University of Virginia Library

1. I.
THE BEGGAR OF BAGDAD, AND OTHERS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 001. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and two children. Two other people in the background.]

THE author of “The Beggar of Bagdad”
chose the most appropriate
season of the year for the composition
of his great Romance. It
was begun in the month of June,
and completed in October. Thus
the opening pages breathed all the
warmth and freshness of early summer;
the body of the work glowed
with the sultry heat of August; and the concluding portions,
taking their peculiar richness of coloring from the gorgeous tints
of the autumnal woods, seemed like so many flaming leaves of oak
and maple. Another circumstance may be considered favorable.
The author was in the very fire and frenzy of poetic youth; the
winter of calm judgment had not yet come to chill and drive
away those bright-winged humming-birds of fancy, which delighted
so to suck the flowers of romance in gardens of the East.

But, while the author's youth — he was in his twentieth year
— and the influences of external nature were propitious, his private
life at that time was strikingly in contrast with the scenes he
described. Like many another wonderful hero of fiction, the
Beggar of Bagdad was born in humble lodgings. Incredible as
it may seem, all those rare fancies touching Alphiddi's palace
originated in Mrs. Dabney's kitchen. Thus, also, the ineffably
sweet perfumes which filled the enchanted chamber of the
lovely Lillifoo may have been suggested by the smell of boiled
cabbage. Perhaps the original of that fair creature's portrait
was Mrs. Dabney herself. Lustrous orbs, dark as the wing of
night, do not, indeed, much resemble sharp, little gray eyes, twinkling
through brass-bowed spectacles; there is also some difference
between raven tresses, several feet long, and thin, faded brown
hair, supported by side-combs, under a dingy cap-border, and
knotted up in a little ball behind; nor could the widow's old
black gown compare with the heroine's magnificent apparel, more
than her unhappy scowl could emulate the beauty of Lillifoo's
exquisite face. Yet she sat for the portrait, which the young
romancer executed with about as much fidelity to truth as some
artists, not over conscientious, display in making pleasant likenesses
of ugly customers for a consideration.

In like manner, the prototype of the brave Alphiddi, who
assumed a mean disguise, in order to enter the gates of the
ancient enemy of his house, Lillifoo's cruel sire, and touch her
hand, when she bestowed alms upon the handsome young beggar,
— with whom, by the way, she was destined to fall desperately
in love, — must be looked for in the humble person of Cheseboro',
commonly called Cheesy, only son of the late powerful Grand Vizier,
— that is, of Mr. C. Dabney, senior, the widow's lamented

consort. Hence, probably, the interest that ragged young gentleman
took in the fortunes of the noble Alphiddi. When portions
of the manuscript were read to his step-mother, he never failed to
listen. So strong even was his curiosity, that he was often caught
looking over the author's shoulder, while he wrote. Although
sometimes a little troublesome, he could not have better pleased
his distinguished friend, who, like most authors, was sufficiently
vain to feel highly gratified at the humblest recognition of his
genius.

One afternoon, however, Martin appeared unusually nervous.
He could no longer endure Cheesy at his elbow. Bending eagerly
over the kitchen table, he wrote with something like the old
energy he had brought to the task four months before, when his
hot brain was full of beggars of Bagdad and ambition. The great
Romance was drawing to its close; and the author, who saw
the end of his labors with a feeling of ecstasy, was finishing with
some grand tableaux of the most exciting description.

Cheesy manifested more than ordinary interest in that day's
manuscripts. Whenever Mrs. Dabney's back was turned, he was
sure to forsake the worn dasher of the little old yellow churn, which
stood in the pantry-door, and, stepping forward on tiptoe, stretch
his long neck and open his staring eyes over Martin's shoulder.
At length, when the counterfeit beggar was shifting his disguise,
and suddenly discovering himself to be the true Alphiddi, in presence
of Lillifoo's astounded friends, Cheesy became deeply interested.
Wider and wider expanded mouth and eyes, and while
his neck manifested new powers of extension, he pressed nearer
and nearer, until he might have been seen bearing down with
his whole weight upon Martin. But the latter was a slender
youth, and the incumbrance was too much for him.

