Chapter XXXV: We Return Viâ the Caspian (1)

New Year’s presents—Shiraz custom—Our cook’s weaknesses—He
takes the pledge—And becomes an opium-eater—Decide to go
home—Dispose of kit—Start for Europe—Our own arrangements—Diary
of our journey home—Arrival.

A severe winter, diversified with occasional fine weather, when the days were even hot in the sun, brought the No Rūz (or Persian New Year) and the commencement of spring. Our servants brought their plates of sweetmeats to mark the day, and duly received a month’s pay, or clothes to that amount. The woman-servant Bēbē brought her mistress an earthen water-bottle, around the ledge of which was sown barley, the grains being held on by a bandage, and the porous jar keeping them constantly wet; the result was a number of rings of bright grass, the whole forming a very pretty and original, if useless, present. It is a common custom to do this in Shiraz at the New Year, and even the poorest has his water-pot covered with brilliant green.

Our cook is giving some trouble just now; for though a capital _chef_, and though he has been with me fourteen years—having begun at eight shillings a month, and arrived for the last five years at forty _and the spending of all the money_—yet he has his vices. When he was first with me as a youth of nineteen, he was perpetually getting married, and as frequently getting divorced; then he took to getting continually arrested for debt; next drink became his foible, and this endured for about four years; dismissal, the bastinado (by the authorities), fining, were all tried without avail: at length, in despair, I sent him to the head of religion in Ispahan, with a note to the Sheikh, in which I apologised for troubling him, but stated that the man was a very old servant in whom I had a great interest, and _would he make him take the pledge_? The cook, who took the note himself, had no idea of the contents. He told me that the Sheikh read it and told him to wait; when the large assembly that always throngs the Sheikh’s house had disappeared, the old gentleman produced a Koran, and proposed that the cook should take the pledge. He dared not refuse. After swearing to take no wine or spirits, a formal document was drawn up, to which the cook attached his seal. The Sheikh wrote me a very polite note, and assured me that the man would keep the pledge.

It appeared that he exhibited a tremendous “taziana,” or cat-o’-nine-tails, to my man, as what pledge-breakers are punished with.

The cook now was for weeks as sober as a judge, but he was _becoming a fool_; the dinners were spoiled, or incongruous, or both: in fact, as he must do something, he had become an opium-eater. Opium, though habitually used by the aged of both sexes, is seldom taken to excess, save by “lutis,” or confirmed debauchees.

At last, finding it impossible to cure this determined offender, I gave my reluctant consent to his proceeding to Kermanshah, his native place, where he wished to stay at least a year. I never saw him again.

I don’t know if the last straw was the loss of our cook, or if we had come to the conclusion that definitely Persia was not the place for a lady, but we decided to go home on two years’ leave, to which I was now entitled; and as we felt that it was very probable we should never return, we determined to sell off our entire kit. We accordingly drew out a catalogue of our worldly goods in Persia, and distributed it among the telegraph officials. By a couple of months everything was disposed of but the rubbish. This was sold by auction, and produced a keen competition among the Armenians.

I was enabled to get rid of our phaeton without loss, for a Persian of wealth, the “Mūllavi,” gave me within forty pounds of what I gave for it and the horses; and the severe work we had had out of trap and horses for two years was well worth the difference.

Captain W⸺, who was expecting his sisters out, _viâ_ Russia, took all our road kit and saddlery, and my wife’s mare and the “takhtrowan,” all to be given over at Resht, on the Caspian, so we were quite free to start.

OUR JOURNEY HOME.

_March 28th, 1881._—ISPAHAN JULFA.—At last I hear that a muleteer is found who will go direct to Resht, by way of Kūm, Hajeeb, and Kasvin, avoiding the capital. I go to the house of a Baghdad merchant in Julfa, and find the muleteer, who is being regaled with pipes; he is the head-man of the neighbouring village of Se Deh (three villages), and the proprietor of a hundred mules. I am told that his son-in-law will go with the mules, and am introduced to a young fellow some six feet high and thickly built, who is a Tabrizi, and speaks good Turkish and bad Persian. He is wearing the large heavy sheepskin cap of Tabriz, with the wool long. The merchant informs me that he thinks the hire should be sixty kerans per mule. This is said in English, and he then turns to the elder man and says:

“You will, of course, give this sahib mules at forty kerans per mule?”

The old man replies: “I have, after much persuasion, got Jaffer Kūli, my son-in-law, to agree to eighty.”

The young man, with many vows, raises his hands to heaven and demands eighty-five. “Why do you throw words into air, Jaffer Kūli? as I am this merchant’s friend let us say eighty, and the sahib will have had mules for _nothing_. Of course we get a present?”

I here get up, saying, “These fellows are quite mad; let us talk to _men_.”

They in turn rise and say, “Our last word is seventy-five.”

So we talk for an hour. Then, and not till then, the ceremony of agreement is gone through, and the articles strictly drawn up by the merchant, after much chaffering. At last he begins to read in a sing-song drawl, for our mutual edification, the following:

“‘I, Haji Mahomed, of Se Deh, and I, Jaffer Kūli, his son-in-law, give and let, for the journey to Resht, from Ispahan, _viâ_ Koom, Hajeeb, Doong, Kasvin, to make twenty stages and halt four days at our own expense, and at the wish of the sahib; twelve mules, four for the mule litter, two for the kajawehs (covered mule paniers), and six for loads; we hereby acknowledge five hundred and fifty kerans, and two hundred more are to be paid in Resht; our hire is sixty-two and a half kerans per mule; we will start to-morrow, and have affixed our seals.’”

