I.
SOME CHARACTERISTICS OF THE SEMITIC RACE.[1]
ONE of the most difficult tasks of the historian is to depict the moral
physiognomy of a nation in such a way that no trait shall be lost, and
none exaggerated at the cost of the others. The difficulty of the task
may be best appreciated by considering how complicated a thing, full of
apparent contradictions, individual character is, and that the historian
who seeks to define the character of a nation, or perhaps of a race
embracing many nations, has to deal with a still more complex
phenomenon, made up of widely varying individuals. This difficulty,
indeed, is not equally great with all nations. The common characters of
the Semitic nations are in many respects so definite and strongly
marked, that on the whole they are more easily portrayed than those of
the small Greek people, which, although at bottom a unity, embraced a
great variety of distinct local types,—Athenians as well as Bœotians,
Corinthians as well as Spartans, Arcadians and Ætolians as well as
Milesians and Sybarites. And yet it is no very easy matter to form an
estimate of the psychical characteristics of the Semites,—witness the
contradictory judgments passed on them by such distinguished scholars as
Renan and Steinthal. I have no mind to attempt a new portrait of the
Semitic type of humanity. All that I intend is to offer a few
contributions to the subject, connecting my remarks, whether by way of
agreement or, occasionally, by way of dissent, with a well-written and
ingenious essay of the learned orientalist Chwolson, which is mainly
directed against Renan.[2] In this the author is successful in refuting
some of Renan’s unfavourable criticisms on the Semitic character. But
his own judgments are not always strictly impartial; he is himself of
Jewish extraction, and in some particulars offers too favourable a
picture of the Semitic race, to which he is proud to belong.
Chwolson rightly lays emphasis upon the enormous importance of inborn
qualities for nations as well as for individuals; but he is not free
from exaggeration in his attempts to minimise the influence of religion
and laws on the one hand, of geographical position and of climate on the
other. The inhabitants of Paraguay were savage Indians like their
neighbours in Brazil and in the Argentine countries; but under the
despotic discipline of the Jesuits and their secular successors, they
grew into a nation which thirty years ago fought to the death against
overwhelming odds for its country and its chief. Islam, Christianity,
and Buddhism have exercised a powerful influence for good or for evil
even on the character of nations already civilised. In like manner,
climate and geographical position are very important factors in the
formation of national character. Could we observe the first beginnings
of nations, they would perhaps be found to be the decisive factors.
Peoples that are, so to speak, adult, and possessed of a developed
civilisation, are naturally much less susceptible to such influences
than the savage child of nature. But they are not wholly independent of
them: isolated countries in particular, with strongly marked
geographical peculiarities, such as elevated mountain regions, lonely
islands, and above all, desert lands—not to speak of polar
regions—exercise this influence in a high degree. Ethnologically the
Persians and the Hindoos are very closely related, yet their characters
differ enormously; and this must be mainly ascribed to the geographical
contrast between their seats. The Persians dwell on a lofty plateau,
exposed to violent vicissitudes of cold and heat, and in great part
unfit for cultivation; the Hindoos in a region of tropical luxuriance.
Chwolson points to the enormous difference between the ancient and the
modern Egyptians as a convincing proof that race character is little
dependent upon local environment; but really we see in Egypt how a
country with such marked peculiarities forces its inhabitants into
conformity with itself. Munziger, in his day unquestionably the best
authority upon North-Eastern Africa, brings out in a few masterly
touches the essential likeness of modern to ancient Egypt. I will quote
only one of his remarks: “The ancient Egyptians,” he says, “were not so
far ahead of the modern as we are sometimes ready to imagine; then, as
now, hovels adjoined palaces, esoteric science coexisted with crass
ignorance,” and so forth.[3] In the history of ancient Egypt, extending
as it does through millenniums, there naturally occur alternate periods
of prosperity and of decay; we may not venture to compare the time of
the Mameluke sultans and the Turkish rule with that of the
pyramid-builders; but it seems to me a very fair question whether the
civilisation of Egypt during the best period of the Fatimids did not
stand quite as high as the highest attained under the Pharaohs. The main
difference is that the Egyptians in remote antiquity had no neighbours
who stood on any sort of equality with them, and thus they received no
considerable influences from without; but this was also the reason why
their civilisation so soon became stationary.
Chwolson might have made more of the point that peoples are not rigid
bodies incapable of modification, but organisms that can develop and
assimilate,—organisms offering a varying resistance to external
influences, but in the long course of centuries capable of such
transformation that their early character can only be recognised in some
minor features. Many a touch in the Magyar still reminds us of his
Asiatic origin; yet, on the whole, he has more resemblance to any one of
the civilised peoples of Europe than to his nearest relations on the
Ural.
Similarly, in drawing the character of the Semites, the historian must
guard against taking the Jews of Europe as pure representatives of the
race. These have maintained many features of their primitive type with
remarkable tenacity, but they have become Europeans all the same; and,
moreover, many peculiarities by which they are marked are not so much of
old Semitic origin as a result of the special history of the Jews, and
in particular of continued oppression, and of that long isolation from
other peoples, which was partly their own choice and partly imposed upon
them.
Our delineation of the Semites must begin with the Arabs, Hebrews, and
Syrians (Aramæans), the last named of whom, however, have never
constituted a closely-welded nationality, politically or otherwise. Of
the inner life of the Phœnicians and some minor Semitic nations of
antiquity, we know very little. The whole character of the Babylonians
and Assyrians, which in many respects differs widely from that of the
other Semites, is steadily coming more and more to light through the
arduous labours of cuneiform scholars, but we are still far from knowing
it nearly so intimately as we know that of the three first-mentioned
peoples. Moreover, it still remains undetermined how far non-Semitic
people may have had a share in the commencement of the high and
extremely ancient civilisation of Babylon. To make the picture complete
it would be necessary, of course, to bring in also the black Semites of
Abyssinia and the adjoining regions; but these to all appearance owe
their origin to an intermingling of Arab Semites with Africans; indeed,
they are for the most part only Semitised “Hamites,” and have
accordingly retained much pristine African savagery, especially as they
were always strongly exposed to the influence of non-Semitic nations
dwelling around and among them. Besides, there is much to be said for
neglecting undeveloped or atrophied members when delineating the
character of a group of peoples.
The religion of the Semites is the first thing that demands our
attention, and that not solely on account of the influence it has
exerted on us in Europe. Renan is right in neglecting the beginnings of
Semitic religion, and taking the results of their religious development
and their tendency to monotheism as the really important thing. The
complete victory of monotheism, it is true, was first achieved within
historical times among the Israelites; but strong tendencies in the same
direction appear also among the other Semitic peoples. Renan is also
right in reckoning Christianity as only in part a Semitic religion, for
even its origin presupposed a world fructified by Greek ideas, and it
was mainly through non-Semitic influences that it became a
world-religion; nay, we may almost say that the changes which have taken
place in Christianity from the Reformation onwards consist in a more and
more complete elimination of its Semitic elements. Islam, on the other
hand, in its pure Arabic form, the doctrine of Mohammed and of his
disciples, which for a century past has again been preached in its
purity by the Wahhabites[4] in the country of its birth, is the logical
perfection of Semitic religion, with the importation of only one
fundamental idea, though that is indeed a very important one, namely,
the conception of a resurrection and of a life in heaven which had
already been adopted by Judaism and Christianity.[5] Islam is infinitely
hard and one-sided, but in its crude simplicity strictly logical.
Mohammed cannot in strictness be called a great man, and yet the
appearance of the religion which found in him such clear and energetic
expression—a religion which in one rapid march of conquest first
subdued the Semitic world already ripe for the change, and then brought
under its sway numerous other peoples both civilised and savage—was the
most important manifestation the Semitic genius ever made. In the
religious portions of the Old Testament we find that more inward warmth
of feeling and that richer fancy which distinguished the ancient Hebrew
from the Arab. When we read the Psalms and the Prophets, even without
the customary idealising spectacles, we shall place them—and not from
the merely æsthetic point of view only—far above the Koran. But the
result of the religious development of the Old Testament—the religion
of Ezra, of the Pharisees, and of the Rabbins—can hardly be said to
stand higher than Islam.
The energy and simplicity of Semitic ideas in religion are not
favourable to a complicated mythology. Where anything of the sort is met
with among them, it is either of purely foreign provenance, or has
arisen through admixture with foreign elements. This holds good perhaps
even of the Babylonian mythology (which, for the rest, is somewhat
formless), certainly of all the variety of Gnostic sects, and in a large
measure also of the official Christianity as it is found among Semites.
Mystical doctrines with them easily degenerate into crudeness; compare,
for example, the religion of the purely Semitic Druses with analogous
phenomena of Persian and Indian origin.
Even in the field of religion the nations of Indo-European civilisation
display a richer genius than the Semites; but they lack that tremendous
energy which produced the belief in the unity of God, not as a result of
scientific reflection, but as a moral demand, tolerating no
contradiction. This strength of faith, which has subdued the world, is
necessarily associated with much violence and exclusiveness. Nowhere is
the uncompromising spirit of the Old Testament more impressive than in
its half-mythical and yet thoroughly historical portrait of Elijah, that
magnificent ideal of prophecy in its zeal for the Lord. I cannot
understand how Chwolson will scarcely admit the existence of religious
ecstasy among the Semites, when the Old Testament is full of evidences
of high imaginative exaltation in its prophets as well as in those of
Baal; nay, in Hebrew the very word “to behave as a prophet”
(_hithnabbê_) also means simply “to behave madly, to rave.” Ecstasy, the
condition in which the religiously-inspired man believes himself to hold
immediate converse with God, was to the prophets themselves the
subjective attestation of their vocation. Not less deeply rooted in
their religion is that Semitic fanaticism which Chwolson would also fain
deny. “Take heed to thyself lest thou make a covenant with the
inhabitants of the land whither thou goest, lest it be for a snare in
the midst of thee; but ye shall break down their altars, and dash in
pieces their images, and ye shall cut down their groves” (Ex. xxxiv. 12,
13)—in such or similar terms run those strict commands, which were
indeed justifiable at the time, but none the less bear witness to
frightful exclusiveness and rigid fanaticism. In the same spirit the
followers of Baal destroy the altars of Jehovah and slay His prophets (1
Kings xix. 10). The captives and property taken by the Israelites from
their enemies were often devoted to destruction in honour of Jehovah
(_herem_). By the inscription of king Mesha we now know that the
Moabites practised the same thing on a large scale, in honour of their
god Chemosh. The Greek translation of _herem_ is _anathema_, properly “a
dedicatory gift;” the cry, “Anathema sit,” so often heard in
Christendom, is an inheritance from the Semites. I grant that religious
fanaticism has been powerful elsewhere, and particularly where there has
been a strong priestly class, as in India; but for the Semitic
religions, fanaticism is characteristic. Among the Persian priests of
the Sásánian period it first became powerful under Semitic influence and
in conflict with Semitic religion. The same trait is conspicuous in
Islam. There, indeed, it is more deeply rooted, and of stricter inward
necessity, than in Christianity, though it has seldom risen to such
heights of atrocity as it has sometimes reached in the latter. When all
has been said, Moslems are bound to regard all peace with unbelievers as
a truce merely—an obligation at this day much more vividly present to
the minds of the vast majority of Mohammedans than Europeans usually
suspect.
