CHAPTER XII.
24th May.—Shahrúd to Dih Mullah, sixteen miles. We set out at 5.30A.M., bidding adieu to Mr Bower of our party, who at the same time set out for Astrabaden routeto London with despatches. If fortunate in catching the steamer and trains, he hopes to reach his destination in twenty days,viâAstrakhan, Czaretzin, Berlin, &c. Were but Afghanistan an open country, Indian officers proceeding on furlough might with advantage take this route homewards. But as it is not an open country, and there is little use in speculating when it will become so, its peoples and mountains and deserts may yet for another generation maintain their isolation from the civilised world, and remain a country of interest to the politician, and a region of curiosity to the scientific man.
Our route led S.S.W., along a stony hill skirt by a well-beaten track, following a line of telegraph posts, a promising emblem of Western civilisation in this yet semi-barbarous land. The hills on our right belong to the Alburz range, that separates the Caspian basin from the tableland of Persia. The northern slopes are described as clothed with dark forests, the southern, however, are precipitous, and mostly bare, a few juniper-trees only dotting the rocks here and there, as little black specks on their rugged sides. The range is said to abound in wild goat and sheep, and the stag orgáwaz, calledbárásingháin India. The leopard and bear are alsofound on it, and on its eastern spurs a small species of lion, but not the tiger.
To the left of our route the land slopes down to a water-worn ridge of red clay. It separates the Shahrúd valley from the salt desert to the south. A range of hills rises out of the desert far away to the south. One of our escort called the range Jandak, and pointed out a prominent peak as Ahwand. Jandak is twentyfarsakhsfrom this, and contains ten or twelve villages on the edge of the desert, where palm-trees grow in plenty, as my informant said. He was a very communicative man, and after volunteering scraps of information regarding the country we were traversing, took an early opportunity to enlarge on his own grievances.
“The present thesardár” (chief), pointing to Sir F. Goldsmid, “gave us sowars andsarbáz, has been taken from us by the governor,” he said. “We have been so many days out,” he added, “our horses are exhausted, and we are famished. Nobody cares for us, and the villagers have nothing we can take from them.” “It is hard,” I said, “but it is the custom of your country.” “Yes, it is the custom of the country,” was the ready reply, “and that is why our country is ruined.” “With the aid of the famine,” I add. “The famine! no that is a decree from God, and we must submit. No one can fight against what God ordains. But our governor is a very hard master. He is deeply in debt, and screws his subjects to pacify his creditors. Not apul-i-siyáh(a copper coin) escapes his grasp; and there are many like him.Irán tabáh shud—Persia is ruined.Khyle, khyle sakht ast—it is very hard.”
And so it is really. We found the Afghan troops in every respect better off than those of Persia. They are physically finer men, are better clad, better armed, andbetter provided with shelter, carriage, and provisions, though there is room for improvement on all points.
At Dih Mullah we were accommodated in a double-storied summer-house, in an ornamental garden adjoining the village. Its shelter, such as it was, with doors and windows opening in every direction, was hardly so efficient as that afforded by our tents against the chill gusts of wind sweeping down from the hills to the north. The situation, however, afforded us a wide prospect of the country, which, from its nature, hardly compensated for the discomfort. To the south was an unlimited view of a vast salt desert, as unvaried as the horizon-girt ocean. To the north rose a barrier of bare rocks, tipped here and there by snow, and dotted above by black spots, like one with a mild attack of small-pox; and on either side lay a long gravelly valley, with a string of villages and gardens running down its central course.
This evening, having reserved a small supply of wine for the occasion, we observed the Queen’s anniversary, and at dinner raised our glasses “To the Queen—God bless her!”
25th May.—Dih Mullah to Damghán, twenty-six miles. We set out at 3.30A.M., by the light of a full moon—route south-west along the valley, passing a succession of villages with their gardens and corn-fields. The gardens are luxuriant in their foliage, but the corn crops are thin and backward. Nobody is seen moving about; the villages are half empty, and a painful silence reigns over a scene outwardly so prosperous. At about half-way we passed the large village of Mihmándost, near which are the ruins of the ancient city of Damghán, the scene of the grand battle between Nadír and Mír Ashraf, Ghilzai, in which the latter received the first of those crushing defeats that soon after led to his flightfrom the country, and ignominious death at the hands of some petty Baloch robbers in Sistan, and the expulsion of the Afghan invaders from the Persian soil in 1730. The ruins present nothing worthy of attraction, and but for the decayed domes and small mounds that rise amongst the low broken walls, might be easily passed without notice.
Damghán is a decayed little town, full of ruins ancient and recent, though buried in the midst of most prosperous-looking gardens. It has suffered frightfully in the famine, its population having fallen, it is said, from a thousand to two hundred families. There is a telegraph office here, and a very fairsarae. Our next stage was to Khoshá Sarae, twenty-three miles—route south-west, over a plain country skirting a hill range to our right, and passing twenty-five or thirty villagesen route; morning air cold and bracing. Khoshá is simply asaraeon an uncultivated gravelly plain at the entrance to a pass in the hills dividing Damghán from Samnán. No supplies are procurable here, and but a limited supply of water.
Our next stage was twenty-four miles to Ahuán Sarae, or thesaraeof gazelle deer—route south-west, gradually rising over an undulating pasture country between broken hills. The soil is hard and gravelly, and the surface is everywhere covered with a thick growth of saltwort, wild rue, &c., and theghích, on which we found a number of camels at graze; but we found no habitation or water on all the route. The weather was very changeable. The morning air was sharp and chill, and during the day sunshine and cloud succeeded each other, producing quite a wintry state of atmosphere at this altitude, Ahuán being 6500 feet above the sea, 2240 feet above Khoshá, and 2820 feet above Damghán. Owingto the wind, the air here felt much colder than the thermometer said it was; and for about the twentieth time on our march we found ourselves retrograding back into winter instead of advancing into summer. These sudden changes of climate and temperature are characteristic of travelling in Persia. One passes up and down from the hot dry atmosphere of the desert-bordered plains, to the chill damp air of the cloud-attracting hills and their elevated tablelands, with such rapidity that it is always necessary to be provided with warm clothing as a protection against the ill effects of these sudden alternations of temperature, and particularly against the cold winds that blow. The Persian overcoat, with its close folds gathered in across the back, is a well-suited garment for the protection of the loins, and no doubt its adoption as a national costume is the result of its proved efficacy or adaptability to the requirements of the climate.
Ahuán is merely a roadsidesaraewith a supply of water. There is no village or cultivation here, nor are supplies procurable. There is a tradition connected with the name of this place. It is to the effect that the Imám Razá once halted here on his march to Mashhad. Some huntsman in the neighbourhood brought in a deer he had ridden down in the chase for presentation to the saint On seeing the Imám, the deer appealed to his justice, and begged to be released, on the plea of having a young one dependent on herself for support, promising, so soon as the fawn grew up, to return and surrender herself to her captor. The Imám at once directed the release of the deer, and himself stood surety for her return at the appointed time. The deer, however, did not return at the end of a year, and the fact being reported to the Imám, he at once caused a deer to seek out the huntsman, and surrender herself to him in his name. From this time the deer inthese hills have been held sacred, and are not hunted, and are in consequence very numerous here.
