History of the Moorish Empire in Europe, Vol. 1 (of 3)

The study of Comparative Religion is one of the most fascinating, but at the same time one of the most unsatisfactory, of human employments. In historical research, in mathematical calculation, in chemical analysis, in the investigation of natural phenomena, either absolute certainty or an approximate degree of accuracy is attainable. This, however, is obviously impossible in the consideration of questions with which the eternal happiness or misery of mankind may be concerned. Who is competent to determine the relative value of the various religious systems,—always mutually antagonistic, often irreconcilable,—yet all alleged to have proceeded alike from the fiat of Almighty God? Who is to judge of the peculiar qualifications of those who have arrogated to themselves the important office of passing upon their respective merits? Why should certain doctrines be accepted and others repudiated by zealous but uncritical sectaries?, Where does this presumed inspiration begin and end? To use the words of the Koran, “What is the infallible? And who shall cause thee to understand what the infallible is?” Who, in short, possesses the touchstone of truth?

The experience of all ages, the history of all nations, have established the melancholy fact that systems of religion are, like institutions of human origin, subject to the ordinary incidents of mortality. They have their age of youthful vigor and enthusiasm; their stationary epoch, when their principles have lost their expansive power; their period of degeneracy and decay. Their duration, like that of created beings, corresponds to the degree of vitality which they may possess; their vitality is in proportion to the intrinsic merit of their doctrines, and their adaptability to the moral nature of man. As omniscience is denied to him, his estimate of the value of a divine revelation must necessarily be speculative and uncertain, largely dependent upon his intellectual capacity, and colored by the influences to which he has been exposed. On the other hand, many learned metaphysicians have argued with transcendent ability that faith is not accidental, and merely derived from volition and association, but is a matter of inexorable necessity, in which the will is absolutely powerless. As a result of inherited prejudice, the principles of every religion always appear heterodox, false, and absurd to sincere believers in other forms of faith. Of all theological dogmas, none have suffered more from the effects of ignorance and injustice than those of Islamism. The name of its founder has for thirteen centuries been a synonym of imposture. His motives have been impugned, his sincerity denied. His character has been branded with every vice which degrades or afflicts mankind. The greatest absurdities, the grossest inhumanity, have been attributed to his teachings. Ecclesiastical malice has exhausted its resources in efforts to blacken his memory. Even in our day, comparatively few persons are even superficially conversant with the doctrines which, in less than a century, were able to usurp the spiritual and temporal dominion of a considerable portion of the habitable globe.

The love of novelty which reigns supreme in the human breast is nowhere more striking in its manifestations than in the facility with which men adopt a fresh revelation. No new religion ever lacks proselytes. Imagination, sentiment, hope, fear, interest, combine to induce its acceptance, notwithstanding the obscurity which may invest its doctrines or the illiteracy which often is the most prominent characteristic of its interpreters; and if the conditions which attend its promulgation are not decidedly unpropitious, it is morally certain of success.

Some embrace it through curiosity, others from conviction, many from motives of selfishness. Its power is frequently in a direct proportion to the awe with which it inspires its votaries. As military glory is most admired by the populace, great prestige must of necessity attach to a creed which proselytes by conquest. On the other hand, apotheosis was considered the highest distinction attainable by the heroes and sovereigns of Pagan antiquity. Individuals whose genius had conferred great benefits upon the human race were assigned by public gratitude to a place among the gods. All the Roman emperors from Cæsar to Constantine were deified. An atmosphere of peculiar sanctity invested the eagles grouped in the post of honor in the camp of the legion. The crucifix and the reliquary were borne in the van of crusading armies. A more or less intimate association has thus always existed between the sacerdotal and the military professions. The latter has repeatedly furthered the projects of the former. The priest has rarely refused to absolve the offences of the orthodox soldier. Most religions have, in fact, been established or maintained by force. When we recall the overthrow of Paganism, the successive attempts to recover the Holy Sepulchre, the reconquest of Spain, the Inquisition, the atrocities attending the subjugation of the New World, the utter devastation of Provence and Languedoc, the religious wars of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, we should certainly not subject to invidious scrutiny the polity of Mohammed, whose history is free from the reproach of persecution, and whose supremacy was only partially established by arms.

The examination and criticism of a religion whose canons have been honored with the implicit and reverent obedience of millions of men; whose dogmas have been recognized by the devout of many diverse races as inspirations of the wisdom of Almighty God; a religion which, by the weapons of argument or by the resistless force of enthusiasm, subverted the power and absorbed the leading principles of other creeds whose traditions had hitherto enthralled the world, and which, despite the degeneracy of its practice, the divisions and consequent antagonism of its sectaries, the vicissitudes of many centuries, and the inevitable accidents of war, persecution, and treason, still manifests an astonishing and, to all appearances, an inexhaustible vitality, is a great and arduous undertaking. The story of Islam, by whose influence the natives of the East and West, heretofore hostile, were joined in a bond of fraternal union and guided through a marvellous career of prosperity and glory, is the realization of what would have ordinarily appeared a most extravagant dream of conquest and dominion, and is without parallel in the annals of humanity. In the moral as in the material world, the most perfect and durable forms and systems usually arrive slowly, and by almost imperceptible gradations, at ultimate maturity. But to this rule Islam was a striking exception. It attained the summit of its greatness, and raised the Arabians to an exalted rank in the family of nations, in a shorter period of time than is generally occupied by a people in passing through the primitive stages of their intellectual development.

It refuted the familiar maxim of the Romans, whose foreign policy was based upon the fomenting of dissensions and the subsequent discomfiture of their enemies, and, assailing its adversaries simultaneously on every side, won its way by a series of victories surpassing, in momentous results, the most renowned triumphs of the consuls and the Cæsars. In the traditions relating to the genealogy and history of its Prophet there is much that is enigmatical and much that is romantic. The latter deduced his origin from Ishmael, whom, with his unfortunate mother, Abraham, the acknowledged head of God’s chosen people, had inhumanly abandoned in the Desert to starve.

But in the seventy-one generations which separated Mohammed and Ishmael, a radical change of circumstances had befallen the rival branches of the house of Abraham. The descendants of Isaac, who had been promised the earth for an inheritance, now enslaved or exiled, and proverbial for bad faith, had become reviled and contemned of all men. On the other hand, from Ishmael the vagabond, deserted by his father and renounced by his kindred, had sprung a noble, valiant, and hospitable race, whose destiny was the promotion of civilization and the extension of empire. And in due time the latter, having obtained possession of the opulent regions of the East, tolerated the despised Hebrew only upon payment of tribute, and restricted him to a distinctive costume as a symbol of his degradation. He was compelled, in token of respect, to remove his slippers whenever he passed a mosque, and under penalty of the lash to kneel abjectly in the dust before the haughty Ishmaelite; while the capital of the land from which he had been banished, endeared to him by the memory of his sovereigns and the traditions of his faith, was in the power of his hereditary enemies, whose sacrilegious hands had raised the gilded dome of one of their proudest fanes upon the very spot long consecrated by the most revered associations of his race and his religion. The law of compensation, which controls the fate of man, was at last fulfilled, and retribution, if long delayed, was then exacted with relentless severity.

