And Throughout My
Journey, Even In Arabia, Though I Drew My Knife Every Time An Offensive
Hint Was Thrown Out, The Ill-Fame Clung To Me Like The Shirt Of Nessus.
It was not long before I happened to hit upon a proper teacher, in the
person of Shaykh Mohammed al-Attar, or the "Druggist." He had known
prosperity, having once been a Khatib (preacher) in one of Mohammed
Ali's mosques.
But His Highness the late Pasha had dismissed him, which
disastrous event, with its subsequent train of misfortunes, he dates
from the melancholy day when he took to himself a wife. He talks of her
abroad as a stern and rigid master dealing with a naughty slave,
though, by the look that accompanies his rhodomontade, I am convinced
that at home he is the very model of "managed men." His dismissal was
the reason that compelled him to fall back upon the trade of a
druggist, the refuge for the once wealthy, though now destitute, Sages
of Egypt.
His little shop in the Jamaliyah Quarter is a perfect gem of Nilotic
queerness. A hole, about five feet long
[p.68]and six deep, pierced in the wall of some house, it is divided
into two compartments separated by a thin partition of wood, and
communicating by a kind of arch cut in the boards. The inner box, germ
of a back parlour, acts as store-room, as the pile of empty old baskets
tossed in dusty confusion upon the dirty floor shows.
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