IN the reign of the same caliph, Haroun Alraschid, whom I mentioned in my last story, there lived in Baghdad a poor porter, who was named Hindbad. One day, during the most violent heat of summer, he was carrying a heavy load from one extremity of the city to the other. Much fatigued by the length of the way he had already come, and with much ground yet to traverse, he arrived in a street where the pavement was sprinkled with rose-water, and a grateful coolness refreshed the air. Delighted with this mild and pleasant situation, he placed his load on the ground, and took his station near a large mansion. The delicious scent of aloes and frankincense which issued from the windows, and, mixing with the fragrance of the rose-water, perfumed the air; the sound of a charming concert issuing from within the house accompanied by the melody of the nightingales, and other birds peculiar to the climate of Baghdad; all this, added to the smell of different sorts of viands, led Hindbad to suppose that some grand feast was in progress here. He wished to know to whom this house belonged; for, not having frequent occasion to pass that way, he was unacquainted with the names of the inhabitants. To satisfy his curiosity, therefore, he appoached some magnificently-dressed servants who were standing at the door, and inquired who was the master of that mansion. ‘What,’ replied the servant, ‘are you an inhabitant of Baghdad, and do not know that this is the residence of Sindbad the sailor, that famous voyager who has roamed over all the seas under the sun?’ The porter, who had heard of the immense riches of Sindbad, could not help comparing the situation of this man, whose lot appeared so enviable, with his own deplorable position; and distressed by the reflection, he raised his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Almighty Creator of all things, deign to consider the difference that there is between Sindbad and myself. I suffer daily a thousand ills, and have the greatest difficulty in supplying my wretched family with bad barley bread, whilst the fortunate Sindbad lavishes his riches in profusion, and enjoys every pleasure. What has he done to obtain so happy a destiny, or what crime has been mine to merit a fate so rigorous?’ As he said this he struck the ground with his foot, like a man entirely abandoned to despair. He was still musing on his fate, when a servant came towards him from the house, and taking hold of his arm, said, ‘Come, follow me; my master Sindbad wishes to speak with you.’