We have now made the acquaintance of all the more noteworthy among the West-Turkish poets who flourished between the years 1300 and 1450. But the list of pioneers is still far from complete. The names of several others who in this First Period essayed to speak in verse are recorded by the biographers; while others again, concerning whom these writers are silent, bear witness to their own life and labours in the works they have bequeathed to us.
Of the former class, those mentioned by the biographers, are the lyric writers Sheykh Mahmúd, Kemál-i Khalvetí, Kemál-i Ummí, Ezherí, Khákí and ῾Atá᾽í.
The first of these, Sheykh Mahmud, is mentioned only by Ἅlí, who says that he was an ancestor of Suleymán Chelebi the author of the Birthsong, and that on the successful passage of the Dardanelles by Sultán Orkhan’s son Suleymán Pasha, an expedition which laid the foundation of the Ottoman power in Europe, he presented that Prince with a congratulatory address in which occurs the couplet: —
Thy saintship unto all thou’st shown, thy prayer-rug launching on the sea;1
Rumelia’s collar2 hast thou seizéd with the hand of piety.3
All the others appear for the first time in Latífí, whose brief notices concerning them are reproduced, with scarcely more than a few verbal alterations, now by one, now by another of his successors. All these obscure versifiers wrote during the first half of the fifteenth century, that is, at the beginning of the period of literary activity which followed the Tartar invasion.
Of Kemál-i Khalvetí we are told only that he was a disciple of Hajji Beyrám,4 and that he wrote Súfíistic verses, as an example of which Latífí quotes this couplet: —
Ne’er may he who is not foeman of the flesh be friend of God;
Dwells the Paradisal Glory midst the Pride of Earth’s Abode?5
Concerning Kemál-i Ummí, who was a dervish of Larende in Qaraman, Latífí tells the following story which he says he heard among the dervishes. Once Kemál-i Ummí and the great poet Nesímí were lodging as guests in the tekye (dervish-convent) of the then famous mystic saint Sultán Shujá᾽,1 when unknown to and without the permission of that holy man, they caught a stray ram belonging to him. This they slaughtered and were preparing to cook when the Sheykh discovered them, and, annoyed at the liberty they had taken, he laid a razor before Nesímí and a rope-girdle before Ummá, thus indicating to each what manner of death he should die. Nesímí was, as we know, flayed for blasphemy, and it is said that Ummá was hanged for a similar offence. The verses of the latter were of a contemplative character, dealing chiefly, according to Ἅlí, with the transitoriness of wordly things. These lines are given by Latífí and reproduced by Ἅlí: —
How many a Khan2 within this khan2 hath lighted!
How many a King on this divan hath lighted!
An ancient caravanseray the world is
Where many and many a caravan hath lighted.
A guest within the world’s alberge art thou now
Where many a traveller pale and wan hath lighted.
A-weeping came they all, a-weeping went they;
Say, who of these a joyous man hath lighted?
Not one hath found a theriac for death’s bane,
Yet here full many a sage Loqmán1 hath lighted.
Ezherí of Aq-Shehir was a contemporary of Ahmedí and Sheykhí. His personal name was Núr-ud-Dín (Light of the Faith) whence, according to Latífí, he took his makhlas of Ezherí, which means ‘He of the Most Brilliant.’ Ἅlí says that he was also known as Bághbán-záde or ‘Gardener’s son,’ from which designation Von Hammer is inclined to derive the makhlas.2 Latífí while admitting that the verses of this writer are brilliant and artistic in expression, pronounces them to be common-place in conception, and adds that the poet held but a mediocre rank among his contemporaries. The biographer quotes these couplets which describe how Fortune favours the worthless: —
Silver by handfuls doth the fool obtain;
The wise man hath not in his hand a grain.3Wrapt in rush-mat, see the sugar-cane a-tremble in the field;
Look then how upon the onion’s back there lieth coat on coat.4
Khákí was one of those West-Turkish poets who lived and wrote outside the limits of the Ottoman dominions. He was a citizen of Qastamuni in the days when that town was the capital of an independent state, and there he resided during the reign of Isma᾽íl Bey, a ruler the date of whose accession seems to be unrecorded, but who was deposed in favour of his brother by the Ottoman Sultan, Mehemmed II, in 863 (1458–9).1 Khákí’s verses, which were mostly mystical, are said to have enjoyed considerable reputation in his own time; but after the annexation of Qastamuni, other and more brilliant poets arose there, and the works of this old writer fell into oblivion. Latífí quotes a few of his verses, of which the following is the best: —
Flout me not, although ye see my garment rent, O comrades mine!
I too once was of the holy ones, but Love hath wrought my shame!2
῾Atá᾽í is said by Latífí to have been born in Adrianople and to have been the son of a Vezir named ῾Iwaz Pasha who distinguished himself by beating back an assault which the Qaraman Turks made upon Brusa while the Ottoman civil war was in progress. Latífí’s further statement that ῾Atá᾽í was a younger brother of Suleymán Chelebi the author of the Birthsong is not, as Ἅlí implies, necessarily erroneous, but as we are distinctly told that ῾Atá᾽í was but a youth in the time of Murád II, it is most probable that there is here some confusion. ῾Atá᾽í, it appears, was as remarkable for his personal grace and beauty as for his talents and accomplishments; and on the death of his father, Sultan Murád desired to enrol him among his boon-companions. But the young man dreaded the dangerous honour, and excused himself in a poem which he presented to the sovereign.1 According to Ἅshiq, this poet died while still in his youth. ῾Atá᾽í’s verses, though now long forgotten, must have been thought well of in the fifteenth century; for we read that two of the most notable of the poets who succeeded him, namely, Ahmed Pasha and Nejátí, were not above taking hints from his Díwán. The biographers give one or two instances of this. Among the couplets quoted by Ἅlí as illustrative of ῾Atá᾽í’s style is the following: —
Her tresses do the hyacinth with but one hair enthral;
Her teeth with but one grain the pearl of lustre fair enthral.2
More interesting than any of those almost forgotten versifiers, not indeed on account of either the extent or the quality of his work, but because he is the first of a long series of royal poets, is Sultan Murád II.
