to silence.
Again and again he called to the falcon, shouting as loudly as
his voice would permit, but he was only replied to by a thousand
vibrations, which bore the name along the waters, until at length it
died away in the distant labyrinths of the cavern. While pausing in
wonder at the effect his exertions produced, he descried afar in the
heart of the mountain, several sparkles of fire, followed by a flame,
that, after flickering for a moment, disappeared. His first impulse
was to retrace his steps without delay; but, before he could withdraw
his gaze from the spot where the mystic light was kindled, it again
came like a star, dimly seen through a cloud, and shooting forth rays
all round it. Gradually it grew larger and more brilliant, until Kazim
felt that it was approaching rapidly towards the place where he stood.
Presently, the outline of a boat was visible, and then dark forms cast
their shadows on the water; slight undulations, shining at quick and
regular intervals at each side of the vessel, betrayed the speed with
which the oars were plied, and created so much alarm in the mind of
Kazim, that he sought concealment behind a projecting rock; whence,
however, he could watch the progress of the bark.
As the vessel came nearer, Kazim perceived that one of the group, who
wore a Mogul cap embroidered with gold thread, appeared to be treated
by his companions with some degree of distinction. To him they looked
for directions as to the course which they were now to pursue, having
already arrived in the middle of the lake. Without uttering a word,
the chieftain took a torch in his hand, and pointing towards the rock
behind which Kazim had sought refuge, desired the boat to be steered in
that direction.
“Whom have we here?” exclaimed the leader, as he stepped out of the
boat, flashing the light of the torch full in Kazim’s face. “A friend,
or a foe?”
“How, when, why came you here?” asked five or six angry voices at once,
rendered fiercer by as many sabres, which threatened the stranger with
instant destruction.
Kazim explained, as soon as they would permit him to speak, though in a
voice agitated by the feelings which this strange scene awakened, that
he had undesignedly entered the cavern in search of his falcon.
“A falcon!” they shouted in a tone of derision;--“a spy--off with his
head--he comes from the foes of Suleiman--away with him into the lake!”
While the chieftain was scrutinising the countenance of Kazim by the
light of the torch, the falcon descended on his hand; its beauteous
eyes sparkling with joy for having once more found its favourite
resting-place.
“His words are true,” said the chieftain, “for here is the hawk; and a
noble bird it is: whence came you? to what tribe do you belong?”
“The Uzbecks.”
“We are friends; we have partaken of their salt; they have raised the
war-cry with us; our arrows have flown together over the battlefield.”
While saying these words, the chieftain, without further ceremony,
led the way by the road which had conducted Kazim to the lake, when
suddenly turning into a dark passage, he entered a spacious cave, on
the floor of which several coats of mail, spears, bows and quivers
were thrown in confusion. Taking up a saddle-drum which lay amongst
them, he struck it thrice with the back of his hand: the floor of the
cave immediately awoke to life; numbers of men who had been sleeping,
wrapped in their cloaks, rose upon their feet at the signal, and
crowding sound their chieftain, anxiously inquired, “What news?”
“Good news, my friends: the rebels will soon be in our power. The day
after to-morrow we shall proceed on the march, and in the meantime,
look to the boat for an abundant supply of provisions.”
A hundred torches of pine-wood were forthwith lighted, and planted
at intervals all round the cavern: some of the men kindled fires,
while others proceeded to the boat, and returned laden with deer,
hares, partridges, pheasants, sheep, loaves of wheaten bread, and a
considerable quantity of wine, and of humiz, the spirit distilled from
mares’ milk, in leathern bags and bottles. The latter were reserved
for the march, and the expected encounter; but the bags were placed
on a shelving rock, and being formed of the skins of lambs prepared
for the purpose, the liquid was drawn out through the tail, which was
tied up, or let down, as occasion required. Most of those who had been
sleeping in the cave, paid preliminary visits to the bags, by way of
recompence for the privations which they had for some time endured.
Meanwhile, expert hands were occupied in dissecting, with sabres and
knives, the venison and mutton, of which large slices were suspended on
spikes of wood. These being stuck in the ground, round the fires, were
turned repeatedly, until the meat was roasted. Some hares, pheasants,
and partridges were cooked in a similar manner; and while the cavern
was thus filled with savory odours, which would have given edge to the
appetite even of the epicure, various groups sat down on the floor in
circles: salt was served to each man in the hollow of one hand, and
in the other was placed bread, and a portion of the fragrant viands
smoking from the fire. Bags of wine and humiz went round from circle to
circle in due succession.
Kazim, whom the chieftain had directed to sit down near himself, felt
not at all disinclined to imitate the example of his new friends.
The venison of the red-deer he found as delicious as if it had been
prepared by the hand of Mangeli. The wine, which was from Kabul,
cheered his soul. By and by, as the hunger of the different groups was
sated, and their hearts opened by the generous nectar, conversation
became loud and general. Here a Tartar was seen on his legs with a
spear in his hand, boasting to those who were near him of the skill he
had exercised in shaping the bone with which it was pointed, and in
carving that part of it, which he grasped in his hand, when rushing
on the foe. There a circle of listeners gathered round a veteran, who
related incidents of the battles in which he had been engaged, not
forgetting to exhibit scars on his breast and forehead, in verification
of his story; while others were more sedately engaged in conjecturing
the plans of their chieftain, whom they called Suleiman, and to whose
fortunes they appeared to be enthusiastically attached.
From all that he could observe and hear, Kazim collected that the
whole party had come from some distance, with a view to surprise three
formidable princes, who were now, or were very soon expected to be, in
that part of Arjun. While he was anxiously watching the movements of
the various groups around him, he found that he had himself become an
object of much attention to a noble looking person who was seated on
the other side of Suleiman, and frequently conversed with the chief in
an under tone. But Kazim felt no uneasiness for his own fate. He had
now taken salt with the strangers, whoever they were; they owed him
protection, so long as he remained faithful to them; and there was a
dignity in the manner of the commander, which appeared to entitle him
at once to confidence and submission.
“My friend, Baba Seirami, thinks that he must have seen you somewhere
before,” said Suleiman.
“Possibly, at Samarcand.”
“It must have been at Samarcand,” said Seirami. “If I mistake not, I
was present at one of the public disputations held in the college of
Ulug Beg, at which you took away the principal prize.”
Kazim modestly replied, that it was a great addition to the honours he
had obtained on that occasion, to find that they were remembered by a
personage, to whom he would have been otherwise unknown.
“Your name, I think, is Ayas?”
“Kazim Ayas.”
“It is a good name; you inherit it from one of the most ancient
families at this side of the Himalas. I presume you reside in this
neighbourhood?” added Seirami.
“Not far hence, in a small hut on the borders of the Ilamish.”
“What!” exclaimed Suleiman, “a scholar, and content to die without a
name on the banks of the Ilamish? Be of us, henceforth. I shall open to
you the paths of glory.”
“I fear that you would find me but an incumbrance. I have never learned
even to bend the bow.”
The entrance of a Tartar courier with letters, which he placed in the
hands of Seirami, here interrupted the conversation. The latter, rising
from the floor, proceeded with Suleiman to a recess in the cavern,
where they glanced hastily over the letters. The chieftain immediately
called around him his principal officers; and while they remained in
consultation, Seirami, returning to Kazim, inquired at much length into
the usual habits of his life, and the circumstances in which he was
placed since he had quitted Samarcand.
“My biography since that period,” replied Kazim, “may be briefly told.
Before I left home, all my dreams and hopes of happiness hovered around
one dear image. A shepherdess, whom I used to meet in my daily rambles
among the hills, Mangeli, the daughter of Gulbeg, was the star of my
existence. Upon my return from the university, I found her still the
same. My heart, equally unchanged, knew no peace but in her presence.”
“An Ayas, and married to a shepherd’s daughter!”
“You would not express so much surprise, if you had known her
gentleness, her purity of soul, her tenderness for me, her beauty,”
said Kazim, deeply blushing; for he felt that the rank of his family
was too well-known to Seirami.
“You must keep secret, even from her, all that you have seen or heard
in this cave. Your life, your fortunes, depend upon your strict
observance of this injunction. You may render us important services, if
we can depend upon your firmness on this occasion.”
“The kindness which I have already experienced at your hands, commands
my gratitude. Be assured of my fidelity.”
“These letters inform us, that to-morrow a troop of Mogul horsemen,
commanded by the Khan Mirtas, will cross the Ilamish. His object is to
effect a junction with our force; and as we must move to-night to the
place where the greater number of our soldiers are encamped, it will be
your business to meet the Khan, and conduct him thither.”
Kazim received his commission with a degree of pride, which he had not
known for some time. Seirami, then producing a map, described to him
the spot where it was of the utmost importance that the Khan should
join Suleiman. Kazim said, that he was perfectly familiar with the
country, and he should feel no difficulty in accomplishing the service
required of him. He was then, by Seirami’s direction, conducted to the
boat, and rapidly rowed across the lake, to a passage by which its
superfluous waters were discharged. In a short time the light of the
stars, glowing in the firmament, enabled him to assure the rowers that
they need give themselves no farther trouble, as he knew that he was
upon one of the tributaries of the Ilamish.
CHAPTER II.
Contentment’s realms no fears invade,
No cares annoy, no sorrows shade;
There placed secure, in peace we rest,
Nor aught demand to make us blest.
While pleasure’s gay fantastic bower,
The splendid pageant of an hour,
Like yonder meteor in the skies,
Flits with a breath, no more to rise.
LAMIAT ALAJEM.
The moon being on the wane, was just ascending on the horizon,
indicating the near approach of midnight, when Kazim arrived within
view of his cottage. Through the small aperture, that served as a
back window, he perceived a light, which told him that Mangeli was
still watching for his return. For the first time, he felt a shade of
uneasiness gathering, to qualify the delight he always experienced in
meeting her after a short absence. He now held a secret in his breast,
calculated to influence, perhaps, the whole of his future destinies;
and he had pledged himself not to reveal it even to her. In giving
an account of the circumstances that detained him so unusually long
from home--circumstances into which she would inquire with all the
solicitude of affection--he was sensible that he must be guilty of a
departure from that degree of unlimited confidence, which had hitherto
subsisted between them. Treading gently by the path that led behind
the cottage, he lingered involuntarily outside the window, as if to
see how Mangeli was employed; but really hoping that he might be able
to compose his thoughts, and to assume, before he entered, a calmness
which he did not feel.
A small bright charcoal fire was burning in the hearth, on which
an earthen pan of rice was stewing. On a low table, spread with a
snow-white cloth, was a jar of spring water, a loaf of bread made from
the grain of purslane, a quarter of a large melon, and a basket of
figs, all evidently untouched, as if Mangeli could have no enjoyment
which was not shared by her husband. Her father, Gulbeg, who, although
he had already counted more than seventy winters, always rose at the
dawn to drive the goats to pasture, was sleeping on his dry grass bed,
at some distance from the fire; behind him lay his small herd of goats,
also in profound repose. Two or three kids were skipping about, in vain
soliciting the notice of Mangeli, who was looking out anxiously from
the door.
“No--nowhere can I discern the least appearance of his shadow; what
can detain him? Kazim, dear, dear Kazim!” she exclaimed, as turning
from the door she closed it almost in despair. “This rice will be quite
spoiled,” she said, as approaching the hearth she stirred the pottage
with a wooden spoon. The falcon, awoke by that well-known voice,
fluttered a moment in Kazim’s bosom, where it had hitherto lain asleep.
Suddenly Mangeli stood up in the attitude of listening. A smile of joy
rising from her tremulous lips, flashed rapidly over her countenance.
“It must be his step: hush!” she cried impatiently to the kids, that
were jumping to touch her hand.
The light of the lamp, which was suspended from the roof, fell full
upon her countenance, then in the very bloom of beauty. The clear air
of the mountains, if it had not wholly prevented her cheek from being
tinged with the brunette, so common to the Tartar tribes, gave it a
transparency, through which the blush, that now inflamed it, appeared
like the lightning behind a summer cloud. The usually mild lustre of
her dark eye changed into a bright living glow, that sparkled with
delight. Her black glossy hair, simply braided in front, was gathered
in a graceful knot on the top of her head, prepared for the usual hour
of repose. A plain cotton robe, descending a little below the knee, and
tightened by a girdle of the same material at her waist, revealed the
graces of her delicately formed figure, which would have been deemed
sylph-like, had not a slight undulation, commencing beneath her bosom,
just like the wave when first rising from the surface of the tranquil
deep, betrayed the approach, though yet distant, of a period that was
to kindle in her breast feelings of rapture it had never known before.
The hawk, which struggled incessantly for freedom, at length escaped
through the window, and lighting on the table, began to peck at the
bread. “Ah, now I know he is come, indeed!” said Mangeli, hastening to
the door, where she met and folded her husband in her arms. She pressed
him to her bosom, as if she would never part with him again; until a
shower of tears--tears of joy, came to her relief. “What has happened?”
she at length asked:--“where, in the name of Allah, have you been?” He
then related to her, circumstantially, the dangers he had encountered
in pursuit of the falcon, by this time sleeping once more on its own
perch. Mangeli gazed upon her husband with alarm, while he told her of
the caverns into which he had descended.
“But you have not yet mentioned how you escaped.”
“Did I not say there was a boat on the lake?”
“A boat?--thanks to Allah, who must have sent it for your safety.
I never heard of the places you speak of, though I know that the
mountains about us are full of dangerous precipices. You must promise
me, dearest Kazim, never to go there any more;” and accepting the
promise as if it had been already given, she kissed him again and
again, and placed the pan of rice on the table.
But Kazim, although he affected to be very busy in dispatching his
supper, had no appetite.
“I am afraid that the rice is quite spoiled, it has been so long on the
fire: put it by, love, and let me give you some of this melon, which,
you know, my father says is one of the best he ever tasted.” To Kazim,
who had, in fact, already supped well, the melon was as little tempting
as the rice, and he endeavoured to excuse himself on the score of
fatigue, and being much heated with his journey.
Mangeli looked anxiously at his burning forehead, where the wine, of
which he had so recently partaken, kindled an unwonted fire.
“You are not well, Kazim. Oh! if any thing had happened--if any thing
should happen to you--what is to become of Mangeli?”
“Fear not! He who sees the sparrow fall, and the rose-bud blow, will
take care of you, whatever may be my fate. Let us pray to him that he
may stretch over us the shield of his merciful protection!”
The young pair having hastily finished their humble meal, knelt down
side by side, and prostrating themselves on the floor, uttered a
short but fervent supplication to Allah, full of gratitude for their
escape from the perils of the day, and entreating his assistance,
that by leading a just and innocent life, they might still, in some
degree, merit his continued favour. They then retired to an inner
chamber, where, upon a bed of dry leaves, fragrant of herbs, they gave
themselves up to sleep, from which they waked not until the sun had
already dispersed the mists from the valley and the mountain.
“I wish you very much, Kazim,” said Mangeli, after their morning repast
was over, “to look at those yellow rose trees in front of our cottage.
The flower has been by no means so large or so beautiful this year as
usual. Perhaps it would be well to transplant them to a spot where they
may have freer air.”
Kazim went out as she desired; but as he looked at the trees, on which
a solitary fading rose still remained, he felt a prophetic inspiration
that he should never see them bloom again. His mind during the night
had been harassed by a multitude of dreams, in which horses flying
over fields of battle, palaces, prisons, robbers, and a thousand
different objects were mixed together in painful confusion. Mangeli,
after putting her little household into order, joined him in the
garden, and suggested some other alterations, which might improve its
appearance. The lilac trees were growing well; they would be beautiful
in spring, when their flowers would hang in tassels again, preceding
all the other delights of the season. The Indian pinks, too, were
prosperous; the sun-flower looked a blaze of gold; the hollyhock reared
its stem aloft, laden with buds, of which there were still many to open
their treasures to the bee; the white jasmine wanted training; the
vine, on which the grapes were just beginning to grow purple, would
also require to be pruned. Thus she went on through the space in front
of her cottage, picking up here and there the newly fallen leaves, and
reminding Kazim of a variety of improvements he had promised to make
in their little residence before the approach of winter. But Kazim’s
reflections were engrossed with subjects, of which Mangeli could
have then formed no notion. She saw plainly enough that he attended
negligently to what she said; but she was not unaccustomed to the fits
of abstraction which occasionally came upon him, and she had the good
sense to wait in patience until they passed over, finding for herself,
in the meantime, some employment not likely to break in upon his mood.
Kazim, however, was very far from being indifferent to the appearance
of the garden, which he had cultivated with his own hand; and perhaps
he never looked upon the fruits or flowers, whose progress he had
watched from their earliest stages, with a deeper interest than at
this moment. Offers were made to him, which, if accepted, would of
necessity change the whole plan of his life. Was he to accept them? Was
he to quit for ever his own cottage, the shade of his own fig-tree,
the little world of happiness and peace he found with Mangeli among
his flowers, and the volumes of history, science, poetry, and popular
fiction, he had copied while at Samarcand?
Back upon his memory came crowding the long winter nights, during which
he cheered his beloved wife and her affectionate parent, by reading to
them tales of Arabian writers, in which marvels of the most enchanting
description were made to appear as matters of ordinary life. The
tempest roared through the gorges of the mountain, the rain rushed from
the skies, and swept against the walls of their cottage with the fury
of a torrent; but the door was well secured, the window closed tightly
by a board, that admitted not a breath of air; the fire burned bright
in the hearth; Mangeli’s eyes drank fresh light from the animated
looks of Kazim; Gulbeg reclined at his ease upon the woolly side of a
sheep-skin; the goats and their young were carefully housed; and while
the wonders of the magic lamp, or the powers of the magnetic mountain,
or the beauties of the city of Bagdad, kept the souls of the reader and
his small audience enthralled, they took little note of time, the rain,
or the storm.
With the seasons changes came, and every change was delightful. The
snow-drop and the crocus told that the winter was passed, and the
primrose confirmed their tale. With what pleasure did Kazim collect for
Mangeli the earliest violets and daisies! How he loved to gather for
her hair the lillies of the valley, with which she decorated herself
on the holidays! There was no flower, were it ever so humble, which he
had been accustomed to see near his cottage, or in the declivities
or valleys in its neighbourhood, that had not now for him a peculiar
interest. They seemed to reproach the seductive ambition so suddenly
kindled in his breast, and to remind him of the folly of exchanging the
peace of mind he now, or at least very lately, enjoyed, for a state of
splendour which, however brilliant on the outside, would be sure to
have misery at its core.
While these reflections pursued each other through his mind, he found
himself walking with unusual rapidity along the banks of the Ilamish.
He felt glad that he was alone, as he wished to allow free scope to the
visions to which the occurrences of the previous day had given birth.
Who was Suleiman? Who was Seirami? That they were both of a superior
order of men he entertained no doubt. The sentences he had heard of
their conversation were marked by a polished, yet natural eloquence
of expression, which had not met his ear since he quitted Samarcand.
This was of itself a fascination to a youth, brought up as he was in
the company of the most sage and accomplished men of the East. But
was he fit to be a soldier? That he could follow through any dangers
a chieftain to whom he had pledged his faith, he felt confident; but
wholly unskilled as he was in the use of the spear, the sabre, or the
bow, he feared that in a hot engagement, his arm would be found of very
little use. And then, if he should fall thus early in his youth, when
he had seen little more than his twentieth summer, whither would have
sped all the daydreams of celebrity in which his fancy had so often
indulged? But above all, what would be the fate of Mangeli and their
child? Her father, already bending under infirmity, could not live much
longer; and who would then remain to tend the goats, to cultivate their
rice-field; to take care of their garden, which supplied so great a
part of their subsistence; to gather the wild strawberries and other
fruits, which grew on the distant hills?
Kazim, stretching himself at full-length on the bank of the clear
and rapid river, fixed his eyes upon the water, and envied the peace
apparently enjoyed by its numerous tenants, now leaping to the surface
of the stream, and leaving behind them a dimple, that circled wider
and wider until it broke against the reeds on either side--now hiding
in the shade of a waterlily,--now shining in the light like scales of
silver. Sometimes a solitary bee passed by, murmuring, and searching
the wild flowers that grew around him. He thought of the summer-days,
when the soft music of the insect would have soothed him to sleep; but
now it was a song of rural industry and contentment, which he was,
perhaps, to hear no more. The bee had its secret home hard by, to
which it would soon return, laden with the treasures it had collected,
and thus it would pursue its pleasing occupations while the season
permitted. He had also his home, remote from the world, where, for
three years, he had found happiness, unalloyed by care; what would he
gain by exchanging it for the turmoil in which he was now invited to
partake?
From these meditations Kazim was at length disturbed by the shrill call
of Mangeli, which, uttered at her cottage-door, floated through the
air, reaching the hill-sides where her father was stationed with the
goats. It was the signal that their mid-day meal was nearly prepared,
and that their immediate return was expected. Kazim rose abruptly,
feeling as if he had been engaged in thoughts that would afford
no pleasure to Mangeli; but as he bent his steps homeward, he half
resolved on giving up all the ambitious prospects disclosed to his
view, rather than abandon the solitude in which he enjoyed so much real
felicity.
“The life of man is at best but a moment,” he said to himself, “as
compared with the ages that have passed, and are to come. What is
distinction, fame, splendour, station? If I be happy here, it is
sufficient. I will stay with my vines and rose-trees, and will
immediately set about the alterations of which Mangeli has reminded
me.”
As Gulbeg sat down on the floor, to partake of the humble meal which
Mangeli had provided, he said that something of importance must be
going on in Arjun, for he had seen several couriers riding over the
distant ridges of the mountains, as if their horses had wings, and
they had no fear of the precipices over which they galloped with the
speed of arrows. He had also heard from the hollows of the earth those
extraordinary sounds of drum and trumpet, which seem to accompany the
marching of innumerable troops, and always precede the approach of a
battle.
Kazim looked conscious, while Mangeli listened to the intelligence
with breathless attention; but he made no remark, fearful of trusting
himself on a subject which he now hoped he might soon altogether
forget. While they were still at their meal, the quick ear of Mangeli
caught the sound of a Mogul horn, which she said must have been borne
from some distance along the current of the Ilamish. Gulbeg rose upon
his feet, and going out, placed his ear close to the ground, when he
confirmed what his daughter said; and added, that it was a party of
cavalry, as he heard the paces of their horses distinctly, and that
they would be immediately in sight.
He had scarcely said the word, when a small blackness, like a patch of
thunder-cloud, was seen on the summit of one of the mountains through
which the Ilamish ran. By degrees the cloud became larger and less
dense, and then approaching nearer and nearer, it seemed to open out,
breaking into small masses, which moved together with great rapidity.
Presently horse-tail standards became distinctly visible, and then
horses and their riders galloping in close array, their spears in rest,
and their naked sabres glistening in the sun.
On they came at full speed, the trumpet now and then flinging its wild
blast through the mountains and forest around, which was echoed along
the river. The cottage of Gulbeg was evidently the object towards which
they directed their progress, and in a few moments a thousand warriors
were in front of it, their saddles and stirrups all covered with foam,
and their arms clattering as they came to a halt. Gulbeg and Kazim went
forth to offer them such hospitality as their hut afforded. Mangeli
instinctively fled to her chamber.
The leader of the troop, a Mogul chieftain, throwing off his cloak,
alighted, and saluting Gulbeg and Kazim, proceeded with them into the
cottage. He was dressed in a long frock of China satin, ornamented with
flowered needle-work, loose trowsers of the same material over which
his boots were drawn, a cuirass of steel, near which hung a whetstone
and a purse-pocket, the latter being ornamented with trinkets that
dangled from it, not unlike a lady’s necklace. His cap was embroidered
with flowers; his bow was slung upon his back, and his quiver of green
shagreen, well stored with arrows, sounded, as he moved along in all
the pride of a commander.
“I wish to know,” said he, as stooping down he entered through the low
door of the cottage, “whether you can give us any information of Acbar,
who calls himself the emperor of Hindostan, and whose steps we have
traced with certainty to this neighbourhood.”
Gulbeg answered at once that he had not received the slightest
intimation that such a person ever visited those parts. He was
constantly out in the mountains, and in the habit of meeting several
goat-herds and peasants passing to and from different quarters of the
country, but he had heard none of them pronounce the name of Acbar; nor
had he seen any troops for some years, until the appearance of those
who were now before the cottage. Kazim added, that he had, indeed,
heard of Acbar, while he was a student at Samarcand; but that since
then he had no tidings whatever of the exploits of that great warrior.
The stranger, he thought, could not be Mirtas.
“Justly said--a great warrior he is indeed--a commander of infinite
resources and bravery; but whose ambition knows no bounds. He tramples
upon our relatives and friends, as if they were no better than the dirt
beneath his feet. He takes from them their provinces and their wealth,
which he adds to his own, and not contented with the conquests he has
made in Cashmere and Lahore, and other parts of Hindostan, he now seeks
to extend his empire beyond the Himalas, and to make us all tributaries
to his lawless power. But, I swear, it shall not be! No; sooner than
our standards should be planted around him, I would tear them asunder,
and scatter them on the winds, and become, myself and all my brave
followers, the food of the vulture.”
The countenance of the young chieftain flashed with fire; while, with
an angry gesticulation, he gave expression to the feelings of fierce
hostility which he entertained towards Acbar.
“Aye,” continued the stranger, “the sultan’s military renown has
already reached every quarter of Asia, and filled the rulers of the
provinces on this side of the Himalas with just alarm. His plan of
tactics is all his own. He sometimes enters the camp of his enemy at
night, with a handful of men, at a moment when he is supposed to be at
a considerable distance. Surprise effects in an hour, what he might
not have been able to accomplish for months with a regular army at his
command. His personal bravery is indeed equal to any enterprize which a
fearless mind can conceive, and his followers make up by their amazing
activity and practised discipline for their want of numbers. But Allah
be with you! then we must go on,” said the khan, quitting the hut and
returning to his troops, accompanied by Kazim; who, forgetting his
half-formed resolutions in the midst of the martial pomp by which the
stranger was surrounded, asked him whether he was acquainted with the
noble warrior Mirtas.
“I am Mirtas,” replied the Khan.
“Doubtless, then, you must know Suleiman.”
“Suleiman is my cousin. Oh! that he were now with me, accompanied by a
few of his mountaineers! I should then have no fears of Acbar.”
“Suleiman expects your highness, and has charged me to conduct you to
his camp.”
“Welcome intelligence! Is it far hence?”
“About five or six hours’ journey in that direction,” answered Kazim,
pointing to the east.
A beautiful Arabian steed was immediately placed at Kazim’s disposal,
who, after taking a hasty leave of Gulbeg and Mangeli, and promising
that he would speedily return, rode into the circle, where the Khan
was communicating to his followers the tidings he had received.
The standards being then placed beside the chieftain, all the men
dismounted; and having taken from their saddles leathern bottles of
humiz, sprinkled some first towards the standards, and then drank off a
portion. The trumpets and drums struck up together, the humiz was again
and again sprinkled as before, after which the soldiers thrice rent the
air with the war-shout. They then leaped into their saddles, drawing
their sabres, which they brandished over their heads, and putting their
horses to full speed, pursued their way towards the mountains.
CHAPTER III.
Thou chastening friend, Adversity! ’tis thine
The mental ore to temper and refine,
To cast in virtue’s mould the yielding heart,
And honour’s polish to the mind impart.
Without thy wakening touch, thy plastic aid,
I’d lain the shapeless mass that nature made;
But formed, great artist, by thy magic hand,
I gleam a sword to conquer and command.
CARAWASH.
Gulbeg, who anxiously observed every thing that passed, concluded that
Kazim had been taken into the ranks of the Khan as a guide through
the difficult passes towards which their course was now directed. He
endeavoured to console Mangeli with the hope that her husband would
return again at night; but she, clasping her hands together, like one
overwhelmed with sudden despair, appeared to give him up as lost to
her for ever. She watched the troopers, as, ascending the mountain
side, they followed each other in narrow files, winding in and out
through the dark ravines which now concealed them from her view, now
permitted them to be dimly seen, their standard tops occasionally
reflecting a sunbeam, and marking their course. Long after the last
horseman had been out of sight, she listened for the sound of the
trumpet, persuading her father that she could still hear its faint
echoes;--but he saw that it was a delusion of her senses, and was
filled with apprehension, lest the shock which she had received might
be productive of fatal consequences. With difficulty he drew her from
the door, and resting her head upon his bosom, he appealed to her by
every tender feeling--by the thought of what she owed to Kazim, and to
the delicate fruit which depended upon her for existence--to dissipate
her alarm and to confide in the providence of Allah, who would never
fail to protect the virtuous. But she could only call upon the name of
Kazim, pressing her temples with her hands, as if she felt that her
reason was about to abandon its throne.
“Who can that be?” asked the Khan, pointing to a horseman whom he
descried at some distance in a valley which they had now entered. “If
he were a friend, he would have waited for us; but I observed that the
moment the first standards appeared in sight, he gave the rein to his
steed. See, he flies as if for his life!”
The officers thus questioned, could offer no conjecture on the subject.
After proceeding through the valley, they entered one of the passes
described in the chart which Seirami had shown to Kazim; but it was so
narrow and precipitous, that they were frequently obliged to dismount,
in order to lead their horses over rugged rocks, and by the edges of
tremendous gulphs, which every moment threatened them with destruction.
One of the soldiers, who affected to excel his companions in travelling
over such dreadful steeps, as those that now lay before them, refused
to alight, and dashed forward against a precipice which seemed almost
inaccessible. The animal climbed the rock with unflinching spirit,
but just as he placed his hoof on the top of the ledge, the mass
loosened from the crumbling ruin to which it belonged, and horse
and rider rolled backward into a dark abyss, where they instantly
disappeared. “Curse upon these defiles,” exclaimed the chieftain, his
brow blackening with anger; “one of my bravest followers already lost!
I cannot but think,” he added, addressing Kazim in a pointed manner,
“that Suleiman might have pointed out a less difficult pass than this,
by which we might arrive at his camp. See, we are now quite overhung by
precipices, which seem ready to crush us to atoms!”
Kazim assured the Khan that he knew of no other entrance to the valley,
where he expected to find Suleiman’s camp. After treading their way
slowly through the intricate defile, they at length emerged on a kind
of path that conducted them along the side of a river, to the opening
of a wild glen, strongly illuminated by the fierce red light of the
sun, as it was just descending behind the tops of the mountains,
whose snowy peaks were mantled in a purple haze. The glen opened out
gradually into an extensive valley, through which the river rolled
its deep and rapid current. As the Khan and his followers entered
the valley, they were surprised to see the pass they had just left,
occupied by a dark mass of troops, who came rapidly after them without
any sound of drum or trumpet. He collected his men as quickly as
possible, but before they could form into regular array, a shower of
arrows fell upon them from the sides of the mountain above.
The division in the pass below rushed forward in a small but compact
column, shouting the name of Suleiman. Mirtas called out in a loud
voice, that he was the friend of Suleiman and not his foe, and that
he came to assist him in the war against Acbar. Upon this, the
advancing party halted, and demanded hostages for the truth of his
representation. Kazim was summoned, and sent forward to clear up the
mystery. He was forthwith arrested by Suleiman himself, and ordered to
the rear, while the chieftain and his foremost companions fell on the
troops of Mirtas with a wild shout, which called down the men stationed
on the declivities. Mirtas and his Moguls, though altogether unprepared
for so rude a reception, sustained the shock with great firmness, and
the two armies were, in an instant, committed in general battle. The
clash of sabre against sabre, and on cuirass and helmet,--the neighing
of horses running here and there, deprived of their riders--the groans
of the wounded and dying--the uproar of the combatants, reproaching
each other with treachery, and calling upon the names of their
respective leaders, filled the whole valley with a wild tumult, which
shook the stupendous mountains around them.
