_25th April._—Sharífabad to Mashhad, twenty-four miles. Weather cloudy
and showery, with occasional glimpses of sunshine. We set out at seven
A.M., and proceeded at first north-east then north, up and down over a
succession of rich pasture-grown ridges, by a good military road, that
exposed rocks of friable slate and a coarse granular granite abounding
with great flakes of glistening mica.
At about six miles we crested the _Tappa Salám_, or “ridge of obeisance;”
and got our first view of Mashhad _i mucaddas_, “the holy,” with its
gilded shrine and blue-domed mosque overtopping the rich foliage of its
gardens—a pleasant oasis in the centre of a wide desert plain. Our road
companions and Persian attendants, straining their eyes in the direction
of their loved city, muttered a prayer, and bowed reverently and low.
In fine weather, the view of the city and the mountains beyond it must
be a very pretty sight. Pilgrims go into ecstasies at it, and run ahead
of their caravans to get an earlier glimpse. The ridge is covered
with graves, and small heaps of stones to which are tied long shreds
of many-coloured cloths—the altars raised by pilgrim devotees. On the
present occasion, owing to the misty weather, our view of the place was
but indistinct, whilst the hills beyond were hidden in the haze.
Beyond the _tappa_, we passed down some granite slopes to the wide bed of
a clear little rivulet, and following it awhile, at half-way to Mashhad
halted for breakfast on its turfy slope, where we pitched a couple of
bell-tents for shelter from the rain. Whilst here, the British agent,
or _Wukíl uddaula_, arrived from Mashhad to pay his respects to Sir F.
Goldsmid and General Pollock, and with him came an Armenian merchant,
a cunning fellow, evidently with an eye to business, in which no doubt
he acquitted himself eminently to his own satisfaction. He had a small
supply of English bottled beer, which, on the faith of its name, we
were as glad to get as he was to part with. Our subsequent experience,
however, proved it to be but a very sorry imitation, and how or when it
came here, if it ever did come here, we did not discover.
Besides these arrived a merchant of Peshín, one Sayyid Karm Sháh, who
came out to meet his kinsmen the Afghan Commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad
Sháh, and to give and learn the latest news, and also a couple of Persian
officials to warn us of the grand preparations made for our reception
and the order of our procession. This intelligence necessitated a change
from our travelling costume to the more imposing habiliments of official
uniform. Our passing baggage was stopped, and the transformation effected
as we set out afresh in a provoking set shower of rain.
A short descent brought us to a muddy river draining eastward in a noisy
stream a foot deep. We crossed its boulder-strewn bed, with a hill of
granite on the right and left rear, and going across the plain, reined up
at Turogh _sarae_. Here Sir F. Goldsmid, with his party, proceeded ahead
to meet the _isticbál_ sent out to meet him, and some minutes later, two
field-officers of the Persian army rode up to conduct General Pollock
and the Afghan Commissioner to meet the _isticbál_ sent out for their
honourable reception, all according to programme and the strict rules of
Persian etiquette.
The Persian officers were dressed in European military costume with the
Persian hat, and in their general bearing no way differed from European
gentlemen. Each was, however, attended by a _calyán_ bearer, who, on a
nod from his master, lighted the tobacco, and urging his horse forward,
handed its long tube to him, and following close in rear, awaited another
nod to receive it back. Our friends smoked nearly the whole way, and very
obligingly offered us a whiff. The “weed” is the finest-flavoured in the
world, but the fashion of inhaling its fumes so constantly cannot but
prove injurious to the lungs. As we rode along exchanging commonplace
remarks, I observed that the plain was an uncultivated waste, dotted
towards the east with numerous Turkman towers.
On approaching the city, both our processions coalesced, and formed a
very gay cavalcade of about three hundred horsemen. The costumes of the
Persian cavalry were very varied, and generally handsome, and the types
of physiognomy were not much less so, whilst the horses of all were
the most divergent in blood and bone. Altogether, the _cortége_ formed
a crowd very interesting to look at and study, but very difficult to
describe; and I will, therefore, not attempt to do so, lest I confound
Kurd with Karai, and Dághistani with Daingháni, and Cajar with them all.
We entered the city at the Darwazae Khayábáni Páyín, or the “Gate of the
Lower Avenue,” and proceeded up the avenue to the railings of the court
of the holy shrine of Imám Razá. Here we turned off to the right, through
some narrow lanes and covered passages, into a cemetery completely choked
with tombstones, and emitting a very disagreeable effluvium, dank,
mouldy, and strongly sepulchral. Beyond this, turning to the left,
we regained the avenue on the farther side of the shrine, where it is
called Khayábáni Bálá, or “Upper Avenue,” and presently alighted at an
ornamental garden, where tents had been pitched for our accommodation.
The avenue is a very fine street, broad and straight from east to west.
Down its centre flows a stream brought from the Dorúd river, and on its
sides are rows of tall, shady, plane-trees. In fine weather it must be
an interesting and agreeable promenade, to the foreigner especially, if
only to study the variety of the Asiatic races to be met in its bazárs;
but as we traversed its best portion at a season of continued rain,
its fancied delights pale before the recollection of its black mud and
offensive odours—too real to be easily forgotten. The shops and _saraes_
on either side the avenue presented a busy scene, though nowhere crowded,
nor did the people evince any curiosity or commotion at our appearance
amongst them. I was surprised to find many of the people quite fair and
ruddy, and hardly to be distinguished from Europeans in this respect.
They were, I was told, merchants from Bukhára. Some veritable Turkmans,
too, were pointed out to us at one of the _saraes_ as we passed, and a
couple of them at the entrance smiled with an expression of good-natured
curiosity, as they found themselves made the objects of our attention.
They were light-ruddy complexioned, and large-limbed men, with thick
short beards, and a distinct trace of the Tátár physiognomy in their high
cheek-bones and small widely-parted eyes. The expression of face was
agreeable than otherwise, and betrayed none of the well-known ferocity of
their nature. There are nearly a hundred of these men detained in this
city as hostages for the good behaviour of their tribe. They are allowed
full liberty within certain quarters of the town, but are not allowed to
pass beyond the gates. They are said to abuse their liberty pretty freely
by conveying intelligence to their tribe, of caravans and travellers
arriving and departing from the city.
We halted a week at Mashhad, and on the day following our arrival
and that preceding our departure, paid ceremonial visits to the
Prince-Governor, Sultán Murád Mirzá, uncle of the Sháh, from whom he has
received the title of Hisámussaltanat, or “sword of the state,” for his
services at the siege of Herat in 1856. His palace is situated at some
little distance from the garden allotted to us, and on each occasion
we were conducted to the august presence with a minute observance of
all the tedium of Persian etiquette. At the hour appointed for our
departure, a couple of tall Turkman horses, richly caparisoned, were
sent over from the Prince’s stables for Sir F. Goldsmid and General
Pollock. These, with our own horses, and a long file of servants, were
ranged outside the gate of our garden; and as we mounted, the latter
fell into two lines, Indian-file, one on each side of our path. They
were about fifteen men on each side, all dressed in their own best, or,
as I suspect was the case with most of them, in borrowed clothes. At all
events, they looked very decent people, and were hardly to be recognised
as our grooms, tent-pitchers, and valets, so complete and sudden was
their metamorphosis. With these men leading the way, and ourselves in
full-dress uniform, our procession cut a very respectable figure. We
proceeded leisurely, guided by the measured paces of our conductors, who
each and all, with hands folded in front and heads slightly bowed, looked
as solemn and lugubrious as sextons at a funeral.
