When we had been in Kabul about a fortnight, His Highness the AmÎr nearly lost the services of Mr. Pyne. It occurred in this way. We were riding along the lanes around Kabul, accompanied by a guard of troopers, and Mr. Pyne was lamenting that he had drank water for lunch. “There it was,” he said, “still deadly chill.” He certainly had water enough and to spare very shortly after. He had galloped on a little ahead towards the river, and when we turned the corner expecting to catch sight of him, he was nowhere to be seen. The Kabul river, swollen by rains and melting snow, was roaring and foaming by. I galloped along the bank expecting to see him. Hearing a shout, I looked back and saw one of the sowars, who was some yards behind me, jump off his horse and run to the bank, which was here some three or four feet above the river. I sprang off my horse and ran up just in time to see Pyne dragged out, dripping, by the lash of the soldier’s whip.

He was galloping, he said, along the path on the river bank when he came to a place where the bank was lower and the river partly overflowed it. Never thinking but what there was firm bottom he did not stop, and down his horse sunk till Pyne was up to his armpits in water, icy cold. The next minute the current swept him off, and he found himself under water near his horse’s heels, with the animal striking out violently in its endeavour to swim out. He came to the surface and tried to swim to the bank, but his arm caught in the rein and he and his horse were swept together to the middle of the stream. He got clear of the rein by sinking, and struck for the bank again, but found the current turned his head up stream. Meanwhile, his riding boots became filled with water, and his turban and clothes soaked. The current swept him along, but by violent exertion he reached the bank, here four or five feet high, caught at a root and shouted. The root was torn out, and again he was swept into midstream: things now seemed to be getting serious. He saw two men wrestling on the bank, and a priest on a tower calling people to prayer, but no one would look round at him. With the heavy turban weighing him down, and wet clothes impeding his action, he could with difficulty keep his head above water. His breath was going, and his muscles aching when he once more got under the bank. He saw me go galloping by, and shouted. The sowar who was near heard the shout, saw him, jumped off his horse, and threw him the lash of his whip.

Just under the bank his feet touched the bottom, and he stood up to his neck in water, holding on to the whip and panting to get enough breath to scramble up the bank. He was hauled out, dripping, and then we looked round for the horse. The poor brute was struggling and snorting, and being rapidly carried along midstream. Pyne ran along the bank and called to him. The animal turned his head, pricked up his ears, and struck vigorously for the shore. He reached the bank, and with two or three violent plunges scrambled up to dry land.

Pyne did not tell me all this on the river bank, for we mounted at once and galloped off to the workshops, so that he could get into dry clothes; then I heard the whole story.

No evil resulted, but the soldiers of the guard were informed that if Mr. Pyne had been drowned, their lives would have been forfeited—a strong inducement to a “guard” to be watchful and attentive.

I mentioned a “priest on a tower calling people to prayer.” There are several towers round about Kabul, mostly to the north-west of the city. They are not of great height, and I doubt if they were built originally for religious minarets, for they are not attached to any mosque or musjid. Probably they were originally watch-towers put up by the peasants to guard their crops and herds from local marauders. On the mountains near Kabul one sees stupendous minars which were built, it is said, by Alexander to mark the road through Afghanistan to India. One of these may be seen from Kabul on the distant peak of a mountain to the east of the Kabul valley; another can be seen west of Kabul, from the elevation of the Paghman hills.

Mosques, or, as they are called, musjids, are numerous in Kabul. Some are comparatively large, with a courtyard and a domed roof with a minaret on each side. These have either a stream of water near, or a tank or well, for the use of those who come to pray: for Mahomedans invariably wash hands, feet, and face before they pray, and cleanse also the nostrils and mouth. There is a rush matting on the floor, and the worshippers leave their shoes outside, as they do when entering any house. Inside, the musjid is very empty and bare.

In the west wall is the niche, or mihrab, marking the direction of Mecca: or the Kibla, so called because of the Kibla or stone of Mahomed in Mecca, and towards this the worshippers turn their faces when they pray. In the larger musjids there is also a pulpit or platform with three steps, called a Mimbar, from which the Imam or preacher recites his Sabbath oration, Friday being the Sabbath. The AmÎr’s new rupee is stamped on one side with a decorative representation of a musjid with a three-stepped pulpit inside. At early dawn, and at four other times during the day, the priest mounts the minaret, and, standing upright, with his thumbs in his ears and his hands spread out, he utters in a penetrating falsetto voice the call of the faithful to prayer, “Allah akbar! Allah akbar, Mahomed Ressul Allah!” and so on. “God is great, God is great, Mahomed is the Prophet of God. Come to Prayers, Prayers are better than sleep. Come to salvation, God is great. There is no god but God.” Then a few people begin to gather in, ten or twelve to a musjid.

