 Section 16 of A Year Amongst the Persians by Edward Granville Brown Chapter 7 From Tehran to Isfahan Part 2 The next day brought us to Qom after a long, quick march of nearly ten hours. The mula tears were suddenly seized with one of those fits of energetic activity, to which even the most lethargic persons are occasionally subject, so that when, early in the afternoon, we reached the mihman khanay of Shashgird, or manzari yeh, the place of outlook, as it is more pretentiously styled, and Haji Safar proposed to halt for the night. They insisted on pushing on to the holy city, which they declared they could reach before sundown. A lively altercation ensued, which concluded with a bet of five clans offered by Haji Safar, and taken by the mula tears, that we should not reach the town before sunset. The effect of this stimulus was magical. Never before or since did I see mula tears attain such a degree of speed. With eyes continually directed towards the declining sun, they ran along at a steady trot, occasionally shouting to their animals, and declaring that they would fare sumptuously that night, off the delicacies of gum, with the money they would earn by their efforts. The road seemed interminable, even after the golden dome of the mosque of Hazrati Maksuma, her holiness the immaculate, rose up before us across the salt swamps, and as the sun sank lower and lower towards the horizon, the efforts of the mula tears were redoubled, till, just as the rim of the luminary sank from sight behind the western hills, we crossed the long, graceful bridge which spans a riverbed almost dry except in spring, and passing beneath the blue-tiled gate rode into the holy city. I have already had occasion to allude to the Indo-European telegraph, and to mention the great kindness which I met with from major wells, in whose hands the control thereof was placed, and from all other members of the staff with whom I came into contact. This kindness did not cease with my departure from Tehran. A message was sent down the line to all the telegraph stations, which are situated every three or four stages all the way from Tehran to Bushir, to inform the residents at these, most of whom are English, of my advent, and to ask them to extend to me their hospitality. Although I felt some hesitation at first in thus quartering myself, without an invitation on strangers, who might not wish to be troubled with a guest, I was assured that I need have no apprehensions on that score, and that I should be certain to meet with a hospitable welcome. This indeed proved to be the case to a degree beyond my expectations. At all the telegraph offices I was received with a cordial friendliness and geniality which made me at once feel at home, and I gladly take this opportunity of expressing the deep sense of gratitude which I feel for kindnesses, the memory of which will always form one of my pleasantest recollections of the pleasant year I spent in Bushir. The first of these telegraph stations is at Qum, and thither I at once made my way through the spice-laden twilight of the bazaars. On arriving I was cordially welcomed by Mr Lyne and his wife, and was soon comfortably ensconced in an easy chair before a bright fire, provided with those two great dispelers of weariness, tea and tobacco. My host, who had resided for a long while at Qum, entirely surrounded by Persians, was a fine Persian and Arabic scholar, and possessed a goodly collection of books, which he kindly permitted me to examine. They were, for the most part, formidable looking treatises on Muhammadan theology and jurisprudence, and had evidently been well read. Indeed, Mr Lyne's fame as a mullah is great, not only in Qum, but throughout Persia, and I heard his erudition warmly praised even at distant Kirman. Perhaps it was owing to this that I met with such courtesy and good nature from the people of Qum, of whom I had heard the worst possible accounts. My treatment at Shah Abdul Azim had not given me a favourable idea of the character of holy cities and sanctuaries, and this prejudice was supported in this particular case by the well-known stricture of some Persian satirist on the towns of Qum and Qashon. A dog of Qashon is better than the nobles of Qum, although a dog is better than a native of Qashon. Whether the inhabitants of Qum have been grossly maligned, or whether their respect for my host, for, so far as my experience goes, there is no country where knowledge commands such universal respect as in Persia. Precured for me an unusual degree of courtesy, I know not. At any rate, when we went out next day to see the town, we were allowed without the slightest opposition to stand outside the gate of the mosque and look at it to our heart's content. Several people, indeed, came up to us and entered into friendly conversation. Further than this I was allowed to inspect the manufacture of several of the chief products of the city, the most important of which is the beautiful blue pottery which is now so celebrated. This indeed is the great feature of Qum which might almost be described as the blue city. Nowhere have I witnessed a greater profusion of blue domes and tiles. Many small articles are made of this wear such as salt cellars, lamps, pictures, pipe bowls, beads, and button-like amulets of diverse forms and sizes which are much used for necklaces for children, and for affixing to the forage of horses, mules and the like as a protection against the evil eye. Of all of these I purchased a large selection, the total cost of which did not exceed a few shillings for they are ridiculously cheap. Besides the mosque and the potteries I paid a visit to a castor oil mill worked by a camel and ascended an old minaret furnished with a double spiral staircase in a sad state of dilapidation. From this I obtained a fine view of the city and its surroundings. It has five gates and is surrounded by a wall, but this is now broken down in many places and the whole of the southern quarter of the town is in a very ruined condition. All together I enjoyed my short stay in Kum very much and was as sorry to leave it as I was pleased to find how much better its inhabitants are than they are generally represented to be. Their appearance is as pleasant as their manner and I was greatly struck with the high average of good looks which they enjoy, many of the children especially being very pretty. Though the people are regarded as very fanatical their faces certainly belie this opinion for it seemed to me that the majority of them wore a singularly gentle and benign expression. I could not however protract my stay at Kum without subjecting my plans to considerable alteration and accordingly on the second day after my arrival, 12th of February, I again set out on my southward journey. As I was in no hurry to bid a final farewell to my kind host and hostess the muleteers had been gone for more than half an hour before I finally quitted the telegraph office, but about this I did not greatly concern myself making no doubt that we should overtake them before we had gone far. In this however I was mistaken for when we halted for lunch no sign of them had appeared, supposing however that Hajji Safar who had travelled over the road before knew the way, I thought little of the matter till the gathering shades of dusk recalled me from my reveries on the future to thoughts of the present and I began to reflect that it was a very odd thing that a stage of only four far sachs had taken so long a time to accomplish and that even now no signs of our destination were in view. Accordingly I pulled up and proceeded to cross-examine Hajji Safar with the somewhat discouraging result that his ignorance of our whereabouts proved to be equal to my own. It now occurred to me that I had heard that the caravancery of Pasangan was situated close under the hills to the west while we were well out in the plain, and I therefore proposed that we should turn our course in that direction especially as I fancied I could describe in spite of the gathering gloom a group of buildings under the hills. Hajji Safar, on the other hand, was for proceeding assuring me that he saw smoke in front, which no doubt marked the position of our halting-place. While we were engaged in this discussion I discerned in the distance the figure of a man running towards us, shouting and gesticulating wildly. On