WANDERINGS IN
THREE CONTINENTS

Allen & Co. Ph. Sc.

Richard F. Burton
الحاج عبداله

WANDERINGS IN
THREE CONTINENTS

BY THE LATE

CAPTAIN SIR RICHARD F. BURTON, K.C.M.G.

EDITED, WITH A PREFACE, BY W. H. WILKINS, M.A., F.S.A. EDITOR OF THE BURTON MSS. AND AUTHOR OF “THE ROMANCE OF ISABEL LADY BURTON,” ETC.

WITH A PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT AND

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. D. MᶜCORMICK

London: HUTCHINSON & CO

Paternoster Row

1901

PREFACE

BURTON was a many-sided man. The following volume of posthumous essays reveals him in the aspect in which he was best known to the world—​as a traveller and explorer. It will add comparatively little to the knowledge of the Burton student; to the general reader it will contain much that is new, for though Burton wrote and published many bulky volumes of travel in years gone by, none of them assumed a popular form, and it may be doubted if any, save his “Pilgrimage to Meccah and El Medinah,” reached the outer circle of the great reading public. Most of his books are now out of copyright, many are out of print, and few are easily obtainable. This volume, therefore, will supply a need, in that it gives in a popular form a consensus of his most important travels in three continents. It will also, I hope, remind his countrymen of the achievements of this remarkable man, and bring home to many a deeper sense of what we have lost in him. This was the view taken by Lady Burton, who had hoped to

incorporate these essays in her memorial edition of “The Labours and Wisdom of Sir Richard Burton,” a work cut short by her death. Upon me, therefore, has devolved the task of editing them and preparing them for publication. They form the second volume of the Burton MSS. which have been published since Lady Burton’s death, and I am the more encouraged to give them to the world by the success which attended the previous volume, “The Jew, the Gypsy, and El Islam.” The reception of this book, though published under obvious difficulties, and eight years after the author’s death, showed that the interest in the great traveller’s work was in no degree abated.

The essays that follow were all prepared by Burton himself, and most of them were read by him in the form of lectures before sundry geographical and scientific societies at different times. For instance, the description of his expeditions to El Medinah, Meccah, Harar, and Dahomé were delivered by him as a course of four lectures before the Emperor and Empress of Brazil at Rio in 1866. The account of his Central African expedition was read, I believe, at Bath, the one on Damascus and Palmyra at Edinburgh, the one on the Mormons in London. I have deleted the local and topical allusions, which arose from the circumstances under which they were delivered; I have filled in a word or two where the notes were too sketchy; but that is all.

Otherwise, the manuscript is reproduced exactly as it left the author’s hands. In his own words, simply and unaffectedly, Burton here gives an epitome of his principal travels in three continents.

In this condensed form the essays necessarily lose something. On the other hand, they gain much. Careful and accurate as all Burton’s books of travel were, his passion for detail sometimes led him into tediousness. He crammed his notebooks so full that he had occasionally a difficulty in digesting the large mass of information he had acquired. He was addicted to excessive annotation. For instance, in his book on the Mormons, the large text occupied on some pages only three lines, the rest of the page being broken up by closely printed notes, extracts from Mormon books and sermons, which can only be considered as superfluous. Extraneous matter of this kind has been omitted here, and the result is a clear gain to the narrative.

The book covers the period from 1853 to 1870, the most active years of Burton’s active life. It opens most fitly with an account of his pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah. This famous expedition was the turning-point of Burton’s career; in a sense it may be said to have been the beginning of it. Though he had already shown much promise and some performance, and was known to many in India as a linguist, soldier, writer, and man of unusual

ability, he was yet unknown to the greater world outside. But after his pilgrimage to Meccah his fame became world-wide and enduring. I say this in no spirit of exaggeration. When all that Burton wrote and wrought has passed away into that limbo of forgetfulness which awaits the labours of even the most distinguished among us, this at least will be remembered to his honour, that he was the first Englishman to penetrate to the Holy of Holies at Meccah. I write the first Englishman advisedly. Burckhardt, a Swiss explorer, had gone part of the way before him, and since his day one or two have the made the pilgrimage, but, though it was a sufficiently difficult task when they performed it, it was much more difficult when Burton did it in 1853. He was not a man to do things by halves. He made the pilgrimage thoroughly, living absolutely the life of the Moslems, wearing their clothes, eating their food, joining in their prayers, sacrifices, and ritual, and speaking their language; he did all this, carrying his life in his hand, for one false step, one prayer unsaid, one trifling item of the shibboleth omitted, and the dog of an infidel who had dared to profane the sanctuary of the Prophet would have been found out, and his bones would have whitened the desert sand. Not that Burton went to profane the tomb of the Prophet. Far from it. From his early manhood he had been a sympathetic student

of the higher aspects of El Islam. He had come to see that in it, above and beyond all the corruptions and abuses which clung around the Saving Faith, there existed an occult force which had made it a power among men. Not only in his achievement, but in the way he did it, Burton manifested those great qualities which have made the English race what it is; he showed tenacity, pluck, and strength of purpose, and, withal, he accomplished his purpose unobtrusively. None knew until he came back how great a task he had achieved.

It was the same with all that Burton undertook. He did his work thoroughly, and he did it without any beating of drums or blaring of trumpets. “Deeds, not words,” was his rule; “Honour, not honours,” his motto. His expedition to Harar the following year was almost as arduous as his pilgrimage to Meccah. No European had ever before passed the gates of the city in Somaliland. But Burton passed them, and stayed in Harar some days. Again, his long and dangerous expedition into Central Africa, which occupied nearly three years, showed in a marvellous manner his resource, his courage, and his powers of endurance. On the unfortunate controversy which afterwards arose between himself and Speke it is not necessary to enter here; but this much, at least, may be said. In the discovery of Lake Tanganyika Burton was the pioneer; his was the

brain which planned and commanded the expedition, and carried it through to a successful issue. It was he who first achieved with inadequate means and insufficient escort what Livingstone, Cameron, Speke, Grant, Baker, and Stanley achieved later.

Of the remaining essays there is little to be said. Burton’s description of the Mormons in Great Salt Lake City printed here is, I think, very much better than his bulky book on the same subject, “The City of the Saints.” In the larger work Burton ventured on prophecy, always unsafe, and predicted a great future for Mormondom and polygamy, a prediction which has not so far been verified by events. On the other hand, this account of his mission to Dahomé certainly loses by excessive condensation. “The Trip up the Congo” and “The Interior of Brazil” are lightning sketches of expeditions which involved much preparation and trouble to carry them through. “Palmyra” is a formal survey rather than an account of an expedition. It is interesting, as it marks an epoch in (one had almost written, the end of) Burton’s active life. In 1870 he was suddenly recalled from Damascus by Lord Granville, and his career was broken.

After his appointment to the post of Consul at Trieste he went on some expeditions, notably to Midian, but they were tame indeed compared with those to Meccah, Harar, and Central Africa. At

Trieste the eagle’s wings were clipped, and the man who had great energy and ability, a knowledge of more than a score of languages, and an unrivalled experience of Eastern life and literature, was suffered to drag out eighteen years in the obscurity of a second-rate seaport town. True, it was not all lost time, for ample leisure was given him at Trieste for his literary labours. If he had been thrown in a more active sphere, his great masterpiece, “Alf Laylah Wa Laylah” (“The Arabian Nights”) might never have seen the light.

But when all is said and done, the most fruitful years of Burton’s career, the richest in promise and performance, were those that began with the pilgrimage to Meccah and ended with his recall from Damascus. They were the very heart of his life: they are the years covered by this book.

W. H. WILKINS.

October 1901.

EL MEDINAH AND MECCAH
1853

I

THE VISITATION OF EL MEDINAH

THE Moslem’s pilgrimage is a familiar word to the Christian’s ear, yet how few are acquainted with the nature or the signification of the rite! Unto the present day, learned men—​even those who make a pretence to some knowledge of the East—​still confound Meccah, the birthplace, with El Medinah, the burial-place, of Mohammed, the Arab law-giver. “The Prophet’s tomb at Meccah” is a mistake which even the best-informed of our journals do not disdain to make.

Before, however, entering upon the journey which procured for me the title “haji,” it is necessary for me to dispose of a few preliminaries which must savour of the personal. The first question that suggests itself is, “What course of study enabled an Englishman to pass unsuspected through the Moslem’s exclusive and jealously guarded Holy Land?”

I must premise that in the matter of assuming an Oriental nationality, Nature was somewhat propitious to me. Golden locks and blue eyes, however per se desirable, would have been sad obstacles to progress

in swarthy Arabia. And to what Nature had begun, art contributed by long years of laborious occupation.

Finding Oxford, with its Greek and Latin, its mysteries of δε and γαρ, and its theology and mathematics, exceedingly monotonous, I shipped myself for India and entered life in the 18th Sepoy Regiment of the Bombay Presidency. With sundry intervals of travel, my career between 1843 and 1849 was spent in Scinde. This newly conquered province was very Mohammedan, and the conquerors were compelled, during the work of organisation, to see more of the conquered than is usual in England’s East Indian possession. Sir Charles Napier, of gallant memory, our Governor and Commander-in-Chief, honoured me with a staff appointment, and humoured my whim by allowing me to wander about the new land as a canal engineer employed upon its intricate canal system. My days and nights were thus spent among the people, and within five years I was enabled to pass examinations in six Eastern languages.

In 1849 (March 30th-September 5th) an obstinate rheumatic ophthalmia, the result of overwork, sent me back to Europe, where nearly three years were passed before I was pronounced cured. Then, thoroughly tired of civilisation and living “dully sluggardised at home,” and pining for the breath of the desert and the music of the date-palm, I volunteered in the autumn of 1852 to explore the great waste of Eastern and Central Arabia—​that huge white blot which still disgraces our best maps. But the

Court of Directors of the then Honourable East India Company, with their mild and amiable chairman, after deliberation, stoutly refused. They saw in me only another victim, like Stoddard Connolly and the brave brothers Wyburd, rushing on his own destruction and leaving behind him friends and family to trouble with their requisitions the peace and quiet of the India House.

What remained to me but to prove that what might imperil others was to me safe? Supplied with the sinews of travel by the Royal Geographical Society, curious to see what men are mostly content to hear of only—​namely, Moslem inner life in a purely Mohammedan land—​and longing to set foot within the mysterious Meccah which no vacation tourist had ever yet measured, sketched, photographed, and described, I resolved, coûte qu’il coûte, to make the attempt in my old character of a dervish. The safest as well as the most interesting time would be during the pilgrimage season.

The Moslem’s hajj, or pilgrimage, means, I must premise, “aspiration,” and expresses man’s conviction that he is but a wayfarer on earth wending towards a nobler world. This explains the general belief of the men in sandaled shoon that the greater their hardships, the sorer to travel the road to Jordan, the higher will be their reward in heaven. The pilgrim is urged by the voice of his soul—​“O thou, toiling so fiercely for worldly pleasure and for transitory profit, wilt thou endure nothing to win a more lasting boon?”

Hence it is that pilgrimage is common to all ancient faiths. The Sabæans, or old Arabians, visited the Pyramids as the sepulchres of Seth and his son Sabi, the founder of their sect. The classical philosophers wandered through the Valley of the Nile. The Jews annually went up to Jerusalem. The Tartar Buddhists still journey to distant Lamaserais, and the Hindus to Egypt, to Tibet, to Gaya, on the Ganges, and to the inhospitable Caucasus. The spirit of pilgrimage animated mediæval Europe, and a learned Jesuit traveller considers the processions of the Roman Catholic Church modern vestiges of the olden rite.

El Islam—​meaning the covenant in virtue of which men earn eternal life by good works in this world—​requires of all its votaries daily ablution and prayer, almsgiving on certain occasions, one month’s yearly fast, and at least one pilgrimage to the House of Allah at Meccah and the mountain of Ararat. This first, and often the single, visit is called Hajjat el Islam, or pilgrimage of being a Moslem, and all those subsequently performed are regarded as works of supererogation. The rite, however, is incumbent only upon those who possess a sufficiency of health or wealth. El Islam is a creed remarkable for common sense.