They stand in a row, their faces towards Mecca, and the priest, having descended, stands in front of them with his face in the same direction. The priest recites the prayers, standing, or stooping with his head bent, kneeling or prostrating himself with his forehead touching the ground, according to the law of the ceremony. The people imitate the priest in his motions. They are supposed to repeat the prayers to themselves, but the prayers are in Arabic, which very few Afghans understand: so that if they have learnt them by heart they repeat them simply as a parrot does.

The smaller musjids have no courtyard, they are flat-roofed and open on one side, the roof being supported on that side by carved wooden pillars, and the musjid is raised three steps above the street. These have the mihrab, or altar, but no pulpit, and the minaret is replaced by a block of stone about a foot square outside the musjid, on which the priest stands to utter the call to prayer. These, too, have a stream, a well or tank, or some other water supply for ablution.

So far as I could judge the majority of people do not go to a musjid to pray except when there is some national calamity, such as a visitation of cholera. On these occasions they go in procession with bands of music and flags. I once saw a procession in the distance, but though I felt some curiosity to see it nearer, I did not thrust myself unduly forward. There are drawbacks to doing so when Mahomedans are in a state of religious enthusiasm, for there is the possibility that one of them, overcome by excess of zeal, might obtain Paradise for himself by putting a knife into a Feringhi. It was not my ambition to be, in this way, a stepping-stone to Paradise.

Ordinarily such Afghans as profess religion go through the ceremony of prayer just where they happen to be when the time of prayer arrives. There are five periods appointed in the day. The first, just before sunrise; the second, just after midday; the third, an hour before, and the fourth, just after sunset; and the fifth, when they can no longer distinguish a white from a black thread. If they happen to be at Durbar they withdraw a little from the presence of the AmÎr—for His Highness sits towards the west of the audience chamber—spread their cloaks or coats in lieu of “praying carpets,” and turning towards the west, or Mecca, go through their prayers. The AmÎr’s two eldest sons pray regularly at the appointed times, and if they happen to be in Durbar at the time some of the chief officers join them.

His Highness the AmÎr does not pray, at least so far as I know. I have never seen him do so openly, though it may be he prays in his heart. I have noticed that some of the greatest scoundrels at the Court are those who openly pray, or go through the form of prayer most regularly.

God, as conceived by the Afghans, seems to be an All-powerful Being, towards whom it is necessary to behave with the greatest politeness; for if one detail of etiquette be omitted God will be offended—and then what harm He can bring upon the offender! It is far less dangerous to offend against a fellow-man by annexing his property or taking his life than to insult God by omitting to bow down to Him on one of the five appointed times.

There are many, however, who do not trouble to be religious. I do not know how they look at things: whether they think too much is required of them, or that they will probably be able to gain Paradise in the end by killing some unbelievers, or whether they simply don’t care. When attending medically any man of education, I had always to be careful in enquiring whether he were “religious” or not; for if I gave a tincture (containing spirit) to any “religious” man, I got into trouble—he evidently considered that I wished to injure his prestige with God. With the uneducated, or poorer people, I had no trouble of that kind. They swallowed anything I liked to give them unhesitatingly. I never found the “religious” Afghan a whit less ready to “do his neighbour in the eye” than a non-religious one.

The musjid is also the schoolhouse, and is presided over by the priest. A learned priest will get a good many pupils, but an unlearned one none. I have often seen boys from eight to thirteen years of age seated in a row in the musjid with the moolah, or priest, opposite them. Their open books are propped on an X shaped support, and the boys sway backwards and forwards as they drone out in a monotonous voice whatever they are committing to memory. The education of the majority seems to be of the very slenderest. They learn to read parts of certain books and to write a little. With some, education is carried further, particularly among those who are intended for priests and mÎrzas. Some of the latter study Persian sufficiently to write a well worded and flowery letter: they learn, too, a certain amount of mathematics—arithmetic and Euclid. The moolahs learn some Arabic because the Koran is written in that language: otherwise, foreign languages are not taught. The Court pages seem to be taught rather more than other boys; some of them learn the different languages of the country—Pushtu and Turki—as well as Persian. The AmÎr’s eldest son, Prince Habibullah, was learning English when I was in Kabul, though I never heard of anyone else learning the language. I have heard the AmÎr speak Persian, Pushtu, and Turki. He told me he could speak Arabic also. Of Russian he said he knew two words only, I have forgotten what they were; and of English he knew two words: “tree,” he said, meant “dirakht,” and “gown” meant a lady’s dress.

