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 Bidpaï, 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.--_Stobæus_: 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."