The Project Gutenberg EBook of Flowers from a Persian Garden and Other
Papers, by W. A. Clouston

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net


Title: Flowers from a Persian Garden and Other Papers

Author: W. A. Clouston

Release Date: October 26, 2005 [EBook #16949]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLOWERS PERSIAN GARDEN ***




Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net







    "The smiling Garden of Persian Literature": a Garden which I
    would describe, in the Eastern style, as a happy spot, where
    lavish Nature with profusion strews the most fragrant and
    blooming flowers, where the most delicious fruits abound, which
    is ever vocal with the plaintive melancholy of the nightingale,
    who, during day and night, "tunes her love-laboured song": ...
    where the voice of Wisdom is often heard uttering her moral
    sentence, or delivering the dictates of experience.--SIR W. OUSELEY.




FLOWERS FROM A PERSIAN GARDEN,

AND

OTHER PAPERS.


BY W. A. CLOUSTON,


AUTHOR OF 'POPULAR TALES AND FICTIONS' AND 'BOOK OF NOODLES'; EDITOR OF
'A GROUP OF EASTERN ROMANCES AND STORIES,' 'BOOK OF SINDIBAD,' 'BAKHTYAR
NAMA,' 'ARABIAN POETRY FOR ENGLISH READERS,' ETC.


LONDON:
DAVID NUTT, 270, 271, STRAND.
MDCCCXC.




TO E. SIDNEY HARTLAND, ESQ.,

FELLOW OF THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES; MEMBER OF THE COUNCIL OF THE
FOLK-LORE SOCIETY, ETC.


MY DEAR HARTLAND,

Though you are burdened with the duties of a profession far outside of
which lie those studies that have largely occupied my attention for many
years past, yet your own able contributions to the same, or cognate,
subjects of investigation evince the truth of the seemingly paradoxical
saying, that "the busiest man finds the greatest amount of leisure." And
in dedicating this little book to you--would that it were more
worthy!--as a token of gratitude for the valuable help you have often
rendered me in the course of my studies, I am glad of the opportunity it
affords me for placing on record (so to say) the fact that I enjoy the
friendship of a man possessed of so many excellent qualities of heart as
well as of intellect.

The following collection of essays, or papers, is designed to suit the
tastes of a more numerous class of readers than were some of my former
books, which are not likely to be of special interest to many besides
students of comparative folk-lore--amongst whom your own degree is high.
The book, in fact, is intended mainly for those who are rather vaguely
termed "general readers"; albeit I venture to think that even the
folk-lore student may find in it somewhat to "make a note of," as the
great Captain Cuttle was wont to say--in season and out of season.

Leaving the contents to speak for themselves, I shall only say farther
that my object has been to bring together, in a handy volume, a series
of essays which might prove acceptable to many readers, whether of grave
or lively temperament. What are called "instructive" books--meaning
thereby "morally" instructive--are generally as dull reading as is
proverbially a book containing nothing but jests--good, bad, and
indifferent. We can't (and we shouldn't) be always in the "serious"
mood, nor can we be for ever on the grin; and it seems to me that a
mental dietary, by turns, of what is wise and of what is witty should be
most wholesome. But, of the two, I confess I prefer to take the former,
even as one ought to take solid food, in great moderation; and, after
all, it is surely better to laugh than to mope or weep, in spite of what
has been said of "the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind." Most of
us, in this work-a-day world, find no small benefit from allowing our
minds to lie fallow at certain times, as farmers do with their fields.
In the following pages, however, I believe wisdom and wit, the didactic
and the diverting, will be found in tolerably fair proportions.

But I had forgot--I am not writing a Preface, and this is already too
long for a Dedication; so believe me, with all good wishes,

Yours ever faithfully,
W. A. CLOUSTON.
GLASGOW, February, 1890.




CONTENTS.


FLOWERS FROM A PERSIAN GARDEN.

    I  Sketch of the Life of the Persian Poet Saádí--Character of his
       Writings--the _Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden--Prefaces to
       Books--Preface to the _Gulistán_--Eastern Poets in praise of
       Springtide

   II  Boy's Archery Feat--Advantages of Abstinence--Núshirván on
       Oppression--Boy in terror at Sea--Pride of Ancestry--Misfortunes
       of Friends--Fortitude and Liberality--Prodigality--Stupid
       Youth--Advantages of Education--The Fair Cup-bearer--'January and
       May'--Why an Old Man did not Marry--The Dervish who became
       King--Muezzin and Preacher who had bad voices--Witty Slave--Witty
       Kází--Astrologer and his Faithless Wife--Objectionable Neighbour

  III  On Taciturnity: Parallels from Caxton's _Dictes_ and preface to
       _Kalíla wa Dimna_--Difference between Devotee and Learned Man--To
       get rid of Troublesome Visitors--Fable of the Nightingale and the
       Ant--Aphorisms of Saádí--Conclusion


ORIENTAL WIT AND HUMOUR.

    I  Man a Laughing Animal--Antiquity of Popular Jests--'Night and
       Day'--The Plain-featured Bride--The House of Condolence--The
       Blind Man's Wife--Two Witty Persian Ladies--Woman's Counsel--The
       Turkish Jester: in the Pulpit; the Cauldron; the Beggar; the
       Drunken Governor; the Robber; the Hot Broth--Muslim Preachers and
       Misers

   II  The Two Deaf Men and the Traveller--The Deaf Persian and the
       Horseman--Lazy Servants--Chinese Humour: The Rich Man and the
       Smiths; How to keep Plants alive; Criticising a Portrait--The
       Persian Courtier and his old Friend--The Scribe--The Schoolmaster
       and the Wit--The Persian and his Cat--A List of Blockheads--The
       Arab and his Camel--A Witty Baghdádí--The Unlucky Slippers

  III  The Young Merchant of Baghdád; or, the Wiles of Woman

   IV  Ashaab the Covetous--The Stingy Merchant and the Hungry
       Bedouin--The Sect of Samradians--The Story-teller and the
       King--Royal Gifts to Poets--The Persian Poet and the
       Impostor--'Stealing Poetry'--The Rich Man and the Poor Poet

    V  Unlucky Omens--The Old Man's Prayer--The Old Woman in the
       Mosque--The Weeping Turkmans--The Ten Foolish Peasants--The
       Wakeful Servant--The Three Dervishes--The Oilman's Parrot--The
       Moghul and his Parrot--The Persian Shopkeeper and the Prime
       Minister--Hebrew Facetić


TALES OF A PARROT.

    I  General Plan of Eastern Story-books--The _Tútí Náma_, or
       Parrot-Book--The Frame-story--The Stolen Images--The Woman carved
       out of Wood--The Man whose Mare was kicked by a Merchant's Horse

   II  The Emperor's Dream--The Golden Apparition--The Four
       Treasure-seekers

  III  The Singing Ass: the Foolish Thieves: the Faggot-maker and the
       Magic Bowl

   IV  The Goldsmith who lost his Life through Covetousness--The King
       who died of Love for a Merchant's Daughter--The Discovery of
       Music--The Seven Requisites of a Perfect Woman

    V  The Princess of Rome and her Son--The Seven Vazírs

   VI  The Tree of Life--Legend of Rájá Rasálú--Conclusion

  _ADDITIONAL NOTE:_
       The Magic Bowl, etc.


RABBINICAL LEGENDS, TALES, FABLES, AND APHORISMS.

    I  INTRODUCTORY: Authors, Traducers, and Moral Teachings of Talmud

   II  LEGENDS OF SOME BIBLICAL CHARACTERS: Adam and Eve--Cain and
       Abel--The Planting of the Vine--Luminous Jewels--Abraham's
       Arrival in Egypt--The Infamous Citizens of Sodom--Abraham and
       Ishmael's Wives--Joseph and Potiphar's Wife--Joseph and his
       Brethren--Jacob's Sorrow--Moses and Pharaoh

  III  LEGENDS OF DAVID AND SOLOMON, etc.

   IV  MORAL AND ENTERTAINING TALES: Rabbi Jochonan and the Poor
       Woman--A Safe Investment--The Jewels--The Capon-carver

    V  MORAL TALES, TABLES, AND PARABLES: The Dutiful Son--An Ingenious
       Will--Origin of Beast-Fables--The Fox and the Bear--The Fox in
       the Garden--The Desolate Island--The Man and his Three
       Friends--The Garments--Solomon's Choice--Bride and
       Bridegroom--Abraham and the Idols--The Vanity of Ambition--The
       Seven Stages of Human Life

   VI  WISE SAYINGS OF THE RABBIS

  _ADDITIONAL NOTES:_
       Adam and the Oil of Mercy
       Muslim Legend of Adam's Punishment, Pardon, Death, and Burial
       Moses and the Poor Woodcutter
       Precocious Sagacity of Solomon
       Solomon and the Serpent's Prey
       The Capon-carver
       The Fox and the Bear
       The Desolate Island
       Other Rabbinical Legends and Tales


AN ARABIAN TALE OF LOVE.

  _ADDITIONAL NOTES:_
       'Wamik and Asra'
       Another Famous Arabian Lover


APOCRYPHAL LIFE OF ESOP.

  _ADDITIONAL NOTE:_
       Drinking the Sea Dry


IGNORANCE OF THE CLERGY IN THE MIDDLE AGES.


THE BEARDS OF OUR FATHERS.


INDEX.




FLOWERS FROM A PERSIAN GARDEN.




I

SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE PERSIAN POET SAADI--CHARACTER OF HIS
WRITINGS--THE "GULISTÁN"--PREFACES TO BOOKS--PREFACE TO THE
"GULISTÁN"--EASTERN POETS IN PRAISE OF SPRINGTIDE.


It is remarkable how very little the average general reader knows
regarding the great Persian poet Saádí and his writings. His name is
perhaps more or less familiar to casual readers from its being appended
to one or two of his aphorisms which are sometimes reproduced in odd
corners of popular periodicals; but who he was, when he lived, and what
he wrote, are questions which would probably puzzle not a few, even of
those who consider themselves as "well read," to answer without first
recurring to some encyclopćdia. Yet Saádí was assuredly one of the most
gifted men of genius the world has ever known: a man of large and
comprehensive intellect; an original and profound thinker; an acute
observer of men and manners; and his works remain the imperishable
monument of his genius, learning, and industry.

Maslahu 'd-Dín Shaykh Saádí was born, towards the close of the twelfth
century, at Shíráz, the famous capital of Fars, concerning which city
the Persians have the saying that "if Muhammed had tasted the pleasures
of Shíráz, he would have begged Allah to make him immortal there." In
accordance with the usual practice in Persia, he assumed as his
_takhallus_, or poetical name,[1] Saádí, from his patron Atabag Saád bin
Zingí, sovereign of Fars, who encouraged men of learning in his
principality. Saádí is said to have lived upwards of a hundred years,
thirty of which were passed in the acquisition of knowledge, thirty more
in travelling through different countries, and the rest of his life he
spent in retirement and acts of devotion. He died, in his native city,
about the year 1291.

    [1] One reason, doubtless, for Persian and Turkish poets
        adopting a _takhallus_ is the custom of the poet
        introducing his name into every ghazal he composes,
        generally towards the end; and as his proper name would
        seldom or never accommodate itself to purposes of verse
        he selects a more suitable one.

At one period of his life Saádí took part in the wars of the Saracens
against the Crusaders in Palestine, and also in the wars for the faith
in India. In the course of his wanderings he had the misfortune to be
taken prisoner by the Franks, in Syria, and was ransomed by a friend,
but only to fall into worse thraldom by marrying a shrewish wife. He has
thus related the circumstances:

"Weary of the society of my friends at Damascus, I fled to the barren
wastes of Jerusalem, and associated with brutes, until I was made
captive by the Franks, and forced to dig clay along with Jews in the
fortress of Tripoli. One of the nobles of Aleppo, mine ancient friend,
happened to pass that way and recollected me. He said: 'What a state is
this to be in! How farest thou?' I answered: 'Seeing that I could place
confidence in God alone, I retired to the mountains and wilds, to avoid
the society of man; but judge what must be my situation, to be confined
in a stall, in company with wretches who deserve not the name of men.
"To be confined by the feet with friends is better than to walk in a
garden with strangers."' He took compassion on my forlorn condition,
ransomed me from the Franks for ten dínars,[2] and took me with him to
Aleppo.

    [2] A dínar is a gold coin, worth about ten shillings of our
        money.

"My friend had a daughter, to whom he married me, and he presented me
with a hundred dínars as her dower. After some time my wife unveiled her
disposition, which was ill-tempered, quarrelsome, obstinate, and
abusive; so that the happiness of my life vanished. It has been well
said: 'A bad woman in the house of a virtuous man is hell even in this
world.' Take care how you connect yourself with a bad woman. Save us, O
Lord, from the fiery trial! Once she reproached me, saying: 'Art thou
not the creature whom my father ransomed from captivity amongst the
Franks for ten dínars?' 'Yes,' I answered; 'he redeemed me for ten
dínars, and enslaved me to thee for a hundred.'

