Hereupon the Wise Man of Gjändsha endeavors to make his pupil comprehend his exceeding good fortune in having obtained such a teacher as himself. "I, Mirtsa-Schaffy, am the wisest man of the whole East. You, as my pupil, are second in wisdom. Misunderstand me not: I have a friend, OmarEffendi, who is a very wise man, and not third among the scholars of the land. If I lived not, and Omar-Effendi were your teacher, he would be the first, and you, as his pupil, the second wise man." After this utterance, Mirtsa-Schaffy, with a shrewd look, lays his forefinger upon his brow, and Bodenstedt nods assent.

Several rival teachers strive to supplant the Wise Man of Gjändsha with his pupil. The most prominent of these jealous sages is Mirtsa-Jussuf, the Wise Man of Bagdad. Because he pursued his study of Arabic at the most famous university, he argues, his knowledge must be much more profound than that of Mirtsa-Schaffy, who is indeed but an ass among the bearers of wisdom. "That plebeian cannot write nor sing at all," cries Jussuf to Bodenstedt, after obtaining access to his chamber. "Now, I ask you, what is knowledge without writing? What is wisdom without song? What is Mirtsa-Schaffy in comparison with me?" At this moment a measured rapping on the door with a pair of slippers is heard. It announces the arrival of the chosen instructor to commence his lessons. Leaving his shoes at the door, as is the custom, Mirtsa-Schaffy enters the room in clean gay-colored stockings. He reads the whole story at a glance, surveys the suddenly embarrassed and cringing Jussuf from head to foot with superb disdain, and would express his contempt, but Bodenstedt exclaims: "Wise Man of Gjändsha! what have my ears heard? Will you instruct me when you cannot write nor sing? Mirtsa-Jussuf says you are but an ass among the bearers of wisdom." The displeasure in MirtsaSchaffy's face gradually takes on an expression of perfect scorn. He clutches one of his thick-soled slippers from the threshold, and with it beats the poor Jussuf so unmercifully, that he begs with the most affecting gestures and words to be spared. But Mirtsa-Schaffy is pitiless. "What! you are wiser than I am? I cannot sing, do you say? I will make

music for you! I cannot write, hey? I will write it on your head!" The action suits the word. Whimpering and moaning, the Bagdad sage staggers under the blows through the antechamber and down the steps. The victor returns, calmly warns the astounded young German not to lend any ear to such pretenders as Jussuf and his companions, and then proceeds to expound a mystic ode of Hafiz commencing,

"O dervish! pure is wine,

And sin it is to hate it;

Is any wisdom mine?

From drinking wine I date it."

The pupil and teacher soon grow intimate, and very fond of each other. They often sit together in the evening, smoking their long Persian pipes, and sipping wine. The Wise Man of Gjändsha plays on a stringed instrument, and accompanies it with his own voice, improvising with remarkable fluency the most beautiful poems.

"As the nightingale oft from a rose's dew sips,

So I wet with pure wine my languishing lips.

"As the soul of perfume through a flower's petals slips,
So pure wine passes through the rose-door of my lips.

"As to port from afar float the full-loaded ships,
So this wine-beaker drifts to the strand of my lips.

"As the white-driven sea o'er a cliff's edges drips,

So the red-tinted wine breaks in foam on my lips."

One day Bodenstedt asks the ground of such gorgeous eulogies of wine by the poets of Persia, from Firdousi to Mirtsa-Schaffy. The Wise Man of Gjändsha snatches his lyre, and instantly sings:

"The best ground is the ground of wet gold

In the depth of a beaker:

The best mouth is the mouth, from of old,
Of the wine-praising speaker!"

Calling at his teacher's house unexpectedly, Bodenstedt apologizes for the intrusion. In a second Mirtsa-Schaffy sings in response:

"Come in the evening, and come in the morning;

Come when I ask you, and come without warning.
Mirtsa-Schaffy, with you when a-meeting,

Always rejoices, and his heart gives you greeting."

At another time they are walking together through a garden which has just put on the painted garb of spring. The flowers are breaking through the grass; clusters of little grapes peep from the vines; white blossoms shower down from the locust-trees, like snow-flakes; and the rose-bushes are beginning to bud. The pupil inquires, "How are you able so quickly to weave thought, image, and rhyme into forms of such grace?" The poet stretches out his hand, gathers a nosegay, and, reaching it to the young man, replies: "Behold, this nosegay was plucked in a moment; but the flowers composing it did not grow in a moment. So is it with my songs."