The benefits wrought by Mohammedans—especially during the Middle Ages—have, until the end of the last century, been silently ignored or studiously depreciated by historians; in some instances through want of information, but, for the most part, because the phenomenal progress of Islam, when compared with the apathetic condition of other religions, suggested a formidable rivalry. But in this age, insatiable of knowledge and equipped with every means of obtaining it, it is no longer possible for clerical intolerance to obscure the splendid achievements of Moslem science. The day has long since past when the labors of astronomers like Ibn-Junis, of historians like Al-Makkari, of philosophers like Averroes, of physicians like Avicenna, and of botanists like Ibn-Beithar, can be treated with obloquy because they were not authorized by the decree of an Ecumenical Council or approved by a bull of his Holiness the Pope.

The history of a religion, the exposition of a form of faith, is not infrequently the memoir of an individual and the chronicle of a race. As a rule, the union of the offices of Prophet and Lawgiver in a single personage deeply impresses the individuality of that personage upon the character of his nation. The annals of the Hebrews are indissolubly bound up with the Holy Scriptures and the precepts of Mosaic law. The mention of ancient Persia suggests at once the texts of the Zendavesta and the ordinances of Zoroaster. The Koran is practically the biography of Mohammed, the tale of his sorrows, his aspirations, his failures, and his triumphs. And what more noble monument could Arabia boast than the proud distinction of having been the home of a prophet and the cradle of a faith for centuries identified with religious toleration, with princely munificence, with scientific investigation, with literary merit,—all intimately associated with her name and with the varying fortunes of her children? The latter, from the first, devoted themselves to the interests of civilization. They settled colonies of skilled artisans in the wake of their armies. They promoted manufactures, encouraged commerce, and in every department of industrial occupation stimulated the efforts of mechanical ingenuity. They developed the science of astronomy. To them chemistry and pharmacy owe their origin. While persevering botanists explored the flora of many lands, the mathematician, in his secluded retreat, expanded and perfected the science of algebra. When a new region was subjected to their rule, all fruits, plants, and herbs, which examination or experience had found to be either edible or curative, were inscribed upon the lists of tribute, and their importation and distribution became compulsory. They branded idleness with contempt; they ennobled labor; and even royalty did not disdain to follow the example of the Prophet, who, with his own hands, assisted in the erection of the mosque of Medina, the first temple of Islam. They translated and preserved for the pleasure and instruction of posterity the immortal productions of the sages of Greece and Rome. They fostered learning, and encouraged its pursuit by maxim, reward, and example, until it became a matter of popular belief, as firmly grounded as the most sacred tradition, that the diligent cultivation of the mental faculties was an imperative religious duty.

In ancient times, to compel the observance of a salutary law, it was connected with public worship and directly sanctioned by the precepts of religion. In this way, hallowed by divine authority, it acquired a force not obtainable by human enactment, and conclusively indicated the wisdom of the sovereign or lawgiver who promulgated it. It was thus with circumcision among the Jews, with the cultivation of the soil in Mesopotamia, and with irrigation in Egypt, where the Nile was deified as the creator and preserver of the harvests and the source of the material prosperity of the nation. Mohammed was not blind to the advantages to be secured by this theocratic supervision of the affairs of mortals, and, by recourse to it, enforced the adoption and practice of many healthful customs and profitable employments whose effects upon the subjects of his successors were of the greatest importance.

The contagion of superstition, the impression produced by the grandeur of scenery, and the periodical recurrence of mysterious natural phenomena must always be attentively considered in determining the philosophical belief and religious tendencies of a people. Intimate relations with Egypt, sustained for a vast but unknown period of time, have left ineffaceable traces upon the traditions of Arabia. In the religious system of the former country there was one Supreme Being. All other divinities were but manifestations of his majesty and omnipotence concealed under different names. From him emanated the multifarious triads, the personification of the Nile, the countless array of gods to whom the days, the months, and even the very productions of the earth, were sacred. The great secret that these inferior deities were mere abstractions proceeding from a common Essence, to be eventually absorbed into it,—a fate to which even the soul of man, after divers transmigrations, was subject,—was jealously guarded by the Egyptian priesthood, and was the chief of its famous mysteries. The Sabeans of Yemen, instructed through their mercantile relations with the inhabitants of the Valley of the Nile, had long been familiar with the idea of a Supreme God and the personified attributes of His power and dignity. This doctrine had spread from the South, and, at the date of the advent of Mohammed, underlay the idolatrous worship of which Mecca was the centre, and whose ramifications extended in every direction to the borders of the Peninsula. A considerable number of the more intelligent Arabs who professed adherence to the religion of Abraham, yet, in fact, knew nothing of that religion except that it was monotheistic, repudiated all forms of idolatry, and styled themselves Hanifs—a word variously defined as “Incliners” and “Heretics.” The Manichean conception of the Spirit of Darkness—or, in other words, that important and enterprising personage the Persian devil, without whose presence no modern creed would seem to be complete—was also unknown to the ancient inhabitants of Arabia. As the idea was imported,—no branch of the Semitic race having been originally acquainted with it,—it probably travelled in the train of Cambyses when he invaded the Desert; although Iblis, the Arabic name by which this spirit is popularly designated, is evidently of European derivation and a corruption of the Greek Διάβολος.

Nor have the physical features of the landscape less to do with the formation of man’s moral impressions, and the direction of his impulses, than the reciprocal interchange of the ideas of contiguous nations. This is apparent in even a greater degree than the influence of soil and climate in the modification of his physical aspect and temperament. The more imposing those features, the more profound the emotions they excite; and, partly for this reason, Asia, which Nature has endowed with the most stupendous manifestations of her energy, has been prolific of those superstitions which have exercised the most extensive and lasting dominion over the human mind.

For more than a century before the birth of Mohammed, the most deplorable ignorance had obscured the face of the Christian world. The gentleness and beauty of the religion of Jesus had been supplanted by the direst fanaticism; its altars had been profaned by heathen sacrifices and the adoration of images; its priesthood had become inconceivably corrupt and immoral. The countless sects evoked by the machinations and worldly ambition of the clergy had, by mutual recrimination, revolting crimes, relentless persecution of their adversaries, and obstinate refusal to listen to any plan of reconciliation, almost destroyed the faith of reasonable men in every religion. Each of these sects had a leader who was regarded by his followers as endowed, to a greater or less degree, with that mysterious power conferred by divine inspiration. Disputes, frequently settled by massacre, were constantly maintained upon abstruse and frivolous questions in their very nature unanswerable; the precepts of justice and the laws of morality were contemptuously disregarded; and the sacerdotal class, instead of setting an example of piety and moderation to its congregations, was conspicuous in the daily saturnalia of rapine, lust, and murder. The Church had long since departed from the simplicity and purity of its original institution. For a century only after the death of the Saviour it had remained free from the influence of schismatic doctrines. While in comparative obscurity and acknowledged weakness, it offered no inducements to the disturbing spirit of fanatical innovators or to the selfish schemes of political aggrandizement and ecclesiastical ambition. In the beginning, divided into a number of federated republics practically independent, yet bound together by a common interest, governed by their own laws, relying upon their own resources, guided by the wisdom of their own ministers, their thoroughly organized polity, their obstinacy, their claims to superior holiness, naturally excited the odium of the Pagan populace, and frequently provoked the wrath and the interference of Imperial authority. From a condition of meekness, humility, and self-abnegation, the Church had become the prey of hostile factions, and was already tainted with scandal. Its synods were polluted with the blood of contending sectaries. Its councils resounded with the unseemly disputes and mutual recriminations of prelates more ambitious for the attainment of supreme power than for the discovery of divine truth. The Trinitarian controversy had nourished prejudices which centuries of apparent tranquillity had failed to eradicate. The spirit of persecution, incomprehensible to the polytheists, the essence of whose creed was universal toleration, and who could not appreciate the motives impelling the Christian to the employment of force to establish his doctrines, had early begun to manifest itself. Monasticism, synonymous with ignorance and intolerance, represented the sentiments and hopes of the most degraded of the populace in every community of the Empire. At Alexandria and Nicea it had forced, by weight of numbers and by turbulent demonstrations of violence, the adoption of some of the most important articles of Christian faith. In every ecclesiastical feud it had invariably espoused the cause of bigotry and imposture. The monk of the sixth century united in his character the inconsistent attributes of the priest and the politician, the saint and the demagogue. His retreat in the solitude of the desert was visited by thousands of weeping penitents, suppliants for the doubtful but cherished privilege of his blessing. With his companions, armed with clubs and stones, he fomented disorder in the streets of great capitals. His voluntary renunciation of the follies of the world was no bar to his greed of power. He dictated the policy of the Church. He settled involved points of casuistry. He formulated canons of ecclesiastical discipline. He enforced the claims of his faction by intrigues, by corruption, by the commission of the most revolting crimes. He aspired to and often attained the episcopal dignity. The superior numbers, the fanatical spirit, the unanimous resolution of his order, gave him a preponderating influence in the Church not to be heedlessly resisted. Before the imperial organization of the Papacy, the monk was the dominant factor in the determination of the laws, the measures, and the regulations of Christendom.

