Baha'u'llah - Sulaymaniyyih;

One day, near a village in the mountains, Bahá’u’lláh saw a young boy weeping bitterly. My father, always compassionate for anyone in sorrow, especially if it were a child, said, “Little man, why art thou weeping?” The boy looked up at the one who spoke, and saw a dervish! “Oh Sir!” and he fell to weeping afresh. “The schoolmaster has punished me for writing so badly. I cannot write, and now I have no copy! I dare not go back to school” “Weep no longer. I will set a copy for thee, and show thee how to imitate it. And now thou canst take this; show it to thy schoolmaster.’ When the schoolmaster saw the writing which the boy had brought, he was astonished, for he recognized it as of the royal penmanship, this amazing script. “Who gave this to thee?” said the master. “He wrote it for me, the dervish on the mountain.” “He is no dervish the writer of this, but a royal personage,” said the schoolmaster. This story being noised abroad, caused certain of the people to set out to find this one, of whom many wonderful things were said. So great was the throng which pressed in upon him, that he had to go further away; again and again, he moved from place to place, hiding himself from the crowds, in the caves of the mountains, and in the desert places of that desolate land.
(Lady Blomfield, The Chosen Highway)


After my father’s departure many months passed; he did not return, nor had we any word from him or about him. We were all in great sorrow, and made constant inquiries, hoping to hear some rumour which would enable us to trace him. There was an old physician at Baghdad who had been called upon to attend the family, and who had become our friend. He sympathised much with us, and undertook on his own account to make inquiries for my father. He at length thought that he had traced him to a certain locality, quite distant from Baghdad, in the mountains; and thereafter was accustomed to ask all persons whom he met from that region for such a man. These inquiries were long without definite result, but at length a certain traveller to whom he had described my father, said that he had heard of a man answering to that description, evidently of high rank, but calling himself a dervish, living in caves in the mountains. He was, he said, reputed to be so wise and wonderful in his speech on religious things that when people heard him they would follow him; whereupon, wishing to be alone, he would change his residence to a cave in some other locality.
(Myron Henry Phelps and Bahiyyih Khanum, Life and Teachings of Abbas Effendi, p. 21-22)


A boy attending a village school had been flogged and sent out for failure in his writing. While he was weeping outside the schoolroom, this holy man came by and asked the cause of his grief. When the lad had explained his trouble the Dervish said: ‘Do not grieve. I will set you another copy, and teach you to write well.’ He then took the boy’s slate and wrote some words in very beautiful characters. The boy was delighted; and showing his slate in pride at now having a better master than he had had in the school, the people were astonished, Dervishes being commonly illiterate. They then began to follow the Dervish; who, wishing to meditate and pray in solitude, left that place for another. When we heard these things, we were convinced that this Dervish was in truth our beloved one. But having no means to send him any word, or to hear further of him, we were very sad.
(Myron Henry Phelps and Bahiyyih Khanum, Life and Teachings of Abbas Effendi, p. 21-22)


During the night following the next day, however, my father walked into the house. We hardly knew him; his beard and hair were long and matted - he really was a Dervish in appearance. The meeting between my brother and his father was the most touching and pathetic sight I have ever seen. Abbas Effendi threw himself on the floor before him and kissed and embraced his feet, weeping and crying, ‘Why did you leave us, why did you leave us?’ while the great uncouth Dervish wept over his boy. The scene carried a weight not to be expressed in words.
(Myron Henry Phelps and Bahiyyih Khanum, Life and Teachings of Abbas Effendi, p. 23-24)


Many were the incidents of that two years’ sojourn in the wilderness, which were told to us; we were never tired of listening. The food was easy to describe - coarse bread, a little cheese was the usual diet; sometimes, but very rarely, a cup of milk; into this would be put some rice, and a tiny bit of sugar. When boiled together, these scanty rations provided the great treat of a sort of rice pudding.
(Lady Blomfield, The Chosen Highway)


There was then in Baghdad an earnest Bábí, formerly a pupil of Kurratu I‘Aeyn (Tahirih, a woman famous for her beauty and learning, who was one of the disciples of the Bab, and a martyr). This man said to us that as he had no ties and did not care for his life, he desired no greater happiness than to be allowed to seek for him whom all loved so much, and that he would not return without him. He was, however, very poor, not being able even to provide an ass for the journey; and he was besides not very strong, and therefore not able to go on foot. We had no money for the purpose, nor anything of value by the sale of which money could be procured, with the exception of a single rug, upon which we all slept. This we sold and with the proceeds bought an ass for this friend, who thereupon set out upon the search. Time passed; we heard nothing, and fell into the deepest dejection and despair. Finally, four months having elapsed since our friend had departed, a message was one day received from him saying that he would bring my father home on the next day. The other members of the family could not credit the truth of this news, but it seemed to electrify my brother. He minutely questioned and examined the messenger, and became much excited. He quite believed that his father would return, but no one else did.
(Myron Henry Phelps and Bahiyyih Khanum, Life and Teachings of Abbas Effendi, p. 23-24)


One evening the Sufis of that country-side, assembled together, were discussing a mystical poem, when a dervish arose in their midst and gave so wonderful an interpretation of its meaning that awe fell upon the gathering. All his hearers were silent for awhile, and then they came together close round him and entreated him to come again to teach them. But his time was not yet. When one said sorrowfully, “Oh Master! Shall we then see thee no more?” “In a time to come, but not yet, go to the city of Baghdad, ask for the house of Mirza Musa Irani. There shalt thou hear tidings of me.” the “Nameless One” replied. He went out from their midst and again retreated into the desolate places.
(Lady Blomfield, The Chosen Highway)


Now our great anxiety was concerning the whereabouts of Jamal-i-Mubarak.
All this time my mother and Mirza Musa made every possible inquiry. My brother’s distress at the prolonged absence was pathetic. On one occasion he prayed the whole night a certain prayer with the one intention, that our father might be restored to us. The very next day, he and our uncle, Mirza Musa, overheard two people speaking of a marvellous one, living as a dervish in the wold mountain district of Sulaymaniyyih; they described him as “The Nameless One,” who had magnetized the country-side with his love. And they immediately knew that this must be our Beloved. Here at last was a clue! Without delay, Shaykh Sultan, our faithful friend, with one of the other disciples, set forth on their quest. Needless to say how our hearts went with them, and that our prayers for their success were unceasing. Hope now brought its brilliance into the dark shadow of our anxiety, which had saddened our lives for two years. As these days of intensified waiting passed by, our faith as well as our hope increased and grew. We knew that in the days that were very near at hand, our wanderer, our father, would be once more with us. My mother had made a coat for him out of some pieces of precious Persian stuff (Tirmih - red cloth), which she had carefully kept for the purpose out of the remains of her marriage treasures. It was now ready for him to put on. At last! At last! As my mother, my brother, and I sat in a breathless state of expectancy, we heard a step. It was a dervish. Through the disguise we saw the light of our beloved one’s presence! Our joy cannot be described as we clung to him. I can see now my beloved mother, calm and gentle, and my brother holding his father’s hand fast, as though never again could he let him go out of his sight, the lovely boy almost enfolded in the uncouth garment of the dervish disguise. I could never forget this scene, so touching and so happy.
(Lady Blomfield, The Chosen Highway)