Flowers from a Persian Garden and Other Papers | Page 5

channels, learning has spread abroad, like the Nile
during the season of its over-flow. Shallow, it may be, but more widely
beneficial, since its life-giving waters are within the reach of all.
Unlike most of our learned old English authors, Saádí did not cast upon
the world all that came from the rich mine of his genius, dross as well
as fine gold, clay as well as gems. It is because they have done so that
many ponderous tomes of learning and industry stand neglected on the
shelves of great libraries. Time is too precious now-a-days, whatever
may have been the case of our forefathers, for it to be dissipated by
diving into the muddy waters of voluminous authors in hopes of
finding an occasional pearl of wisdom. And unless some intelligent and
painstaking compiler set himself to the task of separating the gold from
the rubbish in which it is imbedded in those graves of learning, and
present the results of his labour in an attractive form, such works are
virtually lost to the world. For in these high-pressure days, most of us,
"like the dogs in Egypt for fear of the crocodiles, must drink of the
waters of knowledge as we run, in dread of the old enemy Time."
Saádí, however, in his _Gulistán_ sets forth only his well-pondered
thoughts in the most felicitous and expressive language. There is no
need to form an abstract or epitome of a work in which nothing is
superfluous, nothing valueless. But, as in a cabinet of gems some are
more beautiful than others, or as in a garden some flowers are more
attractive from their brilliant hues and fragrant odours, so a selection
may be made of the more striking tales and aphorisms of the illustrious
Persian philosopher.
The preface to the _Gulistán_ is one of the most pleasing portions of
the whole book. Now prefaces are among those parts of books which
are too frequently "skipped" by readers--they are "taken as read." Why
this should be so, I confess I cannot understand. For my part, I make a
point of reading a preface at least twice: first, because I would know
what reasons my author had for writing his book, and again, having
read his book, because the preface, if well written, may serve also as a

sort of appendix. Authors are said to bestow particular pains on their
prefaces. Cervantes, for instance, tells us that the preface to the first
part of Don Quixote cost him more thought than the writing of the
entire work. "It argues a deficiency of taste," says Isaac D'Israeli, "to
turn over an elaborate preface unread; for it is the essence of the
author's roses--every drop distilled at an immense cost." And, no doubt,
it is a great slight to an author to skip his preface, though it cannot be
denied that some prefaces are very tedious, because the writer "spins
out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument,"
and none but the most hardy readers can persevere to the distant end.
The Italians call a preface salsa del libro, the salt of the book. A
preface may also be likened to the porch of a mansion, where it is not
courteous to keep a visitor waiting long before you open the door and
make him free of your house. But the reader who passes over the
preface to the _Gulistán_ unread loses not a little of the spice of that
fascinating and instructive book. He who reads it, however, is rewarded
by the charming account which the author gives of how he came to
form his literary Rose-Garden:
"It was the season of spring; the air was temperate and the rose in full
bloom. The vestments of the trees resembled the festive garments of the
fortunate. It was mid-spring, when the nightingales were chanting from
their pulpits in the branches. The rose, decked with pearly dew, like
blushes on the cheek of a chiding mistress. It happened once that I was
benighted in a garden, in company with a friend. The spot was
delightful: the trees intertwined; you would have said that the earth was
bedecked with glass spangles, and that the knot of the Pleiades was
suspended from the branch of the vine. A garden with a running stream,
and trees whence birds were warbling melodious strains: that filled
with tulips of various hues; these loaded with fruits of several kinds.
Under the shade of its trees the zephyr had spread the variegated carpet.
"In the morning, when the desire to return home overcame our
inclination to remain, I saw in my friend's lap a collection of roses,
odoriferous herbs, and hyacinths, which he intended to carry to town. I
said: 'You are not ignorant that the flower