Here they all call on the prophet; and both muleteers seal, and the merchant witnesses the document, which is handed to me. I give them a cheque for five hundred and fifty kerans, and we all go off to my house to look at the loads. On seeing these, both men begin to vociferate. “Ah, loads, such loads, no one ever took such loads; on no account will we go.”

“All useless, Haji,” we reply, and a pipe is given them.

They then proceed to sing their own praises, and we (the merchant and I) profess to love them like brothers. They now retire, and I and my wife and servants begin to pack up our road-kit seriously; the travelling gear, got ready long ago, is dragged out and re-examined; tarpaulin is nailed firmly on the roof of the takhtrowan (horse litter), and the same is done to the kajawehs; then thin red covers are put on and patched, new straps and buckles are added to the bedding-bags, and the bedding packed so as to get each side one weight; movable curtains are hung in the takhtrowan and its harness is renewed. In the morning the assistant muleteers arrive, and proceed to cord each box with heavy ropes, leaving the ends loose; these ends are afterwards tied together; and so each half load hangs on a side of the pack-saddle; a long broad band with an iron ring at each end is flung over the mule and his load, and gradually tightened. Thus loaded, the mule and his burden seldom, or never, part company.

The muleteer, having had some of his hire, signed his agreement _and roped some of his loads_, is by Persian law _bound to go_, and we calmly prepared to start on the morning of April 4th.

_April 4th._—No sign of muleteer. We use our road kit, and are in the same plight as when marching.

_April 5th._—Muleteer arrives, and requests us to take back our money. Mutual threats and curses deep. Muleteer refuses to salaam. Muleteer is threatened with the Governor. Muleteer demands a present. Muleteer is offered a thrashing. Muleteer is insolent. Muleteer is pursued. Muleteer flees.

_April 6th._, eight A.M.—Muleteer arrives at six A.M. Harnesses the takhtrowan to two beasts, who shy and kick, and can’t be made to move. Again offers to return money. Is again threatened with the Governor, and called a Jew. Retires in violent passion.

Four P.M.—Arrival of muleteer with fairish horses (by the way, the man’s beasts are all yabūs or horses). They are tried and found satisfactory. Assistant muleteer addressed as “Hadji” (“pilgrim,” a title very agreeable to the lower class of Persians), and regaled with pipes. Head muleteer addressed as “That.”

Muleteer declines definitely to start, and offers to refund, _but will go for increased hire_. Muleteer publicly threatened with Governor, and called “That wind-bag.”

Muleteer retires, swearing he will die rather than start.

_April 7th._, eight A.M.—No muleteer. Nine A.M.—Arrival of muleteer and nine mules (_i. e._ ponies), four assistants, and a donkey. Assistant muleteer is secretly promised twenty kerans if he becomes the slave of hirer, to be given in Resht. Eleven A.M.—Mules at last loaded; they start. The wives of the servants come and weep on them. The takhtrowan is carried to the high-road. Twelve noon.—I take N⸺ (our English nurse), Frank, and the baby to the starting-place, and put them into the takhtrowan, placing Charlie, our eldest, with a nurse-boy, in one kajaweh, the woman-servant Bēbē in the other. They leave.

Half-past twelve.—I go round my rooms for the last time.

A⸺ (my wife) and I mount, with our table-servant, last of all. We leisurely walk our horses out. When we have got a quarter of a mile, our servant swears he has dropped his whip. I refuse to let him go back, as I don’t want to lose sight of him. Scene with him. Grumblings, threats.

We pass the Missionary house. We bid them all good-bye at the door. While this is taking place Ibrahim, the head-man, disappears. I gallop after him, leaving A⸺ to come on with the bedding and the groom. After a chase of two miles I catch him. He swears I told him to get up to the takhtrowan. Threats. Whispered curses. I shout myself hoarse. We cross the river, pass through the town, four miles out of which we reach the caravan. On over a sandy and muddy plain to Gez. Four farsakhs. Time, half-past four P.M. Tea, five P.M. Rest of caravan arrive. Eight, dinner. Nine, bed.

_April 8th._—Leave Gez at nine A.M. Over a sandy plain, six farsakhs, twenty-three miles, to Mūrchicah. Cold wind, dull day, rain threatening. Arrive at “chupper-khana” (post-house) at five, having breakfasted among some ruins on the road, about half-way. The post-house keeper at this place was the man who behaved so well to me, and lent me clothes when I was robbed, so I gave him a double present, as usual, and a bottle of wine.

_April 9th._—Left this morning at seven for Soh, six long farsakhs; left the plain, half-way breakfasted, and at the dam, a long farsakh from Soh, were met by Sergeant McG⸺. After ten minutes it began to rain heavily, and though we cantered for two miles, we got pretty wet ere we got our rugs. On their reaching us it left off raining. Mrs. McG⸺ gave us a magnificent high tea. Soh is a terribly cold place. We were hospitably entertained and well fed, but it is impossible to get warm, even with huge fires.

_April 10th._—In the morning at five A.M. the ground was _covered with snow_, and the weather was severe; it also rained till seven, when it cleared a little. Started the caravan at eight, selves at nine. Rain and drizzle till we got to the Kohrūd Pass, when it suddenly came on to snow heavily.