Another side of their religious narrowness is shown in the wide
diffusion which human sacrifice continued to have amongst highly
civilised Semites. Amongst the ancient Hebrews, indeed, only isolated
traces of it continue to be met with (as also among the Greeks); but as
king Mesha sacrificed his son in his need (2 Kings iii. 27), so also did
Carthaginian generals centuries afterwards. In fact, extensive human
sacrifices were offered to a god in Carthage every year, and as late as
the fourth century B.C., the distress into which Agathocles brought the
city (in 310) was attributed to the wrath of the deity because the rich
had begun to cause purchased children to be offered instead of their
own; on this account the horrible custom was again re-established in all
its simplicity (Diodor. xx. 14). Among the Arabs also we meet with human
sacrifice; only a century before Mohammed, the Arab prince of Híra, a
town that contained a large Christian population, sacrificed four
hundred nuns whom he had taken in war to his goddess Ozza (the planet
Venus). In the Semitic religions occasional traces of primitive rudeness
in ideas and manners are continually cropping up. In Mecca reverence is
still paid to the black stone, a relic of the once widely-diffused
worship of stone-fetishes, of which traces are found even in the Old
Testament. To the same category belongs the retention, both in Judaism
and in Mohammedanism, of the old custom of circumcision. As the unchaste
worship of female goddesses was specially in vogue among the ancient
Semites, so even now it happens in Arab countries, that amongst people
who pass for thoroughly holy and world-weaned (often simply insane) the
grossest excesses are regarded as holy deeds; this, to be sure, is only
popular belief, and has never been sanctioned by orthodox theologians.
It is a high prerogative of the Old Testament that, surrounded by
unchaste religious services, it sternly banishes all such immorality
from its worship of Jehovah.
In denying to the Semites in general any tendency to asceticism and
monkery, Chwolson is not entirely wrong, but neither is he perfectly
right. In the first place, it is fair to say that such a tendency is
hardly in any instance characteristic of a nation as a whole. And then,
again, the Old Testament does look upon the Nazirate (and also the rule
of the Rechabites, who, amongst other things, abstained from wine) as
something meritorious; the Jewish Essenes were neither more nor less
than a monastic order; and the Old Testament and the Koran alike contain
some precepts either wholly or partially ascetic in their character. It
must, however, be conceded that the precepts are not exorbitant, and
that some of them (such as the prohibition of wine) are very suitable
for Asiatic and African countries. Yet it must always be remembered that
in all Christendom, Egypt apart, it will be difficult to find such an
insane and soul-destroying asceticism as was practised by the purely
Semitic Syrians from about the fourth to the seventh century.[6]
The Old Testament almost everywhere breathes a purely ethical spirit,
and seeks to conceive of the Godhead as morally perfect; but this view
is not wholly strange to other nations. The Roman “Jupiter optimus
maximus” is surely intended to express moral perfection as well as the
highest power; and amongst the Greeks there arose, at a tolerably early
date, a view which freed the gods of the objectionable features
attributed to them by the ancient myths. But if the Israelite (like
other Semitic peoples) regards his God as the merciful and gracious One,
it by no means follows that he is disposed to allow this mercy and grace
to extend to other men. The ethical prescriptions of the Old Testament
are often unduly idealised. The command to love one’s neighbour has
reference, in the Old Testament, only to people of one’s own nation.
Cosmopolitan ideas appear occasionally in some of the prophets, but only
in germ, and always in such a way that Israel and Israel’s sanctuary
remain exalted above all peoples. The cosmopolitanism without which
Christianity would be inconceivable, could not gain any strength until
after Hellenic and Oriental ideas had begun to combine. Whether the
precepts in Deuteronomy, which enjoin humanity in war and otherwise,
give as favourable a testimony to the mild disposition of the ancient
Israelites as is sometimes supposed, is very doubtful. Perhaps they
indicate the very contrary. Chwolson himself points out that among the
lying Persians the duty of truthfulness has from of old been specially
insisted on; and I believe it would be possible to prove that the
hot-blooded ancient Semites had a strong vein of ferocity. The great
humanity and benevolence of the Jews of to-day, a result of their
peculiar history, can certainly not be adduced as evidence to the
contrary.
In political life the Semites have done more than is commonly supposed.
It is true that we find among them, on the one hand, a lawless and
highly-divided state of society, in which even the rudiments of
political authority are hardly known (as among the ancient and modern
Bedouins), and, on the other, unlimited despotism. In the first century
of Islam the former of these conditions was almost immediately replaced
by the latter. Chwolson ought not to deny the despotic character of the
Omayyad caliphate, which was purely Semitic, and not half-Persian, like
that of the Abbásids in Bagdad. The Arabs of that age, in fact, could
hardly think of a ruler at all as without absolute authority. Even the
individual governor or general, as long as he is in office, has full and
unlimited power. Even those radical fanatics, the Kharijites, who
recognised only a perfect Moslem as ruler, whether great or small,[7]
gave absolute authority to their leader, if only he did not apostatise
from the faith. If, indeed, he did this—and the decision on this point
of fact each reserved for himself—they deposed him, and at that period
the actual rulers and chiefs had to reckon very strictly with the views
and wishes of their fighting subjects; but in theory they were
unrestricted in their actions, and a strong and capable prince in some
degree actually was so. It was otherwise, however, in ancient Israel. We
can still discern that in both kingdoms the sovereigns were in many
points limited by survivals of the old aristocratic constitution. To get
rid of Naboth, queen Jezebel required the sentence of a public assembly,
which she secured by false witnesses (1 Kings xxi.). The narrator
therefore gives us to understand that the heads of the commune retained
the power of life and death in their own hands, although the monarchy
was even then an old institution. The kings of Edom appear in very early
times to have been elective princes. And the Phœnicians (including the
Carthaginians) present a very large variety of political constitution,
which reminds one of Greece. Amongst the Phœnicians we find also, at
least in times of the direst need, a self-sacrificing patriotism, as is
witnessed by the wars against Rome, in which Carthage perished, and the
mortal struggle of Tyre against Alexander (although in the latter
religious motives seem to have played a part). But, in general,
individualism preponderates among the Semites so greatly that they adapt
themselves to a firmly settled state only at the call of great religious
impulses, or under the pressure of despotic authority; and, even when it
is established, they have no real attachment to it. The still untamed
Arab is much more strongly attached to the family, the clan, the tribe;
so also among the Israelites of the older time, clanship seems to have
been a bond of very great strength. But it is an error to try to see in
this absence of formed national feeling, as contrasted with the
patriotism of the Greeks, any approach to the freer modern conception of
the State.
It is also quite a mistake to attribute to the Semites democratic
inclinations. No people has ever laid so much stress upon genealogies as
the two Semitic nations with which we are best acquainted, the Hebrews
and the Arabs, have done. The genuine Arab is thoroughly aristocratic.
Many a feud turns upon the precedence of one family or tribe over
another. In the first two centuries after Mohammed bloody wars were
waged on such rivalries. Even now it is with a heavy heart that the Arab
sees set over him a man of less noble extraction than himself. The deeds
of ancestors are accepted as legitimation, but are also the spur of
emulation. In the councils of the tribe or of the community, it is
difficult for the man of humble origin to acquire influence. Even a
caliph so early as the third in the series owed his throne to the
influence of his clan, the Omayyads, who yet shortly before had been the
bitterest enemies of the Prophet, but nevertheless, after their
subjection, retained the position of greatest prominence in Mecca, and
so in the new State. But for the consideration in which his family was
held, Moáwiya, the real founder of the Omayyad dynasty, with all his
talent and all his services to the empire, would never have attained to
the supreme command. In this matter, indeed, Islam has gradually
effected a mighty change. At his first appearance Mohammed gave offence
to the upper-class Meccans by admitting to the number of his followers
slaves, freedmen, and other people of no family or account. The might of
the religious idea triumphed over old prejudices. In presence of the
almighty extra-mundane God all mortals are on an absolute equality;
whosoever went over to Islam received the same rights, and undertook the
same duties as the highest and the meanest believer. But, in spite of
all this, Mohammed himself made many concessions to the aristocratic
temper, and this temper continued for a long time after to be a great
power; it was the complete development of the despotism, after the old
Oriental fashion, that levelled all subjects. But even to this day
aristocratic ideas prevail among the Arabs of the desert, and also among
the sedentary Arabs in remoter regions. The genuine Arab has in
connection with his aristocratic notions a sense of chivalry, a fine
feeling for points of honour (not necessarily the same as we ourselves
take), but also a strong propensity to vanity and boasting. There are
many evidences that in the communities of ancient Israel also an
aristocratic rule (elders and nobles) prevailed. That the constitution
of Carthage was in its essential features aristocratic is well known.
The same is true of the Syrian city of Palmyra, though its constitution
was modified by the general conditions of the Roman empire, to which it
had to accommodate itself.
