Chapter III: Pre-Islamic Poetry, Manners, and Religion (1)

"When there appeared a poet in a family of the Arabs, the other tribes round about would gather together to that family and wish them joy of their good luck. Feasts would be got ready, the women of the tribe would join together in bands, playing upon lutes, as they were wont to do at bridals, and the men and boys would congratulate one another; for a poet was a defence to the honour of them all, a weapon to ward off insult from their good name, and a means of perpetuating their glorious deeds and of establishing their fame for ever. And they used not to wish one another joy but for three things--the birth of a boy, the coming to light of a poet, and the foaling of a noble mare."[139]

As far as extant literature is concerned--and at this time there was only a spoken literature, which was preserved by oral tradition, and first committed to writing long afterwards--the _Jáhiliyya_ or Pre-islamic Age covers scarcely more than a century, from about 500 A.D., when the oldest poems of which we have any record were composed, to the year of Muḥammad's Flight to Medína (622 A.D.), which is the starting-point of a new era in Arabian history. The influence of these hundred and twenty years was great and lasting. They saw the rise and incipient decline of a poetry which most Arabic-speaking Moslems have always regarded as a model of unapproachable excellence; a poetry rooted in the life of the people, that insensibly moulded their minds and fixed their character and made them morally and spiritually a nation long before Muḥammad welded the various conflicting groups into a single organism, animated, for some time at least, by a common purpose. In those days poetry was no luxury for the cultured few, but the sole medium of literary expression. Every tribe had its poets, who freely uttered what they felt and thought. Their unwritten words "flew across the desert faster than arrows," and came home to the hearts and bosoms of all who heard them. Thus in the midst of outward strife and disintegration a unifying principle was at work. Poetry gave life and currency to an ideal of Arabian virtue (_muruwwa_), which, though based on tribal community of blood and insisting that only ties of blood were sacred, nevertheless became an invisible bond between diverse clans, and formed, whether consciously or not, the basis of a national community of sentiment.

[Sidenote: Origins of Arabian poetry]

In the following pages I propose to trace the origins of Arabian poetry, to describe its form, contents, and general features, to give some account of the most celebrated Pre-islamic poets and collections of Pre-islamic verse, and finally to show in what manner it was preserved and handed down.

By the ancient Arabs the poet (_shá‘ir_, plural _shu‘ará_), as his name implies, was held to be a person endowed with supernatural knowledge, a wizard in league with spirits (_jinn_) or satans (_shayáṭín_) and dependent on them for the magical powers which he displayed. This view of his personality, as well as the influential position which he occupied, are curiously indicated by the story of a certain youth who was refused the hand of his beloved on the ground that he was neither a poet nor a soothsayer nor a water-diviner.[140] The idea of poetry as an art was developed afterwards; the pagan _shá‘ir_ is the oracle of his tribe, their guide in peace and their champion in war. It was to him they turned for counsel when they sought new pastures, only at his word would they pitch or strike their 'houses of hair,' and when the tired and thirsty wanderers found a well and drank of its water and washed themselves, led by him they may have raised their voices together and sung, like Israel--

"Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it."[141]

[Sidenote: Satire.]

Besides fountain-songs, war-songs, and hymns to idols, other kinds of poetry must have existed in the earliest times--_e.g._, the love-song and the dirge. The powers of the _shá‘ir_, however, were chiefly exhibited in Satire (_hijá_), which in the oldest known form "introduces and accompanies the tribal feud, and is an element of war just as important as the actual fighting."[142] The menaces which he hurled against the foe were believed to be inevitably fatal. His rhymes, often compared to arrows, had all the effect of a solemn curse spoken by a divinely inspired prophet or priest,[143] and their pronunciation was attended with peculiar ceremonies of a symbolic character, such as anointing the hair on one side of the head, letting the mantle hang down loosely, and wearing only one sandal.[144] Satire retained something of these ominous associations at a much later period when the magic utterance of the _shá‘ir_ had long given place to the lampoon by which the poet reviles his enemies and holds them up to shame.

[Sidenote: Saj‘.]

The obscure beginnings of Arabian poetry, presided over by the magician and his familiar spirits, have left not a rack behind in the shape of literature, but the task of reconstruction is comparatively easy where we are dealing with a people so conservative and tenacious of antiquity as the Arabs. Thus it may be taken for certain that the oldest form of poetical speech in Arabia was rhyme without metre (_Saj‘_), or, as we should say, 'rhymed prose,' although the fact of Muḥammad's adversaries calling him a poet because he used it in the Koran shows the light in which it was regarded even after the invention and elaboration of metre. Later on, as we shall see, _Saj‘_ became a merely rhetorical ornament, the distinguishing mark of all eloquence whether spoken or written, but originally it had a deeper, almost religious, significance as the special form adopted by poets, soothsayers, and the like in their supernatural revelations and for conveying to the vulgar every kind of mysterious and esoteric lore.

[Sidenote: Rajaz.]

Out of _Saj‘_ was evolved the most ancient of the Arabian metres, which is known by the name of _Rajaz_.[145] This is an irregular iambic metre usually consisting of four or six--an Arab would write 'two or three'--feet to the line; and it is a peculiarity of _Rajaz_, marking its affinity to _Saj‘_, that all the lines rhyme with each other, whereas in the more artificial metres only the opening verse[146] is doubly rhymed. A further characteristic of _Rajaz_ is that it should be uttered extempore, a few verses at a time--commonly verses expressing some personal feeling, emotion, or experience, like those of the aged warrior Durayd b. Zayd b. Nahd when he lay dying:--

"The house of death[147] is builded for Durayd to-day.
Could Time be worn out, sure had I worn Time away.
No single foe but I had faced and brought to bay.
The spoils I gathered in, how excellent were they!
The women that I loved, how fine was their array!"[148]

[Sidenote: Other metres.]