The track was through snowdrifts half melted, and before we had got a dozen yards up the steep ascent, A⸺’s mare was off the track, trembling with fear, and up to her girths. A⸺, too, fancied, I think, that it was all over with us. The muleteers began to call on God, Ali, and the other saints, but we blundered along, one mule only falling. The snow got very thick, but our goggles protected our eyes, and we were heavily wrapped up. One side (the windward) soon got white, and A⸺ appreciated the big, old-fashioned, silk handkerchief which I gave her, to keep her sun hat on, and protect her face from the snow. After an hour and a half of this, we cleared the pass, the takhtrowan having got over in safety, and N⸺ and the babies _not_ having had to get out, which, if they had been obliged to do, would, with knee-deep snow and two feet of mud, have been a serious matter.

The snow melted into drizzle, and in a quarter of an hour we were in a sheltered valley, in a strong sun, and entering the village of Kohrūd. We got to the post-house, and there took off our wet wraps and hung them up. About two hours before sunset. Six farsakhs. Seven hours in the saddle, all but the last two being severe work for a lady.

_April 11th._—Started early, as we have seven farsakhs (twenty-six miles and a half) to do. Though we expected to feel the heat, we had soon to take to our wraps, as a strong Scotch mist, with occasional cold showers, followed us all through the mountains to the caravanserai of Guebre-abad (which is supposed to be haunted). We found it empty, and breakfasted with our horses there, but the weather was too awful for N⸺ and the children to get out, so we sent them on.

Half-way to Guebre-abad we had to pass down the causeway cut in the side of the mountain, which skirts the reservoir fed by the Kohrūd torrent, where is stored the water for the town of Kashan. It is simply a valley, closed at one end by a huge wall of masonry. This retains the waters, the surplus falling over the top, like the Staubach on a small scale.

Within two farsakhs of Kashan the climate changed; our faces seemed on fire. We found wheat two feet high, clover the _same height_, and the little rain that fell was warm and refreshing. We got to the telegraph-office at five-thirty, and were immediately regaled with tea by Mr. S⸺, the clerk there. An hour and a half afterwards the caravan came in. Here the men went to the bath, Bēbē started washing clothes, and after dinner we inaugurated the new hot bath, just built in the Government quarters (a great luxury).

Here at Kashan we determined to halt a day, and enjoy the genial warmth, doors all open, and the luxury of _not_ having to start in the morning.

Kashan is celebrated for silk and velvet weaving, but the silk is generally of very sad colours, and the objects useless to the European, so we could merely buy a few handkerchiefs and some velvet curtains.

The water supply from the Kohrūd torrent is collected in the reservoir we passed, and on reaching Kashan is stored in “ab umbars,” or water-cellars, and when they are emptied they are regularly re-filled, thus getting a supply of fresh and clear water.

All about are curious, conical buildings of mud, some ten and twelve yards high. They have small terraces a few inches wide at top, others a foot or two wide at bottom. These are the grain stores of the place, and seem peculiar to Kūm and Kashan.

I tried to pick up some curios in the bazaar, but found it hopeless. The copper bazaar was particularly good and fine, but all of the work was useful, not ornamental. Was bothered by visitors the greater part of the afternoon, most of whom came for advice gratis. Near this place is Feen, one of the royal palaces, well worth a visit, but as our horses needed a rest as well as ourselves, and it is a four-mile ride, and I had seen it, we did not go.

_April 13th._—Bid good-bye to Mr. S⸺. He had most hospitably entertained us. Left Kashan for Sinsin, six farsakhs. Found the immediate neighbourhood of the town well sprinkled with villages; they however soon ceased, and we came to a sandy desert, where it was very hot. Arrived about half-past three. Directly we got in we poisoned the kanaat (the underground canal for irrigation) in order to get a dish of fish. In about an hour the fish came to the surface quite intoxicated, and were caught and gutted at once. They were very good, and the poison did not affect us. I used six berries only of cocculus indicus, and we got about six pounds of fish. We got a good dinner at nine—soup, fish, roast lamb, _pâté de foie gras_, tinned peas, apricots and custard, Ispahan wine, port, coffee, cherry-brandy. This gives some idea of what a good road-cook can do. Directly we arrive in a place, our “farrash” and table-man (who keep up with us) drag out our carpets, sweep the little dirty rooms out, spread the carpets, fill our bags with chaff for beds, make our beds, prepare tea, and bring me a water-pipe. Then when this is completed, the “takhtrowan,” loads, children, tables and chairs arrive; N⸺ and the children go to their room. We get chairs and have tea and biscuits, or bread and jam (of course we have already had _déjeuner à la fourchette_ with three or four dishes and tea on the road). In the early morning we have a slice of bread-and-butter and a “snack,” with chocolate and milk. After afternoon tea we doze, read, write, and stretch ourselves, or go for a little walk near the chupper-khana, or caravanserai, as it may be. The little sketch of the chupper-khana at Sinsin I made on the spot, and it gives a good idea of the regulation Persian post-house. In these post-houses the traveller in Persia passes a good deal of his time: they are all built upon this plan, and pretty much alike; the wall at the top is seen to be crumbling; most of them are in varying stages of dilapidation. They are all built of sun-dried bricks, except in the extreme north, and plastered with mud and cut straw (kah-gil). In the front is seen a takhtrowan or horse-litter, in which ladies of rank, or invalids, usually travel.

_April 14th._—Leave Sinsin at seven A.M. for Passanghūm, seven farsakhs (twenty-six miles and a quarter). Half-way, breakfasted, at Shūr ab (Salt Water), where Sergeant McL⸺ was killed, a wretched, ruined hole. The name is a good one, as nothing but salt water is to be got here. Heavy showers caught us in the afternoon before we could get into Passanghūm. From this place to Kūm is only four farsakhs, and the gold dome of the great shrine can be seen from here. Road all monotonous but good, with an undulating country perfectly bare.

