Haifa, Nov. 7.—The Nahr N'aman, called by the ancients the river Belus,
rises in a large marsh at the base of a mound in the plain of Acre
called the Tell Kurdany, and, after a short course of four miles, fed by
the swampy ground through which it passes, it attains considerable
dimensions. Before falling into the sea it winds through an extensive
date-grove, and then, twisting its way between banks of fine sand, falls
into the ocean scarcely two miles from the walls of Acre. Pliny tells us
that glass was first made by the ancients from the sands of this river,
and the numerous specimens of old glass which I found in grubbing bear
testimony to the extensive usage of this material in the neighbourhood.
The beach at its mouth was also celebrated as a locality where the
shells which yielded the Tyrian purple were to be found in great
abundance, and I have succeeded in extracting the dye from some of those
I have collected here. It was also renowned for a colossal statue of
Memnon, which, according to Pliny, was upon its banks, but the site of
this has not been accurately identified. The only point of attraction
now upon its waters is a garden belonging to an eminent Persian, whose
residence at Acre is invested with such peculiar interest that I made an
expedition to his pleasure-ground on the chance of discovering something
more in regard to him than it was possible to do at Haifa.
Turning sharply to the right before reaching Acre, and passing beneath
the mound upon which Napoleon planted his batteries in 1799, we enter a
grove of date-trees by a road bordered with high cactus hedges, and
finally reach a causeway which traverses a small lake formed by the
waters of the Belus, and which, crossing one arm of the river, lands us
upon an island which it encircles. This island, which is about two
hundred yards long by scarcely a hundred wide, is all laid out in
flower-beds and planted with ornamental shrubs and with fruit-trees.
Coming upon it suddenly it is like a scene in fairy land. In the centre
is a plashing fountain from which the water is conveyed to all parts of
the garden. The flower-beds are all bordered with neat edges of
stone-work, and are sunk below the irrigating channels. Over a marble
bed the waters from the fountain come rippling down in a broad stream to
a bower of bliss, where two immense and venerable mulberry-trees cast an
impenetrable shade over a platform with seats along the entire length of
one side, protected by a balustrade projecting over the waters of the
Belus, which here runs in a clear stream, fourteen or fifteen feet wide
and two or three deep, over a pebbly bottom, where fish of considerable
size, and evidently preserved, are darting fearlessly about, or coming
up to the steps to be fed. The stream is fringed with weeping willows,
and the spot, with its wealth of water, its thick shade, and air
fragrant with jasmine and orange blossoms, forms an ideal retreat from
the heats of summer. The sights and sounds are all suggestive of languor
and _dolce far niente_, of that peculiar condition known to Orientals as
_kief_, when the senses are lulled by the sounds of murmuring water, the
odours of fragrant plants, the flickering shadows of foliage, or the
gorgeous tints of flowers and the fumes of the narghileh.
The gardener, a sedate Persian in a tall cap, who kept the place in
scrupulous order, gave us a dignified welcome. His master, he said,
would not come till the afternoon, and if we disappeared before his
arrival we were welcome to spread our luncheon on his table under the
mulberry-trees, and sit round it on his chairs; nay, further, he even
extended his hospitality to providing us with hot water.
Thus it was that we took possession of Abbas Effendi's garden before I
had the honour of making that gentleman's acquaintance, an act of no
little audacity, when I inform you that he claims to be the eldest son
of the last incarnation of the Deity. As his father is alive and
resident at Acre—if one may venture to talk of such a being as resident
anywhere—my anxiety to see the son was only exceeded by my curiosity to
investigate the father. But this, as I shall presently explain, seems a
hope that is not likely to be realized. Meantime I shall proceed to give
you, so far as I have been able to learn, an account of who Abbas
Effendi's father is, and all that I know about him, premising always
that I only do so subject to any modification which further
investigation may suggest.
It is now forty-eight years since a young man of three-and-twenty
appeared at the shrine of Hussein, the grandson of the Prophet, who was
made a martyr at Kerbela. He was said to have been born at Shiraz, the
son of a merchant there, and his name was Ali Mohammed. It is supposed
that he derived his religious opinions from a certain Indian Mussulman,
called Achsai, who instituted a system of reform, and made many
disciples. Whether this is so or not, the young Persian soon acquired a
pre-eminent reputation for sanctity, and the boldness and enthusiasm of
his preaching and the revolutionary sentiments he uttered attracted many
to his teaching. So far as I have been able to judge, he preached a pure
morality of the loftiest character, denouncing the abuses of existing
Islam as Christ did the Judaism of his day, and fearlessly incurring the
hostility of Persian Phariseeism. A member himself of the Shiite sect of
Moslems, he sought to reform it, as being the state religion of Persia,
and finally went so far as to proclaim himself at Kufa the _bab_, or
door, through which alone man could approach God. At the same time he
announced that he was the Mahdi, or last Imaum, who was descended from
Ali, the son-in-law of the Prophet, and whom the Shiites believe to have
been an incarnation of the Deity. Mahdi is supposed by all Persian
Moslems not to have died, but to be awaiting in concealment the coming
of the last day.
