On leaving the coffee-house (Kahvé-Kháné) we heard the voice of a muezzin calling to prayers. It was noon. “Listen,” said Seyyid ’Alí, “I know the Mullá well; he has the soul of a saint and the voice of an angel.” Emotional, the tears ran down ’Alí’s cheeks in streams; then, drying his eyes, his whole face shone as from some sudden light within him. The scoffer was mute—silenced by the majestic melody of that far-flung summons; but it must not be supposed that any translation in English could reflect the dignity of the original Arabic, the most devotional tongue ever spoken by the lips of man:

The words swept over the city like a storm cloud, fraught with darkness, thunder, and lightning—symbols these of the mysteries, the threats, and the promises of the Faith. The mere sound of the full-throated syllables, even to one who had no Arabic, would, however obscure it might be, suggest something alike threatening and revealing. It was as though some moonless desert had found a tongue to proclaim to-morrow’s sunrise.

“By my life!” cried Seyyid ’Alí, “why, this human voice, acknowledging the might of the most Mighty, finds its way to the core of being. I do repent in that I did make mock of the engraver of seals. He was a righteous man, and of excellent courtesy and address. I have committed a fault. I have eaten dirt. I am the humblest of his servants. Come, yá-Moulai, let us hasten to say the Fátihah within the holy precincts of the Harem.” This prayer runs:

“Praise be to God, the Lord of the Worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, the King of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we seek help. Lead us in the right way, the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious, not of those with whom thou art angry, nor of those who go astray.”

This, the opening chapter of the Kurán, is held in special veneration by the Muhammadans, by whom it is sometimes called the chapter of prayer, of thanksgiving, of treasure, and is repeated by them as often as the Christians repeat the Lord’s Prayer. Not less precious is the sublime passage in the second Súra, descriptive of the Divine Majesty, and entitled Ayatu’l-Kúrsí—that is, being translated, the Verse of the Throne. It runs something like this:

“God, save whom there is no God, is the living, the self-subsisting one. Slumber overpowereth Him not, nor sleep. Unto Him belongeth whatsoever is in the heavens, and whatsoever is in the earth. Who is he that shall intercede with Him, save through His good pleasure? He knoweth that which is past, and that which is to come unto them; and they understand not a single iota of His knowledge, except so far as He hath willed. His firmament spans the heavens and the earth, the preservation whereof doth not distress Him. And He is the most High, the most Supreme.”

Having said our prayers, my guide and I, we left the Harem and returned to the bazaars. The smell of burning aloe-wood drew our eyes to a shop where combs seemed to be the only purchasable articles. These combs, made of ebony, were of two kinds. The first, used by the men, are called male combs. They are provided with a single row of teeth. The others, known as female combs, have teeth on both sides. We passed on. A man bearing a sheepskin was hawking honey, like the water of the eye for purity. It is brought down to the Meccan markets by the Arabs of the clan of Beni Salem, another branch of the tribe of Harb, who also dwell not far from Rabegh, and are more numerous than the two tribes aforementioned, whose Sheykhs we had the pleasure of meeting in the coffee-house. Among the countless hawkers thronging the thoroughfares not a single Arab milkman did we see. We met only one milkman, and he was an Indian. For milk-selling is not a popular pursuit in Arabia. Indeed, it carries with it the stigma of an ineffaceable disgrace, the term “milk-seller” having come to bear the meaning of “bastard.” In like manner the Persians make use of the expression “mást-kash,” sour milk carrier, on the rare occasions when they are driven to reprove a mean flatterer. The first shop we entered was that of a draper who drove a remunerative trade in winding-sheets. There we noticed the poorer side of the East. Crowds of beggars—not necessarily poverty-stricken—were practising their lucrative business. Some were weeping, many were malingering, and one was really dead. There was no bargaining over the prices of the grave-clothes. Every purchaser chose the one he could afford to buy. While I was selecting mine Seyyid ’Alí intervened, saying, in an undertone:

“Yá-Moulai, allow me to persuade you to buy the oldest you can find, to the end that Nakír and Munkar, when you come to die (God forbid), may pass you by as having already answered their cross-examination as to your spiritual preparedness. For my own part, being in sound health—praise be to God on high!—I have no faith whatever in the existence of those Inquisitors. I am of the opinion of the Persian grandee who, having stuffed the mouth of his dead groom with grain, and having opened the grave in due course, found the grain still in the groom’s mouth, and cried: ‘This is proof positive that he never answered Munkar and Nakír, and strong presumptive evidence that no such Inquisitors exist!’ Nay, grow not impatient with me. Am I not the least of thy slaves?”