28th May.—Ahuán to Samnán, twenty-four miles, and halt a day—route S.S.W. through a hilly tract on to the plain of Samnán. At two miles we crossed a watershed running north and south, at an elevation of 6750 feet above the sea. It marks the boundary between Damghán and Samnán. This wide tract of hills forms a barrier between the plain valleys of Damghán and Samnán. It extends from east to west about thirty miles, and rises 2500 feet above the general level of the plains on either side. Its hills are an emanation southwards from the Alburz range, and join a parallel range on the borders of the salt desert, to the south. Its higher ridges are perfectly bare, but the lower are richly clothed with excellent pasture bushes and herbs, saltwort, wormwood, wild rue,ghích, &c. We left this hill tract by a very narrow ravine, between banks of conglomerate and ridges of friable slate, and descended a long stony slope on to the plain of Samnán, and crossing its bare, parched, stony desert surface, camped at akárezstream under the shade of some mulberry-trees to the north of the town. The plain wears a desolate uninviting look, and is suggestive of unpleasant heat in summer.
On approaching the town, we were met by anisticbálparty of six or seven horsemen, with a couple of led horses, and a rickety little carriage drawn by a pair of very unkempt ponies. And on our arrival in camp, the governor sent us some trays of sweetmeats and many polite messages. There is a telegraph office here, but owing to a break in the line ahead, we were unable to communicate with Tehran. Though we are now only six stages from the capital, we have received no later intelligence than the 29th April, received on the 16th instant.
Our next stage was twenty-two miles to Lásjird, where we camped on stubble-fields, near some ruined huts opposite the town—route westerly, over a plain undulating and gently rising to the westward, where it is narrowed by hills. At this place we received a post two days out from Tehran, with letters dated London, 8th May. Weather close and sultry, ending at sunset with a dust-storm, and slight rain from the north-west A disagreeably high wind blew in squally gusts all night.
Lásjird is a very remarkable little collection of dwellings on the summit of an artificial mound with scarped sides. They are ranged in two stories, in the form of a quadrangle, which at the south-east angle is open, and presents a glimpse of the interior space. The chambers open on to a balcony, that runs on both sides of each face of the quadrangle, as shown in this diagrammatic sketch, which will convey some idea of the general appearance of the place.
The sides of the mound are streaked with open drains,that carry off all the sewage from the interior, and must render the places above a very unwholesome and disagreeable habitation. The place seemed pretty crowded, and numbers of its inhabitants looked down upon us from the balconies running in front of their chambers. The community thus crowded together must, judging from our single night’s experience, lead a life of constant wrangling and quarrelling. The voices of querulous old women and obstreperous children, and the rebukes of angry husbands, kept us awake all night, with not the best of wishes bestowed upon the Lásjirdis. This place looks unique of its kind, but I am told that Yazdikhast is built on a similar plan.
Our next stage was twenty-five miles to Dih Namak. Set out from Lásjird at 1.30A.M., and crossing three or four deep ravines by masonry bridges, passed on to a stony desert hill skirt that falls quickly to the southward, where it merges into the salt desert, which glistens in the morning sunlight as white as snow. At half-way we passed a deserted village and ruinedsarae, but on all the route saw no cultivation or habitation.
The country is very uninteresting, and no incident occurred to enliven the march or occupy our thoughts, and hence I suppose the unwonted attention devoted to the peculiarities of our own surroundings. We were marching in the usual order of procession—that is to say, the Mirakhor Jáfar Beg, in his handsome Kashmir-shawl-pattern coat, led the way, with a couple of mounted grooms, each leading ayadak, or handsomely caparisoned horse, by which, according to the custom of the country, all men of rank are preceded when they take the saddle. Next came ourselves, and behind us followed our personal servants, the Mirzá, and the escort. The last had now dwindled down to only half-a-dozen horsemen. Our heavybaggage with the camels generally went ahead overnight, and the mules with our light tents, &c., followed in rear of our procession.
The Mirakhor, always serious in look, yet strictly deferential in his bearing, was always ready with a reply to any and every query, and, as may be conjectured, with no possible reliance on any of them. “Mirakhor!” “Bale” (“Yes”). “The village of Sarkhrúd lies on our route to-day. How far may it be from this?” “Yes, I know the place. You see that hill ahead? Well it is just afarsakhbeyond.” We move on, prepared for another eight miles before we alight for breakfast; but on cresting a low marly ridge ahead, a village buried in gardens lies below us. “What village is this, Mirakhor?” “This is Sarkhrúd. Will you breakfast here?” “Why, you said it was afarsakhbeyond that hill.” Without moving a muscle, or evincing a trace of discomposure, he merely replies, “This side the hill. This is Sarkhrúd. Will you alight for breakfast here?”
The way this man ate his own words was surprising, but the way, under a quiet undemonstrative demeanour, he gathered in hismudákhil, was more so; for, not content with charging double rates all round, he charged for larger quantities than were actually supplied. By the merest accident I gained an insight into the system of corruption carried on under the specious rights ofmudákhil, for the extent of which I was not at all prepared. Our Afghan companions kept their expenditure accounts distinct from ours, and it was from what I heard from them regarding our Mirakhor’s desire to cater for them too, that I first got an inkling of the liberality of his views in the matter of perquisites, and his anxiety to prevent the extent of them becoming known, by an attempt to get the whole management into his own hands.Rogues sometimes fall out amongst themselves, and so it happened one day that a quarrel amongst our stable establishment threatened a disclosure of their dishonest dealings. The Mirakhor, however, was master of the situation, and the contumacious groom who demanded a larger share of the spoil than his chief chose to give him was summarily dismissed, and turned adrift on the line of march, on the accusation of selling for his own profit grain given to him for the feed of the horses under his charge. “Clever man!” whispered the observers, as their respect for the Mirakhor’ssavoir faireincreased with his success. “He deserves to prosper. You see he has got the upper hand of his enemy. Any complaint he may hereafter prefer against the Mirakhor will be declared malicious. Was he not deprived of his post and turned adrift for a fault exposed by him?”
The discharged groom followed our party for several hundred miles, up to the capital, and, what was more surprising, came out, in his disgrace and downfall, in a new suit of broadcloth and silks, in place of the discarded attire of his late mean occupation, and certainly looked, so far as outward appearances go, the most respectable of our servants. The Mirakhor after thiscoupaffected a character for honesty, and was more punctual than ever in the observance of his religious duties. As the sun lit up the horizon, he, and he alone, would move off the road, dismount, and, facing theCablá, perform his morning prayers, and then galloping up, resume his position at the head of our party, with self-satisfied pride in his singular devotion.
Dih Namak is a wretched collection of huts round a dilapidated fort on the edge of the desert. Close by is a substantial and commodioussarae. Our camp was at first pitched on the plain to its west, but the wind blewwith such force from the west, and raised such clouds of dust, that we were obliged to strike the tents and take refuge in thesarae—a move of very doubtful advantage; for though we escaped the violence of the wind, we were almost stifled by the whirling eddies of stable dust and litter, and tormented by myriads of the voracious little insects bred in its deep layers.
1st June.—We set out from Dih Namak at 1.30A.M., and marched twenty-four miles to Kishlác, facing a high north-west wind, sensibly warm even at this early hour, nearly the whole way. Our route was westerly, skirting the Ferozkoh range of hills to our right, and having a bare desert away to the left. The country is generally flat, dotted by a succession of villages, and crossed by numerous branches of the Hubla rivulet, which drains to the desert, and irrigates on its way a wide surface of corn land.