Upon a certain occasion the Wise Man of Gjändsha sits on his silk ottoman, his legs crossed, and wreaths of fragrant smoke curling lazily around him. He lays down his chibouk, and lifts a glass of wine, like sparkling molten gold. Bodenstedt says: "The hearts of the maidens beat high through the ravishing power of your sweet songs, O MirtsaSchaffy; but the wise men of the West will say that you are deficient in variety of subjects. Have you not written songs on other things than wine, and love, and roses?" Mirtsa is silent for a moment, then quaffs the whole bumper which he held in his hand, and, rising upon his feet, sings the following improvisation in answer:

"Doth it displease you that I sing

Of few things only as divine?

Of naught but roses, love, and spring,
And nightingales, and wooing wine?

"Which were the best, that I should praise
Will-o'-the-wisps and wax flambeaux,
Or to the sun's eternal rays
Fresh panegyrics still compose?

"While like a sun that shines abroad
I pour my raying songs around,

The beautiful I do applaud,

And not what's on the common found.

"Let other bards their lyres attone

Το
wars, and mosques, and fame of kings;
To roses, love, and wine alone
My fingers strike the melting strings.

"O pure Schaffy! how fragrant are

Thy verses on these lovely themes!
Thy songs are strains without a jar,
While others' best are painful screams!"

One beautiful afternoon, the Wise Man of Gjändsha and his pupil are sitting in friendly converse. The romantic twi

light draws on. One glass of wine has followed another, with the usual Oriental toast, "May it have a pleasant journey!" One song, too, has succeeded another. All at once, MirtsaSchaffy grows sad and thoughtful. After remaining silent a good while, he opens his mouth, and in a melancholy tone sings these words:

"My heart with the anguish of lovers is riven;
O ask me not for whom !

To me has the poison of parting been given;
O wretched is my doom!"

The sympathizing Bodenstedt interrupts him by asking, “ Are you in love, Mirtsa?" Shaking his head sorrowfully, he answers, "No, I am not in love; but I was in love once, as no man ever was before." Eagerly the young European strives to draw the story forth. He succeeds, and sits till the stars fade, hanging with ever-increasing interest on his worthy teacher's lips.

We go back eleven years, to the time when Mirtsa-Schaffy first saw Zuleika, the daughter of Ibrahim, the Chan of Gjändsha. How can her beauty be portrayed? What shall be said of her eyes blacker than night, brighter than stars? What shall be said of the grace of her form, the loveliness of her hands and feet, her soft hair wound about her, long as eternity, her mouth, whose breath is sweeter than the breath of the roses of Shiraz? Vain is every attempt to describe

that which transcends human comprehension. For more than six months, young Mirtsa has daily seen the Chan's daughter when she sits on the roof at noon, with her fair companions, or in the evening when she orders her female slaves to dance before her in the moonlight. He has never spoken to her, and does not know whether she has recognized his glances. He dares not go near her, but afar off basks in the beams of her countenance. Shall man venture to approach the sun? During the day he is obliged to be very cautious; for if the haughty Chan suspected he had cast loving looks upon Zuleika, his life from that moment would be worth less than a flawed pearl. But in the evening, when old Ibrahim has retired, the enamored youth steals around the house, and waits for glimpses of the houris on its roof, which seems heaven as he looks up to it.

Soon the flames of his tumultuous heart break out in songs. Sometimes he sings Ghazels from Hafiz, sometimes from Firdousi; but oftenest he sings his own. Why should MirtsaSchaffy shine in borrowed gems? Whose voice is tenderer than his voice? Whose songs are more charming than his songs? He stands beneath her balcony. His eyes are two glow-worms under the dark vines, as he sings:

"What is the blooming rose's cup, where nightingales may sip,
Compared with thy more blooming mouth, and thy much sweeter lip?
What is the sun, and what the moon, and what each glowing star?
They burn and tremble but for thee, still eying thee from far.
And what am I, my heart, the love-mad songs that I create?
We are the blessed slaves thy beauty doomed to celebrate."

No token of recognition is vouchsafed to him, and he goes sadly home. But the next night, when it is quite dark, as he stands under the concealing foliage of an orange-tree, a damsel in a white veil approaches him, and, as she passes, whispers, "Mirtsa-Schaffy, follow where I go." His heart beats loudly, and he follows the white figure gliding before him. They soon reach a secure place, and the mysterious conductress says: "I am Fatima, the confidant of Zuleika. My mistress looks on you with favor. Your songs have disturbed her heart. Without her knowledge I have come, that you