describes himself from first to last as a halter between two opinions, and as a backslider in his practice.

If his poems be considered not in the abstract, but in the light of history, taking into account his mental pedigree and his intellectual surroundings, a more plausible explanation of his inconsistencies readily presents itself. In his youth, as we know, he sat at the feet of the Sunni theologian Imám Muaffik, and he was then no doubt thoroughly indoctrinated with the great Semitic conception of the One God, or, to use the expressive term of Muhammadan theology, "the Only Real Agent." To minds dominated by the overwhelming sense of Almighty Power, everywhere present and working, there seems no room for Nature, or human will, or Iblis,1 or any other Ahriman whatsoever, to take the responsibility of all the evils in the world, the storms and the earthquakes, the Borgias and the Catilines: the "Only Real Agent" has to answer for all. In the most ancient document of Semitic religious speculation now extant, the Book of Job, we find expostulations of the boldest character addressed to Jehovah for permitting a righteous man to be striken with unmerited misfortunes, though the writer ultimately concludes in a spirit of pious agnosticism and resignation to the inscrutable dispensations of Omnipotence. In the Book of Ecclesiastes, again, the same problems are handled, but in a somewhat different temper. The "weary king Ecclesiast" remarks that there is one event to all, to him that sacri

1 Iblis protests against being taken as the originator of evil. Masnavi, p. 95.

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ficeth and him that sacrificeth not-that injustice and wrong seem eternally triumphant, that Jehovah has made things crooked, and none can make them straight; and concludes now in favour of a sober "carpe diem" philosophy, now in favour of a devout "fear of the Lord." Of course the manner in which the serious Hebrew handles these matters is very different from the levity and flippancy of the volatile Persian, but it can hardly be denied that the Ecclesiast and Omar resemble one another in the double and contradictory nature of their practical conclusions.

No sooner was Islam established than the same problem of the existence of evil in the handiwork of the Almighty Author and Governor of all began to trouble the Moslem theologians, and by their elaboration of the doctrine of Predestination they managed to aggravate its difficulties. One of the chief "roots" of their discussions was how to reconcile the Divine justice and benevolence with the Divine prescience, the predestination of some vessels to honour, and others to dishonour,-the preordainment of all things by a kind of mechanical necessity, leaving no possibility of the occurrence of any events except those which actually do occur. The consideration of one corollary of a similar doctrine moved the pious and gentle Cowper to use language of indignant dissent; and there is high theological authority for the view that it is calculated "to thrust some into desperation and wretchlessness of most unclean living," while to those who persuade themselves they are of the number of "the elect," "it is full of sweet, pleasant, and unspeakable

1

comfort." Omar is constantly dwelling on this doctrine, and he seems to be affected by it in the double way here described.

Other influences which acted on Omar must not be left out of account. Born as he was in Khorásan, "the focus of Persian culture," he was no doubt familiar with the speculations of the Moslem philosophers, Alkindi, Alfárábi, and Avicenna, the last of whom he may possibly have seen.1 And though he was not himself a Sufi, in the sense of being affiliated to any of the Sufi orders, he can hardly have been unaffected by the mysticism of which his predecessor in Ruba'i writing, Abu Sa'id bin Abul Khair, his patron Nizám ul Mulk, and his distinguished countryman Imám Ghazzáli were all strong adherents. His philosophical studies would naturally stimulate his sceptical and irreligious dispositions, while his mystical leanings would operate mainly in the contrary direction.

If this explanation of the inconsistencies in his poetry be correct, it is obvious that the parallel often sought to be traced between him and Lucretius has no existence. Whatever he was, he was not an Atheist. To him, as to other Muhammadans of his time, to deny the existence of the Deity would seem to be tantamount to denying the existence of the world and of himself. And the conception of "laws of Nature" was also one quite foreign to his habits of thought. As Deutsch says, "To a Muslim, Nature is nothing but that which has been begotten, and is ruled absolutely by One Absolute Power."

1 17th Article of Religion.

2 Avicenna died in 428 A. H.

Hammar compares him to Voltaire, but in reality he is a Voltaire and something more. He has much of Voltaire's flippancy and irreverence. His treatment of

the Prophet's Paradise is altogether in Voltaire's manner; and his insistance on the all-importance of kindness and charity recalls the better side of Voltaire's character, viz., his kindness to Calas, and the other victims of ecclesiastical persecution. But Omar also possessed, what Voltaire did not, strong religious emotions, which at times overrode his rationalism, and found expression in those devotional and mystical quatrains which offer such a strong contrast to the rest of his poetry.