9

Sir Richard Burton

Great Britain

1853

Richard Burton’s Personal Narrative, published first in 1855, remains the only full-length Hajj account widely available in the West today. Insofar as our literature “has” a Hajj, we have it through Burton. His life story has been written half a dozen times, yet no two biographers quite agree on why he made the journey.

When Burton arrived in Mecca at age thirty-two, his role as explorer had already been formed by a seven-year stint in India and Sind as an East India Company soldier (1842–49). There, abundant linguistic skills and an instinct for anything “native” qualified him as a secret agent.112 Traveling disguised as a merchant or a dervish, he experienced firsthand the life of Victoria’s colonial Indian subjects. In this way, he served his nation’s interests many times over and also made himself fluent in eight languages.

During a subsequent leave in Europe, Burton published four books on his travels. Although the editions sold poorly, they brought him notice in the tight-knit world of English exploration. Like Burckhardt (whom he revered), Burton was a natural ethnographer—curious, brave, indefatigable, with a sixth sense for cultures not his own. By 1851, his reputation was sufficient for him to propose to the Royal Geographical Society113 a one-man expedition into Arabia.

Because it made him famous, most of Burton’s biographers view his decision to make the Hajj as a smart career move. In fact, there were other motives. Besides studying languages in India and Sind, he had also experimented with numerous religions, been initiated into the Nagar Brahman caste, explored both Hindu Yoga and Tantric Buddhism, and even taken up Catholicism for a while in its Goan version. Burton was not, however, a deep religious thinker. He was a practitioner embarking on more or less seasonal theological forays, a seeker after what he called the gnosis. His first sustained exposure to Islam came through a Persian instructor, Mirza Husayn, who happened also to be the brother of the Agha Khan. Spiritual heads of the same Ismaʿili sect that had inspired Nasir-e Khosraw eight centuries before, these men introduced Burton to mystical Shi’ism. Later he joined the Qadiriyya, one of the world’s largest Sufi orders. By May 1847, he was already mulling over a pilgrimage to Mecca and, according to his letters, had begun “a systematic study of practical Muslim divinity, learned about a quarter of the Quran by heart, and become proficient at prayer.” Furthermore, he wrote, “It was always my desire to visit Mecca during the pilgrimage season: written descriptions by hearsay of the rites and ceremonies were common enough in all languages . . . but none satisfied me, because none seemed practically to know anything about the matter.”

In his proposal to the Royal Geographical Society a few years later, these largely personal motives go unmentioned. The point of the journey, so far as the R. G. S. directors understood, was to further scientific knowledge and to provide the East India Company with valuable information on Arabian trade routes. The fulfillment of the Hajj was scarcely mentioned, and Burton’s Muslim interests not at all. Based on this carefully tailored proposal, the society became his backer.

In April 1853, Burton joined a steamer at Southampton for the thirteen-day cruise to Egypt. He went on board dressed as a Shi’ite Persian. In Alexandria, however, this first persona met with mixed success. Shi’ites were not quite “clean” in many Sunni Muslims’ eyes, and Egypt was predominantly Sunni. Burton had not reckoned on the traditional ill will between these parties. So long as he persisted in the error, he was treated as only “a kind of Muslim, not a good one like themselves, but still better than nothing.” In Cairo, he changed disguises and carefully recorded his subsequent elevation among Egyptians. Within a month, he had made himself over into an acceptable Sunni gentleman, an Afghan “Pathan” (Pashtun) born in India and a practicing doctor. This role provided the social access he was seeking. It also inspired one of the following excerpts, a humorous, Twain-like sketch of a usual day in the life of a medic on the Nile.

Burton dressed down to travel on the Hajj, adopting before he left Cairo a poor dervish’s getup as protective coloration. When it came to obtaining official visas, however, his humble appearance created difficulties. British and Egyptian officials alike humiliated Burton, refusing him their precious transit stamps while never doubting what they saw before them—a penniless Hindi mendicant and, thus, a British subject. At one point Burton admits that as a British convert he might have “carried matters with a high hand,” whereas, dressed as a native, “you must worm your way with timidity and submissiveness; in fact, by becoming an animal too contemptible for man to let or injure.” By recording at length these humbling encounters, Burton cast new light on the officiousness of state-controlled pilgrim travel (a topic we have not heard the last of ).

Burton’s great contribution to the pilgrim literature concerns Medina, where he traveled next. Whereas Burckhardt’s Meccan chapters were definitive, he had been too ill in Medina to leave his rooms. Burton therefore wisely devoted half of his first volume to the Prophet’s City. This part of his record is a scholarly tour de force, presenting in detail the city’s physical and spiritual geography, its major mosques, its history and trade, its markets, libraries, family life, rituals and legends. Much of this information had not appeared in Europe until now, and it displaced centuries of conjecture and false assumptions. Burton spent about a month in Medina. It is as though he had lived there half his life.

A caravan left for Mecca on September 1, “seven thousands souls on foot, on horseback, in litters, or bestriding the splendid camels of Syria.” Burton crossed the desert with it, in the manner of Ibn Jubayr, riding in a shugduf. His closest companions along the way, a handful of Medinese and a teenager from Mecca, play important reciprocal roles in this part of his narrative. He lent them small amounts of money, kept them amused, and cured their minor ills. In return, they looked after him in the Holy Cities. At home with the Hajj as only natives can be, they proved indispensable.

The Syrian caravan reached Mecca only a day before the march to Arafat. During the Hajj, Burton correctly identified the Black Stone as an aerolite and measured the Kaʿba’s perimeter with a tape, but his reports on the vigils at Arafat and Muzdalifa are oddly distracted. His descriptions of Mecca depend on Burckhardt. In fact, he transferred large sections of them to his pages, much as Ibn Battuta had done with Ibn Jubayr. The next week he was on his way to Jidda. It is a curious fact that the man who put Mecca on the map for English readers resided there for just eleven days.

Burton’s pilgrimage was quickly hailed in the British press as an extraordinary act of daring. Certainly A Personal Narrative of a Journey to al-Madinah and Meccah is the best of his two dozen travel books. Its successive chapters open like panels framing contradictory self-portraits: the outsider in England versus the inside man in Egypt; the proper British soldier versus the Eastern masquerader; the imperialist versus the dervish; the scholarly polymath versus the hell-for-leather traveler; and so on. With remarkable success, he persuades the reader to accept these many voices as belonging to one man. Although his mid-Victorian imperialist’s tone wears badly on Burton’s pages, the book contains other, more lasting accomplishments. It provides the first true, scholarly picture of Medina; it includes extracts of earlier travelers to Mecca (chiefly Varthema, Pitts, and Burckhardt); and it overflows with personal encounters that illuminate, interpret, and wryly satirize the lands he passed through. In all these ways, it supplies a counter to the usual Western penchant for compressing the East into a voiceless, monolithic symbol in opposition to “progress” and “civilization.” Whereas other nineteenth-century scholars reduced Islam to a set of Romantic, political, or abasing terms, Burton gives us individual Muslims speaking their mind and rendered in frank detail. At the same time, he offers a handbook for the hajji masquerade.

from A Personal Narrative of a Journey to al-Madinah and Meccah by Sir Richard Burton

A FEW WORDS CONCERNING WHAT INDUCED ME TO A PILGRIMAGE. In the autumn of 1852, through the medium of my excellent friend, the late General Monteith, I offered my services to the Royal Geographical Society of London for the purpose of removing that opprobrium to modern adventure, the huge white blot which in our maps still notes the eastern and the central regions of Arabia. . . . The experimentum crucis was a visit to the Hijaz, at once the most difficult and the most dangerous point by which a European can enter Arabia. I had intended, had the period of leave originally applied for been granted, to land at Muscat—a favourable starting place— and there to apply myself, slowly and surely, to the task of spanning the deserts. But now I was to hurry, in the midst of summer, after a four years’ sojourn in Europe, during which many things Oriental had faded away from my memory, and—after passing through the ordeal of Egypt, a country where the police are curious as in Rome or Milan—to begin with the Muslim’s Holy Land, the jealously guarded and exclusive Haram. However, I being liberally supplied with the means of travel by the Royal Geographical Society, thoroughly tired of “progress” and of “civilisation,” curious to see with my eyes what others are content to hear with ears, namely, Muslim inner life in a really Islamic country, and longing, if truth be told, to set foot on that mysterious spot which no vacation tourist has yet described, measured, sketched, and photographed, I resolved to resume my old character of a Persian wanderer,114 a dervish, and to make the attempt.