The journey to El Medinah is not called hajj, but ziyarat, meaning a ceremonial visitation. Thus the difference between worship due to the Creator and homage rendered to the creature is steadily placed

and kept before the Moslem’s eyes. Some sects—​the Wahhabi, or Arabian Puritans, for instance—​even condemn as impious all intercessions between man and his Maker, especially the prayers at the Prophet’s grave. The mass, however, of the Mohammedan Church, if such expression be applicable to a system which repudiates an ecclesiastical body, considers this visitation a “practice of the faith, and the most effectual way of drawing near to Allah through the Prophet Mohammed.”

The Moslem’s literature has many a thick volume upon the minutiæ of pilgrimage and visitation. All four Sumni, or orthodox schools—​viz., Hunafi, Shafli, Maliki, and Hanbali—​differ in unimportant points one with the other. Usually pilgrims, especially those performing the rite for the first time, begin with Meccah and end with El Medinah. But there is no positive command on the subject. In these days pilgrims from the north countries—​Egypt and Syria, Damascus and Bagdad—​pass through the Prophet’s burial-place going to and coming from Meccah, making a visitation each time. Voyagers from the south—​as East Africa, India, and Java—​must often deny themselves, on account of danger and expense, the spiritual advantages of prayer at Mohammed’s tomb.

I have often been asked if the pilgrim receives any written proof that he has performed his pilgrimage. Formerly the Sherif (descendant of Hasan), or Prince, of Meccah gave a certificate to those who could afford it, and early in the present century the names

of all who paid the fee were registered by a scribe. All that has passed. But the ceremonies are so complicated and the localities so peculiar that no book can thoroughly teach them. The pretended pilgrim would readily be detected after a short cross-questioning of the real Simon Pure. As facilities of travel increase, and the rite becomes more popular, no pilgrim, unless he comes from the edge of the Moslem world, cares to bind on the green turban which his grandfather affected. Few also style themselves haji, unless for an especial reason—​as an evidence of reformed life, for instance, or a sign of being a serious person.

Some also have inquired if I was not the first “Christian” who ever visited the Moslem’s Holy Land. The learned Gibbon asserted—​“Our notions of Meccah must be drawn from the Arabians. As no unbeliever is permitted to enter the city, our travellers are silent.”[1] But Haji Yunus (Ludovico di Bartema) performed the pilgrimage in A.D. 1503; Joseph Pitts, of Exeter, in 1680, Ali Bey el Abbasi (the Catalonian Badia) in 1807, Haji Mohammed (Giovanni Finati, of Ferrara) in 1811, and the excellent Swiss traveller Burckhardt in 1814, all passed safely through the Hejaz, or Holy Land. I mention those only who have written upon the subject. Those who have not must be far more numerous. In fact, any man may become a haji by prefacing his pilgrimage with a solemn and public profession of faith before the Kazi in

Cairo or Damascus; or, simpler still, by applying through his Consulate to be put under the protection of the Amir el Haji, or Commander of the Pilgrim Caravan.

If I did anything new, it was this—​my pilgrimage was performed as by one of the people. El Islam theoretically encourages, but practically despises and distrusts, the burma, or renegade. Such a convert is allowed to see as little as possible, and is ever suspected of being a spy. He is carefully watched night and day, and in troublous times he finds it difficult to travel between Meccah and El Medinah. Far be it from me to disparage the labours of my predecessors. But Bartema travelled as a Mameluke in the days when Mamelukes were Christian slaves, Pitts was a captive carried to the pilgrimage by his Algerine master, Badia’s political position was known to all the authorities, Finati was an Albanian soldier, and Burckhardt revealed himself to the old Pacha Mohammed Ali.

As regards the danger of pilgrimage in the case of the non-Moslem, little beyond the somewhat extensive chapter of accidents is to be apprehended by one conversant with Moslem prayers and formulæ, manners and customs, and who possesses a sufficient guarantee of orthodoxy. It is, however, absolutely indispensable to be a Mohammedan in externals. Neither the Koran nor the Sultan enjoins the killing of Hebrew or Christian intruders; nevertheless, in 1860, a Jew, who refused to repeat the Creed, was crucified by the Meccan populace, and in the event

of a pilgrim declaring himself to be an infidel the authorities would be powerless to protect him.

The question of Cui bono?—​of what good I did to others or to myself by the adventure—​is not so easily answered. My account of El Medinah is somewhat fuller than that of Burckhardt, whose health was breaking when he visited it. And our caravan’s route between the Holy Cities was not the beaten track along the Red Sea, but the little-known eastern or desert road. Some critics certainly twitted me with having “turned Turk”; one might turn worse things. For the rest, man is ever most tempted by the useless and the impossible.

To appear in character upon the scene of action many precautions were necessary. Egypt in those days was a land of passports and policemen; the haute-police was not inferior to that of any European country. By the advice of a brother-officer, Captain Grindley, I assumed the Eastern dress at my lodgings in London, and my friend accompanied me as interpreter to Southampton. On April 4th, 1853, a certain Shaykh Abdullah (to wit, myself) left home in the P. & O. Company’s steamer Bengal, and before the end of the fortnight landed at Alexandria. It was not exactly pleasant for the said personage to speak broken English the whole way, and rigorously to refuse himself the pleasure of addressing the other sex; but under the circumstances it was necessary.

Fortunately, on board the Bengal was John Larking, a well-known Alexandrian. He was in my secret,

and I was received in his house, where he gave me a little detached pavilion and treated me as a munshi, or language-master. My profession among the people was that of a doctor. The Egyptians are a medico-ridden race; all are more or less unhealthy, and they could not look upon my phials and pill-boxes without yearning for their contents. An Indian doctor was a novelty to them; Franks they despised; but how resist a man who had come so far, from east and west? Men, women, and children besieged my door, by which means I could see the people face to face, especially that portion of which Europeans as a rule know only the worst. Even learned Alexandrians, after witnessing some of my experiments in mesmerism and the magic mirror, opined that the stranger was a manner of holy man gifted with preternatural powers. An old man sent to offer me his daughter in marriage—​my sanctity compelled me to decline the honour—​and a middle-aged lady offered me a hundred piastres (nearly one pound sterling) to stay at Alexandria and superintend the restoration of her blind left eye.

After a month pleasantly spent in the little garden of roses, jasmine, and oleanders, I made in early June a move towards Cairo. The first thing was to procure a passport; I had neglected, through ignorance, to bring one from England. It was not without difficulty, involving much unclean dressing and expenditure of horrible English, that I obtained from H.B.M.’s Consul at Alexandria a certificate declaring me to be an Indo-British subject named Abdullah, by profession

a doctor, and, to judge from frequent blanks in the document, not distinguished by any remarkable conformation of eyes, nose, or cheek. This paper, duly countersigned by the zabit, or police magistrate, would carry me anywhere within the Egyptian frontier.

At Alexandria also I provided a few necessaries for the pilgrimage: item—​a change or two of clothing; a substantial leather money belt to carry my gold in; a little cotton bag for silver and small change, kept ready for use in the breast pocket; a zemzimiyah, or water-bag of goatskin; a huge cotton umbrella of Cairene make, brightly yellow, like an overgrown marigold; a coarse Persian rug, which acted as bed, table, chair, and oratory; a pea-green box, with red and yellow flowers, capable of standing falls from a camel twice a day, and therefore well fitted for a medicine chest; and, lastly, the only peculiar article—​viz., the shroud, without which no one sets out en route to Meccah. This memento mori is a piece of cotton six feet long by five broad. It is useful, for instance, when a man is dangerously sick or wounded; the caravan, of course, cannot wait, and to loiter behind is destruction. The patient, therefore, is ceremonially washed, wrapped up in his kafan, partly covered with sand, and left to his fate. It is hard to think of such an end without horror; the torturing thirst of a wound, the sun heating the brain to madness, and, worst of all—​for they do not wait for death—​the attacks of the jackal, the vulture, and the ravens of the wilds. This shroud was duly sprinkled, as is the custom, with the holy water

of the Zemzem well at Meccah. It later came to a bad end amongst the villainous Somal in Eastern Africa.

Equipped in a dervish’s frock, I took leave of my kind host and set out, a third-class passenger, upon a steamer facetiously known as the Little Asthmatic. In those days the rail had not invaded Egypt. We had an unpleasant journey up the Mahmadiyah Canal and the Nile, which is connected by it with Alexandria. The usual time was thirty hours. We took three mortal days and nights. We were nearly wrecked at the then unfinished Barage, we saw nothing of the Pyramids but their tops, and it was with a real feeling of satisfaction that we moored alongside of the old tumble-down suburb, Bulak.

My dervishhood was perfectly successful. I happened by chance to touch the elbow of an Anglo-Indian officer, and he publicly and forcibly condemned my organs of vision. And I made an acquaintance and a friend on board. The former was a shawl and cotton merchant, Meyan Khudabaksh Namdar, of Lahore, who, as the caravanserais were full of pilgrims, lodged me at his house for a fortnight. The conversations that passed between us were published two years later in 1855.[2] They clearly pointed to the mutiny which occurred two years afterwards, and this, together with my frankness about the Suez Canal,[3] did not tend to make me a favourite with the then effete Government of India.

My friend was a Turkish trader, named Haji

Wali-el-din. He was then a man about forty-five, of middle stature, with a large round head closely shaven, a bull neck, limbs sturdy as a Saxon’s, a thin red beard, and handsome features beaming benevolence. A curious dry humour he had, delighting in “quizzing,” but in so quiet, quaint, and solemn a way that before you knew him you could scarce divine his drift. He presently found for me rooms next his own at the wakalah, or caravanserai, called Jemeliyah, in the Greek quarter, and I tried to repay his kindness by counselling him in an unpleasant Consular suit.

When we lived under the same roof, the haji and I became inseparable. We walked together and dined together, and spent the evening at a mosque or other place of public pastime. Sometimes we sat among the dervishes; but they are a dangerous race, travelled and inquisitive. Meanwhile I continued to practise my profession—​the medical—​and devoted myself several hours a day to study in the Azhar Mosque, sitting under the learned Shaykh Mohammed Ali Attar. The better to study the “humours,” I also became a grocer and druggist, and my little shop, a mere hole in the wall, was a perfect gem of Nilotic groceries. But although I sold my wares under cost price to fair customers, my chief clients were small boys and girls, who came, halfpence in hand, to buy sugar and pepper; so one day, determining to sink the thirty shillings which my stock in trade had stood me, I locked the wooden shutter that defended my establishment and made it over to my shaykh.

The haji and I fasted together during the month of Ramazan. That year it fell in the torrid June, and it always makes the Moslem unhealthy and unamiable. At the end preparations were to be made for departure Meccah-wards, and the event was hastened by a convivial séance with a bacchanalian captain of Albanians, which made the gossips of the quarter wonder what manner of an Indian doctor had got amongst them.

I was fortunate enough, however, to hire the services of Shaykh Nur, a quiet East Indian, whose black skin made society suppose him to be my slave. Never suspecting my nationality till after my return from Meccah, he behaved honestly enough; but when absolved by pilgrimage from his past sins, Haji Nur began to rob me so boldly that we were compelled to part. I also made acquaintance with certain sons of the Holy Cities—​seven men from El Medinah and Meccah—​who, after a begging-trip to Constantinople, were returning to their homes. Having doctored them and lent them some trifling sums, I was invited by Shaykh Hamid El Shamman to stay with him at El Medinah, and by the boy Mohammed El Basyuni to lodge at his mother’s house in Meccah.

They enabled me to collect proper stores for the journey. These consisted of tea, coffee, loaf sugar, biscuits, oil, vinegar, tobacco, lanterns, cooking-pots, and a small bell-shaped tent costing twelve shillings. The provisions were placed in a kafas, or hamper, of palm sticks, my drugs and dress in a sahharah,

or wooden box measuring some three and a half feet each way, covered with cowskin, and the lid fitting into the top. And finally, not wishing to travel by the vans then allotted to the overland passengers, I hired two dromedaries and their attendant Bedouins, who for the sum of ten shillings each agreed to carry me across the desert between Cairo and Suez.

