ether
mistaken) to a pink horse (with green wings) that went, in a violent
manner, by clockwork, and was wound up with an indigo key. With this
history the king was even more profoundly interested than with the
other--and, as the day broke before its conclusion (notwithstanding
all the queen's endeavors to get through with it in time for the
bowstringing), there was again no resource but to postpone that ceremony
as before, for twenty-four hours. The next night there happened a
similar accident with a similar result; and then the next--and then
again the next; so that, in the end, the good monarch, having been
unavoidably deprived of all opportunity to keep his vow during a
period of no less than one thousand and one nights, either forgets it
altogether by the expiration of this time, or gets himself absolved of
it in the regular way, or (what is more probable) breaks it outright, as
well as the head of his father confessor. At all events, Scheherazade,
who, being lineally descended from Eve, fell heir, perhaps, to the whole
seven baskets of talk, which the latter lady, we all know, picked up
from under the trees in the garden of Eden-Scheherazade, I say, finally
triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.

Now, this conclusion (which is that of the story as we have it upon
record) is, no doubt, excessively proper and pleasant--but alas! like
a great many pleasant things, is more pleasant than true, and I am
indebted altogether to the "Isitsoornot" for the means of correcting the
error. "Le mieux," says a French proverb, "est l'ennemi du bien," and,
in mentioning that Scheherazade had inherited the seven baskets of talk,
I should have added that she put them out at compound interest until
they amounted to seventy-seven.

"My dear sister," said she, on the thousand-and-second night, (I quote
the language of the "Isitsoornot" at this point, verbatim) "my dear
sister," said she, "now that all this little difficulty about the
bowstring has blown over, and that this odious tax is so happily
repealed, I feel that I have been guilty of great indiscretion in
withholding from you and the king (who I am sorry to say, snores--a
thing no gentleman would do) the full conclusion of Sinbad the sailor.
This person went through numerous other and more interesting adventures
than those which I related; but the truth is, I felt sleepy on the
particular night of their narration, and so was seduced into cutting
them short--a griev