It must be remembered that at that time there was no established, centralized, sacerdotal authority. Nevertheless, for more than a century, imperial officials, designated for that purpose, had determined the degrees and inflicted the punishment of heresy. Confiscation, banishment, torture, and death threatened all who refused to subscribe to the doctrines which, varying with different reigns, were promulgated as the momentary and uncertain standards of orthodoxy. The incomprehensibility of a dogma was considered an infallible indication of its truth. The philosopher was then, as now, stigmatized as the implacable enemy of religion. A reign of terror overspread the empire. Every scholar became an object of suspicious aversion. His neighbors shunned his company. The clergy anathematized him from the pulpit. Informers dogged his footsteps and intruded upon his privacy. Indifference to religious duties, or an unguarded statement frequently distorted by malice, was a sufficient cause for imprisonment. The discovery of an heretical passage in a volume of his library rarely failed to provoke a sentence of death. Such measures, equivalent to a proscription of knowledge, produced the most lamentable consequences. Literary occupations became to all intents and purposes criminal. Everywhere valuable collections of books were hastily consigned to the flames by their owners, apprehensive of being compromised by their contents. Oratory, except that of the pulpit, could not survive such restrictions. Public sentiment, controlled by ecclesiastical prejudice, became inimical to the maintenance of even ordinary institutions of learning. A blind reverence for the Church, and a disposition to enforce obedience to its mandates by the merciless employment of the secular arm, were popularly regarded as the duties of every member of society. It was the ominous inauguration of that fearful power which afterwards culminated in the irresponsible despotism of the Vatican.

The Roman Pontiff had not yet stretched forth his mighty hand from the seat of ancient empire to allay dissension, and to enforce obedience to the edicts of the greatest hierarchy that has ever arisen to enchain the intelligence and repress the independent aspirations of mankind. The final decisions of councils had not been formulated upon controverted points of doctrine. The Patriarch of Constantinople—first in ecclesiastical precedence, yet almost rivalled in pomp and prestige by the great episcopal dignitaries of Antioch, Alexandria, and Carthage—exacted with difficulty the reverence of the giddy and scoffing mob of the capital, and could not always maintain the dignity of his office, even in the presence of his sovereign, who was sometimes a skeptic and often a tyrant. Nor was the civil power, to which the ecclesiastical system was still jealously subordinated, in a less degraded condition. The authority of the Emperor was persistently defied in the precincts of his own palace, which, with the Cathedral of Saint Sophia, had become the theatre of the treasonable plots and licentious intrigues of infamous combinations of every class and nationality, and where a portentous union of monks, eunuchs, and women reigned unquestioned and supreme. A cumbrous and pompous etiquette; a theatrical display of costumes and devices; a court swarming with buffoons and parasites; an atmosphere of cowardice, duplicity, effeminacy, and corruption had supplanted the high sense of national honor, the austere dignity, the proud consciousness of superior manhood which, in the early days of republican simplicity and imperial grandeur, marked the exercise of Roman power. The incursions of pirates, which the diminished naval power of the emperors was inadequate to check, had driven commerce from the sea.

Intestine broils, and the lawless conduct of the barbarian soldiery who chafed at the restraints of discipline, and whose incessant and exorbitant demands upon the imperial treasury had aided not a little to impoverish the country, rendered agricultural operations unsafe and unprofitable, and land was no longer tilled except in the immediate vicinity of large cities. Whole provinces, which, under the Romans, had flourished like a succession of gardens, now abandoned and uninhabited, were growing up with forests and relapsing into the wilderness of primeval times. The dire effects of barbarian warfare were conspicuous in every province of the Empire. The fruits of centuries of civilization had disappeared with the conditions which had been favorable to their maturity and to the political corruption and moral degeneracy which, more than the fortunes of war, had contributed to their annihilation. The proud title of Roman citizen, once coveted alike by foreign princes and aspiring plebeians, had been erased from the tables whereon were inscribed the most exalted distinctions of nations. Society no longer wore the alluring aspect which it had exhibited under the luxurious dominion of the Cæsars. The patrician, deprived of property and freedom, reluctantly swelled the train of barbaric pomp in the city which had been the scene of his extravagance, his tyranny, and his vices. The slave who had fled to the camp of Alaric or Attila now ruled in the palace which had formerly witnessed his humiliation, and was served by the children of those who but a few months before had made him the victim of their cruelty and caprice.

The face of the country, repeatedly overrun by swarms of ruthless savages, presented a picture of hopeless desolation. The trail of the Gothic or Lombard marauder could be traced by heaps of whitened bones, by dismantled cities, by ravaged fields and fire-swept hamlets. The beautiful temples of antiquity, which had survived the decay of Paganism and the assaults of Christianity, were defaced or ruined. The exquisite memorials of classic art, the triumphs of the Grecian sculptor, were broken and scattered. Vases, whose elegance and symmetry had called forth the admiration of all who beheld them, had been melted for the sake of the bronze and silver of which they were composed. The gardens which had been the pride of the capital had been trampled under the hoofs of the Gothic cavalry. Here and there, amidst a heap of blackened ruins, arose a crumbling wall or a group of tottering columns, which alone remained to mark the site of a once magnificent shrine of Venus or Apollo. The repression of general intelligence and individual ambition among the masses had always been a leading maxim of imperial policy. No system of education was provided. All exertion was discouraged. The populace was for generations provided with food and amusement by the government. There was no inducement to mental or physical activity. The natural march of human destiny, the improvement of man’s physical and social condition, was arrested. Enjoyment of the comforts of life rendered labor unnecessary. The paternal supervision and generosity of the sovereign made the criticism, or even the discussion, of public affairs irksome, ungrateful, dangerous. There being no longer any incentive to progress, society, in obedience to the organic law of its existence, began to rapidly retrograde towards barbarism; a condition to which the division of the people into castes—noble, plebeian, mercantile, military, and sacerdotal—greatly contributed. Through ideas of mistaken piety, and allured by the prospect of idleness and comparative ease, a multitude of able-bodied men had withdrawn from the occupations of active life to the seclusion of the cloister, whence they issued at intervals, when summoned to raze some Pagan temple; to influence, by the terror of their presence, the vacillating spirit of an ecclesiastical assembly; or to wreak the pitiless vengeance of their superiors upon some virtuous philosopher whose intelligence was not profound enough to grasp the meaning of a theological mystery. The enterprising general who had raised himself from a subordinate command in Britain to the imperial throne, and who, for reasons of state policy, had adopted and made compulsory the ceremonial of a religion whose benign precepts the base profligacy of his whole life insulted, possessed at least the stern and rugged virtues of a soldier. His effeminate descendants, however, both ignorant and careless of the arts of war and government, and devoted to the practice of every vice, had abandoned the administration to the perfidious and venal instincts of their retainers and slaves. Through the incompetency of the rulers, the insatiable ambition of the priests, and the unbridled license of the mercenaries who composed the bulk of the army, all desire of the majority of the people—in which was, of course, included the useful classes of farmer and artisan—for the improvement of their circumstances had yielded to a sluggish indifference to their fate. In a few generations social isolation became so thorough that the community of thought and interest indispensable to national prosperity ceased to exist; and this seclusion of caste, increasing in a direct ratio with rank, finally fastened upon the most noble families the stigma of exceptional ignorance. Indeed, in the palace itself, whence ecclesiastical bigotry had expelled all valuable knowledge, the education of princes was entrusted to nurses and domestic servants, whose pernicious influence was speedily exhibited in the superstitious fears and arrogant behavior of their pupils, the future masters of the Roman Empire. The fusion of races had produced mongrel types, in whose characters were developed the most objectionable and vicious traits of their depraved progenitors. Constant intercourse with barbarians had transformed the polished language of Homer and Plato into an uncouth dialect, where the gutturals of the Danube, mingling with the scarcely less discordant accents of the Nile and the Rhone, had overwhelmed the copious and elegant idiom of the Greek poets and historians. The fanaticism of an intolerant sect and the weakness of a succession of impotent sovereigns had extinguished the spirit of Pagan philosophy and ancient learning.