The principal object with which I started was this: to cross the unknown Arabian Peninsula, in a direct line from either al-Medina to Muscat or diagonally from Mecca to Makalla on the Indian Ocean. By what “circumstance, the miscreator,” my plans were defeated, the reader will discover in the course of these volumes. The secondary objects were numerous. I was desirous to find out if any market for horses could be opened between central Arabia and India, where the studs were beginning to excite general dissatisfaction; to obtain information concerning the great Eastern wilderness, the vast expanse marked Rub’ al-Khali (the Empty Abode) in our maps; to enquire into the hydrography of the Hijaz, its watershed, the disputed slope of the country, and the existence or nonexistence of perennial streams; and finally, to try, by actual observation, the truth of a theory proposed by Colonel W. Sykes, namely, that if tradition be true, in the population of the vast peninsula there must exist certain physiological differences sufficient to warrant our questioning the common origin of the Arab family. . . .

I have entitled this account of my summer’s tour through the Hijaz, A Personal Narrative, and I have laboured to make its nature correspond with its name, simply because “it is the personal that interests mankind.” Many may not follow my example; but some perchance will be curious to see what measures I adopted, in order to appear suddenly as an Eastern upon the stage of Oriental life; and as the recital may be found useful by future adventurers, I make no apology for the egotistical semblance of the narrative. Those who have felt the want of some “silent friend” to aid them with advice, when it must not be asked, will appreciate what may appear to the uninterested critic mere outpourings of a mind full of self.

On the evening of April 3, 1853, I left London for Southampton. By the advice of a brother officer, Captain (now Colonel) Henry Grindlay, of the Bengal cavalry . . . my Eastern dress was called into requisition before leaving town, and all my impedimenta were taught to look exceedingly oriental. Early the next day a “Persian prince,” accompanied by Captain Grindlay, embarked on board the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s magnificent screw steamer Bengal. .. .

ALEXANDRIA Having been invited to start from the house of a kind friend, John W. Larking, I disembarked with him. . . . Wonderful was the contrast between the steamer and that villa on the Mahmudiya Canal! Startling the sudden change from presto to adagio life! In thirteen days we had passed from the clammy grey fog, that atmosphere of industry which kept us at anchor off the Isle of Wight, through the loveliest air of the Inland Sea, whose sparkling blue and purple haze spread charms even on North Africa’s beldame features, and now we are sitting silent and still, listening to the monotonous melody of the East—the soft night breeze wandering through starlit skies and tufted trees, with a voice of melancholy meaning. . . .

The better to blind the inquisitive eyes of servants and visitors, my friend Larking lodged me in an out building, where I could revel in the utmost freedom of life and manners. And although some Armenian dragoman, a restless spy like all his race, occasionally remarked voilà un Persan diablement dégagé, none, except those who were entrusted with the secret, had any idea of the part I was playing. The domestics, devout Muslims, pronounced me an Ajami,115 a kind of Muslim, not a good one like themselves but still better than nothing. I lost no time in securing the assistance of a Shaykh, and plunged once more into the intricacies of the faith, revived my recollections of religious ablutions, read the Quran, and again became an adept in the art of prostration. My leisure hours were employed in visiting the baths and coffeehouses, in attending the bazaars, and in shopping—an operation which hereabouts consists of sitting upon a chapman’s counter, smoking, sipping coffee, and telling your beads the while, to show that you are not of the slaves for whom time is made; in fact, in pitting your patience against that of your adversary, the vender. I found time for a short excursion to a country village on the banks of the canal; nor was an opportunity of seeing al-nahl, the “bee dance,” neglected, for it would be some months, before my eyes might dwell on such a pleasant spectacle again. . . .

A NEW DISGUISE After a month’s hard work at Alexandria I prepared to assume the character of a wandering dervish; after reforming my title from mirza116 to Shaykh Abdullah.117 A reverend man, whose name I do not care to quote, some time ago initiated me into his order, the Qadiriyya, under the high-sounding name of Bismillah Shah118 and, after a due period of probation, he graciously elevated me to the proud position of a murshid,119 or master in the mystic craft. I was therefore sufficiently well acquainted with the tenets and practices of these Oriental Freemasons. No character in the Muslim world is so proper for disguise as that of the dervish. It is assumed by all ranks, ages, and creeds; by the nobleman who has been disgraced at court, and by the peasant who is too idle to till the ground; by Dives, who is weary of life, and by Lazarus, who begs his bread from door to door. Further, the dervish is allowed to ignore ceremony and politeness, as one who ceases to appear upon the stage of life; he may pray or not, marry or remain single as he pleases, be respectable in cloth of frieze as in cloth of gold, and no one asks him—the chartered vagabond—Why he comes here? or Wherefore he goes there? He may wend his way on foot alone or ride his Arab mare followed by a dozen servants; he is equally feared without weapons as swaggering through the streets armed to the teeth. The more haughty and offensive he is to the people, the more they respect him, a decided advantage to the traveller of choleric temperament. In the hour of imminent danger, he has only to become a maniac, and he is safe; a madman in the East, like a notably eccentric character in the West, is allowed to say or do whatever the spirit directs. Add to this character a little knowledge of medicine, a “moderate skill in magic, and a reputation for caring for nothing but study and books,” together with capital sufficient to save you from the chance of starving, and you appear in the East to peculiar advantage. The only danger of the “Mystic Path” is that the dervish’s ragged coat not unfrequently covers the cutthroat, and if seized in the society of such a “brother,” you may reluctantly become his companion, under the stick or on the stake. . . .

CAIRO I could find no room in the Wakala Khan Khalil, the Long’s, or Meurice’s, of native Cairo; I was therefore obliged to put up with the Jamaliya, a Greek quarter, swarming with drunken Christians and therefore about as fashionable as Oxford Street or Covent Garden. Even for this I had to wait a week. The pilgrims were flocking to Cairo, and to none other would the prudent hotel keepers open their doors, for the following sufficient reasons. When you enter a wakala,120 the first thing you have to do is to pay a small sum, varying from two to five shillings, for the key. This is generally equivalent to a month’s rent; so the sooner you leave the house the better for it. I was obliged to call myself a Turkish pilgrim in order to get possession of two most comfortless rooms, which I afterwards learned were celebrated for making travellers ill; and I had to pay eighteen piastres for the key and eighteen ditto per mensem for rent, besides five piastres to the man who swept and washed the place. So that for this month my house hire amounted to nearly four pence a day.

But I was fortunate enough in choosing the Jamaliya wakala, for I found a friend there. On board the steamer a fellow voyager, seeing me sitting alone and therefore as he conceived in discomfort, placed himself by my side and opened a hot fire of kind inquiries. He was a man about forty-five, of middle size, with a large round head closely shaven, a bull neck, limbs sturdy as a Saxon’s, a thin red beard, and handsome features beaming with benevolence. A curious dry humour he had, delighting in “quizzing,” but in so quiet, solemn, and quaint a way that before you knew him, you could scarcely divine his drift.

“Thank Allah, we carry a doctor!” said my friend more than once, with apparent fervour of gratitude, after he had discovered my profession. I was fairly taken in by the pious ejaculation, and some days elapsed before the drift of his remark became apparent.

“You doctors,” he explained, when we were more intimate, “what do you do? A man goes to you for ophthalmia: it is a purge, a blister, and a drop in the eye! Is it for fever? Well! A purge and kinakina [quinine]. For dysentery? A purge and extract of opium. Wa’llahi! I am as good a physician as the best of you,” he would add with a broad grin, “if I only knew the dirhem-birhems,121—drams and drachms—and a few break-jaw Arabic names of diseases.”

Hajji Wali therefore emphatically advised me to make bread by honestly teaching languages. “We are doctor ridden,” said he, and I found it was the case.

