 Section 14 of A Year Amongst the Persians by Edward Granville Brown Chapter 6. Mysticism, Metaphysics and Magic. Part 2 I trust that I have succeeded in making it sufficiently clear that the study of Persian philosophy is not a thing to be lightly undertaken, and that proficiency in it can only be the result of diligent application, combined with good natural capacity. It is not a thing to play with in a dilettante manner, but is properly regarded by its votaries as the highest intellectual training, and the crown and summit of all knowledge. It was not long ere I discovered this fact, and, as it was clearly impossible for me to go through a tenth part of the proper curriculum, while at the same time I was deeply desirous of becoming, in some measure at least, acquainted with the most recent developments of Persian thought, I was feigned to request my teacher Mirza Asadullah to take compassion on my infirmities, and to instruct me as far as possible, and in as simple a manner as possible, concerning the essential practical conclusions of the doctrines of which he was the exponent. This he kindly exerted himself to do, and though any attempt at a systematic enunciation of Hajj Mullah Hadi's philosophy, even were I capable of undertaking it, would be out of place here, I think that it may not be uninteresting, if I notice briefly some of its more remarkable features, not as derived from his writings, but as orally expounded to me, with explanations and illustrations, by his pupil and disciple. As in the Sufi doctrine, being is conceived of as one. Al-Vuyodo haqiqatun vahidatun vasitatun valahu maratibu mutafadila. Being is a single, simple reality, and it has degrees differing in excellence. Poetically, this idea is expressed in the following quatrain. Like a lesson book, the compendium of the universe, we turned over, leaf after leaf, in truth we read, and saw therein nought save the essence of God, and the essential attributes of God. The whole universe then is to be regarded as the unfolding manifestation or projection of God. It is the mirror wherein he sees himself, the arena wherein his various attributes display their nature. It is subsequent to him, not in sequence of time, for time is merely the medium which encloses the phenomenal world, and which is indeed dependent on this for its very existence, but in sequence of causation. Just as the light given off by a luminous body is subsequent to the luminosity of that body in causation, in as much as the latter is the source and origin of the former, and that whereon it depends and whereby it subsists, but not subsequent to it in time, because it is impossible to conceive of any time in the existence of an essentially luminous body antecedent to the emission of light therefrom. This amounts to saying that the universe is co-eternal with God, but not co-equal, because it is merely an emanation dependent on him, while he has no need of it. Just as the light proceeding from a luminous body becomes weaker and more diffuse as it recedes from its source, so the emanations of being become less real, or in other words, more gross and material, as they become farther removed from their focus and origin. This gradual descent or recession from the primal being, which is called Kautzin Nozul, arc of descent, has in reality infinite grades, but a certain definite number, seven, is usually recognized. Man finds himself in the lowest of these grades, the material world, but of that world he is the highest development, for he contains in himself the potentiality of reassent, by steps corresponding to those in the arc of descent, to God, his origin, and his home. To discover how this return may be effected, how the various stages of the Kaos Isuud, arc of ascent, may be traversed, is the object of philosophy. The soul of man is corporeal in origin, but spiritual in continuance, Born of matter, it is yet capable of a spiritual development, which will lead it back to God, and enable it, during the span of immortal life, to accomplish the ascent from matter to spirit, from the periphery to the centre. In the arc of ascent also are numerous grades, but here again, as in the arc of descent, seven are usually recognized. It may be well at this point to set down in tabular form these grades, as they exist both in the macrocosm or arc of descent, and in the microcosm or arc of ascent, which is man. One, arc of ascent, seven principles in man. One, the most subtle principle. Two, the subtle principle. Three, the secret. Four, the heart. Five, the spirit. Rooh. Six, the soul. Nuffs. Seven, the nature. Tub. Two, arc of descent. Series of emanations. One, exploration of the world of divinity. Sayada'alam ilahut. Two, the world of divinity. Alam ilahut. Three, the world of the intelligences. Alam i jabarut. Four, the world of the angels. Alam i malakut. Five, the world of ideas. Alam i ma'na. Six, the world of form. Alam i surat. Seven, the material world. Alam i tabit art. I do not think that these first two should stand thus, for at most they only mark two different phases in the experience of the soul and attaining into the world of divinity and a journeying therein. My impression is that they should be replaced thus. One, the world of divinity, i.e. the divine essence, alam ilahut. Two, the world of the attributes, alam ilahut. This corresponds to the views given in the commentaries on the Fusus of Sheikh Muhyiddin ibn al-Arabi and other similar works, where the five planes, hazrati khamps, which coincide with the first five grades given here, i.e. those which belong to the spiritual world, are discussed. I have not, however, considered myself justified in making any alteration in Mirza Asadullah's scheme. A few words of explanation are necessary concerning the above scheme. Each stage in either column corresponds with that which is placed opposite to it. Thus, for instance, the mere matter which in the earliest stage of man's development constitutes his totality corresponds to the material world to which it belongs. In the material world, the arc of descent has reached its lowest point. In man, the highest product of the material world, the ascent is begun. When the human embryo begins to take form, it rises to the world of soul, thus summing up in itself two grades of the arcs. It may never ascend higher than this point, for, of course, when the upward evolution of man is spoken of, it is not implied that this is affected by all, or even by the majority of men. These seven principles do not represent necessarily co-existing components or elements, but successive grades of development, at any one of which, after the first, the process of growth may be arrested. The race exists for its highest development, humanity for the production of the perfect man, Insanikamil, who, summing up as he does all the grades of ascent from matter, the lowest point of the series of emanations, to God, is described as the microcosm, the compendium of all the planes of existence, Hazratiyamit, or sometimes as the sixth plane, Hazratisadissa, because he includes and summarises all the five spiritual planes. It has been said that some men never rise beyond the second grade, the world of soul or form. These are such as occupy themselves entirely during their lives with sensual pursuits, eating, drinking and the like. Previously, to Mulasadra, it was generally held by philosophers that these perished entirely after death, in as much as they had not developed any real spiritual principle. Mulasadra, however, took great pains to prove that even in these cases where the rational soul, nafsinatika, had not been developed during life, there did exist a spiritual part which survived death and resisted disintegration. This spiritual part he called imaginations. Yet even in this low state of development, where no effort has been made to reach the plane of the reason, a man may lead an innocent and virtuous life. What will then be the condition after death of that portion of him which survives the body? It cannot re-enter the material world, for that would amount to methampsychosis, which, so far as I have been able to ascertain, is uncompromisingly denied by all Persian philosophers. Neither can it ascend higher in the spiritual scale, for the period during which progress was possible is past. Moreover, it derives no pleasure from spiritual or intellectual experiences, and would not be happy in one of the higher worlds, even could it attain there too. It desires material