Since the erection of the famous church of Saint Sophia—the final effort of the genius of Byzantine architecture—that art had fallen into desuetude, and such of the famous structures of the ancients as survived were used as quarries, whence were derived the materials for the basilica and the palaces of the wealthy and luxurious patriarch and bishop. But this, unhappily, was not the worst of the prevalent evils of the time. An organized conspiracy against learning existed, and was most active in those quarters where education, however imperfect, should at least have suggested the importance of preserving the priceless remains of antiquity. The art of making parchment had, with many other useful inventions, been lost, and, in consequence, writing materials had become rare and expensive. The monk, too idle to invent, but ever ready to destroy, soon devised means for supplying this deficiency. Invading the public libraries, he diligently collected all the available manuscripts upon which were inscribed the thoughts of classic writers—of whom many are now only known to us by name—and, erasing the characters, used their pages to record the legends of his spurious saints and apocryphal martyrs. It is not beyond the range of probability that the original books of the New Testament, falling during these evil days into the hands of persons ignorant of Greek, may have undergone a similar fate; which hypothesis may also account for the thirty thousand different readings of which learned divines admit that the Gospels and Epistles are susceptible. The manifold and prodigious achievements of Roman civilization—its palaces, its temples, its amphitheatres, its aqueducts, its triumphal arches; its majestic forums, with their colonnades of snowy marble adorned with the statues of the heroes, the philosophers, the legislators of antiquity; its military roads; its marvels of mechanical engineering; its magnificent works of art; its eternal monuments of literature; the graceful legends of its mythology, perpetuated by the genius of the sculptor in creations of unrivalled excellence; the glowing words of its orators which stir the blood after the lapse of twenty centuries; the prestige of its conquests; the wise principles of its civil polity, generally enlightened, often audacious, always successful—were but trifles in the eyes of the debased Byzantine when compared with a fragment of the true cross, or a homily preached by some unclean and fanatic anchorite upon the metaphysical subtleties of the Trinity or the theological value of a diphthong.

Such, then, was the condition of the Christian Church and the Byzantine Empire at the close of the sixth century; to such a deplorable extent had barbarian encroachment, social corruption, and sectarian controversy undermined the foundation of both Church and State. In spite of its degradation, the latter represented the highest embodiment of mental culture and political organization which had survived the incessant depredations of barbarian armies and the demoralizing effects of generations of misrule; where the character of the monarch, both before and after his elevation to the throne, was dominated by the passions and infected with the vices of the most wicked and infamous of mankind. Throughout Europe the state of affairs was even more deplorable. The Goths were masters of the continent, and the Vandals, traversing the Spanish Peninsula and planting their victorious standards upon the northern coast of Africa, had, after the commission of atrocities which have made their name proverbial, driven the descendants of Hannibal and Hamilcar into the desert and the sea. The schools of Athens—that sole remaining seat of philosophical discussion and free inquiry in the world—had been suppressed, a hundred and fifty years before, by Justinian. The descendants of the Cæsars, stripped of their splendid inheritance and reduced to degrading vassalage, cowered beneath the scowling glances of the skin-clad savages who had issued in countless numbers from the forests of Germany and the shores of the Baltic. The effigies of the gods, the masterpieces of the skill of the Augustan age, had been tumbled from their pedestals, and the fetichism introduced by the strangers had been superseded by a corrupt form of Christianity scarcely less contemptible and fully as idolatrous. Rome had twice been sacked; Milan had been razed to the ground; prosperous seaports had fallen into decay; the fairest fields of Italy had been made desolate, her highways were overgrown with grass, her aqueducts were broken, her fertile Campagna, once the paradise of the capital, had become a pestilential marsh, whose vapors were freighted with disease and death. Among the miserable, half-famished, and turbulent population of the cities, riot and sedition were frequent, but were hardly noticed by the haughty barbarian ruler, so long as the outbreak did not seriously menace his life or his dignity. Civil war, relentless in atrocity, completed the devastation begun by barbaric conquest and servile tyranny. The army, filled with traitors, offered no warrant for the stability of government. Informers, that pest of a decadent state, swarmed in the Byzantine capital. Oppressive taxation, enforced by torture, impoverished the opulent. Promiscuous massacre, instituted upon the most frivolous pretexts, intimidated the poor. There was no loyalty, no sense of national honor, no appreciation of the mutual obligations of prince and people. The martial spirit which had been the distinguishing characteristic of ancient Rome was extinct. The proverbial discipline of the legions had been supplanted by license and disorder. Immunity from foreign incursion was secured by the ignominious and obnoxious expedient of tribute. Yet, in the midst of this accumulation of horrors which threatened the total destruction of a society already thoroughly disorganized, numbers of resolute men existed in every community who, while despoiled and oppressed, had not entirely abandoned themselves to despair, and in the minds of many of these, imperceptibly to the masses, and, indeed, scarcely discernible save by the most acute and sagacious observer, a great moral revolution was passing. The misfortunes which had befallen in succession the Pagan and the Christian religions had weakened the hold of both upon the reverence and affections of the multitude. Persons familiar with the Gospels, and with whom the Apocrypha claimed as much respect as the remaining portions of the Scriptures, looked forward to the coming of a reformer, known as the Paraclete, or Comforter, repeatedly promised in the Bible, whose mission was to restore to mankind, in its pristine purity, the truth as expounded by Christ. The material advantages which might accrue from the realization of this prediction were fully appreciated by the heads of a considerable number of contemporary sects—among them the Gnostics, the Cerintheans, the Montanists, and the Manicheans, each of whom confidently asserted that he was the heavenly messenger referred to and that all others were impostors. The Gospel of St. Barnabas is said, upon very respectable authority, to have originally contained the word Περικλῦτὸς, “Illustrious,” instead of Παράκλητος, “Comforter;” and to have been subsequently altered, with a view to checking the increasing number of claimants to divine inspiration, whose pretensions were becoming troublesome and dangerous. Moslem ingenuity has shrewdly availed itself of this prophecy, which popular credulity accepted as a direct announcement of the coming Mohammed, whose name, “The Illustrious,” is the Arabic equivalent of Περικλῦτὸς. It is also stated in the most ancient chronicles that a prophet called Ahmed, or Mohammed, had for centuries been expected in Arabia, where the Gospels were widely distributed; and it is therefore possible that a word written in an unknown tongue, a thousand miles from Mecca, may have had no inconsiderable share in determining the political and religious destinies of a large portion of the human race.

