TABREEZ TO TEHERAN.
The wheeling improves in the afternoon, and alongside my road runs a bit
of civilization in the shape of the splendid iron poles of the Indo-European
Telegraph Company. Half a dozen times this afternoon I become the imaginary
enemy of a couple of cavalrymen travelling in the same direction as
myself; they swoop down upon me from the rear at a charging gallop,
valiantly whooping and brandishing their Martini-Henrys; when they arrive
within a few yards of my rear wheel they swerve off on either side and
rein their fiery chargers up, allowing me to forge ahead; they amuse
themselves by repeating this interesting performance over and over again.
Being usually a good rider, the dash and courage of the Persian cavalryman
is something extraordinary in time of peace; no more brilliant and
intrepid cavalry charge on a small scale could be well imagined than I
have witnessed several times this afternoon. But upon the outbreak of
serious hostilities the average warrior in the Shah's service suddenly
becomes filled with a wild, pathetic yearning after the peaceful and
honorable calling of a katir-jee, an uncontrollable desire to become a
humble, contented tiller of the soil, or handy-man about a tchaikhan,
anything, in fact, of a strictly peaceful character. Were I a hostile
trooper with a red jacket, and a general warlike appearance, and the
bicycle a machine gun, though our whooping, charging cavalrymen were
twenty instead of two, they would only charge once, and that would be
with their horses' crimson-dyed tails streaming in the breeze toward me.
The Shah's soldiers are gentle, unwarlike creatures at heart; there are
probably no soldiers in the whole world that would acquit themselves
less creditably in a pitched battle; they are, nevertheless, not without
certain soldierly qualities, well adapted to their country; the cavalrymen
are very good riders, and although the infantry does not present a very
encouraging appearance on the parade-ground, they would meander across
five hundred miles of country on half rations of blotting-paper ekmek
without any vigorous remonstrance, and wait uncomplainingly for their
pay until the middle of next year. About five o'clock I arrive at Hadji
Agha, a large village forty miles from Tabreez; here, as soon as it is
ascertained that I intend remaining over night, I am actually beset by
rival khan-jees, who commence jabbering and gesticulating about the
merits of their respective establishments, like hotel-runners in the
United States; of course they are several degrees less rude and boisterous,
and more considerate of one's personal inclinations than their prototypes
in America, but they furnish yet another proof that there is nothing new
under the sun. Hadji Agha is a village of seyuds, or descendants of the
Prophet, these and the mollahs being the most bigoted class in Persia;
when I drop into the tchai-khan for a glass or two of tea, the sanctimonious
old joker with henna-tinted beard and finger-nails, presiding over the
samovar, rolls up his eyes in holy horror at the thoughts of waiting
upon an unhallowed Ferenghi, and it requires considerable pressure from
the younger and less fanatical men to overcome his disinclination; he
probably breaks the glass I drank from after my departure.
About dusk the Valiat and his courtiers arrive on horseback from Tabreez;
the Prince immediately seeks my quarters at the khan, and, after examining
the bicycle, wants me to take it out and ride; it is getting rather dark,
however, so I put him off till morning; he remains and smokes cigarettes
with me for half an hour, and then retires to the residence of the local
Khan for the night. The Prince seems an amiable, easy-going sort of a
person; while in my company his countenance is wreathed in a pleasant
smile continually, and I fancy he habitually wears that same expression.
His youthful courtiers seem frivolous young bloods, putting in most of
the half-hour in showing me their accomplishments in the way of making
floating rings of their cigarette smoke. Later in the evening I stroll
around to the tchai-khan again; it is the gossiping-place of the village,
and I find our sanctimonious seyuds indulging in uncomplimentary comments
regarding the Yaliat's conduct in hobnobbing with the Ferenghi; how
bigoted these Persians are, and yet how utterly destitute of principle
and moral character. In the morning the Prince sends me an invitation
to come and drink tea with them before starting out; he bears the same
perennial smile as yesterday evening. Although he is generally understood
to be completely under the influence of the fanatical and bigoted seyuds
and mollahs, who are strictly opposed to the Ferenghi and the Fereughi's
ideas of progress and civilization, he seems withal an amiable, well-disposed
young man, whom one could scarce help liking personally, arid feeling
sorry at the troubles in store for him ahead. He has an elder brother,
the Zil-es-Sultan, now governor of the Southern Provinces; but not being
the son of a royal princess, the Shah has nominated Ameer-i-Nazan as his
successor to the throne. The Zil-es-Sultan, although of a somewhat cruel
disposition, has proved himself a far more capable and energetic person
than the Valiat, and makes no secret of the fact that he intends disputing
the succession with his brother, by force of arms if necessary, at the
Shah's demise. He has, so at least it is currently reported, had his
sword-blade engraved with the grim inscription, "This is for the Valiat's
head," and has jocularly notified his inoffensive brother of the fact.
