Chapter XI (1)

_25th April._—Sharífabad to Mashhad, twenty-four miles. Weather cloudy and showery, with occasional glimpses of sunshine. We set out at seven A.M., and proceeded at first north-east then north, up and down over a succession of rich pasture-grown ridges, by a good military road, that exposed rocks of friable slate and a coarse granular granite abounding with great flakes of glistening mica.

At about six miles we crested the _Tappa Salám_, or “ridge of obeisance;” and got our first view of Mashhad _i mucaddas_, “the holy,” with its gilded shrine and blue-domed mosque overtopping the rich foliage of its gardens—a pleasant oasis in the centre of a wide desert plain. Our road companions and Persian attendants, straining their eyes in the direction of their loved city, muttered a prayer, and bowed reverently and low.

In fine weather, the view of the city and the mountains beyond it must be a very pretty sight. Pilgrims go into ecstasies at it, and run ahead of their caravans to get an earlier glimpse. The ridge is covered with graves, and small heaps of stones to which are tied long shreds of many-coloured cloths—the altars raised by pilgrim devotees. On the present occasion, owing to the misty weather, our view of the place was but indistinct, whilst the hills beyond were hidden in the haze.

Beyond the _tappa_, we passed down some granite slopes to the wide bed of a clear little rivulet, and following it awhile, at half-way to Mashhad halted for breakfast on its turfy slope, where we pitched a couple of bell-tents for shelter from the rain. Whilst here, the British agent, or _Wukíl uddaula_, arrived from Mashhad to pay his respects to Sir F. Goldsmid and General Pollock, and with him came an Armenian merchant, a cunning fellow, evidently with an eye to business, in which no doubt he acquitted himself eminently to his own satisfaction. He had a small supply of English bottled beer, which, on the faith of its name, we were as glad to get as he was to part with. Our subsequent experience, however, proved it to be but a very sorry imitation, and how or when it came here, if it ever did come here, we did not discover.

Besides these arrived a merchant of Peshín, one Sayyid Karm Sháh, who came out to meet his kinsmen the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh, and to give and learn the latest news, and also a couple of Persian officials to warn us of the grand preparations made for our reception and the order of our procession. This intelligence necessitated a change from our travelling costume to the more imposing habiliments of official uniform. Our passing baggage was stopped, and the transformation effected as we set out afresh in a provoking set shower of rain.

A short descent brought us to a muddy river draining eastward in a noisy stream a foot deep. We crossed its boulder-strewn bed, with a hill of granite on the right and left rear, and going across the plain, reined up at Turogh _sarae_. Here Sir F. Goldsmid, with his party, proceeded ahead to meet the _isticbál_ sent out to meet him, and some minutes later, two field-officers of the Persian army rode up to conduct General Pollock and the Afghan Commissioner to meet the _isticbál_ sent out for their honourable reception, all according to programme and the strict rules of Persian etiquette.

The Persian officers were dressed in European military costume with the Persian hat, and in their general bearing no way differed from European gentlemen. Each was, however, attended by a _calyán_ bearer, who, on a nod from his master, lighted the tobacco, and urging his horse forward, handed its long tube to him, and following close in rear, awaited another nod to receive it back. Our friends smoked nearly the whole way, and very obligingly offered us a whiff. The “weed” is the finest-flavoured in the world, but the fashion of inhaling its fumes so constantly cannot but prove injurious to the lungs. As we rode along exchanging commonplace remarks, I observed that the plain was an uncultivated waste, dotted towards the east with numerous Turkman towers.

On approaching the city, both our processions coalesced, and formed a very gay cavalcade of about three hundred horsemen. The costumes of the Persian cavalry were very varied, and generally handsome, and the types of physiognomy were not much less so, whilst the horses of all were the most divergent in blood and bone. Altogether, the _cortége_ formed a crowd very interesting to look at and study, but very difficult to describe; and I will, therefore, not attempt to do so, lest I confound Kurd with Karai, and Dághistani with Daingháni, and Cajar with them all.

We entered the city at the Darwazae Khayábáni Páyín, or the “Gate of the Lower Avenue,” and proceeded up the avenue to the railings of the court of the holy shrine of Imám Razá. Here we turned off to the right, through some narrow lanes and covered passages, into a cemetery completely choked with tombstones, and emitting a very disagreeable effluvium, dank, mouldy, and strongly sepulchral. Beyond this, turning to the left, we regained the avenue on the farther side of the shrine, where it is called Khayábáni Bálá, or “Upper Avenue,” and presently alighted at an ornamental garden, where tents had been pitched for our accommodation.

The avenue is a very fine street, broad and straight from east to west. Down its centre flows a stream brought from the Dorúd river, and on its sides are rows of tall, shady, plane-trees. In fine weather it must be an interesting and agreeable promenade, to the foreigner especially, if only to study the variety of the Asiatic races to be met in its bazárs; but as we traversed its best portion at a season of continued rain, its fancied delights pale before the recollection of its black mud and offensive odours—too real to be easily forgotten. The shops and _saraes_ on either side the avenue presented a busy scene, though nowhere crowded, nor did the people evince any curiosity or commotion at our appearance amongst them. I was surprised to find many of the people quite fair and ruddy, and hardly to be distinguished from Europeans in this respect. They were, I was told, merchants from Bukhára. Some veritable Turkmans, too, were pointed out to us at one of the _saraes_ as we passed, and a couple of them at the entrance smiled with an expression of good-natured curiosity, as they found themselves made the objects of our attention. They were light-ruddy complexioned, and large-limbed men, with thick short beards, and a distinct trace of the Tátár physiognomy in their high cheek-bones and small widely-parted eyes. The expression of face was agreeable than otherwise, and betrayed none of the well-known ferocity of their nature. There are nearly a hundred of these men detained in this city as hostages for the good behaviour of their tribe. They are allowed full liberty within certain quarters of the town, but are not allowed to pass beyond the gates. They are said to abuse their liberty pretty freely by conveying intelligence to their tribe, of caravans and travellers arriving and departing from the city.