All things considered, perhaps no more auspicious time could have been selected for the announcement of a system of belief which based its claims to public attention upon the specious plea that it was not an innovation, but a reform, the purification of a mode of worship which had been practised for ages. It is usually far easier, because more consonant with the prejudices of human nature, to introduce an entirely new religion than to engraft changes, no matter how beneficial, upon the old. Mankind regards with eager curiosity a recent communication from Heaven, yet instinctively shrinks from serious interference with the time-honored ceremonial and revered traditions of a popular and long-established faith. But in Arabia, as has already been remarked, while there were innumerable shrines and temples and a host of idols, there was in reality no deep-seated religious feeling. The prevalent worship was maintained through the influence of long association rather than by any general belief in its truth, its wisdom, or its benefits. The claims of kindred, the maintenance of tribal honor, and the inexorable obligation of revenge had far greater weight with the Bedouin than the respect he owed to the factitious observances of his creed or the doubtful veneration he professed for the innumerable deities of his pantheon. The absurdity of their attributes, the inability of their gods to change or to resist the operations of nature, had long been tacitly recognized by the Arabs. Their idols partook of the character of the fetich, whose favor was propitiated with gifts, whose obstinacy was punished by violence. Long familiarity had lessened or entirely abrogated the awe with which they had once been regarded. The system which they represented had fallen behind the intelligence of the age, limited though that might be amidst the prejudices and superstitions of the Desert. A wide-spread and silent, but none the less vehement, protest against polytheism had arisen. At no time in the history of the Peninsula had been evinced such a disposition for reconciliation and compromise. In Arabia, therefore, as well as in the other countries of Asia, the season was eminently propitious to the promulgation of a new religion.

The ignorance of the natural talents, general characteristics, and daily habits of the Prophet of Arabia almost universally prevalent, even among persons of education and of more than ordinary intellectual attainments, is extraordinary; especially when the abundant facilities for information upon these points are considered. No name in history has been subjected to such fierce assaults by sectarian bigotry and theological rancor as his. The popular idea of Mohammed is that he was a vulgar impostor, licentious, cunning, brutal, and unscrupulous; periodically insane from repeated attacks of epilepsy; given to the practice of fraudulent miracles; a monster, who hesitated at no crime that would further his ends; who wrote a book called the Koran, which is full of sensual images, and describes heaven as a place especially set apart for the unrestricted indulgence of the animal passions. In former times public credulity went still farther, and Christian writers of the eleventh century, and even later, were in the habit of representing the greatest of iconoclasts—who excepted from the clemency of the victor only the adorers of fire and of idols—as a false god; a conception which, indicated by the familiar word “mummery,” has been incorporated into our language. Afterwards he was considered merely as a propagator of heresy, and, punished as such, he figures in the immortal work of Dante:

and, finally, the absurdity of ignorance having reached its culmination, he was described as a camel-thief, and an apostate cardinal who preached a spurious doctrine through envy, because he had failed to reach the coveted dignity of Pope! Motives of ecclesiastical jealousy and religious intolerance led also to the suppression of information and the falsification of truth respecting the Koran. Hardly one person in ten thousand has read a translation of it; indeed, this feat has been repeatedly declared an impossibility, on account of the monotonous and prosaic character of its contents; nor has one foreigner in a million perused the original, which, it may be added, cannot be appropriately rendered into another tongue. No complete rendition of this famous book into a living language was made for eleven hundred years after the death of Mohammed, and to-day not more than a dozen versions, all told, exist. It has been, moreover, a rule, subject to but few exceptions and those of recent date, that translations, commentaries, and analyses of the Koran, edited by misbelievers, have been written with the express design of casting odium upon the Prophet and his followers. Under such unfavorable circumstances, an impartial examination of the doctrines of Islam was impossible to one not versed in Arabic, and the public mind, which received its impression of such subjects largely from the pulpit, obstinately refused to consider any view which was at variance with its preconceived opinions. To obtain a competent idea of the principles, the virtues, and the defects of the religion which he established, it will not be unprofitable to glance for a moment at the salient points of the career and character of this wonderful man, the most prominent of his country, and the most illustrious of his race.

Among the ancient tribes of Arabia, highest in rank, most esteemed for intelligence and courage in a nation of poets and warriors, and renowned for a generous hospitality, was that of the Koreish, the hereditary guardians of the temple of Mecca. Proud of their distinguished ancestry and of the exalted position they enjoyed by reason of their office, which its religious functions invested with a dignity not inferior to that of royalty itself, and superior to all other employments in a country where the jealous independence of the people precluded the exercise of kingly power, the influence of the Koreish over their countrymen was unbounded. The annual pilgrimage to the Bait-Allah, or “House of God,” when hostilities were suspended, and devotees and merchants, rhymers and thieves, met upon a common equality in the enclosure of the temple—an occasion which is said to have called together the brightest minds of the Peninsula to contend in friendly rivalry for the prize of literary distinction—was the most important event of the year to the Arabian, and was particularly advantageous to the perpetuation of the wealth and authority of the Koreish. Some of the tribe enjoyed the exclusive privilege of distributing water and provisions among the pilgrims during their sojourn in the Holy City—an employment originally gratuitous, but afterwards a lucrative monopoly; others had charge of the buildings of the shrine; others, again, were the custodians of the sacred banner, which was only raised upon the occasion of the annual re-union of the Kaaba, or when the safety of Mecca was threatened by war or sedition. The Koreish, moreover, aspired to a state of petty sovereignty; they despatched embassies to the neighboring tribes, made treaties, established regulations for the departure and arrival of caravans, which secured an organized, and consequently a more safe and profitable, traffic with surrounding nations, and exercised a nominal jurisdiction in both civil and religious matters over the entire Peninsula. Elated by their success, and by the homage universally paid them, they boldly abrogated many of the ancient ceremonies connected with the national worship, and substituted others better calculated for the advancement of their pecuniary interests or the gratification of their political ambition. Some of these new regulations were unjust, and, as may be easily conjectured, were accepted with great reluctance by a population so opposed to innovation and impatient of restraint as that of Arabia; and the fact that they were adopted without serious disturbance shows conclusively that the attachment of the Arab to the gods of his country bore no approximate ratio to the awe with which he regarded their powerful guardians. In time, however, the rivalry of influential chieftains of the various divisions of the tribe produced mutual distrust and enmity; dissensions became frequent, and the national influence of the Koreish, which the hearty co-operation of their leaders could alone sustain, began to be seriously impaired.