its closer approach I recognized in it the mulatir Rahim. We accordingly turned our horses towards him and presently met him, whereupon, so soon as he had in some measure recovered his breath, he proceeded to up braid Hajji Safar roundly. A wonderful fellow art thou, he exclaimed, on receiving some excuse about the smoker head looking like the Manzil. Do you know where that smoke comes from? It comes from an encampment of those rascally shat-sevans. Who, had you fallen into their midst, would as like as not have robbed you of every single thing that you have with you, including my animals? If you don't know the road, keep with us who do, and if you thought you were going to discover a new way to Yez to cross the desert. I tell you, you can't. Only camels go across there, and if you had escaped the shat-sevans, curses on the graves of their fathers, it is as like as not that you would have just gone down bodily into the salt swamps, and never have been seen or heard of again, as has happened to plenty of people who knew more about the desert than you. So he ran on, while we both felt very much ashamed of ourselves, till we finally reached Pasangun, and took up our quarters at the post-house, which looked more comfortable than the caravan Sarai. Next day was beautifully fine and warm, almost like a bright June day in England. Our way still lay just beneath the hills to the west, and the road continued quite flat, for we were still skirting the edge of the great salt-strewn Dashti Kavir. About midday we halted before the caravan Sarai of Surab for lunch. Here there is some verger and a little stream, but the water of the is, as the name of the place implies, brackish. Soon after leaving this, we met two men with great blue turbines, carelessly and loosely wound. These Haji Safar at once identified as Yezdi's. You can always tell a Yezdi wherever you see him, he explained, and indeed, whenever you hear him, as you may like to hear their sweet speech, I will pass the time of day with them, and ask them whence they hail, and wither they are bound. So saying he entered into a brief conversation with them, and for the first time I heard the broad, drooling, sing-song speech of Yezdi, which once heard, can never be mistaken. We reached the caravan Sarai of Sin Sin, quite early in the afternoon, the stage being six-light far-sachs, and the road good and level. This caravan Sarai is one of those fine, spacious, solidly constructed buildings, which can be referred almost at a glance to the time of the Savafi kings, and which the tradition of muleteers, recognizing as a rule, only two great periods in history, that of Ferledun and that of Shah Abbas the Great, unhesitatingly attributes to the latter. The building, although it appeared totally neglected, even the doors being torn away from their hinges, is magnificently constructed, and I wondered with delight through its long, vaulted, dimly-lit stables, its deserted staircase, and untenanted rooms. The roof, however, solidly built of brickwork, and measuring no less than ninety paces from corner to corner of the square, was the great attraction, commanding as it did an extensive view of the flat plain around, the expanse of which was hardly broken by anything except the little group of houses which constitute the village, and a great caravan of camels from Yezd, kneeling down in rows to receive their evening meal from the hands of their drivers. While I was on the roof, I was joined by a muleteer called Khudabahsh, whom I had not noticed at the beginning of the journey, but who had cast up within the last day or two as a recognized member of our little caravan, in that mysterious and unaccountable way peculiar to his class. He entered into conversation with me, anxiously inquired whether I was not an agent of my government, sent out to examine the state of the country, and refused to credit my assurances to the contrary. He then asked me many questions about America, yangi dunya, not as might at first sight appear a mere corruption of the term commonly applied by us to its inhabitants, but a genuine Turkish compound, meaning the New World, and received my statement that its people were of the same race as myself, and had emigrated there from my own country with manifest incredulity. Next day brought us to another considerable town, Kashan, after an uneventful march of about seven hours, broken by a halt for lunch at a village called Nasrabad, at which I was supplied with one of the excellent melons grown in the neighbourhood. On leaving this place, we fell in with two kirmanis, an old man and his son, who were travelling back from Hamadan, where they had gone with a load of shawls which had been satisfactorily disposed of. They were intelligent and communicative, and supplied me with a good deal of information about the roads between Shiraz and Kirman, concerning which I was anxious for detailed knowledge. About three thirty p.m. we reached Kashan, but did not enter the town, a lighting at the telegraph office, which is situated just outside the gate. Here I was kindly welcomed by Mr Aghanor, an Armenian who spoke English perfectly. Though it was not late, I did not go into the town that day, as we received a visit from the chief of the custom house, Mirza Hussein Khan, who was very pleasant and amusing. Besides this a man came with some manuscripts, which he was anxious to sell, but there were none of any value. In the evening I had some conversation with my host about the Barbies, whom he asserted to be very numerous at Yazd and Abadeh. At the former place, he assured me, the new religion was making great progress even amongst the Zoroastrians. Next morning we went for a walk in the town. Almost every town in Persia is celebrated for something, and Kashan is said to have three specialities. First it's brasswork, second it's scorpions, which, unlike the bugs of Mianne, are said never to attack strangers, but only the natives of the town, and third the extreme timorousness of its inhabitants. Concerning the latter, it is currently asserted that there formerly existed a Kashan regiment, but that, in consideration of the cowardice of its men and their obvious inefficiency, it was disbanded, and those composing it were told to return to their homes. On the following day a deputation of the men waited on the char, asserting that they were afraid of being attacked on the road, and begging for an escort. We are a hundred poor fellows, all alone, they said, send some horsemen with us to protect us. The scorpions I did not see, as it was winter, and of the alleged cowardice of the inhabitants. I had, of course, no means of judging, but with the brass bazaar I was greatly impressed, though my ears were almost deafened by the noise. Besides brasswork, fine silk fabrics are manufactured in large quantity at Kashan, though not so extensively as at Yazd. The road to this latter city quits the Isfahan and Shiraz route at this point, so that Kashan forms the junction of the two great southern roads, which terminate respectively at Bandari Abbas and Burshid on the Persian Gulf. In the afternoon Mirza Hussain Khan, the chief of the customs, came again. He had his little child of seventeen months old, to which he seemed devotedly attached, brought for me to look at, as it was suffering from eczema, and he wished for advice as to the treatment which should be adopted. Later in the evening, after the child had gone home, he returned with his secretary, Mirza Abdullah, and stayed to supper. We had a most delightful evening, the Khan being one of the most admirable conversationalists I ever met. Some of his stories I will hear set down, though it is impossible for me to convey an idea of the vividness of description, wealth of illustration, and inimitable mimicry, which in his mouth gave them so great a charm. What sort of a supper are you going to give us, Aghan or Saib? He began Persian or Firangi. Oh, half one and half the other. Very good, that is best, for this Saib is evidently anxious to learn all he can about us Persians, so that he would have been disappointed if you hadn't given him some of our foods, while at the same time being fresh from Firangistan he might perhaps not have been able to eat some of the things which we like. How do you like our Persian food so far? he continued, turning to me. For my part I doubt if