We halted a week at Mashhad, and on the day following our arrival and that preceding our departure, paid ceremonial visits to the Prince-Governor, Sultán Murád Mirzá, uncle of the Sháh, from whom he has received the title of Hisámussaltanat, or “sword of the state,” for his services at the siege of Herat in 1856. His palace is situated at some little distance from the garden allotted to us, and on each occasion we were conducted to the august presence with a minute observance of all the tedium of Persian etiquette. At the hour appointed for our departure, a couple of tall Turkman horses, richly caparisoned, were sent over from the Prince’s stables for Sir F. Goldsmid and General Pollock. These, with our own horses, and a long file of servants, were ranged outside the gate of our garden; and as we mounted, the latter fell into two lines, Indian-file, one on each side of our path. They were about fifteen men on each side, all dressed in their own best, or, as I suspect was the case with most of them, in borrowed clothes. At all events, they looked very decent people, and were hardly to be recognised as our grooms, tent-pitchers, and valets, so complete and sudden was their metamorphosis. With these men leading the way, and ourselves in full-dress uniform, our procession cut a very respectable figure. We proceeded leisurely, guided by the measured paces of our conductors, who each and all, with hands folded in front and heads slightly bowed, looked as solemn and lugubrious as sextons at a funeral.

Arrived at the palace gate, we dismounted, and were ushered into an outer court paved with flat red bricks and enclosed by high blank walls. Here we drew india-rubber goloshes over our boots, and advanced through an inner court to the reception room, in which our host was seated. At the threshold our goloshes were removed and taken charge of by our servants, and stepping in we each in turn, without doffing our hats, saluted the Prince-Governor in military style. He was seated, hat-on-head, in a chair at the farther end of the room, and, without rising, merely motioned us to the chairs ranged on either side his own at right angles. The usual inquiries as to our health were dispensed with, I presume, because the court chamberlain had called on us the previous afternoon for _hál púrsí_, that is, to ask after our state; and instead thereof, the Prince, so soon as we were seated, asked the name and rank of each of us, and then started the conversation with a string of inquiries regarding our journey up, and maintained it for some time on various topics, proving himself a remarkably well-informed man. The room of our reception was richly carpeted with splendid Birjand carpets and magnificent floorcloths of purple satin. During the visit a number of servants—one for each visitor and the host—marched in successively with loads of sherbet, coffee, tea, and ices, and between each tour another set of servants marched in with a _calyán_ for each of us. The cups were of very superior china, and the spoons of solid gold. The _finjans_ of coffee were richly jewelled with pearls and emeralds and rubies, set in a delicate filagree of gold. The _calyans_, too, were mostly costly, the jars being of Sevres china, decorated with French pictures, whilst the bowls were of solid gold, studded with brilliants and pearls, and the mouthpieces of gold studded with turquoise. No two of them were alike, and yet all were alike costly, enamelled, and jewelled. The Prince is reputed to be one of the most wealthy men in the country, and one of the most stingy. He has done nothing for the starving poor during the famine, and the suffering and loss has been something frightful. He himself reckoned the loss of population in Khorassan alone at 120,000 souls, and the British agent here informed us, that of 9000 houses in the city, not one half were tenanted. The picture he drew of the suffering here during the winter was awful. Hundreds died in their cellars and huts, and in the lanes and passages, from sheer cold and want of food, and remained unburied for weeks.

In this respect, however, the Hisámussaltanat is no worse than the rest of those in authority in this country; for, from the Sháh downwards, it is said not one has moved a finger to alleviate the general suffering. The consequence is, the country has lost a million and a half at least of its population, and cannot regain its former prosperity for a full generation to come.

We paid a third visit to the Prince-Governor, and spent the afternoon with him in the garden adjoining his palace. We were here received under a marquee, erected over a carpeted platform, and the same course of ceremonies and refreshments were observed as on the other occasions. In this garden we saw a Turkman tent of the kind called _khargáh_. It is of circular shape, about eighteen feet in diameter, and dome roofed, and is built up of lattice-work frames of wood, fixed together by leather thongs, and is protected from the weather by a covering of thick felts. The whole takes to pieces, and forms a single camel-load.

On this occasion the Prince spoke at length regarding our experiences in Sistan, and the conduct of the Hash-mat-ul-mulk, and alluded in very plain terms to the rapid encroachment of Russia upon the countries of Central Asia, and the inevitable consequences of her aggressive policy in that direction. Khiva he considered as doomed since the base of Russian operations had been changed from the side of the Aral to that of the Caspian. The Jáfar Bai section of Yamút Turkmans had already been conciliated, and they would help to win over the others. Further, he laid stress on the sympathy and support the Russians would receive from the captive Persians in Khiva and Bukhára, whose numbers are not far short of fifty thousand.