The income of the priests is derived from their fees for performing the ceremonies of marriage and of burial, and from charitable donations.

A priest who is a SÊyid, or a direct descendant of the Prophet, is hereditarily a beggar. He can demand from anyone he pleases a sufficient sum of money for his wants. The SÊyids in Afghanistan do not seem to have the exclusive right of wearing green turbans: in fact, I never saw one with a green turban on, though I have often seen page boys and others not SÊyids wearing them. One of my servants, the mÎrza, or secretary, was a SÊyid. He was a good sort of man in his way, and I quite liked him. However, he used to smoke Churrus, or Indian hemp, and it affected his intellect. At times he behaved like one insane. He never attempted any violence towards me; in fact, though I was warned against him, I think he was too attached to me to do me an injury: but, perhaps, I am wrong in this; however, he never did do any harm. If he were upset he would cover his face with chalk and walk about shaking his head in a dejected way, muttering, “Tobah, tobah,” Alas! alas! One day he removed all his clothing, and went out into the street with his beggar’s wallet only. I sent one of the military police to fetch him back, and asked him if he were not ashamed to behave in that manner. He said he was tired of work. I said, “You are earning an honest living and are able to send money to your wife and children in Jelalabad.” He said, Yes, but he had to write when he didn’t want to write. It was better that he should go out with nothing and beg for his few wants. As for his wife and children, God would take care of them. There seemed a certain amount of “method” in this. Occasionally, however, he was very violent, though not with me, and I could hear him raving like a madman.

One of the compounders at the hospital was a Hafiz and a moolah; a Hafiz is one who from memory can repeat the whole Koran. He was a tall handsome young man with courtly manners. He lived at my house, and at daybreak I was often dreamily roused by his fine tenor voice as he was chanting his prayers. Once his early prayer was of considerable worldly service to me and the neighbourhood, for he found that the bathroom of my house was on fire; the beams were already alight. He summoned assistance, the fire was soon put out and the matter ended. If the house had been burnt the affair would have reached the ears of the authorities, and the neighbours would have had a fine imposed upon them unless they could produce the incendiary! This young man had asked permission to live at my house because he could do so cheaply. He was saving money to pay off a debt incurred in Peshawur, his native town. I thought, What an honest worthy young man! but I found the money had been borrowed to pay off a fine imposed upon him for a murder he committed in Peshawur. He escaped hanging because there was an element of doubt in the case, and possibly for the reason that his elder brother had been some years in the British service. He admitted to me that he had stabbed the man, but he did not regret it. The man was a “bad man” and had injured him.

“Surely the Koran does not tell you to commit murder,” I said.

“No,” said he, “the Koran is God’s book, but we are all sinners.”

One of the hospital assistants, a Hindostani, working under me, was also a Hafiz and a priest. He was a very gentlemanly man of about forty-six, and well educated. He had been in the Bengal cavalry. I liked him very much, but, unlike most Mahomedans, he was a dipsomaniac. For a fortnight or so he would be miserably drunk. He drank the native spirit made from raisins, methylated spirit, or any kind of intoxicant he could get hold of. He explained his condition to me by saying that “ShÂitan” came to him occasionally and said, “You have drunk no shrÂb for so long, now is a very good time to drink,” and so he listened to ShÂitan and drank. He afterwards gave up alcohol and took to chloral eating and opium smoking. I was very sorry for the man. I think he was not such a scoundrel as some of them.

When I first entered the service I picked up a man in Kabul who could speak a little English, and had him to look after my clothes and wait upon me—my valet. He was a short thick-set man, with a shaven head, on which he always perched a little red fez. He was wonderfully gentle with sick children, who were brought to me to prescribe for. He was very lazy, but was cowed at once if I were angry. I found he was a hired assassin who had escaped from Peshawur into Afghanistan. When I discharged him he made a large sum of money by gambling in the bazaar, and then returned to Peshawur. The last I heard of him was that he had been apprehended and was in jail.

