the blue tile which served the purpose of an inkstand. These threads were soaked in soot and water, and it took about three dips to write a single word. Every now and then he would raise the paper to the left side of his face and look at it slantingly out of the corner of his eye. If a word did not please him he would rub it out by moistening his forefinger and dabbing it half-a-dozen times on the word, for the ink left no permanent trace on the paper but came off in layers when rubbed with the wet finger. The lines of the letter were wide apart, and an ample margin was left on both sides. When the bottom of the page was reached the scribe filled the margins lengthwise, and then fell to writing between the lines. I could not help thinking that the sick Sakhiri would find it easier to answer the interrogations of Nakír and Munkar, those dread Inquisitors of the Grave, than to read the letter from Mecca, which struck me as being almost as difficult to decipher as a Chinese poem. When the last word was written the Afghan took out his purse, to the strings of which was tied a round seal of brass whereon his name was engraved. Having unfastened the seal he handed it to the scribe. It amused me to see that the purse was withheld by the canny Afghan, who obviously had no intention of losing over the transaction more than he had bargained for. All Orientals, particularly the Persians, lay great store by their seals. Those of the lower classes are generally round and made of brass, and are either fastened to their purse strings or left dangling by their waistbands. The mullás have a preference for square seals of cornelian set in base silver, as approved by the Prophet; while the high officials “gratify the pride of irresponsibility,” or the instincts of taste in the matter, some choosing gold seals ornamented with diamonds, and others turquoise seals decorated with pearls or with rubies. Sometimes a line of poetry is engraved on the seal as well as the owner’s name. I knew a pious Shi’ah whose seal bore this inscription: “The slave of the King of the country, Imám ’Alí,” only the last word, of course, being his own name. Later, on our journey through the bazaars, we chanced to see a Persian hakkák, or seal-maker, at work. The cornelian he was carving was fixed in tar on the small board in front of him. The deft way in which he wielded his small hammer was the result of a steady hand and an unerring eye, gifts for which the Persians are justly famous. The motto was intended to commemorate his pilgrimage to the Mother of Cities, and ran as follows: “Sadik, the least of Hájís and the slave of God, in the city of God!”