you have anything half so nice as our pilaus and chilaos in your country. Then there is Mastkhiyar, curds and cucumbers. Have you tasted that yet? No? Well then, you have a pleasure to come. Only after eating it you must not drink water to quench the slight thirst which it produces, or else you will suffer for it, like Manakji Saib, the chief of the Gebs, who is now residing at Tehran to look after the interests of his people. How did he suffer for eating Mastkhiyar? Well, I will tell you. You must know then that when he was appointed by the Parsis at Bombay to come and live in Persia and take care of the Gebs, and to try to influence the Shah in their favour he knew nothing about Persia or the Persians, for though of course the Parsis are really Persians by descent, they have now become more like firangis. Well, Manakji Saib set sail for Persia and on board the vessel, being anxious to remedy this lack of knowledge on his part, he made friends with the Persian merchant of Isfahan who was returning to this country. In the course of the voyage the ship touched at some port, the name of which I have forgotten, and as it was to remain there all day, the Isfahan he suggested to Manakji Saib that they should go on shore and see the town, to which proposition the latter very readily agreed. Accordingly they landed, and since the town was situated at a considerable distance from the harbour, hired donkeys to convey them thither. Now the day was very hot, and as the sun got higher Manakji Saib found the heat unbearable, so is spying a village near at hand. He suggested to his companion that they should rest there under some old ruins, which stood a little apart, until the sun had begun to decline, and the heat was less oppressive. To this his companion agreed, and further suggested that he should go to the village and see if he could find something to eat, while Manakji rested amongst the ruins. So they arranged with the mulitia to halt for an hour or two, and the Isfahani went off to look for food. Presently he returned with a number of young cucumbers, and a quantity of must curds, with which he proceeded to concoct a bowl of must khiar. Now Manakji, like you, had never seen this compound, and, being a man of a suspicious disposition, he began to fancy that his companion wanted to poison him in this lonely spot and take his money. So when the must khiar was ready, he refused to partake of it to the great surprise of his companion. Why, just now you said you were so hungry, said the latter. How is it that you now declare you have no appetite? I found a piece of bread in my pocket, said Manakji, and ate it while you were away in the village, and now my hunger is completely gone. The more his companion pressed him to eat, the more suspicious he grew, and the more determined in his refusal. Very well, said the Isfahani at last, since you won't join me, I must eat it by myself, unless he proceeded to do, consuming the must khiar with great relish and evident enjoyment. Now, when Manakji saw this, he was sorry that he had refused to partake of the food. It is quite clear, said he to himself, that it is not poisoned, or else my companion would not eat it, while at the same time, from the relish with which he does so, it is evident that strange as the mixture looks, it must be very nice. At last when his companion had eaten about half, he could stand it no longer. Do you know, he said, that my appetite has unaccountably come back at seeing you eat? If you will allow me, I think I will change my mind and join you after all. His companion was rather surprised at this sudden change, but at once handed over the remainder of the food to Manakji, who, after tasting it and finding it very palatable, devoured it all. Now, certain rules must be observed in eating some of our Persian foods, and in the case of must khiar, these are two in number. The first rule, as I have told you, is that you must not drink anything with it, or after it, for if you do, not only will your thirst be increased, but the food will swell up in your stomach and make you think you are going to die of suffocation. The second rule is that you must lie down and go to sleep directly you have eaten it. Now Manakji Sahib was ignorant of these rules, and so when his companion lay down and went to sleep, he, feeling somewhat thirsty, took a draft of water and then lay down to rest. But so far from being able to rest, he found himself attacked by a strange feeling of oppression, and his thirst soon returned to fold. So he got up and took another drink of water, and then lay down again, but now his state was really pitiable. He could hardly breathe, his stomach swelled up in a most alarming manner, and he was tormented by thirst. Then his suspicions returned with redoubled force, and he thought to himself, there is no doubt that my companion really has poisoned me, and has himself taken some antidote to prevent the poison from affecting him. Alas, alas! I shall certainly die in this horrible lonely spot, and no one will know what has become of me. While he was rolling about in agony, tormented by these alarming thoughts, he suddenly became aware of a strange-looking winged animal sitting on a wall close to him, and apparently gloating over his sufferings. It was nodding its head at him in a derisive manner, and to his excited imagination, it seemed to be saying, as plain as words could be, How are you? How are you? Now, the animal was nothing more than one of those little owls, which are so common in ruined places, but Manakji didn't know this, never having seen an owl before, and thought it must certainly be the Angel of Death, come to fetch his soul. So he lay there, gazing at it in horror, till at last he could bear it no longer, and determined to wake his companion. For, thought he, even though he has poisoned me, he is, after all, a human being, and his companionship will at least enable me better to bear the presence of this horrible apparition. So he stretched out his foot and gave his companion a gentle kick. Finding that did not rouse him, he repeated it with greater force, and his companion woke up. Well said he, what is the matter? Manakji pointed to the bird, which still sat there on the wall, nodding its head, and apparently filled with diabolical enjoyment at the sufferer's misery. Do you see that? he inquired. See it? Of course I see it, replied his companion. What of it? Then some inkling of the nature of Manakji's terrors and suspicions came into his mind, and he determined to frighten him a little more, just to punish him. Doesn't it appear to you to be saying something? said Manakji. I can almost fancy that I hear the very words it utters. Saying something? answered this Fahani. Of course it is, but surely you know what it is, and what it is saying. Indeed I do not, said Manakji, but I have never before seen anything like it, and as to what it is saying, it appears to me to be inquiring after my health, which, for the rest, is sufficiently bad. So it would seem, said the other. But do you really mean to tell me that you don't know what it is? Well, I will tell you. It is the spirit of the accursed Omar, who usurped the Caliphate and whose generals overran Persia. Since his death he has been permitted to assume this form, and in it to wonder about the world. Now he has come to you, and is saying, I in my lifetime took so much trouble to overthrow the worship of fire, and do you dare come back to Persia to attempt its restoration? On hearing this, Manakji was more frightened than ever, but at last his friend took pity on him, and picking up a stone threw it at the bird, which instantly flew away. I was only joking, he said. It is nothing but an owl. So Manakji's fears were dispelled, and he soon recovered from the must-chial, but though he subsequently found out the proper way of eating it, I am not sure that he ever had the courage to try it again. We laughed a good deal at this story, and I remarked that it was an extraordinary thing that Manakji Sahib should have been so frightened at an owl. Well, he said, it is, but then in the desert, and in solitary, gloomy places, things will frighten you that you would laugh at in the city. I don't believe in all these stories about rules and efflites which the Charava Dharas tell, but at the same time, I would rather listen to them here than out