Although certain members of the House of cOsmán, notably Prince Suleymán, had already shown an interest in poetry and in poets, none had, so far as we know, himself essayed the art. But from this time onwards it is the exception when a Sultan does not cultivate poetry. Of the twenty-eight sovereigns who have succeeded this Murád on the throne of cOsmán, seventeen have written verses, some at least of which are in our hands. Again, besides these eighteen poet-Sultans, a considerable number of Imperial Princes who never wore the crown have practised the art. Of course the work of those august rhymers differs greatly both in extent and in merit; in some cases we have a complete Díwán, in others but a line or two; while sometimes we encounter passages of great beauty or sublimity, and at others find only a tangle of insipid verbiage. But such inequality in no wise interferes with the fact that a very marked and altogether exceptional feeling for poetry is hereditary in the House of cOsmán, which House can show probably a greater number of cultivators of the art than any other royal line whether of ancient or modern times.1
The life and achievements of Murád II belong to the history of the Ottoman Empire, not to that of Ottoman poetry. All that we need recall here is that he helped on the work of re-uniting the members of the West-Turkish family by the recovery of five of the seven little kingdoms annexed by Báyezíd and re-established by Timur, leaving only those of Qizil-Ahmedli and Qaraman to be gathered in by his successor.
We have already seen how vigorous became the growth of intellectual life in the time of this Sultan, and we have tried to find an explanation for the efflorescence in more than one direction. It may be that among the circumstances which helped to bring this about, the personal character of the Sovereign — always an important matter in the East — was not without influence. For this old King did what he could to foster learning and culture among his people. We read in Latífí and the others, that two days in each week Murád was accustomed to hold assemblies of poets and other persons distinguished in letters or science, when all manner of literary and scientific questions were debated. It was a frequent custom at such meetings to propound some question which those present would freely discuss, the Sultan himself usually joining in the debate, after which prizes and honorary titles were given to those who were judged to have acquitted themselves best. We are further told that whenever Murád heard of any poor but deserving man of talent in his kingdom, he took care to find him some employment suited to his peculiar gift.
That Sultan Murád wrote much poetry is improbable; in any case very little of his work has reached us, the two following fragments — the first a couplet, the second a quatrain — being the only authentic specimens we have: —1
E’en although no right be mine to dare to crave one kiss of thee,
Yet whene’er the wise one knoweth, what of need for speech can be?2Cupbearer, bring, bring here again my yestereven’s wine;
My harp and rebeck bring and bid bespeak this heart o’ mine.
What while I live, this mirth and this liesse beseem me well;
A day shall come when ne’er an one may e’en my dust divine.3
The late Professor Nájí4 suggests that this quatrain may have been composed by the Sultn on returning to his quiet life at Maghnisa after the victory at Varna.
It would seem that the making of verses was not the only accomplishment of Sultan Murád; for the author of the already-mentioned work on calligraphy and calligraphists1 enters him among the Ottoman penmen who were distinguished by the excellence with which they wrote the suls and neskh hands.
Sultan Murád II succeeded in 824 (1421), and died in 855 (1451).
Up till now, as the reader may have observed, the school of Hajji Beyrám of Angora has contributed a greater number of poets than any other dervish community. Although the influence of its founder has been great, the Mevleví order, which afterwards became the chief centre of literary mysticism. in Turkey, has so far yielded only one poet, Sultán Veled, in whose Rebáb-Náme we have the prelude to nearly all the mystic poetry that has followed. The traditions of the Mevleví dervish-order have always been literary, thanks no doubt in the first place to the genius of its illustrious founder, whose Mesneví has ever been held amongst the highest achievements of Persian poetry. Owing in great measure to the influence of this wonderful book and of the other poems of Jelál-ud-Dín, Persian became, if the expression may be allowed, the official language of the order; and consequently such poetry as the members wrote during the first few generations was almost wholly in that tongue. Thus the First Period can show hardly any Turkish verse due to Mevleví poets. In after times it became the fashion to write in Turkish; but even though the Mesneví itself was translated into that language, a good acquaintance with the Persian tongue was always held a necessary accomplishment for the serious Mevleví.
When Sultán Veled, the son of Mevláná Jelál-ud-Dín-i Rúmí, died in 712 (1312), he left four sons and two daughters, the names of the former being Chelebi Emír Ἅrif, Ἅbid, Záhid and Wáhid. Three at least of his sons succeeded him in the generalship of the order, which afterwards fell to Emír Ἅlím, the eldest son of Chelebi Emír Ἅrif who had died in 719 (1320). Emír Ἅlím was followed by his son Emír Ἅdil who held office for forty years.
The spiritual dynasty thus founded has lasted to the present day, and is therefore as old as the Imperial House. The Chelebi Efendi (such is the special title of the general of the Mevleví order)1 who still holds his mystic court at Qonya is the lineal descendant of the author of the Mesneví. It would appear that once only was the chain broken; this was during the latter half of the sixteenth century, when for about eighteen years the generalship was either in abeyance or held by an outsider. Chelebi Ferrukh Efendi; who had succeeded his father Jenáb Chelebi Khusrev Efendi, had been deposed in consequence of the intrigues of certain evil-intentioned persons; but on his death in 1000 (1591–2), the succession was restored to the family of Jelál in the person of Ferrukh’s son Chelebi Bústán Efendi.