At last, after abundant trouble, all was ready. At 3 p.m., July 1st, 1853, my friend Haji Wali embraced me heartily, and so did my poor old shaykh, who, despite his decrepitude and my objections, insisted upon accompanying me to the city gate. I will not deny having felt a tightening of the heart as their honest faces and forms faded in the distance. All the bystanders ejaculated, “Allah bless thee, Y’all Hajj (O pilgrim!), and restore thee to thy family and thy friends.”

We rode hard over the stretch of rock and hard clay which has since yielded to that monumental work, the Suez Canal. There was no ennui upon the road: to the traveller there was an interest in the wilderness—​

Where love is liberty and Nature law—​

unknown to Cape seas and Alpine glaciers and even the boundless prairie. I felt as if looking once more upon the face of a friend, and my two Bedouins—​though the old traveller described their forefathers as “folke full of all evylle condiciouns”—​were excellent company. At midnight we halted for a little

rest near the Central Station, and after dark on the next evening I passed through the tumble-down gateway of Suez and found a shelter in the Wakalah Tirjis—​the George Inn. My Meccan and Medinah friends were already installed there, and the boy Mohammed El Basyuni had joined me on the road.

It was not so easy to embark at Suez. In those days the greater body of pilgrims marched round the head of the Red Sea. Steamers were rare, and in the spirit of protection the Bey, or Governor, had orders to obstruct us till near the end of the season. Most Egyptian high officials sent their boats laden with pious passengers up the Nile, whence they returned freighted with corn. They naturally did their best to force upon us the delays and discomforts of what is called the Kussayr (Cosseir) line. And as those who travelled by the land route spent their money fifteen days longer in Egyptian territory than they would have done if allowed to embark at Suez, the Bey assisted them in the former and obstructed them in the latter case.

We were delayed in the George Inn four mortal days and nights amidst all the plagues of Egypt. At last we found a sambuk, or small-decked vessel, about to start, and for seven dollars each we took places upon the poop, the only possible part in the dreadful summer months. The Silk El Zahab, or Golden Thread, was probably a lineal descendant from the ships of Solomon harboured in Ezion Geber. It was about fifty tons burden, and we found ninety-seven, instead

of sixty, the proper number of passengers. The farce of a quarter-deck ten feet by eight accommodated eighteen of us, and our companions were Magribis, men from North-Western Africa—​the most quarrelsome and vicious of pilgrims.

We sailed on July 6th, and, as in an Irish packet of the olden time, the first preliminary to “shaking down” was a general fight. The rais (captain) naturally landed and left us to settle the matter, which ended in many a head being broken. I played my poor part in the mêlée by pushing down a heavy jar of water upon the swarm of assailants. At last the Magribis, failing to dislodge us from the poop, made peace, and finding we were sons of the Holy Cities, became as civil as their unkindly natures permitted. We spent twelve days, instead of the normal five, in beating down the five hundred and fifty direct miles between Suez and Yambu.

Every second day we managed to land and stretch our limbs. The mornings and evenings were mild and balmy, whilst the days were terrible. We felt as if a few more degrees of heat would be fatal to us. The celebrated coral reefs of the Red Sea, whence some authors derive its name, appeared like meadows of brilliant flowers resembling those of earth, only far brighter and more beautiful. The sunsets were magnificent; the zodiacal light, or after-glow, was a study; and the cold rays of the moon, falling upon a wilderness of white clay and pinnacle, suggested a wintry day in England.

[[See Page 18.]

THE FIGHT ON THE SILK EL ZAHAB.

At last, after slowly working up a narrow creek leading to the Yambu harbour, on July 17th we sprang into a shore-boat, and felt new life when bidding eternal adieu and “sweet bad luck” to the Golden Thread, which seemed determined to wreck itself about once per diem.

Yambu, the port of El Medinah, lies S.S.W. of, and a little over a hundred and thirty miles from, its city. The road was infamous—​rocky, often waterless, alternately fiery and freezing, and infested with the Beni Harb, a villainous tribe of hill Bedouins. Their chief was one Saad, a brigand of the first water. He was described as a little brown man, contemptible in appearance but remarkable for courage and for a ready wit, which saved him from the poison and pistol of his enemies. Some called him the friend of the poor, and all knew him to be the foe of the rich.

There was nothing to see at Yambu, where, however, we enjoyed the hammam and the drinking-water, which appeared deliciously sweet after the briny supplies of Suez. By dint of abundant bargaining we hired camels at the moderate rate of three dollars each—​half in ready money, the rest to be paid after arrival. I also bought a shugduf, or rude litter carrying two, and I chose the boy Mohammed as my companion. The journey is usually done in five days. We took eight, and we considered ourselves lucky fellows.

On the evening of the next day (July 18th) we set out with all the gravity of men putting our heads

into the lion’s jaws. The moon rose fair and clear as we emerged from the shadowy streets. When we launched into the desert, the sweet, crisp air delightfully contrasted with the close, offensive atmosphere of the town.

My companions all, as Arabs will do on such occasions, forgot to think of their precious boxes full of the plunder of Constantinople, and began to sing. We travelled till three o’clock in the morning (these people insist upon setting out in the afternoon and passing the night in travelling). And the Prophet informs us that the “calamities of earth,” meaning scorpions, serpents, and wild beasts, are least dangerous during the dark hours.

After a pleasant sleep in the wilderness, we joined for the next day’s march a caravan of grain carriers, about two hundred camels escorted by seven Turkish Bashi Buzuk, or Irregular Cavalry. They confirmed the report that the Bedouins were “out,” and declared that Saad, the Old Man of the Mountain, had threatened to cut every throat venturing into his passes. That night the robbers gave us a mild taste of their quality, but soon ran away. The third march lay over an iron land and under a sky of brass to a long straggling village called, from its ruddy look, El Hamra (the Red); it is the middle station between Yambu and El Medinah. The fourth stage placed us on the Sultan’s high-road leading from Meccah to the Prophet’s burial-place, and we joined a company of pious persons bound on visitation.

The Bedouins, hearing that we had an escort of two hundred troopers, manned a gorge and would not let us advance till the armed men retired. The fifth and sixth days were forced halts at a vile place called Bir Abbas, where we could hear the distant dropping of the musketry, a sign that the troops and the hill-men were settling some little dispute. Again my companions were in cold perspirations about their treasures, and passed the most of their time in sulking and quarrelling.

About sunset on July 23rd, three or four caravans assembled at Bir Abbas, forming one large body for better defence against the dreaded Bedouins. We set out at 11 p.m., travelling without halting through the night, and at early dawn we found ourselves in an ill-famed narrow known as Shuab El Haji, or the Pilgrim’s Pass. The boldest looked apprehensive as we approached it. Presently, from the precipitous cliff on our left, thin puffs of blue smoke rose in the sultry morning air, and afterwards the sharp cracks of the hill-men’s matchlocks were echoed by the rocks on the right. A number of Bedouins could be seen swarming like hornets up the steeper slopes, carrying huge weapons and “spoiling for a fight.” They took up comfortable positions on the cut-throat [embankment] and began practising upon us from behind their breastworks of piled stones with perfect convenience to themselves. We had nothing to do but to blaze away as much powder and to veil ourselves in as dense a smoke as possible. The result was that we lost

twelve men, besides camels and other beasts of burden. My companions seemed to consider this questionable affair a most gallant exploit.

The next night (July 24th) was severe. The path lay up rocky hill and down stony vale. A tripping and stumbling dromedary had been substituted for my better animal, and the consequences may be imagined.

The sun had nearly risen before I shook off the lethargic effects of such a march. All around me were hurrying their beasts, regardless of rough ground, and not a soul spoke a word to his neighbour. “Are there robbers in sight?” was the natural question. “No,” responded the boy Mohammed. “They are walking with their eyes; they will presently sight their homes.”

Half an hour afterwards we came to a huge mudarrij, or flight of steps, roughly cut in a line of black scoriaceous basalt. Arrived at the top, we passed through a lane of dark lava with steep banks on both sides, and in a few minutes a full view of the Holy City suddenly opened upon us. It was like a vision in “The Arabian Nights.” We halted our camels as if by word of command. All dismounted, in imitation of the pious of old, and sat down, jaded and hungry as we were, to feast our eyes on the “country of date-trees” which looked so passing fair after the “salt stony land.” As we looked eastward the sun rose out of the horizon of blue and pink hill, the frontier of Nejd staining the spacious plains with

gold and purple. The site of El Medinah is in the western edge of the highlands which form the plateau of Central Arabia. On the left side, or north, was a tall grim pile of porphyritic rock, the celebrated Mount Ohod, with a clump of verdure and a dome or two nestling at its base. Round a whitewashed fortalice founded upon a rock clustered a walled city, irregularly oval, with tall minarets enclosing a conspicuous green dome. To the west and south lay a large suburb and long lines of brilliant vegetation piercing the tawny levels. I now understood the full value of a phrase in the Moslem ritual—​“And when the pilgrim’s eyes shall fall upon the trees of El Medinah, let him raise his voice and bless the Prophet with the choicest blessings.”

In all the panorama before us nothing was more striking, after the desolation through which we had passed, than the gardens and orchards about the town. My companions obeyed the command with the most poetical exclamations, bidding the Prophet “live for ever whilst the west wind bloweth gently over the hills of Nejd and the lightning flasheth bright in the firmament of El Hejaz.”

We then remounted and hurried through the Bab El Ambari, the gate of the western suburb. Crowded by relatives and friends, we passed down a broad, dusty street, pretty well supplied with ruins, into an open space called Barr El Manakhah, or “place where camels are made to kneel.” Straight forward a line leads directly into the Bab El Misri, the Egyptian gate of

the city. But we turned off to the right, and after advancing a few yards we found ourselves at the entrance of our friend Shaykh Hamid’s house. He had preceded us to prepare for our reception.

No delay is allowed in the ziyarat, or visitation of the haram, or holy place, which received the mortal remains of the Arab Prophet. We were barely allowed to breakfast, to perform the religious ablution, and to change our travel-soiled garments. We then mounted asses, passed through the Egyptian, or western, gate, and suddenly came upon the mosque. It is choked up with ignoble buildings, and as we entered the “Dove of Mercy” I was not impressed by the spectacle.

The site of the Prophet’s mosque—​Masjid el Nabashi, as it is called—​was originally a graveyard shaded by date-trees. The first walls were of adobe, or unbaked brick, and the recently felled palm-trunks were made into pillars for the leaf-thatched roof. The present building, which is almost four centuries old, is of cut stone, forming an oblong of four hundred and twenty feet by three hundred and forty feet. In the centre is a spacious uncovered area containing the Garden of Our Lady Fatimah—​a railed plot of ground bearing a lote-tree and a dozen palms. At the south-east angle of this enclosure, under a wooden roof with columns, is the Prophet’s Well, whose water is hard and brackish. Near it meets the City Academy, where in the cool mornings and evenings

the young idea is taught to shout rather than to shoot.

Around the court are four riwaks, or porches, not unlike the cloisters of a monastery; they are arched to the front, backed by the wall and supported inside by pillars of different shape and material varying from dirty plaster to fine porphyry. When I made my visitation, the northern porch was being rebuilt; it was to be called after Abd El Majid, the then reigning Sultan, and it promised to be the most splendid. The main colonnade, however, the sanctum containing all that is venerable in the building, embraces the whole length of the southern short wall, and is deeper than the other three by nearly treble the number of columns. It is also paved with handsome slabs of white marble and marquetry work, here and there covered with coarse matting and above this by unclean carpets, well worn by faithful feet.

To understand the tomb a few preliminary remarks are necessary. Mohammed, it must be remembered, died in the eleventh year of his mission and the sixty-third of his age, corresponding with A.D. 623. He was accustomed to say, “In whatsoever spot a prophet departs this life, there also should he be buried.” Accordingly his successor ordered the grave to be dug in the house of the young widow Ayisha, who lived close to the original mosque. After her husband’s burial she occupied an adjoining room partitioned off from the tomb at which men were accustomed to pray. Another saying of the Prophet’s

forbade tombs to be erected in mosques; it therefore became necessary so to contrive that the revered spot should be in, and yet not in, the place of worship.