"I heard that a man once rescued a sheep from the mouth of a wolf, but
at night drew his knife across its throat. The expiring sheep thus
complained: 'You delivered me from the jaws of a wolf, but in the end I
perceive you have yourself become a wolf to me.'"

Sir Gore Ouseley, in his _Biographical Notices of Persian Poets_, states
that Saádí in the latter part of his life retired to a cell near Shíráz,
where he remained buried in contemplation of the Deity, except when
visited, as was often the case, by princes, nobles, and learned men. It
was the custom of his illustrious visitors to take with them all kinds
of meats, of which, when Saádí and his company had partaken, the shaykh
always put what remained in a basket suspended from his window, that the
poor wood-cutters of Shíráz, who daily passed by his cell, might
occasionally satisfy their hunger.

       *       *       *       *       *

The writings of Saádí, in prose as well as verse, are numerous; his best
known works being the _Gulistán_, or Rose-Garden, and the _Bustán_, or
Garden of Odours. Among his other compositions are: an essay on Reason
and Love; Advice to Kings; Arabian and Persian idylls, and a book of
elegies, besides a large collection of odes and sonnets. Saádí was an
accomplished linguist, and composed several poems in the languages of
many of the countries through which he travelled. "I have wandered to
various regions of the world," he tells us, "and everywhere have I mixed
freely with the inhabitants. I have gathered something in each corner; I
have gleaned an ear from every harvest." A deep insight into the secret
springs of human actions; an extensive knowledge of mankind; fervent
piety, without a taint of bigotry; a poet's keen appreciation of the
beauties of nature; together with a ready wit and a lively sense of
humour, are among the characteristics of Saádí's masterly compositions.
No writer, ancient or modern, European or Asiatic, has excelled, and few
have 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, 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 of the garden soon fadeth, and that the
enjoyment of the rose-bush is of short continuance; and the sages have
declared that the heart ought not to be set upon anything that is
transitory.' He asked: 'What course is then to be pursued?' I replied:
'I am able to form a book of roses, which will delight the beholders and
gratify those who are present; whose leaves the tyrannic arm of autumnal
blasts can never affect, or injure the blossoms of its spring. What
benefit will you derive from a basket of flowers? Carry a leaf from my
garden: a rose may continue in bloom five or six days, but this
Rose-Garden will flourish for ever.' As soon as I had uttered these
words, he flung the flowers from his lap, and, laying hold of the skirt
of my garment, exclaimed: 'When the beneficent promise, they faithfully
discharge their engagements.' In the course of a few days two chapters
were written in my note-book, in a style that may be useful to orators
and improve the skill of letter-writers. In short, while the rose was
still in bloom, the book called the Rose-Garden was finished."

Dr. Johnson has remarked that "there is scarcely any poet of eminence
who has not left some testimony of his fondness for the flowers, the
zephyrs, and the warblers of the spring." This is pre-eminently the case
of Oriental poets, from Solomon downwards: "Rise up, my love, my fair
one, and come away," exclaims the Hebrew poet in his Book of Canticles:
"for lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone: the flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds has come, and the
voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The fig-tree putteth forth her
green fruits, and the vines with the tender grapes give forth a good
smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away."

In a Persian poem written in the 14th century the delights of the vernal
season are thus described: "On every bush roses were blowing; on every
branch the nightingale was plaintively warbling. The tall cypress was
dancing in the garden; and the poplar never ceased clapping its hands
with joy. With a loud voice from the top of every bough the turtle-dove
was proclaiming the glad advent of spring. The diadem of the narcissus
shone with such splendour that you would have said it was the crown of
the Emperor of China. On this side the north wind, on that, the west
wind, were, in token of affection, scattering dirhams at the feet of the
rose.[3] The earth was musk-scented, the air musk-laden."

    [3] Referring to the custom of throwing small coins among
        crowds in the street on the occasion of a wedding. A
        dirham is a coin nearly equal in value to sixpence of
        our money.

But it would be difficult to adduce from the writings of any poet,
European or Asiatic, anything to excel the charming ode on spring, by
the Turkish poet Mesíhí, who flourished in the 15th century, which has
been rendered into graceful English verse, and in the measure of the
original, by my friend Mr. E. J. W. Gibb, in his dainty volume of
_Ottoman Poems_, published in London a few years ago. These are some of
the verses from that fine ode:

  Hark! the bulbul's[4] lay so joyous: "Now have come the days of spring!"
  Merry shows and crowds on every mead they spread, a maze of spring;
  There the almond-tree its silvery blossoms scatters, sprays of spring:
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_[5]

  Once again, with flow'rets decked themselves have mead and plain;
  Tents for pleasure have the blossoms raised in every rosy lane;
  Who can tell, when spring hath ended, who and what may whole remain?
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sparkling dew-drops stud the lily's leaf like sabre broad and keen;
  Bent on merry gipsy party, crowd they all the flow'ry green!
  List to me, if thou desirest, these beholding, joy to glean:
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_

  Rose and tulip, like to maidens' cheeks, all beauteous show,
  Whilst the dew-drops, like the jewels in their ears, resplendent glow;
  Do not think, thyself beguiling, things will aye continue so:
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_

       *       *       *       *       *

  Whilst each dawn the clouds are shedding jewels o'er the rosy land,
  And the breath of morning zephyr, fraught with Tátár musk, is bland;
  Whilst the world's fair time is present, do not thou unheeding stand:
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, biding not, the days of spring!_

  With the fragrance of the garden, so imbued the musky air,
  Every dew-drop, ere it reaches earth, is turned to attar rare;
  O'er the parterre spread the incense-clouds a canopy right fair:
  _Gaily live! for soon will vanish, Biding not, the days of spring!_

    [4] The nightingale.

    [5] In the original Turkish:

          _Dinleh bulbul kissa sen kim gildi eiyami behár!
          Kurdi her bir baghda hengamei hengami behár;
          Oldi sim afshan ana ezhari badami behár:
          Ysh u nush it kim gicher kalmaz bu eiyami behár._

        Here we have an example of the _redíf_, which is common
        in Turkish and Persian poetry, and "consists of one or
        more words, always the same, added to the end of every
        rhyming line in a poem, which word or words, though
        counting in the scansion, are not regarded as the true
        rhyme, which must in every case be sought for
        immediately before them. The lines--

          There shone such truth about thee,
          I did not dare to doubt thee--

        furnish an example of this in English poetry." In the
        opening verse of Mesíhí's ode, as above transliterated
        in European characters, the _redíf_ is "behár," or
        spring, and the word which precedes it is the true
        rhyme-ending. Sir William Jones has made an elegant
        paraphrase of this charming ode, in which, however, he
        diverges considerably from the original, as will be seen
        from his rendering of the first stanza:

          Hear how the nightingale, on every spray,
          Hails in wild notes the sweet return of May!
          The gale, that o'er yon waving almond blows,
          The verdant bank with silver blossoms strows;
          The smiling season decks each flowery glade--
          Be gay; too soon the flowers of spring will fade.

This Turkish poet's maxim, it will be observed, was "enjoy the present
day"--the _carpe diem_ of Horace, the genial old pagan. On the same
suggestive theme of Springtide a celebrated Turkish poetess, Fitnet
Khánim (for the Ottoman Turks have poetesses of considerable genius as
well as poets), has composed a pleasing ode, addressed to her lord, of
which the following stanzas are also from Mr. Gibb's collection:

  The fresh spring-clouds across all earth their glistening pearls
      profuse now sow;
  The flowers, too, all appearing, forth the radiance of their beauty
      show;
  Of mirth and joy 'tis now the time, the hour, to wander to and fro;
  The palm-tree o'er the fair ones' pic-nic gay its grateful shade
      doth throw.

  _O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
      earth glow;
  'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_

  Behold the roses, how they shine, e'en like the cheeks of maids
      most fair;
  The fresh-sprung hyacinth shows like to beauties' dark, sweet, musky
      hair;
  The loved one's form behold, like cypress which the streamlet's bank
      doth bear;
  In sooth, each side for soul and heart doth some delightful joy
      prepare.

  _O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
      earth glow;
  'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_

  The parterre's flowers have all bloomed forth, the roses, sweetly
      smiling, shine;
  On every side lorn nightingales, in plaintive notes discerning, pine.
  How fair carnation and wallflower the borders of the garden line!
  The long-haired hyacinth and jasmine both around the cypress twine.

  _O Liege, come forth! From end to end with verdure doth the whole
      earth glow;
  'Tis springtide once again, once more the tulips and the roses blow!_

I cannot resist the temptation to cite, in concluding this introductory
paper, another fine eulogy of the delights of spring, by Amír Khusrú, of
Delhi (14th century), from his _Mihra-i-Iskandar_, which has been thus
rendered into rhythmical prose:

"A day in spring, when all the world a pleasing picture seemed; the sun
at early dawn with happy auspices arose. The earth was bathed in balmy
dew; the beauties of the garden their charms displayed, the face of each
with brilliancy adorned. The flowers in freshness bloomed; the lamp of
the rose acquired lustre from the breeze; the tulip brought a cup from
paradise; the rose-bower shed the sweets of Eden; beneath its folds the
musky buds remained, like a musky amulet on the neck of Beauty. The
violet bent its head; the fold of the bud was closer pressed; the opened
rose in splendour glowed, and attracted every eye; the lovely flowers
oppressed with dew in tremulous motion waved. The air o'er all the
garden a silvery radiance threw, and o'er the flowers the breezes
played; on every branch the birds attuned their notes, and every bower
with warblings sweet was filled, so sweet, they stole the senses. The
early nightingale poured forth its song, that gives a zest to those who
quaff the morning goblet. From the turtle's soft cooings love seized
each bird that skimmed the air."




II

STORIES FROM THE "GULISTÁN."


The _Gulistán_ consists of short tales and anecdotes, to which are
appended comments in prose and verse, and is divided into eight
chapters, or sections: (1) the Morals of Kings; (2) the Morals of
Dervishes; (3) the Excellence of Contentment; (4) the Advantages of
Taciturnity; (5) Love and Youth; (6) Imbecility and Old Age; (7) the
Effects of Education; (8) Rules for the Conduct of Life. In culling some
of the choicest flowers of this perennial Garden, the particular order
observed by Saádí need not be regarded here; it is preferable to pick
here a flower and there a flower, as fancy may direct.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may happen, says our author, that the prudent counsel of an
enlightened sage does not succeed; and it may chance that an unskilful
boy inadvertently hits the mark with his arrow: A Persian king, while on
a pleasure excursion with a number of his courtiers at Nassála Shíráz,
appointed an archery competition for the amusement of himself and his
friends. He caused a gold ring, set with a valuable gem, to be fixed on
the dome of Asád, and it was announced that whosoever should send an
arrow through the ring should obtain it as a reward of his skill. The
four hundred skilled archers forming the royal body-guard each shot at
the ring without success. It chanced that a boy on a neighbouring
house-top was at the same time diverting himself with a little bow, when
one of his arrows, shot at random, went through the ring. The boy,
having obtained the prize, immediately burned his bow, shrewdly
observing that he did so in order that the reputation of this feat
should never be impaired.

The advantage of abstinence, or rather, great moderation in eating and
drinking, is thus curiously illustrated: Two dervishes travelled
together; one was a robust man, who regularly ate three meals every day,
the other was infirm of body, and accustomed to fast frequently for two
days in succession. On their reaching the gate of a certain town, they
were arrested on suspicion of being spies, and both lodged, without
food, in the same prison, the door of which was then securely locked.
Several days after, the unlucky dervishes were found to be quite
innocent of the crime imputed to them, and on opening the door of the
prison the strong man was discovered to be dead, and the infirm man
still alive. At this circumstance the officers of justice marvelled; but
a philosopher observed, that had the contrary happened it would have
been more wonderful, since the one who died had been a great eater, and
consequently was unable to endure the want of food, while the other,
being accustomed to abstinence, had survived.

Of Núshírván the Just (whom the Greeks called Chosroe), of the Sassanian
dynasty of Persian kings--sixth century--Saádí relates that on one
occasion, while at his hunting-seat, he was having some game dressed,
and ordered a servant to procure some salt from a neighbouring village,
at the same time charging him strictly to pay the full price for it,
otherwise the exaction might become a custom. His courtiers were
surprised at this order, and asked the king what possible harm could
ensue from such a trifle. The good king replied: "Oppression was brought
into the world from small beginnings, which every new comer increased,
until it has reached the present degree of enormity." Upon this Saádí
remarks: "If the monarch were to eat a single apple from the garden of a
peasant, the servant would pull up the tree by the roots; and if the
king order five eggs to be taken by force, his soldiers will spit a
thousand fowls. The iniquitous tyrant remaineth not, but the curses of
mankind rest on him for ever."