there in the Kavir. It is a terrible place that Kavir, all sand and salt and solitude, and tracks not more than two feet wide on which you can walk with safety. Deviate from them only a hand's breath, and down you go into the salt swamps, camel, man, baggage, and everything else, and there is an end of you. Many a brave fellow has died thus. Have I seen anything of the Kavir? No, nor do I wish to do so. Hearing about it is quite sufficient for me. I was once lost in the salt mountains near Semnan when a boy, having run away from my father, who had done something to offend me. I only remained amongst them one night, and beyond the bitter brininess of the bright-looking streams at which I strove to quench my thirst, and the horror of the place and its loneliness, there was nothing half so bad as the Kavir. Yet I wouldn't go through the experience again on any account. You have probably heard plenty of stories about the desert from your Charava Dharas on the road, nevertheless, as you seem to like hearing them, I will tell you one which may be new to you. We begged him to give us the story, and he proceeded as follows. A poor man was once travelling along on foot and alone in the desert, when he aspired coming towards him a most terrible-looking dervish. You have very likely seen some of those wandering, wild-looking dervishes who go about all over the country armed with axes or clubs, and fear neither wild beasts nor men, nor the most horrible solitudes. Well, this dervish was one of that class, only much more ferocious-looking and wild than any you ever saw, and he was more overarmed with an enormous and ponderous club, which he kept swinging to and fro in a manner little calculated to reassure our traveller. The latter, indeed, liked the appearance of the dervish so little that he determined to climb up a tree, which fortunately stood close by, and wait till the fellow had passed. The dervish, however, instead of passing by, seated himself on the ground under the tree. Of course, the poor traveller was horribly frightened, not knowing how long the dervish might choose to stop there, and fearing, moreover, that his place of retreat might have been observed. He therefore continued to watch the dervish anxiously, and presently saw him pull out of his pocket five little clay figures, which he placed in a row in front of him. Having arranged them to his satisfaction, he addressed the first of them, which he called Omar, as follows. Oh, Omar, I have thee now, thou usurper of the caliphate! Thou shalt forthwith answer to me for thy crimes, and receive the just punishment of thy wickedness. Yet I will deal fairly with thee, and give thee a chance of escape. It may be that there were mitigating circumstances in the case, which should not be overlooked. Inform me, therefore, if it be so, and I promise thee, I will not be unmerciful. What, thou answerest, nothing at all! Then it is evident thou canst think of no excuse for thy disgraceful conduct, and I will forthwith slay thee. Saying this, the dervish raised his mighty club over his head, and bringing it down with a crash on the little image, flattened it level with the ground. He next addressed himself to the second image, thus, Oh, I will beck, thou also work guilty in this matter, since thou didst first occupy the place which by right belonged to Ali. Nevertheless, thou art an old man, and it may be that thou wert but a tool in the hands of that ungodly Omar, whom I have just now destroyed. If it be so, tell me, that I may deal mercifully with thee. What, thou too silent, beware, or I will crush thee, even as I crush thine abetter in this offence? Thou still refuseest to answer, then thy blood be on thine own head. Another blow with the club, and the second figure had followed the first. The dervish now turned to the third figure. Oh, Murtaza Ali, he exclaimed, tell me I pray thee, now that these wretches who deprived thee of thy rights have met with their deserts, how it was that thou, the chosen successor of the Prophet, didst allow thyself to be so set aside. After all, thou didst in a manner acquiesce in their use of patience, and I desire to know why thou didst so, and why thou didst not withstand them, even to the death. Tell me this, therefore, I pray thee, that my difficulties may be solved. What, thou also art silent? Nay, but thou shalt speak, or I will deal with thee as with the others. Still thou answerest nothing, then perish. Down came the club a third time, while the poor man in the tree was almost beside himself with horror at this impiety. This horror was further increased when the dervish, turning to the fourth clay figure, addressed it as follows, O Muhammad, O Prophet of God, since thou didst enjoy divine inspiration, thou didst, without doubt, know what would occur after thy death. How, then, didst thou take no precautions to guard against it? Without doubt in this, too, there is some hidden wisdom which I would feign understand, therefore I beseech thee to tell me of it. Thou answerest not a word, nay, but thou shalt answer, else even thy sacred mission shall in no wise protect thee from my just wrath. Still thou maintainest silence, beware, for I am in earnest and will not be trifled with. Thou continuous to defy me, then perish with the rest. Another heavy blow with the club and the figure of the Prophet disappeared into the ground, while the poor man in the tree was half paralysed with dread, and watched with fascinating horror to see what the dervish would do next. Only one clay figure now remained, and to this the dervish addressed himself, O Allah, he said, Thou who had knowledge of all the troubles which would befall the family of him whom thou didst ordain to be the successor of thy Prophet, tell me, I pray thee, what divine mystery was concealed under that which baffles our weak comprehension. Wilt thou not hear my prayer? Art thou also silent? Nay, thou shalt answer me, or lech, suddenly exclaimed the man in the tree, his terror of the dervish for the moment, mastered by his indignation. Art thou not satisfied with having destroyed the Prophet of God and Ali, his holy successor, wilt thou also slay the Creator? Beware, hold thy hand, or verily the heavens will fall and crush thee. On hearing this voice, apparently from the clouds, the dervish was so terrified that he uttered one loud cry, dropped his uplifted club, and fell back dead. The man in the tree now descended, and cautiously approached the body of the dervish. Being finally assured that he was really dead, he proceeded to remove his cloak, which he was surprised to find of enormous weight, so that he began to think there must be something concealed in the lining. This proved to be the case, for, as he cut it open, a hidden horde of gold pieces poured forth onto the ground. These the poor traveller proceeded to pick up and transfer to his pockets. When he had completed this task, he raised his face to heaven and said, Oh Allah, just now I saved thy life by a timely interference, and for this thou hast now rewarded me with this store of gold, for which I heartily thank thee. What a very foolish man the traveller must have been, we remarked, when the story was concluded. He certainly met with better fortune than he deserved. Of course, the dervish was nothing better than a madman. Yes, answered the Khan, and of the two, of all is the worse, especially as a friend, a truth which is exemplified in the story of the gardener, the bear and the snake, which well illustrates the proverb that a wise enemy is better than a foolish friend. If you do not know the story, I will tell it you, for it is quite short. Once upon a time there was a gardener into whose garden a bear used often to come to eat the fruit. Now, seeing that the bear was very strong and formidable, the gardener deemed it better to be on good terms with it, thinking that it might prove a useful ally. So he encouraged it to come whenever it liked, and gave it as much fruit as it could eat, for which kindness the bear was very grateful. Now there was also a snake which lived in a hole in the garden wall, one day when the snake was basking in the sun half asleep. The gardener saw it and struck at it with the spade which he had in his hand. The blow wounded the snake and caused it a great deal of pain, but did not kill it, and it succeeded in dragging itself back into