The Zil-es-Sultau belongs to the party of progress; recks little of the
opinions of priests and fanatics, is fond of Englishmen and European
improvements, and keeps a kennel of English bull dogs. Should he become
Shah of Persia, Baron Reuter's grand scheme of railways and commercial
regeneration, which was foiled by the fanaticism of the seyuds and mollahs
soon after the Shah's visit to England, may yet come to something, and
the railroad rails now rusting in the swamps of the Caspian littoral
may, after all, form part of a railway between the seaboard and the
capital. The road for a short distance east of Hadji Agha is splendid
wheeling, and the Prince and his courtiers accompany me for some two
miles, finding much amusement in racing with me whenever the road permits
of spurting. The country now develops into undulating upland, uncultivated
and stone-strewn, except where an occasional stream, affording irrigating
facilities, has rendered possible the permanent maintenance of a mud
village and a circumscribed area of wheat-fields, melon-gardens, and
vineyards. No sooner does one find himself launched upon the comparatively
well-travelled post-route than a difference becomes manifest in the
character of the people. Commercially speaking, the Persian is considerably
more of a Jew than the Jew himself, and along a route frequented by
travellers, the person possessing some little knowledge of the thievish
ways of the country and of current prices, besides having plenty of small
change, finds these advantages a matter for congratulation almost every
hour of the day. The proprietor of a wretched little mud hovel, solemnly
presiding over a few thin sheets of bread, a jar of rancid, hirsute
butter, and a dozen half-ripe melons, affects a glum, sorrowful expression
to think that he should happen to be without small change, and consequently
obliged to accept the Hamsherri's fifty kopec piece for provisions of
one-tenth the value; but the mysterious frequency of this same state of
affairs and accompanying sorrowful expression, taken in connection with
the actual plenitude of small change in Persia, awakens suspicions even
in the mind of the most confiding and uninitiated person. A peculiar
system of commercial mendicancy obtains among the proprietors of melon
and cucumber gardens alongside the road of this particular part of the
country; observing a likely-looking traveller approaching, they come
running to him with a melon or cucumber that they know to be utterly
worthless, and beg the traveller to accept it as a present; delighted,
perhaps with their apparent simple-hearted hospitality, and, moreover,
sufficiently thirsty to appreciate the gift of a melon, the unsuspecting
wayfarer tenders the crafty proprietor of the garden a suitable present
of money in return and accepts the proffered gift; upon cutting it open
he finds the melon unfit for anything, and it gradually dawns upon him
that he has just grown a trifle wiser concerning the inbred cunningness
and utter dishonesty of the Persians than he was before. Ere the day is
ended the same game will probably be attempted a dozen times. In addition
to these artful customers, one occasionally comes across small colonies
of lepers, who, being compelled to isolate themselves from their fellows,
have taken up their abode in rude hovels or caves by the road-side, and
sally forth in all their hideousness to beset the traveller with piteous
cries for assistance. Some of these poor lepers are loathsome in appearance
to the last degree; their scanty coverings of rags and tatters conceals
nothing of the ravages of their dread disease; some sit at the entrance
to their hovels, stretching out their hands and piteously appealing for
alms; others drop down exhausted in the road while endeavoring to run
and overtake the passer-by; there is nothing deceptive about these
wretched outcasts, their condition is only too glaringly apparent. Toward
sundown I arrive at Turcomanchai, a large village, where in 1828, was
drawn up the Treaty of Peace between Persia and Russia, which transferred
the remaining Persian territory of the Caucasus into the capacious maw
of the Northern Bear. It is currently reported that after depriving the
Persians of their rights to the navigation of the Caspian Sea the Czar
coolly gave his amiable friend the Shah a practical lesson concerning
the irony of fortune by presenting him with a yacht. Seeking the guidance
of a native to the caravanserai, this quick-witted individual leads the
way through tortuous alleyways to the other end of the village and pilots
me to the camp of a tea caravan, pitched on the outskirts, thinking I
had requested to be guided to a caravan; the caravan men direct me to
the chapar-khana, where accommodations of the usual rude nature are
provided. Sending into the village for eggs, sugar, and tea, the chapar-
khana keeper and stablemen produce a battered samovar, and after frying
my supper, they prepare tea; they are poor, ragged fellows, but they
seem light-hearted and contented; the siren song of the steaming samovar
seems to a waken in their semi-civilized breasts a sympathetic response,
and they fall to singing and making merry over tiny glasses of sweetened
tea quite as naturally as sailors in a seaport groggery, or Germans over
a keg of lager. Jolly, happy-go-lucky fellows though they outwardly
appear, they prove no exception, however, to the general run of their
countrymen in the matter of petty dishonesty; although I gave them money
enough to purchase twice the quantity of provisions they brought back,
besides promising them the customary small present before leaving, in
the morning they make a further attempt on my purse under pretence of
purchasing more butter to cook the remainder of the eggs. These are
trifling matters to discuss, but they serve to show the wide difference
between the character of the peasant classes in Persia and Turkey. The
chapar-khana usually consists of a walled enclosure containing stabling
for a large number of horses and quarters for the stablemen and station-
keeper. The quickest mode of travelling in Persia is by chapar, or, in
other words, on horseback, obtaining fresh horses at each chapar-khana.
The country east of Turcomanchai consists of rough, uninteresting upland,
with nothing to vary the monotony of the journey, until noon, when after
wheeling five farsakhs I reach the town of Miana, celebrated throughout
the Shah's dominions for a certain poisonous bug which inhabits the mud
walls of the houses, and is reputed to bite the inhabitants while they
are sleeping. The bite is said to produce violent and prolonged fever,
and to be even, dangerous to life. It is customary to warn travellers
against remaining over night at Miana, and, of course, I have not by any
means been forgotten. Like most of these alleged dreadful things, it is
found upon close investigation to be a big bogey with just sufficient
truthfulness about it to play upon the imaginative minds of the people.
The "Miana bug-bear" would, I think, be a more appropriate name than
Miana bug. The people here seem inclined to be rather rowdyish in their
reception of a Ferenghi without an escort. While trundling through the
bazaar toward the telegraph station I become the unhappy target for
covertly thrown melon-rinds and other unwelcome missiles, for which there
appears no remedy except the friendly shelter of the station. This is
just outside the town, and before the gate is reached, stones are exchanged
for melon-rinds, but fortunately without any serious damage being done.
Mr. F--, a young German operator, has charge of the control-station here,
and welcomes me most cordially to share his comfortable quarters, urging
me to remain with him several days. I gladly accept his hospitality till
tomorrow morning. Mr. F-- has a brother who has recently become a
Mussulman, and married a couple of Persian wives; he is also residing
temporarily at Miana. He soon comes around to the telegraph station,
and turns out to be a wild harum-skarum sort of a person, who regards
his transformation into a Mussulman and the setting up of a harem of his
own as anything but a serious affair. As a reward for embracing the
Mohammedan religion and becoming a Persian subject the Shah has given
him a sum of money and a position in the Tabreez mint, besides bestowing
upon him the sounding title of Mirza Ab-dul Karim Khan. It seems that
inducements of a like substantial nature are held out to any Ferenghi
of known respectability who formally embraces the Shiite branch of the
Mohammedan religion, and becomes a Persian subject - a rare chance for
chronic ne'er-do-wells among ourselves, one would think.
This novel and festive convert to Islam readily gives me a mental peep
behind the scenes of Persian domestic life, and would unhesitatingly
have granted me a peep in person had such a thing been possible. Imagine
the ordinary costume of an opera-bouffe artist, shorn of all regard for
the difference between real indecency and the suggestiveness of indelicacy
permissible behind the footlights, and we have the every-day costume of
the Persian harem. In the dreamy eventide the lord of the harem usually
betakes himself to that characteristic institution of the East and
proceeds to drive dull care away by smoking the kalian and watching an
exhibition of the terpsichorean talent of his wives or slaves. This does
not consist of dancing, such as we are accustomed to understand the art,
but of graceful posturing and bodily contortions, spinning round like a
coryphee, with hand aloft, and snapping their fingers or clashing tiny
brass cymbals; standing with feet motionless and wriggling the joints,
or bending backward until their loose, flowing tresses touch the ground.
