PERSIAN POETRY.

To Baron von Hammer Purgstall, who died in Vienna during the last year, we owe our best knowledge of the Persians.  He has translated into German, besides the “Divan” of Hafiz, specimens of two hundred poets, who wrote during a period of five and a half centuries, from A.D. 1000 to 1550.  The seven masters of the Persian Parnassus, Firdousi, Enweri, Nisami, Dschelaleddin, Saadi, Hafiz, and Dschami, have ceased to be empty names; and others, like Ferideddin Attar, and Omar Chiam, promise to rise in Western estimation.  That for which mainly books exist is communicated in these rich extracts.  Many qualities go to make a good telescope,—­as the largeness of the field, facility of sweeping the meridian, achromatic purity of lenses, and so forth,—­but the one eminent value is the space-penetrating power; and there are many virtues in books, but the essential value is the adding of knowledge to our stock, by the record of new facts, and, better, by the record of intuitions, which distribute facts, and are the formulas which supersede all histories.

Oriental life and society, especially in the Southern nations, stand in violent contrast with the multitudinous detail, the secular stability, and the vast average of comfort of the Western nations.  Life in the East is fierce, short, hazardous, and in extremes.  Its elements are few and simple, not exhibiting the long range and undulation of European existence, but rapidly reaching the best and the worst.  The rich feed on fruits and game,—­the poor, on a watermelon’s peel.  All or nothing is the genius of Oriental life.  Favor of the Sultan, or his displeasure, is a question of Fate.  A war is undertaken for an epigram or a distich, as in Europe for a duchy.  The prolific sun, and the sudden and rank plenty which his heat engenders, make subsistence easy.  On the other side, the desert, the simoom, the mirage, the lion, and the plague endanger it, and life hangs on the contingency of a skin of water more or less.  The very geography of old Persia showed these contrasts.  “My father’s empire,” said Cyrus to Xenophon, “is so large, that people perish with cold, at one extremity, whilst they are suffocated with heat, at the other.”  The temperament of the people agrees with this life in extremes.  Religion and poetry are all their civilization.  The religion teaches an inexorable Destiny.  It distinguishes only two days in each man’s history:  his birthday, called the Day of the Lot, and the Day of Judgment.  Courage and absolute submission to what is appointed him are his virtues.