Only those who have experienced danger can rightly appreciate the
advantages of safety, and according as a man has become acquainted with
adversity does he recognise the value of prosperity--a sentiment which
Saádí illustrates by the story of a boy who was in a vessel at sea for
the first time, in which were also the king and his officers of state.
The lad was in great fear of being drowned, and made a loud outcry, in
spite of every effort of those around him to soothe him into
tranquility. As his lamentations annoyed the king, a sage who was of the
company offered to quiet the terrified youth, with his majesty's
permission, which being granted, he caused the boy to be plunged several
times in the sea and then drawn up into the ship, after which the youth
retired to a corner and remained perfectly quiet. The king inquired why
the lad had been subjected to such roughness, to which the sage replied:
"At first he had never experienced the danger of being drowned, neither
had he known the safety of a ship."

One of our English moralists has remarked that the man who chiefly
prides himself on his ancestry is like a potato-plant, whose best
qualities are under ground. Saádí tells us of an old Arab who said to
his son: "O my child, in the day of resurrection they will ask you what
you have done in the world, and not from whom you are descended."--In
the _Akhlák-i-Jalaly_, a work comprising the practical philosophy of the
Muhammedans, written, in the 15th century, in the Persian language, by
Fakír Jání Muhammed Asaád, and translated into English by W. F. Thompson,
Alí, the Prophet's cousin, is reported to have said:

  My soul is my father, my title my worth;
  A Persian or Arab, there's little between:
  Give me him for a comrade, whatever his birth,
  Who shows what _he is_--not what _others have been_.

An Arabian poet says:

  Be the son of whom thou wilt, try to acquire literature,
  The acquisition of which may make pedigree unnecessary to thee;
  Since a man of worth is he who can say, "I am so and so,"
  Not he who can only say, "My father was so and so."

And again:

  Ask not a man who his father was, but make trial
  Of his qualities, and then conciliate or reject him accordingly
  For it is no disgrace to new wine, if it only be sweet,
  As to its taste, that it was the juice [or daughter] of sour grapes.

The often-quoted maxim of La Rochefoucauld, that there is something in
the misfortunes of our friends which affords us a degree of secret
pleasure, is well known to the Persians. Saádí tells us of a merchant
who, having lost a thousand dínars, cautioned his son not to mention the
matter to anyone, "in order," said he, "that we may not suffer two
misfortunes--the loss of our money and the secret satisfaction of our
neighbours."

A generous disposition is thus eloquently recommended: They asked a wise
man, which was preferable, fortitude or liberality, to which he replied:
"He who possesses liberality has no need of fortitude. It is inscribed
on the tomb of Bahram-i-Gúr that a liberal hand is preferable to a
strong arm." "Hátim Taď," remarks Saádí, "no longer exists, but his
exalted name will remain famous for virtue to eternity.[6] Distribute
the tithe of your wealth in alms, for when the husbandman lops off the
exuberant branches from the vine, it produces an increase of grapes."

    [6] Hátim was chief of the Arabian tribe of Taď, shortly
        before Muhammed began to promulgate Islám, renowned for
        his extraordinary liberality.

Prodigality, however, is as much to be condemned as judicious liberality
is to be lauded. Saádí gives the following account of a Persian prodigal
son, who was not so fortunate in the end as his biblical prototype: The
son of a religious man, who succeeded to an immense fortune by the will
of his uncle, became a dissipated and debauched profligate, in so much
that he left no heinous crime unpractised, nor was there any
intoxicating drug which he had not tasted. Once I admonished him,
saying: "O my son, wealth is a running stream, and pleasure revolves
like a millstone; or, in other words, profuse expense suits him only who
has a certain income. When you have no certain income, be frugal in your
expenses, because the sailors have a song, that if the rain does not
fall in the mountains, the Tigris will become a dry bed of sand in the
course of a year. Practise wisdom and virtue, and relinquish sensuality,
for when your money is spent you will suffer distress and expose
yourself to shame."[7] The young man, seduced by music and wine, would
not take my advice, but, in opposition to my arguments, said: "It is
contrary to the wisdom of the sages to disturb our present enjoyments by
the dread of futurity. Why should they who possess fortune suffer
distress by anticipating sorrow? Go and be merry, O my enchanting
friend! We ought not to be uneasy to-day for what may happen to-morrow.
How would it become me, who am placed in the uppermost seat of
liberality, so that the fame of my bounty is wide spread? When a man has
acquired reputation by liberality and munificence, it does not become
him to tie up his money-bags. When your good name has been spread
through the street, you cannot shut your door against it." I perceived
(continues Saádí) that he did not approve of my admonition, and that my
warm breath did not affect his cold iron. I ceased advising, and,
quitting his society, returned into the corner of safety, in conformity
with the saying of the philosophers: "Admonish and exhort as your
charity requires; if they mind not, it does not concern you. Although
thou knowest that they will not listen, nevertheless speak whatever you
know is advisable. It will soon come to pass that you will see the silly
fellow with his feet in the stocks, smiting his hands and exclaiming,
'Alas, that I did not listen to the wise man's advice!'" After some
time, that which I had predicted from his dissolute conduct I saw
verified. He was clothed in rags, and begging a morsel of food. I was
distressed at his wretched condition, and did not think it consistent
with humanity to scratch his wound with reproach. But I said in my
heart: Profligate men, when intoxicated with pleasure, reflect not on
the day of poverty. The tree which in the summer has a profusion of
fruit is consequently without leaves in winter.

    [7] Auvaiyár, the celebrated poetess of the Tamils (in
        Southern India), who is said to have flourished in the
        ninth century, says, in her poem entitled _Nalvali_:

          Mark this: who lives beyond his means
          Forfeits respect, loses his sense;
          Where'er he goes through the seven births,
          All count him knave; him women scorn.

The incapacity of some youths to receive instruction is always a source
of vexation to the pedagogue. Saádí tells us of a vazír who sent his
stupid son to a learned man, requesting him to impart some of his
knowledge to the lad, hoping that his mind would be improved. After
attempting to instruct him for some time without effect, he sent this
message to his father: "Your son has no capacity, and has almost
distracted me. When nature has given capacity instruction will make
impressions; but if iron is not of the proper temper, no polishing will
make it good. Wash not a dog in the seven seas, for when he is wetted he
will only be the dirtier. If the ass that carried Jesus Christ were to
be taken to Mecca, at his return he would still be an ass."

One of the greatest sages of antiquity is reported to have said that all
the knowledge he had acquired merely taught him how little he did know;
and indeed it is only smatterers who are vain of their supposed
knowledge. A sensible young man, says Saádí, who had made considerable
progress in learning and virtue, was at the same time so discreet that
he would sit in the company of learned men without uttering a word. Once
his father said to him: "My son, why do you not also say something you
know?" He replied: "I fear lest they should question me about something
of which I am ignorant, whereby I should suffer shame."

The advantages of education are thus set forth by a philosopher who was
exhorting his children: "Acquire knowledge, for in worldly riches and
possessions no reliance can be placed.[8] Rank will be of no use out of
your own country; and on a journey money is in danger of being lost, for
either the thief may carry it off all at once, or the possessor may
consume it by degrees. But knowledge is a perennial spring of wealth,
and if a man of education cease to be opulent, yet he need not be
sorrowful, for knowledge of itself is riches.[9] A man of learning,
wheresoever he goes, is treated with respect, and sits in the uppermost
seat, whilst the ignorant man gets only scanty fare and encounters
distress." There once happened (adds Saádí) an insurrection in Damascus,
where every one deserted his habitation. The wise sons of a peasant
became the king's ministers, and the stupid sons of the vazír were
reduced to ask charity in the villages. If you want a paternal
inheritance, acquire from your father knowledge, for wealth may be spent
in ten days.

    [8] "All perishes except learning."--_Auvaiyár_.

    [9] "Learning is really the most valuable treasure.--A wise
        man will never cease to learn.--He who has attained
        learning by free self-application excels other
        philosophers.--Let thy learning be thy best
        friend.--What we have learned in youth is like writing
        cut in stone.--If all else should be lost, what we have
        learned will never be lost.--Learn one thing after
        another, but not hastily.--Though one is of low birth,
        learning will make him respected."--_Auvaiyár_.

In the following charming little tale Saádí recounts an interesting
incident in his own life: I remember that in my youth, as I was passing
through a street, I cast my eyes on a beautiful girl. It was in the
autumn, when the heat dried up all moisture from the mouth, and the
sultry wind made the marrow boil in the bones, so that, being unable to
support the sun's powerful rays, I was obliged to take shelter under the
shade of a wall, in hopes that some one would relieve me from the
distressing heat, and quench my thirst with a draught of water. Suddenly
from the portico of a house I beheld a female form whose beauty it is
impossible for the tongue of eloquence to describe, insomuch that it
seemed as if the dawn was rising in the obscurity of night, or as if the
Water of Immortality was issuing from the Land of Darkness. She held in
her hand a cup of snow-water, into which she had sprinkled sugar and
mixed with it the juice of the grape. I know not whether what I
perceived was the fragrance of rose-water, or that she had infused into
it a few drops from the blossom of her cheek. In short, I received the
cup from her beauteous hand, and, drinking the contents, found myself
restored to new life. The thirst of my soul is not such that it can be
allayed with a drop of pure water--the streams of whole rivers would not
satisfy it. How happy is that fortunate one whose eyes every morning may
behold such a countenance! He who is intoxicated with wine will be sober
again in the course of the night; but he who is intoxicated by the
cup-bearer will never recover his senses till the day of judgment.

Alas, poor Saádí! The lovely cup-bearer, who made such a lasting
impression on the heart of the young poet, was not destined for his
bride. His was indeed a sad matrimonial fate; and who can doubt but that
the beauteous form of the stranger maiden would often rise before his
mental view after he was married to the Xantippe who rendered some
portion of his life unhappy!

Among the tales under the heading of "Imbecility and Old Age" we have
one of "oldé January that wedded was to freshé May," which points its
moral now as it did six hundred years ago: When I married a young
virgin, said an old man, I bedecked a chamber with flowers, sat with her
alone, and had fixed my eyes and heart solely upon her. Many long nights
I passed without sleep, repeating jests and pleasantries, to remove
shyness, and make her familiar. On one of these nights I said: "Fortune
has been propitious to you, in that you have fallen into the society of
an old man, of mature judgment, who has seen the world, and experienced
various situations of good and bad fortune, who knows the rights of
society, and has performed the duties of friendship;--one who is
affectionate, affable, cheerful, and conversable. I will exert my utmost
endeavours to gain your affection, and if you should treat me unkindly I
will not be offended; or if, like the parrot, your food should be sugar,
I will devote my sweet life to your support. You have not met with a
youth of a rude disposition, with a weak understanding, headstrong, a
gadder, who would be constantly changing his situations and
inclinations, sleeping every night in a new place, and every day forming
some new intimacy. Young men may be lively and handsome, but they are
inconstant in their attachments. Look not thou for fidelity from those
who, with the eyes of the nightingale, are every instant singing upon a
different rose-bush. But old men pass their time in wisdom and good
manners, not in the ignorance and frivolity of youth. Seek one better
than yourself, and having found him, consider yourself fortunate. With
one like yourself you would pass your life without improvement." I spoke
a great deal after this manner (continued the old man), and thought that
I had made a conquest of her heart, when suddenly she heaved a cold sigh
from the bottom of her heart, and replied: "All the fine speeches that
you have been uttering have not so much weight in the scale of my reason
as one single sentence I have heard from my nurse, that if you plant an
arrow in the side of a young woman it is not so painful as the society
of an old man." In short (continued he), it was impossible to agree, and
our differences ended in a separation. After the time prescribed by law,
she married a young man of an impetuous temper, ill-natured, and in
indigent circumstances, so that she suffered the injuries of violence,
with the evils of penury. Nevertheless she returned thanks for her lot,
and said: "God be praised that I escaped from infernal torment, and have
obtained this permanent blessing. Amidst all your violence and
impetuosity of temper, I will put up with your airs, because you are
handsome. It is better to burn with you in hell than to be in paradise
with the other. The scent of onions from a beautiful mouth is more
fragrant than the odour of the rose from the hand of one who is ugly."

It must be allowed that this old man put his own case to his young wife
with very considerable address: yet, such is woman-nature, she chose to
be "a young man's slave rather than an old man's darling." And,
_apropos_, Saádí has another story which may be added to the foregoing:
An old man was asked why he did not marry. He answered: "I should not
like an old woman." "Then marry a young one, since you have property."
Quoth he: "Since I, who am an old man, should not be pleased with an old
woman, how can I expect that a young one would be attached to me?"

"Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," says our great dramatist, in
proof of which take this story: A certain king, when arrived at the end
of his days, having no heir, directed in his will that the morning after
his death the first person who entered the gate of the city they should
place on his head the crown of royalty, and commit to his charge the
government of the kingdom. It happened that the first to enter the city
was a dervish, who all his life had collected victuals from the
charitable and sewed patch on patch. The ministers of state and the
nobles of the court carried out the king's will, bestowing on him the
kingdom and the treasure. For some time the dervish governed the
kingdom, until part of the nobility swerved their necks from obedience
to him, and all the neighbouring monarchs, engaging in hostile
confederacies, attacked him with their armies. In short, the troops and
peasantry were thrown into confusion, and he lost the possession of some
territories. The dervish was distressed at these events, when an old
friend, who had been his companion in the days of poverty, returned from
a journey, and, finding him in such an exalted state, said: "Praised be
the God of excellence and glory, that your high fortune has aided you
and prosperity been your guide, so that a rose has issued from the
brier, and the thorn has been extracted from your foot, and you have
arrived at this dignity. Of a truth, joy succeeds sorrow; the bud does
sometimes blossom and sometimes wither; the tree is sometimes naked and
sometimes clothed." He replied: "O brother, condole with me, for this is
not a time for congratulation. When you saw me last, I was only anxious
how to obtain bread; but now I have all the cares of the world to
encounter. If the times are adverse, I am in pain; and if they are
prosperous, I am captivated with worldly enjoyments. There is no
calamity greater than worldly affairs, because they distress the heart
in prosperity as well as in adversity. If you want riches, seek only for
contentment, which is inestimable wealth. If the rich man would throw
money into your lap, consider not yourself obliged to him, for I have
often heard that the patience of the poor is preferable to the
liberality of the rich."

Muezzins, who call the faithful to prayer at the prescribed hours from
the minarets of the mosques, are generally blind men, as a man with his
eyesight might spy into the domestic privacy of the citizens, who sleep
on the flat roofs of their houses in the hot season, and are selected
for their sweetness of voice. Saádí, however, tells us of a man who
performed gratuitously the office of muezzin, and had such a voice as
disgusted all who heard it. The intendant of the mosque, a good, humane
man, being unwilling to offend him, said one day: "My friend, this
mosque has muezzins of long standing, each of whom has a monthly stipend
of ten dínars. Now I will give you ten dínars to go to another place."
The man agreed to this and went away. Some time after he came to the
intendant and said: "O, my lord, you injured me in sending me away from
this station for ten dínars; for where I went they will give me twenty
dínars to remove to another place, to which I have not consented." The
intendant laughed, and said: "Take care--don't accept of the offer, for
they may be willing to give you fifty."

To those who have "music in their souls," and are "moved by concord of
sweet sounds," the tones of a harsh voice are excruciating; and if among
our statesmen and other public speakers "silver tongues" are rare, they
are much more so among our preachers. The Church of Rome does not admit
into the priesthood men who have any bodily shortcoming or defect; it
would also be well if all candidates for holy orders in the English and
Scottish Churches whose voices are not at least tolerable were rejected,
as unfit to preach! Saádí seems to have had a great horror of braying
orators, and relates a number of anecdotes about them, such as this: A
preacher who had a detestable voice, but thought he had a very sweet
one, bawled out to no purpose. You would say the croaking of the crow in
the desert was the burden of his song, and that this verse of the Kurán
was intended for him, "Verily the most detestable of sounds is the
braying of an ass." When this ass of a preacher brayed, it made
Persepolis tremble. The people of the town, on account of the
respectability of his office, submitted to the calamity, and did not
think it advisable to molest him, until one of the neighbouring
preachers, who was secretly ill-disposed towards him, came once to see
him, and said: "I have had a dream--may it prove good!" "What did you
dream?" "I thought you had a sweet voice, and that the people were
enjoying tranquility from your discourse." The preacher, after
reflecting a little, replied: "What a happy dream is this that you have
had, which has discovered to me my defect, in that I have an unpleasant
voice, and that the people are distressed at my preaching. I am resolved
that in future I will read only in a low tone. The company of friends
was disadvantageous to me, because they look on my bad manners as
excellent: my defects appear to them skill and perfection, and my thorn
as the rose and the jasmin."

Our author, as we have seen, enlivens his moral discourses occasionally
with humorous stories, and one or two more of these may fittingly close
the present section: One of the slaves of Amrúlais having run away, a
person was sent in pursuit of him and brought him back. The vazír, being
inimical to him, commanded him to be put to death in order to deter
other slaves from committing the like offence. The slave prostrated
himself before Amrúlais and said: "Whatever may happen to me with your
approbation is lawful--what plea can the slave offer against the
sentence of his lord? But, seeing that I have been brought up under the
bounties of your house, I do not wish that at the resurrection you shall
be charged with my blood. If you are resolved to kill your slave, do so
comformably to the interpretation of the law, in order that at the
resurrection you may not suffer reproach." The king asked: "After what
manner shall I expound it?" The slave replied: "Give me leave to kill
the vazír, and then, in retaliation for him, order me to be put to
death, that you may kill me justly." The king laughed, and asked the
vazír what was his advice in this matter. Quoth the vazír: "O my lord,
as an offering to the tomb of your father, liberate this rogue, in order
that I may not also fall into this calamity. The crime is on my side,
for not having observed the words of the sages, who say, 'When you
combat with one who flings clods of earth, you break your own head by
your folly: when you shoot at the face of your enemy, be careful that
you sit out of his aim.'"--And not a little wit, too, did the kází
exhibit when detected by the king in an intrigue with a farrier's
daughter, and his Majesty gave order that he should be flung from the
top of the castle, "as an example for others"; to which the kází
replied: "O monarch of the universe, I have been fostered in your
family, and am not singular in the commission of such crimes; therefore,
I ask you to precipitate some one else, in order that I may benefit by
the example." The king laughed at his wit, and spared his life.--Nor is
this tale without a spice of humour: An astrologer entered his house and
finding a stranger in company with his wife abused him, and called him
such opprobrious names that a quarrel and strife ensued. A shrewd man,
being informed of this, said to the astrologer: "What do you know of the
heavenly bodies, when you cannot tell what goes on in your own
house?"[10]--Last, and perhaps best of all, is this one: I was
hesitating about concluding a bargain for a house, when a Jew said: "I
am an old householder in that quarter; inquire of me the description of
the house, and buy it, for it has no fault." I replied: "Excepting that
you are one of the neighbours!"

   [10] There is a similar story to this in one of our old
        English jest-books, _Tales and Quicke Answeres_, 1535,
        as follows (I have modernised the spelling): As an
        astronomer [i.e. an astrologer] sat upon a time in the
        market place, and took upon him to divine and to show
        what their fortunes and chances should be that came to
        him, there came a fellow and told him (as it was indeed)
        that thieves had broken into his house, and had borne
        away all that he had. These tidings grieved him so sore
        that, all heavy and sorrowfully, he rose up and went his
        way. When the fellow saw him do so, he said: "O thou
        foolish and mad man! goest thou about to divine other
        men's matters, and art ignorant of thine own?"




III

ANECDOTES AND APHORISMS FROM THE "GULISTÁN," WITH ANALOGUES--CONCLUSION.


Besides the maxims comprised in the concluding chapter of the
_Gulistán_, under the heading of "Rules for the Conduct of Life," many
others, of great pith and moment, are interspersed with the tales and
anecdotes which Saádí recounts in the preceding chapters, a selection of
which can hardly fail to prove both instructive and interesting.

It is related that at the court of Núshírván, king of Persia, a number
of wise men were discussing a difficult question; and Buzurjmihr (his
famous prime minister), being silent, was asked why he did not take part
in the debate. He answered: "Ministers are like physicians, and the
physician gives medicine to the sick only. Therefore, when I see your
opinions are judicious, it would not be consistent with wisdom for me to
obtrude my sentiments. When a matter can be managed without my
interference it is not proper for me to speak on the subject. But if I
see a blind man in the way of a well, should I keep silence it were a
crime." On another occasion, when some Indian sages were discoursing on
his virtue, they could discover in him only this fault, that he
hesitated in his speech, so that his hearers were kept a long time in
suspense before he delivered his sentiments. Buzurjmihr overheard their
conversation and observed: "It is better to deliberate before I speak
than to repent of what I have said."[11]

   [11] The sayings of Buzurjmihr, the sagacious prime minister
        of King Núshírván, are often cited by Persian writers,
        and a curious story of his precocity when a mere youth
        is told in the _Latá'yif at-Taw'áyif_, a Persian
        collection, made by Al-Káshifí, of which a translation
        will be found in my "Analogues and Variants" of the
        Tales in vol. iii of Sir R. F. Burton's _Supplemental
        Arabian Nights_, pp. 567-9--too long for reproduction
        here.

A parallel to this last saying of the Persian vazír is found in a
"notable sentence" of a wise Greek, in this passage from the _Dictes, or
Sayings of Philosophers_, printed by Caxton (I have modernised the
spelling):

"There came before a certain king three wise men, a Greek, a Jew, and a
Saracen, of whom the said king desired that each of them would utter
some good and notable sentence. Then the Greek said: 'I may well correct
and amend my thoughts, but not my words.' The Jew said: 'I marvel of
them that say things prejudicial, when silence were more profitable.'
The Saracen said: 'I am master of my words ere they are pronounced; but
when they are spoken I am servant thereto.' And it was asked one of
them: 'Who might be called a king?' And he answered: 'He that is not
subject to his own will.'"

The _Dictes, or Sayings of Philosophers_, of which, I believe, but one
perfect copy is extant, was translated from the French by Earl Rivers,
and printed by Caxton, at Westminister, in the year 1477, as we learn
from the colophon. I am not aware that any one has taken the trouble to
trace to their sources all the sayings comprised in this collection, but
I think the original of the above is to be found in the following, from
the preface to the Arabian version (from the Pahlaví, the ancient
language of Persia) of the celebrated Fables of Bidpaď, entitled _Kalíla
wa Dimna_, made in the year 754:

"The four kings of China, India, Persia, and Greece, being together,
agreed each of them to deliver a saying which might be recorded to their
honour in after ages. The king of China said: 'I have more power over
that which I have not spoken than I have to recall what has once passed
my lips.' The king of India: 'I have been often struck with the risk of
speaking; for if a man be heard in his own praise it is unprofitable
boasting, and what he says to his own discredit is injurious in its
consequences.' The king of Persia: 'I am the slave of what I have
spoken, but the master of what I conceal.' The king of Greece: 'I have
never regretted the silence which I had imposed upon myself; though I
have often repented of the words I have uttered;[12] for silence is
attended with advantage, whereas loquacity is often followed by
incurable evils.'"

   [12] Simonides used to say that he never regretted having
        held his tongue, but very often had he felt sorry for
        having spoken.--_Stobćus_: Flor. xxxiii, 12.

The Persian poet Jámí--the last of the brilliant galaxy of genius who
enriched the literature of their country, and who flourished two
centuries after Saádí had passed to his rest--reproduces these sayings
of the four kings in his work entitled _Baháristán_, or Abode of Spring,
which is similar in design to the _Gulistán_.

Among the sayings of other wise men (whose names, however, Saádí does
not mention) are the following: A devotee, who had quitted his monastery
and become a member of a college, being asked what difference there is
between a learned man and a religious man to induce him thus to change
his associates, answered: "The devotee saves his own blanket out of the
waves, and the learned man endeavours to save others from drowning."--A
young man complained to his spiritual guide of his studies being
frequently interrupted by idle and impudent visitors, and desired to
know by what means he might rid himself of the annoyance. The sage
replied: "To such as are poor lend money, and of such as are rich ask
money, and, depend upon it, you will never see one of them again."

Saádí's own aphorisms are not less striking and instructive. They are
indeed calculated to stimulate the faltering to manly exertion, and to
counsel the inexperienced. It is to youthful minds, however, that the
"words of the wise" are more especially addressed; for it is during the
spring-time of life that the seeds of good and evil take root; and so we
find the sage Hebrew king frequently addressing his maxims to the young:
"My son," is his formula, "my son, attend to my words, and bow thine ear
to my understanding; that thou mayest regard discretion, and that thy
lips may keep knowledge." And the "good and notable sentences" of Saádí
are well worthy of being treasured by the young man on the threshold of
life. For example:

"Life is snow, and the summer advanceth; only a small portion remaineth:
art thou still slothful?"