Persians able to afford the luxury have their womens' apartment walled
with mirrors, placed at appropriate angles, so that when enjoying these
exhibitions of his wives' abilities he finds himself not merely in the
presence of three or six wives, as the case may be, but surrounded on
all sides by scores of airy-fairy nymphs, and amid the dreamy fumes and
soothing bubble-bubbling of his kalian can imagine himself the happy - or
one would naturally think, unhappy - possessor of a hundred. The effect
of this mirror-work arrangement can be better imagined than described.
"You haven't got one of those mirrored rooms, have you?" I inquire,
beginning to get a trifle inquisitive, and perhaps rather impertinent.
"You couldn't manage to smuggle a fellow inside, disguised as a seyud
or--" "Nicht," replies Mirza Abdul Kaiim Khan, laughing, "I have not
bothered about a mirror chamber yet, because I only remain here for
another month; but if you happen to come to Tabreez any time after I get
settled down there, look me up, and I'll-hello! here comes Prince
Assabdulla to see your velocipede!" Fatteh - Ali Shah, the grandfather of
the present monarch, had some seventy-two sons, besides no lack of
daughters. As the son of a prince inherits his father's title in Persia,
the numerous descendants of Fatteh-Ali Shah are scattered all over the
empire, and royal princes bob serenely up in every town of any consequence
in the country. They are frequently found occupying some snug, but not
always lucrative, post under the Government. Prince Assabdulla has learned
telegraphy, and has charge of the government control-station here, drawing
a salary considerably less than the agent of the English company's line.
The Persian Government telegraph line consists of one wire strung on
tumble-down wooden poles. It is erected alongside the splendid English
line of triple wires and substantial iron poles, and the control-stations
are built adjacent to the English stations, as though the Persians were
rather timid about their own abilities as telegraphists, and preferred
to nestle, as it were, under the protecting shadow of the English line.
Prince Assabdulla has an elder brother who is Governor of Miana, and who
comes around to see the bicycle during the afternoon; they both seem
pleasant and agreeable fellows. "When the heat of the day has given place
to cooler eventide, and the moon comes peeping over the lofty Koflan
Koo Mountains, near-by to the eastward, we proceed to a large fruit-garden
on the outskirts of the town, and, sitting on the roof of a building,
indulge in luscious purple grapes as large as walnuts, and pears that
melt away in the mouth. Mirza Abdul Karim Khan plays a German accordeon,
and Prince Assabdulla sings a Persian love-song; the leafy branches of
poplar groves are whispering in response to a gentle breeze, and playing
hide-and-seek across the golden face of the moon, and the mountains have
assumed a shadowy, indistinct appearance. It is a scene of transcendental
loveliness, characteristic of a Persian moonlight night.
Afterward we repair to Mirza Abdul Kiirim Khan's house to smoke the
kalian and drink tea. His favorite wife, whom he has taught to respond
to the purely Frangistan name of " Eosie," replenishes and lights the
kalian-giving it a few preliminary puffs herself by way of getting it
under headway before handing it to her husband-and then serves us with
glasses of sweetened tea from the samovar. In deference to her Ferenghi
brother-in-law and myself, Eosie has donned a gauzy shroud over the
above-mentioned in-door costume of the Persian female. "She is a beautiful
dancer," says her husband, admiringly, "I wish it were possible for you
to see her dance this evening; bat it isn't; Eosie herself wouldn't mind,
but it would be pretty certain to leak out, and Miana being a rather
fanatical place, my life wouldn't be worth that much," and the Khan
carelessly snapped his fingers. Supper is brought up to the telegraph
station. Prince Assabdulla is invited, and comes round with his servant
bearing a number of cucumbers and a bottle of arrack; the Prince, being
a genuine Mohammedan, is forbidden by his religion to indulge; consequently
he consumes the fiery arrack in preference to some light and harmless
native wine; such is the perversity of human nature.
Two princes and a khan are cantering (not khan-tering) alongside the
bicycle as I pull out eastward from Miana. They accompany me to the foot-
hills approaching the Koflan Koo Pass, and wishing me a pleasant journey,
turn their horses' heads homeward again. Reaching the pass proper, I
find it to be an exceedingly steep trundle, but quite easy climbing
compared with a score of mountain passes in Asia Minor, for the surface
is reasonably smooth, and toward the summit is an ancient stone causeway.
A new and delightful experience awaits me upon the summit of the pass;
the view to the westward is a revelation of mountain scenery altogether
new and novel in my experience, which can now scarcely be called unvaried.
I seem to be elevated entirely above the surface of the earth, and gazing
down through transparent, ethereal depths upon a scene of everchanging
beauty. Fleecy cloudlets are floating lazily over the valley far below
my position, producing on the landscape a panoramic scene of constantly
changing shadows; through the ethery depths, so wonderfully transparent,
the billowy gray foothills, the meandering streams fringed with green,
and Miana with its blue-domed mosques and emerald gardens, present a
phantasmagorical appearance, as though they themselves were floating
about in the lower strata of space, and undergoing constant transformation.
Perched on an apparently inaccessible crag to the north is an ancient
robber stronghold commanding the pass; it is a natural fortress, requiring
but a few finishing touches by man to render it impregnable in the days
when the maintenance of robber strongholds were possible. Owing to its
walls and battlements being chiefly erected by nature, the Persian
peasantry call it the Perii-Kasr, believing it to have been built by
fairies. While descending the eastern slope, I surprise a gray lizard
almost as large as a rabbit, basking in the sunbeams; he briskly scuttles
off into the rocks upon being disturbed.
Crossing the Sefid Rud on a dilapidated brickwork bridge, I cross another
range of low hills, among which I notice an abundance of mica cropping
above the surface, and then descend on to a broad, level plain, extending
eastward without any lofty elevation as far as eye can reach. On this
shelterless plain I am overtaken by a furious equinoctial gale; it comes
howling suddenly from the west, obscuring the recently vacated Koflan
Koo Mountains behind an inky veil, filling the air with clouds of dust,
and for some minutes rendering it necessary to lie down and fairly hang
on to the ground to prevent being blown about. First it begins to rain,
then to hail; heaven's artillery echoes and reverberates in the Koflan
Koo Mountains, and rolls above the plain, seeming to shake the hailstones
down like fruit from the branches of the clouds, and soon I am enveloped
in a pelting, pitiless downpour of hailstones, plenty large enough to
make themselves felt wherever they strike. To pitch my tent would have
been impossible, owing to the wind and the suddenness of its appearance.