At eight miles we came to the Padih village, and leaving a cluster of four or five others on the right and left of the road, at two miles farther came to Arazan, where there is a telegraph-office. Arazan is the chief town of the Khárbulúkof the Veramín district, and is one of the granaries of Tehran, and consequently by no means the “very mean” country, one of our party facetiously styled it.
At nine miles from Arazan, crossingen routeten or twelve little streams formed by the outspread of the Hubla river over the surface, we arrived at Kishlác, and took refuge in its littlesaraefrom the wind, which blew with such force that we could not pitch our tents.
Our next stage was twenty-one miles to Aywáni Kyf—the “portals of delight” to the traveller approaching the capital from the west—route W.N.W., across a wide piece of cultivation, and then over a gravelly pasture tract to the Sardárra defile. This is a winding paththrough low clay hills, said to contain rock-salt. Through the defile flows a small stream, the sides of which are encrusted with salines. These hills emanate from Ferozkoh, and stretching on to the plain in a south-west direction, separate Khár from Veramín. Beyond the defile we went north-west over a wide pasture tract sloping up to the hills, and camped on rising ground above the village. Aywáni Kyf is a considerable place, surrounded by fruit gardens, and protected by a neat fort, all situated on the right bank of a stony ravine that issues from the hills to the north, amongst which rises aloft the snowy cone of Damavand, a prominent object in the landscape as one approaches from the defile.
We halted here a day, and received letters from Tehran in reply to some sent off from our camp at Shahrúd. Persia has a telegraph line, but she has no post. The delays and inconveniences resulting from the absence of this established institution of civilised countries must be experienced to be appreciated. To us, accustomed as we had been to the daily receipt of intelligence from our friends, the hardship was difficult to endure.
At this place we found the midday sun shone with considerable force, though cool breezes from the hills to the north tempered the air. The summer sun in Persia is too hot to admit of travelling during the day, and consequently our marches latterly have commenced an hour or two after midnight, an arrangement that admitted of our reaching camp before the cattle could suffer from the heat, which, however, is nothing in comparison with that of India. We had no cause to complain on this score, and even where it was hot, always enjoyed the luxury of ice, of which the Persians are very fond, and which they use freely. Every village almost has itsyakhchál, or ice-pits, stocked from the winter snows. Theluxury is sold at a very cheap rate, and is at the command of all classes.
From this place we marched twenty-seven miles to Khátúnabad, where we found shelter in thesarae, a filthy place, swarming with vermin, and reeking with offensive odours, and crowded with famished beggars, who sifted the horse litter for the undigested grains of barley it contained, and rummaged the ground for bones and fragments left by more fortunate travellers. Our route was W.N.W. over the Veramín plain, by a good road skirting a hill range to our right, and in sight of the magnificent peak of Damavand.
At about ten miles we came to a bifurcation of the road. That to the right follows the hill skirt direct to Tehran. We followed the branch to the left, and crossing the Jájrúd (jâjárúd= river everywhere?), which here spreads over the surface in a number of little streams that water several villages on either side our route, went down a gentle slope to Khátúnabad.
5th June.—Khátúnabad to Gulahak, eighteen miles. We set out at oneA.M., across the plain towards the Sherabánú hill, skirting the foot of which we arrived at Takiabad at 4.30A.M., and alighted at a garden belonging to Prince Ahmad. It is a delightful spot, with a comfortable house looking down an avenue of plane-trees, that flank a long vista of flowering plants. On each side are vineyards and fruit trees, in the shady foliage of which are hundreds of nightingales, strong in song. The morning air here was so chill that we were glad to warm ourselves at a blazing fire raised to cook us some coffee.
Beyond this we passed through the ruins of Re, or Rhages, in the midst of which stands the town of Abdul Azím, with its rich gardens overtopped by the dome ofits shrine; and then turning north, went over a rising plain towards Tehran, of which we now first got a view, its domes, minars, and palaces appearing high above the dead wall of its fortifications. The appearance of the city is not so fine as I had expected, but the general view of the landscape, backed as it is by the snowy range of Alburz, with Damavand’s fleecy peak standing sentry over it, is very fine; whilst the bright gardens and happy villages nestling in the inequalities of the slope at the foot of the range add a charm to the scene delightfully in contrast with the bare plain that cuts the horizon to the southward.
We entered the city at the Abdul Azím gate, and passed through its bazárs round by the king’s palace, to the new buildings of the British Legation, which appear to be the finest in the whole place. Beyond this we left the city by a gateway in the new line of fortifications (like that of Abdul Azím, it is decorated with gaudily-painted tiles of inferior quality), and followed a carriage-road to Gulahak, the summer residence of the members of the British Legation. Here we were conducted by our servants to some unoccupied bungalows, and alighting, found leisure to reflect on the marked difference in the forms of social sentiment that animate Englishmen in India and Persia. Here, after a march of upwards of two thousand miles, through barbarous countries and dangerous regions, a small party of British officers arrived in the midst of a little community of their countrymen, without so much as drawing one of them from their doors for a welcome or greeting.
Gulahak is one of several picturesque little villages on the slope at the foot of Alburz mountain, and occupied as a summer residence by the members of the several European Legations at the court of Persia. It has anagreeable climate and pleasing scenery, and but for the limited society, would be a delightful residence.
On our way through the city we saw sad evidences of the effects of the famine. Beggars, squalid and famished, were found in every street appealing pitifully to the passers for charity, and no less than three corpses were carried past us on the way to burial, in the great and densely packed graveyards that occupy much of the intramural area, and sensibly taint its atmosphere. The condition of the population is deplorable. The official returns for the past week represent the daily mortality within the city walls at two hundred souls, almost wholly victims to starvation and typhoid fever. This high rate cannot last long, it is to be hoped, though the prospect ahead is, from all accounts, gloomy in the extreme. Thousands of families, who have hitherto kept body and soul together by the sale of their jewellery and property, down to the clothes on their backs, are now reduced to a state of utter destitution, and have not the means of purchasing the food the ripening crops will soon render available. For these the future is indeed dark, unless the Government at the last moment comes forward to save its people from destruction. But as it has so far ignored the existence of a calamity that has well-nigh depopulated the country, there is little reason to hope that it will at the eleventh hour stultify its conduct, and stretch out an arm to save the country from ruin.
The Sháh, it is said, is kept in ignorance of the extent of the sufferings of his people, through the false representations of his ministers. He was at this time absent from the capital on a hunting excursion in the Shamrán hills, and as he did not return until after my departure from the capital, I did not enjoy the honour of being presented at His Majesty’s court.
At Tehran I made hasty arrangements for my return to IndiaviâBaghdad and the Persian Gulf, with our Indian camp establishment and despatches for Government. Through the kindness of Mr Ronald Thomson,chargé d’affairs, I was provided with letters to the Persian and Turkish authorities for my expedition on the road, and one of the missionghulámsor couriers, Shukrullah Beg by name, was appointed to accompany me as guide.
On the 8th June, the camp having been sent ahead in the morning, I took leave of my chief, Major-General F. R. Pollock C.S.I. (now Sir Richard Pollock, K.C.S.I.), and of the Afghan commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh, of Sir Frederick Goldsmid, and the members of his staff, and at 4.30P.M.set out from Gulahak accompanied by Mr Rozario, and one of the mission servants as guide to our first stage from the capital. Major Ewan B. Smith, Sir F. Goldsmid’s personal assistant, rode some way out with us, and then a “Good-bye—God bless you!” and we moved off in opposite directions.
