Every noble loafer about my
person seems anxious to have Osman continually employed in contributing
to my comfort; Mohammed Ahzim Khan even deprecates the independence
displayed in lacing up my own shoes. "Osman," he says, "let Osman do it."
Osman's chief characteristic is a reckless disregard for the
conventionalities of social life and religion; he never seems to bother
himself about either washing his person or saying his prayers. Somewhere,
not far away, every evening the faithful are summoned to prayer by a
muezzin with the most musical and pathetic voice I have heard in all
Islam. The voice of this muezzin calling "Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h," as it
comes floating over the houses and gardens in the calm silence of the
summer evenings, is wonderfully impressive. From the pulpits of all
Christendom I have yet to hear an utterance so full of pathos and
supplication, or that carries with it the impressions of such deep
sincerity as the "Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h" of this Afghan muezzin in the Herat
Valley. It is a supplication to the throne of grace that rings in my ears
even as I write, months after, and it touches the hearts of every Afghan
within hearing and taps the fountain of their piety like magic. It calls
forth responsive prayers and pious sighings from everybody around my
bungalow--everybody except Osman.
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