The sceptical rogue chuckled, emitting a sound like that of a camel drinking water. The winding-sheet I bought cost about fifteen shillings. Later on I had it washed in the water of Zem-Zem. It measures about 8ft. by 4ft. In the middle the figure of a cypress tree is inscribed with the Verse of the Throne as a protection to the wearer from the Percussion of the grave; and other verses from the same chapter of Al-Beghar surround the hem thereof. For the life of me I could not help being sorry that I should not see myself in it as others would see me—a reflection which nearly stifled my guide with laughter. “Since you are still a good enough Muslim to be superstitious,” said he, “I would suggest that we should next visit a talisman-monger’s, for there you would find charms to protect you against the Evil Eye and the contagion of every disease.” Thither, therefore, we bent our steps.

The talisman-monger, as I discerned from his features, stern and passive, and from the determination of mind underlying them, was half-Turk, half-Syrian. The Syrians are of a resolute character, and seldom take a step that does not bring them nearer to the end they keep ever in view. In this regard they are the antithesis of the Egyptians, who seem utterly aimless if left to their own devices. In their attitude towards work the Syrians are more persevering than the Persians, and less conceited in character. They are at their best as men of action. As men of thought they are inferior both to the Persians, who are the Hamlets of the East, and to the Bedouins, whose wild, imaginative spirits equip them for pillage and for poetry alike. They are extremely fond of music, these cheery sons of a flowery soil, though here, again, they must yield the palm to the fiery clansmen of the Arabian deserts. The charm-seller, a characteristic specimen of his race, an excellent business man, was taken completely by surprise when I asked him to give a name to a certain cornelian set in silver gilt and inscribed with a Kurán text. “May God protect me from Satan,” he muttered in pious horror. “Here is a Muhammadan who knows not a Bábághúli!” Then, recovering slowly from his astonishment, he went on to explain that it is worn by a Muslim child in commemoration of the Aghigheh sacrifice, and I may repeat here that it forms the chief feature of the cover design to this volume.

After much bargaining I bought a Bábághúli for a couple of Turkish pounds, and found in it, beyond its usual interest, a magnificent example of Perso-Syrian work. The cornelian, which is circular in shape and slightly raised in the middle, is of a rosy shade, and measures about an inch in circumference. On it is engraved, in the finest Naskh writing, a short chapter of the Kurán, which must have cost the artist half-a-year’s labour. The stone is set in silver of a floral design, with two loops or links, through which are threaded strings of gold ending with tassels and a running noose for fastening round the arm. Round the centre stone are inlaid twenty-two rubies and emeralds, in alternate order, eleven of each. These stones alone, though they are not cut properly, are worth three times as much as I gave for the whole thing. I made haste to tie the Bábághúli round my biceps, more from fear of theft than any superstitious motive, and promised not to part with it in any circumstances; whereat my guide, sneering, said, “May the devil give you a wide berth, yá-Moulai!” the talisman-monger endorsing the wish by adding, “May it be auspicious.”

The wearing of a túgh, or silver chain, to which is attached a silver bowl called kashkúl, is confined to the Shiahs. It is worn round the neck by many Persian boys, and is changed every year until the boy is nine years old. By the end of that time he has nine chains laid by. These are sent, as propitiatory offerings, to the shrine of some saint, that of Abbas in Kerbela being the most sacred. Thus it comes about that a boy, so long as he wears the túgh, is called “the dog of Abbas,” and is said to be under the special protection of that saintly man. I turned to my guide. “How is it,” said I, “that he is called Abbas’s dog, and not ‘Allah’s dog,’ or, more becomingly still, ‘Allah’s child’?”

