FullReads

Friday evening next after the one on which John Harlan told his story, it rained; so the club did not meet. But they came together on the following Friday evening, and it was decided that Hans Schlegel should tell the story.

“Come, Schlegel,” said Harlan, “you must know a good many, for you are always studying big German books. Tell us one of the stories that those old German fellows, with jaw-breaking names, have to tell.”

“Yes,” said Jackson, “tell us about Herr Johannes Wilhelm Frederich Von Schmitzswartsschriekelversamanarbeitfrelinghuysen!”

Jimmy’s good-natured raillery raised a hearty giggle, and Hans joined in it with great gusto.

“I think,” said Harry Wilson, “Schlegel can make a better story than any of those old fellows, whose names take away your breath when you pronounce them. Tell us one of your own, Hans.”

“D-d-d-do just as you p-p-please, Sch-sch–” but the stammering chairman fairly broke down in trying to pronounce the name, and the boys all had another laugh.

“Really, gentlemen,” said Schlegel, “I should be delighted to please you, but as you have asked me to tell you a story that I’ve read in German, and to tell you one of my own make, and to do just as I please, I fear I shall be like the man who tried first to ride, and then to carry his donkey to please the crowd. But, I think I can fulfil all three requests. I read a story in Krummacher some time ago, and I have partly forgotten it. Now, if I tell you this story, partly translating from the German as I remember it, and partly filling up the story myself, I shall do just as I please, and gratify you all.”

“Good,” said Jackson; “takes Schlegel to make a nice distinction. Go on with the story.”

THE STORY.

Hazael was the name of the son of an oriental prince. He was carefully educated by command of his father, and grew up in the valley of the wise men. What that is, I cannot tell you, for Herr Krummacher did not deign to tell me. At last, when he came to be a young man, his father thought best to have him travel, that he might know something of other people besides his own. For people who stay at home always are apt to think everything strange that differs from what they have been accustomed to. Thus it is that English-speaking people, where knowledge is limited, think that German names are uncouth, when it is only the narrowness of their own culture that makes them seem so.

Now, in the country in which Hazael lived, they didn’t send young men to Europe, as we do, to complete their education by travelling at lightning speed over two or three countries, and then coming back to talk of their travels. But in that country, they sent them to Persia to live awhile, that they might study the manners and customs of the people. So Hazael came into Persia. He was allowed every liberty, but his old tutor, Serujah, followed him without his knowledge, and watched his course.

When Hazael reached the great city, he was dazzled with its splendors. The signs of wealth, the excitements of pleasure, and the influence of companions were too much for him. He saw the crowds of pleasure-seekers, he was intoxicated with music, he was charmed with the beauty and conversation of giddy women. He forgot all the lessons of Serujah. He forgot all his noble resolutions. Days and nights were spent in pleasure and dissipation. In vain Serujah looked for any signs of amendment. He was a “fast” young man, fast because he was going down hill.

One day, as he wandered in the pleasure gardens of Ispahan with his dissolute companions, he beheld his old master, Serujah, dressed as a pilgrim, with staff in hand, hurrying past him.

“Whence come you, and whither do you journey?” cried out the young prince to Serujah.

“I do not know where I am going,” answered Serujah.

“What!” said Hazael, in astonishment, “have you left home and gone on a pilgrimage, and yet do not know where you are going?”

“Oh, yes,” said Serujah, “I just go here and there, taking the road that seems to be the pleasantest, or that suits my fancy.”

“But where will you come to at this rate? Where will such travelling lead you?” asked Hazael.

“I do not know. That matters not to me,” said the wise man.

Then Hazael turned to his companion and said, “See! this man was once full of wisdom. He was the guide of my youth. But his reason has departed, and now, poor lunatic, he is wandering over the earth not knowing where he is going. How has the wise man become a fool!”

Serujah came up to the young prince, and taking his knapsack from his back, threw it upon the ground.

“You have spoken rightly,” he said. “Hazael, I once led you, and you followed me. Now, I follow where you lead. I have lost my road, and forgotten where I am going. So have you. You set me the example. You are wandering round without purpose. Which is the greater fool, you or I? I have forgotten my destination. You have forgotten your high duties as a prince, and your manhood.”

Thus spoke the wise man, and Hazael saw his folly.

“That story is solemn enough for Sunday-school,” said Jimmy Jackson. “But it isn’t bad. Sharp old fellow that Jerushy or Serujy, or whatever his name was. But I don’t believe it’s true. When a fellow gets a-going to the bad you can’t turn him around so easy as that.”