Here would have been the proper place to give an account of the principal Arabian metres--the 'Perfect' (_Kámil_), the 'Ample' (_Wáfir_) the 'Long' (_Ṭawíl_), the 'Wide' (_Basiṭ_), the 'Light' (_Khafíf_), and several more--but in order to save valuable space I must content myself with referring the reader to the extremely lucid treatment of this subject by Sir Charles Lyall in the Introduction to his _Ancient Arabian Poetry_, pp. xlv-lii. All the metres are quantitative, as in Greek and Latin. Their names and laws were unknown to the Pre-islamic bards: the rules of prosody were first deduced from the ancient poems and systematised by the grammarian, Khalíl b. Ahmad († 791 A.D.), to whom the idea is said to have occurred as he watched a coppersmith beating time on the anvil with his hammer.

[Sidenote: The oldest extant poems.]

We have now to consider the form and matter of the oldest extant poems in the Arabic language. Between these highly developed productions and the rude doggerel of _Saj‘_ or _Rajaz_ there lies an interval, the length of which it is impossible even to conjecture. The first poets are already consummate masters of the craft. "The number and complexity of the measures which they use, their established laws of quantity and rhyme, and the uniform manner in which they introduce the subject of their poems,[149] notwithstanding the distance which often separated one composer from another, all point to a long previous study and cultivation of the art of expression and the capacities of their language, a study of which no record now remains."[150]

[Sidenote: Their date.]

It is not improbable that the dawn of the Golden Age of Arabian Poetry coincided with the first decade of the sixth century after Christ. About that time the War of Basús, the chronicle of which has preserved a considerable amount of contemporary verse, was in full blaze; and the first Arabian ode was composed, according to tradition, by Muhalhil b. Rabí‘a the Taghlibite on the death of his brother, the chieftain Kulayb, which caused war to break out between Bakr and Taghlib. At any rate, during the next hundred years in almost every part of the peninsula we meet with a brilliant succession of singers, all using the same poetical dialect and strictly adhering to the same rules of composition. The fashion which they set maintained itself virtually unaltered down to the end of the Umayyad period (750 A.D.), and though challenged by some daring spirits under the ‘Abbásid Caliphate, speedily reasserted its supremacy, which at the present day is almost as absolute as ever.

[Sidenote: The Qaṣída.]

This fashion centres in the _Qaṣída_,[151] or Ode, the only form, or rather the only finished type of poetry that existed in what, for want of a better word, may be called the classical period of Arabic literature. The verses (_abyát_, singular _bayt_) of which it is built vary in number, but are seldom less than twenty-five or more than a hundred; and the arrangement of the rhymes is such that, while the two halves of the first verse rhyme together, the same rhyme is repeated once in the second, third, and every following verse to the end of the poem. Blank-verse is alien to the Arabs, who regard rhyme not as a pleasing ornament or a "troublesome bondage," but as a vital organ of poetry. The rhymes are usually feminine, _e.g._, sa_khíná_, tu_líná_, mu_híná_; mukh_lidí_, _yadí_, ‘uw_wadí_; ri_jámuhá_, si_lámuhá_, ḥa_rámuhá_. To surmount the difficulties of the monorhyme demands great technical skill even in a language of which the peculiar formation renders the supply of rhymes extraordinarily abundant. The longest of the _Mu‘allaqát_, the so-called 'Long Poems,' is considerably shorter than Gray's _Elegy_. An Arabian Homer or Chaucer must have condescended to prose. With respect to metre the poet may choose any except _Rajaz_, which is deemed beneath the dignity of the Ode, but his liberty does not extend either to the choice of subjects or to the method of handling them: on the contrary, the course of his ideas is determined by rigid conventions which he durst not overstep.

[Sidenote: Ibn Qutayba's account of the contents and divisions of
the Ode.]

"I have heard," says Ibn Qutayba, "from a man of learning that the
composer of Odes began by mentioning the deserted dwelling-places
and the relics and traces of habitation. Then he wept and complained
and addressed the desolate encampment, and begged his companion to
make a halt, in order that he might have occasion to speak of those
who had once lived there and afterwards departed; for the dwellers
in tents were different from townsmen or villagers in respect of
coming and going, because they moved from one water-spring to
another, seeking pasture and searching out the places where rain had
fallen. Then to this he linked the erotic prelude (_nasíb_), and
bewailed the violence of his love and the anguish of separation from
his mistress and the extremity of his passion and desire, so as to
win the hearts of his hearers and divert their eyes towards him and
invite their ears to listen to him, since the song of love touches
men's souls and takes hold of their hearts, God having put it in the
constitution of His creatures to love dalliance and the society of
women, in such wise that we find very few but are attached thereto
by some tie or have some share therein, whether lawful or
unpermitted. Now, when the poet had assured himself of an attentive
hearing, he followed up his advantage and set forth his claim: thus
he went on to complain of fatigue and want of sleep and travelling
by night and of the noonday heat, and how his camel had been reduced
to leanness. And when, after representing all the discomfort and
danger of his journey, he knew that he had fully justified his hope
and expectation of receiving his due meed from the person to whom
the poem was addressed, he entered upon the panegyric (_madíḥ_),
and incited him to reward, and kindled his generosity by exalting
him above his peers and pronouncing the greatest dignity, in
comparison with his, to be little."[152]

Hundreds of Odes answer exactly to this description, which must not, however, be regarded as the invariable model. The erotic prelude is often omitted, especially in elegies; or if it does not lead directly to the main subject, it may be followed by a faithful and minute delineation of the poet's horse or camel which bears him through the wilderness with a speed like that of the antelope, the wild ass, or the ostrich: Bedouin poetry abounds in fine studies of animal life.[153] The choice of a motive is left open. Panegyric, no doubt, paid better than any other, and was therefore the favourite; but in Pre-islamic times the poet could generally please himself. The _qaṣída_ is no organic whole: rather its unity resembles that of a series of pictures by the same hand or, to employ an Eastern trope, of pearls various in size and quality threaded on a necklace.