surroundings, and yet cannot return to the material world. It therefore does what seems to it the next best thing. It creates for itself subjective pseudo-material surroundings, and in this dream-dwelling it makes its eternal home. If it has acted rightly in the world according to its lights, it is happy, if wrongly, then miserable. The happiness or misery of its hereafter depends on its merit, but in either case it is purely subjective and absolutely stationary. There is for it neither advance nor return. It can neither ascend higher nor re-enter the material world, either by transmigration or resurrection, both of which the philosophers deny. What has been said above applies with slight modifications to all the other grades, at any rate the lower ones. If a man has, during his life in the world, attained to the grade of the spirit, the third grade in order of ascent, and acquired rational or intellectual faculties, he may still have used these well or ill. In either case he enters after death into the world of ideas, where he is happy or miserable according to his desserts. But, so far as I could learn, anyone who has during his life developed any of the four highest principles, passes after death into a condition of happiness and blessedness, since mere intellect without virtue will not enable him to pass beyond the third grade or world of the spirit. According to the degree of development which he has reached, he enters the world of the angels, the world of the intelligences, or the world of divinity itself. From what has been said it will be clear that a bodily resurrection and a material hereafter are both categorically denied by the philosophers. Nevertheless, states of subjective happiness or misery practically constituting a heaven or hell exist. These, as has been explained, are of different grades in both cases. Thus there is a paradise of actions, janatul al al, where the soul is surrounded by an ideal world of beautiful forms, a paradise of attributes janatus sifat, and a paradise of the essence, janatul dat, which is the highest of all, for there the soul enjoys the contemplation of the divine perfections, which hold it in an eternal rapture, and cause it to forget and cease to desire all those objects which constitute the pleasure of the denizens of the lower paradises. It is indeed unconscious of ought but God, and is annihilated or absorbed in him. The lower subjective worlds, whether less fully developed soul suffers or rejoices, are often spoken off collectively as the alam imithal, world of similitudes or the alam ibarzach, world of the barrier or border world. The first term is applied to it because each of its denizens takes a form corresponding to his attributes. In this sense, Omar Khayyam has said, rosiki jeza yeha sifat huahad bud, kadri tubi kadri ma'rifat huahad bud, dar khusni sifat hush ki da rosi jeza, ha'shri tubi surati sifad huahad bud. On that day when all qualities shall receive thy recompense, thy worth shall be in proportion to thy wisdom. Strive after good qualities, for in the day of recompense thy resurrection shall be in the form of the attribute. Thas a greedy gluttonous man takes the form of a pig, and it is in this sense only that Metem Psycosis, Tanasuch, is held by the Persian philosophers. On this point my teacher was perfectly clear and definite. It is not uncommon for Sufis to describe a man by the form with which they profess to identify him in the world of similitudes. Thus I have heard a Sufi say to his antagonist, I see you in the world of similitudes as an old toothless fox, desirous of praying upon others, but unable to do so. I once said to Mirsa Asadullah that if I rightly understood his views, hell was nothing else than an eternal nightmare, whereat he smiled and said that I had rightly apprehended his meaning. Although a soul cannot rise higher than that world to which it has assimilated itself during life, it may be delayed by lower affinities in the world of the barrier on its way thither. All bad habits, even when insufficient to present a permanent obstacle to spiritual progress, tend to cause such delay and to retard the upward assent of the soul. From this it will be seen that the denizens of the world of the barrier are of three classes, two of these being permanent and abiding forever in the state of subjective happiness or misery which they have merited, and the third consisting of souls temporarily delayed there to undergo a species of probation before passing to the worlds above. On one occasion I put the following question to Mirsa Asadullah. Two persons A and B have been friends during their lifetime. The former has so lived as to merit happiness hereafter, the latter misery. Both die and enter the world of the barrier, their receiving forms appropriate to their attributes. The one moreover is happy, the other wretched. Will not A have cognizance of B's miserable condition, and will not this knowledge tend to mar his felicity? To this question my teacher replied as follows. A's world is altogether apart from B's, and the two are entirely out of contact. In A's world are present all things that he desires to have in such form as he pleases, for his world is the creation of his imaginative faculty, freed from the restraints of matter and the outward senses, and endowed with full power to see what it conceives. Therefore if A desires the presence of B as he knew him formally, B will be present with him in that form under which he was so known, and not in the repulsive form which he has now assumed. There is no more difficulty in this than in a person dreaming in ordinary sleep, that he sees one of his friends in a state of happiness, when at that very time his friend is in great pain or trouble. Such an outline are the more remarkable features of this philosophy as expounded to me by Mirza Asadullah. That it differs considerably from the ideas formed by most European scholars of the philosophy current in Persia as represented in the books, I am well aware. I can only suppose that Gobineau is right, as to the extent to which the system of Ketman, concealment of opinions, prevails in Persia, a view which my own experience strongly tends to confirm. He says, for example, in speaking of Mullah Religion et philosophie dans l'Asie centrale page 88, and whose footsteps had him or had he, for the most part, followed, le soin qu'il prenait de déguiser ses discours, il était nécessaire qu'il le prie surtout de déguiser ses livres. C'est ce qu'il a fait, et, à l'élire, on souffrait l'idée la plus imperfecte de son enseignement. Je dis, à l'élire, sans un maître qui possède la tradition, autrement on y pénètre son peine. Such a system of concealment may seem strange to those accustomed to the liberty of thought enjoined in Europe, but it is rendered necessary in the East by the power and intolerance of the clergy. Many a philosopher like Sheikh Shikha Bouddin Souravardi, many a Sufi like Mansouri Hallaj, has paid with his life for too free and open an expression of his opinions. For the rest, many of the ideas here enunciated bear an extraordinary similarity to those set forth by Mr Sinit in his work entitled Esoteric Buddhism. Great exception has been taken to this work, and especially it has been asserted that the ideas unfolded in it are totally foreign to Buddhism of any sort. Of this, I am not in a position to judge. Very possibly, it is true, though even then the ideas in question may still be of Indian origin. But whatever the explanation be, no one, I feel sure, can compare the chapters in Mr Sinit's book entitled respectively The Constitution of Man, Devachan and Kamaloka, with what I have written of Hadjimullah Hadji's views on the nature of man and his hereafter, without being much struck by the resemblance. Certain other points merit a brief notice. The physical sciences, as known to Persian philosophy, are those of the ancients. Their chemistry regards earth, air, fire and water as the four elements. Their astronomy is simply the Ptolemy system. Furthermore, they regard the universe as finite and adduce many proofs, some rather ingenious, others weak enough against the contrary hypothesis. Of these, I will give one only as a specimen. Let us suppose, they say, that the universe is infinite. Then from the center of the earth draw two straight lines diverging from one another at an angle of 60 degrees to the circumference and produce them dense to infinity. Join their terminal points by another