Mohammed himself, after all that can be said about him, was not a sensual man.  We shall err widely if we consider this man as a common voluptuary, intent mainly on base enjoyments,—­nay on enjoyments of any kind.  His household was of the frugalest; his common diet barley-bread and water:  sometimes for months there was not a fire once lighted on his hearth.  They record with just pride that he would mend his own shoes, patch his own cloak.  A poor, hard-toiling, ill-provided man; careless of what vulgar men toil for.  Not a bad man, I should say; something better in him than hunger of any sort,—­or these wild Arab men, fighting and jostling three-and-twenty years at his hand, in close contact with him always, would not have reverenced him so!  They were wild men, bursting ever and anon into quarrel, into all kinds of fierce sincerity; without right worth and manhood, no man could have commanded them.  They called him Prophet, you say?  Why, he stood there face to face with them; bare, not enshrined in any mystery; visibly clouting his own cloak, cobbling his own shoes; fighting, counselling, ordering in the midst of them:  they must have seen what kind of a man he was, let him be called what you like!  No emperor with his tiara was obeyed as this man in a cloak of his own clouting during three-and-twenty years of rough actual trial.  I find something of a veritable Hero necessary for that, of itself.

His last words are a prayer; broken ejaculations of a heart struggling up, in trembling hope, towards its Maker.  We cannot say that his religion made him worse; it made him better; good, not bad.  Generous things are recorded of him:  when he lost his Daughter, the thing he answers is, in his own dialect, everyway sincere, and yet equivalent to that of Christians, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.”  He answered in like manner of Seid, his emancipated well-beloved Slave, the second of the believers.  Seid had fallen in the War of Tabuc, the first of Mohammed’s fightings with the Greeks.  Mohammed said, It was well; Seid had done his Master’s work, Seid had now gone to his Master:  it was all well with Seid.  Yet Seid’s daughter found him weeping over the body;—­the old gray-haired man melting in tears!  “What do I see?” said she.—­“You see a friend weeping over his friend.”—­He went out for the last time into the mosque, two days before his death; asked, If he had injured any man?  Let his own back bear the stripes.  If he owed any man?  A voice answered, “Yes, me three drachms,” borrowed on such an occasion.  Mohammed ordered them to be paid:  “Better be in shame now,” said he, “than at the Day of Judgment.”—­You remember Kadijah, and the “No, by Allah!” Traits of that kind show us the genuine man, the brother of us all, brought visible through twelve centuries,—­the veritable Son of our common Mother.