Of the early Chelebi Efendis whose names have been mentioned, only Emír Ἅdil seems to have written Turkish verses. From these, Ἅlí Enver2 quotes the foUowing: —
Yonder heart by tracery of earth unscored
Cometh keeper of the Mysteries to be;Mirror-holder to the Tablet the Preserved,
Double grows it of the Script from doubt that’s free.1
There was another branch of the Mevláná’s family which for a time was scarcely less illustrious than the line of the Chelebi Efendis. Mutahhara Khatun, one of Sultán Veled’s two daughters, married Suleymán Sháh, a member of the royal house of Germiyan,2 and from this union were born two sons, Khizr Pasha3 and Ilyás Pasha.
Khizr, who died in 750 (1349–50), had a son called Bali who is famous in Mevleví annals under the surname of Sultán ῾Abá-púsh-i Velí or Prince Felt-clad the Saint, a title given to him because he was the first scion of the House of Germiyan to assume the distinctive Mevleví costume, which is made of felt. It is reported that Timur, who visited this saint, confessed to his courtiers that he was filled with awe at the majesty of the mystic’s presence. According to Enver, ῾Abá-púsh died in 890 (1485), aged one hundred and twenty years.1
Ilyás Pasha, the second son of Mutahhara Khatun and Suleymán Sháh, had two sons, Jelál Arghun and Sháh Chelebi. The former, who died in 775 (1373–4), wrote (apparently in Turkish) a mesneví poem entitled Genj-Náme or ‘The Book of the Treasure,’2 from which Enver quotes this couplet: —
’Tis frenzied greed of gain that makes the world a land of ruins drear
’Tis Being and Not-being fills each mind on earth with awe and fear.3
The latter, Sháh Chelebi, who died in 780 (1378–9), does not appear to have written any Turkish poetry.
These princely mystics had each a son; Jelál Arghun’s being named Burhán-ud-Dín; and Sháh Chelebi’s, Sháh Mehemmed Chelebi. Both of these wrote Turkish verses. Burhán, who died in 798 (1395–6), is the author of the following ghazel: —
Since my sad soul is come the Loved One’s mirror bright to be,
O’er the directions six of earth I flash their radiancy.1Though talismans an hundred guard the portal of desire,
With saintly favour’s scimitar I cast it wide and free.2Who looketh on me deemeth me a tenement of clay,
While I’m the ruin of the treasure-gems of Verity.3To me is manifest that which is hidden to the world;
In sooth I’m e’en the orbit of the Eye of Certainty.4No self-regarder may he be who my heart-secret shares;
For like the vocal flute my home within the veil doth be.5Burhán established hath his claim, fulfilling each demand;
What though he say, ‘I’m worthy heir of my high ancestry!’6
The other brother, Sháh Mehemmed Chelebi, was apparently fond of improvising. As an instance of his talent in this direction we are told that one day when he was seated by his father, two dervishes, one wise and one foolish, began to dispute in their presence, when the former somewhat discourteously addressed his opponent as ‘Thou log!’ whereupon the latter’s anger flared up, and he turned complaining to the sheykh. Sháh Mehemmed immediately answered: —
Yonder evil heart up-flareth fiercely at the name of log,
Witness bearing that ’tis fuel meet to feed the Fire of Wrath!1
Although the fame of Ahmedí and Sheykhí has eclipsed that of all rivals, those two great men were by no means the only romantic poets of the First Period. We have already seen that Ἅshiq Chelebi mentions briefly and with scant ceremony an old writer called Ahmed who left a romantic poem, entitled Suheyl u Nev-Bahár or ‘Canopus and Vere.’ There are other old romancists to whom no biographer accords even a brief and unceremonious mention, authors of whose existence we should be wholly unaware were it not that their works happen to be in our hands. There must be others still — probably many others — whose writings either have been lost or have so far remained unnoticed, and of whom therefore we as yet know nothing.