As the Semite can hardly be induced, voluntarily, to submit to a strict
discipline, he does not, on the whole, make a good soldier. Skirmishes
and little surprises are what the Arab finds inspiriting; of the
adventures of his heroes and robbers he tells stories, as the Hebrews
before him did about Samson. Like all vigorous nations with an exuberant
vitality, the Arabs delight in narratives of battle and victory,
especially if these are properly exaggerated and flatter their pride of
family or race. The Old Testament speaks less of heroes than of saints,
but then it is a religious book; its many tales of the “wars of the
Lord” nevertheless bear witness that the peaceful Hebrew could also be
thoroughly warlike. How could it possibly have been otherwise in a land
that had been conquered with the sword, and very often required to be
similarly defended? When Chwolson tries to demonstrate the absolutely
peaceable disposition of the Israelites by reference to the ideal
kingdom of peace which was the object of their hopes, it can be argued
on the other side that the very prophet who promises the beating of
swords into ploughshares, and of spears into pruning-hooks, depicts the
daughter of Zion as trampling on the nations or wasting the land of
Assyria with the sword (Micah iv., v.). But Semitic armies have seldom
done anything great. This might be ascribed to the circumstance that
among the Semites the power of taking in complex unities at a glance,
the talent for arrangement, is rare, and that therefore they have had no
generals; but we have only to think of Hannibal and other great
Carthaginians to reject this view. These, however, carried on their
campaigns with foreign troops. For it is quite undeniable that the
Semites do not readily make good soldiers. For moulding the Arabs into
powerful armies in the early years of Islam, unusual impulses were
required: the enthusiasm generated by a new national religion which
promised a heavenly reward, and the allurements which the prospects of
booty and of settlement in rich lands offered to the inhabitants of the
sterile wilderness. Over and above all this there was a wonderful
intellectual outburst which showed itself in the appearance of a
singular series of highly gifted generals, statesmen, and men of
eminence in various directions. And these were precisely the men who
then stood at the head of the nation. To subsequent generations the
youth of Islam, the true prime of the Arabs, is unintelligible. They are
unable to appreciate the great spiritual forces which, either in
conjunction with, or in hostile opposition to, each other, were then
unfolded. The theological school discerns everywhere only theological
battles, and this school dominates the view of later Moslems. This is
the chief reason why the names of the great warriors and statesmen of
that period have long been almost forgotten in the East, while those of
theologians and saints are popular. The later Jews also often fought
with the utmost bravery, but only when the defence of their religion was
in question. To become subject to a stern discipline, and to encounter
death merely for the sake of freedom and fatherland, was not a thought
that came naturally to them. Chwolson seems to prefer the enthusiasm of
religion to the enthusiasm of patriotism; but I take it that the heroes
of Marathon laid the world under a debt of obligation by no means less
deep than did the armies of the Maccabees.
In religion the one-sidedness of the Semitic mind was a creative power;
but it was highly prejudicial to the development of science. A keen eye
for particulars, a sobriety of apprehension (justly dwelt on by
Chwolson), are undoubtedly talents of great service in the beginnings of
science. Accordingly we find at a comparatively early period amongst
Hebrews and Arabs an intelligent system of chronicles such as was never
attained by (let us say) the dreamy Hindoos; and from the firm lapidary
style in which king Mesha recounts his exploits we can infer that in his
time (about 900 B.C.) some beginnings of historic narrative existed even
in that remote land. But, as already remarked, the Semite is deficient
in the power of taking a general view, in the gift of comprehensive
intelligence, of large and, at the same time, logical thought, and
therefore, speaking generally, he has only in a few cases contributed
anything of importance to science. The ideas of monotheism and of a
creation are by no means products of philosophical reflection; the naïve
intelligence of the Israelite has not the faintest suspicion of the
enormous difficulties which the assumption of a creation out of nothing
presents to the reflecting mind; to him the proposition is self-evident.
The speculation of the Arabs on the freedom of the will and similar
subjects, continued to be very unsystematic and unscientific as long as
it was only superficially affected by Greek thought. And even after they
had been trained by Greek philosophy, the Arabs, so far as I am able to
judge from what I freely confess to be a very limited knowledge,
produced little that was new in this field. On the whole, it becomes
increasingly apparent that the Syrians and Arabs, whatever their merit
in keeping up and handing on the sciences of the Greeks, were not very
fruitful in their own cultivation of these, though it must be admitted
that the Arabs at least made advances in some matters of detail.
Besides, we must not assume that everything written in Arabic must
necessarily be Arab and Semitic; one might as well ascribe all the Latin
literature of the Middle Ages to the Italians. There are, however,
undeniably certain fields of knowledge in which the Arabs distinguished
themselves without stimulus from without; Arabian philology in
particular, in its various branches, is a brilliant achievement. Many
Persians, it is true, had a share in it, but it is almost entirely
Arabian in its first origin, and thoroughly so in spirit. It evinces an
exceedingly keen observation of the phenomena of language, and though
breadth of view and genuine systematic method are frequently wanting,
and the wisdom of the school seeks to improve upon the facts, the Arabic
language (of course the Arabic only) is examined from all sides with a
subtlety worthy of all admiration. But how any one could ever have
thought of finding among the ancient Israelites long before Aristotle’s
time anything of the nature of natural science is, I confess,
incomprehensible to me. When we read that Solomon “spake of trees” and
of animals (1 Kings iv. 33; [Heb. v. 13]), the expression admits perhaps
of more than one interpretation, but certainly we are not to understand
that botany and zoology are meant. Neither should I be disposed to
reckon under Semitic science the agricultural treatises of the
Carthaginian Mago. We shall be safe in asserting that these did not
stand on a higher level than the corresponding Roman and Greek works on
that subject, which were directed exclusively to practical ends; but if
we are to regard such writings as scientific, we must do the same with
cookery books. The discovery of the alphabet, or rather the separation
of a true alphabet out of a highly complicated system of writing, has
proved infinitely important for science, and bears decisive testimony to
the intellectual powers of the Semites,[8] but I hesitate to call this
an achievement of science in the proper sense of the word. The science
of the Babylonians, on the other hand, deserves high recognition. What
they did for astronomy and the measurement of time in particular at a
very early period is of the very greatest value, and is even now not
wholly out of date; just as, in another aspect, the astrological
superstition connected with it dominated succeeding ages. The
conspicuous services to science of modern Jewish _savants_ clearly
cannot come into the account here; for these men belong to civilised
Europe.
All qualified judges are pretty unanimous about Semitic poetry and art.
A keen eye for particulars, great subjectivity, a nervous restlessness,
deep passion and inwardness of feeling, and, finally, a strong tendency
to follow older models and keep to traditional forms of presentation,
mark their excellences as well as their defects. I shall not here repeat
the remarks so often made on Arabic and Hebrew poetry, as to the want of
a Semitic epic and so on. I only observe that the few remains we possess
of Hebrew poetry, though mainly of a religious character, reveal
many-sidedness in a far higher degree, and also, on the whole, more of
depth and freshness, than does the very uniform if formally perfect
poetry of the Arabs, of which, notwithstanding many losses, we still
possess a very large quantity. From the Syrians much verse has come to
us, but hardly anything truly poetical apart from some quite short
popular songs of the modern Syrians of the extreme north-east. For the
rest, the want of an epos is compensated among the Hebrews and Arabs (as
also among some Indo-European peoples) by talent for lively and
attractive prose narration. Essentially, as a result of the peculiar
structure of their language, the Arabs have naturally a strong tendency
to a pointed manner of speech, varying between epigrammatic brevity and
ornate tautology. Even the Bedouins in the desert spoke in this way; and
this was the style employed by the princes and generals of the first
period of Islam in their public addresses as well as in their letters.
This artificial and ornate style inevitably degenerated into a
mannerism, and finally issued in a meaningless jingle of words and the
well-known oriental inflation which we find so intolerable, especially
in Persian and Turkish imitations. The counterpart of this love for a
striking and elegant manner of speech was, of course, a great
sensibility to style on the part of hearers and readers. Eloquence was a
highly-prized gift before Mohammed’s time. The pleasure which the Arabs
took in beauty of language is one of the principal causes which led to
their peculiar success in philology. A taste for well-arranged,
striking, and sonorous words existed among the ancient Hebrews also,
though not in so highly-developed a form.
Every one admits that, apart from the Babylonians and Assyrians, the
Semites have had little success in the plastic arts. The statements of
the Old Testament give us a very moderate idea of the architectural
performances of the Hebrews. In all essential respects the Phœnicians
appear to have copied Egyptian, and afterwards Greek models. The
extensive ruins of Palmyra, Petra, Baalbec (Heliopolis), and other towns
of Syria, are in a Greek style, only slightly modified by oriental
influences. The Arabs, also, have mainly followed foreign patterns. Arab
buildings sometimes, indeed, show extraordinary beauty of detail,
wonderful ornamentation, splendid colour; but in this department, also,
there is a want of sense for totality, of articulate unity of plan. It
must, moreover, be noted, that many buildings of the Arabs—the very
famous Omayyad mosque at Damascus, among others—were in whole or in
part executed by foreigners. It is characteristic of the Arabs that they
reckon caligraphy among the fine arts; and certainly any one who has
seen finished examples of the work of Arab penmen must acknowledge that
there is in them something more than mere dexterity and elegance,—that
these wonderfully free and pure forms are controlled by the same feeling
for nobility of outline which appears in all branches of Arab decorative
art.[9] In Arabian art we everywhere find a delicate sense for detail,
but nowhere large apprehension of a great and united whole. That most
Semites have effected nothing in sculpture, and very little in painting
strictly so called, is partly to be accounted for, no doubt, by
religious considerations; but at bottom it has its explanation in want
of aptitude for these arts. It is only among the Babylonians and
Assyrians that an original sculpture has flourished. Among the remains
of Nineveh some notable works of art occur, alongside of many pieces of
excellent but purely conventional workmanship.
Our general conclusion, then, is that the genius of the Semites is in
many respects one-sided, and does not reach the level of some
Indo-European nations, especially the Greeks; but it would be most
unjust to deny their claim to one of the highest places among the races
of mankind. Among the pure Semites of the present day, indeed, we
discover extraordinarily few indications of natural or vigorous
progress; much points to the conclusion that this group of nations has
long since passed its prime. Whether modern European culture may be able
really to lay hold of them, and awaken them to a new and strenuous life,
is a question which will not be answered in the immediate future.
-----
[1] Originally published in _Im neuen Reich_, ii. (1872) p. 881 sqq.
[2] _Die Semitischen Völker_, Berlin 1872.
[3] _Ostafrikanische Studien_, p. 5 ff.
[4] See below, p. 103.
[5] Strictly speaking, this idea is itself but a conglomerate of Persian
religious teachings and Greek thought with Semitic accretions.
[6] See below, “Some Syrian Saints.” p. 207.
