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 Gulistan 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.”