When we lived under the same roof, the Hajji and I became fast friends. During the day we called on each other frequently; we dined together and passed the evening in a mosque or some other place of public pastime. Coyly at first, but less guardedly as we grew bolder, we smoked the forbidden weed hashish,122 conversing lengthily the while about that world of which I had seen so much. Originally from Russia, he also had been a traveller, and in his wanderings he had cast off most of the prejudices of his people. “I believe in Allah and his Prophet, and in nothing else” was his sturdy creed; he rejected alchemy, jinnis, and magicians, and truly he had a most un-Oriental distaste for tales of wonder. When I entered the wakala, he constituted himself my cicerone, and especially guarded me against the cheating of tradesmen. By his advice I laid aside the dervish’s gown, the large blue pantaloons, and the short shirt—in fact all connection with Persia and the Persians. “If you persist in being an Ajami,” said the hajji, “you will get yourself into trouble; in Egypt you will be cursed; in Arabia you be beaten because you are a heretic; you will pay the treble of what other travellers do, and if you fall sick you may die by the roadside.”

After long deliberation about the choice of nations, I became a “Pathan.”123 Born in India of Afghan parents who had settled in the country, educated at Rangoon, and sent out to wander, as men of that race frequently are from early youth, I was well guarded against the danger of detection by a fellow countryman. To support the character requires a knowledge of Persian, Hindustani, and Arabic, all of which I knew sufficiently well to pass muster; any trifling inaccuracy was charged upon my long residence at Rangoon. This was an important step; the first question at the shop, on the camel, and in the mosque is “What is thy name?” The second, “Whence comest thou?” This is not generally impertinent, or intended to be annoying; if, however, you see any evil intention in the questioner, you may rather roughly ask him, “What may be his maternal parent’s name?”—equivalent to enquiring [of a Briton] in what church his mother was married—and escape your difficulties under cover of the storm. But this is rarely necessary. I assumed the polite, pliant manners of an Indian physician, and the dress of a small effendi (or gentleman), still, however, representing myself to be a dervish, and frequenting the places where dervishes congregate. “What business,” asked the Hajji, “have those reverend men with politics or statistics, or any of the information which you are collecting? Call yourself a religious wanderer if you like, and let those who ask the object of your peregrinations know that you are under a vow to visit all the Holy Places in al-Islam. Thus you will persuade them that you are a man of rank under a cloud, and you will receive much more civility than perhaps you deserve,” concluded my friend with a dry laugh. The remark proved his sagacity; and after ample experience I had not to repent having been guided by his advice. . . .

THE PHYSICIAN After lodging myself in the wakala, my first object was to make a certain stir in the world. In Europe your travelling doctor advertises the loss of a diamond ring, the gift of a Russian autocrat, or he monopolises a whole column in a newspaper, feeing perhaps a title for the use of a signature. The large brass plate, the gold-headed cane, the rattling chariot, and the summons from the sermon complete the work. Here, there is no such Royal Road to medical fame. You must begin by sitting with the porter, who is sure to have blear eyes, into which you drop a little nitrate of silver, whilst you instil into his ear the pleasing intelligence that you never take a fee from the poor. He recovers; his report of you spreads far and wide, crowding your doors with paupers. They come to you as though you were their servant, and when cured they turn their backs upon you forever. Hence it is that European doctors generally complain of ingratitude on the part of their Oriental patients. It is true that if you save a man’s life, he naturally asks you for the means of preserving it. Moreover, in none of the Eastern languages with which I am acquainted is there a single term conveying the meaning of our “gratitude,” and none but Germans have ideas unexplainable by words. But you must not condemn this absence of a virtue without considering the cause. An Oriental deems that he has the right to your surplus. “Daily bread is divided” (by heaven), he asserts, and eating yours, he considers it his own. Thus it is with other things. He is thankful to Allah for the gifts of the Creator, but he has a claim to the good offices of a fellow creature. In rendering him a service you have but done your duty, and he would not pay you so poor a compliment as to praise you for the act. He leaves you, his benefactor, with a short prayer for the length of your days. “Thank you,” being expressed by “Allah increase thy weal!” or the selfish wish that your shadow (with which you protect him and his fellows) may never be less. And this is probably the last you hear of him. . . .

To resume. When the mob has raised you to fame, patients of a better class will slowly appear on the scene. After some coquetting about “etiquette,” whether you are to visit them or they are to call upon you, they make up their minds to see you and to judge with their eyes whether you are to be trusted or not; whilst you, on your side, set out with the determination that they shall at once cross the Rubicon—in less classical phrase, swallow your drug. If you visit the house, you insist upon the patient’s servants attending you; he must also provide and pay an ass for your conveyance, no matter if it be only to the other side of the street. Your confidential man accompanies you, primed for replies to the fifty searching questions of the servants’ hall. You are lifted off the saddle tenderly, as nurses dismount their charges, when you arrive at the gate, and you waddle upstairs with dignity. Arrived at the sick room, you salute those present with a general “Peace be upon you!” to which they respond, “And upon thee be the peace and the mercy of Allah, and his blessing!” To the invalid you say, “There is nothing the matter, please Allah, except the health”; to which the proper answer—for here every sign of ceremony has its countersign—is “May Allah give thee health!” Then you sit down and acknowledge the presence of the company by raising your right hand to your lips and forehead, bowing the while circularly. Each individual returns the civility by a similar gesture. Then enquiry about the state of your health ensues. Then you are asked what refreshment you will take: you studiously mention something not likely to be in the house, but at last you rough it with a pipe and a cup of coffee. Then you proceed to the patient, who extends his wrist and asks you what his complaint is. Then you examine his tongue, you feel his pulse, you look learned, and—he is talking all the time— after hearing a detailed list of all his ailments you gravely discover them, taking for the same as much praise to yourself as does the practicing phrenologist for a similar simple exercise of the reasoning faculties.

The disease, to be respectable, must invariably be connected with one of the four temperaments, or the four elements, or the humours of Hippocrates. Cure is easy, but it will take time, and you, the doctor, require attention; any little rudeness it is in your power to punish by an alteration in the pill or the powder, and so unknown is professional honour that none will brave your displeasure. If you would pass for a native practitioner, you must finally proceed to the most uncomfortable part of your visit, bargaining for fees. Nothing more effectually arouses suspicion than disinterestedness in a doctor. I once cured a rich Hadramawt merchant of rheumatism and neglected to make him pay for treatment; he carried off one of my coffee cups and was unceasingly wondering where I came from. So I made him produce five piastres, a shilling, which he threw upon the carpet, cursing Indian avarice. “You will bring on another illness,” said my friend, the hajji, when he heard of it. Properly speaking, the fee for a visit to a respectable man is twenty piastres, but with the rich patient you begin by making a bargain. He complains, for instance, of dysentery and sciatica. You demand ten pounds for the dysentery, and twenty pounds for the sciatica. But you will rarely get it. The Eastern pays a doctor’s bill as an “Oirishman” does his “rint,” making a grievance of it. Your patient will show indisputable signs of convalescence: he will laugh and jest half the day, but the moment you appear, groans and a lengthened visage and pretended complaints welcome you. Then your way is to throw out some such hint as “The world is a carcass, and they who seek it are dogs.” And you refuse to treat the second disorder, which conduct may bring the refractory one to his senses. . . .

Whatever you prescribe must be solid and material, and if you accompany it with something painful, such as rubbing to scarification with a horse brush, so much the better. Easterns, like our peasants in Europe, wish the doctor to “give them the value of their money.” Besides which, rough measures act beneficially upon their imagination. So the hakim of the King of Persia cured fevers by the bastinado; patients are beneficially baked in a bread oven at Baghdad, and an Egyptian at Alexandria, whose quartan resisted the strongest appliances of European physic, was effectually healed by the actual cautery, which a certain Arab shaykh applied to the crown of his head. When you administer with your own hand the remedy—half a dozen huge bread pills dipped in a solution of aloes or cinnamon water, flavoured with assafoetida, which in the case of the dyspeptic rich often suffice, if they will but diet themselves—you are careful to say, “In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful.” And after the patient has been dosed, “Praise be to Allah, the Curer, the Healer”; you then call for pen, ink, and paper, and write some such prescription as this:

A.124

In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, and blessings and peace be upon our Lord the Apostle, and his family, and his companions one and all! But afterwards let him take bees’ honey and cinnamon and album Graecum, of each half a part, and of ginger a whole part, which let him pound and mix with the honey, and form boluses, each bolus the weight of a miskal, and of it let him use every day a miskal on the saliva. Verily its effects are wonderful. And let him abstain from flesh, fish, vegetables, sweetmeats, flatulent food, acids of all descriptions, as well as the major ablution, and live in perfect quiet. So shall he be cured by the help of the King, the Healer . . .