The horse-tail standards, which had been at first cut down one after
another with irresistible rapidity, were thickening in the fight again,
and were waving among the lifted sabres, with a triumph that predicted
the defeat of Suleiman. That commander, together with the mass of his
soldiers, was driven back to the edge of the glen; but like a wave,
impelled against the rocky shore, they rebounded on their foes, sending
after them, as they retired, a shower of arrows, which, however, broke
in most instances upon the cuirasses of the riders, or the mail with
which the horses were caparisoned. Suleiman felt that if the enemy had
time to form themselves into line, and to press upon him with their
spears, in the use of which his followers were less skilful than the
Moguls, the battle was lost. Singling out Mirtas, who was somewhat
advanced before his troops, as they were returning to the charge, he
drew from his quiver a green-tipped barbed arrow; and throwing the rein
upon the neck of his horse, he placed the arrow on the notch, with as
much coolness as if he had been sporting in the jungle. Then drawing
the string right up to his ear, he sent the arrow against the foe,
which, penetrating his cap, passed through without doing any injury.
The assault was returned by a javelin, hurled with gigantic force, and
a fatal aim, from the ranks behind Mirtas. One of Suleiman’s captains,
seeing the blood gushing in a stream upon the ground, took hold of the
rein of his chieftain’s horse, and leading it toward the river, rushed
with it headlong into the water. Mirtas, directing one division of his
troops to follow the mass of the enemy, who now endeavoured to find
their way back through the glen, led the other in pursuit of Suleiman.
Before Suleiman and his companion could reach the opposite bank, Mirtas
and his followers were already plunged in the stream. The horses of
both parties soon sank beyond their depth, and several of the men were
drowned, who had not taken the precaution to disencumber their steeds
of their heavy trappings. Suleiman had already gained upon the enemy by
more than the distance of a bow-shot, and reached the bank, which his
steed gallantly ascended, when one of the troopers of Mirtas discovered
a little farther down the stream a ford, by which they at once crossed
the river. Suleiman’s companion, taking off the accoutrements from his
own horse, placed the bridle in the hand of his chieftain, who made
for the hills, pursued by Mirtas. The steed of the latter, oppressed
by the armour it still wore, fell among the crags, which he now began
to clamber. Suleiman’s horse also began to falter; but notwithstanding
the pain he felt from his wound, he threw himself on the uncaparisoned
animal, and gained in safety the nearest ridges of the mountain.
It was now night, the air piercingly cold, when the solitary fugitive,
not knowing whither to turn, took shelter from the blast behind an
immense rock, which he perceived by the fading light at some distance.
The enemy still kept tracking him; and though now reduced to three in
number, they were resolved, if possible, to capture him. The pursuers
and the pursued spent the night, without knowing that they were within
a very short distance of each other. As soon as the first light of
morning appeared, one of the Moguls climbed the rock, with the view of
making a survey of the country around, when, to his surprise, he found
Suleiman already mounted, and tranquilly proceeding towards a pile of
loose stones, which had been collected on the top of a steep ridge. The
scout informed his comrades of what he had seen, and thinking that they
had the warrior already in their grasp, they hastily followed him.
They were at the foot of the steep, when Suleiman, who had reached the
summit with great difficulty, deliberately lifting up a ponderous mass
of rock, threatened to annihilate the first man who attempted to follow
him a single step farther. At the same he assured them, that if they
would become his friends, swearing to him the great and awful oath as
a pledge for their fidelity, he would raise them to high stations in
his empire, besides bestowing upon them other magnificent rewards. The
Moguls alarmed on the one hand, by the prospect of destruction which
impended over them, and tempted on the other by the splendid offers
of Suleiman, after consulting among themselves, replied, that they
accepted his terms, and then swore the sacred oath which he demanded.
The difficulty now was how Suleiman should descend the mountain,
without coming in contact with any of the followers of Mirtas.
Perceiving already a number of men passing at some distance on the
plains below, he fled to the hillock, where he had concealed himself
the night before, and waited there until the party reached a turn in
the road, where they were no longer visible. Being without provisions,
he suggested that one of his new comrades should proceed to buy some
at the cottages, which were at a distance in a forest, where several
wreaths of smoke were seen curling upward above the trees. One of the
men went, and returned in about three hours, laden with a few cakes of
barley bread, which he purchased for a sabre.
While they were on the brow of the mountain, and lying prostrate,
lest they might be discerned from below, they descried something
shining at a considerable distance. It approached gradually, until it
resolved itself into a man on horseback, clothed in complete armour.
Having passed into a ravine, he was lost for a while to their gaze;
soon after he emerged again, when Suleiman recognised upon the man
his own suit of splendid armour, which he very seldom wore, although
it usually formed a part of his camp-baggage. In the man also he
discovered one of his own followers, Mirza Kuli, who had been with
him in several of his battles, and had hitherto conducted himself
with unquestionable fidelity. Suleiman called out to him by name, not
doubting that he would be glad to join his commander again. But to his
infinite surprise, the traveller, without looking up, answered in a
gruff husky voice, altogether unlike that of Kuli, saying that he knew
them not, and had no time for compliments. Suleiman, lamenting that
his arrow could produce no effect against the recreant, nevertheless
sent one after him, which struck the horse, and only spurred the
animal to a greater degree of expedition. Suleiman had sometimes been
unfortunate in battle before, but he never experienced so gross an
instance of ingratitude as this. It convinced him, however, that his
cause, of which he had not yet despaired, must have been considered by
his followers as totally lost, since Kuli thought proper not only to
abandon him, but even to be ashamed of his acquaintance.
CHAPTER IV.
In the hour of adversity be not without hope;
For crystal rain falls from black clouds.
NIZAMI.
As the day advanced, Suleiman learned from some peasants, who were
crossing the mountains on their way home from Karaman, that they had
met several groups of armed men proceeding towards the town, some
walking, some on horseback, some badly wounded, preceded by two persons
unarmed, who were mounted on Arabian steeds. It struck Suleiman, from
the description given of the two latter individuals, that they could be
no other than Baba Seirami and Kazim, as these were the only unarmed
persons present at the late battle. He concluded also, with his usual
sanguine hastiness of thought, that the stragglers must have been the
remains of his own party, intending to seek refuge in Karaman, and
perhaps to wait there until they should learn some tidings of their
commander. Although his wound still gave him some pain, yet he resolved
on directing his course towards the town, but not to enter it until he
satisfied himself as to the means of safety which it might afford him.
His sworn friends the more readily agreed to accompany him, as they
entertained the hope that the troops to whom the peasants alluded were
of their own party.
As soon as evening approached, Suleiman and his companions led their
horses down the mountain, to the road which the peasants pointed out;
and after journeying for four hours, they perceived by the twinkling
of lights in the distance, that they were within a short distance of
Karaman. Instead, however, of riding directly to the gate, Suleiman
expressed his determination to take up his residence for the night in
one of the retired gardens, by which the town is nearly surrounded.
There finding a hut, which seemed to have been used only during the
summer, and was now abandoned, they at once fixed upon it for their
temporary abode. While one of the men proceeded under cover of the
night to make enquiries in Karaman, another foraged about among the
cottages in the suburbs, and soon returned with a dish of pottage of
boiled millet flour, which Suleiman declared to be the most delicious
meal he had ever enjoyed. The purveyor picked up also on his expedition
an old cloak of coarse woven cloth, lined with lamb’s-skin, with the
wool on the inside, in which Suleiman wrapped himself, and went to
sleep, his two companions alternately watching during the night.
The Mogul, who had been dispatched to Karaman, returned to the hut
early in the morning, with intelligence, that Baba Seirami and Kazim
were in the town, together with about fifty of Suleiman’s troops, who
had escaped from the field of battle; but from the manner in which
he had heard the chieftain spoken of in the town, in consequence
of his flight from the combat, he expressed great apprehension for
Suleiman’s safety, should his defeated followers discover his abode.
He, therefore, advised the chieftain to remain in the hut, until an
opportunity should offer for learning the result of an inquiry, which
he had set on foot through one Kadi-Bardi, a bridle-maker in the town,
with a view to sound the feelings of the soldiers. Bardi had promised
to make all possible haste to the garden, as soon as he should have
obtained the requisite intelligence.
Suleiman, much afflicted by the information thus laid before him,
desired writing materials to be procured--an order which was executed
not without considerable difficulty and delay. Having written a
letter, fully describing his deplorable situation, he addressed it to
Baba Seirami, in whose fidelity he reposed unshaken confidence, and
he anxiously expected the appearance of the Karamanian, to whom he
intended to commit the epistle. But noon passed away, the shades of
evening were already beginning to rise, and still no messenger found
his way to the hut. One of the Moguls, he observed, was frequently
absent during the day, under pretext of seeking for provisions, which
it was not his good fortune to find. The conduct of this man looked
rather suspicious; it seemed as if he was in communication with some
party, who had designs of a sinister nature.
While Suleiman was anxiously gazing from the door of the hut, towards
the little path that led to the town, an apparently aged lame dervish
approached him, clothed in miserable attire, which bespoke the very
lowest degree of poverty. Reproaching Suleiman, in rude and boisterous
language, for taking possession of the hut, which, during that season
of the year, became usually his abode, he boldly demanded compensation
for the use of it, and the immediate departure of the illegitimate
tenant. The chieftain, fallen as he was, retained sufficient dignity
of mind to feel rather amazed than offended, by the coarse expressions
addressed to him, and, without further ceremony, directed his
companions to look about in the gardens for another deserted hut, which
they could hardly fail to find.
While they were searching about in different directions, the dervish
whispered into his ear that he was betrayed; that his foe, Mirtas,
informed of his arrival, was preparing to set out from Karaman,
attended by a large body of troops, who had entered the town the day
before with prisoners; and that in less than an hour he would be
delivered up, bound hand and foot, into the power of the Mogul, unless
he forthwith escaped from the hut.
Suleiman, astounded by this information, hesitated to give it credit;
when the dervish, pointing to the chieftain’s companions on the
outside, bade him observe the caution they exercised, by not going out
of sight of the hut in which he was, and suggested that his only course
of safety was to take flight, after exchanging his uniform for the
tattered garments which he, the dervish, now had on.
The appearance of two or three Mogul horsemen, entering a distant part
of the garden, dispersed the doubts that still lingered in the mind of
Suleiman. While acting on the advice of the dervish, he learned from
him that Baba Seirami, and Kazim Ayas, two of the principal prisoners,
were sentenced to be drawn asunder by wild horses on the following
morning; and that, if the other prisoners had not consented to follow
the standard of Mirtas, they also would have had to undergo a similar
fate.
The defection of his followers scarcely excited any emotion in the
breast of the once formidable chieftain. He had been in some measure
already inured to adversity; but the fate impending over his faithful
friend and adviser Seirami, and Kazim, in whose fortunes the dervish
took a lively interest, called forth expressions of his fiercest anger.
He resolved, be the consequences what they might, to go to Karaman in
his new disguise, to find out his two friends, and, if possible, to
rescue them from the ignominious and dreadful death, to which they had
been doomed by Mirtas.
Suleiman, arrayed in the garb of the dervish, with a staff in his
hand, a weather-worn pointed cap on his head, which came down to his
eyebrows, and an old shawl in shreds fastened round his neck, in which
his chin was deeply buried, had the satisfaction to find himself jeered
at as an impudent old fool, while he limped by one of his late Mogul
companions, who was returning to the hut. Being desirous of avoiding
the troops of Mirtas, on their way to the garden, where they expected
to find their prey, he hastened to Karaman, by a road that led to the
gate which was at the opposite side of the town.
After wandering for some time through the streets, already darkened by
the night, and quite deserted by the inhabitants, who had retired to
repose, he despaired of finding any roof beneath which he might expect
to obtain shelter; when, turning the corner of a filthy narrow lane,
he heard two or three persons conversing together near the gate of a
caravanserai, at which they were standing. From what he could collect
of their conversation, he thought at first that they were disputing
about the division of some booty which they had stolen. On drawing
nearer, however, he learned from their debate, that the plunder was not
yet acquired, but that they were concerting measures for a robbery,
which required a considerable degree of courage, and of cunning at
the same time. The point in discussion was, which of the three was to
ascend first to the floor where their destined victims lay.
“Of the three guards below,” said one of the robbers, “I have no
fear--these I have made drunk already;--and I have mixed with their
humiz a quantity of poppy, which will keep them asleep for some hours.
But those soldiers of Suleiman have, they say, a hundred lives--they
are demons; and although the girdle of Suleiman’s purse-bearer is a
tempting prize, yet I will not be the first to ascend; I have done my
part already, by ascertaining for you, that his girdle is well stored
with golden rupees.”
“It is too great a prize to lose,” observed another, “now that the way
is clear; besides you know that they are to be drawn asunder by wild
horses, in the market-place, by sunrise to-morrow,--then our chances
will be gone for ever.”
“Let me have another cup or two of humiz,” said the third, “and then,
perhaps, I may go first, provided you swear to follow me quietly,
until we are all together on the floor, lest they should awake and
offer resistance; for though they are tied hand and foot by chains of
iron, they might break loose, and pitch us down head foremost into the
stable.”
“Agreed,” exclaimed his confederates; and pulling the gate gently
to, they adjourned to a low hut hard by, where they were admitted
upon giving a peculiar tap, with which the inmates seemed to be well
acquainted.
Suleiman congratulated himself on his good fortune, in overhearing this
conversation. The robber was rightly informed that Seirami had about
him a considerable quantity of gold. This circumstance alone, even if
it had not been aided by the other facts to which the robbers alluded,
would have been sufficient to fix the identity of the unfortunate
prisoners, whom it was the determination of these villains to plunder.
Promptly availing himself of the opportunity thus presented to him so
unexpectedly, of contributing to the double deliverance of his friends,
he entered the stable, where, by the light of an iron lamp affixed to
the wall, he perceived several horses lying down, and near them three
of the Moguls, who belonged to Mirtas, snoring in profound sleep. The
head of one of these vigilant sentinels was resting on a notched pole,
which was the only means of ascent to the loft above. Suleiman gently
removed it, and lifting the pole, he mounted the loft, bringing with
him several pieces of long grass ropes which he found strewed about the
stable.
His first care was, by the assistance of one of these ropes, to let
the pole fall down as nearly as possible in the direction where it had
already lain. He then drew up the rope, and having made a running knot
at the end of it, slung it over one of the beams of the roof. Two other
ropes he adjusted in a similar manner. He had scarcely finished these
arrangements, when he heard the door open below, and the robbers, who
appeared to be all intoxicated, entered the stable. The foremost had in
his hand a small lamp, which he lighted. They then fumbled about until
they found the notched pole, which they raised up towards the edge of
the loft. The man who had promised to ascend first made the attempt
accordingly; but he slipped down three or four times before he could
raise himself by as many of the notches. At length, by the assistance
of his associates, he rose half-way, when he lifted himself slowly
until his head appeared above the floor. Here a large noose was waiting
his presence, which fell imperceptibly upon his shoulders; in a few
moments he ascended with peculiar celerity, much to the delight of his
friends below, who imputed it to the courage infused into him by the
humiz. They followed his example, and at the same point of elevation
they found the toil of climbing farther altogether unnecessary, for
they were raised in a moment by an unseen power to the beam, whence
they were launched into a world for which they were little prepared.
Suleiman having secured the lamp with which the first robber was
provided, now explored the loft in order to discover his friends, who
were, however, nowhere to be seen. Anxious for securing their escape
before the morning broke upon him, he held his breath and listened for
a while, hoping to hear them if they were really near. Presently a low
moan caught his ear; it was the dying gasp of one of the robbers; then
a tremendous crash. The rope by which another was suspended had broken;
he first fell upon the floor, and then to the stable below, with a
noise that made the horses start upon their feet.
“There they come!” exclaimed a voice, which Suleiman well knew to be
that of Seirami.
“Oh, Allah! what is to become of Mangeli!” exclaimed another, whom he
easily guessed to be Kazim.
Suleiman, however, waited with some degree of alarm, fearing that the
sentinels must have been awakened by the hubbub. One did get up, and
looking wildly about, drew his sabre, and cut off the head of the
robber who had fallen near him. The weapon then dropped from his hand,
and he lay prostrate once more, overcome by slumber.
CHAPTER V.
Beneath that tattered robe you’ll find
A woman’s heart--a hero’s mind.
NIZAMI.
Suleiman, keenly marking the quarter whence the voices had come, now
proceeded towards it with the greatest anxiety, holding the lamp
before him so as to shew its light along the floor. Upon reaching the
extreme end of that part of the caravanserai, he discovered his two
friends sitting side by side against the wall, to which he perceived
they were both fastened by strong cords passed through an iron ring.
Commanding them in a low tone to preserve the strictest silence, he
took off his cap and shawl, and raising the lamp to his face, bade them
be of good cheer, for that Allah had sent him to their deliverance.
They immediately recognised the chieftain in his lowly garb, and
uttered a fervent prayer of gratitude to Providence, while they both
instinctively attempted to rise. But they could scarcely move. In
addition to the ligatures by which they were made fast to the wall,
iron chains were passed several times round their bodies, which kept
them linked together, the ends of the chains being riveted to an iron
plate, which defied even the muscular strength of Suleiman.
Of the fetters by which they were made fast to the wall he easily
disencumbered them, by setting fire to the ropes; but to remove the
captives from the caravanserai, without being able to separate them
from each other, was a matter of more difficulty. Suleiman’s ingenuity,
however, had been long exercised in the school of war. Drawing his
friends gently towards the edge of the floor, he showed them the two
robbers still suspended, who had prepared to strip them of every thing
they possessed. Seirami could hardly suppress a smile of pleasure at
beholding this instance of summary justice. Kazim gazed upon them with
a feeling of terror, wondering that men could be found so lost to every
sense of humanity as to meditate the plunder of two unhappy prisoners,
already doomed to the most excruciating species of death.
Suleiman, feeling the moments gliding rapidly towards day, lost none
of them in meditation. He cut the two robbers down, and deposited them
near the place where his friends had been confined. Then removing the
ropes which had been the instruments of his prompt administration of
the law, he twisted them together, and fastening one end of the double
rope to that of the iron chain which bound Seirami and Kazim together,
he pushed them downwards, and permitted them to descend until they
were about the height of a steed from the ground below. Fastening the
other end of the rope firmly to the top of the notched pole, he rapidly
lowered himself to the ground, and leading one of the horses beneath
his friends, he cut the rope with the sabre of the still sleeping
sentinel. Seirami and Kazim thus found themselves, like a pair of
panniers, on each side of the horse; and the only difficulty that now
remained to be achieved, was the escape of the animal from the stable
with its burthen.
But the preparations of Suleiman were not yet concluded. His mind
extended its precautions to every point, that was connected with an
adventure hitherto so propitiously conducted. The dervish, who had
risked his life for the preservation of a person on whom, so far as
Suleiman remembered, no obligation of service was imposed by any former
acts of kindness on his part, would most probably be compelled by
torture to disclose the circumstance of lending his ragged garments to
the foe of Mirtas. If they could be found on the decapitated robber,
whose head might be removed to prevent any doubts as to identity; if
the loft should be ignited, as he took good care it should be, by the
burning cordage which he left on the boards; the cindered remains of
the two thieves above would doubtless be considered those of the two
condemned captives, while that of the third would be hewed into a
thousand pieces, under the persuasion that it had once held the soul of
Suleiman.
Stripping off his tattered robes, he clothed himself in the attire
of the headless robber, to whom he quickly transferred his cast-off
garments: he then put the culprit’s head into a bag, which he slung
over his shoulders. His next objects were to place the robber outside
the door, to open the gate of the stable, to lead out the horse upon
which Seirami and Kazim were balanced, to appropriate another steed
to his own use, and to effect his departure without disturbing the
sentinels, whom, though his inveterate enemies, he disdained to slay in
their sleep.
The grey of morning was just beginning to shew the domes and minarets
of the town, defined against the still lingering darkness of the
night, when Suleiman moved forward, mounted on an excellent charger,
and leading by the rein the other horse, with its double burthen,
over which he had thrown one of the sentinel’s large cloaks. After
wandering through a labyrinth of narrow streets, not one of which
he recognised as having passed through the evening before, he found
himself in a large square, where preparations were already going on
for the execution that was decreed to be consummated at sun-rise. Some
wild looking figures were collected round a fire in the middle of the
square, and near them were fixed strong posts, to which eight horses
were tied, whose violent pawing of the earth, incessant neighing and
plunging, showed that they must have been recently brought in from
the desert, and peculiarly adapted to be the ministers of the cruel
punishment decreed by Mirtas. Groups of men were already gathering in
from the different streets that led to the square, curious, no doubt,
to behold the tragic scene which rumour had taught them to expect.
Suleiman, without advancing farther, turned shortly into the nearest
lane he could find, but proceeded at no unusual pace, lest he might
give rise to suspicion.
The increasing freshness of the air soon inspired him with the hope,
that he had already reached the suburbs. Passing over a wooden bridge,
he looked backwards at the town, which still appeared a dense mass of
gloom, although the skies were beginning to be dappled with streaks,
that, becoming every moment of a brighter hue, announced the near
approach of the sun. Suddenly he beheld the blush of morning surpassed
by a column of flame, which rose high in the air from a distant part
of the town. Now it sunk, and now it burst forth again with fresh
fury, flinging fiery sparkles around, that threatened to involve the
whole town in conflagration. Drums were heard beating, and trumpets
sounding, and shouts of innumerable voices blended together in
frightful confusion. One immense burst of flame then shot up into the
heavens, after which little more was seen than a pale reflection, that
showed itself for a while fitfully, and then appeared no more.
While the attention of the people in the town was thus absorbed by one
all-engrossing object, Suleiman pushed forward rapidly through the
suburbs, until he reached a blacksmith’s forge, where he found a man
and a boy already hard at work, unconscious of the alarm that prevailed
around them. Stopping at the door of the forge, he called out to the
man, telling him that he had a small job, which he wished to be done
immediately. The chains, he said, by which his merchandise, consisting
of bars of silver and pieces of broad-cloth, was tied together on his
second horse, seemed already to gall the back of the animal. He wished
the rivets to be filed off at the heads, and driven through the plate,
where they were fastened, in order that he might adjust the burthen
in a manner by which his valuable horse might not be injured. The
smith, much envying the apparent magnitude of the rich merchandise,
and expecting, of course, to be munificently rewarded, professed
his readiness to serve his kind employer, and ascending the horse by
the tail, was preparing, with his implements, to execute the task
assigned him, when Suleiman put both horses to their speed, telling
the blacksmith to hold on by the mane as well as he could, for that
the animals, frightened by the fire of the forge, were running away.
Notwithstanding the additional burthen under which one of the steeds
laboured, both flew over the open plains with the speed of lightning,
the blacksmith thrown now on one side, now on another, as if he were
the sport of the winds. Terror and the want of breath prevented him
from crying out, fearing that every moment he would be flung over the
merchandise and killed on the spot.
For a full hour Suleiman thus continued to scour the country; but at
length perceiving a wood suitable to his purpose, he turned into it,
allowing the panting animals to slacken their pace gradually, until
they penetrated beneath the shade of some trees, which effectually
excluded the light of morning. Here he compelled the trembling artizan
to remove the rivets, when, the chain being loosened, the packages
on each side fell suddenly on the grass, with a groan which nearly
frightened the blacksmith out of his senses. Finding his way to the
earth as well as he could, the mechanic scampered off without waiting
to receive his expected reward, convinced that he was a very fortunate
man in having escaped with so little injury from the evil spirits,
which were always sure to be present wherever gold or silver treasure
required their protection. Suleiman, loosening the chain, set his
friends at liberty; then depositing it in the bag which contained the
robber’s head, he committed both to the bosom of a pond of stagnant
water which he found hard by.
Seirami and Kazim leaped with joy at being able once more to give full
play to their limbs, fettered as they had been in one position during a
period of more than thirty hours. Suleiman invited Kazim to ride behind
himself, while Seirami mounted the other horse. They soon emerged from
the wood, and as they had no longer any fear of pursuit, they rode
onward at an equable pace, relating to each other the adventures that
had occurred to them since they had last been separated.
Meanwhile Mirtas, who had fought Suleiman hand to hand in the battle,
could not have been deceived for a moment by the substitute whom he
found in the garden hut. He charged his men, who had solemnly promised
to deliver up his foe alive into his power, with a deliberate design
to deceive him, and ordered them forthwith to be decapitated. But the
dervish frankly confessed that he alone was the guilty person, that
they were innocent of any participation in his crime, if such it was;
that in his estimation, however, he had only performed an act of duty
in preserving the life of a chieftain, to whom he had pledged his
allegiance, and that he was now prepared to suffer any penalty which
Mirtas might think proper to inflict.
The Mogul, struck by the heroic conduct of the dervish, promised to
pardon him if he would acknowledge the contrivance by which he enabled
Suleiman to escape. To this he frankly answered, that they had only
exchanged raiment, upon which the soldiers, who had recently seen the
disguised chieftain limping through the gardens, led the pursuit after
him in all directions, anxious to vindicate themselves by extraordinary
zeal, in the good opinion of their master. By their active inquiries
they succeeded in tracing Suleiman to Karaman, where, however, they
soon lost all further clue to his footsteps through the streets of the
town.
The fire which broke out in the early part of the morning, drew Mirtas
to the caravanserai, where, however, he did not arrive until the
conflagration was over. The horses, which had been confined in the
stable, were the first to give warning to the neighbourhood by their
wild cries, urged by a sense of suffocation. The sentinels were with
difficulty extricated from the danger to which they were exposed;
and when the burning loft fell with a crash upon the interior of the
stable, the remains of two half-burnt robbers convinced Mirtas that
he was defrauded of the vengeance which he had meditated against the
two captives, one of whom he suspected to be Suleiman’s adviser in all
measures, whether of peace or war, while he looked upon the other, as
a willing instrument in the execution of the stratagem to which he and
his followers had very nearly fallen victims. But the discovery of
the third body found outside the door, compensated Mirtas for every
disappointment. The tattered clothes in which it was arrayed were
distinctly recognised by the soldiers, as those which the dervish had
exchanged with Suleiman; the dervish himself bore testimony to the
truth of their evidence, lamenting with many genuine tears that he had
not perished himself, rather than behold his chieftain slain in this
ignominious manner. One of the sentinels claimed to himself the merit
of having cut off the head of Suleiman; in proof of which he produced
his naked sabre, which was found on the floor of the stable stained
with blood. Of the head, indeed, he could give no account; it must have
been burnt to a cinder; but he reported a violent altercation in which
he was engaged with Suleiman, who came to offer him large sums of money
if he would assist him in effecting the escape of the two prisoners
who had been committed to his care, and to that of his companions. The
altercation, as well as the temptation, were terminated in the manner
now evident to every body, for there the alleged Suleiman lay without
his head; upon which the sentinel claimed and received a suitable
reward from Mirtas, and the body itself was ordered to be torn limb
from limb by the wild horses, already prepared for the purpose in the
public square. Thus the multitude assembled to see the execution,
were not wholly deprived of the spectacle which they were so desirous
to behold. The death of Suleiman was publicly proclaimed; such of his
soldiers as had been taken prisoners cheerfully transferred their
allegiance to the conqueror, who was acknowledged sovereign of Karaman.
For a whole week the town resounded with dance, dulcimer, drum and
song, and with the clamour of the troops intoxicated by wine and humiz,
who boasted every where of the great victory which they had achieved
over the treacherous foe of Mirtas.
CHAPTER VI.
The humble tent and murmuring breeze,
That whistles through its fluttering walls,
My unaspiring fancy please,
Better than towers and splendid halls.
MAISUNA.
“The best thing we can now do for a while,” said Seirami, “until this
storm shall blow over, will be to go and live with Kazim in his cottage
on the Ilamish. Perhaps, before the winter sets in, and the valleys and
plains are filled with snow, you may succeed in collecting some of your
scattered troops, and strike a decisive blow against Karaman.”
“Be it as you say,” replied Suleiman, “we shall turn goat-herds for a
while, and wait for the return of those smiles of which fortune has
been so sparing of late.”
“My hut, is in truth, a small one,” observed Kazim; “but Mangeli will
be delighted to give you up her chamber.”
“That she shall not do, my good friend,” rejoined Suleiman; “if
your hut be not large enough to hold us all, we shall soon build an
addition to it. It is not the first time that Seirami and I have turned
architects, and if occasion should require it, we are ready to do so
again. In the meanwhile, methinks that is the tomb of a saint, which I
see beyond those pastures in the distance. We shall not fail to find a
well somewhere near it, which will be refreshing both to ourselves and
to our horses.”
Cantering over the green turf, the travellers reached a hillock,
planted with stately palm-trees, the silver larch, the mulberry, and
some willows. In the middle of the shady circle, formed of the trees,
was a marble tomb of a saint, surmounted by a small temple, with a
portico, that ran all round the edifice. Seats for pilgrims were
placed in the portico, and disposed among the willows; the former
affording shelter from the rain or storm; the latter a cool retreat
from the beams of the noontide sun, to those who wished to enjoy
the fragrant zephyrs, which sported through the surrounding grove.
The grateful breath of the heathy blossoms and wild flowers, growing
in the neighbouring hills and vallies, imparted to the breezes that
swept over them a delicious odour, while the pure stream that flowed
from the fountain, at the foot of the tomb, charmed the senses with a
soft murmur--the music of solitude, awakening in the memory images of
departed friends, and filling the soul with a tender melancholy much
more congenial to its nature, than any happiness it can enjoy amongst
crowds.
The horses rushed gladly to the stream, that sparkled like silver in
the light, and drank, until they were sated, of its refreshing waters.
Suleiman and his companions plunged into a small lake, where the
pilgrims were accustomed to bathe, and in a few moments lost all sense
of the fatigue which they had recently endured. New strength and health
appeared to brace their manly limbs, as they rose from the transparent
wave. Then, permitting their animals to browse at will, they ate a few
dates, and mulberries, which they gathered in the sacred grove, and
throwing themselves on the grass, they slept until the shadows of the
trees lengthened far over the valley.
And here, perhaps, they might have continued to slumber until morning,
had not the tinkling of many sheep and camel bells, the neighing of
horses, the voices of shepherds, the loud laughter of children, mingled
with the incessant barking of dogs, disturbed them from their repose.
Suleiman, who, though a sound sleeper, was capable of being startled
by the slightest noise, rose instantly on his feet, and hastening to
the brow of the hillock, beheld, at a distance, an immense moving mass,
evidently directing its course towards the tomb of the saint. Calling
his companions to witness this spectacle, which Kazim, though he had
often heard of it, had never seen before, they observed the crowd with
intense interest, as the procession gradually developed the various
objects of which it was composed.
In front, were seen groups of men, dressed in gay attire, armed with
bows and spears, attended by minor groups of boys and girls, all
mounted on spirited horses; the young folk occasionally riding races
with each other over the plains, and shouting in bursts of merriment
that rent the air. Here two juvenile troopers were seen fencing with
each other, as they rode at full gallop; here a fox or a hare was
started, and chased by dogs and horsemen; while others were capering
about, as if to show off the mettle of their favourite steeds, which
sometimes stood upon the hinder legs as straight as an arrow, the
rider, nevertheless, holding his place as if he were a part of the
steed itself.
Behind these groups, which formed only the van-guards of the horde,
came their matrons, decked out in holiday finery, seated on beautiful
coursers, worthy of the best blood of Arabia. A few of these women bore
in one arm infants still at the breast, while in the other they held
the bridles of the foremost camels in each train, which moved in single
columns, laden with tents, household goods, merchandize, and packages
of every description, covered with rich Turkey or Persia carpets, that
reached the ground. The camels were ornamented with red ribbons, and
added not a little to the gaiety of the scene. Then followed large
flocks of sheep, and herds of mares, tended by shepherds who were armed
with long staffs and crooks, clothed in the Calmuc costume. The march
seemed to be made the most of by every body, with a view to display
the riches of each family, as well in the usual articles of dress and
ornament, as in the agility and vigour of the young men, and the beauty
of the maidens.
Suleiman, mounting his horse, rode forward to meet the procession, and
to congratulate the foremost of the horde upon their arrival at the
tomb of the saint. When he came back, with a few of the chieftains to
the well, it would have seemed as if he had been one of their tribe
himself, so perfectly cordial were their greetings with each other.