its hole. From this time forth it was filled with a desire for revenge and a determination to watch the gardener's movements carefully, so that, if ever it saw him asleep, it might inflict on him a mortal wound. Now the gardener knew that the snake had escaped, and was well aware that he had made a deadly enemy of it, so he was afraid to go to sleep within its reach unprotected. He communicated his apprehensions to his friend the bear, which, eager to give some proof of its gratitude, readily offered to watch over him while he slept. The gardener gladly accepted this offer and lay down to sleep, while the snake, concealed in its hole, continued its watch, hoping for an opportunity of gratifying its revenge. Now the day was hot and the flies were very troublesome, for they kept buzzing round the gardener's face and even settling upon it. This boldness on their part annoyed the bear very much, especially when he found that he could only disperse them for a moment by a wave of his paw, and that they returned immediately to the spot from which they'd been driven. At last the bear could stand it no longer, and determined to have done with the flies once and for all. Looking round he aspired a large flat stone which lay near, oh now I have you, he thought, as he picked up the stone, and waiting for the flies to settle again on the gardener's face. I'll teach you to molest my friend's slumbers, you miserable creatures. Then the flies, having settled, thud. Down came the stone, with a mighty crash on the gardener's head, which was crushed in like an egg shell, while the flies flew merrily away to torment some new victim, and the snake crept back into its hole with great contentment, muttering to itself the proverb in question, wise enemy is better than a foolish friend. And of section 16, section 17 of A Year Amongst the Persians by Edward Granville Brown This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org A Year Amongst the Persians by Edward Granville Brown Chapter 7 From Tehran to Isfahan Part 3 And now, just outside the walls surrounding the telegraph office, rows are prolonged and dismal howl, followed by another, and yet another, while from the city, like an answer, came back the barking of the dogs. Are those jackals howling outside, I asked, and do they come so close to the town? Yes, answered the Khan. They always do so, and the dogs always answer them thus. Do you know why? Once upon a time the jackals used to live in the towns, just as the dogs do now, while the latter dwelt outside in the desert. Now the dogs thought it would be much nicer to be in the town, where they would be sheltered from the inclemency of the weather, and would have plenty to eat, instead of often having to go without food for a long time. So they sent one of their numbers to the jackals with the following message. Some amongst us, they said, are ill, and our physicians say that what they need is change of air, and that they ought, if possible, to spend three days in the town. Now it is clearly impossible for us dogs and you jackals to be in one place at the same time, so we would ask you to change places with us for three days only, and to let us take up our quarters in the city, while you retire into the desert, the air of which will doubtless prove very beneficial to you also. To this proposition the jackals agreed, and during the following night the exchange was affected. In the morning, when the people of the city woke up, they found a dog wherever there had been a jackal on the previous night. On the third night the jackals, being quite tired of the desert, came back to the gates of the town, filled with pleasant anticipations of resuming their luxurious city life. But the dogs, being very comfortable in their new quarters, were in no hurry to quit them. So, after waiting some time, the jackals called out to the dogs, Are you sick ones well yet? Ending up with a wine rising and falling in cadence, just such as you heard a minute ago, and, as Mirza Abdullah, who is a native of Isfahan, will tell you, just such as you may hear any day in the mouth of an Isfahani or a Yezdi. But the dogs, who were Turks and speak Turkish, only answered, Yoch! Yoch! No! No! And so the poor jackals had to go back into the desert. And ever since then they come back at night and hail the dogs with the same question, as you heard them do just now. And the dogs always give the same reply, for they have no wish to go back to the desert. And that is why the jackals come and howl round the town after dusk, and why the dogs always answer them. At this point our host interrupted the conversation to tell us that Sapa was ready. Sapa! exclaimed the Khan, who had already commenced another story. Sapa, indeed! Am I to have my stories cut short and spoiled by Sapa? No, I shall not go on with what I was saying, even though you do beg my pardon. But I will forgive you, provide it always, that you ask an English pardon, and not a Persian pardon. What do you mean by a Persian pardon? I asked. Please explain the expression. No, I shall keep my word and tell you no more stories tonight, answered the Khan. I have told you plenty already, and you will probably forget them all, and me too. Now you will remember me much better as having refused to satisfy your curiosity on this one point. And whenever you hear the expression, pardon me, Rani, so he pronounced it, you will think of Mirza Hussain Khan of Kashan. After Sapa we had some songs accompanied on the sitar, all present except myself, being something of musicians, and thus the evening passed pleasantly, till the guests announced that they must depart, and I was astonished to find that it was close on midnight and high time to retire for the night. Next day, 16th February, our road continued to skirt the plain for some 12 or 15 miles, and then turned to the right into the mountains. We at first ascended along a river-bed, down which trickled a comparatively small quantity of water. I was surprised to see that a number of dams had been constructed to divert the water from its channel, and make it flow over portions of the bank, once it returned charged with mud. On asking the reason of this strange procedure, I was informed that it was done to prevent the water evaporating, as muddy water evaporates less readily than that which is clear. On ascending somewhat higher we came to a place where there was a smooth, rather deep, oblong depression in the face of the rock. Inside this, as well as on the ground beneath, were heaps of small stones and pebbles, while in every cranny and chink of the cliff around and below this spot were planted little bits of stick decorated with rags of diverse colours placed there by pious passers-by. As we came up to this place, Chudabach, the mulletier, who was a few paces in front, sprang up towards the depression, shouting, YALI, and drew his hand down it, thus affording an indication of the manner in which the wonderful smoothness of its walls had been produced. He then informed us that the depression in question was the mark left by the hoof of Ali's steed, Duldul, and that there were only two or three more such in the whole of Persia. Near the village of Gez, he added, there was the mark of Ali's hand in the rock. Hadji Safar, on learning these facts, added his quota of pebbles to those already collected on the slope. Proceeding onwards through very fine scenery, we suddenly came upon a mighty wall of rock wherewith the channel of the stream was barred, and beyond this a vast sheet of water formed by the damming up of the water-course. This splendid half-natural reservoir, which serves to keep the city of Qashon, well supplied with water during the hot, dry summer, was constructed, like so many other useful and beneficial public works, during the period of prosperity, which Persia enjoyed under the Safavi kings, and is known as Band-e-Kohrud. Winding round the right side of this great lake, we presently began to see around us abundant signs of cultivation, plantations of trees, orchards, and fields, laid out in curious stets for purposes of irrigation, and already green with sprouting corn. Soon we entered tortuous lanes, enclosed by stout walls of stone, and overshadowed by trees, and after traversing these for some distance, we arrived at the village of Javi Nun, the strange-looking inhabitants of which came out to