The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night — Volume 01 (of 10)
General
The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night — Volume 01 (of 10)
Fairy tales; Tales -- Arab countries
This work, labourious as it may appear, has been to me a labour of
love, an unfailing source of solace and satisfaction. During my long
years of official banishment to the luxuriant and deadly deserts of
Western Africa, and to the dull and dreary half clearings of South
America, it proved itself a charm, a talisman against ennui and
despondency. Impossible even to open the pages without a vision
starting into view; with out drawing a picture from the pinacothek of
the brain; without reviving a host of memories and reminiscences which
are not the common property of travellers, however widely they may have
travelled. From my dull and commonplace and "respectable" surroundings,
the Jinn bore me at once to the land of my pre-dilection, Arabia, a
region so familiar to my mind that even at first sight, it seemed a
reminiscence of some by gone metem-psychic life in the distant Past.
Again I stood under the diaphanous skies, in air glorious as aether,
whose every breath raises men's spirits like sparkling wine. Once more
I saw the evening star hanging like a solitaire from the pure front of
the western firmament; and the after glow transfiguring and
transforming, as by magic, the homely and rugged features of the scene
into a fairy land lit with a light which never shines on other soils or
seas. Then would appear the woollen tents, low and black, of the true
Badawin, mere dots in the boundless waste of lion tawny clays and
gazelle brown gravels, and the camp fire dotting like a glow worm the
village centre. Presently, sweetened by distance, would be heard the
wild weird song of lads and lasses, driving or rather pelting, through
the gloaming their sheep and goats; and the measured chant of the
spearsmen gravely stalking behind their charge, the camels; mingled
with bleating of the flocks and the bellowing of the humpy herds; while
the reremouse flitted overhead with his tiny shriek, and the rave of
the jackal resounded through deepening glooms, and—most musical of
music—the palm trees answered the whispers of the night breeze with the
softest tones of falling water.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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