Accordingly they built a detached tower in the south-eastern corner of the mosque, and called it the hujrah, or chamber. It is from fifty to fifty-five feet square, with a passage all round, and it extends from floor to roof, where it is capped by the green dome which strikes the eyes on approaching the city. The external material of the closet, which also serves to protect the remains from infidels and schismatics, is metal filagree painted a vivid grey green, relieved by the brightly gilt or burnished brass-work forming the long and graceful Arabic characters. On the south side, for greater honour, the railing is plated over in parts with silver, and letters of the same metal are interlaced with it.

Entering by the western Door of Safety, we paced slowly towards the tomb down a line of wall about the height of a man, and called the “illustrious fronting.” The barrier is painted with arabesques and pierced with small doors. There are two niches richly worked with various coloured marble, and near them is a pulpit, a graceful collection of slender columns, elegant tracery, and inscriptions admirably carved. Arrived at the western small door in the dwarf wall, we entered the famous spot called El Ranzah (the “Garden”), after a saying of Mohammed: “Between my grave and my pulpit is a garden of the gardens of Paradise.” On the north and west sides it is

not divided from the rest of the porch, to the south rises the dwarf wall, and eastward it is bounded by the west end of the filagree tower containing the tomb.

The “Garden” is the most elaborate part of the mosque. It is a space of about eighty feet in length tawdrily decorated to resemble vegetation: the carpets are flowered, and the pediments of columns are cased with bright green tiles, and the shafts are adorned with gaudy and unnatural growths in arabesques. It is further disfigured by handsome branched candelabra of cut crystal, the work, I believe, of an English house. Its peculiar background, the filagree tower, looks more picturesque near than at a distance, where it suggests the idea of a gigantic birdcage. The one really fine feature of the scene is the light cast by the window of stained glass in the southern wall. Thus little can be said in praise of the “Garden” by day. But at night the eye, dazzled by oil lamps suspended from the roof, by huge wax candles, and by minor illuminations, whilst crowds of visitors in the brightest attire, with the richest and noblest of the citizens, sit in congregation to hear services, becomes far less critical.

Entering the “Garden” we fronted towards Meccah, prayed, recited two chapters of the Koran, and gave alms to the poor in gratitude to Allah for making it our fate to visit so holy a spot. Then we repaired to the southern front of the chamber, where there are three dwarf windows, apertures half a foot square, and placed at eye’s height from the ground. The westernmost is supposed to be opposite to the face

of Mohammed, who lies on the right side, facing, as is still the Moslem custom, the House of Allah at Meccah. The central hill is that of Abubaki, the first Caliph, whose head is just behind the Prophet’s shoulder. The easternmost window is that of Omar, the second Caliph, who holds the same position with respect to Abubaki. In the same chamber, but decorously divided by a wall from the male tenants, reposes the Lady Fatimah, Mohammed’s favourite daughter. Osman, the fourth Caliph, was not buried after his assassination near his predecessors, but there is a vacant space for Isa bin Maryam when he shall return.

We stood opposite these three windows, successively, beginning with that of the Prophet, recited the blessings, which we were directed to pronounce “with awe and fear and love.” The ritual is very complicated, and the stranger must engage a guide technically called a muzawwir, or visitation-maker. He is always a son of the Holy City, and Shaykh Hamid was mine. Many a piercing eye was upon me: the people probably supposed that I was an Ajemi or Persian, and these heretics have often attempted to defile the tombs of the two Caliphs.

When the prayers were at an end, I was allowed to look through the Prophet’s window. After straining my eyes for a time, the oil lamps shedding but a dim light, I saw a narrow passage leading round the chamber. The inner wall is variously represented to be made of stone planking or unbaked bricks. One

sees nothing but thin coverings, a curtain of handsome silk and cotton brocade, green, with long white letters worked into it. Upon the hangings were three inscriptions in characters of gold, informing readers that behind there lie Allah’s Prophet and the two first Caliphs. The exact place of Mohammed’s tomb is, moreover, distinguished by a large pearl rosary and a peculiar ornament, the celebrated Kankab el Durri, or constellation of pearls; it is suspended breast high to the curtain. This is described to be a “brilliant star set in diamonds and pearls” placed in the dark that man’s eye may be able to endure its splendours; the vulgar believe it to be a “jewel of the jewels of Paradise.” To me it suggested the round glassy stoppers used for the humbler sort of decanters, but then I think the same of the Koh-i-Nur.

I must allude to the vulgar story of Mohammed’s steel coffin suspended in mid-air between two magnets. The myth has won a world-wide reputation, yet Arabia has never heard of it. Travellers explain it in two ways. Niebuhr supposes it to have risen from the rude ground-plan drawings sold to strangers, and mistaken by them for elevations. William Banks believes that the work popularly described as hanging unsupported in the mosque of Omar at Jerusalem was confounded with the Prophet’s tomb at El Medinah by Christians, who until very lately could not have seen either of these Moslem shrines.

A book which I published upon the subject of my pilgrimage gives in detail my reason for believing

that the site of Mohammed’s sepulture is doubtful as that of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem.[4] They are, briefly, these four: From the earliest days the shape of the Prophet’s tomb has never been generally known in El Islam. The accounts of the grave given by the learned are discrepant. The guardianship of the spot was long in the hands of schismatics (the Beni Husayu). And lastly, I cannot but look upon the tale of the blinding light which surrounds the Prophet’s tomb, current for ages past, and still universally believed upon the authority of attendant eunuchs who must know its falsehood as a priestly glory intended to conceal a defect.

To that book also I must refer my readers for a full description of the minor holy places at El Medinah. They are about fifty in number, and of these about a dozen are generally visited. The principal of these are, first, El Bakia (the Country of the Saints), to the east of the city; on the last day some seventy thousand, others say a hundred thousand, holy men with faces like moons shall arise from it; the second is the Apostle’s mosque at Kubas, the first temple built in El Islam; and the third is a visitation to the tomb of Mohammed’s paternal uncle, Hamzeh, the “Lord of Martyrs,” who was slain fighting for the faith in A.D. 625.

A few observations concerning the little-known capital of the Northern Hejaz may not be unacceptable.

Medinah El Nahi (the City of the Prophet) is usually

called by Moslems, for brevity, El Medinah, or the City by Excellence. It lies between the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth degrees of north latitude, corresponding therefore with Central Mexico; and being high raised above the sea, it may be called a tierra temprada. My predecessor, Burckhardt, found the water detestable. I thought it good. The winter is long and rigorous, hence partly the fair complexion of its inhabitants, who rival in turbulence and fanaticism their brethren of Meccah.

El Medinah consists of three parts—​a town, a castle, and a large suburb. The population, when I visited it, ranged from sixteen thousand to eighteen thousand souls, whereas Meccah numbered forty-five thousand, and the garrison consisted of a half-battalion, or four hundred men. Mohammed’s last resting-place has some fifteen hundred hearths enclosed by a wall of granite and basalt in irregular layers cemented with lime. It is pierced with four gates: the Syrian, the Gate of Hospitality, the Friday, and the Egyptian. The two latter are fine massive buildings, with double towers like the old Norman portals, but painted with broad bands of red pillars and other flaring colours. Except the Prophet’s mosque, there are few public buildings. There are only four caravanserais, and the markets are long lines of sheds, thatched with scorched and blackened palm-leaves. The streets are what they should always be in torrid lands, dark, deep, narrow, and rarely paved; they are generally of black earth, well watered

and trodden to harden. The houses appear well built for the East, of square stone, flat roofed, double storied, and enclosing spacious courtyards and small gardens, where water basins and trees and sheds “cool the eye,” as Arabs say. Latticed balconies are here universal, and the windows are mere holes in the walls provided with broad shutters. The castle has stronger defences than the town, and inside it a tall donjon tower bears, proudly enough, the banner of the Crescent and the Star. Its whitewashed lines of wall render this fortalice a conspicuous object, and guns pointing in all directions, especially upon the town, make it appear a kind of Gibraltar to the Bedouins.

For many reasons strangers become very much attached to El Medinah and there end their lives. My servant, Shaykh Nur, opined it to be a very “heavenly city.” Therefore the mass of the population is of foreign extraction.

On August 28th arrived the great Damascus caravan, which sets out from Constantinople bringing the presents of the Sublime Porte. It is the main stream which absorbs all the small currents flowing at this season of general movement from Central Asia towards the great centre of the Islamitic world, and in 1853 it numbered about seven thousand souls. It was anxiously expected at El Medinah for several reasons. In the first place, it brought with it a new curtain for the Prophet’s chamber, the old one being in a tattered condition; secondly, it had charge of the annual stipends and pensions for the citizens; and thirdly,

many families had members returning under its escort to their homes. The popular anxiety was greatly increased by the disordered state of the country round about, and moreover the great caravan was a day late. The Russian war had extended its excitement even into the bowels of Arabia, and to travel eastward according to my original intention was impossible.

For a day or two we were doubtful about which road the caravan would take—​the easy coast line or the difficult and dangerous eastern, or desert, route. Presently Saad the robber shut his doors against us, and we were driven perforce to choose the worse. The distance between El Medinah and Meccah by the frontier way would be in round numbers two hundred and fifty (two hundred and forty-eight) miles, and in the month of September water promised to be exceedingly scarce and bad.

I lost no time in patching up my water-skins, in laying in a store of provisions, and in hiring camels. Masad El Harbi, an old Bedouin, agreed to let me have two animals for the sum of twenty dollars. My host warned me against the treachery of the wild men, with whom it is necessary to eat salt once a day. Otherwise they may rob the traveller and plead that the salt is not in their stomachs.

Towards evening time on August 30th, El Medinah became a scene of exceeding confusion in consequence of the departure of the pilgrims. About an hour after sunset all our preparations were concluded. The

evening was sultry; we therefore dined outside the house. I was told to repair to the shrine for the ziyarat el widoa, or the farewell visitation. My decided objection to this step was that we were all to part, and where to meet again we knew not. I therefore prayed a two-prostration prayer, and facing towards the haram recited the usual supplication. We sat up till 2 p.m. when, having heard no signal gun, we lay down to sleep through the hot remnant of the hours of darkness. Thus was spent my last night at the City of the Prophet.

[1] “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,” chap. i.

[2] Vide Burton’s “Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah,” chap. iii.

[3] Ibid., chap. vi.

[4] “Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah,” by Richard F. Burton.

II

THE PILGRIMAGE TO MECCAH

On Wednesday, August 31st, 1853, I embraced my good host, Shaykh Hamid, who had taken great trouble to see me perfectly provided for the journey. Shortly after leaving El Medinah we all halted and turned to take a last farewell. All the pilgrims dismounted and gazed long and wistfully at the venerable minarets and the Prophet’s green dome—​spots upon which their memories would ever dwell with a fond and yearning interest.

We hurried after the Damascus caravan, and presently fell into its wake. Our line was called the Darb el Sharki, or eastern road. It owes its existence to the piety of Zubaydah Khatun, wife of the well-known Harun el Rashid. That esteemed princess dug wells, built tanks, and raised, we are told, a wall with occasional towers between Bagdad and Meccah, to guide pilgrims over the shifting sands. Few vestiges of all this labour remained in the year of grace 1853.

Striking is the appearance of the caravan as it draggles its slow length along

The golden desert glittering through

The subtle veil of beams,

as the poet of “Palm-leaves” has it. The sky is terrible in its pitiless splendours and blinding beauty while the simoon, or wind of the wild, caresses the cheek with the flaming breath of a lion. The filmy spray of sand and the upseething of the atmosphere, the heat-reek and the dancing of the air upon the baked surface of the bright yellow soil, blending with the dazzling blue above, invests the horizon with a broad band of deep dark green, and blurs the gaunt figures of the camels, which, at a distance, appear strings of gigantic birds.

There are evidently eight degrees of pilgrims. The lowest walk, propped on heavy staves; these are the itinerant coffee-makers, sherbet sellers, and tobacconists, country folks driving flocks of sheep and goats with infinite clamour and gesticulation, negroes from distant Africa, and crowds of paupers, some approaching the supreme hour, but therefore yearning the more to breathe their last in the Holy City. Then come the humble riders of laden camels, mules, and asses, which the Bedouin, who clings baboon-like to the hairy back of his animal, despises, saying:—​

Honourable to the rider is the riding of the horse;

But the mule is a dishonour, and a donkey a disgrace.