The diet, I need scarcely say, should be rigorous; nothing has tended more to bring the European system of medicine into contempt among Orientals than our inattention to this branch of the therapeutic art. When a Hindi or a Hindu “takes medicine,” he prepares himself for it by diet and rest two or three days before adhibition, and [just] as gradually, after the dose, he relapses into his usual habits; if he break through the regime, it is concluded that fatal results must ensue. The ancient Egyptians, we learn from Herodotus, devoted a certain number of days in each month to the use of alteratives, and the period was consecutive, doubtless in order to graduate the strength of the medicine. The Persians, when under salivation, shut themselves up in a warm room, never undress, and so carefully guard against cold that they even drink tepid water. When the Afghan princes find it necessary to employ chob-chini (the ginseng,125 or China root, so celebrated as a purifier, tonic, and aphrodisiac), they choose the spring season; they remove to a garden, where flowers and trees and bubbling streams soothe their senses; they carefully avoid fatigue and trouble of all kinds and will not even hear a letter read, lest it should contain bad news.

When the prescription is written out, you affix an impression of your ring seal to the beginning and to the end of it, that no one may be able to add to or take from its contents. And when you send medicine to a patient of rank, who is sure to have enemies, you adopt some similar precaution against the box or the bottle being opened. One of the pashas whom I attended—a brave soldier who had been a favourite with Muhammad Ali and therefore was degraded by his successor—kept an impression of my ring in wax to compare with that upon the phials. Men have not forgotten how frequently, in former times, those who became obnoxious to the state were seized with sudden and fatal cramps in the stomach. In the case of the doctor it is common prudence to adopt these precautions, as all evil consequences would be charged upon him, and he would be exposed to the family’s revenge.

Cairo, though abounding in medical practitioners, can still support more; but to thrive, they must be Indians, Chinese, or Maghribis. The Egyptians are thoroughly disgusted with European treatment, which is here about as efficacious as in India—that is to say, not at all. But they are ignorant of the medicine of Hind, and therefore great is its name; deservedly perhaps, for skill in simples and dietetics. Besides which the Indian may deal in charms and spells—things to which the latitude gives such force that even Europeans learn to put faith in them. . . . As a Hindi I could use animal magnetism, taking care, however, to give the science a specious supernatural appearance. Hajji Wali, who, professing positive scepticism, showed the greatest interest in the subject as a curiosity, advised me not to practice pure mesmerism; otherwise, I should infallibly become a “companion of devils.” “You must call this an Indian secret,” said my friend, “for it is clear that you are no mashaykh,126 and people will ask, ‘Where are your drugs, and what business have you with charms?’” It is useless to say that I followed his counsel; yet patients would consider themselves my murids (disciples) and delighted in kissing the hand of the sahib nafas,127 or minor saint.

MEDINA: THE PROPHET’S MOSQUE The Masjid al-Nabi, or Prophet’s Mosque, is the second in al-Islam in point of seniority and the second, or, according to others, the first in dignity, ranking with the Kaʿba itself. It is erected around the spot where the she camel, al-Kaswa, knelt down by the order of Heaven. At that time the land was a palm grove and a mirbad, or place where dates are dried. Muhammad, ordered to erect a place of worship there, sent for the youths to whom it belonged, and certain Ansar or Auxiliaries, their guardians. The ground was offered to him in free gift, but he insisted upon purchasing it, paying more than its value. Having caused the soil to be levelled and the trees to be felled, he laid the foundation of the first mosque.

In those times of primitive simplicity, its walls were made of rough stone and unbaked bricks: trunks of date trees supported a palm-stick roof, concerning which the archangel Gabriel delivered an order that it should not be higher than seven cubits,128 the elevation of Moses’s temple. All ornament was strictly forbidden. The Ansar, or men of al-Medina, and the Muhajjirun or fugitives from Mecca, carried the building materials in their arms from the cemetery al-Baqiyya’,129 near the Well of Ayyub, north of the spot where Ibrahim’s Mosque now stands, and the Apostle was to be seen aiding them in their labours, and reciting for their encouragement,

0 Allah! there is no good but the good of futurity.

Then have mercy upon my Ansar and Muhajjirun!

The length of this mosque was fifty-four cubits from north to south and sixty-three in breadth, and it was hemmed in by houses on all sides save the western. Till the seventeenth month of the new era the congregation faced towards the northern wall. After that time a fresh revelation turned them in the direction of Mecca, southwards, on which occasion the archangel Gabriel descended and miraculously opened through the hills and wilds a view of the Kaʿba, that there might be no difficulty in ascertaining its true position.

After the capture of Khaybar in 628, the Prophet and his first three successors restored the mosque, but Muslim historians do not consider this a second foundation. Muhammad laid the first brick, and Abu Hurayra declares that he saw him carry heaps of building materials piled up to his breast. The caliphs, each in the turn of his succession, placed a brick close to that laid by the Prophet and aided him in raising the walls. Al-Tabrani relates that one of the Ansar had a house adjacent which Muhammad wished to make part of the place of prayer; the proprietor was promised in exchange for it a home in Paradise, which he gently rejected, pleading poverty. His excuse was admitted, and Osman, after purchasing the place for ten thousand dirhems, gave it to the Apostle on the long credit originally offered.

This mosque was a square of a hundred cubits. Like the former building, it had three doors: one on the south side, where the Mihrab al-Nabi, or the Prophet’s Niche, now is; another in the place of the present Gate of Mercy; and the third at the Bab Osman, now called the Gate of Gabriel. Instead of a mihrab, or prayer niche, a large block of stone directed the congregation; at first it was placed against the northern wall of the mosque, and it was removed to the southern when Mecca became the qibla.

In the beginning the Prophet, whilst preaching the qutba, or Friday sermon, leaned when fatigued against a post. The minbar, or pulpit, was the invention of a Medina man, of the Banu Najjar. It was a wooden frame, two cubits long by one broad, with three steps, each one span high; on the top-most of these the Prophet sat when he required rest. The pulpit assumed its present form about 709, during the artistic reign of al-Walid.130

In this mosque Muhammad spent the greater part of the day with his companions, conversing, instructing, and comforting the poor. Hard by were the abodes of his wives, his family, and his principal friends. Here he prayed, at the call of the adhan, or devotion cry, from the roof. Here he received worldly envoys and embassies, and the heavenly messages conveyed by the archangel Gabriel. And within a few yards of the hallowed spot, he died, and found a grave.

The theatre of events so important to al-Islam could not be allowed— especially as no divine decree forbade the change—to remain in its pristine lowliness. The first Caliph contented himself with merely restoring some of the palm pillars, which had fallen to the ground: Umar, the second successor, surrounded the hujra, or [his wife] Aisha’s chamber, in which the Prophet was buried, with a mud wall; and in 638, he enlarged the mosque to 140 cubits by 120, taking in ground on all sides except the eastern, where stood the abodes of the “Mothers of the Muslims.” Outside the northern wall he erected a suffa, called al-Batha—a raised bench of wood, earth, or stone, upon which the people might recreate themselves with conversation and quoting poetry, for the mosque was now becoming a place of peculiar reverence to men.131

The second masjid was erected 649, by the third Caliph, Osman, who, regardless of the clamours of the people, overthrew the old walls and extended the building greatly towards the north, and a little towards the West; but he did not remove the eastern limit on account of the private houses. He made the roof of Indian teak and the walls of hewn and carved stone. These innovations caused some excitement, which he allayed by quoting a tradition of the Prophet, with one of which he appears perpetually to have been prepared. The saying in question was, according to some, “Were this my mosque to Safa”—a hill in Mecca— “it verily would still be my mosque”; according to others, “Were the Prophet’s Mosque extended to Dhu al-Hulayfa,132 it would still be his.” But Osman’s skill in the quotation of tradition did not prevent the new building being in part a cause of his death. It was finished on the first [of ] Muharram, 650.

