It is rarely that an outsider is privileged to see, far less handle, Mandaean books and rolls in Iraq, and the fact that I have been allowed, by degrees, so to do is a proof of the kindness and toleration which my Mandaean friends in Iraq have shown to me. At my request the box is usually opened, the precious manuscripts handed down from father to son are lifted out, the white cloth which wraps them is taken off, and they are opened for me to see. I have even had a Book of Souls written in my name, a compliment which, I am told, has never before been paid to one not a Mandaean.

When a priest brings in a holy book, all those present rise, and the priest kisses the book and puts it against his forehead before opening it. A sweet perfume clings to the manuscripts, for sandalwood or myrtle is often placed in the box in which they are kept. This latter is sometimes of iron. Stories are told of a holy book or books which have come through a conflagration uninjured, or merely scorched, and their preservation is thought to be miraculous. It is possible that while the reed hut flares up quickly and sinks into ashes, the box offers more resistance, and the manuscripts are rescued almost undamaged.