The ancient poetry may be defined as an illustrative criticism of Pre-islamic life and thought. Here the Arab has drawn himself at full length without embellishment or extenuation.

It is not mere chance that Abú Tammám's famous anthology is called the _Ḥamása_, _i.e._, 'Fortitude,' from the title of its first chapter, which occupies nearly a half of the book. 'Ḥamása' denotes the virtues most highly prized by the Arabs--bravery in battle, patience in misfortune, persistence in revenge, protection of the weak and defiance of the strong; the will, as Tennyson has said,

"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

[Sidenote: The Ideal Arab hero.]

[Sidenote: Shanfará.]

As types of the ideal Arab hero we may take Shanfará of Azd and his comrade in foray, Ta’abbaṭa Sharran. Both were brigands, outlaws, swift runners, and excellent poets. Of the former

"it is said that he was captured when a child from his tribe by the
Banú Salámán, and brought up among them: he did not learn his origin
until he had grown up, when he vowed vengeance against his captors,
and returned to his own tribe. His oath was that he would slay a
hundred men of Salámán; he slew ninety-eight, when an ambush of his
enemies succeeded in taking him prisoner. In the struggle one of his
hands was hewn off by a sword stroke, and, taking it in the other,
he flung it in the face of a man of Salámán and killed him, thus
making ninety-nine. Then he was overpowered and slain, with one
still wanting to make up his number. As his skull lay bleaching on
the ground, a man of his enemies passed by that way and kicked it
with his foot; a splinter of bone entered his foot, the wound
mortified, and he died, thus completing the hundred."[154]

The following passage is translated from Shanfará's splendid Ode named _Lámiyyatu ’l-‘Arab_ (the poem rhymed in _l_ of the Arabs), in which he describes his own heroic character and the hardships of a predatory life:--[155]

"And somewhere the noble find a refuge afar from scathe,
The outlaw a lonely spot where no kin with hatred burn.
Oh, never a prudent man, night-faring in hope or fear,
Hard pressed on the face of earth, but still he hath room to turn.

To me now, in your default, are comrades a wolf untired,
A sleek leopard, and a fell hyena with shaggy mane:[156]
True comrades: they ne'er let out the secret in trust with them,
Nor basely forsake their friend because that he brought them bane.

And each is a gallant heart and ready at honour's call,
Yet I, when the foremost charge, am bravest of all the brave;
But if they with hands outstretched are seizing the booty won,
The slowest am I whenas most quick is the greedy knave.

By naught save my generous will I reach to the height of worth
Above them, and sure the best is he with the will to give.
Yea, well I am rid of those who pay not a kindness back,
Of whom I have no delight though neighbours to me they live.

Know are companions three at last: an intrepid soul,
A glittering trenchant blade, a tough bow of ample size,
Loud-twanging, the sides thereof smooth-polished, a handsome bow
Hung down from the shoulder-belt by thongs in a comely wise,
That groans, when the arrow slips away, like a woman crushed
By losses, bereaved of all her children, who wails and cries."

On quitting his tribe, who cast him out when they were threatened on all sides by enemies seeking vengeance for the blood that he had spilt, Shanfará said:--

"Bury me not! Me you are forbidden to bury,
But thou, O hyena, soon wilt feast and make merry,
When foes bear away mine head, wherein is the best of me,
And leave on the battle-field for thee all the rest of me.
Here nevermore I hope to live glad--a stranger
Accurst, whose wild deeds have brought his people in danger."[157]

[Sidenote: Ta’abbaṭa Sharran.]

Thábit b. Jábir b. Sufyán of Fahm is said to have got his nickname, Ta’abbaṭa Sharran, because one day his mother, who had seen him go forth from his tent with a sword under his arm, on being asked, "Where is Thábit?" replied, "I know not: he put a mischief under his arm-pit (_ta’abbaṭa sharran_) and departed." According to another version of the story, the 'mischief' was a Ghoul whom he vanquished and slew and carried home in this manner. The following lines, which he addressed to his cousin, Shams b. Málik, may be applied with equal justice to the poet himself:--

"Little he complains of labour that befalls him; much he wills;
Diverse ways attempting, mightily his purpose he fulfils.
Through one desert in the sun's heat, through another in starlight,
Lonely as the wild ass, rides he bare-backed Danger noon and night.
He the foremost wind outpaceth, while in broken gusts it blows,
Speeding onward, never slackening, never staying for repose.
Prompt to dash upon the foeman, every minute watching well--
Are his eyes in slumber lightly sealed, his heart stands sentinel.
When the first advancing troopers rise to sight, he sets his hand
From the scabbard forth to draw his sharp-edged, finely-mettled brand.
When he shakes it in the breast-bone of a champion of the foe,
How the grinning Fates in open glee their flashing side-teeth show!
Solitude his chosen comrade, on he fares while overhead
By the Mother of the mazy constellations he is led."[158]

[Sidenote: The old Arabian points of honour.]

These verses admirably describe the rudimentary Arabian virtues of courage, hardness, and strength. We must now take a wider survey of the moral ideas on which pagan society was built, and of which Pre-islamic poetry is at once the promulgation and the record. There was no written code, no legal or religious sanction--nothing, in effect, save the binding force of traditional sentiment and opinion, _i.e._, Honour. What, then, are the salient points of honour in which Virtue (_Muruwwa_), as it was understood by the heathen Arabs, consists?

[Sidenote: Courage.]