In thirty minutes or less it is all over; the sun shines out warmly and
dissipates the clouds, and converts the ground into an evaporator that
envelops everything in steam. In an hour after it quits raining, the
road is dry again, and across the plain it is for the most part excellent
wheeling.
About four o'clock the considerable village of Sercham is reached; here,
as at Hadji Aghi, I at once become the bone of contention between rival
khan-jees wanting to secure me for a guest, on the supposition that I
am going to remain over night. Their anxiety is all unnecessary, however,
for away off on the eastern horizon can be observed clusters of familiar
black dots that awaken agreeable reflections of the night spent in the
Koordish camp between Ovahjik and Khoi. I remain in Sercham long enough
to eat a watermelon, ride, against my will, over rough ground to appease
the crowd, and then pull out toward the Koordish camps which are evidently
situated near my proper course.
It seeins to have rained heavily in the mountains and not rained at all
east of Sercham, for during the next hour I am compelled to disrobe, and
ford several freshets coursing down ravines over beds that before the
storm were inches deep in dust, the approaching slopes being still dusty;
this little diversion causes me to thank fortune that I have been enabled
to keep in advance of the regular rainy season, which commences a little
later. Striking a Koordish camp adjacent to the trail I trundle toward
one of the tents; before reaching it I am overhauled by a shepherd who
hands me a handful of dried peaches from a wallet suspended from his
waist. The evening air is cool with a suggestion of frostiness, and the
occupants of the tent are found crouching around a smoking tezek fire;
they are ragged and of rather unprepossessing appearance, but being
instinctively hospitable, they shuffle around to make me welcome at the
fire; at first I almost fancy myself mistaken in thinking them Koords,
for there is nothing of the neatness and cleanliness of our late
acquaintances about them; on the contrary, they are almost as repulsive
as their sedentary relatives of Dele Baba-but a little questioning removes
all doubt of their being Koords. They are simply an ill-conditioned
tribe, without any idea whatever of thrift or good management. They have
evidently been to Tabreez or somewhere lately, and invested most of the
proceeds of the season's shearing in three-year-old dried peaches that
are hard enough to rattle like pebbles; sacksful of these edibles are
scattered all over the tent serving for seats, pillows, and general
utility articles for the youngsters to roll about on, jump over, and
throw around; everybody in the camp seems to be chewing these peaches
and throwing them about in sheer wantonness because they are plentiful;
every sack contains finger-holes from which one and all help themselves
ad libitum in wanton disregard of the future.
Nearly everybody seems to be suffering from ophthalmia, which is aggravated
by crouching over the densely smoking tezek; and one miserable-looking
old character is groaning and writhing with the pain of a severe stomach-
ache. By loafing lazily about the tent all day, and chewing these flinty
dried peaches, this hopeful old joker has well-nigh brought himself to
the unhappy condition of the Yosemite valley mule, who broke into the
tent and consumed half a bushel of dried peaches; when the hunters
returned to camp and were wondering what marauder had visited their tent
and stolen the peaches, they heard a loud explosion behind the tent;
hastily going out they discover the remnants of the luckless mule scattered
about in all directions. Of course I am appealed to for a remedy, and I
am not sorry to have at last come across an applicant for my services
as a hakim, for whose ailment I can prescribe with some degree of
confidence; to make assurance doubly sure I give the sufferer a double
dose, and in the morning have the satisfaction of finding him entirely
relieved from his misery. There seems to be no order or sense of good
manners whatever among these people; we have bread and half-stewed peaches
for supper, and while they are cooking, ill-mannered youngsters are
constantly fishing them from the kettles with weed-stalks, meeting with
no sort of reproof from their elders for so doing; when bedtime arrives,
everybody seizes quilts, peach-sacks, etc., and crawls wherever they can
for warmth and comfort; three men, two women, and several children occupy
the same compartment as myself, and gaunt dogs are nosing hungrily about
among us. About midnight there is a general hallooballoo among the dogs,
and the clatter of horses' hoofs is heard outside the tent; the occupants
of the tent, including myself, spring up, wondering what the disturbance
is all about. A group of horsemen are visible in the bright moonlight
outside, and one of them has dismounted, and under the guidance of a
shepherd, is about entering the tent; seeing me spring up, and being
afraid lest perchance I might misinterpret their intentions and act
accordingly, he sings out in a soothing voice, "Kardash, Hamsherri;
Kardash, Kardash." thus assuring me of their peaceful intentions. These
midnight visitors turn out to be a party of Persian travellers from
Miana, from which it would appear they have less fear of the Koords
here than in Koordistan near the frontier; having, somehow, found out
my whereabouts, they have come to try and persuade me to leave the camp
and join their company to Zenjan. Although my own unfavorable impressions
of my entertainers are seconded by the visitors' reiterated assurances
that these Koords are bad people, I decline to accompany them, knowing
the folly of attempting to bicycle over these roads by moonlight in the
company of horsemen who would be continually worrying me to ride, no
matter what the condition of the road; after remaining in camp half an
hour they take their departure.
In the morning I discover that my mussulman hat-band has mysteriously
disappeared, and when preparing to depart, a miscellaneous collection
of females gather about me, seize the bicycle, and with much boisterous
hilarity refuse to let me depart until I have given each one of them
some money; their behavior is on the whole so outrageous, that I appeal
to my patient of yesterday evening, in whose bosom I fancy I may perchance
have kindled a spark of gratitude; but the old reprobate no longer has
the stomach-ache, and he regards my unavailing efforts to break away
from my hoi-denish tormentors with supreme indifference, as though there
were nothing extraordinary in their conduct. The demeanor of these wild-
eyed Koordish females on this occasion fully convinces me that the stories
concerning their barbarous conduct toward travellers captured on the
road is not an exaggeration, for while preventing my departure they seem
to take a rude, boisterous delight in worrying me on all sides, like a
gang of puppies barking and harassing anything they fancy powerless to
do them harm. After I have finally bribed my freedom from the women, the
men seize me and attempt to further detain me until they can send for
their Sheikh to come from another camp miles away, to see me ride. After
waiting a reasonable time, out of respect for their having accommodated
me with quarters for the night, and no signs of the Sheikh appearing, I
determine to submit to their impudence no longer; they gather around me
as before, but presenting my revolver and assuming an angry expression,
I threaten instant destruction to the next one laying hands on either
myself or the bicycle; they then give way with lowering brows and sullen
growls of displeasure. My rough treatment on this occasion compared with
my former visit to a Koordish camp, proves that there is as much difference
between the several tribes of nomad Koords, as between their sedentary
relatives of Dele Baba and Malosman respectively; for their general
reputation, it were better that I had spent the night in Sercham. A few
miles from the camp, I am overtaken by four horsemen followed by several
dogs and a pig; it proves to be the tardy Sheikh and his retainers, who
have galloped several miles to catch me up; the Sheikh is a pleasant,
intelligent fellow of thirty or thereabouts, and astonishes me by
addressing me as "Monsieur;" they canter alongside for a mile or so,
highly delighted, when the Sheikh cheerily sings out "Adieu, monsieur!"
