ISPAHÁN--SHIRÁZ.
The seven telegraph-stations, in charge of Europeans, between Teherán
and Bushire, may be called the oases of Persia to the weary traveller
from Résht to the Persian Gulf. He is sure, at any of these, of a
hearty welcome, a comfortable bedroom, and a well-cooked dinner from
the good Samaritan in charge. The latter is generally the best of
company, full of anecdote and information about the country, and,
necessarily, well posted in the latest news from Europe, from the last
Parliamentary debate to the winner of the Derby. These officials are
usually _ci-devant_ non-commissioned officers of Royal Engineers. Some
are married, for the life is a lonely one, and three or four months
often elapse without personal communication with the outer world,
except on the wires. By this means, when the latter are not in
public use, the telegraphist can lighten his weary hours by animated
conversation with his colleague two or three hundred miles away on
congenial topics--the state of the weather, rate of exchange, chances
of promotion, and so on. Living, moreover, at most of the stations is
good and cheap; there is plenty of sport; and if a young unmarried man
only keeps clear of the attractions of the fair sex, he soon makes
friends among the natives. Love intrigues are dangerous in Persia.
They once led to the massacre of the whole of the Russian Legation at
Teherán.
Ispahán is a city of ruins. A Persian will tell you, with pride, that
it is nearly fifteen miles in circumference, but a third of this
consists of heaps of stones, with merely the foundation-lines around
to show that they were once palaces or more modest habitations.
Chardin the traveller, writing in A.D. 1667, gives the population of
Ispahán at considerably over a million, but it does not now exceed
fifty thousand, including the suburb of Djulfa. The Madrassa, or
College, the governor's palace, and "Chil Situn," or "Palace of the
Forty Pillars," are the only buildings that still retain some traces
of their former glory. Pertaining to the former is a dome of the most
exquisite tile-work, which, partly broken away, discloses the mud
underneath; a pair of massive gates of solid silver, beautifully
carved and embossed; a large shady and well-kept garden in the centre
of the Madrassa, with huge marble tanks of water, surrounded by an
oblong arcade of students' rooms--sixty queer little boxes about ten
feet by six, their walls covered with arabesques of great beauty.
These are still to be seen--and remembered. With the exception of the
"Maidan Shah," or "Square of the King"--a large open space in the
centre of the city, surrounded by modern two-storied houses--the
streets of Ispahán are narrow, dirty, and ill-paved, and its bazaar,
which adjoins the Maidan Shah, very inferior in every way to those of
Teherán or Shiráz.
The palace of "Chil Situn," or "The Forty Pillars," is like most
Persian palaces--the same walled gardens with straight walks, the
usual avenues of cypress trees, and the inevitable tank of stone or
marble in the centre of the grounds. It is owing to the reflection of
the _façade_ of the palace in one of the latter that it has gained its
name. There are in reality but twenty pillars, the forty being (with a
stretch of imagination) made up by reflection in the dull and somewhat
dirty pool of water at their feet. The palace itself is a tawdry,
gimcrack-looking edifice, all looking-glass and vermilion and green
paint in the worst possible taste. From the entrance-hall an arched
doorway leads into the principal apartment, a lofty chamber about
ninety feet long by fifty broad, its walls covered with large
paintings representing the acts of the various Persian kings. Shah
Abbas is portrayed under several conditions. In one scene he is
surrounded by a band of drunken companions and dancing-girls, in
costumes and positions that would hardly pass muster before our Lord
Chamberlain. This room once contained the most beautiful and costly
carpet in all Persia, but it has lately been sold "for the good of the
State," and a dirty green drugget laid down in its place. In one of
the side chambers are pictures representing ladies and gentlemen in
the costume of Queen Elizabeth's time. How they got to Ispahán I was
unable to discover. They are very old, and evidently by good masters.
The way back to our comfortable quarters at Djulfa lay over the
Zandarood river. There are five bridges, the principal one being that
of Allaverdi Khan, named after one of the generals of Shah Abbas, who
superintended its construction. It is of solid stonework, and built in
thirty-three arches, over which are ninety-nine smaller arches
above the roadway on both sides, enclosing a covered-in pathway for
foot-passengers. The roadway in the centre, thirty feet wide, is well
paved with stone, and perfectly level. Every thirty yards or so are
stalls for the sale of kababs, fruit, sweetmeats, and the kalyan, for
a whiff from which passers-by pay a small sum. Ispahán is noted for
its fruit; apricots, peaches, nectarines, cherries, mulberries, and
particularly fine melons, are abundant in their season.