Courage has been already mentioned. Arab courage is like that of the ancient Greeks, "dependent upon excitement and vanishing quickly before depression and delay."[159] Hence the Arab hero is defiant and boastful, as he appears, _e.g._, in the _Mu‘allaqa_ of ‘Amr b. Kulthúm. When there is little to lose by flight he will ride off unashamed; but he will fight to the death for his womenfolk, who in serious warfare often accompanied the tribe and were stationed behind the line of battle.[160]

"When I saw the hard earth hollowed
By our women's flying footprints,
And Lamís her face uncovered
Like the full moon of the skies,
Showing forth her hidden beauties--
Then the matter was grim earnest:
I engaged their chief in combat,
Seeing help no other wise."[161]

The tribal constitution was a democracy guided by its chief men, who derived their authority from noble blood, noble character, wealth, wisdom, and experience. As a Bedouin poet has said in homely language--

"A folk that hath no chiefs must soon decay,
And chiefs it hath not when the vulgar sway.
Only with poles the tent is reared at last,
And poles it hath not save the pegs hold fast
But when the pegs and poles are once combined,
Then stands accomplished that which was designed."[162]

[Sidenote: Loyalty.]

The chiefs, however, durst not lay commands or penalties on their fellow-tribesmen. Every man ruled himself, and was free to rebuke presumption in others. "_If you are our lord_" (_i.e._, if you act discreetly as a _sayyid_ should), "_you will lord over us, but if you are a prey to pride, go and be proud!_" (_i.e._, we will have nothing to do with you).[163] Loyalty in the mouth of a pagan Arab did not mean allegiance to his superiors, but faithful devotion to his equals; and it was closely connected with the idea of kinship. The family and the tribe, which included strangers living in the tribe under a covenant of protection--to defend these, individually and collectively, was a sacred duty. Honour required that a man should stand by his own people through thick and thin.

"I am of Ghaziyya: if she be in error, then I will err;
And if Ghaziyya be guided right, I go right with her!"

sang Durayd b. Ṣimma, who had followed his kin, against his better judgment, in a foray which cost the life of his brother ‘Abdulláh.[164] If kinsmen seek help it should be given promptly, without respect to the merits of the case; if they do wrong it should be suffered as long as possible before resorting to violence.[165] The utilitarian view of friendship is often emphasised, as in these verses:--

Take for thy brother whom thou wilt in the days of peace,
But know that when fighting comes thy kinsman alone is near.
Thy true friend thy kinsman is, who answers thy call for aid
With good will, when deeply drenched in bloodshed are sword and spear.
Oh, never forsake thy kinsman e'en tho' he do thee wrong,
For what he hath marred he mends thereafter and makes sincere."[166]

At the same time, notwithstanding their shrewd common sense, nothing is more characteristic of the Arabs--heathen and Muḥammadan alike--than the chivalrous devotion and disinterested self-sacrifice of which they are capable on behalf of their friends. In particular, the ancient poetry affords proof that they regarded with horror any breach of the solemn covenant plighted between patron and client or host and guest. This topic might be illustrated by many striking examples, but one will suffice:--

[Sidenote: The story of Samaw’al b. ‘Adiyá.]

The Arabs say: "_Awfá mina ’l-Samaw’ali_"--"More loyal than
al-Samaw’al"; or _Wafáun ka-wafá’i ’l-Samaw’ali_"--" A loyalty like
that of al-Samaw’al." These proverbs refer to Samaw’al b. ‘Adiyá, an
Arab of Jewish descent and Jew by religion, who lived in his castle,
called al-Ablaq (The Piebald), at Taymá, some distance north of
Medína. There he dug a well of sweet water, and would entertain the
Arabs who used to alight beside it; and they supplied themselves
with provisions from his castle and set up a market. It is related
that the poet Imru’u ’l-Qays, while fleeing, hotly pursued by his
enemies, towards Syria, took refuge with Samaw’al, and before
proceeding on his way left in charge of his host five coats of mail
which had been handed down as heirlooms by the princes of his
family. Then he departed, and in due course arrived at
Constantinople, where he besought the Byzantine emperor to help him
to recover his lost kingdom. His appeal was not unsuccessful, but he
died on the way home. Meanwhile his old enemy, the King of Ḥíra,
sent an army under Ḥárith b. Ẓálim against Samaw’al, demanding
that he should surrender the coats of mail. Samaw’al refused to
betray the trust committed to him, and defended himself in his
castle. The besiegers, however, captured his son, who had gone out
to hunt. Ḥárith asked Samaw’al: "Dost thou know this lad?" "Yes,
he is my son." "Then wilt thou deliver what is in thy possession, or
shall I slay him?" Samaw’al answered: "Do with him as thou wilt. I
will never break my pledge nor give up the property of my
guest-friend." So Ḥárith smote the lad with his sword and clove
him through the middle. Then he raised the siege. And Samaw’al said
thereupon:--

"_I was true with the mail-coats of the Kindite,[167]
I am true though many a one is blamed for treason.
Once did ‘Ádiyá, my father, exhort me:
'O Samaw’al, ne'er destroy what I have builded.'
For me built ‘Ádiyá a strong-walled castle
With a well where I draw water at pleasure;
So high, the eagle slipping back is baffled.
When wrong befalls me I endure not tamely._"[168]

The Bedouin ideal of generosity and hospitality is personified in Ḥátim of Ṭayyi’, of whom many anecdotes are told. We may learn from the following one how extravagant are an Arab's notions on this subject:--

[Sidenote: Ḥátim of Ṭayyi’.]