Of one of the haughtiest clans of this distinguished tribe—the Beni-Hashem—was born, in the year 570 of the Christian era, Mohammed, known to misbelievers as the False Prophet, and to the Moslems as the Messenger of God. A strange fatality, which is evidently based upon something more substantial than the uncertain authority of tradition, appears to have attended his family both before and after his birth. The household of his grandfather, Abd-al-Muttalib, although it contained several daughters, could boast of only one son,—a circumstance which, to a man of noble birth, in a country like Arabia, where a chieftain’s consideration was founded upon the number of his male descendants, where female relatives were classed with camels and horses as chattels, and were often buried alive to get rid of them, was looked upon as a disgrace as well as a misfortune. In bitterness of spirit, the sheik betook himself to the Kaaba, and invoked the aid of Hobal, the presiding genius of the assembled deities of the nation. At the conclusion of his supplications he promised that, if ten sons should be born to him, one of them should be sacrificed upon the altar of the god. The prayer was answered, and in due time inexorable religious obligation demanded the fulfilment of the vow. Accompanied by his sons, Abd-al-Muttalib again approached the shrine of Hobal, and the customary lots having been cast, the god made choice of Abdallah, who subsequently became the father of Mohammed. Abdallah was the favorite of his parents and the idol of his kindred; his manners possessed a rare fascination; he excelled the most accomplished of his tribe in the arts of poetry and eloquence, and his manly beauty has been celebrated by the extravagant praise of his countrymen. Appalled at the prospect of losing his best-beloved child, Abd-al-Muttalib was in despair, when the shrewdness of a female diviner proposed an ingenious solution of the difficulty. The established compensation for homicide, when the injured family was willing to accept one, was ten camels; and the prophetess suggested that Abd-al-Muttalib again consult the deity, in the hope that he might be propitious and consent to receive the less valuable sacrifice. The mystic arrows were once more shaken and drawn, and, for the second time, Abdallah was devoted to death. The father doubled the number of camels with the same result; but, nothing daunted, persevered until the tenth lot had been drawn, when the god deigned to accept the costly ransom. Thus upon the cast of a die depended the regeneration of the Arabian people, the conquest and subversion of the Byzantine and Persian empires, the impulse of modern scientific inquiry, and the future hopes of the Moslem world!

Mohammed was a posthumous child. His father died while on a journey to Medina, and left to his widow Amina little save the memory of his domestic virtues, and a reputation for manly courage and unblemished integrity. The boy passed his early years, as was the custom at Mecca, with one of the tribes of the Desert, where the coarse fare and active life of the Bedouin developed and strengthened a frame naturally robust and vigorous. At the age of five he returned to his mother’s home, where, within a few months, he was left an orphan. His grandfather Abd-al-Muttalib then took charge of him until the death of the former two years afterwards, when Mohammed was taken into the family of his uncle Abu-Talib. The successive bereavements of relatives to whom he was devotedly attached had no small effect in determining the character of the future Prophet, already thoughtful and reserved beyond his years, and imparted a permanent tinge of sadness to his life. When he grew older he was employed by his uncle as a shepherd, an occupation considered by the Arabs as degrading, and only proper to be exercised by slaves and women. In his twenty-sixth year his handsome face and figure, and his reputation for honesty, which had acquired for him the flattering title of Al-Amin, “The Faithful,” attracted the attention of Khadijah, a wealthy widow and a distant relative, who made him a proposal of marriage, which he accepted. Khadijah was forty years old, and had already been twice married; yet for twenty-five years which intervened before her death—and long after she must have lost her attractiveness—Mohammed never failed in the duties of a constant and affectionate husband. She bore him six children, four girls and two boys, of whom the daughters alone survived the period of infancy. When he reached the age of forty, a great change came over Mohammed, and there appeared the first positive indication of his aversion to the established worship of his country. His mother, who seems to have been a woman of highly excitable temperament, had transmitted to him a hypersensitive condition of the nervous system, which developed occasional attacks of muscular hysteria, a disease rarely affecting the masculine sex. Long accustomed to abstinence, contemplation, and revery, he contracted the habit of seeking solitude, to muse upon the moral condition of himself and his countrymen; and as he grew older, and especially after his fortunate marriage had removed the necessity for labor, the passion for dreaming grew upon him. He often betook himself to Mount Hira, where a recluse once had his abode; and for days at a time, with but little food and depriving himself of sleep, in tears and mental agony, he strove to solve the problem of divine truth. As continued fasting, excitement, and solitude inevitably produce hallucinations, it was not long before Mohammed believed himself visited by an angel, the bearer of celestial tidings. Doubtful at first of the significance of these startling visions, and in his enfeebled condition easily terrified, he fancied he was possessed by devils, and was almost driven to suicide. Finally, mastering his emotion, he returned to Mecca, and from that time visitations of the angel—who declared himself to be Gabriel—were frequent. In the original revelation, Mohammed was addressed as the “Messenger of Allah,” and was directed to preach the unity of God to his erring and misguided countrymen. His converts in the beginning were very few and composed of the members of his own family, his wife being the first believer. The new doctrines made slow progress; apprehension of the summary interference of the ruling powers made the proselytes cautious, and they rehearsed its texts behind locked doors and in the most private apartments of their houses. At the expiration of four years the adherents of Islam had only reached the insignificant number of thirty-nine souls. But now Mohammed grew bolder; expounded his doctrines before the Kaaba itself; openly advocated the destruction of idols, and denounced the unbelieving Arabs as devoted to the horrors of everlasting fire. The impassioned oratory of the Great Reformer had at first no appreciable effect. Most of his auditors regarded him as under the influence of an evil spirit; some ridiculed, others reviled him; but respect for his family and a wholesome dread of blood-revenge protected him from serious violence. In vain did he depict in words of thrilling eloquence the joys of heaven and the tortures of hell; his exhortations were lost upon the skeptical Arab, whose religion was a matter of hereditary custom, and who, in common with the other members of the Semitic race, had no belief in an existence beyond the grave. At length his denunciations became so furious as to raise apprehensions among the Koreish that their political supremacy, as well as the lucrative employments of their offices, might be endangered. A solemn deputation of the chiefs of the tribe waited upon Abu-Talib, the head of the family to which Mohammed belonged, and demanded that the daring apostate should be delivered over to their vengeance. This Abu-Talib, although himself an idolater, without hesitation, declined to do, and, in consequence of his refusal, the entire clan of the Beni-Hashem was placed under an interdict. No one would trade or associate with its members, and for two years they were imprisoned in a quarter of the city by themselves, where they endured great hardships. Nothing can exhibit more prominently the family attachment of the Arab and his high sense of honor than the self-sacrifice implied by this event, for it must not be forgotten that the large majority of those who suffered with Mohammed had no confidence in the truth of his mission, but were still devoted to the idolatrous and barbarous rites of the ancient faith.