A romancist concerning whom the biographers, though not altogether silent, yield only the most meagre information, is that Sheykh-oghli whom we met among the poets that gathered round Prince Suleymán at Adrianople, and who we learned was author of a poem which Ἅshiq and Kátib Chelebi call the Ferrukh-Náme.1 This Sheykh-oghli (or Sheykh-záde, as he is sometimes styled) is said by Ἅlí to have borne the pen-name of Jemálí and to have been the sister’s son of Sheykhí, and further to have been the writer of the epilogue to that poet’s unfinished Khusrev and Shírín. Ἅshiq, Hasan and Kátib Chelebi also say that the writer of this epilogue was named Jemálí, the two former making him the sister’s son, the last the brother of the deceased poet; but none of these three identifies this Jemálí with Sheykh-oghli the author of the Ferrukh-Náme.1
Ἅlí who alone among the biographers that I have been able to consult,2 does more than mention Sheykh-oghli, tells us in addition to the facts just mentioned that this poet was originally in the service of the King of Germiyan, under whom he held the offices of nishánji3 and defterdár.4 This would fall in with the story of his relationship to Sheykhí who, it will be remembered, was a native of Germiyan where he spent his life. On the suppression of the Kingdom of Germiyan, Sheykh-oghli appears to have recognised Sultan Báyezíd as his sovereign; for it was to him, according to both Ἅlí and Kátib Chelebi, that he dedicated the poem which the latter entitles Ferrukh-Náme, but the former Khurshíd u Ferrukh-Shád. After the battle of Angora, when Báyezíd’s son Suleymán set himself up as an independent ruler at Adrianople, Sheykh-oghli joined his circle, and this is the last we hear concerning him. Ἅlí says that he wrote, besides his romance, a number of qasídas, mostly of a homiletic description, that he was a diligent student of the Persian masters, and that he composed a ‘parallel’ to the R Qasida5 of the great mystic poet Hakím Sená᾽í.6
In the first volume of his History, under the entry Dschemalisade (Jemálí-záde), Von Hammer describes, from a manuscript belonging to the Royal Library at Berlin, what is unquestionably the romance of Sheykh-oghli, the Ferrukh-Náme of Ἅshiq and Kátib Chelebi, the Khurshíd u Ferrukh-Shád of Ἅlí. This manuscript, according to Von Hammer’s account, which is the only notice of it that I have seen, was transcribed in 807 (1404–5). The date of composition is not mentioned; but the poet says that he began his work when Sháh Suleymán was King of all Germiyan; and he adds that this King had a son named Fakhshad. This Sháh Suleymán of Germiyan, who is perhaps identical with the Mír Sulmán to whom, according to Latífí, Ahmedí presented his Iskender-Náme,1 seems to have died before the poem was finished, as the canto in which his name appears is immediately followed by one in honour of ‘Báyezíd Bey the son of Orkhan.’ The personage thus described was certainly of royal blood, says Von Hammer, who, however, imagines him to have been the King of Germiyan’s Vezir. As a matter of fact we know from the statements of the Turkish authorities that the individual meant was none other than the Ottoman Sultan Báyezíd (the grandson of Orkhan), to whom, as they tell us, the work was presented. It is thus clear that Sheykh-oghli began his poem while Germiyan was still an independent kingdom, and finished it some time between the effacement of that state and the battle of Angora.2
The poem, according to Von Hammer’s description of it, opens in the usual way with the praises of God, the Prophet, and the first four Khalífas; then comes the ‘Reason of the Writing of the Book’ in which the author asserts that he got his story from Arabic sources;3 next we have the canto in which Sháh Suleymán’s name occurs; and this in its turn is followed by that in praise of Báyezíd Bey the son of Orkhan, at the end of which the author mentions his own name as Sheykh-oghli, and prays the reader to overlook his shortcomings. In the epilogue he calls his book the Khurshíd-Náme, and says it was finished in the month of the First Rebí᾽, but without specifying the year; and he again names himself Sheykh-oghli.1 The Khurshíd-Náme or ‘Book of Khurshíd’ is thus the correct name of the poem which the historians variously entitle Ferrukh-Náme and Khurshíd u Ferrukh-Shád.
The story begins with the auspicious conjunction of the planets at the time of the royal marriage the fruit of which was the heroine, Princess Khurshíd. When this Princess grows up, the ladies of her father’s household, who are hostile to her, seek to disparage her before her father; but she clears herself from every charge, and so pleases the King by her cleverness that he presents her with many gifts including a garden, wherein she builds a pavilion. One day when she and her governess are making an expedition into the country to visit the tomb of an unhappy lover, they encounter a band of young students among whom are Ferrukh-Shád the son of the King of the Sunset-land (Maghrib) and his companion ´Azád. These two had set out to seek Khurshíd, of whose beauty they had heard, and on their way had fallen in with Khizr. Khurshíd and Ferrukh-Shád are brought together and are straightway enamoured of one another. Meanwhile Bogha Khan, the King of Cathay, sends an envoy to Siyáwush, the father of Khurshíd, asking her hand in marriage. This is refused, whereupon Bogha makes war upon Siyáwush, who would have been defeated but for the valour of Ferrukh-Shád and Khurshíd who penetrate into the Cathayan camp and slay Bogha Khan in single combat. Ferrukh-Shád and ´Azád then go back to the Sunset-land to obtain the King’s consent to the Prince’s marriage with Khurshíd. This is refused and Ferrukh-Shád is thrown into prison. The King, however, soon dies, when his son succeeds him and is happily married to his beloved Khurshád.1
Another old romancist, one this time of whom the biographers say absolutely nothing, is a certain Músa who used the makhlas of ῾Abdí, and who wrote a romantic mesneví which he called the Jámesb-Náme or ‘Book of Jámesb,’ and dedicated to Sultan Murád II. In the epilogue to his poem, a manuscript of which is in the British Museum,2 the author tells us that he finished his work in the spring of 833 (1430), having begun it in the same season of the preceding year, and that he wrote it in the town of Aydinjiq. At the close of the dedicatory canto the poet says that he translated the book in the Sultan’s name, and that he called it the Jámesb-Náme. He does not tell us whence he made the translation or give any indication as to his sources. The poem is, however, nothing else than a versified rendering of the Arabian Nights story of The Queen of the Serpents,1 the only noteworthy difference being in the preamble to the tale.