At length, al-Islam, grown splendid and powerful, determined to surpass other nations in the magnificence of its public buildings. In 707, al-Walid I,133 twelfth Caliph of the Banu Umaya race, after building, or rather restoring, the noble Jami’ al-Ammawi (Mosque of the Umayyads) at Damascus, determined to display his liberality at al-Medina. The governor of the place, Umar ibn Abd al-Aziz, was directed to buy for seven thousand dinars all the hovels of raw brick that hedged in the eastern side of the old mosque. They were inhabited by descendants of the Prophet and of the early caliphs, and in more than one case, the ejection of the holy tenantry was effected with considerable difficulty. Some of the women—ever the most obstinate on such occasions—refused to take money, and Umar was forced to the objectionable measure of turning them out of doors with exposed faces134 in full day. The Greek Emperor, applied to by the magnificent Caliph, sent immense presents, silver lamp chains, valuable curiosities, forty loads of small cut stones for pietra-dura, and a sum of eighty thousand dinars, or, as others say, forty thousand miskals of gold. He also despatched forty Coptic and forty Greek artists to carve the marble pillars and the casings of the walls and to superintend the gilding and the mosaic work. One of these Christians was beheaded for sculpturing a hog on the qibla wall; and another, in an attempt to defile the roof, fell to the ground, and his brains were dashed out. The remainder Islamized, but this did not prevent the older Arabs murmuring that their mosque had been turned into a kanisa, a Christian idol house.

The hujra, or chamber, where, by Muhammad’s permission, Azrail, the angel of death, separated his soul from his body, whilst his head was lying in the lap of Aisha, his favourite wife, was now for the first time taken into the mosque. The raw-brick [perimeter wall] which surrounded the three graves was exchanged for one of carved stone, enclosed by an outer precinct with a narrow passage between. These double walls were either without a door or had only a small blocked-up wicket on the northern side, and from that day (709) no one, says al-Samanhudi, has been able to approach the sepulchre.135 A minaret was erected at each corner of the mosque. The building was enlarged to 200 cubits by 167 and was finished in 710. When al-Walid, the Caliph, visited it in state, he enquired of his lieutenant why greater magnificence had not been displayed in the erection; upon which Umar, the Governor, informed him, to his astonishment, that the walls alone had cost forty-five thousand ducats.

The fourth mosque was erected in 805, by al-Mahdi, third prince of the Banu Abbas, or Baghdad caliphs—celebrated in history only for spending enormous sums upon a pilgrimage. He enlarged the building by adding ten handsome pillars of carved marble, with gilt capitals, on the northern side. In 817, al-Ma’amun made further additions to this mosque. It was from al-Mahdi’s masjid that al-Hakim bin-Amri ‘llah, the third Fatimid Caliph of Egypt, and the deity of the Druze sect, determined to steal the bodies of the Prophet and his two companions. About 1021, he sent emissaries to al-Medina: the attempt, however, failed, and the would-be violators of the tomb lost their lives. It is generally supposed that al-Hakim’s object was to transfer the Visitation to his own capital; but in one so manifestly insane it is difficult to discover the spring of action. Two Christians, habited like Maghribi pilgrims, in 1155 dug a mine from a neighbouring house into the temple. They were discovered, beheaded, and burned to ashes. . . . In 1256, the fifth mosque was erected in consequence of a fire, which some authors attribute to a volcano that broke out close to the town in terrible eruption; others, with more fanaticism and less probability, to the schismatic Banu Husayn, then the guardians of the tomb. On this occasion the hujra was saved, together with the old and venerable copies of the Quran there deposited, especially the Kufic manuscripts, written by Osman, the third Caliph. The piety of three sovereigns, al-Mutasim (last Caliph of Baghdad), al-Muzaffar Shems al-Din Yusuf, chief of al-Yemen, and al-Zahir Baybars, Baharite Sultan of Egypt, completed the work in 1289. This building was enlarged and beautified by the princes of Egypt and lasted upwards of two hundred years.

The sixth mosque was built, almost as it now stands, by Qa’it Bey, nineteenth Sultan of the Circassian Mamluk kings of Egypt, in 1483: it is now therefore more than four centuries old. Al-Mutasim’s mosque had been struck by lightning during a storm; thirteen men were killed at prayers, and the destroying element spared nothing but the interior of the hujra. The railing and dome were restored; niches and a pulpit were sent from Cairo, and the gates and minarets were distributed as they are now. Not content with this, Qa’it Bey established waqf (bequests) and pensions and introduced order among the attendants on the tomb. In the sixteenth century, Sultan Suleyman the Magnificent paved with fine white marble the rauza, or garden, which Qa’it Bey, not daring to alter, had left of earth, and erected the fine minaret that bears his name.

During the dominion of the later sultans, and of Muhammad Ali, a few trifling presents of lamps, carpets, wax candles and chandeliers, and a few immaterial alterations, have been made. The present head of al-Islam is, as I have before said, rebuilding one of the minarets and the northern colonnade of the temple.

Such is the history of the mosque’s prosperity.

THE MOSQUE IN RECENT TIMES During the siege of Al-Medina by the Wahhabis,136 the principal people seized and divided amongst themselves the treasures of the tomb, which must have been considerable. When the town surrendered, Saʿud, accompanied by his principal officers, entered the hujra, but, terrified by dreams, he did not penetrate behind the curtain or attempt to see the tomb. He plundered, however, the treasures in the passage, and the ornaments sent as presents from every part of al-Islam. Part of these he sold, it is said, for 150,000 riyals, to Ghalib, Sharif of Mecca, and the rest he carried with him to Dirʿiyya, his capital.137 An accident prevented any further desecration of the building. The greedy Wahhabis, allured by the appearance of the golden or gilt globes and crescents surmounting the green dome, attempted to throw down the latter. Two of their number, it is said, were killed by falling from the slippery roof,138 and the rest, struck by superstitious fears, abandoned the work of destruction. They injured, however, the prosperity of the place by taxing the inhabitants, by interrupting the annual remittances, and by forbidding visitors to approach the tomb. They are spoken of with abhorrence by the people, who quote a peculiarly bad trait in their characters, namely, that in return for any small religious assistance of prayer or recitation, they were in the habit of giving a few grains of gunpowder, or something equally valuable, instead of “stone dollars.”139

When Abdullah, son of Saʿud, had concluded in 1815 a treaty of peace with Tussan Pasha, the Egyptian general bought back from the townspeople, for ten thousand riyals, all the golden vessels that had not been melted down and restored the treasure to its original place. This I have heard denied; at the same time it rests upon credible evidence. Amongst Orientals the events of the last generation are, usually speaking, imperfectly remembered; and the Ulama are well acquainted with the history of vicissitudes which took place twelve hundred years ago, when profoundly ignorant of what their grandfathers witnessed. Many incredible tales also I heard concerning the present wealth of the al-Medina mosque: this must be expected when the exaggeration is considered likely to confer honour upon the exaggerator.

The establishment attached to the al-Medina mosque is greatly altered since Burckhardt’s time, the result of the increasing influence of the Turkish half-breeds. It is still extensive, because in the first place the principle of divided labour is a favourite throughout the East, and secondly because the sons of the Holy Cities naturally desire to extract as much as they can from the sons of other cities with the least amount of work. The substance of the following account was given to me by Umar Effendi,140 and I compared it with the information of others upon whom I could rely.