and they wheel about and return; had their Sheikh been in the camp I
stayed at, my treatment would undoubtedly have been different. I am at
the time rather puzzled to account for so strange a sight as a pig
galloping briskly behind the horses, taking no notice of the dogs which
continually gambol about him; but I afterward discover that a pet pig,
trained to follow horses, is not an unusual thing among the Persians and
Persian Koords; they are thin, wiry animals of a sandy color, and quite
capable of following a horse for hours; they live in the stable with
their equine companions, finding congenial occupation in rooting around
for stray grains of barley; the horses and pig are said to become very
much attached to each other; when on the road the pig is wont to signify
its disapproval of a too rapid pace, by appealing squeaks and grunts,
whereupon the horse responsively slacks its speed to a more accommodating
speed for its porcine companion. The road now winds tortuously along the
base of some low gravel hills, and the wheeling perceptibly improves;
beyond Nikbey it strikes across the hilly country, and more trundling
becomes necessary. At Nikbey I manage to leave the inhabitants in a
profound puzzle by replying that I am not a Ferenghi, but an Englishman;
this seems to mystify them not a little, and they commence inquiring
among themselves for an explanation of the difference; they are probably
inquiring yet. Fifty-eight miles are covered from the Koordish camp, and
at three o'clock the blue-tiled domes of the Zendjan mosques appear in
sight; these blue-tiled domes are more characteristic of Persian mosques,
which are usually built of bricks, and have no lofty tapering minarets
as in Turkey; the summons to prayers are called from the top of a wall
or roof. When approaching the city gate, a half-crazy man becomes wildly
excited at the spectacle of a man on a wheel, and, rushing up, seizes
hold of the handle; as I spring from the saddle he rapidly takes to his
heels; finding that I am not pursuing him, he plucks up courage, and
timidly approaching, begs me to let him see me ride again. Zendjan is
celebrated for the manufacture of copper vessels, and the rat-a-tat-tat
of the workmen beating them out in the coppersmiths' quarters is heard
fully a mile outside the gate; the hammering is sometimes deafening while
trundling through these quarters, and my progress through it is indicated
by what might perhaps be termed a sympathetic wave of silence following
me along, the din ceasing at my approach and commencing again with renewed
vigor after I have passed.
Mr. F--, a Levantine gentleman in charge of the station here, fairly
outdoes himself in the practical interpretation of genuine old-fashioned
hospitality, which brooks no sort of interference with the comfort of
his guest; understanding the perpetual worry a person travelling in so
extraordinary a manner must be subject to among an excessively inquisitive
people like the Persians, he kindly takes upon himself the duty of
protecting me from anything of the kind during the day I remain over as
his guest, and so manages to secure me much appreciated rest and quiet.
The Governor of the city sends an officer around saying that himself and
several prominent dignitaries would like very much to see the bicycle.
"Very good, replies Mr. F--, "the bicycle is here, and Mr. Stevens will
doubtless be pleased to receive His Excellency and the leading officials
of Zendjan any time it suits their convenience to call, and will probably
have no objections to showing them the bicycle." It is, perhaps, needless
to explain that the Governor doesn't turn up; I, however, have an
interesting visitor in the person of the Sheikh-ul-Islam (head of religious
affairs in Zendjan), a venerable-looking old party in flowing gown and
monster turban, whose hands and flowing beard are dyed to a ruddy yellow
with henna. The Sheikh-ul-Islam is considered the holiest personage in
Zendjan and his appearance and demeanor does not in the least belie his
reputation; whatever may be his private opinion of himself, he makes far
less display of sanctimoniousness than many of the common seyuds, who
usually gather their garments about them whenever they pass a Ferenghi
in the bazaar, for fear their clothing should become defiled by brushing
against him. The Sheikh-ul-Islam fulfils one's idea of a gentle-bred,
worthy-minded old patriarch; he examines the bicycle and listens to the
account of my journey with much curiosity and interest, and bestows a
flattering mead of praise on the wonderful ingenuity of the Ferenghis
as exemplified in my wheel.
>From Zeudjan eastward the road gradually improves, and after a dozen
miles develops into the finest wheeling yet encountered in Asia; the
country is a gravelly plain between a mountain chain on the left and a
range of lesser hills to the right. Near noon I pass through Sultaneah,
formerly a favorite country resort of the Persian monarchs; on the broad,
grassy plain, during the autumn, the Shah was wont to find amusement in
manoeuvring his cavalry regiments, and for several months an encampment
near Sultaneah became the head-quarters of that arm of the service. The
Shah's palace and the blue dome of a large mosque, now rapidly crumbling
to decay, are visible many miles before reaching the village. The presence
of the Shah and his court doesn't seem to have exerted much of a refining
or civilizing influence on the common villagers; otherwise they have
retrograded sadly toward barbarism again since Sultaneah has ceased to
be a favorite resort. They appear to regard the spectacle of a lone
Ferenghi meandering through their wretched village on a wheel, as an
opportunity of doing something aggressive for the cause of Islam not to
be overlooked; I am followed by a hooting mob of bare-legged wretches,
who forthwith proceed to make things lively and interesting, by pelting
me with stones and clods of dirt. One of these wantonly aimed missiles
catches me square between the shoulders, with a force that, had it struck
me fairly on the back of the neck, would in all probability have knocked
me clean out of the saddle; unfortunately, several irrigating ditches
crossing the road immediately ahead prevent escape by a spurt, and nothing
remains but to dismount and proceed to make the best of it. There are
only about fifty of them actively interested, and part of these being
mere boys, they are anything but a formidable crowd of belligerents if
one could only get in among them with a stuffed club; they seem but
little more than human vermin in their rags and nakedness, and like
vermin, the greatest difficulty is to get hold of them. Seeing me dismount,
they immediately take to their heels, only to turn and commence throwing
stones again at finding themselves unpursued; while I am retreating and
actively dodging the showers of missiles, they gradually venture closer
and closer, until things becoming too warm and dangerous, I drop the
bicycle, and make a feint toward them; they then take to their heels,
to return to the attack again as before, when I again commence retreating.
