This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal,

And what a fund of charity would fail! Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er,

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."

Of the same date with this appeared the famous "Vision of Mirza," illustrative of the uncertainty of life; but as it derived its reputation from the novelty of the Eastern mode of treatment, which has since been carried by Johnson in his Rasselas and Beckford in his Vathek, and Hawksworth and others to a greater perfection, we need not pause over it here; for, when you once know the means by which a trick is performed, you take little interest in the trick itself. You see pancakes baked in hats, and geese brought out of empty bags, without any surprise. We have in the same way got rid of Abdallah the son of Murad, and Mustapha of the sons of Ali. Yet there is one imitation so perfect in its kind, and moreover inculcating so admirable a moral, that we may quote it at length, especially as there is a very mysterious incident in literary history connected with its authorship. It is a fable in favour of toleration,-written in biblical language, and commending itself at once to the judgment and the taste; for the principle it enforces is no less admirable than the manner in which it is done. It has always appeared in the collected works of Dr Franklin; and it is said in a note by Lord Kames, in his Natural History of Man, "The following parable against persecution was communicated to me by Dr Franklin, of Philadelphia, a man who makes a great figure in the learned world, and would make a still greater figure if benevolence and candour were virtues as much regarded in this declining age as knowledge." Now, though, in the strict acceptation of words, no claim is made to the authorship by the mere statement that it was municated" by Dr Franklin, still the fact remains that it was contained in all the collections of his works. It was quoted, in his life

com

time, in the very terms above stated: he never repudiated his claim, and no one else disputed it. But there arose a theological inquirer, a lover of old English learning, and in the collected works of Bishop Jeremy Taylor, who lived a hundred years before Franklin was born, he found the identical fable. How greatly its worth is enhanced when we find that he himself was a witness for conscience' sake, and when we know that when the Restoration again put power into his hands, he carried all the principles he had advocated in adversity into the fullest practice when the state of affairs was changed! How do we account for Dr Franklin resting contented under the load of bays to which he had no title? Perhaps he never took the trouble to consider the subject, never having directly named himself as the author; but he had trophies enough of his own without laying claim to any body else's.

"I end with a story which I find in the Jews' books. When Abraham sat

at his tent-door, according to his custom, waiting to entertain strangers, he espied an old man stooping and leaning on his staff, weary with age and travel, coming towards him, who was a hundred years of age. He received him kindly, washed his feet, provided supper, caused him to sit down; but observing that the old man ate and prayed not, nor begged for why he did not worship the God of a blessing on his meat, he asked him

heaven the old man told him that he

worshipped the fire only, and acknowledged no other god; at which answer Abraham grew so zealously angry that he thrust the old man out of his tent, and exposed him to all the evils of the night and an unguarded condition.

When the old man was gone, God called to Abraham, and asked him where the stranger was; he replied, "I thrust him away because he did not worship Thee:" God answered him, "I have suffered him these hundred years, although he dishonoured me, and couldst not thou endure him one night when he gave thee no trouble?" Upon this,' saith the story, Abraham fetched him back again and gave him hospitable entertainment and wise instruction.' Go thou and do likewise, and thy charity will be rewarded by the God of Abraham."Works of Jeremy Taylor, vol. v. p. 604.

Years passed away after Jeremy

Taylor's time, and when Addison published his Spectator, the fable, the parable, the allegory, and the vision became favourite modes of inculcating the lessons of morality, or lashing our favorite faults. The Guardian and the Tatler carried on the figurative teaching, till at length the public must have turned away from the long-drawn histories, where symbol prevailed over fact, and life was never talked of except as a river or a voyage; and a man found, on closing his paper, that the Royal Exchange was a cattle-market, where bulls and bears contended for the championship of the ring; and marriage was a hard-driven bargain; and law an unfathomable gulf, where suicides were perpetually jumping in, and filling the whole air with their shrieks and lamentations. Some few of these still remain to show the ingenuity of the author; but when a certain Mr Ridley, at the end of the last century, carried the figurative into a book of good size, and published his allegoric lessons under the name of Persian Tales, so perfect was the imitation of the Oriental style, and so interesting the stories in themselves, that the public were delighted to accept them as continuations of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and did not care about the hidden meaning of the Valley of Despair, or the Fountain of Oblivion. These admirable tales were translated into foreign languages with the disguising title-page of the modest author, who concealed his own name, and published them as "Translations from the Original Persian, by Sir Charles Morel, for a long time Ambassador at the Court of Ispahan." And in many English libraries at this moment the works of the ingenious Ridley, who was a descendant of the martyred bishop, are classed among their Eastern treasures, and Sir Charles Morel is included among the translators of whom his country has reason to be proud. Then came a long period of dulness and common-sense. We were engaged in fighting terrible existences in the shape of Napoleon and all the forces of Europe, and had little inclination to trouble ourselves about ghouls and magicians, and all the family of