This warning has been reiterated by moralists in all ages and
countries;--the Great Teacher says: "Work while it is day, for the night
cometh when no man can work." And Saádí, in one of his sermons (which is
found in another of his books), recounts this beautiful fable, in
illustration of the fortunes of the slothful and the industrious:

It is related that in a certain garden a Nightingale had built his nest
on the bough of a rose-bush. It so happened that a poor little Ant had
fixed her dwelling at the root of this same bush, and managed as best
she could to store her wretched hut of care with winter provision. Day
and night was the Nightingale fluttering round the rose-bower, and
tuning the barbut[13] of his soul-deluding melody; indeed, whilst the
Ant was night and day industriously occupied, the thousand-songed bird
seemed fascinated with his own sweet voice, echoing amidst the trees.
The Nightingale was whispering his secret to the Rose,[14] and that,
full-blown by the zephyr of the dawn, would ogle him in return. The poor
Ant could not help admiring the coquettish airs of the Rose, and the gay
blandishments of the Nightingale, and incontinently remarking: "Time
alone can disclose what may be the end of this frivolity and talk!"
After the flowery season of summer was gone, and the black time of
winter was come, thorns took the station of the Rose, and the raven the
perch of the Nightingale. The storms of autumn raged in fury, and the
foliage of the grove was shed upon the ground. The cheek of the leaf was
turned yellow, and the breath of the wind was chill and blasting. The
gathering cloud poured down hailstones, like pearls, and flakes of snow
floated like camphor on the bosom of the air. Suddenly the Nightingale
returned into the garden, but he met neither the bloom of the Rose nor
fragrance of the spikenard; notwithstanding his thousand-songed tongue,
he stood stupified and mute, for he could discover no flower whose form
he might admire, nor any verdure whose freshness he might enjoy. The
Thorn turned round to him and said: "How long, silly bird, wouldst thou
be courting the society of the Rose? Now is the season that in the
absence of thy charmer thou must put up with the heart-rending bramble
of separation." The Nightingale cast his eye upon the scene around him,
but saw nothing fit to eat. Destitute of food, his strength and
fortitude failed him, and in his abject helplessness he was unable to
earn himself a little livelihood. He called to his mind and said:
"Surely the Ant had in former days his dwelling underneath this tree,
and was busy in hoarding a store of provision: now I will lay my wants
before her, and, in the name of good neighbourship, and with an appeal
to her generosity, beg some small relief. Peradventure she may pity my
distress and bestow her charity upon me." Like a poor suppliant, the
half-famished Nightingale presented himself at the Ant's door, and said:
"Generosity is the harbinger of prosperity, and the capital stock of
good luck. I was wasting my precious life in idleness whilst thou wast
toiling hard and laying up a hoard. How considerate and good it were of
thee wouldst thou spare me a portion of it." The Ant replied:

"Thou wast day and night occupied in idle talk, and I in attending to
the needful: one moment thou wast taken up with the fresh blandishment
of the Rose, and the next busy in admiring the blossoming spring. Wast
thou not aware that every summer has its fall and every road an
end?"[15]

   [13] The name of a musical instrument.

   [14] The fancied love of the nightingale for the rose is a
        favourite theme of Persian poets.

   [15] Cf. the fable of Anianus: After laughing all summer at
        her toil, the Grasshopper came in winter to borrow part
        of the Ant's store of food. "Tell me," said the Ant,
        "what you did in the summer?" "I sang," replied the
        Grasshopper. "Indeed," rejoined the Ant. "Then you may
        dance and keep yourself warm during the winter."

These are a few more of Saádí's aphorisms:

Riches are for the comfort of life, and not life for the accumulation of
riches.[16]

   [16] Auvaiyár, the celebrated Indian poetess, in her
        _Nalvali_, says:

          Hark! ye who vainly toil and wealth
          Amass--O sinful men, the soul
          Will leave its nest; where then will be
          The buried treasure that you lose?

The eye of the avaricious man cannot be satisfied with wealth, any more
than a well can be filled with dew.

A wicked rich man is a clod of earth gilded.

The liberal man who eats and bestows is better than the religious man
who fasts and hoards.

Publish not men's secret faults, for by disgracing them you make
yourself of no repute.

He who gives advice to a self-conceited man stands himself in need of
counsel from another.

The vicious cannot endure the sight of the virtuous, in the same manner
as the curs of the market howl at a hunting-dog, but dare not approach
him.

When a mean wretch cannot vie with any man in virtue, out of his
wickedness he begins to slander him. The abject, envious wretch will
slander the virtuous man when absent, but when brought face to face his
loquacious tongue becomes dumb.

O thou, who hast satisfied thy hunger, to thee a barley loaf is beneath
notice;--that seems loveliness to me which in thy sight appears
deformity.

The ringlets of fair maids are chains for the feet of reason, and snares
for the bird of wisdom.

When you have anything to communicate that will distress the heart of
the person whom it concerns, be silent, in order that he may hear it
from some one else. O nightingale, bring thou the glad tidings of the
spring, and leave bad news to the owl!

It often happens that the imprudent is honoured and the wise despised.
The alchemist died of poverty and distress, while the blockhead found a
treasure under a ruin.

Covetousness sews up the eyes of cunning, and brings both bird and fish
into the net.

Although, in the estimation of the wise, silence is commendable, yet at
a proper season speech is preferable.[17]

   [17] "Comprehensive talkers are apt to be tiresome when we
        are not athirst for information; but, to be quite fair,
        we must admit that superior reticence is a good deal due
        to the lack of matter. Speech is often barren, but
        silence does not necessarily brood over a full nest.
        Your still fowl, blinking at you without remark, may all
        the while be sitting on one addled nest-egg; and when it
        takes to cackling will have nothing to announce but that
        addled delusion."--George Eliot's _Felix Holt_.

Two things indicate an obscure understanding: to be silent when we
should converse, and to speak when we should be silent.

Put not yourself so much in the power of your friend that, if he should
become your enemy, he may be able to injure you.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our English poet Young has this observation in his _Night Thoughts_:

  Thought, in the mine, may come forth gold or dross;
  When coined in word, we know its real worth.

He had been thus anticipated by Saádí: "To what shall be likened the
tongue in a man's mouth? It is the key of the treasury of wisdom. When
the door is shut, who can discover whether he deals in jewels or
small-wares?"

The poet Thomson, in his _Seasons_, has these lines, which have long
been hackneyed:

                              Loveliness
  Needs not the aid of foreign ornament,
  But is when unadorned adorned the most.

Saádí had anticipated him also: "The face of the beloved," he says,
"requireth not the art of the tire-woman. The finger of a beautiful
woman and the tip of her ear are handsome without an ear-jewel or a
turquoise ring." But Saádí, in his turn, was forestalled by the Arabian
poet-hero Antar, in his famous _Mu'allaka_, or prize-poem, which is at
least thirteen hundred years old, where he says: "Many a consort of a
fair one, whose beauty required no ornaments, have I laid prostrate on
the field."

Yet one Persian poet, at least, namely, Nakhshabí, held a different
opinion: "Beauty," he says, "adorned with ornaments, portends disastrous
events to our hearts. An amiable form, ornamented with diamonds and
gold, is like a melodious voice accompanied by the rabáb." Again, he
says: "Ornaments are the universal ravishers of hearts, and an upper
garment for the shoulder is like a cluster of gems. If dress, however,"
he concedes, "may have been at any time the assistant of beauty, beauty
is always the animator of dress." It is remarkable that homely-featured
women dress more gaudily than their handsome sisters generally, thus
unconsciously bringing their lack of beauty (not to put too fine a point
on it) into greater prominence.

In common with other moralists, Saádí reiterates the maxim that learning
and virtue, precept and practice, should ever go hand in hand. "Two
persons," says he, "took trouble in vain: he who acquired wealth without
using it, and he who taught wisdom without practising it." Again: "He
who has acquired knowledge and does not practise it, is like unto him
that ploughed but did not sow." And again: "How much soever you may
study science, when you do not act wisely, you are ignorant. The beast
that they load with books is not profoundly wise and learned: what
knoweth his empty skull whether he carrieth fire-wood or books?" And yet
again: "A learned man without temperance is like a blind man carrying a
lamp: he showeth the way to others, but does not guide himself."

Ingratitude is denounced by all moralists as the lowest of vices. Thus
Saádí says: "Man is beyond dispute the most excellent of created beings,
and the vilest animal is the dog; but the sages agree that a grateful
dog is better than an ungrateful man. A dog never forgets a morsel,
though you pelt him a hundred times with stones. But if you cherish a
mean wretch for an age, he will fight with you for a mere trifle." In
language still more forcible does a Hindú poet denounce this basest of
vices: "To cut off the teats of a cow;[18] to occasion a pregnant woman
to miscarry; to injure a Bráhman--are sins of the most aggravated
nature; but more atrocious than these is ingratitude."

   [18] The cow is sacred among the Hindús.

The sentiment so tersely expressed in the Chinese proverb, "He who never
reveals a secret keeps it best," is thus finely amplified by Saádí: "The
matter which you wish to preserve as a secret impart not to every one,
although he may be worthy of confidence; for no one will be so true to
your secret as yourself. It is safer to be silent than to reveal a
secret to any one, and tell him not to mention it. O wise man! stop the
water at the spring-head, for when it is in full stream you cannot
arrest it."[19]

   [19] Thus also Jámí, in his _Baháristán_ (Second "Garden"):
        "With regard to a secret divulged and one kept
        concealed, there is in use an excellent proverb, that
        the one is an arrow still in our possession, and the
        other is an arrow sent from the bow." And another
        Persian poet, whose name I have not ascertained,
        eloquently exclaims: "O my heart! if thou desirest ease
        in this life, keep thy secrets undisclosed, like the
        modest rose-bud. Take warning from that lovely flower,
        which, by expanding its hitherto hidden beauties when in
        full bloom, gives its leaves and its happiness to the
        winds."

The imperative duty of active benevolence is thus inculcated: "Bestow
thy gold and thy wealth while they are thine; for when thou art gone
they will be no longer in thy power. Distribute thy treasure readily
to-day, for to-morrow the key may be no longer in thy hand. Exert
thyself to cast a covering over the poor, that God's own veil may be a
covering to thee."

In the following passage the man of learning and virtue is contrasted
with the stupid and ignorant blockhead:

"If a wise man, falling into company with mean people, does not get
credit for his discourse, be not surprised, for the sound of the harp
cannot overpower the noise of the drum, and the fragrance of ambergris
is overcome by fetid garlic. The ignorant fellow was proud of his loud
voice, because he had impudently confounded the man of understanding. If
a jewel falls in the mud it is still the same precious stone,[20] and if
dust flies up to the sky it retains its original baseness. A capacity
without education is deplorable, and education without capacity is
thrown away. Sugar obtains not its value from the cane, but from its
innate quality. Musk has fragrance of itself, and not from being called
a perfume by the druggist. The wise man is like the druggist's chest,
silent, but full of virtues; while the blockhead resembles the warrior's
drum, noisy, but an empty prattler. A wise man in the company of those
who are ignorant has been compared by the sages to a beautiful girl in
the company of blind men, and to the Kurán in the house of an
infidel."--The old proverb that "an evil bird has an evil egg" finds
expression by Saádí thus: "No one whose origin is bad ever catches the
reflection of the good." Again, he says: "How can we make a good sword
out of bad iron? A worthless person cannot by education become a person
of any worth." And yet again: "Evil habits which have taken root in
one's nature will only be got rid of at the hour of death."

   [20] Is such a thing as an emerald made worse than it was if
        it is not praised?--_Marcus Aurelius_.

          If glass be used to decorate a crown,
          While gems are taken to bedeck a foot,
          'Tis not that any fault lies in the gem,
          But in the want of knowledge of the setter.

        --_Panchatantra_, a famous Indian book of Fables.

Firdausí, the Homer of Persia (eleventh century), has the following
remarks in his scathing satire on the sultan Mahmúd, of Ghazní
(Atkinson's rendering):

  Alas! from vice can goodness ever spring?
  Is mercy hoped for in a tyrant king?
  Can water wash the Ethiopian white?
  Can we remove the darkness from the night?
  The tree to which a bitter fruit is given
  Would still be bitter in the bowers of heaven;
  And a bad heart keeps on its vicious course,
  Or, if it changes, changes for the worse;
  Whilst streams of milk where Eden's flow'rets blow
  Acquire more honied sweetness as they flow.

The striking words of the Great Teacher, "How hardly shall they that
have riches enter into the kingdom of God!" find an interesting analogue
in this passage by Saádí: "There is a saying of the Prophet, 'To the
poor death is a state of rest.' The ass that carries the lightest burden
travels easiest. In like manner, the good man who bears the burden of
poverty will enter the gate of death lightly loaded, while he who lives
in affluence, with ease and comfort, will, doubtless, on that very
account find death very terrible. And in any view, the captive who is
released from confinement is happier than the noble who is taken
prisoner."

