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 Relation to the Old and New Testaments. of the Jewish Haggada and the New Testament Apocrypha; but many more are due perhaps to misconceptions such as only a listener (not the reader of a book) could fall into. One would suppose that the most ignorant Jew could never have mistaken Haman, the minister of Ahasuerus, for the minister of Pharaoh, as happens in the Koran, or identified Miriam, the sister of Moses, with Mary (= Mariām), the mother of Christ. So long, however, as we have no closer acquaintance with Arab Judaism and Christianity, we must always reckon with the possibility that many of these mistakes were due to adherents of these religions who were his authorities, or were a naïve reproduction of versions already widely accepted by his contemporaries. In addition to his misconceptions there are sundry capricious alterations, some of them very grotesque, due to Mahomet 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).
It is uncertain whether his account of Alexander was borrowed from Jews or Christians, since the romance of Alexander belonged to the stereotyped literature of that age. The description of Alexander as “the Horned” in the Koran is, however, in accordance with the result of recent researches, to be traced to a Syrian legend dating from A.D. 514-515 (Th. Nöldeke, “Beiträge zur Gesch. des Alexanderromanes” in Denkschriften Akad. Wien, vol. xxxviii. No. 5, p. 27, &c.). According to this, God caused horns to grow on Alexander’s head to enable him to overthrow all things. This detail of the legend is ultimately traceable, as Hottinger long ago supposed, to the numerous coins on which Alexander is represented with the ram’s horns of Ammon.[1] 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 Mahomet 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 (cf. xxi. 105 with Ps. xxxvii. 29; i. 5 with Ps. xxvii. 11) or the New (cf. 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 Sanhedrin iv. 5; compare also ii. 183 with Mishna Berak’hoth 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 Mahomet 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 (Berak’hoth 15 a). 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 aesthetic susceptibilities are thoroughly satisfied. Style. 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 Mahomet’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 sermonizing 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 Mahomet 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 realize in some degree the intensity of that impression.
The fact that scraps of poetical phraseology are specially numerous in the earlier sūras, enables us to understand why the prosaic mercantile community of Mecca regarded their eccentric townsman as a “poet,” or even a Rhetorical Form and Rhyme. “possessed poet.” Mahomet 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 Mahomet 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 Sīnīn (xcv. 2) instead of Sīnā (xxiii. 20); in another Elijah is called Ilyāsīn (xxxvii. 130) instead of Ilyās (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 thamāniyah, “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 (ān) corresponds to the syllable that controls the rhyme in that whole sūra. In the later pieces, Mahomet 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, aesthetically considered, is by no means a first-rate performance. To begin with Stylistic Weaknesses. what we are most competent to criticize, 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 characterized 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 history of Joseph (xii.) and its glaring improprieties with the admirably conceived and admirably executed story in Genesis. Similar faults are found in the non-narrative portions of the Koran. The connexion 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” (ḥattā idhā) occurs no fewer than eight times. Mahomet, 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 Dogma of the Stylistic Perfection of the Koran. 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 sūras, 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 Mahomet uttered, no unbeliever could produce without making himself a laughing-stock. However little real originality there is in Mahomet’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 Mahomet, 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 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 (Shahrastānī, 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 recognized poetical style, already degenerating to mannerism, a developed prose style did not exist. All beginnings are difficult; and it can never be esteemed a serious charge against Mahomet 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 aesthetic effect were at most subsidiary objects. The great aim was persuasion and conversion; and, say what we will, that aim has been realized on the most imposing scale.
Mahomet 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 Foreign words. 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. Mahomet, 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 Mahomet’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. On the other hand, it is yet more remarkable that several of such borrowed words in the Koran have a sense which they do not possess in the original language. It is not necessary that this phenomenon should in every case be due to the same cause. Just as the prophet often misunderstood traditional traits of the sacred history, he may, as an unlearned man, likewise have often employed foreign expressions wrongly. Other remarkable senses of words were possibly already acclimatized in the language of Arabian Jews or Christians. Thus, forqān means really “redemption,” but Mahomet uses it for “revelation.” The widespread opinion that this sense first asserted itself in reference to the Arab root
(faraqa), “sever,” or “decide,” is open to considerable doubt. There is, for instance, no difficulty in deriving the Arab meaning of “revelation” from the common Aramaic “salvation,” and this transference must have taken place in a community for which salvation formed the central object of faith, i.e. either amongst those Jews who looked to the coming of a Messiah or more probably, among Christians, since Christianity is in a very peculiar sense the religion of salvation. Milla is properly “word” (= Aramaic mellthā), but in the Koran “religion.” It is actually used of the religion of the Jews and Christians (once), of the heathen (5 times), but mostly (8 times) of the religion of Abraham, which Mahomet in the Medina period places on the same level with Islam. Although of the Aramaic dialects none employs the term Melltha in the sense of religion, it appears that the prophet found such a use. Illiyūn, which Mahomet uses of a heavenly book (Sūra 83; 18, 19), is clearly the Hebrew elyōn, “high” or “exalted.” It is, however, doubtful in what sense this word appeared to him, either as a name of God, as in the Old Testament it often occurs and regularly without the article, or actually as the epithet of a heavenly book, although this use cannot be substantiated from Jewish literature. So again the word mathānī is, as Geiger has conjectured, the regular plural of the Aramaic mathnīthā, which is the same as the Hebrew Mishnah, and denotes in Jewish usage a legal decision of some of the ancient Rabbins. But in the Koran Mahomet appears to have understood it in the sense of “saying” or “sentence” (cf. xxxix. 24). On the other hand, it is by no means certain that by “the Seven Mathani” (xv. 87) the seven verses of Sūra i. are meant. Words of undoubtedly 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 hawārīyūn “apostles,” māida “table,” munāfig “doubter, sceptic,” ragūn “cursed,” miḥrāb “temple”; the first three of these make their first appearance in sūras of the Medina period. The word shaitān “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 Mahomet 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 Mahomet desired, and to secure it he seems even to have invented a few odd vocables, as ghislīn (lxix. 36), sijjīn (lxxxiii. 7, 8), tasnīm (lxxxiii. 27), and salsabīl (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[2] (before A.D. 622), partly to the period commencing with the migration to Medina (from the autumn of 622 to 8th June 632). Mahomet’s position in Date of the Several Parts. 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 sūras or isolated passages interpolated in Meccan sūras, 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 fairly 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. An important criterion for judging the period during which individual Meccan sūras, interpolated in Medina revelations, arose (e.g. Sūr. xvi. 124, vi. 162) is provided by the Ibrāhīm legend, the great importance of which, as throwing light on the evolution of Mahomet’s doctrine in its relation to older revealed religions, has been convincingly set forth by Dr Snouck Hurgronje in his dissertation for the doctor’s degree and in later essays.[3] According to this, Ibrāhīm, after the controversy with the Jews, first of all became Mahomet’s special forerunner in Medina, then the first Moslem, and finally the founder of the Ka’ba. But at all events it is far easier to arrange in some sort of chronological order the Medina sūras than those composed in Mecca. There is, indeed, one tradition which professes to furnish a chronological list of all the sūras. But not to mention that it occurs in several divergent forms, and that it takes no account of the fact that our present sūras 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 a priori unlikely that a contemporary of Mahomet 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 sūras. 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 Flight.