A company of pilgrims arrived one year at Qonya from Mekka, on their way home elsewhere. They were taken in succession to visit all the chief men of rank and learning in the capital, and were received with every demonstration of respect.

At last they were conducted to Jelāl also, in his college. On seeing him seated there, they all screamed out and fainted away.

When they were recovered, Jelāl began to offer excuses, saying to them: “I fear you have been deceived, either by an impostor, or by some person resembling me in feature. There are men who strongly resemble one another.”

The pilgrims one and all objected: “Why talks he thus? Why strive to make us doubt our eyes? By the God of heaven and earth, he was with us in person, habited in the very dress he now wears, when we all assumed the pilgrim garb at Mekka. He performed with us all the ceremonies of the pilgrimage, there and at 'Arafāt.* He visited with us the tomb of the Prophet at Medīna; though he never once ate or drank with us. Now he pretends that he does not know us or we know him.”

On hearing this declaration, Jelāl's disciples were trans­ported with joy, a musical festival ensued, and all those pilgrims became disciples.

A certain rich merchant of Qonya, a disciple, as was his wife, of Jelāl's, went to Mekka one year for the pilgrimage.

On the day when the victims are slaughtered, the lady had a dish of sweetmeat prepared, and sent some of it in a china bowl to Jelāl, to be eaten at dinner. She made the request that, when he partook of the food, he would favour her absent husband with his remembrance, his prayers, and his blessing.

Jelāl invited his disciples to the feast; and all ate of the lady's sweetmeat to repletion. But the bowl still remained full.

Jelāl then said: “Oh, he too must partake of it.” He took the bowl, ascended to the terraced roof of the college with it, returning immediately empty-handed. His friends asked him what he had done with the bowl and the food. “I have handed them,” said Jelāl, “to her husband, whose property they are.” The company remained bewildered.

In due course of time, the pilgrims from Qonya returned home from Mekka; and out of the baggage of the merchant, the china bowl was produced, and sent in to the lady, who was much astonished at sight of it. She inquired of her husband how he had become possessed of that identical dish. He replied: “Ah! I also am at a loss to know how it happened. But, on the eve of the slaughter of the victims, I was seated in my tent, at 'Arafāt, with a com­pany of other pilgrims, when an arm projected into the tent, and placed this dish before me, filled with sweet­meat. I sent out servants to see who had brought it to me; but no one was found.” The lady at once inferred the truth, and guessed what had happened. Her hus­band was more and more astonished at such miraculous power.

Next day, husband and wife went to Jelāl, stood bare­headed before him, wept for joy, and related what had occurred. He answered:

“The whole thing is the effect of your trust and belief. God has merely made use of my hand as the instrument wherewith to make manifest His power.”

Jelāl was accustomed to go every year for about six weeks to a place near Qonya, called “The Hot Waters,” where there is a lake or marsh inhabited by a large colony of frogs.

A religious musical festival was arranged one day near the lake, and Jelāl delivered a discourse. The frogs were vociferous, and made his words inaudible. He therefore addressed himself to them, with a loud shout, saying: “What is all this noise about? Either do you pronounce a discourse, or allow me to speak.” Complete silence immediately ensued; nor was a frog ever once heard to croak again, so long as Jelāl remained there.

Before leaving, he went to the marsh, and gave them his permission to croak again now as much as they pleased. The chorus instantly began. Numbers of people, who were witnesses of this miraculous power over the frogs, became believers in Jelāl, and professed themselves his disciples.

A party of butchers had purchased a heifer, and were leading her away to be slaughtered, when she broke loose from them, and ran away, a crowd following and shouting after her, so that she became furious, and none could pass near her.

By chance Jelāl met her, his followers being at some distance behind. On beholding him, the heifer became calm and quiet, came gently towards him, and then stood still, as though communing with him mutely, heart to heart, as is the wont with saints; and as though pleading for her life. Jelāl patted and caressed her.

The butchers now came up. Jelāl begged of them the animal's life, as having placed herself under his protection. They gave their consent, and let her go free.

Jelāl's disciples now joined the party, and he improved the occasion by the following remarks:—“If a brute beast, on being led away to slaughter, break loose and take refuge with me, so that God grants it immunity for my sake, how much more so would the case be, when a human being turns unto God with all his heart and soul, devoutly seeking Him. God will certainly save such a man from the tormenting demons of hell-fire, and lead him to heaven, there to dwell eternally.”

Those words caused such joy and gladness among the disciples that a musical festival, with dancing, at once commenced, and was carried on into the night. Alms and clothing were distributed to the poor singers of the chorus.

It is related that the heifer was never seen again in the meadows of Qonya.

A meeting was held at the Perwāna's palace, each guest bringing his own waxlight of about four or five pounds' weight. Jelāl came to the assembly with a small wax-taper.