At one time, after I returned from Turkestan, I used often to go and dine at the workshops with the other Englishmen, and two of the military police who guarded my house came at ten o’clock with a lantern to escort me home. My interpreter did not like my doing this at all, because I had to ride through some narrow winding streets and across the large orchard or garden before I reached the shops. He said, “It is known that you often come home at that time of night, and you might easily be shot, and there be no possibility of finding the man who fired at you. In that case your guard would be killed, and probably I as well for not warning you.” However, it was too depressing to be always alone, and no one ever shot at me. One of these soldiers who came for me was a big, very handsome man, but he had a curious furtive look in his eyes. He used to pull my riding-boots off when I got home, and put out the candle. I remarked once upon the curious look in his eyes, and was told that all in his particular profession had that look.

I enquired what he did besides guarding my house. They said, “Have you not noticed that on some nights another man takes his place?” I had noticed it. I was then informed that he was one of the official executioners, whose duty it was to strangle certain of the prisoners in jail. The unfortunate is told one day that he will have the privilege that night of sleeping in a separate room. He is conducted there, and finds there is one other occupant of the room. As soon as he is asleep the other occupant—my friend!—secretly placing a noose round the neck of the sleeper, suddenly draws it tight and throws his whole weight upon the chest, striking the victim violently over the heart.

The late Governor of Kabul and chief of the police, Naib Mir Sultan, whom the AmÎr hanged recently for his iniquities, largely employed this means of getting rid of prisoners. An anxious woman would come to him with perhaps a thousand rupees, and implore his intercession on behalf of her husband who was in jail. The Naib would say, “Yes, he would do what he could, he knew the case was coming on directly, but it was an expensive business; if she could bring another thousand perhaps the thing could be done.” And he would keep her dangling on some time, squeezing out of her all the money he could get, and then she would be informed officially that her husband had died in jail of an illness!

Sometimes a prisoner who was sick would ask permission to see the doctor, and he would be brought to me at the hospital with chains round his ankles, in charge of a soldier with fixed bayonet. But I was very careful about prescribing for a prisoner, for the Naib was an adept in the use of poisons as well as of stranglers, and a death might be imputed to me. Another way he had of removing objectionable men who were not prisoners. Some night two of the police knock loudly at a man’s door, saying, “Get up at once, AmÎr Sahib calls you.” This is quite likely to be true, for His Highness often continues at his work late into the night, and the man hurries on his clothes and goes out with the police. He is never seen again; but some days afterwards his head is found in one place and his body in another. Then the widow in great distress goes before the AmÎr and tells her story.

The AmÎr naturally enquires, “Who is your husband?” The woman explains, saying, “AmÎr Sahib sent for him on such and such a night.” The AmÎr, of course, tells her that he did not, and enquires if she can identify the soldiers who came for her husband. She cannot, for it being night and she a woman, she has never seen them. The natural conclusion is that some enemies of her husband have personated soldiers and murdered him.

I have, however, heard other explanations of these incidents.

The Naib was not a bad-looking man: he had a dark skin, but rather an agreeable expression than otherwise. He never dared go out without a large guard of his police, the townspeople would have torn him to pieces. Prince Habibullah disliked him even when I first entered the service in 1889, and, finally, his iniquities were proven to the AmÎr. I forget what the particular charge against him was, but he was fined, they said, a hundred lacs of rupees to begin with, somewhere about half a million! He paid it, and another fine was imposed which necessitated his selling up everything. Brought before the AmÎr soon after this, he was insolent, and His Highness in exasperation seized him by the beard and struck him in the face. The soldiers then hurried him away to a tree outside. Someone suggested his praying. “Pray!” he said, with a laugh, “after a life like mine? No, I’ll die as I have lived;” and they hanged him on the tree.

This is the story as I heard it at the time. I did not see him hanged, for there was a cholera epidemic in Kabul, and I was there. The AmÎr was at Paghman in the mountains.

Though Friday is the Sabbath, the shops are open on that day as well as on other days in the week. Somewhat less work is done, especially at the time of the priests’ oration in the principal musjids, about two in the afternoon. In Kabul the AmÎr’s workshops are closed, and the Out-patient Hospital also. The AmÎr himself, too, does less work on that day, otherwise there is no great difference between the Sabbath and other days in the week.

I spoke just now of fees to a priest for a “burial” service, but, perhaps, that is hardly a correct term to apply, for I never saw any service or ceremony performed at the actual time of burial. However, it is possible there may be, though I never saw one, but I have seen the service performed at a death bed.

