It is written in the chronicles of the Sassanian monarchs that there once lived an illustrious prince, beloved by his own subjects for his wisdom and prudence, and feared by his enemies for his courage, and for the hardy and well-disciplined army of which he was the leader. This prince had two sons, the elder called Schah-riar, and the younger Schah-zenan, both equally good and deserving of praise.
The old king died at the end of a long and glorious reign, and Schah-riar, his eldest son, ascended the throne and reigned in his stead. A friendly contest quickly arose between the two brothers as to which could best promote the happiness of the other. The younger, Schah-zenan, did all he could to show his loyalty and affection, while the new sultan loaded his brother with all possible honors, and in order that he might in some degree share his own power and wealth, bestowed on him the kingdom of Great Tartary. Schah-zenan left to take possession of the empire allotted him, and fixed his residence at Samarcand, the chief city.
After a separation of ten years Schah-riar ardently desired to see his brother, and sent his first vizier, with a splendid embassy, to invite him to revisit his court. Schah-zenan being informed of the approach of the vizier, went out to meet him with all his ministers, magnificently dressed for the occasion, and urgently inquired after the health of the sultan, his brother. Having replied to these affectionate inquiries, the vizier unfolded the more especial purpose of his coming. Schah-zenan, much affected at the kindness of his brother, then addressed the vizier in these words: “Sage vizier, the sultan, my brother, does me too much honor. It is impossible that his wish to see me can exceed my anxious desire of again beholding him. You have come at an opportune moment. My kingdom is tranquil, and in ten days’ time I will be ready to depart with you. In the meanwhile pitch your tents on this spot. I will order every refreshment and accommodation for you and your whole train.”
At the end of ten days everything was ready. Schah-zenan took a tender leave of the queen, his consort, and accompanied by such officers as he had appointed to attend him, left Samarcand in the evening, to be near the tents of his brother’s ambassador, with the intention of proceeding on 
his journey early on the following morning. Wishing, however, once more to see his queen, whom he tenderly loved, and whom he believed to return his love with an equal affection, he returned privately to the palace, and went directly to her apartment, when, to his extreme grief, he found that she loved a slave better than himself. The unfortunate monarch, yielding to the first outburst of his indignation, drew his scimitar, and with one rapid stroke slew them both. After that he threw their bodies into the foss or great ditch that surrounded the palace.
Having thus satisfied his revenge, he left the city as privately as he had entered it, and returned to his pavilion. On his arrival, he did not mention to any one what had happened, but ordered the tents to be struck, and began his journey. It was scarcely daylight when they commenced their march to the sound of drums and other instruments. The whole train was filled with joy, except the king, who could think of nothing but his queen’s treachery, and became a prey to the deepest grief and melancholy.
When he approached the capital of Persia, he perceived the Sultan Schah-riar and all his court coming out to greet him. As soon as they met the two brothers alighted and embraced each other; after a thousand expressions of regard, they remounted and entered the city amid the acclamations of the multitude. The sultan conducted the king, his brother, to a palace which had been prepared for him. It communicated by a garden with his own and was even more magnificent.
Schah-riar left the King of Tartary, in order that he might have time to bathe and change his dress after the fatigues of the journey; on his return from the bath he went to him again. They seated themselves and conversed with each other at their ease, after so long an absence; and seemed even more united by affection than blood. They dined together and after their repast they again conversed, till Schah-riar, perceiving the night far advanced, left his brother to repose.
The unfortunate Schah-zenan retired to his couch; but if the presence of the sultan had for a while suspended his grief, it now returned with redoubled force. Every circumstance of the queen’s wickedness lived in his mind and kept him awake, impressing such a look of sorrow on his countenance that the sultan next morning could not fail to remark it. Conscious that he had done all in his power to testify to his continued love and affection, he sought diligently to amuse his brother, but the most splendid entertainments and the gayest fêtes only served to increase his melancholy.