straight line, thus forming the base of the triangle. Now, since the two sides of the triangle are equal, for both were drawn from one point to infinity, therefore the angles at the base are equal. And since the angle at the apex is 60 degrees, therefore each of the remaining angles is 60 degrees, and the triangle is equilateral. Therefore, since the sides are infinite in length, the base is also infinite in length. But the base is a straight line joining two points, vedate the terminal points of the sides. That is to say, it is limited in both directions. Therefore, it is not infinite in length, neither are the sides infinite in length, and a straight line cannot be drawn to infinity. Therefore, the universe is finite. Quad Erat Demonstrandum. This theorem scarcely needs comment. It, along with the endless discussions of a similar nature on the indivisible atom, Jalharifard, and the like, is an inheritance from the Scholastic Theology, Ilmikalam, the physics of which have been retained by all Persian metaphysicians up to the present day. A few words may be said about the psychology of the system in question. Five psychic faculties corresponding to the five senses are supposed to exist. These, with their cerebral seats, are as follows. Four brain. One, the compound perception, hissi-mushtarake, which has the double function of receiving and apprehending impressions from without. It is compared to a two-faced mirror, because on the one hand it reflects the outward world as presented to it by the senses, and on the other, during sleep, it gives form to the ideas arising in the mutasarifa, which will be mentioned directly. Two, the imagination which is the storehouse of forms. Three, the controlling or coordinating faculty, mutasarifa, which combines and elaborates the emotions or ideas stored in the vahime and the images stored in the imagination. It is therefore called the keeper of the two treasuries. Midbrain. Four, the emotional faculty, vahime, which is the seat of love, hate, fear, and the like. Hindbrain. Five, the memory hafiza, which is the storehouse of ideas. All these faculties are partial recipients. Mudrikatijus iye, and are the servants of the reason aklikulinsani or nafsinatika, which is the general recipient, mudrikikuli. Of these faculties, the imagination would appear to be regarded as the highest, since, as we have seen, in those cases in which the reason or rational soul, nafsinatika, is not developed. It constitutes that portion of the individual which survives death and resists disintegration. Indeed, these five faculties are better regarded as different stages in the development of the reason. Nothing below the plane of the imagination, however, survives death. E.g., in the lowest animals whose culminating faculty is a sense of touch, like worms, death brings about complete disintegration. Finally, a few words may be added concerning the view taken of the occult sciences. I was naturally desirous to learn to what extent they were recognised as true, and accordingly questioned Mirza Asadullah on the matter. His reply, which fairly represents the opinions of most thoughtful persons of the old school, was briefly to this effect. As regards Diamantzi, Ilmirami, and astrology Ilminujum, he had no doubt of their truth, of which he had had positive proof. At the same time, of the number of those who profess to understand them, the majority were impostors and charlatans. Their acquisition was very laborious and required many years' patient study, and those who had acquired them and knew their value were, as a rule, very slow to exhibit or make a parade of their knowledge. As regards the interpretation of dreams, he said that these were of three kinds, of which only the last admits of interpretation. These three classes are as follows. One, dreams due to disordered health. Due to the predominance of, one, blood, red things, such as fire, etc., are seen. Two, bile, yellow things, such as the sun, gold, etc., are seen. Three, phlegm, white things, such as water, snow, etc., are seen. Four, melancholy, black things, such as ink, etc., are seen. Two, dreams arising from the impressions produced during waking hours. Three, dreams not arising from the external or internal causes above enumerated. These are reflections obtained during sleep from the world of similitudes, alum imithal. In some rare cases they indicate events as they actually will occur. Generally, however, they show them forth in a symbolical manner and require interpretation, just as every man has his appropriate form in the world of similitudes, so also has everything else. Knowledge, for instance, is symbolized by milk, an enemy by a wolf, etc. I discussed the occult sciences, with several of my friends, to discover as far as possible the prevailing opinion about them. One of them made use of the following argument to prove their existence. God, he said, has no buch, stinginess, avarice. It is impossible for him to withhold from anyone a thing for which he strives, with sufficient earnestness. Just as if a man devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge he attains to it, so if he chooses to make occult sciences and magical powers the object of his aspirations, they will assuredly not be withheld from him. Another of my intimate friends gave me the following account of an attempt at conjuration, Ihzari Jinn, at which he had himself assisted. My uncle Mirza, he said, whose house you may perhaps see when you visit Shiraz, was a great believer in the occult sciences, in the pursuit of which indeed he dissipated a considerable fortune, being always surrounded by a host of magicians, geomancers, astrologers and the like. On one occasion something of value had disappeared and it was believed to have been stolen. It was therefore determined to make an attempt to discover the thief by resorting to a conjuration which was undertaken by a certain Sayid of Shiraz, skilled in these matters. Now you must know that the operator cannot himself see the forms of the Jinnis whom he evokes. He needs for this purpose the assistance of a young child. I, being then quite a child, was selected as his assistant. The magician began by drawing a talismanic figure in ink on the palm of my hand, over which he subsequently rubbed a mixture of ink and oil, so that it was no longer visible. He then commenced his incantations, and before long I, gazing steadily as I had been instructed to do, into the palm of my hand, saw, reflected in it as it were, a tiny figure which I recognised as myself. I informed the magician of this, and he commanded me to address it in a peremptory manner, and bid it summon the king of the Jinnis, Malikul Jinn. I did so, and immediately a second figure appeared in the ink mirror. Then I was frightened and began to cry, and hastily rubbed the ink off my hand. Thereupon another boy was brought, and the same process was repeated, till the king of the Jinnis appeared. Tell him to summon his Vazir, said the magician. The boy did so, and the Vazir also appeared in the ink mirror. A number of other Jinnis were similarly called up, one by one, and when they were all present they were ordered to be seated. Then the magician took a number of slips of paper, wrote on each of them the name of one of those resident in the house, and placed them under his foot. He then drew out one without looking at it, and called out to the boy, who is here. The boy immediately read off the name in question in the ink mirror. The same process was repeated till the name of one of the servants in the house was reached. Well, said the magician, why do you not tell me what you see in the mirror? I see nothing, answered the boy. Look again, said the magician, gaze more fixedly on the mirror. After a little while the boy said, I see no name, but only the words Bismillahirrahmanirrahim in the name of God, the merciful, the clement. This, said the magician, which I hold in my hand, is the name of the thief. The man in question was summoned and interrogated, and finally confessed that he had stolen the missing article, which he was compelled to restore. In this connection it may not be out of place to give the experiences of another experimenter in the occult sciences, who, although at the time sufficiently alarmed by the results he obtained, subsequently became convinced that they were merely due to an excited imagination. My informant in this case was a philosopher of Isfahan, entitled Amin Nusshariat, who came to