talking birds and singing trees. A bulletin from the army in Spain-a report in the Moniteur of a new levy for the invasion of England—put all the fancied horrors of Maugraby and the genii into the smallest possible dimensions: so the national mind fed its excitement on the gallant old ballads of the feudal times, and the spirit-stirring chivalry of Walter Scott, as more appropriate to the great struggle that was going on. But with the return of peace gentler styles of literature resumed their popularity, and among them our friends the parable and the allegory were not wanting. Scott himself had his vision of the future in the cave of Don Roderick, Byron had his Darkness, and Campbell his Last Man. Conflicting religious views were represented in figure and dream. Bunyan's great work was imitated by a dozen pilgrims, all starting from different churches, and, let us hope, all tending to the same goal. But the hopelessness of equalling so great a masterpiece perhaps diminished the power of the writers, and nothing above mediocrity arose in this peculiar branch, till at length the Bishop of Oxford raised it to a high class of literature again, by his beautiful allegories of the Rocky Island and Agathos. Once the right chord was struck, a hundred harps repeated the same tone. Among the rest, the amiable William Adams produced a series of gentle incitements to self-denial and virtue in his volume of Sacred Allegories. Mr Munro followed with equal skill, and Ruskin gave additional dignity to the fable by his King of the Golden River. Yet higher than them all, purer than William Adams, brighter than Wilberforce, more varied than Ruskin, is the great Danish fabulist, Hans Christian Andersen. Fable never took such shapes of beauty, or such disguises of wisdom before. The wonderful Tales from Denmark-indeed, all his writings-are equally marked by the same inexhaustible ingenuity, and the same exquisite simplicity and truth. In other fables we find the chief effort made at a clever parallelism between the thing meant and the thing spoken. Every part of one must

have its counterpart in the other; so that the fancy is racked to maintain the exact balance between the fictitious narrative and the real event. Thus even in the Rocky Island there is not a single description or incident which does not answer exactly to some real characteristic or occurrence. We get fatigued with the unvarying reciprocity

"Grove nods at grove-each alley has a brother,

And half the parterre just reflects the other."

But open Hans Andersen. Minute identities are omitted: he carries you on with a delightful story at which children gape as supernatural and impossible, but to which the wise man listens with still more attention; for in this supernatural and impossible he recognises everyday life and experience. Instead of tying himself and his reader down to the close fitting of his tale, he leaves the attentive listener impressed at the end with the double sensation of having been at a theatre and a church. He has laughed at clowns doing the most preposterous actions and speaking the most ludicrous nonsense; and afterwards discovers that he has received a very serious lecture-a reprimand for thoughtless conduct, and encouragement to mend his ways.

The self-delusion with which we persuade ourselves, and the unblushing vanity with which we persuade others, of our perspicacity and cleverness, were never so admirably lashed before as in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes.

Let us observe in this short extract how everybody insists on the clearness of his own vision, and his own fitness for the highest post; and with what satirical wisdom the only voice of truth in all the city is that of a little child.

"Many years ago there lived an Emperor who cared so very much about having new clothes, that he spent all his money merely for the sake of being very smartly dressed. He did not care much about his troops; he did not care either about going to the play or driving out, unless it were that he might show his new clothes. He had a new suit for

people led a merry life. Day after day fresh visitors arrived at court: one day, too, a couple of swindlers, who called themselves first-rate weavers, made their appearance. They pretended that they were able to weave the richest stuffs, in which not only the colours and patterns were extremely beautiful, but that the clothes made of such stuffs possessed the wonderful property of remaining invisible to him who was unfit for the office he held, or who was extremely silly.

