which he managed to replace by a harmless ingredient, and he subsequently had the gratification to see it mixed up for himself. This led him to feign death, with a view to ascertaining her exact intentions, but he evinced surprise that she had been deceived so thoroughly. Her anxiety to get rid of him, however, had aided the deception, and she had not investigated very closely whether her drug had done its work thoroughly.
He very unreservedly stated his future purpose; turned over some old gear in a corner, and produced a sum of money with which he meant to pay his passage to America, and leave for that country at break of day. We sat talking all night, and grew so friendly that he offered to share his funds with me, which I, of course, declined.
In the morning he looked out in front of the house, but the two outcasts were nowhere to be seen. With a hatchet he smashed in the face of the old clock, which terminated its asthmatic ticking, and threw it on the fire; and every other thing in the house, that appeared worth destroying, he broke. Tying up some of his own apparel in a napkin, he muttered a curse on the wretched dwelling, locked the door, and threw the key on the dunghill with a “bad luck to it;” and after that, he showed no farther concern about what had occurred.
At the station I allowed him to pay part of my fare, which gratified him exceedingly; and when I left him, he was so sorry to part, that I believe a word would have taken him into the ranks with me. But the parting whistle sounded, he pressed my hand, and I returned his grasp of kindness, and in one minute more the last look was exchanged, and since that time I have seen nor heard nothing of my somewhat singularly-formed acquaintance.
FARISTAN AND FATIMA.
AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.
DONE INTO HIS MOTHER-TONGUE BY E. A. BOWRING.
PART I.
There lived a tailor with a pretty,
In fact a very pretty wife,
Whom he loved better than his life.
Her eyes were of the blackest sort,
No lily’s stem was half so slender,
Of finest silk her hair seem’d wrought,
Her rosy cheeks were smooth and tender,
Her age scarce twenty,—and, in short,
It was impossible to mend her.
One day quoth he: “You darling little wife, you!
Whatever would become of hapless me,
If I should happen to survive you,
And your fair body I should see
Lying a corpse, all cold and void of motion,
Within my arms? The very notion
Gives me a chill as if I now were dying!
I swear that if I, wretched man,
Only survive the shock, you’ll find me lying
Upon your tomb for nine long days, and crying,
Crying the very best I can!”—
I’m the survivor when we’re parted,
I’ll buried be, my Faristan,
Inside your coffin, broken-hearted.”—
As in his arms his wife he caught.
He felt no doubt about it, for, you know,
She said it,—so it must be so!
Since the agreement made that day,
When it so chanced that, as they sat
Over their evening meal of curry,
Spending the time in pleasant chat,
Poor Fatima, in too great hurry
To eat some tit-bit, while her eyes
Ogled, in manner far from wise,
Her husband, not her plate, by ill-luck swallow’d
A little bone—of course you guess what follow’d.
Skips here and there, does all he can,
Upon the back he thumps her,
He shakes her, bumps her, jumps her,
He tries to push it down, he upwards tries to pull it,—
In vain! She’s choked by that small bone inside her little gullet!
Soon in her winding-sheet they fold her,
Black in the face, it may be, yet so fair!
He could not summon courage to behold her.
And Faristan begins to rave,
And rolls upon it, sighing with such ardour,
That he is heard a mile away and more,
Fully resolved (so much did he regard her)
Nine days to stop there, as we know he swore.
Found it impossible to pray
In such a noise, so asked politely:—
“What mean these groans and writhings so unsightly?”
The best of wives,—I never knew a chaster
Or nobler woman, loving, young, and wise,—
And in the grave this very day I’ve placed her.”
Are grieving so, and merit to be lucky,
I’ll grant your wish,” and as he spake,
The staff his hand was grasping struck he
Upon the tomb, and, lo! it open’d wide,
And Fatima appear’d outside
In health and beauty, and with rapturous passion
Rush’d to her husband’s arms in loving fashion.
How they embraced and hugg’d each other!
Any spectator must have thought
Such kisses were enough to smother
Both man and wife.—And next they sought
To thank the Prophet for this miracle portentous,
But couldn’t—he was non inventus!
PART II.
That Fatima’s loose funeral linen raiment
(Although ’twas dusk) for walking home again
Was scarcely, in the usual way, meant.
“Light of my eyes! behind these stones stoop down,
While I run home and fetch your shoes and gown;
The moon is up, there’s little danger in it,
Fear not, and I’ll be back in half a minute.”
Meanwhile there happen’d to approach the spot
The Sultan’s son, escorted by the light
Of many torches through the night.