There is a saying in Persia, "Shiráz for wine, Yèzd for women, but
Ispahán for melons."
Since it has ceased to be the capital of Persia, the trade of Ispahán
has sadly deteriorated. There is still, however, a brisk trade
in opium and tobacco. Silks and satins are also made, as well as
quantities of a coarser kind of cotton stuff for wearing-apparel,
much used by the natives. The sword-blades manufactured here are,
in comparison with those of Khorassan or Damascus, of little value.
Genuine old blades from the latter city fetch enormous prices
everywhere; but a large quantity of worthless imitations is in the
market, and unless a stranger is thoroughly experienced in the art of
weapon-buying, he had better leave it alone in Persia. Modern firearms
are rarely seen in the bazaars, except cheap German and French
muzzle-loaders, more dangerous to the shooter than to the object aimed
at.
If the streets of Ispahán are narrow, those of Djulfa, the Armenian
settlement, can only be described as almost impassable, for, although
the widest are barely ten feet across, quite a third of this space is
taken up by the deep ditch, or drain, lined with trees, by which all
are divided. But the town, or settlement, is as clean and well-kept as
Ispahán itself is the reverse, which is saying a great deal.
Djulfa is called after the Armenian town of that name in Georgia, the
population of which, for commercial reasons, was removed to this place
by Shah Abbas in A.D. 1603. Djulfa, near Ispahán, was once a large
and flourishing city, with as many as twenty district parishes, and a
population of sixty thousand souls, now dwindled down to a little over
two thousand, the greater part of whom live in great want and poverty.
The city once possessed as many as twenty churches, but most of these
are now in ruins. The cathedral, however, is still standing, and in
fair preservation. It dates from A.D. 1655. There is also a Roman
Catholic colony and church. The latter stands in a large garden,
celebrated for its quinces and apricots. Lastly, the English Church
Missionary Society have an establishment here under the direction of
the Rev. Dr. Bruce, whose good deeds during the famine are not likely
to be forgotten by the people of Ispahán and Djulfa, whatever their
creed or religion. The trade of Djulfa is insignificant, although
there is a large amount of wine and arak manufactured there, and sold
"under the rose" to the Ispahánis. The production of the juice of the
grape is somewhat primitive. During the season (September and October)
the grapes are trodden out in a large earthenware pan, and the whole
crushed mass, juice and all, is stowed away in a jar holding from
twenty to thirty gallons, a small quantity of water being added to
it. In a few days fermentation commences. The mass is then stirred up
every morning and evening with sticks for ten or twenty days. About
this period the refuse sinks to the bottom of the jar, and the wine is
drawn off and bottled. In forty days, at most, it is fit to drink.
My time at Ispahán was limited, so much so that I was not able to pay
a visit to the "Shaking minarets," about six miles off. These mud
towers, of from twenty to thirty feet high, are so constructed that a
person, standing on the roof of the building between the two, can, by
a slight movement of his feet, cause them to vibrate.
I spent most of my time, as usual, strolling about the
least-frequented parts of the city, or in the cool, picturesque
gardens of the Madrassa. The people of Teherán, and other Persian
cities, are generally civil to strangers; but at Ispahán the prejudice
against Europeans is very strong, and I more than once had to make a
somewhat hasty exit from some of the lower quarters of the city.
Mrs. S----, the wife of a telegraph official, was stabbed by some
miscreants while walking in broad daylight on the outskirts of the
town, a few months before my visit. The offenders were never caught;
probably, as Ispahán is under the jurisdiction of the Zil-i-Sultan,
were never meant to be.
The Zil-i-Sultan returned to Ispahán before I left. He is rightly
named "Shadow of the King," for, saving his somewhat more youthful
appearance, he is as like Nasr-oo-din as two peas. Like his father in
most of his tastes, his favourite occupations are riding, the chase,
and shooting at a mark; but he is, perhaps, more susceptible to the
charms of the fair sex than his august parent.