Schah-riar having one morning given orders for a grand hunting party, at the distance of two days’ journey from the city, Schah-zenan requested permission to remain in his palace, excusing himself on account of a slight indisposition. The sultan wishing to please him, gave his consent and went with all his court to partake of the sport.
The King of Tartary was no sooner alone than he shut himself up in his apartment, and gave way to sorrowful recollection of the calamity which had befallen him. As he sat thus grieving at the open window looking out upon the beautiful garden of the palace, he suddenly saw the sultana, the beloved wife of his brother, meet in the garden and hold secret conversation with a man. Upon witnessing this, Schah-zenan determined within himself that he would no longer give way to inconsolable grief for a misfortune which came to other husbands as well as to himself. He ordered supper to be brought, and ate with a better appetite than he had before done since his departure from Samarcand, and even enjoyed the fine concert performed while he sat at table.
Schah-riar, on his return from hunting at the close of the second day, was delighted at the change which he found had taken place in his brother, and urgently pressed him to explain both the cause of his former deep depression, and of its sudden disappearance. The King of Tartary being thus pressed, related to his brother the narrative of his wife’s misconduct, and of the severe punishment which he had visited on the offenders. Schah-riar expressed his full approval. “I own,” he said, “had I been in your place, I should have been less easily satisfied. I should not have been contented with taking away the life of one woman, but would have sacrificed a thousand to my resentment. Since, however, it has pleased God to afford you consolation, and as I am sure it is as well founded as the cause of your grief, inform me I beg of that also and make me acquainted with the whole.”
The reluctance of Schah-zenan to relate what he had seen yielded at last to the urgent entreaties of his brother, and he revealed to him the faithlessness of his own queen. On hearing these dreadful and unexpected tidings, the rage and grief of Schah-riar knew no bounds. He far exceeded his brother in his fury. He immediately sentenced to death his unhappy sultana and the unworthy accomplice of her guilt; and not content with this, he bound himself by a solemn vow, that to prevent the possibility of such misconduct in future, he would marry a new wife every night, and command her to be strangled in the morning. Having imposed this cruel law upon himself, he swore to observe it immediately on the departure of the king his brother, who soon after had a solemn audience of leave, and returned to his own kingdom, laden with the most magnificent presents.
When Schah-zenan was gone, the Sultan began to put into execution his terrible oath. He married every night the daughter of some one of his subjects, who, the next morning, was ordered out to execution, and thus every evening was a maiden married and every morning a wife sacrificed. However repugnant these commands were to the benevolent grand vizier, he was obliged to submit at the peril of the loss of his own head. The report of this unexampled inhumanity spread a panic of universal consternation through the city. In one place a wretched father was in tears for the loss of his daughter; in another, the air resounded with the groans of tender mothers, who dreaded lest the same fate should attend their offspring. And, instead of the praises and blessings with which his subjects had loaded their monarch, they now poured out imprecations on his head.
The grand vizier, who, as has been mentioned, was the unwilling agent of this horrid injustice, had a daughter called Scheherazade. Scheherazade was possessed of a degree of courage beyond her sex. She had read much, and had so great a memory, that she never forgot anything once learned; her beauty was only equaled by her virtuous disposition.
The vizier was passionately fond of so deserving a daughter.
As they were together one day, she begged, to his great astonishment, that she might have the honor of becoming the sultan’s bride. The grand vizier endeavored to dissuade his daughter from her intention by pointing out the fearful penalty of the immediate death attached to the favor which she sought. Scheherazade, however, persisted in her request, telling her father that she had in mind a plan, which she thought might be successful in putting a stop to the dreadful cruelty exercised by the Sultan toward his subjects. “Yes, my father,” said this heroic woman, “I am aware of the danger I run, but it does not deter me from my purpose. If I die, my death will be glorious; and if I succeed, I shall render my country a great service.” The vizier was most reluctant to allow his beloved child to enter on so dangerous an enterprise, and endeavored to dissuade her from her purpose but all in vain.
“Do not, sir,” pleaded Scheherazade, “think ill of me if I still persist in my sentiments. Pardon me, too, if I add, that your opposition will be useless; for if your paternal
