Flowers from a Persian Garden and Other Papers | Page 4

equalled, Saádí in that rare faculty
for condensing profound moral truths into short, pithy sentences. For
example:
"The remedy against want is to moderate your desires."
"There is a difference between him who claspeth his mistress in his
arms, and him whose eyes are fixed on the door expecting her."
"Whoever recounts to you the faults of your neighbour will doubtless
expose your defects to others."
His humorous comparisons flash upon the reader's mind with curious
effect, occurring, as they often do, in the midst of a grave discourse.
Thus he says of a poor minstrel: "You would say that the sound of his
bow would burst the arteries, and that his voice was more discordant
than the lamentations of a man for the death of his father;" and of
another bad singer: "No one with a mattock can so effectually scrape
clay from the face of a hard stone as his discordant voice harrows up
the soul."
Talking of music reminds me of a remark of the learned Gentius, in one
of his notes on the _Gulistán_ of Saádí, that music was formerly in
such consideration in Persia that it was a maxim of their sages that
when a king was about to die, if he left for his successor a very young
son, his aptitude for reigning should be proved by some agreeable
songs; and if the child was pleasurably affected, then it was a sign of
his capacity and genius, but if the contrary, he should be declared
unfit.--It would appear that the old Persian musicians, like Timotheus,
knew the secret art of swaying the passions. The celebrated philosopher
Al-Farabí (who died about the middle of the tenth century), among his
accomplishments, excelled in music, in proof of which a curious
anecdote is told. Returning from the pilgrimage to Mecca, he
introduced himself, though a stranger, at the court of Sayfú 'd-Dawla,
sultan of Syria, when a party of musicians chanced to be performing,
and he joined them. The prince admired his skill, and, desiring to hear
something of his own, Al-Farabí unfolded a composition, and
distributed the parts amongst the band. The first movement threw the

prince and his courtiers into violent laughter, the next melted all into
tears, and the last lulled even the performers to sleep. At the retaking of
Baghdád by the Turks in 1638, when the springing of a mine, whereby
eight hundred jannisaries perished, was the signal for a general
massacre, and thirty thousand Persians were put to the sword, a Persian
musician named Sháh-Kúlí, who was brought before the sultan Murád,
played and sang so sweetly, first a song of triumph, and then a dirge,
that the sultan, moved to pity by the music, gave order to stop the
slaughter.
To resume, after this anecdotical digression. Saádí gives this whimsical
piece of advice to a pugnacious fellow: "Be sure, either that thou art
stronger than thine enemy, or that thou hast a swifter pair of heels."
And he relates a droll story in illustration of the use and abuse of the
phrase, "For the sake of God," which is so frequently in the mouths of
Muslims: A harsh-voiced man was reading the Kurán in a loud tone. A
pious man passed by him and said: "What is thy monthly salary?" The
other replied: "Nothing." "Why, then, dost thou give thyself this
trouble?" "I read for the sake of God," he rejoined. "Then," said the
pious man, "_for God's sake don't read_."
The most esteemed of Saádí's numerous and diversified works is the
_Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden. The first English translation of this work
was made by Francis Gladwin, and published in 1808, and it is a very
scarce book. Other translations have since been issued, but they are
rather costly and the editions limited. It is strange that in these days of
cheap reprints of rare and excellent works of genius no enterprising
publisher should have thought it worth reproduction in a popular form.
It is not one of those ponderous tomes of useless learning which not
even an Act of Parliament could cause to be generally read, and which
no publisher would be so blind to his own interests as to reprint. As
regards its size, the _Gulistán_ is but a small book, but intrinsically it is
indeed a very great book, such as could only be produced by a great
mind, and it comprises more wisdom and wit than a score of old
English folios could together yield to the most devoted reader. Some
querulous persons there are who affect to consider the present as a
shallow age, because, forsooth, huge volumes of learning--each the

labour of a lifetime--are not now produced. But the flood-gates of
knowledge are now wide open, and, no longer confined within the old,
narrow, if deep,