The prince is now nearly forty years of age. His wife, daughter of a
former Prime Minister of Persia, who was strangled by order of the
present Shah, died a few years ago, having borne him a son, the
"Jelal-u-dowleh," a bright, clever boy, now about eighteen years old,
and three daughters. The Zil-i-Sultan is adored by his people, and
has, unquestionably, very great influence over the districts of
which he is governor. Within the last two years, however, at least
two-thirds of his possessions have been taken from him--a proceeding
that caused him considerable annoyance, and drew forth the remark that
the Valliad would one day regret it. There can be little doubt that,
at the death of Nasr-oo-din, the Governor of Ispahán will make a
bold bid for the throne; in fact, the latter makes no secret of his
intentions. Drink and debauch having already rendered his younger
brother half-witted, the task should not be a difficult one,
especially as half the people and the whole army side with the
illegitimate, though more popular, prince. It is, perhaps, under
the circumstances, to be regretted that the latter is an ardent
Russophile, ever since his Majesty the Czar sent a special mission to
Ispahán to confer upon him the Order of the Black Eagle. Should the
Zil-i-Sultan succeed Nasr-oo-din, British influence in Persia may
become even less powerful than it is now, if that is possible.
The Zil-i-Sultan is far more civilized in his habits and mode of life
than the Shah. A fair French scholar, he regularly peruses his _Temps,
Gil Blas_, and the latest works of the best French authors. It is
strange that, with all his common sense and sterling qualities, this
prince should, in some matters, be a perfect child. One of his whims
is dress. Suits of clothes, shirts, socks, hats, and uniforms are
continually pouring in from all parts of Europe, many of the latter
anything but becoming to the fat, podgy figure of the "King's Shadow."
A photograph of his Royal Highness the Duke of Connaught in Rifle
Brigade uniform was shown him a couple of years since. The Court
tailor was at once sent for. "I must have this; make it at once," was
the command, the humble request to be allowed to take the measure
being met by, "Son of a hell-burnt father! What do you mean? Make it
for a well-made man--a man with a better figure than that, and it will
fit me!"
Popular as he is with the lower orders, the Zil-i-Sultan does not,
when offenders are brought before him, err on the side of mercy.
Persian justice is short, sharp, and severe, and a man who commits a
crime in the morning, may be minus his head before sunset. Although
a Persian would indignantly deny it, some of their punishments are
nearly as cruel as the Chinese. For instance, not so very long ago a man
in Southern Persia was convicted of incest, for which crime his eyes were
first torn out with pincers, and his teeth then extracted, one by one,
sharpened to a point, and hammered, like nails, through the top of his
skull. It should be said in justice that the present Shah has done all
he can to stop the torture system, and confine the death-sentence to one
of two methods--painless and instantaneous--throat-cutting and blowing
from a gun. Notwithstanding, executions such as the one I have mentioned
are common enough in remote districts, and crucifixion, walling up, or
burying and burning alive are, although less common than formerly, by no
means out of date. Women are usually put to death by being strangled,
thrown from a precipice or well, or wrapped up in a carpet and jumped
upon; but the execution of a woman is now, fortunately, rare in Persia.
A dreary desert surrounds Ispahán on every side save to the southward,
where dark masses of rock, a thousand feet high, break the sky-line.
The environs of the city are well populated, and, as we rode out, _en
route_ for Shiráz, we passed through a good deal of cultivated land.
This is irrigated by the Zandarood, whose blue waters are visible for
a long distance winding through the emerald-green plain, with its gay
patchwork of white and scarlet poppy-gardens. The cultivation of this
plant is yearly increasing in Persia, for there is an enormous demand
for the drug in the country itself, to say nothing of the export
market, the value of which, in 1871, was 696,000 rupees. In 1881 it
had progressed to 8,470,000 rupees, and is steadily increasing every
year. Opium is not smoked in Persia, but is taken in the form of
pills. Many among the upper classes take it daily, the dose being a
grain to a grain and a half.
We covered, the first day out from Ispahán, nearly a hundred miles
between sunrise and 10 p.m.--not bad work for Persia. A little after
dark, and before the moon had risen, I was cantering easily along in
front of Gerôme, when a violent blow on the chest, followed by another
between the eyes, sent me reeling off my horse on to the sand. My
first thought, on collecting myself, was "Robbers!"--this part of the
road bearing an unpleasant reputation. Cocking my revolver, I called
to Gerôme, and was answered by a volley of oaths, while another
riderless horse galloped past me and disappeared in the darkness.
Our foe was a harmless one. The wind had blown down one of the
telegraph-posts, and the wires had done the mischief. By good luck and
the aid of lucifer matches, we managed to trace our ponies to a piece
of cultivated ground hard by, where we found them calmly feeding in a
field of standing corn.