Tehran in the company of his friend and patron, Bananul Mulk, one of the chief ministers of the Zillus Sultan. I saw him on several occasions and had long discussions with him on religion and philosophy. He spoke somewhat bitterly of the vanity of all systems. I have tried most of them, he said. I have been, in turn, Muslim, Sufi, Shaykh and even Borbi. At one time of my life, I devoted myself to the occult sciences and made an attempt to obtain control over the jinnis, Tahririjin, with what results I will tell you. You must know, in the first place, that the modus operandi is as follows. The seeker, after this power, chooses some solitary and dismal spot, such as the Hazard Dede at Isfahan, the place selected by me. There he must remain for forty days, which period of retirement we call chille. He spends the greater part of his time in incantations in the Arabic language, which he recites within the area of the mandal, or geometrical figure, which he must describe in a certain way on the ground. Besides this, he must eat very little food and diminish the amount daily. If he has faithfully observed all these details, on the twenty first day a lion will appear and will enter the magic circle. The operator must not allow himself to be terrified by this apparition, and above all must on no account quit the mandal, else he will lose the results of all his pains. If he resists the lion, other terrible forms will come to him on subsequent days, tigers, dragons, and the like, which he must similarly withstand. If he holds his ground till the fortieth day, he has obtained his object, and the jinnies, having been unable to get the mastery over him, will have to become his servants and obey all his behests. Well, I faithfully observed all the necessary conditions, and on the twenty first day, sure enough, a lion appeared and entered the circle. I was horribly frightened, but all the same I stood my ground, although I came near to fainting with terror. Next day a tiger came, and still I succeeded in resisting the impulse which urged me to flee. But when, on the following day, a most hideous and frightful dragon appeared, I could no longer control my terror and rushed from the circle, renouncing all further attempts at obtaining the mastery over the jinnies. When some time had elapsed after this, and I had pursued my studies in philosophy further, I came to the conclusion that I had been the victim of hallucinations excited by expectation, solitude, hunger, and long vigils, and with a view to testing the truth of this hypothesis, I again repeated the same process which I had before practiced, this time in a spirit of philosophical incredulity. My expectations were justified. I saw absolutely nothing, and there is another fact which proves to my mind that the phantoms I saw on the first occasion had no existence outside my own brain. I had never seen a real lion then, and my ideas about the appearance of that animal were entirely derived from the pictures which may be seen over the doors of baths in this country. Now the lion which I saw in the magic circle was exactly like the latter in form and colouring, and therefore, as I need hardly say, differed considerably in aspect from a real lion. In Tehron I saw another philosopher of the same reputation, Mirza Abdul Hasani Gilbe. The last of these names is the Tachallus or Nondeguer under which he writes poetry, for he is a poet as well as a metaphysician. Unfortunately I did not have the advantage of any prolonged conversation with him, and even such as I had chiefly considered in answering his questions on the different phases of European thought. He was greatly interested in what I told him about the Theosophists and vegetarians, and was anxious to know whether the Plymouth brethren were believers in the transmigration of souls. Although, as will have already appeared, I acquired a considerable amount of information about certain phases of Persian thought during my sojourn in Tehron. There was one which, notwithstanding my most strenuous efforts and diligent inquiries, had hitherto eluded all my attempts to approach it. This one was Bobbyism of the history of which I have already had occasion to speak more than once, and to which I shall have to refer repeatedly in the course of subsequent chapters. Although I exerted to the utmost all the skill, all the tact, and all the caution which I had at my command, I was completely foiled in my attempts to communicate with the prescribed sect. I heard something about them, it is true, and what I heard served only to increase my desire to know more. I was told tales of their unflinching courage under torture, of their unshakable faith, of their marvellous skill in argument. I once met one of them, said a man of great learning to me, as I was returning from Karbala, and he succeeded in drawing me into a discussion on religious matters. So completely was I worsted by him at every turn, so thorough was his knowledge of the Quran and traditions, and so ingenious was the use he made of this knowledge, that I was finally compelled to effect my escape from his irresistible logic, by declaring myself to be Lut Madhav, a free thinker, whereupon he left me, saying that with such he had nothing to do. But whether my friends could not give me the knowledge I sought for, or whether they did not choose to do so, I was unable during my stay in Tehran to become acquainted with any members of the sect in question. Some indeed of those with whom I was acquainted at that time were, as I subsequently discovered, actually Barbies, yet these, although at times they asked me about the course of my studies, commended my devotion to philosophy, and even tantalised me with vague promises of introductions to mysterious friends, who were, as they would imply, endowed with true wisdom, mutt brief heart, would say nothing definite, and appeared afraid to speak more openly. After arousing my curiosity to the highest pitch, and making me fancy that I was on the threshold of some discovery, they would suddenly leave me with an expression of regret, that opportunities for prolonged and confidential conversation were so rare. I tried to obtain information from an American missionary with similar lack of success. He admitted that he had foregathered with Barbies, but added that he did not encourage them to come and discuss their ideas, which he regarded as mischievous and fanciful. I asked how he succeeded in recognising them, since I had sought eagerly for them, and had failed to find them. He replied that there was not much difficulty in identifying them by their conversation, as they always spoke on religious topics, whenever an opportunity presented itself, and dwelt especially on the need of a fuller revelation, caused by the progress of the human race. Beyond this, I could learn nothing from him. Once indeed, I thought that I had succeeded in meeting with one of the sect, in the person of an old Shirazi merchant, who, to my astonishment, launched forth before several other Persians who were present on the Excellencies of the New Religion. He declared that of their sacred books, those written in Arabic were more eloquent than the Qur'an, and those composed in Persian superior in style to the writings of Saddi. He spoke of an Arabic book of theirs, of which a copy, written in gold, and worth at least five hundred tummans, one hundred and fifty pounds, existed in Tehran. Thus he added, he might perhaps someday take me to see. All the time he was talking, he kept looking at me in a peculiar way, as though to watch the effect produced by his words. I met him once again when no one else was present, and easily induced him to resume the topic. He spoke of the numerous signs and wonders which had heralded the birth of Mirza Al-Muhammad, the Bob, of the wonderful quickness of apprehension manifested by him when still, but a child, and of the strange puzzling questions he used sometimes to put to his teachers. Thus on one occasion, when he was receiving instruction in Arabic grammar, he suddenly demanded Huwakist, who is he. My informant further declared that the Franco-German War and other events had been foretold by the Bob successor some time before they actually occurred. On another occasion, in my eagerness to acquire knowledge on this matter, I committed a great indiscretion, and I fear caused considerable pain to my teacher Mirza Asadullah. I had been informed that he had some time previously been arrested as a Bobi, and