[303]. The scene is excellently described in “Morocco: Its People and Places,” by Edmondo de Amicis (London: Cassell, 1882), a most refreshing volume after the enforced platitudes and commonplaces of English travellers.
[304]. It began, however, in Persia where the celebrated Darwaysh Mukhlis, Chief Sofi of Isfahan in the xviith century, translated into Persian tales certain Hindu plays of which a MS. entitled Alfaraga Badal-Schidda (Al-faraj ba’d al-shiddah = Joy after annoy) exists in the Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. But to give an original air to his work, he entitled it “Hazár o yek Ruz” = Thousand and One Days, and in 1675 he allowed his friend Petis de la Croix, who happened to be at Isfahan, to copy it. Le Sage (of Gil Blas) is said to have converted many of the tales of Mukhlis into comic operas, which were performed at the Théâtre Italien. I still hope to see The Nights at the Lyceum.
[305]. This author, however, when hazarding a change of style which is, I think, regretable, has shown abundant art by filling up the frequent deficiencies of the text after the fashion of Baron McGuckin de Slane in Ibn Khallikan. As regards the tout ensemble of his work, a noble piece of English, my opinion will ever be that expressed in my Foreword. A carping critic has remarked that the translator, “as may be seen in every page, is no Arabic scholar.” If I be a judge, the reverse is the case: the brilliant and beautiful version thus traduced is almost entirely free from the blemishes and carelessness which disfigure Lane’s, and thus it is far more faithful to the original. But it is no secret that on the staff of that journal the translator of Villon has sundry enemies, vrais diables enjupponés, who take every opportunity of girding at him because he does not belong to the clique and because he does good work when theirs is mostly sham. The sole fault I find with Mr. Payne is that his severe grace of style treats an unclassical work as a classic, when the romantic and irregular would have been a more appropriate garb. But this is a mere matter of private judgment.
[306]. Here I offer a few, but very few, instances from the Breslau text which is the greatest sinner in this respect. Mas. for fem., vol. i. p. 9, and three times in seven pages. Ahná and nahná for nahnú, (iv. 370, 372); Aná ba-ashtarí = I will buy (iii. 109): and Aná ’Ámíl = I will do (v. 367). Alaykí for Alayki (i. 18), Antí for Anti (iii. 66) and generally long í for short ĭ. ’Ammál (from ’amala = he did) tahlam = certainly thou dreamest, and ’Ammálín yaakulú = they were about to eat (ix. 315): Aywá for Ay wa’lláhí = yes, by Allah (passim). Bitá’ = belonging to, e.g. Sára bitá’k = it is become thine (ix. 352) and Matá’ with the same sense (iii. 80). Dá ’l-khurj = this saddle-bag (ix. 336) and Dí (for hazah) = this woman (iii. 79) or this time (ii. 162). Fayn as ráha fayn = whither is he gone? (iv. 323): Kamá badri = he rose early (ix. 318): Kamán = also, a word known to every European (ii. 43): Katt = never (ii. 172): Kawám (pronounced ’awám) = fast, at once (iv. 385) and Rih ásif kawí (pron. ’awí) = a wind, strong very. Laysh, e.g. bi-tasalní laysh (ix. 324) = why do you ask me? a favourite form for li ayya shayyin: so Máfish = má fihi shayyun (there is no thing) in which Herr Landberg (p. 425) makes “Sha, le présent de pouvoir.” Min ajalí = for my sake; and Li-ajal al-taudí’a = for the sake of taking leave (Mac. Edit. i. 384). Rijál nautiyah = men sailors when the latter word would suffice: Shuwayh (dim. of shayy) = a small thing, a little (iv. 309) like Moyyah (dim. of Má) a little water: Waddúni = they carried me (ii. 172) and lastly the abominable Wáhid gharíb = one (for a) stranger. These few must suffice: the tale of Judar and his brethren, which in style is mostly Egyptian, will supply a number of others. It must not, however, be supposed, as many have done, that vulgar and colloquial Arabic is of modern date: we find it in the first century of Al-Islam, as is proved by the tale of Al-Hajjáj and Al-Shabi (Ibn Khallikan, ii. 6). The former asked “Kam ataa-k?” (= how much is thy pay?) to which the latter answered, “Alfayn!” (= two thousand!). “Tut,” cried the Governor, “Kam atau-ka?” to which the poet replied as correctly and classically, “Alfáni.”
[307]. In Russian folk-songs a young girl is often compared with this tree e.g.—
Ivooshka, ivooshka zelonaia moia
(O Willow, O green Willow mine!)
[308]. So in Hector France (“La vache enragée”) “Le sourcil en accent circonflexe et l’œil en point d’interrogation.”
[309]. In Persian “Áb-i-rú” in India pronounced Ábrú.
[310]. For further praises of his poetry and eloquence see the extracts from Fakhr al-Din of Rayy (an annalist of the xivth century A.D.) in De Sacy’s Chrestomathie Arabe, vol i.