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 Another Random Document on
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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,
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