Arrived at the palace gate, we dismounted, and were ushered into an outer
court paved with flat red bricks and enclosed by high blank walls. Here
we drew india-rubber goloshes over our boots, and advanced through an
inner court to the reception room, in which our host was seated. At the
threshold our goloshes were removed and taken charge of by our servants,
and stepping in we each in turn, without doffing our hats, saluted the
Prince-Governor in military style. He was seated, hat-on-head, in a chair
at the farther end of the room, and, without rising, merely motioned us
to the chairs ranged on either side his own at right angles. The usual
inquiries as to our health were dispensed with, I presume, because the
court chamberlain had called on us the previous afternoon for _hál
púrsí_, that is, to ask after our state; and instead thereof, the Prince,
so soon as we were seated, asked the name and rank of each of us, and
then started the conversation with a string of inquiries regarding our
journey up, and maintained it for some time on various topics, proving
himself a remarkably well-informed man. The room of our reception was
richly carpeted with splendid Birjand carpets and magnificent floorcloths
of purple satin. During the visit a number of servants—one for each
visitor and the host—marched in successively with loads of sherbet,
coffee, tea, and ices, and between each tour another set of servants
marched in with a _calyán_ for each of us. The cups were of very superior
china, and the spoons of solid gold. The _finjans_ of coffee were richly
jewelled with pearls and emeralds and rubies, set in a delicate filagree
of gold. The _calyans_, too, were mostly costly, the jars being of Sevres
china, decorated with French pictures, whilst the bowls were of solid
gold, studded with brilliants and pearls, and the mouthpieces of gold
studded with turquoise. No two of them were alike, and yet all were alike
costly, enamelled, and jewelled. The Prince is reputed to be one of the
most wealthy men in the country, and one of the most stingy. He has
done nothing for the starving poor during the famine, and the suffering
and loss has been something frightful. He himself reckoned the loss of
population in Khorassan alone at 120,000 souls, and the British agent
here informed us, that of 9000 houses in the city, not one half were
tenanted. The picture he drew of the suffering here during the winter
was awful. Hundreds died in their cellars and huts, and in the lanes and
passages, from sheer cold and want of food, and remained unburied for
weeks.
In this respect, however, the Hisámussaltanat is no worse than the rest
of those in authority in this country; for, from the Sháh downwards, it
is said not one has moved a finger to alleviate the general suffering.
The consequence is, the country has lost a million and a half at least
of its population, and cannot regain its former prosperity for a full
generation to come.
We paid a third visit to the Prince-Governor, and spent the afternoon
with him in the garden adjoining his palace. We were here received under
a marquee, erected over a carpeted platform, and the same course of
ceremonies and refreshments were observed as on the other occasions. In
this garden we saw a Turkman tent of the kind called _khargáh_. It is of
circular shape, about eighteen feet in diameter, and dome roofed, and
is built up of lattice-work frames of wood, fixed together by leather
thongs, and is protected from the weather by a covering of thick felts.
The whole takes to pieces, and forms a single camel-load.
On this occasion the Prince spoke at length regarding our experiences
in Sistan, and the conduct of the Hash-mat-ul-mulk, and alluded in very
plain terms to the rapid encroachment of Russia upon the countries of
Central Asia, and the inevitable consequences of her aggressive policy
in that direction. Khiva he considered as doomed since the base of
Russian operations had been changed from the side of the Aral to that of
the Caspian. The Jáfar Bai section of Yamút Turkmans had already been
conciliated, and they would help to win over the others. Further, he laid
stress on the sympathy and support the Russians would receive from the
captive Persians in Khiva and Bukhára, whose numbers are not far short of
fifty thousand.
On the last occasion of our visiting the Hisámussaltanat, we were all
photographed in a group, with himself in the centre, by a Persian who
had learned the art in Constantinople. He might have learned it better
at Tehran, though, considering the locality, his work was creditable.
We were obligingly presented with a copy each, as a memorial of our
visit, which I may say is remembered as the most agreeable portion of our
long journey. We had been favoured with a distinguished reception, were
accommodated in a delightful garden swarming with nightingales, whose
clear strong notes resounded on all sides night and day; and enjoyed
as much of the society of the Prince as circumstances admitted of. Our
treatment here, notwithstanding the irksome forms of Persian etiquette,
and the pride that prevented a return visit, was, after our experiences
in Gháyn and Sistan, very gratifying; whilst the assimilation of the
terms of social intercourse to those of Europe—so different from the
absurd prejudices and caste obligations we had been accustomed to in
India—was alone a subject for congratulation. But as every good has its
counteracting evil, so it was with us in this last case; and we more
than once had cause to wish that our Persian servants, in place of their
unbounded freedom in the matter of dressing and eating, were bound by
the same rules as our Indian servitors. We might then have been spared
the mortification of seeing our shirts and trousers airing on their
persons, and our meats and drinks disappearing ere they had been well
tasted.
Mashhad, the capital of Persian Khorassan, is a considerable commercial
city, and the point of convergence of the caravan routes between Persia
and India and China, through the countries of Afghanistan and Turkistan
respectively. It covers a great extent of ground, surrounded by fortified
walls several miles in circumference. Much of the intramural area is
occupied by gardens and extensive cemeteries. In the latter the graves
are closely packed, and contain the remains of pilgrim devotees who die
here, and of the faithful in all parts of the country, whose last wish is
to mingle their ashes with the sacred soil in which lie those of their
loved saint. Formerly from thirty to forty thousand pilgrims annually
visited the shrine of Imám Razá, bringing in many cases the bones of
their dead relatives for interment under the shadow of the sacred dome;
but since the famine the number has considerably diminished, and hardly
exceeds ten or twelve thousand.
Mashhad _i mucaddas_, or “the holy,” is one of the principal places
of Muhammadan pilgrimage, the others being Mecca _munawara_, or “the
enlightened;” Karbalá _mualla_, or “the exalted;” Najafa _ul ashraf_,
or “the most noble;” and Bukhára _sharíf_, or “the noble.” Like these
centres of Islamite piety, it too is a sink of vice and immorality of all
sorts the most degrading, and its baths and bazárs swarm with swindlers
and gamblers, who, with a curious perversion of conscience, combine
devotion with debauchery.
Amongst the special industries of this place is the manufacture of
ornamental vases, goblets, tables, pipes, and other utensils of domestic
use, from a soft blue slate or steatite, which is quarried in the hills
to the south of the city. Some of them are very tastefully engraved, and
they sell at a remarkably cheap rate. Cooking-pots, kettles, &c., are
made from this stone, and they stand the fire well.