In the Turkish poem the scene is laid in Persia in the reign of Key-Khusrev (Cyrus). The Prophet Daniel2 has in his possession a wonderful book describing the medicines against every ill even to death itself. This last consists in a concoction of certain herbs that grow on a mountain on the other side of the river Jeyhún (Oxus). Daniel determines to take advantage of this knowledge and so secure for himself eternal life. God, however, sends the angel Gabriel to frustrate his plans. So as Daniel is crossing the narrow bridge over the Jeyhún in order to collect the herbs that grow on the farther side, he is confronted by Gabriel in the shape of a man. Daniel does not recognise him in human form, and so when the angel asks whether he knows of a man called Daniel in that country, the Prophet innocently answers that he himself is that man. Gabriel then says that he believes Daniel to have a wonderful book, and asks where it is; the Prophet answers that it is here, and draws it from his sleeve. The angel then asks whether he can tell him where Gabriel is; Daniel answers that he is in Heaven; Gabriel denies this; and after some altercation, Daniel asks to be allowed to consult his book; and while he is doing so, Gabriel knocks the volume out of his hand into the river, and disappears. This so vexes Daniel that he goes home, sickens and dies, notwithstanding that a few leaves of the precious book are recovered. These shortly before his death he puts into a chest, bidding his wife give them to their son who is about to be born, when he shall ask for them. It is from this son Jámesb that the poem has its name.1
From this point the story as told by the Turkish poet differs only in unimportant details from the version in the Arabian Nights; and as this can be read in either of the complete translations of that collection, it is unnecessary to present it here otherwise than in merest outline.
Jámesb, who is a useless lazy youth, is left by some treacherous wood-cutters to perish at the bottom of a pit; but he finds an underground passage which leads him to a spacious cavern, in which are arranged thousands of stools. He falls asleep, and on awaking sees a serpent seated on each stool; for this is the palace of the King of the Serpents.2 That sovereign, who has a beautiful human head but the body of a snake, makes Jámesb welcome. He will not, however, release him; and so to beguile his captivity, he tells him a long story which takes up the greater part of the book. This deals with the adventures of Bulqiyá,3 a learned and pious Jew, who lived in the pre-Muhammedan ages, but who having heard of the future advent of Muhammed, conceives an ardent love for that Prophet, and sets out to seek what he may learn about him. The course of his wanderings leads him into the unknown regions that lie outside the Habitable Quarter of the earth1 away among the isles of the Circling Oceans and the Mountains of Qáf.2 On one of those islands he discovers a young man weeping beside two stately tombs. They tell one another their respective histories, and that told by the stranger, who is Prince Jihán-Sháh,3 son of the King of Kábul, occupies almost the whole of what remains of the poem. This Prince having lost his way when hunting, wanders beyond the confines of the known world, where he meets with a series of extraordinary adventures, and at length finds himself in some unknown land in a city peopled wholly by Jews. He consents to assist one of these to collect certain precious stones that are found on the top of an inaccessible mountain, and so is sewn up in the belly of a slaughtered mule, seized upon by an eagle, and borne up to the highest peak. On the bird’s alighting, Jihán-Sháh comes out from his hiding-place, which so scares the eagle that it flies away. He then throws down many of the stones to the Jew, who thereafter refuses to show him the way of descent, and goes off, leaving him to perish. But he pushes on for a time, and finally comes to a splendid palace where he meets a kind old man named Sheykh Nasr the King of the Birds, who gives him liberty to go where he will about the palace and the gardens, only forbidding him to open a certain door. The denial of this door whets Jihán-Sháh’s curiosity, so one day when Sheykh Nasr is occupied with his birds, he opens it and finds himself in a lovely garden in the midst of which is a lake with a fair pavilion on one side. He enters this, and after a while three white birds like doves, but as large as eagles, alight on the edge of the lake. These throw off their feathers and become three lovely maidens who straightway enter the water where they play and swim about. When they come out, the Prince goes up and salutes them, and falls violently in love with the youngest; but they don their feather-vests and fly off. On Sheykh Nasr’s return, Jihán-Sháh tells him what has happened, and the Sheykh upbraids him with having through his disobedience brought about his own undoing. He tells him that the maidens are daughters of the Jinn and that they come there once a year from he knows not where; and he adds that as the Prince is so enamoured of the youngest, he must wait till they return next year, and then, when they are in the water, must possess himself of his beloved’s feather-vest, as without that she cannot fly away, and thus she will remain in his power. Jihán-Sháh does this, and in this way becomes possessed of the maiden whose name is Shemse. They return together to Kábul; but one day Shemse dons her feather-vest, and crying to Jihán-Sháh to come to her at the Castle of Jewels, flies off. With the greatest difficulty and after many marvellous adventures, Jihán-Sháh finds his way to the Castle of Jewels, which is the palace of Shemse’s father and lies in an unknown country of the Jinn beyond Mount Qáf. He is well received, and he and Shemse agree to divide their time between the courts of their respective parents. This goes on for some years, till on one of their journeys, when the Princess is bathing in a river she is killed by a shark, which so distresses Jihán-Sháh that he determines never to leave that spot so long as he lives. He therefore builds there two tombs, in one of which he buries Shemse, while the other is destined for himself; and it is there that Bulqiyá finds him. Bulqiyá then continues his journey till he falls in with Khizr at whose bidding he closes his eyes, on opening which he finds himself back in his home in Egypt. The King of the Serpents had refused to allow Jámesb to leave, because he foresaw that in letting him go he would be sealing his own doom. But at length he gives him permission, only praying him not to enter the public bath. For seven years after his return to the surface of earth, Jámesb never goes into the bath; but at last he is forced in with the result that he is recognised and compelled to disclose the dwelling-place of the King of the Serpents, whose flesh, it has been discovered by the Vezir who is a magician, is the only cure for a terrible illness from which King Cyrus is suffering. The King of the Serpents, who knows what will happen, tells Jámesb that the Vezir will set him to watch the pot in which the flesh is being cooked, and will bid him drink the scum that rises first and preserve for him that which rises second; but that in reality he must do exactly the reverse. All this happens, and when Jámesb drinks the second scum he sees, on raising his eyes to the sky, the circling of the spheres and all the marvels of the celestial phenomena, and, on lowering them to earth, he perceives all the secrets of plants and minerals and terrestrial substances, and so becomes perfect in all science. But when the Vezir drinks the first scum, which he believes to be the second, he straightway falls down dead. The King recovers, and Jámesb by reason of his great knowledge is made Vezir; and on asking for his father’s legacy, he receives from his mother the few leaves of the wonderful book that were recovered from the river.