“Hillo!” he cried, sharply, looking up. Cheesy drew back,
and screened his face with his elbow, as if expecting a blow.

“Now, don't be mad, Mr. Mer'vale, — don't!” said he, in a
voice which, being in a transition state between boyish treble and
manly bass, was as ragged as his dress. “I won't do so agin, I
promise ye; though I do want to know what they done with Alphiddi,
the wust way.”

“Cheesy,” replied Martin, his face lighting up joyfully, “can
you tell me what year it is?”

“Why, it 's the year of Anno Domini eighteen hundred and forty
— something, an't it? Forty what? I 've forgot, that 's a fact.”

Martin set the lad right on the subject of the forgotten number,
and charged him to remember it. “Because,” he added, with a
sense of the humorous, “it is the year in which, as you can tell
any one who asks you hereafter, the Romance of The Beggar of
Bagdad was written. And you can say, too, that it was completed
— now, see if you can tell me what day of the month it is.”

Cheesy occupied some seconds in counting his fingers, while
Martin waited for him with a patient smile.

“Fiftieth day, an't it?” he suddenly exclaimed, in his coarsest
tones, brightening with intelligence. “Need n't laugh! I heard
you say yourself, three weeks ago to-morrer, the day we sold our
fat calf, 't was the thirtieth.”

“But there are only thirty-one days in the longest month.”

“So there an't!” said Cheesy, rubbing his knees and grinning,
as he doubled himself up before his distinguished friend. “Tell
me what day 't is, then. I 'll remember.”

Martin gave him the exact date of that eventful day, to be
treasured in his memory; and, requesting not to be troubled any
more for the present, resumed his writing.

“But I want to know how it 's coming out. Did Alphiddi tell
Lillifoo's father —”

Cheesy's question was cut short by a box on the ear, which sent
him back to the churn with a suppressed howl of pain. He continued
to mutter revengefully for some moments, but his complaint
was drowned in the harsh tones of his step-mother's voice, as she
scolded him for his laziness and disobedience. Meanwhile Martin
proceeded to describe the exceeding softness of Lillifoo's shriek,
as she sank fainting in the arms of her gallant Alphiddi.

“Come, Mr. Mer'vale,” demanded Mrs. Dabney, turning upon
the young author, “an't you 'most through? I 've got some ironing
to do 'fore supper, and must use the table.”

“Let me sit here and write half an hour longer,” replied Martin,
gathering up his manuscripts out of the widow's way. “I am on
the last pages of the Romance. I can't leave it unfinished.”

Mrs. Dabney was on the point of answering sharply; but,
reflecting that Martin had been thus far quite a profitable boarder,
she suffered him to remain in his place. He pursued his writing,
therefore, while she brought out her ironing-cloths, unrolled a
little bundle of sprinkled caps and collars, and spat upon the flat
of an iron to try its temperature.

“Cheseboro'!” she exclaimed, in a shrill tone, close to Martin's
ear, “do you 'tend to that churn!”

Cheesy, who had been lolling on the dasher, thinking of Lillifoo
and Alphiddi, began to work with tremendous energy.

“I am churning,” he growled. “I 've churned my arms 'most
off, a'ready.”

“Don't tell me! Let me see you leaning on that dasher once
more, if you want me to come and help you! Don't spatter so!”

Thereupon Cheesy moved the dasher up and down, with sarcastic
deliberation.

“I can churn without spattering, if you want me to,” he muttered.
“But I guess you don't know what you want yourself.”

He did not intend this unfavorable commentary upon his step-mother's
words for any ears save Martin's. Her sense of hearing
was sharp, however, and the next moment his own ears tingled with
repeated cuffs.

“I 'll learn you to be sassy to me! Don't dodge, you sir!
Put down your elbows. There!” Mrs. Dabney gave him a final
crack on the crown of his head. “A boy fifteen year old! I
should think you 'd be ashamed!”

Martin, pained and disturbed, looked up from his writing.

“Did n't hurt,” whispered Cheesy, winking in a style of reckless
bravado, putting out his tongue, and squaring off at his
step-mother.

“What 's that?” she asked, turning quickly.

“I say the butter has come all 't will,” he whimpered, looking
down and churning with great assiduity.

