While Arabia of the pre-Islamic days is not America of this generation nor the Semitic people of the East like the Germanic races of the West, still those human qualities that make for valor, for greatness of spirit, that reflect genius devoted to literature and social service are compelling forces in all climes and in all races. An opportunity for a free expression of them and a recognition of their potent effect in the sum total of human culture should be the mission of scholarship in all lands. Those elements of character which the Arabs of Antar's day regarded as their _beau ideal_ were found not unworthy of admiration when manifested in one of Negro blood. When his poetic fancy reflected the spirit of Arab life his works were not rejected because his mother was an African slave but one of the best was placed among the immortal poems of his father's country. When his genius for warfare was shown it was given an opportunity to develop and serve the cause of all who preferred valiant deeds to arguments of race. When his life was spent it was not looked upon as one of an unusual Negro rising above a sphere previously limited to his fellows of the same blood but as an epic of success crowning human effort and worthy to be embodied in the literature of Arabia as the exploits of a hero who exemplified the spirit of the people, acceptable for all time as their model for valor, poetic genius, hospitality, and magnanimity. A. O. STAFFORD FOOTNOTES: [1] Palgrave, "Essays on Eastern Questions," 37 et seq. [2] Huart, "A History of Arabian Literature," 13. [3] Nicholson, "Literary History of the Arabs," 114. [4] Huart, "A History of Arabian Literature," 14. [5] These are two selections from Antar's Mu 'Allakât: A FAIR LADY 'Twas then her beauties first enslaved my heart-- Those glittering pearls and ruby lips, whose kiss Was sweeter far than honey to the taste. As when the merchant opes a precious box Of perfume, such an odor from her breath Comes toward me, harbinger of her approach; Or like an untouched meadow, where the rain Hath fallen freshly on the fragrant herbs That carpet all its pure untrodden soil: A meadow where the fragrant rain-drops fall Like coins of silver in the quiet pools, And irrigate it with perpetual streams; A meadow where the sportive insects hum, Like listless topers singing o'er their cups, And ply their forelegs like a man who tries With maimed hands to use the flint and steel. THE BATTLE