instruct our own days--of which thing neither India nor Arabia can
boast.

Tales of chivalry have always delighted the Persian ear. A certain
inherent gayety of heart, a philosophy which was not so sternly vigorous
as was that of the Semite, lent color to his imagination. It guided the
hands of the skilful workmen in the palaces of Susa and Persepolis, and
fixed the brightly colored tiles upon their walls. It led the deftly
working fingers of their scribes and painters to illuminate their
manuscripts so gorgeously as to strike us with wonder at the assemblage
of hues and the boldness of designs. Their Zoroaster was never deified.
They could think of his own doings and of the deeds of the mighty men of
valor who lived before and after him with very little to hinder the free
play of their fancy. And so this fancy roamed up and down the whole
course of Persian history: taking a long look into the vista of the
past, trying even to lift the veil which hides from mortal sight the
beginnings of all things; intertwining fact with fiction, building its
mansions on earth, and its castles in the air.

The greatest of all Eastern national epics is the work of a Persian. The
"Sháh Námeh," or Book of Kings, may take its place most worthily by the
side of the Indian Nala, the Homeric Iliad, the German Niebelungen. Its
plan is laid out on a scale worthy of its contents, and its execution is
equally worthy of its planning. One might almost say that with it
neo-Persian literature begins its history. There were poets in Persia
before the writer of the "Sháh Námeh"--Rudagi, the blind (died 954),
Zandshi (950), Chusravani (tenth century). There were great poets during
his own day. But Firdusi ranks far above them all; and at the very
beginning sets up so high a standard that all who come after him must
try to live up to it, or else they will sink into oblivion.