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                            A PERSIAN PEARL
                            AND OTHER ESSAYS

                                   BY
                           CLARENCE S. DARROW

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                                CHICAGO
                             C. L. RICKETTS
                                MDCCCCII

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                               Copyright
                                  1899
                           Clarence S. Darrow

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                                CONTENTS


                  1 A Persian Pearl                 9

                  2 Walt Whitman                   43

                  3 Robert Burns                   77

                  4 Realism in Literature and Art 107

                  5 The Skeleton in the Closet    139




                          A · PERSIAN · PEARL


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                            A PERSIAN PEARL


The reader and observer is constantly reminded that “there is nothing
new under the sun.” We no sooner find some rare gem of thought or
expression than we discover that it is only an old diamond, polished
anew, perhaps, and offered as an original stone. Neither the reader nor
the writer is always aware that the gem is antique and the setting alone
is new.

The rich mine where the treasure was first found was exhausted in a few
brief years, and then became like all the dust of all the worlds; but
the gem polished and worn by time and use, ever sparkles and shines,
regardless of the fact that the miner’s name is forgotten and his work
alone remains. Thus Nature, the great communist, provides that the
treasures of genius, like her own bountiful gifts of sunlight, rain and
air, shall remain the common property of all her children while any
dwell upon the earth.

Current literature seems to point to the ascendancy of what is often
termed the “pessimistic school.” In one sense this philosophy uncrowns
man and places him in his proper relation to the great universe, of
which he is so small a part; but while it makes less of man, it expects
less from him, and covers his deeds with that cloak of charity, which is
the legitimate garment of the great Unknown. But these modern
reflections on life and its problems, its purposes and lessons, are far
from new. Without venturing a guess as to their origin or age, we take
up that old Persian Pearl,—the “Rubaiyat,” and find on its musty pages
the great thoughts and searching questions, which have ever returned to
man since the intellect was born, and which will still remain unanswered
when the last word shall have been spoken, and the race have run its
course.

It is nearly eight hundred years since Omar Khayyam, the Persian
astronomer, philosopher, and poet, mused and wrote upon the uncertainty
of life, the eternity of time and the mutability of human things. Since
the rose bush was planted above his grave, the material world has been
almost made anew. Art and literature have given countless treasures to
the earth, and science has solved its mysteries without end. But the
riddles of existence—the problems of life, the deep heart of the
universe, the cause and purpose and end of all, are mysteries as dark
and inscrutable as they were eight centuries ago. To quote from the
Rubaiyat:

            There was the Door to which I found no Key;
            There was the Veil thro’ which I could not see:
              Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
            There was—and then no more of Thee and Me.

As Egypt is the newest country visited by the traveler, so this old
book, burnished by the genius of FitzGerald, comes to us as the latest
and profoundest word upon the infinite mysteries which over-shadow human
life. It seems to be the last word, rather than one of the first, spoken
to the perplexed soul of man, calling him from the vain pursuit of
vanities, and asking what all of it is about.

To an egoistic, boasting age and nation, this message, coming from a far
off time and a distant land, reminds us that all wisdom is garnered
neither now nor here. This Persian Pearl remained unpolished for more
than seven hundred years. It was left for Edward FitzGerald carefully
and patiently to burnish up the gem, and make it the thing of beauty
that we know.

It may be that research and study would reveal much of the personal
traits and private life of the great Persian philosopher, whose fame has
so outlived his clay, but with these we can have no concern. It is not
important to know his parents, or whether he had a wife or children, or
cattle or lands. All of these are gone and only his work remains. True,
we cannot but reflect on the personality of the poet in whose brain
these great thoughts were born, but we can know the man only by knowing
his works. Some there are who stand at a distance and view the acts of
the imperfect beings, who at the best stumble and grope along the
uncertain path between the cradle and the grave. All the footsteps that
are straight and true are unnoticed as they pass by, but the irregular,
uncertain, shifting tracks stand out alone to mark the character of the
pilgrim, who bore his heavy load the best he could. These forget that
every son of man travels an unbeaten path—a road beset with dangers and
temptations that no other wanderer met; that his footsteps can be judged
only in the full knowledge of the strength and light he had, the burden
that he carried, the obstacles and temptations that he met, and a
thorough knowledge of every open and secret motive that impelled him
here or there.

That Omar’s steps were often winding and devious, and like those of all
other mortal men, we gather from his words. No doubt his neighbors
delighted in gossiping about the great philosopher, and his reputation
was often tarnished by their idle words. These slanderers have been long
forgotten—they could not live upon the great name they sullied, and we
should not even know he was their prey except for lines like these:

             Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
             Have done my credit in Men’s eyes much wrong;
               Have drown’d my Glory in a shallow Cup,
             And sold my reputation for a Song.

