It was a lowering and gloomy night in
the early part of the present century.
Mr. Edward Middleton, a gallant
youth, who had but lately passed his
twenty-third year, was faring northward along
the southern part of that famous avenue of
commerce, Clark Street, in the city of Chicago,
wending his way toward the emporium of
Mr. Marks Cohen. Suddenly the rain which
the cloudy heaven had been promising for
many hours, began to descend in great scattered
drops that presaged a heavy shower.
Mr. Middleton hastened his steps. It was
possible that if the dress-suit he wore, hired
for the occasion of the wedding of his friend,
Mr. Chauncey Stackelberg, should become
imbued with moisture in the shower that now
seemed imminent, Mr. Cohen, of whom he had
hired the suit, would not add to the modicum
agreed upon, a charge for pressing it. But if
his own suit for everyday wear, which he was
carrying under his arm with the purpose of
putting it on at good Mr. Cohen’s establishment,
should become wet, that would be a
serious matter. It was, in fact, his only suit
and that will explain the anxiety with which
he scanned the heavens. Suddenly, Pluvius
unloosed all the fountains of the sky, and with
scarcely a thought whither he was going,
Mr. Middleton darted into the first haven of
refuge, a little shop he happened to be just
passing. As the door closed behind him with
the tinkle of a bell in some remote recess, for
the first time he realized that the place he had
entered was utterly dark. His ears, straining
to their uttermost to make compensation for
the inability of his eyes to be of service to him
in this juncture, could no more than inform
him that the place was utterly silent. But to
his nose came the powerful fragrance of strange
foreign aromas such as he had never had experience
of before,—which, heavy and oppressive
in their cloying perfume, seemed the very
breath of mystery. All traffic had ceased
without, as the night was well advanced and
the rain beat so heavily that the few whom
business or pleasure had called abroad at that
hour, had sought shelter. But though the rain
now fell with a steady roar, Mr. Middleton,
perturbed by a nameless disquiet, was about to
rush forth into the tempest and seek other
shelter, when a door burst open and, outlined
against a glare of light, stood a gigantic man
who said in a deep, low voice that seemed to
pervade every corner of the room and cause
the air to shake in slow vibrations, “Salaam
aleikoom!” Which being repeated again,
Mr. Middleton replied:
“I do not understand the German language.”
A low, musical laugh greeted this remark
and the laugh resolving itself into a low,
musical voice that bade him enter, Mr. Middleton
found himself in a small boudoir of
oriental magnificence, facing a young man in
the costume of the Moslem nations, who sat
cross-legged upon a divan smoking a narghileh.
He was of perhaps twenty-six, somewhat slight,
but elegant of person. His face, extremely
handsome, betokened that he was a man of
intelligence and sensibility. Two brilliant,
sparkling eyes illumined his countenance and
the curl of his carmine lips was that of one who
while kind—without condescension and the
odiousness of patronage—to all whom the mischance
of fate had made his inferiors in fortune,
would not bend the fawning knee to any whom
the world calls great. Behind him stood a
giant blackamore, he of the voice that had
saluted Mr. Middleton. The blackamore was
dressed in crimson silk sparkling with an array
of gold lace, but his immense turban was snowy
white. Against his shoulder reposed a great
glittering scimetar and a dozen silver-mounted
pistols and poniards were thrust in his sash.
Presently the young man removed the golden
mouth-piece of the narghileh from his lips and
regarding Mr. Middleton fixedly, remarked:
“There is but one God and Mohammed is his
Prophet.”
Now this was not the doctrine Mr. Middleton
had been taught in the Methodist Sunday
School in Janesville, Wisconsin, but disliking
to dispute with one so engaging as the handsome
Moslem, and having read in a book of etiquette
that it was very ill mannered to indulge
in theological controversy and, moreover,
being conscious of the presence of the blackamore
with the glittering scimetar, he began to
make his excuses for an immediate departure.
But the Moslem would not hear to this.
“Mesrour will bear your garments to Mr.
Cohen. From your visage, I judge you to be a
person I wish to know. I take you to be
endowed with probity, discretion, and valor,
and not without wit, good taste, and good
manners. Mesrour, relieve the gentleman of
his burden.”
Whereupon Mr. Middleton was compelled
to state that it was the garment on his back
that was to go to Mr. Cohen, though he feared
this confession would cause him to fall in the
estimation of the Moslem. But the stranger
relaxed none of his deference at this intimation
that Mr. Middleton was not a person of
consequence.
“Mesrour, take two sequins from the ebony
chest. The price the extortionate tailor
charges, is some thirty piastres. Bring back
the change and a receipt.”
“Salaam, effendim!” and Mesrour bowed
until the crown of his head was presented
toward his master, together with the palms of
his hands, and in this posture backed from
the room, leaving Mr. Middleton speculating
upon the wonder and alarm little Mr. Cohen
would experience at beholding the gigantic
Nubian in all his outlandish panoply. While
changing the dress suit for his street wear,
from a back room came the sound of the
blackamore moving about, chanting that weird
refrain, tumpty, tumpty, tum—tum; tumpty,
tumpty, tum—tum; which from Mesopotamia
to the Pillars of Hercules, from the time of
Ishmael to the present, has been the song of
the sons of the desert. What was his surprise
when the blackamore emerged. Gone were his
turban, his flowing trousers, his scimetar, pistols,
and poniards. He had on a long yellow
mackintosh, which did not, however, conceal
a pair of black and white checked pantaloons,
a red tie, and green vest, from each upper
pocket of which projected an ivory-handled
razor.
“Don’t forget the change, Mesrour.”
