Even Islam could not suppress the Arab’s love for music nor diminish his regard for the great poets of “the days of ignorance.” For be it known that, although one can buy Austrian mouth-organs in the bazaar at Jiddah, and harmonicas from Germany in the toy-shop at Hofhoof, music is generally held by Moslems, even to-day, to be contrary to the teaching of the prophet. Mafia relates that when he was walking with Ibn Omar, and they heard the music of a pipe the latter put his fingers into his ears and went another road. Asked why, he said: “I was with the prophet, and when he heard the noise of a musical pipe, he put his fingers into his ears; and this happened when I was a child.” Thus it comes to pass that by the iron law of tradition, more binding to the pious Moslem ofttimes than the Koran itself, the Mohammedan world considers music at least among the doubtful amusements for true believers. And yet both before and after the advent of the morose legislator, Arabia has had its music and song. But music in Mohammedan lands is ever in spite of their religion, and is never, as is the case with Christianity, fostered by it.

Among the ancient Arabs poetry and song were closely related. The poet recited or chanted his own compositions in the evening mejlis, or more frequently at the public fairs and festivals, especially the national one held annually at Okatz. Here it was that the seven noble fragments still extant of their earliest literature were first read and applauded, and accounted worthy (if this part of the story be not fabulous) to be suspended, written in gold, in the Kaaba.

It is unfortunate that the Arabs, with all their wealth of language and literature, have no musical notation, so that we can only surmise what their ancient tunes may have been. Were the early war songs of Omar and Khalid sung in the same key as this modern war chant of the Gomussa tribe, as interpreted by Lady Ann Blunt?

And did Sinbad the sailor sing the same tune on his voyages down the Persian Gulf to India which now the Lingah boatmen lustily chant as they land the cargo from a British India steamer? Or was it like this sailors’ song on the Red Sea? To both of these questions the only answer is the unchangeableness of the Orient; and this puts the probability, at least, so far that the sailors of to-day could easily join in Sinbad’s chorus.

The people of Jauf, in Northern Arabia, are most famous for music at the present day, according to Burckhardt. They are especially adept at playing the Rebaba. This may well be considered the national instrument of music. It is all but universal in every part of the peninsula, and as well-known to all Arabs as the bag pipe is to the Scotch. I have heard the highland shepherd boys of Yemen play on a set of reed-pipes rudely fastened together with bits of leather thong. The drum tabl, is common among the town Arabs, and is used at their marriage and circumcision feasts; but all over the desert one only hears the rebaba. It is simplicity itself in its construction, when made by the Bedouins; the finer ornamental ones are from the cities. A box frame is made ready, a stick is thrust through, and in this they pierce an eye-hole for a single peg; a kidskin is then stretched upon the hollow box; the string is plucked from a mare’s tail, and setting under it a bent twig for the bridge, their music is ready.

Time and measure are often very peculiar and hard to catch, but they are kept most accurately, and Ali Bey gives an example which he says, “exhibits the singularity of a bar divided into five equal portions, a thing which J.J. Rousseau conceived to be practicable, but was never able to accomplish.” Here it is as he gives it; it strikingly resembles the boatmen’s song at Bahrein:

The singing one commonly hears, however, is much more monotonous than this, and the tune nearly always depends on the whim of the performer or singer, sometimes, alas, on his inability to give more than a certain number of variations!

Antar, one of their own poets, has said that the song of the Arabs is like the hum of flies. A not inapt comparison to those who have seen the “fly bazaar” in Hodeidah or Menamah during the date season, and heard their myriad-mouthed buzzing. Antar, however, lived in the “times of ignorance,” and most probably referred to the chanting of the camel drivers, which is bad enough. Imagine the following sung in a high monotonous key with endless repetition.

That is to say, being freely interpreted:

To a stranger that which seems most peculiar in Arab song is their long drawn-out tones at the close of a bar or refrain, sometimes equivalent to three whole notes or any number of beats. Doughty did not appreciate it, apparently, for he writes “Some, to make the stranger cheer, chanted to the hoarse chord of the Arab viol, making to themselves music like David, and drawing out the voice in the nose to a demensurate length, which must move our yawning or laughter.” There are, however, singers and singers. I remember a ruddy Yemen lad who sang us kasidahs during a heavy rain-storm in an old Arab café near Ibb. The singer was master of his well-worn rebaba, and its music seemed to overmaster him. Now his hand touched the strings gently, and then again swept over them with a strong nervous motion, awakening music indeed. His voice, too, was clear and sweet, although I was not enough versed in Arabic poetry to catch the full meaning of his words. It may have been the surroundings or the jovial companionship of friendly Arabs after my Taiz seclusion and a weary journey up the mountain passes, but I have never heard sweeter music in Arabia, and have often heard worse elsewhere. God bless that travelling troubadour of Yemen!