When Ḥátim's mother was pregnant she dreamed that she was asked,
"Which dost thou prefer?--a generous son called Ḥátim, or ten
like those of other folk, lions in the hour of battle, brave lads
and strong of limb?" and that she answered, "Ḥátim." Now, when
Ḥátim grew up he was wont to take out his food, and if he found
any one to share it he would eat, otherwise he threw it away. His
father, seeing that he wasted his food, gave him a slave-girl and a
mare with her foal and sent him to herd the camels. On reaching the
pasture, Ḥátim began to search for his fellows, but none was in
sight; then he came to the road, but found no one there. While he
was thus engaged he descried a party of riders on the road and went
to meet them. "O youth," said they, "hast thou aught to entertain us
withal?" He answered: "Do ye ask me of entertainment when ye see the
camels?" Now, these riders were ‘Abíd b. al-Abras and Bishr b. Abí
Kházim and Nábigha al-Dhubyání, and they were on their way to King
Nu‘mán.[169] Ḥátim slaughtered three camels for them, whereupon
‘Abíd said: "We desired no entertainment save milk, but if thou must
needs charge thyself with something more, a single young she-camel
would have sufficed us." Ḥátim replied: "That I know, but seeing
different faces and diverse fashions I thought ye were not of the
same country, and I wished that each of you should mention what ye
saw, on returning home." So they spoke verses in praise of him and
celebrated his generosity, and Ḥátim said: "I wished to bestow a
kindness upon you, but your bounty is greater than mine. I swear to
God that I will hamstring every camel in the herd unless ye come
forward and divide them among yourselves." The poets did as he
desired, and each man received ninety-nine camels; then they
proceeded on their journey to Nu‘mán. When Ḥátim's father heard
of this he came to him and asked, "Where are the camels?" "O my
father," replied Ḥátim, "by means of them I have conferred on
thee everlasting fame and honour that will cleave to thee like the
ring of the ringdove, and men will always bear in mind some verse of
poetry in which we are praised. This is thy recompense for the
camels." On hearing these words his father said, "Didst thou with my
camels thus?" "Yes." "By God, I will never dwell with thee again."
So he went forth with his family, and Ḥátim was left alone with
his slave-girl and his mare and the mare's foal.[170]

[Sidenote: Ḥátim's daughter before the Prophet.]

We are told that Ḥátim's daughter was led as a captive before the Prophet and thus addressed him: "'O Muḥammad, my sire is dead, and he who would have come to plead for me is gone. Release me, if it seem good to thee, and do not let the Arabs rejoice at my misfortune; for I am the daughter of the chieftain of my people. My father was wont to free the captive, and protect those near and dear to him, and entertain the guest, and satisfy the hungry, and console the afflicted, and give food and greeting to all; and never did he turn away any who sought a boon. I am Ḥátim's daughter.' The Prophet (on whom be the blessing and peace of God) answered her: 'O maiden, the true believer is such as thou hast described. Had thy father been an Islamite, verily we should have said, "God have mercy upon him!" Let her go,' he continued, 'for her sire loved noble manners, and God loves them likewise.'"[171]

Ḥátim was a poet of some repute.[172] The following lines are addressed to his wife, Máwiyya:--

"O daughter of ‘Abdulláh and Málik and him who wore
The two robes of Yemen stuff--the hero that rode the roan,
When thou hast prepared the meal, entreat to partake thereof
A guest--I am not the man to eat, like a churl, alone--:
Some traveller thro' the night, or house-neighbour; for in sooth
I fear the reproachful talk of men after I am gone.
The guest's slave am I, 'tis true, as long as he bides with me,
Although in my nature else no trait of the slave is shown."[173]

[Sidenote: Position of women.]

[Sidenote: Arabian heroines.]

[Sidenote: Fáṭima daughter of Khurshub.]

[Sidenote: Fukayha.]

Here it will be convenient to make a short digression in order that the reader may obtain, if not a complete view, at least some glimpses of the position and influence of women in Pre-islamic society. On the whole, their position was high and their influence great. They were free to choose their husbands, and could return, if ill-treated or displeased, to their own people; in some cases they even offered themselves in marriage and had the right of divorce. They were regarded not as slaves and chattels, but as equals and companions. They inspired the poet to sing and the warrior to fight. The chivalry of the Middle Ages is, perhaps, ultimately traceable to heathen Arabia. "Knight-errantry, the riding forth on horseback in search of adventures, the rescue of captive maidens, the succour rendered everywhere to women in adversity--all these were essentially Arabian ideas, as was the very name of _chivalry_, the connection of honourable conduct with the horse-rider, the man of noble blood, the cavalier."[174] But the nobility of the women is not only reflected in the heroism and devotion of the men; it stands recorded in song, in legend, and in history. Fáṭima, the daughter of Khurshub, was one of three noble matrons who bore the title _al-Munjibát_, 'the Mothers of Heroes.' She had seven sons, three of whom, viz., Rabí‘ and ‘Umára and Anas, were called 'the Perfect' (_al-Kamala_). One day Ḥamal b. Badr the Fazárite raided the Banú ‘Abs, the tribe to which Fáṭima belonged, and made her his prisoner. As he led away the camel on which she was mounted at the time, she cried: "Man, thy wits are wandering. By God, if thou take me captive, and if we leave behind us this hill which is now in front of us, surely there will never be peace between thee and the sons of Ziyád" (Ziyád was the name of her husband), "because people will say what they please, and the mere suspicion of evil is enough." "I will carry thee off," said he, "that thou mayest herd my camels." When Fáṭima knew that she was certainly his prisoner she threw herself headlong from her camel and died; so did she fear to bring dishonour on her sons.[175] Among the names which have become proverbial for loyalty we find those of two women, Fukayha and Umm Jamíl. As to Fukayha, it is related that her clansmen, having been raided by the brigand Sulayk b. Sulaka, resolved to attack him; but since he was a famous runner, on the advice of one of their shaykhs they waited until he had gone down to the water and quenched his thirst, for they knew that he would then be unable to run. Sulayk, however, seeing himself caught, made for the nearest tents and sought refuge with Fukayha. She threw her smock over him, and stood with drawn sword between him and his pursuers; and as they still pressed on, she tore the veil from her hair and shouted for help. Then her brothers came and defended Sulayk, so that his life was saved.[176] Had space allowed, it would have been a pleasant task to make some further extracts from the long Legend of Noble Women. I have illustrated their keen sense of honour and loyalty, but I might equally well have chosen examples of gracious dignity and quick intelligence and passionate affection. Many among them had the gift of poetry, which they bestowed especially on the dead; it is a final proof of the high character and position of women in Pre-islamic Arabia that the hero's mother and sisters were deemed most worthy to mourn and praise him. The praise of living women by their lovers necessarily takes a different tone; the physical charms of the heroine are fully described, but we seldom find any appreciation of moral beauty. One notable exception to this rule occurs at the beginning of an ode by Shanfará. The passage defies translation. It is, to quote Sir Charles Lyall, with whose faithful and sympathetic rendering of the ancient poetry every student of Arabic literature should be acquainted, "the most lovely picture of womanhood which heathen Arabia has left us, drawn by the same hand that has given us, in the unrivalled _Lâmîyah_, its highest ideal of heroic hardness and virile strength."[177]