Respectable men mount dromedaries, or blood-camels, known by their small size, their fine limbs, and their large deer-like eyes: their saddles show crimson sheep-skins between tall metal pommels, and these are girthed over fine saddle-bags, whose long tassels of bright worsted hang almost to the ground.

Irregular soldiers have picturesquely equipped steeds. Here and there rides some old Arab shaykh, preceded by his varlets performing a war-dance, compared with which the bear’s performance is graceful, firing their duck-guns in the air, or blowing powder into the naked legs of those before them, brandishing their bared swords, leaping frantically with parti-coloured rags floating in the wind, and tossing high their long spears. Women, children, and invalids of the poorer classes sit upon rugs or carpets spread over the large boxes that form the camel’s load. Those a little better off use a shibriyah, or short coat, fastened crosswise. The richer prefer shugduf panniers with an awning like a miniature tent. Grandees have led horses and gorgeously painted takhtrawan—​litters like the bangué of Brazil—​borne between camels or mules with scarlet and brass trappings. The vehicle mainly regulates the pilgrim’s expenses, which may vary from five pounds to as many thousands.

I will not describe the marches in detail: they much resemble those between Yambu and El Medinah. We nighted at two small villages, El Suwayrkiyah and El Suyayna, which supplied a few provisions to a caravan of seven thousand to eight thousand souls. For the most part it is a haggard land, a country of wild beasts and wilder men, a region whose very fountains murmur the warning words, “Drink and away,” instead of “Rest and be thankful.” In other places it is a desert peopled only with echoes, an

abode of death for what little there is to die in it, a waste where, to use an Arab phrase, “La Siwa Hu”—​“There is none but He.” Gigantic sand columns whirl over the plains, the horizon is a sea of mirage, and everywhere Nature, flayed and scalped, discovers her skeleton to the gazer’s eye.

We passed over many ridges of rough black basalt, low plains, and basins white with nitrous salt, acacia barrens where litters were torn off the camels’ backs by the strong thorns, and domes and streets of polished rock. Now we travelled down dry torrent-beds of extreme irregularity, then we wended our way along cliffs castellated as if by men’s hand, and boulders and pillars of coarse-grained granite, sometimes thirty feet high. Quartz abounded, and the country may have contained gold, but here the superficial formation has long since been exhausted. In Arabia, as in the East Indies, the precious metal still lingers. At Cairo in 1854 I obtained good results by washing sand brought from the coast of the Red Sea north of Wijh. My plan for working was rendered abortive by a certain dictum, since become a favourite with the governing powers in England—​namely, “Gold is getting too plentiful.”

Few animals except vultures and ravens meet the eye. Once, however, we enjoyed a grand spectacle. It was a large yellow lion, somewhat white about the points—​a sign of age—​seated in a statuesque pose upon a pedestal of precipitous rock by the wayside, and gazing upon the passing spectacle as if monarch

of all he surveyed. The caravan respected the wild beast, and no one molested it. The Bedouin of Arabia has a curious custom when he happens to fall in with a lion: he makes a profound salaam, says many complimentary things, and begs his majesty not to harm a poor man with a large family. If the brute be not hungry, the wayfarer is allowed to pass on; the latter, however, is careful when returning to follow another path. “The father of roaring,” he remarks, “has repented of having missed a meal.”

On Friday, September 9th, we encamped at Zaribah, two marches, or forty-seven miles, from Meccah. This being the north-eastern limit of the sanctuary, we exchanged our everyday dress for the pilgrim garb, which is known as el ihrám, or mortification. Between the noontide and the afternoon prayers our heads were shaved, our beards and nails trimmed, and we were made to bathe. We then put on the attire which seems to be the obsolete costume of the ancient Arabs. It consists of two cotton cloths, each six feet long by three or four feet wide, white, with narrow red stripes and fringes—​in fact, that adopted in the Turkish baths of London. One of these sheets is thrown over the back and is gathered at the right side, the arm being left exposed. The waistcloth extends like a belt to the knee, and, being tucked in at the waist, supports itself. The head is bared to the rabid sun, and the insteps, which must also be left naked, suffer severely.

Thus equipped, we performed a prayer of two

prostrations, and recited aloud the peculiar formula of pilgrimage called Talbiyat. In Arabic it is:

Labbayk, ’Allahumma, Labbayk!

La Sharika laka. Labbayk!

Jun ’al Hamda wa’ n’ Niamata laka w’ al Mulh!

La Sharika laka. Labbayk!

which I would translate thus:

Here I am, O Allah, here am I!

No partner hast thou. Here am I!

Verily the praise and the grace are thine, and the kingdom!

No partner hast thou. Here am I.

The director of our consciences now bade us be good pilgrims, avoiding quarrels, abusive language, light conversation, and all immorality. We must religiously respect the sanctuary of Meccah by sparing the trees and avoiding to destroy animal life, excepting, however, the “five instances,”—​a crow, a kite, a rat, a scorpion, and a biting dog. We must abstain from washes and perfumes, oils, dyes, and cosmetics; we must not pare the nails nor shave, pluck or cut the hair, nor must we tie knots in our garments. We were forbidden to cover our heads with turban or umbrella, although allowed to take advantage of the shade, and ward off the sun with our hands. And for each infraction of these ordinances we were commanded to sacrifice a sheep.

The women followed our example. This alone would disprove the baseless but wide-world calumny which declares that El Islam recognises no soul in, and consequently no future for, the opposite sex.

The Early Fathers of the Christian Church may have held such tenet, the Mohammedans never. Pilgrimesses exchange the lisam—​that coquettish fold of thin white muslin which veils, but does not hide, the mouth—​for a hideous mask of split, dried, and plaited palm-leaves pierced with bull’s-eyes to admit the light. This ugly mask is worn because the veil must not touch the features. The rest of the outer garment is a long sheet of white cotton, covering the head and falling to the heels. We could hardly help laughing when these queer ghostly figures first met our sight, and, to judge from the shaking of their shoulders, they were as much amused as we were.

In mid-afternoon we left Zaribah, and presently it became apparent that although we were forbidden to take lives of others, others were not prevented from taking ours. At 5 p.m. we came upon a wide, dry torrent-bed, down which we were to travel all night. It was a cut-throat place, with a stony, precipitous buttress on the right, faced by a grim and barren slope. Opposite us the way seemed to be barred by piles of hills, crest rising above crest in the far blue distance. Day still smiled upon the upper peaks, but the lower grounds and the road were already hung with sombre shade.

A damp fell upon our spirits as we neared this “Valley Perilous.” The voices of the women and children sank into deep silence, and the loud “Labbayk!” which the male pilgrims are

ordered to shout whenever possible, was gradually stilled.

The cause soon became apparent. A small curl of blue smoke on the summit of the right-hand precipice suddenly caught my eye, and, simultaneously with the echoing crack of the matchlock, a dromedary in front of me, shot through the heart, rolled on the sands. The Utajbah, bravest and most lawless of the brigand tribes of the Moslem’s Holy Land, were determined to boast that on such and such a night they stopped the Sultan’s caravan one whole hour in the pass.

There ensued a scene of terrible confusion. Women screamed, children cried, and men vociferated, each one striving with might and main to urge his animal beyond the place of death. But the road was narrow and half-choked with rocks and thorny shrubs; the vehicles and animals were soon jammed into a solid and immovable mass, whilst at every shot a cold shudder ran through the huge body. Our guard, the irregular horsemen, about one thousand in number, pushed up and down perfectly useless, shouting to and ordering one another. The Pacha of the soldiers had his carpet spread near the precipice, and over his pipe debated with the officers about what should be done. No one seemed to whisper, “Crown the heights.”

Presently two or three hundred Wahhabis—​mountaineers of Tebel Shammar in North-Eastern Arabia—​sprang from their barebacked camels, with their elf-locks tossing in the wind, and the flaming matches

of their guns casting a lurid light over their wild features. Led by the Sherif Zayd, a brave Meccan noble, who, happily for us, was present, they swarmed up the steep, and the robbers, after receiving a few shots, retired to fire upon our rear.

Our forced halt was now exchanged for a flight, and it required much tact to guide our camels clear of danger. Whoever and whatever fell, remained on the ground; that many were lost became evident from the boxes and baggage which strewed the shingles. I had no means of ascertaining our exact number of killed and wounded; reports were contradictory, and exaggeration was unanimous. The robbers were said to be one hundred and fifty in number. Besides honour and glory, they looked forward to the loot, and to a feast of dead camel.

We then hurried down the valley in the blackness of night, between ribbed precipices, dark and angry. The torch smoke and the night fires formed a canopy sable above and livid below, with lightning-flashes from the burning shrubs and grim crowds hurrying as if pursued by the Angel of Death. The scene would have suited the theatrical canvas of Doré.

At dawn we issued from the Perilous Pass into the Wady Laymun, or Valley of Limes. A wondrous contrast! Nothing can be more soothing to the brain than the rich green foliage of its pomegranates and other fruit-trees, and from the base of the southern hills bursts a babbling stream whose

Chiare fresche e dolci acque

flow through the garden, cooling the pure air, and filling the ear with the most delicious of melodies, the gladdest sound which nature in these regions knows.

At noon we bade adieu to the charming valley, which, since remote times, has been a favourite resort of the Meccan citizens.

At sunset we recited the prayers suited to the occasion, straining our eyes, but all in vain, to catch sight of Meccah. About 1 a.m. I was aroused by a general excitement around me.

“Meccah! Meccah!” cried some voices. “The sanctuary, oh, the sanctuary!” exclaimed others, and all burst into loud “Labbayk!” not infrequently broken by sobs. With a heartfelt “Alhamdu lillah,” I looked from my litter and saw under the chandelier of the Southern Cross the dim outlines of a large city, a shade darker than the surrounding plain.

A cool east wind met us, showing that it was raining in the Taif hills, and at times sheet lightning played around the Prophet’s birthplace—​a common phenomenon, which Moslems regard as the testimony of Heaven to the sanctity of the spot.

Passing through a deep cutting, we entered the northern suburb of our destination. Then I made to the Shamiyah, or Syrian quarter, and finally, at 2 a.m., I found myself at the boy Mohammed’s house. We arrived on the morning of Sunday, September 11th, 1853, corresponding with Zu’l Hijjah 6th, 1269. Thus we had the whole day

to spend in visiting the haram, and a quiet night before the opening of the true pilgrim season, which would begin on the morrow.

The morrow dawned. After a few hours of sleep and a ceremonial ablution, we donned the pilgrim garb, and with loud and long “Labbayk!” we hastened to the Bayt Ullah, or House of Allah, as the great temple of Meccah is called.

At the bottom of our street was the outer Bab El Salam, or Gate of Security, looking towards the east, and held to be, of all the thirty-nine, the most auspicious entrance for a first visit.

Here we descended several steps, for the level of the temple has been preserved, whilst the foundations of the city have been raised by the decay of ages. We then passed through a shady colonnade divided into aisles, here four, and in the other sides three, pillars deep. These cloisters are a forest of columns upwards of five hundred and fifty in number, and in shape and material they are as irregular as trees. The outer arches of the colonnade are ogives, and every four support a small dome like half an orange, and white with plaster: some reckon one hundred and twenty, others one hundred and fifty, and Meccan superstition declares they cannot be counted. The rear of the cloisters rests upon an outer wall of cut stone, finished with pinnacles, or Arab battlements, and at different points in it rise seven minarets. These are tall towers much less bulky than ours, partly in facets, circular, and partly cylindrical, built

at distinct epochs, and somewhat tawdrily banded with gaudy colours.

This vast colonnade surrounds a large unroofed and slightly irregular oblong, which may be compared with an exaggeration of the Palais Royal, Paris. This sanded area is six hundred and fifty feet long by five hundred and twenty-five broad, dotted with small buildings grouped round a common centre, and is crossed by eight narrow lines of flagged pavement. Towards the middle of it, one hundred and fifteen paces from the northern colonnade and eighty-eight from the southern, and based upon an irregularly oval pavement of fine close grey gneiss, or granite, rises the far-famed Kaabah, or inner temple, its funereal pall contrasting vividly with the sunlit walls and the yellow precipices of the city.