When I was in Turkestan a young officer, a cousin of the Sultana’s, was ill. The Hakims, who were attending him, not knowing the use of the stethoscope, could not diagnose the case, and after some days I was sent for. I found that he had had Pneumonia, or Inflammation of the lung, and that instead of clearing up, the inflamed lung had become tubercular, and a cavity could be detected in it. He had developed consumption. I did what I could, but it was too late for any permanent relief to be afforded him.

He became worse, and one day when I called, he was manifestly dying. I found several men sitting on the ground by the bedside reciting prayers continuously. I enquired why they were doing so at this time, and was told they would continue praying till he died, for he was then passing to Paradise over the narrow bridge whose edge was sharper than a razor, and that the continuous prayers kept away the evil spirits who were endeavouring to drag him down into the abyss.

The men praying were his nearest relations, and with them was a priest; for although it is the Mahomedan custom for the nearest relatives to recite the prayers on this occasion, a priest is generally sent for also.

The graves of the richer Afghans have upright headstones of marble or slate carefully shaped and ornamented. The writing on them is in relief, the stone being chipped away from the letters. The tomb of an illustrious man is bricked round, about two feet high, and covered with a slab of marble. Occasionally one is surrounded by a fence: trees and flowers being planted in the enclosure. The grave of the AmÎr’s father near Kabul is cared for in this way. Others have a sort of small mosque or musjid built over them; and the deceased, when his name is forgotten, becomes a holy man and a saint.

The grave of a poor man has a flat stone, the largest his friends can find, planted upright to mark the place of burial: many have no mark at all, but the collection of mounds is not to be mistaken. The graveyard is not walled in or enclosed. The tombs of the kings are, some of them, imposing. That of Timour Shah in Kabul (son of Ahmed Shah, founder of the Durani Empire) is a very fine piece of brickwork. A huge central dome is surrounded by a series of flat-roofed rooms, the ground plan of the structure being octagonal. No care is taken of it, and it is becoming dilapidated by time. The tomb of Babur Shah, just outside Kabul, is also becoming dilapidated. It is smaller and of marble, in the style of the smaller musjids, with pillars to support the roof. Another tomb just outside Kabul is built in the shape of a musjid. It is that of a grandson of AmÎr Dost Mahomed. I knew his son very well, Sirdar Abdul KÛdus Khan. The latter once was of great service to the AmÎr. In one engagement, by a brilliant charge, he completely turned the fortunes of the day. Success was too much for him, and he became presumptuous. He was accordingly ordered into honourable confinement. Some time afterwards he was allowed to appear at court, but for many years no appointment was given to him. Quite recently, he received office, being made Governor of the province of Bamian.

The marriage ceremony differs very much from ours in England. Firstly, the young Afghan does not see his sweetheart till she becomes his wife—at any rate he is not supposed to. He hears that such a man has a very pretty daughter, and that she is likely to have so much dowry. He therefore sends his mother or sisters on a visit to the harem. The ladies, properly veiled, are conducted there by their servants in a closed palanquin. On their return they give their opinion, and all the information they have managed to glean. If everything is satisfactory to the young man, he approaches the father or guardian, and makes his proposal. If he is accepted as a suitor, an opportunity is given to the young lady to see the swain herself, unobserved. She can, if she like, refuse him, and if she be a girl of strong character, may be successful in her refusal: but I know that sometimes considerable pressure is brought to bear, if her wishes are contrary to those of her father or guardian. Sometimes the young man, if he holds a subordinate position, will prevail upon his superior officer to make the proposal for him to the father or guardian. It may have more weight. I once had this onerous and pleasing duty to perform. I marshalled all my servants, and rode off with as much ceremony as possible, to the house of the young lady. I had a vague sort of an idea I might see her; but I did not: she saw me, which was not so satisfactory. When I arrived at the house, I was conducted through the courtyard into an upstairs room, where the guardian—her brother in this case—received me. A party of gentlemen were in the room, and they all rose as I entered. After the usual salutations a chair was offered me: the rest seated themselves cross-legged round the room. I made a formal proposal in the name of my subordinate, and a discussion followed. I was surprised at the free and open way in which they said the man for whom I was making the proposal was a rascal and a liar, and that he had not the money he said he had. There was no delicate hinting that, perhaps, they had erred in assuming his fortune was such and such. I naturally anticipated a refusal; no, out of respect for me, he was accepted! Then a large tray of loaf sugar broken into pieces was brought in, and first I and the guardian, then the others, ate a little, and the rest was given to the servants. After that we had tea, and I rode off home again, where the anxious lover was waiting for me. I said,

“They called you very bad names.”