On the last occasion of our visiting the Hisámussaltanat, we were all photographed in a group, with himself in the centre, by a Persian who had learned the art in Constantinople. He might have learned it better at Tehran, though, considering the locality, his work was creditable. We were obligingly presented with a copy each, as a memorial of our visit, which I may say is remembered as the most agreeable portion of our long journey. We had been favoured with a distinguished reception, were accommodated in a delightful garden swarming with nightingales, whose clear strong notes resounded on all sides night and day; and enjoyed as much of the society of the Prince as circumstances admitted of. Our treatment here, notwithstanding the irksome forms of Persian etiquette, and the pride that prevented a return visit, was, after our experiences in Gháyn and Sistan, very gratifying; whilst the assimilation of the terms of social intercourse to those of Europe—so different from the absurd prejudices and caste obligations we had been accustomed to in India—was alone a subject for congratulation. But as every good has its counteracting evil, so it was with us in this last case; and we more than once had cause to wish that our Persian servants, in place of their unbounded freedom in the matter of dressing and eating, were bound by the same rules as our Indian servitors. We might then have been spared the mortification of seeing our shirts and trousers airing on their persons, and our meats and drinks disappearing ere they had been well tasted.

Mashhad, the capital of Persian Khorassan, is a considerable commercial city, and the point of convergence of the caravan routes between Persia and India and China, through the countries of Afghanistan and Turkistan respectively. It covers a great extent of ground, surrounded by fortified walls several miles in circumference. Much of the intramural area is occupied by gardens and extensive cemeteries. In the latter the graves are closely packed, and contain the remains of pilgrim devotees who die here, and of the faithful in all parts of the country, whose last wish is to mingle their ashes with the sacred soil in which lie those of their loved saint. Formerly from thirty to forty thousand pilgrims annually visited the shrine of Imám Razá, bringing in many cases the bones of their dead relatives for interment under the shadow of the sacred dome; but since the famine the number has considerably diminished, and hardly exceeds ten or twelve thousand.

Mashhad _i mucaddas_, or “the holy,” is one of the principal places of Muhammadan pilgrimage, the others being Mecca _munawara_, or “the enlightened;” Karbalá _mualla_, or “the exalted;” Najafa _ul ashraf_, or “the most noble;” and Bukhára _sharíf_, or “the noble.” Like these centres of Islamite piety, it too is a sink of vice and immorality of all sorts the most degrading, and its baths and bazárs swarm with swindlers and gamblers, who, with a curious perversion of conscience, combine devotion with debauchery.

Amongst the special industries of this place is the manufacture of ornamental vases, goblets, tables, pipes, and other utensils of domestic use, from a soft blue slate or steatite, which is quarried in the hills to the south of the city. Some of them are very tastefully engraved, and they sell at a remarkably cheap rate. Cooking-pots, kettles, &c., are made from this stone, and they stand the fire well.

This is the headquarters of the turquoise trade, the mines of which are in the adjoining district of Nishabor, and we had hoped to obtain some good specimens of the gem; but they were either not shown to us, or had been already bespoken by the agents for merchants in the trade. We saw better stones at Shikárpúr in Sind than any they showed us here, and at more reasonable prices. I suspect we owed our disappointment to the irrepressible greed of our servants for their customary _mudákhil_. They certainly required some such means of increasing their incomes over and above the fixed salaries they received from us, in order to enable them to gratify their expensive tastes in the matter of dress. The Mirzá (secretary) was particularly conspicuous for the variety of costumes he delighted to disport in. At every place we made a halt at, he appeared decked out in a new suit of clothes. One day he would wear a coat of purple broadcloth and Angola trousers, then a suit of black broadcloth; and here, where our stay was more prolonged, each day produced a new dress, and it was a puzzle to find out where he got them from, and how he paid for them, for they must have been all expensive, particularly one which struck us as very handsome. It was a coat of blue broadcloth, trimmed with gold braiding and lined with squirrel fur.

During our stay at Mashhad the weather was more or less cloudy, and showers and sunshine succeeded each other at short intervals. Our garden residence proved very damp and chill, and we all suffered more or less in health from its effects. The winter here is described as a cold season, owing to the winds that sweep the plain, on which snow lies for three weeks or a month. The summer heats are sometimes tempered by cool breezes from the north, but are more frequently intensified by radiation from the deserts around. The elevation is about 3180 feet above the sea.

_3d May._—Mashhad to Jágharc, or Jáarc, twenty miles. Our heavy baggage and tents had been sent on yesterday to Nishabor by the route of Sharífabad and Cadamgah. We set out at eleven A.M., and going up the Khayábáni Bálá, left the city by the gate of the same name, and proceeded across the plain in a W.N.W. direction, with a low range of hills to our left. Standing out from it, close together, are two hills of granite called Koh Nucra, and Koh Tilá, or the silver hill and gold hill respectively, from a traditionary belief that they contain, or did contain, those metals. Across the plain to the right is a high mountain range that bounds the Mashhad district to the north. Coal is said to be found on it; and a great mass towering above the rest of the range was pointed out as Calát-i-Nadíri, a celebrated mountain fortress supposed to be impregnable. It was for some years the depository of the treasures Nadír brought with him from India.