Behold it at last, the bourn of long and weary travel, realising the plans and hopes of many and many a year! This, then, is the kibbal, or direction, towards which every Moslem has turned in prayer since the days of Mohammed, and which for long ages before the birth of Christianity was reverenced by the patriarchs of the East.

No wonder that the scene is one of the wildest excitement! Here are worshippers clinging to the curtain and sobbing as though their hearts would break; here some poor wretch with arms thrown high, so that his beating breast may touch the stone of the house, appears ready to faint, and there men prostrate themselves on the pavement, rubbing their

foreheads against the stones, shedding floods of tears, and pouring forth frenzied ejaculations. The most careless, indeed, never contemplate it for the first time without fear and awe. There is a popular jest against new-comers that in the presence of the Kaabah they generally inquire the direction of prayer, although they have all their lives been praying towards it as the early Christian fronted Jerusalem.

But we must look more critically at the celebrated shrine.

The word Kaabah means a cube, a square, a maison carrée. It is called Bayt Ullah (House of God) because according to the Koran it is “certainly the first temple erected for mankind.” It is also known as the “Bride of Meccah,” probably from the old custom of typifying the Church Visible by a young married woman—​hence probably its face-veil, its covering, and its guard of eunuchs. Externally it is a low tower of fine grey granite laid in horizontal courses of irregular depth; the stones are tolerably fitted, and are not cemented. It shows no signs of decay, and indeed, in its present form, it dates only from 1627. The shape is rather a trapezoid than a square, being forty feet long by thirty-five broad and forty-five high, the flat roof having a cubit of depression from south-west to north-east, where a gold or gilt spout discharges the drainage. The foundation is a marble base two feet high, and presents a sharp inclined plane.

All the Kaabah except the roof is covered with

a kiswatu garment. It is a pall-like hanging, the work of a certain family at Cairo, and annually renewed. The ground is dully black, and Koranic verses interwoven into it are shining black. There is a door curtain of gold thread upon red silk, and a bright band of similar material, called the face-veil of the house, two feet broad, runs horizontally round the Kaabah at two-thirds of its height. This covering when new is tucked up by ropes from the roof; when old it is fastened to large metal rings welded into the basement of the building. When this peculiar adjunct to the shrine is swollen and moved by the breeze, pious Moslems believe that angels are waving their wings over it.

The only entrance to the Kaabah is a narrow door of aloe wood, in the eastern side. It is now raised seven feet, and one enters it hoisted up in men’s arms. In A.D. 686, when the whole building took its present shape, it was level with the external ground. The Kaabah opens gratis ten or twelve times a year, when crowds rush in and men lose their lives. Wealthy pilgrims obtain the favour by paying for it. Scrupulous Moslems do not willingly enter it, as they may never afterwards walk about barefooted, take up fire with their fingers, or tell lies. It is not every one who can afford such luxuries as slippers, tongs, and truth. Nothing is simpler than the interior of the building. The walls are covered with handsome red damask, flowered over with gold, tucked up beyond the pilgrim’s reach. The flat roof apparently

rests upon three posts of carved and ornamented aloe wood.

Between the three pillars, and about nine feet from the ground, run metal bars, to which hang lamps, said to be gold. At the northern corner there is a dwarf door; it leads into a narrow passage and to the dwarf staircase by which the servants ascend to the roof. In the south-eastern corner is a quadrant-shaped sofa, also of aloe wood, and on it sits the guardian of the shrine.

The Hajar el Aswad, or black stone, of which all the world talks, is fixed in the south-eastern angle outside the house, between four and five feet from the ground, the more conveniently to be kissed. It shows a black and slaggy surface, glossy and pitch-like, worn and polished by myriads of lips; its diameter is about seven inches, and it appears only in the central aperture of a gilt or gold dish. The depth to which it extends into the wall is unknown: most people say two cubits.

Believers declare, with poetry, if not with reason, that in the day of Atast, when Allah made covenant concerning the souls that animate the sons of Adam, the instrument was placed in a fragment of the lower heaven, then white as snow, now black by reason of men’s sins. The rationalistic infidel opines this sacred corner-stone to be a common aerolite, a remnant of the stone-worship which considered it the symbol of power presiding over universal reproduction, and inserted by Mohammed into the edifice of El Islam.

This relic has fared ill; it has been stolen and broken, and has suffered other accidents.

Another remarkable part of the Kaabah is that between the door and the black stone. It is called the multazem, or “attached to,” because here the pilgrim should apply his bosom, weep bitterly, and beg pardon for his sins. In ancient times, according to some authors, it was the place for contracting solemn engagements.

The pavement which surrounds the Kaabah is about eight inches high, and the inside is marked by an oval balustrade of some score and a half of slender gilt metal pillars. Between every two of these cross rods support oil lamps, with globes of white and green glasses. Gas is much wanted at Meccah! At the north end, and separated by a space of about five feet from the building, is El Hatrim, or the “broken,” a dwarf semi-circular wall, whose extremities are on a line with the sides of the Kaabah. In its concavity are two slabs of a finer stone, which cover the remains of Ishmael, and of his mother Hagar. The former, I may be allowed to remark, is regarded by Moslems as the eldest son and legitimate successor of Abraham, in opposition to the Jews, who prefer Isaac, the child of Sarai the free woman. It is an old dispute and not likely to be soon settled.

Besides the Kaabah, ten minor structures dot the vast quadrangle. The most important is the massive covering of the well Zemzem. The word means “the murmuring,” and here the water gushed from

the ground where the child Ishmael was shuffling his feet in the agonies of thirst. The supply is abundant, but I found it nauseously bitter; its external application, however, when dashed like a douche over the pilgrim, causes sins to fall from his soul like dust.

On the south-east, and near the well, are the Kubbatayn, two domes crowning heavy ugly buildings, vulgarly painted with red, green, and yellow bands; one of these domes is used as a library. Directly opposite the Kaabah door is a short ladder or staircase of carved wood, which is wheeled up to the entrance door on the rare occasions when it is opened. North of it is the inner Bab El Salam, or Gate of Security, under which the pilgrims pass in their first visit to the shrine. It is a slightly built and detached arch of stone, about fifteen feet of space in width and eighteen in height, somewhat like our meaningless triumphal arches, which come from no place and go nowhere. Between this and the Kaabah stands the Makam Ibraham, or Station of Abraham, a small building containing the stone which supported the Friend of Allah when he was building the house. It served for a scaffold, rising and falling of itself as required, and it preserved the impressions of Abraham’s feet, especially of the two big toes. Devout and wealthy pilgrims fill the cavities with water, which they rub over their eyes and faces with physical as well as spiritual refreshment. To the north of it is a fine white marble pulpit with narrow steps leading to the preacher’s post, which is supported by a gilt and

sharply tapering steeple. Lastly, opposite the northern, the western, and the south-eastern sides of the Kaabah, stand three ornamental pavilions, with light sloping roofs resting on slender pillars. From these the representatives of the three orthodox schools direct the prayers of their congregations. The Shafli, or fourth branch, collect between the corner of the well Zemzem and the Station of Abraham, whilst the heretical sects lay claim to certain mysterious and invisible places of reunion.

I must now describe what the pilgrims do.

Entering with the boy Mohammed, who acted as my mutawwif, or circuit guide, we passed through the inner Gate of Security, uttering various religious formulas, and we recited the usual two-prostration prayer in honour of the mosque at the Shafli place of worship. We then proceeded to the angle of the house, in which the black stone is set, and there recited other prayers before beginning tawaf, or circumambulation. The place was crowded with pilgrims, all males—​women rarely appear during the hours of light. Bareheaded and barefooted they passed the giant pavement, which, smooth as glass and hot as sun can make it, surrounds the Kaabah, suggesting the idea of perpetual motion. Meccans declare that at no time of the day or night is the place ever wholly deserted.

Circumambulation consists of seven shauts, or rounds, of the house, to which the left shoulder is turned, and each noted spot has its peculiar prayers.

The three first courses are performed at a brisk trot, like the French pas gymnastique. The four latter are leisurely passed. The origin of this custom is variously accounted for. The general idea is that Mohammed directed his followers thus to show themselves strong and active to the infidels, who had declared them to have been weakened by the air of El Medinah.

When I had performed my seven courses I fought my way through the thin-legged host of Bedouins, and kissed the black stone, rubbing my hands and forehead upon it. There were some other unimportant devotions, which concluded with a douche at the well Zemzem, and with a general almsgiving. The circumambulation ceremony is performed several times in the day, despite the heat. It is positive torture.

The visit to the Kaabah, however, does not entitle a man to be called haji. The essence of pilgrimage is to be present at the sermon pronounced by the preacher on the Holy Hill of Arafat, distant about twelve miles from, and to the east of, Meccah. This performed even in a state of insensibility is valid, and to die by the roadside is martyrdom, saving all the pains and penalties of the tomb.

The visit, however, must be paid on the 8th, 9th, and the 10th of the month Zu’l Hijjah (the Lord of Pilgrimage), the last month of the Arab year. At this time there is a great throb through the framework of Moslem society from Gibraltar to Japan, and those who cannot visit the Holy City content themselves

with prayers and sacrifices at home. As the Moslem computation is lunar, the epoch retrocedes through the seasons in thirty-three years. When I visited Meccah, the rites began on September 12th and ended on September 14th, 1853. In 1863 the opening day was June 8th; the closing, June 10th.

My readers will observe that the modern pilgrimage ceremonies of the Moslem are evidently a commemoration of Abraham and his descendants. The practices of the Father of the Faithful when he issued from the land of Chaldea seem to have formed a religious standard in the mind of the Arab law-giver, who preferred Abraham before all the other prophets, himself alone excepted.

The day after our arrival at Meccah was the Yaum El Tarwiyah (the Day of Carrying Water), the first of the three which compose the pilgrimage season proper. From the earliest dawn the road was densely thronged with white-robed votaries, some walking, others mounted, and all shouting “Labbayk!” with all their might. As usual the scene was one of strange contrasts. Turkish dignitaries on fine horses, Bedouins bestriding swift dromedaries, the most uninteresting soldiery, and the most conspicuous beggars. Before nightfall I saw no less than five exhausted and emaciated devotees give up the ghost and become “martyrs.”

The first object of interest lies on the right-hand side of the road. This was a high conical hill, known in books as Tebel Hora, but now called Tebel Nur,

or Mountain of Light, because there Mohammed’s mind was first illuminated. The Cave of Revelation is still shown. It looks upon a wild scene. Eastward and southward the vision is limited by abrupt hills. In the other directions there is a dreary landscape, with here and there a stunted acacia or a clump of brushwood growing on rough ground, where stony glens and valleys of white sand, most of them water-courses after the rare rains, separate black, grey, and yellow rocks.

Passing over El Akabah (the Steeps), an important spot in classical Arab history, we entered Muna, a hot hollow three or four miles from the barren valley of Meccah. It is a long, narrow, straggling village of mud and stone houses, single storied and double storied, built in the common Arab style. We were fated to see it again. At noon we passed Mugdalifah, or the Approacher, known to El Islam as the Minaret without the Mosque, and thus distinguished from a neighbouring building, the Mosque without the Minaret. There is something peculiarly impressive in the tall, solitary, tower springing from the desolate valley of gravel. No wonder that the old Arab conquerors loved to give the high-sounding name of this oratory to distant points in their extensive empire!

Here, as we halted for the noon prayer, the Damascus caravan appeared in all its glory. The mahmal, or litter, sent by the Sultan to represent his presence, no longer a framework as on the line of march, now

flashed in the sun all gold and green, and the huge white camel seemed to carry it with pride. Around the moving host of peaceful pilgrims hovered a crowd of mounted Bedouins armed to the teeth. These people often visit Arafat for blood revenge; nothing can be more sacrilegious than murder at such a season, but they find the enemy unprepared. As their draperies floated in the wind and their faces were swathed and veiled with their head-kerchiefs, it was not always easy to distinguish the sex of the wild beings who hurried past at speed. The women were unscrupulous, and many were seen emulating the men in reckless riding, and in striking with their sticks at every animal in their way.