“That matters little;” said he, “did you eat the sugar?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Ah! then all is well! the other is a custom.”

The actual ceremony of marriage is performed at the house of the bridegroom, though there is often a reception at the bride’s house afterwards—not that you see the bride or any other ladies. The father, guardian, or brothers receive you.

At the marriage ceremony the amount of dower is first discussed and settled, and then the priest formally enquires, first of the bridegroom then of the bride’s legal representative, whether they each agree to the marriage. On receiving an answer in the affirmative he pronounces a few short prayers and blessings, remaining seated while he does so, and the ceremony is concluded; sometimes, also, rings are exchanged. Then comes the reception of guests at the bride’s house.

I was invited to the wedding of Prince Habibullah. I did not see the ceremony, where the priest blesses the union, but I attended the reception at the house of the bride’s father. It happened to be in the suburbs, near where I was living, and I walked there escorted by my servants and guard. I was shown into a large flower-garden where several tents were erected. A great many guests had arrived, but not the Prince. Presently, I heard the “Salaam-i-Padshah”—the representative of our National Anthem—being played by a brass band. It is a solemn and slow chant, reminding one of a dead march: it is very impressive and by no means unmusical. I was told it was composed by an Englishman—who he was I do not know. Then the Prince rode into the garden, followed by his brother, Nasrullah Khan. Both were dressed in scarlet and gold uniforms. Prince Habibullah wore a military helmet with plumes, and Nasrullah Khan a grey astrakhan hat. I bowed as the Prince went by, and he pulled up to enquire why I had not taken possession of the tent prepared for me, and he pointed out a very gay one. There were people in it, but they turned out at once. The Prince gave orders to one of the chamberlains for tea and cigarettes to be served for me there, and then rode on to another tent, where he dismounted. Taking his seat he received the salaams of the assembled guests. I sat in my tent, and people came in and chatted, and then went on to other tents. I drank tea, ate fruit, and smoked, while musicians and nautch women went through their performances. Then large trays of sweetmeats and sugar were brought to each of the tents, and when I had eaten a little I departed, for it began to rain. The servants of each of the guests carried away their master’s tray of sweets, for it was the fast of Ramazan, when Mahomedans cannot eat nor drink till night. The father of the bride was the Shaghassi, or Master of the Ceremonies in Mazar, and when we left there he was made governor of Turkestan. Soon after we left, however, he had sunstroke—mania, the hakims said—and the AmÎr recalled him to Kabul.

I found my horse waiting for me at the gate of the garden. In spite of the rain, the streets were crammed with people, and I had some trouble in the crowd, for my horse was restive, and plunged; however, we got home without accident. I went also to the wedding of Prince Nasrullah, but I will describe that later.

Some of the priests have gained a certain amount of reputation as healers of the sick; not by the administration of medicines, for that is a privilege reserved for the hakims and doctors, but by the employment of the “faith cure.” It is an axiom in the Mahomedan religion that to utter the name of God a great number of times is of inestimable benefit to both body and soul; also that if a part of the body be diseased, it is an efficient cure to bind on it the written name of one of the attributes of God, “the Merciful,” “the Compassionate,” “the Restorer.” The sick, therefore, go first to the priest for help, and by the payment of a fee obtain the written scroll. This is rolled up in silk or leather, or, if the patient be wealthy enough, is enclosed in a little cylindrical box of silver made for the purpose, and bound on the diseased part of the body. If the patient recover, great credit is given to the priest, and other sick people seek his aid. If recovery does not ensue, either the patient is resigned, considering that his “NasÎb” is thus written in the book of fate, or else by the payment of a larger fee he engages the medical skill of the hakims, or native physicians.

Every patient with chronic disease of any kind who came to me had one of these little packets fastened by a string round his arm or neck.