Eight hundred years ago, as to-day, the love of wine was one of the
chief weaknesses of the flesh. Doubtless the other frailties of human
nature are of substantially the same kind as eight centuries ago, for
while man may change the fashion of his garment or religion, nature is
ever consistent and persistent, and is the same yesterday, to-day and
forever. But our old human philosopher, like our modern human men, saw
the folly of his ways, and made many a brave resolve, but these good
intentions and solemn purposes melted in the sunshine then the same as
now.

           Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before
           I swore—but was I sober when I swore?
             And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
           My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.

But Omar was greater than most of the weak and sinning children of
to-day. His own frailties taught him the rare lesson, that of all the
virtues, charity is the chiefest! And as we read the wondrous product of
his brain and understand the thoughts that stirred his being, we can
know the man better than his neighbors who judged a great soul by the
narrow vision of sordid minds. We know that his purpose was lofty, and
above all the mists and conflicting emotions and desires of his life he
rose majestic and supreme, unsullied by the specks that can only mar the
weak. Let us turn then to the philosophy and poetry of this great soul
to know the man, and as figs are not gathered of thistles, we may be
sure that broad thoughts, high aspirations, and tender charity are born
only of great minds and rare men.

To Omar Khayyam, the so-called sins of men were not crimes, but
weaknesses inherent in their being and beyond their power to prevent or
overcome. He knew that man could not separate himself from all the rest
of nature; and that the rules and conditions of his being were as fixed
and absolute as the revolutions of the planets and the changing seasons
of the year. Above man and his works he saw the heavy hand of destiny,
ever guiding and controlling, ever moving its creature forward to the
inevitable fate that all the centuries had placed in store for the
helpless captive, marching shackled to the block.

There have ever been two views of life. Both philosophies have been made
by man and mostly for him. One places him above all the rest of the
universe, whose infinite mysteries are constantly revolving and changing
before his hazy, wondering gaze. The portion of the world that comes
nearest to his eyes he cannot understand, and his own existence is a
riddle that all the ages have not solved. And yet, amidst it all, one
system teaches that man rules supreme,—and the fate of all the worlds,
or of all that may exist thereon, has no relation to his own. The other
peers into the thick darkness that hangs above, and can see no light, it
does not understand and will not guess; the endless mysteries are not
for mortal man to solve. Its devotees feel themselves part of a mighty
whole, and are powerless to separate their lives from all the rest, and
would not dare to undertake it if they could. They know that in the
great, unlimited universe they are less than the tiniest bubble in the
wildest, angriest sea. That in the words of the Rubaiyat:

              We are no other than a moving row
              Of magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
                Round with this Sun-illumined Lantern held
              In Midnight by the Master of the Show.

Omar Khayyam was probably not the first, certainly not the last, to feel
the impotence of man in the great power which animates the whole. He
could have no faith in the cruel religious tenets, which eight centuries
ago in Persia, as ever since in the Christian world, have taught the
responsibility of the helpless victim for the great, blind work in which
he had no part. He seemed to think that back of all the universe, some
intelligent power moved and controlled the world for some purpose
unknown to all except himself, but he could not think that man was in
any way accountable for the whole. To him, the great master sent us here
or there to suit his will, and it was left for us only to obey his
mighty power. The individual units of humanity were to him only:

           Impotent Pieces of the Game He plays
           Upon this checker-board of Nights and Days;
             Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
           And one by one back in the Closet lays.

Even this does not sufficiently express his thought of man’s absolute
irresponsibility for his acts.

We have all met the parallel drawn between man and the pottery fashioned
by the moulder from the clay. Perhaps there is no better illustration of
the helplessness of the human being in the hands of the power that
fashioned and shaped him, even ages before his birth,—the uncontrollable
force that determined the length of his body, the color of his hair, the
size and shape of his brain and the contour of his face. But the
comparison made in the beautiful stanza wrought by Omar, and retouched
and gilded by the magic of FitzGerald, is wondrously powerful and fine.
The poet ranges his poor pieces of pottery in line, each representing a
man; each imperfect in structure or form, like all the other creatures
ever made. These poor, imperfect vessels, fresh from the potter, each
pleads its cause and makes excuses for its faults.

             After a momentary silence spake
             Some vessel of a more ungainly Make:
               “They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
             What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?”

When will humanity be great enough and good enough to distinguish
between the fault of the potter and the fault of the pot! When can it
look over the myriads of human beings, each with his flaws and
limitations, and pity instead of blame!