though he was released almost immediately on the representations of the English Embassy, it was hinted to me that possibly this powerful protection, rather than any clear proof of his orthodoxy, was the cause of his liberation. I therefore determined to sound him on the matter, and, unable to control my impatience and a way to favourable opportunity, I approached the subject as cautiously as I could the very next time that I saw him. Alluding to a previous discussion on the finality attributed by Mohammedans to the revelation of their prophet, I said that I had recently heard that there existed in Persia a number of people who denied this, and alleged that a subsequent revelation had been accorded to mankind, even within the lifetime of many still living. Mirza Asadullah listened to what I said with a gradually increasing expression of dismay, which warned me that I was treading on dangerous ground, and made me begin to regret that I had been so precipitate. When I had finished he continued silent for a few minutes, and then spoke as follows. I have no knowledge of these people, although you have perhaps been informed of the circumstances which give me good cause to remember their name. As you have probably heard some account of these, I may as well tell you the true version. Two or three years ago I was arrested in the village of Kulahak, which, as you know, serves the English residents for a summer retreat, by an officer in command of a party of soldiers sent to see another person suspected of being a ball bee. They had been unable to find him, and were returning disappointed from their quest when they aspired me. Seize him, said the officer, that he is devoted to philosophy everyone knows, and a philosopher is not far removed from a ball bee. Accordingly I was arrested, and the books I was carrying, as well as the sum of money which I had on me, were taken from me by the officer in command. I was brought before the Naibush Sultana, and accused of being a ball bee. Many learned and pious men, including several mullers, hearing of my arrest and knowing the utter falsity of the charge, appeared spontaneously to give evidence in my favour, and I was eventually released. But the money and the books taken from me I never recovered, and then the shame of it, the shame of it. But though, as you see, I have suffered much by reason of these people, of whom you spoke just now, I have never met with them, or had any dealings with them, save on one occasion. I was once returning from Sub-Sawar, through Mazandalan, and at each of the more important towns on my way, I halted for a few days to visit those interested in philosophy. Many of them were very anxious to learn about the doctrines of my master, Hajimullah Hadi, and I was, as a rule, well received and kindly entertained. One day, it was at Sali, I was surrounded by a number of students who had come to question me on the views of my master, when a man present produced a book from which he read some extracts. This book, he said, was called Haqqikati Basita, and as this was a term used by Hajimullah Hadi, I thought it bore some reference to the philosophy I was expounding. I accordingly stretched out my hand to take the book, but the man drew it back out of my reach. Though I was displeased at his behaviour, I endeavoured to conceal my annoyance, and allowed him to continue to read. Presently he came to the turn Maratibi Ahadiyat, degrees of the primal unity. Here I interrupted him. I do not know who the author of the work you hold in your hand may be, I said, but it is clear to me that he does not understand what he is talking about, to speak of the degrees of primal unity, which is pure and undifferentiated being, is sheer nonsense. Some discussion ensued, and eventually I was permitted to look at the book. Then I saw that it was very beautifully written, and adorned with gold, and it flashed upon me that what I held in my hand was one of the sacred books of the Baubis, and that those amongst whom I stood belonged to this redoubtable sect. That is the only time I ever came across them, and that is all that I know about them. And that was all, or nearly all, that I knew about them for the first four months I spent in Persia. How I came across them at last will be set forth in another chapter. End of Section 14, Section 15 of A Year Amongst the Persians by Edward Grandville 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 Grandville Brown Chapter 7 Part 1 From Tehran to Isfahan Christian, but what have you seen? said Christian. Men, seen, why the valley itself, which is as dark as pitch. We also saw there the hobgoblin satires and dragons of the pit. We heard also in that valley a continual howling and yelling, as of a people under unutterable misery, who there sat bound in affliction and irons. And over that valley hang the discouraging clouds of confusion. Death also doth always spread his wings over it. In a word it is every wit dreadful, being utterly without order. Bunions pilgrims progress. Although owing to the kindness of my friends, life in the capital was pleasant enough to make me in no hurry to leave it. Nevertheless, the praises of beautiful Shiraz and the descriptions of venerable Persepolis, which I so often heard, were not without their effect. I began to grow restless, and to suffer a kind of dread, lest, if I tarried much longer, some unforeseen event might occur to cut short my travels, and to prevent me from reaching what was really the goal of my journey. After all, Persepolis is really Persia, and Shiraz is the capital thereof. To visit Persia and not to reach Fars is only a degree better than staying at home. Therefore, when one morning the Nawab came into my room to inform me that he had received instructions to proceed to Mushhad in the course of a week or two, and asked me what I would do, I replied without hesitation that I would start for the south. As he expected to leave Tehran about 10th February, I determined to arrange my departure for the 7th, which, being my birthday, seemed to me an auspicious day for resuming my travels. Ali the Turk, having gone south with H., I was for a time left without a servant. Soon after I had become the guest of the Nawab, however, he advised me to obtain one and promised to help me in finding someone who would suit me. I was anxious to have a genuine Persian of the south this time, and finally succeeded in engaging a man who appeared in every respect to satisfy my requirements. He was a fine-looking young fellow of rather distinguished appearance and a native of Shiraz. He made no boast of any special accomplishments, and was satisfied to receive the very moderate sum of three tumans a month while in Tehran, where he had a house and a wife. He proved, however, to be an excellent cook and an admirable servant in every respect, though inclined at times to manifest the spirit of independence. Haji Safar, for that was his name, received the announcement that I should start for the south in a few days with evident satisfaction. A Persian servant has everything to gain when his master undertakes a journey. In the first place his wages are raised fifty percent to supply him with money for his expenses on the road, jireh. In the second place he receives, before starting, an additional sum of money, generally equivalent to a month's wages, to provide himself with requisites for the road. This allowance being known as puli cekme va shalwar, boots and britches money. In the third place he has more chance of making himself indispensable to his master, and so obtaining increased wages. Last of all there is probably hardly a person to be found who does not enjoy traveling for its own sake, though in this particular case the charm of novelty was lacking, for Haji Safar had visited not only Mecca and Karbala, but nearly all the more important towns in Persia as well. Four or five days before the date fixed for my departure he brought me a formidable list of necessaries for the road, cooking pots with all the appliances for making pilau, saddlebags, sponges, cloths, towels, whips, cups, glasses, spits, brooms, tongs, and a host of other articles, many of which seem to me unnecessary, besides quantities of rice, onions, potatoes, tea, sugar, candles, matches, honey, cheese, charcoal, butter and other groceries. I struck out a few of what I regarded as the most useless articles, for it appeared to me that with such stores we might be going to Kheba, whereas we should actually