"In the large town where he resided

"What capital clothes they must be!' thought the Emperor. If I had but such a suit I could directly find out what people in my empire were not equal to their office; and, besides, I should be able to distinguish the clever from the stupid. By Jove, I must have some of this stuff made directly for me!' And so he ordered large sums of money to be given to the two swindlers, that they might set to work immediately.

The men erected two looms, and did as if they worked very diligently; but in reality they had got nothing on the loom. They boldly demanded the finest silk

pockets, and worked away at the empty and gold thread, put it all in their own foom till quite late at night.

"I should like to know how the two weavers are getting on with my stuff,' said the Emperor, one day, to himself; but he was rather embarrassed when he remembered that a silly fellow, or one unfitted for his office, would not be able to see the stuff. 'Tis true, he thought, as far as regarded himself, there was no risk whatever; but yet he preferred sending some one else, to bring him intelligence of the two weavers, and how they were getting on, before he went himself. Everybody in the whole town had heard of the wonderful property that this stuff was said to possess, and all were curious to know how clever or foolish their neighbours might be found to be.

"I will send my worthy old minister,' said the Emperor at last, after much consideration; he will be able to say how the stuff looks better than anybody; for he is a man of understanding, and no one can be found more fitted for his than he.'

"So the worthy old minister went to the room where the two swindlers were working away with all their might and main. 'Lord help me!' thought the old man, opening his eyes as wide as possible;

'why, I can't see the least thing whatever on the loom!' But he took care not to give voice to his thoughts.

"The swindlers begged him most politely to have the goodness to approach nearer to the looms; and then, pointing to the empty frame, asked him if the colours were not of great beauty. And the poor old minister looked, and looked, and could see nothing whatever; for, indeed, there was nothing at all there. 'Bless me!' thought he to himself, 'am I, then, really a simpleton? Well, I never thought so, and nobody dare know it. I not fit for my office! No, nothing on earth shall make me say that I have not seen the stuff!'

"Well, sir,' said one of the swindlers, still working busily, 'you don't say if the stuff pleases you or not.'

"Oh, beautiful, beautiful! the work is admirable!' said the old minister, looking at the beam through his spectacles. This pattern, and these colours! -well, well; I shall not fail to tell the Emperor that both are most beautiful.'

"Well, we shall be delighted if you do so,' said the swindlers; and named the different colours and patterns which were in the stuff. The old minister listened attentively to what they said, in order that he might be able to repeat all to the Emperor.

"The swindlers then asked for more money, and silk and gold thread, which they said they wanted to finish the piece they had begun. But they put, as before, all that was given to them into their own pocket, and still continued to work with apparent diligence at the empty loom.

"Some time after, the Emperor sent another officer to see how the work was getting on, and if the piece of brocade would soon be finished. But he fared like the other: he stared at the loom from every side; but as there was nothing there, of course he could only see the empty frame.

"Does the stuff not please you as much as it did the minister?' asked the men, making the same gestures as before, and talking of splendid colours and of patterns which did not exist.

return, 'the stuff which the weavers are making is extraordinarily fine.'

"The magnificent brocade that the Emperor was having woven at his own expense was the talk of the whole town.

"The Emperor wished to see the costly stuff while it was on the loom; so, accompanied by a chosen train of courtiers, among whom were the two trusty men who had so admired the work, off he went to the two cunning cheats. As soon as they heard of the Emperor's approach, they began working with all diligence, although as yet there was not a single thread on the loom.

"Is it not magnificent?' said the two officers of the crown. 'Will your Majesty only look? What a charming pattern what beautiful colours!' said they, pointing to the empty frames, for they thought the others really could see the stuff.

"What's the meaning of this!' said the Emperor to himself, I see nothing! This is a terrible matter! Am I a simpleton; or am I not fit to be Emperor? Why, that were the worst that could happen to me.'-'Oh, charming; the stuff is really charming,' said he then ; 'I approve it highly!' And he smiled graciously, and examined the empty looms minutely; for he would not for all in the world say that he could not see what his two officers had so much praised. The whole suite strained their eyes to discover something on the looms, but they could see as little as the others. At the same time, in order to please their master the Emperor, they all cried, 'Oh, how beautiful!' and counselled his Majesty to have new robes made out of this magnificent stuff for the grand procession which was about to take place. 'Excellent! charming!' was echoed from mouth to mouth, and all were extremely pleased. The Emperor was as satisfied as his courtiers, and conferred on each of the cheats an Order, which they were to wear in their button-hole, and gave them the title of Knights of the Most Honourable Order of the Loom.'