_April 15th._—Left at eight for Kūm, as we are to breakfast with Mr. J⸺, the clerk there. Half-way, two farsakhs, a pretty village, Lengarood; then a muddy plain; then, after many twists and turns, sacred Kūm. Through ruined bazaars, past ruined shrines and tombs, close past the great shrine, through a short but prosperous-looking bazaar to the big bridge; then along the river in the open, sandy, but cultivated plain for a mile, to the telegraph-office. On the first view of Kūm, on leaving Passanghūm, the great gilded dome sparkles and reflects in the strong Persian sun. Kūm contains the tomb of “Fatmeh,” the sister of Imām Riza, who lies at the shrine of Meshed. Imām Riza is the eighth imam, and Fatmeh is considered a very holy person indeed. Many of the kings of Persia are buried in the immediate neighbourhood of the shrine, and numbers of both sexes visit it yearly. Out of every hundred people on the two stages before we arrived at Kūm, eighty were pilgrims.

Unlike the Meccan, this pilgrimage can be made at any time of the year. Among Persians, _after_ the great pilgrimage to Mecca, which gives the title of “Hadji,” that to Kerbela ranks next, and the man who has been there, for the rest of his life is termed “Kerbelai.” This title too is generally _given_ to one of the lower orders when one wishes to stroke him the right way, as is also that of “Meshedi,” or “he who has visited Meshed” (as a pilgrim). This is the second great place of pilgrimage; next comes Kūm, and though it carries no title, yet many thousands go there yearly as pilgrims.

The tomb itself, _I am told_ by my muleteers and servants, is, as are most graves of holy persons in Persia, covered by an ark; this in its turn is covered by a sad-coloured shawl. Of course it is exactly under the great dome. Round the tomb are laid shawls of considerable value as carpets; then comes a wooden trellis-work, next a row of steel railings, inlaid with gold, and, outside all, a row of solid silver rails surround it: they are six feet high, and the thickness of a London area-rail. The interior of the shrine is hung with European chandeliers of various patterns (unlighted), and various votive offerings are hung about.

Of course no Christian is admitted. The great dome is covered with small copper sheets, each having a layer of _pure_ gold an eighth of an inch thick, on the outer surface: the gold never dulls in the pure air of Persia. The top ornament of the dome is also of pure gold, and reported to weigh one hundred and forty pounds; this is probably _not_ an exaggeration.

The bridge over the river, which save in spring and winter is dry, has nothing remarkable about it; there are a few gaudy columns on it covered with blue and yellow tiles; the bridge itself is steep and narrow and also badly paved, as are most bridges in Persia.

Kūm lives entirely on the pilgrims, and is also a centre for muleteers. This journey is the first occasion of my getting them (the muleteers) to start on the _next_ morning, as they and the servants generally find a strong attraction in the shrine.

Here, too, is a favourite place to make “tobeh,” or a vow of abstinence from some particular sin; the vow is registered, solemnly made at the shrine, and generally, for a time at least, kept.

In the afternoon I sold my last pony to the muleteer, and have now no horses of my own in the country; my wife’s mare is already sold to be given up at Resht, and my other pony on the same condition.

Here, too, I discharged my groom, an ill-conditioned fellow, who was lazy and useless, as I had only one horse to be looked after, and the under-groom could manage that.

_April 16th._—Left at eleven for Pul-i Dellak (the Barber’s Bridge), so called because it was built by the court barber of the day. We should not have gone to Pul-i Dellak, but the road to Mejdabad is blocked, the river being unfordable, so we have to come to this place (the third stage from Teheran) to cross the river at the Barber’s Bridge. This gives us a stage more.

The bridge is the usual thing but longer, and an artificial causeway has been built where the Kūm river and another join our bridge, crossing the other stream (name unknown), while a few broken arches only are left of a continuation to the right of the causeway, of a bridge which once crossed the Kūm river. At sunset, as is _usual at this place_, it blew great guns. When we woke it was raining hard; it cleared at eight A.M.

_April 17th._, eight A.M.—At the time we started the caravan we got off ourselves in a drizzle, which at half-past nine became a shower, and then heavy rain; this continued till half-past eleven. It came down in buckets full, our puggeries got wet and so heavy that we had to remove them. A⸺ over her heavy jacket put a so-called waterproof cloak, and over that a thick wool shawl; her knees she kept warm by one of my overcoats, but the bottom of her habit ran water. I had a blanket with a slit in it, and a big plaid kept my legs dry and warm.

It then cleared, the sun got hot, the wraps were hung on the loads to dry, and at three we arrived at Shashgird, an outlying village, very poor, as all such villages are. Four walls, a turret at each corner, a ruined room over the doorway; the three sides within were mostly surrounded by hovels of the bee-hive order of architecture; two of these we cleared out, our servants took a third, while my wife’s mare got a fourth. The rooms are small but clean and comfortable; a hole in the roof lets out smoke; there is even the luxury of a door.

In the centre of the village square is a small pen; we inspect it: it contains some five-and-twenty lambs three or four days old. At sunset on the arrival of the mothers (_after having been milked_) the bleating and noise is something awful; the pen is opened, and the lambs distributed. Some of the mothers find it difficult to recognise their offspring; soon, however, with the help of the villagers of both sexes, and much laughter, all are given to their own mothers.

Weather fine and warm, no need of fire. We dine and sleep.