[7] See below, p. 80.
[8] It may now be regarded as tolerably certain that the Semitic
alphabet, from which all those of Europe had their origin, was reached
by simplification of the extremely unpractical writing of the Egyptians.
[9] Some of the Phœnician inscriptions also, in their slender straight
lines, show a fine caligraphic taste.
II.
THE KORAN.[10]
THE Koran (_Ḳor’án_) is the foundation of Islam. It is the sacred book
of more than a hundred millions of men, some of them nations of
immemorial civilisation, by all whom it is regarded as the immediate
word of God. And since the use of the Koran in public worship, in
schools and otherwise, is much more extensive than, for example, the
reading of the Bible in most Christian countries, it has been truly
described as the most widely-read book in existence. This circumstance
alone is sufficient to give it an urgent claim on our attention, whether
it suit our taste and fall in with our religious and philosophical views
or not. Besides, it is the work of Mohammed, and as such is fitted to
afford a clue to the spiritual development of that most successful of
all prophets and religious personalities. It must be owned that the
first perusal leaves on a European an impression of chaotic
confusion,—not that the book is so very extensive, for it is not quite
so large as the New Testament. This impression can in some degree be
modified only by the application of a critical analysis with the
assistance of Arabian tradition.
To the faith of the Moslems, as has been said, the Koran is the word of
God, and such also is the claim which the book itself advances. For
except in sur. i.—which is a prayer for men—and some few passages
where Mohammed (vi. 104, 114, xxvii. 93, xlii. 8), or the angels (xix.
65, xxxvii. 164 sqq.), speak in the first person without the
intervention of the usual imperative “say” (sing. or pl.), the speaker
throughout is God, either in the first person singular, or more commonly
the plural of majesty “we.” The same mode of address is familiar to us
from the prophets of the Old Testament; the human personality
disappears, in the moment of inspiration, behind the God by whom it is
filled. But all the greatest of the Hebrew prophets fall back speedily
upon the unassuming human “I”; while in the Koran the divine “I” is the
stereotyped form of address. Mohammed, however, really felt himself to
be the instrument of God; this consciousness was no doubt brighter at
his first appearance than it afterwards became, but it never entirely
forsook him. We might therefore readily pardon him for giving out, not
only the results of imaginative and emotional excitement, but also many
expositions or decrees which were the outcome of cool calculation, as
the word of God, if he had only attained the pure moral altitude which
in an Isaiah or a Jeremiah fills us with admiration after the lapse of
ages.
The rationale of revelation is explained in the Koran itself as
follows:—In heaven is the original text (“the mother of the book,”
xliii. 3; “a concealed book,” lv. 77; “a well-guarded tablet,” lxxxv.
22). By a process of “sending down” (_tanzíl_), one piece after another
was communicated to the Prophet. The mediator was an angel, who is
called sometimes the “Spirit” (xxvi. 193), sometimes the “holy Spirit”
(xvi. 104), and at a later time “Gabriel” (ii. 91). This angel dictates
the revelation to the Prophet, who repeats it after him, and afterwards
proclaims it to the world (lxxxvii. 6, etc.). It is plain that we have
here a somewhat crude attempt of the Prophet to represent to himself the
more or less unconscious process by which his ideas arose and gradually
took shape in his mind. It is no wonder if in such confused imagery the
details are not always self-consistent. When, for example, this heavenly
archetype is said to be in the hands of an exalted “scribe” (lxxx. 13
sqq.), this seems a transition to a quite different set of ideas,
namely, the books of fate, or the record of all human
actions—conceptions which are actually found in the Koran. It is to be
observed, at all events, that Mohammed’s transcendental idea of God, as
a Being exalted altogether above the world, excludes the thought of
direct intercourse between the Prophet and God.
It is an explicit statement of the Koran that the sacred book was
revealed (“sent down”) by God, not all at once, but piecemeal and
gradually (xxv. 34). This is evident from the actual composition of the
book, and is confirmed by Moslem tradition. That is to say, Mohammed
issued his revelations in fly-leaves of greater or less extent. A single
piece of this kind was called either, like the entire collection,
_ḳor’án_, _i.e._ “reading,” or rather “recitation;” or _kitáb_,
“writing;” or _súra_, which is the late-Hebrew _shúrá_, and means
literally “series.” The last became, in the lifetime of Mohammed, the
regular designation of the individual sections as distinguished from the
whole collection; and accordingly it is the name given to the separate
chapters of the existing Koran. These chapters are of very unequal
length. Since many of the shorter ones are undoubtedly complete in
themselves, it is natural to assume that the longer, which are sometimes
very comprehensive, have arisen from the amalgamation of various
originally distinct revelations. This supposition is favoured by the
numerous traditions which give us the circumstances under which this or
that short piece, now incorporated in a larger section, was revealed;
and also by the fact that the connection of thought in the present súras
often seems to be interrupted. And in reality many pieces of the long
súras have to be severed out as originally independent; even in the
short ones parts are often found which cannot have been there at first.
At the same time we must beware of carrying this sifting operation too
far,—as I now believe myself to have done in my earlier works, and as
Sprenger in his great book on Mohammed also sometimes seems to do. That
some súras were of considerable length from the first is seen, for
example, from xii., which contains a short introduction, then the
history of Joseph, and then a few concluding observations, and is
therefore perfectly homogeneous. In like manner, xx., which is mainly
occupied with the history of Moses, forms a complete whole. The same is
true of xviii., which at first sight seems to fall into several pieces;
the history of the seven sleepers, the grotesque narrative about Moses,
and that about Alexander “the Horned,” are all connected together, and
the same rhyme runs through the whole súra. Even in the separate
narrations we may observe how readily the Koran passes from one subject
to another, how little care is taken to express all the transitions of
thought, and how frequently clauses are omitted, which are almost
indispensable. We are not at liberty, therefore, in every case where the
connection in the Koran is obscure, to say that it is really broken, and
set it down as the clumsy patchwork of a later hand. Even in the old
Arabic poetry such abrupt transitions are of very frequent occurrence.
It is not uncommon for the Koran, after a new subject has been entered
on, to return gradually or suddenly to the former theme,—a proof that
there at least separation is not to be thought of. In short, however
imperfectly the Koran may have been redacted, in the majority of cases
the present súras are identical with the originals.
How these revelations actually arose in Mohammed’s mind is a question
which it is almost as idle to discuss as it would be to analyse the
workings of the mind of a poet. In his early career, sometimes perhaps
in its later stages also, many revelations must have burst from him in
uncontrollable excitement, so that he could not possibly regard them
otherwise than as divine inspirations. We must bear in mind that he was
no cold systematic thinker, but an Oriental visionary, brought up in
crass superstition, and without intellectual discipline; a man whose
nervous temperament had been powerfully worked on by ascetic
austerities, and who was all the more irritated by the opposition he
encountered, because he had little of the heroic in his nature. Filled
with his religious ideas and visions, he might well fancy he heard the
angel bidding him recite what was said to him. There may have been many
a revelation of this kind which no one ever heard but himself, as he
repeated it to himself in the silence of the night (lxxiii. 4). Indeed
the Koran itself admits that he forgot some revelations (lxxxvii. 7).
But by far the greatest part of the book is undoubtedly the result of
deliberation, touched more or less with emotion, and animated by a
certain rhetorical rather than poetical glow. Many passages are based
upon purely intellectual reflection. It is said that Mohammed
occasionally uttered such a passage immediately after one of those
epileptic fits which not only his followers, but (for a time at least)
he himself also, regarded as tokens of intercourse with the higher
powers. If that is the case, it is impossible to say whether the trick
was in the utterance of the revelation or in the fit itself.
How the various pieces of the Koran took literary form is uncertain.
Mohammed himself, so far as we can discover, never wrote down anything.
The question whether he could read and write has been much debated among
Moslems, unfortunately more with dogmatic arguments and spurious
traditions than authentic proofs. At present, one is inclined to say
that he was not altogether ignorant of these arts, but that from want of
practice he found it convenient to employ some one else whenever he had
anything to write. After the emigration to Medina (A.D. 622) we are told
that short pieces—chiefly legal decisions—were taken down immediately
after they were revealed, by an adherent whom he summoned for the
purpose; so that nothing stood in the way of their publication. Hence it
is probable that in Mecca, where, as in a mercantile town, the art of
writing was commoner than in Medina, a place of agriculture, he had
already begun to have his oracles committed to writing. That even long
portions of the Koran existed in written form from an early date, may be
pretty safely inferred from various indications; especially from the
fact that in Mecca the Prophet had caused insertions to be made, and
pieces to be erased, in his previous revelations. For we cannot suppose
that he knew the longer súras by heart so perfectly that he was able
after a time to lay his finger upon any particular passage. In some
instances, indeed, he may have relied too much on his memory. For
example, he seems to have occasionally dictated the same súra to
different persons in slightly different terms. In such cases, no doubt,
he may have partly intended to introduce improvements; and so long as
the difference was merely in expression, without affecting the sense, it
could occasion no perplexity to his followers. None of them had literary
pedantry enough to question the consistency of the divine revelation on
that ground. In particular instances, however, the difference of reading
was too important to be overlooked. Thus the Koran itself confesses that
the unbelievers cast it up as a reproach to the Prophet that God
sometimes substituted one verse for another (xvi. 103). On one occasion,
when a dispute arose between two of his own followers as to the true
reading of a passage which both had received from the Prophet himself,
Mohammed is said to have explained that the Koran was revealed in seven
forms. In this dictum, which perhaps is genuine, seven stands, of
course, as in many other cases, for an indefinite but limited number.
But one may imagine what a world of trouble it has cost the Moslem
theologians to explain the saying in accordance with their dogmatic
beliefs. A great number of explanations are current, some of which claim
the authority of the Prophet himself; as, indeed, fictitious utterances
of Mohammed play throughout a conspicuous part in the exegesis of the
Koran. One very favourite, but utterly untenable interpretation is that
the “seven forms” are seven different Arabic dialects.
