Down, weary, and anxious to snatch an hour or two of repose. At
dawn we were expected to perform our Tawaf al-Kudum, or “Circumambulation
of Arrival,” at the Harim.
Scarcely had the first smile of morning beamed upon the rugged head of
the eastern hill, Abu Kubays,[FN#4] when we arose, bathed, and
proceeded in our pilgrim-garb to the Sanctuary. We entered by the Bab
al-Ziyadah, or principal northern door, descended two long flights of
steps, traversed the cloister, and stood in sight of the Bayt Allah.
There at last it lay, the bourn of my long and weary Pilgrimage,
realising the plans and hopes of many and many a year. The mirage
medium of Fancy invested the
[p.161] huge catafalque and its gloomy pall with peculiar charms. There
were no giant fragments of hoar antiquity as in Egypt, no remains of
graceful and harmonious beauty as in Greece and Italy, no barbarous
gorgeousness as in the buildings of India; yet the view was strange,
unique—and how few have looked upon the celebrated shrine! I may truly
say that, of all the worshippers who clung weeping to the curtain, or
who pressed their beating hearts to the stone, none felt for the moment
a deeper emotion than did the Haji from the far-north.
