The pen of a ready writer is not grasped by all fingers, and gifts are gifts, not earnings. But to cultivate the faculties G.o.d has given us to His glory, to lose petty cares, ign.o.ble pleasures, and small grievances, in the joy of studying His great works, to be good to His creatures, to be truthful beyond fear or flattery, to be pure of heart and tongue far beyond the common, to keep up an honest, zealous war with wickedness, and never to lose heart or hope for wicked men--these things are within the power as well as the ambition of us all.

I must point out to some of the young aspirants after her literary fame, that though the date in Elizabeth Smith's _Remains_ shows my mother to have been only eleven years old when she got it, and though she worked and studied indefatigably all her girlhood, her first original work was not published till she was forty-two years old.

Of the lessons of her long years of suffering I cannot speak. A form of paralysis which left her brain as vigorous as ever, stole the cunning from her hand, and the use of her limbs and voice, through ten years of pain and privation, in which she made a willing sacrifice of her powers to the will of G.o.d.

If some of her magazine children who enjoy "advantages" she never had, who visit places and see sights for which she longed in vain, and who are spared the cross she bore so patiently, are helped by this short record of their old friend, it may somewhat repay the pain it has cost in writing.

Trench's fine sonnet was a great favourite of my mother's--

"To leave unseen so many a glorious sight, To leave so many lands unvisited, To leave so many books unread, Unrealized so many visions bright;-- Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite Of our short span, and we must yield our breath, And wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death, So much remaining of unproved delight, But hush, my soul, and vain regrets be still'd; Find rest in Him Who is the complement Of whatsoe'er transcends our mortal doom, Of broken hope and frustrated intent; In the clear vision and aspect of Whom All wishes and all longings are fulfill'd."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: "Such is the lost of the beautiful upon earth."--_Wallenstein's Tod_.]

TALES OF THE KHOJA.[3]

(_Adapted from the Turkish._)

INTRODUCTION.

"O my children!" said the story-teller, "do you indeed desire amus.e.m.e.nt by the words of my lips? Then shut your mouths, that the noise you make may be abated, and I may hear myself speak; and open your ears, that you may be entertained by the tales that I shall tell you. Shut your mouths and open your ears, I say, and you will, without doubt, receive pleasure from what I shall have to relate of Khoja Nasr-ed-Deen-Effendi.

"This Khoja was not altogether a wise man, nor precisely a fool, nor entirely a knave.

"It is true, O children, that his wisdom was flecked with folly, but what saith the proverb? 'No one so wise but he has some folly to spare.'

Moreover, in his foolishness there was often a hidden meaning, as a letter is hid in a basket of dates--not for every eye.

"As to his knaveries, they were few, and more humorous than injurious.

Though be it far from me, O children, as a man of years and probity, to defend the conduct of the Khoja to the Jew money-lender.

"What about the Jew money-lender, do you ask?

"This is the tale."

_Tale_ 1.--The Khoja and the Nine Hundred and Ninety-nine Pieces of Gold.

This Khoja was very poor.

One day, wishing for a piece of gold, he corrected himself, saying: "It costs no more to wish for a thousand pieces than for one. I wish for a thousand gold pieces."

And he repeated aloud--"I wish for a thousand pieces of gold. _I would not accept one less._"

Now it so happened that he was overheard by a certain covetous Jew money-lender. This man was of a malicious disposition; and the poverty of the Khoja was a satisfaction to him. When he heard what the Khoja said he chuckled to himself, saying, "Truly this Khoja is a funny fellow, and it would be a droll thing to see him refuse nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold. For without doubt he would keep his word."

And as he spoke, the Jew put nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces into a purse, and dropped the purse down the Khoja's chimney, with the intention of giving him annoyance.

The Khoja picked up the purse and opened it.

"Allah be praised!" he cried, "for the fulfilment of my desires. Here are the thousand pieces."

Meanwhile the Jew was listening at the chimney-top, and he heard the Khoja begin to count the coins. When he got to the nine hundred and ninety-ninth, and had satisfied himself that there was not another, he paused, and the Jew merchant held his breath.

At last the Khoja spoke.

"O my soul!" said he, "is it decent to spit in the face of good fortune for the sake of one gold piece in a thousand? Without doubt it is an oversight, and he who sent these will send the missing one also." Saying which, the Khoja put the money into his sash and sat down to smoke.

The Jew now became fidgety, and he hastened down to the Khoja's door, at which he knocked, and entering, said, "Good-day, Khoja Effendi. May I ask you to be good enough to restore to me my nine hundred and ninety-nine gold pieces?"

"Are you mad, O Jew money-lender?" replied the Khoja. "Is it likely that you would throw gold down my chimney? These pieces fell from heaven in fulfilment of my lawful desires."

"O my soul, Khoja!" cried the Jew, "I did it, indeed! It was a jest, O Khoja! You said, 'I will not take one less than a thousand,' wherefore I put nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces in the purse, and it was for a joke."

"I do not see the joke," said the Khoja, "but I have accepted the gold pieces." And he went on smoking.

The Jew money-lender now became desperate.

"Let us go to the magistrate," he cried. "The Cadi Effendi shall decide between us."

"It is well said," replied the Khoja. "But it would not beseem a Khoja like myself to go through the public streets to the court on foot; and I am poor, and have no mule."

"O my soul!" said the Jew, "let not that trouble you. I will send and fetch one of my mules."

But when the mule was at the door, the Khoja said: "Is it fitting, O money-lender, that a Khoja like myself should appear in these rags before a Cadi Effendi? But I am poor, and have no suitable dress."

"Let not that be a hindrance, O Khoja!" said the Jew. "For I have a pelisse made of the most beautiful fur, which I will send for without delay."

In due time this arrived, and, richly clothed, the Khoja rode through the streets with a serene countenance, the Jew money-lender running after him in the greatest anxiety.

When they came before the Cadi, the Jew prostrated himself, and cried in piteous tones, "Help, O most n.o.ble Dispenser of Justice! This Khoja has stolen from me nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold--and now he denies it."

Then the Cadi turned to the Khoja, who said: "O Cadi Effendi, I did indeed earnestly desire a thousand pieces of gold, and this purse came to me in fulfilment of my wishes. But when I counted the pieces I found one short. Then I said, 'The bountiful giver of these will certainly send the other also.' So I accepted what was given to me. But in this Jew money-lender is the spirit of covetousness. For half a farthing, O Cadi, he would, without doubt, lay claim to the beast I ride, or to the coat on my back."

"O my soul!" screamed the Jew. "It is indeed true that they are mine.

The mule and the fur pelisse belong to me, O Cadi!"

"O you covetous rascal!" said the Cadi, "you will lay claim to my turban next, or to the Sultan's horses." And he commanded the Jew to be driven from his presence.

But the Khoja rode home again, and--he accepted the mule and the fur pelisse, as well as the nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of gold.

_Tale_ 2.--The Khoja at the Marriage Feast.

On the following day Khoja Effendi went to a marriage feast, dressed in his old clothes.