The moon had risen by nine o'clock. Before half-past we were in sight
of the rock on which stands the town of Yezdi-Ghazt, towering, shadowy
and indistinct, over the moonlit plain. This is unquestionably the
most curious and interesting village between Résht and Bushire. The
post-house stands at the foot. As we rode to the latter through the
semi-darkness caused by the shadow of the huge mass of boulders and
mud on which the town is situated, the effect was extraordinary.
It was like a picture by Gustave Doré; and, looking up the dark
perpendicular side of the rock at the weird city with its white
houses, queer-shaped balconies, and striped awnings, standing out
clear and distinct against the starlit sky, gave one an uncomfortable,
uncanny feeling, hard to shake off, and heightened by the fact
that, although the hour was yet early, not a light was visible, not
a sound to be heard. It was like a city of the dead.
[Illustration: YEZDI-GHAZT]
Daylight does not improve the appearance of Yezdi-Ghazt. The city,
which looks so weird and romantic by moonlight, loses much of its
beauty, though not its interest, when seen by the broad light of day.
The system of drainage in Yezdi-Ghazt is simple, the sewage being
thrown over, to fall, haphazard, on the ground immediately below. I
nearly had a practical illustration during my examination, which,
however, did not last long, for the side of the rock glistened with
the filth of years, and the stench and flies were unbearable.
Early next morning I set out alone to explore the strange place, and
with much difficulty and some apprehension--for I did not know how the
natives were disposed--ascended a steep rocky path, at the summit of
which a wooden drawbridge leads over a deep abyss to the gate of the
city. This bridge is the only access to Yezdi-Ghazt, which is, so to
speak, a regular fortress-town.
The rock, about half a mile long, is intersected by one narrow street,
which, covered from end to end with awnings and wooden beams, was
almost in obscurity. The sudden change from the glare outside almost
blinded one. The appearance of a Farangi is evidently rare in
Yezdi-Ghazt, for I was immediately surrounded by a crowd, who,
however, were evidently inclined to be friendly, and escorted me to
the house of the head-man, under whose guidance I visited the city.
The houses are of stone, two-storied, and mortised into the rock,
which gives them the appearance, from below, as if a touch would send
them toppling over, while a curious feature is that none of their
windows looks inwards to the street--all are in the outside wall
facing the desert. I took coffee with the head-man on his balcony--a
wooden construction, projecting over a dizzy height, and supported
by a couple of rickety-looking beams. It was nervous work, for the
flooring, which was rotten and broken into great holes, creaked
ominously. I could see Gerôme (who had evidently missed me) bustling
about the post-house, and reduced, from this height, to the size of a
fly. Making this my excuse, I quickly finished my coffee, and bade my
host farewell, nor was I sorry to be once more safe on _terra firma_.
Yezdi-Ghazt, which has a population of about five hundred, is very
old, and is said to have existed long previous to the Mohammedan
conquest. The present population are a continual source of dread to
the neighbouring towns and villages, on account of their lawlessness
and thieving proclivities, and mix very little with any of their
neighbours, who have given the unsavoury city the Turkish nickname
of "Pokloo Kalla," or "Filth Castle." Yezdi-Ghazt would not be a
desirable residence during an earthquake. The latter are of frequent
occurrence round here. Many of the villages have been laid in ruins,
but, curiously enough, the rock-city has, up till now, never even felt
a shock.
A ride of under fifty miles through level and fertile country brought
us to Abadéh, a pretty village standing in the midst of gardens and
vineyards, enclosed by high mud walls. A European telegraph official,
Mr. G----, resides here. As we passed his house--a neat white stone
building easily distinguishable among the brown mud huts--a native
servant stopped us. His master would not be back till sunset, but had
left directions that we were to be well cared for till his return.
The temptation of a bed and dinner were too much, and, as time was no
object, and snowy passes things of the past, we halted for the night.
An hour later, comfortably settled on Mr. G---- 's sofa, and dozing
over a cigar and a volume of _Punch_, my rest was suddenly disturbed
by a loud bang at the sitting-room door, which, flying open, admitted
two enormous animals, which I at first took for dogs. Both made at
once for my sofa, and, while the larger one curled comfortably round
my feet and quietly composed itself for sleep, the smaller, evidently
of a more affectionate disposition, seated itself on the floor, and
commenced licking my face and hands--an operation which, had I dared,
I should strongly have resented. But the white gleaming teeth and
cruel-looking green eyes inspired me with respect, to use no
stronger term; for I had by now discovered that these domestic
pets were--panthers! To my great relief, Mr. G---- entered at
this juncture. "Making friends with the panthers, I see," he said
pleasantly. "They are nice companionable beasts." They may have been
at the time. The fact remains that, three months after my visit, the
"affectionate one" half devoured a native child! The neighbourhood
of Abadéh, Mr. G---- informed me, swarms with these animals. Bears,
wolves, and hyenas are also common, to say nothing of jackals, which,
judging from the row they made that night, must have been patrolling
the streets of the village in hundreds.
