light 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 t