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triumphed, and the tariff upon beauty was repealed.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.
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