With Seirami and Kazim they were all speedily upon equally friendly
terms. The multitude, after having refreshed themselves and their
different animals, in the running stream, set about erecting their
tents. A frame-work of willow laths, formed in separate parts, and
rising to nearly the height of a man, was, in the first instance fixed
upright in the ground, the compartments being tied together by woollen
bands, and disposed round the circumference of a circle, leaving an
aperture for a wooden door-frame, which stood by itself, containing two
small folding doors. From this foundation sprung a number of poles,
raised in a slanting direction, towards a common centre, where they
were prevented from meeting by a wooden hoop, in which they were all
inserted. The poles were also bound firmly together by woollen girths,
and the whole skeleton of a hut, thus composed, was closely covered
over with large pieces of felt. Over the circular aperture, formed
by the central hoop at the top, was suspended a sheet of the same
material, one end of which was always raised on the side least exposed
to the wind, as well for the purpose of affording an outlet to the
smoke, as for admitting sufficient light into the domicile below. The
door-way being protected from the external cold by another piece of
felt, which was hung over it, and lifted by those who passed in or out,
and the whole of the covering of the hut being made fast by woollen
thongs, the residence was in a very short time complete in every
respect. The air was soon after filled with columns of smoke, ascending
from the fires, on which pans well stored with mutton were placed. In
some of the tents, cakes simply made, without any leaven, were laid
on stones heated by embers, and baked with great rapidity; while, in
others, tea and coffee were seen in an active course of preparation.
Suleiman and his companions were invited by the chieftains to live with
them as long as they pleased--a hospitable proposal, which he accepted
as frankly as it was made. He found the interior of the principal
huts roomy, and well furnished, especially that of the prince of the
horde, an intelligent looking, elderly person, dressed in a short
Calmuc coat of blue cloth, white trowsers, a mottled silk waistcoat,
and a thick velvet cap trimmed with sable, decorated by a red tassel
and a gold loop. Seated on the same cushion with the prince was his
consort, a young and agreeable woman, whose blue frock dress, over
a silk petticoat, ornamented with gold flowers, high square Calmuc
cap of Persian gold muslin, (trimmed also with sable and tassels),
gold ear-rings with pendants of large pearls, and red morrocco boots,
betrayed her desire to appear before the strangers in a garb not
altogether unworthy of her station. On a chest, near her, was an
open trinket-box, a beautiful rosary, made of smooth black kernels,
with coral and round onyx-stones interposed between them at regular
intervals, and also a guitar elegantly inlaid with a variety of
precious stones.
The tent was abundantly furnished with rich carpets, for the
accommodation of visitors. Images of gods were suspended here and
there, together with those celebrated astrological circles, which
afford a protection against evil. Chests, covered with Persian cloth,
containing the riches of the family, were piled in one part of the tent
one above another; in the centre was the hearth, where a clear fire
of ambrosial wood was burning; and near the door stood a few cans,
ornamented with polished brass hoops, filled with mares’ milk.
The guests no sooner entered the tent, than they were followed by
numerous attendants, bearing on silver dishes roast game, mutton
stewed in every form, with and without rice, and cakes hot from the
fire. After this plentiful and well-cooked meal, an exquisite wine was
brought, in small bags, which was poured out into gold cups by the
attendants, and placed before the prince and his guests. The princess
only drank mares’ milk.
After the banquet was over, the tent was crowded with a number of young
men and girls, the handsomest the horde could furnish, who, dressed
out in their graceful costume, danced before the prince, the princess,
and their guests, to the sound of the pipe, guitar, dulcimer, and
tambourine. Sometimes the dance was rapid and lively, indicating great
joy: sometimes it assumed the solemnity of a religious ceremony, when
hymns were sung by the whole party in chorus. They then performed a
dramatic entertainment--a favourite amusement of the princess--in which
the chieftains of other hordes were satirised and ridiculed, in a vein
of drollery that shook the tent with laughter, echoed by the crowds,
who, not being able to gain admission, were gathered outside, listening
to the actors within.
The guests upon taking leave, when these sports were over, were
prevailed upon to enter several of the other huts in succession. In
some, parties were engaged playing at chess; in some, at dice or cards;
while story-tellers were occupied in others, amusing the family, and
their more intimate friends, with tales of genii, and spirits of the
land and deep, warlike adventures, and all sorts of narratives of the
wild and wondrous world of enchantment.
Seirami, from all he had hitherto observed of the hordes, by whom he
and his companions were so hospitably received, imagined that their
habits were entirely pastoral, and that, with the exception of a few
men, armed for their protection, while moving about from place to
place, there were scarcely any warriors amongst them.
But in one of the tents which he last visited, he found a group of
finely formed, active, and robust youths, girt with sabres, their bows
and quivers suspended round the walls of the hut, listening to some
martial songs, which appeared to agitate them to a violent degree. In
those songs, the vicissitudes of a battle were boldly depicted; and
as the hero in whose fate they felt an interest was borne onward, or
repelled, on the tide of war, they half drew their sabres from their
sides, burning with a desire to share in the fortunes of the field.
With these young warriors Seirami remained for some time, and being
called upon in his turn to contribute to the general amusement, he
gave them an animated description of the contest with Mirtas, in which
Suleiman had been recently defeated--suppressing, of course, every
incident that might warrant the charge of treachery, made by that
prince against his chieftain. When to this narrative, which, told in
the fluent and graceful style of one of the most accomplished masters
of language in his day, easily captivated the passions of those to
whom it was addressed, he added the history of Suleiman’s escape from
the garden, and of the heroic constancy and courage he had shown in
rescuing his friends from the cruel and ignominious death to which they
had been doomed, the warriors rose by unanimous impulse, and touching
their sabres together, swore that they would follow Suleiman, if he
would lead them to attack the town of Karaman, and destroy the monster,
whose deeds promised that he would rule it with a mace of iron.
Suleiman, upon being made acquainted with the offers of these men,
accepted them for his allies, with the consent of their prince; but
said that, as their numbers were not sufficient for an assault upon
such a town as Karaman, he must wait until he could collect a larger
force for the purpose. In the mean time they would be eminently
useful to him as emissaries, to collect those of his scattered army,
who had not been captured, and he had no doubt that with such brave
auxiliaries he would soon be enabled to avenge the insult he had
sustained from Mirtas.
The song, the dance, the laugh, the voice of the story-tellers, the
sound of drum and mandolin gradually ceased throughout the tents as the
night advanced. The signs of animation died away one after another; and
when Kazim looked out from the door of the hut, occupied by himself
and his companions, to gaze once more on the well-known star, which he
and Mangeli had often remarked shining over their own dear cottage, he
wondered at the profound repose into which the whole tribe was hushed,
together with their camels, horses, sheep, and other animals.
With the exception of the occasional bark of a dog, heard at the
confines of the encampment, all was as still as the blue heavens above;
the sweet murmur of the sacred fountain seeming only to soothe into a
deeper silence, the solemn tranquillity that reigned every where around.
CHAPTER VII.
Alternate hope and fear my days divide:
I courted grief, and anguish was my bride.
Flow on, sad stream of life! I smile secure:
_Thou_ livest; _thou_, the purest of the pure.
THE MASNAVI.
While Kazim was engaged, shortly after sunrise, the following morning,
writing, from the dictation of Seirami, letters addressed to the
chieftains of Arjun, and the other hill-districts in its neighbourhood,
soliciting their aid on behalf of Suleiman, in the war against Mirtas,
two persons were seen at a distance on the plain, following the tracks
which the horde had left the day before. The wanderers were driving
before them a small herd of goats, and as they approached nearer to
the tents, they appeared quite overcome with fatigue. Three or four
horsemen galloped out towards them from the encampment, offering them
every assistance which the huts afforded. But the strangers, an old
man and his daughter, seemed unwilling to make any delay on their
road, exhausted as they were. They stated that they were proceeding to
Karaman, whither one of their near relatives, as they had learned from
some straggling followers of Suleiman, had been sent as a captive; and
that they would gladly exchange their little herd for a horse, which
might enable them to perform their journey with greater certainty and
expedition.
They were then informed, that Suleiman himself was in the camp,
and as he possibly might have it in his power to give them further
information, they were recommended to pay him a visit in the first
instance. To this suggestion they acceded, with considerable
reluctance, as they feared that every moment might be of consequence
which contributed to detain them on their journey. They added, that
they had been travelling the whole of the previous night, guided only
by the stars, until they found the traces of what they supposed to be
a large army, and they thanked Providence for their good fortune, not
doubting but that, at all events, they might learn some intelligence of
the troops who had been engaged in the late disastrous battle.
The old man, tottering with weariness and grief, was conducted into
one of the poorer huts at the outskirts, where he was placed on a mat
near the fire, trembling with the night-cold, which seemed to have
chilled his heart. As his daughter bent over him, rubbing his temples,
entreating him to take a little broth, which was readily made for the
invalid, she bitterly reproached herself for allowing him to leave his
home at such a period of life. But he motioned to her to dry the big
tears that rolled down her cheek, and to seek Suleiman without delay,
in order that they might pursue their journey. The affectionate girl,
recommending her father to the care of the kind people by whom he was
surrounded, went forth, accompanied by the matron of the hut, having
first thrown a veil over her head, from a feeling bordering on fear, as
she had never before appeared in the presence of a chieftain.
The matron, raising the cover of the doorway, tapped gently before she
entered the hut of Suleiman, when, receiving no prohibition against
her further progress, she pushed open the folding doors, and, with her
companion, stood before him. He was sitting near the fire, describing,
with the point of an arrow, various lines in the ashes, in which he
was shadowing out the plan of a battle in an open plain. So deeply was
he absorbed in the subject of his meditation, that he took no notice
whatever of the strangers. Behind him were seated, on the floor,
Seirami reading over the letters which Kazim had written, while the
latter was engaged in folding and directing them as they were handed
back to him. “I have never seen before such hand-writing as yours,”
said Seirami, “it ought to be of itself sufficient to persuade those
mountain chiefs that we are no ordinary supplicants for assistance.”
Both were turned from the door, looking intently on the papers, which
they were obliged to hold close to their eyes, on account of the dim
light that fell into the hut from the narrow aperture in the roof.
“Your highness will, I hope, pardon me,” said the matron, “for
presenting to you this unhappy young female, who understands that she
can receive from you some intelligence of her husband.”
“If there should be only one thousand of them,” pursued the warrior,
still drawing his lines, “and they should be tempted from the town into
the plain, a few pit-falls here--there an ambush--yes, with quarter the
number we shall beat them.”
“Some of your men, she has heard, were taken prisoners and sent to
Karaman.”
“Defeat abroad--at home, conspiracy after conspiracy--I have had to
fight for my throne since the very moment I mounted it. Though a mere
youth then, I am already grown grey in troubles. Fate!--fate! what art
thou that thus sportest with men, making them thy playthings--casting
them from the palace to the hut--from the hut to the palace--as if they
were no better than the stubble of the field blown about in the storm!”
The matron and her companion shuddered at the fierce look of the
chieftain, while, throwing down the arrow he clasped his hands
together, and seemed writhing with indignation.
“No--I shall never quit these mountains until I make those Mogul
satraps tremble at my name. After breaking asunder the base
confederation, in which envy of my glory, more than the sense of their
own interests, has bound them against a prince who feels their own best
blood in his veins,--I can return with renovated fame, the victor of a
hundred battles. But should I----fail Seirami!”
“I am here.”
“Are those letters yet despatched?”
“They are nearly ready for the couriers.”
“What! not yet gone?”
“The couriers are not yet come.”
“Go forth and find them. This is not a time for delay, when the loss of
an empire may be the consequence.”
“Empires may be lost by precipitance--seldom by deliberation. It
required time to frame letters calculated to awaken in the hearts of
these chieftains an interest in your behalf. The season of disaster is
not the time to issue commands. It was necessary to show that their own
fortunes were at hazard.”
“True--you have done wisely;--would that I had always conformed to your
admonitions,--had I done so, we should now have been crossing the
Himalas on our way home.”
“We may be soon, if these missives be successful. There are only two
now to be finished,--I shall go to summon the couriers. Is it not time
also that you should see the prince?”
“Aye!--I had forgotten his imperial majesty,” said Suleiman,
sneeringly, as he led the way from the hut, followed by his able and
faithful minister, neither of them taking any particular notice of
their female visitors, who, they supposed, had come in through mere
curiosity.
The matron, seeing one person still employed in a remote part of the
hut, went to him, and touching his shoulder, requested that he would
inform her whether he knew any thing of the followers of Suleiman, who
were now captives at Karaman.
“Not much,” answered Kazim, raising his head and turning towards the
matron; “I saw very little of them, and not one of them do I know.”
While he was yet speaking, the matron was surprised to see her timid
trembling companion advance suddenly across the floor, and fall on the
neck of Kazim, whom she almost suffocated with kisses.
“Mangeli!” he exclaimed, “my own Mangeli!” folding her to his breast.
“Kazim!” she rejoined, breathless with astonishment and joy, that she
should thus have found her husband. “But, my poor father,” she added,
bursting into tears.
“Is he here also?”
“Alas! he lies upon the bed of death, in this good matron’s hut. Oh!
let us go to him. The sight of you will restore him to life.”
“So--so--Kazim! flirting with your new friends already,” exclaimed
Seirami, as he re-entered; “what would your beautiful Mangeli say to
all this?”
“You may put that question to herself,” answered Kazim, “for here she
is!” proudly presenting her to him all radiant with blushes.
“I must say that you have not at all exaggerated her charms. I hope we
shall know each other much better by and by, Mangeli,” said Seirami,
as he collected the epistles which were now all prepared. “You may
consider yourself free for the day,” he added, kindly looking back at
Kazim as he went out with the letters in his hand, “unless you be
disposed to assist at the banquet, which the prince has ordered in
honour of Suleiman.”
Gulbeg had already asked several times for his daughter, wondering why
she had left him to die on the hearth of a stranger. The people of the
hut attended to him with as much anxiety as if he had been a member of
their tribe. Skilful in the use of herbs, they administered to him a
potion which appeared to revive him for a while. But again his pulse
beat slowly, his breath was scarcely heard, and the spark of life
seemed to be nearly extinct, when Kazim entered.
His voice brought a slight flush into the emaciated cheek of Gulbeg,
who looked wildly around him.
“You know me, father, do you not?” asked Kazim, deeply affected by the
helpless situation in which he beheld the venerable old man. Gulbeg
made no answer; but stretching out his hand, he passed it over Kazim’s
face several times, and seemed occasionally to feel a dim return of
consciousness. He still breathed, however, with difficulty, and at
length sunk into a stupor, in which he remained for some hours. The
hospitable owners of the hut had the good feeling to leave it entirely
in possession of the distressed family.
“I foresaw it all,” observed Mangeli, frequently, in the course of
the day--“I foresaw that some dreadful misfortune was impending over
us; for the morning after you left home, I found our beautiful falcon
lifeless on the floor!”
This incident, slight as it was, struck Kazim to the heart. He
affected, indeed, to ascribe the death of the bird to some injury
which it must have received in its late conflict with the quail; but
while he thus endeavoured to support the spirits of Mangeli, the state
of his own was too perceptible to her, from the frequency with which
he referred to the habits of their favourite, its brilliant eyes and
elegant plumage.
Towards evening the old man, once more recognizing the unhappy pair,
who never left his side, gave thanks to Allah that he beheld his
son again. Sitting up between them, he took their hands and spoke,
with regret, of their cottage on the Ilamish. “I built it,” he
said, “entirely myself--you were born in it, Mangeli--your sainted
mother loved her home, though far away from the world, and I had
the hope that it would still be to you both, and to your children,
an undisturbed retreat from the folly and misery of the crowds who
collect in tribes and cities. But I foresee that you will return
to it no more: nor, indeed, perhaps, would it be safe at present,
while war is going on so near. These friendly people will afford
you both protection, until the danger is over, and then, oh! my
children,” he added, in accents becoming each moment more and more
feeble--“clouds--desert--famine--alas! I see before you a long
train of adversity, ending, perhaps, in great dignities; but as to
happiness--ah! that you have left on the flowery banks of the Ilamish!”
Kazim and Mangeli wept aloud, and the aged man’s heart bled within
him, while these words were forced from his lips by some irresistible
impulse. They looked at each other, as if to renew, under the seal of
misfortune, the bonds by which they were united, resolved that no event
short of death itself should ever separate them again. They moved not
from the side of the invalid, from whom they expected some further
communications. But his spirit had already taken its departure, before
Kazim or Mangeli was sensible that the hands in which theirs were
held had become icy cold. Kazim at length rose to administer to him
the medicated drink, which was kept warm for him near the fire; when
he discovered the change that had taken place. The grief of Mangeli
rendered her frantic; she could not believe that her parent had ceased
to live. She called upon him by every tender name that affection could
inspire, to look at her--to answer her--if it were even only once, to
convince Kazim of his error. She summoned all the beautiful smiles
with which her lovely countenance was endowed, in order to win some
token of recognition from her father. Then she chided him for his
indifference--spoke of his little herd--reminded him that it was the
time for milking them--wondered he did not remember it himself--desired
Kazim to speak to him--parted the silver locks on his forehead--and
contended that he was only asleep!--Poor Mangeli!--the season of her
joys was already passed--that of her sorrows had begun.
The intelligence of the death of the stranger was speedily circulated
throughout the encampment, and produced universal sympathy on behalf
of his now orphan children. The prince of the tribe sent them a most
friendly message, stating that he should adopt them for his own, and
that he had directed the funeral of Gulbeg to be conducted with all due
honour, according to the customs of his people. Suleiman and Seirami
also hastened to assure Kazim of their participation in his grief, and
to render him every assistance which the occasion required.
Upon both these individuals the cultivated mind, the clear
intelligence, the modest discourse, and agreeable manners of Kazim,
had already produced a highly favourable impression. Though unskilled
in the use of arms, yet he displayed no want of personal firmness on
the field of battle. Before he was captured, he defended himself with
much bravery, wresting from the hand of the enemy a sabre, which he
wielded with effect, until he was overpowered by numbers. In prison
he had given himself up to no unmanly apprehensions; and when asked
his opinion on any point of policy, he expressed himself in terms
which indicated deep reflection and a sound judgment. Seirami hinted
to him, more than once, that the proper sphere for talents such as
his, could only be found in Hindostan--then the most brilliant empire
in the world, though much disturbed by civil wars, that were raging
in almost every one of its provinces. It would be surprising if such
flattering encouragement had not rekindled in Kazim’s breast the sparks
of ambition, which he had endeavoured to extinguish when first he
felt them on the banks of the Ilamish. But the dying words of Gulbeg,
his death, and the grief of Mangeli, now threw a deep gloom over
his prospects; though at times he found himself again unconsciously
painting them in all the colours of the rainbow.
CHAPTER VIII.
Where is the land of smiles and light,
Where darkness ne’er one shadow throws,
Where, from each beam of skies so bright,
The spirit of its Maker flows?
This land is not of earth!
Where is the clime where joy with woe
Disdains to hold alternate sway;
Where tears of sorrow never flow,
Nor fairest flowers of hope decay?
This clime is far from earth!
Where the whole heavens with radiance glow,
Nor e’er their smiles in dewdrops steep,
That tears may never _seem_ to flow,
And figure what it is to weep?
Oh! ’tis not found on earth!
Where every soul will inly find
A bliss that’s felt but there alone,
Where every tie is closely twined
Around the Great Eternal One?
Oh! this is surely heaven!
MOSULNA.
The remains of Gulbeg, which had been carefully covered with herbs
during eight days, in order to preserve them from decomposition until
the usual period of mourning had elapsed, were placed, at the dawn of
the ninth day, on a bier of green boughs, covered with a new mantle,
which no person had ever worn before. A retired green spot, among the
adjacent hills, having been previously fixed upon by Kazim for the
performance of the funeral obsequies, the procession moved forward,
chanting a solemn lament, without the accompaniment of any musical
instruments. Kazim and Mangeli walked, hand in hand, immediately
behind the bier, their heads covered by their mantles. The prince,
with Suleiman and Seirami, were next in order; and then followed
the chieftains and elders of the tribe, a person bearing a lighted
torch, and a long line of matrons, young men and maidens. Two voices,
usually selected on such occasions for their peculiar sweetness, sung,
alternately, portions of a canticle, which was responded to by the
multitude in notes, that were echoed by the hills, as the train wound
along their declivities.
The bearers having reached a considerable eminence, laid down the bier
upon it, when Kazim and Mangeli taking up a little earth, sprinkled it
over the body, which they were now permitted to behold for the last
time. Several chanters, in the meanwhile, seated themselves near
it, and addressed it in a wild and impassioned manner. One of them
enumerated the years and the virtues of the departed, describing the
pastoral and innocent life which he had led, and pointing him out as an
example to the young men of the tribe. A second, taking Mangeli by the
hand, wiped away the tears which coursed each other down her grief-worn
cheek, and endeavoured to soothe her anguish, by depicting the happy
region to which the spirit of her father had fled; while a third
renewed the song of woe, which was answered as before, by the crowd now
gathered in a circle round the bier. When this ceremony was concluded,
Kazim cut from the old man’s temples the locks of silvery hair by which
they were covered, and gave them to Mangeli, who, after bathing them in
her tears, deposited them in her bosom.
The bier having been once more raised, the procession again moved
forward until they arrived at the recess, where a funeral pile had been
already prepared. The body, still wrapped in the mantle, was placed
upon the pile, the feet to the east, and the face turned downwards.
Other logs of wood having been then added to the pile, it was ignited
by Kazim. The wood rapidly blazed up in the midst of a howl, which
burst suddenly from the multitude who collected around it, and which
was kept up with unceasing energy, until the whole heap became a mass
of embers. From the ashes were then collected the few relics of the
deceased, which could be distinguished from the remains of the wood;
and being wrapped in a new Persian shawl, they were given to Kazim.
The spot where the pile had been raised was then dug up, and the ashes
having been buried beneath the earth, the surface was covered over with
green turfs, bearing clusters of wild flowers, which still outlived the
rigour of the season. A cypress-tree was finally planted at the head of
the grave, to inform the wanderer, who might pass that way, that he was
treading on sacred ground.
As soon as the funeral ceremonies were over, Kazim and Mangeli returned
to their hut, where they remained secluded during the remainder of
the day. They were followed by the females and elders of the tribe,
who went down the hill in groups; while the young men, dispersing
themselves among the higher ranges of the mountains, entertained
themselves with a variety of pastimes. With these Suleiman remained,
as much from disposition to partake in their games, as to render
himself popular among those whom he hoped he might soon lead to battle.
Some had brought their bows and quivers, and ranged among the copses in
pursuit of game. Others, who had armed themselves with clubs, engaged
in a war-dance to the sound of a pipe and tabor; and, as they changed
places in the figures, they kept time to the music with their clubs,
which they struck sometimes on the ground, sometimes against those held
up by their antagonists.
Suleiman was much amused by the feats of a tumbler, who, in another
quarter, gathered a circle to witness his evolutions. The performer
exhibited wonderful agility. He rolled himself up, as it were, in a
mass, exhibiting to the spectator an apparently lifeless trunk, and
permitted himself to fall down the side of an eminence, interspersed
with knolls, which sent him bounding like a ball, from one side to
another, until he reached the bottom of the hill, amidst general shouts
of laughter. But, in the next moment, he was seen as if nothing had
happened, turning himself round like a wheel, or walking on his hands,
or leaping backward on his feet, with all the agility of an antelope.
In a different quarter a group was engaged in wrestling, while others
were displaying their speed in the foot-race, or in heaving a ponderous
stone, or in discharging arrows at a mark, from bows which it required
almost the strength of a giant to bend.
The attention of the stragglers was at noon called to the hunters on
the higher range of the mountain, who shouted with all their might to
their companions below, to be on their guard. Before the signal was
perfectly understood, a tiger rushed by them with an arrow fixed in
his side, towards a jungle which lay at some distance in the valley.
The hunters pursued the animal until they were out of breath, and then
seeing the direction which he took, they determined on surrounding
him, with the assistance of their friends, in order to destroy an
enemy so dangerous to the encampment. The incident seemed to give new
life to the whole party, and especially to Suleiman, who had been well
accustomed to this kind of chase.
Proceeding in small divisions to the heights which commanded the
jungle, they extended their ranks as widely as possible, until they
established the outline of a circle. Then descending at a given signal
in a measured pace, they closed up their ranks more and more, until
they were within bow-shot of the borders of the jungle, when the
javelin-men held their weapons ready for the cast, and the bowmen
fixing their arrows on the notch, stood prepared to discharge them the
moment the tiger came within sight. Those who had clubs, held them
lifted in the air for the same purpose, while the rest armed themselves
with stones or branches of trees. They then set up a tremendous clamour
simultaneously, which they repeated several times without effect.
Suleiman, who had obtained possession of a heavy mace, penetrated the
jungle, and after exploring it as far as he could, reported that there
was no chance of compelling the beast to abandon his lair, unless they
set fire to the tangled brushwood. A fire was produced in a moment, by
rubbing together with great force and rapidity, two pieces of a club,
which was broken for the purpose, and in a few minutes after the whole
jungle was in a blaze. The cloud that rose from the smoking trees,
spread in the atmosphere, where it hung like a canopy, darkening all
the valley, except that portion of it occupied by the hunters, which
was illuminated by the conflagration. Not being able, however, to see
each other distinctly, on account of the volumes of smoke that issued
from the burning wood, they were obliged to keep up a communication,
by calling to each other every moment. Suleiman saw, with the joy of
the warrior, the courage exhibited by these young men, as the flames,
bursting forth here and there, displayed their countenances eager for
the combat, and showed the figures of the bowmen kneeling with their
arrows ready to fly, while javelins, and clubs, and ponderous stones,
were prepared to assist in the common cause.
A rustle in the jungle, then a rush of sparks into the air, shewed, at
length, the path taken in his rage by the tiger. The perpetual shouts
deterred him from quitting the jungle, until the fire approached the
spot where he was couched; he was almost suffocated by the smoke, when
he sprung boldly through the blaze, which scorched him to the bone.
Seeing by the light the fierce line of enemies drawn up against him,
he attempted to return to his former shelter; but a shower of stones,
hurled into the fire, raised such a mass of flame, that he again
galloped back, and stood at the edge of the vast furnace, apparently
bewildered.
Arrow after arrow, javelin after javelin, glanced by the beast, while
he ran up and down to find some means of escape, lashing his back
with his tail, his open mouth covered with foam, his roar resounding
high above the shouts of the hunters. As if blinded by the smoke, he
advanced unconsciously towards the circle; whence he was driven again
back to the jungle by stones and clubs, which fell upon him from all
sides. Still undismayed, he dashed forward once more, resolved to defy
their hostility, when a barbed arrow, directed by Suleiman, entered his
throat, and, by the pain it gave, augmented his fury a hundred-fold.
The circle closed rapidly nearer and nearer to the centre, the fire
still raging, and sending upwards huge volumes of smoke. The brave
animal, collecting all his remaining strength for a final effort,
couched on the earth, his eyes lightening with an unnatural redness,
that was quite terrific. He waited until Suleiman had another arrow
on the notch, when, springing towards him with an enormous bound, he
threw the chieftain prostrate. A hundred clubs instantly descended
on the head and flanks of the infuriated creature, from whose grasp
Suleiman was extricated with some difficulty. A stream of blood, that
bathed the earth all round, at length proclaimed the contest at an end.
The tiger was immediately stripped of his hide, which was presented to
Suleiman, in token of the pre-eminent share he had in the victory; and
the carcase was left as the lawful prey of some vultures, already seen
hovering on the heights above, and flapping their dark wings with joy
over the feast thus provided for their hunger.
The young men, who had assembled together on this occasion, appeared
to be as much transported with the frenzy of victory, as if they had
conquered a host of foes in the field of battle. Inviting Suleiman to
march at their head, they formed into regular array, and moved forward
on their return to the encampment, singing a war-hymn, which they
interrupted frequently by loud cries of exultation or vengeance, as
suggested by the alternations in the song.
As they were ascending the sides of the hill, which overlooked the
jungle, their attention was attracted by several horsemen, who appeared
to be crossing the ridges of the distant hills in various quarters,
but all proceeding towards the same point. When they came near, they
were joyfully recognised as the emissaries who had been dispatched by
Suleiman to the neighbouring chieftains, for assistance in the war
against Mirtas. They seemed to be the bearers of no welcome tidings,
for disappointment was strongly marked on their countenances as they
successively delivered to the chieftain the letters with which they
were respectively charged, in answer to his applications.
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the indignant warrior, glancing over the epistles,
which he threw one by one on the ground; “they have all heard of my
defeat in that unfortunate battle. Here is one who excuses himself,
on the ground that he had disbanded his troops, and that he could not
collect them again before the spring. Another wants arms, and asks
me to send him some to defend his own territory from the formidable
Mirtas. A third enters into an argument to show, that before I could
hope to attack the town of Karaman, I must have at least five thousand
men, and that he had only fifty at his command. A fourth is engaged in
repressing the robbers in his neighbourhood, who have lately carried
away all the cattle belonging to his people. While a fifth is nearly
dead of ague, and unable to stir from home! Thus I have always found
it--in prosperity I never wanted friends in abundance--men eagerly
pressing upon me their services, when I wanted them not; but now, when
they would be truly valuable, I am left alone in the desert! Alone! did
I say? No, no, my comrades; with you I would conquer or die. What say
you?”
“Lead us where and when you will,” they unanimously replied.
“To-night?”
“To-night,” they replied.
“To-night then be it--we shall be the masters of Karaman, before the
sun shall shine again upon its domes, or we shall be with Gulbeg.”
Hastening, as fast as their manly limbs could bear them, to the
encampment, the young men lost no time in proclaiming their
determination to the prince, who, though he might have had the desire,
possessed no power to repress their impetuosity. Collecting their
horses from the pastures, they proceeded to trim the animals with
much care, and to examine their fitness for action, by galloping them
over the plain with their full accoutrements on. The camp was full of
excitement on the occasion; and though the elders and matrons did not
much approve of the abrupt manner in which the expedition had been
resolved upon, nevertheless, they could not help feeling proud of their
tribe, when they saw about three hundred young men, of sinewy frames,
and the most gallant bearing, flying about in every direction, full of
ardour in the cause to which they were pledged, their steeds prancing
in the air, and animated by the sound of the war-trumpet, which had not
for some time summoned them from the flowery fields to the tumult of
action.
Seirami, upon hearing of Suleiman’s sudden determination, felt that it
would be in vain for him to offer any remonstrance against it. This
was one of those occasions on which his master would listen to no
admonitions, and he did not offer them. Lending himself with the best
grace he could, to proceedings adopted without his advice, he prepared
to join the expedition, which, it was arranged, should leave the camp
at sun-set.
CHAPTER IX.
Now the battle’s fought with the iron-spiked club, and as
they close, with the clenched fist, and the din of war
ascendeth to the heavens! They cry, “Pursue! strike! fell
to the ground!” so that a horrid and tumultuous noise is
heard on all sides.
MAHABHARAT.
As evening approached, the warriors, already accoutred for the journey,
might be seen here and there in the retired glens near the encampment,
engaged in soothing the alarm of the maidens, to whom many of them
had been betrothed from infancy. But this scene of affection, and of
renewed vows of constancy, the shrill trumpet speedily disturbed, and
as the shades began to rise in the east, the troop was assembled before
the hut of the prince. He gave them the banner of the tribe, whose
glory in war he bade them to remember; they answered his command by
a hurra! and then, with Suleiman, who was accompanied by Seirami, at
their head, they set out for Karaman. For a few moments the paces of
the horses, as they bounded over the green turf, and the clatter of the
arms of the riders were heard; but the sounds grew fainter and fainter
in the distance, and the moving mass soon ceased altogether to be
discernible through the misty night.
The grief of Kazim, which had been respected by the special desire of
Suleiman, and which had kept him confined to his hut with Mangeli,
prevented both from becoming acquainted with the event which had just
taken place. Nor was it until the next morning, when Kazim went to
return thanks to the prince for the honourable attentions that had been
paid to the remains of his father, that he learned the intelligence.