UMAYMA.

"She charmed me, veiling bashfully her face,
Keeping with quiet looks an even pace;
Some lost thing seem to seek her downcast eyes:
Aside she bends not--softly she replies.
Ere dawn she carries forth her meal--a gift
To hungry wives in days of dearth and thrift.
No breath of blame up to her tent is borne,
While many a neighbour's is the house of scorn.
Her husband fears no gossip fraught with shame,
For pure and holy is Umayma's name.
Joy of his heart, to her he need not say
When evening brings him home--'Where passed the day?'
Slender and full in turn, of perfect height,
A very fay were she, if beauty might
Transform a child of earth into a fairy sprite!"[178]

Only in the freedom of the desert could the character thus exquisitely delineated bloom and ripen. These verses, taken by themselves, are a sufficient answer to any one who would maintain that Islam has increased the social influence of Arabian women, although in some respects it may have raised them to a higher level of civilisation.[179]

[Sidenote: Infanticide.]

There is, of course, another side to all this. In a land where might was generally right, and where

"the simple plan
That he should take who has the power
And he should keep who can,"

was all but universally adopted, it would have been strange if the weaker sex had not often gone to the wall. The custom which prevailed in the _Jáhiliyya_ of burying female infants alive, revolting as it appears to us, was due partly to the frequent famines with which Arabia is afflicted through lack of rain, and partly to a perverted sense of honour. Fathers feared lest they should have useless mouths to feed, or lest they should incur disgrace in consequence of their daughters being made prisoners of war. Hence the birth of a daughter was reckoned calamitous, as we read in the Koran: "_They attribute daughters unto God--far be it from Him!--and for themselves they desire them not. When a female child is announced to one of them, his face darkens wrathfully: he hides himself from his people because of the bad news, thinking--'Shall I keep the child to my disgrace or cover it away in the dust?'_"[180] It was said proverbially, "The despatch of daughters is a kindness" and "The burial of daughters is a noble deed."[181] Islam put an end to this barbarity, which is expressly forbidden by the Koran: "_Kill not your children in fear of impoverishment: we will provide for them and for you: verily their killing was a great sin._"[182] Perhaps the most touching lines in Arabian poetry are those in which a father struggling with poverty wishes that his daughter may die before him and thus be saved from the hard mercies of her relatives:--

THE POOR MAN'S DAUGHTER

"But for Umayma's sake I ne'er had grieved to want nor braved
Night's blackest horror to bring home the morsel that she craved.
Now my desire is length of days because I know too well
The orphan girl's hard lot, with kin unkind enforced to dwell.
I dread that some day poverty will overtake my child,
And shame befall her when exposed to every passion wild.[183]
She wishes me to live, but I must wish her dead, woe's me:
Death is the noblest wooer a helpless maid can see.
I fear an uncle may be harsh, a brother be unkind,
When I would never speak a word that rankled in her mind."[184]

And another says:--

"Were not my little daughters
Like soft chicks huddling by me,
Through earth and all its waters
To win bread would I roam free.

Our children among us going,
Our very hearts they be;
The wind upon them blowing
Would banish sleep from me."[185]

[Sidenote: Treatment of enemies.]

"Odi et amo": these words of the poet might serve as an epitome of Bedouin ethics. For, if the heathen Arab was, as we have seen, a good friend to his friends, he had in the same degree an intense and deadly feeling of hatred towards his enemies. He who did not strike back when struck was regarded as a coward. No honourable man could forgive an injury or fail to avenge it. An Arab, smarting under the loss of some camels driven off by raiders, said of his kin who refused to help him:--

"For all their numbers, they are good for naught,
My people, against harm however light:
They pardon wrong by evildoers wrought,
Malice with loving kindness they requite."[186]

The last verse, which would have been high praise in the mouth of a Christian or Muḥammadan moralist, conveyed to those who heard it a shameful reproach. The approved method of dealing with an enemy is set forth plainly enough in the following lines:--

"Humble him who humbles thee, close tho' be your kindredship:
If thou canst not humble him, wait till he is in thy grip.
Friend him while thou must; strike hard when thou hast him on
the hip."[187]

[Sidenote: Blood-revenge.]