arrive at the considerable town of Qum three or four days after leaving Tehran. On the whole, however, I let him have his own way, in consequence of which I enjoyed a degree of comfort in my future journeyings hitherto quite unknown to me whilst the addition to my expenses was comparatively slight. Then began the period of activity and bustle which inevitably precedes a journey, even on the smallest scale in the East. Every day I was down in the bazaars with haji safar, buying cooking utensils, choosing tomatoes, and examining the merits of saddlebags, till I was perfectly weary of the bargaining, the delays, and the endless scrutiny of goods which had to be gone through before the outfit was complete. Indeed, at last I nearly despaired of being ready in time to start on the appointed day, and resigned the management into haji safar's hands almost entirely, only requesting him not to invest in any perfectly useless chattels or provisions. Another, and a yet more important matter, still remained, to wit the discovery of a mullet tier possessed of a small number of reasonably good animals, prepared to start on the day I had fixed and willing to make the stages as I wished. This matter I regarded as too important to be arranged by deputy, for, when one is travelling by oneself, the pleasantness of the journey greatly depends on having a cheerful, communicative, and good-natured mullet tier. Such and one will be garl away with an endless series of anecdotes, will communicate to the traveller the weird folklore of the desert, will point out a hundred objects of interest which would otherwise be passed unnoticed, and will manage to arrange the stages so as to enable him to see to the best advantage anything worth seeing. A cross-grained, surly fellow, on the other hand, will cast a continual gloom over the caravan, and will throw difficulties in the way of every deviation from the accustomed routine. Here I must speak a few words in favour of the much-maligned Charvadar. As far as my experience goes, he is, as a rule, one of the best fellows living, during the period which elapses between the conclusion of the agreement and the actual start. He is indeed troublesome and vexatious beyond measure. He will invent endless excuses for making extra charges. He will put forward a dozen reasons against starting on the proposed day, or following the proposed route, or halting at the places where one desires to halt. On the day of departure he will rouse one at a preternaturally early hour, alleging that the stage is a long one, that it is eight good far-sucks at least, that it is dangerous to be on the road after dark, and the like. Then, just as you are nearly ready, he will disappear to procure some hitherto forgotten necessary for the journey, or to save farewell to his wife, or to fetch one of those scraps of sacking or ropes, which supply him with an unfailing excuse for absenting himself. Finally, you will not get off till the sun is well past the meridian, and may think yourself fortunate if you accomplish a stage of ten miles. But, when once he is fairly started, he becomes a different man. With the dust of the city he shakes off the exasperating manner, which has hitherto made him so objectionable. He sniffs the pure, exhilarating air of the desert. He strides forward manfully on the broad, interminable road, which is indeed for the most part but the track worn by countless generations of travellers. He beguiles the tediousness of the march with songs and stories, interrupted by occasional shouts of encouragement or warning to his animals. His life is a hard one, and he has to put up with many disagreeables, so that he might be pardoned even if he lost his temper oftener than he usually does. For some time my efforts to discover a suitable mulitia were fruitless. I needed only three animals, and I did not wish to attach myself to a large caravan, for seeing that it would lead to difficulties in case I desired to halt on the way, or deviate from the regular track. A very satisfactory arrangement concluded with two young natives of Qum, who had exactly the number of animals I required, was broken off by their father, who wished to make me hire his beasts by the day, instead of for the whole distance to Isfahan. To this I refused to agree, fearing that he might protract the journey unduly, and the contract was therefore annulled. At length, however, two days before I had intended to start, a mulitia, who appeared in every way suitable, presented himself. He was a native of the hamlet of Gez, near Isfahan, Rahim by name, a clumsy-looking, weather-beaten young man, the excessive plainness of whose broad, smooth face was redeemed by an almost perpetual smile. The bargain was concluded in a few minutes. He engaged to provide me with three good animals, to convey me to Isfahan in twelve or thirteen days, and to allow me a halt of one day each at Qum and Qashan, for the sum of ten tumans, nearly three pounds. All was now ready for the journey, and there only remained the always somewhat depressing business of leave-taking, which fully occupied my last hours in Tehran. Finally the day of departure came, but, as indeed invariably happens, endless delays arose, before I actually got off, so that it was determined that we should that day proceed no farther than Shah Abdul Aziz, situated some five or six miles to the south of the metropolis, whence we could make a fair start on the morrow. One of my friends, a nephew of my kind host, the Nawab, announced his intention of accompanying me thus far. This ceremony of setting the traveller on his way is called Badraka, while the converse, that of going out to meet one arriving from a journey, is called Istikbal. Of these two the former is more an act of friendship and less a formality than the latter. Persian servants, having often been described as the most sordid and rapacious of mankind, I feel that, as a mere act of justice, I must not omit to mention the disinterested and generous conduct exhibited by those of the Nawab's household. The system of tips, being extremely prevalent in Persia, and conducted generally on a larger scale than in Europe, I had, of course, prepared a sum of money to distribute amongst the retainers of my host. Seizing a favourable opportunity, I entered the room where they were assembled, and offered the present to the major domo, Muhammad Rizachan. To my surprise, he refused it unhesitatingly, without so much as looking at it. When I remonstrated, thinking that he only needed a little persuasion, he replied, The master told us, when you came here, that you were to be treated in every way as one of the family. We should not expect or desire a present from one of the family, therefore we do not expect or desire it from you. You have been welcome, and we are glad to have done what we could to make you comfortable, but we desire nothing from you unless it be kindly remembrance. In this declaration he persisted, and the others spoke to the same effect. Finally I was compelled to accept their refusal as definite, and left them with the sense of admiration at their immovable determination to observe to the full their master's wishes. At length all was ready. The baggage-mules had started, the last cup of tea had been drunk, and the last kalyan smoked, and the horses stood waiting at the gate, while Haji Safar, armed with a most formidable whip, and arrayed in a pair of enormous top boots, strutted about the courtyard, looking eminently business-like, and evidently in the best of spirits. As I was just about to take my last farewells, I observed the servants engaged in making preparations of which the object was to me totally mysterious and inexplicable. A large metal tray was brought, on which were placed the following incongruous objects, a mirror, a bowl of water, with some Narcissi floating in it, a plate of flour, and a dish of sweet-meats of the kind called Shakar Panir, sugar cheese. A copy of the kur'an was next produced, and I was instructed to kiss it first, and then to dip my hand in the water and the flour, to rub it over the face of the old servant who had brought the tray, pass under the kur'an, which was held aloft for that purpose, and mount my horse without once turning or looking back. All these instructions I faithfully observed amidst general mirth, and as I mounted amidst many good wishes for my journey, I heard the splash of the water as it was thrown after me. What the origin of this curious