He was in some degree hurt, that he had not received from Seirami, at
least, some intimation of the plan which had been adopted, but as he
entertained no doubt that Mirtas would be taken by surprise, and that
the affair would be terminated within a few days, he turned all his
thoughts again to Mangeli, who stood in need of his best care.
Day after day passed on, and still no tidings came from Karaman. The
matrons of the tribe began to feel apprehensive of the results of the
expedition, but they still hesitated to give way to any general sense
of alarm, hoping that news would momentarily arrive which might shew
it to be without foundation. A vague rumour on the sixth day found its
way through the encampment, that a most sanguinary engagement had taken
place in the streets of Karaman between the hostile forces, and that
not only Suleiman, but every one of his followers had been slaughtered,
without the exception of even a solitary trooper to bring away the
melancholy tale. The report spread from hut to hut with a thousand
aggravations, but none of those who were questioned about it, not even
of those who related it with the most minute particulars, could say
how or whence it had originated, as no stranger had been seen at the
encampment since the departure of the expedition.
Calamity sometimes casts its shadow before, which, like a supernatural
messenger, carries to the mind unerring intelligence of events that
have either happened at a distance, or are already on the march towards
their fatal accomplishment. The seventh sun had scarcely risen on the
horizon, after the funeral day of Gulbeg, when a horse, fully accoutred
as for the field of battle, without a rider, and with broken rein,
entered the precincts of the camp, running here and there, snorting
and pawing the ground, as if he had some dreadful tale to tell. He
easily permitted himself to be caught, when it was discovered that the
animal had been much gashed on the shoulders by sabre-cuts, that the
saddle was stained with blood, with which his mane was also clotted,
and that, moreover, it was the steed on which Suleiman had been
mounted. The ominous forebodings of the elders thus received a degree
of confirmation that filled the whole tribe with terror. Some were
for sending messengers instantly, in order to ascertain the results,
however dreadful they might be.
The proposition was no sooner made than it was acted upon by three
spirited youths, who had not yet been permitted to try their strength
in battle. Kazim offered to be their guide to Karaman, and horses being
prepared in a few moments, they were already mounting, in the midst of
the crowds that had assembled round them, when an old man, to whom the
wounded steed belonged, rushed into the circle holding up a letter,
which he found under the pommel of the saddle, on removing it from the
heated back of the animal. It was immediately opened by Kazim, but
from being worn away in many places by the friction of the saddle, he
could read it aloud only in fragments. It was in the hand-writing of
Seirami:--
“If this brave steed find his way back to the encampment, he will
indeed be the messenger of woe... never were such days of strife
known before... they were a host, for the three chieftains had joined
their forces, and believing that Suleiman was no more, they were
marching to seize his dominions, when we met them near the gates of
Karaman... in the streets, which ran with torrents of blood... we...
The re-appearance of Suleiman threw the enemy at the onset into
affright... evil spirits they said, flying back to the town, were
come to attack them,... every where the houses were closed: as we
hastened after the fugitives it looked like a city of the dead...
Mirtas slain at his feet... recovering from their terror the second
day, burst forth... from street to street the battle raged for three
days... those valiant youths of the tribe, their deeds are beyond all
praise... not one remains to”--
Kazim’s faltering voice was here interrupted by a general burst of
anguish, which not even the breathless desire of the listening crowd
to hear every particular, could repress. “Oh, my son! my son!” were
the only words to which the matrons could give utterance, as, tearing
their hair, they threw themselves prostrate on the earth, overwhelmed
with grief. Kazim, looking still at the fragments of the letter, could
not resume, though he perceived that it was of the utmost importance
that they should hear the remainder of the communication. Again and
again he motioned to the multitude that he would go on, but the agony
that swelled his heart, when he beheld the mothers of the slaughtered
warriors demanding their surviving children to be brought before
them, that they might count them, and ascertain whether _he_, the
bravest of them all, had indeed gone to the battle, never, never to
return,--appalled his senses, and stifled the language to which he in
vain endeavoured to give articulate sound.
The voice of mourning having at length in some degree subsided, Kazim
was directed to proceed.
“There can be no doubt that in the first instance the enemy will
direct their march towards the encampment.”
“Let them come,” answered the veterans; “we may yet revenge the
butchery of our children!”
“And that from their numbers, all being well armed, flushed with
conquest, and in need of provisions, they will contend with too many
advantages against a pastoral tribe. Fly, therefore, while yet you
can.”...
The remainder of the letter was worn quite away, except a very small
fragment, on which the words “Kazim” and “Hindostan” were legible.
The prince who mixed with the crowd without any emblems of his rank,
to hear the tidings of calamity, which for a moment reduced all the
members of the tribe to the same level, retiring to his tent, called a
council, by which it was resolved, that the encampment should be broken
up, and that they should proceed across the desert.
Kazim, who feared at first that he might have been sacrificed to the
grief or indignation of the tribe, inasmuch as he was the friend of
Suleiman, to whose rashness they justly imputed the calamity which had
befallen so many of their bravest warriors, asked permission from the
prince to return to his home on the Ilamish. But that excellent person,
who was an epitome of all the virtues of the tribe, taking him by the
hand, assured him that he need have no apprehension for his safety.
Nobody thought of blaming the husband of Mangeli, who was a favourite
in every quarter; and as to returning to his defenceless cottage, at
a period when the exasperated troops of Mirtas would probably leave
no part of the country unexplored, and would visit no cultivated
spot without laying it waste, such an idea would be the extreme of
imprudence. “No,” said the good prince; “we have adopted you and yours
for our own; with us you shall remain; of our wealth you shall freely
partake; and our home, wherever we may find it from season to season,
shall be your home too. Put up your hut, my son, like the rest; you
will find a camel of burthen at your door, and a horse of my own for
yourself and Mangeli. Your goats form part already of the common stock.”
The huts having been all speedily taken down, the materials of them
were carefully packed up, together with all the utensils and furniture
which they contained; and in three hours after the command was given,
the tribe was on the march towards the vast desert, which spreads
many days’ journey to the west as well as to the south of Arjun. The
enemy, it was thought, would hardly venture in pursuit of them into the
waste, if in want of provisions; and at all events, in those immense
solitudes upon whose arid surface the hoof of the horse or the camel
made no impression, it would be difficult to trace the footsteps of the
fugitives.
Very different was now the appearance of the cavalcade from what it was
when the pastoral nation first met the eyes of Kazim. They moved on
necessarily at a slow pace, as their herds of sheep and other animals,
which brought up the rear, were of essential importance for the supply
of food. But the brave warriors, lately the pride of the people to
whom they belonged, were missed from a scene usually remarkable for
splendour and gaiety. The tones of mirth were changed into lamentation,
and the procession seemed like a funeral train, engaged in performing
the last obsequies of some departed chieftain.
After journeying over the desert for three weeks, without perceiving
any token of pursuit on the part of the enemy, the fugitives had at
length the consolation to observe the weather setting in with more than
ordinary severity. The snow began to fall by the time they crossed the
mountains on the borders of Astracan, when finding an extensive and
well-watered valley, completely sheltered from the cold winds of the
north, they resolved on sojourning there at least until the winter was
over.
For several days the snow continued to descend so thickly, that it
darkened the air, wrapping the mountains and the plains in one general
mantle, and investing the trunks and branches of the trees that were
scattered here and there, with its fleecy covering. In the early part
of the morning the huts were not to be distinguished from the hillocks,
which the snow, drifted by the winds, had raised in different parts of
the valley. But after the fires were kindled, and the smoke had curled
from the tops of the huts to mingle with the clouds on the mountains,
the black roofs and sides of those pastoral habitations became quickly
discernible. The weather necessarily prevented their inmates for some
time from all out-door amusements; but their days, nevertheless, seldom
appeared to hang heavily upon their hands. When the usual meals were
over, chess and cards and dice, the song and the dance were resumed.
When the mountain torrents were at length suspended in their course
by the frost, and the trees were ornamented as if by genii, in the
beautiful filagree icicles, which afforded an assurance that the red
deer might be followed over the ridges of the mountains without any
danger of sinking in the snow, the hunters were out with their poles
bounding from height to height, with an agility that rivalled the
fleetness of the animal of which they were in pursuit.
For Kazim, however, none of these amusements possessed any great
attraction. Though he could not well avoid joining the many social
circles formed in the camp throughout the long winter nights,
nevertheless his thoughts were far away from those scenes, communing
with higher spirits. The game of chess, which he now learned for the
first time, had more charms for his mind than any other pastime; it
engrossed his attention, and set the intellect at work. But when the
excitement of the hour was over, he reverted to his recollections of
the books he had read, and even sometimes prevailed upon his associates
to listen to the verses of Asefi, which he recited with the most
engaging gracefulness.
From poetry Kazim sometimes changed the theme to history, especially
to that of the empires of Persia and Hindostan, of which he appeared
to have made himself complete master. He related how Timur, setting
out from Samarcand with a million of troops, advanced along the vast
plains of Bactria, and climbed the Himalas, though opposed by the
native tribes of those rugged and lofty mountains at every step. The
difficulties of the ascent were often less than those that opposed his
downward progress, for the steep precipices, or rather mural ramparts,
which lay in the line of his march, offered no means of descent.
Under these circumstances, that brave commander ordered himself to be
let down by ropes; and in this manner he and his followers, together
with their horses, were enabled, after incredible toils, to behold at
length, stretching at their feet, the fertile fields of Hindostan.
Kazim shuddered while he described the sanguinary battles, by means
of which Timur established his throne at Delhi, with a degree of
imperial splendour unknown before his time. The adventures of his
grandson, Baber, the knight-errant of the East, had peculiar charms
for the youths of the tribe. One day, in the possession of absolute
power, and clothed in all the sumptuousness of unbounded luxury,
the next he was rendered an outcast and a mendicant by the changing
fortunes of war. After tasting for a season of adversity in all its
most painful forms, he was again raised to sovereign power, which
he graced by his intellectual accomplishments. The feeble reign
of Humaioon that followed, was, in a great measure, redeemed from
oblivion by the patronage which that prince, though somewhat fantastic
in his taste, bestowed on letters and the sciences, especially the
science of astronomy. But his son Acbar, who had ascended the throne
of India at the age of thirteen,[1] and who was now the reigning
prince, seemed, from all that Kazim had heard of him at Samarcand,
to have already acquired a fame, both in the field and the council,
which promised to outshine all his predecessors. From the exploits he
had already performed, having reduced nearly the whole of India under
his power, it was conjectured that he would soon add even Persia to
his already magnificent empire. Rumour had spoken much of his wise
minister Abul Fazeel, to whose councils, it was said, he was indebted
for the retention of the conquests he had made. It was the province of
that distinguished person, to heal the wounds inflicted on the mass
of the people by war. Wherever the arms of Acbar had carried terror
and devastation, Fazeel followed in the bloody footsteps of his
imperial master, like a benevolent genius, redressing, as far as it was
possible, the complaints of the injured, and substituting for disorder
and contention the blessings of organization and peace.
[1] In the year 1556.
Sometimes, if the night were favourable for his purpose, Kazim induced
the young men, who often crowded to his hut, to ascend the nearest
height, whence he bade them watch the countless orbs of fire which
glowed in the azure firmament. They expected that he would read in that
splendid page the destinies of their nation, and importuned him to
impart to them that species of knowledge which the stars can teach. He
told them of the difference that existed between the planets, which,
like the earth, moved round the sun, and the spheres which apparently
had no motion. So far they understood his explanations. But they began
to look upon him as a magician, when he added, that the congregation of
lights which they beheld crowded together in the sky, were absolutely
as nothing compared with the multitudes hidden from their gaze in the
remoter oceans of space, and that, nevertheless, each of these orbs was
a sun in itself, attended by worlds of its own peopled by every order
of created being; and that the whole, instead of being stationary, as
they seemed, were moving, together with our sun and its system, round
the centre of the universe, where the Great Spirit reigned in a region
of glory, that knew not beginning or end, day or night, winter or
summer.
CHAPTER X.
Ye Heavens, for this in showers of sweetness shed
Your mildest influence o’er her favoured head!
Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise,
Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays.
SOLIMA.
Although Kazim was generally respected throughout the tribe, of which
he now formed a member, for his personal character and his great
acquirements, yet he could not conceal from himself, during the
solitary rambles in which he frequently indulged among the mountains,
that this was not precisely the kind of existence he had prefigured
for himself at Samarcand. Of the ordinary necessaries and conveniences
of life he enjoyed a sufficiency, and there were even those among the
tribe whom he might look upon in the light of friends. But their
intellect did not commune with his. There was no person near him with
whom he could converse, upon equal terms, on any subject derived from
history, science, or even popular poetry or fable. The habits of a
wandering nation, whether warlike or pastoral, were such as he felt
could never be congenial to his tastes. He had no pleasure in assisting
to water the herds, or in preparing the materials of the huts, or in
going through the domestic occupations which every new day brought with
it. The sports afforded to others by the mountain, the plain, or the
jungle, were to him so many occasions for toil, from which he derived
no gratification.
Mangeli was, indeed, in herself, a little world, to which his busy
thoughts and stirring aspirations frequently fled for repose. When he
beheld her engaged in the duties of her simple household, and read
in her lighted smiles the pleasure which she felt in rendering their
humble home orderly, because it was shared with him, he yielded to the
rush of delightful sensations that thrilled his whole frame. But when
he remembered that he would soon have to provide for more than Mangeli,
and that his present means or prospects afforded no hope that their
offspring would ever be raised above the grade of mere shepherds, he
blushed with shame at the degradation which he had, however innocently,
brought upon the once noble and distinguished race of Ayas. His
thoughts upon this delicate point were by no means hidden from the
partner of his life and fate, who, without any other instruction than
that which he himself and affection had given her, was enabled to read
upon his brow the sentiments that were passing through his mind, even
where they did not break out into expression. No commentary, however,
that could wound his feelings ever escaped her lips on those occasions.
She was contented with her lot, such as it was; but, at the same time,
she never failed to assure Kazim that wherever he was, she should be
equally happy. She could live with him in their hut, wherever it might
be raised from time to time; or she could wander with him over the
desert or the mountain, should it be his wish to try his fortunes in
those distant countries, of which he had so often made mention.
One day, when Kazim happened to extend his mountain rambles beyond
their ordinary distance, he was surprised, on looking towards the
south, to behold an enormous ridge of snow shining in the sun, above
the clouds, in which, at that season of the year, the Himalas were
usually concealed from view. While he was gazing upon the sublime
spectacle, his attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of a voice
quite near him; when, turning round, he beheld a dervish resting on a
long staff, which he held with both his hands.
“I have been anxiously in search of you, Kazim Ayas,” said the
stranger, “since your fortunate escape from Karaman. You won my
admiration at Samarcand. There you were the master of the whole circle
of knowledge, and what are you here? I followed you to Arjun--I
followed you to the obscure cottage in which you buried yourself on
the banks of the Ilamish--I followed you to Karaman; and where do
I at length find you? Among a tribe no better than the sheep, from
which they derive their subsistence! For shame, Ayas! one of your
Tartar race--you, who might restore your house to more than its former
splendour by your talents--to waste away the most precious years of
your existence among these inglorious hills! To Hindostan, I say, the
moment the snows are gone. Behold the Himalas, which lift their heads
above the clouds. Be their ambition yours; and, like them, the sun of
glory shall yet shine upon your brow! To Hindostan, I say, when the
snows are gone!”
Kazim, overcome with surprise, in consequence not less of the words
addressed to him, than of the manner of the stranger, whom he
remembered to have seen somewhere before, stood petrified before the
dervish, doubting whether the vision was not supernatural. Nor was
this feeling at all diminished, when, on removing his hand from his
eyes, on which he had pressed it for a moment, as if to recall his
wandering thoughts, he saw nobody near him, nor even the trace of a
footstep on the spot where the dervish had stood. He called out in
an agitated voice, repeatedly, but he received no answer, except the
faint echo of his own exclamation. The incident astonished him, the
more he thought of it. He ran here and there among the snow-crowned
crags, and looked down the precipices, and at each side of the ridges,
but nowhere could he discover the least symptom of the stranger. He
remained on the mountain, still expecting the return of the dervish,
until the approach of night warned him that it was time to terminate
his excursion.
When Kazim informed Mangeli of his adventure, she playfully looked into
his eyes, and in her simple and bewitching way asked him, if he had not
fallen asleep on the hills, and dreamt what he had told her? When he
endeavoured to assure her of the contrary, and described his interview
with the stranger, as well as the very tone of voice in which the
mysterious words were uttered, she still declared herself incredulous.
At the same time she added, that she well knew he could never be
contented to pursue the kind of life in which he was now detained;
and that, if at the breaking up of the winter, he resolved to abandon
the tribe, she would be prepared to go with him even to Hindostan,
through every difficulty and danger. Kazim was almost angry that he
could not induce Mangeli to believe the story which he had related,
extraordinary though it was; but the more he reflected on it, the more
he was induced to waver about the certainty which he had felt at first;
and eventually, he was inclined with her to suspect that the dervish
was the creation of his own fancy, heated by much meditation on the
circumstances in which he was placed. Whether it was a reality or a
vision, however, such was the impression it made upon his mind, that
the pastoral manners and occupations of the friendly tribe appeared to
him, after that day, more monotonous than ever, and he resolved, at
all events, to effect a change in the present obscure routine of his
existence.
The long winter of those regions at length approached its term.
Suddenly the zephyrs of the spring came from the groves where they had
hitherto been sleeping. The icicles that depended from the precipices,
over which the torrents had formerly dashed in their course, as well as
the snowy mantle so long spread over the hills and plains, disappeared
at once, as if by the command of a magician. A rich carpet of green
herbage every where met the eye, interspersed with the snow-drop, the
gay crocus, the modest primrose, the cowslip, and a thousand wild
flowers, which seemed to rejoice in the cheering rays of the sun.
The mares and their young galloped over the soft turf, wild with
renovated joy. The lambs that were newly born, frisked about, calling
occasionally to their dams in a tumult of merry sounds, and running
races with each other down the declivities of the hills on which they
were at pasture. Nature dressed herself out as for a holiday; the trees
were filled with birds that made the air resound with their music,
and even the floods that rushed from the heights, subdued their usual
uproar into an enchanting murmur.
Kazim hoped that the tribe would now think of changing their abode, and
that he might, during the general movement, easily separate himself
from them, without informing the kind prince of his intentions. He
could give no cause to that worthy ruler of an innocent people for
the resolution which he had adopted; he felt that even the mention
of such an idea would be received with surprise and regret, if not
even with anger, by every one of his new friends; and as he really
had no excuse to offer for his conduct, which could appear to them
in the least degree reasonable, considering the unambitious habits
in which they had all been brought up; he convinced himself that his
best plan would be not to consult them on the subject. But the spring
came without suggesting any desire on their part to change their
temporary residence. The pasturage around them was excellent, as well
as abundant; and until it was exhausted, it seemed that they would be
disinclined to further emigration. Kazim therefore determined to make
immediate preparations for his expedition, but with as much secresy as
possible.
Selecting an intensely dark night for his purpose, he put together the
few articles of value which had been presented to him from time to
time, by the prince and other members of the tribe, and placing the
package on his camel, he led the animal cautiously beyond the precincts
of the camp, Mangeli walking with him hand in hand. His horse he left
behind, justly apprehending that it would be rather an incumbrance
than an auxiliary to them in crossing the vast solitudes which lay
between Astracan and the frontiers of India. Then lifting Mangeli to
her seat on the back of the camel, he walked by her side, assisting
her to retain her position until she was in some measure accustomed to
it. Pursuing their way through the outskirts of the camp without any
clue to guide them, they had the satisfaction to find themselves soon
ascending the mountains by which it was surrounded; and as the day
dawned, they faintly descried the huts of their late friends through
the mists which still floated over the valley. They looked back more
than once upon those habitations with feelings of regret, remembering
the hospitality and affection with which they had been uniformly
treated by every individual of the tribe. A ridge of the mountain at
length shut out the camp from their view, and the sun rising gloriously
in a cloudless sky, enabled Kazim to shape his course towards the town
of Arcan, where he hoped to exchange for money the few Persian shawls
and trinkets of which he was possessed.
Mangeli, though less fatigued by her first day’s journey than she
expected she should be, saw with pleasure towards evening the domes
of Arcan shining in the distance. Here they took up their abode for
the night in the public caravanserai, where Kazim had great difficulty
in selling his small merchandize to some Armenians, whom he met there
on their return from Bokhara to Astracan. When he looked at the fund
with which he was thus furnished, and compared it with the long route
which they still had to traverse before they could reach Lahore, he
felt as if he had been already thrown on the wide ocean of the world,
without a single friendly star to light his way. He had not the courage
to communicate to Mangeli, the inadequacy of the store with which they
had already commenced their expedition. Recommending himself and his
beloved wife to Providence, he led forth his camel with its precious
burthen from Arcan the following morning.
The adventurous pair continued thus to travel constantly from day to
day, stopping during the night at such towns or villages as they met
with in their line of journey, until at length Mangeli was attacked
by a violent fever, which for a while threatened to put an end to
their enterprize altogether. This unfortunate event, besides delaying
them far beyond the time when they had calculated on reaching India,
exhausted the slender means with which they had been provided. They had
now parted with every thing they possessed, except the camel and the
shawl in which the sacred relics of their father had been wrapped. The
former Kazim was at length obliged to exchange for a wretched horse,
in order to discharge the debts which he had contracted during the
illness of Mangeli; and had it not been for the charity of some good
villagers who dwelt on the borders of the great desert, they would have
perished of hunger before they entered on that perilous portion of
their journey.
CHAPTER XI.
We ought to love the griefs that come,
For they’re like clouds from heaven to throw
More radiance round the setting sun,
More splendour o’er his dying glow.
MOSULNA.
Kazim could scarcely avoid reproaching himself with extreme imprudence,
when, towards the close of his first day’s progress in the desert, he
took down Mangeli in his arms from the back of the half-starved and
jaded animal, on which she had been unavoidably riding for many hours
without intermission. He produced a store of sour milk, which he had
obtained from the good villagers; but when he offered it to Mangeli,
he thought in vain of the gushing and transparent streams which they
had left behind them, amidst the mountains of Astracan. She drank the
beverage with a cheerfulness which, notwithstanding her late illness,
and the many mortifications they had already endured, still remained
undiminished. But when Kazim looked upon the sun descending into the
bosom of the boundless waste around them, and beheld, as far as the eye
could reach, not the slightest trace of a human habitation of any sort,
he almost wished that the earth would open, and receiving them into its
most gloomy cavern, close upon them for ever.
With the night came the cold wind of the desert, often fatal even to
those who are best prepared to resist it. Kazim and Mangeli lay down
beside the poor animal that was destined to participate in all their
privations. His body protected them, in some degree, from the piercing
wind which blew over the plains with a wailing sound. The firmament
was crowded with its wonted fires, but Kazim no longer looked at them
with the interest which they had never before failed to kindle in
his breast. Mangeli and her approaching fears now absorbed his every
thought, and as she lay trembling beside him on the bare ground, he
called out, in the agony of his heart, to Allah, to protect her through
the trials she had still to encounter. But the freezing gale swept
along the desert, in howling blasts, like the voice of some enormous
beast of prey tracking them for destruction; nor did it cease to renew
its loud and lengthened roar, until the sun re-appeared on the horizon.
Warmed by its welcome rays, Kazim and Mangeli enjoyed some hours of
feverish slumber, while their less unhappy companion browsed upon some
tufts of half-parched herbage, which he found scattered on the surface
of the steppe.
When they awoke, Kazim spoke of returning to the village which they
had last left, on the borders of the desert; but Mangeli said, that
she felt much better, and as their provisions were still sufficient
for at least three or four days, by which time they were informed
that they should certainly meet with several caravans from Thibet and
Turkestan, she thought it better that they should go on, as they had
already advanced so far on their journey. Kazim reluctantly yielded
to this kind of reasoning, and they resumed their slow and melancholy
march over the plains, without meeting a single traveller, or even an
animated creature of any description, for several days in succession.
The unbounded appearance of the desert was in itself appalling; but
Kazim had no expression for the despair that brooded upon his heart,
while he was thus penetrating through a region of silence, interrupted
only by the night-winds, whose dismal tones he preferred, with all
their terrors, to the unearthly stillness of the long day in those
endless solitudes.
They had now seen the tenth sun go down upon the still expanded
waste, and no caravan had yet appeared. Their provisions were already
exhausted, when the poor animal, which still continued to bear Mangeli,
being also without food, sank upon the earth, unable to proceed any
farther. The shock brought on her pains somewhat prematurely; and in
this condition, on the naked barren sand, without shelter, without
sustenance, without even a cup of water to moisten her parched lips,
did the hapless wife of Kazim become the mother of a female infant.
Kazim wrung his hands with anguish, when he beheld his first-born thus
come into the world, without his possessing any thing to wrap it in,
save the ragged turban which he tore off his head. The babe uttered
no cry. It seemed too attenuated and feeble to live; indeed it seemed
already dead, for its tiny breathing was scarcely perceptible to its
distracted parent.
Mangeli lay insensible for several hours, while Kazim, fearful of
quitting her side for a moment, sat near her, waiting for the approach
of that death from which he now saw no expectation of release. When,
at length, she opened her once beauteous eyes, she rose up and asked
Kazim for her infant, with an energy that quite surprised him. It was
the strength of delirium; for when he placed her babe in her arms, she
seemed still unconscious of its presence, and demanded, in a voice of
lamentation that almost broke his heart, why he took away from her
the only solace that she now had in the world? Suddenly, as the child
nestled closely to her breast, where it sought in vain for its natural
nutriment, the senses of the mother returned, and betrayed to her the
whole extent of her misery.
Here it was impossible, at all events, that they could remain any
longer. No change of place could bring destruction with more certainty,
than the scene to which they were now confined. Summoning, therefore,
whatever strength he could still command, Kazim urged the prostrate
animal to rise; and the creature, as if he felt that some effort upon
his part was necessary, even to his own safety, submitted quietly,
while Mangeli once more placed upon his back, moved forward with some
appearance of renovated ability. Mangeli was too weak to bear the
infant in her arms, but Kazim, though scarcely stronger than his wife,
assured her that he could carry it while he walked by her side.
The unhappy family had been little more than an hour from their last
memorable resting-place, when Kazim, who was eagerly looking all round
the horizon, cried out that he saw a horseman in the distance, who
must, no doubt, be the precursor of one of the long expected caravans.
Laying the babe upon the earth, he ran towards the object which was
moving rapidly across the desert; he shouted with all his might, and
waved his hand over his head, still running, until he fell, utterly
overcome by the exertion which he had made. But the horseman, if such
it was, passed out of sight; and instead of that friendly spectacle,
Kazim, when he returned to himself, beheld perched near him on the
ground, an immense vulture, which, glaring upon him with its piercing
eyes, already seemed to claim him for its prey.
Had the vulture attacked him, he could not, at that moment, have
resisted it. He looked at the ill-omened bird, as it hopped around him,
with the feeling of a person oppressed in sleep by the night-mare.
There was a load upon his senses that kept him fixed to the earth,
and prevented him from throwing at the foul creature the sand which
he instinctively grasped in his hand for the purpose. Still it hopped
round and round, the slaver falling from its beak, as it feasted by
anticipation on a new victim. The approach of Mangeli, however, who
impelled her wearied steed to its last effort, put the vulture to
flight, but not to any great distance; for he now directed his course
towards the infant, which he perceived hard by. The vigour wanted by
Kazim for his own protection he found at once, when he beheld the
danger to which his offspring was exposed. Running towards the spot,
with the fleetness of an arrow, he snatched up the child with one
hand, while with the other he hurled against the ravenous intruder
some dried bones of man or beast, which he picked up on the way. From
one of these the vulture received such a blow on the head that he fled
screaming over the desert.
The horror occasioned by this incident, soon yielded to a sense of
overwhelming joy; when, after advancing for another hour or two, they
beheld, at a considerable distance, an extensive lake, upon which
vessels laden with dates and melons, grapes, oranges, and every kind of
delicious fruit, were seen in great numbers crossing and re-crossing
the surface of the waters in all directions. Islands, whose verdure was
peculiarly grateful to eyes so long dazzled by the glare of the sun on
the sand of the desert, were scattered over the lake in picturesque
groups, intersected by streams which shone like veins of silver, and
abounding with trees whose spreading branches promised a refreshing
shade. A boat, rowed by two men, put off from the principal island as
soon as the travellers were in sight, and approached the margin of the
waters for their especial accommodation.
There was already a freshness in the atmosphere, which gave new life
even to the animal that had hitherto borne Mangeli with faltering
steps, and urged him to hasten towards the lake with a rapidity which
Kazim in vain endeavoured to rival. But the greater the expedition they
used, the farther the islands, as well as the surrounding element,
receded from the view of the wearied pilgrims. During the whole day
they pursued the fleeting vision, until at length it faded, on the
approach of evening, altogether from their sight, leaving them in a
state of helplessness for which they now gave up all hope of finding
any remedy. Kazim, unable to bear the little burthen in his arms any
longer, resigned the task to Mangeli, who, sitting on the ground,
received her child with that vacant smile which denotes the return of
delirium. Her hands trembled violently, while she endeavoured to clasp
the infant to her bosom; but they fell powerless by her side, as she
swooned away in the effort, overcome by fatigue, and reduced to the
last stage of famine.
Kazim had a dim recollection, that in their haste towards the imaginary
lake they had passed a palm-tree. Returning some hundred paces, he
perceived the companion of their journey busily engaged in browsing on
the leaves and tender branches of some shrubs, near which the palm-tree
grew bearing a few dates still unripe. He plucked them in a moment,
and bringing them to Mangeli, moistened her lips with the juice of
the fruit, while he contented himself by chewing some leaves which
he had torn from the shrubs. The liquid, such as it was, revived her
for a moment, but she again relapsed into a state of insensibility
resembling death. The poor infant lay upon her knees, exposed to all
the dangers of the night. Kazim contrived to make a bed for it among
branches of the palm, which he gathered for the purpose, and placing
the babe at the foot of the tree, covered it, as well as he could,
from the inclemency of the cold blast, which had already commenced its
melancholy murmur.
When Kazim told Mangeli in the morning what he had done, he added, that
as they had no hope of finding sustenance for the babe, it would be
better to leave it in the desert than attempt to carry it any farther.
His own strength was quite gone, and, above all, he felt apprehensions
which he dared not reveal, that if another day or two passed over
without their meeting with any food, temptations of the most dreadful
description might be irresistible to both of them. Mangeli understood
her husband at once, and nodding her head in apparent acquiescence,
desired to depart without a moment’s delay. When she was seated on the
horse, she expressed a wish, however, to be led towards the palm-tree,
that she might at least once more behold the spot destined to be the
grave of her infant. She looked at the tree with silent grief for a
few minutes, and then permitting Kazim to turn the head of the animal
round, she proceeded on her journey, still keeping her eyes reverted on
the palm. When that beacon began to lessen by degrees, and at length
to escape altogether from her sight, the voice of nature resumed its
power over the heart of the agonized mother:--“My child! my child!”
she exclaimed, “give me my child, or let me perish by her side!”
Throwing herself from the horse, she attempted to run towards the
palm-tree, but she fell upon the earth, unable to move a single pace.
The prudent fears of Kazim gave way at once before the entreaties of
Mangeli, as well as to his own paternal impulses, and telling her that
he would in a moment gratify her wishes, let the consequences be what
they might, he hastened towards the tree near which the infant was
laid. But while he was removing the palm-branches, in which he had
enveloped it, he was struck with horror on perceiving a black snake, of
enormous dimensions, coiled round the child, and hissing with all its
fury, enraged at being disturbed in its preparations for devouring the
banquet it had found.
Kazim, seeing the danger to which his child was exposed, grasped the
neck of the snake in his hand with a convulsive effort, and placing it
under his foot, pressed it to the earth, while the venom flowed from
its fangs covered with foam. Then untwisting the loathsome bands in
which the babe had been folded, he took it up in his arms, and leaving
the snake to its fate, returned to Mangeli, who had witnessed the
result of the contest with a feeling of joy that appeared to give her
new life.