Above all, blood called for blood. This obligation lay heavy on the conscience of the pagan Arabs. Vengeance, with them, was "almost a physical necessity, which if it be not obeyed will deprive its subject of sleep, of appetite, of health." It was a tormenting thirst which nothing would quench except blood, a disease of honour which might be described as madness, although it rarely prevented the sufferer from going to work with coolness and circumspection. Vengeance was taken upon the murderer, if possible, or else upon one of his fellow-tribesmen. Usually this ended the matter, but in some cases it was the beginning of a regular blood-feud in which the entire kin of both parties were involved; as, _e.g._, the murder of Kulayb led to the Forty Years' War between Bakr and Taghlib.[188] The slain man's next of kin might accept a blood-wit (_diya_), commonly paid in camels--the coin of the country--as atonement for him. If they did so, however, it was apt to be cast in their teeth that they preferred milk (_i.e._, she-camels) to blood.[189] The true Arab feeling is expressed in verses like these:--

"With the sword will I wash my shame away,
Let God's doom bring on me what it may!"[190]

It was believed that until vengeance had been taken for the dead man, his spirit appeared above his tomb in the shape of an owl (_háma_ or _ṣadá_), crying "_Isqúní_" ("Give me to drink"). But pagan ideas of vengeance were bound up with the Past far more than with the Future. The shadowy after-life counted for little or nothing beside the deeply-rooted memories of fatherly affection, filial piety, and brotherhood in arms.

Though liable to abuse, the rough-and-ready justice of the vendetta had a salutary effect in restraining those who would otherwise have indulged their lawless instincts without fear of punishment. From our point of view, however, its interest is not so much that of a primitive institution as of a pervading element in old Arabian life and literature. Full, or even adequate, illustration of this topic would carry me far beyond the limits of my plan. I have therefore selected from the copious material preserved in the _Book of Songs_ a characteristic story which tells how Qays b. al-Khaṭím took vengeance on the murderers of his father and his grandfather.[191]

[Sidenote: The story of the vengeance of Qays b. al-Khaṭím.]

It is related on the authority of Abú ‘Ubayda that ‘Adí b. ‘Amr, the
grandfather of Qays, was slain by a man named Málik belonging to the
Banú ‘Amr b. ‘Ámir b. Rabí‘a b. ‘Ámir b. Ṣa‘ṣa‘a; and his
father, Khaṭím b. ‘Adí, by one of the Banú ‘Abd al-Qays who were
settled in Hajar. Khaṭím died before avenging his father, ‘Adí,
when Qays was but a young lad. The mother of Qays, fearing that he
would sally forth to seek vengeance for the blood of his father and
his grandfather and perish, went to a mound of dust beside the door
of their dwelling and laid stones on it, and began to say to Qays,
"This is the grave of thy father and thy grandfather;" and Qays
never doubted but that it was so. He grew up strong in the arms, and
one day he had a tussle with a youth of the Banú Ẓafar, who said
to him: "By God, thou would'st do better to turn the strength of
thine arms against the slayers of thy father and grandfather instead
of putting it forth upon me." "And who are their slayers?" "Ask thy
mother, she will tell thee." So Qays took his sword and set its hilt
on the ground and its edge between his two breasts, and said to his
mother: "Who killed my father and my grandfather?" "They died as
people die, and these are their graves in the camping-ground." "By
God, verily thou wilt tell me who slew them or I will bear with my
whole weight upon this sword until it cleaves through my back." Then
she told him, and Qays swore that he would never rest until he had
slain their slayers. "O my son," said she, "Málik, who killed thy
grandfather, is of the same folk as Khidásh b. Zuhayr, and thy
father once bestowed a kindness on Khidásh, for which he is
grateful. Go, then, to him and take counsel with him touching thine
affair and ask him to help thee." So Qays set out immediately, and
when he came to the garden where his water-camel was watering his
date-palms, he smote the cord (of the bucket) with his sword and cut
it, so that the bucket dropped into the well. Then he took hold of
the camel's head, and loaded the beast with two sacks of dates, and
said: "Who will care for this old woman" (meaning his mother) "in my
absence? If I die, let him pay her expenses out of this garden, and
on her death it shall be his own; but if I live, my property will
return to me, and he shall have as many of its dates as he wishes to
eat." One of his folk cried, "I am for it," so Qays gave him the
garden and set forth to inquire concerning Khidásh. He was told to
look for him at Marr al-Ẓahrán, but not finding him in his tent,
he alighted beneath a tree, in the shade of which the guests of
Khidásh used to shelter, and called to the wife of Khidásh, "Is
there any food?" Now, when she came up to him, she admired his
comeliness--for he was exceeding fair of countenance--and said: "By
God, we have no fit entertainment for thee, but only dates." He
replied, "I care not, bring out what thou hast." So she sent to him
dates in a large measure (_qubá‘_), and Qays took a single date and
ate half of it and put back the other half in the _qubá‘_, and gave
orders that the _qubá‘_ should be brought in to the wife of Khidásh;
then he departed on some business. When Khidásh returned and his
wife told him the news of Qays, he said, "This is a man who would
render his person sacred."[192] While he sat there with his wife
eating fresh ripe dates, Qays returned on camel-back; and Khidásh,
when he saw the foot of the approaching rider, said to his wife, "Is
this thy guest?" "Yes." "'Tis as though his foot were the foot of my
good friend, Khaṭím the Yathribite." Qays drew nigh, and struck
the tent-rope with the point of his spear, and begged leave to come
in. Having obtained permission, he entered to Khidásh and told his
lineage and informed him of what had passed, and asked him to help
and advise him in his affair. Khidásh bade him welcome, and recalled
the kindness which he had of his father, and said, "As to this
affair, truly I have been expecting it of thee for some time. The
slayer of thy grandfather is a cousin of mine, and I will aid thee
against him. When we are assembled in our meeting-place, I will sit
beside him and talk with him, and when I strike his thigh, do thou
spring on him and slay him." Qays himself relates: "Accompanied by
Khidásh, I approached him until I stood over his head when Khidásh
sat with him, and as soon as he struck the man's thigh I smote his
head with a sword named _Dhu ’l-Khurṣayn_" (the Two-ringed). "His
folk rushed on me to slay me, but Khidásh came between us, crying,
'Let him alone, for, by God, he has slain none but the slayer of his
grandfather.'" Then Khidásh called for one of his camels and mounted
it, and started with Qays to find the ‘Abdite who killed his father.
And when they were near Hajar Khidásh advised him to go and inquire
after this man, and to say to him when he discovered him: "I
encountered a brigand of thy people who robbed me of some articles,
and on asking who was the chieftain of his people I was directed to
thee. Go with me, then, that thou mayest take from him my property.
If," Khidásh continued, "he follow thee unattended, thou wilt gain
thy desire of him; but should he bid the others go with thee, laugh,
and if he ask why thou laughest, say, 'With us, the noble does not
as thou dost, but when he is called to a brigand of his people, he
goes forth alone with his whip, not with his sword; and the brigand
when he sees him gives him everything that he took, in awe of him.'
If he shall dismiss his friends, thy course is clear; but if he
shall refuse to go without them, bring him to me nevertheless, for I
hope that thou wilt slay both him and them." So Khidásh stationed
himself under the shade of a tree, while Qays went to the ‘Abdite
and addressed him as Khidásh had prompted; and the man's sense of
honour was touched to the quick, so that he sent away his friends
and went with Qays. And when Qays came back to Khidásh, the latter
said to him, "Choose, O Qays! Shall I help thee or shall I take thy
place?" Qays answered, "I desire neither of these alternatives, but
if he slay me, let him not slay thee!" Then he rushed upon him and
wounded him in the flank and drove his lance through the other side,
and he fell dead on the spot. When Qays had finished with him,
Khidásh said, "If we flee just now, his folk will pursue us; but let
us go somewhere not far off, for they will never think that thou
hast slain him and stayed in the neighbourhood. No; they will miss
him and follow his track, and when they find him slain they will
start to pursue us in every direction, and will only return when
they have lost hope." So those two entered some hollows of the sand,
and after staying there several days (for it happened exactly as
Khidásh had foretold), they came forth when the pursuit was over,
and did not exchange a word until they reached the abode of Khidásh.
There Qays parted from him and returned to his own people.