see us pass. The women, for the most part, wore green shawls, and did not cover their faces. As we passed, we could hear them conversing in the curious dialect, incomprehensible to the ordinary Persian, of which I shall have to speak directly. About a mile farther on, we came to the village of Kohrud, where the Chaparchane, post house, being occupied, we found quarters at the house of Aseid, who appeared to be one of the chief men of the village. I had already heard from General Hutum Shindler, who possesses probably more knowledge about the geography, ethnology, and local dialects of Persia than any man living, of the curious dialect spoken in and around Kohrud and Natan, and anxious to acquire further information about it. I mentioned the matter to my host, who had once volunteered to bring in two or three of the people of the place to converse with me. Accordingly, as soon as I had had tea, a man and his son came in, and, bowing ceremoniously, took their seats by the door. I first asked them as to the distribution of their dialect, and the extent of the area over which it was spoken. They replied that it was spoken, with slight variations, in about a dozen or fifteen villages round about, extending on the one hand to the little town of Natanz, in the valley to the east, and on the other to the mountain village of Kamsar. Of its age, history, and relations, they knew nothing definite, merely characterising it as Fursikadeem, ancient Persian. From what I subsequently learnt, I infer that it forms one branch of a dialect or language spoken with greater or less variations over a large portion of Persia. With the dialect of Natanz, it seems almost identical, so far as I can judge, from a comparison of the specimen of that vernacular, consisting of some thirty words, given by Pollak, with my own collection of Kohrud words. With the so-called Dari language of the Zoroastrians of Yesd and Kirmon, it has also close affinities, and it would also seem to be near akin to the dialect spoken about Sivom, three stages north of Shiraz. The relations of these dialects to one another, and to the languages of ancient Persia, have not yet been fully worked out, though excellent monographs on several of them exist, and the quatrains of the celebrated Babatahir, the Lour, have been published with translation and notes by Monsieur Clémont-Oire. It would be out of place here to discuss the philological bearings of this question, and I will merely observe that the wide distribution of these kindred dialects, and the universal tradition of their age, alike point to something more than a merely local origin. I now for the first time realized the difficulty of obtaining precise information from uneducated people with regard to their language. In particular, it was most difficult to get them to give me the different parts of the verbs. I would ask, for example, how would you say I am ill? They gave me a sentence which I wrote down, then I asked, now what is thou art ill? They repeated the same sentence. That can't be right, I said. They can't both be the same. Yes, that is right, they answered. If we want to say thou art ill, we just say what we have told you. Well, but suppose you were ill yourself, what would you say? Oh, then we should say so and so. This readiness in misapprehending one's meaning and reversing what one had said gave rise to one class of difficulties. Another class arose from the extreme simplicity of the people. For instance, after asking them the words for a number of common objects in their language, I asked, and what do you call city? Cachon, they replied. Nonsense, I said. Cachon is the name of a particular city. What do you call cities in general? No, they said. It is quite right. In Persian, you say, Shahr Miravam. I'm going to the city. We say, Cachon Miravam. It is all the same. It was useless to argue or to point out that there were many other cities in the world beside Cachon. To these simple-minded folk, Cachon remained the city par excellence, and they could not see what one wanted with any other. Finally, I had to give up the struggle in despair, and to this day I do not know whether the Kochrudi dialect possesses a general term for city or not. I here append a list of words and expressions which I took down during the short opportunity I had for studying the Kochrud dialect, as I am not aware that anything has been published on that particular branch of what Monsieur Ouah called Pehlevi Musulman. For the sake of comparison, I place in parallel columns the equivalents in the Natanz dialect, given by Polak, and those of the so-called Dali of Yazd, given by General Schindler and Justi. The transcription of these latter I have only altered so far as appeared necessary to convey the proper pronunciation to the English reader, e.g. in substituting the English Y for the German J. Columns English Persian Kochrudi Natanzi Dali of Yazd Ma Mehr Schindler Memu Justi Duhtar Duta Duta Polak Dute Justi Dut Dutter Dutter Schindler Child Baccia Baccia Baccia Schindler and Justi Woman Zan Yana Yena Polak Yen Yenuk Schindler Keda Schindler Kede Khada Justi Duhtar Baar Baar Schindler and Justi Wood Chub Chuga Chub Schindler Trey Diracht Diracht Justi and Schindler Bun Banna Bena Water Ab O Al Polak Vuv Berasin Quoted by Justi Vo Yazd O Kierman Fire Atash Atash Tash Justi and Schindler Apple Sib Sov Justi Garden Razz Equals Vine Razz Razz Razz Equals Vine Schindler Night Shab Shue Shaw Justi and Schindler Bird Karge Karge Polak Dog Sag Ispa Saba Schindler Seva Justi Cat Gurba Malji Muljin Polak Mali Schindler Snow Barf Vafra Vabr Berasin Quoted by Justi Tadei Imruz Iru Emru Justi Yes Tadei Diruz Ize Heze Schindler Tomoro Ferda Hia Arda Schindler Be gone Birau Bashe Bashe Vesho Schindler Bishau From this example of the Kohrud dialect it will be seen that the following are some of its chief peculiarities so far as generalisations can be drawn from so small of a vocabulary. One Preservation of Archaic Forms Iji Pur, Ispa, Vafra, Zend, Vafra etc. Two Change of B into V, Iji Vacha, Persian Bacha, Valg, Persian Barg, Leaf. But this change does not go so far as in some other dialects. B for instance being preserved in the prefix to the imperative as in Bashe, Persian Bishor, Yesdi Vesho. The change of Shab, Persian, into Shao or Shor, Yesdi, and Shuye, Kohrudi, of Sib, Persian, into Sov, Yesdi, and Soh, Kohrudi, and of Ab, Persian, into O, Kohrudi, and Kirmani, and Vo, Yesdi, is doubtless to be accounted for in this way. Three are standing before a consonant in a Persian word, often stands after it in the Kohrud dialect, Iji Vafra, Persian Barg. Sometimes its place is taken by L, Iji Valg, Persian Barg. Four, G is sometimes replaced by V, Iji Varg, Persian Gurg, Wolf. Five, P is sometimes replaced by F, Iji Asf, Persian Asp, Horse. Six, K sometimes drops out when it is followed by another consonant, Basut, Persian Sohde, burnt. A few short sentences may be given in conclusion without comment or comparison. I come, Atun. He is coming today, Iru Ati. We are coming, Hama Atima. You are coming tonight, Isha Atima. They are coming, Atanda. Come, let us go into the country, Burya, Bashima, Sahra. Bring some oil here, Rukhan, Urgi, Burya. Take this and give it to him, Urgi Buida. Take the donkey, go and load it with earth, and come here. Throw down the blanket here, and sit down. Sit here, Hakum Unchis. I sat, Hochistum. He sat, Hochish. He came here, Bame Ande. I have not gone there, Negen Ashtima. It was day, Ruwabu. My brother is ill, Dodo Nassaza. Is your brother better? Ahwali Dodo Bekhtara? It is seven farsahs from here to Kashon. Ande Ta Kashon Haft Farsanga. How far is it from here to there? Ande Ta Nege Chan Farsanga? What is your name? Isma Chechiga. What does he say? Ajici. When do you go? Keshima. Who is this house? Nukiya Anikiya. Where do you belong to? Toki ga eghi. Whence comeest thou? Iruki Gorate. I come from Kamsar. Kamsar Daton. How many days is it since you left? It is ten days since I left. Dha Ruwabashdaon. This wood is burnt. Natchuga basut. The fire has gone out. Atash Bamaar. Abdullah is dead. Abdullah Mardah. Take the pillow and come and put it under my head. Balish Urgiburia Ziri Saramnu. Why are thou such an ass? Chiranandagar Khari. It has laid eggs. Tochm yudada. At last I asked my informants whose number had been greatly increased by additions