The plain in our front represents a wide flat of mostly uncultivated land, and is traversed obliquely by a singular line of tall towers, which we learned on inquiry were fortified water-mills on the course of the stream that is led off from the Dorúd river for the water supply of the city. At about ten miles we reached the foot of the hills, along which are scattered a few villages, and by a rough stony ascent crested a low ridge called _Tappa Salám_, and from it got an excellent view of the city and the great Mashhad plain, which extends away to the eastward as a desert flat so far as the eye can reach, and cuts the horizon in a clear line like the sea. Here, as on the ridge of the same name on the side of Sharífabad, the ground was piled in every direction with cairns from which fluttered a multitude of rag shreds.

Beyond this we crossed the Dorúd river, a little way below a strong masonry dam built across a narrow passage between rocks, and a little later found the river above it was retained in the shape of a small lake. Farther on we passed the picturesque village of Gulistan, and then turning S.S.W., followed a winding lane up to Targobah, a delightfully situated village in the midst of gardens and orchards sloping down from both sides to the noisy and rapid little hill torrent flowing between. The vine, apple, plum, peach, and apricot, the cherry, filbert, walnut, and mulberry, with willows and poplars, formed a thick forest on either side our path, and higher up we found the elm, ash, and plane tree, whilst everywhere the damp soil was luxuriant in a rank vegetation of weeds. We recognised the wild mignonette, forget-me-not, buttercups, goosefoot cleavers, the bright red poppy, and a multitude of other common English herbs. The scene at once reminded me of Devonshire; and had I been dropped on to the spot blindfolded, should, on looking around, have thought myself on the banks of the Plym. At four miles beyond Targobah, proceeding up the course of a rapid torrent, which we crossed from side to side some thirty times _en route_, and passing a succession of orchards, in which we saw a number of boys and girls at work collecting fuel, and as fair as English youths and maidens, we arrived at Jágharc, where we were accommodated in a private house adjoining a _sarae_, which was made over for the shelter of our servants and cattle. Weather rainy and air damp.

Jágharc is built on the slope of a high slate hill right down to the edge of the torrent, which, with another farther south, goes to form the Dorúd, or “two river” stream we crossed at the foot of the hills. Its name signifies “the place of drowning,” from a tradition, as I learned from our landlord, that this country was at one time under the sea, and that this was the spot where Jonah, or Yúnas, was cast into it. He was cast up again from the whale’s belly at the spot now named Yúnasi, the same we camped at on our march from Bijistan. Jágharc is about 4650 feet above the sea, 1470 feet above Mashhad, and 1790 feet above Yúnasi.

Our next stage was over the Nishabor mountain to Dihrúd, twenty-four miles. We set out at 7.30 A.M., and proceeded S.S.W. up the stream, through orchards as yesterday. At two miles we came to a fork in the rivulet formed by an intervening hill of slate; and following the branch to the right, at two miles more cleared the vineyards and orchards, and continued ascending along a row of pollard willows bordering the stream, which we crossed continually in our course. At another seven miles we came to the Páe Gudar Sarae, a small rest-house, as the name indicates, at “the foot of the pass.” Here two roads branch off, one on each side of a great overtopping bluff. Both are very steep and difficult, but the one to the left being pronounced the easier of the two, we took it. After crossing a deep and dangerous snowdrift that blocked the bottom of a very narrow gorge, and was undermined by little streams flowing beneath its soft subsiding mass, we struck a path on the steep slope of the hill. It was so steep we were obliged to dismount and lead our horses up the hill, or, as was done by some, to hang on by their tails and let them drag us up.

At the top of the pass (the ascent from the _sarae_ at its foot occupied us an hour and five minutes without a halt), the aneroid indicated an elevation of 9390 feet above the sea. The summit was covered with wide fields of snow, and afforded an extensive view of the plain of Mashhad on the one side, and that of Nishabor on the other. The range runs from north-west to south-east, gradually subsiding towards the latter direction, but in the former rising into the high snow-clad mountains of Kháwar and Binaloh. A strong west wind, cold and withering, swept the pass, and had cleared its crest of snow. Here we found an immense number of cairns, some of large size, and thousands of shreds of cloth fluttered from them like pennants in the breeze. This is the first spot at which the pilgrim coming from the westward sights the shrine of Imám Razá. The sky was unfortunately overcast with clouds, and we did not distinguish the gilded dome and minars, though the city itself was plainly discernible. Near the top we passed a small party of pilgrims hurrying down the hill. They had with them two pannier-mules carrying veiled ladies. They must have had a trying and hazardous journey, for the road is extremely difficult, and, when we saw them, their clumsy vehicles swayed from side to side in a most alarming manner, over the very brink of tremendous precipices. Their mules were allowed to pick their own way, and always took the precipice edge, as if out of bravado, to show how far they could go without toppling over, though really from an instinct of self-preservation, and to avoid contact with projecting rocks on the hillside, a sudden concussion against which would most likely send them and their loads off the narrow path down the precipice.

The descent is by a very steep and stony path in a deep defile, and in twenty minutes brought us to Rabát Dihrúd, a dilapidated resting-house, where we alighted for breakfast. Below this the path is extremely rough, steep, and difficult, down a narrow winding gorge, blocked here and there by snowdrifts, undermined by running water beneath. Several of our cattle fell here by the snow subsiding under them, and were extricated with difficulty. The rocks around are as rugged, wild, and barren as the gorge is narrow, steep, and difficult, and altogether the scene is one of weirdly picturesque character, whilst the skeletons of men and cattle that strew the path everywhere testify to its fatality.