The grandees smiled at the taper. Jelāl, however, told them that their imposing candles depended on his taper for their light. Their looks expressed their incredulity at this. Jelāl, therefore, blew out his taper, and all the candles were at once extinguished; the company being left in darkness.

After a short interval, Jelāl fetched a sigh. His taper took fire therefrom, and the candles all burnt brightly as before. Numerous were the conversions resulting from this miraculous display.

One day, the poet-laureate, Qāni'ī, came to visit Jelāl at his college. He was the very Khāqānī* of the age, and was accompanied by a crowd of noble admirers.

After much conversation, Qāni'ī remarked that he did not like the writings of the poet Sanā'ī,* and Jelāl inquired the reason. The poet-laureate replied: “Sanā'ī was not a Muslim.” Again Jelāl asked why he had formed that opinion; and Qāni'ī replied: “He has quoted passages from the Qur'ān in his poetry, and has even used them as his rhymes.”

Jelāl hereupon rebuked him most severely, as follows:—

“Do hold thy peace. What sort of a Muslim art thou? Could a Muslim perceive the grandeur of that poet, his hair would stand on end, and his turban would fall from his head. That Muslim, and thousands such as he,—such as thee,—out of this lower world, and out of the land of spirits, would become real Muslims. His poetry, which is an exposition of the mysteries of the Qur'ān, is so beau­tifully embellished, that one may apply to it the adage: ‘We have drawn from the ocean, and we have poured out again into the ocean.’ Thou hast not understood his philosophy; thou hast not studied it; for thou art a Qāni'ī (Follower of one who is satisfied). The vicars of God have a technology, of which the rhetoricians have no knowledge. Hence these truths appear to be imper­fect, because men of crude minds are prevented from com­prehending them. Though thou hast no part in the lot of the recondite mysteries of the saints, it does not thence follow that thou shouldest deny their position, and so place thyself in a position where destruction may be brought down upon thee. On the contrary, shouldest thou fix thy faith upon them, and act with true sincerity, thou shalt find in the day of judgment no heavy burden on thy shoulders. In lieu thereof, a burden-bearer will be present at thy side,—a refuge, who will prove thy most earnest intercessor.”

Struck with these words, the poet-laureate arose, uncovered, begged forgiveness, confessed contrition for his disrespect, and became one of Jelāl's disciples.

A disciple of Husāmu-'d-Dīn wished to make a vow never to do an act not expressly authorised by the Canon Law of Islām. For the purpose of administering the oath to him, instead of the Qur'ān, a copy of the Ilāhī-nāma (Divine Hymns) of the philosopher Sanā'ī was placed on a lectern, covered over with a cloth, and tendered as “the Book” on which he was to swear.

Just then, Jelāl came into the room, and asked what was going on. Husām replied: “One of my disciples is going to make a vow against backsliding. We shrank from swearing him on the Qur'ān, and have therefore pre­pared a copy of the Ilāhī-nāma for the occasion.”

Jelāl observed: “Indeed! Why, the Ilāhī-nāma would draw down on a forswearer a more severe chastisement than the Qur'ān itself. The Word of God is but milk, of which the Ilāhī-nāma is the cream and the butter!”

When Adam was created, God commanded Gabriel to take the three most precious pearls of the divine treasury, and offer them in a golden salver to Adam, to choose for himself one of the three.

The three pearls were: wisdom, faith, and modesty.

Adam chose the pearl of wisdom.

Gabriel then proceeded to remove the salver with the remaining two pearls, in order to replace them in the divine treasury. With all his mighty power, he found he could not lift the salver.

The two pearls said to him: “We will not separate from our beloved wisdom. We could not be happy and quiet away from it. From all eternity, we three have been the three compeers of God's glory, the pearls of His power. We cannot be separated.”

A voice was now heard to proceed from the divine presence, saying: “Gabriel! leave them, and come away.”

From that time, wisdom has taken its seat on the sum­mit of the brain of Adam; faith took up its abode in his heart; modesty established itself in his countenance. Those three pearls have remained as the heirlooms of the chosen children of Adam. For, whoever, of all his descendants, is not embellished and enriched with those three jewels, is lacking of the sentiment and lustre of his divine origin.

So runs the narrative reported by Husām, Jelāl's suc­cessor, as having been imparted to him by the latter.

A certain flute-player named Hamza, much beloved by Jelāl, happened to die. Jelāl sent some of his disciples to array the defunct in his grave-clothes. He himself followed them to the house of the deceased.

On entering the room, Jelāl addresses the dead body: “My dear friend Hamza, arise!” Instantly, the deceased arose, saying: “Lo, here I am!” He then took his flute, and for three whole days and nights a religious festival was kept up in his house.

Above a hundred Roman misbelievers were thereby con­verted to the faith of Islām. When Jelāl left the house, life departed from the corpse also.