Villagers polite and good-humoured, quite ready to turn out. Many chattels left in our rooms with perfect confidence. Of course they expect a little present. Shashgird is four farsakhs from Pul-i Dellak over a sandy road very heavy from rain. A choice here of clear water which is salt, muddy water which is sweet; chose the muddy. No insects in our humble lodging, which was clean and comfortable.

Villagers civil and very obliging. Present on going, three kerans (two shillings and threepence)! They are delighted.

_April 18th._—We left at nine A.M. in fine weather for Bagh-i Sheikh (Garden of the Sheikh), five farsakhs; after a long two farsakhs we came to a large and prosperous-looking village on the edge of the salt-plain. Here outside the walls was a large and good disused hammām (or bath); we breakfasted there, in it, as it was cool and quiet; after two hours, at two, started again, entered salt swamp, fortunately dry. After two miles came on good road, and made the large Shah Abbas caravanserai[37] at five P.M.; a mile before reaching it we struck the high-road from Kūm.

A large caravanserai in good repair; no doorkeeper; took four rooms—one for us, one for N⸺ and boys, one for servants, one for mare. Not a soul in the place.

About four or five miles before getting into this place, one of the ponies I had sold to the muleteer dropped as if shot; he didn’t hurt me beyond pinching my ankle a little; he dropped so suddenly, his foot giving way, that I was not quick enough. I am sorry for the charwardar, one leg is evidently gone.

Some hundred mules now in the caravanserai, noise of their bells all night long; country fertile, lots of villages all down the valley; we passed several on our left only.

In lighting the kalian or water-pipe, the way of preparing _burning_ charcoal on the road without a fire, and with speed and economy, is ingenious; a light is put to a bit of charcoal, that is placed in a wire basket the size of one’s fist among other pieces of charcoal; the basket is then swung round at the end of a piece of string, and a handful of glowing charcoal is produced in three to five minutes.

Difficulty in getting our chaff beds filled here: man would only _sell_ chaff, not _lend_ it.

Told me he was ill. Told him I had the exact remedy for his disease. Delight of chaff-man. Told him I never gave away medicines, demanded fifty kerans. Rage of chaff(ed)-man. He gave chaff, and I physic.

_April 19th._—Left at half-past eight for Doong; weather fine; road an uphill one. Saw heavy storms going on in the mountains, and one passed us about two miles off; much forked lightning in the mountains; at half-past twelve one was coming straight down on us. The sun was overcast; suddenly, when our man was getting out more rugs, a few drops came, then a shower of hailstones all the size of the _largest cherries_, some larger. The noise was terrific; the horses got frightened and rushed off the road; one mule threw his load. I got off and got hold of A⸺’s mare, and it was as much as I could do to hold both horses and get her off; the servant’s pony broke loose and _kicked at the hail_; none of the beasts would face it; fortunately the muleteers held the takhtrowan and kajaweh mules. Down it came, _and it hurt_; the ground got white, a heap formed to windward of each bush and stone. In five minutes all was quiet, and we started again after reloading the wine boxes which had been kicked off by the mule.

In speaking of the size of the hailstones, _I do not exaggerate_, and certainly I never saw any like them; they were all quite spherical, and more like balls of hard snow than hail, but very hard.

I asked the muleteer if he had seen anything like them. “Oh, they are nothing,” he replied; “in the neighbourhood of Ararat I have seen them as large as eggs (!), and they killed lots of sheep.” I thought him what the reader may think me.

At half-past three we got into Doong, after six hours and a half in the saddle.

We found a big caravanserai with only one room, the other places being merely stables, which were full.

However, some camel-men politely vacated it, and we, after some half-hour’s sweeping, made it very warm and comfortable. Fortunately it was a large one, twenty by ten, and sheltered, being built at the end of a recess.

While at dinner something fell on the table; it was a _camel-tic_, and I expected what followed.

A camel-tic is a flat insect, which is active when not distended and hungry, but very sluggish when full. We caught a small one in the bedclothes, but saw no more. In the night, however, one bit N⸺ on the top of her head, and the wound bled freely. This place was painful for a month.

In the morning, on walking over where some two hundred camels had lain, it was difficult to avoid treading on the sluggish and gorged beasts, who looked like smallish cockchafers. I mean the tics.

_April 20th._—Started at eight for Hajeeb, six farsakhs. On getting to a big caravanserai, half-way, got down to breakfast, muleteer going on; but in an hour he returned, saying Hajeeb was not safe to stay in at night, so he advised stopping where we were. We took three rooms; they seem comfortable. Sleet storm in the afternoon.

The name of this place is Koshkirūd (Dry River). I don’t think there are any tics here, but we shall see.

One tic found. No one bitten.

A tremendous wind blew all the twentieth, making it very cold out of cover.

No robbers, which was lucky, as the caravanserai has no doors.

_April 21st._—Started at seven A.M. Went through undulating hill tops, with only a few black tents in them, but plenty of grass. Saw four troops of antelope. On getting to Hajeeb (three farsakhs), found that one side of the caravanserai wall had fallen down, and the place was really not safe from night thieves.

Got breakfast of grilled mutton and maccaroni. Sent some on hot for N⸺ and the children, who do not stop on the march.

After one and three-quarter farsakhs of same sort of country, got to a descent and came to a large plain (the plain of Kasvin?), thickly sprinkled with villages. Though the wind continues, it is much warmer here, and the sun stronger.

The muleteer says that we shall have this wind to Kasvin, or a stage beyond it.