A traveller starting from Teherán for Bushire is expected at every
European station on the telegraph-line. "I thought you would have got
here sooner," said Mr. G----. "P---- (at Ispahán) told me you were
coming through quick."
The dining-room of my host at Abadéh adjoined the little
instrument-chamber. Suddenly, while we were at dinner, a bell was
heard, and the half-caste clerk entered. "So-and-so of Shiráz," naming
an official, "wants to speak to you." "All right," replied G----.
"Just tell him to wait till I've finished my cheese!"
"It's from F----," he said, a few moments later, "to say he expects
you to make his house your head-quarters at Shiráz." So the stranger
is passed on through this desert, but hospitable land. Persian
travel would be hard indeed were it not for the ever-open doors and
hospitality of the telegraph officials.
We continue our journey next day in summer weather--almost too hot,
in the middle of the day, to be pleasant. Sheepskin and bourka are
dispensed with, as we ride lazily along under a blazing sun through
pleasant green plains of maize and barley, irrigated by babbling
brooks of crystal-clear water. A few miles from Abadéh is a
cave-village built into the side of a hill. From this issue a number
of repulsive-looking, half-naked wretches, men and women, with dark
scowling faces, and dirty masses of coarse black hair. Most are
covered with skin-disease, so we push on ahead, but are caught up, for
the loathsome creatures get over the ground with extraordinary speed.
A handful of "sheis" [A] stops them, and we leave them swearing,
struggling, and fighting for the coins in a cloud of dust. Then on
again past villages nestling in groves of mulberry trees, past more
vineyards, maize, and barley, and peasants in picturesque blue dress
(save white, no other colour is worn in summer by the country-people)
working in the fields. Their implements are rude and primitive enough.
The plough is simply a sharpened stick covered with iron. The sickle
is used for reaping. Threshing is done by means of an axle with thin
iron wheels. If such primitive means can attain such satisfactory
results, what could not modern agricultural science be made to do for
Persia?
Sunset brings a cool breeze, which before nightfall develops into a
cutting north-easter, and we shiver again under a bourka and heavy fur
pelisse. Crossing a ridge of rock, we descend upon a white plain, dim
and indistinct in the twilight. The ground crackles under our horses'
feet. It is frozen snow! A light shines out before us, however, and
by ten o'clock we are snug and safe for the night in the
telegraph-station of Deybid.
These sudden changes of temperature make the Persian climate very
trying. At this time of year, however balmy the air and bright the
sunshine at midday, one must always be prepared for a sudden and
extreme change after sunset. The Plain of Deybid was covered with snow
at least two feet deep, the temperature must have stood at very few
degrees above zero, and yet, not five hours before, we were perspiring
in our shirt-sleeves.
"Mashallah!" exclaims Gerôme next morning, shading his eyes and
looking across the dazzling white expanse. "Are we, then, never to
finish with this accursed snow?" By midday, however, we are out of it,
and, as we subsequently discover, for the last time.
We had up till now been singularly fortunate as regards accidents, or
rather evil results from them. To-day, however, luck deserted us, for
a few miles out of Deybid my right leg became so swollen that I could
scarcely sit on my horse. The pain was acute, the sensation that of
having been bitten by some poisonous insect. Gerôme, ever the Job's
comforter, suggested a centipede, adding, "If so, you will probably
have to lie up for four or five days." The look-out was not cheerful,
certainly, for at Mourghab, the first stage, I had to be lifted off my
horse and carried into the post-house.
With some difficulty my boot was cut off, and revealed the whole leg,
below the knee, discoloured and swollen to double its size, but no
sign of a wound or bite. "Blood-poisoning," says Gerôme, decidedly. "I
have seen hundreds of cases in Central Asia. It generally proves fatal
there," he adds consolingly; "but the Russian soldier is so badly
fed." The little man seems rather disappointed at my diagnosis of my
case--the effect due to a new and tight boot which I had not been able
to change since leaving Ispahán. Notwithstanding, I cannot put foot to
ground without excruciating pain. Spreading the rugs out on the dirty
earthen floor, I make up my mind to twenty-four hours here at least.