On our way down the avenue leading to the city, we met two carriages-and-four, full of veiled ladies of the Sháh’sandarún, out for their evening drive. They were driven by postilions, and preceded by a number of horsemen, who with peremptory gestures motioned the people off the road, where they stood with their backs towards royalty till the carriages had passed. Our guide, seeing the carriages in the distance, tutored us in our conduct, and as they approached, we turned off the road, and respectfully turned our horse’s tails to where their heads ought to have been.
Our route through the city traversed its western quarters, and led out by the Darwaza Nao—“the new gate”—and then across the plain to Khanabad, where wewere accommodated for the night in a summer-house situated in a very delightful garden belonging to Prince Ali Culi Mirzá. On our way through the city we passed a bloated corpse in a horrible state of putrefaction lying in the street, and by it stood a couple of men about to drag it into concealment amongst the broken walls and crumbling huts that here and there separate the occupied houses, and assail the passengers with the most sickening stinks. The view of Alburz and Damavand from the south side of the city is very fine, whilst the wide plain of Veramín, with its numerous villages and gardens, wears an aspect of prosperity and plenty, cruelly belied by the hard reality of their misery and poverty.
Khanabad was ournacl mucámor preparatory stage, hardly four miles from the city. Our servants had had the whole day to run backwards and forwards for the hundred and one things they had forgotten, or which the opportunity made them fancy they required for the journey, and when we arrived at nightfall, half of them were yet lingering there, taking a last fill of the pleasures it afforded them. Seeing this, I anticipated trouble and delay, but, to avoid the latter as much as possible, gave the order to march at midnight, and, as a first step, had the loads brought out and arranged all ready for loading, as a plain hint that I expected the absent muleteers to be present at the appointed hour. The measure proved successful, for after much running to and fro amongst the servants, our party was brought together by two o’clock in the morning, and we set out on our march half an hour later, but without the head muleteer and three of his men, who, having received their hire in advance, were indifferent on the score of punctuality.
Our route was W.S.W., by a well-beaten track, over a plain country, covered with many villages, and traversedtowards the south and west by detached ridges of hill. At about eight miles we came to Husenabad, and passing through it, halted on apiece of green turf near the road for the baggage to come up. I had had no rest during the night owing to the bustle of our people and the noise made by the nightingales, and was here so overpowered with fatigue, that I stretched myself on the sward, and was fast asleep in a minute, dreaming where all the hundreds of mules and asses we had just passed on their way to the city with loads of green lucerne could have come from, since our Mirakhor had assured us that not one was to be procured in the country, and had, simply as a token of good-will, provided me with twenty of those that had brought us from Sistan, only at quadruple the former rates, half down in advance for the whole journey. Clever fellow! he at all events secured hismudákhilbefore losing sight of the muleteers.
From this we went on, and crossing the river Kárij by a masonry bridge, passed over a stony ridge from a hill on the right, and sloped down to Rabát Karím, where we found quarters in some of the many empty houses of the village, having come twenty-five miles from Khanabad. The population of this village was formerly reckoned at a thousand families. It does not now contain a fourth of that number, and a very wretched, sickly-looking set they are, with hardly a child to be found amongst them. And so it was with every place we came to on all the journey down to Kirmánshah.
We concluded our first march away from Tehran more successfully than I had hoped for in the face of the troubles lowering ahead at the first start. My guide, Shukrullah Beg, has been most energetic and willing, and promises to turn out a good conductor. He is a blunt, plain-spoken man, with sharp intelligent features, afreckled complexion, and bristly red beard, and has none of the polish and love of finery so characteristic of the Persian of Tehran, though he is equally impressed with the necessity for ceremony and show. To my amusement he started our procession this morning quiteen règle, with a strict adherence to the form observed by great men on the march. My spare horse was lead as ayadakin front by the groom mounted on a mule, whilst he himself, having assumed the title, led the way as Mirakhor, the two riding camels, servants, and baggage following us in column close in rear, and gradually dropping behind as our pace exceeded theirs.
We arrived at our resting-place at the breakfast hour, and now I missed the cheerful society of those we had parted from, and my thoughts ran back over the long journey we had done together. The frosts and snows of Balochistan, the passage of the Khojak, and the cutting winds of Kandahar recurred to memory; and with them came recollections of the General’s enduring energy and indomitable pluck, that overcame all difficulties and inspired a confidence that deprived hardships of half their sting; his ever-cheerful spirits too, and kindly thought for all, that made distance wane, and fatigue lose its load. Recollections of the Afghan welcome and hospitality, and of the Saggid’s friendly intercourse and sociability, his amusing conversation, interesting tales, and theologic dogmatism. Recollections too of our Persian secretary, Mirzá Ahmad (a native of Peshawar), his cheerful bearing under trials, his modest demeanour, his honesty and readiness at all times for all things. I thought of Sistan, and ran over the journey thence to the Persian capital with those we joined there, and I missed the charming grace of Sir F. Goldsmid’s manner, his benevolent self-denial, and his instructive conversation.Our march through Khorassan was gone over again, with many an agreeable recollection of the benefits derived from Major Ewan Smith’s excellent arrangements for the road, and recollections, too, of many a tedious march enlivened by the vivacity of his humour and sprightly wit. The first of April in our camp at Birjand was not forgotten, nor the post we all rushed out of our tents to meet; and if the others have not forgiven Major Beresford Lovett, I have, out of respect for his talents. Many a race across country with Mr Bower to bring to bay and question some astonished shepherd or ploughman came to mind, and the sharp ring of his “Máli ínjá hastí? Dih chi ism dárad?” (“Do you belong to this place? What’s the name of the village?”) methought was heard afresh.
With such thoughts was I occupied when Shukrullah Beg made his appearance, and, with a serious face, announced that the mulemen demanded their discharge, as they had no money for the journey, and the head muleteer, who had received the advance, had not joined them. They were afraid they would never get their share of the hire, and did not wish to go on without being paid. This was rather embarrassing news. However, I sent for the men, explained to them that the head muleteer would probably soon overtake us, and that meanwhile I would pay for their food and that of the mules, and dismissed them to their work, and ordered the march at two in the morning. At the same time, for safety’s sake, I had the mules brought over and picketed in the court below our quarters, and at sunset had the loads packed and ranged out ready for lading.
10th June.—Rabát Karím to Khanabad, thirty-three miles. We set out at threeA.M., following a westerly course over wide pasture downs, along the line of telegraph between Tehran and Baghdad, with a range of hills awayto the right. At an hour and a half we came to a roadsidesarae, where we alighted for the baggage to come up. Thesaraedates from the time of Sháh Abbas the Great, and was very substantially built of trap rock and cellular lava. It is now in a state of ruin. In the interior we found portions of several human skeletons. To two of them were still adhering the clothes they wore during life, and they told the tale of the dead—poor peasants cut short on their way to the capital in search of food. To one of them the skull was attached uninjured. I took it off, and carried it away with me for the anthropological museum of a learned friend.
Beyond this we crossed the Rúdi Shor, a brackish stream that drains past Kúm on to the salt desert, where it joins the Káli Shor of Nishabor and Sabzwár, and went over an undulating pasture country, rising gently to the westward, and having the snowy mountains of Shamrán in view to the right. At about twenty miles we rose to the crest of the downs, and looked down on the smiling valley of Pashandia with its many villages and gardens, an agreeable change from the dreary wilds and pasture downs of the country we had traversed. The elevation here is 4380 feet above the sea, thus giving an ascent of 700 feet from Rabát Karím.