A singular anecdote is told of another celebrated Persian poet, which
may serve as a kind of commentary on this last-cited passage: Faridú
'd-Dín 'Attár, who died in the year 1229, when over a hundred years old,
was considered the most perfect Súfí[21] philosopher of the time in
which he lived. His father was an eminent druggist in Nishapúr, and for
a time Faridú 'd-Dín followed the same profession, and his shop was the
delight of all who passed by it, from the neatness of its arrangements
and the fragrant odours of drugs and essences. 'Attár, which means
druggist, or perfumer, Faridú 'd-Dín adopted for his poetical title. One
day, while sitting at his door with a friend, an aged dervish drew near,
and, after looking anxiously and closely into the well-furnished shop,
he sighed heavily and shed tears, as he reflected on the transitory
nature of all earthly things. 'Attár, mistaking the sentiment uppermost
in the mind of the venerable devotee, ordered him to be gone, to which
he meekly rejoined: "Yes, I have nothing to prevent me from leaving thy
door, or, indeed, from quitting this world at once, as my sole
possession is this threadbare garment. But O 'Attár, I grieve for thee:
for how canst thou ever bring thyself to think of death--to leave all
these goods behind thee?" 'Attár replied that he hoped and believed that
he should die as contentedly as any dervish; upon which the aged
devotee, saying, "We shall see," placed his wooden bowl upon the ground,
laid his head upon it, and, calling on the name of God, immediately
resigned his soul. Deeply impressed with this incident, 'Attár at once
gave up his shop, and devoted himself to the study of Súfí
philosophy.[22]

   [21] The Súfís are the mystics of Islám, and their poetry,
        while often externally anacreontic--bacchanalian and
        erotic--possesses an esoteric, spiritual signification:
        the sensual world is employed to symbolise that which is
        to be apprehended only by the _inward_ sense. Most of
        the great poets of Persia, Afghanistán, and Turkey are
        generally understood to have been Súfís.

   [22] Sir Gore Ouseley's _Biographical Notices of Persian Poets_.

The death of Cardinal Mazarin furnishes another remarkable illustration
of Saádí's sentiment. A day or two before he died, the cardinal caused
his servant to carry him into his magnificent art gallery, where, gazing
upon his collection of pictures and sculpture, he cried in anguish, "And
must I leave all these?" Dr. Johnson may have had Mazarin's words in
mind when he said to Garrick, while being shown over the famous actor's
splendid mansion: "Ah, Davie, Davie, these are the things that make a
death-bed terrible!"

Few passages of Shakspeare are more admired than these lines:

  And this our life, exempt from public haunts,
  Finds _tongues in trees_, books in the running brooks,
  Sermons in stones, and good in everything.[23]

   [23] Cf. these lines, from Herrick's "Hesperides":

          But you are _lovely leaves_, where we
            May read, how soon things have
            Their end, tho' ne'er so brave;
          And after they have shown their pride,
            Like you, a while, they glide
                  Into the grave.

Saádí had thus expressed the same sentiment before him: "The foliage of
a newly-clothed tree, to the eye of a discerning man, displays a whole
volume of the wondrous works of the Creator." Another Persian poet,
Jámí, in his beautiful mystical poem of _Yúsuf wa Zulaykhá_, says:
"Every leaf is a tongue uttering praises, like one who keepeth crying,
'In the name of God.'"[24] And the Afghan poet Abdu 'r-Rahman says:
"Every tree, every shrub, stands ready to bend before him; every herb
and blade of grass is a tongue to mutter his praises." And Horace Smith,
that most pleasing but unpretentious writer, both of verse and prose,
has thus finely amplified the idea of "tongues in trees":

  Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers,
  Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,
  Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers,
                  From loneliest nook.

  'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
  And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
  Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
                  A call to prayer;--

  Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column
  Attest the feebleness of mortal hand,
  But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
                  Which God hath planned:

  To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
  Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply;
  Its choir, the winds and waves, its organ, thunder,
                  Its dome, the sky.

  There, amid solitude and shade, I wander
  Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod,
  Awed by the silence, reverently ponder
                  The ways of God.

   [24] "In the name of God" is part of the formula employed by
        pious Muslims in their acts of worship, and on entering
        upon any enterprise of danger or
        uncertainty--_bi'smi'llahi ar-rahman ar-rahimi_, "In the
        name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate!" These
        words are usually placed at the beginning of Muhammedan
        books, secular as well as religions; and they form part
        of the Muslim Confession of Faith, used in the last
        extremity: "In the name of God, the Merciful, the
        Compassionate! There is no strength nor any power save
        in God, the High, the Mighty. To God we belong, and
        verily to him we return!"

       *       *       *       *       *

When Saádí composed his _Gulistán_, in 1278, he was between eighty and
ninety years of age, with his great mind still vigorous as ever; and he
lived many years after, beloved and revered by the poor, whose
necessities he relieved, and honoured and esteemed by the noble and the
learned, who frequently visited the venerable solitary, to gather and
treasure up the pearls of wisdom which dropped from his eloquent tongue.
Like other poets of lofty genius, he possessed a firm assurance of the
immortality of his fame. "A rose," says he, "may continue to bloom for
five or six days, but this Rose-Garden will flourish for ever"; and
again: "These verses and recitals of mine will endure after every
particle of my dust has been dispersed." Six centuries have passed away
since the gifted sage penned his _Gulistán_, and his fame has not only
continued in his own land and throughout the East generally, but has
spread into all European countries, and across the Atlantic, where long
after the days of Saádí "still stood the forests primeval."




ORIENTAL WIT AND HUMOUR.

  Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
  And Laughter shaking both his sides.--_L' Allegro_.




I

MAN A LAUGHING ANIMAL--ANTIQUITY OF POPULAR JESTS--"NIGHT AND DAY"--THE
PLAIN-FEATURED BRIDE--THE HOUSE OF CONDOLENCE--THE BLIND MAN'S WIFE--TWO
WITTY PERSIAN LADIES--WOMAN'S COUNSEL--THE TURKISH JESTER: IN THE
PULPIT; THE CAULDRON; THE BEGGAR; THE DRUNKEN GOVERNOR; THE ROBBER; THE
HOT BROTH--MUSLIM PREACHERS AND MUSLIM MISERS.


Certain philosophers have described man as a cooking animal, others as a
tool-making animal, others, again, as a laughing animal. No creature
save man, say the advocates of the last definition, seems to have any
"sense of humour." However this may be, there can be little doubt that
man in all ages of which we have any knowledge has possessed that
faculty which perceives ridiculous incongruities in the relative
positions of certain objects, and in the actions and sayings of
individuals, which we term the "sense of the ludicrous." It is not to be
supposed that a dog or a cat--albeit intelligent creatures, in their own
ways--would see anything funny or laughable in a man whose sole attire
consisted in a general's hat and sash and a pair of spurs! Yet _that_
should be enough to "make even a cat laugh"! Certainly laughter is
peculiar to our species; and gravity is as certainly not always a token
of profound wisdom; for

  The gravest beast's an ass;
    The gravest bird's an owl;
  The gravest fish's an oyster;
    And the gravest man's a _fool_.

Many of the great sages of antiquity were also great humorists, and
laughed long and heartily at a good jest. And, indeed, as the Sage of
Chelsea affirms, "no man who has once heartily and wholly laughed can be
altogether, irreclaimably bad. How much lies in laughter!--the cipher
key wherewith we decipher the whole man!... The man who cannot laugh is
not only fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils, but his whole life is
already a treason and a stratagem." Let us, then, laugh at what is
laughable while we are yet clothed in "this muddy vesture of decay,"
for, as delightful Elia asks, "Can a ghost laugh? Can he shake his gaunt
sides if we be merry with him?"

It is a remarkable fact that a considerable proportion of the familiar
jests of almost any country, which are by its natives fondly believed to
be "racy of the soil," are in reality common to other peoples widely
differing in language and customs. Not a few of these jests had their
origin ages upon ages since--in Greece, in Persia, in India. Yet they
must have set out upon their travels westward at a comparatively early
period, for they have been long domiciled in almost every country of
Europe. Nevertheless, as we ourselves possess a goodly number of droll
witticisms, repartees, and jests, which are most undoubtedly and beyond
cavil our own--such as many of those which are ascribed to Sam Foote,
Harry Erskine, Douglas Jerrold, and Sydney Smith; though they have been
credited with some that are as old as the jests of Hierokles--so there
exist in what may be termed the lower strata of Oriental fiction,
humorous and witty stories, characteristic of the different peoples
amongst whom they originated, which, for the most part, have not yet
been appropriated by the European compilers of books of facetić, and a
selection of such jests--choice specimens of Oriental Wit and
Humour--gleaned from a great variety of sources, will, I trust, amuse
readers in general, and lovers of funny anecdotes in particular.

       *       *       *       *       *

To begin, then--_place aux dames_! In most Asiatic countries the ladies
are at a sad discount in the estimation of their lords and masters,
however much the latter may expatiate on their personal charms, and in
Eastern jests this is abundantly shown. For instance, a Persian poet,
through the importunity of his friends, had married an old and very ugly
woman, who turned out also of a very bad temper, and they had constant
quarrels. Once, in a dispute, the poet made some comparisons between his
aged wife and himself and between Night and Day. "Cease your nonsense,"
said she; "night and day were created long before us." "Hold a little,"
said the husband. "I know they were created long before me, but whether
before _you_, admits of great doubt!" Again, a Persian married, and, as
is customary with Muslims, on the marriage night saw his bride's face
for the first time, when she proved to be very ugly--perhaps
"plain-looking" were the more respectful expression. A few days after
the nuptials, she said to him: "My life! as you have many relatives, I
wish you would inform me before which of them I may unveil." (Women of
rank in Muslim countries appear unveiled only before very near
relations.) "My soul!" responded the husband, "if thou wilt but conceal
thy face from _me_, I care not to whom thou showest it." And there is a
grim sort of humour in the story of the poor Arab whose wife was going
on a visit of condolence, when he said to her: "My dear, if you go, who
is to take care of the children, and what have you left for them to
eat?" She replied: "As I have neither flour, nor milk, nor butter, nor
oil, nor anything else, what can I leave?" "You had better stay at home,
then," said the poor man; "for assuredly _this_ is the true house of
condolence." And also in the following: A citizen of Tawris, in
comfortable circumstances, had a daughter so very ugly that nothing
could induce any one to marry her. At length he resolved to bestow her
on a blind man, hoping that, not seeing her personal defects, he would
be kind to her. His plan succeeded, and the blind man lived very happily
with his wife. By-and-by, there arrived in the city a doctor who was
celebrated for restoring sight to many people, and the girl's father was
urged by his friends to engage this skilled man to operate upon his
son-in-law, but he replied: "I will take care to do nothing of the kind;
for if this doctor should restore my son-in-law's eyesight, _he_ would
very soon restore my daughter to me!"

But occasionally ladies are represented as giving witty retorts, as in
the story of the Persian lady who, walking in the street, observed a man
following her, and turning round enquired of him: "Why do you follow me,
sir?" He answered: "Because I am in love with you." "Why are you in love
with me?" said the lady. "My sister is much handsomer than I; she is
coming after me--go and make love to her." The fellow went back and saw
a woman with an exceedingly ugly face, upon which he at once went after
the lady, and said to her: "Why did you tell me what was not true?"
"Neither did you speak the truth," answered she; "for if you were really
in love with me, you would not have turned to see another woman." And
the Persian poet Jámí, in his _Baháristán_, relates that a man with a
very long nose asked a woman in marriage, saying: "I am no way given to
sloth, or long sleeping, and I am very patient in bearing vexations." To
which she replied: "Yes, truly: hadst thou not been patient in bearing
vexations thou hadst not carried that nose of thine these forty years."

