The European, who prides himself on his practicality, is inclined to look down on the merchant’s calling, though it is surely one of the most practical of all. The Oriental, on the other hand, who is supposed to be the most romantic of mortals, generally holds it in high esteem. Therefore the Oriental, if he is less practical in that he is slow to adopt the time-saving methods of his Western brother, is far more logical in paying every respect to a calling which is one of the chief factors in the welfare of nations. Moreover, the Oriental’s attitude towards travelling proves him to be far more practical than he is generally believed to be. As a general rule he takes to roving, either to lay up for himself treasures in heaven by visiting holy places, or to better his condition in life by trading in foreign parts. If he is a pilgrim he combines the spiritual and the worldly aims above-mentioned, strong in the Prophet’s assurance that it shall be no crime in him if he seek an increase from his Lord during his pilgrimage. The consequence is that Mecca is turned every year into a bustling fair, an exchange and mart where Eastern commodities of every description can be purchased in cash or in kind. This being understood, I will ask the reader to accompany my guide and myself on our shopping tour of the Meccan bazaars, for I must not forget, as a true pilgrim, to buy a soughát or present for each of the friends I left behind me.

“Yá-Moulai,” said my guide, “let me advise you to grease your tongue with honey before we go, that the shopkeepers may respond to the compliments you must pay them by lowering their prices. I notice that you have a smile on your lips. Yá-Allah! do you wish to return with an empty purse? Press your lips together, affect a poverty-stricken demeanour, otherwise you will be fleeced not only by the traders, but also by every beggar in Mecca, more particularly by those who lie in wait for the generous-hearted round about the Harem. On entering each shop you must cough as hard as you can, though you tear your chest in pieces: then the shopkeeper will be compassionate in the matter of charges. Another counsel I would offer you is this. Let us suppose you want to buy a knife. The first thing you must do is to ask the cutler for a sword, then for a dagger, then for a pair of scissors, and, after refusing all of these things with a sneer, you must command him to show you a knife in a voice toned to insinuate that the purchasing of that article is an act of generosity on your part, a magnanimous recompense to him for his trouble. For our merchants, though they are often crafty and betray a suspicious conscience, are, if you treat them as they expect to be treated, of a childlike simplicity. So cast off your sandals that you may acquire the reputation of a saint and thus be treated fairly in the bazaars. Believe me, Yá-Moulai, if you follow these instructions, you will drive a better bargain with the Meccan than you would by trusting to the honesty of a Firangi trader who is civilisation-proof against these simple wiles.” And so chattering he led me through the crowded streets, and would have asked for alms, that I might pass as a beggar, had I not forbidden him sternly to practise in my service a piece of deceit as unworthy of himself as it would be humiliating to me; whereon he glanced at me furtively muttering in his beard: “He is as proud as a Shahzadeh.”

The city of Mecca is divided into two parts. Of these the upper quarters are called Malá, as opposed to the lower ones, which are known by the name of Misfál. The shops are very similar to those at Jiddah; but in the street that bears the name of Mussah, which is the broadest and most picturesque thoroughfare, they occupy, I may say, the ground floor of the houses on both sides, presenting to the passers-by such a wealth of Oriental goods as I for one had not seen before. The familiar word “bazaar” is Persian, its Arabic equivalent being Súgh, and a whole quarter is sometimes called after its neighbouring market, as is the case, for instance, with the quarter called Súghé-Seghir. To the North of Mussah-street is situated the Soueygha Bazaar, where goods (especially the belongings of dead pilgrims) are sold by auction twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, and there also slaves are exhibited and knocked down to the highest bidder. The Syrian Bazaar, or Sughé-Shamí, is to be found to the east of this slave market; the armourers display their weapons in the Súghé-Geshatshi near the Platform of Purity, whence the Sughé-Lail, or Night bazaar, is within easy reach; while further to the east, below the skirts of Mount Abú Ghobais, in a market named Moamil, pottery of any description can be bought by the pilgrims as receptacles for the curative water of Zem-Zem. In a square to the east of this bazaar camels and sheep are sold, and fruit stalls are kept by Bedouins: and from thence one passes to the blacksmiths’ shops or Sughé-Haddadin.