The artifice saved him further punishment, and Mrs. Dabney
proceeded with her small ironing. This finished, she began
to set one side of the table for supper, crowding the author
of the great Romance into still narrower quarters. At the same
time, by a singular coincidence, he happened to be depicting the
magnificent banquet given on the occasion of Lillifoo's marriage
with her noble Alphiddi.

The red rays of a fine October sunset, showered through the
crimson foliage of a tree that grew beside the cottage, were creeping
across the table. They fell upon the gray plates and the
worn Japan of the old bread-tray, gave the stingy lump of butter

a yellower hue, filled the mean little cups and saucers with subtle
gold, and, moving further, further still, struck aslant upon the
final page of the great Oriental Romance. In that light the joyous
writer penned the concluding line. He regarded it as a happy
omen.

“Gold! gold!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet and rubbing
his hands gleefully.

“Gold?” repeated Mrs. Dabney, pausing, with a loaf hugged
against her bosom, and a very thin slice cut half across. “Did
you speak of gold?”

She finished the slice, and having cut it into three small pieces
for the tray, held up the bread-knife, like an interrogation-point,
waiting for Martin's answer.

“Golden fame!” he cried, stretching himself, with enthusiasm.
“The Romance is ended! It is ready for the world!”

“By gracious!” cried Cheesy; “if it 's finished, I want to
hear that 'ere last chapter. I 'll churn like thunder, if you 'll
have him read it, ma.”

“Cheesy,” said Martin, overflowing with benevolence, “you
shall be gratified. Mrs. Dabney,” — taking up his manuscripts
proudly, and clearing his throat, — “will you sit down and hear
it?”

The widow said she could hear while she was about her work,
and Martin prepared to read. He looked over the top of his manuscript,
however, as she was placing the tarnished little tea-pot
on the stove, to inquire what part that she had already heard
pleased her fancy most.

“I like all that about Alphiddi's killing the lion,” broke in
Cheesy, in his ragged voice. “And where he swum the river
with a dagger 'tween his teeth; and his telling Lillifoo all about

himself, when she thinks she is talking with a beggar; and about
his hiding in the island —”

He stopped suddenly and began to churn, having observed the
significant glance his mother gave him, as she hastily returned
the tea-canister to its place.

“You better!” said she, grimly. “What part do I like best?
O, I think the story about What-'s-his-name's finding the golden
cave is interesting. That 's good, too, about the magic stone which
turned chips into money. And I liked What-'s-her-name's house-keeping,
after her father had lost all his property. In my opinion,
them 's the best parts of the story.”

Martin smiled, and, thanking her for the compliment, began to
read.

“`At sunrise, on the fourth day after Alphiddi's abrupt departure,
the lovely Lillifoo, stealing from the palace, glided unseen
into the dewy garden, to breathe the odorous exhalations —'”

“Remember you 've got the cows to milk yet, to-night,” said
the widow, in an under tone, with a lowering glance at Cheesy.

“`— which are the prayers of flowers. As she passed on amid
the fragrant mazes —'”

“I guess you don't mean to have no supper, neither, young man!
You don't half churn.”

“`— a thousand birds, fluttering from bough to bough, above
her, shook from their melodious throats —'”

“Did n't somebody knock?” asked Mrs. Dabney.

“I did n't hear nobody,” replied Cheesy, imploringly. “Don't
bother so, ma!”

“`— shook from their melodious throats,'” Martin went on, “`a
perfect shower of sweet sounds, which fell refreshingly upon her
sorrowful soul. On either side —'”

“There 's that knocking again! Open the door, Cheseboro',
and see what 's wanting.”

Cheesy obeyed, with alacrity.

“It 's a couple of beggars, — beggars of Bagdad, I guess,” he
whispered, with a broad grin, over his shoulder.

“Send 'em away,” spoke up Mrs. Dabney, loud enough for the
visitors to hear. “We don't want to see no beggars, — there 's
nothing for 'em here.”

Martin hastened to look out. He saw a middle-aged man, with
a care-worn, haggard face, leading a little girl. The mendicant
was meanly dressed; he carried an oaken staff in his hand, and
bore a pack strapped upon his shoulders.