This is the headquarters of the turquoise trade, the mines of which are
in the adjoining district of Nishabor, and we had hoped to obtain some
good specimens of the gem; but they were either not shown to us, or had
been already bespoken by the agents for merchants in the trade. We saw
better stones at Shikárpúr in Sind than any they showed us here, and
at more reasonable prices. I suspect we owed our disappointment to the
irrepressible greed of our servants for their customary _mudákhil_. They
certainly required some such means of increasing their incomes over and
above the fixed salaries they received from us, in order to enable them
to gratify their expensive tastes in the matter of dress. The Mirzá
(secretary) was particularly conspicuous for the variety of costumes he
delighted to disport in. At every place we made a halt at, he appeared
decked out in a new suit of clothes. One day he would wear a coat of
purple broadcloth and Angola trousers, then a suit of black broadcloth;
and here, where our stay was more prolonged, each day produced a new
dress, and it was a puzzle to find out where he got them from, and how
he paid for them, for they must have been all expensive, particularly
one which struck us as very handsome. It was a coat of blue broadcloth,
trimmed with gold braiding and lined with squirrel fur.
During our stay at Mashhad the weather was more or less cloudy, and
showers and sunshine succeeded each other at short intervals. Our garden
residence proved very damp and chill, and we all suffered more or less
in health from its effects. The winter here is described as a cold
season, owing to the winds that sweep the plain, on which snow lies for
three weeks or a month. The summer heats are sometimes tempered by cool
breezes from the north, but are more frequently intensified by radiation
from the deserts around. The elevation is about 3180 feet above the sea.
_3d May._—Mashhad to Jágharc, or Jáarc, twenty miles. Our heavy
baggage and tents had been sent on yesterday to Nishabor by the route
of Sharífabad and Cadamgah. We set out at eleven A.M., and going up
the Khayábáni Bálá, left the city by the gate of the same name, and
proceeded across the plain in a W.N.W. direction, with a low range of
hills to our left. Standing out from it, close together, are two hills
of granite called Koh Nucra, and Koh Tilá, or the silver hill and gold
hill respectively, from a traditionary belief that they contain, or did
contain, those metals. Across the plain to the right is a high mountain
range that bounds the Mashhad district to the north. Coal is said to be
found on it; and a great mass towering above the rest of the range was
pointed out as Calát-i-Nadíri, a celebrated mountain fortress supposed
to be impregnable. It was for some years the depository of the treasures
Nadír brought with him from India.
The plain in our front represents a wide flat of mostly uncultivated
land, and is traversed obliquely by a singular line of tall towers, which
we learned on inquiry were fortified water-mills on the course of the
stream that is led off from the Dorúd river for the water supply of the
city. At about ten miles we reached the foot of the hills, along which
are scattered a few villages, and by a rough stony ascent crested a low
ridge called _Tappa Salám_, and from it got an excellent view of the
city and the great Mashhad plain, which extends away to the eastward as a
desert flat so far as the eye can reach, and cuts the horizon in a clear
line like the sea. Here, as on the ridge of the same name on the side
of Sharífabad, the ground was piled in every direction with cairns from
which fluttered a multitude of rag shreds.
Beyond this we crossed the Dorúd river, a little way below a strong
masonry dam built across a narrow passage between rocks, and a little
later found the river above it was retained in the shape of a small
lake. Farther on we passed the picturesque village of Gulistan, and then
turning S.S.W., followed a winding lane up to Targobah, a delightfully
situated village in the midst of gardens and orchards sloping down from
both sides to the noisy and rapid little hill torrent flowing between.
The vine, apple, plum, peach, and apricot, the cherry, filbert, walnut,
and mulberry, with willows and poplars, formed a thick forest on either
side our path, and higher up we found the elm, ash, and plane tree,
whilst everywhere the damp soil was luxuriant in a rank vegetation of
weeds. We recognised the wild mignonette, forget-me-not, buttercups,
goosefoot cleavers, the bright red poppy, and a multitude of other common
English herbs. The scene at once reminded me of Devonshire; and had I
been dropped on to the spot blindfolded, should, on looking around, have
thought myself on the banks of the Plym. At four miles beyond Targobah,
proceeding up the course of a rapid torrent, which we crossed from
side to side some thirty times _en route_, and passing a succession of
orchards, in which we saw a number of boys and girls at work collecting
fuel, and as fair as English youths and maidens, we arrived at Jágharc,
where we were accommodated in a private house adjoining a _sarae_, which
was made over for the shelter of our servants and cattle. Weather rainy
and air damp.
Jágharc is built on the slope of a high slate hill right down to the
edge of the torrent, which, with another farther south, goes to form the
Dorúd, or “two river” stream we crossed at the foot of the hills. Its
name signifies “the place of drowning,” from a tradition, as I learned
from our landlord, that this country was at one time under the sea, and
that this was the spot where Jonah, or Yúnas, was cast into it. He was
cast up again from the whale’s belly at the spot now named Yúnasi, the
same we camped at on our march from Bijistan. Jágharc is about 4650 feet
above the sea, 1470 feet above Mashhad, and 1790 feet above Yúnasi.
Our next stage was over the Nishabor mountain to Dihrúd, twenty-four
miles. We set out at 7.30 A.M., and proceeded S.S.W. up the stream,
through orchards as yesterday. At two miles we came to a fork in the
rivulet formed by an intervening hill of slate; and following the branch
to the right, at two miles more cleared the vineyards and orchards, and
continued ascending along a row of pollard willows bordering the stream,
which we crossed continually in our course. At another seven miles we
came to the Páe Gudar Sarae, a small rest-house, as the name indicates,
at “the foot of the pass.” Here two roads branch off, one on each side
of a great overtopping bluff. Both are very steep and difficult, but the
one to the left being pronounced the easier of the two, we took it. After
crossing a deep and dangerous snowdrift that blocked the bottom of a very
narrow gorge, and was undermined by little streams flowing beneath its
soft subsiding mass, we struck a path on the steep slope of the hill.
It was so steep we were obliged to dismount and lead our horses up the
hill, or, as was done by some, to hang on by their tails and let them
drag us up.
At the top of the pass (the ascent from the _sarae_ at its foot occupied
us an hour and five minutes without a halt), the aneroid indicated an
elevation of 9390 feet above the sea. The summit was covered with wide
fields of snow, and afforded an extensive view of the plain of Mashhad
on the one side, and that of Nishabor on the other. The range runs
from north-west to south-east, gradually subsiding towards the latter
direction, but in the former rising into the high snow-clad mountains
of Kháwar and Binaloh. A strong west wind, cold and withering, swept
the pass, and had cleared its crest of snow. Here we found an immense
number of cairns, some of large size, and thousands of shreds of cloth
fluttered from them like pennants in the breeze. This is the first spot
at which the pilgrim coming from the westward sights the shrine of
Imám Razá. The sky was unfortunately overcast with clouds, and we did
not distinguish the gilded dome and minars, though the city itself was
plainly discernible. Near the top we passed a small party of pilgrims
hurrying down the hill. They had with them two pannier-mules carrying
veiled ladies. They must have had a trying and hazardous journey, for the
road is extremely difficult, and, when we saw them, their clumsy vehicles
swayed from side to side in a most alarming manner, over the very brink
of tremendous precipices. Their mules were allowed to pick their own way,
and always took the precipice edge, as if out of bravado, to show how
far they could go without toppling over, though really from an instinct
of self-preservation, and to avoid contact with projecting rocks on the
hillside, a sudden concussion against which would most likely send them
and their loads off the narrow path down the precipice.
