The Caliph desired to see so great a genius, and to possess him at his court. Osmyn was overwhelmed with favours; he sung the praises of the Caliph with a delicacy that other poets were far from being able to imitate. The Caliph admired delicate praise the more because it is rare at court.
So much merit and favour besides, soon created the jealousy of other poets, and likewise of the courtiers. Even those, who had showed themselves the most enthusiastic admirers of Osmyn's talents, feared to see themselves eclipsed by this new comer, and resolved to destroy the idol they had raised so much higher than they wished.
One of the poets, Osmyn's enemy, was employed to compose a satire against the Caliph, and it was agreed that this should be circulated under the favourite's name. From that time the avenger of the common cause never quitted Osmyn, nor ceased to load him with praises and caresses.
One day when Osmyn delivered an extempore poem before the Caliph, his rival, after having warmly applauded him, cast down his eyes by accident, and saw shining on the floor one of the pastilles that Osmyn, who was led away by the vivacity of his declamation, had let fall by mistake. The traitor snatched it up, and put it mechanically in his mouth.
The pastille produced its effect; the poet felt a sudden inspiration, left the hall and flew to compose the projected satire. He was surprised at his own aptitude; the verses cost him no trouble, but flowed of themselves. The bitterest expressions escaped from his pen without his seeking for them. In short, in an instant, he brought forth a true chef-d'oeuvre of malice.
He continued some moments in ecstacy with his work, and carried it in triumph to his friends—or rather to his accomplices. The satire was received with the liveliest applause: it was the pure and vigorous style of Osmyn. The writer had imitated his handwriting; and soon the libel was spread about in his name.
Murmurs arose on all sides against the ingratitude of Osmyn. The satire fell into the hands of the Caliph, who in his rage ordered the unfortunate Osmyn to be stript of all his property, and driven from Bagdad. Osmyn, overpowered by the blow, could not defend himself; besides, how could he make his innocence heard amidst the cries of his calumniators.
After having wandered a long time, every where imploring pity—sometimes meeting with kindness, but oftener repulsed with selfishness—he arrived, at nightfall, before a superb country house, magnificently illuminated. He heard the accents of joy mingled with the sounds of a brilliant concert of music, and saw all the signs of a splendid fête. However, the thunder began to roll, the sky was obscured by heavy clouds, and Osmyn's miserable clothing was soon drenched by the rain.
He approached this beautiful house, in hopes to find there, if not hospitality for the night, at least an asylum for some minutes. The slaves perceived him, and said to him harshly—"What do you ask, beggar?"
"A humble shelter from the storm, a morsel of bread to appease my hunger, and a little straw to rest my body on, borne down by fatigue."