“Go away!” said Cheesy, with an air of authority, standing in
the doorway. “You won't get nothing here.”

Martin felt hurt. To see the lessons of charity he had taken so
much pains to inculcate in “The Beggar of Bagdad” so soon forgotten
by the first persons to whom they had been imparted,
wounded both his benevolence and his self-esteem. Besides, he
naturally felt a professional interest in that class of persons to
which Alphiddi had joined himself in the Romance. He accordingly
laid his pen across the manuscript, got up from the table,
and went to the door.

“Go in, Cheesy,” said he. “You are an inconsistent fellow.
The world laughs and cries over fictitious sufferings, while it drives
real want from its doors; and you are just like it, Cheesy. I 'm
ashamed of you,” — pushing him back. “How fares it with you,
neighbor?”

“Well, I thank you, sir,” replied the man, in broken accents.
“I only ask for a morsel of food for my child.” His voice failed
him, and, placing his arm with a tender and protecting touch

upon the girl's shoulder, he drew her affectionately towards him.
“She is blind,” he added, with emotion which could not have been
feigned.

“The same old story!” exclaimed Mrs. Dabney, showing her
scowl in the doorway. “I 've heard it, or something like it, a
hundred times.”

“It may be,” said the mendicant, meekly, bowing his head.
“My child! — my child!” he articulated, fingering the curls upon
her neck convulsively. Tears of passionate sorrow rushed to his
eyes, and, running swiftly down his cheeks, fell into her soft brown
hair.

“O, father!” she murmured, hiding her face in his rags, and
clinging to his side, “don't cry! We will go now, dear father!”

“Come here; let me see your eyes,” exclaimed Mrs. Dabney,
severely. “They look nat'ral as any eyes, for aught I see.”

She made a rude snatch at the child's arm; but the beggar
stayed her hand.

“Not so,” he said, with quivering lips. “She is a tender plant
— she cannot bear rough usage.”

“Humph!” sneered the widow, pushing the girl from her
“Them 's as good eyes as mine, any day. You 're a drinking
man, I know by your looks. We never know who 's impostors,
and who an't.”

“Give 'em the churning to eat,” suggested Cheesy, in a hoarse
whisper. “It never will come.”

The child drew back, folding her little hands upon her breast,
and stood waiting for her father. There was such meekness in her
attitude, as she did so, and such sweet sadness — such patient
sorrow — in her pale young face, that Martin could no longer
control his impulses. His hand went instinctively into his pocket,

and brought forth some small pieces of money, which he proffered
as the beggar was turning dejectedly away.

“Take this,” he said, hurriedly. “It will buy you a supper at
the tavern.”

The beggar shook his head, and drawing the child towards him
with the same air of touching tenderness Martin had before observed,
walked slowly from the door.

“For her sake,” added the young man, detaining him; “and
may God bless her and you!”

He placed the money in the beggar's palm. The latter turned,
as if he would speak; but he could only bow his head and move
his lips inaudibly, and look gratefully at Martin through tears.
And so he went away, with his staff shaking in his hand, and his
fingers moving again convulsively in the blind girl's waving hair.
Martin went in and closed the door.

“I am glad you can afford to give money to vagabonds in that
way,” observed the widow, with a grim smile.

“I never thought whether I could afford it or not,” replied
Martin, coloring slightly.

“O, no doubt you can!” with an ironical emphasis. “Of
course, — Cheseboro', do you 'tend to that churn! — of course
you have more money than you know what to do with!”

“I don't believe,” said Martin, with a good-humored smile,
“that I 've got over a dollar in the world. Let me see,” counting
some change in his hand. “The Romance will set me up gayly;
but, for the present, I 'm bankrupt.”

It was some seconds before the widow could speak, for choking.

“Why have n't you told me that before?” she demanded.
“How 's your board to be paid? Am I worse than a beggar?”

She choked again, and clutched her apron with her fingers, as

if so atrocious a swindle had quite taken her breath away, and
well-nigh thrown her into an apoplexy.

“I believe,” observed Martin, with dignity, “I am indebted to
you now for only one week's board.”

“Only one week's board! As if two seventy-five was n't an
item! I did n't know I was supporting a beggar!”

