“Your slave has told thousands in his lifetime, such hath been my fate.”
“Talking about fate,” said Mustapha, “can you tell his highness a story, in which destiny has been foretold and hath been accomplished? if so, begin.”
“There is a story of my own country, O vizier! in which destiny was foretold, and was most unhappily accomplished.”
“You may proceed,” said Mustapha, at a sign from the pacha.
The Chinaman thrust his hand into the breast of his blue cotton shirt, and pulled out a sort of instrument made from the shell of a tortoise, with three or four strings stretched across, and in a low monotonous tone, something between a chant and a whine, not altogether unmusical, he commenced his story. But first he struck his instrument and ran over a short prelude, which may be imagined by a series of false notes, running as follows:—
Ti-tum, ti-tum, tilly-lilly, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti-tum, tilly-lilly, tilly-lilly, ti-tum, ti.
As he proceeded in his story, whenever he was out of breath, he stopped, and struck a few notes of his barbarous music.
The Wondrous Tale of Han.
Who was more impassioned in his nature, who was more formed for love, than the great Han Koong Shew, known in the celestial archives as the sublime Youantée, brother of the sun and moon?—whose court was so superb—whose armies were so innumerable—whose territories were so vast—bounded as they were by the four seas, which bounded the whole universe; yet was he bound by destiny to be unhappy, and thus do I commence the wondrous tale of Han—the sorrows of the magnificent Youantée.
Ti-tum, tilly-lilly—