The pilgrim who would purchase shoes or sandals must seek the upper quarters of the town, and there, in the north of Malá, he will find what he wants in abundance, as well as many provision stores which serve to replenish the supplies of the yearly caravans; for most of these dealers have agencies at Jiddah, Bombay, and Cairo. In the same quarter, still to the north, is the meat market, most of the butchers being Bedouin Arabs who keep special flocks of sheep and camels for slaughter and for sale. From this bazaar the way lies through some extremely narrow and dirty lanes to the Zokáké-Seni or Chinese Market, where gold and silver vessels and jewellery are sold by a few Muhammadans of the Celestial Empire. Thence to the north-east are situated the dyers’ shops, which go by the name of Sughé-Sabbaghin. The manufacture of indigo dye, which is much used in Arabia, is very interesting. First the small leaves are dried in the sun, then they are powdered and put into earthenware jars filled with water, where they remain overnight. Next morning the leaves are stirred thoroughly until a dark blue froth is produced in the water, after which they are left to settle. When the indigo is taken from the bottom it is spread on cloths to drain, and is then mixed with dates and saltpetre. The method of calendering the garments dyed with indigo consists in beating them on stones with wooden hammers, which is generally done to the accompaniment of a song.

“Bismi’lláhi’r-Rahmáni’r-Rahim!” With those words on our lips we entered the bazaar to the north of the Harem. What first struck my attention was a man sitting on a rug with a small wooden frame in front of him, a round blue tile by his side, a reed pen in his right hand, and a few sheets of paper in his left. He was an Arab scribe, and around him were gathered a crowd of illiterate pilgrims, all waiting for him to write their letters. The first to go forward was an Afghan pilgrim. He had muscular limbs and a fierce, scowling face. Said he: “Write me a letter to my brother: he is ill and lives at Sakhir.” The scribe, who was sitting on his hips, cocked up his right leg ever so slightly so as to form a sort of table, and asked the Afghan what he was to say. “By God!” exclaimed the native of Sakhir, “I expect you to provide something more than the paper and the penmanship. You must supply the words as well. What! you know not what to write? Have I not said that my brother is sick and like to die? Tell him that I will bring him a bottle of Zem-Zem water—that will cure him, if it please Allah—and a winding-sheet that has been dipped therein, which will be useful if he die—God forbid!” Here my guide stepped to the front, saying, “From the Percussion of the Grave and from the Interrogation of the Grave may God the Merciful and Clement deliver him!” A bright smile flashed over the Afghan’s face. “May your kindness increase!” said he. Meanwhile, the scribe dipped his pen in the silk threads on the blue tile which served the purpose of an inkstand. These threads were soaked in soot and water, and it took about three dips to write a single word. Every now and then he would raise the paper to the left side of his face and look at it slantingly out of the corner of his eye. If a word did not please him he would rub it out by moistening his forefinger and dabbing it half-a-dozen times on the word, for the ink left no permanent trace on the paper but came off in layers when rubbed with the wet finger. The lines of the letter were wide apart, and an ample margin was left on both sides. When the bottom of the page was reached the scribe filled the margins lengthwise, and then fell to writing between the lines. I could not help thinking that the sick Sakhiri would find it easier to answer the interrogations of Nakír and Munkar, those dread Inquisitors of the Grave, than to read the letter from Mecca, which struck me as being almost as difficult to decipher as a Chinese poem. When the last word was written the Afghan took out his purse, to the strings of which was tied a round seal of brass whereon his name was engraved. Having unfastened the seal he handed it to the scribe. It amused me to see that the purse was withheld by the canny Afghan, who obviously had no intention of losing over the transaction more than he had bargained for.

All Orientals, particularly the Persians, lay great store by their seals. Those of the lower classes are generally round and made of brass, and are either fastened to their purse strings or left dangling by their waistbands. The mullás have a preference for square seals of cornelian set in base silver, as approved by the Prophet; while the high officials “gratify the pride of irresponsibility,” or the instincts of taste in the matter, some choosing gold seals ornamented with diamonds, and others turquoise seals decorated with pearls or with rubies. Sometimes a line of poetry is engraved on the seal as well as the owner’s name. I knew a pious Shi’ah whose seal bore this inscription: “The slave of the King of the country, Imám ’Alí,” only the last word, of course, being his own name. Later, on our journey through the bazaars, we chanced to see a Persian hakkák, or seal-maker, at work. The cornelian he was carving was fixed in tar on the small board in front of him. The deft way in which he wielded his small hammer was the result of a steady hand and an unerring eye, gifts for which the Persians are justly famous. The motto was intended to commemorate his pilgrimage to the Mother of Cities, and ran as follows: “Sadik, the least of Hájís and the slave of God, in the city of God!”