Up to this point we found no water except that of Rúdi Shor, and the whole country wears a very uninteresting and wild look. From the crest we dropped into the valley, and passing several villages, some in ruins, crossed a wide sandy ravine in which lay some great blocks of brown lava, and farther on arrived at Khanabad, where we alighted at thechapparkhanaor post-house, glad of its shelter, for the sun shone out towards noon with much force. This is a poor little village, and has only fifteen families left of a population of sixty beforethe famine. It is in the Zarandbulúk, which contains sixty or seventy villages, with Sába as their capital town. Thebulúkis the dower of one of the Sháh’s wives, named Anísuddaula. She deputes her brother, Muhammad Hasan Khán, to its government. His residence is at Sába, where are the ruins of an ancient fire-temple. Gabr relics are found all over the district. Such were the fruits of a chat with the keeper of the post-house, who, his horses having all died, and the appearance of travellers being few and far between, was only too glad of the opportunity to talk on any subject with any one, and answered our endless questions with willing readiness.
Hence we marched twenty-six miles to Khushkak—route W.S.W., and then west over a wide hill-girt plain, mostly uncultivated owing to want of water. At three miles we passed Asyábad, and then no other village up to our stage. A few were seen at the foot of the hills to the right, at long distances apart, and a number ofkárezwells were traced across the plain by their line of little mounds of excavated earth. The soil is firm and gravelly, and the surface now presents a thick green carpet of herbs of sorts, all in full flower. I recognised the Syrian rue, two or three kinds of spurge, the wild poppy, larkspur, clove pink, ragged-robin, and a variety of cruciferous, composite, labiate, leguminous, and umbelliferous herbs. Myriads of caterpillars loaded their little branches, and the whole surface, along our route at least, was fluttering with innumerable butterflies with leopard-like spotted wings. Lizards of different sorts and sizes were common enough, and dodged our horses’ hoofs at every step, but not a bird was seen of any kind.
Across the plain the road rises over a long hill slope up to the post-house and hamlet of Khushkak at the entrance of a pass into the hills. We found the post-housedeserted and falling to ruin, and therefore alighted at one of the empty huts of the village. Khushkak is the last village of the Zarandbulúkin this direction. It is a poor place, and only retains twenty of the fifty families that formed its population. The little hut we occupy, though it has just been swept and spread with carpets, has an almost insupportably disagreeable musty odour, raising unpleasant suspicions as to the condition of its former occupants. The floor was a little below the level of a brisk little stream that ran down the hill close outside its walls, and the moisture, percolating through the soil, filled the atmosphere of the room with a heavy sickly vapour. In the absence of our tents, which were yet far behind, it was the best shelter the place afforded, and I was content to correct its vapours with the addition of tobacco fumes.
12th June.—Khushkak to Novarán, thirty-six miles. Marched at 1.45A.M.—route a little south of west by a winding path continually ascending and descending across a range of low rounded hills covered with the richest pasture, on which we found large herds of camels at graze, and in the sheltered hollows between spied the black tents of theirilyátowners.
At two miles we crossed a noisy hill torrent, and, turning to the left, went up its narrow glen, with long strips of orchards and hamlets on either slope, and at about another five miles reached the watershed. Its elevation is about 6938 feet above the sea, and 1528 feet above Khushkak. Here we turned to the right, and passing over rolling pasture downs, gradually descended to a long valley in which are many villages. At about twenty miles we passed the villages of Shamrin and Bivarán, picturesquely perched on the hill slopes amidst delightful vineyards. Farther on, we left the hills, andgoing along the valley, passed a number of villages to our left; and at eleven o’clock, after a fatiguing ride of nine hours, camped under the shade of some splendid walnut-trees close to the village of Novarán. Several of the villagers flocked out to see us, and, to my surprise, I found they did not understand Persian. They are Kurds, and speak a dialect of Turki, said to be different from the language spoken by the Turks.
This place is in the Muzdkhanchaybulúk, which contains about forty villages. It is said to have suffered less from the famine than other parts of the country. Its people, however, looked the impersonation of poverty.
13th June.—Novarán to Zaráh, thirty-two miles. Departed at 2.15A.M.; morning air still and chilly. At four miles out crossed the Muzdkhanchay river by a masonry bridge. It is a tributary of the Kúm river, which is lost on the desert towards Kirmán, and here marks the boundary between Tehran and Hamadán. It is subject to violent floods after rains on the hills, and its bed certainly bears the traces of violent rushes of water.
At four miles on we came to a ruined and deserted hamlet by which flowed a sparkling little hill torrent. On its bank lay the corpse of a woman half devoured by wild animals, and beyond it lay the broken skeletons of other victims of the famine. Here our route changed from W.S.W. to N.N.W., and led over a long uninteresting succession of undulations, and finally cresting a low ridge, sloped down a wide hollow in which are many villages. The soil is everywhere up to the ridge a bare clay thrown up into hummocks, and furrowed by the action of water. Onwards from the ridge we marched in view of the snow-crowned Alwand mountain away to the south-west.
At 9.30A.M.we arrived at Zaráh, a miserable little village, almost depopulated, and the very picture of poverty and neglect, and alighted at thechapparkhana, which we found empty and extremely filthy. Below the village, on a turfy spot beyond its rivulet, we found the camp of Imám Culi Khán, Imáduddaula, the governor of Kirmánshah. He is a son of the late Muhammad Ali Mirzá, one of the many sons of the late Fath Ali Sháh, and is consequently an uncle of the reigning Sháh. He is now going to the capital to take part in the discussion of various important state questions that are shortly to occupy the attention of the Sháh and his ministers. His camp consists of a large single-poled tent, and a dozen smaller ones round it for his ladies and attendants; and in front of them are drawn up three very handsome four-wheeled carriages of English or French manufacture.
Towards sunset Shukrullah Beg announced that apeshkhidmat, or page in attendance, had arrived with a message from the Prince. He was ushered up to the room I occupied, and, with a polite bow, and hands folded in front, delivered his message. “The Imáduddaula is pleased to say that a saddled horse is ready if your honour feels disposed to pay him a visit” “My compliments to the Imáduddaula, and I shall have much pleasure in paying my respects to his excellency.” “By your leave I will go for the horse.” “There is no necessity for that. My own is at hand, and I will ride over in half an hour.” And thepeshkhidmatwith a bow retired. I gave the order for my horse to be saddled, and meanwhile donned a suit of presentable attire. Shukrullah Beg the while was busy arranging a processionmore Persico; and when I came down to the gate of thechapparkhana, I found my groom with the spare horse ready as ayadak, and the mulemen, and others he hadsomehow got hold of for the occasion, ranged in file on either side the path, and looking as solemn as if they were about to be led to execution.
It was all, no doubt, quite correct, and had the individual actors in the ceremony been at all decently attired, I might have submitted to the rules of conventionality, and allowed myself to be led offen grande tenue. Under the actual conditions, however, the processionists did look such a set of ragamuffins, that I could not consent to play a part in the farce, and consequently, much to the chagrin of Shukrullah Beg, sent them all back to their places, and mounting my horse, set off towards the camp, attended by my personal orderly in uniform, and Shukrullah Beg leading the way.
