deed, I have a notion,—which, of course, may be quite erroneous—that a knowledge of Persian disqualifies one for membership in that genial society. It would seem a sort of unkindness towards FitzGerald,—as suggesting, what it is the growing fashion to forget, that there ever was any such person as Omar at all.
However, there seems to be no real doubt that there was, and that he has transmitted across some seven hundred years a series of cabalistical ink-stains,—like the markings on flowers,—which Messrs. Nicolas, Whinfield, and McCarthy agree in interpreting as nearly alike as is no matter. Of these rose-leaves 'freakt with jet,' these rubáiyát, these quatrains, Omar's editors count, roughly, some five hundred, many of which are of doubtful authenticity. These in the original manuscripts are subject to an arbitrary alphabetical arrangement which is no arrangement. They are a veritable pot-pourri of wine-stained petals—red, yellow, and white—
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