The low estimation in which women are so unjustly held among Muhammedans
is perhaps to be ascribed partly to the teachings of the Kurán in one or
two passages, and to the traditional sayings of the Apostle Muhammad,
who has been credited (or rather _discredited_) with many things which
he probably never said. But this is not peculiar to the followers of the
Prophet of Mecca: a very considerable proportion of the Indian fictions
represent women in an unfavourable light--fictions, too, which were
composed long before the Hindús came in contact with the Muhammedans.
Even in Europe, during medićval times, _maugre_ the "lady fair" of
chivalric romance, it was quite as much the custom to decry women, and
to relate stories of their profligacy, levity, and perversity, as ever
it has been in the East. But we have changed all that in modern times:
it is only to be hoped that we have not gone to the other
extreme!--According to an Arabian writer, cited by Lane, "it is
desirable, before a man enters upon any important undertaking, to
consult ten intelligent persons among his particular friends; or if he
have not more than five such friends let him consult each twice; or if
he have not more than one friend he should consult him ten times, at ten
different visits [he would be 'a friend indeed,' to submit to so many
consultations on the same subject]; if he have not one to consult let
him return to his wife and consult her, and whatever she advises him to
do let him do the contrary, so shall he proceed rightly in his affair
and attain his object."[25] We may suppose this Turkish story, from the
_History of the Forty Vezírs_, to be illustrative of the wisdom of such
teaching: A man went on the roof of his house to repair it, and when he
was about to come down he called to his wife, "How should I come down?"
The woman answered, "The roof is free; what would happen? You are a
young man--jump down." The man jumped down, and his ankle was
dislocated, and for a whole year he was bedridden, and his ankle came
not back to its place. Next year the man again went on the roof of his
house and repaired it. Then he called to his wife, "Ho! wife, how shall
I come down?" The woman said, "Jump not; thine ankle has not yet come to
its place--come down gently." The man replied, "The other time, for that
I followed thy words, and not those of the Apostle [i.e., Muhammed], was
my ankle dislocated, and it is not yet come to its place; now shall I
follow the words of the Apostle, and do the contrary of what thou sayest
[Kurán, iii, 29.]" And he jumped down, and straightway his ankle came to
its place.

   [25] "Bear in mind," says Thorkel to Bork, in the Icelandic
        saga of Gisli the Outlaw, "bear in mind that a woman's
        counsel is always unlucky."--On the other hand, quoth
        Panurge, "Truly I have found a great deal of good in the
        counsel of women, chiefly in that of the old wives among
        them."

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Turkish collection of jests ascribed to Khoja Nasrú 'd-Dín
Efendi[26] is the following, which has been reproduced amongst ourselves
within comparatively recent years, and credited to an Irish priest:

One day the Khoja went into the pulpit of a mosque to preach to the
people. "O men!" said he, "do you know what I should say unto you?" They
answered: "We know not, Efendi." "When you do know," said the Khoja, "I
shall take the trouble of addressing you." The next day he again
ascended into the pulpit, and said, as before: "O men! do you know what
I should say unto you?" "We do know," exclaimed they all with one voice.
"Then," said he, "what is the use of my addressing you, since you
already know?" The third day he once more went into the pulpit, and
asked the same question. The people, having consulted together as to the
answer they should make, said: "O Khoja, some of us know, and some of us
do not know." "If that be the case, let those who know tell those who do
not know," said the Khoja, coming down. A poor Arab preacher was once,
however, not quite so successful. Having "given out," as we say, for his
text, these words, from the Kurán, "I have called Noah," and being
unable to collect his thoughts, he repeated, over and over again, "I
have called Noah," and finally came to a dead stop; when one of those
present shouted, "If Noah will not come, call some one else." Akin to
this is our English jest of the deacon of a dissenting chapel in
Yorkshire, who undertook, in the vanity of his heart, to preach on the
Sunday, in place of the pastor, who was ill, or from home. He conducted
the devotional exercises fairly well, but when he came to deliver his
sermon, on the text, "I am the Light of the world," he had forgot what
he intended to say, and continued to repeat these words, until an old
man called out, "If thou be the light o' the world, I think thou needs
snuffin' badly."

   [26] The Khoja was contemporary with the renowned conqueror
        of nations, Tímúr, or Tímúrleng, or, as the name is
        usually written in this country, Tamarlane, though there
        does not appear to be any authority that he was the
        official jester at the court of that monarch, as some
        writers have asserted. The pleasantries ascribed to the
        Khoja--the title now generally signifies Teacher, or
        School-master, but formerly it was somewhat equivalent
        to our "Mr," or, more familiarly, "Goodman"--have been
        completely translated into French. Of course, a large
        proportion of the jests have been taken from Arabian and
        Persian collections, though some are doubtless genuine;
        and they represent the Khoja as a curious compound of
        shrewdness and simplicity. A number of the foolish
        sayings and doings fathered on him are given in my _Book
        of Noodles_, 1888.

To return to the Turkish jest-book. One day the Khoja borrowed a
cauldron from a brazier, and returned it with a little saucepan inside.
The owner, seeing the saucepan, asked: "What is this?" Quoth the Khoja:
"Why, the cauldron has had a young one"; whereupon the brazier, well
pleased, took possession of the saucepan. Some time after this the Khoja
again borrowed the cauldron and took it home. At the end of a week the
brazier called at the Khoja's house and asked for his cauldron. "O set
your mind at rest," said the Khoja; "the cauldron is dead." "O Khoja,"
quoth the brazier, "can a cauldron die?" Responded the Khoja: "Since you
believed it could have a young one, why should you not also believe that
it could die?"

The Khoja had a pleasant way of treating beggars. One day a man knocked
at his door. "What do you want?" cried the Khoja from above. "Come
down," said the man. The Khoja accordingly came down, and again said:
"What do you want?" "I want charity," said the man. "Come up stairs,"
said the Khoja. When the beggar had come up, the Khoja said: "God help
you"--the customary reply to a beggar when one will not or cannot give
him anything. "O master," cried the man, "why did you not say so below?"
Quoth the Khoja: "When I was above stairs, why did you bring me down?"

Drunkenness is punished (or punishable) by the infliction of eighty
strokes of the bastinado in Muslim countries, but it is only flagrant
cases that are thus treated, and there is said to be not a little
private drinking of spirits as well as of wine among the higher classes,
especially Turks and Persians. It happened that the governor of
Súricastle lay in a state of profound intoxication in a garden one day,
and was thus discovered by the Khoja, who was taking a walk in the same
garden with his friend Ahmed. The Khoja instantly stripped him of his
_ferage_, or upper garment, and, putting it on his own back, walked
away. When the governor awoke and saw that his ferage had been stolen,
he told his officers to bring before him whomsoever they found wearing
it. The officers, seeing the ferage on the Khoja, seized and brought him
before the governor, who said to him: "Ho! Khoja, where did you obtain
that ferage?" The Khoja responded "As I was taking a walk with my friend
Ahmed we saw a fellow lying drunk, whereupon I took off his ferage and
went away with it. If it be yours, pray take it." "O no," said the
governor, "it does not belong to me."

Even being robbed could not disturb the Khoja's good humour. When he was
lying in bed one night a loud noise was heard in the street before his
house. Said he to his wife: "Get up and light a candle, and I will go
and see what is the matter." "You had much better stay where you are,"
advised his wife. But the Khoja, without heeding her words, put the
counterpane on his shoulders and went out. A fellow, on perceiving him,
immediately snatched the counterpane from off the Khoja's shoulders and
ran away. Shivering with cold, the Khoja returned into the house, and
when his wife asked him the cause of the noise, he said: "It was on
account of our counterpane; when they got that, the noise ceased at
once."

But in the following story we have a very old acquaintance in a new
dress: One day the Khoja's wife, in order to plague him, served up some
exceedingly hot broth, and, forgetting what she had done, put a spoonful
of it in her mouth, which so scalded her that the tears came into her
eyes. "O wife," said the Khoja, "what is the matter with you--is the
broth hot?" "Dear Efendi," said she, "my mother, who is now dead, loved
broth very much; I thought of that, and wept on her account." The Khoja,
thinking that what she said was truth, took a spoonful of the broth,
and, it burning his mouth, he began to bellow. "What is the matter with
you?" said his wife. "Why do you cry?" Quoth the Khoja: "You cry because
your mother is gone, but I cry because her daughter is here."[27]

   [27] This is how the same story is told in our oldest English
        jest-book, entitled _A Hundred Mery Talys_ (1525): A
        certain merchant and a courtier being upon a time at
        dinner, having a hot custard, the courtier, being
        somewhat homely of manner, took part of it and put it in
        his mouth, which was so hot that it made him shed tears.
        The merchant, looking on him, thought that he had been
        weeping, and asked him why he wept. This courtier, not
        willing it to be known that he had brent his mouth with
        the hot custard, answered and said, "Sir," quod he, "I
        had a brother which did a certain offence, wherefore he
        was hanged." The merchant thought the courtier had said
        true, and anon, after the merchant was disposed to eat
        of the custard, and put a spoonful of it into his mouth,
        and brent his mouth also, that his eyes watered. This
        courtier, that perceiving, spake to the merchant; and
        said, "Sir," quod he, "why do ye weep now?" The merchant
        perceived how he had been deceived, and said, "Marry,"
        quod he, "I weep because thou wast not hanged when that
        thy brother was hanged."

       *       *       *       *       *

Many of the Muslim jests, like some our of own, are at the expense of
poor preachers. Thus: there was in Baghdád a preacher whom no one
attended after hearing him but once. One Friday when he came down from
the pulpit he discovered that the only one who remained in the mosque
was the muezzin--all his hearers had left him to finish his discourse
as, and when, he pleased--and, still worse, his slippers had also
disappeared. Accusing the muezzin of having stolen them, "I am rightly
served by your suspicion," retorted he, "for being the only one that
remained to hear you."--In Gladwin's _Persian Moonshee_ we read that
whenever a certain learned man preached in the mosque, one of the
congregation wept constantly, and the preacher, observing this,
concluded that his words made a great impression on the man's heart. One
day some of the people said to the man: "That learned man makes no
impression on our minds;--what kind of a heart have you, to be thus
always in tears?" He answered: "I do not weep at his discourse, O
Muslims. But I had a goat of which I was very fond, and when he grew old
he died. Now, whenever the learned man speaks and wags his beard I am
reminded of my goat, for he had just such a voice and beard."[28] But
they are not always represented as mere dullards; for example: A miserly
old fellow once sent a Muslim preacher a gold ring without a stone,
requesting him to put up a prayer for him from the pulpit. The holy man
prayed that he should have in Paradise a golden palace without a roof.
When he descended from the pulpit, the man went to him, and, taking him
by the hand, said: "O preacher, what manner of prayer is that thou hast
made for me?" "If thy ring had had a stone," replied the preacher, "thy
palace should also have had a roof."

   [28] What may be an older form of this jest is found in the
        _Kathá Manjarí_, a Canarese collection, where a wretched
        singer dwelling next door to a poor woman causes her to
        weep and wail bitterly whenever he begins to sing, and
        on his asking her why she wept, she explains that his
        "golden voice" recalled to her mind her donkey that died
        a month ago.--The story had found its way to our own
        country more than three centuries since. In _Mery Tales
        and Quicke Answeres_ (1535), under the title "Of the
        Friar that brayde in his Sermon," the preacher reminds a
        "poure wydowe" of her ass--all that her husband had left
        her--which had been devoured by wolves, for so the ass
        was wont to bray day and night.

_Apropos_ of misers, our English facetić books furnish many examples of
their ingenuity in excusing themselves from granting favours asked of
them by their acquaintances; and, human nature being much the same
everywhere, the misers in the East are represented as being equally
adroit, as well as witty, in parrying such objectionable requests. A
Persian who had a very miserly friend went to him one day, and said: "I
am going on a journey; give me your ring, which I will constantly wear,
and whenever I look on it, I shall remember you." The other answered:
"If you wish to remember me, whenever you see your finger _without_ my
ring upon it, always think of me, that I did not give you my ring." And
quite as good is the story of the dervish who said to the miser that he
wanted something of him; to which he replied: "If you will consent to a
request of mine, I will consent to whatever else you may require"; and
when the dervish desired to know what it was, he said: "Never ask me for
anything and whatever else you say I will perform."




II

THE TWO DEAF MEN AND THE TRAVELLER--THE DEAF PERSIAN AND THE
HORSEMAN--LAZY SERVANTS--CHINESE HUMOUR: THE RICH MAN AND THE SMITHS;
HOW TO KEEP PLANTS ALIVE; CRITICISING A PORTRAIT--THE PERSIAN COURTIER
AND HIS OLD FRIEND--THE SCRIBE--THE SCHOOLMASTER AND THE WIT--THE
PERSIAN AND HIS CAT--A LIST OF BLOCKHEADS--THE ARAB AND HIS CAMEL--A
WITTY BAGHDÁDÍ--THE UNLUCKY SLIPPERS.