While the parents were examining their infant, in order to assure
themselves that the snake had done it no injury, a group of horsemen
galloped towards them, who saw, from their appearance, that they were
in a condition of the most deplorable misery. The strangers, alighting
from their steeds, produced from the wallets which were attached to
their saddles, an abundance of delicious dates and figs, together with
clusters of half-dried grapes of Ghazni, the best which are yielded
by the vineyards of Asia. Their caravan, they said, which was coming
from Ferghana, bound for Kabul, would soon be in sight, and the unhappy
travellers might expect every assistance it could afford.
CHAPTER XII.
See yon fair groves that o’er Amana rise,
And with their spicy breath embalm the skies;
Where every breeze sheds incense o’er the vales,
And every shrub the scent of musk exhales!
See through yon opening glade a glittering scene,
Lawns ever gay, and meadows ever green.
SOLIMA.
Kazim had the inexpressible pleasure to see Mangeli look once more like
herself, when, refreshed by the food she had taken, she busied herself
about her infant, whom she was feeding with some mare’s milk, which
the kind strangers had given her. Towards noon, the great body of the
caravan appeared in sight, followed by an immense number of horses,
destined to be exchanged at Kabul for the cloths the sugars, the drugs
and spices of Hindostan. As soon as the principal members of the
caravan learned the sad intelligence which the horsemen told concerning
the wanderers, who had nearly fallen victims to famine in the desert,
a tent was pitched, in which rich carpets were spread, and assigned
immediately to the use of Mangeli. A skilful female slave was also
appointed to attend her, who administered to her such medicinal care as
her situation required. The great body of the caravan moved forward,
after having rested during the heat of the day; but a small party was
ordered to remain behind, until Mangeli was in a condition to travel
without pain or inconvenience.
In the course of a few days the young mother, invigorated by the
hospitable care with which she was treated, found herself in a
situation to afford her child an abundance of the nutriment most
suitable to its tender age. The opening smiles of the infant began
already to recompense her for the dreadful sufferings she had
undergone; and when she joined the caravan, seated on her own quiet
palfrey, which had also profited not a little by the change that had
taken place, with the babe asleep on her bosom, and her husband riding
a beautiful steed of Ferghana by her side, she felt as if their
journey were already at an end; at least, that its toils and dangers
were now over.
The desert was already passed, and the mountains of Kabul at length
appeared on the horizon, like a lofty mural boundary stretching across
the country from east to west. It seemed at first, as if no access
could be found which would enable the traveller to ascend those
heights, whose summits were lost in the clouds. But as they approached
nearer to the mountains, and began gradually to climb the rising
grounds, they found the formidable barrier breaking up into green
hills, affording pleasant paths that conducted them by easy winding
courses, with perfect safety, from the lower to the higher regions.
Waters falling from the rocks sparkled on the eye, and cheered the mind
by their music. The spirit of freedom breathed in the air around, and
filled the heart with extacy, while from numerous copses broke forth
the song of a thousand birds, whose varied notes formed an enchanting
contrast with the awful silence of the desert.
It was the season when the citron-trees were in bloom, and the orange
had already begun to look yellow through the green leaves by which it
was sheltered from the scorching beams of the sun. The apple-trees had
also put forth their ruddy and snow-white blossoms, which were mingled
in beautiful profusion with those of the almond, the pomegranate and
the peach. The declivities were every where decked with flowers,
amongst which the tulip reared its graceful chalice, streaked with
green and gold, while the purple convolvolus spread in elegant festoons
from precipice to precipice. The Indian pink, the red and yellow rose,
the sweet-briar, and the jasmine gave all their variety and fragrance
to the scene, while the peacock displayed his azure neck, and unfolded
his magnificent plumage, the flying squirrel went through his merry
anticks, the green parrot chattered, the turtle-dove cooed, and the
nightingale poured forth her melodies among the groves which crowned
the adjacent heights.
As the caravan wound up the sides of the mountain, a caution was
given to the whole body to keep close together, they being now on
the borders of Kaferistan, a savage tract of territory, inhabited by
tribes who have for many ages existed principally by plunder. Hiding
in the recesses of their native rocks, they rush down suddenly on the
defenceless traveller, from heights which he might deem only the abode
of the eagle. Not content with robbing their victim of his merchandize,
they deprive him even of his apparel, and afterwards tie him to the
nearest tree, where they leave his bones to be bleached by the sun and
the winds. Caravans they attack with more systematic preparation. They
wait until the train involves itself among the most difficult passes of
the mountains, or is obliged to halt during the night before the passes
are entered. In the former case, they easily throw the whole line into
confusion, by rolling immense rocks down upon the narrow defile: in the
latter, they arm themselves with burning branches of the pine-tree,
by which they are not only easily distinguishable from the party they
assail, but which they use in addition to their double-edged axes, as
weapons of the most formidable nature, setting fire to the tents, and
affrighting the horses and other animals which fly for refuge to the
heights, where confederates are stationed for the purpose of capturing
all the prey they can find.
Upon the approach of night, therefore, orders were given for pitching
the tents of the caravan on a declivity of the mountain, as near to
each other as the nature of the ground permitted. The horses were
collected together near the tents, and sentinels were established at
some distance round the encampment, whose duty it was to give the
signal of alarm, should they discover any movement on the heights
above. The horses of Ferghana, which always found a high price and a
ready market at Kabul, were particularly coveted by the Kafirs; and
a caravan from that district seldom crossed these mountains without
sustaining great loss--never without molestation.
Kazim’s recent experience in war, such as it was, gave his counsels
some weight during the discussion of the different plans which were
proposed for defending the caravan from the banditti. He suggested,
that instead of waiting for their approach, measures should be
adopted for attacking them before they could reach the camp, in case
they should make their appearance; and under his superintendence
arrangements were made, for the execution of which the nature of the
country afforded peculiar facilities.
Towards midnight, a sentinel brought in word that he had just seen a
light, which he had at first mistaken for a star, moving rapidly near
the summit of the mountain. Kazim immediately divided his little troop
into two parties, one of which he stationed in front of the camp,
the other he led up to a group of plane-trees, where he directed his
followers to procure the most shady branches they could find, and such
as they could, at the same time, carry in one hand, without preventing
the other from wielding the sabre. They had scarcely armed themselves
with these rude shields, when the lights began to thicken on the
mountain top, and all the sentinels returned from their posts, assured
that the robbers were in motion.
By and by a stream of light descended the mountain, in a zig-zag
course, now broken by intervening rocks, now hidden by the forests
through which it partially gleamed, and now entering a ravine, where
it seemed lost for a while in total darkness, save that a slight
reflection in the sky still marked its course. At length, gathering
together in a dense mass, like the torrent flood before it precipitates
itself over the ledge of rock whence it falls in a sheet into the
foaming abyss below, the whole appeared as one body of flame, rushing
directly from the heights right upon the encampment.
Kazim’s party separated into small groups on either side of the path
by which the outlaws descended, and holding the plane-branches before
them, knelt down on one knee, prepared for action, should they be
prematurely discovered. But the Kafirs passed through the columns,
without suspecting that they left aught save shrubs behind them. As
their torches already began to gleam before the tents, and to shew
the multitude of horses in the lower ground, they leaped forward with
an exulting shout, which shewed that they were much intoxicated with
wine. They were, however, instantly precipitated upon a steady line,
bristling with spears, which proved fatal to their front ranks. Those
who were behind, seeing the fate of their companions, turned backwards
for flight, when, to their amazement, they found the woods closing upon
them on all sides. They stood horror-struck at the spectacle, their
torches singled them out as they fled here and there, from what they
deemed a supernatural enemy; they fell almost before they were sabred,
for cruelty and fear, guilt and superstition, always lodge together
in the same breast. When the morning dawned on that mountainside, it
displayed a scene of retribution, such as the borders of Kaferistan had
never exhibited before. The dead, each of whom had a leathern bottle of
wine tied round his neck, were deposited in a hollow space, over which
a pile of stones was raised, in order to warn future travellers of the
dangers which the caravan had encountered, and to exemplify the effect
of meeting such perils with the courage of men, rather than evade them
by a base and criminal compromise.
The honours of the achievement were principally attributed to Kazim,
who, however, modestly declined ascribing them to any merit of his
own. They were due only to Allah, under whose protection the valour
of the Ferghanese, and the justice of their cause, received their due
reward. But his new friends, desirous of expressing their gratitude
for his services, upon which they set a high value, assigned him as a
recompense fifty of the best steeds which their herd afforded. These
he might exchange at Kabul for money, or any other merchandize more
suitable to his purposes. As he was destined for Lahore, which was
still at a considerable distance, they hoped that the little wealth he
might thus obtain, would enable him to perform the remainder of his
journey with greater ease both to himself and Mangeli.
The caravan arrived in a few days after, without any further
interruption, at Kabul, with whose appearance and situation Kazim was
delighted. Ascending its lofty citadel he beheld the town, surrounded
on all sides with extensive gardens, watered by streams directed
through aqueducts from the distant hills. To the south stretched the
beautiful lake of Kheirabad, animated by numbers of small boats in
which groups of persons were amusing themselves by fishing, while
others sauntered through green fields, stretching as far as the eye
could reach, decorated by clusters of trees, and by fountains, whose
waters sparkled in the sun. This fair scene, the usual resort of the
people of Kabul on all holidays, contrasted strongly with the rude
aspect of the mountains to the north and the east, which looked like
a dreary waste: realizing, in every respect, the description of the
Persian poet, who said of Kabul, that “it is at once a mountain and a
sea, a town and a desert.”
Kabul was remarkably gay at this time, as it happened that the caravans
from Ferghana, Turkestan, Bokhara, Samarcand, and several parts of
Hindostan, met together in the marketplace, where bazaars were erected
for the manufactures and produce of the different nations. Here were
seen rows of white slaves from India, piles of cotton cloth, heaps of
sugar-candy, common sugar, spices, and drugs; in another bazaar, gold
and silver trinkets, beautifully wrought chains from Ceylon, diamonds,
amethysts, emeralds, and precious stones of every description, were
displayed for sale in their most tempting forms. Farther on, the
carpets of Turkey, the sabres of Damascus, the coarse and fine cloths
of Irak, and the rich shawls of Persia met the eye; while in all the
open spaces in and near the town, men skilled in the art of displaying
the excellences of the Ferghanese horse in all its points, were seen
riding up and down before the dealers from all quarters of Hindostan,
Persia, and Turkey, who bargained for the best animals they could find.
The market of native produce exhibited a magnificent display of the
fruits of the cold and warm districts, which are within a few hours’
march of each other, among the Kabul mountains. Those in the former
region send thither their walnuts, cherries, damsons, quinces, grapes,
peaches, apricots, and pomegranates; while the latter were represented
by the sugar-cane, the orange, the citron, the ambek, and the honeycomb
teeming with its fragrant liquid. The bazaars abounded also in Kabul
wine of the most delicious flavour, which too often induced the Turkish
and Persian merchants to forget the salutary precepts of the Koran.
CHAPTER XIII.
Now morning breathed: the scented air was mild,
Each meadow blossomed, and each valley smiled;
On every shrub the pearly dew-drops hung,
On every branch a feathered warbler sung;
The cheerful spring her flowery chaplets wove,
And incense-breathing gales perfumed the grove.
INDIAN TALE.
Kazim remained no longer at Kabul than was absolutely necessary to
repair the disasters of the journey over the desert, and to provide
for that which he had still to perform across the mountains to Lahore.
Having sold his stock of horses to considerable advantage, reserving
a pair of the tamest for himself and Mangeli, he took an affectionate
leave of his Ferghanese friends, and set out for India. Mangeli, by
this time, had become an excellent traveller. Wrapping her infant in a
large shawl, which was passed over her right shoulder, and tied firmly
round her waist, she either nursed the babe, or hushed it to sleep,
without alighting from the beautiful animal on which she was mounted.
The heat of noon-tide compelled them, indeed, frequently to shelter
themselves beneath the spreading plane-trees, or in the recesses of
such rocks as afforded at once the convenience of a friendly shade and
a crystal spring. But the genial atmosphere of the mountains enabled
them, in general, to make long journeys from day to day through the
passes and roads, of which Kazim had received abundant information at
Kabul.
Their first resting-place was at the village of Istalif, where Kazim
thought that if he had not been already engaged in pursuit of a higher
destiny, he should have been well contented to spend the remainder
of his life. He was charmed by its situation on the brow of a hill
overlooking a valley, rich in every fruit and flower of that genial
climate. In the middle of the valley he drank of the fountain of the
“Three Friends,” so called from the different species of trees planted
round the spring by three holy men, who thus celebrated the friendship
which they entertained for each other, and which they renewed by
meeting at the fountain for many a year, though they had to travel from
remote points of Thibet, Hindostan, and Persia. On one side, palm-trees
formed an umbrageous grove, in which a thousand pilgrims might easily
find coolness and repose. On another was a group of spreading oaks,
the only specimens of the kind to be met with through a vast tract of
that country; and on the third, the flowering Arghwan put forth its
red and yellow blossoms, impregnating the air with a delicious odour.
“Ah!” said one of the natives to Kazim, who was admiring the beauty of
the landscape, “when the Arghwan is in full flower, there is not a spot
in all the world to be compared to the valley of Istalif!” And when
Kazim, after entwining in Mangeli’s hair a rose-scented tulip, beheld
her resting in the shade, answering by her rapturous smiles those by
which her infant already began to recognise its mother, he was disposed
to think that the villager scarcely exaggerated the attractions of that
happy valley.
The toils of their journey were easily borne, so long as the travellers
remained within the district of Kabul, where the mountains are so many
mounds, with rich vales and wide level plains expanding between them,
on which hamlets are usually found dispersed in the most picturesque
irregularity. If Kazim were at any time doubtful of the way which he
was pursuing, he was seldom long without being able to make inquiry at
a cottage, or from hunters who crossed his course in pursuit of the
red deer and the wild ass, or from fowlers in quest of the game that
abounds all along the banks of the river Baran, the principal pass up
the Hindukush. On entering this grand defile, he was astonished at the
size and number of the birds that rushed thither from all quarters.
He observed that, during the night especially, the larger game kept
constantly flying low over the running water, as its brightness
afforded them a sense of security from the beasts of prey, which they
would have encountered had they remained stationary on the banks. Here
also he beheld vast flights of the begla heron, whose feathers supply
the plumes which the Turkish and Persian warriors wear on their caps or
in their turbans on state occasions.
After quitting the Baran, Kazim and Mangeli found themselves emerging
on a new world, in which the grasses, the trees, the wild animals and
birds, as well as the manners of the people, seemed to be altogether
different from any thing of the kind they had ever observed before.
They now rarely met with running streams, and had to make their way
frequently over the dry channels of former rivers. But Kazim soon
discovered, that whenever he was in want of water for himself and his
horses, he had only to turn up a part of the bed, when the cavity was
filled immediately with a limpid spring. After pursuing their way for
some days among the higher ridges of the mountains, which were still
covered partially with snow, the travellers arrived at the edge of
an immense sheet of water, that seemed, at the extreme distance, to
mingle with the sky. The remote mountains, at either side, appeared
completely inverted in the water, while those nearer at hand looked
in the majestic mirror as if they were suspended between earth and
heaven. They afterwards learned that this was the celebrated lake of
Abistadeh, in which are collected all the waters that descend from the
neighbouring mountains, on the melting of the snows. As they gazed
with wonder upon the vast expanse before them, they beheld from time
to time between the water and the azure canopy above, a ruddy blush,
which, had it not been noon, might have been taken for the Aurora,
stretching across the horizon, occasionally flashing and disappearing
like the lightning playing over the mountain-tops. As the cloud came
nearer, it resolved itself into an innumerable flock of flamingoes,
whose red feathers sometimes glittered in the sun, and sometimes were
hid again as they waved their wings, or soared in their flight towards
Cashmere.
While Kazim and Mangeli were still admiring the scenery that was spread
before them, a young man called out, from the mouth of a cave at which
he stood, inquiring whether it was their intention to cross the lake.
Kazim replied, that he had missed the road to Jellalabad, and asked if
he could regain it by embarking on the lake? The ferryman replied in
the affirmative; and unmooring his raft, composed of timber supported
on reeds, which had been hitherto concealed behind a small promontory,
he assured the travellers that they might expect, under his guidance, a
perfectly safe passage both for themselves and their horses.
The raft being directed into the current, which flowed through the
middle of the lake, was speedily borne along to the opposite shore,
when Kazim, having rewarded the ferryman for his trouble, proceeded
to the town he had mentioned. Hence they floated in a similar manner
down the river to Peshawer; and crossing the Indus at Attok, entered
the kingdom of Lahore. A few days’ journey conducted the travellers at
length within view of the city of that name, whose lofty towers and
domes, shining in the distance, and surrounded by buildings extending
over an immense space, realised all the visions that had long haunted
Kazim’s fancy, when he attempted to picture in his mind the grandeur of
the capital in which the renowned Acbar then held his imperial court.
But although he had now arrived at the very gates of the paradise, so
long the object of his thoughts and his dreams, Kazim ventured not to
express to Mangeli the feeling, bordering on despair, that succeeded
the momentary exultation with which he viewed the accomplishment of his
journey. His heart sunk within him, as he beheld the numerous groups
of peasantry, who were on their way to the capital with the varied
produce of their fields, rice, indigo, opium, poultry, and a thousand
other articles; or returning from the bazaars, with the money or the
manufactures which they had received in exchange. “These people,” he
thought to himself, with a sense of deep sadness, as he heard them
discoursing over their affairs, “have their friends at Lahore, to whom
they repair when they go thither--they have their own cottages not far
off; but we enter the vast capital, without knowing a single individual
of the countless population which it contains--without possessing the
means of judging where we are to find a home--without kindred--without
the hope even of beholding a solitary countenance we had ever seen
before!”
These reflections became still more painful, when, on entering the
city, Kazim looked at the apparently endless rows of houses, shops
and bazaars, all strange to his eye, containing not a creature who
expected his arrival, or sympathised in his fortunes. Of the multitude
of foreign faces that thronged the streets, in all directions, to whom
was he to look for that patronage, without which he might eventually
perish? It was true that the liberality of his Ferghanese friends had
supplied him with the present means of support; but when those means
were exhausted, as they soon must be, in order to provide for the wants
of an increasing family, whither could he fly for assistance? He had
staked his fortunes upon a single cast of the dice; but whether he lost
or won, was a question still undecided.
The travellers, happy to escape from the tumult of the streets, which
frightened Mangeli excessively, rode into the yard of the first
caravanserai that could afford them accommodation. Here they remained
for some days, until Kazim discovered a small house in the suburbs,
which he was enabled to hire at a moderate expence. With Mangeli’s
experience and assistance, their humble residence was speedily supplied
with the few articles of furniture which their wants required. This
done, Kazim had no further occupation for his time than wandering
through the streets of Lahore, and exploring the temples and other
public buildings, with which the capital abounded.
One day, as he was standing in the courtyard of the palace amongst a
crowd of spectators, gazing at a troop of cavalry, which were going
through some evolutions in presence of their commander, a group of
officers, with heron plumes waving in their caps, and golden cuirasses
on their breasts, rode rapidly into the square, and stopping before the
entrance into the palace formed a circle, as if waiting to escort some
person of distinction, whom they expected from the palace.
In a few minutes a noble-looking figure, descending the steps of the
portico, entered the circle, and mounting a caparisoned steed, which an
attendant held there by the rein, rode away, followed by the officers,
in the direction of the gate of Agra. The individual thus splendidly
escorted, was himself dressed in plain attire, an ordinary turban, and
a frock of coarse cloth, as if he were bound on a long journey. He
passed close to Kazim, who could hardly take his eyes off that pale but
intelligent face, from the moment he beheld it.
“Who can that person be?” asked Kazim, addressing one of those who,
like himself, were lounging in the square. His question was answered
by another:--
“What! live you in Lahore, and not know that he, of whom you speak, is
the prime minister, Abul Fazeel?”
“Impossible!” said Kazim; “I have certainly seen him before, but when
or where, I cannot at this moment recollect.”
“Whether you have seen him or not, that is Abul Fazeel, and no other,”
added the lounger, turning upon his heel from a stranger who could be
worth no further notice, seeing that he did not know even the face of
the prime minister.
A company of drummers, who came from the interior of the palace, then
taking their stations at the foot of the portico, gave the signal, by a
treble peal, of the approach of the emperor; upon which the square was
immediately ordered to be cleared. Kazim, whose curiosity was excited
to the highest degree, to behold the hero of whom he had heard so much
at Samarcand, lingered behind the crowd as long as he could. But the
troopers forced them out through the gates, striking the people, who
all seemed as curious as Kazim himself, with the handles of their
spears. Kazim received a severe blow on his head, which almost stunned
him, as the gates were closed in his face.
This was no very favourable omen, he thought, as he walked disheartened
homeward, for one who had come hither in pursuit of public employment.
There were, however, other occupations to which he hoped he might apply
himself with advantage. The schools of Lahore were probably not all
supplied with masters of poetry or rhetoric. He might tender them his
services as a lecturer in either of those branches of education, or in
mathematics, in which he was equally skilful. But while he resolved
these projects in his mind, he could not dismiss from his memory the
countenance of the minister. It seemed to his thought sometimes, when
he questioned himself upon this point, as if he must have lived in
some former world, where Fazeel had been of his most intimate and
esteemed acquaintance. So perfectly familiar to him were the lines of
that fine forehead, and the expression of those penetrating eyes, that
he had no doubt whatever of having seen them before, and that, too,
under circumstances which had left behind them feelings of the most
favourable description. But he vexed his memory in vain to find out
in it any traces of the prime minister of Acbar; for although he had
often heard of the name of Abul Fazeel, it was certain that, so far as
he knew, he had never had the good fortune of meeting elsewhere with an
individual so superior to himself in every respect.
CHAPTER XIV.
What soft, yet awful, dignity!
What meek, yet manly, grace!
What sweetness dances in his eye,
And blossoms in his face.
CHINESE POEM.
Kazim postponed from day to day his application for employment at any
of the schools of the capital, until at length, seeing his store of
wealth wearing gradually away, he found himself compelled to make a
vigorous effort for the future maintenance of his family. He proceeded,
therefore, in the first instance, to the principal college, where the
sons of several of the omrahs, and other noblemen, were educated, and
stated his object, as well as his pretensions, in the most modest
manner. But every office to which he aspired was already full; and even
if that had not been the case, he was told that his pronunciation of
the Persian was provincial, and not sufficiently pure for the capital.
Undepressed by this disappointment, Kazim next presented himself to the
governor of another college of the first rank, who looked upon him as
a great deal too young for the functions of a master. When obliged to
mention, in his own defence, that he had passed through the university
of Samarcand, not without distinction, and that he had perused most
of the works which treated of the sciences, history, philosophy, and
poetry, he was asked what books on divinity he had read. He confessed
that he had given but a small portion of his time to that study, as
very few of the compositions that met his eye upon that subject, seemed
to him to discuss it in a satisfactory manner. Unfortunately for Kazim,
the person whom he addressed had been a most voluminous author in the
theological line; his dismissal followed, of course, without being
softened by the slightest appearance of ceremony.
It was not without much difficulty, and many pangs of wounded
pride, that Kazim, after these rebuffs from the higher academical
establishments, made up his mind to offer himself to one of the
inferior grades, as a lecturer in the very rudiments of learning.
His only fear was, that he should be too readily accepted, and thus
fixed for life in a subordinate rank, from which he might never be
promoted. But these, too, he found crowded in every department. By
some his applications were treated with a cold civility; by others he
was sneered at as a Tartar,--one of the nation especially hated by
the Hindoos. When in the extremity of the misery which he felt under
such repeated failures, he talked of his family, and threw out an
intimation of his apprehensions for their fate, if he could meet with
no employment, he was looked upon as an intruder and an adventurer,
without connexions or character, and was more than once advised to go
back to the wilds whence he came, for that there were too many already
of his class in Lahore!
When returning to Mangeli on these occasions, after walking about
the capital the whole day to no purpose, the agony of his mind was
overwhelming. The morning generally kindled a faint ray of hope in his
breast; he knew not but that before night he might at length succeed
in obtaining the object of his now humbled wishes. But as the day
advanced, and disappointment followed disappointment, that feeble light
again vanished, leaving his mind in a state of utter despair. His
power of thought seemed to have abandoned him sometimes altogether.
He leant against the corner of a street, and pressing his hand to his
forehead, gazed wildly around him, as if he were in a dream, and knew
not where he was or whither he was going. Often, overcome with fatigue,
he could hardly trail one foot after another, as night after night he
sought his home, with the same tale of misfortune. The point of sight
in the prospect of his existence, which he thought he had found with
so much certainty, when first he bent his way towards the Himalas, he
now seemed to have irrecoverably lost. All was a dreary waste before
him: the only relief of which his soul was susceptible, sprung from the
unaltered affection of Mangeli, and the smiles of delighted recognition
with which he was always received by the cherub she held out to kiss
him on his arrival.
As a last resort, Kazim procured a little inkstand, and a few reeds,
and having hired a stall in one of the principal streets, he sat there
under an awning of coarse grass, and copied out some of the poems
which he had committed to memory, and also a few of his own stanzas,
the compositions of happier days. These he was enabled to sell for a
few cowries to students who passed by his stall to the colleges. But
when he found that his poems were laughed at by the critics of Lahore,
by whom they were designated, with an insulting ambiguity, as the
“beggar ballads,” he ceased to offer any more of his own compositions
for sale, confining himself to those which he could collect from other
sources. His hand-writing, which was of the most elegant description,
gradually obtained for him, however, more profitable employment among
the merchants who resorted to the neighbouring bazaars, for whom he
drew up accounts, and letters on matters of business. The emolument
which he thus earned was not much on the whole, but it was something
to a frugal household; it dissipated the dense gloom that had for some
time shrouded his intellect, and opened once more a prospect, though a
faint one, of a favourable change in his fortune.
Sometimes, persons of the lowest order came to the amanuensis,
requesting that he would prepare petitions for them to the nobility
and the courts of justice; and it was remarked by a muslin weaver,
near whose shop his stall was situated, that trifling as the pittance
was which he received from these people, he always listened to their
instructions with cheerfulness, and executed them with zeal. His own
misfortunes had touched his heart with sympathy for the poor, whenever
they solicited the aid of his penmanship. Nor were the many private
histories of distress with which he had thus become acquainted, during
the seven long years he was obliged to dedicate to his new profession,
without their effect upon his feelings. He learned from them, that
however short of the visions of youth his condition had fallen, it was
by no means at the lowest degree on the scale of existence.
He was not rich, it was true; but then he was free from the anxiety
which riches always bring, and especially from those imaginary
sufferings, worse than real woes, that haunt the mind when it is
disengaged from the pursuit of the actual necessaries of life. He had
not attained any portion of that celebrity, or a single step of that
rank, amongst his fellow men, to which some years ago he had looked
forward with so much ardour. But celebrity created envy, and rank only
augmented ambition. Better to remain in obscurity, than to be spoken of
and pointed at in the circles of the great as a Tartar adventurer, on
whom they would be delighted to impose every kind of mortification. He
had few acquaintances and no friends; but he possessed a well stored
mind, whose sphere he extended according to his means, from day to day,
which rendered him independent of society. In Mangeli, the light of
his home, and in his daughter, whom his neighbours familiarly called
Mher-ul-Nissa, “the sun of her sex,” from her remarkably graceful form
and brilliant countenance, shining already with more than the beauty
even of her mother, he had a fund of happiness in itself more precious
than the sceptre of an empire.
One morning as Kazim was seated in his stall, waiting for any customer
who might wish to employ his pen, a dervish addressed him, at the
same time producing an ancient manuscript, which he said he wished
to have copied as speedily as possible, as he was to wait upon the
prime-minister, Abul Fazeel, with both the copy and the original, in a
few days. The composition was of some length, and upon looking over it,
Kazim found that it related to the geography of Bengal.
“You must be aware,” said the dervish, “that Abul Fazeel has only just
returned to Lahore, after an absence of several years, which he has
spent in travelling through the provinces of the empire, with a view
to ascertain and place on record the nature of the soil, the produce,
the climate, the manufactures, and the population, by which they
are individually distinguished. From the continuation of the civil
war which prevails in Bengal, he has not been able to traverse that
magnificent region. Here is a full and a very accurate survey of that
country, made a century ago, by a learned Arabian; it is, however,
much soiled, and I fear, in some parts, illegible. Copy it in the best
manner you can, and here will be your reward,” putting into Kazim’s
hand a gold rupee.
In a few days the copy was complete, and the dervish took it away,
thanking Kazim for the elegance and accuracy with which the transcript
was executed. On presenting the original roll to Fazeel, the dervish
also unfolded the copy before the minister, which he looked over for
some time, with the most intense interest.
“This is, indeed,” said the minister, “a most valuable document--a
master-piece in every respect. The details are clear, and sufficiently
ample for my purpose. But this hand-writing I have seen before--it must
be that of a young man in whose fortunes I once felt a lively interest,
but of whom I have never heard since that fatal expedition to”----
Here Fazeel checked himself, as if he felt that he had already gone
farther than he intended.
“To Arjun,” added the dervish. “I was there too; you have heard Acbar,
doubtless, speak of a poor dervish, who resided in the garden hut near
Karaman”----
“And saved his life!--and ours! Excellent man--we never can
sufficiently thank you!--You must come with me to the emperor.”
“No--my habit would ill befit the court of Acbar. Protect Kazim Ayas--I
seek no further reward.”
“Ah! this is indeed his hand. Bring the young man to me instantly. The
emperor will, I am sure, be delighted to advance the fortunes of our
former companion in adversity.”
The dervish returned without delay to the stall, where he found Kazim,
as usual, industriously employed.
“I bear good tidings, young man,” said he, his features glistening with
heartfelt pleasure;--“Shut up your stall, and come with me just as you
are.”
Kazim, trembling with joy, did as he was desired, and as they proceeded
to the palace the words, “To Hindostan, I say, when the snows are
gone!” which he had for some time forgotten as a mere delusion of the
fancy, now returned to his memory in a flood of light. Were they, then,
the whisper of a vision, or was this the dervish who pronounced them?
On arriving at the palace, his companion, who in a decided, though
friendly tone, stipulated that no enquiries should be made, as to
himself, led Kazim into a spacious gallery that overlooked the royal
gardens. As there was a crowd of courtiers waiting to see the minister,
the dervish directed Kazim’s attention, while they were waiting for
their turn to be called, to the stately trees and fountains with which
the gardens were ornamented. Presently the sound of a musquet, and the
smoke with which the explosion was accompanied, at the lower end of
the gardens, excited Kazim’s surprise. He had never seen arms of that
description before. The dervish explained the nature of the instrument,
while the sounds were again and again repeated, each explosion being
followed by a shout of laughter from a group of young men, who appeared
to be amusing themselves by firing at a target.
“It is a favourite sport of the prince Selim,” said the dervish.--
“See--here he comes, with his companions.”
“What a very handsome person,” observed Kazim; “I should at once have
known him for a prince!”
“Handsome he undoubtedly is,” rejoined the dervish; “rather too much
so for the heir of such an extensive empire, which will demand more
vigour, both of mind and limb, than I fear he will ever exhibit.”
While the dervish was still speaking, the prince and his friends
ascended from the gardens by the marble steps which led to the gallery.
“It is said,” whispered the dervish to Kazim, after they passed, “that
the prince is already well acquainted with the fascinations of the
wine-cup; nevertheless, although he is nearly thirty years of age, he
does not, as you see, look five-and-twenty.”
The crowds, in the ante-rooms, having at length sensibly diminished,
the dervish and Kazim were directed to attend the minister. They found
him in a splendidly decorated apartment, seated on a divan, with a
large bundle of papers in his hand, from which he raised his eyes but
for a moment, while he glanced at Kazim.
“Shew that young man,” said the minister to an attendant, “into my
writing room, and give him these papers, which he must set about
copying instantly.”