“I will answer you in a parable,” replied Seyyid ’Alí. “There was once a certain man who owned a flock of sheep. Every morning, when he drove his flock out of the fold to the pasture-land, he would say, ‘O Abbas, keep watch over my sheep, which I leave in your protection;’ and then he would go about his work until it was time to drive the sheep home again. One day he was too busy to act as shepherd, and so he sent his son in his stead. The boy, having brought the sheep to the grazing ground, said within himself: ‘I wonder why my father leaves the sheep in the care of Abbas. Did not Allah create them as well as him? Assuredly my father has committed a fault.’ And, so thinking, he left the sheep in charge of their Creator. Now it happened that, Abbas having resigned his office, a pack of wolves passed by, and, being famished, spared not even a lamb: so that when the father went in search of the sheep, he could not find a single one. Having questioned his son, he learned the truth. ‘Silly boy,’ said he, ‘knowest thou not that Allah takes care of all his creatures, of the wolves as well as of the sheep, whereas Abbas, listening to our entreaties, would keep the beasts of prey from attacking our flocks and herds? Be wiser to-morrow than you were this morning.’ So you see, yá-Moulai, that there is no use in trying to be anything to Allah beyond what one really is.”

At the end of nine years these chains are valued, and the price of them is distributed among the poor, after which they are sent to the shrine of Abbas. To the chain a pair of hands made of silver is sometimes hung, in memory of Abbas, whose hands were cut off on the plain of Kerbela. The talisman-monger had hundreds of these chains and bowls and hands in his shop, and also, among other things, heaps of mázús, or oak-apples. These oak-apples are used as charms by nearly all Muhammadans. Those in the shop were of two kinds. Some were nearly black and perfectly circular; others were of a light brown colour and spheroid in shape. Among those of a spheroidal shape was a mázú of exceptional beauty, evidently intended for a woman. The two ends of the hollow spheroid were set in silver with numerous figures exquisitely chased, one group of which was that of a female slave handing over the heart of her young mistress to the expectant lover. This particular kind of mázú, I was told, is suspended on a chain and worn on their breasts by the women. Other oak-apples are seen hanging from the tip of children’s caps on a silk band, along with prayer-bags made of green velvet and containing texts from the Holy Scriptures.

Meanwhile my guide, having struck up acquaintance with a countryman of his from Hamadan, was engaged in conversation with him. This new friend, Murshid Khan by name, was a tall swarthy fellow. He had come to buy a chip of the sacred tree talh’, an acacia which has small round golden blossoms, whereof he related the following legend:

“Many centuries ago a certain peasant went to cut wood in a forest near the city of Hamadan. This he had been wont to do every winter in order to eke out his livelihood, during the cold weather, as is still the custom among the peasantry in our parts. Now, it chanced that his axe struck against a branch of a talh’ which, as it happened, was in the way of the tree he was felling. To his consternation a stream of blood oozed out, followed by cries the most pitiable he had ever heard. They seemed, in their distressful anguish, to come from the heart of a mother that had lost her child. The axe fell from the peasant’s hand, and he himself sank to the ground in a faint. When he recovered consciousness it was to look for the talh’ ... only to find it gone! He returned to the city as fast as his legs would carry him and there he told his story, which was spread abroad among the people. And from that day to this the wood of the talh’ has been regarded as sacred. Children use it in the place of mázús, and barren women, if they hang a chip of it above their beds for the space of forty consecutive Fridays, will bear children in due course. This is so.”

Here the guide, Seyyid ’Alí, interrupted the speaker, saying: “Light of my heart, thou speakest the truth. In my country, in the town of Behbehan, near Shíráz, we have a famous way of protecting our women folk against the attacks of Aal—that cursed ogress who comes to cut out the liver of every mother after the birth of her child. First we draw four lines round the walls of the house; then at each of the four corners we plant a branch of the talh’ tree; and a dagger, with an onion atop, is stuck in the ground facing the door. This is the only possible way of keeping Aal out—may she be accursed!”