When such discrepancies came to the cognisance of Mohammed it was
doubtless his desire that only one of the conflicting texts should be
considered authentic; only he never gave himself much trouble to have
his wish carried into effect. Although in theory he was an upholder of
verbal inspiration, he did not push the doctrine to its extreme
consequences; his practical good sense did not take these things so
strictly as the theologians of later centuries. Sometimes, however, he
did suppress whole sections or verses, enjoining his followers to efface
or forget them, and declaring them to be “abrogated.” A very remarkable
case is that of the two verses in liii., when he had recognised three
heathen goddesses as exalted beings, possessing influence with God. This
he had done in a moment of weakness, to win his countrymen by a
compromise which still left Alláh in the highest rank. He attained his
purpose indeed, but was soon visited by remorse, and declared the words
in question to have been inspirations of the Evil One.
So much for abrogated readings; the case is somewhat different when we
come to the abrogation of laws and directions to the Moslems, which
often occurs in the Koran. There is nothing in this at variance with
Mohammed’s idea of God. God is to him an absolute despot, who declares a
thing right or wrong from no inherent necessity, but by His arbitrary
fiat. This God varies His commands at pleasure, prescribes one law for
the Christians, another for the Jews, and a third for the Moslems; nay,
He even changes His instructions to the Moslems when it pleases Him.
Thus, for example, the Koran contains very different directions, suited
to varying circumstances, as to the treatment which idolaters are to
receive at the hands of believers. But Mohammed showed no anxiety to
have these superseded enactments destroyed. Believers could be in no
uncertainty as to which of two contradictory passages remained in force;
and they might still find edification in that which had become obsolete.
That later generations might not so easily distinguish the “abrogated”
from the “abrogating” did not occur to Mohammed, whose vision, naturally
enough, seldom extended to the future of his religious community.
Current events were invariably kept in view in the revelations. In
Medina it called forth the admiration of the Faithful to observe how
often God gave them the answer to a question whose settlement was
urgently required at the moment. The same _naïveté_ appears in a remark
of the Caliph Othmán about a doubtful case: “If the Apostle of God were
still alive, methinks there had been a Koran passage revealed on this
point.” Not unfrequently the divine word was found to coincide with the
advice which Mohammed had received from his most intimate disciples.
“Omar was many a time of a certain opinion,” says one tradition, “and
the Koran was then revealed accordingly.”
The contents of the different parts of the Koran are extremely varied.
Many passages consist of theological or moral reflections. We are
reminded of the greatness, the goodness, the righteousness of God as
manifested in Nature, in history, and in revelation through the
prophets, especially through Mohammed. God is magnified as the One, the
All-powerful. Idolatry and all deification of created beings, such as
the worship of Christ as the Son of God, are unsparingly condemned. The
joys of heaven and the pains of hell are depicted in vivid sensuous
imagery, as is also the terror of the whole creation at the advent of
the last day and the judgment of the world. Believers receive general
moral instruction, as well as directions for special circumstances. The
lukewarm are rebuked, the enemies threatened with terrible punishment,
both temporal and eternal. To the sceptical the truth of Islam is held
forth; and a certain, not very cogent, method of demonstration
predominates. In many passages the sacred book falls into a diffuse
preaching style, others seem more like proclamations or general orders.
A great number contain ceremonial or civil laws, or even special
commands to individuals down to such matters as the regulation of
Mohammed’s harem. In not a few, definite questions are answered which
had actually been propounded to the Prophet by believers or infidels.
Mohammed himself, too, repeatedly receives direct injunctions, and does
not escape an occasional rebuke. One súra (i.) is a prayer, two (cxiii.,
cxiv.) are magical formulas. Many súras treat of a single topic, others
embrace several.
From the mass of material comprised in the Koran—and the account we
have given is far from exhaustive—we should select the histories of the
ancient prophets and saints as possessing a peculiar interest. The
purpose of Mohammed is to show from these histories how God in former
times had rewarded the righteous and punished their enemies. For the
most part the old prophets only serve to introduce a little variety in
point of form, for they are almost in every case facsimiles of Mohammed
himself. They preach exactly like him, they have to bring the very same
charges against their opponents, who on their part behave exactly as the
unbelieving inhabitants of Mecca. The Koran even goes so far as to make
Noah contend against the worship of certain false gods, mentioned by
name, who were worshipped by the Arabs of Mohammed’s time. In an address
which is put in the mouth of Abraham (xxvi. 75 sqq.) the reader quite
forgets that it is Abraham, and not Mohammed (or God Himself), who is
speaking. Other narratives are intended rather for amusement, although
they are always well seasoned with edifying phrases. It is no wonder
that the godless Koraishites thought these stories of the Koran not
nearly so entertaining as those of Rostam and Ispandiár related by Nadr
the son of Hárith, who, when travelling as a merchant, had learned on
the Euphrates the heroic mythology of the Persians. But the Prophet was
so exasperated by this rivalry that when Nadr fell into his power after
the battle of Badr, he caused him to be executed; although in all other
cases he readily pardoned his fellow-countrymen.
These histories are chiefly about Scripture characters, especially those
of the Old Testament. But the deviations from the Biblical narratives
are very marked. Many of the alterations are found in the legendary
anecdotes of the Jewish Aggádá and the New Testament Apocrypha; but many
more are due to misconceptions such as only a listener (not the reader
of a book) could fall into. The most ignorant Jew could never have
mistaken Haman (the minister of Ahasuerus) for the minister of Pharaoh,
or identified Miriam the sister of Moses with Mary (=Miriam) the mother
of Christ. In addition to such misconceptions there are sundry
capricious alterations, some of them very grotesque, due to Mohammed
himself. For instance, in his ignorance of everything out of Arabia, he
makes the fertility of Egypt—where rain is almost never seen and never
missed—depend on rain instead of the inundations of the Nile (xii. 49).
The strange tale of “the Horned” (_i.e._ Alexander the Great, xviii. 82
sqq.) reflects, as has been lately discovered, a rather absurd story,
written by a Syrian in the beginning of the sixth century; we may
believe that the substance of it was related to the Prophet by some
Christian. Besides Jewish and Christian histories, there are a few about
old Arabian prophets. In these he seems to have handled his materials
even more freely than in the others.
The opinion has already been expressed that Mohammed did not make use of
written sources. Coincidences and divergences alike can always be
accounted for by oral communications from Jews who knew a little and
Christians who knew next to nothing. Even in the rare passages where we
can trace direct resemblances to the text of the Old Testament (comp.
xxi. 105 with Ps. xxxvii. 29; i. 5 with Ps. xxvii. 11) or the New (comp.
vii. 48 with Luke xvi. 24; xlvi. 19 with Luke xvi. 25), there is nothing
more than might readily have been picked up in conversation with any Jew
or Christian. In Medina, where he had the opportunity of becoming
acquainted with Jews of some culture, he learned some things out of the
Mishna, _e.g._ v. 35 corresponds almost word for word with Mishna
_Sanh._ iv. 5; compare also ii. 183 with Mishna _Ber._ i. 2. That these
are only cases of oral communication will be admitted by any one with
the slightest knowledge of the circumstances. Otherwise we might even
conclude that Mohammed had studied the Talmud; _e.g._ the regulation as
to ablution by rubbing with sand, where water cannot be obtained (iv.
46), corresponds to a Talmudic ordinance (_Ber. 15a_). Of Christianity
he can have been able to learn very little even in Medina; as may be
seen from the absurd travesty of the institution of the Eucharist in v.
112 sqq. For the rest, it is highly improbable that before the Koran any
real literary production—anything that could be strictly called a
book—existed in the Arabic language.
In point of style and artistic effect, the different parts of the Koran
are of very unequal value. An unprejudiced and critical reader will
certainly find very few passages where his æsthetic susceptibilities are
thoroughly satisfied. But he will often be struck, especially in the
older pieces, by a wild force of passion, and a vigorous, if not rich,
imagination. Descriptions of heaven and hell, and allusions to God’s
working in Nature, not unfrequently show a certain amount of poetic
power. In other places also the style is sometimes lively and
impressive; though it is rarely indeed that we come across such strains
of touching simplicity as in the middle of xciii. The greater part of
the Koran is decidedly prosaic; much of it indeed is stiff in style. Of
course, with such a variety of material, we cannot expect every part to
be equally vivacious, or imaginative, or poetic. A decree about the
right of inheritance, or a point of ritual, must necessarily be
expressed in prose, if it is to be intelligible. No one complains of the
civil laws in Exodus or the sacrificial ritual in Leviticus, because
they want the fire of Isaiah or the tenderness of Deuteronomy. But
Mohammed’s mistake consists in persistent and slavish adherence to the
semi-poetic form which he had at first adopted in accordance with his
own taste and that of his hearers. For instance, he employs rhyme in
dealing with the most prosaic subjects, and thus produces the
disagreeable effect of incongruity between style and matter. It has to
be considered, however, that many of those sermonising pieces which are
so tedious to us, especially when we read two or three in succession
(perhaps in a very inadequate translation), must have had a quite
different effect when recited under the burning sky and on the barren
soil of Mecca. There, thoughts about God’s greatness and man’s duty,
which are familiar to us from childhood, were all new to the hearers—it
is hearers we have to think of in the first instance, not readers—to
whom, at the same time, every allusion had a meaning which often escapes
our notice. When Mohammed spoke of the goodness of the Lord in creating
the clouds, and bringing them across the cheerless desert, and pouring
them out on the earth to restore its rich vegetation, that must have
been a picture of thrilling interest to the Arabs, who are accustomed to
see from three to five years elapse before a copious shower comes to
clothe the wilderness once more with luxuriant pastures. It requires an
effort for us, under our clouded skies, to realise in some degree the
intensity of that impression.
The fact that scraps of poetical phraseology are specially numerous in
the earlier súras, enables us to understand why the prosaic mercantile
community of Mecca regarded their eccentric townsman as a “poet,” or
even a “possessed poet.” Mohammed himself had to disclaim such titles,
because he felt himself to be a divinely-inspired prophet; but we too,
from our standpoint, shall fully acquit him of poetic genius. Like many
other predominantly religious characters, he had no appreciation of
poetic beauty; and if we may believe one anecdote related of him, at a
time when every one made verses, he affected ignorance of the most
elementary rules of prosody. Hence the style of the Koran is not
poetical but rhetorical; and the powerful effect which some portions
produce on us is gained by rhetorical means. Accordingly the sacred book
has not even the artistic form of poetry; which, among the Arabs,
includes a stringent metre, as well as rhyme. The Koran is never
metrical, and only a few exceptionally eloquent portions fall into a
sort of spontaneous rhythm. On the other hand, the rhyme is regularly
maintained; although, especially in the later pieces, after a very
slovenly fashion. Rhymed prose was a favourite form of composition among
the Arabs of that day, and Mohammed adopted it; but if it imparts a
certain sprightliness to some passages, it proves on the whole a
burdensome yoke. The Moslems themselves have observed that the tyranny
of the rhyme often makes itself apparent in derangement of the order of
words, and in the choice of verbal forms which would not otherwise have
been employed; _e.g._ an imperfect instead of a perfect. In one place,
to save the rhyme, he calls Mount Sinai _Sínín_ (xcv. 2) instead of
_Síná_ (xxiii. 20); in another Elijah is called _Ilyásín_ (xxxvii. 130)
instead of _Ilyás_ (vi. 85, xxxvii. 123). The substance even is modified
to suit exigencies of rhyme. Thus the Prophet would scarcely have fixed
on the unusual number of _eight_ angels round the throne of God (lxix.
