Sir, in the reign of the same caliph Haroun Alraschid, whom I formerly mentioned, there lived at Bagdad a poor porter called Hindbad. [4] One day, when the weather was excessively hot, he was employed to carry a heavy burden from one end of the town to the other. Being very weary, and having still a great way to go, he came into a street where a delicate western breeze blew on his face, and the pavement of the street being sprinkled with rose-water, he could not desire a better place to rest in; therefore, laying off his burden, he sat down by it, near a great house. He was mightily pleased that he stopt in this place, for an agreeable smell of wood of aloes, and of pastils, that came from the house, mixing with the scent of rose-water, did completely perfume and embalm the air; besides, he heard from within a concert of several sorts of instrumental music, accompanied with the harmonious notes of nightingales, and other birds, peculiar to that climate. This charming melody, and the smell of several sorts of victuals, made the porter think there was a feast, and great rejoicings within. His occasions leading him seldom that way, he knew not who dwelt in the house; but to satisfy his curiosity, he went to some of the servants, whom he saw standing at the gate in magnificent apparel, and asked the name of the master of the house. How, replied one of them, do you live in Bagdad, and know not that this is the house of Signor Sindbad, the sailor, that famous traveller, who has sailed round the world? The porter, who had heard of this Sindbad’s riches, could not but envy a man whose condition he thought to be as happy as his own was deplorable; and his mind being fretted with those reflections, he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and said, loud enough to be heard, Almighty Creator of all things, consider the difference between Sindbad and me: I am every day exposed to fatigues and calamities, and can scarce get coarse barley-bread for myself and my family, whilst happy Sindbad profusely expends immense riches, and leads a life of continual pleasure. What has he done to obtain from thee a lot so agreeable? And what have I done to deserve one so miserable? Having finished his expostulation, he struck his foot against the ground, like a man swallowed up of grief and despair. Whilst the porter was thus indulging his melancholy, a servant came out of the house, and taking him by the arm, bid him follow him, for Signor Sindbad, his master, wanted to speak with him. --Here day beginning to appear, Scheherazade broke off her story, but resumed it again next morning as follows: SEVENTIETH NIGHT.