Finally I try the experiment of a shot in the air, by way of notifying
them of my ability to do them serious injury; this has the effect of
keeping them at a more respectful distance, but they seem to understand
that I am not intending serious shooting, and the more expert throwers
manage to annoy me considerably until ridable ground is reached; seeing
me mount, they all come racing pell-mell after me, hurling stones, and
howling insulting epithets after me as a Ferenghi, but with smooth road
ahead I am, of course, quickly beyond their reach.
The villages east of Sultaneah are observed to be, almost without
exception, surrounded by a high mud wall, a characteristic giving them
the appearance of fortifications rather than mere agricultural villages;
the original object of this was, doubtless, to secure themselves against
surprises from wandering tribes; and as the Persians seldom think of
changing anything, the custom is still maintained. Bushes are now
occasionally observed near the roadside, from every twig of which a strip
of rag is fluttering in the breeze; it is an ancient custom still kept
up among the Persian peasantry when approaching any place they regard
with reverence, as the ruined mosque and imperial palace at Sultaneah,
to tear a strip of rag from their clothing and fasten it to some roadside
bush; this is supposed to bring them good luck in their undertakings,
and the bushes are literally covered with the variegated offerings of
the superstitious ryots; where no bushes are handy, heaps of small stones
are indicative of the same belief; every time he approaches the well-known
heap, the peasant picks up a pebble, and adds it to the pile. Owing to
a late start and a prevailing head-wind, but forty-six miles are covered
to-day, when about sundown I seek the accommodation of the chapar-khana,
at Heeya; but, providing the road continues good, I promise myself to
polish off the sixty miles between here and Kasveen, to-morrow. The
chaparkhana sleeping apartments at Heeya contain whitewashed walls and
reed matting, and presents an appearance of neatness and cleanliness
altogether foreign to these institutions previously patronized; here,
also, first occurs the innovation from "Hamsherri" to "Sahib," when
addressing me in a respectful manner; it will be Sahib, from this point
clear to, through and beyond India; my various titles through the different
countries thus far traversed have been; Monsieur, Herr, Effendi, Hamsherri,
and now Sahib; one naturally wonders what new surprises are in store
ahead. A bountiful supper of scrambled eggs (toke-mi-morgue) is obtained
here, and the customary shake-down on the floor. After getting rid of
the crowd I seek my rude couch, and am soon in the land of unconsciousness;
an hour afterward I am awakened by the busy hum of conversation; and,
behold, in the dim light of a primitive lamp, I become conscious of
several pairs of eyes immediately above me, peering with scrutinizing
inquisitiveness into my face; others are examining the bicycle standing
against the wall at my head. Rising up, I find the chapar-lchana crowded
with caravan teamsters, who, going past with a large camel caravan from
the Caspian seaport of Eesht, have heard of the bicycle, and come flocking
to my room; I can hear the unmelodious clanging of the big sheet-iron
bells as their long string of camels file slowly past the building.
Daylight finds me again on the road, determined to make the best of early
morning, ere the stiff easterly wind, which seems inclined to prevail
of late, commences blowing great guns against me. A short distance out,
I meet a string of some three hundred laden camels that have not yet
halted after the night's march; scores of large camel caravans have been
encountered since leaving Erzeroum, but they have invariably been halting
for the day; these camels regard the bicycle with a timid reserve, merely
swerving a step or two off their course as I wheel past; they all seem
about equally startled, so that my progress down the ranks simply causes
a sort of a gentle ripple along the line, as though each successive camel
were playing a game of follow-my leader. The road this morning is nearly
perfect for wheeling, consisting of well-trodden camel-paths over a hard
gravelled surface that of itself naturally makes excellent surface for
cycling; there is no wind, and twenty-five miles are duly registered by
the cyclometer when I halt to eat the breakfast of bread and a portion
of yesterday evening's scrambled eggs which I have brought along. On
past Seyudoon and approaching Kasveen, the plain widens to a considerable
extent and becomes perfectly level; apparent distances become deceptive,
and objects at a distance assume weird, fantastic shapes; beautiful
mirages hold out their allurements from all directions; the sombre walls
of villages present the appearance of battlemented fortresses rising up
from the mirror-like surface of silvery lakes, and orchards and groves
seem shadowy, undefinable objects floating motionless above the earth.
The telegraph poles traversing the plain in a long, straight line until
lost to view in the hazy distance, appear to be suspended in mid-air;
camels, horses, and all moving objects more than a mile away, present
the strange optical illusion of animals walking through the air many
feet above the surface of the earth. Long rows of kanaat mounds traverse
the plain in every direction, leading from the numerous villages to
distant mountain chains. Descending one of the sloping cavernous entrances
before mentioned, for a drink, I am rather surprised at observing numerous
fishes disporting themselves in the water, which, on the comparatively
level plain, flows but slowly; perhaps they are an eyeless variety similar
to those found in the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky; still they get a glimmering
light from the numerous perpendicular shafts. Flocks of wild pigeons
also frequent these underground water-courses, and the peasantry sometimes
capture them by the hundred with nets placed over the shafts; the kanaats
are not bricked archways, but merely tunnels burrowed through the ground.
Three miles of loose sand and stones have to be trundled through before
reaching Kasveen; nevertheless my promised sixty miles are overcome, and
I enter the city gate at 2 P.M. A trundle through several narrow, crooked
streets brings me to an inner gateway emerging upon a broad, smooth
avenue; a short ride down this brings me to a large enclosure containing
the custom-house offices and a fine brick caravanserai. Yet another
prince appears here in the person of a custom-house official; I readily
grant the requested privilege of seeing me ride, but the title of a
Persian prince is no longer associated in my mind with greatness and
importance; princes in Persia are as plentiful as counts in Italy or
barons in Germany, yet it rather shocks one's dreams of the splendor of
Oriental royalty to find princes manipulating the keys of a one wire
telegraph control-station at a salary of about forty dollars a month (25
tomans), or attending to the prosy duties of a small custom-house. Kasveen
is important as being the half-way station between Teheran and the Caspian
port of Eesht, and on the highway of travel and commerce between Northern
Persia and Europe; added importance is likewise derived from its being
the terminus of a broad level road from the capital, and where travellers
and the mail from Teheran have to be transferred from wheeled vehicles
to the backs of horses for the passage over the rugged passes of the
Elburz mountains leading to the Caspian slope, or vice versa when going
the other way. Locking the bicycle up in a room of the caravanserai, I
take a strolling peep at the nearest streets; a couple of lutis or
professional buffoons, seeing me strolling leisurely about, come hurrying
up; one is leading a baboon by a string around the neck, and the other
is carrying a gourd drum. Reaching me, the man with the baboon commences
making the most ludicrous grimaces and causes the baboon to caper wildly
about by jerking the string, while the drummer proceeds to belabor the
head of his drum, apparently with the single object of extracting as
much noise from it as possible. Putting my fingers to my ears I turn
away; ten minutes afterward I observe another similar combination making
a bee-line for my person; waving them off I continue on down the street;
soon afterward yet a third party attempts to secure me for an audience.
