Two things play an important part in the family life of Persia. The first of these, the yearly almanac or taghvím is studied with a pathetic trust by all. In a day that has been marked unlucky they see the frustration of their hopes and prayers, however perseveringly they may strive, by earnest effort, to elude the working of the fateful stars and to bring about the consummation of their wishes. “The most blessed hour for prayer,” I was told by one of them, “is when the planet Jupiter is in conjunction with the culminating point of the firmament.” And when I began to argue with him, he said in astonishment: “Have you no faith in estakhhareh either?” I replied: “If you can prove to me by any passage in the Kurán that God will lend his advice to the Muslim who shall consult Him through the beads of a rosary, I will believe in the taghvím, the estakhhareh, or any fáll or omen you care to mention. But, first, let me be sure that I understand the method of making an estakhhareh. Having read a verse of the Holy Scriptures, you place the finger on a bead, then, counting the beads from that point to the nearer end of the thread, you believe that God will grant you your heart’s desire provided the number be odd, but that He will refuse your request if it be even. Am I right?” “Certainly,” he replied; “for if my prayer be reasonable and I deserving in the sight of God, He will assuredly guide my hand.” “It is obvious,” I retorted, “that God can and does guide His slaves; but I deny that He shares your belief in the luck of odd numbers. Let the Prophet be my intercessor. This is what he says:

“‘Do ye acquire knowledge, for he who acquireth knowledge in God’s service performeth an act of piety; he who giveth utterance to it praiseth the Lord; he who is diligent in search of it worshipeth God; and he who imparteth it offereth sacrifice to Him.’ Now, your faith is rooted not in knowledge, but in superstition. Look around you, and you will see the wonders of God in the working of laws immutably just, eternally the same. I tell you that action and reaction are equal and opposite, that the ordered weal and woe are the results of our own actions good and evil, and I advise you to put on the armour of knowledge in the desert less you fall a victim to the superstitious of whom you now are one. ‘The ink of the scholar,’ the Prophet tells us, ‘is more holy than the blood of the martyr.’”

My opponent, however, remained unconvinced. He assured me that his spiritual director would not dream of wearing a new ’abá without first consulting the taghvím, nor would he take it on himself to administer a dose of medicine to a sick child without asking God, through the beads of his rosary or the pages of the Kurán, whether the remedy would be efficacious or not. Of the progress of medical science the Shi’ah pilgrims knew nothing.

Galen and Avicenna are still regarded as the leading masters of the profession, and their treatises are the only ones that are studied. Diseases are divided into hot and cold. A cold remedy is applied to a hot disease, and a hot remedy to a cold one. The doctors bleed patients suffering from malarial fever. They keep small-pox endemic by their curious remedies. Silver armlets containing texts out of the Kurán are worn as preservatives of health. The saints and estakhharehs are sometimes the only doctors. “The One who sends fever takes it away ... Khodá rahím ast (God is merciful).... If He wants me to remain here He will cure me.... He is the best doctor.” Offerings in money or in sweet-meats are given to the poor for the patient’s recovery. The money is placed under the pillow every night, and is distributed every morning among the needy. The patient, despite the stifling atmosphere, is persuaded to believe in a speedy recovery, everybody telling him that he will soon be quite kushdell or cheerful. But when the end draws near a priest is summoned in haste, and the dying man, if he has no just cause of complaint against a child or against his wife, says not a word as to the distribution of his property, having full confidence that the divine law will be religiously followed. He instructs the priest as to the rites to be observed at his funeral and the offerings to be paid for the peace of his soul. He may command his sons to obey their mother and to respect their sisters. If he has no issue he may settle his property on a school, a mosque, a saint, or a water cistern.

The corpse must not remain more than twenty-four hours in the house. The hammámí, or bath-keeper, now enters the house in the capacity of an undertaker. He places the body on a korsi, that is, on a raised wooden platform in the middle of the room; a copy of the Kurán and a decanter of rose-water are set down near the head; and a cashmere shawl is laid over the remains. For a month or forty days after burial a ghari or hired priest keeps watch over the grave, praying for the soul’s peace of the newly-departed, and reading the Kurán aloud. On the night of the interment the percussion of the grave, the fesharé-ghabre, is supposed to take place. The priest must keep on reciting a certain passage of the Kurán, called Ayatu’l-Kúrsí or the Verse of the Throne, in order to extend the space and prevent the pressure. Then come Monker and Nakír—those livid-faced angels of death—and question the deceased concerning his faith. If his answers be satisfactory, ’Alí will cause him to be refreshed by the air of Paradise; if not, he will be beaten on the temples with iron maces.