I entered into conversation with this man Sadik, and was lucky to find in him a very lantern of traditions. The works of Baidáwí, of Abú Sa’íd al-Khadrí, of al-Farrá of Bagh, of Nu’man Ibu Bashír, of Abú Hurairah, of ’Abd Allah Ibu Mas’ud, to say nothing of the Persian and Arabian poets, he seemed to know by heart. When I complimented him on his learning, he replied, saying: “If I am blessed by God with a good memory, it is because I have never eaten a quince, or a sour apple, or fresh coriander, or garlic, or the remainder of a mouse’s meal; nor have I, to the best of my belief, ever read a book written by the blind, nor drawn blood from the nape of my neck. For these things weaken the memory and produce folly. From the unseemly demeanour of your guide”—the rascal had been more exasperating than usual—“I would hazard the conjecture that he has tasted of many a mouse’s meal.”

The guide grew exceeding wrath, and would have struck the speaker had I not prevented him; then he cried, “You lie! the humiliation you would thrust on me, see, I cast it back in your face!” The seal-maker smiled good-humouredly. “Friend,” said he, “the humiliation was mine, and not yours, for have I not spoken to a careless listener? Know, however, for your future guidance, that a man, if he meet with humiliation, has sometimes nobody but himself to blame. This will certainly be his sorry case if he sit down uninvited to another’s table, or if he respect not his host, or if he hope for kindness from a foe or for learning from the low-born; so much the more will he suffer the inevitable consequence if he honour not his Prophet, his country, and his King. And”—here he turned to the crowd—“to listen inquisitively to another’s conversation has the same effect as addressing an inattentive audience. I would not have ye be guilty of the former, which is the extreme of discourtesy, any more than I would have the latter, which is the acme of humiliation, thrust on me a second time by the friend to whom I spoke.”

I watched the guide, who could not contain his spleen. “Thou sententious ass!” he shrieked, making as if to take off his sandal wherewith to belabour the seal-maker. Once more he was met by a meek and smiling countenance. “Verily,” quoth Sadik, “if one show leniency to the mean, the low, or the servant, one must expect to be imposed on. I do but light a lamp in broad daylight, or sow seed in the desert sand, which is as wasteful as eating when one’s stomach is laden, or as showing consideration to one who is not deserving of it. Three things tend towards madness: the first is to walk with the blind, the second is to talk to the deaf, and the third is to sleep alone.”

By this time the sun had risen high in the heavens, and the mat awnings suspended on poles were already drawn down in order to keep out the fierce rays of sunlight, so on we went till we came to the tin-makers’ bazaar. There we heard a cry of “Yá Allah! yá Allah!” and, on looking round, beheld a funeral procession. The corpses, four victims of the epidemic, were being borne from the Harem to the graveyard on rough serirs, or wooden biers peculiar to Mecca. When the procession had passed by, I entered one of the shops and bought a couple of tin bottles, each of which would hold about two pints of Zem-Zem water. It is not customary to bargain over the purchasing of these articles since they are meant to contain the water of the sacred spring.

Across the way, in a shop full of musty manuscripts of questionable antiquity, I chanced on a veritable treasure. This was an exquisite copy of the Kurán in the old Kufi writing. It was plain that the bookseller had no conception of its value, for when I asked him the price of it he said, “Give whatever you like, and I will be content to part with it. We must not attempt to make a profit out of the Word of God, though it were well that we should seek to profit by its lessons.”

The Muhammadans are not supposed “to sell” the Kurán like any other book: a “hedieh,” or “present” goes to defray the cost of production. I offered a “hedieh” of a Turkish pound, not so much as dreaming that the bid would be accepted; but to my intense delight the shopkeeper, having raised the Book to his lips, and from the lips to his eyes, and from the eyes to his forehead, handed it to me, saying, “This is the Word of Allah; I give it to you, earnestly begging you to pray for me when you read it!”