17) if the word _thamániyah_, “eight,” had not happened to fall in so
well with the rhyme. And when lv. speaks of _two_ heavenly gardens, each
with _two_ fountains and _two_ kinds of fruit, and again of _two_
similar gardens, all this is simply because the dual termination (_án_)
corresponds to the syllable that controls the rhyme in that whole súra.
In the later pieces, Mohammed often inserts edifying remarks, entirely
out of keeping with the context, merely to complete his rhyme. In Arabic
it is such an easy thing to accumulate masses of words with the same
termination, that the gross negligence of the rhyme in the Koran is
doubly remarkable. One may say that this is another mark of the
Prophet’s want of mental training, and incapacity for introspective
criticism.
On the whole, while many parts of the Koran undoubtedly have
considerable rhetorical power, even over an unbelieving reader, the
book, æsthetically considered, is by no means a first-rate performance.
To begin with what we are most competent to criticise, let us look at
some of the more extended narratives. It has already been noticed how
vehement and abrupt they are where they ought to be characterised by
epic repose. Indispensable links, both in expression and in the sequence
of events, are often omitted, so that to understand these histories is
sometimes far easier for us than for those who heard them first, because
we know most of them from better sources. Along with this, there is a
great deal of superfluous verbiage; and nowhere do we find a steady
advance in the narration. Contrast, in these respects, “the most
beautiful tale,” the history of Joseph (xii.), and its glaring
improprieties, with the story in Genesis, so admirably conceived and so
admirably executed in spite of some slight discrepancies. Similar faults
are found in the non-narrative portions of the Koran. The connection of
ideas is extremely loose, and even the syntax betrays great awkwardness.
Anacolutha are of frequent occurrence, and cannot be explained as
conscious literary devices. Many sentences begin with a “when” or “on
the day when,” which seems to hover in the air, so that the commentators
are driven to supply a “think of this” or some such ellipsis. Again,
there is no great literary skill evinced in the frequent and needless
harping on the same words and phrases; in xviii., for example, “till
that” (_hattá idhá_) occurs no fewer than eight times. Mohammed, in
short, is not in any sense a master of style. This opinion will be
endorsed by any European who reads through the book with an impartial
spirit and some knowledge of the language, without taking into account
the tiresome effect of its endless iterations. But in the ears of every
pious Moslem such a judgment will sound almost as shocking as downright
atheism or polytheism. Among the Moslems, the Koran has always been
looked on as the most perfect model of style and language. This feature
of it is in their dogmatic the greatest of all miracles, the
incontestable proof of its divine origin. Such a view on the part of men
who knew Arabic infinitely better than the most accomplished European
Arabist will ever do, may well startle us. In fact, the Koran boldly
challenged its opponents to produce ten súras, or even a single one,
like those of the sacred book, and they never did so. That, to be sure,
on calm reflection, is not so very surprising. Revelations of the kind
which Mohammed uttered, no unbeliever could produce without making
himself a laughing-stock. However little real originality there is in
Mohammed’s doctrines, as against his own countrymen he was thoroughly
original, even in the form of his oracles. To compose such revelations
at will was beyond the power of the most expert literary artist; it
would have required either a prophet or a shameless impostor. And if
such a character appeared _after_ Mohammed, still he could never be
anything but an imitator, like the false prophets who arose about the
time of his death and afterwards. That the adversaries should produce
any sample whatsoever of poetry or rhetoric equal to the Koran is not at
all what the Prophet demands. In that case he would have been put to
shame, even in the eyes of many of his own followers, by the first poem
that came to hand. Nevertheless, it is on such a false interpretation of
this challenge that the dogma of the incomparable excellence of the
style and diction of the Koran is based. The rest has been accomplished
by dogmatic prejudice, which is quite capable of working other miracles
besides turning a defective literary production into an unrivalled
masterpiece in the eyes of believers. This view once accepted, the next
step was to find everywhere evidence of the perfection of the style and
language. And if here and there, as one can scarcely doubt, there was
among the old Moslems a lover of poetry who had his difficulties about
this dogma, he had to beware of uttering an opinion which might have
cost him his head. We know of at least one rationalistic theologian who
defined the dogma in such a way that we can see he did not believe it
(Shahrastání, p. 39). The truth is, it would have been a miracle indeed
if the style of the Koran had been perfect. For although there was at
that time a recognised poetical style, already degenerating to
mannerism, a prose style did not exist. All beginnings are difficult;
and it can never be esteemed a serious charge against Mohammed that his
book, the first prose work of a high order in the language, testifies to
the awkwardness of the beginner. And further, we must always remember
that entertainment and æsthetic effect were at most subsidiary objects.
The great aim was persuasion and conversion; and, say what we will, that
aim has been realised on the most imposing scale.
Mohammed repeatedly calls attention to the fact that the Koran is not
written, like other sacred books, in a strange language, but in Arabic,
and therefore is intelligible to all. At that time, along with foreign
ideas, many foreign words had crept into the language, especially
Aramaic terms for religious conceptions of Jewish or Christian origin.
Some of these had already passed into general use, while others were
confined to a more limited circle. Mohammed, who could not fully express
his new ideas in the common language of his countrymen, but had
frequently to find out new terms for himself, made free use of such
Jewish and Christian words, as was done, though perhaps to a smaller
extent, by certain thinkers and poets of that age who had more or less
risen above the level of heathenism. In Mohammed’s case this is the less
wonderful, because he was indebted to the instruction of Jews and
Christians whose Arabic—as the Koran pretty clearly intimates with
regard to one of them—was very defective. Nor is it very surprising to
find that his use of these words is sometimes as much at fault as his
comprehension of the histories which he learned from the same
people—that he applies Aramaic expressions as incorrectly as many
uneducated persons now employ words derived from the French. Thus,
_forkán_ means really “redemption,” but Mohammed (misled by the Arabic
meaning of the root _frk_, “sever,” “decide”) uses it for “revelation.”
_Milla_ is properly “Word,” but in the Koran “religion.” _Illíyún_
(lxxxiii. 18, 19) is apparently the Hebrew name of God, _Elyón_, “the
Most High;” Mohammed uses it of a heavenly book (see S. Fraenkel, _De
vocabulis in antiquis Arabum carminibus et in Corano peregrinis_, Leyden
1880, p. 23). So again the word _mathání_ is, as Geiger has conjectured,
the regular Arabic plural of the Aramaic _mathníthá_, which is the same
as the Hebrew _Mishna_, and denotes, in Jewish usage, a legal decision
of some of the ancient Rabbins. But in the Koran “the seven _Mathání_”
(xv. 87) are probably the seven verses of súra i., so that Mohammed
appears to have understood it in the sense of “saying” or “sentence”
(comp. xxxix. 24). Words of Christian origin are less frequent in the
Koran. It is an interesting fact that of these a few have come over from
the Abyssinian, such as _hawáríyún_, “apostles,” _máida_, “table,” and
two or three others; these all make their first appearance in súras of
the Medina period. The word _shaitán_, “Satan,” which was likewise
borrowed, at least in the first instance, from the Abyssinian, had
probably been already introduced into the language. Sprenger has rightly
observed that Mohammed makes a certain parade of these foreign terms, as
of other peculiarly constructed expressions; in this he followed a
favourite practice of contemporary poets. It is the tendency of the
imperfectly educated to delight in out-of-the-way expressions, and on
such minds they readily produce a remarkably solemn and mysterious
impression. This was exactly the kind of effect that Mohammed desired,
and to secure it he seems even to have invented a few odd vocables, as
_ghislín_ (lxix. 36), _sijjín_ (lxxxiii. 7, 8), _tasním_ (lxxxiii. 27),
and _salsabíl_ (lxxvi. 18). But, of course, the necessity of enabling
his hearers to understand ideas which they must have found sufficiently
novel in themselves, imposed tolerably narrow limits on such
eccentricities.
The constituents of our present Koran belong partly to the Mecca period
(before A.D. 622), partly to the period commencing with the emigration
to Medina (from the autumn of 622 to 8th June 632). Mohammed’s position
in Medina was entirely different from that which he had occupied in his
native town. In the former he was from the first the leader of a
powerful party, and gradually became the autocratic ruler of Arabia; in
the latter he was only the despised preacher of a small congregation.
This difference, as was to be expected, appears in the Koran. The Medina
pieces, whether entire súras or isolated passages interpolated in Meccan
súras, are accordingly pretty broadly distinct, as to their contents,
from those issued in Mecca. In the great majority of cases there can be
no doubt whatever whether a piece first saw the light in Mecca or in
Medina; and, for the most part, the internal evidence is borne out by
Moslem tradition. And since the revelations given in Medina frequently
take notice of events about which we have pretty accurate information,
and whose dates are at least approximately known, we are often in a
position to fix their date with, at any rate, considerable certainty;
here, again, tradition renders valuable assistance. Even with regard to
the Medina passages, however, a great deal remains uncertain, partly
because the allusions to historical events and circumstances are
generally rather obscure, partly because traditions about the occasion
of the revelation of the various pieces are often fluctuating, and often
rest on misunderstanding or arbitrary conjecture. But, at all events, it
is far easier to arrange in some sort of chronological order the Medina
súras than those composed in Mecca. There is, indeed, one tradition
which professes to furnish a chronological list of all the súras. But
not to mention that it occurs in several divergent forms, and that it
takes no account of the fact that our present súras are partly composed
of pieces of different dates, it contains so many suspicious or
undoubtedly false statements, that it is impossible to attach any great
importance to it. Besides, it is _à priori_ unlikely that a contemporary
of Mohammed should have drawn up such a list; and if any one had made
the attempt, he would have found it almost impossible to obtain reliable
information as to the order of the earlier Meccan súras. We have in this
list no genuine tradition, but rather the lucubrations of an undoubtedly
conscientious Moslem critic, who may have lived about a century after
the emigration.