It is the custom for these strolling buffoons to thus present themselves
before persons on the street, and to visit houses whenever there is
occasion for rejoicing, as at a wedding, or the birth of a son; the lutis
are to the Persians what Italian organ-grinders are among ourselves; I
fancy people give them money chiefly to get rid of their noise and
annoyance, as we do to save ourselves from the soul-harrowing tones of
a wheezy crank organ beneath the window. Among the novel conveyances
observed in the courtyard of the caravanserai is the takhtrowan, a large
sedan chair provided with shafts at either end, and carried between two
mules or horses; another is the before-mentioned kajaveh, an arrangement
not unlike a pair of canvas-covered dog kennels strapped across the back
of an animal; these latter contrivances are chiefly used for carrying
women and children. After riding around the courtyard several different
times for crowds continually coming, I finally conclude that there must
be a limit to this sort of thing anyhow, and refuse to ride again; the
new-comers linger around, however, until evening, in the hopes that an
opportunity of seeing me ride may present itself. A number of them then
contribute a handful of coppers, which they give to the proprietor of a
tributary tchai-khan to offer me as an inducement to ride again. The
wily Persians know full well that while a Ferenghi would scorn to accept
their handful of coppers, he would probably be sufficiently amused at
the circumstance to reward their persistence by riding for nothing;
telling the grinning khan-jee to pocket the coppers, I favor them with
"positively the last entertainment this evening." An hour later the khan-
jee meets me going toward the bazaar in search of something for supper;
inquiring the object of my search, he takes me back to his tchai-khan,
points significantly to an iron kettle simmering on a small charcoal
fire, and bids me be seated; after waiting on a customer or two, and
supplying me with tea, he quietly beckons me to the fire, removes the
cover and reveals a savory dish of stewed chicken and onions: this he
generously shares with me a few minutes later, refusing to accept any
payment. As there are exceptions to every rule, so it seems there are
individuals, even among the Persian commercial classes, capable of
generous and worthy impulses; true the khan-jee obtained more than the
value of the supper in the handful of coppers - but gratitude is generally
understood to be an unknown commodity among the subjects of the Shah.
Soon the obstreperous cries of "All Akbar, la-al-lah-il-allah" from the
throats of numbers of the faithful perched upon the caravanserai steps,
stable-roof, and other conspicuous soul-inspiring places, announces the
approach of bedtime. My room is actually found to contain a towel and
an old tooth-brush; the towel has evidently not been laundried for some
time and a public toothbrush is hardly a joy-inspiring object to
contemplate; nevertheless they are evidences that the proprietor of the
caravanserai is possessed of vague, shadowy ideas of a Ferenghi's
requirements. After a person has dried his face with the slanting sunbeams
of early morning, or with his pocket-handkerchief for weeks, the bare
possibility of soap, towels, etc., awakens agreeable reflections of
coming comforts. At seven o'clock on the following morning I pull out
toward Teheran, now but six chopar-stations distant. Running parallel
with the road is the Elburz range of mountains, a lofty chain, separating
the elevated plateau of Central Persia from the moist and wooded slopes
of the Caspian Sea; south of this great dividing ridge the country is
an arid and barren waste, a desert, in fact, save where irrigation redeems
here and there a circumscribed area, and the mountain slopes are gray
and rocky. Crossing over to the northern side of the divide, one immediately
finds himself in a moist climate, and a country green almost as the
British Isles, with dense boxwood forests covering the slopes of the
mountains and hiding the foot-hills beneath an impenetrable mantle of
green. The Elburz Mountains are a portion of the great water-shed of
Central Asia, extending from the Himalayas up through Afghanistan and
Persia into the Caucasus, and they perform very much the same office for
the Caspian slope of Persia, as the Sierra Nevadas do for the Pacific
slope of California, inasmuch as they cause the moisture-laden clouds
rolling in from the sea to empty their burthens on the seaward, slopes
instead of penetrating farther into the interior.
The road continues fair wheeling, but nothing compared with the road
between Zendjan and Kasveen; it is more of an artificial highway; the
Persian government has been tinkering with it, improving it considerably
in some respects, but leaving it somewhat lumpy and unfinished generally,
and in places it is unridable from sand and loose material on the surface;
it has the appreciable merit of levelness, however, and, for Persia, is
a very creditable highway indeed. At four farsakhs from Kasveen I reach
the chapar-khana of Cawanda, where a breakfast is obtained of eggs and
tea; these two things are among the most readily obtained refreshments
in Persia. The country this morning is monotonous and uninteresting,
being for the most part a stony, level plain, sparsely covered with gray
camel-thorn shrubs. Occasionally one sees in the distance a camp of
Eliauts, one of the wandering tribes of Persia; their tents are smaller
and of an entirely different shape from the Koordish tents, partaking
more of the nature of square-built movable huts than tents; these camps
are too far off my road to justify paying them a visit, especially as I
shall probably have abundant opportunities before leaving the Shah's
dominions; but I intercept a straggling party of them crossing the road.
They have a more docile look about them than the Koords, have more the
general appearance of gypsies, and they dress but little different from
the ryots of surrounding villages.
At Kishlock, where I obtain a dinner of bread and grapes, I find the
cyclometre has registered a gain of thirty-two miles from Kasveen; it
has scarcely been an easy thirty-two miles, for I am again confronted
by a discouraging head breeze. Keaching the Shah Abbas caravanserai of
Yeng-Imam (all first-class caravanserais are called Shah Abbas caravanserais,
in deference to so many having been built throughout Persia by that
monarch) about five o'clock, I conclude to remain here over night, having
wheeled fifty-three miles. Yeng-Imam is a splendid large brick serai,
the finest I have yet seen in Persia; many travellers are putting up
here, and the place presents quite a lively appearance. In the centre
of the court-yard is a large covered spring; around this is a garden of
rose-bushes, pomegranate trees, and flowers; surrounding the garden is
a brick walk, and forming yet a larger square is the caravanserai building
itself, consisting of a one-storied brick edifice, partitioned off into
small rooms. The building is only one room deep, and each room opens
upon a sort of covered porch containing a fireplace where a fire can be
made and provisions cooked. Attached to the caravanserai, usually beneath
the massive and roomy arched gateway, is a tchai-khan and a small store
where bread, eggs, butter, fruit, charcoal, etc., are to be obtained.