ceremony may be, I do not know, neither did I see it practised on any other occasion. Our progress not being hampered by the presence of the baggage, we advanced rapidly, and before 4pm rode through the gate of the city of refuge, Shah Abdul Azim. I have already stated that the holy shrine for which this place is famous protects all outlaws who succeed in reaching its vicinity. In a word, the whole town is what is called bust, sanctuary. There are, however, different degrees of bust, the area of protection being smaller and more circumscribed, in proportion as the crime of the refugee is greater. Murderers, for instance, cannot go outside the courtyard of the mosque without running the risk of being arrested. Debtors, on the other hand, are safe anywhere within the walls. It may be imagined that the populace of such a place is scarcely the most respectable, and of their churlishness I had convincing proof. I was naturally anxious to get a glimpse of the mosque, the great golden dome of which forms so conspicuous an object, to the eyes of the traveller approaching Tehran from the west, and accordingly, as soon as we had secured our horses in the caravan Sarai for the rest of the caravan had not yet arrived, I suggested to my companion that we should direct our steps dither. Of course, I had no intention of attempting to enter it, which I knew would not be permitted, but I thought no objection would be made to my viewing it from the outside. However, we had hardly reached the entrance of the bazaar when we were stopped and turned back. Discouraged but not despairing, we succeeded in making our way by a devious and unfrequented route to the very gate of the mosque. I had, however, hardly begun to admire it, when forth from some hidden recess came two most ill-looking custodians who approached us in a threatening manner, bidding us be gone. My companion remonstrated with these churlish fellows, saying that as far as he was concerned, he was a good musselman, and had as much right in the mosque as they had. No good musselman would bring a filangi infidel to gaze upon the sacred building, though replied, where regard you as no wick better than him. Hence, be gone! As there was nothing to be gained by stopping, and indeed a fair prospect of being roughly handled if we remain to argue the matter, we prudently withdrew. I was much mortified at this occurrence, not only on my own account, but also because the good nature of my companion had exposed him likewise to insult. I feel bound to state, however, that this was almost the only occasion on which I met with discurtersy of this sort during the whole time I spent in Persia. On returning to the caravan Sarai, we found that Hadji Safar and the Mula Tears had arrived, the former being accompanied by a relative who had come to see him so far on his journey, and at the same time to accomplish a visit to the shrine, from the precincts of which we had just been so ignominiously expelled. As it was now getting late, and as most of the gates of Tehran are closed soon after sunset, my friend bade me farewell, and canted off homewards, leaving me with a sense of loneliness which I had not experienced for some time. The excitement of feeling that I was once more on the road, with my face fairly turned towards the glorious south, soon, however, came to my relief, and indeed I had enough to occupy me in attempting to introduce some order into my utterly confused accounts. Before long Hadji Safar, who had been busy ever since his arrival, with culinary operations, brought in a supper which all could well for the comfort of the journey so far as food was concerned. I had finished supper, and was ruminating over tea and tobacco, when he re-entered, accompanied by his relative, who solemnly placed his hand in mine and swore allegiance to me, not only on his behalf, but for the whole family, assuring me in a long and eloquent harangue that he, the speaker, would answer for Hadji Safar's loyalty and devotion, and asking me in return to treat him kindly, and not make his heart narrow. Having received my assurances that I would do my best to make things agreeable, they retired, and I forthwith betook myself to rest in preparation for the early start which we proposed to make on the morrow. Next day we were a stir early, for there was no temptation to linger in a spot from the inhabitants of which I had met with nothing but insubility, and, moreover, I was anxious to form a better idea of the mula-tears, who were to be my companions for the next fortnight. However, I saw but little of them that day, as they lagged behind soon after starting, and passed me while I was having lunch. The road, except for several large parties of travellers whom we met, presented few points of interest. Nevertheless, a curious history is attached to it, which, as it forms a significant commentary on what one may call the board of public works in Persia, I hear reproduce. On leaving Charte Abdulazim, the road runs for a mile or so, as straight as a narrow towards the south. A little before it reaches a range of low hills, which lie at right angles to its course, it bifurcates. One division goes straight on, and crosses the hills above mentioned, to the caravanserai of Kinali-Gird. The other bends sharply to the west for about three-quarters of a mile, thus turning the edge of the hills, and then resumes its southward course. Of these two roads, the first is the good old direct caravan route, described by Vamberi, which leads to Qom by way of Kinali-Gird, Hausis-Sultan and Puli-Dallak. The second is the new improved road, made some years ago, by order of the Aminus-Sultan, the history of which is as follows. When the rage for superseding the venerable and commodious caravanserai by the new fangled and extortionate mihman khani was at its height, and when the road between Tehran and Kazvin had been adorned with a sufficient number of these evidences of civilisation, the attention of the Aminus-Sultan and other philanthropists was turned to the deplorable and unregenerate state of the Great Southern Road. It was decided that, at least so far as Qom, its defects should be remedied forthwith, and that the caravanserai of Kinali-Gird, Hausis-Sultan and Puli-Dallak, which had for generations afforded shelter to the traveller, should be replaced by something more in accordance with modern Europeanised taste. Negotiations were accordingly opened by the Aminus-Sultan, with the owners of the caravanserai in question, with a view to effecting a purchase of the land and goodwill. Judge of the feelings of this enlightened and patriotic statesman, when the owner of the caravanserai at Hausis-Sultan refused, yes, positively refused, to sell his heritage. Perhaps he was an old-fashioned individual, with a distaste for innovations. Perhaps he merely thought that his caravanserai brought him in a better income than he was likely to get even by a judicious investment of the money now offered for it. Be this as it may, he simply declined the offer made to him by the Aminus-Sultan, and said that he preferred to retain in his own possession the property he had inherited from his father. What was to be done? Clearly it was intolerable that the march of civilisation should be checked by this benighted old conservative. In the rough days of yore it might have been possible to behead or poison him, or at least to confiscate his property, but such an idea could not for a moment be seriously entertained by a humane and enlightened minister of the fourteenth century of the hijra. No, annoying and troublesome as it was, there was nothing for it but to leave the old road in status quo and make a new one. This was accordingly done at considerable expense, the new road being carried in a bold curve to the west, and garnished at suitable intervals with fancifully constructed mihman khanes situated amidst little groves of trees, supplied with runnels of sweet pure water from the hills, and furnished with tables, chairs and beds in unstinted profusion. But alas for the obstinacy of the majority of men and their deplorable disinclination to be turned aside from their ancient habits! The mule of tears for the most part declined to make use of the new road and continued to follow their accustomed course, alleging as their reason for so doing, that it was a good many façades shorter than the other, and that they preferred the caravanser eyes to the new mihman khanes, which were not only in no wise better