Here is a Mecca song for female voices, as given by Ali Bey in his travels (1815), and a second sung by the women of Hejaz in a more monotonous strain:

Such songs are called asamer; love-songs are called hodjeiny, and the war song is known as hadou. Arabic prosody and the science of metres is exceedingly extensive and seemingly difficult. What we call rhyme is scarcely known, and yet every verse ends with the same syllable in a stanza of poetry.

In Mecca as well as in other “religious” centres there is a sort of sacred-music of which Hurgronje gives several specimens. They are chants in honor of the prophet or prayers for him which are sung at the Moleeds or festivals in memory of Mohammed. Here are two of them.

Most generally, however, music is looked upon as decidedly secular, especially all instrumental music. The desert Arabs know no religious song and only sing of love and war in their old wild way. It is only at a distance from the mosque and away with the caravan, that Ghanim clears his throat and sings in a voice that can be heard for a mile as we leave him behind:

The Arabs of the desert have a reading-book all their own called Athar; and a writing all their own called wasm. No Bedouin so ignorant but he can read Athar and none so dull but he can write his wasm.

Athr or ilm el athar is the science of footsteps; and like the free Indians of America, the Arab is keen to study and quick to judge from sand tracks of both men and animals. The genuine Arab who has made athar a study can tell the track of a friend from that of a foe, and can distinguish the tribe or even the clan; he knows from the depth of the footprint whether the camel was loaded or lame; whether the man passed yesterday or a week before; from the regularity or irregularity he judges of fatigue or of pursuit. If the camel’s forefeet dig deeper than the hind he concludes the animal had a weak breast; from the offal he knows whence the camels came and the character of their pasture. Burckhardt writes of instances where camels were traced six days’ journeys after being stolen, and identified.

The medical knowledge and medical treatment of the Arabs deserve some notice. The Arabs think themselves always ailing and never fail to consult a hakim or doctor when there is opportunity. The hakeem is supposed to know both their malady and its cure by simple observation; to tell the physician for what cause they seek him would be an insult to his wisdom and for him to ask them settles the matter that he is not a true hakeem. The common diseases of Arabia are the following, according to Arab nomenclature:—El Kibd, i. e., the liver, or all visceral infirmities; er rihh, literally, “the wind,” or rheumatics and neuralgia; humma, fevers; tahāl or ague-cake; el-hasa or stone; ophthalmia; “fascination” or hysterics, (as when they say a man has a jinn or a child has been looked at by the evil-eye); leprosy, phthisis, dropsy, stranguria, ulcers and senile itch. For any and all of these ailments, beside others not so common, yet sometimes epidemic like smallpox and cholera, the Arabs seek a hakeem. All medicine, save amulets, charms and exorcisms, is called dawa. Their pharmacopia is not large but quite remarkable; in addition to such simple herbs of the desert as their hareem collect and dry they use in grave emergencies that which is harām (forbidden) and unclean. Patients have come to me for a small piece of swine’s flesh (which they suppose all Christians eat) to cure one in desperate straits. Doughty tells how among the Bedouins they give the sick to eat of the carrion-eagle and even seethe asses’ dung for a potion.

Kei or actual cautery is a favorite cure for all sorts of diseases; so also is khelal or perforating the skin surface with a red-hot iron and then passing a thread through the hole to facilitate suppuration. Scarcely one Arab in a hundred who has not some kei-marks on his body; even infants are burned most cruelly in this way to relieve diseases of childhood. Where kei fails they have resource to words written on paper either from the Koran, or, by law of contraries, words of evil, sinister import. These the patient “takes” either by swallowing them, paper and all, or by drinking the ink-water in which the writing is washed off. Blood-letting is also a sovereign remedy for many troubles. The Arab barber is at once a phlebotomist, cauterizer, and dentist. His implements—one can hardly call them instruments—are very crude and he uses them with some skill but without any mercy. Going to the proper place in any large Arab town you may always see a row of men squatting down with bent back to be bled; cupping and scarifying are the two methods most in vogue, although some are quite clever in opening a vein. The science of medicine in the towns is not much in advance of that of the desert—more book-talk but even less natural intelligence. A disease to be at all respectable must be connected with one of the four temperaments or “humors of Hippocrates.”

Medicines are hot and cold, wet and dry; and the same fourfold classification distinguishes all ailments. There are four elements only, and the stars must be favorable to induce a rapid cure. Whatever is prescribed must be solid and material; if it is bitter and painful so much the better. Rough measures act more strongly on the imagination and faith-cure is a reality in such cases. Burton gives this sample of a correct prescription:

“A.”[100]

“In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, and blessings and peace be upon our Lord the apostle and his family and his companions one and all. But afterward let him take bees-honey and cinnamon and album græcum of each half a part and of ginger a whole part, which let him pound and mix with the honey and form boluses, each bolus the weight of a Mithkal, and of it let him use every day a Mithkal, on the saliva, (that is to say, fasting, the first thing in the morning). Verily its effects are wonderful. And let him abstain from flesh, fish, vegetables, sweetmeats, flatulent food, acids of all descriptions, as well as the major ablution and live in perfect quiet. So shall he be cured by the help of the King the healer, i. e., the Almighty. And the peace.”