Hamma had but one child, the son for whose
sake he had undertaken this pilgrimage.
The mother had long since been taken away,
and there remained to him no other object of
love. He had encountered many misfortunes,
many disappointments, many losses; but
he used to say that no man can be unhappy
to whom there remains anything to love.
He was right. The greatest blessing that
Providence has given us is the power of
affection; and, as long as we have still in
this world any being with whom we can
laugh or weep, whose delights are our delights,
and whose sorrows are our sorrows; with
whom we can share our hopes, and fight
against despair, we have no right to call
ourselves miserable. Where then is the man to
whom a child is given that dares to take this
title? Han Haruma had gold and silver, and
precious stones, and silks, and embroidered
clothes, and servants, and houses, and lands;
and he had the young Yusof, for whom, with
all these things, he could purchase enjoyments.
Why should he be blamed for allowing his
friends to call him The Most Happy, although
they may have mistaken the source of his
happiness, supposing it to be wealth?

When Yusof attained the age of seventeen
years, his father, who had noticed in himself
certain symptoms of decay, and who knew
that he had already reached the average age
which is allotted to man, called him to his
side, and said, " My son, it is now good for
thee to take a wife, in order that I may be
assured that our race shall not perish.
Perchance it may be given to me once more to
nurse a child upon my lap, to teach it its first
words, and to feel its little fingers clasp my
thumb as I walk it across the room. These
are delights which are fitting for an old man,
and I pray thee therefore to look around and
choose among the maidens of thy people one
who shall please thee." Yusof kissed his
father's hand, and said, "Thy wishes are
commands. But give me yet a little time for
reflection. This is a thing of which I have
not yet thought."

Then he went away, resolving in his mind
to be swift in choice, so that he might gladden
the heart of his father. But, instead of going
to the house of his uncle where many maidens,
his cousins and their friends—beautiful girls
with almond-shaped eyes and slender forms
— were to be seen, he shut himself up in his
room, or wandered alone into the country,
sitting by the banks of rivulets, under the shadow
of trees, and began to imagine in his heart
an object of love. He placed himself at once
under the fatality of poets; for who is there in
this world who, not satisfied with the creatures
whom God hath given, does not endeavour
to frame a heart-companion for himself; who
endows her with all the beauties and the
graces which his fancy can create: who
separates from her all the faults and all the
failings which are incident to humanity: who
makes of her a spiritual being more fit for
devotion than for companionship; who does
not share, to a certain extent, the fruitful
misfortune of the sons of song? Nearly all
the unhappiness and disappointment which
we meet with in this life may be traced to
the extravagant aspirations in which we
indulge in hours of idleness and hope: when
we frame the future according to our desires,
and disdain to accommodate ourselves to
possibility. Somebody has said, or rather, everybody
says, that no one loves who loves not
at first sight. The meaning of this is deeper
than we commonly believe. He who loves
at first sight has, until then, been occupied
with other thoughts, has not framed to
himself an ideal mistress, and has not, by
anticipation, exhausted all the emotions of his
heart in a fictitious life in some fanciful
castle or cottage, which he has built for the
dwelling of some fanciful creature. Those
who, like Yusof, by accident or temperament,
are led to fix their affections on a being of
their own creation — a being which, if they
could call into existence, would not satisfy
them long — prepare for themselves great
unhappiness.

In his solitary hours Yusof had ever
present to his mind the injunction of his
father; but, instead of looking abroad among
the maidens of his people as he had been
told, he thought it necessary in the first
place to make up his mind as to what
qualities and what beauties his wife should
possess. By degrees, without his knowledge,
he created for himself an object of love such
as it was not probable he would find among
the daughters of the Copts, nor among the
daughters of any other nation of the earth.
When, therefore, after a month had passed
Han Hamma again called him to his side, and
said: " My son, hast thou made a choice?"
the young man could only reply that he had
meditated and had framed for himself an
ideal of loveliness. " Well," said Han Hamma,
folding him in his arms, " this is something.
No transaction can be brought to a good end
without serious deliberation. Now look
around thee, and choose a maiden that is in
accordance with the idea thou hast framed;
and fear not but that I will obtain her for
thee."

Yusof did as he was bid, and looked at his
cousin Lisbet. She was fair to see, and many
were the youths who aspired to her. Her
eyes were piercing, her lips like the bow of
Cupid, her skin like the inner petal of a new-
blown rose; but her stature was greater than
Yusof had dreamed of, and he was obliged to
raise his modest eyes disagreeably to admire
her. All the faults she had, therefore— and
who of us is there without fault?— were at
once apparent, and Yusof turned away to
look upon the little Hennena. But she was
much too stout; and though cheerful and
pretty, with a voice as sweet as a singing
bird's, she found no mercy with the young
critic, who said to himself "It would be better