The descent is by a very steep and stony path in a deep defile, and in
twenty minutes brought us to Rabát Dihrúd, a dilapidated resting-house,
where we alighted for breakfast. Below this the path is extremely rough,
steep, and difficult, down a narrow winding gorge, blocked here and
there by snowdrifts, undermined by running water beneath. Several of our
cattle fell here by the snow subsiding under them, and were extricated
with difficulty. The rocks around are as rugged, wild, and barren as the
gorge is narrow, steep, and difficult, and altogether the scene is one
of weirdly picturesque character, whilst the skeletons of men and cattle
that strew the path everywhere testify to its fatality.
At five miles down from the Rabát a branch defile joins from the right,
and thence the descent becomes less steep, and follows a line of willow,
ash, and poplar trees (all polled for the manufacture of charcoal), along
the course of a strong rivulet, and a few miles onwards conducts through
a succession of vineyards to Dihrúd, where we found accommodation in
some empty houses, of which there is, _miserabile dictu_, no lack. The
village has been decimated by the famine, and wears a gloomy, miserable,
and deserted look, in the midst of luxuriant vineyards and orchards,
exuberant in their foliage from want of hands to tend and prune them. Its
people, such as are left, pale, haggard, and hungry, wander listlessly
through its deserted quarters and crumbling tenements, resignedly
waiting the ripening of their crops, and eking out the while a miserable
subsistence on such stores of fruit and grain as are yet left to them.
_5th May._—Dihrúd to Nishabor, twenty-two miles, and halt a day—route
west, down a gravelly slope and then W.N.W. across the populous and
fertile plain of Nishabor, to the garden of Imám Wardi Khán, a little
beyond the city. At the sixth mile we passed Cadamgah a little to the
left. There is a shrine here, built over a stone bearing the impression
of a foot, said to be that of the saint buried at Mashhad, and pilgrims
visit it on their way to the mausoleum. A couple of miles farther on is
the village of Ardaghích, and then Abbasabad and Shahabad, all on the
left. To the right, following the hill skirt northward, are the villages
of Kháwar, Burjilirán, Dasht, Bijan, Ayik, Rúh, and others. The plain, in
fact, is dotted all over with villages and green spots of cultivation and
fruit trees. Thirty or forty villages are seen at one view on either side
the route, and give the plain a most populous and flourishing look, but
they are all more or less depopulated owing to losses from the famine.
Beyond Shahabad we passed a wide extent of ruins a little to the left
of the road. Prominent amongst them are a tall blue-domed tomb, and
the battlements of an extensive fort. They mark the site of ancient
Nishabor, which was destroyed at the period of the Arab conquest. It was
subsequently restored, and, in the time of Sabuktagin, was the residence
of his son, Mahmúd of Ghazni, as governor of Khorassan. Under his rule
it regained its former prosperity, but afterwards experienced many
misfortunes, and was repeatedly plundered by Tátárs and Uzbaks, and was
finally razed to the ground, and its people massacred, by Changhiz Khán.
The present town rose from its remains, on the plain close by, and for
centuries had a hard struggle for existence, being repeatedly plundered
by Turkmans and Uzbaks, who annually ravaged the country. Early in the
eighteenth century it was restored by Abbas Culi Khán, a Kurd of the
Bayát tribe, and from him was taken in 1752 by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. The
Afghan afterwards reinstated the Kurd in the government of this frontier
province of his newly-established kingdom, having secured his loyalty by
the bonds of matrimonial alliance, giving his own sister in marriage to
the chief, and one of his daughters in marriage to his son.
On the death of Sháh Ahmad, and the removal of the seat of government
from Kandahar to Kabul, the Bayát chief became independent, as did the
rest of the local chiefs on this frontier. The weakness produced by this
divided authority and independent action facilitated the Cajar designs
in this direction, and in 1793 the city fell to Agha Muhammad Sháh,
the first sovereign of that dynasty. The city formerly contained nine
thousand inhabitants, but its present population is less than half that
number. As we passed by the city on the way to our garden quarters, we
were beset by an importunate crowd of starving creatures, most pitiful
objects to behold. Their pinched features, attenuated limbs, and
prominent joints, gave them a look of utter helplessness; but, to our
astonishment, they fought, and screamed, and bit, and tore each other
with fierce energy, in their struggles for the small coins we threw
amongst them. Our escort charged in amongst them, and flogged right and
left; but the sight of money had rendered them frantic, and the lashes
fell upon them unheeded, so intensely fixed were their imaginations on
the prospect of securing the wherewithal to satisfy the cravings of their
hunger. I saw several of the weaker ones knocked down and ridden over
by the horses; and some of our escort actually fell back to despoil the
stronger of the petty wealth they had secured in the struggle!
Imám Wardi’s garden, in which we are accommodated, is a bequest by the
founder to the shrine at Mashhad. It has a handsome pavilion at each end,
and between them extends a long row of ornamental tanks furnished with
pipes for fountains. On either side the ground is laid out in vineyards
and fruit gardens interspersed, between which are flower-beds bordered
by beautiful rose-bushes, now in full blossom. Some of these—double
roses—are of a bright-yellow colour, and others—single—are of a yellow
colour outside and scarlet inside. The garden is used as a resting-place
for the Sháh and all distinguished travellers in this region.
The district of Nishabor was formerly reckoned one of the most
populous and fertile places in Persia, and is certainly the most
flourishing-looking place we have seen in the country. In reality,
however, its villages are only half peopled, and many of its _kárez_
streams have run dry. The district comprises the twelve divisions, or
_bulúk_, of Zabarkhan, Ardighích, Zarbi Gházi, Ishkabad, Sághabad, Mázúl,
Tahtí Júlgah, Rewand, Tághun Koh, Bári Madán, Sarwiláyat and Dihrúd. It
also contains twelve perennial streams, and formerly was irrigated by
twelve thousand _kárez_ streams; but of these, three-fourths are now
dry, or have become filled up. Its villages and hamlets are reckoned at
twelve hundred, and it is said to possess twelve different mines, that
yield turquoise, salt, lead, copper, antimony, and iron, also marble
and soapstone. The turquoise-mines are in the Bári Madán _bulúk_, and a
second has recently been discovered in the hills to the south, separating
Nishabor from Turshíz. The plain of Nishabor is girt on three sides
by lofty hills, but towards the south slopes to a great salt desert,
continuous with the _kavír_ of Yúnasi by gaps through a low range of
marly water-worn ridges.
_7th May._—Nishabor to Záminabad, sixteen miles—route W.S.W. across the
plain, passing many little square forts on either side the road. These,
like all the others on the south and west quarters of the plain, are bare
of trees, but are surrounded by wide corn-fields. Trees, we were told,
would not grow here, owing to the strong winds that prevail from the
west and south. We marched in the face of a strong cold south-west wind,
which swept up and drove before it thick clouds of saline dust, until the
clouds above dissolved into a thin shower, which cleared the atmosphere
and laid the dust.
One of the Persians of our escort assured us that this wind often
prevailed with such furious force that it knocked people off their legs.
“Why, only last year,” said he, with most animated gestures, “it tore up
the sand in that hollow away to the left with such force, and swept it
away in such quantities, that it exposed the remains of an ancient town
nobody ever dreamt of the existence of before. The houses were discovered
in rare order. The chambers were clear of débris and clean swept of dust,
and, marvellous to relate, the furniture was found just as it stood when
the city was swallowed up in the earth.” “You astonish me,” I said;
“this is something very wonderful.” “Yes,” he continued, “you speak the
truth—it is wonderful. God is great and His power is infinite. But I will
tell you the most wonderful thing of all. Everything looked perfect and
most substantial, but the moment a hand was stretched out to touch an
object, it at once crumbled to powder. The place is only a few miles off
our road, would you like to gallop over and see it?”