The first village, Allah Sung, five farsakhs from Koshkirūd, we did not stop at, but went a farsakh farther to Bōween, a large village. Here we got a good carpeted room in the large house of a villager, and another room for N⸺ and the children. In our room are the man’s carpets and all his valuables, boxes, etc., but they are left to our mercy without the slightest hesitation—his bedding, his clothes, and all his earthly goods.

The people of this place are very well-to-do. They speak Turkish, and do not understand Persian. The women do not hide their faces.

As we are having a cup of tea, we get astonished at not hearing of the arrival of our caravan.

I had ordered the servants to stop it as it passed the door. I suddenly hear that it has passed the village. Ibrahim (my head-man), at a crab’s run, goes to stop it. I saddle a horse and gallop out. At the other side of the village I find Ibrahim calling “Hoi, hoi!” to the caravan, which is a mile off. He calmly informs me that they don’t hear him. I reply, “Ass!” and canter after them and bring them in.

On nearing the house, a mob of boys, headed by a youth of eighteen, amuse themselves by hooting me, and calling out, “Dog of a European!” in Turkish. I remonstrate in Persian. Delight of boys, who hoot more. I produce two of my four words of Turkish, “Kupak ogli!” (“sons of dogs”). They throw stones. I ride at them, and give my village youth the lash of my crop across his face. They flee, and throw stones from a distance.

Arrival of my muleteer, who remonstrates in Turkish with some elders. Informs them that I am a _European ambassador_! (Elchi Feringhi), and dangerous to tamper with. They apologise. I reply, in a lordly manner, “Chok yakshi” (Turkish for “very good”), my other two words.

Have tea.

Ten P.M., dinner.

_April 22nd._—Started at eight A.M. Gave our landlord two and threepence, with which he was satisfied. Of course, as we had bought grain, bread, wood, etc., he had made a good thing of us.

Wind still blowing very hard; lots of villages and cultivation, the sun being stronger. The wind is not so troublesome as yesterday, and we need no wraps. Still, it is difficult to talk. After two farsakhs pass through a salt swamp, which is fortunately dryish. Arrive at Kherrah, four farsakhs from Bōween, at two-thirty. Caravan gets in at three forty-five.

Find a fine caravanserai, but no rooms, the villagers having built up the entrances of the eight rooms there are. We find the shopkeeper, and take possession of his shop and the two next rooms. We have a door once more!—a real door! _All his commodities are scattered about, and he does not remove a thing!_

It appears this caravanserai is very little used, save by those who stick in the salt marsh. This, in _wet weather_, though only eight miles, must be a good day’s march, and sometimes even impassable in places. There is a causeway of big rough stones, but _all_ the bridges were broken. At five P.M. wind went down to nearly nothing. All to-day (over the swamp) the weather seemed dull, from dust storms in the distance. We, however, fortunately did not get into one.

A⸺’s saddle will give her mare a sore back if she rides her, so she is compelled to ride one of the ponies, a hard trial after the easy and willing mare.

I had the benefit of the mare, as my saddle doesn’t gall. The back was better on arrival than when we started.

Our mules (yabūs, _i. e._ pack-ponies) are in fair fettle, considering that we have only halted one day at Kashan. To-morrow we strike the great high-road, and we left robber-land yesterday.

The children, the baby included, as yet have not had a day’s illness, and we are all in robust health.

All our rooms have been as yet wind and water tight, and save at Soh (that very hyperborean place) we never had or needed a fire.

We are hurrying on, as the steamer (so they say) leaves Enzelli on the second; and if we do not halt we can get a day there to repack and wash clothes, pay off the servants, hand over my road kit, which Captain W⸺ has bought, get money from Messrs. Ziegler, and start comfortably—INSHALLAH (please God).

Talking of doors, when we have no doors we nail up two curtains overlapping, if a big entrance, with an extra one crossway over the top if high, and at bedtime we put crossways over the bottom of the curtain our table-top and frame and two chairs, built up so that, if any one attempts to get in, the whole _must_ come down on to a big copper bath with a crash, and so wake us.

I rather pride myself on this arrangement, which is, I fancy, very efficient, and keeps out wind and thieves too.

All the people here are big-headed, big-hatted, big-eared, small-eyed, stupid, chibouque-smoking, Turkish-speaking people, quite different from the smart and polished Persian of the South and Ispahan; but they are _honester_, not grasping, and in _reality more obliging_. Instance this morning, my cook asked a man to help him load his mule (_i. e._ give him a lift with his big saddle-bags).

He replied, “Load him yourself!”

On my asking the fellow if he called himself a Mussulman, he grinned, and helped at once.

_April 23rd._—Started at seven for Kasvin. Lovely day, no wind, but after the first hour a good deal of sun. After three long farsakhs, came in sight of Kasvin; another farsakh, arrived at one P.M. People well-to-do. Heard that there is an _hotel_ (!) here, but distrusted it.

Went to a fine new caravanserai, where we got a courtyard to ourselves.

Our muleteer says our beasts cannot go on, so we must perforce halt a day.

We have a grand clothes-washing and child-bathing to-day.

Settle our trunks for the sea voyage.

In the afternoon I go to see the _hotel_. I find what I expected, a very fine house, with bare walls, enormous charges, and impudent and dishonest servants. I should be very sorry indeed to put up there. I thrashed one fellow as it was for putting out his tongue; the rest at once became polite.

They say that the steamer goes _twice_ a week—Sunday and Thursday.

I shall inspect the _hotel_ again to-morrow.

There is a big tiled shrine, in which is the tomb of the son of Imām Riza. It seems in good repair, but not in good taste; also a Musjid-i Juma (big mosque), much ruined.