The cause of Islam had received a severe blow, and the threats and armed hostility of its adversaries boded ill for its future success. The Moslems who did not belong to the Koreish sought refuge with the Christian king of Abyssinia, who peremptorily refused to surrender them upon the demand of an embassy from Mecca. At length, through very shame, the interdict was removed; the members of the imprisoned band came forth once more to mingle with their townsmen, and the exiles were permitted to return in peace. But persecution had not intimidated Mohammed, and his condemnation of idolatry and its supporters increased in violence. His uncle and protector, Abu-Talib, having died, his position daily became more critical. A fortunate occurrence, however, soon opened an avenue of escape. Some years before, a handful of the people of Medina had secretly embraced his doctrines and sworn fealty to him as their temporal sovereign. Their numbers had greatly increased, and now, in acceptance of an invitation tendered him by these zealous proselytes, Mohammed prepared to withdraw from the midst of his enemies to the proffered asylum at Medina. The inhabitants of the latter city, who were principally agriculturists, were heartily despised by the Meccans, who considered every occupation but those of war, plunder, and the cheating of pilgrims derogatory to the dignity of an Arab. The irreconcilable rivalry between the two principal towns of the Hedjaz had much to do with the adoption of Islam by the Medinese. The influence of the numerous Jews of Medina had materially affected the religion of that locality, and their predictions of the speedy coming of the Messiah, and the bestowal of the possessions of the Gentiles upon his chosen people, had attracted the attention, and at times aroused the fears, of the idolaters of that city. When, therefore, the report was circulated that a prophet had arisen at Mecca, the Medinese naturally concluded that he must be the Messiah expected by the Hebrews, and they determined to forestall the latter by being the first to extend to him a welcome, and thereby secure his favor. It was from these motives that the alliance between Mohammed and the citizens of Medina was concluded; an alliance whose results were little anticipated by the parties to its provisions, and whose importance has been disclosed by the portentous events of many subsequent centuries. Intelligence of this proceeding having reached the Koreish, they prepared for decisive measures, and held a meeting, in which, without apparently taking any precautions to conceal their design, the assassination of Mohammed was resolved upon. The latter, having received timely warning, escaped by night, with his friend Abu-Bekr, and, concealed in a cave in the mountains, eluded the vigilance of his enemies until a few days afterwards they found means to reach Medina. This event occurred in the year 622 A.D., and, marking the era of the Hegira or “Flight,” is, as is well known, the starting-point of Moslem chronology. Its usefulness, however, anticipated its legality for three hundred years, and it was not publicly authorized by law until the tenth century.

On his arrival, the first care of the Prophet was the erection of a mosque and the institution and arrangement of the ritual of Islam; the next, the reconciliation of the two hostile Arab factions whose tumults kept the city in an uproar; and the third—the only task in which he was unsuccessful—the conversion of the Jews. Hardly was he domiciled at Medina before he abandoned the continence which had hitherto adorned his life and placed his character in such a favorable light when compared with the excesses of his libidinous countrymen, and by degrees increased his harem until it numbered, including wives and concubines, nearly a score of women. And now appeared also other changes of a religious and political nature, when the humility and patience of the preacher were eclipsed by the ambitious plans of the sovereign, eventually realized in the proselytism of entire nations and the intoxication and glory of foreign conquest. The employment of force had never been mentioned at Mecca, but the vexations, contempt, and ill-usage of years had borne bitter fruit, and at Medina was received the first revelation commanding the propagation of Islam by the sword. At first desultory attacks were made upon caravans; then followed the engagement of Bedr, where three hundred believers defeated a thousand of the Koreish, and the battle of Ohod, which ended with the wounding of Mohammed and the total rout of the Moslem army. The blockade of Medina, undertaken three years later by the chiefs of Mecca, ended disastrously for them, as the fiery Arab could not be brought to endure the restraint and inactivity incident to the protracted operations of a siege. Next came the expulsion of the disaffected Jews from the city, a measure not unattended by acts of injustice and sanguinary violence, but imperatively demanded by the requirements of political necessity. The power and prestige of Mohammed now grew apace; tribe after tribe joined his standard; distant princes sent him costly gifts and voluntarily tendered their allegiance; and in the year 630—the eighth of the Hegira—he prepared for the invasion of the sacred territory and the conquest of Mecca. Only a short time before, guarded by two faithful companions, he had fled from the Holy City with a reward of a hundred camels and forty ounces of gold upon his head; now he returned in royal state, at the head of ten thousand warriors, most of whom would have gladly laid down their lives at his command, and all of whom acknowledged him to be the Apostle of God. Before this imposing array, inspired with the fervor of religious enthusiasm, resistance was hopeless. The people fled to their houses and to the sanctuary of the temple, and the invading army occupied the city. The rights and property of the citizens were respected; there was no massacre and no pillage; no violence was offered, except to the images of the Kaaba, which were shattered to pieces without delay or opposition, for the idolaters viewed with but little emotion the destruction of the tutelary deities of many generations, whose inability to protect their worshippers had been so signally demonstrated. With a magnanimity unequalled in the annals of war, a general amnesty was proclaimed, and but four persons, whose offences were considered unpardonable, suffered the penalty of death. When the various ceremonies consecrated by the usage of centuries and destined henceforth to form an integral part of the Moslem ritual had been accomplished, and the Pagan altars in the vicinity of Mecca had been swept away, Mohammed set forth to subdue the remaining tribes that disputed his authority. A single battle sufficed; Tayif, the sole important stronghold that still held out, voluntarily submitted after an unsuccessful siege; and the supremacy of the Prophet was henceforth acknowledged over the Arabian Peninsula. Three months after the subjugation of Mecca, Mohammed, who already seemed to have had a presentiment of his approaching end, accompanied by an immense multitude, performed the pilgrimage which his teachings enjoined as an indispensable duty upon all his followers. Leaving Mecca for the last time, he slowly retraced his steps to the home of his adoption, whose people, more generous than his kinsmen, had received and protected him when a persecuted fugitive, whose factions he had reconciled, who were proud of his renown, and who, despite his kindness and the natural urbanity of his manners, never failed to approach his presence with all the reverential awe due to the possessor of divine favor and supernatural powers. His constitution, though originally fortified by abstinence and a simple diet, had for years given evidence of debility and decay, for his health had been seriously impaired by poison administered by a Jewish captive, whom his magnanimous spirit refused to punish; and, after a short illness, he expired in the arms of his favorite wife, Ayesha, upon the eighth of June, 632.

There have been few great actors upon the stage of the world the events of whose lives have been so carefully preserved as those of Mohammed, although no native contemporaneous writer has recorded his history. And yet there is no man whose talents raised him to extraordinary eminence whose deeds and whose character are so unfamiliar to Christian readers as his. Few know him but as a successful impostor. Many believe him to have been an idolater. Almost all attribute to him indulgence in the most degrading of vices,—cruelty, avarice, licentiousness. Even Christian viceroys who have lived long in Mohammedan countries know nothing of the doctrines and the career of one of the most renowned of reformers and legislators. His personal appearance, his occupations, his tastes, his weaknesses even—a strong proof of the honesty and credibility of the Mussulman narrators—have been related by the latter with scrupulous minuteness. His sayings and the opinions attributed to him, embodied in the Sunnah, are considered by devout Moslems as second only in sanctity to the verses of the Koran, and have given rise to the amazing number of six hundred thousand traditions, which laborious commentators have seen proper, upon doubtful evidence, to reduce to four thousand that may be relied upon as genuine. The study of the Koran, however, affords a better insight into the character of the Prophet than the uncertain and suspicious testimony of the Sunnah. It is the mirror in which are reflected the sincere convictions, the lofty aims, the political experiments, the domestic troubles, the hopes and apprehensions which, through many trials and perplexities, influenced the mind and directed the movements of the author in his career, from the position of a simple citizen of Mecca to the exalted dignity of sole ruler of Arabia. The estimate of Mohammed in the Sunnah, which has been transmitted by his early associates, who knew him well and daily observed his conduct in the time of his obscurity, is nevertheless entitled to far more credit than any opinion that may have been formed without the assistance of tradition by the most capable scholar after the lapse of even a single century. But unfortunately, in many instances, their accounts have been so corrupted by the fabulous embellishments of subsequent commentators as to detract much from their undoubted historical value.