Among the revelations put forth in Mecca there is a considerable number
of (for the most part) short súras, which strike every attentive reader
as being the oldest. They are in an altogether different strain from
many others, and in their whole composition they show least resemblance
to the Medina pieces. It is no doubt conceivable—as Sprenger
supposes—that Mohammed might have returned at intervals to his earlier
manner; but since this group possesses a remarkable similarity of style,
and since the gradual formation of a different style is on the whole an
unmistakable fact, the assumption has little probability; and we shall
therefore abide by the opinion that these form a distinct group. At the
opposite extreme from them stands another cluster, showing quite obvious
affinities with the style of the Medina súras, which must therefore be
assigned to the later part of the Prophet’s work in Mecca. Between these
two groups stand a number of other Meccan súras, which in every respect
mark the transition from the first period to the third. It need hardly
be said that the three periods—which were first distinguished by
Professor Weil—are not separated by sharp lines of division. With
regard to some súras, it may be doubtful whether they ought to be
reckoned amongst the middle group, or with one or other of the extremes.
And it is altogether impossible, within these groups, to establish even
a probable chronological arrangement of the individual revelations. In
default of clear allusions to well-known events, or events whose date
can be determined, we might indeed endeavour to trace the psychological
development of the Prophet by means of the Koran, and arrange its parts
accordingly. But in such an undertaking one is always apt to take
subjective assumptions or mere fancies for established data. Good
traditions about the origin of the Meccan revelations are not very
numerous. In fact, the whole history of Mohammed previous to his
emigration is so imperfectly related that we are not even sure in what
year he appeared as a prophet. Probably it was in A.D. 610; it may have
been somewhat earlier, but scarcely later. If, as one tradition says,
xxx. 1 sq. (“The Romans are overcome in the nearest neighbouring land”)
refers to the defeat of the Byzantines by the Persians, not far from
Damascus, about the spring of 614, it would follow that the third group,
to which this passage belongs, covers the greater part of the Meccan
period. And it is not in itself unlikely that the passionate vehemence
which characterises the first group was of short duration. Nor is the
assumption contradicted by the tolerably well-attested, though far from
incontestable statement, that when Omar was converted (A.D. 615 or 616),
xx., which belongs to the second group, already existed in writing. But
the reference of xxx. 1 sq. to this particular battle is by no means so
certain that positive conclusions can be drawn from it. It is the same
with other allusions in the Meccan súras to occurrences whose chronology
can be partially ascertained. It is better, therefore, to rest satisfied
with a merely relative determination of the order of even the three
great clusters of Meccan revelations.
In the pieces of the first period the convulsive excitement of the
Prophet often expresses itself with the utmost vehemence. He is so
carried away by his emotion that he cannot choose his words; they seem
rather to burst from him. Many of these pieces remind us of the oracles
of the old heathen soothsayers, whose style is known to us from
imitations, although we have perhaps not a single genuine specimen. Like
those other oracles, the súras of this period, which are never very
long, are composed of short sentences with tolerably pure but
rapidly-changing rhymes. The oaths, too, with which many of them begin,
were largely used by the soothsayers. Some of these oaths are very
uncouth and hard to understand, some of them perhaps were not meant to
be understood, for indeed all sorts of strange things are met with in
these chapters. Here and there Mohammed speaks of visions, and appears
even to see angels before him in bodily form. There are some intensely
vivid descriptions of the resurrection and the last day, which must have
exercised a demonic power over men who were quite unfamiliar with such
pictures. Other pieces paint in glowing colours the joys of heaven and
the pains of hell. However, the súras of this period are not all so wild
as these; and those which are conceived in a calmer mood appear to be
the oldest. Yet, one must repeat, it is exceedingly difficult to make
out any strict chronological sequence. For instance, it is by no means
certain whether the beginning of xcvi. is really what a
widely-circulated tradition calls it, the oldest part of the whole
Koran. That tradition goes back to the Prophet’s favourite wife Aïsha;
but as she was not born at the time when the revelation is said to have
been made, it can only contain at the best what Mohammed told her years
afterwards, from his own not very clear recollection, with or without
fictitious additions. Aïsha, moreover, is by no means very trustworthy.
And, besides, there are other pieces mentioned by others as the oldest.
In any case xcvi. 1 sqq. is certainly very early. According to the
traditional view, which appears to be correct, it treats of a vision in
which the Prophet receives an injunction to recite a revelation conveyed
to him by the angel. It is interesting to observe that here already two
things are brought forward as proofs of the omnipotence and care of God:
one is the creation of man out of a seminal drop—an idea to which
Mohammed often recurs; the other is the then recently introduced art of
writing, which the Prophet instinctively seizes on as a means of
propagating his doctrines. It was only after Mohammed encountered
obstinate resistance that the tone of the revelations became thoroughly
passionate. In such cases he was not slow to utter terrible threats
against those who ridiculed the preaching of the unity of God, of the
resurrection, and of the judgment. His own uncle, Abú Lahab, had
somewhat brusquely repelled him, and in a brief special súra (cxi.) he
and his wife are consigned to hell. The súras of this period form almost
exclusively the concluding portions of the present text. One is disposed
to assume, however, that they were at one time more numerous, and that
many of them were lost at an early period.
Since Mohammed’s strength lay in his enthusiastic and fiery imagination
rather than in the wealth of ideas and clearness of abstract thought on
which exact reasoning depends, it follows that the older súras, in which
the former qualities have free scope, must be more attractive to us than
the later. In the súras of the second period the imaginative glow
perceptibly diminishes; there is still fire and animation, but the tone
becomes gradually more prosaic. As the feverish restlessness subsides,
the periods are drawn out, and the revelations as a whole become longer.
The truth of the new doctrine is proved by accumulated instances of
God’s working in nature and in history; the objections of opponents,
whether advanced in good faith or in jest, are controverted by
arguments; but the demonstration is often confused or even weak. The
histories of the earlier prophets, which had occasionally been briefly
touched on in the first period, are now related, sometimes at great
length. On the whole, the charm of the style is passing away.
There is one piece of the Koran, belonging to the beginning of this
period, if not to the close of the former, which claims particular
notice. This is i., the Lord’s Prayer of the Moslems, and beyond dispute
the gem of the Koran. The words of this súra, which is known as
_al-fátiha_ (“the opening one”), are as follows:—
“(1) In the name of God, the compassionate Compassioner. (2) Praise be
[literally “is”] to God, the Lord of the worlds, (3) the compassionate
Compassioner, (4) the Sovereign of the day of judgment. (5) Thee do we
worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. (6) Direct us in the right
way; (7) in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, on whom
there is no wrath, and who go not astray.”
The thoughts are so simple as to need no explanation; and yet the prayer
is full of meaning. It is true that there is not a single original idea
of Mohammed’s in it. Several words and turns of expression are borrowed
directly from the Jews, in particular the designation of God as the
“Compassioner,” _Rahmán_. This is simply the Jewish _Rahmáná_, which was
a favourite name for God in the Talmudic period. Mohammed seems for a
while to have entertained the thought of adopting _al-Rahmán_ as a
proper name of God, in place of _Alláh_, which was already used by the
heathens.[11] This purpose he ultimately relinquished, but it is just in
the súras of the second period that the use of _Rahmán_ is specially
frequent. It was probably in the first súra also that Mohammed first
introduced the formula, “In the name of God,” etc. It is to be regretted
that this prayer must lose its effect through too frequent use, for
every Moslem who says his five prayers regularly—as the most of them
do—repeats it not less than twenty times a day.
The súras of the third Meccan period, which form a pretty large part of
our present Koran, are almost entirely prosaic. Some of the revelations
are of considerable extent, and the single verses also are much longer
than in the older súras. Only now and then a gleam of poetic power
flashes out. A sermonising tone predominates. The súras are very
edifying for one who is already reconciled to their import, but to us,
at least, they do not seem very well fitted to carry conviction to the
minds of unbelievers. That impression, however, is not correct, for in
reality the demonstrations of these longer Meccan súras appear to have
been peculiarly influential for the propagation of Islam. Mohammed’s
mission was not to Europeans, but to a people who, though quick-witted
and receptive, were not accustomed to logical thinking, while they had
outgrown their ancient religion.
When we reach the Medina period it becomes, as has been indicated, much
easier to understand the revelations in their historical relations,
since our knowledge of the history of Mohammed in Medina is tolerable
complete. In many cases the historical occasion is perfectly clear, in
others we can at least recognise the general situation from which they
arose, and thus approximately fix their time. There still remains,
however, a remnant, of which we can only say that it belongs to Medina.
The style of this period bears a pretty close resemblance to that of the
latest Meccan period. It is for the most part pure prose, enriched by
occasional rhetorical embellishments. Yet even here there are many
bright and impressive passages, especially in those sections which may
be regarded as proclamations to the army of the faithful. For the
Moslems, Mohammed has many different messages. At one time it is a
summons to do battle for the faith; at another, a series of reflections
on recently experienced success or misfortune, or a rebuke for their
weak faith; or an exhortation to virtue, and so on. He often addresses
himself to the “doubters,” some of whom vacillate between faith and
unbelief, others make a pretence of faith, while others scarcely take
the trouble even to do that. They are no consolidated party, but to
Mohammed they are all equally vexatious, because, as soon as danger has
to be encountered, or a contribution is levied, they all alike fall
away. There are frequent outbursts, ever increasing in bitterness,
against the Jews, who were very numerous in Medina and its neighbourhood
when Mohammed arrived. He has much less to say against the Christians,
with whom he never came closely in contact; and as for the idolaters,
there was little occasion in Medina to have many words with them. A part
of the Medina pieces consists of formal laws belonging to the
ceremonial, civil, and criminal codes; or directions about certain
temporary complications. The most objectionable parts of the whole Koran
are those which treat of Mohammed’s relations with women. The laws and
regulations were generally very concise revelations, but most of them
have been amalgamated with other pieces of similar or dissimilar import,
and are now found in very long súras.