Kazim was too much abashed by the novelty of his situation, to notice
the features of the minister--though it struck him that the voice which
he had just heard, was not altogether strange to his ear. The dervish,
pressing his hand warmly, resigned him to the care of the attendant,
by whom he was conducted to an inner apartment, the floor of which was
covered with papers, scattered about in all directions. A spot having
been cleared for his use, and writing implements having been placed
before him, he was left alone to pursue the labours which had been
assigned him.
The minister again addressed the good dervish, and entreated him to
remain until the emperor, who was then at mid-day meal, should be
disengaged. But, he said, that having at length succeeded in placing in
the career of fame and fortune, one that would prove eminently worthy
of both, he could not postpone his departure for Cashmere, whither he
was bound on a pilgrimage. Fazeel could not even persuade him to accept
an onyx ring, which he took off his finger, and receiving the blessing
of the holy man, suffered him, with the greatest reluctance, to set out
upon his journey.
Kazim scarcely knew how many hours he had been in his new office, when
his attention was interrupted by the sound of steps. Immediately a door
behind him, which he had not before perceived, opened, and Fazeel, with
another person, clothed in a woven dress of silk and gold, bound at the
waist by a zone of diamonds and rubies, stood before Kazim, smiling, as
if they were amused by the attitude of astonishment which he naturally
assumed. He rose on his feet, looked first at one, then at the other,
while the reed with which he had been writing fell from his hand,
unnoticed on the floor, and his face was mantled in blushes.
“It must be Suleiman and Baba Seirami,” at length exclaimed Kazim.
“Whom you now behold as Acbar and his minister Abul Fazeel,” said
the emperor, embracing the young man with tokens of the most lively
pleasure. Kazim would have made his obeisance in the ordinary form, but
this Acbar would not permit.
“No--no, no ceremony to-day. We are both extremely happy, to find that
you have at last made your way to Hindostan, where you may count upon
my invariable friendship.”
“And Mangeli, too,” said Fazeel; “has she also come with you? Doubtless
as beautiful as ever!”
Kazim, overcome with emotion, knew scarcely how to reply to the
numerous questions which the emperor and the minister then put to him
rapidly one after another. He made no secret of any part of his story,
disclosing the leading circumstances of his life, as they had occurred
since he had last seen them. Acbar kindly expressed his concern, that
Kazim had not availed himself of the instructions, especially addressed
to him in the letter which Fazeel had sent from Karaman. Kazim, in
explanation, replied, that the letter duly reached the camp, but that
as it had been unfortunately worn into fragments, he was prevented
from becoming acquainted with the emperor’s generous intentions in his
behalf.
“Well! well!” observed the sovereign, “we must now endeavour to repair
the time you have lost. Fazeel will appoint you one of his principal
secretaries, and I hope often to see you, that we may talk over our
adventures in Arjun.”
“With respect to which, however,” added Fazeel, as Acbar retired by
the door at which he had entered, “it will be necessary for you to
be silent to all other persons. That expedition was, as you know, a
most unfortunate affair in every respect; one of those sudden and
irresistible resolutions, which the emperor’s extraordinary genius
for war sometimes acts upon, without the requisite deliberation. He
had nearly lost Hindostan, while endeavouring by rapid movements
and surprises, to break up a confederacy that had been preparing in
the north, the object of which was to pour down troops into the then
rebellious provinces of Cashmere and Lahore. The adoption of the name
of Suleiman, who was actually one of the chieftains engaged in the
conspiracy, was one of those stratagems which have sometimes served him
successfully in lieu of an army, although upon that occasion we were
indeed any thing but fortunate. It was well that we were enabled even
to make good our escape to Lahore, where, however, order has since been
in a great measure restored.”
Kazim listened to Fazeel with the deepest interest, rejoicing inwardly
in the delight which he should feel in imparting to Mangeli the sudden
alteration that had taken place in their fortunes.
CHAPTER XV.
But soft!--what heavenly shape appears,
Shedding pale lustre like the moon?
Some angel’s form the vision wears;
Sweet maid! that angel form’s thy own.
SADI.
The papers which Fazeel intrusted to Kazim, for the purpose of being
duly arranged and copied, were necessarily of great extent, as they
embraced copious reports upon the actual condition of almost every one
of the twenty-two provinces, then composing the empire of India. It
became the business of the new secretary, not only to transcribe the
voluminous mass with his own hand, but to digest it in a methodical
order, to divide it into sections, and render the whole easily
accessible by a summary of his own, which would enable the minister to
refer at once to any passages it might be necessary for him to peruse
in detail. The duty was one that employed Kazim very closely for three
or four years; it enabled him to become perfectly acquainted with the
whole resources of Acbar’s dominions.
The accurate knowledge which Kazim thus acquired, with reference to
the state of the provinces, he had great facility in making available,
whenever he was consulted upon the numerous memorials and reports
periodically sent up from those districts to Lahore. No decrees were
issued, with respect to the grievances or difficulties of which they
complained, without the co-operation of Kazim, who usually prepared the
first draughts of the necessary ordinances for the minister. Thus he
proceeded, step by step, to render his abilities and varied information
eminently useful in the most important department of government. His
suggestions were uniformly remarkable for their good sense, their
humanity, and, above all, their tendency towards the establishment of
the administration of justice upon a basis at once pure and economical.
Although the fortunes of Kazim were now so vastly improved, as compared
with that portion of his life which he had spent in his stall, he
never forgot those who employed him at that time. Many he advanced to
offices, that enabled them to acquire a decent competency; to others he
gave occupation upon estates, bestowed upon him by the emperor; while,
for those who were of a military disposition, he obtained appointments
in the armies, kept up by Acbar on a scale requisite to meet the
numerous insurrections that almost continually broke out in one quarter
or another of India.
When the emperor removed his court to Agra, which he named as the
metropolis of his empire, he, at the same time, constituted Kazim
his high treasurer, and assigned him a splendid residence at a short
distance from the palace, on the banks of the Jumna. The appointment
gave great satisfaction to the people, amongst whom the new minister
was universally beloved for his inflexible impartiality; his entire
freedom from that taint of corruption which had hitherto sullied many
of the most important public stations; and especially for that modest
and engaging demeanour, which he still preserved unchanged from what it
was before his elevation. The power he thus derived, from one of the
first dignities the sovereign could bestow, afforded him opportunities
of which he fully availed himself, in order to advance the interests
of science, literature, and the fine arts. He invited to Agra those
men who had most distinguished themselves throughout the country for
their intellectual accomplishments, and their skill in architecture,
sculpture, painting, and music. His house was the resort, not only
of the chief officers attached to the court, but also of poets,
historians, and eminent men of every class, to whom he felt it a sacred
duty to show the most cordial marks of his attention.
It was wonderful with what eagerness the manuscripts, which Kazim had
written in his stall, were now bought up on every side. The “Beggar
Ballads,” which had formerly drawn down the ridicule of the critics of
Lahore, were henceforth looked upon as so many gems, for which precious
stones of enormous price were gladly exchanged, by those who wished to
pay their court to the minister. He, who well knew the value of his
own productions, and was conscious that whatever his faculties were for
the cultivation of science and philosophy, they were never destined to
shine in the temple of the muses, accepted all the incense of these
panegyrists for just as much as it was worth. It did not prevent
him from rewarding real merit, even where he found it accompanied
by such fulsome adulation; but, on the other hand, he listened with
silent indifference to the compliments of those who hoped that mere
flattery would compensate for their want of worth. The incidents of
his life were made themes of eulogy and emulation in the very schools
which had shut their doors upon him at Lahore; and the origin of the
“adventurer,” as he was called some years ago, was now traced back to
the same sources which had given the reigning dynasty to Hindostan!
Kazim would have been more or less than man, if his breast were wholly
free from emotions of just pride, when he, who on his first arrival in
that country, scarcely knew where he might rest his head, now beheld
his halls thronged with guests of the most elevated rank, including,
occasionally, the Emperor, often the Prince Selim, the Omrahs, the
governors of the provinces, the principal warriors, and the heads of
every department of the government. Nevertheless, he confessed to
Mangeli, and she knew his acknowledgment to be true, that his happiest
moments were those which he spent in his private cabinet, assisting in
the education of their beloved daughter, upon whose growing charms they
gazed with new delight, from day to day.
The figure of Mher-Ul-Nissa, which, from its earliest developement,
seemed to have been chiselled by the hand of the statuary, assumed a
more radiant loveliness, as she approached the years of maturity. Her
hair, of a light golden hue, hung to the knee, when she untied the
fillet that held it together. Her liquid blue eyes, if fired by no
emotion, shone serenely, like the full orb of the moon, through the
long dark lashes by which they were surrounded. But the lightest smile
animated their lustre, diffusing over her finely pencilled brows a
beguiling expression, in which, however, playfulness was always mingled
with a peculiar dignity. An oval cheek, with a scarcely perceptible
shade of brown, which became ruby with every strong impulse of her
mind, a mouth exquisitely formed, a bosom that seemed to contain two
white rose-buds of Cashmere, just before they begin to blow, and
delicately tapered limbs that awakened life and light around them
wherever they moved, gave matchless splendour to her beauty.
Her varied accomplishments were in every way worthy of the external
graces with which she was endowed. The arts of embroidery and painting,
for which she evinced an early predilection, afforded an elegant
occupation to the hours not absorbed in more intellectual pursuits. She
inherited her father’s taste for fine literature; and was intimately
conversant with the best productions of Persia and Arabia. She was
initiated in the science of music by the first masters, whose lessons
she improved into inspirations, by the inventive powers which she
exhibited, whenever she touched the mandolin or lute. Her voice was
remarkable for its melody, but still more so for the enthusiastic tones
which it sometimes poured forth, as if her soul, borne away by a sudden
flood of feeling, emulated the strains of some world superior to her
own. When she danced, she looked an aerial being, as she moved over
the floor, which she scarcely seemed to touch. To these accomplishments
she added a point of character more endearing than them all, a
passionate attachment to those excellent parents, to whose affection
she was in a great measure indebted for the enviable blessings she
enjoyed.
Kazim, with difficulty, restrained himself from giving expression
to the pleasure which he experienced on every occasion, when
Mher-ul-Nissa, preceded by Mangeli, and followed by her Circassian
attendants, appeared before his guests. As the imperial court never
adhered to the strict rules of the Koran, which prohibit women from
mingling in the company of men, it was usual to introduce the ladies
into the banqueting-room as soon as the wine, which also refused at
Agra to acknowledge the law of the prophet, was succeeded by coffee.
Upon such occasions, however, the ladies were uniformly veiled, unless
the circle of visitors consisted exclusively of near relatives, or
very intimate friends. It may be doubted whether that appendage to the
dress did not tend rather to increase the curiosity and heighten the
admiration of the guest, when he beheld through it the blush of the
cheek and the sparkle of the eye, little, if at all, dimmed by the
gossamer cloud behind which they were supposed to be concealed. Certain
it is, that Kazim seldom gave a banquet which was not followed the next
day by boundless compliments upon the beauty of his daughter, and by
earnest enquiries as to the name of the fortunate nobleman for whom
she was destined. These questions, sometimes thrown out in an indirect
manner, sometimes pointed in a way difficult to be encountered, he
generally succeeded in evading on the ground of her youth, and her
being his only child. But the time was already approaching when he
found that it would become his duty, however reluctantly, to make up
his mind on a matter so essentially connected with the happiness of her
future life.
Amongst those of his guests whom Kazim, from the commencement of their
acquaintance, admitted to his bosom friendship, was Shere Afkun,
a Turcomanian chieftain, who was also held in great esteem by the
emperor. His original name was Asta Jillo; but having, by his great
personal strength, in which he was altogether unrivalled, slain a lion,
after a severe contest with the animal, he was thenceforth designated
Shere Afkun, or the overthrower of the lion, from that circumstance. He
had already distinguished himself by the side of his imperial master,
in many a hard-fought field. His fidelity had been tried more than
once, by the most brilliant offers on the part of those discontented
noblemen, who treated Acbar as an usurper, and did every thing in
their power to foment insurrection throughout the empire. Not only
wealth without limit, but the sceptre of Hindostan was suggested as a
temptation to the ambition of Afkun, if he would desert the standard
to which he had sworn allegiance. His ancestors, however, had always
been attached to the Mogul dynasty; he had pledged himself to it by
the “great oath,” and as he was a man of a truly upright mind and
unblemished honour, who would sooner give up his life than violate a
promise, he spurned all these seductions with a proud indignation,
which created for him, in the rebellious provinces, numerous enemies.
But to their hostility Afkun paid little regard. Firm in his own
purity of feeling, elevated by the noblest sentiments, far above the
sordid crowd, who were shaken in their allegiance by every rumour
of civil war with which the capital was inundated, and marked out by
the well-merited favour of Acbar, as one of the principal officers
of the empire, he pursued the path of his duty with a steadiness of
determination, that proved the sincerity of his character. He was a
remarkably fine looking young man, frank and engaging in his manners,
and of considerable intelligence, considering that from the moment he
was able to wield a sabre, his life had been chiefly spent in camps.
During the few hours which Kazim had the opportunity of devoting to
out-door recreation, Afkun was generally his companion. They rode
together into the country, or walked in the gardens behind Kazim’s
residence, conversing, without reserve on either side, upon affairs of
state, or upon subjects of a religious or philosophical kind, for which
Afkun, unlike most of his countrymen, had a decided turn.
Sometimes it happened, that in the course of their walks in those
charming retreats, they would observe Mangeli and Mher-Ul-Nissa
watering a flower-bed, or gathering fruit, or working at embroidery,
beneath the shade of a favourite plane-tree. Kazim was always
delighted to join the two dearest objects of his affection, and he
felt no disposition to prevent Afkun from following his example. The
presence of the young Turcomanian necessarily imposed some restraint
upon the demeanour of Mher-ul-Nissa. Her eyes were then fixed with
more than usual earnestness upon her tambour frame; her fingers seemed
to be animated with more than their ordinary grace, while they were
rapidly strewing roses wherever her fancy directed. If those eyes
sometimes glanced at the chieftain when he addressed his conversation
to her mother, it was an accidental circumstance--the result of natural
curiosity, to ascertain what the stranger looked like. But when it
happened that once or twice they directly flashed against his own,
and the conflict heightened the blush of health upon her cheek, and
unaccountably impeded the current of his speech, he began to think that
he would prefer the shade in which he sat, even to the unearthly bowers
promised by the founder of his religion.
Mangeli was the first to warn Kazim of the consequences of these
visits, unless he had already determined on the line of conduct which
he should adopt, in case Afkun should demand the hand of his daughter.
There was nothing in such a connexion to which either parent could
discover any objection. On the contrary, should the matter turn out in
that way, they were fully disposed to believe that it could only result
in the happiness of both parties. The Turcomanian was a nobleman of
distinguished birth, and ample possessions; he was deservedly esteemed
by the emperor, who had signified his intention of appointing Afkun
to the government of the first province which should become vacant.
Mher-Ul-Nissa was in every respect suited to the exalted station to
which such a union would raise her, and although there were those who
whispered into her ear, that she might, if she were ambitious, look
forward to a rank still higher--the first in the empire, when Selim
should succeed to the throne; nevertheless the thoughtful parents
perfectly agreed that that was a wild dream, which she ought not to
entertain for a moment, and which, if it could be realized, would lead
only to her unhappiness, perhaps her ruin.
When the maid was questioned playfully by her mother, as to the
attentions of the prince Selim, which rumour had already invented or
exaggerated, she could really find nothing in them. They were no more
than he had paid to a thousand others. When, after dining with Kazim,
he was heated with wine, it appeared that he always waited to see the
ladies, and fixed his eyes incessantly on Mher-Ul-Nissa, to whom he
had once presented a bouquet of variegated flowers, which, translated
into language, imported that he was her slave, or something to that
effect. But it was well known that his attachments were as transitory
as they were violent, and that, although his station allowed him
already to have several wives, he seemed to treat them all with equal
indifference. It was scarcely to be expected, that the heir apparent
of the empire of Hindostan could ever fix his affections upon a single
object, and that was in itself an objection with Mher-Ul-Nissa, as well
as with Mangeli, of an irremovable character.
Perhaps if the secret wishes of the daughter were revealed to the
mother, it might have been discovered that the former had been more
flattered by the bouquet presented to her by Selim, than she chose to
acknowledge even to herself. It was the first gift of the kind she had
ever received; it was the earliest token of homage from the lordly sex,
that had been laid at her feet. If, in the visions that then began to
interrupt the sweet sleep to which she had been previously accustomed,
the image of the prince more than once appeared,--inviting her to sit
beside him on the throne of the most splendid empire in the world,--it
was still no more than a delusion of the night, though it left a
feverish train of thought behind it, that too often recurred to her
during the gentle occupations of the succeeding day.
CHAPTER XVI.
A viewless bow directs the dart;
I feel, yet know not whence the smart.
No outward scar to sight reveals
The wound my struggling bosom feels.
PERSIAN POEM.
The death of the subah of Cashmere at length enabled Acbar to confer
upon Afkun the command of that important province. The moment the
chieftain received his nomination, he said that he had another favour
to ask from his sovereign, which, if it were granted, would render
his felicity indeed complete. He then mentioned the feelings which he
entertained towards the daughter of his majesty’s high treasurer, and
entreated the exertion of Acbar’s influence in that quarter, which
could hardly fail to be successful. The emperor readily acceded to
the solicitations of Afkun, and sent for Kazim, to whom he opened the
subject, as one deserving immediate consideration. It was not, of
course, proposed, he said, that any extraordinary expedition should
be adopted, with reference to the union of the parties; the more
especially as the unquiet state of Cashmere demanded the presence of
the new governor there without delay. But if no previous engagement or
difficulty interposed, the preliminary ceremonies of betrothing might
take place, before the departure of Afkun. Kazim frankly confessed that
the proposition afforded him the highest gratification, as it was well
known that he had long entertained towards that young nobleman the
most unaffected esteem. But he hoped that, however unusual it was in
Hindostan to consult the party who was, perhaps, the most interested on
such an occasion, he might be permitted to refer Afkun to Mher-Ul-Nissa
herself, for an answer. In the mean time, he proceeded to communicate
to his family the results of his interview with the emperor.
The intelligence which her father brought, fell upon the ear of
Mher-Ul-Nissa like a thunderbolt. It had never occurred to her before
that at any time of her life she should be under the necessity of
abandoning her paternal home. In the first emotions of her breast, she
clasped her arms round her mother, and wept upon her bosom, as if the
greatest calamity that could happen had befallen her, on that fatal
morning. The thoughts of becoming the wife of Afkun,--of removing
with him to the distant province of Cashmere,--of being exiled from
her parents,--from Agra, whose splendour had powerful fascinations
for her mind, habituated as she had been to the luxuries of that
metropolis,--and (perhaps, above all) the extinction of that small ray
of hope, which she cultivated with a fond devotion in secret, derived
from the bouquet of the prince!--threw her into a state of depression
and grief, little suited to an occasion that required from her feelings
of a very different description.
Nothing could have been more remote from Kazim’s intentions, than
a pressure of the slightest possible degree upon the wishes of
his daughter. He fancied that he had, more than once, observed an
expression of no ordinary pleasure in her countenance, whenever he
announced that Afkun was to share their private family dinner. Neither
could she deny, that the young Turcomanian had often walked with her
alone in the garden; that she played on her lute, and sang for him;
and that she listened with a lively attention to the description which
he gave her of the peculiar customs of his country, and of the battles
in which he had been engaged. But when she was reminded of all these
indications of a favourable feeling on her part, as well as of the
many circumstances which, on his side, also gave proof of the decided
preference he entertained for her society, she replied that there was
nothing in all that of the kind of sacred feeling which ought to bind
two hearts together,--that feeling, for instance, which she beheld
exemplified in the daily intercourse of her beloved parents. She was
told, indeed, that such a sentiment as that, identifying two persons
so completely as to cause every thought and hope to flow in the same
channel, could only be the result of years. But she could not be
persuaded that there was not some ardent and overwhelming impulse of
the heart, which made up for the want of time, and converted a moment
of genuine emotion into an eternity of love. She had read of such a
passion in the verses of Binai, who sang them to his own enchanting
music. The poet Ahili, also, though he could neither read nor write,
had well expressed what she meant.
Kazim looked upon his daughter with deep anxiety, while she spoke in
this style, of feelings which he supposed she had hardly as yet known
from experience. But the emphasis of her expressions--the rapture
that glowed in her countenance, while she opened her heart thus
innocently to her parent, excited in his mind a strong apprehension
that Mher-Ul-Nissa had already engaged her affections to another. She
assured him, however, that such was by no means the case, and that she
only repeated what she had read in the compositions he had himself
placed before her. As a decisive proof of her sincerity upon this
point, she said that she had no objection whatever to receive Afkun,
whom she much esteemed; but whether or not she could ever know any
higher feeling in his regard, would entirely depend on circumstances.
Kazim kissed his daughter for her compliance with his desire, that, at
all events, the advances of his young friend should be treated with the
utmost delicacy and respect.
Afkun, rejoicing in the permission that was accorded to him, presented
himself the next morning to Mangeli, who told him that he would find
her daughter feeding a whole tribe of gazelles in the garden. The
chieftain, to whom fear had never been known, trembled from head
to foot, as he proceeded towards the spot where the animals were
assembled. Mher-Ul-Nissa, who had not expected him so soon, was
occupied in examining the foot of one of her favourites, which had been
lamed for some time. The beautiful eyes of the gazelle were looking
into hers, as if to express all the gratitude which it felt for her
attentions, while she spoke to it in that soft tone of affection, which
falls upon a lover’s heart, like the gentle rain from heaven on the
flowers, in the season of their opening.
“Go your way, Hilali; you will soon be well now. Your pretty foot is
almost as strong as ever. But mind, you must not scramble up the trees,
and then leap down again upon the earth, as you did when you nearly
killed yourself the other day. Go your way, Hilali; and now, where is
my gay Pezu?” asked Mher-Ul-Nissa, turning round, when the whole troop,
to her surprise, scampered away to the lower part of the garden.
“I fear I have disturbed your gazelles, Mher-Ul-Nissa,” said Afkun,
approaching her.
“They are very wild and shy of strangers.”
“They are the most beautiful animals of the kind I have seen; they must
be happy too, since they are the objects of your care.”
“I hope they know what happiness is; grateful I am sure they are for
the little attention I have been able to show them.”
“They must have intelligence and affection, if we believe the eloquence
of their eyes, and all that the poets have sung in their praise.”
“At all events they cannot deceive; they know not how to flatter.”
“Those are the acts of courtiers, Mher-Ul-Nissa; you will soon find
that out, if you remain much longer in Agra.”
“Those wild gazelles! they will trample down all my flowers. Hilali!
Hilali! come hither; as usual, you are the leader in every kind of
mischief!”
Mher-Ul-Nissa, while she thus called to the animals, which were
frisking about among her yellow roses like mad creatures, hastened
along an avenue of palms, accompanied by Afkun, who assisted her to
collect the gazelles together, until a slave approaching, relieved them
from further anxiety, by calling the flock away.
“The emperor,” resumed Afkun, leading his fair companion to a green
bank, on which he entreated her to sit down; “has honoured me, as
perhaps you may have already heard, by giving me the vice-royalty of
Cashmere.”
“An honourable appointment; I congratulate you sincerely.”
“As new disturbances have broken out, which demand my presence there, I
am ordered to quit Agra to-morrow.”
“So soon!”
“Such are the emperor’s commands; I shall leave the capital with
regret; I did hope that my duties might have permitted me to enjoy the
society of your family somewhat longer. The attentions which I have
uniformly received, I may say from every member of it, shall ever hold
a place in my heart.”
“My father will miss you in his rides, and in those evening walks which
you used so often to take together in these groves.”
“Ah! that you would say as much, Mher-Ul-Nissa, for another, whose kind
remembrance of me occasionally would be still more valuable in my eyes.”
“Doubtless, we shall all think of one whom my father so much esteems.”
“I thank you, from my soul, for these words; I know not the man who is
so much to be envied as Kazim Ayas! What a happiness, above all price,
for him, occupied as he is during the greater portion of his time, in
matters of the highest importance, to be able to fly from the cares of
state, as I have often seen him do, to these delightful shades; certain
of meeting in his family those genial affections which at once relax
the mind, and attemper it for the renewal of its noblest efforts!”
“He deserves every thing from us!” said Mher-Ul-Nissa, her affection
melting as she spoke, into tears, which stood suspended on her cheeks
like pearls of dew on the rose.
“Would that I were enabled to look forward to felicity such as his!”
added Afkun, taking Mher-Ul-Nissa’s hand, which she did not draw away.
“You must forgive me, but I find it impossible to set out from Agra
without confessing the spell that is on my heart. Could I have been
so often seated by you, listening to your voice--your mandolin--and
have observed the affectionate attentions which you shew, upon all
occasions, to your admirable parents, without feeling a desire, that
you were to me as Mangeli is to Kazim Ayas?”
Mher-Ul-Nissa was silent. The tears, which she now endeavoured to hide,
still coursed each other down her cheek, as if the source whence they
flowed were never to be exhausted. Afkun, following her averted eyes,
found her gazing on a lily-of-the-valley, which she had taken from her
bosom. It was one of the symbols which composed the bouquet of Selim!
“May I wear it?” asked Afkun, endeavouring to snatch the flower. “May I
wear it as a token of you?”
“Not that, not that--I love it too much--I mean I cannot part with it;
it was the first gift I have ever received.”
“Which would have made me value it the more! Oh! Mher-Ul-Nissa, you
know not how passionately I love you. I could not have refused you an
empire, had it been at my command--and you refuse me a flower!”
“I have said it was a gift--the first gift I ever received. If I
presented it to you, would you part with it to another?”
“Not for worlds!”
“Then why blame me?”
“You then love another!”
“My father has taught me to respect--to esteem his friend.”
“You cannot love me, Mher-Ul-Nissa!--your hand is pledged to some more
fortunate being?”
“Not so, Afkun--if that had been the case, I should have confessed it
to you at once, with that frankness which I hope belongs to me.”
“If I go to Cashmere, without some hope that I may expect a more
favourable answer from you, I shall care little what becomes of me.
With you, life, power, dignity, would be precious to me; but without
you they can be nothing.”
“You will, doubtless, often hear from my father, after you arrive in
Cashmere.”
“But shall he be permitted to speak of Mher-Ul-Nissa?”
“Perhaps!”
“That is as much as I can press for at present. May Allah bless you,
and direct you towards that which may be most for your own happiness!”
“Be assured, Afkun, that happen what may, you will be often remembered
by us, while you are absent,” added Mher-Ul-Nissa, much softened by the
ardour of her lover, and at the same time looking at him with a degree
of tenderness, which he had not experienced from her before.
Rising from the bank, she led the way to the house, where they found
Kazim and Mangeli waiting, with no common anxiety, to learn the
result of the interview. The experienced minister, well-accustomed to
penetrate the feelings of men from the expression of the countenance,
read at once in Afkun’s quivering lip and pallid cheek, the
disappointment which he had met. He saw, however, from the manner of
his daughter, before she retired with her mother, that some hope still
remained of the accomplishment of the object, to which he himself
looked forward with the deepest interest.
Afkun mentioned, in a despairing tone, every thing that passed; with
the exception of his own fears, that Mher-Ul-Nissa had already given
her affection to another. Those fears he could not prevail upon himself
to disclose, as it was clear that, if they were well-founded, Kazim
was ignorant of the existence of any such predilection; and it would
scarcely be generous towards the maid, that he should be the first to
discover her secret.
“Well! well!” observed Kazim, “after all, I do not see why you should
despair. She is still young in years, though in intellect so mature.
Go to your government. A battle or two will do wonders for you; and if
you come back with a few gashes on your breast, after tranquillizing
your province, be assured that you cannot have a better passport to the
heart of a woman.”
The chieftain soon took leave, without feeling much encouragement from
the soothing language addressed to him by Kazim; and before dawn, on
the following morning, he was on his way to Cashmere.
CHAPTER XVII.
The love of a being, composed, like thyself, of water and clay,
destroy thy patience and peace of mind; it excites thee, in thy
waking hours, with minute beauties, and engages thee in thy sleep,
with vain imaginations. With such zeal dost thou lay thy head on
her foot, that the universe, in comparison of her, vanishes into
nothing before thee. Not a breath dost thou utter to any one else;
for, with her, thou hast no room for any other. Thou declarest,
that her abode is in thine eye; or, when thou closest it, in thy
heart. Thou hast no fear of censure from any man; thou hast no
power to be at rest for a moment. If she demand thy soul, it runs
instantly to thy lip.
BUSTAN, Book 3.
Acbar could not have selected an officer, in every respect, more
competent to the duties which the state of Cashmere at that period
demanded from its governor, than Shere Afkun. His pre-eminent personal
prowess, his mild demeanour, his attention to the wants of his troops,
his prudence in undertaking enterprises, and his valour in carrying
them into execution, rendered him one of the most popular chieftains
in the empire. When in the camp, there was no distinction observable
between his diet and that of the meanest soldier in his army. There
was a slight love of show evinced in his dress; but even that frailty
endeared him the more to his men, as it tended to set off to advantage
the fine figure by which he was distinguished.
None of the instructions of the prime minister, Fazeel, were more
acceptable to him than those by which he was directed to provide the
most energetic measures for the administration of justice, throughout
every department of his government; and at the same time, for relieving
the distresses of those families who had remained faithful to the
emperor, but whose possessions had been laid waste by the insurgents.
Afkun extended the new regulations to all those whom he found afflicted
by the events of the civil war, to whatever party they belonged. He
preferred conciliation to persecution; and while with one hand he
held the sabre, and carried fire and destruction into the quarters of
the obstinate foes of Acbar, in the other he bore the laws with which
he was entrusted, offering pardon and protection to those who were
disposed to return to the paths of submission and order.
The well-known character of the governor preceded him to Cashmere,
where his arrival acted like a charm upon the different parties, who
were engaged in contending for the supremacy. Most of the higher
noblemen of the province speedily rallied round his standard, and
enabled him to march with an imposing force against the rebels, who
were still in arms. The reports that reached the emperor from other
sources, detailed the difficulties against which Afkun had to make
way, as much more serious than he admitted them to be in any of his
despatches. Several engagements had taken place in the course of a few
months, which were treated by the governor as mere skirmishes; but it
appeared, in point of fact, that not only had they required incessant
vigilance, superior skill, and indefatigable activity on his part,
but that to his single arm alone, unquailing under the pressure of
alarming vicissitudes in the field, and sometimes of defections, at
critical moments, on the part of those who had promised assistance both
in men and provisions, the complete re-conquest of the province was to
be attributed.
The emperor, though now somewhat advanced in years, attended with
peculiar exultation to the triumphant progress of his arms in Cashmere.
No person could have better appreciated than himself, the arrangements
devised and executed by Afkun, for the security of the tranquil
districts, and for the subjugation of those whose fidelity wavered,
even for a moment. The name of the chieftain was never mentioned in his
presence, without calling forth a high eulogy upon the mode in which he
performed every part of the duties entrusted to his care. The deeds of
the Turcomanian were the perpetual theme of the courtiers, who, in this
instance at least, were sincere in the praises which they bestowed. He
was the hero of the day; his proceedings were the subject of many a
tale and ballad, accompanied with rude portraits of the warrior, which
bore, perhaps, as much resemblance to his features, as they did to
those of Baber, or Timur, or any other leader who had ever obtained
renown in Hindostan.
The fame of Afkun, of course, reached the ears of Mher-Ul-Nissa, whom
the gossip of the palace, as well as the gratitude of the people of
the capital, had already assigned to the Turcomanian, as the most
acceptable reward he could receive, for the important services which
he had rendered to the empire. Her beauty was scarcely less celebrated
than his valour. Her charms could scarcely, indeed, have been
exaggerated; but poetry had full scope for the exercise of its licence,
as Mher-Ul-Nissa was seldom seen abroad, unless when with her mother
she attended the principal mosque at the conclusion of the Ramazan, or
the other great festivals of the year.