At five miles down from the Rabát a branch defile joins from the right, and thence the descent becomes less steep, and follows a line of willow, ash, and poplar trees (all polled for the manufacture of charcoal), along the course of a strong rivulet, and a few miles onwards conducts through a succession of vineyards to Dihrúd, where we found accommodation in some empty houses, of which there is, _miserabile dictu_, no lack. The village has been decimated by the famine, and wears a gloomy, miserable, and deserted look, in the midst of luxuriant vineyards and orchards, exuberant in their foliage from want of hands to tend and prune them. Its people, such as are left, pale, haggard, and hungry, wander listlessly through its deserted quarters and crumbling tenements, resignedly waiting the ripening of their crops, and eking out the while a miserable subsistence on such stores of fruit and grain as are yet left to them.

_5th May._—Dihrúd to Nishabor, twenty-two miles, and halt a day—route west, down a gravelly slope and then W.N.W. across the populous and fertile plain of Nishabor, to the garden of Imám Wardi Khán, a little beyond the city. At the sixth mile we passed Cadamgah a little to the left. There is a shrine here, built over a stone bearing the impression of a foot, said to be that of the saint buried at Mashhad, and pilgrims visit it on their way to the mausoleum. A couple of miles farther on is the village of Ardaghích, and then Abbasabad and Shahabad, all on the left. To the right, following the hill skirt northward, are the villages of Kháwar, Burjilirán, Dasht, Bijan, Ayik, Rúh, and others. The plain, in fact, is dotted all over with villages and green spots of cultivation and fruit trees. Thirty or forty villages are seen at one view on either side the route, and give the plain a most populous and flourishing look, but they are all more or less depopulated owing to losses from the famine.

Beyond Shahabad we passed a wide extent of ruins a little to the left of the road. Prominent amongst them are a tall blue-domed tomb, and the battlements of an extensive fort. They mark the site of ancient Nishabor, which was destroyed at the period of the Arab conquest. It was subsequently restored, and, in the time of Sabuktagin, was the residence of his son, Mahmúd of Ghazni, as governor of Khorassan. Under his rule it regained its former prosperity, but afterwards experienced many misfortunes, and was repeatedly plundered by Tátárs and Uzbaks, and was finally razed to the ground, and its people massacred, by Changhiz Khán.

The present town rose from its remains, on the plain close by, and for centuries had a hard struggle for existence, being repeatedly plundered by Turkmans and Uzbaks, who annually ravaged the country. Early in the eighteenth century it was restored by Abbas Culi Khán, a Kurd of the Bayát tribe, and from him was taken in 1752 by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. The Afghan afterwards reinstated the Kurd in the government of this frontier province of his newly-established kingdom, having secured his loyalty by the bonds of matrimonial alliance, giving his own sister in marriage to the chief, and one of his daughters in marriage to his son.

On the death of Sháh Ahmad, and the removal of the seat of government from Kandahar to Kabul, the Bayát chief became independent, as did the rest of the local chiefs on this frontier. The weakness produced by this divided authority and independent action facilitated the Cajar designs in this direction, and in 1793 the city fell to Agha Muhammad Sháh, the first sovereign of that dynasty. The city formerly contained nine thousand inhabitants, but its present population is less than half that number. As we passed by the city on the way to our garden quarters, we were beset by an importunate crowd of starving creatures, most pitiful objects to behold. Their pinched features, attenuated limbs, and prominent joints, gave them a look of utter helplessness; but, to our astonishment, they fought, and screamed, and bit, and tore each other with fierce energy, in their struggles for the small coins we threw amongst them. Our escort charged in amongst them, and flogged right and left; but the sight of money had rendered them frantic, and the lashes fell upon them unheeded, so intensely fixed were their imaginations on the prospect of securing the wherewithal to satisfy the cravings of their hunger. I saw several of the weaker ones knocked down and ridden over by the horses; and some of our escort actually fell back to despoil the stronger of the petty wealth they had secured in the struggle!

Imám Wardi’s garden, in which we are accommodated, is a bequest by the founder to the shrine at Mashhad. It has a handsome pavilion at each end, and between them extends a long row of ornamental tanks furnished with pipes for fountains. On either side the ground is laid out in vineyards and fruit gardens interspersed, between which are flower-beds bordered by beautiful rose-bushes, now in full blossom. Some of these—double roses—are of a bright-yellow colour, and others—single—are of a yellow colour outside and scarlet inside. The garden is used as a resting-place for the Sháh and all distinguished travellers in this region.