Near the camp we met the horse sent out for me, and crossing a small rivulet, arrived in front of the great tent. Here I dismounted, and sent in my card by one of the servants ranged in two rows in front of the tent door. Presently a very intelligent-looking man stepped out, and, with a deferential manner, invited me to walk in. I did so, and removing my hat, bowed to the Prince, who was seated, oriental fashion on a broad cushion, like a mattress. Without rising, he motioned me to a chair placed at the side of his cushion. As I took my seat, his son, the only other occupant of the tent, and who had risen from his kneeling posture seated on his heels as I entered, again resumed his former position on the other side of the cushion. He was a handsome young man with a glossy black beard, and throughout the interview observed a respectful silence, with an attentive gaze towards his father. The Prince was plainly dressed in a suit of black cloth, and, with spectacles adjusted, appeared to have been busy with a number of manuscripts that lay in a small pile before him. His close-trimmed grizzly beard gavehim a somewhat stern expression, but his voice was gentle and his manner affable, with an easy sense of conscious dignity. He inquired how I fared on my travels, and how long I had resided in Persia. “It is my first visit to the country,” I said, “and I have been marching through it for four months.” With an inquiring look of doubt he asked where I had learned the language, and was pleased to compliment me on my knowledge of it. He alluded in a kindly way to the death of Mr Alison, said it was a great loss to Persia, and speculated on his successor, giving his own vote for Sir H. Rawlinson. He made several inquiries regarding Sistan, and asked if the boundary had been settled. The question, I replied, was now under discussion at Tehran. He had heard of the assassination of Lord Mayo, and asked whether it was true that a general rebellion in India had followed the tragedy. He referred to European politics very sensibly; said the defeat of the French took all Persians by surprise; they must fight again, but Prussia would maintain the position she had gained in Europe. He spoke in disparaging terms of Turkey; the country was rotten to the core, had no credit, no organisation, and no army; she was doomed sooner or later to fall before Russian progress. He supposed the proposed Euphrates Valley railway would soon be set on foot; it would prove the regeneration of Persia. The country now, he said, was in a deplorable state, upwards of a million of its people had perished in the famine. The country, he said, was naturally divided into five fifths. One fifth was desert, two fifths were mountain, another fifth was pasture, and the remaining fifth was arable and habitable.
In such converse the set courses of coffee, sherbet, tea, and ice, with thecalyánbetween each, were got through, and I took my leave with the same ceremony as on entering.On returning to my quarters in the post-house, I found a sheep, trays of sweetmeats, four great cones of Russian white sugar, two large packets of tea, and two boxes ofgáz(a sweetmeat prepared at Kirmánshah from manna), had been politely sent over for me by the Imáduddaula—a civility which in the East corresponds with an invitation to dinner in the West. I was much pleased with this visit, particularly as it afforded me an opportunity of correcting some mistaken notions regarding the pride and insincerity of the Persians, and the disposition of the leading men of the country towards our nation.
In the Imáduddaula I found a dignified, quiet, and well-informed man, who spoke sensibly on all matters, and bore himself like a prince. He thanked me for my visit, said he was much pleased to have seen me, and wished me a prosperous journey onwards, and hoped I would make use of his garden-house at Kirmánshah during my stay there.
14th June.—Zaráh to Míla Gird, twenty miles—route W.S.W., across a wide alluvial plain, bounded by the Alwand mountain on the south, and the Caraghan range on the north. The level surface presents a bright sheet of green corn, pasture land, and meadows, interspersed with numerous villages and gardens, all radiant in their summer foliage. The scene is one of great promise, but its reality sadly disappoints.
On arrival at Míla Gird we rode up to the post-house. A corpse with gaping mouth and staring eyes lay athwart the threshold; hungry, pinched, and tattered men and women, careless of their surroundings, passed and repassed without so much as a glance at it. We too passed on through the village, and witnessed the nakedness of its misery. Men desponding, bowed, and paralysed by want, women nude in their rags, with matted hair and shrivelledfeatures, wandered restlessly like witches, naked children with big bellies and swollen feet turned up their deep sunk eyes with an unmeaning stare as we disturbed them at their morning meal of wild seed grasses and unripe ears of corn. The scene was the most frightful we had anywhere seen, and the roadside deposits of undigested grass and weeds, told of the dire straits the surviving population endures.
We passed on from this scene of suffering, and alighted under the shade of some willow-trees fringing a water-course beyond the village, and there awaited the arrival of our baggage, which by some mistake had taken the wrong road, and was passing our stage, as we rightly concluded by the dust rising on the plain some miles off. Shukrullah Beg galloped after them, and brought them back about midday, all more or less knocked up by the heat of the sun.
In the afternoon I had a quantity of bread prepared and distributed to the poor villagers. The frantic struggles for its possession, the fighting and biting and screaming that followed, decided me not to attempt such a mode of relief again. I had had thirty or forty men and women and children seated in a row preparatory to the distribution. But the bread was no sooner brought forward than they all rushed on Shukrullah Beg and the two muleteers bearing the bread, and nearly tore the clothes off their backs. They dropped their loads, and extricating themselves as best they could, left the crowd to fight it out amongst themselves. And they certainly set to work with the ferocity of wild beasts, and the bread, of which there was a sackful, was torn from hand to hand, and fought over till much of it was destroyed.
15th June.—Míla Gird to Hamadán, thirty-six miles, and halt a day. We set out shortly before midnight bya westerly route along the plain to the foot of the hills, and then turned south-west to Hamadán, at the foot of the snow-topped Alwand mountain. At about seven miles we reached a range of low hills, and beyond them passed over a long stretch of pasture downs, a dreary solitude, without a sign of life for miles. At another seven miles we passed the roadside hamlet of Durguz, and three miles farther on a decayed village, which we were told had been depopulated by the famine. As it stood close to the road, I turned aside to visit it, and witnessed a scene that baffles description, and, from what we heard, is but too common in this part of the country.
The village (its name I omitted to note at the time, and have since forgotten) contained about a hundred and fifty houses, but only five of them were now tenanted. The rest were all deserted, and many of them were falling to ruin. In one of the now still and voiceless streets I passed a middle-aged man, apparently in the last stage of starvation. He was propped in a sitting posture against a wall, with his lank withered arms crossed in front to support his shrivelled legs from weighing upon his misshaped feet and swollen ankles. His sickly-looking face, with puffed cheeks, drawn lips, and sunken eyes, rested on his knees, and as we rode past he had not the energy to move or beg a morsel of bread. I threw him akran, but, without a motion towards it, he merely gasped out, “Nán, bidih nán!” (“Bread, give me bread!”) A little way on a horrible stink declared the existence of a putrid corpse in the tenantless houses around; and outside the village, on the edge of a small patch of ripening corn, we found the remnant of the population, already at this early hour (it was only four o’clock) staying the pangs of their hunger by literally grazing the green grass. They were three or four hag-like women, and as many half-grown lads;and as they plucked the ears of bearded corn, they chewed and swallowed them beard and all.
At four miles farther on we crested an upland, and then sloped down to the delightful valley of Hamadán. Its green sward, yellowing crops, and gardens dark in the luxuriance of their foliage, presented a picture of happiness and prosperity strangely reversed by the cruel reality. On a hill slope overlooking this crest of upland we observed a couple of small military tents. In front of them were seated three or foursarbázof the guard, stationed here to protect the road from depredation by the hungry peasantry around. Lower down the slope we passed a party of Hamadánis, driving their oxen and asses in the direction whence we had come. They were almost all armed, indicating the insecure state of the country here, for they are the first armed people (other than military) we have met in all our journey from the eastern frontier.