The poem, which is in the metre of ῾Ἅshiq’s Ghariíb-Náme and the other early mesnevís, makes no pretension to being a work of art. It is written in the simplest possible style, simpler even than that of Ahmedí’s Iskender-Náme. In striking contrast to the contemporary poem of Sheykhí, there is here not the slightest attempt at literary embellishment. The aim of the writer has simply been to turn the long romance into plain Turkish rhyme. But the work is interesting through its language; very few Arabic or Persian words are employed, while on the other hand we get many old Turkish words and forms that have long ago become obsolete. There are several ghazels scattered through the poem, as in the Khusrev and Shírín of Sheykhí.
The following passage describes how Prince Jihán-Sháh got possession of his bride. The time has come when the three sisters are due on their yearly visit to the palace, and the Prince has just been praying that success may be in store for him. It is hardly necessary to say that these ‘daughters of the Jinn’ are identical with the ‘swan-maidens’ of European folk-lore and that the method of their capture is the same in the West as in the East.
When he thus had prayed, he did his head upraise;
E’en that moment, as around he cast his gaze,
He beheld the three who thither winged their flight,
And he hid in the pavilion there forthright.
Then on the estrade again they lighted fair,
And they doffed their raimenture and stript them bare.
‘Come and let us the pavilion search,’ said one,
‘Let us see that hidden therewithin be none.’
Quoth another, ‘Ne’er a creature cometh here;
‘None is hither come, so cast aside thy fear.’
Then the youngest, ‘E’en if one there hidden lay,
‘On what fashion would he deal by us, I pray?
‘Which of all of us three would he seek to win? —
‘(Just supposing that a man were hid therein.)
‘Both of you he’d leave, and he would seize on me,
‘Hug me to his breast and kiss me merrily!’
When they heard these words they laughed together gay,
And they rose and plunged within the lake straightway.
* * * * * * * * * *
Swam and dived they in the water joyously,
Playing each with other full of mirth and glee,
When the Prince from the pavilion darting, flew,
Snatched the maiden’s vest, and stood there full in view.
When they looked and saw the Prince a-standing there,
Forth from out the water straightway sprang the pair,1
Snatched their vests, and fast and swift away they fled,
Gained a place, did on their clothes, and off they sped.
She whose little vest was snatched, she could not fly;
Off the others went, nor turned on her an eye.
All alone she bode within the water there,
And began to pray the Prince with many a prayer:
‘Give my vest, and I’ll do all thou biddest me;
‘Go I shall not, nay, I will abide with thee.
‘Keep my clothes, but hither fling my vest, I pray;
‘And, till I come out, withdraw a little way.
‘I am thine; I swear to thee I shall not fly,
‘Never shall I leave thee till the day I die.’
Prince Jihán-Sháh, answering, said, ‘O Soul of me,
‘Thou hast melted this my body wondrously.
‘Full a year it is I pine for thee alway,
‘Scanning all the roads around, by night, by day.
‘Lo now God hath sent thee, granting thee to me;
‘(Every day to Him may lauds a thousand be!)
‘God Most High hath granted me my need to gain;
‘He hath made thy vest the balm to heal my pain.
‘Now my master,2 who hath tutored me with care,
‘Spake on this wise: “Give not up her vest, beware!”
‘Never shall I give it, having won my prize;
‘Nay, I rush not mid the fire with open eyes!’
In a Turkish chrestomathy compiled by Moriz Wicker-hauser, and published in Vienna in 1853,3 occur three short extracts from an old Turkish metrical version of another Arabian Nights story, namely that of Seyf-ul-Mulk and Bedí᾽-ul-Jemál.1 The compiler says not a word as to whence he obtained these extracts. He writes over the first: ‘Taken from Ibn-Yúsuf’s Story of Seyf-ul-Mulk;’ and that is all the information he vouchsafes. It is possible that he did not know who Ibn-Yúsuf was (I can find no trace of any poet so named); but he ought to have said something concerning the manuscript from which he made his selections. The three extracts given are sufficient to show that the story is practically the same as the Arabian Nights romance; but of course they do not enable us to say whether the versions are identical or differ in detail. They are also sufficient to show that the poem is in very old Turkish, and therefore probably a work of the First Period or, at the latest, of the opening years of the Second.
It will have been noticed that the three romances we have just looked at are all, so far as we can judge, simply stories, and nothing else. The tale does not appear in their case to be presented as an allegory, or to be made the vehicle for conveying instruction whether mystic or philosophic. And this perhaps accounts in a measure for the neglect with which they met. For although the illiterate Oriental dearly loves a wonder-tale, the learned ignore, or at least used to ignore, as altogether unworthy of their notice, as fit only to amuse the vulgar crowd, any mere story which held no lesson beneath its surface-meaning. Erudite scholars who prided themselves on their learning, as did our historians and biographers, disdained to notice such childish trivialities or the men who played with them. Thus Katib Chelebi in his huge bibliographic dictionary, where he gives a succint account of all the important works in Arabic, Persian and Turkish, known in his day, dismisses the Thousand and One Nights, in Europe the most popular and most widely known of Muhammedan writings, with the mere mention of its name, without a single word of comment.