“No indeed, boss,” replied the blackamore,
whistling “Mah Tiger Lily,” as he departed.
The Moslem provided Mr. Middleton with
one of those pipes which in various parts of
the Orient are known as narghilehs, hubble-bubbles,
or hookabadours, and seeing his guest
entirely at his ease, without ado began as follows:
“My name is Achmed Ben Daoud, and I am
hereditary emir of the tribe of Al-Yam, which
ranges on the border of that fortunate part of
the Arabian peninsular known as Arabia the
Happy. My youngest brother, Ismail, desirous
of seeing the world, went to the court of
Oman, where struck by his inimitable skill in
narration, the imam installed him as royal
story-teller. But having in the space of a year
exhausted his stock of stories, the imam, who
is blessed with an excellent memory, discovering
that he was telling the same stories over
again, shut him up in a tower constructed of
vermilion stone quarried on the upper waters
of the great river Euphrates. There my poor
brother is to stay until he can invent a new
stock of stories, but being utterly devoid of
invention, only death or relenting upon the
part of the imam could release him. Hearing
of his plight, I went to the imam with
the proposition that I seek out some other
story-teller and that upon bringing him to
Muscat, my brother be released. But the
imam exclaimed that he was tired of tales of
genii and magicians, of enchantments and
spells, devils, dragons, and rocs.
“‘These things are too common, too everyday.
Go to the country of the Franks and
bring me a story-teller who shall tell me tales
of far nations, and I will release Ismail, and
load him with treasure.’
“‘My Lord,’ said I, ‘peradventure no Frank
story-teller will come. To guard against such
eventuality, I will myself go to the lands of
the Franks, there to learn of adventures worthy
the ear of your highness. This I will do that
my brother may be released from the vermilion
tower.’
“‘Do this, and I will give him the vermilion
tower and make him grand vizier of the
dominions of Oman.’
“As hereditary emir of the tribe of Al-Yam,
I am prince of a considerable population.
My revenues are sufficient to support life becomingly.
But desiring to escape attention,
and moreover, feeling that I could better get
in touch with all classes of the population, I
have established here in Chicago a small
bazaar for the sale of frankincense and myrrh,
the balsam of Hadramaut and attar of roses
from the vales of Nejd, coffee of Mocha—which
is in Arabia the Happy—dates from
Hedjaz, together with ornaments made from
wood grown in Mecca and Medina. Such is
my stock in trade. By day, Mesrour and I
dress like Feringhis. But at night, it pleases
us to cast aside the stiff garb of the infidel for
the flowing garments of my native land.
Mesrour then delights to make the obeisances
my rank deserves, but which in the presence
of the giaours would excite mocking laughter.
I have prospered. I have made acquaintances
and have learned of many adventures. But I
have made no friends. I have been much prepossessed
by your bearing and feel that I would
like to have you for a friend. I am also desirous
of observing the effect of the tales of
adventure I have been collecting. I need to
acquire skill in the art of narration, and accordingly,
I must have someone to tell them
to, a person whose complaisance will cause
him to overlook the faults of a novice. I am
exceedingly anxious to have the distinguished
honor of your company and if you have any
evenings when you are at leisure, I should be
only too glad to have you spend them here.”
“I can come this day week,” said Mr. Middleton.
“So be it. On that occasion I will tell you
the tale of The Adventure of the Virtuous
Spinster. I have not asked you your calling
in life, for I am utterly without curiosity——”
“I am a clerk in a law office,” said Mr. Middleton,
quickly, “where I perform certain tasks
and at the same time study law, and it is my
hope to be soon admitted to the bar.”
Prince Achmed regarded him earnestly for a
moment, and then withdrew to return with a
sandalwood case in his hands. This he opened
to disclose a leathern-bound volume. Upon
the cover was stamped a great gilt monogram
of letters in some strange language. The
edges were stained a brilliant and peculiarly
vivid green. The pages were of fine pearl-colored
vellum, covered with strange characters
in black. Each chapter began with a great
red initial surrounded by an illuminated design
of many colored arabesques. It was
indeed a volume to cause a book-lover to cry
out with joy.
“Here is all the law man needs, the sacred
Koran. Here is the beginning and end of law,
the source of regulations that ensure righteous
conduct, the precepts of Mohammed,
prophet of Allah. If other laws agree with
those of the Koran, they are needless. If they
disagree, they are evil. Study this guide of
life, my friend, and there will be no need to
worry your brain with tomes of the presumptuous
wights who from their own imaginings
dare attempt to dictate laws and impiously
substitute them for the laws revealed to Mohammed
from on high. Accept this gift and
study it.”
With the sandalwood case containing the
precious volume of the law under his arm,
Mr. Middleton departed. After the lapse of
three days, finding no immediate prospect of
learning the Arabic language, and fearful of
offending Prince Achmed if he returned the
book, and having no possible use for it, he
took it to a bibliophile, who exclaiming that
it was the handiwork of a Mohammedan monastery
of Damascus and bore on the cover the
monogram of the fifth Fatimite caliph, and was
therefore a thousand years old, he told Mr.
Middleton that though it was worth much
more, he could offer him but five hundred dollars,
which sum the astonished friend of
Achmed received in a daze, and departed to
invest in a well located lot in a new suburb.
Having no use for the sandalwood case after
the Koran had been disposed of, he presented
it to a young lady of Englewood as a receptacle
for handkerchiefs.
Mr. Middleton said nothing of these transactions
when on the appointed evening he once
more sat in the presence of the urbane prince
of the tribe of Al-Yam. Having handed him a
bowl of delicately flavored sherbet, Achmed
began to narrate The Adventure of the Virtuous
Spinster.