The most conspicuous trait of Mohammed was his absolute inflexibility of purpose. From the hour when he first communicated to Khadijah his belief in his mission, through the long and weary years of mockery, persecution, conspiracy, and exile, during the even more trying period of prosperity and empire, up to the sad final scene in the house of Ayesha, he persevered unflinchingly in the plan which he had proposed for his guidance, and which had for its end the abolition of idolatry, the improvement of his countrymen, and the establishment of the sublime and philosophical dogma of the unity of God. The only rational explanation that can be given of this remarkable conduct in the midst of difficulties and perils which would have shaken the constancy of a mortal of ordinary mould lies in his evident sincerity. The most convincing evidence of his honesty of purpose, his self-confidence, and his earnest devotion, is furnished by the rank and character of his first disciples, and the reverence with which his teachings were received. The early proselytes of all other religions of which history makes mention were ignorant and uneducated, destitute of worldly possessions, without pride of ancestry or title to public consideration. Their ungrammatical harangues were often heard with derision; their credulity excited the contempt of the philosopher and of the hostile priesthood alike. It was even made a subject of reproach to the first Christians—an accusation, however, never conclusively proved—that their numbers were largely recruited from the criminals, the idlers, and the beggars of the Empire. The origin of modern sects has invariably been obscure, and their proselytes of humble rank and servile occupation. Not so, however, with the early followers of Mohammed. They were members of the proud and exclusive aristocracy of Arabia. Their lineage could be traced, in an unbroken line, for more than six hundred years. Their hereditary office of custodians of the shrine venerated by every tribe of the Peninsula gave them immense prestige among their countrymen. Their interest in the preservation of the national worship would naturally prejudice them against innovations which must inevitably diminish their power and curtail their emoluments. Their wealth was not inferior to their illustrious descent and their political and religious influence. Some of them were included among the most opulent citizens of Mecca. The Jewish apostates of Medina possessed the proverbial thrift and intelligence of their race. In that Hebrew colony none stood higher in public estimation than they. The success of Islam demonstrated beyond dispute the superiority of its original proselytes in the arts of statesmanship no less than in the science of war. Great talents were required to encounter successfully the exigencies which attended its institution, and which afterwards repeatedly menaced its permanence. The high character of such disciples is a positive indication of the purity of their motives and the sincerity of their belief. Men are not liable to be readily imposed upon by claims to divine inspiration asserted by their intimate associates. Distance and mystery are far more propitious to the success of a religious teacher than the familiarity which results from close acquaintance and diurnal scrutiny. It is a common error to attribute the spread of Mohammedanism entirely to the agency of force. Military success was undoubtedly a powerful factor in the accomplishment of its destiny. The sword was peculiarly esteemed in Arabia. The steel of which it was composed was, in a country where no iron was produced, the most valuable of metals. The prodigious nomenclature by which that weapon was distinguished was an indication of its national importance, and of the potency of its effects entertained by those by whom it was wielded. It represented the martial spirit of the Arab,—the ruling incentive of his life, the inspiration of his predatory exploits, the glory of a long succession of cherished traditions. A mystic significance attached to it, which, in time, assumed a religious character, and rendered its employment, according to popular belief, acceptable to the omnipotent and invisible Deity of Arabia. These ideas descended to the Moslems, and promoted, in no small degree, their energy and their enthusiasm. But force alone could never have enabled a tumultuous horde of barbarians, unaccustomed to concerted action and impatient of the restraints of military discipline, to overwhelm three great empires in less than a century. The policy of Islam was at first more conciliatory than menacing. It preferred to inculcate its principles by argument rather than to provoke opposition by invective. It disclaimed the invention of new dogmas, but labored to reconcile its tenets with those of its venerated predecessors. It discouraged proselytism by violence. Whatever it could not abolish or modify, it adopted; whatever it could not appropriate, it ruthlessly destroyed. National decrepitude; the universal decay of religious belief; the dexterous adaptation of alleged prophecy; the hopeless condition of the devout, terrified by the fierce animosity of contending sects; the impossibility of ascertaining the correctness of the Gospel amidst the confusion of doctrines and the multiplicity of versions; the political disorders resulting from barbarian ascendency; the abrogation of the offensive distinctions of caste; the mysterious fascination which attends the unknown; the prospect of wealth, renown, and empire held out to aspiring genius; the guaranty of independence of thought and immunity from persecution—grouped under the banner of Mohammed the disorganized and exhausted nations of the mediæval world. The tenor of his life until the first revelation was that of a man of unimpeachable morality. Already in his youth he had been distinguished by the significant appellation of The Faithful. His marital relations until after the death of Khadijah were without reproach; a fact conceded by his most implacable enemies. A profound knowledge of human nature, an appreciation of the spiritual requirements of his countrymen—upon whose minds the doctrines of Zoroaster and of Christ had made no permanent impression—enabled him to fabricate a system demonstrated by experience to be admirably fitted to the taste, the genius, and the superstition of the Oriental. Without a supreme conviction of the genuineness of his mission he could never have impressed his teachings upon the minds of the satirical and incredulous Arabs, or have secured proselytes among his kindred, to whom his daily intercourse would have soon revealed sentiments and conduct wholly inconsistent with his pretensions as a medium of divine authority. And yet, with all the sincerity of his convictions, he thoroughly distrusted himself. He repeatedly affirmed that he was but a man, a preacher, a reformer, whose mission was the regeneration and the happiness of mankind. In spite of his realistic descriptions of heaven and hell, he declared that he was ignorant of what was in store for the soul after death. The spirit which consolidated a hundred vagrant tribes distracted by the feuds of centuries, deaf to offers of compromise and peace, so jealous of every infringement of their personal liberty that they resented even the benignant and patriarchal rule of their chieftains, into a powerful empire; which noted the glaring absurdities of contemporaneous creeds, and offered in their stead an idea of the Deity so simple, and yet so comprehensive, that no mind, however bigoted, could conscientiously reject it; which moulded into an harmonious system the jarring interests of antagonistic races, and, by its maxims of toleration, conciliated those sectaries who denied the authenticity of its principles, and refused compliance with its ceremonial; which, in consonance with ideas of policy far in advance of the time, united the functions of ruler and priest without apparently giving undue prominence to either; which founded a religion that has endured for nearly thirteen centuries, and has claimed the devoted allegiance of a thousand million men, can hardly with propriety be said to have been created by the irrational and selfish impulses of insanity or imposture. Rather may these results be designated the operations of a master-mind actuated by a lofty ambition; a mind capable of solving the most perplexing questions of statecraft, and endowed with a degree of political wisdom not often exhibited by even those few whom the voice of history has invested with the proud title of artificers of nations.

Much has been written and spoken by persons having important material interests to subserve, possessing limited knowledge of the subject, and with little inclination to use even that knowledge with impartiality, concerning the physical weakness which, at irregular intervals, affected the Prophet. It has already been alluded to as a form of muscular hysteria, an affection peculiar to delicate, nervous organizations, whose attacks are generally evoked by sudden and intense cerebral excitement, and a physiological phenomenon belonging to the same class as somnambulism and catalepsy. It is but temporary in its effects; and while its symptoms are not dissimilar to those of the “falling sickness” of the Romans, the patient does not lose consciousness, and neither the origin nor the continuance of the disease implies even a temporary impairment of the mental faculties. In view of the thorough investigations of medical scholars, the generally received opinion, fostered by ignorance and religious prejudice, may be pronounced erroneous; even if the efforts of enlightened historical criticism had not already established beyond contradiction that to the Byzantines, who enjoyed a world-wide reputation for accomplished mendacity, is to be attributed the popular fable of the epilepsy of Mohammed.