Those of us who know Baghdad only through the _Arabian Nights_ and the
ingenious productions of Mr. Oscar Asche, were not prepared for such a
complete foreshadowing of the literary life and the literary temperament
as Ibn Khallikan gives us.
Here, for example, is a poem by a book-lover--or manuscript-lover, to
be more exact--written by Ibn Faris Ar-Razi, the philologer, who died
before the Norman Conquest, which a later Occidental can cheerfully
accept and could not much improve upon: _They asked me how I was. I
answered: "Well, some things succeed and some fail; when my heart is
filled with cares I say: 'One day perhaps they may be dispelled.' A cat
is my companion; books, the friends of my heart; and a lamp, my beloved
consort."_ That is modern enough! Something of this kind, which is an
earlier version of Omar Khayyám's famous recipe for earthly bliss, has
often been attempted since by our own poets; but nothing better.
Favourite books, a lighted lamp, a faithful cat, and the library were
paradise enow. It is odd, by the way, that Omar Khayyám himself,
although his dates qualify him, is not found in this work. But to make
tents, even with leanings towards astronomy, was no high road to Ibn
Khallikan's sympathies. Had Omar explained the _Koran_ or had views on
the suffixes of words, all would have been well.
While on the subject of sufficient paradises let me quote some verses by
Ibn Sukkara Al-Hashimi, a famous Baghdad poet of the tenth century:
_The winter set in, and I provided myself with seven things necessary
when the rain prevents us from pursuing our usual occupations. These
things are: A shelter, a purse, a stove, a cup of wine preceded by a bit
of meat, a tender maid, and a cloak._
Ibn Khallikan does not let it stop there, but fishes up from his memory
a derivative, by Ibn Al-Taawizi, running thus: _When seven things are
collected together in the drinking-room, it is not reasonable to stay
away. These are: Roast meat, a melon, honey, a young girl, wax-lights, a
singer to delight us, and wine._
So much for the modernity and sense of comfort of the Persian author, as
he flourished in Baghdad all those years ago. But there was then still
more in publishing than yet meets the eye. The books of the juriconsult,
Al-Mawardi, for example, reached posterity almost by chance. While he
lived he did not publish any of his works but put them all up together
in safety. On the approach of death, however, he said to a person who
possessed his confidence: "The books in such a place were composed by
me, but I abstained from publishing them, because I suspected, although
my intention in writing them was to work in God's service, that that
feeling, instead of being pure, was sullied by baser motives. Therefore,
when you perceive me on the point of death and falling into agony, take
my hand in yours, and if I press it, you will know thereby that none of
these works has been accepted [by God] from me. In this case, you must
take them all and throw them by night into the Tigris. But if I open my
hand and close it not, that is the sign of their having been accepted,
and that my hope in the admission of my intention as sincere and pure,
has been fulfilled."
"When Al-Mawardi's death drew near," said his friend, "I took him by the
hand, and he opened it without closing it on mine, whence I knew that
his labours had been accepted, and I then published his works."--But
what a responsibility for a friend!
Penmanship being, of course, the only medium between author and readers
in those days, it follows that calligraphy was held in high esteem, and
among famous calligraphers was Kabus Ibn Wushmaghir, who, although "the
greatest of princes, the star of the age, and the source of justice and
beneficence," thought it worth while (as all mighty rulers have not) to
write a most beautiful hand. When the Sahib Ibn Abbad saw pieces in his
handwriting, he used to say: "This is either the writing of Kabus or the
wing of a peacock"; and he would then recite these verses of
Al-Mutanabbi's: _In every heart is a passion for his handwriting; it
might be said that the ink which he employed was a cause of love. His
presence is a comfort for every eye, and his absence an affliction._
The extraordinary literary activity of those times may be illustrated by
the following passage dropped casually into the biographical notice of
Ali Talib: "The grandson of this thief was the famous Al-Asmai, the
philologer, who composed treatises on the following subjects: the human
frame; the different species of animals; on the _anwa_, or influence of
the stars on the weather; on the letter _hamza_; on the long and the
short _elif_; on the difference between the names given to the members
of the human body and those given to the same members in animals; on
epithets; on the doors of tents; on games of chance played with arrows;
on the frame of the horse; on horses; on camels; on sheep; on tents; on
wild beasts; on the first and fourth form of certain verbs; on proverbs;
on words bearing each two opposite significations; a vocabulary; on
weapons; on dialects; on the springs of water frequented by the nomadic
Arabs; a collection of anecdotes; on the principles of discourse; on the
heart; on synonymous terms; on the Arabian peninsula; on the formation
of derivative words; on the ideas which usually occur in poetry; on
nouns of action; on _rajaz_ verses; on the palm-tree; on plants; on
homonymous terms; on the obscure expressions met with in the Traditions;
on the witticisms of the desert Arabs." Ibn closes the list with the
word "etc." The late John Timbs could hardly beat this record of
industry and versatility.
There is hope for authors in the following story of Ibn Al-Khashshab,
who knew the _Koran_ by heart and was a scholar of considerable
attainments. "When he died," says the Katib Imad Ad-Din, "I was in
Syria, and I saw him one night in a dream, and said to him: 'How has God
treated thee?'
"'Well,' he replied.
"'Does God show mercy to literary men?'
"'Yes.'
"'And if they have been remiss?'
"'A severe reprimand will be given, but,' Al-Khashshab was moved to add,
and let us never forget it, 'then will come eternal happiness.'"
There are other scraps of consolation, scattered about the volumes,
which apply not alone to men of letters. The Prophet, for example, once
said: "Every lie shall be written down as a lie by the recording angels,
with the exception of three: a lie told in order to reconcile two men; a
lying promise made by a man to his wife; and a lie in which a man, when
engaged in war, makes a promise or a threat."
But the most solacing sentiment in the whole four volumes is by the poet
Abu Nuwas Ibn Hani, who carried Hedonism very far: _Multiply thy sins to
the utmost, for thou art to meet an indulgent Lord. When thou comest
before Him, thou shalt behold mercy and meet the great, the powerful
King. Then thou shalt gnaw thy hands with regret, for the pleasures
which thou avoidedst through fear of hell._--It is, says Ibn Khallikan,
a "very fine and original thought." It could certainly be a very
stimulating one.