As may be imagined, the sudden appearance after so many centuries of a
reformer who claimed to be none other than the long-expected divine
manifestation, created no little consternation throughout Persia, more
especially as, according to tradition, the time had arrived when such a
manifestation was to be looked for, and men's minds were prepared for
the event. The Persian enthusiast, as soon as his preaching became
popular and his pretensions vast, roused the most violent hostility, and
he was executed at Tabriz in 1849, after a brief career of fourteen
years, at the early age of thirty-seven. The tragic circumstances
attending his death enhanced his glory, for he was repeatedly offered
his life if he would consent to abate his claims, or even leave the
country. He preferred, however, a martyr's crown, and was executed in
the presence of a vast multitude, leaving behind him a numerous and
fanatic sect, who have since then been known as the Babs, and whose
belief in the founder subsequent persecutions on the part of the
government have only served to confirm.
The Bab before his execution gave it to be understood that though he was
apparently about to die, he, or rather the divine incarnation of which
he was the subject, would shortly reappear in the person of his
successor, whom, I believe, he named secretly. I do not exactly know
when the present claimant first made known his pretensions to be that
successor, but, at all events, he was universally acknowledged by the
Bab sect, now numbering some hundreds of thousands, and became so
formidable a personage, being a man of high lineage—indeed, it is
whispered that he is a relative of the Shah himself—that he was made
prisoner by the government and sent into exile. The Sultan of Turkey
kindly undertook to provide for his incarceration, and for some years he
was a state prisoner at Adrianople. Finally he was transported from that
place to Acre, on giving his parole to remain quietly there and not
return to Persia, and here he has been living ever since, an object of
adoration to his countrymen, who flock hither to visit him, who load him
with gifts, and over two hundred of whom remain here as a sort of
permanent body-guard.
He is visible only to women or men of the poorest class, and obstinately
refuses to let his face be seen by any man above the rank of a fellah or
peasant. Indeed, his own disciples who visit him are only allowed a
glimpse of his august back, and in retiring from that they have to back
out with their faces towards it. I have seen a lady who has been
honoured with an interview, during which he said nothing beyond giving
her his blessing, and after about three minutes motioned to her to
retire. She describes him as a man of probably about seventy years of
age, but much younger-looking, as he dyes both his hair and his beard
black, but of a very mild and benevolent cast of countenance. He lives
at a villa in the plain, about two miles beyond Acre, which he has
rented from a Syrian gentleman of my acquaintance, who tells me that
once or twice he has seen him walking in his garden, but that he always
turns away so that his face shall not be seen. Indeed, the most profound
secrecy is maintained in regard to him and the religious tenets of his
sect.
Not long ago, however, public curiosity was gratified, for one of his
Persian followers stabbed another for having been unworthy of some
religious trust, and the great man himself was summoned as a witness.
“Will you tell the court who and what you are?” was the first question
put.
“I will begin,” he replied, “by telling you who I am not. I am not a
camel driver”—this was an allusion to the Prophet Mohammed—“nor am I the
son of a carpenter”—this in allusion to Christ. “This is as much as I
can tell you to-day. If you will now let me retire, I will tell you
to-morrow who I am.”
Upon this promise he was let go; but the morrow never came. With an
enormous bribe he had in the interval purchased an exemption from all
further attendance at court.
That his wealth is fabulous may be gathered from the fact that not long
since a Persian emir or prince, possessing large estates, came and
offered them all, if in return he would only allow him to fill his
water-jars. The offer was considered worthy of acceptance, and the emir
is at this moment a gardener in the grounds which I saw over the wall of
my friend's villa. This is only one instance of the devotion with which
he is regarded, and of the honours which are paid to him: indeed, when
we remember that he is believed to possess the attributes of Deity, this
is not to be wondered at. Meantime his disciples are patiently waiting
for his turn to come, which will be on the last day, when his divine
character will be recognized by unbelievers.