The district of Nishabor was formerly reckoned one of the most populous and fertile places in Persia, and is certainly the most flourishing-looking place we have seen in the country. In reality, however, its villages are only half peopled, and many of its _kárez_ streams have run dry. The district comprises the twelve divisions, or _bulúk_, of Zabarkhan, Ardighích, Zarbi Gházi, Ishkabad, Sághabad, Mázúl, Tahtí Júlgah, Rewand, Tághun Koh, Bári Madán, Sarwiláyat and Dihrúd. It also contains twelve perennial streams, and formerly was irrigated by twelve thousand _kárez_ streams; but of these, three-fourths are now dry, or have become filled up. Its villages and hamlets are reckoned at twelve hundred, and it is said to possess twelve different mines, that yield turquoise, salt, lead, copper, antimony, and iron, also marble and soapstone. The turquoise-mines are in the Bári Madán _bulúk_, and a second has recently been discovered in the hills to the south, separating Nishabor from Turshíz. The plain of Nishabor is girt on three sides by lofty hills, but towards the south slopes to a great salt desert, continuous with the _kavír_ of Yúnasi by gaps through a low range of marly water-worn ridges.

_7th May._—Nishabor to Záminabad, sixteen miles—route W.S.W. across the plain, passing many little square forts on either side the road. These, like all the others on the south and west quarters of the plain, are bare of trees, but are surrounded by wide corn-fields. Trees, we were told, would not grow here, owing to the strong winds that prevail from the west and south. We marched in the face of a strong cold south-west wind, which swept up and drove before it thick clouds of saline dust, until the clouds above dissolved into a thin shower, which cleared the atmosphere and laid the dust.

One of the Persians of our escort assured us that this wind often prevailed with such furious force that it knocked people off their legs. “Why, only last year,” said he, with most animated gestures, “it tore up the sand in that hollow away to the left with such force, and swept it away in such quantities, that it exposed the remains of an ancient town nobody ever dreamt of the existence of before. The houses were discovered in rare order. The chambers were clear of débris and clean swept of dust, and, marvellous to relate, the furniture was found just as it stood when the city was swallowed up in the earth.” “You astonish me,” I said; “this is something very wonderful.” “Yes,” he continued, “you speak the truth—it is wonderful. God is great and His power is infinite. But I will tell you the most wonderful thing of all. Everything looked perfect and most substantial, but the moment a hand was stretched out to touch an object, it at once crumbled to powder. The place is only a few miles off our road, would you like to gallop over and see it?”

I thought of the Kol Márút inscription, and the Turkman heads, and the earthquake at Khabúshán or Kochán, and politely declined the invitation. “Your description,” I said, “is so complete, I see the place before my mind’s eye. Why incommode ourselves in this rain for what is so apparent?” I saw he felt the sarcasm, though, with genuine Persian nonchalance, he covered his retreat with an—“As you will! There the place is, and if you like to see it, I am ready to accompany you.” Of course he would have made some trivial excuse at not finding the city of his imagination, or have kept me wandering over the plain till in sheer disgust I gave up the search. I should, however, like to have taken him on his proffered errand, had I full power to punish him on proving his delinquency; for, on subsequent inquiry, I ascertained the whole story to be a pure invention.

I referred just now to an earthquake at Kochán, which I have not mentioned in the narrative. We were told at Turbat Hydari, and by the governor of the place too, as the most recent news from Mashhad, that a fearful earthquake had almost completely destroyed Kochán. The convulsion was described as so violent, that the houses were completely inverted, and hundreds of the people crushed to death in the ruins. One of our first inquiries on arrival at Mashhad was regarding the calamity at Kochán, but nobody had heard anything about it.

Our road companions were so thoroughly untrustworthy in all they said, that we found it difficult to get any reliable information out of them regarding the countries we were passing through, and our Persian servants evinced such a dislike to our inquisitiveness, that it was hopeless to look for any assistance from them. We all took notes, and each catered for himself, and many a time were we hard pushed for material to fill our diaries. A traveller on the road, a peasant at the plough, or a shepherd tending his flocks, was hailed as a godsend, and at once charged down upon by three or four Britons, note-book in hand, foraging for information. “Do you belong to this place?” “What’s the name of that village?” “And that on the hillside?” “What’s the name of that hill?” “And of this _bulúk_?” “Where do you live?” “How many houses does this village contain?” “How many people died in the famine?” and so forth.

Our blunt authoritative volley of questions generally elicited unhesitating and truthful replies; but sometimes our examinee became impatient under our “wait a bits,” whilst we wrote, and began to hesitate and reflect on his replies. We knew he was concocting a lie, and without waiting to hear it, galloped off to join our comrades, leaving him to stare after us in bewilderment.

The last few miles of our march was over a very slippery clay soil, white with salines, and drained by a sluggish muddy river, which we crossed by a masonry bridge. Our camp is pitched on rising ground beyond the fort-village of Záminabad, and affords a good view of the Binaloh range, running north-west, and separating Burdjnurd from Kochán. To the north-west the Nishabor plain narrows, and communicates through a long valley with Burdjnurd, just as the plain of Mashhad does on the other side of Binaloh with Chinaran and Kochán. To the southward the prospect is bounded by the Koh Surkh range, running east and west, and separating Nishabor from Turshíz. The weather here proved very raw and black, and a cold south-west wind swept over the country in stormy gusts.

Our next march was nine miles to Shoráb, on the bank of a ravine that drains the chain of hills separating the plain of Nishabor from that of Sabzwár. Shoráb is a neat little fortified village of some sixty houses. There is a post-house here, and a large _ábambár_, and a new and commodious _sarae_ is in course of erection.