The history of the past is a record of man’s cruel inhumanity to man; of
one imperfect vessel accusing and shattering another for the faults of
both. In ancient times and amongst savage tribes, the old, the infirm,
and the diseased were led out and put to death; even later, the maniac
and imbecile were fettered, chained, beaten, and imprisoned because they
were different from other men. The world has grown a little wiser, and
perhaps humaner, as the centuries have passed away. We have learned to
build asylums, and treat the afflicted with tenderness and care. We have
learned not to blame the dwarf for his stature; the hunchback for his
load; the deaf because they cannot hear, and the blind because they
cannot see. We do not expect the <DW40> to carry the giant’s load, or
the <DW36> to triumph in a contest of speed. We establish a regulation
size for policemen and soldiers, but we do not put a man to death
because his stature is below the standard fixed. We forgive the size of
the foot, the length of the arm, the shade of the hair, the color of the
eye, and even the form of the skull. But, while we do not blame a man
because he has an ill-shaped head, we punish him because the brain
within conforms to the bone which molds its form. The world has made
guns and swords, racks and dungeons, chains and whips, blocks and
gibbets, and to these have dragged an endless procession thro’ all the
past. It has penned and maimed, tortured and killed, because the
potter’s work was imperfect and the clay was weak. During all the ages
it has punished mental deformity as a crime, and without pity or regret
has crushed the imperfect vessels beneath its feet. Every jail, every
scaffold, every victim—is a monument to its cruelty and blind
unreasoning wrath. Whether it was a fire kindled to burn a heretic in
Geneva,—a gibbet erected to kill a witch in Salem,—or a scaffold made to
put to death an ordinary “criminal,” it has ever been the same,—the
punishment of the creature for the creator’s fault. There might be some
excuse if man could turn from the frail, cracked vessels, and bring to
trial the great potter for the imperfect work of his hand.

But we live in the shadows; we can see only the causes and effects that
are the closest to our eyes. If the clouds would rise, and the sun shine
bright, and our vision reach out into time and space, we might find that
these cracked vessels serve as high a purpose in a great, broad scheme,
as the finest clay, wrought in the most beautiful and perfect form. The
following stanza was born of this philosophy and would inevitably come
from the broad, charitable brain that had studied the creeds that told
of the cruelty of the great Maker, but whose brain and conscience had
not been stunted and warped by their palsying dogmas:

            Then said a Second—“Ne’er a peevish Boy
            Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy;
              And he that with his hand the Vessel made
            Will surely not in after Wrath destroy.”

The cruel religious dogmas, which in Omar’s land and Age, as in our own,
blackened both man and his Maker, had no terrors for a soul like his. He
could not believe in eternal punishment. The doctrine was a slander,
alike to God and man. He felt something of the greatness of a force that
could permeate and move the countless worlds, which make up the
limitless, unfathomed infinite we call the Universe. He saw in man one
of the smallest and most insignificant toys created by this power to
serve some unknown end; and he could not believe that the Master-Builder
would demand of his imperfect children more than he had furnished them
the strength to give. His faith in the justice of man’s case before the
great Judge is shown in the following stanza:

              Oh Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
              Beset the Road I was to wander in,
                Thou wilt not with Predestin’d Evil round
              Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!

But even more strongly he presents the case of God against man, and man
against God, for all the crimes and miseries and sufferings of the
world. It would doubtless be difficult in all the literature of the
earth to find a juster, bolder statement of the old question of the
responsibility for sin. To some minds, this strong expression may seem
like blasphemy, but it is manly and courageous, logical and just.

             Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make
             And ev’n with Paradise devise the Snake;
               For all the Sin wherewith the face of Man
             Is blacken’d—Man’s forgiveness give—and take!

This is not the cringing prayer of the coward, who asks God’s
forgiveness to appease his wrath, but the utterance of a noble soul, who
asks forgiveness for the shortcomings of his life, and at the same time
pardons his Maker for creating him as he did. The world has heard much
of man’s duty to God, of the responsibility which the unconsulted,
fragile children of a day owe to the power that is responsible for all.
It is time we heard more of the duty of God to man; the responsibility
of the Creator for making “conscious something” out of unthinking,
unfeeling clay.

                 “Oh, many a cup of this forbidden Wine
               Must drown the memory of that insolence!”

The world has talked the same nonsense of the duty of children to
parents. It has taught this, because parents are larger, and have the
brute power to compel obedience to their demands. All the duties are
from parents to children,—from those who thoughtlessly, wantonly, to
satisfy their own desires, call into conscious being a human life,—send
another soul with all its responsibilities out on the great, wide sea,
to be tossed and buffeted and torn, until, mangled and dead, it is
thrown out upon the sands to bleach.

But after all, whether it was wise or unwise, just or unjust, we have
been placed