Many of the children, even those in good health, have similar charms fastened to them. I noticed that the Sultana, or her women, fastened one in a gold cylindrical box on the arm of the little Prince Mahomed Omar, soon after he was born. This was to protect him from accident or other evil. Sometimes, for the same purpose, a piece of string only, over which a few prayers have been recited, is tied round the child’s limb. This is done by the poorer people. Against the “Evil Eye”—which, as far as I could understand, is the eye of “envy, hatred, and malice”—something blue is a great protection. Men wear turquoise rings, children and woman turquoise ornaments or blue beads. When a man buys a new horse the servants at once fasten a blue bead or ribbon among the hairs of his tail. It is not necessary for the blue to be seen: it is just as sure a protection when it is hidden. The Evil Eye is a dangerous weapon, so many possess it, and it works silently and secretly. Paralysis, wasting, rickets in children, impotence, and sudden death, the illness of cattle and horses—all these are imputed to the evil eye.

Just outside the house I occupied, after my return from Turkestan to Kabul, there was an open space with a small pond in the middle; this was a favourite playground for the boys of the neighbourhood. I rode through it as usual one morning on my way to the hospital. When I had finished my work and returned home again, my interpreter, who seemed rather upset about something, said to me—

“Sir, I very sorry you kill that boy to-day.”

“What do you mean?” I said; “I’ve not killed any boy.”

“Oh, yes, sir; you remember he called you Feringhi this morning.”

I remembered then that while riding through the playground, one of the boys, a good-looking lad of about twelve, had attracted my attention by calling out something, and he laughed as he ran away. I looked up carelessly and then rode on, thinking no more about it. I said—

“I remember a boy saying something, but I didn’t hear what it was.”

“Sir, he very fool boy to call you Feringhi, but he is dead now.”

“That is very sudden! What did he die of?” I asked.

“Oh, sir, I poor man—what I know? You looked at him, and he died; perhaps trouble come for us.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “he must have died of something. Boys don’t die because you look at them.”

“Sir, in this country often it is they do!”

I indignantly said, “What do you mean! I haven’t got the evil eye!”

He looked at me meaningly, then looked on the ground and shook his head dolefully: I couldn’t persuade him that the thing was a ridiculous impossibility. As there is a kind of vendetta in Afghanistan I rather wondered what would happen next. I told my interpreter to make enquiries and find out what the boy really died of. He said,

“Why for we make enquiries? Better it is we keep quiet for a few days and say nothing.”

I never heard what was the cause of death, and the matter blew over.

Besides the evil eye the Afghans believe in other forms of magic; in certain days of the week being lucky, and others unlucky; in ghosts, and jins, or devils. A man told me one day that the house he lived in was formerly occupied by the three sisters of one of the kings, Shah Shujah, I think it was, and that they were evil women. One night on his return home, just as he entered the house he heard sound of women’s laughter in the bath-room on the ground floor. Wondering who could be there, he opened the door. Three women, whom he did not recognize, sprang up and rushed, laughing, through the further door into the inner bath-room. He slammed the door to, and fastened it, and hurried upstairs, where he found his wife and the women of the household. He enquired who were the women in the bath-room. They said there could be no women. The house was of the usual kind—only one door leading from the street into the courtyard, and every one entering could be seen. Lights were procured, and he descended to the bath-room, unfastened the door, opened it, and peeped in—no one was there. He went across to the further door and found it fastened with a chain and padlock on the outside in the usual way. He thought, “The women cannot have fastened themselves in.” He took the key from his pocket, unlocked the door and looked in: this room also was empty. He is convinced he saw the wraiths of the women who formerly occupied his house.

Almost every house in Kabul has its ghost or jin. The house I had on my return from Turkestan had a reputation. The soldiers who were put to guard it in the winter while I was at the Palace at last refused to sleep in one of the ground floor rooms. They said it was haunted, that jins and devils came and pinched them, and moved their rifles and belts from where they had placed them. So in spite of the intense cold they moved out into the porch of the big gate opening from the courtyard into the street, and there they took up their quarters permanently. One day, just before sunset, after I had returned, the syce came out of the stable, which was under the room I occupied, and called one of the other servants. The latter came to me afterwards and said that just as it was beginning to get dusk he went to look into the stable, as the syce had called him. To his astonishment he saw what seemed to him to be two small children running round the legs of the bay horse, and jumping on its neck and off again. He went forward to gain a clearer view, and the children, or jins, as he called them, disappeared. He searched the stable thoroughly, and found nothing out of the way, except that the bay horse was trembling and covered with sweat.

Many similar stories were related to me at different times, but though for months I slept alone in the “haunted wing” I never saw any ghost, jin, or devil—except those clothed with flesh and blood; doubtless it was a privilege reserved for “True Believers.” There was, however, one incident; but I will relate that by and bye.