From this we marched nearly due west eighteen miles to Záfaráni, and halted a day. For the first five miles our road led over a very broken mameloned surface, up to a watershed running north-west and south-east, and marking the boundary between Nishabor and Sabzwár. Its elevation is about 4290 feet above the sea, and from it we got a good view of the great plain of Sabzwár, which is singularly void of trees and villages, and looks like a desert compared with Nishabor. Indeed, its southern coasts are a veritable salt desert, glistening white as snow in the sunlight. The plain is bounded to the westward and southward by the lofty Gomesh mountain, and beyond the desert tract to the south by the Koh Surkh and Turshíz ranges.

At four miles on, passing amongst rough rocky hills of slate and trap, we came to the Sarae Caladár, and thence west down a long slope to the plain of Sabzwár. Its surface is a firm coarse gravel, covered with pasture plants, such as the camel-thorn, asafœtida, liquorice, wild rue, astragalus, &c., and the wild almond, the fruit of which was nearly ripe; but not a single tree was visible on all the plain, and but only two or three villages, widely apart. The land slopes to the salt desert on the south, where flows the Káli Shor, or “salt river.” It drains Nishabor and Sabzwár south-west to the desert of Káshán, and its water is so saline as to be unfit even for purposes of irrigation.

Záfaráni is a walled village of about two hundred houses, belonging to the Zafaranlu tribe of Kurds. There are a good post-house and a large _sarae_ here. The Kurds originally came into Persia with the invasion of Changhiz Khán, and possessed themselves of the mountainous region bordering its western provinces. A colony of them, amounting to forty thousand families, was afterwards transported into the neighbouring provinces of Persia by Sháh Tamasp, and Sháh Abbas the Great subsequently settled them in the northern districts of Khorassan, viz., Daragaz, Radgán, Chinaran, Khabúshán, Burdjnurd, Nishabor, and Sabzwár. On the downfall of the Saffavi dynasty they became independent, till reduced by Nadír. After the death of this conqueror they passed under the nominal rule off the Durrani Sháh Ahmad, but they soon threw off the ill-secured Afghan yoke, and again became independent under local chiefs, who for several years successfully resisted the authority of the Cajar kings, until finally reduced to subjection in the reign of the present Sháh, about the middle of this century.

_11th May._—Záfaráni to Sabzwár, twenty-five miles, and halt a day—route west, over a gravelly plain, covered with asafœtida and wild rue in profusion. To the left the plain slopes down to the Káli Shor, the course of which is marked by a white belt of saline efflorescence. Beyond the river rises the Gomesh range of mountains, their summits streaked with snow. To the right is a high range of bare rocky hills, that separate Sabzwár from Júwen and Bám of Burdjnurd.

At eight miles we came to the village of Sarposhida. Here the sandy soil is cut, scooped, and honeycombed by the wind in a manner similar to some parts of Sistan. At four miles farther we passed the two roadside villages of Julen, with their rich fields of corn fast ripening into ear. Here we witnessed an interesting hawk-hunt. A solitary snippet, startled from its safety in a roadside pool by our approach, took wing with the quick flight peculiar to the species. Instantly a small hawk stooped at it from the sky, and then commenced an exciting chase. The snippet redoubled its speed, and, screaming with fright, dodged the rapid stoops of its relentless pursuer by quick darts first to one side then to the other; again it would double back, and strive to keep above the hawk, or rush off in the opposite direction to his soar. The poor snippet struggled bravely for life, but the enemy was too strong for it. Swoop followed swoop in rapid succession at close quarters, and were just escaped with wonderful activity, till presently the quarry began to show signs of fatigue, and the hawk was on the point of securing his prey, when in cut another hawk, and at a single swoop carried off the game. The poor snippet’s shrill screams ceased at once, and the hawk, thus cheated of his rights, quietly sailed away in the opposite direction.

Beyond Julen we passed Zydabad and Nazlabad, and half a dozen other villages, to the right of the road; and then meeting a few horsemen who were hurriedly sent out by way of _isticbál_, were conducted by them through the covered bazárs of Sabzwár to the quarters prepared for us in the centre of the town, and adjoining the residence of the governor. Here we were received by the governor himself, Muhammad Taki Khán, with pleasing civility and attention. He is quite European in manner and appearance, and speaks French like a Frenchman, as do most Persian gentlemen of the modern school.

Sabzwár, we were told, contained four thousand houses, only half of which are now tenanted. The district is said to have lost twenty-four thousand souls by death and emigration during the famine. The loss of Nishabor district is reckoned at only twenty thousand, which I think must be under the mark, for its population is naturally much above that of Sabzwár, which only comprises nine _bulúk_, some of which are very sparsely populated. They are Shamkán, along Káli Shor to the south, Gomesh, Humaon, Kasaba, between Sabzwár and Záfaráni, Tabbas, Káh, Mazinán, Tagao, to the north of the plain, and Zamand. Besides these, the _bulúk_ of Júwen and Bám of the Burdjnurd district have recently been added to Sabzwár by the Hisámussaltanat.

_13th May._—Sabzwár to Mihr, thirty-three miles—route west through an uninterrupted sheet of corn for two miles, then across an undulating plain, gradually sloping to a salt desert on our left. At four miles passed Abári village, and, near it, the Míl Khusro Gard. This is a lofty minar standing by itself in a ploughed field. It is built of red bricks arranged in arabesque pattern, and is much decayed. At a little distance from it stands a domed mausoleum, coated with plates of tin or similar white metal. From its interior proceeded the voices of men chanting the Curán. None of our party could tell us anything about these relics, and there was no stray peasant whom we could charge down upon and question; so I must be content with the bare record of their locality.