from without, what they said in their language for Pidarsukhte, burnt father, the communist term of abuse in Persian. Baba basut. They cried unanimously, and with much relish. But we have many other bad names beside that, like Baba Bamaar, dead father, and blank. Here they poured forth a torrent of Kokhrudi obligations, which would probably have made me shudder if I had understood them. As it was confusion being prevalent and supper ready, Hadji Safar turned them all out of the room. That night snow fell heavily, and I was surprised to see that the Kokhrudis appeared to feel the cold, though they were well wrapped up, much more than any of us did. In the morning there was a layer of snow on the ground nearly six inches deep and much more than this in the hollows. Luckily there had been but little wind, else it might have gone hard with us. As it was we had difficulty enough. We were delayed in starting by the purchase of a quantity of yuzh ghand, a kind of sweetmeat made with sugar and walnuts, in which, as it was a peculiar product of the place, Hadji Safar advised me to invest. Then various people had to be rewarded for services rendered, amongst these my instructors of the previous night. The people were a grasping and discontented lot, and after I had given the man who had come to teach me the elements of Kokhrudi, present for himself and his son, the latter came and declared that he had not got his share, and that his father denied my having given him anything. At last we got off, accompanied by another larger caravan which had arrived before us on the preceding evening. The path being completely concealed, one of the militeers walked in front, sounding the depth of the snow with his staff. At first we got on at a fair pace, but as we advanced and continued to ascend it got worse and worse. Once or twice we strayed from the road and had to retrace our steps. The last part of the climb which brought us to the summit of the pass was terrible work. The militeers lost the road entirely, and after blundering about for a while, decided to follow the course of the telegraph poles so far as this was possible. In so doing, notwithstanding the sounding of the snow, we kept getting into drifts. Many of the baggage mules fell down and could not regain their feet till they had been unloaded, and every time this happened the whole caravan was brought to a standstill till the load had been replaced. The militeers uttering loud shouts of and the women in the kajaves, assault of paniers, sending forth pitious cries whenever the animals which bore them stumbled or seemed about to fall. Altogether it was a scene of the utmost confusion, though not lacking in animation, but the cold was too intense to allow me to take much interest in it. After we had surmounted the pass, things went somewhat better, but we had been so much delayed during the ascent that it was nearly six p.m. and getting dusk, before we reached the rather bleak-looking village of Sock. Here also there is a telegraph office, wither I directed my steps. Mr. McGowan, who was in charge of the office, was out when I arrived, but I was kindly received by his wife, an Armenian lady, and his little boy. The latter appeared to me a very clever child. He spoke not only English, Persian, and Armenian, with great fluency, but also the dialect of Sock, which is closely allied to, if not identical with, the Kohrud vernacular. His father soon came in, accompanied by two Armenian travellers, one of whom was Dud Chum Bey, who is well known over the greater part of Persia, for the aciduity with which he searches out and buys up walnut trees. I often heard discussions amongst the Persians as to what use these were put to, and why anyone found it worthwhile to give such large sums of money for them. The general belief was that they were cut into thin slices and subjected to some process which made pictures come out in the wood, these pictures being, in the opinion of many, representations of events that had occurred under the tree which had supplied the wood. I had a good deal of conversation with Dud Chum Bey, though much less than I might have done had I been less overcome with somnolence induced by exposure to the cold. He had travelled over a great part of Persia, especially Luristan, which he most earnestly counselled me to avoid. The only people that I have seen worse than the Lurs, he said, are the Kashkais, for though the former will usually rob you if they can, and would not hesitate to murder you if you refuse to give up your possessions to them, the latter, not content with this, will murder you even if you make no resistance, alleging that the world is well quit of one who is such a coward that he will not fight for his own. Next day's march was singularly dull and uneventful, as well as bitterly cold. I had expected a dissent on this way of the past, corresponding to the rapid assent from Kashon to Kohrud, but I was mistaken. It even seemed to me that the difference in altitude between the summit of the pass and Soh was, at any rate, not much greater than between the former and Kohrud, while from Soh to our next halting place, Mudchechad, the road was, to all intents and purposes, level. At the latter place, we arrived about 5pm. It is an unattractive village of no great size. Finding the caravan Sarai in bad repair, I put up at the post house, where I could find little to amuse me, but two hungry-looking cats, which came and shared my supper, at first with some diffidence, but finally with complete assurance. They were ungrateful beasts, however, but they not only left me abruptly as soon as supper was over, but paid a predatory visit to my stores during the night, and ate a considerable portion of what was intended to serve me for breakfast on the morrow. The following day's march was a good deal more interesting. Soon after starting, we saw three gazelles, ahol, grazing not more than a hundred yards off the road. The wind, being towards us from them, they allowed us to approach, within a very short distance of them, so that, though I had no gun, I was almost tempted to take a shot at them with my revolver. A little farther on, at a point where the road, rising in a gentle incline, passed between two low hills before taking a bend towards the east, and descending into the great plain in which lies the once-magnificent city of Isfahan, we came to the ruins of a little village, amidst which stood a splendid, though somewhat dismantled, caravanserai of the Safavi era. Concerning this, one of the muleteers told me a strange story, which for the credit of the Qajar dynasty I hope was a fiction. The Shah, he said, was once passing this spot, when his courtiers caught his attention to the architectural beauty and incomparable solidity of this building. In the whole of Persia they said, no caravanserai equal to this is to be found, neither can anyone at the present day build the like of it. What, exclaimed the Shah, are none of the caravanserais which I have caused to be built as fine? That shall be so no longer. Destroy this building which makes men think lightly of the edifices which I have reared. This command, if ever given, was carried out somewhat tenderly, for the destruction is limited to the porches, mouldings, turrets, and other less essential portions of the structure. But indeed to destroy the buildings reared by the Safavi kings would be no easy task, and could hardly be accomplished without gunpowder. A little way beyond this we reached another ruined village where we halted for lunch. We were now in the Isfahan plain, and could even discern the position of the city by the thin pool of blue smoke which hung over it, and was thrown into relief by the dark mountains beyond. To our left, east, was visible the edge of the Dashti Kavir, which we had not seen since entering the Kothrid Pass. Its flat, glittering expanse was broken here and there by low ranges of black mountains, thrown up from the plain, into sharp rocky ridges. To the right, west, were more hills, amongst which lies the village of Najafabad, one of the strongholds of the Barbies. Besuming our march after a short halt, we passed several flourishing villages on either side, amongst them, and some distance to the east of the road, Gurgabh, which is so celebrated for its melons, and at about 4pm reached our halting place, Gez. I think