_April 24th._—I find, after seeing the Russian telegraph clerk, that the steamers go only once a week; so we must hope to catch that of Sunday, the first. It will be very doubtful if we do it.

To-day I went through the bazaars to try and get a piece of Yezd silk (Houssein Kūli Khani) for A⸺, but failed.

I, however, found biscuits for the children, which the servants said were not to be had. They had been brought from Ispahan, where they were made.

When in the “chupper-khana,” I found a Russian locksmith, who had come to Persia in search of work. He found none, and was returning on foot from Teheran. He left this morning to catch the steamer of the first. Turkish is here more spoken than Persian, and the people seem quite another race, quiet and industrious, and more honest, but rougher.

A good many of the houses are built somewhat after Russian style, and our caravanserai has doors (and also big windows to some of the rooms).

Everything but the bedding is packed ready for a start in the morning early.

I say little of Kasvin, having had too much to do to see a great deal of it.

Kasvin has no special production; it is merely a mart. It is, however, a very populous town, and misrule is not so rampant as in other places.

We each wrote a letter home; found no one at the post-office and no letter-box, so had to entrust our letters to the Russian telegraph clerk. They arrived in due course. The place seems much larger than it really is, owing to large plots of waste ground, which are unbuilt on.

_April 25th._—Left for Masreh. Passed in lovely weather through a grassy plain for two farsakhs; then two more to Akabah; breakfasted in the village gateway; then a tremendous two farsakhs through the hills to Masreh. Started at seven-thirty, got in at three-thirty. Seven hours in saddle, one hour halt.

Found a good room in chupper-khana, but the room for the children is full of camel-tics. Moved them to the roof room, which is supposed to be free. Our room is not safe from them, and at night it is too cold to go outside.

A⸺ will not allow me to sleep in the takhtrowan, so we shall all have to sleep in the room on the roof.

Masreh is a village of merely a few hovels, in a lovely grassy valley. Since Kasvin nothing bare; all grass or cultivation.

All night long we were awake at fits and starts looking for tics. We must have killed twenty. They are ordinary sheep-tics.

They seem exactly the same thing as camel-tics, but smaller, and the bites merely cause a spot (of effused blood) the size of a split pea at biggest.

The camel-tic that bit N⸺ on the top of her head at Doong has caused great soreness, and the blood flowed down all over her face. I was once bitten on the foot, and tenderness lasted two months. Frank and the baby were bitten, each in two places; so was A⸺. I was a little bitten, but not by tics; they leave a round black mark the size of sixpence.

_April 26th._—Half-past seven A.M., left for Pah Chenar, a steady ascent for eight miles, then tremendous descents of steepness and difficulty. We had to get off our horses frequently for comfort’s sake, and the baby and N⸺ had three times to get out of the takhtrowan, while the children had twice to leave the kajawehs.

The takht horses were continually with their hind-quarters within three inches of the ground at the descents, and sliding along.

The scenery was grand in the extreme, and the weather, fortunately, fine. Small shrubs and wild roses now begin to be frequent. When at the top of the mountain, two farsakhs from Masreh, the view was gigantic. One saw far beyond Kasvin, over the plains and into deep valleys, which reached for miles, and were of every shade of grey, red, green, and brown; some hills even were bright orange; and such a bird’s-eye view was it when we commenced the descent that I, who have seen many places, never certainly saw anything so vast and magnificent.

It could not be called pretty till we got within a farsakh of Pah Chenar. Then it was all green in the bottom of the valley, in which ran a small, swift, and turbid river, or rivulet at the present time, doubtless a month earlier a swirling torrent.

The entire stage has been one continuous descent. Got in at half-past four; eight hours in saddle. Half-an-hour lunch. The people plough the almost perpendicular sides of many of the hills, so we were constantly coming on patches of various greens.

The climate has become _tepid_, and full of moisture; lots of flies. A fine chupper-khana, with a new water-cellar close by, from which I attempted to sketch the valley. We are all very tired, and have walked a good deal of the way perforce.

A curious thing happened this morning when we left Masreh. I had given the postmaster my knife to cut something; when I left I forgot it, and only thought of it when a mile away. I cantered back, and found my servants just leaving. I immediately said to the head-man:

“Have you got my knife, as _directed_, from the postmaster?”

He took the hint, and said:

“No; I forgot it.”

“Give it me.”

The postmaster put his hand in his pocket, and gave it up; _but_ had I said “_Where_ is my knife?” or “_Have_ you got my knife?” I should never have seen it again.

To get on with Persians it is necessary to be smart and unscrupulous to a _certain extent_. Their own proverb is; “Better is a lie which causes joy, than truth which produces grief.” See the first tale in Sāadi. I am afraid my “as directed” was an _acted lie_. But then Sāadi is a high authority.

There is lots of water here, as the frogs are croaking all night in bursts: a croak, a chorus; silence, a croak; then “Berek ity kix, squax, squax,” etc.

Dinner at nine. Hotch-potch and mock-turtle soups, _mixed_ (the cook’s idea, and a good one); fresh salmon, leg of lamb, mint-sauce, custard and plums, cheese, coffee, cherry-brandy, Persian wine, port, Madeira, kalian.

The climate here being humid, is very feverish. The people coming up get bitten by tics at Masreh, then get fever, and put it down to the tics. May not this theory account for the _Bug of Meana_? We are all taking quinine to-night, to avoid it (fever and ague). The grimaces, as each man takes it pure from a teaspoon, are grotesque, but all know its value, and are glad of the dose.

