About the same period, by the blessing of the fear of God and my religious scrupulousness, granted me from heaven, I felt some perplexity and perturbation with regard to the Treatises of Derivative Practice, wherein are subjects of dis­pute among theologians, and my mind was not at ease on the decisions of the lawyers and the prac­tice of the vulgar. I entered therefore deeply into this subject, and having made myself acquainted with the root and origin of the traditions, I studied many of the writings on The Purification of the Judgements by Sheikh Tosi, in the lecture-room of that industrious scholar Aga Hadi, son and successor to Mawlana Mohammed Salih of Mazenderan, upon whom be mercy! and looking into the authors of Traditions, and their allega­tions of authority, I referred to the books, whence the theologians draw their proofs. Having examined into their methods of deducing answers, I passed my view over the books of derivative rules of law: and bestowing abundant diligence on this matter, I obtained the peace of mind which my means afforded, on all the questions that occurred to me, and on which I had to act. In regard, especially, to the confliction of opinion and want of correctness of some of the Muftis, which are a stumbling to the feet and a cause of perplexity, I gained to a certain degree my freedom from pure imitation.

At those times, after midnight, when my father arose, I used to read to him, before he engaged in his supererogatory acts of devotion, the Tefsir Safi,* one of the compositions of the pious and learned Mawla, Mohammed Mahsan of Kashan, and completed its perusal. Notwithstanding my devotedness to study, and the variety of my daily occupations, I was fond of frequenting the society of clever and ingenious men, and mixed in a com­pany of that class. One day in my father's house, a number of clever men were assembled together, and I also was desired to join them. In the midst of their discourse on various topics, one of them recited this couplet of Molla Mohtashim of Kashan: *

O thou, in whose toil is the form of the tall of stature!

Grace being a creation of thy lofty figure!

Of which when some of the company had expressed their entire approbation, my father said: I have seen the Divan of Mohtashim, and he is a copi­ous and masterly poet: but his stile is without salt, and he has not that degree of sweetness, which might atone for it, though saltness in stile is more pungent and always perhaps more agreeable to the taste than sweetness; as may appear from this his opening verse. The second hemistich only is right: the first is not conformable to nature; for to say the form is fallen into a toil is absurd. Were the word “form” away, and you said, “O thou in whose toil are the tall of stature!” the sentence would be proper and agreeable. The company acknowledged, what he said, as true. Then turning to me: I know, said he, that you have not yet abandoned poetry. If you can compose us a couplet in the same kind of ode, do so. At that instant, an opening verse came into my mind, and as his look again fell upon me, he com­prehended, that I had thought of something, and he said: If you have composed any thing, recite it, and do not be ashamed. I said aloud this beginning of an ode:*

The ringlet of thy high curling lock draws the chase from the sacred enclosure:

Alas the tyranny of thy dark musky noose!

The company moved from their places, and burst into applause. Whilst they were uttering their commendations, another couplet came into my mind, and I repeated:*

From thy coming thither, the streets, where dwell thy lovers, are made the envy of Mount Sinai:

Sit down, that the bruised particles of our souls may be burnt for thee, as a perfume against malignancy.

Upon this my learned father also praised me, and said, that what he had denied to be in the poetry of Molla Mohtashim, was found in this couplet. I recited another:*

My heart's affair through love is become difficult, and I am pleased:

Perhaps it may prove agreeable to your difficultly pleased mind.

In the same way, after a little consideration, I com­posed another couplet, and went on, till I had recited a complete ode. The company observed, that they had thought no one capable, at the present day, of composing verses in this unpremedi­tated manner, and my father said, Now, I give you leave to cultivate the Muses, but not to such excess, as to waste your time: and made me a present of his own pen-case to write down this ode.

Shortly afterwards a severe accident occurred to me, which produced a languid intermission in my affairs. It was the fullness of spring and delightful weather, when going out one day with a number of friends into the country, I put my horse to its speed, and the animal fell in its course. My right arm was fractured, and did not heal in less than a year, though I was attended and dressed by skilful surgeons. I suffered bitter affliction, and though after some time the pain ceased, still my arm was useless, and a mere burden to my neck. Being habituated to the use of the pen, I took it in my left hand, and managed to write. During this period of distress and sorrow, I composed a great number of verses. One of these poems was a Mesnavi called Saki Namah, the beginning of which was thus:*

Thou alone, O God! art acquainted with secrets;

The pure-intentioned have their bliss from thee.

For me, inebriation and a corner in a wine-house:

For my liberty, the line of a cup.

The length of the poem was about one thou­sand couplets, and its composition elaborate and fervid. Thus I passed my time, till the Almighty granted me a recovery from disease and anguish, and my scattered senses inclined again to col­lectedness.