we might without much difficulty have pushed on to Isfahan, which was now clearly visible, at a distance of about 10 miles ahead of us, but the muleteers were natives of Gez, and naturally desired to avail themselves of the opportunity now afforded them for visiting their families. Personally I should have preferred making an attempt to reach the city that night, for Gez is by no means an attractive spot, and I could find no better occupation than to watch a row of about a dozen camels kneeling down in the Karavan Sarai to receive their evening meal, consisting of balls of dough, Nawali, from the hands of their drivers. Later on, Khuda Bach, the second muleteer, brought me a present pishkesh of a great bowl of mast, curds, and two chickens. Next day, 20th February, we got off about 8.30pm. Khuda Bach, having received his present in Aam, testified his gratitude by accompanying us as far as the outskirts of the village, when I bade him farewell and dismissed him. Rahim assisted by a younger brother called Mahdi Kuli, whom he had brought with him from the village, undertaking to convey us to Isfahan. I had, while at Tehran, received a most kindly invitation from Dr Herna of the English Church Mission to take up my abode with him at the Mission House during my stay in the city, and as that was situated in the Armenian quarter of Julfa beyond the river Zeyandarud, Zindarud of Hafiz, the muleteers wished to proceed dither direct without entering the city, alleging that the transit through the bazaars would be fraught with innumerable delays. As, however, I was desirous of obtaining some idea of the general aspect of the city as soon as possible, I requested them to do exactly the contrary to what they proposed, videte, to convey me to my destination through as large a portion of the bazaars as could conveniently be traversed. This they finally consented to do. During a portion of our way to the city we enjoyed the company of a Mokhani Bashi, or professional maker of kanats, those subterranean aqueducts of which I have already spoken, with whom I conversed for a time on the subject of his profession since I was very desirous to learn how it was possible for men possessed of but few instruments and those of the rudest kind to sink their shafts with such precision. I cannot say, however, that my ideas on the subject were rendered much clearer by his explanations. As we drew nearer to the city, its numerous domes, minarets and pigeon-towers, Kaftarchani, began to be clearly discernible, and on all sides signs of cultivation increased. We passed through many poppy fields where numbers of labourers were engaged in weeding. The plants were, of course, quite small at this season, for they are not ready to yield the opium till about a month after the Nauruz, i.e. about the end of April. When this season arrives, the poppy capsules are gashed or scored by means of an instrument composed of several sharp blades laid parallel. This is done early in the morning, and in the afternoon the juice, which has exuded and dried, is scraped off. The crude opium, Tyriachicham, thus obtained, is subsequently kneaded up, purified, dried, and finally made into cylindrical rolls about half an inch or a third of an inch in diameter. At length we entered the city by the gate called Derwazeyecharchu, and were soon threading our way through the bazaars, which struck me as very fine, for not only are they lofty and spacious, but the goods exposed for sale in the shops are for the most part of excellent quality. The people are of a different type to the Tehranis. They are not, as a rule, very dark in complexion, and have strongly marked features, marred not infrequently by a rather forbidding expression, though the average of good looks is certainly fairly high. The character which they bear amongst other Persians is not altogether enviable, avarice and niggadliness being accounted their chief characteristics. Thus it is commonly said of anyone who is very careful of his expenditure, that he is, as mean as the merchants of Isfahan, who put their cheese in a bottle and rubbed their bread on the outside to give it a flavour. Another illustration of this alleged stinginess is afforded by the story of an Isfahani merchant, who one day caught his apprentice eating his lunch of dry bread, and gazing wistfully at the bottle containing the precious cheese, whereupon he proceeded to scold the unfortunate youth roundly for his greediness, asking him if he couldn't eat plain bread for one day. Nor have the poets failed to display their ill nature towards the poor Isfahanis, as the following lines testify. Isfahan is a paradise full of luxuries, there ought, however, to be no Isfahanis in it. At last we emerged from the bazaars into the fine, spacious square called Meidani Shah. On our right hand, as we entered it, was the Alikapi Supreme Gate, which is the palace of the Zilus Sultan, the prince-governor of Isfahan, of whom I have already spoken. In front of us, at the other end of the square, was the magnificent mosque called Musjidhi Shah, surmounted by a mighty dome. Quitting the Meidani at the angle between these residences of ecclesiastical and temporal power, and traversing several tortuous streets, we entered the fine, spacious avenue called Chahar Bar, which is wide, straight, well paved, surrounded by noble buildings, planted with rows of lofty plain trees, and supplied with several handsome fountains. This avenue must have been the pride of Isfahan in the good old days of the Safavis, and is still calculated to awaken a feeling of deep admiration in the mind of the traveller, but it has suffered considerably in later days, not only by the state of dilapidation, into which many of the buildings situated on its course have been allowed to fall, but also by the loss of many noble plain trees, which were cut down by the Zulus Sultan, and sent to Tehran to afford material for a palace which he was building there. On reaching the end of the Chahar Bar, we came in sight of the river Zayandarud, which separates the city of Isfahan from the Christian suburb of Julfa. This river, though it serves only to convert into a swamp, the Galkhani Marsh, a large area of the desert to the east, is at Isfahan as fine a stream as one could wish to see. It is spanned by three bridges, of which the lowest is called Puli Hassanabad, the middle one Puli Si'o Si' Chashme, the bridge of 33 arches, and the upper one Puli Marun, all of them solidly and handsomely built. We crossed the river by the middle bridge, obtaining while doing so a good view of the wide, but now half-empty channel, the pebbly sides of which were spread with fabrics of some kind, which had just been dyed, and were now drying in the sun. The effect produced by the variegated colours of these, seen at a little distance, was as though the banks of the river were covered with flowerbeds. On the other side of the stream was another avenue closely resembling the Chahabah, through which we had already passed, and running in the same line as this and the bridge, Pidati, towards the south. This, however, we did not follow, but turned sharply towards the right, and soon entered Julfa, which is not situated exactly opposite to Isfahan, but somewhat higher up the river. It is a large suburb divided into a number of different quarters, communicating with one another by means of gates, and traversed by narrow, tortuous lanes planted with trees. In many cases a stream of water runs down the middle of the road, dividing it in two. After passing through a number of these lanes we finally reached the Mission House, where I was met and cordially welcomed by Dr. Herndler, who, though I had never seen him before, received me with a genial greeting, which at once made me feel at home. Dr. Bruce, who had kindly written to him about me, was still absent in Europe, so that all the work of the Mission had now devolved on him, and this in itself no small labour was materially increased by the medical aid which was continually required of him, for Dr. Herndler was the only qualified practitioner in Isfahan. Nevertheless he found time in the afternoon to take me to call on most of the European merchants, resident in Julfa, and the cordial welcome which I received from these was alone necessary to complete the favourable impression produced on me by Isfahan. End of section 17