Our road across the valley led past Surkhabad over a river crossed by a masonry bridge of five arches, and then by Shivím to the city, where we found accommodation in the post-house. We arrived at 7.47A.M., and at this hour the thermometer rose to 71° Fah. At daybreak on the march it was so low as 48° Fah. Hamadán is an extensive city, delightfully situated at the foot of the Alwand. In the nooks and hollows extending along the base of the mountain, and some way up its bare rocky slopes, are situated a number of picturesque little hamlets, buried from view in their surrounding vineyards and orchards; and in the valley stretching away to the west is a continuous succession of corn-fields, fruit gardens, and villages, amidst which flows a considerable stream fed by numerous little rills coming down from the hills. Altogether the scenery is very charming, and the snowy heights of the mountain above add a feature as pleasing to view as itis refreshing to the senses. The ground, too, is classic. Here stood the ancient Ecbatana, whose mouldy soil yields a variety of ancient relics, Median, Grecian, and early Arab signets, seals, and rings, with coins, beads, and sculptures. Here too are shown the tombs of Esther and Mordecai, and of Avicenna, the Arabian philosopher and physician.
The present city occupies the depression and slopes of a hollow at the foot of the mountain, and is said to contain nine thousand houses. Its situation affords facilities for drainage, but is objectionable on the score of ventilation. The climate, however, is described as very salubrious, although its winter is a rigorous season, as may be well understood from its elevation at 6162 feet above the sea. The surrounding country is pretty and productive, and in prosperous times the place must be a delightful residence, which it certainly is not now.
The population of the city was reckoned at fifty thousand before the famine, and is now estimated at half that number, but I don’t think there can be so many as fifteen thousand. The place was the centre of a considerable trade, especially with Russia by Resht on the Caspian, and had a numerous colony of Jews. It now appears to be utterly ruined. Hardly a decently-dressed man is to be seen, and nothing is to be got in its bazárs; even our cattle were with difficulty supplied with fodder and grain. The city swarms with famishing beggars, and our lodging in the post-house was besieged by crowds of them, whom it was impossible to satisfy. We were prevented moving outside the walls of the post-house through fear of them, for, as Shukrullah Beg warned us, they were in a dangerous mood, and if I ventured into the city on foot, I should certainly have the clothes torn off my back, and might possibly lose my life—neithervery pleasant alternatives; so I curbed the promptings of curiosity at the dictates of discretion, and fed my would-be assailants with bread, the distribution going on through a hole in the gateway, by way of protection against assault.
A good deal of wine is made at this place. The white is something like hock, and the red like claret. The samples brought to us, however, were of very inferior quality and crude flavour, but were as good as one could expect at the rate of tenpence a quart, which was probably double the market price.
17th June.—Hamadán to Asadabad, thirty-two miles. We set out at 3.30A.M., and passed through the northern quarters of the city, where is a covered bazár in a state of dilapidation. Its shops are mostly empty and tenantless, the streets are choked with refuse and filth of sorts, and the air is loaded with abominable stinks. The dress, appearance, and condition of the people we met was in keeping with their surroundings. Beyond the city we passed through an old cemetery, crowded with handsome tombstones of the Arab period. Some were carved out of splendid slabs of white marble, and others were formed of massive blocks of granite and sandstone, all from the mountain overlooking. Farther on, clearing a number of vineyards and orchards, we came to the open country, and following the path skirting the foot of the mountain, passed several villages, and crossed many brisk little streams from the hill slopes, some of them by masonry bridges, till, at about fourteen miles, we came to a branching of the road. The branch to the left goes direct over a high ridge of Alwand, and was taken by our baggage as being the shortest route; the other winds over lesser heights of the same ridge farther to the westward.
We followed the latter, and passing the castellated village of Zaghár, entered amongst low hills. Here our route changed from W.N.W. to south-west, and crossing two lesser ridges, at about twenty-six miles from Hamadán brought us to the crest of a watershed, from which we looked down on the hill-locked valley of Asadabad. Here the aneroid figured 22·38, giving the elevation at about 7525 feet above the sea, and 1363 feet above Hamadán. The road is very good and easy. It was made two years ago for the Sháh’s journey to Karbalá. The soil is light and fertile, and corn crops cover the hill slopes. The rock is a soft friable slate, traversed by great veins of quartz.
The descent is by an easy gradient in view of the high snowy range of Nahwand away to the south. At the foot of the descent we came to a wide boulder-strewn ravine, over the surface of which were scattered great gabions and fascines, the relics of a disruptured dam built across the ravine to retain its floods for purposes of irrigation. Some few weeks ago a violent flood from the hills above burst through this dam, and inundated the town of Asadabad, destroying several of its houses, and causing much loss of life and property.
On arrival at the town, a few miles farther on, we found the streets had been furrowed by the rush of waters, the height of which was plainly marked on the walls by a water-line two feet above the level of the street. The town wears a wretched, desolate look, and a gloomy silence reigns over it. We put up at the post-house, which we found deserted and in a filthy state. We could procure no barley for our cattle here, a decided hardship after their long march; and our followers had to go on half rations, owing to the unwillingness of the people to sell their bread. Asadabad is said to containfive hundred houses, but only two hundred are occupied. I saw no beggars here, and the people appeared in much better plight than we had anywhere yet seen.
Our next stage was twenty-five miles to Kangawár. The night air in Asadabad was close, oppressive, and steamy, probably owing to the action of a hot sun during the day (a thermometer placed in its direct rays rose to 142° Fah.) on its soaked soil. For so soon as we got out on the plain beyond the town, the early morning air struck cold and damp.
We set out at 2.40A.M., and proceeded over a level plain south by west, along the line of telegraph posts. The plain is girt on all sides by high hills, and presents a green sheet of corn-fields and meadows, over which are scattered many villages. We passed six or seven dessicated and putrefying corpses on the road, and overtook several small parties of destitutes, forty or fifty people in all, dragging their withered limbs slowly along. Men, women, and children were eating from whisps of unripe corn, plucked from the roadside fields, to stave off the bitter end that was fast creeping upon them. There is nobody to help them, and they themselves are past begging.
At about half-way we passed Mandarabad, a collection of twenty or thirty huts round fortified walls enclosing an ancient tumulus, and covered with storks’ nests. Here we found the corpse of a woman lying across the road, at the edge of akárezstream supplying the village with water.
Farther on we passed a little roadside hamlet, and beyond it, crossing a swampy rivulet by a masonry bridge, entered low hills. Passing over these, we entered the Kangawár valley, and turning westward along a hill skirt blooming with flowers and whole fields of wildhollyhock, and at 8.20A.M.arrived at Kangawár post-house.
The valley is rich in crops, and covered with villages. Most of them are more or less depopulated, and the people have yet a month to wait before the growing corn will be ready for the sickle. Meanwhile, how many must perish! The town, which is said to contain five hundred houses, half of which are empty, is indescribably filthy, and swarms with beggars, many of whom are dying curled up on the dung-heaps obstructing the roads. Cold and starvation together must soon put an end to their sufferings, for the night air at this elevation of 5125 feet above the sea is chill and damp.