The principal of the mosque, or Shaykh al-Haram, is no longer a neuter. The present is a Turkish pasha, Osman, appointed from Constantinople with a salary of about 30,000 piastres a month. His naib, or deputy, is a black eunuch, the chief of the aghawat, upon a pay of 5,000 piastres. The present principal of his college is one Tayfur Agha, a slave of Esma Sultana, sister to the late Sultan Mahmud.141 The chief treasurer is called the Mudir al-Haram; he keeps an eye upon the khaznadar, or treasurer, whose salary is 2,000 piastres. The mustaslim is the chief of the katabs, or writers who settle the accounts of the mosque; his pay is 1,500, and under him is a nakib, or assistant, upon 1,000 piastres. There are three shaykhs of the eunuchs, who receive from 700 to 1,000 piastres a month each. The eunuchs, about 120 in number, are divided into three orders. The bawwabin, or porters, open the doors of the mosque. The khubziya sweep the purer parts of the temple, and the lowest order, popularly called battalin, clean away all impurities, beat those found sleeping, and act as beadles, a duty here which involves considerable use of the cane. These men receive as perquisites presents from each visitor when they offer him the usual congratulation and for other small favours, such as permitting strangers to light the lamps or to sweep the floor. Their pay varies from 250 to 500 piastres a month: they are looked upon as honourable men and are, generally speaking, married, some of them indulging in three or four wives—which would have aroused Juvenal’s bile. The Agha’s character is [as] curious and exceptional as his outward conformation. Disconnected with humanity, he is cruel, fierce, brave, and capable of any villany. His frame is unnaturally long and lean, especially the arms and legs, with high shoulders, protruding joints, and a face by contrast extraordinarily large. He is unusually expert in the use of weapons, and sitting well “home,” he rides to admiration, his hoarse, thick voice investing him with all the circumstances of command.

Besides the eunuchs, there are a number of free servants, called farrashin, attached to the mosque; almost all the middle and lower class of citizens belong to this order. They are divided into parties of thirty each and are changed every week, those on duty receiving 22 piastres for their services. Their business is to dust and to spread the carpets, to put oil and wicks into the lamps which the eunuchs let down from the ceiling, and generally speaking, diligently to do nothing.

Finally, the menial establishment of the mosque consists of a Shaykh al-Sakka (chief of the water carriers), under whom are from forty-five to fifty men who sprinkle the floors, water the garden, and, for a consideration, supply a cupful of brackish liquid to visitors.

The literary establishment is even more extensive than the executive and the menial. There is a Qadi, or chief judge, sent every year from Constantinople. After twelve months at al-Medina, he passes on to Mecca and returns home after a similar term of service in the second Holy City. Under him are three muftis,142 of the Hanafi, the Shafi’i and the Maliki schools; the fourth, or Hanbali, is not represented here or at Cairo.143 Each of these officers receives as pay about 250 piastres a month. The ruasa,144 as the muezzins (prayer-callers) here call themselves, are extensively represented; there are forty-eight or forty-nine of the lowest order, presided over by six masters, and these again are under the Shaykh al-Ruasa, who alone has the privilege of calling to prayers from the raisiyah minaret. The Shaykh receives 150 piastres, the chiefs about 100, and the common criers, 60; there are forty-five qutibs, who preach and pray before the congregation on Fridays for 120 piastres a month; they are under the Shaykh al-Qutaba. About the same sum is given to seventy-five imams, who recite the five ordinary prayers every day in the mosque; the Shaykh al-Aimmat is their superior.

Almost all the citizens of al-Medina who have not some official charge about the temple qualify themselves to act as muzawwirs. They begin as boys to learn the formula of prayer and the conducting of visitors; and partly by begging, partly by boldness, they often pick up a tolerable livelihood at an early age. The muzawwir will often receive strangers into his house, as was done to me, and direct their devotions during the whole time of their stay. For such service he requires a sum of money proportioned to his guests’ circumstances, but this fee does not end the connexion. If the muzawwir visits the home of his [client], he expects to be treated with the utmost hospitality, and to depart with a handsome present. A religious visitor will often transmit to his cicerone at Mecca and at al-Medina yearly sums to purchase for himself a prayer at the Kaʿba and the Prophet’s tomb. The remittance is usually wrapped up in paper and placed in a sealed leathern bag somewhat like a portfolio, upon which is worked the name of the person entitled to receive it. It is then given in charge either to a trustworthy pilgrim or to the public treasurer, who accompanies the principal caravans.

I could procure no exact information about the amount of money forwarded every year from Constantinople and Cairo to al-Medina. The only point upon which men seemed to agree was that they were defrauded of half their dues. When the sadaqa and waqf (the alms and bequests) arrive at the town, they are committed by the surrah, or financier of the caravan, to the muftis, the chief of the qutibs, and the Qadi’s clerk. These officers form a committee, and after reckoning the total of the families entitled to pensions, divide the money amongst them, according to the number in each household and the rank of the pensioners. They are divided into five orders:

The Ulama, or learned, and the mudarrisin, who profess, lecture, or teach adults in the Haram.

The imams and qutibs.

The descendants of the Prophet.

The fukaha, poor divines, pedadogues, gerund-grinders, who teach boys to read the Quran.

The awam, or nobile vulgus of the Holy City, including the burghers of the town, and the mujawwirin, or those settled in the place.

Umar Effendi belonged to the second order, and he informed me that his share varied from three to fifteen riyals per annum.

LITERARY MEDINA Al-Medina, though pillaged by the Wahhabis, still abounds in books. Near the Haram are two madrasas, or colleges, the Mahmudiya, so called from Sultan Mahmud, and that of Bashir Agha: both have large stores of theological and other works. I also heard of extensive private collections, particularly of one belonging to the Najib al-Ashraf, or chief of the sharifs, a certain Muhammad Jamal al-Layl, whose father is well-known in India. Besides which, there is a large waqf, or bequest of books, presented to the mosque or entailed upon particular families. The celebrated Muhammad ibn Abdullah al-Sannusi145 has removed his collection, amounting, it is said, to eight thousand volumes, from al-Medina to his house in Jabal Qubays at Mecca. The burial place of the Prophet, therefore, no longer lies open to the charge of utter ignorance brought against it by my predecessor.146 The people now praise their ulama for learning, and boast a superiority in respect of science over Mecca. Yet many students leave the place for Damascus and Cairo, where the Azhar Mosque University is always crowded; and though Umar Effendi boasted to me that his city was full of lore, he did not appear the less anxious to attend the lectures of Egyptian professors. But none of my informants claimed for al-Medina any facilities of studying other than the purely religious sciences. Philosophy, medicine, arithmetic, mathematics, and algebra cannot be learnt here. I was careful to inquire about the occult sciences, remembering that Paracelsus had travelled in Arabia and that the Count Cagliostro (Giuseppe Balsamo), who claimed the Meccan Sharif as his father, asserted that about 1765 he had studied alchemy at Medina.147 The only trace I could find was a superficial knowledge of the magic mirror. But after denying the Medinese the praise of varied learning, it must be owned that their quick observation and retentive memories have stored up for them an abundance of superficial knowledge, culled from conversations in the market and in the camp. I found it impossible here to display those feats which in Sind, southern Persia, eastern Arabia, and many parts of India would be looked upon as miraculous. Most probably one of the company had witnessed the performance of some Italian conjuror at Constantinople or Alexandria, and retained a lively recollection of every manoeuvre. As linguists they are not equal to the Meccans, who surpass all Orientals excepting only the Armenians; the Medinese seldom know Turkish, and more rarely still Persian and Indian. Those only who have studied in Egypt chaunt the Quran well. The citizens speak and pronounce their language purely; they are not equal to the people of the southern Hijaz, yet their Arabic is refreshing after the horrors of Cairo and Muscat.

The classical Arabic, be it observed, in consequence of an extended empire, soon split up into various dialects, as the Latin under similar circumstances separated into the neo-Roman patois of Italy, Sicily, Provence, and Languedoc. And though Niebuhr has been deservedly censured for comparing the Quranic language to Latin and the vulgar tongue to Italian, still there is a great difference between them, almost every word having undergone some alteration in addition to the manifold changes and simplifications of grammar and syntax. The traveller will hear in every part of Arabia that some distant tribe preserves the linguistic purity of its ancestors, uses final vowels with the noun, and rejects the addition of the pronoun which apocope in the verb now renders necessary. But I greatly doubt the existence of such a race of philologists. In al-Hijaz, however, it is considered graceful in an old man, especially when conversing publicly, to lean towards classical Arabic. On the contrary, in a youth this would be treated as pedantic affectation, and condemned in some such satiric quotation as

There are two things colder than ice,

A young old man, and an old young man.

