On being asked what he should do if told that the wise men of the West would consider him as deficient in enlightenment as he did them, he rejoined, “What could I do but be amazed at their folly?  What new thing can I learn from their opinions when they merely repeat my own?” Hence the song: 

  Shall I laugh or fall to wailing
    That the most of men so dumb are,
  Ever borrowed thoughts retailing,
    And in mother-wit so mum are?

  No:  thanksgiving heavenward rise
    That fools so crowd this generation,
  Else the wisdom of the wise
    Would be lost to observation.

Numerous rivals envied Mirza-Schaffy his lessons, for each of which he was paid a whole silver ruble—­an unusually high tuition-fee.  Most formidable among these was Mirza-Jussuf (Joseph), the wise man of Bagdad, who called one day on Bodenstedt and boldly informed him that the revered Mirza-Schaffy was an Ischekj ("an ass”) among the bearers of wisdom—­that he could not write properly, and could not sing at all.  “And what is wisdom without song?” he exclaimed.  “What is Mirza-Schaffy compared with me?” With bewildering eloquence he set forth his own superior accomplishments, dwelling largely on his name, which had been exalted by the Hebrew poet Moses as well as by the Persian poet Hafiz, and exerting himself to prove that the significance of a great name must be transmitted to all future bearers thereof.  He was still speaking when a measured tread was heard in the ante-chamber, and Mirza-Schaffy himself drew near.  He appeared to comprehend intuitively the cause of the guest’s presence, for he cast on Jussuf, who had become suddenly stricken with modesty, a glance of withering contempt, and was about giving vent to his emotions when Bodenstedt interposed with the words, “Mirza-Schaffy, wise man of Gjaendsha, what have my ears heard?  You undertake to instruct me, and you can neither write nor sing!  You are an Ischekj among the bearers of wisdom:  thus sayeth Mirza-Jussuf, the wise man of Bagdad.”

Without deigning a word of reply, Mirza-Schaffy clapped his hands, a sign at which the servant usually brought him a fresh pipe, but this time he demanded his thick-soled slippers.  With one of these he proceeded to so unmercifully belabor the wise man of Bagdad that the latter besought mercy with the most appealing words and gestures.  But the chastiser was inexorable.  “What?” said he.  “I cannot sing, dost thou say?  Wait, I will make music for thee!  And I cannot write, either?  Let it be, then, on thy head!” Whimpering and writhing beneath the blows accompanying these words, the wise man of Bagdad staggered toward the door and vanished from sight.

More calmly than might have been anticipated did Mirza-Schaffy return from the contest of wisdom, and promptly taking his usual seat on the divan, he began to exhort his German disciple to lend no ear to such false teachers as Jussuf and his fellows, whose name, he said, was legion, whose avarice was greater than their wisdom, and whose aim was to plunder, not teach, their pupils.