"The night preceding the day on which the procession was to take place, the two men stayed up all night, and had sixteen candles burning; so that everybody might see how they worked to get the Emperor's new dress ready in proper time. They pretended to unroll the stuff from the loom; they cut in the air with their scissors, and sewed with needles that had no thread. Now then,' said they, the Emperor's new suit is ready at last.'

"The Emperor then made his appear

ance in the chamber of his two Knights of the Most Honourable Order of the Loom, accompanied by his chamberlains of the highest rank; and the two cheats held up their arms as though they had something in their hands, and said, 'Here are your Majesty's knee-breeches; here is the coat, and here the mantle. The whole suit is as light as a cobweb: and when one is dressed one would almost fancy one had nothing on: but that is just the beauty of this stuff!'

666 "Of course!' said all the courtiers, although not a single one of them could see anything of the clothes.

"Will your Imperial Majesty most graciously be pleased to undress? we will then try on the new things before the glass.'

"The Emperor allowed himself to be undressed, and then the two cheats did exactly as if each one helped him on with an article of dress, while his Majesty turned himself round on all sides before the mirror.

666

“How well the dress becomes your Majesty and how well all fits! What a pattern! What colours! This is indeed a dress worthy of a king!'

"The canopy which is to be borne above your Majesty in the procession is in readiness without,' announced the

chief master of the ceremonies.

"I am quite ready,' replied the Emperor. 'Do my new things sit well?' asked he, turning round once more before the looking-glass, in order that it might appear that he examined the dress very minutely.

"The pages who were to carry the Emperor's train felt about on the ground as if to lift up the end of the mantle, and did exactly as if they were carrying something, for they also did not wish to betray simplicity or unfitness for their post.

"And so the Emperor walked on, under the high canopy, through the streets of the metropolis, and all the people in the streets and at the windows cried out, 'Oh, how beautiful the Emperor's new dress is! what a splendid train and the mantle, how well it sits !'

"In short, there was nobody but wished to cheat himself into the belief that he saw the highly valued clothes, for otherwise he would have had to acknowledge himself either a simpleton or an awkward fellow. As yet none of the Emperor's new dresses had met with such approval as the suit made by the

two weavers.

"But the Emperor has nothing on!' said a little child. Ah, hear the voice

of innocence !' said the father, and one person whispered to the other what the child had said.

"But he really has nothing on!' exclaimed at last all the people. This vexed the Emperor, for he felt that they were right, but he thought- However, I must bear the thing to the end!' And the pages placed themselves further from him, as if they were carrying a train which did not even exist."

We see from this to what eminence our originally humble friend the Proverb has risen. With a slight touch of dramatic life it rose into the Fable; with a slight widening of range and character it grew into the Parable; the Parable expanded into the lengthened Tale, or soared into vision and prophecy; or, finally, took the highest elevation of all, and became a Poem. Through all these intermediate stages, an adage, which sounds dreadfully dull in its first expression, becomes the Faery Queen; and Arthur presiding at his Table Round, as shown to us in the Idylls of the King, what is he but the grand embodiment of a Conscience, in the midst of all those Passion Knights and Sentiment Ladies, encouraging, rebuking, or, finally, forgiving according to their several deserts? Lancelot, in this sense, is one who sins not against his friend but his own soul; Guenever is pardoned, not by the offended husband, but the surer voice of her repentant heart. In the whole poem there is the presentment, in the noblest of English words, of the common saying relating to the inner judge-Have no other fear if the

conscience is clear.

But if these genealogical aspirings are too high, and Faery Queens and Royal Idylls are Somersets and Howards beyond all cousinship or consanguinity with the Browns and Smiths, we can still claim kindred for our client the vulgar Proverb with some of the best blood of Parnassus. The next time we talk of " every bullet having its billet," or, in the Scotch form, we maun a' gang when the time comes," let us turn to D'Herbelot, and see with what a poetic robe Leigh Hunt clothed the Persian adage, by almost verbally translating it, in the following lines, with which we will close this paper, in case of