adapted to their requirements than the old halting places, but were very much more expensive. Briefly they objected to go farther and fare worse. There seemed to be every prospect of the new road being a complete failure, and of the benevolent intentions of the Aminus Sultana being totally frustrated by this unlooked-for lack of appreciation on the part of the traveling public, when suddenly the mind of the perplexed philanthropist was illuminated by a brilliant idea. Though it would not be quite constitutional to forcibly overthrow the caravanser eyes on the old road, it was evidently within the rights of a paternal government to utilise the resources of nature as a means of compelling the refractory sons of the road to do what was best for them. Luckily these means were not far to seek. Near the old road, between Houses Sultana and Pulid Danluk, ran a river, and this river was prevented from overflowing the low flat plain which it traversed, air losing itself in the sands of the Dashti Kavir. By dykes solidly constructed and carefully kept in repair. If these were removed there was every reason to hope that the old road would be flooded and rendered impracticable. The experiment was tried and succeeded perfectly. Not only the road, but an area of many square miles round about it, was completely and permanently submerged, and a fine lake, almost a sea, was added to the realms of the Shah. It is indeed useless for navigation, devoid of fish, so far as I could learn, and being impregnated with salt incapable of supporting vegetable life, but it is eminently picturesque with its vast blue surface glittering in the sun and throwing into bolder relief the white salt strewn expanse of the terrible desert beyond. It also constitutes a permanent monument of the triumph of science over obstinacy and prejudice. The Aminus Sultan might now fairly consider that his triumph was complete. Suddenly, however, a new difficulty arose. The management of the posts was in the hands of another minister called the Aminudawla, and he, like the muleteers, considered the charges which it was proposed to make for the use of the new, now the only, road excessive. As however, there appeared to be no course open to him but to submit to them, since the posts must be maintained and the old road was irrecoverably submerged, the Aminus Sultan determined to withstand all demands for a reduction. But the Aminudawla was also a minister of some ingenuity, and having the example of his colleague fresh in his mind, he determined not to be outdone. He therefore made yet another road which took a yet wider sweep towards the west, and, transferring the post houses to that, bad defiance to his rival. Thus it has come to pass that in place of the old straight road to Qum, there is now a caravan road longer by some fourteen miles, and a post road longer by nearly twenty miles. The last indeed, on leaving Tehran, follows the Hamadan road for about a stage and a half, diverging from it some distance to the south-west of Ribat Karim, the first post house, and curving back towards the east by way of Pikk and Kushki Bahram to join the Aminus Sultan's road near the Mi'hman Khani of Shashgir, about ten farsachs from Qum. On the second day after leaving Tehran, ninth of February, soon after quitting the Mi'hman Khani of Hassanabad, we entered the Dismal region, called by the Persians Malakulmau Dere, the valley of the Angel of Death. Around this spot cluster most thickly the weird tales of the desert to which I have already alluded. Indeed, its only rival in this sinister celebrity is Hassadere, Thousand Valleys, which lies just to the south of Isfahorn. Anxious to become further acquainted with the folklore of the country, I succeeded in engaging the mula-tea in conversation on this topic. The substance of what I learned was as follows. There are several species of supernatural monsters which haunt the gloomy defiles of the valley of the Angel of Death. Of these the Ghulz and Ifritz are alike the Communists and the most malignant. The former usually endeavour to entice the traveller away from the caravan to his destruction by assuming the form or voice of a friend or relative. Crying out pitiously for help and in treating the unwary traveller to come to their assistance they induce him to follow them to some lonely spot where, suddenly assuming the hideous form proper to them, they rend him in pieces and devour him. Another monster is the Nusnus, which appears in the form of an infirm and aged man. It is generally found sitting by the side of a river and bewailing its inability to cross. When it sees the Wayfarer approaching it earnestly entreats him to carry it across the water to the other side. If he consents it sits itself on his shoulders and when he reaches the middle of the river winds its long supple legs round his throat till he falls insensible in the water and perishes. Besides these there is the Pardis, footlicker, which only attacks those who are overtaken by sleep in the desert. It kills its victim, as its name implies, by licking the soles of his feet till it has drained away his lifeblood. It was on one occasion circumvented by two mulleteers of Isfahan, who, being benighted in the desert, lay down feet to feet covering their bodies with cloaks. Presently the Pardis arrived, and began to walk round the sleepers to discover their feet, but on either side it found a head. At last it gave up the search in despair, exclaiming as it made off. I have wandered through a thousand and thirty and three valleys, but never yet saw a two-headed man. Another superstition, not however connected with the desert, of which I heard a Tehran maybe mentioned in this connection, a form of cursing used by women to each other is alak bizhanad, may the owl strike thee. The belief concerning the owl is that it attacks women who have recently been confined, and tries to tear out and devour their livers. To avert this calamity various precautions are taken. Swords and other weapons are placed under the woman's pillow, and she is not allowed to sleep for several hours after the child is born, being watched over by her friends, and roused by cries of yam mad yam, oh Mary, whenever she appears to be dozing off. It is worthy of note that the owl, as well as its congeners, is supposed to have flaxen hair. The scenery through which we passed on leaving the Malakul Maltere was savage and sublime. All round were wild rugged hills, which assumed the strangest and most fantastic shapes, and desert sparsely sewn with camelthorn. As we reached the highest point of the road, rain began to fall sharply, and it was so cold that I was glad to muffle myself up in Ulster and Rug. Now for the first time the great salt lake made by the Aminus Sultan came in view. It is a vast extent, and the muleteers informed me that its greatest width was not less than six far-sachs, about twenty-two miles. Beyond it stretches the weird expanse of the Dastigavir, which extends hence even to the eastern frontier of Persia, a boundless waste of sand, here and there glimmering white within crustaceans of salt, and broken in places by chains of black, savage-looking mountains. The desolate grandeur of this landscape defies description and surpasses anything which I have ever seen. The Mifman Khane of Ali Abad, which we reached now or so before sunset, presents no features worthy of remark, except this, that in the room allotted to me I found three books, which proved, on examination, to be a copy of the Qur'an, a book of Arabic prayers, and a visitor's book. It was evident that here, at least, the prototype was afforded by the Bible and prayer book, which are usually to be found in every bedroom of an English hotel, and the visitor's book, which lies on the hall table. I examined this visitor's book with some curiosity. It was filled with long rhapsodies on the Aminus Sultan, penned by various travellers, all complementary, as I need hardly say, how enlightened and patriotic a minister, how kind of him to make this nice new road, and to provide it with these admirable guest-houses, which indeed might fairly be considered to rival, if not to excel, the best hotels of Fyrangistan. I could not forbear smiling as I read these effusions, which were so at variance with the views expressed in the most forcible language by the muleteers who had continued at intervals throughout the day to invade against the new road, the Mi'hman Khanis, and their owner alike. End of Section 15