It is well known that deaf men generally dislike having their infirmity
alluded to, and even endeavour to conceal it as much as possible.
Charles Lamb, or some other noted wit, seeing a deaf acquaintance on the
other side of the street one day while walking with a friend, stopped
and motioned to him; then opened his mouth as if speaking in a loud
tone, but saying not a word. "What are you bawling for?" demanded the
deaf one. "D'ye think I can't hear?"--Two Eastern stories I have met
with are most diverting examples of this peculiarity of deaf folks. One
is related by my friend Pandit Natésa Sastrí in his _Folk-Lore of
Southern India_, of which a few copies were recently issued at
Bombay.[29] A deaf man was sitting one day where three roads crossed,
when a neatherd happened to pass that way. He had lately lost a good cow
and a calf, and had been seeking them some days. When he saw the deaf
man sitting by the way he took him for a soothsayer, and asked him to
find out by his knowledge of magic where the cow would likely be found.
The herdsman was also very deaf, and the other, without hearing what he
had said, abused him, and said he wished to be left undisturbed, at the
same time stretching out his hand and pointing at his face. This
pointing the herd supposed to indicate the direction where the lost cow
and calf should be sought; thus thinking (for he, too, had not heard a
word of what the other man had said to him), the herd went off in
search, resolving to present the soothsayer with the calf if he found it
with the cow. To his joy, and by mere chance, of course, he found them
both, and, returning with them to the deaf man (still sitting by the
wayside), he pointed to the calf and asked him to accept of it. Now, it
so happened that the calf's tail was broken and crooked, and the deaf
man supposed that the herdsman was blaming him for having broken it, and
by a wave of his hand he denied the charge. This the poor deaf neatherd
mistook for a refusal of the calf and a demand for the cow, so he said:
"How very greedy you are, to be sure! I promised you the calf, and not
the cow." "Never!" exclaimed the deaf man in a rage. "I know nothing of
you or your cow and calf. I never broke the calf's tail." While they
were thus quarrelling, without understanding each other, a third man
happened to pass, and seeing his opportunity to profit by their
deafness, he said to the neatherd in a loud voice, yet so as not to be
heard by the other deaf man: "Friend, you had better go away with your
cow. Those soothsayers are always greedy. Leave the calf with me, and I
shall make him accept it." The poor neatherd, highly pleased to have
secured his cow, went off, leaving the calf with the traveller. Then
said the traveller to the deaf man: "It is, indeed, very unlawful,
friend, for that neatherd to charge you with an offence which you did
not commit; but never mind, since you have a friend in me. I shall
contrive to make clear to him your innocence; leave this matter to me."
So saying, he walked away with the calf, and the deaf man went home,
well pleased that he had escaped from such a serious accusation.

   [29] Messrs. W. H. Allen & Co., London, have in the press a
        new edition of this work, to be entitled "_Tales of the
        Sun; or, Popular Tales of Southern India_." I am
        confident that the collection will be highly appreciated
        by many English readers, while its value to
        story-comparers can hardly be over-rated.

The other story is of a deaf Persian who was taking home a quantity of
wheat, and, coming to a river which he must cross, he saw a horseman
approach; so he said to himself: "When that horseman comes up, he will
first salute me, 'Peace be with thee'; next he will ask, 'What is the
depth of this river?' and after that he will ask, how many _máns_ of
wheat I have with me." (A _mán_ is a Persian weight, which seems to vary
in different places.) But the deaf man's surmises were all in vain; for
when the horseman came up to him, he cried: "Ho! my man, what is the
depth of this river?" The deaf one replied: "Peace be with thee, and the
mercy of Allah and his blessing." At this the horseman laughed, and
said: "May they cut off thy beard!" The deaf one rejoined: "To my neck
and bosom." The horseman said: "Dust be on thy mouth!" The deaf man
answered: "Eighty _máns_ of it."

       *       *       *       *       *

The laziness of domestics is a common complaint in this country at the
present day, but surely never was there a more lazy servant than the
fellow whose exploits are thus recorded: A Persian husbandman one night
desired his servant to shut the door, and the man said it was already
shut. In the morning his master bade him open the door, and he coolly
replied that, foreseeing this request, he had left it open the preceding
night. Another night his master bade him rise and see whether it rained.
But he called for the dog that lay at the door, and finding his paws
dry, answered that the night was fair; then being desired to see whether
the fire was extinguished, he called the cat, and finding her paws cold,
replied in the affirmative.--This story had gained currency in Europe in
the 13th century, and it forms one of the medićval _Latin Stories_
edited, for the Percy Society, by Thos. Wright, where it is entitled,
"De Maimundo Armigero." There is another Persian story of a lazy fellow
whose master, being sick, said to him: "Go and get me some medicine."
"But," rejoined he, "it may happen that the doctor is not at home." "You
will find him at home." "But if I do find him at home he may not give me
the medicine," quoth the servant. "Then take this note to him and he
will give it to you." "Well," persisted the fellow, "he may give me the
medicine, but suppose it does you no good?" "Villain!" exclaimed his
master, out of all patience, "will you do as I bid you, instead of
sitting there so coolly, raising difficulties?" "Good sir," reasoned
this lazy philosopher, "admitting that the medicine should produce some
effect, what will be the ultimate result? We must all die some time, and
what does it matter whether it be to-day or to-morrow?"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Chinese seem not a whit behind other peoples in appreciating a good
jest, as has been shown by the tales and _bon mots_ rendered into French
by Stanislas Julien and other eminent _savans_. Here are three specimens
of Chinese humour:

A wealthy man lived between the houses of two blacksmiths, and was
constantly annoyed by the noise of their hammers, so that he could not
get rest, night or day. First he asked them to strike more gently; then
he made them great promises if they would remove at once. The two
blacksmiths consented, and he, overjoyed to get rid of them, prepared a
grand banquet for their entertainment. When the banquet was over, he
asked them where they were going to take up their new abodes, and they
replied--to the intense dismay of their worthy host, no doubt: "He who
lives on the left of your house is going to that on the right; and he
who lives on your right is going to the house on your left."

There is a keen satirical hit at the venality of Chinese judges in our
next story. A husbandman, who wished to rear a particular kind of
vegetable, found that the plants always died. He consulted an
experienced gardener as to the best means of preventing the death of
plants. The old man replied: "The affair is very simple; with every
plant put down a piece of money." His friend asked what effect money
could possibly have in a matter of this kind. "It is the case
now-a-days," said the old man, "that where there is money _life_ is
safe, but where there is none death is the consequence."

The tale of Apelles and the shoemaker is familiar to every schoolboy,
but the following story of the Chinese painter and his critics will be
new to most readers: A gentleman having got his portrait painted, the
artist suggested that he should consult the passers-by as to whether it
was a good likeness. Accordingly he asked the first that was going past:
"Is this portrait like me?" The man said: "The _cap_ is very like." When
the next was asked, he said: "The _dress_ is very like." He was about to
ask a third, when the painter stopped him, saying: "The cap and the
dress do not matter much; ask the person what he thinks of the face."
The third man hesitated a long time, and then said: "The _beard_ is very
like."

       *       *       *       *       *

And now we shall revert once more to Persian jests, many of which are,
however, also current in India, through the medium of the Persian
language. When a man becomes suddenly rich it not unfrequently follows
that he becomes as suddenly oblivious of his old friends. Thus, a
Persian having obtained a lucrative appointment at court, a friend of
his came shortly afterwards to congratulate him thereon. The new
courtier asked him: "Who are you? And why do you come here?" The other
coolly replied: "Do you not know me, then? I am your old friend, and am
come to condole with you, having heard that you had lately lost your
sight."--This recalls the clever epigram:

  When Jack was poor, the lad was frank and free;
    Of late he's grown brimful of pride and pelf;
  You wonder that he don't remember me?
    Why, don't you see, Jack has forgot himself!

The humour of the following is--to me, at least--simply exquisite: A man
went to a professional scribe and asked him to write a letter for him.
The scribe said that he had a pain in his foot. "A pain in your foot!"
echoed the man. "I don't want to send you to any place that you should
make such an excuse." "Very true," said the scribe; "but, whenever I
write a letter for any one, I am always sent for to read it, because no
one else can make it out."--And this is a very fair specimen of ready
wit: During a season of great drought in Persia, a schoolmaster at the
head of his pupils marched out of Shíráz to pray (at the tomb of some
saint in the suburbs) for rain, when they were met by a waggish fellow,
who inquired where they were going. The preceptor informed him, and
added that, no doubt, Allah would listen to the prayers of innocent
children. "Friend," quoth the wit, "if that were the case, I fear there
would not be a schoolmaster left alive."

The "harmless, necessary cat" has often to bear the blame of
depredations in which she had no share--especially the "lodging-house
cat"; and, that such is the fact in Persia as well as nearer our own
doors, let a story related by the celebrated poet Jámí serve as
evidence: A husband gave a _mán_ of meat to his wife, bidding her cook
it for his dinner. The woman roasted it and ate it all herself, and when
her husband asked for the meat she said the cat had stolen it. The
husband weighed the cat forthwith, and found that she had not increased
in weight by eating so much meat; so, with a hundred perplexing
thoughts, he struck his hand on his knee, and, upbraiding his wife,
said: "O lady, doubtless the cat, like the meat, weighed one _mán_; the
meat would add another _mán_ thereto. This point is not clear to
me--that two _máns_ should become one _mán_. If this is the cat, where
is the meat? And if this is the meat, why has it the form of the cat?"

Readers of our early English jest-books will perhaps remember the story
of a court-jester being facetiously ordered by the king to make out a
list of all the fools in his dominions, who replied that it would be a
much easier task to write down a list of all the wise men. I fancy there
is some trace of this incident in the following Persian story, though
the details are wholly different: Once upon a time a party of merchants
exhibited to a king some fine horses, which pleased him so well that he
bought them, and gave the merchants besides a large sum of money to pay
for more horses which they were to bring from their own country. Some
time after this the king, being merry with wine, said to his chief
vazír: "Make me out a list of all the blockheads in my kingdom." The
vazír replied that he had already made out such a list, and had put his
Majesty's name at the top. "Why so?" demanded the king. "Because," said
the vazír, "you gave a great sum of money for horses to be brought by
merchants for whom no person is surety, nor does any one know to what
country they belong; and this is surely a sign of stupidity." "But what
if they should bring the horses?" The vazír readily replied: "If they
should bring the horses, I should then erase your Majesty's name and put
the names of the merchants in its place."[30]

   [30] A similar incident is found in the 8th chapter of the
        Spanish work, _El Conde Lucanor_, written, in the 14th
        century, by Prince Don Juan Manuel, where a pretended
        alchemist obtains from a king a large sum of money in
        order that he should procure in his own distant country
        a certain thing necessary for the transmutation of the
        baser metals into gold. The impostor, of course, did not
        return, and so on, much the same as in the above.--Many
        others of Don Manuel's tales are traceable to Eastern
        sources; he was evidently familiar with the Arabic
        language, and from his long intercourse with the Moors
        doubtless became acquainted with Asiatic story-books.
        His manner of telling the stories is, however, wholly
        his own, and some of them appear to be of his own
        invention.--There is a variant of the same story in
        _Pasquils Jests and Mother Bunches Merriments_, in which
        a servant enters his master's name in a list of all the
        fools of his acquaintance, because he had lately lent
        his cousin twenty pounds.

Everybody knows the story of the silly old woman who went to market with
a cow and a hen for sale, and asked only five shillings for the cow, but
ten pounds for the hen. But no such fool was the Arab who lost his
camel, and, after a long and fruitless search, anathematised the errant
quadruped and her father and her mother, and swore by the Prophet that,
should he find her, he would sell her for a dirham (sixpence). At length
his search was successful, and he at once regretted his oath; but such
an oath must not be violated, so he tied a cat round the camel's neck,
and went about proclaiming: "I will sell this camel for a dirham, and
this cat for a hundred dínars (fifty pounds); but I will not sell one
without the other." A man who passed by and heard this exclaimed: "What
a very desirable bargain that camel would be if she had not such a
_collar_ round her neck!"[31]

   [31] A variant of this occurs in the _Heptameron_, an
        uncompleted work in imitation of the _Decameron_,
        ascribed to Marguerite, queen of Navarre (16th century),
        but her _valet de chambre_ Bonaventure des Periers is
        supposed to have had a hand in its composition. In Novel
        55 it is related that a merchant in Saragossa on his
        death-bed desired his wife to sell a fine Spanish horse
        for as much as it would fetch and give the money to the
        mendicant friars. After his death his widow did not
        approve of such a legacy, but, in order to obey her late
        husband's will, she instructed a servant to go to the
        market and offer the horse for a ducat and her cat for
        ninety-nine ducats, both, however, to be sold together.
        A gentleman purchased the horse and the cat, well
        knowing that the former was fully worth a hundred
        ducats, and the widow handed over one ducat--for which
        the horse was nominally sold--to the mendicant friars.

For readiness of wit the Arabs would seem to compare very favourably
with any race, European or Asiatic, and many examples of their
felicitous repartees are furnished by native historians and grammarians.
One of the best is: When a khalíf was addressing the people in a mosque
on his accession to the khalífate, and told them, among other things in
his own praise, that the plague which had so long raged in Baghdád had
ceased immediately he became khalíf; an old fellow present shouted: "Of
a truth, Allah was too merciful to give us both _thee_ and the plague at
the same time."