Presently, after safely threading the gorge called the pass of the Two Rugged Hills, and celebrated for accidents, we passed between the two “signs”—​whitewashed pillars, or, rather, tall towers, their walls surmounted with pinnacles. They mark the limits of the Arafat Plain—​the Standing-Ground, as it is called. Here is sight of the Holy Hill of Arafat, standing boldly out from the fair blue sky, and backed by the azure peaks of Taif. All the pilgrim host raised loud shouts of “Labbayk!” The noise was that of a storm.

We then sought our quarters in the town of tents scattered over two or three miles of plain at the southern foot of the Holy Hill, and there we passed a turbulent night of prayer.

I estimated the total number of devotees to be fifty thousand; usually it may amount to eighty thousand.

The Arabs, however, believe that the total of those “standing on Arafat” cannot be counted, and that if less than six hundred thousand human beings are gathered, the angels descend and make up the sum. Even in A.D. 1853 my Moslem friends declared that a hundred and fifty thousand immortal beings were present in mortal shape.

The Mount of Mercy, which is also called Tebel Ilál, or Mount of Wrestling in Prayer, is physically considered a mass of coarse granite, split into large blocks and thinly covered with a coat of withered thorns. It rises abruptly to a height of a hundred and eighty to two hundred feet from the gravelly flat, and it is separated by a sandy vale from the last spur of the Taif hills. The dwarf wall encircling it gives the barren eminence a somewhat artificial look, which is not diminished by the broad flight of steps winding up the southern face, and by the large stuccoed platform near the summit, where the preacher delivers the “Sermon of the Standing.”

Arafat means “recognition,” and owes its name and honours to a well-known legend. When our first parents were expelled from Paradise, which, according to Moslems, is in the lowest of the seven heavens, Adam descended at Ceylon, Eve upon Arafat. The former, seeking his wife, began a journey to which the earth owes its present mottled appearance. Wherever he placed his foot a town arose in the fulness of time; between the strides all has remained country. Wandering for many years he came to the

Holy Hill of Arafat, the Mountain of Mercy, where our common mother was continually calling upon his name, and their recognition of each other there gave the place its name. Upon the hill-top, Adam, instructed by the Archangel Gabriel, erected a prayer-station, and in its neighbourhood the pair abode until death.

It is interesting to know that Adam’s grave is shown at Muna, the village through which we had passed that day. The mosque covering his remains is called El Kharf; his head is at one end of the long wall, his feet are at the other, and the dome covers his middle. Our first father’s forehead, we are told, originally brushed the skies, but this stature being found inconvenient, it was dwarfed to a hundred and fifty feet. Eve, again, is buried near the port of Meccah—​Jeddah, which means the “grandmother.” She is supposed to lie, like a Moslemah, fronting the Kaabah, with her head southwards, her feet to the north, and her right cheek resting on her right hand. Whitewashed and conspicuous to the voyager from afar is the dome opening to the west, and covering a square stone fancifully carved to represent her middle. Two low parallel walls about eighteen feet apart define the mortal remains of our mother, who, as she measured a hundred and twenty paces from head to waist and eighty from waist to heel, must have presented in life a very peculiar appearance. The archæologist will remember that the great idol of Jeddah in the age of the Arab litholatry was a “long stone.”

The next day, the 9th of the month Zu’l Hijjah, is known as Yaum Arafat (the Day of Arafat). After ablution and prayer, we visited sundry interesting places on the Mount of Mercy, and we breakfasted late and copiously, as we could not eat again before nightfall. Even at dawn the rocky hill was crowded with pilgrims, principally Bedouins and wild men, who had secured favourable places for hearing the discourse. From noon onwards the hum and murmur of the multitude waxed louder, people swarmed here and there, guns fired, and horsemen and camelmen rushed about in all directions. A discharge of cannon about 2 p.m. announced that the ceremony of wukuf, or standing on the Holy Hill, was about to commence.

The procession was headed by the retinue of the Sherif, or Prince, of Meccah, the Pope of El Islam. A way for him was cleared through the dense mob of spectators by a cloud of macebearers and by horsemen of the desert carrying long bamboo spears tufted with black ostrich feathers. These were followed by led horses, the proudest blood of Arabia, and by a stalwart band of negro matchlock men. Five red and green flags immediately preceded the Prince, who, habited in plain pilgrim garb, rode a fine mule. The only sign of his rank was a fine green silk and gold umbrella, held over his head by one of his slaves. He was followed by his family and courtiers, and the rear was brought up by a troop of Bedouins on horses and dromedaries. The picturesque background of the scene was the granite hill, covered, wherever foot

could be planted, with half-naked devotees, crying “Labbayk!” at the top of their voices, and violently waving the skirts of their gleaming garments. It was necessary to stand literally upon Arafat, but we did not go too near, and a little way off sighted the preacher sitting, after the manner of Mohammed, on his camel and delivering the sermon. Slowly the cortège wound its way towards the Mount of Mercy. Exactly at afternoon prayer-time, the two mahmal, or ornamental litters, of Damascus and Cairo, took their station side by side on a platform in the lower part of the hill. A little above them stood the Prince of Meccah, within hearing of the priest. The pilgrims crowded around them. The loud cries were stilled, and the waving of white robes ceased.

Then the preacher began the “Sermon of the Mount,” which teaches the devotees the duties of the season. At first it was spoken without interruption; then: loud “Amin” and volleys of “Labbayk” exploded at certain intervals. At last the breeze became laden with a purgatorial chorus of sobs, cries, and shrieks. Even the Meccans, who, like the sons of other Holy Cities, are hardened to holy days, thought it proper to appear affected, and those unable to squeeze out a tear buried their faces in the corners of their pilgrim cloths. I buried mine—​at intervals.

The sermon lasted about three hours, and when sunset was near, the preacher gave the israf, or permission to depart. Then began that risky part of the ceremony known as the “hurrying from

Arafat.” The pilgrims all rushed down the Mount of Mercy with cries like trumpet blasts, and took the road to Muna. Every man urged his beast to the uttermost over the plain, which bristled with pegs, and was strewn with struck tents. Pedestrians were trampled, litters were crushed, and camels were thrown; here a woman, there a child, was lost, whilst night coming on without twilight added to the chaotic confusion of the scene. The pass of the Two Rugged Hills, where all the currents converged, was the crisis, after which progress was easier. We spent, however, at least three hours in reaching Mugdalifah, and there we resolved to sleep. The minaret was brilliantly illuminated, but my companions apparently thought more of rest and supper than of prayer. The night was by no means peaceful nor silent. Lines of laden beasts passed us every ten minutes, devotees guarding their boxes from plunderers gave loud tokens of being wide awake, and the shouting of travellers continued till near dawn.

The 10th of Zu’l Hijjah, the day following the sermon, is called Yaum Vahr (the Day of Camel Killing), or EEd El Kurban (the Festival of the Sacrifice), the Kurban Bairam of the Turks. It is the most solemn of the year, and it holds amongst Moslems the rank which Easter Day claims from Christendom.

We awoke at daybreak, and exchanged with all around us the compliments of the season—​“EEd Kum mubarak”—​“May your festival be auspicious.” Then each man gathered for himself seven jamrah

(bits of granite the size of a small bean), washed them in “seven waters,” and then proceeded to the western end of the long street which forms the village of Muna. Here is the place called the Great Devil, to distinguish it from two others, the Middle Devil and the First Devil, or the easternmost. The outward and visible signs are nothing but short buttresses of whitewashed masonry placed against a rough wall in the main thoroughfare. Some derive the rite from the days of Adam, who put to flight the Evil One by pelting him, as Martin Luther did with the inkstand. Others opine that the ceremony is performed in imitation of Abraham, who, meeting Sathanas at Muna, and being tempted to disobedience in the matter of sacrificing his son, was commanded by Allah to drive him away with stones. Pilgrims approach if possible within five paces of the pillar, and throw at it successfully seven pebbles, holding each one between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, either extended, or shooting it as a boy does a marble. At every cast they exclaim: “In the name of Allah, and Allah is almighty! In hatred to the Fiend and to his shame I do this!” It is one of the local miracles that all the pebbles thus flung return by spiritual agency whence they came.

As Satan was malicious enough to appear in a rugged lane hardly forty feet broad, the place was rendered dangerous by the crowd. On one side stood the devil’s buttress and wall, bristling with wild men and boys. Opposite it was a row of

temporary booths tenanted by barbers, and the space between swarmed with pilgrims, all trying to get at the enemy of mankind. A monkey might have run over the heads of the mob. Amongst them were horsemen flogging their steeds, Bedouins urging frightened camels, and running footmen opening paths for the grandees, their masters, by assault and battery. We congratulated each other, the boy Mohammed and I, when we escaped with trifling hurts. Some Moslem travellers assert, by way of miracle, that no man was ever killed during the ceremony of rajm, or lapidation. Several Meccans, however, assured me that fatal accidents are by no means rare.

After throwing the seven pebbles, we doffed our pilgrim garb, and returned to ihlal, or normal attire.

The barber placed us upon an earthen bench in the open shop, shaved our heads, trimmed our beards, and pared our nails, causing us to repeat after him: “I purpose throwing off my ceremonial attire, according to the practice of the Prophet—​whom may Allah bless and preserve! O Allah, grant to me for every hair a light, a purity, and a generous reward! In the name of Allah, and Allah is almighty!” The barber then addressed me: “Naiman”—​“Pleasure to thee!”—​and I responded: “Allah, give thee pleasure!” Now we could at once use cloths to cover our heads, and slippers to defend our feet from fiery sun and hot soil, and we might safely twirl our mustachios and stroke our beards—​placid enjoyments

of which we had been deprived by the ceremonial law.

The day ended with the sacrifice of an animal to commemorate the substitution of a ram for Ishmael, the father of the Arabs. The place of the original offering is in the Muna Valley, and it is still visited by pilgrims. None but the Kruma, the Pacha, and high dignitaries slaughter camels. These beasts are killed by thrusting a knife into the interval between the throat and the breast, the muscles of the wind-pipe being too hard and thick to cut; their flesh is lawful to the Arabs, but not to the Hebrews. Oxen, sheep, and goats are made to face the Kaabah, and their throats are cut, the sacrificer ejaculating: “In the name of Allah! Allah is almighty!” It is meritorious to give away the victim without eating any part of it, and thus crowds of poor pilgrims were enabled to regale themselves.

There is a terrible want of cleanliness in this sacrifice. Thousands of animals are cut up and left unburied in this “Devil’s Punchbowl.” I leave the rest to the imagination. Pilgrims usually pass in the Muna Valley the Days of Flesh Drying—​namely, the 11th, the 12th, and the 13th of the month Zu’l Hijjah—​and on the two former the Great, the Middle, and the Little Satan are again pelted. The standing miracles of the place are that beasts and birds cannot prey there, nor can flies settle upon provisions exposed in the markets. But animals are frightened away by the bustling crowds, and flies are

found in myriads. The revolting scene, aided by a steady temperature of 120° Fahr., has more than once caused a desolating pestilence at Meccah: the cholera of 1865 has been traced back to it; in fine, the safety of Europe demands the reformation of this filthy slaughter-house, which is still the same.

The pilgrimage rites over, we returned to Meccah for a short sojourn. Visitors are advised, and wisely, not to linger long in the Holy City after the conclusion of the ceremonies. Use soon spoils the marvels, and, after the greater excitements, all becomes flat, stale, and unprofitable. The rite called umrah, or the “little pilgrimage,” and the running between Mounts Safa and Marwah, in imitation of Hagar seeking her child, remain to be performed. And there are many spots of minor sanctity to be visited, such as the Jannal El Maala, or Cemetery of the Saints, the mosque where the genii paid fealty to the Prophet, the house where Mohammed was born, that in which he lived with his first wife, Khadijah, and in which his daughter Fatimah and his grandsons Hasan and Hussayn saw the light, the place where the stone gave the founder of El Islam God-speed, and about a dozen others. Men, however, either neglect them or visit them cursorily, and think of little now beyond returning home.

I must briefly sketch the Holy City before we bid it adieu.

