A PERSONAL PROLOGUE WHILE HILE I was still a small boy, my mother urged me to read "The Arabian Nights" by way of compromise between the dime novels I had been discovered secretly devouring in the hay loft and the books from the Sunday-school library which I read openly in the parlor. With all this, I did not acquire a reputation as a studious lad, but I was so captivated by "A Thousand and One Nights" that I often read far into the night, wandering, as I read, in an enchanted land, when my mother doubtless thought I was asleep. During the halcyon days of my first tours abroad there always appeared before me the picture of Bagdad as the ultimate goal of my world travels. The opportunity to visit the Levant came unexpectedly, and the oriental dreams of youth returned. The journey "To Bagdad and Back" was, altogether, a long-deferred ambition gratified-undertaken with the feeling that it was an adventuresome event in my own life, and that I would be supremely selfish not to at least offer to share it with others who have fallen under the magic spell of The Treasure Genii, which has to do with the coast of Syria, Damascus, Cairo and Bagdad -cities that I visited looking for Ali to take the keys and open the chest and show me the jewels, precious stones and gold, and the rich garments-to say nothing of the blessings and prayer of the thoughtful father in the case. Throughout this journey of something like sixteen thousand miles by train, steamer, automobile, camel back and airplane, I carried with me the well-thumbed books from the attic so closely associated with the days of youth, and as opportunity offered read and re-read the old, old stories of The Talking Bird, The Singing Tree and the Golden Water. At night the familiar pages of the story of Aladdin and Prince Agib came to mind as I read mayhap by the uncertain light of a dying camp fire in the midst of the stunning silence of the Desert or under a sputtering oil lamp in some wayside caravansarie, those tales that have come down to us through the uncounted centuries. It all harks back to that one alluring phrase that will always arrest the attention of children, as well as their elders, in one form or another: "Once upon a time." From that point you go on and on, to join a great company of choice spirits and donning the magic spectacles of imagination, see marching across the pages of the book the Rocs, Sandalwood, Ivory, Turbans, Ambergris, Cream Tarts with Gold Trimmings, Lettered Apes, Calders, Ghouls and Genii, giant and dwarf and all their relatives, as the black rocks of Camaralzaman spring to life and people the dark shadows that fall across the ancient towers. What a treasure house of Literature we find in the tales from "The Arabian Nights"! Artists of great renown, world-famous authors and grave and sedate scholars have delved deep into this rich reservoir of Romance, from which much of the literature of past ages has been evolved, and through the processes of a fascinated imagination have instilled ideals and distinctions between right and wrong and inspired ambitions among the children of many races in many countries for many centuries. How well I recall Andrew Lang's book, opening with the weird and fascinating tales of the Queen Scheherazade who averted the fate of losing her head by reciting every night a tale so fascinating that the series continued on for a thousand and one nights with the captivated Sultan each night calling for "another story." With the motive indicated, we will now proceed to Bagdad as if on the magic carpet, eliminating prosy details of travel, and remembering the injunction of Maimoune to Danhasch, the genii who had just arrived from far-distant fields: "Be sure thou tellest me no thing but what is true or I shall clip thy wings!" We will dream betimes, for there is nothing so tragic as one who believes in nothing that he cannot touch. These are like the child who has never held communion with the fairies, and develop into dullards and egotists who never feel the marvelous influence which comes when the elfins wave their wands and direct us to enter the realm of Arabian Night tales-the immortal fragments that will never be superseded in the “infallible judgment of childhood." Curtained with selections from the "Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam" are the chapters of this book. I was amazed to realize [iv] how quatrains of this immortal mystic poem fitted appropriately to the text as unfolded. The verses of the complete "Rubáiyát" are utilized, revealing the immortality of the genius who penned the lines-not only preserved through the centuries, but so broad in concept that they can be adapted to almost any story that is told or any phase of life discussed, whether in tales of travel, fiction, drama or verse. In the tender moonlight in the very skies under which the mystical verses were written there came to me the thought that in these lines are symbolic reference to the Last Supper of Christ-the Communion itself— A Book of Verses underneath the Bough (the Bible) A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread-and Thou (the Christ) There is never a suggestion of emotional materialism, but an evanescent instant portrayed in these simple words that have left an enduring poetic picture, fitting to express thoughts universal that extend on down through the ages while the roses bloom, fade and bloom again, heralding a life eternal over the lonely grave of Omar at the Naishapur shrine, where I seemed to catch the spirit of the "ancient of days." Without further musing concerning the purpose of this modest book which aspires to no high place as a history, authentic reference or literary eminence-in the reminiscent glow of youthful dreams we will take our departure and be off "To Bagdad and Back!" Ar Mitchett Chappler THE ATTIC, Boston |