This town appears to occupy the site of some more ancient city. On an eminence in its midst, and at the foot of some low hills, we saw the ruins of some ancient temple of vast proportions and very solid build. Six round monolith pillars on a corniced basement still exist in position, and another lies prostrate before the pile. Each pillar, so far as I could see between the intervening houses, is of solid limestone, about twelve feet high and four feet diameter. Nobody could tell us anything about the history of this ruin.
19th June.—Kangawár to Sahnah, twenty-three miles. Departure, 3.45A.M.—route south-west, by a good though stony road, winding up and down between hills all the way, their slopes bare rock, but the skirts covered with a profusion of flowering plants, that perfume the air with their fragrance. Overtook several parties of travellers on their way to Kirmánshah. They had been waiting for several days for a caravan, and took advantage of my arrival to proceed with my party. They kept with us all the way, but held themselves aloof from our people at each stage.
At half-way we came to the Kotal Sahnah or “Pass of Sahnah.” Its top is called Gardan Búmsúrkh, or the “red-earthed ridge,” from the colour of the soil. Its elevation is 5800 feet above the sea. Here our course changed to due west, and the descent at four miles brought us to the spring and hamlet of Sarab, the first water met from Kangawár. At six miles farther, we reached Sahnah, and finding its post-house in ruins and itssaraeyet incomplete, were glad to pass on from the scenes of its misery to a garden on the outskirts, where we camped under the shade of some magnificent elm-trees. Around us are vineyards and corn crops, the latter ripe and being cut.
On our way through the town, we passed several beggars lying in the streets, and moaning pitifully. During the day we have seen at least sixty poor wretches, mostly women and half-grown youths, who cannot live another month, I should say, even if they were now provided with food, to such a state of bloodless dropsy are they reduced. All the afternoon, tattered famished wretches hovered around our camp. Amongst them, in strange contrast, appeared a gaily-dressed, active, and rather good-looking young wench, with bare legs and short petticoats not reaching to the knees. A loose open shift of gauze showed a tattooed bosom and full stomach, whilst her painted cheeks and saucy bearing advertised her calling.
Some villagers who brought our supplies into camp gave us harrowing details of the sufferings this village had passed through. “This vineyard is full of the skeletons,” said one of them, “of those who have died here eating the leaves and shoots of the vines.” “Come,” he added, “I will show you some of them.” And at less than thirty paces from where I was seatedat my table, he showed me three human skeletons. I saw several others farther in amongst the vines, and took advantage of the opportunity to secure a skull. But none of them being fit to take away, I asked my guide to fetch me a clean and perfect one. He disappeared over the wall into the next vineyard, and in less than as many minutes returned bearing three skulls in his arms. I selected one, and the others he tossed back amongst the vines we had just left. He told me this village formerly had two hundred and twenty families, but that not one hundred of them now remained.
20th June.—Sahnah to Besitun, eighteen miles. Night cold, clear, and moonlight—morning air delightful and fresh—midday sun hot. Departure, threeA.M.—route west for two miles to foot of hills, and then south-west through a fertile valley along the course of the Lolofar river. The country is crossed by numerous irrigation streams, dotted with many villages, covered with corn crops, and fragrant with the perfume of multitudes of pretty flowers.
At the spring-head of Besitun I dismounted, and climbed over the rocks to look at the wonderful sculptures rescued from their obscurity and set before the world by Rawlinson, and then proceeded to the village, hardly five minutes off. The village is a miserable collection of forty or fifty huts close to a largesarae. As we passed the latter on our way to the post-house, a great wolfish shaggy dog stalked by, head erect, with the leg and foot of a woman held between his jaws. Some villagers staring at our party did not even take up a stone to hurl at the brute. We found the post-house so filthy, and after being swept, sprinkled with water, and carpeted, so unbearably foul-smelling, that we were obliged to quit it. A corpse lying at the door of thesaraeturned us away from that too, and we went off to the turfy bank of alittle stream hard by, and there awaited the arrival of our tents and baggage. The midday sun shone with considerable force, and the plague of flies and musquitoes was most annoying. A number of diminutive goats panting in the sun’s rays sought shelter in our tents from their worry and stings.
In different parts of our journey we had fared on what bread the places respectively produced, and took it, good, bad, and indifferent, as it came. But here the stuff they brought us was simply uneatable, so black, gritty, and musty was it. Even our servants refused to eat it, and we did very well without, aided by the disgust the horrid sights we had witnessed of themselves produced. An intelligent-looking Persian of this place came up to me at sunset, when our tents were being struck, and to my surprise addressed me in very good Hindustani. I learned from him that he was a Wahabi, and had recently returned from Dacca, where he had resided two years in the service of a wealthy merchant of that place. He told me there were no people left in this place except ten or twelve families of shopkeepers, who kept a small stock of supplies for wayfarers at thesarae.
We slept out,à la belle étoile, under the majestic shadow of Besitun. The lights and shades on the face of the precipitous rock, reflected by the rays of a full moon, were very magnificent, and I long gazed at the glorious steep, watching the grotesque phantom forms produced by the flitting shadows stirred by the breeze; and at last, overcome by fatigue, fell asleep dreaming of the ancient peoples whose mark, living on the rock, hallows the place with a mysterious interest.
21st June.—Besitun to Kirmánshah, twenty-eight miles. Marched at oneA.M.—route westerly, at first through a narrow valley skirting Besitun hills, and thenaway across an open undulating country, covered with ripe corn crops and villages and Kurd camps. As we struck away from the hills, a splendid meteor shot across the sky horizontally, and burst only a few hundred yards from us, in a shower of most beautiful stars of purple, gold, and silver hue, just a “roman candle.”
At six o’clock, crossing the Cárású river by a masonry bridge of six arches, we alighted at a dilapidatedsaraefor our baggage to come up. Here we were joined by Abdurrahím, a very fair and intelligent youth of eighteen years, a son of Agha Hasan, the British Wakiluddaula at Kirmánshah. He had been sent out, attended by a single horseman, to meet and escort us to the quarters prepared for us in the city. Up to this point I had ridden my dromedary, but here changed to my horse, as the more fitting mode of entering the city, though he was in such poor condition from his long and rapid marches, that he must have attracted as much attention from the punctilious as the camel would have excited comment. Kirmánshah has a clean, neat, and agreeable appearance as one approaches from the east, and is decidedly the most flourishing place we have yet seen in Persia. As we neared its walls, we passed a vast collection of new graves, filled during the last two years with the bodies of fifteen thousand people who have died here. Most of them, it is said, had come in from the surrounding country to find food in the capital of the province, but found instead a stone in place of bread.
In the city we alighted at some very dilapidated quarters adjoining the residence of the Wakiluddaula. The rooms were nicely carpeted with rich felts, and furnished with tables and chairs and cots. Soon after our arrival a couple of servants brought over tea and sweets for our refreshment; and the young lad returningfrom a visit to his father, said the Wakiluddaula begged his absence might be excused. He was laid up with a fit of ague, but he hoped on its passing off to call in the afternoon. I begged he would not take the trouble, and thanked him for his arrangements for our comfort, which were all very satisfactory.
Towards sunset Agha Hasan was announced. He walked across the court supported by two servants, and really looked very ill. With him came Mirzá Sadíc Khán, Hakím Bashi, a physician who had walked the London hospitals, and spoke English remarkably well. He told us we had now got over the worst part of our journey, and that all ahead would be easy travelling. His words were very strangely falsified, as the sequel will show.