This anecdote was told me as I was jogging on the road, alongside my friend Blue-beard, on our first march from Abusheher. I rode the remainder of the way (ten good miles) without speaking a word, but pondering on the seeming contradiction between the wisdom of Providence and the wisdom of man. I even went so far as to doubt the soundness of many admirable speeches and some able pamphlets I had read, regarding the rapid diffusion of knowledge. I changed to a calculating mood, and began to think it was not quite honest, even admitting it was wise, to take away what men possessed, of content and happiness, until you could give them an equal or greater amount of the same articles.
Before leaving Abusheher we had received many proofs of the favour of the Prince Regent of Shiraz. Soon after our arrival at that place, a favourite officer of his guards brought a present of twelve mule loads of fruit. When this young man came to pay his respects to the Elchee, Khojah Arratoon desired to withdraw. When asked the reason: "Why," said he, "the person who is deputed by the Prince is a Georgian, the son of my next door neighbour in Teflis. When Aga Mahomed Khan plundered that city, in 1797, he was made a prisoner, with twenty or thirty thousand young persons of both sexes; and having since been compelled to become a Mahomedan, and now enjoying high rank, he may be embarrassed at seeing me." The Envoy said, "It does not signify; you are my Treasurer, and must be present at the visit of ceremony: depend upon it he will not notice you." It was as predicted; the bearer of the present, a very handsome young man, superbly dressed, and of finished manners, appeared to have no knowledge of Arratoon, though his eye rested on him once or twice. When the visit was over, the good Armenian could not contain himself: "The vile Mahomedan wretch!" he exclaimed, "he has lost sight and feeling, as well as religion and virtue. Have I given him sweetmeats so often, to be stared at as a stranger? I should like to know who was his father, that he should look down upon me. It will be a mournful tale," he concluded, "that I shall have to write to his mother, who is in great distress, and who, poor deluded creature! lives in hopes that there is still some good in this dog of a son of hers." There was a mixture of wounded pride, of disappointment, and humanity, in Blue-beard's sentiments, that made them at once amusing, and affecting.