I thought of the Kol Márút inscription, and the Turkman heads, and the
earthquake at Khabúshán or Kochán, and politely declined the invitation.
“Your description,” I said, “is so complete, I see the place before
my mind’s eye. Why incommode ourselves in this rain for what is so
apparent?” I saw he felt the sarcasm, though, with genuine Persian
nonchalance, he covered his retreat with an—“As you will! There the
place is, and if you like to see it, I am ready to accompany you.” Of
course he would have made some trivial excuse at not finding the city of
his imagination, or have kept me wandering over the plain till in sheer
disgust I gave up the search. I should, however, like to have taken him
on his proffered errand, had I full power to punish him on proving his
delinquency; for, on subsequent inquiry, I ascertained the whole story to
be a pure invention.
I referred just now to an earthquake at Kochán, which I have not
mentioned in the narrative. We were told at Turbat Hydari, and by the
governor of the place too, as the most recent news from Mashhad, that a
fearful earthquake had almost completely destroyed Kochán. The convulsion
was described as so violent, that the houses were completely inverted,
and hundreds of the people crushed to death in the ruins. One of our
first inquiries on arrival at Mashhad was regarding the calamity at
Kochán, but nobody had heard anything about it.
Our road companions were so thoroughly untrustworthy in all they said,
that we found it difficult to get any reliable information out of them
regarding the countries we were passing through, and our Persian servants
evinced such a dislike to our inquisitiveness, that it was hopeless to
look for any assistance from them. We all took notes, and each catered
for himself, and many a time were we hard pushed for material to fill
our diaries. A traveller on the road, a peasant at the plough, or a
shepherd tending his flocks, was hailed as a godsend, and at once charged
down upon by three or four Britons, note-book in hand, foraging for
information. “Do you belong to this place?” “What’s the name of that
village?” “And that on the hillside?” “What’s the name of that hill?”
“And of this _bulúk_?” “Where do you live?” “How many houses does this
village contain?” “How many people died in the famine?” and so forth.
Our blunt authoritative volley of questions generally elicited
unhesitating and truthful replies; but sometimes our examinee became
impatient under our “wait a bits,” whilst we wrote, and began to hesitate
and reflect on his replies. We knew he was concocting a lie, and without
waiting to hear it, galloped off to join our comrades, leaving him to
stare after us in bewilderment.
The last few miles of our march was over a very slippery clay soil,
white with salines, and drained by a sluggish muddy river, which we
crossed by a masonry bridge. Our camp is pitched on rising ground beyond
the fort-village of Záminabad, and affords a good view of the Binaloh
range, running north-west, and separating Burdjnurd from Kochán. To the
north-west the Nishabor plain narrows, and communicates through a long
valley with Burdjnurd, just as the plain of Mashhad does on the other
side of Binaloh with Chinaran and Kochán. To the southward the prospect
is bounded by the Koh Surkh range, running east and west, and separating
Nishabor from Turshíz. The weather here proved very raw and black, and a
cold south-west wind swept over the country in stormy gusts.
Our next march was nine miles to Shoráb, on the bank of a ravine that
drains the chain of hills separating the plain of Nishabor from that
of Sabzwár. Shoráb is a neat little fortified village of some sixty
houses. There is a post-house here, and a large _ábambár_, and a new and
commodious _sarae_ is in course of erection.
From this we marched nearly due west eighteen miles to Záfaráni, and
halted a day. For the first five miles our road led over a very broken
mameloned surface, up to a watershed running north-west and south-east,
and marking the boundary between Nishabor and Sabzwár. Its elevation is
about 4290 feet above the sea, and from it we got a good view of the
great plain of Sabzwár, which is singularly void of trees and villages,
and looks like a desert compared with Nishabor. Indeed, its southern
coasts are a veritable salt desert, glistening white as snow in the
sunlight. The plain is bounded to the westward and southward by the lofty
Gomesh mountain, and beyond the desert tract to the south by the Koh
Surkh and Turshíz ranges.
At four miles on, passing amongst rough rocky hills of slate and trap,
we came to the Sarae Caladár, and thence west down a long slope to the
plain of Sabzwár. Its surface is a firm coarse gravel, covered with
pasture plants, such as the camel-thorn, asafœtida, liquorice, wild rue,
astragalus, &c., and the wild almond, the fruit of which was nearly ripe;
but not a single tree was visible on all the plain, and but only two or
three villages, widely apart. The land slopes to the salt desert on the
south, where flows the Káli Shor, or “salt river.” It drains Nishabor and
Sabzwár south-west to the desert of Káshán, and its water is so saline as
to be unfit even for purposes of irrigation.
Záfaráni is a walled village of about two hundred houses, belonging to
the Zafaranlu tribe of Kurds. There are a good post-house and a large
_sarae_ here. The Kurds originally came into Persia with the invasion
of Changhiz Khán, and possessed themselves of the mountainous region
bordering its western provinces. A colony of them, amounting to forty
thousand families, was afterwards transported into the neighbouring
provinces of Persia by Sháh Tamasp, and Sháh Abbas the Great subsequently
settled them in the northern districts of Khorassan, viz., Daragaz,
Radgán, Chinaran, Khabúshán, Burdjnurd, Nishabor, and Sabzwár. On the
downfall of the Saffavi dynasty they became independent, till reduced by
Nadír. After the death of this conqueror they passed under the nominal
rule off the Durrani Sháh Ahmad, but they soon threw off the ill-secured
Afghan yoke, and again became independent under local chiefs, who for
several years successfully resisted the authority of the Cajar kings,
until finally reduced to subjection in the reign of the present Sháh,
about the middle of this century.
_11th May._—Záfaráni to Sabzwár, twenty-five miles, and halt a day—route
west, over a gravelly plain, covered with asafœtida and wild rue in
profusion. To the left the plain slopes down to the Káli Shor, the course
of which is marked by a white belt of saline efflorescence. Beyond the
river rises the Gomesh range of mountains, their summits streaked with
snow. To the right is a high range of bare rocky hills, that separate
Sabzwár from Júwen and Bám of Burdjnurd.
At eight miles we came to the village of Sarposhida. Here the sandy soil
is cut, scooped, and honeycombed by the wind in a manner similar to
some parts of Sistan. At four miles farther we passed the two roadside
villages of Julen, with their rich fields of corn fast ripening into
ear. Here we witnessed an interesting hawk-hunt. A solitary snippet,
startled from its safety in a roadside pool by our approach, took wing
with the quick flight peculiar to the species. Instantly a small hawk
stooped at it from the sky, and then commenced an exciting chase. The
snippet redoubled its speed, and, screaming with fright, dodged the
rapid stoops of its relentless pursuer by quick darts first to one side
then to the other; again it would double back, and strive to keep above
the hawk, or rush off in the opposite direction to his soar. The poor
snippet struggled bravely for life, but the enemy was too strong for it.
Swoop followed swoop in rapid succession at close quarters, and were just
escaped with wonderful activity, till presently the quarry began to show
signs of fatigue, and the hawk was on the point of securing his prey,
when in cut another hawk, and at a single swoop carried off the game. The
poor snippet’s shrill screams ceased at once, and the hawk, thus cheated
of his rights, quietly sailed away in the opposite direction.
