and what he had seen—­I mean, all that came out of the humming-bird’s throat had made such a jumble in his ideas, that there was nothing so unlike to which he did not compare all Pissimissi’s beauties.  As he sung his canticles too to no tune, and god knows had but a bad voice, they were far from comforting Pissimissi:  the elephant had torn her best bib and apron, and she cried and roared, and kept such a squalling, that though Solomon carried her in his arms, and showed her all the fine things in the temple, there was no pacifying her.  The queen of Sheba, who was playing at backgammon with the high-priest, and who came every October to converse with Solomon, though she did not understand a word of Hebrew, hearing the noise, came running out of her dressing-room; and seeing the king with a squalling child in his arms, asked him peevishly, if it became his reputed wisdom to expose himself with his bastards to all the court?  Solomon, instead of replying, kept singing, “We have a little sister, and she has no breasts;” which so provoked the Sheban princess, that happening to have one of the dice-boxes in her hand, she without any ceremony threw it at his head.  The enchantress, whom I mentioned before, and who, though invisible, had followed Pissimissi, and drawn her into her train of misfortunes, turned the dice-box aside, and directed it to Pissimissi’s nose, which being something flat, like madame de ——­’s, it stuck there, and being of ivory, Solomon ever after compared his beloved’s nose to the tower that leads to Damascus.  The queen, though ashamed of her behaviour, was not in her heart sorry for the accident; but when she found that it only encreased the monarch’s passion, her contempt redoubled; and calling him a thousand old fools to herself, she ordered her post-chaise and drove away in a fury, without leaving sixpence for the servants; and nobody knows what became of her or her kingdom, which has never been heard of since.

TALE IV.

The Peach in Brandy.  A Milesian Tale.

Fitz Scanlan Mac Giolla l’ha druig,[1] king of Kilkenny, the thousand and fifty-seventh descendant in a direct line from Milesius king of Spain, had an only daughter called Great A, and by corruption Grata; who being arrived at years of discretion, and perfectly initiated by her royal parents in the arts of government, the fond monarch determined to resign his crown to her:  having accordingly assembled the senate, he declared his resolution to them, and having delivered his sceptre into the princess’s hand, he obliged her to ascend the throne; and to set the example, was the first to kiss her hand, and vow eternal obedience to her.  The senators were ready to stifle the new queen with panegyrics and addresses; the people, though they adored the old king, were transported with having a new sovereign, and the university, according to custom immemorial, presented her majesty, three months after every body had forgotten the event, with testimonials of the excessive sorrow and excessive joy they felt on losing one monarch and getting another.