Again, as manuscripts were transcribed, not for the illiterate, but for the learned, naturally but few copies would be made of such books as the latter (practically the only readers of those days) reckoned unworthy of attention. This no doubt is the explanation of the extreme rarity of such books nowadays; and in all probability this same neglect, born of learned arrogance, has led to the total disappearance of many an old romance.
1 It is told of several of the saints of old that when they wished to cross a river they used to spread their prayer-rug on the surface of the water, seat themselves thereupon, and be miraculously carried over to the other side. The allusion in the verse is to the raft on which the Prince and his companions crossed the strait at dead of night.
2 i. e. the shore of Rumelia.
4 In my MS. of Latífí it is further said that this poet lived in a cell in ‘the tower of Germiyan’ (Germiyan qulesi).
This verse is replaced in my MS. of the Tezkire by two others of which the following is one: —
‘But a loan is every sweet one’s beauty from His Beauty sheen;
‘Nay, through Him it is that every sweet one’s beauty sweet doth show.’
Ἅlí gives another couplet: —
‘O gnostic, come, nor on this false and fleeting world thy heart bestow;
‘Nor vulture-like, on carrion light, an so the hawk of One-ness thou.’
1 This Sultán Shujá᾽ is probably Sheykh Shujá᾽-ud-Dán of Qaraman who flourished during the reigns of Mehemmed I and Murád II, and whose life is given in the Crimson Peony.
2 The word Khan has two meanings: ‘a Tartar sovereign’ and ‘an inn.’ As the former, in Turkey it is a title of the Sultan; in Persia it is given to many among the upper classes.
1 For Loqmán the sage, see p. 389, n. 2.
2 Von Hammer’s derivation is probably erroneous, although the word ezherí appears to occur occasionally in Arabic in the sense of ‘florist.’ See Dozy’s ‘Supplément aux Dictionnaires Arabes.’
Ἅlí criticises the second line of this couplet, saying that had the poet written:
“Look then how the onion weareth sheeny raiment coat on coat,’
the verse would at once have had more point and been more correct in expression. The sugar-cane of course typifies the sweet-souled; the onion, the coarse or vulgar-natured.
1 Isma᾽íl Bey was the seventh of the eight rulers who form the dynasty called sometimes Qizil-Ahmedli, sometimes Isfendyárli.
1 Ἅshiq and Hasan say that it was Mehemmed II, not Murád II, who made this proposal to ῾Atá᾽í; but the dates suit better with the statement of Latífí and Ἅlí that it was Murád.
1 The following is the list of the poet-Sultans; when the writer made use of a makhlas, this is placed within brackets after the name: Murád II; Mehemmed II (῾Avní); Báyezíd II (῾Adlí); Selím I (Selímí); Suleymán I (Muhibbí); Selím II (Selímí); Murád III (Murádí); Mehemmed III (῾Adlí); Ahmed I (Bakhtí); Mustafà I; cOsmán II (Fárisí); Murád IV (Murádí); Mustafà II (Iqbálí); Ahmed III; Mahmúd I (Sabqatí); Mustafà III; Selím III (Ilhámí); Mahmúd II (῾Adlí). Verses by all of these royal authors are published in the fourth volume of ῾Atá’s History (Táríkh-i ῾Atá), Const. 1293 (1876). The complete Díwáns of Báyezíd II(?), Selím I and Suleymán I have been printed.
1 ῾Atá gives a ghazel which he says is by this Sultan; but as he does not mention where he found it, and as it is unnoticed by the earlier writers, its genuineness is open to doubt.
4 Professor (Mu῾allim) Nájí was a very distinguished modern poet and critic who wrote many valuable articles on the poets of the Old School. His name will be frequently mentioned in the course of this History. He died in Ramázan 1310 (1893).
1 Habíb Efendi, see p. 394, n. 1.
1 See p. 151, n. 3.
2 Esrár Dede, himself a celebrated Mevleví poet, compiled a Tezkire os Biographical Dictionary of the poets of his order. Of this work, which was finished in 1211 (1796–7), I have so far been unable to procure a copy. An abridgment, however, was published in 1309 (1891–2) by Ali Enver Efendi, which presents the more important facts recorded in the complete work along with a selection from the verses therein quoted. Ali Enver prettily calls his résumé the Semá῾-kháne-i Edeb or ‘Auditory of Culture,’ the name Semá῾-kháne or ‘Auditory’ being given by the Mevlevís to the hall wherein they perform their rites, that being the place where they hear the voices of the Host of Heaven, and enter into ecstatic bliss. Von Hammer, who had a copy of Esrár’s work, attributes it by a strange error to Sheykh Ghálib, an illustrious friend of the real author’s, and a yet greater poet than he.
The meaning is that the pure heart, free from worldly cares and desires, is able to receive impressions in the Spirit World (see pp. 56–9). Such a heart is here figured as holding a mirror before the Preserved Tablet (see p. 35) whereon all things, and notably the original of the Koran, are inscribed, and as becoming, through the reflection thus cast on it, the double of that Book in which is nothing doubtful. The Koran is so described because at the beginning of the second chapter occur the words: ‘That (i. e. the Koran or its original) is the book! there is no doubt therein!’ But here the Preserved Tablet symbolises the Eternal Verities.
2 Who this Suleymán Sháh was, I have been unable to discover. The House of Germiyan was founded in 707 (1307–8), Veled died in 712 (1312); so Suleymán may have been a brother or son of Germiyan Bey the founder of the dynasty.
3 According to the legend, Khizr Pasha received his name because on the day of his birth the Prophet Khizr appeared and, taking him out of his nurse’s arms, carried him off into the Invisible World. A week afterwards he was discovered on the top of a mountain where he was being tended by a lioness, he having in the meantime attained the size and intelligence of a year-old child.