The evening before I left Mecca for Jiddah I was suffering from a racking headache, and my friends advised me to consult a certain Arab physician. The curiosity to have an interview with this leech overcame my scepticism concerning his health-giving touch, so off I went to the east of the town where he dwelt, taking my guide with me; and there, in a winding lane some three feet wide, we found his house. My guide summoned the servant by banging at the outer door with his club. In about ten minutes what we judged to be a small urchin appeared behind the door and asked us in a piping treble what we wanted. Having assured himself that we were not Bedouin Arabs bent on pillaging the sacred house, he drew back the bars, bidding us enter in the name of God the Merciful and Clement.

The courtyard through which we passed was unpaved and not more than five yards square. The apartments—six fetid cells—ranged round three sides of it. The hakím’s room faced the door. We walked in with the greeting “Salám ’aleykum! Peace be unto you!” The faith-healer was seated cross-legged on a mat in a corner of the cell. He rose to receive us, saying “Bismillah! in the name of God!” the Eastern equivalent of “Please come in.” He was of middle height, lean, of a pleasing countenance; his eyes were deep-set, brilliant, smiling; his beard measured the span of a man’s hand; and his teeth flashed between lips framed for laughter. He wore a white handkerchief round his head, and a long blue gown reached to his ankles. Nothing could exceed the courtesy of our host. As a mark of respect, he insisted on my taking his place; my guide, heaving a “Yá-Allah!” and a sigh of relief, sank to my side on the left; while the sunny-faced saint, squatting at my right hand, turned a beaming eye on his trusty henchboy, who was standing in the doorway, waiting for the orders of his lord and master.

In the East they never break the ice of silence with a remark on the weather. The customary opening is to inquire if you are in health. I told the doctor, in answer to his question, that I had a bad headache, and had come to him to be cured. When he had raised his hands and cried out “Yá-Muhammad!” thereby invoking the Prophet to lend him the assistance he required, it was to ask me on which side the head ached. I touched the spot, whereon he fell to rubbing it vigorously with the palm of his right hand, calling out the while to the urchin to fetch the necessary apparatus for the forthcoming operation. The boy disappeared. In a few minutes he came back, bearing in both his hands a round hollow plate of clay in which were a few lumps of burning charcoal.

The next things he brought in were a couple of round iron rods about twice the length of an ordinary pencil, together with a cup filled with a black fluid used as ink and composed, if I mistake not, of a mixture of starch and the soot of an oil lamp. The doctor thrust the rods in the glowing charcoal. The fear of being branded bathed my brow in sweat. The doctor, assuring me that I had no cause to be afraid, cried out: “If we lose heart at the sight of these little rods, how much the more shall we suffer when we feel the weight of the maces of the angels of punishment. May God protect you from the fire of hell!”

The tips of the rods by this time were red-hot. Having dipped them in the cup of ink, he closed his eyes, and then raised his voice in an incantation that lasted several minutes. Not a single word could I understand. When it was over he opened his eyes, and, saying the word “Bismillah,” proceeded to draw with one of the rods on my right temple five perpendicular lines crossed by five horizontal ones, thus forming sixteen tiny squares. The same pattern was traced on the left temple with the second rod. Several magic hieroglyphics besides were inscribed in the same manner behind my ears and on the nape of my neck.

After every operation the good doctor would pause to ask me: “Is the pain gone now?” Four times did I tell him the truth; then, fearing that he would begin to tattoo my body, I assured the persevering little man that I never felt better in my life. His joy knew no bounds. Raising his hands to heaven, he cried, “Praise be to God Almighty, who hath sent to this poor family a power so miraculous. The secret was bequeathed to my father by the Lord God, and when my father died he left it to me as an inheritance. On no account must you wash off the signs until to-morrow morning; for if you do the pain will return to punish you. The blight of the Evil Eye was the cause of your headache. Go in peace. You are welcome.”

The following day I set out on my homeward journey, taking Seyyid ’Alí with me as far as Jiddah; and when I said good-bye to him I felt that I was losing an entertaining companion. That the reader may experience the same feeling of loss in parting from me is my dearest hope on bidding him farewell.