“Sarkár,” said Murshid Khan, turning to me, “I have, with these two eyes of mine, seen things beyond belief, though I believe in them myself, and many a true believer shares the belief with me.” Here he turned his face in the direction of the Harem, raised his eyes, and cried: “By the owner of this Harem, the truth of my story is this: I had a sister, by name Javáher, who became Jinni, Jinnstruck, when she was ten years old. She had been of an equal mind until one day she went into a field in Hamadan, where a servant was milking the goats. It appears that she spilt the milk by accidentally kicking over the bowl containing it, and thenceforward her mind was troubled: she was Jinni. Now we people of Hamadan accounted ourselves lucky in that there lived among us a pious Mullá ’Alí, whose extraordinary capabilities were a matter of wonder and adoration. As a Jinn-gir, or Jinn-trapper, he was unrivalled. Him, therefore, we called in that he might cast out the Jinn that had disturbed the peace of my sister’s mind. When he came he brought with him his famous tás—a bowl used for ablutions—and a long white sheet. Having filled the tás, he ordered my sister to sit down beside it and to gaze into the water. Then he threw the sheet over the child and the bowl, and made certain passes with a wand he held in his right hand. Whereupon, as we noticed to our terror, there arose a mighty stir beneath the sheet, as though a host were fighting there. On a signal from Mullá ’Alí the tumult ceased and all was in a hush. Suddenly, the good priest, calling my sister by her name, said: ‘What do you see there?’ And my sister replied, in a dreamy, awestruck whisper: ‘O, Mullá ’Alí, I see him seated gloriously on a throne studded with precious gems, and hundreds of attendants, both men and women, are kneeling before him. It is the King of the Jinns.’ ‘And what do you hear? be attentive!’ said the priest. ‘One little Jinn,’ replied my sister, in a terror-stricken voice, ‘is prostrating herself before his Majesty, and this is what she says: “Javáher—may she be punished—spilled a bowl of milk a month ago, and hurt my toes, and I have been lame ever since. Though my friends have cast a spell over her, I must request your Majesty to increase her punishment, that she may learn to fear the displeasure of our King.” Oh, oh, oh! How she cries and weeps before the throne of his Majesty; I am fainting.’ ‘Beg her humbly to forgive you, and promise to be more careful in the future, and all will be well,’ cried Mullá ’Alí. It was impossible to doubt the sincerity of my sister’s repentance, and when the priest removed the sheet, which he did so soon as my sister had made her appeal before the throne, behold my sister was in her right mind once more. I forgot to say that before the removal of the covering a neighbour came in, saying that he had lost a gold diamond ring, probably by theft. So the priest commanded my sister to ask the Jinn she had injured to tell her where the ring was. The Jinn in question was good enough to mention the thief by name, much to the delight of our neighbour, who subsequently recovered his property. I can assure you, Sarkár, that this last proof of the Mullá’s power made Hamadan the safest city in Persia. Theft was unknown there. May Mullá ’Alí have a long life!”

The talisman-monger was the next to speak. He said: “You must know that I am not always in Mecca. I come here for the three journeying months, then I return to Smyrna, where I have two shops of this nature in the bazaars. Next to one of my shops there is a small coffee-house, whither I go for refreshment in my leisure hours. About three years ago there came to Smyrna a man named Dervish Ibrahim, from Turkistan. Everybody except myself believed in the supernatural power of this dervish, who wore a white beard on a shining face. One evening, when I had closed my shop and was proceeding home, I found the dervish seated on the front bench of the coffee-house, surrounded by his followers. He called me by my name—Abdullah-ben-Jafar—though it had never been mentioned before him, and when I went to him he said: ‘I can see from your face that you scoff at the power of talismans, though you sell them to those who are wiser than yourself, and therein show yourself possessed of some share of wisdom. It is my humour to-night to reveal to you a single drop of the ocean of omnipotence. Come, take this scrap of paper, whereon I have written a few words to the dead, carry it to the neighbouring cemetery, bury it in the sand near the entrance, and bring back to me a handful of the sand. Be careful, on returning, not to look behind you, for, if you do so, you will be torn in a million pieces that will be distributed among those that lie there. Look ahead, and your life will be safe.’ Well, curiosity possessed me, and off I went. When I had buried the scrap of paper, and taken up a handful of sand, I heard thunder and the voices of the dead crying, ‘Oh, Abdullah-ben-Jafar, take not the sand away, else you will be cut in bits. Stop! Stop! Stop!’ I shuddered all over my body, and lost consciousness suddenly. When I awoke it was to see the sun rising. I hurried to the dervish, and kissed his feet, and implored him to forgive me for having doubted his power to work miracles.”

This story-telling had attracted a number of pilgrims, who, to the exaltation of the talisman-monger, fell to examining his curiosities with a view to business. After every purchase, Abdullah-ben-Jafar raised his hands to heaven, and cried: “Praise be to God on high! May His kindness be increased!”