THE DAMASCUS CARAVAN The Damascus caravan was to set out on the twenty-seventh of Dhu al-Qada (1 September). I had intended to stay at al-Medina till the last moment and to accompany the “Flying Caravan,” which usually leaves on the second of Dhu al-Hijja, two days after that of Damascus.

Suddenly arose the rumour that there would be no Tayyara148 and that all pilgrims must proceed with the Damascus caravan or await the Rakb. (This is a dromedary caravan, in which each person carries only his saddlebags. It usually descends by the road called al-Khabt and makes Mecca on the fifth day.) The Sharif Zayd, Sa’ad the Robber’s only friend, had paid him [Sa’ad] an unsuccessful visit, [during which Sa’ad] demanded back his shaykh-ship, in return for a safe-conduct through his country: “Otherwise,” said he, “I will cut the throat of every hen that ventures into the passes.”

The Sharif Zayd returned to al-Medina on the twenty-fifth of Dhu al-Qada (30 August). Early on the morning of the next day, Shaykh Hamid returned hurriedly from the bazaar, exclaiming, “You must make ready at once, Effendi!—there will be no Tayyara—all Hajjis start tomorrow—Allah will make it easy to you!—have you your waterskins in order?—you are to travel down the Darb Sharki, where you will not see water for three days!”

Poor Hamid looked horror-struck as he concluded this fearful announcement, which filled me with joy. Burckhardt had visited and had described the Darb Sultani, the road along the coast. But no European had as yet travelled down by Harun al-Rashid and the Lady Zubayda’s celebrated route through the Nejd Desert.

Not a moment, however, was to be lost: we expected to start early the next morning. The boy Muhammad went forth and bought for eighty piastres a shugduf, which lasted us throughout the pilgrimage, and for fifteen piastres a shubreya, or cot, to be occupied by Shaykh Nur, who did not relish sleeping on boxes. The youth was employed all day, with sleeves tucked up and working like a porter, in covering the litter with matting and rugs, in mending broken parts, and in providing it with large pockets for provisions inside and outside, with pouches to contain the gugglets of cooled water.

Meanwhile Shaykh Nur and I, having inspected the waterskins, found that the rats had made considerable rents in two of them. There being no workman procurable at this time for gold, I sat down to patch the damaged article, whilst Nur was sent to lay in supplies for fourteen days. The journey is calculated at eleven days; but provisions are apt to spoil, and the Bedawi camel men expect to be fed. Besides which, pilferers abound. By my companion’s advice I took wheat flour, rice, turmeric, onions, dates, unleavened bread of two kinds, cheese, limes, tobacco, sugar, tea and coffee.

Hamid himself started upon the most important part of our business. Faithful camel men are required upon a road where robberies are frequent and stabbings occasional and where there is no law to prevent desertion or to limit new and exorbitant demands. After a time he returned, accompanied by a boy and a Bedawi, a short, thin, well-built old man with regular features, a white beard, and a cool clear eye; his limbs, as usual, were scarred with wounds. Mas’ud of the Rahla, a subfamily of the Hamida family of the Banu Harb, came in with a dignified demeanour, applied his dexter palm to ours,149 sat down, declined a pipe, accepted coffee, and after drinking it, looked at us to show that he was ready for negociation. We opened the proceedings with “We want men, and not camels,” and the conversation proceeded in the purest Hijazi.150 After much discussion, we agreed, if compelled to travel by the Darb Sharki, to pay twenty dollars for two camels and to advance earnest money, to half that amount. The Shaykh bound himself to provide us with good animals, which, moreover, were to be changed in case of accidents: he was also to supply his beasts with water, and to accompany us to Arafat and back. But, absolutely refusing to carry my large chest, he declared that the tent under the shugduf was burden enough for one camel and that the green box of drugs, the saddlebags, and the provision sacks, surmounted by Nur’s cot, were amply sufficient for the other. On our part, we bound ourselves to feed the Shaykh and his son, supplying them either with raw or with cooked provender, and upon our return to Mecca from Mount Arafat, to pay the remaining hire with a discretionary present.

Hamid then addressed to me flowery praises of the old Bedawi. After which, turning to the latter, he exclaimed, “Thou wilt treat these friends well, O Mas’ud the Harbi!” The ancient replied with a dignity that had no pomposity in it—”Even as Abu Shawarib behaveth to us, so will we behave to him!” He then arose, bade us be prepared when the departure gun sounded, saluted us, and stalked out of the room, followed by his son, who, under pretext of dozing, had mentally made an inventory of every article in the room, ourselves especially included.

When the Bedawin disappeared, Shaykh Hamid shook his head, advising me to give them plenty to eat and never to allow twenty-four hours to elapse without dipping hand in the same dish with them, in order that the party might always be malihin—on terms of salt.151 He concluded with a copious lecture upon the villainy of Bedawin, and on their habit of drinking travellers’ water. I was to place the skins on a camel in front, and not behind; to hang them with their mouths carefully tied and turned upwards, contrary to the general practice; always to keep a good store of liquid; and at night to place it under the safeguard of the tent. . . . Towards evening time the Barr al-Manakha became a scene of exceeding confusion. The town of tents lay upon the ground. Camels were being laden and were roaring under the weight of litters and cots, boxes and baggage. Horses and mules galloped about. Men were rushing wildly in all directions on worldly errands or hurrying to pay a farewell visit to the Prophet’s tomb. Women and children sat screaming on the ground, or ran to and fro distracted, or called their vehicles to escape the danger of being crushed. Every now and then a random shot excited all into the belief that the departure gun had sounded. At times we heard a volley from the robbers’ hills, which elicited a general groan, for the pilgrims were still, to use their own phrase, “between fear and hope,” and, consequently, still far from “one of the two comforts.”152 Then would sound the loud jhin-jhin, of the camels’ bells as the stately animals paced away with some grandee’s gilt and emblazoned litter, the sharp plaint of the dromedary, and the loud neighing of excited steeds.

About an hour after sunset all our preparations were concluded, save only the shugduf, at which the boy Muhammad still worked with untiring zeal; he wisely remembered that he had to spend in it the best portion of a week and a half. The evening was hot; we therefore dined outside the house. I was told to repair to the Haram for the Farewell Visitation, but my decided objection to this step was that we were all to part—how soon!—and when to meet again we knew not. My companions smiled consent, assuring me that the ceremony could be performed as well at a distance as in the temple.

Then Shaykh Hamid made me pray a two-bow prayer and afterwards, facing towards the Haram, to recite [a] supplication with raised hands. . . .

Pious men on such an occasion go to the Prophet’s tomb, where they strive, if possible, to shed a tear—a single drop being a sign of acceptance— give alms to the utmost of their ability, vow piety, repentance, and obedience, and retire overwhelmed with grief at separating themselves from their prophet and intercessor. It is customary, too, before leaving al-Medina, to pass at least one night in vigils at the Haram, and for learned men to read through the Quran once before the tomb.

Then began the uncomfortable process of paying off little bills. The Eastern creditor always, for divers reasons, waits [until] the last moment before he claims his debt. Shaykh Hamid had frequently hinted at his difficulties; the only means of escape from which, he said, was to rely upon Allah. He had treated me so hospitably that I could not take back any part of the five pounds lent to him at Suez. His three brothers received a dollar or two each, and one or two of his cousins hinted to some effect that such a proceeding would meet with their approbation.

The luggage was then carried down and disposed in packs upon the ground before the house, so as to be ready for loading at a notice. Many flying parties of travelers had almost started on the high road, and late in the evening came a new report that the body of the caravan would march about midnight. We sat up till about two when, having heard no gun and having seen no camels, we lay down to sleep through the sultry remnant of the hours of darkness.

Thus, gentle reader, was spent my last night at al-Medina.

I had reason to congratulate myself upon having passed through the first danger. Mecca is so near the coast that, in case of detection, the traveller might escape in a few hours to Jidda, where he would find an English vice-consul, protection from the Turkish authorities, and possibly a British cruiser in the harbour. But at al-Medina discovery would entail more serious consequences. The next risk to be run was the journey between the two cities, where it would be easy for the local officials quietly to dispose of a suspected person by giving a dollar to a Bedawi.