At five miles on we passed Pírastír and its gardens and corn-fields, and at another five miles came to an _ábambár_ where the road branches. That to the left goes W.S.W. by Námen and a succession of deserted villages on the edge of the salt desert to Mazinán. It is a fearful road, and how any one could take it, with the option of a better, is a mystery. Not a particle of vegetation was to be seen; the whole vista was one of aridity and salt, blinding with a dazzling glare, and great heaps of drift-sand half buried the little castles lining the route. Yet the road was a well-trodden track, indicating frequent use. That to the right went W.N.W. up a rising ground, and at four miles brought us to Rewand, where we found shelter from the heat of the midday sun under the shade of some magnificent plane-trees in the midst of the village. It is delightfully situated amidst gardens and vineyards, and outwardly has all the surroundings of prosperity and plenty, but inwardly, within its houses and courts, who can tell the amount of misery and suffering that there reigns? We could only guess it from the number of poor men and women who, through fear of our escort, stealthily crept amongst the bushes to our resting-place, and in low voices begged a morsel of bread, whilst gathering up and munching the crumbs and bones thrown aside from our late repast.

Proceeding hence, we followed a long hill skirt strewed with bits of trap, and chlorite, and cellular lava, washed down from the hills to our right, the base of which is set with red clay mounds, in the hollows between which are spied many little hamlets and farmsteads. At six miles we passed a roadside pond, and thence sloping down gradually, at another six miles reached Mihr, where we camped at 6.20 P.M.—the thermometer 84° Fah.

_14th May._—Mihr to Mazinán, twenty miles—route due west down a gentle slope skirting the Chaghatay hills, that separate us from Júwen on the right. The soil is bare and gravelly, and slopes down to the desert on our left. At four miles we passed through the Súdkar village, which is the only one on the route. On approaching our camp at Mazinán, we left a large village at the foot of the hills to the right. It is called Dawarzan, and is protected by a double row of outlying Turkman towers.

Mazinán is a small village on the edge of the desert, and adjoins the ruins of an extensive town, in the midst of which stands a decayed _sarae_ of the Arab period. There is a post-house here, and also a good newly-built _sarae_. The place wears a wretched inhospitable look, and in summer must be very hot.

_15th May._—Mazinán to Abbasabad, twenty-three miles[3]—route at first north, and then round to the west, along the skirt of the hills bounding an arm of the desert. Soil gravelly, and surface covered with saltworts, camel-thorn, mimosa, tamarisk, and similar vegetation. At half-way we came to the Sadarabad Sarae and halted for breakfast. It is a recently-built and commodious structure, erected by the late Sadar Azím, and is furnished with a good _ábambár_. Opposite is a small fort for the accommodation of a few families charged with the care of the _sarae_. There is no village here, and the supplies are brought in and stored periodically from Sabzwár. There are no trees nor cultivation here, and the whole population consists of three men, as many women and one child, and a very miserable set they look. They were anxious to leave the place, as they were in hourly dread of Turkmans, and owing to the few travellers now frequenting the route, never made any money. Whilst here, we were overtaken by a courier with our last post from Peshawar through Afghanistan, with dates to the 10th April. It had been sent from Mashhad by a Persian courier, and ought to have reached us at Sabzwár; but the Persian has not the energy of the Afghan.

Ahead of us is a dangerous bit of desert, which is always infested by Turkmans; so, on setting out from Sadarabad, careful preparations were made for our passage across it. Our baggage and servants, &c., were all collected together, and massed in a close column outside the _sarae_. The gun was placed at their head, and protected by a score of matchlockmen, whilst the rest ranged themselves Indian-file on either side the column. The cavalry took up their posts on the flanks, front, and rear, and threw out advanced parties, who topped every rising bit of ground to scan the country ahead.

All the arrangements being completed, our trumpeter brayed out some hideous sounds, which of themselves were enough to scare the enemy, if the gun was not, and we proceeded, ourselves amongst the horsemen in advance of the gun. At a couple of miles, over a flat bare clay surface, we came to a rivulet crossed by a crumbling brick-bridge of very ancient appearance. This is Pul Abresham. Here there was a block in the passage. We had about a hundred camels, more than half the number of mules, and asses innumerable, for every matchlockman had his accompanying _ulágh_ (beast of burden), and there were besides several others who had taken advantage of the opportunity to join our caravan. The bridge was narrow, and only a few could pass at a time; presently a few scattered horsemen were spied far away on the desert to the left. The news spread like wildfire. “Haste to the front!”—“Keep together!”—“Cross quickly!”—“Don’t lag behind!”—resounded on all sides from our escort. The bridge was abandoned to the camels and mules and asses, and horsemen pushed across the muddy stream on either side of it, and again formed up on the open ground ahead. Some horsemen had galloped on in advance to bring intelligence regarding those we had seen on the desert, and meanwhile the crowd in the caravan looked around watchfully in every direction, as if they expected a Turkman to start up from behind every bush that dotted the plain. The terror these well-cursed marauders inspire in the Persian breast is laughable, were it not for the reality of the cause. Men who bounce and brag of their prowess when they have hundreds of miles between them, pale and shiver in their shoes when they find themselves in a position where they may meet them face to face.