[Sidenote: Song of Vengeance by Ta’abbaṭa Sharran.]

The poems relating to blood-revenge show all that is best and much that is less admirable in the heathen Arab--on the one hand, his courage and resolution, his contempt of death and fear of dishonour, his single-minded devotion to the dead as to the living, his deep regard and tender affection for the men of his own flesh and blood; on the other hand, his implacable temper, his perfidious cruelty and reckless ferocity in hunting down the slayers, and his savage, well-nigh inhuman exultation over the slain. The famous Song or Ballad of Vengeance that I shall now attempt to render in English verse is usually attributed to Ta’abbaṭa Sharran,[193] although some pronounce it to be a forgery by Khalaf al-Aḥmar, the reputed author of Shanfará's masterpiece, and beyond doubt a marvellously skilful imitator of the ancient bards. Be that as it may, the ballad is utterly pagan in tone and feeling. Its extraordinary merit was detected by Goethe, who, after reading it in a Latin translation, published a German rendering, with some fine criticism of the poetry, in his _West-oestlicher Divan_.[194] I have endeavoured to suggest as far as possible the metre and rhythm of the original, since to these, in my opinion, its peculiar effect is largely due. The metre is that known as the 'Tall' (_Madíd_), viz.:--

⌣ |⌣ |
- ⌣ - -|- ⌣ -|- ⌣ - -

Thus the first verse runs in Arabic:--

_Inna bi’l-shi‘ | bi ’lladhi |‘inda Sal‘in
la-qatílan | damuhú | má yuṭallu._

Of course, Arabic prosody differs radically from English, but _mutatis mutandis_ several couplets in the following version (_e.g._ the third, eighth, and ninth) will be found to correspond exactly with their model. As has been said, however, my object was merely to suggest the abrupt metre and the heavy, emphatic cadences, so that I have been able to give variety to the verse, and at the same time to retain that artistic freedom without which the translator of poetry cannot hope to satisfy either himself or any one else.

The poet tells how he was summoned to avenge his uncle, slain by the tribesmen of Hudhayl: he describes the dead man's heroic character, the foray in which he fell, his former triumphs over the same enemy, and finally the terrible vengeance taken for him.[195]

"In the glen there a murdered man is lying--
Not in vain for vengeance his blood is crying.
He hath left me the load to bear and departed;
I take up the load and bear it true-hearted.
I, his sister's son, the bloodshed inherit,
I whose knot none looses, stubborn of spirit;[196]
Glowering darkly, shame's deadly out-wiper,
Like the serpent spitting venom, the viper.
Hard the tidings that befell us, heart-breaking;
Little seemed thereby the anguish most aching.
Fate hath robbed me--still is Fate fierce and froward--
Of a hero whose friend ne'er called him coward:
As the warm sun was he in wintry weather,
'Neath the Dog-star shade and coolness together:
Spare of flank--yet this in him showed not meanness;
Open-handed, full of boldness and keenness:
Firm of purpose, cavalier unaffrighted--
Courage rode with him and with him alighted:
In his bounty, a bursting cloud of rain-water;
Lion grim when he leaped to the slaughter.
Flowing hair, long robe his folk saw aforetime,
But a lean-haunched wolf was he in war-time.
Savours two he had, untasted by no men:
Honey to his friends and gall to his foemen.
Fear he rode nor recked what should betide him:
Save his deep-notched Yemen blade, none beside him.