Beyond Julen we passed Zydabad and Nazlabad, and half a dozen other
villages, to the right of the road; and then meeting a few horsemen who
were hurriedly sent out by way of _isticbál_, were conducted by them
through the covered bazárs of Sabzwár to the quarters prepared for us
in the centre of the town, and adjoining the residence of the governor.
Here we were received by the governor himself, Muhammad Taki Khán,
with pleasing civility and attention. He is quite European in manner
and appearance, and speaks French like a Frenchman, as do most Persian
gentlemen of the modern school.
Sabzwár, we were told, contained four thousand houses, only half of which
are now tenanted. The district is said to have lost twenty-four thousand
souls by death and emigration during the famine. The loss of Nishabor
district is reckoned at only twenty thousand, which I think must be under
the mark, for its population is naturally much above that of Sabzwár,
which only comprises nine _bulúk_, some of which are very sparsely
populated. They are Shamkán, along Káli Shor to the south, Gomesh,
Humaon, Kasaba, between Sabzwár and Záfaráni, Tabbas, Káh, Mazinán,
Tagao, to the north of the plain, and Zamand. Besides these, the _bulúk_
of Júwen and Bám of the Burdjnurd district have recently been added to
Sabzwár by the Hisámussaltanat.
_13th May._—Sabzwár to Mihr, thirty-three miles—route west through an
uninterrupted sheet of corn for two miles, then across an undulating
plain, gradually sloping to a salt desert on our left. At four miles
passed Abári village, and, near it, the Míl Khusro Gard. This is a lofty
minar standing by itself in a ploughed field. It is built of red bricks
arranged in arabesque pattern, and is much decayed. At a little distance
from it stands a domed mausoleum, coated with plates of tin or similar
white metal. From its interior proceeded the voices of men chanting the
Curán. None of our party could tell us anything about these relics, and
there was no stray peasant whom we could charge down upon and question;
so I must be content with the bare record of their locality.
At five miles on we passed Pírastír and its gardens and corn-fields, and
at another five miles came to an _ábambár_ where the road branches. That
to the left goes W.S.W. by Námen and a succession of deserted villages
on the edge of the salt desert to Mazinán. It is a fearful road, and
how any one could take it, with the option of a better, is a mystery.
Not a particle of vegetation was to be seen; the whole vista was one of
aridity and salt, blinding with a dazzling glare, and great heaps of
drift-sand half buried the little castles lining the route. Yet the road
was a well-trodden track, indicating frequent use. That to the right went
W.N.W. up a rising ground, and at four miles brought us to Rewand, where
we found shelter from the heat of the midday sun under the shade of some
magnificent plane-trees in the midst of the village. It is delightfully
situated amidst gardens and vineyards, and outwardly has all the
surroundings of prosperity and plenty, but inwardly, within its houses
and courts, who can tell the amount of misery and suffering that there
reigns? We could only guess it from the number of poor men and women
who, through fear of our escort, stealthily crept amongst the bushes to
our resting-place, and in low voices begged a morsel of bread, whilst
gathering up and munching the crumbs and bones thrown aside from our late
repast.
Proceeding hence, we followed a long hill skirt strewed with bits of
trap, and chlorite, and cellular lava, washed down from the hills to our
right, the base of which is set with red clay mounds, in the hollows
between which are spied many little hamlets and farmsteads. At six miles
we passed a roadside pond, and thence sloping down gradually, at another
six miles reached Mihr, where we camped at 6.20 P.M.—the thermometer 84°
Fah.
_14th May._—Mihr to Mazinán, twenty miles—route due west down a gentle
slope skirting the Chaghatay hills, that separate us from Júwen on the
right. The soil is bare and gravelly, and slopes down to the desert on
our left. At four miles we passed through the Súdkar village, which is
the only one on the route. On approaching our camp at Mazinán, we left
a large village at the foot of the hills to the right. It is called
Dawarzan, and is protected by a double row of outlying Turkman towers.
Mazinán is a small village on the edge of the desert, and adjoins the
ruins of an extensive town, in the midst of which stands a decayed
_sarae_ of the Arab period. There is a post-house here, and also a good
newly-built _sarae_. The place wears a wretched inhospitable look, and
in summer must be very hot.
_15th May._—Mazinán to Abbasabad, twenty-three miles[3]—route at
first north, and then round to the west, along the skirt of the hills
bounding an arm of the desert. Soil gravelly, and surface covered with
saltworts, camel-thorn, mimosa, tamarisk, and similar vegetation. At
half-way we came to the Sadarabad Sarae and halted for breakfast. It is
a recently-built and commodious structure, erected by the late Sadar
Azím, and is furnished with a good _ábambár_. Opposite is a small fort
for the accommodation of a few families charged with the care of the
_sarae_. There is no village here, and the supplies are brought in and
stored periodically from Sabzwár. There are no trees nor cultivation
here, and the whole population consists of three men, as many women and
one child, and a very miserable set they look. They were anxious to leave
the place, as they were in hourly dread of Turkmans, and owing to the few
travellers now frequenting the route, never made any money. Whilst here,
we were overtaken by a courier with our last post from Peshawar through
Afghanistan, with dates to the 10th April. It had been sent from Mashhad
by a Persian courier, and ought to have reached us at Sabzwár; but the
Persian has not the energy of the Afghan.
Ahead of us is a dangerous bit of desert, which is always infested by
Turkmans; so, on setting out from Sadarabad, careful preparations were
made for our passage across it. Our baggage and servants, &c., were all
collected together, and massed in a close column outside the _sarae_. The
gun was placed at their head, and protected by a score of matchlockmen,
whilst the rest ranged themselves Indian-file on either side the column.
The cavalry took up their posts on the flanks, front, and rear, and threw
out advanced parties, who topped every rising bit of ground to scan the
country ahead.
All the arrangements being completed, our trumpeter brayed out some
hideous sounds, which of themselves were enough to scare the enemy, if
the gun was not, and we proceeded, ourselves amongst the horsemen in
advance of the gun. At a couple of miles, over a flat bare clay surface,
we came to a rivulet crossed by a crumbling brick-bridge of very ancient
appearance. This is Pul Abresham. Here there was a block in the passage.
We had about a hundred camels, more than half the number of mules, and
asses innumerable, for every matchlockman had his accompanying _ulágh_
(beast of burden), and there were besides several others who had taken
advantage of the opportunity to join our caravan. The bridge was narrow,
and only a few could pass at a time; presently a few scattered horsemen
were spied far away on the desert to the left. The news spread like
wildfire. “Haste to the front!”—“Keep together!”—“Cross quickly!”—“Don’t
lag behind!”—resounded on all sides from our escort. The bridge was
abandoned to the camels and mules and asses, and horsemen pushed across
the muddy stream on either side of it, and again formed up on the
open ground ahead. Some horsemen had galloped on in advance to bring
intelligence regarding those we had seen on the desert, and meanwhile
the crowd in the caravan looked around watchfully in every direction,
as if they expected a Turkman to start up from behind every bush that
dotted the plain. The terror these well-cursed marauders inspire in the
Persian breast is laughable, were it not for the reality of the cause.