Such is an imperfect sketch of the composition and the internal history
of the Koran, but it is probably sufficient to show that the book is a
very heterogeneous collection. If only those passages had been preserved
which had a permanent value for the theology, the ethics, or the
jurisprudence of the Moslems, a few fragments would have been amply
sufficient. Fortunately for knowledge, respect for the sacredness of the
letter has led to the collection of all the revelations that could
possibly be collected,—the “abrogating” along with the “abrogated,”
passages referring to passing circumstances as well as those of lasting
importance. Every one who takes up the book in the proper religious
frame of mind, like most of the Moslems, reads pieces directed against
long-obsolete absurd customs of Mecca just as devoutly as the weightiest
moral precepts,—perhaps even more devoutly, because he does not
understand them so well.
At the head of twenty-nine of the súras stand certain initial letters,
from which no clear sense can be obtained. Thus, before ii. iii. xxxi.
xxxii. we find _ALM_ (_Alif Lám Mím_), before xl.-xlvi. _HM_ (_Há Mím_).
At one time I suggested that these initials did not belong to Mohammed’s
text, but might be the monograms of possessors of codices, which,
through negligence on the part of the editors, were incorporated in the
final form of the Koran; but I now deem it more probable that they are
to be traced to the Prophet himself, as Sprenger and Loth suppose. One
cannot indeed admit the truth of Loth’s statement, that in the proper
opening words of these súras we may generally find an allusion to the
accompanying initials; but it can scarcely be accidental that the first
verse of the great majority of them (in iii. it is the second verse)
contains the word “book,” “revelation,” or some equivalent. They usually
begin with: “This is the book,” or “Revelation (‘down sending’) of the
book,” or something similar. Of súras which commence in this way only a
few (xviii. xxiv. xxv. xxxix.) want the initials, while only xxix. and
xxx. have the initials, and begin differently. These few exceptions may
easily have proceeded from ancient corruptions; at all events, they
cannot neutralise the evidence of the greater number. Mohammed seems to
have meant these letters for a mystic reference to the archetypal text
in heaven. To a man who regarded the art of writing, of which at the
best he had but a slight knowledge, as something supernatural, and who
lived amongst illiterate people, an A B C may well have seemed more
significant than to us who have been initiated into the mysteries of
this art from our childhood. The Prophet himself can hardly have
attached any particular meaning to these symbols: they served their
purpose if they conveyed an impression of solemnity and enigmatical
obscurity. In fact, the Koran admits that it contains many things which
neither can be, nor were intended to be, understood (iii. 5). To regard
these letters as ciphers is a precarious hypothesis, for the simple
reason that cryptography is not to be looked for in the very infancy of
Arabic writing. If they are actually ciphers, the multiplicity of
possible explanations at once precludes the hope of a plausible
interpretation. None of the efforts in this direction, whether by Moslem
scholars or by Europeans, have led to convincing results. This remark
applies even to the ingenious conjecture of Sprenger, that the letters
_KHY‘Ṣ_ (_Káf Hé Yé ‘Ain Sád_) before xix. (which treats of John and
Jesus, and, according to tradition, was sent to the Christian king of
Abyssinia) stand for _Jesus Nazarenus Rex Judæorum_. Sprenger arrives at
this explanation by a very artificial method; and besides, Mohammed was
not so simple as the Moslem traditionalists, who imagined that the
Abyssinians could read a piece of the Arabic Koran. It need hardly be
said that the Moslems have from of old applied themselves with great
assiduity to the decipherment of these initials, and have sometimes
found the deepest mysteries in them. Generally, however, they are
content with the prudent conclusion, that God alone knows the meaning of
these letters.
When Mohammed died, the separate pieces of the Koran, notwithstanding
their theoretical sacredness, existed only in scattered copies; they
were consequently in great danger of being partially or entirely
destroyed. Many Moslems knew large portions by heart, but certainly no
one knew the whole; and a merely oral propagation would have left the
door open to all kinds of deliberate and inadvertent alterations.
Mohammed himself had never thought of an authentic collection of his
revelations; he was usually concerned only with the object of the
moment, and the idea that the revelations would be destroyed unless he
made provision for their safe preservation, did not enter his mind. A
man destitute of literary culture has some difficulty in anticipating
the fate of intellectual products. But now, after the death of the
Prophet, most of the Arabs revolted against his successor, and had to be
reduced to submission by force. Especially sanguinary was the contest
against the prophet Maslama, an imitator of Mohammed, commonly known by
the derisive diminutive Mosailima (_i.e._ “Little Maslama”). At that
time (A.D. 633) many of the most devoted Moslems fell, the very men who
knew most Koran pieces by heart. Omar then began to fear that the Koran
might be entirely forgotten, and he induced the Caliph Abú Bekr to
undertake the collection of all its parts. The Caliph laid the duty on
Zaid, the son of Thábit, a native of Medina, then about twenty-two years
of age, who had often acted as amanuensis to the Prophet, in whose
service he is even said to have learned the Jewish letters. The account
of this collection of the Koran has reached us in several substantially
identical forms, and goes back to Zaid himself. According to it, he
collected the revelations from copies written on flat stones, pieces of
leather, ribs of palm-leaves (not palm-leaves themselves), and such-like
material, but chiefly “from the breasts of men,” _i.e._ from their
memory. From these he wrote a fair copy, which he gave to Abú Bekr, from
whom it came to his successor Omar, who again bequeathed it to his
daughter Hafsa, one of the widows of the Prophet. This redaction,
commonly called _al-sohof_ (“the leaves”), had from the first no
canonical authority; and its internal arrangement can only be
conjectured.
The Moslems were as far as ever from possessing a uniform text of the
Koran. The bravest of their warriors sometimes knew deplorably little
about it; distinction on _that_ field they cheerfully accorded to pious
men like Ibn Mas‘úd. It was inevitable, however, that discrepancies
should emerge between the texts of professed scholars, and as these men
in their several localities were authorities on the reading of the
Koran, quarrels began to break out between the levies from different
districts about the true form of the sacred book. During a campaign in
A.H. 30 (A.D. 650-1), Hodhaifa, the victor in the great and decisive
battle of Neháwand—which was to the empire of the Sásánians what
Gaugamela was to that of the Achæmenidæ—perceived that such disputes
might become dangerous, and therefore urged on the Caliph Othmán the
necessity for a universally binding text. The matter was entrusted to
Zaid, who had made the former collection, with three leading
Koraishites. These brought together as many copies as they could lay
their hands on, and prepared an edition which was to be canonical for
all Moslems. To prevent any further disputes, they burned all the other
codices except that of Hafsa, which, however, was soon afterwards
destroyed by Marwán, the governor of Medina. The destruction of the
earlier codices was an irreparable loss to criticism; but, for the
essentially political object of putting an end to controversies by
admitting only one form of the common book of religion and of law, this
measure was necessary.
The result of these labours is in our hands; as to how they were
conducted we have no trustworthy information, tradition being here too
much under the influence of dogmatic presuppositions. The critical
methods of a modern scientific commission will not be expected of an age
when the highest literary education for an Arab consisted in ability to
read and write. It now seems to me highly probable that this second
redaction took this simple form: Zaid read off from the codex which he
had previously written, and his associates, simultaneously or
successively, wrote one copy each to his dictation. These, I suppose,
were the three copies which, we are informed, were sent to the capitals
Damascus, Basra, and Cufa, to be in the first instance standards for the
soldiers of the respective provinces. A fourth copy would doubtless be
retained at Medina. Be that as it may, it is impossible now to
distinguish in the present form of the book what belongs to the first
redaction from what is due to the second.
In the arrangement of the separate sections, a classification according
to contents was impracticable because of the variety of subjects often
dealt with in one súra. A chronological arrangement was out of the
question, because the chronology of the older pieces must have been
imperfectly known, and because in some cases passages of different dates
had been joined together. Indeed, systematic principles of this kind
were altogether disregarded at that period. The pieces were accordingly
arranged in indiscriminate order, the only rule observed being to place
the long súras first and the shorter towards the end, and even that was
far from strictly adhered to. The short opening súra is so placed on
account of its superiority to the rest, and two magical formulæ are kept
for a sort of protection at the end; these are the only special traces
of design. The combination of pieces of different origin may proceed
partly from the possessors of the codices from which Zaid compiled his
first complete copy, partly from Zaid himself. The individual súras are
separated simply by the superscription, “In the name of God, the
compassionate Compassioner,” which is wanting only in the ninth. The
additional headings found in our texts (the name of the súra, the number
of verses, etc.) were not in the original codices, and form no integral
part of the Koran.
It is said that Othmán directed Zaid and his associates, in cases of
disagreement, to follow the Koraish dialect; but, though well-attested,
this account can scarcely be correct. The extremely primitive writing of
those days was quite incapable of rendering such minute differences as
can have existed between the pronunciation of Mecca and that of Medina.
Othmán’s Koran was not complete. Some passages are evidently
fragmentary; and a few detached pieces are still extant which were
originally parts of the Koran, although they have been omitted by Zaid.
Amongst these are some which there is no reason to suppose Mohammed
desired to suppress. Zaid may easily have overlooked a few stray
fragments, but that he purposely omitted anything which he believed to
belong to the Koran is very unlikely. It has been conjectured that in
deference to his superiors he kept out of the book the names of
Mohammed’s enemies, if they or their families came afterwards to be
respected. But it must be remembered that it was never Mohammed’s
practice to refer explicitly to contemporary persons and affairs in the
Koran. Only a single friend, his adopted son Zaid (xxxiii. 37), and a
single enemy, his uncle Abú Lahab (cxi.)—and these for very special
reasons—are mentioned by name; and the name of the latter has been left
in the Koran with a fearful curse annexed to it, although his son had
embraced Islam before the death of Mohammed, and although his
descendants belonged to the high nobility. So, on the other hand, there
is no single verse or clause which can be plausibly made out to be an
interpolation by Zaid at the instance of Abú Bekr, Omar, or Othmán.
Slight clerical errors there may have been, but the Koran of Othmán
contains none but genuine elements—though sometimes in very strange
order.
It can still be pretty clearly shown in detail that the four codices of
Othmán’s Koran deviated from one another in points of orthography, in
the insertion or omission of a _wa_ (“and”), and such-like minutiæ; but
these variations nowhere affect the sense. All later manuscripts are
derived from these four originals.