112 Rudyard Kipling, in his novel Kim, based the shadowy character Colonel Creighton on Burton and his activities during this period.

113 The African Association, which supported Burckhardt’s journey (and al-Abbasi’s, too?), was subsumed into the Royal Geographical Society shortly after the Society’s founding in 1830.

114 The vagrant, the merchant, and the philosopher, amongst Orientals, are frequently united in the same person.

115 Ajami: a Persian as opposed to an Arab.

116 mirza: the Persian “mister.” In future chapters the reader will see the uncomfortable consequences of my having appeared in Egypt as a Persian. Although I found out the mistake, and worked hard to correct it, the bad name stuck to me; bazaar reports fly quicker and hit harder than newspaper paragraphs.

117 Shaykh Abdullah: Arab Christians sometimes take the name of Abdullah, Servant of Allah—“which,” as a modern traveller observes, “all sects and religions might be equally proud to adopt.” The Muslim Prophet said, “[T]he names most approved of God are Abdullah, Abd al-Rahman (Slave of the Compassionate), and such like.”

118 Bismillah Shah: “King in-the-Name-of-Allah.” When a man appears as a faqir or 225, he casts off, in process of regeneration, together with other worldly sloughs, his laical name for some brilliant coat of nomenclature rich in religious promise.

119 Murshid: one allowed to admit murids, or apprentices. into the order. (It is doubtful that Burton attained to this level in his Sufi studies.) [Ed.]

120 wakala: a caravansary, or public hostel for traders and travelers. [Ed.]

121 dirhem-birhem: The second is an imitative word, called in Arabic grammar tabi’a, as “Zayd Bayd,” “Zayd and others”; so used, it denotes contempt for drachms and similar parts of drug craft.

122 hashish: By the Indian called bhang, the Persians bang, the Hottentots dakha, and the natives of Barbary fasukh. Even the Siberians, we are told, intoxicate themselves by vapour of this seed thrown upon red-hot stones. Egypt surpasses all other nations in the variety of compounds into which this fascinating drug enters and will one day probably supply the Western world with “Indian hemp,” when its solid merits are duly appreciated. At present in Europe it is chiefly confined, as cognac and opium used to be, to the apothecary’s shelves. . . .

123 Pathan: the Indian name of an Afghan, supposed to be a corruption of the Arabic fat’han (a conqueror) or a derivation from the Hindustani paithna, “to penetrate” (into the hostile ranks). It is an honourable term in Arabia, where “Khurasani” (a native of Khurasan), leads men to suspect a Persian, and the other generic appellation of the Afghan tribes “Sulaymani,” a descendent from Solomon, reminds the people of their proverb “Sulaymani harami!”–The Afghans are ruffians!”

124 A: a monogram generally placed at the head of writings. It is the initial letter of “Allah,” and the first of the alphabet, used from time immemorial to denote the origin of creation. “I am Alpha and Omega, the first and the last.”

125 ginseng: From M. Huc we learn that ginseng is the most considerable article of Manchurian commerce and that through China there is no chemist’s shop unprovided with more or less of it. . . .

126 mashaykh: a holy man. The word has a singular signification in a plural form, “honoris causa.”

127 sahib nafas: a title literally meaning the “master of breath”; one who can cure ailments, physical as well as spiritual, by breathing upon them—a practice well-known to mesmerists. The reader will allow me to observe (in self-defence, otherwise he might look suspiciously upon so credulous a narrator) that when speaking of animal magnetism as a thing established, I allude to the lower phenomena, rejecting the discussion of all disputed points, as the existence of a magnetic aura, and of all its unintelligibilities—pre-vision, levitation, intro-vision, and other divisions of clairvoyance.

128 cubit: about nineteen and a half inches. [Ed.]

129 Baqiyyaʿ: cemetery located to the east of the city of Medina, a major religious shrine and historic landmark. It is the final resting place of many of the companions of the Prophet Muhammad, as well as a number of his other important contemporaries. [Ed.]

130 al-Walid: Umayyad Caliph (reigned 705–715). [Ed.]

131 Authors mention a place outside the northern wall called al-Suffa, which was assigned by Muhammad as a habitation to houseless believers; from which circumstance these paupers derived the title of Ashab al-Suffa, Companions of the Sofa.

132 Dhu al-Hulayfa: a place about five miles from Medina, on the Meccan way.

133 al-Walid I: It is to this monarch that the Saracenic mosque architecture mainly owes its present form. As will be seen, he had every advantage of borrowing from Christian, Persian, and even Indian art. From the first he took the dome, from the second the cloister—it might have been naturalised in Arabia before his time—and possibly from the third the minaret and the prayer niche. The latter appears to be a peculiarly Hindu feature in sacred buildings, intended to contain the idol and to support the lamps, flowers, and other offerings placed before it.

134 The reader will remember that in the sixth year of the Hijra, after Muhammad’s marriage with Zaynab, his wives were secluded behind the hijab, purda, or curtain. A verse of the Quran directed the Muslims to converse with them behind this veil. Hence the general practice of al-Islam: now it is considered highly disgraceful in any Muslim to make a Muslima expose her face, and she will frequently found a threat upon the prejudice. A battle has been prevented by this means, and occasionally an insurrection has been caused by it.

135 After the Prophet’s death and burial, Aisha continued to occupy the same room, without even a curtain between her and the tomb. At last, vexed by the crowds of visitors, she partitioned off the hallowed spot with a wall. She visited the grave unveiled as long as her father, Abu Bakr, only was placed behind the Prophet, but when Umar’s corpse was added, she always covered her face, [Umar not being a relation].

136 Burckhardt has given a full account of this event in his history of the Wahhabis.

137 My predecessor estimates the whole treasury in those days to have been worth three hundred thousand riyals—a small sum if we consider the length of time during which it was accumulating. The chiefs of the town appropriated one hundredweight of golden vessels, worth at most fifty thousand dollars, and Saʿud sold part of the plunder to Ghalib for one hundred thousand (I was told one third more), reserving for himself about the same amount of pearls and corals. Burckhardt supposes that the governors of al-Medina, who were often independent chiefs, and sometimes guardians of the tombs, made occasional draughts upon the generosity of the Faithful.

138 I inquired in vain about the substance that covered the dome. Some told me it was tinfoil; others supposed it to be rivetted with green tiles.

139 stone dollars: The Bedouin calls a sound dollar kirsh hajar, or riyal hajar, a “stone dollar.”

140 Burton’s host in Medina. [Ed.]

141 Mahmud II, Ottoman Sultan (reigned 1808–39). [Ed.]

142 Others told me that there were only two muftis at al-Medina, namely, those of the Hanafi and Shafiʿi schools. If this be true, it proves the insignificance of the followers of Malik [ibn Anas], which personage, like others, is less known in his own town than elsewhere.

143 The Hanbali school is nowhere common except in Nejd and the lands eastward as far as al-Hasa. At present it labours under a sort of imputation, being supposed to have thrown out a bad offshoot, the Wahhabis.

144 ruasa: the plural of rais, a chief or president. It is the term generally applied in Arabia to the captain of a vessel, and in Yemen it often means a barber, in virtue, I presume, of its root—ras, the head.

145 This shaykh is a Maliki Muslin from Algiers, celebrated as an alim (sage), especially in the mystic study al-Jafr. He is a wali, or saint.

146 John Lewis Burckhardt, Travels in Arabia, II:174.

147 False claims. [Ed.]

148 The Tayyara, or Flying Caravan, is lightly laden and travels by forced marches.

149 This musafaha, as it is called, is the Arab fashion of shaking hands. They apply the palms of the right hands flat to each other, without squeezing the fingers, and then raise the hand to the forehead.

150 On this occasion I heard three new words: Kharita, used to signify a single trip to Mecca (without return to al-Medina); ta’arifa, going out from Mecca to Mount Arafat; and tanzila, return from Mount Arafat to Mecca.

151 Homer calls salt sacred and divine, and whoever ate it with a stranger was supposed to become his friend. By the Greek authors as by the Arabs, hospitality and salt are words expressing a kindred idea.

152 two comforts: success and despair, the latter, according to the Arabs, being a more enviable state of feeling than doubt or hope deferred.