Men who bounce and brag of their prowess when they have hundreds of miles
between them, pale and shiver in their shoes when they find themselves in
a position where they may meet them face to face.
After a brief halt here, our horsemen on an eminence some way ahead were
seen to dismount. On this our leader pronounced the road clear, and we
set forward again. This tract has from time immemorial been infested by
Turkmans of the Goklán and Yamút tribes, whose seat is in the valley
of the Atrak. A country better adapted to their mode of warfare could
nowhere else be found. The hill ranges to the north afford them an
unobserved approach to their hunting-grounds. Arrived on them, they
conceal themselves amongst the inequalities of the surface, finding water
in some ravine, and pasture for their horses in the aromatic herbs and
rich grasses that cover the hollows. Their scouts from the eminence of
some commanding ridge, or the top of some of the innumerable mameloned
mounds and hummocks that form the most striking feature of the country,
watch the roads, and on the approach of a caravan or small party of
travellers, warn their comrades, who dispose themselves for the attack.
If they find the caravan is marching on the alert and with precaution,
they act on the principle that “Discretion is the better part of valour,”
and remain in their concealment; otherwise they proceed along the hollows
to some spot where the road strikes across a bit of open ground, and
so soon as their prey is fairly out on it, they sweep down upon them,
and generally, I am assured, carry them off without resistance, for
resistance, the Persians have learned, means death.
In conversation with one of our escort, I asked him why the Government
did not make a great effort, and for once and all put an end to this
constant source of trouble and loss? “_Pul!_” (money), he said, with a
Gallic shrug of the shoulders; “our Government won’t spend the money.
This is an old institution. Nobody put a stop to it before, and who is
to do it now? The present arrangements meet all requirements. A guard
starts twice a month to escort coming and going caravans between Mazinán
and Shahrúd, as we now escort your party, and that meets all wants.”
“Have you ever been attacked on this duty?” I asked. “Very seldom, and
only when the Turkmans take the field in great force. They mostly attack
small parties travelling without a guard, or sweep off the peasantry at
work in their fields, or surprise a village at day-dawn.” “But are no
arrangements made to protect these people?” “What would you have?” he
replied. “Travellers have no right to move without a guard in a dangerous
country, and the villagers have the protection of their forts.” “But
surely the country would be better off if there were no Turkmans to harry
it,” I said. “Of course it would; but we don’t hope for such good fortune
from our Government. You people might do it, or the Russians might do
it; but we can’t. People say the Russians are going to rid us of the
Turkmans—God grant they may! and if they clear these _pidr sokhta_ (burnt
fathers) off the face of the earth, they will gain the good-will and
esteem of all Persians.” “How,” I asked, “could the Russians rid you of
the Turkmans?” “Russia is a great country, and very wealthy, and has a
large army. What are the Turkmans to them? If they will only spend their
money, they can do anything. People say they are going to conquer Khiva,
and are making preparations for the campaign. So soon as they take
Khiva, the Turkmans of Marv will also disappear.”
I further learned from my informant, that the Turkmans of the Atrak
valley raid all the country from Shahrúd and Samnán to Sabzwár and
Nishabor, where they meet their brethren of Marv, the Takka, Sarúc, and
Sálor Turkmans, who raid all the country between Mashhad and Herat up to
Sabzwár, thus cutting off from Persia all that portion of the country to
the north and west of the great salt desert of Káshán and Yazd, so far as
security of life, liberty, and property is concerned.
But to return to our route. Pul Abresham, or the stream it bridges, marks
the boundary between the districts of Sabzwár and Shahrúd. There is
another bridge of the same name about thirty miles higher up the stream,
on the direct road from Shahrúd to Mashhad, by Jájarm and Júwen; but
being more dangerous, it is less frequented than this route.
The Pul Abresham river also marks the extreme north-west limit of the
Afghan kingdom founded by Sháh Ahmad, Durrani. It flows south-east, and
joining the Káli Shor, or Nishabor, and Sabzwár, is ultimately lost in
the salt desert between Yazd and Káshán. Beyond the Káli Abresham, we
crossed some low slaty ridges where they terminate on the desert, and
traversing a gravelly plain thinly dotted with tamarisk bushes, rose up
to the ridge on which the Abbasabad Sarae stands, and camped on some
mounds under its walls, our escort filling the _sarae_.
Our next stage was twenty-two miles to Myándasht—route westerly, over a
broken country thrown into little mameloned mounds, with hills on our
right. At six miles we came to the Dahna Alhác, an easy defile winding
between bare rugged hills of coarse brown trap. On our way through it, we
met a caravan of pilgrims on their way to Mashhad, escorted by a military
guard similar to our own. It was a curious spectacle, from the variety of
costume and nationality and conveyance, all jumbled together in jostling
confusion. We passed each other with mutual stares of wonderment, and
I did not appreciate the novelty of the scene till it was gone from my
sight. There were great shaggy camels bearing huge panniers, in which
were cooped three or four veiled bundles of female beauty, rolling from
side to side like a ship in a heavy swell. There were others mounted by
wiry Arabs in their thin rope-turbans, or by thick-set Tátárs in their
shaggy sheepskin caps, swaying to and fro with an energy that led one to
suppose that the speed of the camel depended on the activity of their
movements. There were pannier-mules bearing veiled ladies and their
negress slaves, accompanied by their Persian lords, gay in dress and
proud, on their handsome little steeds. There were quiet calculating
merchants, with flowing beards and flowing robes, borne along by humble
ponies as absorbed in thought as their riders; and there were sleekly
attired priests, serene in their conscious dignity, comfortably flowing
with the tide on their well-groomed and neatly caparisoned mules. There
were others too, a mixed crowd of footmen and women, all dusty and hot,
struggling on to keep pace with their mounted wayfarers. How many will
lag behind and fall to the Turkman’s share? There are amongst these whole
families emigrating in search of food and work: father and mother each
bear an infant on their backs, and two or three of tender years trot by
their side. There are tattered beggars, reduced by sheer want; and there
are other beggars, the impudent, idle, and dissolute scoundrels who
impose on the community by an ostentatious assumption of the religious
character, through no other claim than that of their bold importunity,
backed by noisy appeals to true believers in the name of God and Ali.
Their trade pays, and they flourish in their rags and dissoluteness.
With this caravan came a courier with despatches from Tehran for Sir F.
Goldsmid. He was a mission servant, and had been sent off from our camp
at Birjand with letters for Mr Alison, the British Minister at the court
of Persia, and was now returning with the tidings of his death on the
29th April. After a brief pause, during which “Ismáil,” for such was his
name, greeted his old comrades all round with a kiss each on the mouth,
we proceeded, and clearing the defile, halted for breakfast, and to read
our letters and papers, at the dilapidated _sarae_ of Alhác.
Beyond this our route led over a broken hummocky country, in crossing
which we were overtaken by a thunderstorm and rain, and gently sloped to
the Myándasht Sarae, situated, as its name implies, in the midst of a
desert plain girt by hills. The soil is a firm gravel, and not a tree is
to be seen, though the surface is covered with the asafœtida and rhubarb,
the latter in flower.