“A beggar of Bagdad,” suggested Cheesy to himself, grinning
over the churn. “Le' 's hear that 'ere last chapter out,” he added,
in a louder tone, “any way.”

“I won't hear a word on 't!” burst forth Mrs. Dabney. “I
never see such worthless trash! It 's tried my patience enough
a'ready. I could write better myself!”

Cheesy looked outrageously indignant at this slur upon “The
Beggar,” and grasped the dasher fiercely, as if he would have
liked to knock his mother down with the churn.

“I think I have paid you promptly all along, until this week,”
remarked our author, with forced calmness. “And now I am
willing to leave my trunk and clothes in your possession, as security,
while I go to Boston and negotiate for the publication of my
Romance; taking only such things with me as I shall need.”

This proposition seemed to pacify the widow in a degree. She
began to talk more reasonably, and inquired how Martin expected
to be able to make a journey and live in a city without money.

“As for travelling, I can walk. Then I can live on a shilling
a day till I dispose of my manuscript. Or, I can raise a hundred
or two dollars on it at any time, you know, by leaving it in some
publisher's hands.”

He spoke with beautiful ingenuousness, whereat Mrs. Dabney
who was very practical, smiled somewhat sarcastically.

“Why not?” he asked. “You don't think any honorable

publisher would wish to keep my Romance, if I chose to take it
away again?”

“I should n't think any publisher would!” replied the widow,
significantly.

“In the morning,” resumed the sanguine Martin, “I shall set
out for Boston. We will part good friends, at all events, Mrs.
Dabney. Have you any errand for your friends in town? If
you have, I shall be glad to do it.”

The widow hesitated. Remembering that her brother Simeon
kept a boarding-house, and entertaining rather narrow notions of
city life, it struck her that his would naturally be the first place
at which Martin would apply for board.

“Yes,” said she, at length, brightening with an idea. “I 'll
give you a letter of introduction. Perhaps Simeon can take you
to board. — Cheseboro',” — in a sharp voice, — “what are you
doing?”

The boy was writing his name, in grotesque characters, “C
DaBney eqs,” on the creamy churn-cover.

“An't doing nothing,” said he, promptly, sucking the shingle-nail
which had served as a pencil, and beginning to work industriously;
“only jes' looking to see if the butter was coming.”

The discovery of Martin's poverty had not tended to soften the
widow's heart. She had vials of wrath to pour out upon some
one, and Cheesy's head was convenient. He did not foresee the
calamity which threatened him, however, as she turned deliberately
to enter the wood-shed, but entertained Martin the while by
shutting up an eye, screwing up one side of his face, and putting
his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. He also defied her
valiantly with his fist; and afterwards, placing a thumb on his
nose, and playing violent shakes with his fingers, turned an imaginary

organ-crank with his other hand. In the midst of the last
operation Mrs. Dabney surprised him; when, with an instantaneous
change of manner, he appeared seriously busy at the churn,
while he scratched his nose with an air of unimpeachable
innocence.

But meekness availed him nothing. With anger gathered up
in the wrinkles of her face, and with a tough hickory stick in her
hand, the widow returned to the kitchen. Cheesy became pale with
apprehension, and protested against injustice; but her ear was
deaf to entreaties, and her hand was eager to chastise. In vain
did Cheesy dodge, and put up his elbows, and hold up one foot,
and dance around the pantry, and yell with pain at every successful
blow inflicted on head or hands or legs; she continued to beat
him, growing more and more vindictive, until, in a final effort to
escape, he overturned the churn. Instantly a small river of cream
flooded the kitchen floor and Martin's feet. The cover was
thrown off and left stranded on the threshold, supported by the
dasher, like the stern of a wreck, with the half-effaced letters, “C
DaBney eqs,” still visible.

The widow uttered a suppressed cry, at which Cheesy made a
desperate plunge through her arms, forded the stream, and made
three creamy tracks on his way to the wood-house, where he
keeled out of the door, falling upon his head, arms and knees, in
a heap. Mrs. Dabney followed, stick in hand; and Martin, not
fully appreciating the entertainment, hastened to wipe his feet
with a newspaper, took his hat from the pole, and left the house
by the front-door.