| During the eleventh century,
when Europe lay steeped in the blackest night of the Dark Ages, a revival
of learning was in full bloom in that ancient cradle of civilisation, the
Plateau of Iran, “The Land of Light,” which we to-day know as
Persia. Its high water mark was reached in the person of Abu Ali Ibn Sina,
a profound and world famed scholar more commonly known in Europe by the
latinised version of his name – Avicenna. But more familiar to the
Western World to-day than Avicenna himself is his disciple Omar Khayyam
– Omar the Tent-maker. He was the most gorgeous flower of his time.
Born in poor circumstances, at about the opening of the eleventh century,
he was fortunate, in his school days, in making the acquaintance of Nizam
ul Mulk, who afterwards became Vizier to the Sultan, Malik Shah, and was
able to advance his old schoolmate to the post of Astronomer Royal (to anglicise
the title of the office he enjoyed). Omar, despite his heresies and his
love of wine, held the post for the better half of his long life, which
was spent in astronomical, mathematical and philosophic studies, in the
composition of his Rubaiyat, or quatrains, and, above all, in deep and devout
worship of the “shallow cup.” According to the theories of the
saloon smashing fraternity, he should have died young. As a matter of fact
– or, rather, of more or less reputable rumour, he died at the age
of 109 years. Whether he would have lived either longer, or happier, without
the help, or hindrance, of wine is, of course, an entirely different matter.
His full name was nearly as long as the term of his natural life. Ghiyas
Uddin Abul Fath Omar ibn Ibrahim al Khayyami seems rather a mouthful for
a mere modern to remember but in those days such things were common, and
after all, Omar’s father had little else to give his son. Khayyam
was a man of many parts. In addition to his mathematical text books, which
were universally used in Persia, he wrote upon medicine, meteorology,
the silting of rivers, and natural science generally. Probably his works
upon these subjects exist somewhere today, but to the average modern they
are as dead as were his Rubaiyat before they were translated and given
re-birth by Fitzgerald.
The four hundred years following the Mahommedan
era were centuries of glory for Islam. In the day of Omar its star was
at the zenith. One by one Syria, Egypt, Africa and Spain, Persia and India,
over-run by the hosts of the Prophet, had been offered the three-fold
choice – the Koran, tribute, or the sword. For the most part they
had chosen the Koran. In the wake of Mahommedan military power came Mahommedan
scholarship. Through centuries which, in Europe, were marked by black
ignorance, the glorious light that was kindled in the Golden Age of Ancient
Greece was preserved in the Mahommedan universities of Spain – the
oldest universities in Europe (in the modern sense of the term). But the
soul of Europe was not dead. It blazed up in the glorious rebirth of the
Italian Renaissance, and by a curious irony of Fate, the most precious
flower of the Renaissance was in full bloom in the year 1492 – a
year famous for two events. The first of these was the discovery of a
new world by Columbus. The other was the final extinction of one of the
crowning glories of the old world – the Kingdom of Granada, the
last remnant of the Caliphate of Cordova.
Leonardo da Vinci, the sublime painter, was then
in his fortieth year and his crowded life ran another 27 summers before
his death. He was to the Italian Renaissance what Khayyam was to the Persian
revival of the eleventh century. Both were apostles of freedom of thought:
both anticipated the methods and ideals of modern science.
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Da Vinci’s imagination
teemed with visions of the marvellous achievements of the present day. The
steam-boat, the flying machine, breech-loading cannon, and mincing machines
were amongst the problems to which he applied himself. He anticipated modern
scientists in his speculations upon animal classification, ‘the laws
of gravitation, the principle of the camera, the wave theory of light, the
principle of canal construction, the circulation of the blood, and a score
of minor matters. His studies of anatomy, which were undertaken, in the
spirit of thoroughness that characterised his whole work, as an adjunct
to his drawings of the human form represent the earliest serious investigations
in this direction, at least since ancient times.
That his mind was that of the modern scientist is
exampled by his favorite expressions – “anyone who, in discussion,
relies upon authority, uses not his understanding, but his memory,”
– “Truth, the only daughter of Time” – “Wisdom,
daughter of Experience,” etc.
Of the art of Leonardo we will say little –
just now. The marvellous painted drama “The Last Supper,”
the haunting features of “Mona Lisa,” and the inimitable “Head
of Christ” are close friends to every lover of the beautiful things
of Earth. Our particular concern just now is the mind of the man –
the mind that first grasped the concepts of modern science and modern
humanism. For Leonardo’s scientific speculations were by no means
mere mechanics, any more than his pictures were mere paint. They were
enlivened by a keen enthusiasm in the cause of humanity. “The natural
desire of good men is knowledge,” he declared. The “tearful
complaints” of infants (which he ascribed to the use of swaddling
bands) and the sufferings of lower animals were the subjects of frequent
expressions of sympathy. Consideration for the weak and defenceless were
by no means common virtues in the nineteenth century.
So far we have stressed the points of coincidence
between Leonardo da Vinci and Omar Khayyam. But at the same time there
yawns a great gulf betwixt them. The philosophy of da Vinci is the creed
of youth triumphant, the creed of a man and of an age that believed in
a New Heaven and a New Earth. Omar’s song is the swan-song of a
dying world. Leonardo believed with all his soul in the “great argument,
about it, and about.”” He firmly believed that one day mankind
would leave the school-room by a more hopeful door that the one by which
it entered. Omar had come to the conclusion that the school room was not
even worth the entering – that human existence was a bad joke perpetrated
by a malicious deity. Any really great mind must, now and again, feel
in sympathy with Khayyam.
“And, in some corner of the hubbub couched.
Make game of that which makes as much of thee.”
Comforting, in a doleful sort of way is the
Khayyam wine philosophy to the fighter who, with bloody head, battered
armour, and sick sense of defeat, staggers out of the conflict. Thus indeed
was it with Khayyam’s self. Though perhaps he knew it not he stood
almost the last upon the battlefield of a lost cause, like Arthur at Morgarten.
The ancient world was doomed, and Khayyam was the Last of the Ancients.
Leonardo da Vinci, on the other hand, looked forward into vistas of New
Worlds. He was the First of the Moderns – the John the Baptist of
the Age of Science.
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