The traveller hires a room which is destitute of all furniture; provides
his own bedding and cooking utensils, purchases provisions and a sufficiency
of charcoal, and proceeds to make himself comfortable. On a pinch one
can usually borrow a frying-pan or kettle of some kind, and in such
first-class caravanserais as YengImam there is sometimes one furnished
room, carpeted and provided with bedding", reserved for the accommodation
of travellers of importance.
After the customary programme of riding to allay the curiosity and
excitement of the people, I obtain bread, fruit, eggs, butter to cook
them in, and charcoal for a fire, the elements of a very good supper for
a hungry traveller. Borrowing a handleless frying-pan, I am setting about
preparing my own supper, when a respectable-looking Persian steps out
from the crowd of curious on-lookers and voluntarily takes this rather
onerous duty out of my hands. Readily obtaining my consent, he quickly
kindles a fire, and scrambles and fries the eggs. While my volunteer
cook is thus busily engaged, a company of distinguished travellers passing
along the road halt at the tchai-khan to smoke a kalian and drink tea.
The caravanserai proprietor approaches me, and winking mysteriously,
intimates that by going outside and riding for the edification of the
new arrivals I will be pretty certain to get a present of a keran (about
twenty cents). As he appears anxious to have me accommodate them, I
accordingly go out and favor them with a few turns on a level piece of
ground outside. After they have departed the proprietor covertly offers
me a half-keran piece in a manner so that everybody can observe him
attempting to give me something without seeing the amount. The wily
Persian had doubtless solicited a present from the travellers for me,
obtained, perhaps, a couple of kerans, and watching a favorable opportunity,
offers me the half-keran piece; the wily ways of these people are several
degrees more ingenious even than the dark ways and vain tricks of Bret
Harte's "Heathen Chinee." Occupying one of the rooms are two young
noblemen travelling with their mother to visit the Governor of Zendjan;
after I have eaten my supper, they invite me to their apartments for the
evening; their mother has a samovar under full headway, and a number of
hard boiled eggs. Her two hopeful sons are engaged in a drinking bout
of arrack; they are already wildly hilarious and indulging in brotherly
embraces and doubtful love-songs. Their fond mother regards them with
approving smiles as they swallow glass after glass of the raw fiery
spirit, and become gradually more intoxicated and hilarious. Instead of
checking their tippling, as a fond and prudent Ferenghi mother would
have done, this indulgent parent encourages them rather than otherwise,
and the more deeply intoxicated and hilariously happy the sons become,
the happier seems the mother. About nine o'clock they fall to weeping
tears of affection for each other and for myself, and degenerate into
such maudlin sentimentality generally, that I naturally become disgusted,
accept a parting glass of tea, and bid them good-evening.
The caravanserai-Jee assigns me the furnished chamber above referred to;
the room is found to be well carpeted, contains a mattress and an abundance
of flaming red quilts, and on a small table reposes a well-thumbed copy
of the Koran with gilt lettering and illumined pages; for these really
comfortable quarters I am charged the trifling sum of one keran.
I am now within fifty miles of Teheran, my destination until spring-time
comes around again and enables me to continue on eastward toward the
Pacific; the wheeling continues fair, and in the cool of early morning
good headway is made for several miles; as the sun peeps over the summit
of a mountain spur jutting southward
a short distance from the main Elburz Range, a wall of air comes rushing
from the east as though the sun were making strenuous exertions to usher
in the commencement of another day with a triumphant toot. Multitudes
of donkeys are encountered on the road, the omnipresent carriers of the
Persian peasantry, taking produce to the Teheran market; the only wheeled
vehicle encountered between Kasveen and Teheran is a heavy-wheeled,
cumbersome mail wagon, rattling briskly along behind four galloping
horses driven abreast, and a newly imported carriage for some notable
of the capital being dragged by hand, a distance of two hundred miles
from Resht, by a company of soldiers. Pedalling laboriously against a
stiff breeze I round the jutting mountain spur about eleven o'clock, and
the conical snow-crowned peak of Mount Demavend looms up like a beacon-light
from among the lesser heights of the Elburz Range about seventy-five
miles ahead. De-niavend is a perfect cone, some twenty thousand feet in
height, and is reputed to be the highest point of land north of the
Himalayas. From the projecting mountain spur the road makes a bee-line
across the intervening plain to the capital; a large willow-fringed
irrigating ditch now traverses the stony plain for some distance parallel
with the road, supplying the caravanserai of Shahabad and several adjacent
villages with water. Teheran itself, being situated on the level plain,
and without the tall minarets that render Turkish cities conspicuous
from a distance, leaves one undecided as to its precise location until
within a few miles of the gate; it occupies a position a dozen or more
miles south of the base of the Elburz Mountains, and is flanked on the
east by another jutting spur; to the southward is an extensive plain
sparsely dotted with villages, and the walled gardens of the wealthier
Teheranis.
At one o'clock on the afternoon of September 30th, the sentinels at the
Kasveen gate of the Shah's capital gaze with unutterable astonishment
at the strange spectacle of a lone Ferenghi riding toward them astride
an airy wheel that glints and glitters in the bright Persian sunbeams.
They look still more wonder-stricken, and half-inclined to think me some
supernatural being, as, without dismounting, I ride beneath the gaudily
colored archway and down the suburban streets. A ride of a mile between
dead mud walls and along an open business street, and I find myself
surrounded by wondering soldiers and citizens in the great central top-
maidan, or artillery square, and shortly afterward am endeavoring to
eradicate some of the dust and soil of travel, in a room of a wretched
apology for an hotel, kept by a Frenchman, formerly a pastry-cook to the
Shah. My cyclometre has registered one thousand five hundred and seventy-six
miles from Ismidt; from Liverpool to Constantinople, where I had no
cyclometre, may be roughly estimated at two thousand five hundred, making
a total from Liverpool to Teheran of four thousand and seventy-six miles.
In the evening several young Englishmen belonging to the staff of the
Indo-European Telegraph Company came round, and re-echoing my own above-
mentioned sentiments concerning the hotel, generously invite mo to become
a member of their comfortable bachelor establishment during my stay in
Teheran. "How far do you reckon it from London to Teheran by your
telegraph line." I inquire of them during our after-supper conversation.
"Somewhere in the neighborhood of four thousand miles," is the reply.
"What does your cyclometre say?"