his household and by carefully reading the two Ṣaḥīḥs (1); had he lived longer he would, in only a few days, have surpassed everyone in that field.

He added: It never came about that he actually transmitted ḥadith, and he left no heirs except daughters. The means at his disposal—inheritance and personal earnings—were sufficient for his upkeep, and although large sums were offered to him, he would not accept them.

He continued: Among the criticisms levelled against him was that slips of grammar occurred in his speech. When this was pointed out, he was fair, acknowledged that he had never studied the subject systematically, and was content with what he needed for ordinary discourse—even though he composed sermons and explained books in a style that men of letters and masters of eloquence could scarcely equal.

Another point of censure was the use of objectionable Persian expressions in his book Kīmiyāʾ al-Saʿādah (The Alchemy of Happiness) and al-ʿUlūm, as well as his treatment of certain models and questions in a way that does not accord with the formal dictates of the Sharīʿah and the outward rules of the creed. It would have been better for him—and truth is what most deserves to be said—to leave that work aside and refrain from commenting on it, for ordinary people are seldom able to master foundational principles through proofs and arguments. Thus, when they hear something of that sort, they conjure up ideas harmful to their beliefs and attribute them to the doctrines of the ancients. Yet the intelligent, fair-minded person, when he reflects, realizes that most of what he mentioned—what he only hinted at—is in fact indicated by the allusions of the Sharīʿah, even if he did not state it openly. Similar expressions are found among the sayings of the masters of the path, sometimes symbolically, sometimes explicitly and in scattered form, and there is not a single phrase of his whose various facets do not suggest