by another:  he would not have been lost in a desert, or cheated by a Jew:  he would not have set a ship on fire; nor would he have caught the plague, and spread it through Grand Cairo:  he would not have run my sultana’s looking-glass through the body, instead of a robber:  he would not have believed that the fate of his life depended on certain verses on a china vase:  nor would he, at last, have broken this precious talisman, by washing it with hot water.  Henceforward, let Murad the Unlucky be named Murad the Imprudent:  let Saladin preserve the surname he merits, and be henceforth called Saladin the Prudent.”

So spake the sultan, who, unlike the generality of monarchs, could bear to find himself in the wrong, and could discover his vizier to be in the right without cutting off his head.  History farther informs us that the sultan offered to make Saladin a pacha, and to commit to him the government of a province; but, Saladin the Prudent declined this honour, saying he had no ambition, was perfectly happy in his present situation, and that, when this was the case, it would be folly to change, because no one can be more than happy.  What farther adventures befell Murad the Imprudent are not recorded; it is known only that he became a daily visitor to the Teriaky, and that he died a martyr to the immoderate use of opium.

THE LIMERICK GLOVES

CHAPTER I

It was Sunday morning, and a fine day in autumn; the bells of Hereford Cathedral rang, and all the world, smartly dressed, were flocking to church.

“Mrs. Hill!  Mrs. Hill!—­Phoebe!  Phoebe!  There’s the cathedral bell, I say, and neither of you ready for church, and I a verger,” cried Mr. Hill, the tanner, as he stood at the bottom of his own staircase.  “I’m ready, papa,” replied Phoebe; and down she came, looking so clean, so fresh, and so gay, that her stern father’s brows unbent, and he could only say to her, as she was drawing on a new pair of gloves, “Child, you ought to have had those gloves on before this time of day.”

“Before this time of day!” cried Mrs. Hill, who was now coming downstairs completely equipped—­“before this time of day!  She should know better, I say, than to put on those gloves at all:  more especially when going to the cathedral.”

“The gloves are very good gloves, as far as I see,” replied Mr. Hill.  “But no matter now.  It is more fitting that we should be in proper time in our pew, to set an example, as becomes us, than to stand here talking of gloves and nonsense.”

He offered his wife and daughter each an arm, and set out for the cathedral; but Phoebe was too busy in drawing on her new gloves, and her mother was too angry at the sight of them, to accept of Mr. Hill’s courtesy.  “What I say is always nonsense, I know, Mr. Hill,” resumed the matron:  “but I can see as far into a millstone as other folks.  Was it not I that first gave you a hint of what became of the great dog that we lost out of our tan-yard last winter?  And was it not I who first took notice to you, Mr. Hill, verger as you are, of the hole under the foundation of the cathedral?  Was it not, I ask you, Mr. Hill?”