1 There must be some confusion here. Khizr, the father of ῾Abá-púsh, is said to have died in 750 (1349–50); if this date is correct, and if the latter was 120 years of age at the time of his death, this must have occurred in 870 (allowing him to be born the year his father died); if on the other hand he died in 890, he must have survived his father 140 years.
῾Abá-púsh had a son, as celebrated as himself, called Sultán Díwání. This mystic, who wrote Turkish verses under the pen-name of Semá῾í, died in 936 (1529–30 ).
2 The same title as Refí῾í gave to his shorter poem. The ‘Treasure’ in these titles is an echo of the famous Hadís ‘I was a hidden treasure, etc.’
1 For the Six Directions see p. 43, n. 3. Since the poet’s soul is become the mirror in which the Beauty of the Beloved is reflected, it (his soul) has illumined all the earth.
2 The word tevejjuh, here translated ‘saintly favour,’ has much the same sense as muráqaba, mentioned p. 180, n. 2, and means the spiritual assistance vouchsafed by a saint to a devotee or by a master to his disciple.
3 For the connection between ruins and treasures see p. 361, n. 2.
4 For the Eye of Certainty, the second degree of certain knowledge, see p. 328, n. 1. The poet here regards himself as the orbit or socket in which this Eye, this inward light, is situated.
5 The flute is the sacred instrument of the Mevlevís: it does not regard itself through its eyes or holes: it lives concealed within the veil — the word perde, besides meaning ‘veil,’ means ‘a musical note,’ so the soul of the flute may be said to be expressed through the notes it gives forth.
6 The claim to be a worthy descendant of Jelál by fulfilling the conditions of being a mystic and of being a poet.
1 See p. 256.
1 See p. 304.
2 According to Von Hammer, his name appears in Sehí’s Tezkire.
3 The Nishánji was the officer at a Turkish court whose duty it was to inscribe the Tughra or Cipher of the Sovereign over all royal letters-patent. The office was practically equivalent to that of Chancellor.
4 The Defterdár was the Treasurer at a Turkish court.
5 See p. 101.
6 Hakím Sená᾽í is the earliest of the great Súfá poets; some authorities place his death as early as 535 (1140–1), others as late as 576 (1180–1). His greatest work is a mesneví entitled Hadiqa ‘The Garden.’
1 See p. 264.
2 This disposes of Von Hammer’s suggestion that the Berlin MS. (transcribed 807) may be the poet’s autograph.
3 The poem may have been translated directly from an Arabic version; but judging from the proper names, which are all Persian (except Bogha Khan which is Turkish), the story appears to be of Persian orgin.
1 The compiler of the famous fifteenth century Turkish story-book generally known as ‘The History of the Forty Vezirs,’ a translation of which I published in 1886, is represented in most MSS. of his work as speaking of himself under the same patronymic (in its Persian form) Sheykh-záde (i. e. Sheykh-son); but as in some copies we find his name given as Ahmed-i Misrí (i. e. Ahmed the Egyptian), it is unlikely that there was any connection between him and the poet of the Ferrukh-Náme.
1 Judging from the couplet quoted by Ἅshiq and reproduced on p. 256 of the present volume, the metre of the Khurshíd-Náme is the hexametric remel, the same as that of Sheykhí’s Khusrev and Shírín.
2 Add. 24,962. In the notice of this volume in his Catalogue of the Turkish MSS. in the British Museum, Dr. Rieu says that in some MSS. (described in the catalogues of other collections) a poem bearing the same title and date, and evidently identical with the present, is ascribed to a writer called Sa῾dí. But, as he truly adds, the biographers are as silent concerning any Sa῾dí who flourished at this early time as they are concerning any ῾Abdí or Músa.
1 This story is omitted by Galland and Lane; but it will be found in Mr. Payne’s translation, vol. v, p. 52; and in Sir R. Burton’s, vol. v, p. 298.
2 Daniel the Prophet, as we have already seen (p. 389, n. 1), is regarded in the East as the patron of the occult sciences and their practitioners. In the Arabian Nights the name of the sage is given as Daniel, but he is described as being a Grecian philosopher.
1 The Prophet Daniel is said in the East to have had a son called Jámásb or Jámesb. This name is ancient Persian, and was borne by the minister of King Gushtásb, one of the heroes of the Sháh-Náme. In most recensions of the Arabian Nights the son of the Grecian sage receives the Arab name of Hásib Kerím-ud-Dín; but in the text used by Von Hammer the original Persian Jamasb was retained. In the Arabic characters, Jámesb 
does not differ much from Hásib 
, and the one might easily be replaced by the other.
2 In the Arabian Nights the snake-monarch is called Meliket-ul-Hayyát, i. e. ‘the Queen of the Serpents,’ and in our poem, Sháh-i Márán, i. e. ‘the Sháh of the Serpents.’ The title Sháh may be equivalent to either ‘King’ or ‘Queen,’ but as the former is more usual, and as there is nothing in the poem to suggest the latter, I have preferred to translate by ‘King.’
3 In the Arabian Nights this name is Bulúqiyá.
1 See p. 47, n. 1.
2 See p. 38.
3 In the Arabian Nights this name is Ján-Sháh.
1 i. e. the two elder sisters.
2 i. e. Sheykh Nasr.
3 ‘Wegweiser zum Verständniss der Türkischen Sprache,’ von Moriz Wicker-hauser, Wien, 1853.
1 See Lane, vol. iii, p. 308: Payne, vol. vii, p. 55: Burton, vol. vii, p.314. In the Arabian Nights the name of the hero is Seyf-ul-Mulúk.