I certainly prayed for him five times that day out of a grateful heart, and I made a point of doing so until, just before I embarked on my homeward voyage, I looked for the precious Book only to find it gone, along with several other valuable purchases.

Soon after leaving the bookseller’s, being in need of rest and refreshment, we entered a coffee-house which was literally filled with a crowd of pilgrims of every nationality in the East. Conspicuous in flowing abás with white and yellow stripes were two Sheykhs, who were sitting on stools at a low table, and with them I entered into conversation, offering them a cup of coffee each. The elder, a man of about forty-five, belonged to the tribe of Beni Súbh, while his companion, who was many years younger, owed allegiance to the tribe of Owf; consequently, both of them were members of the fighting clan of Harb Bedouins, who either live in tents about two stages from Mecca, on the road to Medina, or reside, if they are settled Arabs, in the towns of Rabegh, Safrá, and Fará. Of all the tribes of Harb none is more dreaded by the pilgrims than that of Owf, more particularly are they feared by the caravans that travel between the two holy cities. Their power and bravery are undeniable, as was clearly proved during the Wahhábí invasion of Hejaz. Closely allied to them are the tribes of Beni Amere and Zobeid.

The young Sheykh, with whom I now struck up an acquaintance, declared that the Owf, with all their shortcomings, could teach moral lessons to the rest of the clan, and he attributed their predatory habits to the “overboiling spirit that was in them.” He contradicted the report that his tribe had robbed forty Persian pilgrims of their belongings between Heddah and Mecca, and had murdered three Syrians between Medina and the Prophet’s birthplace. He professed strong attachment to the person of the Sheríf, and expressed the hope that we would live to see the union of every tribe of Arabia under his sway; in fact, he was a true patriot, frank of speech, of engaging manners, and showing no signs of lawless violence.

Not less courteous was his companion. On hearing that he was a Sheykh of Beni Sobh I asked him if he would tell me something about the famous balsam of Mecca, for I had read that the amyris-tree, which exudes this fragrant juice, grows on the mountain of Jébélé-Sobh, between the towns of Rabegh and Bedre. He was good enough to comply with my request, being a connoisseur on the subject. The trees, Bishon, as he called them, have a straight stem, and grow to the height of about twelve feet. In the middle of summer incisions are made by the women in the soft bark with a special kind of knife, whereon a white juice oozes out, and this the women collect with the thumb-nails of their right hands, and put into a sheepskin or into a vessel of burnished copper. The balsam, if the incisions are made later in the season, takes on a yellowish colour, and loses a good deal of its virtue as a tonic.

The Persian pilgrims, I was told, are unwearied in their efforts to obtain the honey-like balm in its unadulterated form, but they rarely succeed unless they go to the headquarters of Beni Sobh, for the stuff sold as balsam in the Meccan bazaars is hardly ever pure. The Arabs themselves can detect by the smell whether it is adulterated or not. Fortunately for the pilgrims there are certain other tests which are said to be infallible. The best balsam sinks in water, has a bright blue flame when alight, and, if you put a drop on your finger and set fire to it, it will burn without injuring the skin. The Persian traders mix turpentine with it, probably because the yellow balsam, even when it has not been “doctored,” smells of that resinous substance, but the Arabs adulterate the white balsam with inoffensive oils of several kinds. Every morning the pilgrims who could afford to buy the precious tonic would take a drop in their tea or their coffee, and I know from experience that it has the most invigorating effect on the nervous system.

The senna of Mecca, which is exported to Persia, to Central Asia, and to Syria, is also a product of the country of the tribesmen of Beni Sobh, who may be regarded as the richest and most peaceful of the tribes of Harb, reaping as they do the produce of their rich valleys without molesting the caravans in the hope of spoil. The date-tree is cultivated by them, my friend the Sheykh being the fortunate possessor of over a thousand trees. It surprised me to hear that these palms are sold not by the grove but by the tree, and, as it sometimes happens, the dates of a single tree may belong to two or more owners. When a tree has to be fructified, the gardener, having laid bare the female spathe and shaken over it the male pollen, sings in a low voice, saying: “Please God, you will thrive and be fruitful.”