Among the attendants of Mher-Ul-Nissa, was a pale Circassian girl,
named Kanun, descended from a family which had once held princely rank
in her own country. There was a peculiar gentleness in the manners
of this slave, which gained for her the sympathy and confidence of
her young mistress. She was tall for her age; her features, though
regular, were marked rather by an interesting expression, than by
decided beauty; she was a skilful embroiderer, played the tambourine
and dulcimer to perfection, and had a memory abundantly stored with
tales, with which she frequently amused her mistress, as well as the
whole circle of her companions, while they sat at work in the chamber
assigned them for that purpose.
It was remarked by her fellow slaves, that for some time after the
departure of Afkun from the capital, Kanun looked paler than ever, and
that her memory, usually so perfect, had failed to supply her with
the succession of stories which she had been previously accustomed to
relate for their entertainment, especially of those that were relieved
occasionally by scenes of drollery, with which she used often to make
them laugh by the hour, until they would entreat her to desist. For
some reason or other, she seemed lately to have forgotten every kind
of narrative, that did not bear on the actions of brave warriors, and
she felt the greatest delight in repeating the ballads which had been
circulated through Agra, in praise of the governor of Cashmere.
Sometimes Kanun sat with Mher-Ul-Nissa, beneath her favourite
plane-tree, in the garden; and while both were engaged in embroidery,
she would relate to her mistress, with a minuteness of detail that lost
nothing in her hands, the most recent reports which had arrived from
Cashmere. Whatever was authentic in those communications, Mher-Ul-Nissa
had, of course, already heard from her father, who perceived, with
unaffected pleasure, that she listened with more and more earnestness,
every day, to the tidings which he brought of his young friend’s
glorious career. But nothing surprised or amazed the intelligent mind
of the mistress, more than the marvellous additions, which the slave
either invented herself, or related from the information of others,
concerning almost every transaction, even the most trifling, in which
the Turcomanian chief had any share. His very appearance in the field
of battle filled the enemy with terror; he slew thousands with his own
sabre, as he plunged into the midst of their ranks; arrows and javelins
showered upon him by the foe, instead of injuring him, formed an iron
canopy over his head, protecting him from every danger. There was a
virtue in his touch, which cured the wounded; the genii bestowed upon
him elephant-loads of gold, which he distributed amongst the poor,
and above all, he was the idol of the women, wherever he went. Kanun
positively assured her mistress, that the governor had already a harem
more numerous than either the emperor or the prince Selim, and that the
most beautiful of the sex in the royal establishments, was deformity
itself, when compared to the houris, whom Mahomet had already sent to
reward the valour of Afkun.
“Why all this to me, Kanun?” exclaimed Mher-Ul-Nissa, displeased with
the girl for touching so freely on this latter topic.
“Ah! it is too true! Alas! I fear he will never come to Agra
again;--never more shall we see his fine manly form, and his waving
plumes, among these groves!”
“So, so! you remember him then! I was not aware you had ever beheld
him.”
“That tower, which you see peeping above the palace, commands almost
every part of the garden.”
“And so, whenever Afkun came hither with my father, you watched all
their movements.”
“That tower is a favourite place with us all. We have views from
it over a great part of the capital, and the surrounding country.
Therefore, if Afkun happened to be here, you know we could not help
seeing him.”
“Were your companions as great admirers of him as you seem to have
been?”
“Ah! who that had once beheld that noble Turcomanian, could have done
otherwise than adore him?”
“What a deep drawn sigh was there! Why surely, Kanun, you are not in
love with the viceroy of Cashmere?”
“I know not----but this I am sure of; had I been Mher-Ul-Nissa, I
should certainly not have refused him that lily of the valley!”
“What do you mean?” asked the mistress, blushing deeply, on finding
that there had been eyes in the tower, from which her last interview
with the chieftain had not been concealed.
“Why, I mean that I should not only have given him the lily, but the
whole bouquet of the prince into the bargain. Only compare them for
a moment together.--Afkun young, handsome, brave, wise, with a heart
entirely devoted to you. I do believe he would have kissed the very
ground on which you walked. Then think of the prince,--the heir of the
empire it is true--but with a harem full of wives--not one of whom he
loves--wandering about the streets, often in the disguise of a common
beggar, with a set of low companions, whom he leads into all sorts of
disgraceful practices, drinking with them wine by night and day. No,
no! there is no comparison between two such persons! Afkun is indeed a
man. Selim is nothing better than a ----.”
“Hush! for Allah’s sake! You must be mad, Kanun, to speak in this
manner before me of the future emperor of Hindostan.”
Kanun, who observed the half smile with which this reproof was
conveyed, was proceeding to relate one of the newest pieces of scandal
which had been circulated about the prince, when she started suddenly
on her feet, as if she had been bitten by a snake. “It is divine! What
an exquisite lutanist! And there is a guitar, too, and a dulcimer! I
thought I myself performed on that instrument moderately well; but
after hearing that last shake I shall never touch it again!”
“The music must be somewhere near us, Kanun!”
“It is here, among the cedars.”
“Ah! I see; it is a little stratagem of my father, to provide what he
well knows is to me the most fascinating of all amusements!”
“Both the air and words are new.”
While Mher-Ul-Nissa and her attendant were listening with equally
pleased attention, the musicians gradually, but respectfully,
approached the plane-tree, still continuing a ballad descriptive of
the feelings of a young warrior, who was obliged, by the dictates of
duty, to separate himself from his mistress at the moment that she had
plighted to him her faith. The soldier fought his way to glory; and the
composition, apparently the production of no ordinary hand, concluded
with the incidents of a combat, in which he fell beneath the superior
power of his enemy. This was followed by another poem, set to music, of
a most pathetic character, in which the unhappy maid, who had followed
her hero to the wars, was portrayed wandering over the field of battle,
until she found him of whom she was in search, but now cold upon the
bare ground, with no covering save the canopy of heaven. The agonies of
the lover were then told with such effect, both in the verse and the
music, that Mher-Ul-Nissa, moved even to tears, unable to restrain her
apprehensions, desired Kanun to ask the minstrels whether this ballad
were no more than the invention of a poet, or whether indeed it related
in any manner to Afkun.
The Circassian girl heard not the command given her: all her attention
was devoted to the lutanist, who, though he at first touched the
instrument with inimitable grace, seemed for some time to have lost his
powers of execution, and to employ all his faculties in observing the
change that took place in the countenance of Mher-Ul-Nissa. There was
something, too, in the appearance of the musician, which reminded Kanun
so strongly of Afkun himself, that she watched his looks and movements
with the same intense curiosity which he betrayed in following those of
her mistress.
“Alas, Kanun!” exclaimed Mher-Ul-Nissa, resting her hand for support
on the shoulder of her attendant, “should this be the true history of
Afkun!”
“He would be the happiest of men, even in death,” added the lutanist,
falling on one knee before her; “for he would then be wept as he now is
by Mher-Ul-Nissa. These tears repay me for every danger,--for what was
still more afflicting to me, the long season of fearful doubts which I
have spent since my departure from Agra.”
Kanun was all rapture on account of the return of the chieftain.
She ran off to her companions to be the first to communicate the
joyful intelligence; leaving her mistress in the care of her lover,
and altogether forgetting whether, at such a moment, her services
might not have been much more necessary under the plane-tree than
in the embroidery chamber. The clamour which they all set up, drew
the attention of Mangeli, who was engaged in hearing her husband
reading a letter from Afkun, announcing his immediate return to Agra.
Though not prepared for his appearance so speedily, and that too in
the disguise of a lutanist, it need hardly be added, that on once
more beholding their young friend, covered as he was now with fresh
glories, and manifestly accepted as the future spouse of their beloved
daughter, their delight was at least as sincere, though not quite so
enthusiastically expressed, as that of the Circassian maid herself.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The boatmen shout--“’tis time to part!
No longer we can stay:”
’Twas then Maimuna taught my heart,
How much a glance could say!
With trembling steps to me she came;
“Farewell!” she would have cried;
But ere her lips the word could frame,
In half formed sounds it died.
Then bending down, with looks of love,
Her arms she round me flung;
And, as the gale hangs on the grove,
Upon my breast she hung.
My willing arms embraced the maid,
My heart with raptures beat;
While she but wept the more, and said,
“Would we had never met!”
MUSICIAN OF BAGDAD.
Amongst the earliest companions of the Prince Selim, there was one,
named Fereid Bochari, who long continued to possess over the mind of
his master an unrivalled influence. He was the son of Abdulhamid
Messower, a portrait painter of Shiraz, who had been employed by Acbar
for several years in painting the beauties of the harem. Bochari,
while yet a boy, was frequently admitted with his father into the
interior of the harem, where he became acquainted with the prince. The
near equality of their ages, the lively spirits of Bochari, and the
infinite resources which he had at his command for amusing the heir
to the empire, soon prepared for him the way to fortune. His father,
of course, gave every encouragement, and all the improvement in his
power to talents, which had already won for his son the favour of so
important a personage. At the earnest solicitation of Selim, Bochari
was altogether domesticated in the palace. They were inseparable
companions, both in the school-room and in the gardens assigned them
for recreation. They grew up together from youth to manhood; and
although the emperor frequently observed with solicitude, the strange
power which the Persian exercised over the resolutions of the prince,
whether they were connected with matters of business or pleasure,
nevertheless, he made no attempt to break the links by which they
appeared to be bound together.
The son of Messower was from nature, as well as from the circumstances
under which he was brought up, a consummate hypocrite. In the presence
of the emperor, or of the influential persons employed about him,
Bochari exhibited a peculiar gravity of demeanor, supposed to be partly
the result of the rigid principles of religion, which he affected to
follow; partly of the profound veneration which he professed to feel
for the ministers and other great officers engaged in the service of
the empire. For the restraint, however, which he imposed upon himself
on these occasions, he took ample compensation when he was alone with
Selim. There was then scarcely any body invested with public office,
whom he did not mimic with an extraordinary degree of perfection, in
voice, language, and manner. Selim confessed that he would often have
found it difficult to believe that Bochari was not himself the very
character he represented, had not the latter generally taken care,
when finishing the exhibition, to turn his originals into ridicule.
When, after an evening’s amusement of this description, they found
themselves near each other at any of the ceremonies of the court, in
the presence of the very personages who had thus been caricatured,
Selim frequently burst into laughter which he could not control; very
much to the horror of the emirs, and sometimes even of the emperor,
who noticed his indecorous merriment; while not a muscle was moved
in the countenance of Bochari. On the contrary, he would often take
it upon himself to reprove the prince for his levity, and to engage
him in conversation, in order to prevent its renewal. Every body,
who witnessed these scenes, looked upon it as a most fortunate
circumstance, that a person of so much discretion was placed near the
prince, who had sufficient influence to check these improprieties of
conduct.
Bochari inherited from his father a most ungovernable passion for wine.
He was rigidly cautious in never drinking before mid-day prayers, as
the consequence would have been fatal had he been discovered drunk in
the mosque; and, besides, the emperor seldom passed a morning without
visiting the apartment of his son. But the afternoons, which were
supposed to be spent by the prince, and his companion, in riding
in the country near Agra, were very generally devoted by both, even
before they arrived at manhood, to a very different purpose. They left
the palace mounted, as usual, for an excursion. They had in their
pay a peasant, who owned a small shed in the neighbourhood of the
capital, to whose care they confided their horses. Then putting on the
dresses of common soldiers, which they had provided, they returned in
disguise to Agra; and establishing themselves in one of their favourite
wine-houses, they usually drank from fifteen to twenty cups each,
sometimes alone, but more frequently in the midst of the lowest company
by which those places were crowded. The prince became, in a short time,
so much addicted to this beverage, that if he were deprived of it, at
his accustomed hours, his hands began to shake, and he was unable to
sit at rest until wine was brought before him.
When Selim was permitted, at the usual age, to establish a harem of
his own, Bochari lent all his assistance in collecting for it the most
beautiful women of Hindostan. But the skill and perseverance with which
he succeeded in rescuing his master from the predominant influence of
any of his numerous wives, would have been admirable, had they been
exercised in a more legitimate cause. Accustomed to dictate every fancy
he suffered Selim to indulge, he would bear no rival in the absolute
dominion over him, which he wielded with the sway of an enchanter.
As soon as he learned, by questioning the prince, that the charms of
a particular female were assuming a marked superiority in his esteem
over those of her companions, he so concerted his measures, that to
make him forget such dangerous attractions, a new rival was introduced,
destined, in her turn, to be sacrificed the moment she aimed at
securing the permanence of her ascendancy.
Bochari had, with all the world, heard much of the beauty of
Mher-Ul-Nissa. The few occasions on which he had seen her, enabled
him to confirm, by his own observation, the reports which had reached
his ear. He acknowledged to Selim, who often spoke to him about her,
that the poets, in their most inspired moments, had never portrayed an
earthly being, whose presence was more bewitching than the daughter of
Kazim Ayas. There were, however, a steadiness and dignity in her mien,
and a quick intelligence in her eye, which at once commanded Bochari’s
respect, and forbade him to think of any scheme for adding that lovely
person to the harem of the prince. He feared that the moment of her
marriage with Selim would, of necessity, be that of his own downfall.
He could hope to find no rival in Hindostan; nay, not even in Persia,
whom he might make use of, for the purpose of counteracting the
influence which her fascinations of person and of mind would be sure to
attain. The circumstance, therefore, of her being engaged to Afkun, was
the more agreeable, as it was by him unexpected. For he had not failed
to discover that Selim’s attentions to Mher-Ul-Nissa recently assumed
a character very likely, if unresisted, to lead to the most important
consequences.
The apprehensions of Bochari, on this subject, were excited to an
extreme degree one evening, soon after it was publicly declared that
Afkun was to be united to the daughter of the high treasurer. The
chieftain had scarcely obtained from Mher-Ul-Nissa, the promise of
her hand, when he was again suddenly called to his government by the
occurrence of a series of the most awful calamities, which were caused
by the overflowing of the lakes, in consequence of the melting of the
snows in the mountains, as well as an unusual continuance of heavy
rains. The waters overspread the country for many leagues, and as they
poured along with irresistible fury, they swept away not only the
harvests standing in the fields, but whole villages, and innumerable
flocks and herds, which happened to be within the reach of the
inundation.
During Afkun’s absence, Kazim gave a splendid banquet in honour of the
approaching nuptials. Selim and his companion, together with several of
the most dignified personages of the empire, were present. The wines,
all of the most exquisite kind, were very freely circulated; and after
the crowd of less intimate guests had withdrawn, the ladies, veiled as
usual, made their appearance.
At the request of Selim, Mher-Ul-Nissa sung to her lute several of
her favourite airs. Bochari observed, that her melodies, whether from
accident or design he could not conjecture, were, for the most part,
of a grave and even plaintive turn, instead of being suited to the
joyousness of the occasion. There was one especially, which told, in
the most touching tones, the grief of a Cingalese girl, who had been
attached to a native of her own island; but who had an opportunity,
after being sold as a slave, to improve, in some degree the severity
of her fate, by marrying a foreign prince. The verses, in which she
described the innocence and ardour of her first love, as contrasted
with the reluctance she felt in bestowing her hand, where it never
could be accompanied by her heart, were given by Mher-Ul-Nissa
with a tenderness, which drew tears from every body present, with
the exception of Bochari. While all other eyes were fixed upon the
ravishing minstrel, his were wholly employed in watching, with secret
anguish, the powerful effect which her performance produced on the
feelings of the prince.
Although Mangeli beheld this scene with the natural pride of a mother,
yet feeling that if it were prolonged, under the circumstances, it
might give rise to unjust interpretations, she desired her attendants,
all of whom were robed in the most sumptuous attire, to form for the
dance. But although those maidens, most of whom were characterised by
beauty and gracefulness, executed their appointed parts in the dance in
a superior style, they attracted not the slightest notice from Selim.
His wrapt attention still dwelt on the song which he had last heard,
and he pressed for its repetition with so much earnestness, that it
seemed almost inhospitable to refuse his request. Mher-Ul-Nissa resumed
her instrument; but while she was still preluding to the air which she
intended to play, two of the principal strings snapped asunder with a
loud, and, as some felt, an ominous sound, like the shriek of an evil
genius.
In order to dissipate the sudden gloom which this incident created
throughout the company, she rose, and ordering Kanun to take the
flageolet, while another of her attendants struck the double-stringed
harp, she stood in the midst of the circle like some wonderful statue
fresh from the hand of the artist. The music of the two performers at
first lamented the fate of a Hindu shepherdess, whom the god Vishnu
transformed into marble, lest, during his temporary absence from
earth, she might surrender her affections to an ordinary mortal. A
rapid transition was then made to the most charming pastoral strains,
resembling those which the former companions of the metamorphosed
maid poured forth from their simple reeds; when after seeking her for
many a day over the fields, where she had been accustomed to tend her
flocks, they at length discovered her near a fountain, as they thought
asleep. They hoped that they might awake her from her lethargy, by
addressing her in the tones which she most loved to hear--the songs
of her youth; but she remained insensible to their appeals, renewed
though they were from day to day. At length, a young unknown shepherd,
who, with a lyre slung on his back, joined the group one morning, as
they were proceeding to the fountain, mingled the brilliant notes of
his instrument with those which had hitherto failed to produce any
effect on the sleeping girl. Suddenly the marble trembled, and became
relaxed--the glow of genial warmth overspread the whole figure--blushes
kindled on the cheeks--the eyelids separated, and from beneath them
shot forth a living fire--the arms moved--and while the rustics, gazing
with rapture on the miraculous change that was going on, imparted to
their music the brightening joy by which they were inspired, the
strange shepherd, taking the maid by the hand, called all her limbs
into the most exquisite action, descriptive of the happiness of
those, who, after a long separation, are again joined in the sweet
consciousness of mutual affection.
Mher-Ul-Nissa answered to each variation in the strain, with
irresistible truth and power of expression. The statue, veiled in
drapery, seemed for a while without vitality--breathless--cold--but
still beautiful, even in apparent death. No feature or limb
moved, while the airs of the shepherdesses emulated each other,
in endeavouring to recall her to emotion; but when the well-known
music of the god touched her ear, the effect was electric upon the
whole assembly. Her figure appeared to warm by degrees, from utter
insensibility to a divine rapture. The sentiment that actuated her
entire being was shown in attitudes and movements, refined far above
those exhibitions to which the grosser sense gives rise.
Selim followed her steps, with a degree of admiration which he knew not
how to repress within the ordinary bounds of decorum. He was beside
himself with delight. And when, in gliding before him, her veil chanced
to be wafted from her head, suddenly disclosing to his view all the
charms of her unrivalled countenance, blushing, with confusion for such
an untoward accident, his bended knee, his upward glowing looks, his
hand pressed on her’s, whilst he exclaimed, “NOURMAHAL!”[2] at once
proclaimed feelings, which, though they found no words, announced, that
from that hour they were, for good or for evil, to rule his subsequent
existence.
[2] “Light of the harem!”
CHAPTER XIX.
At the end of the street, there advanced before me a damsel, with
a fairy’s cheeks, who, in the manner of a pagan, wore her tresses
dishevelled over her shoulder, like the sacerdotal stole. I said,
“O thou! to the arch of whose eye-brow the new moon is a slave,
what quarter is this, and where is thy mansion?”
ISMAT.
Selim, on returning to his apartments in the palace, sought his couch
in vain, after the scene of that fatal night. Sleep was, indeed,
unsolicited by him, for he preferred repeating to himself the songs
which Nourmahal, as he thenceforth styled her, had sung, representing
over and over again, to his heated fancy, the attitudes of the maid,
and retracing in his memory the lines of her matchless and now
deeply-beloved countenance. The report of her having been betrothed to
Shere Afkun rose occasionally upon his mind, like a dense stormy cloud,
that seemed about to blight all the prospects of happiness which he
had already entertained. But he flattered himself with the hope that
the rumours, which had been circulated on this subject, were void of
foundation. It was impossible, he thought, that she could love Afkun,
since, while he was far away, she betrayed no depression of spirits.
To judge by himself, now that he was no longer in Nourmahal’s company,
he felt that he was the most miserable being in the world. Would she
not have mentioned him sometimes,--would she not have subdued the
expression of her enchanting powers,--would she have sung or danced so
divinely, if, indeed, she had been labouring under the grief that must
have been caused by his absence, had he been truly present to her heart?
The day, as it dawned, into his chamber found Selim still feverishly
busy in forming projects for his union with Nourmahal, let what would
be the consequence. What! even if she had been pledged to Afkun, such
a ceremony was not irrevocable. His father, the emperor of Hindostan,
whose voice gave law to more than a hundred millions of people, might
surely dispense with the obligations, if any there were, imposed on
either party by a proceeding of that nature. He would throw himself
at Acbar’s feet, and solicit from him this boon, upon which his very
life now depended. He would frankly reveal the state of his feelings
with respect to Nourmahal; he would represent the disastrous effect
which her union with another would probably produce with respect to
all parties; he might throw a little exaggeration round the degrees of
encouragement which he believed he had already received from her,--he
would mention the bouquet,--the look with which that emblematic
expression of affection had been received by her,--he would promise an
entire reform in those habits of intoxication which had afforded so
much displeasure to his father, and such scandal to the court; and he
would, if it were required, even abdicate the reins of empire in favour
of his son Chusero, provided only that he were permitted to spend the
remainder of his days with her, who had now obtained entire possession
of his soul.
Bochari waited at the usual hour on the prince, whom he found still
arrayed in the dress of purple satin, and gold turban, which he had
worn the night before.
“I am glad you have come at last, my dear Bochari. I wish you would
go to the apartments of the emperor, and learn whether I can see him
immediately.”
“Not in this dress, at all events; at such an hour of the morning, he
will think you mad if you appear before him in this manner.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at your turban, your satin vest, your cincture with these massive
tassels, your robe of silver tissue, and your silk stockings flowered
with gold; nay, you have not even changed your slippers since we parted
last night;--what can be the cause of all this?”
“I shall tell the emperor every thing.”
“What! you will tell the emperor every thing? Am I, then, no longer
worthy of your confidence? But I can easily understand it all. I see
you have not slept much during the night. You seem scarcely to know
what you say.”
“Yes, Bochari, I well know what I say,--and what I feel, too. If
you, however, refuse me your assistance on the present occasion, I
shall not know what to do. You are my best of friends; you will,
I am sure, aid me with your inexhaustible resources on the present
occasion,--perhaps the most important of my life.”
“You surely cannot think of marrying Mher-Ul-Nissa!”
“Why not?”
“I thought I was not deceived; I knew all this last night,--when that
faithless and artful woman threw off her veil so indecently in your
presence,--in the presence of a crowd of guests.”
“What words are these Bochari? Faithless, did you say? To whom?”
“To her betrothed husband, the subah of Cashmere! Is it possible you
did not feel, what every other person in the saloon must have felt,
that Mher-Ul-Nissa, though her faith was solemnly plighted to Afkun,
put forth all her powers last night, in order to involve you in her
dangerous toils?”
“But how am I to know that she has been betrothed as you say?”
“I heard it from Kazim Ayas; and in order to assure myself on that
point, out of mere curiosity, for it never occurred to me that you
would feel any interest in the question, I ascertained the fact from
the kadi, in whose presence the ceremony was solemnised.”
“Base wretch! away from my presence for ever! No! you will never make
me believe that Nourmahal has promised to be the consort of another!”
“I shall go hence as you desire, although this is not the treatment
which I had expected, after so many years of faithful service!”
“No, no--stay Bochari--I am half mad--forgive me--stay--yes--we have
been children together.”
“But we are not to remain children for ever. You are now a man; though
I can hardly call you such, if you thus suffer your feelings to be
mastered by a woman, who, if she were married to you to-day, would
probably elope with some other lover before the dawn to-morrow.”
“Oh! Bochari, spare my feelings at this moment; do not thus speak of
Nourmahal. She cannot be the wretch you would represent her.”
“Judge for yourself. She is bound by ties of an indissoluble nature,
to Afkun. During his absence, caused, as we all know, by circumstances
which he could not control, she appears before a crowd of her father’s
guests--she sings--she dances--and when she thinks she has excited the
feelings of another person--of the Prince Selim--to the highest degree,
she, as if by accident, lets her veil fall at his feet, and completes
her conquest! What security can you have for the affections of such
a woman as this? Think you she loves you for yourself? Not she--the
throne is the sole object of her ambition; give up that, and you will
soon find her turning from you with scorn.”
The prince, who was already pale from the sleepless night he had spent,
trembled from head to foot, while Bochari uttered these unguarded
phrases, foaming with undisguised mortification.
“Give way to such childish feelings as these!” resumed the stern
monitor, in a tone to which his pupil was wholly unaccustomed, “and you
will be the laughing stock of the whole empire. Every adventurer, who
has a pretty daughter in his family, will come to Agra and place her in
the way of Selim, as an instrument of fortune. Abandoning the faithful
mothers of your children already in the harem, you will be tossed about
and played with like a shuttle-cock from hand to hand. The cares
of state will be forgotten; you will give yourself up entirely to
the blandishments of women; you will surrender successively to their
fathers or brothers the sceptre which you ought yourself to grasp with
a firm hand; and ultimately, perhaps, you will be assassinated, in
order to make room for some upstart, whom you have yourself raised to
high station; and then Hindostan, now the most splendid empire in the
world, will fall into a thousand petty provinces! For shame--let us
hear no more of this baseborn girl!”
“She is the daughter of Kazim Ayas, the high treasurer of the empire; a
man universally respected, and I may even say, beloved. Be just, at all
events, in your anger!”
“And who is this Kazim Ayas, I should like to know? Ha! ha! ha! true;
high treasurer now; but what _was_ he, when he first made his way from
the wilds of Tartary to Lahore? It is notorious that he was obliged
to beg for bread from door to door; and that he earned a miserable
pittance, for many years, by writing in a stall for any person who
chose to give him a cowrie! Kazim Ayas, indeed, beloved and respected!
By whom? Not by me, certainly; for, after the events of last night,
seeing that he did not prevent his daughter from pursuing the indecent
exhibition which she made, I can look upon him as no better than a
common pander!”
Selim was shocked, beyond expression, at the language which Bochari
used, with regard to a family so much honoured by his father, and so
highly esteemed by the Omrahs of the court, without exception. Bochari
soon perceived, by the silence of the prince, who continued for some
time to look at him with astonishment, that he had rather overshot the
mark at which he aimed. He knew thoroughly the character of the person
he had to deal with, and was especially aware of the obstinacy with
which the prince adhered to any purpose, which he could not be wheedled
or frightened out of in the first instance.
“I see then, Bochari,” said Selim, after a long pause; “that I am not
to expect any assistance from you in this business.”
“Your highness will, I am sure, excuse any hastiness of expression
into which I may have been betrayed, by my zeal for your welfare. Your
happiness is, you must know, the only object of my life. I have been
by your side from boyhood upwards; it is not likely that I should
abandon you now. Your command must ever be my law.”
“That is spoken like yourself, Bochari; I own I hardly knew, just now,
who you were. You never before opposed any of my wishes after such a
fashion as this.”
“Nor shall I now, if you think I can render you the slightest
assistance.”
“I have, as you know, Bochari, seen and added to my harem some of
the most perfect beauties of whom Asia can boast. I was no more than
fifteen, when I first beheld the daughter of the Rajah Bharmul, whom
I then looked upon as the rose of the world. She is the mother of
Chusero, and still preserves my esteem. The lovely Jamaul, the mother
of my favourite boy, Parveiz, has also a peculiar place in my heart.
Her moon-like beauty has fresh charms for me every time I visit her
apartments. I am also affected with great tenderness whenever I take my
son, Khorroum, from the arms of his mother Gosseine. Some things have
been foretold me of this boy, which induce me to hope that he will be
ever affectionate and faithful to me, and that one day he will be the
ornament of the empire. But neither the daughter of Bharmul, nor the
gentle Jamaul, nor Gosseine, nor even Beiby Karmitty, the youngest,
and perhaps the most engaging of all my wives, has ever excited in
my breast feelings similar to those which have been kindled there by
Nourmahal.”
“There is no contending against fate! It is a power capable of doing
with us as it chooses.”
“That is precisely what I think too, my dear Bochari. I am convinced,
that if I now endeavoured not to love Nourmahal, I should fail of
success. Her image never left me all night. Sometimes she appeared
stooping over me, her beauteous eyes dimmed with tears, lamenting the
precipitation with which she received the addresses of Afkun, before
she had become acquainted with the secret which I revealed to her
last-night--that I was her captive! Sometimes that voice, which you
have heard, floated in the air around me, while her fingers played like
beams of rosy light over the strings of her lute. But you have seen her
in that Vishnu dance.--Can you wonder that when her veil fell off, I
should have been transported beyond all the common bounds of prudence?”
“But how are you to get over the contract so solemnly entered into?”
“It must be dissolved, Bochari. Mark me,--it must be put an end to, by
some means or other.”
“The emperor might perhaps consent--but then there is his prime
minister, Fazeel,”----
“Name him not----you know that that man is my abhorrence.”
“What with his outlandish notions about the principles of justice--and
setting an example of rectitude to the people--and all that kind of
nonsensical philosophy, if once he be consulted on the subject, you may
look upon the matter as decided against you.”
“And if it be,”----
“We must then think of other means for the attainment of your
purpose--Afkun is subah of Cashmere.--He will probably return soon to
Agra, to have his nuptials completed--the road is long--a few Afghans,
well stationed, disposed to vindicate your cause”----
“Let us spare _his_ blood, if we can. As to Fazeel--he and I never can
live long under the same sky. His presence is to me the shade of the
poison tree. I feel as if I begin to wither whenever I come within its
range.”
“Then you must smile upon him henceforth. There is nothing like a
luminous smile for deceiving your enemy--or, at least the court, when
they behold you together.”
“Depend upon me--you must have heard of that insolent proposal of his,
for excluding me from the succession to the throne, and of transferring
my rights to Chusero!”
“Under the pretext of insanity! But, hark!--the trumpets already
announce the breaking up of the Am-kas! Something has occurred to the
emperor! It is but just now that the gates of the citadel were thrown
open to admit the multitude, and already the assembly is broken up!
What can this mean?”
Selim trembled, as he directed his companion to go instantly and
inquire into the cause of this extraordinary occurrence, for he knew
that nothing but illness of a serious character, or affairs of the
utmost importance, would prevent his father from taking his seat
upon the throne, and discharging the duties of the audience which he
gave every morning to all his vassals, without distinction. Bochari
hastened to the apartments of the emperor, but was met by an eunuch, as
breathless as himself, who asked where the prince was to be found.
“What has happened?” eagerly enquired Bochari.
“The prince--the prince--where is he?” asked the eunuch--“The emperor,
as he was ascending the musnud, fell back on the steps, before any of
us could reach him--he still lives--we bore him to his cabinet--he
has just spoken, and calls incessantly for the prince--lead me to him
without delay.”
Bochari returned with the eunuch to Selim’s apartment, who was deeply
afflicted by the intelligence; for, through all the courses of
dissipation to which he had been habituated, he still felt a strong
sentiment of affection for his father. Forthwith changing his apparel,
he went to the cabinet, where he found the emperor surrounded by his
principal ministers, resting on cushions, suffering much from the
debility of declining years, but more from the tidings which he had
just received, of the death of his favourite son, Daniel.
“Take these despatches, Selim,” said Acbar, in a feeble voice,
frequently interrupted by the pangs of his heart, against which he had
no longer sufficient fortitude to struggle. “Take these despatches, my
son--read them with due attention. Daniel--my beloved Daniel--beloved,
even though, with all my efforts I could not reclaim him from those
terrible vices, to which he has thus prematurely fallen a victim--is no
more. Oh! Selim, shall his example--his fate--warn you in time?”
The prince was on his knees, bathed in tears, holding the emperor’s
hand, which he pressed and kissed repeatedly, in token of his entire
submission to his father’s will.
CHAPTER XX.
The sword and the dagger are my fragrant flowers;
Contemptible, in my opinion, are the narcissus and the myrtle;
Our drink is the blood of our enemies;
Our cups their skulls.