It is, perhaps, the dirtiest post-house we have seen since leaving
Teherán; but moving under the present circumstances is out of the
question.
The long summer day wears slowly away. Gerôme, like a true Russian,
hunts up a samovar in the village, and consoles himself with
innumerable glasses of tea and cigarettes, while the medicine-chest is
brought into requisition, and I bathe the swollen limb unceasingly for
three or four hours with Goulard's extract and water, surrounded by a
ring of admiring and very dirty natives. But my efforts are in vain,
for the following morning the pain is as severe, the leg as swollen as
ever. Gerôme is all for applying a blister, which he says will "bring
the poison out"! Another miserable day breaks, and finds me still
helpless. I do not think I ever realized before how slowly time can
pass, for I had not a single book, with the exception of "Propos
d'Exil," by Pierre Loti, and even that delightful work is apt to pall
after three complete perusals in the space of as many weeks. From
sunrise to sunset I lay, prone on my back, staring up at the cobwebby,
smoke-blackened rafters, while the shadows shortened and lengthened in
the bright sunlit yard, the monotonous silence broken only by the deep
regular snores of my companion, whose capacity for sleep was something
marvellous, the clucking of poultry, and the occasional stamp or snort
of a horse in the stable below. Now and again a rat would crawl out,
and, emboldened by the stillness, creep close up to me, darting back
into its hole with a jump and a squeal as I waved it off with hand or
foot. My visitors from the village did not return to-day, which was
something to be thankful for, although towards evening I should have
hailed even them with delight--dirt, vermin, and all. Patience was
rewarded, for next day I was able to stand, and towards evening set
out for Kawamabad, twenty-four miles distant. Though still painful and
almost black, all inflammation had subsided, and three days later I
was able to get on a boot "You'd have been well in half the time,"
insisted Gerôme, "if you had only let me apply a blister."
The road from Mourghab to Kawamabad is wild and picturesque, leading
through a narrow gorge, on either side of which are precipitous cliffs
of rock and forest, three or four hundred feet high. A broad, swift
torrent dashes through the valley, which is about a quarter of a mile
broad. In places the pathway, hewn out of the solid rock, is barely
three feet wide, without guard or handrail of any kind. This part of
the journey was reached at sunset, and we did not emerge on the plain
beyond till after dark. Our horses were, fortunately, as active as
cats, and knew their way well, for to guide them was impossible. In
places one's foot actually swung over the precipice, and a false step
must have sent one crashing over the side and into the roaring torrent
below, which, perhaps luckily, we could only hear, not see.
The ruins of Persepolis are situated about fifty miles north-east of
Shiráz, two or three miles from the main road. Signs that we were
approaching the famous city were visible for some distance before we
actually reached them. Not fifty yards from the post-house of Poozeh,
a picturesque spot surrounded by a chain of rocky, snow-capped hills,
we came upon a kind of cave, with carvings in bas-relief on its
granite walls, representing figures of men and horses from eight to
ten feet high, evidently of great antiquity. The desecrating hand of
the British tourist had, however, left its mark in the shape of the
name "J. Isaacson" cut deep into one of the slabs, considerably
marring its beauty.
It is not my intention to write a description of the ruins that now
mark the spot where once stood the capital of the Persian Empire. To
say nothing of its having been so graphically portrayed by far more
competent hands, my visit was of such short duration that I carried
away but faint recollections of the famous city. The fact that it
had been persistently crammed down my throat, upon every available
occasion, ever since I landed in Persia, may have had something to do
with the feeling of disappointment which I experienced on first sight
of the ruins. It may be that, like many other things, they grow upon
one. If so, the loss was mine. I cannot, however, help thinking that
to any but a student of archæology, Persepolis lacks interest. The
Pyramids, Pompeii, the ancient buildings of Rome and Greece, are
picturesque; Persepolis is not. I noticed, however, that here, as at
Poozeh, the British tourist had been busy with chisel and hammer, and,
I am ashamed to add, some of the names I read are as well known in
England as that of the Prince of Wales.
On the 18th of February, just before midnight, we rode into Shiráz.
The approach to the city lying before us, white and still in the
moonlight, through cypress-groves and sweet-smelling gardens, gave me
a favourable impression, which a daylight inspection only served to
increase. Shiráz is the pleasantest reminiscence I retain of the ride
through Persia.
[Footnote A: Small copper money.]