Meccah, also called Beccah, the words being synonymous, signifies according to some a “place

of great concourse,” is built between 21° and 22° of N. Lat. and in 39° E. Long. (Greenwich).[5] It is therefore more decidedly tropical than El Medinah, and the parallel corresponds with that of Cuba. The origin of the Bayt Ullah is lost in the glooms of time, but Meccah as it now stands is a comparatively modern place, built in A.D. 450 by Kusayr the Kuraysh. It is a city colligated together like Jerusalem and Rome. The site is a winding valley in the midst of many little hills; the effect is that it offers no general coup d’œil. Thus the views of Meccah known to Europe are not more like Meccah than like Cairo or Bombay.

The utmost length of the Holy City is two miles and a half from the Mab’dah, or northern suburb, to the southern mound called Jiyad. The extreme breadth may be three-quarters between the Abu Kubays hill on the east and the Kaykaan, or Kuwaykaan, eminence on the west. The mass of

houses clusters at the western base of Abu Kubays. The mounts called Safa and Marwah extend from Abu Kubays to Kayhaan, and are about seven hundred and eighty cubits apart. The great temple is near the centre of the city, as the Kaabah is near the middle of the temple. Upon Jebel Jiyad the Greater there is a fort held by Turkish soldiery; it seems to have no great strength. In olden time Meccah had walls and gates; now there are none.

The ground in and about the Holy City is sandy and barren, the hills are rocky and desert. Meat, fruits, and vegetables must be imported viâ Jeddah, the port, distant about forty-five miles. The climate is exceedingly hot and rarely tempered by the sea breeze. I never suffered so much from temperature as during my fortnight at Meccah.

The capital of the Hejaz, which is about double the size of El Medinah, has all the conveniences of a city. The streets are narrow, deep, and well watered. The houses are durable and well built of brick mixed with granite and sandstone, quarried in the neighbouring hills. Some of them are five stories high, and more like fortresses than dwelling-places. The lime, however, is bad, and after heavy rain, sometimes ten days in the year, those of inferior structure fall in ruins. None but the best have open-work of brick and courses of coloured stone. The roofs are made flat to serve for sleeping-places, the interiors are sombre to keep out the heat; they have jutting upper stories, as in the old town of Brazil, and huge latticed

hanging balconies—​the maswrabujah of Cairo, here called the shamiyah—​project picturesquely into the streets and the small squares in which the city abounds.

The population is guessed at forty-five thousand souls. The citizens appeared to me more civilised and more vicious than those of El Medinah, and their habit of travel makes them a worldly-wise and God-forgetting and Mammonist sort of folk. “Circumambulate and run between Mounts Safa and Marwah and do the seven deadly sins,” is a satire popularly levelled against them. Their redeeming qualities are courage, bonhomie, manners at once manly and suave, a fiery sense of honour, strong family affections, and a near approach to what we call patriotism. The dark half of the picture is pride, bigotry, irreligion, greed of gain, debauchery, and prodigal ostentation.

Unlike his brother of El Medinah, the Meccan is a swarthy man. He is recognised throughout the east by three parallel gashes down each cheek, from the exterior angles of the eyes to the corners of the mouth. These mashali, as they call them, are clean contrary to the commands of El Islam. The people excuse the practice by saying that it preserves their children from being kidnapped, and it is performed the fortieth day after birth.

The last pilgrimage ceremony performed at Meccah is the Tawaf el Widaaf, or circumambulation of farewell, a solemn occasion. The devotee walks round the House of Allah, he drinks the water of

the Zemzem well, he kisses the threshold of the door, and he stands for some time with his face and bosom pressed against the multazem wall, clinging to the curtain, reciting religious formulas, blessing the Prophet, weeping if possible, but at least groaning. He then leaves the temple, backing out of it with many salutations till he reaches the Gate of Farewell, when, with a parting glance at the Kaabah, he turns his face towards home.

I will not dwell upon my return journey—​how, accompanied by the boy Mohammed, I reached Jeddah on the Red Sea, how my countrymen refused for a time to believe me, and how I sadly parted with my Moslem friends. My wanderings ended for a time, and, worn out with fatigue and with the fatal fiery heat, I steamed out of Jeddah on September 26th in the little Dwarka, and on October 3rd, 1853, after six months’ absence from England, I found myself safely anchored in Suez Harbour.

[5] Both latitude and longitude are disputed points, as the following table shows. The Arabs, it must be remembered, placed the first meridian at the Fortunate Islands:

Humbodlt, therefore, is hardly right to say: “L’erreur est que le Mecque paraissait déjà aux Arabes de 19° trop a l’est” (“Correspondence,” p. 459).

A RIDE TO HARAR
1854-1855

A RIDE TO HARAR

THE pilgrimage to Meccah being a thing of the past, and the spirit of unrest still strong within me, I next turned my thoughts to the hot depths of the Dark Continent. Returning to Bombay early in 1854, I volunteered to explore the Land of the Somali, the eastern horn of Africa, extending from Cape Guardafui (N. Lat. 12°) to near the Equator. For many years naval officers had coasted along it; many of our ships had been lost there, and we had carefully shot their wreckers and plunderers. But no modern traveller had ventured into the wild depths, and we were driven for information to the pages of Father Lobo, of Salt, and de Rienzi.

My project aimed at something higher; and indeed it was this journey which led directly to the discovery of the sources of the Nile, so far as they are yet discovered.

I had read in Ptolemy (I., par. 9) the following words: “Then concerning the navigation between the Aromata Promontory (i.e., Guardafui) and Rhapta (the ‘place of seven ships,’ generally supposed to be north of Kilwa), Marianus of Tyre declares that a certain Diogenes, one of those sailing to India …

when near Aromata and having the Troglodytic region on the right (some of the Somali were still cave-dwellers), reached, after twenty-five days’ march, the lakes (plural and not dual) whence the Nile flows and of which Point Raphta is a little south.”

This remarkable passage was to me a revelation; it was the mot de l’enigme, the way to make the egg stand upright, the rending of the veil of Isis. The feat for which Julius Cæsar would have relinquished a civil war, the secret which kings from Nero to Mahommet Ali vainly attempted to solve, the discovery of which travellers, from Herodotus to Bruce, have risked their lives, was reduced to comparative facility. For the last three thousand years explorers had been working, literally and metaphorically, against the stream, where disease and savagery had exhausted health and strength, pocket and patience, at the very beginning of the end. I therefore resolved to reverse the operation, and thus I hoped to see the young Nile and to stultify a certain old proverb.

The Court of Directors of the Honourable East India Company unwillingly sanctioned my project: I was too clever by half, and they suspected that it concealed projects of annexation or conquest. All that my political views aimed at was to secure the supremacy of my country in the Red Sea. Despite Lord Palmerston and Robert Stephenson, I foresaw that the Suez Canal would be a success, and I proposed to purchase for the sum of £10,000 all the ports on the East African shore as far south as Berbera.

This was refused; I was sternly reprimanded, and the result will presently appear.

In July of the same year we reached Aden from Bombay. Our little party was composed of Lieutenant Herne and Lieutenant Stroyan, with myself in command. Before setting out I permitted Lieutenant J. H. Speke to join us; he was in search of African sport, and, being a stranger, he was glad to find companions. This officer afterwards accompanied me to Central Africa, and died at Bath on Thursday, September 15th, 1864.

Aden—​“eye of Yemen,” the “coal-hole of the East” (as we call it), the “dry and squalid city” of Abulfeda—​gave me much trouble. It is one of the worst, if not the worst, places of residence to which Anglo-Indians can be condemned. The town occupies the crater floor of an extinct volcano whose northern wall, a grim rock of bare black basalt known as Jebel Shamsham, is said to be the sepulchre of Kabil, or Cain, and certainly the First Murderer lies in an appropriate spot. Between May and October the climate is dreadful. The storms of unclean dust necessitate candles at noon, and not a drop of rain falls, whilst high in the red hot air you see the clouds rolling towards the highlands of the interior, where their blessed loads will make Arabia happy. In Yemen—​Arabia Felix—​there are bubbling springs and fruits and vineyards, sweet waters, fertilising suns, and cool nights. In Aden and its neighbourhood all is the abomination of desolation.

The miseries of our unfortunate troops might have been lightened had we originally occupied the true key of the Red Sea, the port of Berbera on the Somali coast opposite Aden. But the step had been taken; the authorities would not say “Peccavi” and undo the past. Therefore we died of fever and dysentery; the smallest wound became a fearful ulcer which destroyed limb or life. Even in health, existence without appetite or sleep was a pest. I had the audacity to publish these facts, and had once more to pay the usual penalty for telling the truth.

The English spirit suffers from confinement behind any but wooden walls, and the Aden garrison displayed a timidity which astonished me. The fierce faces, the screaming voices, and the frequent faction fights of the savage Somali had cowed our countrymen, and they were depressed by a “peace at any price” policy. Even the Brigadier commanding, General (afterwards Sir) James Outram, opposed my explorations, and the leader was represented as a madman leading others to a certain and cruel death.

I at once changed my plans. To prove that the journey presented no real danger, I offered to visit alone what was considered the most perilous part of the country and explore Harar, the capital of the terra incognita. But to prevent my being detained meanwhile, I stationed my companions on the African coast with orders to seize and stop the inland caravans—​a measure which would have had the effect of releasing me. This is a serious

danger in Abyssinian travel: witness the case of Pedro Cavilham in 1499, and the unfortunate Consul Cameron in our own day. Those “nameless Ethiopians,” the older savages, sacrificed strangers to their gods. The modern only keep them in irons, flog them, and starve them.

At the time I went few but professed geographers knew even the name of Harar, or suspected that within three hundred miles of Aden there is a counterpart of ill-famed Timbuctu. Travellers of all nations had attempted it in vain; men of science, missionaries, and geographers had all failed. It was said that some Hamitu prophet had read decline and fall in the first footsteps of the Frank, and that the bigoted barbarians had threatened death to the infidel caught within their walls. Yet it was worth seeing, especially in those days, when few were the unvisited cities of the world. It has a stirring history, a peculiar race and language, it coins its own money, and it exports the finest coffee known. Finally it is the southernmost town in Tropical Africa.

On April 28th, 1854, in an open boat, I left Aden alone, without my companions, re-becoming El Hajj Abdullah, the Arab. My attendants were Mohammed and Guled, two Somali policemen bound to keep my secret for the safety of their own throats. I afterwards engaged one Abdy Abokr, a kind of hedge-priest, whose nickname was the “End of Time,” meaning the ne plus ultra of villainy. He was a caution—​a bad tongue, a mischievous brain, covetous and

wasteful, treacherous as a hyena, revengeful as a camel, timorous as a jackal.

Three days of summer sail on the “blind billows” and the “singing waves” of the romantic Arab geographers landed us at Zayla, alias Andal, the classical Sinus Avaliticus, to the south-west of Aden. During the seventh century it was the capital of a kingdom which measured forty-three by forty days’ march; now the Bedouin rides up to its walls. The site is the normal Arabo-African scene, a strip of sulphur-yellow sand with a deep blue dome above and a foreground of indigo-coloured sea; behind it lies the country, a reeking desert of loose white sand and brown clay, thinly scattered with thorny shrub and tree. The buildings are a dozen large houses of mud and coralline rubble painfully whitewashed. There are six mosques—​green little battlemented things with the Wahhali dwarf tower by way of minaret, and two hundred huts of dingy palm-leaf.

The population of fifteen thousand souls has not a good name—​Zayla boasting or vanity and Kurayeh pride is a proverb. They are managed by forty Turkish soldiers under a Somali Governor, the Hajj Shermarkuy, meaning “one who sees no harm.” The tall old man was a brave in his youth; he could manage four spears, and his sword-cut was known. He always befriended English travellers.

The only thing in favour of Zayla is its cheapness. A family of six persons can live well on £30 per

annum. Being poor, the people are idle, and the hateful “Inshalla bukra”—​“To-morrow if Allah pleases”—​and the Arab “tenha paciencia,” “amanha,” and “espere um pouco” is the rule.

I was delayed twenty-seven days whilst a route was debated upon, mules were sent for, camels were bought, and an abban, or protector-guide, was secured. Hereabouts no stranger could travel without such a patron, who was paid to defend his client’s life and property. Practically he took his money and ran away.