ARABIC VERSES.
From the council-chamber, Acbar was removed to his apartments in the
harem, where his physicians succeeded in restoring the current of life
that had almost ceased to flow, in consequence of the shock he had
experienced on receiving the letter which announced the death of the
prince Daniel. That unfortunate youth had been commissioned to quell
a formidable insurrection in the Deccan, and had marched thither at
the head of a large army. In the course of his journey, surrounded by
some of his favourite companions, he gave himself up so entirely to
the debaucheries which had already worn out his constitution, that the
emperor was obliged to recall him, and entrust the command of the army
to another officer. On reaching Burhampoor, Daniel was informed of
the disgrace that awaited him; he proceeded, however, to the banquet,
attended by the parasites who seldom left his presence, and ordered
an extra quantity of wine to be served up. The carouse was continued,
with little intermission, until the following morning, when the dancing
women were sent for. On their entering, the prince rose, as it is said,
flushed with wine, and attempted to join them, his companions having
previously clothed him in female attire. But before he could perform
this last act of ignominy, he fell prostrate on the floor; the ruby
colour on his cheeks gave way to a livid paleness, which soon announced
that the vital spark had fled. Messengers arrived at Agra with the
fatal intelligence just as the emperor, after finishing his morning
prayers, was proceeding to the Am-kas. He resolved, however, not to
adjourn the assembly, and was ascending the throne when the parental
grief, which for the moment he attempted to suppress, overwhelmed him.
Fortunately, the soft carpets spread over the steps leading to the
musnud, protected his person from any serious injury; but his frame,
enfeebled through the exertions of a reign exceeding fifty years, and
the sufferings brought upon his mind by the discords prevailing in his
family, seemed incapable of much longer holding out against the many
misfortunes which clouded the evening of his glorious life.
Meanwhile Abul Fazeel proceeded to take measures for securing the
succession to the throne. That experienced and upright minister had
long narrowly watched the conduct and character of the Prince Selim,
and had arrived at a conclusion, which further observation on his part
seemed unlikely to alter, that, although the legitimate heir, Selim
was decidedly unfit to preside over the destinies of a monarchy so
extensive, and still so unsettled as Hindostan. There was a feminine
softness in his disposition utterly inconsistent with the energies,
which were required in the chieftain of so vast an empire. He gave
much more of his attention to the dresses, in which he should dazzle
the eyes of the people whenever he appeared in public, than to the
acquisition of even the ordinary degree of information necessary to
prepare him for the discharge of the imperial functions. He reposed
implicit faith in the predictions of the most ignorant astrologers;
courted the company of magicians, in whose feats he experienced a
puerile delight; lavished money on dervishes, who persuaded him that,
as chosen saints of heaven, they had the power of working miracles;
and withal surrendered himself so repeatedly to the influence of
wine, in violation of the most solemn commands of the Prophet, that
no statesman, looking forward to the welfare of Hindostan, could
contemplate the accession of such a prince to the throne, without
apprehending consequences of the most disastrous description.
If Selim were set aside, all eyes would be naturally turned to Chusero,
his eldest son, by the daughter of Rajah Bharmul. Her brother,
Man-Singh, was at that period one of the most illustrious commanders in
the empire, a circumstance of great importance should the succession
be seriously disputed. Chusero was a prince of great promise, active
in the field, energetic in the pursuit of knowledge, unassuming in
his deportment, and free from the stain of any of those enormities by
which his father, and his uncle, Daniel, had been so unfortunately
distinguished. The expectation that he might possibly be called upon to
wield the sceptre before the period to which he might, in the ordinary
course of nature, calculate upon so important a change in his position,
was not unfamiliar to his mind, as Man-Singh had often spoken to him
upon the subject. One stipulation he always mentioned, as so sacred
in his eyes, that, unless it were promised and observed in the most
inviolable manner, he declared he would never comply with the wishes
of his friends--the blood of his father was under no circumstances to
be shed--he never would sit upon a throne, reddened by a single drop
from the veins to which he owed his own existence. If his father’s
character were so effeminate, as it had been described, it would not be
difficult, Chusero thought, to persuade him that a splendid retirement
in the valley of Cashmere, would be infinitely more conducive to his
happiness than the throne of Hindostan.
The rumour of Selim’s passion for the daughter of the high-treasurer,
which had been borne on a thousand tongues through the noble circles
of Agra, had not failed to reach the ears of Fazeel. He was not
surprised that the charms of such a woman had produced their natural
effect upon the mind of Selim: and had she not been betrothed to
Shere-Afkun, it was said that Fazeel would not have discouraged
the feelings of the prince in her favour. For the minister fully
appreciated the talents of Nourmahal, recognising in them all the
resources fit for the exercise of unlimited power, and for holding
under control the ill-regulated mind, of whose sway he felt such
calamitous forebodings. But the law was not to be broken; she was the
affianced bride of the Subah of Cashmere, and Fazeel’s first care was
to despatch a trusty messenger to that officer, informing him of the
state of things at Agra, and directing him to return to the capital
without delay.
Kazim-Ayas readily co-operated with Fazeel in all the steps necessary
to accelerate their nuptials, which, upon Shere-Afkun’s arrival, were
celebrated in a private manner; and he returned forthwith to Cashmere,
accompanied by her to whom he had so ardently looked, as the best
reward of all the services which he had had the good fortune to render
to his sovereign. Those services were of the utmost importance in that
remote part of the empire, where, if he had not been restrained by his
sense of duty, and his strong personal attachment to Acbar, he might
have easily founded an independent monarchy. But although persons
were not wanted, who suggested to Afkun temptations of that kind, he
steadily repudiated every thought of power which he did not derive from
the confidence of his imperial master.
Fazeel communicated freely with Man-Singh upon the dangers with which
the empire was threatened. They met frequently at the house of the
latter, which was on the bank of the Jumna, at some distance from the
seraglio, beyond the gate leading to Delhi. Their conferences were,
occasionally, attended by Chusero, and by some of the principal omrahs
and rajahs, who partook of their sentiments. Bochari carefully watched
all their proceedings. The performance of Nourmahal’s nuptials with
Afkun, and the suddenness of her departure for Cashmere, before he
had even surmised that such measures were in contemplation, though
coinciding with his secret wishes in every respect, excited his
jealousy, and wounded his pride; for he had been taught to believe,
that no event of importance could possibly have occurred in the
capital, without his being acquainted with it before-hand, so numerous
and so active was the legion of emissaries retained in his employment.
He rightly conjectured at once the object which the parties had in
view, who assembled so frequently at the house of Man-Singh; and
although, from the secrecy with which their councils were attended,
he failed to discover any tangible ground upon which he could openly
accuse them of a conspiracy to change the lawful succession to the
throne, he took care to diffuse through the court, and to convey to the
ear of the emperor, reports well calculated to create alarm.
The affairs of the Deccan having become more and more embarrassing,
Acbar, to whom the supposition that Fazeel had any share in preparing
the exclusion of Selim from the throne was peculiarly painful, resolved
to send the prime minister to the peninsula, with a view, as well
to make use of Fazeel’s unrivalled talents in reducing to order the
scattered elements of authority in that district, as to spare himself
the mortification of degrading, in the last hours of his life, a
servant, in whom he had found incorruptible zeal and fidelity, during
the vicissitudes of his chequered career. Acbar, though he clearly
saw the defects of character, which promised, according to all human
experience, to betray, before the lapse of many years, the unfitness of
Selim for the duties of the throne, nevertheless, could not persuade
himself that those defects were incurable. The fate of Daniel, he
fondly hoped, could not be unproductive of salutary effects upon a
mind, which, although devoid of energy, could scarcely be considered
as altogether lost to every elevated and virtuous feeling. During his
latter illness Selim was constantly in his chamber, attending him
with the most pious assiduity. His paternal heart was touched by the
prince’s attentions; his pride was interested in the promotion to the
place, which he must soon leave vacant, of his eldest son, the natural
preserver of his dynasty in the right line of descent; his first-born,
whom he had cherished in infancy with so much delight, and who was even
now endeared to him by those very weaknesses, of which the sages of
the empire complained.
Fazeel was too well acquainted with Acbar’s character, not to
understand the real motives upon which his appointment to the splendid
office of viceroy of the Deccan was founded. They were manifested in
the orders by which his commission was accompanied, to proceed to
that district with the utmost expedition. It had been usual for the
emperor to consult with him previously, whenever his services were
required at any distance from the capital. The variation from this
usage in the present instance, indicated the origin of the unexpected
honours which were conferred upon him, and the necessity, at the same
time, of proceeding with the utmost circumspection in the projects
which he had meditated for regulating the succession to the throne. On
receiving the commands of the emperor, he felt that obedience to them
was an inevitable duty. The omrahs and rajahs joined with him in the
confederacy against Selim were of the same opinion; and they further
thought that in his capacity, as viceroy of the Deccan, he might even
contribute essentially to the promotion of the object which they were
pledged to accomplish. Fazeel, therefore, lost no time in repairing to
the peninsula, attended, as usual, by a small escort; his name alone
constituting his best safeguard, even in the worst of times, and in
the provinces most distracted by civil war; such was the veneration
in which his wisdom and his inflexible administration of justice were
universally held.
When Bochari first heard of Fazeel’s mission to the Deccan, he looked
upon it as a masterstroke of policy on the part of the emperor,
imagining that it would have the effect of completely frustrating the
designs which were entertained to the prejudice of Selim’s right to
the throne. A little reflection, however, added to the malignity with
which his soul was inflamed, whenever new honours of any description
were bestowed upon Fazeel, led him to form a very different conclusion.
His first impulse was to persuade the prince to have Fazeel recalled
and committed to the state prison at Gualior, upon suspicion of high
treason. But as it was unlikely that the emperor would sanction this
measure, he conceived that the most certain mode of effecting his
purpose would be to take such steps as were within his own power,
for securing the accession of Selim against opposition of every kind.
Through his influence, accordingly, all the omrahs and rajahs then
residing at Agra were summoned to the presence of Acbar, who solemnly
declared it to be his will, that at his death, Selim should be his
successor. This object attained, Bochari’s next step was to disguise
himself in the dress of one of the astrologers who frequent the great
royal square of Agra, and to take his place in that part of it usually
resorted to by the most profligate of the adventurers, who flock to the
capital from all parts of the empire.
Clothed in a swarthy grizzly beard, a pointed yellow hat, that came
down low upon his forehead, a flowing garment of faded ruby silk, tied
round his waist by a wide leathern cincture, on which the signs of the
zodiac were figured, he sat down upon a piece of tattered dusty carpet
under a sun-shade, holding open before him a large volume, containing
charts of the sun, moon, and stars, and characters in a strange tongue,
which astrologers alone have the power to interpret. To these, he
added a compass and other mathematical instruments necessary for the
elucidation of the mysteries of which those men become possessed in
their intercourse with the superior worlds.
The sun still burning fiercely in the sky when Bochari spread his
carpet on the ground, there were few persons in the square, except
the rajahs in the emperor’s pay, whose weekly turn it was to mount
guard before the tents, which they pitch for that purpose; those petty
princes having an invincible objection to the performance of their
duties within the walls of a fortress. As the day advanced, and the
air became refreshed by the breezes from the Jumna, the royal horses
bred in Turkestan and Tartary, were led forth from their neighbouring
stables for exercise. The shops in the bazaars were again opened and
crowded with customers and loungers from all parts of the city; and
fakirs, mountebanks, and jugglers, story-tellers, ballad-singers,
players on the dulcimer, tambourine, and cymbals, dancing women,
charmers with serpents, venders of monkeys, parrots, and birds of
every plumage, of Ganges water and lemonade, pomegranates and oranges,
cooked meats, confectionery, and perfumes, filled the whole square with
multitudinous sounds that wonderfully contrasted with the silence of
the noon.
Several women, covered from head to foot with white cloth, attempted
to solicit the attention of Bochari to the stories which they had to
relate, hoping that he might be able to apply a remedy to their various
misfortunes, and to promise them more happy destinies. But he bade them
pass on, affecting to have his mind absorbed in calculations, from
which he could not then be disturbed. His eye was, in fact, fixed upon
a group of men, who had been for some time hovering around him. One of
these strangers, at length, sat down beside him, and inquired whether
he could read in the volume which he was studying the name of the
country whence his interrogator and his companions had come, and the
purpose for which they had repaired to Agra. Bochari turned over the
leaves with becoming gravity, until he lighted upon a page at which he
rested.
“You have,” said he, “a military appearance, but you are not in the pay
of Acbar.”
“So far you speak the truth,” observed the stranger.
“You come from the south.”
“We do.”
“If I read the stars correctly, your object in Agra is to gain
intelligence as to the journeys about to be made by rich merchants.”
The stranger’s countenance betrayed emotion, but he was silent.
“You must confide in me,” resumed Bochari, “otherwise I cannot disclose
the knowledge you wish to attain. You have many other companions
besides those whom I see speaking to that Tartar yonder.”
“We muster a thousand horses, whenever occasion requires.”
“What do I behold? The page glows all over with gold! Here are the rays
of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies--here the full blaze of the opal! and
your stars teem with prosperity--but all depends upon expedition,”----
“We dwell in the forests of Narwar--too distant from Agra for any
immediate operations.”
“So I read it--Narwar--Orcha Rajaputs, are you not?”
“The true descendants, as you must know, of the princes, who, from the
most ancient times, have ruled all that district of the Deccan as far
as Golconda, until we were driven from our native castles by the troops
of Acbar. We have now no home, save the depths of the forests, whence
we expel the panther and the leopard--the dens even of the wild beasts
are deemed too good for us by Fazeel, who has issued, through the mouth
of the emperor, orders for our extermination.”
“He is now on his way to your country.”
“Fazeel?”
“Fazeel--viceroy of the Deccan.”
“Better than gold--better than all the mines in Hindostan,” said the
Rajaput, half drawing his scimitar.
“He is attended by camels laden with new gold coin for the pay of the
troops--a glorious prize!”
“The hour of revenge has come at last!”
“Not of revenge only, Rajaput, but of wealth beyond your
calculation--away to your forests--assemble your associates--watch for
your prey--and if you miss him!”----
“I possess only this silver rupee--it is all I can offer for your
information.”
“Restore it to your purse--turn your back on Agra just as the moon is
rising, and the fates will be with you. Rest here a moment longer--and
the next year’s sun shall not behold a living member of your tribe.”
The Rajaput rejoined his companions, with whom he immediately
disappeared from the square; and the astrologer, gathering up his books
and instruments in his carpet, folded up his sun-shade with that sort
of satisfaction which an artificer feels in the evening, when he thinks
that he has done a good day’s work.
CHAPTER XXI.
O the bliss of that day, when I shall depart from this desolate
mansion; shall seek rest for my soul, and shall follow the traces
of my beloved!
HAFIZ.
The indisposition of the emperor, and the reports of conspiracies
with which the capital was for some days inundated, had the effect of
diverting the attention of Selim from the violent determination which
he seemed disposed to form, with a view to prevent the completion
of Nourmahal’s marriage with Shere-Afkun. The intelligence of her
nuptials, and of her departure for Cashmere, came, however, upon him
like a thunderbolt. His first impulse was to have them apprehended on
their road, and brought back to Agra, let the consequences be what they
might. But from this course he was dissuaded by Bochari, who insisted
that all his exertions should be directed to the defence of his title
to the throne, which was exposed to no common danger; and that any
violation, upon his part, of the laws at such a moment, besides turning
against him so powerful a chieftain as Afkun, would be certain to
render his cause extremely unpopular.
“Wait until you ascend the musnud: the sceptre fixed firmly in your
hand, and order restored throughout your dominions, it will, indeed, be
singular if means cannot be found for adding to your harem any woman
whom you may select in Hindostan.”
Selim listened with impatience to the councils of Bochari, but their
discourse was abruptly terminated by a messenger from the emperor, who
directed the prince to preside in his place at a cabinet announced to
deliberate upon affairs of great urgency. Acbar might, indeed, be said
to have already resigned the government into the hands of his son. His
strength never for an instant rallied after he received the tidings
of Daniel’s ignominious death, and although his intellect remained
unobscured to the last moment of his existence, he became every day
more indifferent to all those objects of ambition, to the attainment
of which the vigour of his youth and manhood, and even the wisdom of
his advancing age, had been devoted. The grief that preyed upon his
thoughts bade him look at the past as a dream already concluded,--a
dream in which victory and defeat were incidents that seemed to be the
sport of some power superior to his own. The splendour of the throne
had for him no longer any charms; his days were numbered, and even if
his health were to be restored, he felt that he could know no more
happiness in this world, except as a hermit, retired within the limits
of some mountain solitude, where he might unreservedly give up his
hours to melancholy contemplation.
Not widely different from this state of apparently irremediable
depression, were the feelings of Afkun’s beauteous bride, as she
journeyed towards her new home. Her separation from her mother, to
whom she was most tenderly attached,--from her father, whom she
resembled in mind, with whose every thought, sentiment, preference
and antipathy, she so entirely sympathised that they might be said to
have had only one soul,--was a sacrifice on all sides, for which no
adequate compensation could be expected. Fate, however, had issued
her ordinances, and they were irrevocable. Nourmahal parted from each
particular rose which she had cultivated, from the favourite plane-tree
under which she had so often indulged in a vision,--now, she feared,
for ever ended,--as if they were living members of her family. The
capital, and its lofty citadel, within which the imperial seraglio and
the residences of the royal family were situated,--the public squares
filled with busy multitudes,--the mansions of the omrahs surrounded by
groves and gardens in perpetual verdure,--the houses of the wealthy
merchants, looking like warlike castles rising from the bosom of
ancient forests,--and, above all, the Jumna, by whose murmuring waters
she had so often pored over the fascinating verses of Oonsuri and
Biana, and the history of the queen Rizia, who reigned over Hindostan
with so much glory, until she surrendered her heart to the Abyssinian
slave, whom she loved too well,--never appeared to Kazim’s daughter
so full of attraction as on that painful morning when, for the first
time, she beheld them fading gradually from her sight.
Reclining in her covered litter, borne by swift-footed elephants,
she would have been more or less than woman if she had not kept her
curtain open in the direction of the citadel,--from its elevated
situation necessarily the last memorial of Agra upon which her eye
could linger. Kazim had often pointed out to her the golden dome,
beneath which were the apartments dedicated to the use of prince Selim
and his establishment. She doubted not the feelings with which he would
receive the intelligence of her marriage, and of her sudden departure
from Agra. A secret voice had told her too truly what those feelings
would be; nor was she without the suspicion,--the fear,--perhaps the
hope,--that before the sun went down that day, her journey might be
interrupted in a manner for which her attendants were little prepared.
Every group of horsemen that approached the cavalcade from the side of
the capital, filled her mind with anxious forebodings, which she dared
not communicate even to Kanun; and as each group successively passed
away, in various directions, she was obliged to confess to herself a
sense of disappointment. When the domes of the citadel were no longer
to be seen, and every trace of the great metropolis had vanished in the
distance, it was still some consolation to her to gain now and then
glimpses of the Jumna through the foliage of the fruit-trees, by which,
in the reign of the renowned Shere-Khan, of the Patan race, the road
was shaded on either side from the Indus to the Ganges. The ripples
sparkling in the sun by day, and silvered at night by the moon-beams,
seemed to whisper to her that they would soon pass under the citadel,
and that, haply, they might not be unseen by him who now occupied more
of her thoughts than her better reason could justify, especially when,
during the pauses on the way, Afkun presented himself at her curtain,
lavishing upon her all the attentions which a lover could bestow on a
mistress whom he idolized.
Little remains now of the great forest of Narwar, in which the Orcha
Rajaputs took up their abode in former days. Chased by the arms of
Acbar from the populous districts, which they had been long accustomed
to plunder, under the pretext of merely exacting from the inhabitants a
revenue to which they claimed to be lawfully entitled, they collected
in considerable force in those parts of the forest that were least
accessible to an enemy. They erected a fortress of no mean strength, to
which the whole body retired when threatened by any serious danger; but
they dwelt for the most part in temporary huts, which they frequently
changed, in order to elude the pursuit of the guards appointed to
watch over the safety of travellers on the public roads. Disdaining
the service of the emperor, which they had been often invited to
enter, they preferred a species of wild independence, in which they
could not long have sustained themselves, if they had not continued
their system of plunder. Leagued together by relationship, as well
as by oaths, which it was death to violate, they carried on warfare
against all the rest of mankind. They had their spies in all the great
towns, especially in Agra and Delhi, whose office it was to acquire
intelligence as to the movements of wealthy merchants and caravans, and
to transmit it with the utmost rapidity to the rajah of the band, who
took his dispositions accordingly for seizing the prey.
The fortress was always kept well garrisoned. When relief was required,
faggots of pine-wood were piled in a cauldron, on the summit of a
lofty tower that surmounted the highest trees, and set fire to in the
darkest hour of the night. No Orcha Rajaput dared to go to rest at the
hour when that signal was usually made, or to hesitate in repairing to
the fortress fully armed, before the beacon was extinguished. On other
occasions of urgency, their forces were collected by sound of horn--a
sound not distinguishable by the unpractised ear from the ordinary call
of the shepherds, or swine-herds, to each other, when they wished to
meet at night for mutual defence against beasts of prey--but well known
by peculiar intonations to the banditti, whom it summoned to those
deeds of horror, for which the forest of Narwar was renowned.
Some days after Fazeel’s departure from Agra, a horseman, apparelled
as a merchant, joined his escort, and prayed permission to accompany
it, announcing that he was bound for Masulipatan, whither he was going
to purchase fine muslins. His request being of course complied with,
he fell into the ranks, and loudly congratulated himself upon his good
fortune in journeying under such safe protection, in a country where
so many robberies and murders had been lately perpetrated. He boasted
much of his riches, and of the fresh gains he would acquire by his
adventure to Masulipatan, and as he was very anxious to avail himself
of the escort as far as possible, he inquired carefully as to the
route which they were directed to take, and the number of days which
they were likely to occupy in the accomplishment of their journey. In
the course of conversation he gave it to be understood, that in his
earlier days he had dealt in matches, tipped with a peculiar chemical
preparation, which was never known to fail of ignition,--unlike those
recently introduced into the military service, which were often known
to fail at the very moment when the assistance of the fire-arms and
artillery became most essential.
The troopers shewed their new acquaintance the sort of matches with
which they were furnished, but which, upon inspection, he declared,
with an air of authority, to be totally unfit for use. In order to
convince them of the infallibility of his judgment in such matters, he
begged to be allowed to try a few; when applied to a torch, lighted
for the purpose, each turned as black as charcoal, without yielding
any sparks. The soldiers thought it lucky that the discovery was made
in time, the more particularly as they were now within a few hours of
entering on the great forest of Narwar, which was well known to be the
haunt of the Orcha Rajaputs.
The question was, how they could now remedy the evil? This the merchant
cheerfully promised to do, saying that the efficacy of their matchlocks
was as necessary to his own security as to that of the great minister
upon whom they attended.
Accordingly, desiring all the matches to be brought to him, when the
cavalcade stopped at night on the borders of the forest, he produced
from his baggage a box, containing a red composition, a small portion
of which he applied to the end of a piece of common wood. The moment
he shook it in the air, the wood blazed of itself, to the astonishment
even of Fazeel, who witnessed the experiment, and to whom it was
thought no improvement in the arts had been unknown. The merchant again
attempted to inflame, in the ordinary way, one of the matches which
he held in his hand, but, as before, it turned black without emitting
any fire. He touched it with his magical preparation, and waved it
round his head, when it burst forth in a gush of bright sparkles! He
was occupied a great part of the night in furnishing all the matches,
which had been served out to the escort, with the composition, of whose
value he had exhibited such striking proofs. While he was still at his
labour, soon after midnight, one of the officers on guard called his
attention to a light that appeared at some distance in the sky, and
which the sentinels believed to be the beacon of the banditti, who
held possession of the interior of the forest. The officer was about
to give the alarm and awaken the whole escort, in order to prepare
for the attack, which might now be momentarily expected. But the
merchant assured him that the light was nothing more than a meteor of
the night, and that, at all events, it could not be the beacon of the
Orcha Rajaputs, whose fortress he knew, from having frequently passed
that way, to be situated at the opposite side of the forest. The light
disappearing, after the lapse of a few minutes, no further notice was
taken of the circumstance. The merchant, on returning the matches,
directed that they should be carefully preserved from the action of
the air until they should be required for use. He then went to sleep on
his baggage.
At sunrise the escort were again in motion, and matin prayers having
been said, they resumed their journey, preceded by half-a-dozen scouts,
who were charged to return, forthwith, in case they should gain any
intelligence of the approach of the banditti. The merchant was still
asleep when the last trooper was already mounted; upon being called
he rose suddenly, and proceeded to put his baggage together, but it
seemed, by some means or other, to have got into so much confusion,
that before he could arrange it on his palfrey, the escort were out of
sight.
They had not advanced far through the forest, when one of the scouts
returned with tidings, that he had heard the sound of a horn, which
did not strike him to be that either of a hunter or a shepherd. Fazeel
directed the escort to be on the alert, and to have the flambeaus
lighted. He inquired for the merchant, with whom he wished to have
some conversation upon the subject of the matches, as well as upon the
manufactures of Masulipatan; for that great man, whose “Ayeen Ackberry”
is an imperishable monument of knowledge, never neglected any
opportunity of acquiring information which he could render useful to
the empire. The merchant was nowhere to be found; “having remained up
so long during the night,” said one of the troopers, “he had over-slept
himself, and had not yet overtaken the escort.” Fazeel, apprehensive
for his safety, ordered the escort to wait until he should come, and,
in the meantime, sent two of the scouts to look out for him. They
galloped to the place where the escort had halted the previous night,
but no trace, either of the merchant or his horse could be discovered.
While the troop was thus waiting, a rustling was heard in the trees,
on one side of the road, which was instantly followed by a murderous
discharge of fire-arms. The party attacked immediately attempted to
return the fire, but upon applying their matches to the flambeau, they
became as black as charcoal. In the mean time another volley was poured
upon them from the forest, with such unerring aim, that more than half
their number was already slain on the spot. The survivors, though
astounded by the failure of their matches, prevented from rushing on
their foes by the impenetrable nature of the underwood and entangled
trees from behind which the fatal guns were pointed at their hearts,
and distracted by the slaughter of their comrades, the neighing of the
wounded horses, the piercing cries of the baggage-elephants and camels,
and the irremediable embarrassments in which they were involved,
nevertheless, courageously dismounted, and pressing towards Fazeel, who
was already twice wounded, tore away branches from the trees, which
they used as matches, and heroically performed their duties to the
last moment. But the vollies came thick upon them, soon followed by a
numerous band of the Rajaputs, who completed with their scymitars and
spears, the dreadful work which the musketeers had left undone. The
body of Fazeel was easily distinguished from the lifeless crowd around
it, and barbarously hewn into a thousand pieces. The treasure with
which the camels and elephants were laden, became, of course, the booty
of the savage race, from whose name the infamy of this deed, and of the
treacherous means by which it was effected, never can be erased.
The scouts, who had been sent to look for the merchant, were, on their
return to their companions, met by a fugitive from the scene of action,
who told them that all was lost. They therefore made all possible haste
back to Agra, and presenting themselves at the palace, related to the
officers in waiting the lamentable issue of Fazeel’s journey to the
Deccan. The intelligence was conveyed at first to the prince, who,
though he secretly rejoiced at the removal of an obstacle which stood
between him and the throne, nevertheless felt that the intelligence
ought to be made public in the mode most consistent with the respect
that was due to the memory of so important a functionary. The history
of the murder was broken by degrees to the emperor, who, already
reduced to the last stages of decay, took to himself all the blame of
this occurrence, persuaded, that by ordering Fazeel to the Deccan,
at an age when that minister was well entitled to retire from public
affairs, he had been chiefly instrumental to the catastrophe that
had befallen him. The tidings spread a general gloom throughout the
capital; surmises were strongly entertained that Selim and his minion,
Bochari, were not ignorant of the steps taken by the Orcha Rajaputs,
and that the merchant who joined the escort was engaged expressly by
Bochari, for the purpose of rendering the matchlocks of the escort
useless in their hands.
These surmises reached the ears of Acbar, who solemnly questioned
Selim concerning them. The prince indignantly repelled the accusation.
Bochari was summoned to the emperor’s presence, and upon being
interrogated as to the suspicions so universally directed against him,
declared them to be calumnious, and offered to go through any ordeal in
order to establish his innocence. The emperor was observed suddenly to
rise on his couch, while these inquiries were going on in his presence.
Snatching a scymitar from the scabbard of one of the eunuchs at his
side, he stood on his feet, and fixing his eyes on Bochari, attempted
to move towards him, raising the weapon as if he meant to cleave him
to the earth. But in the act his arm was paralyzed; some words which
he endeavoured to utter died on his lips, and the soul of him whom
his subjects loved as a father, idolized as a hero, and feared as the
inflexible administrator of justice, left this world for Paradise.
Bochari immediately falling on his knees saluted Selim as the reigning
sovereign of Hindostan; and his example having been followed by the
whole court, he mounted his horse, proceeded to the city gates, which
he ordered to be shut, and brought back the keys, which he placed in
the emperor’s possession. The news soon reached Chusero, who, taking a
small canoe, rowed down the river to the house of Man-Singh, where the
confederate Omrahs happened to be assembled in council. Fully prepared
for the intelligence which he brought, they silenced the apprehensions
which he expressed as to the result of their project, and proceeded to
discuss the measures which they deemed necessary to be taken forthwith,
for securing the accomplishment of their object, before the death of
Acbar could become known throughout the capital. The assassination of
Selim was proposed and supported by several of the Omrahs; but the
prince, though fired with ambition of sovereign power, recoiled from
the thought of parricide. “No!” he exclaimed, “my father may enjoy
life without a throne; but I can never enjoy a throne stained with a
father’s blood. Let the fortune of open war decide between us. Away
with the daggers of assassins--to our swords alone let us look for
victory!” These generous sentiments having been loudly applauded by an
overwhelming majority of the council, they proceeded the same night
towards Delhi, where they resolved to proclaim Chusero as emperor.
Selim, who took the name of Jehangire (subduer of the world), mounted
the throne the following morning at sunrise. His first act was to give
orders for the interment of his father at Secundra, a short distance
from Agra; and for the erection there of a mausoleum, which remains
to this hour a splendid monument of filial piety. He next commanded
the imperial crown to be brought before him, and having placed it on
his brow, the great state drum was struck, and the cannons, planted on
the walls of the citadel; proclaimed, in their voices of thunder, the
commencement of a new reign.
END OF VOLUME I.
TRANSCRIBERS’ NOTES
In this transcription, italicized text from the original print is
indicated by _underscores_, and words originally printed in small caps
are rendered in full uppercase.
Minor typographical errors such as missing periods, commas used instead
of periods, etc. have been silently corrected.
Variations in the spelling of the same word within the text have not
been standardized; however, probable printer errors have been changed
as follows:
Page 26: “inerest” changed to “interest”: ...for him a peculiar
interest.
Page 41: “te” changed to “the”: ...was driven back to the edge of...
Page 71: “multitud” changed to “multitude”: Thus the multitude
assembled to see...
Page 115: “epecial” changed to “special”: ...by the special desire of
Suleiman...
Page 147: “nesessary” changed to “necessary”: ... necessary even to his
own safety...
Page 167: “himelf” changed to “himself”: the tamest for himself and
Mangeli...
Page 168: “journies” changed to “journeys”: ...to make long journeys
from...
Page 170: “he” changed to “the”: ...within the district of Kabul...
Page 184: “couries” changed to “cowries”: ...to sell for a few cowries
to students...
Page 203: “t” changed to “to”: ...did not tend rather to increase...
Page 243: “pourtrayed” changed to “portrayed”: ...had never portrayed
an earthly being...
Page 244: “downfal” changed to “downfall”: ...be that of his own
downfall.
Page 249: “recal” changed to “recall”: ...endeavouring to recall her to
emotion...
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