_April 27th._—Left at half-past seven A.M. for Rūdbar, an up-and-down road, but fairly good, between mountains, by the bank of the big river (Suffid Rūd, White River). Vegetation plentiful; a few trees, barley in the ear. Came to Munjîl, after several bits of very bad road, up and down hill. Munjîl and Rustumabad are close together. There is a large olive-grove, lots of springs, trees, and corn about the village. After a mile came to a junction of three rivers, and on turning a corner came to a bridge of six arches.

The bridge is new, and well built. By its side, attached to its piers, is a wooden bridge, so placed that if (as is sometimes the case) parts of the bridge be washed away, there may still be a way over.

The wind was blowing a gale up-stream, and, though there was lots of sun, it made it chilly, and the wind under the arches blew up sheets of spray. As soon as we had crossed the bridge we began a series of steep ascents along an awful road, from one and a half to three yards wide, cut in the side of the cliff, often having a sheer drop (and never any parapet) of several hundred feet, to the rushing river. The wind was tremendous—the horses at times _unable_ to march against it—_full in our faces_. The ascents were, it is no exaggeration to say, often of forty-five degrees. One had to hold the mane firmly to keep the saddle from going over the quarters, and we could not get down, as the horses would not face the blast riderless. Arrived (the last farsakh being the longest and worst I ever saw in Persia) at Rūdbar at half-past three, a lovely village, embosomed in olive-groves at the brink of the stream, in a wooded nook. Forest and olive-groves on the other side of the stream, which is still shut in by high mountains.

We put up at a good, but small, caravanserai in the village. Here saw the dress of the Ghilān working class for the first time. Also Ghilān shoes made of raw hide, with the hair on; the fronts lace up with hempen string or thong, tying over the ankle.

To-day up to Munjil, and for the last two days we met large parties of “chardūr nisheen,” or “dwellers in tents,” with their wives, children, oxen, sheep, tents, dogs, horses, etc., quite in patriarchal style. Everybody carried _something_, according to size, _all save the men_. The cows were all laden. One little thing of five was carrying on her head her father’s hat; all busy in some way or other. We bought a live lamb for dinner, two and threepence.

The wandering tribes’ tents are pitched as follows, and we saw so many, that we had an opportunity of seeing each stage. Stakes are driven in the ground in pairs. Between these stakes a piece of very stiff reed-work, like huge matting, is placed on its edge, in the form of a square; this forms the wall. Strong poles are put at the four corners, and cross-poles are attached to these. The whole is fixed to a centre pole; then cloths of black goats’ hair are stretched over them. The ground is carpeted, and the whole is wind-proof, rain-proof, and sun-proof. The wealth of the owner can be well guessed from the size and newness of his tent furniture. We noticed that they always had with them a primitive sort of plough, the share being wooden.

_April 28th._—Left Rūdbar at eight, for Imāmzādeh Hāshem. Country more and more beautiful; wild flowers plentiful; all the hills and mountains covered with trees to their summits. Rode through olive-groves, each tree having a big excavation in the ground by its side, which is filled with water frequently, and so the tree is watered. Road very bad, and in many places very steep, almost precipitous. We keep by the left bank of the Suffid Rūd (or White River), which is at present the colour of _café au lait_. After three farsakhs we enter woods; the usual English trees, also yews, firs, box, wild vines, figs, and pomegranates (these latter in bloom), ivy, convolvulus. The ground is covered with red and white clover and ferns, violets, forget-me-nots, huge anemones, and most English wild flowers. Nothing bare; trees overhang the road, and we ford frequent small streams, constant runnels and watercourses. Lovely weather, temperature about eighty degrees Fahr. At half-past four we came on a large chaussée, which is perfectly flat, and at half-past six we get in—eleven hours (half an hour’s halt at breakfast), or ten and a half hours in the saddle! A stiff march for a lady.

The scenery has resembled the most wooded parts of Switzerland, and at times the “Iron Gates” of the Danube, _only much more grand than either_.

We have been in the forest since two P.M., and shall be in it till we get to Peri-bazaar. From within a farsakh and a half of this place there have been constant swamps, but even in them the trees are dense.

We manage to get all in by daylight, having come certainly thirty miles. We fortunately brought chaff (straw) with us, but no barley is to be got. Mules nearly done up. Happily this chaussée lasts to Resht.

We both agree that we have never seen anything so varied or so lovely as to-day’s march, though it was long and fatiguing.

I hope we may get dinner at half-past ten; it is now ten.

The people here have a miserable, agueish appearance; doubtless fever is very rife. We all again take quinine; the servants decline to do so. I insist. They yield.

Half-past ten.—Have happily got barley for my wife’s mare; trust to _make_ the muleteer buy some for his mules, but price very high. We pass a nearly sleepless night _from warmth_.

_April 29th._—Leave Imāmzādeh Hāshem at half-past seven; ride over the smooth road to Resht. The forest continues, but the trees smaller and more sparsely scattered; a big ditch at either side of the road keeps it dry; fields, or rather cultivated swamps, begin to appear in the forest and gradually become more frequent; at either side of the road, on the bank, are ferns of all sorts, including maiden-hair, common male fern, and ox-tongue; orchids of all colours, buttercups, forget-me-nots, poppies, anemones, violets, myrtle, all blooming luxuriantly: not a bit of bare earth to be seen—_everything verdant_. Quantities of snakes, tortoises, and green lizards (very tame), small and large.

At twelve we arrive at the town, and I send on a man to M. Schwab, agent to Ziegler and Company (to whom, Ziegler and Company, I have a letter).