_17th May._—Myándasht to Myánmay, twenty-four miles—route westerly,
over a very broken country, similar to that traversed yesterday, and
intersected by numerous ravines draining to the northward. At about
twelve, we crossed a deep gully called Dahna-e-Zaydár, and pointed out
as one of the favourite routes by which Turkmans come from the Jájarm
valley. At six miles farther on, crossing a wide stony ravine, we halted
for breakfast under the shade of some _sinjit_ (_oleagnus_) trees on its
bank, close to the fort of Zaydár. This is apparently a recent erection,
and is held by a small garrison of _sarbáz_ who watch the Myánmay valley.
On the summit of a high rock projecting from the neighbouring hills is a
look-out tower, held by a small picquet. Beyond this we skirted the hill
range on our left, and arrived in our camp at Myánmay just in time to
escape the fury of a thunderstorm with hail and rain, and the cold raw
blasts of a north-west wind.
Myánmay is a considerable village at the head of a long valley, which
towards the east is continuous with that of Júwen. To the northward the
valley is separated from Jájarm by a range of bare hills, through which
are several passes. The hill skirt is dotted with flourishing-looking
villages, whilst the valley itself is a wide uncultivated pasture tract.
There is a very fine _sarae_ here, and some splendid mulberry-trees
around give it a charming appearance. The _sinjit_ trees are now in full
flower here, and quite overload the air with their strong perfume. On the
top of a high hill overlooking the village from the south, there are, it
is said, the ruins of an ancient town, and some reservoirs excavated from
the rock. We could see no traces of them, however, and as the information
was volunteered by a Persian of our escort, it may be only a myth.
_18th May._—Myánmay to Shahrúd, forty-one miles. We set out at 2.45 A.M.,
before it was light, our camels with the heavy baggage having preceded
us by four hours. Our route was west by north, over a plain country for
twelve miles parallel to a hill range on our left, and then diverging to
the right, led across a very uneven country overrun by gravelly ridges
and intersected by ravines, the slopes of which are richly covered
with pasture herbs; and another twelve miles brought us to a roadside
_ábambár_, where we halted for breakfast, and to let the camels with the
heavy baggage, here overtaken by us, get ahead.
Along the foot of the hills, parallel with the first part of our route,
is a succession of picturesque little villages and orchards, that extend
for six _farsakhs_ up to Armyán, half-way on the route from Myánmay to
Shahrúd. They are on the line of road followed by single travellers or
small parties, for the sake of protection afforded by the villages.
From the _ábambár_ our course led due west across an open and gently
sloping plain, towards Shahrúd, visible in the distance, at the foot of a
bare rocky hill, that separates it from Bostám, at the base of the great
snow-crowned Kháwar mountain, and at the entrance to the pass of the same
name leading to Astrabad. Both towns are delightfully situated, and their
luxuriant gardens present a most pleasing view to the eye in this waste
of desert and hill.
At a few miles short of Shahrúd we alighted at a small canal, fringed
with _sinjit_ trees, and rested under their shade till our jaded cattle
had gone on with our camp. Our whole party was much done up by the length
of the march and the heat of the midday sun. But strange to say, our
escort of matchlockmen, of all our following, showed the least symptoms
of fatigue. As I mentioned before, they were accompanied by a number
of asses carrying their clothing and stores of food, &c. The patient
little brutes moved along with their owners, who, turn about, strode
across their backs, and thus, riding and walking alternately, escaped
the exhaustion of a long march and the fatigue of the unvaried ride.
The Persian infantry soldier, or _sarbáz_, as he is called, is noted
for his hardihood and endurance of long marches, but the humble _ulágh_
contributes no small share to his reputation in these respects. He is
cheaply got, easily managed, and costs little or nothing to feed, being
generally left to pick up what he can off the ground. The ass of the
_sarbáz_, who yet knows neither a commissariat nor transport corps, is a
useful institution—in fact, he is indispensable, for, under the existing
conditions, the infantry soldier could not march without him. They would
certainly not prove so efficient and ready as they are without him. We
no sooner arrived at Shahrúd than our escort of _sarbáz_ were ordered
off to accompany the governor of Bostám on an expedition against a party
of Turkmans, who, it was said, had come through Jájarm on the chance of
cutting us off on our way across the desert. They were to proceed with
all speed to take up a position in some pass of the hills, by which alone
the Turkmans could leave the valley, and away they went merrily, with no
impedimenta of tents, baggage, and luxuries.
We halted five days at Shahrúd, where we came into communication with
the civilised world through the line of telegraph connecting Astrabad
with the Persian capital. The town is a flourishing place, surrounded
by vineyards and fruit gardens, now in full foliage, and must be a
delightful residence. Our camp is pitched on an open bit of ground
between some walled gardens in the midst of the town, and close to a
_sarae_ occupied by some Russian and Armenian merchants. We meet them
as we issue for our evening ramble, and pass with a polite doffing of
hats. They have been settled here for the last twelve or fourteen years,
but have not got their families with them. From one of them we got a
supply of very indifferent wine, prepared on the spot, and picked up
some copies of Russian primers with pictorial alphabets and illustrated
anecdotes.
This place is the entrepôt of the trade between Tehran and the countries
to the north and west, and has several commodious _saraes_. It is also an
important strategic position, situated as it is at the entrance to the
pass leading to the Caspian, and is the place where the Persian armies
concentrated preparatory to their campaigns in Khorassan. The plain to
the south of the town is well watered from numerous hill streams, and is
dotted with several flourishing villages, the chief of which are Badasht,
Bázij, Ardyán, Mughán Jáfarabad, Husenabad, Ghoryán, &c. The Shahrúd
district, of which this town is the capital, extends between the hills
from Abbasabad on the east to Dih Mullah on the west, and contains some
fifty or sixty villages. The governor, Jahánsoz Mirzá, resides at Bostám,
but has an agent here.
We did not visit Bostám, only four miles off, as the governor neither
called on us nor made any advances towards the interchange of civilities.
Our Afghan companion, however, Saggid Núr Muhammad Sháh, went over to pay
his devotions at the shrine of the Imám Báezid, which he described as an
unpretending pile of loose stones, raised by the contributions of passing
pilgrims. The saint is held in great veneration, and the simplicity of
his tomb is out of deference to his dying injunction that no mausoleum
should be built over his grave. In an humble grave near the shrine rest
the mortal remains of the late Amir Muhammad Azím Khán, the usurper of
the throne of Kabul. After his final defeat at the hands of the reigning
Amir, Sher Ali Khán, in the beginning of 1869, he fled to Sistan, and was
on his way to the Persian capital, when he was cut short in his career by
cholera at this place, about the 6th July. The Saggid, being an adherent
of the opposite party, suffered severely at the hands of the usurper, who
plundered his property at Kandahar to the extent, it is said, of fifty
thousand rupees. He took this opportunity, however, to forgive him, and
to offer up a prayer for his soul.
The day before our departure from this, a strange Afghan came to my
tent, and, with looks of pleased recognition, said, “Saggid Mahmúd sends
his salám, and begs you will give him some medicine to cure fever and
dysentery. He is too ill to move, or he would himself have come to pay
his respects.” A few words of explanation sufficed to inform me that
my applicant was no other than our old friend of Ghazni, whom we so
unexpectedly met at Barshori at the very outset of our journey. We went
over to see him in his lodgings at the _sarae_, and found him in a truly
wretched plight, so emaciated and weak was he from the combined effects
of the hardships he had endured on his long journey, and the exhausting
nature of his disease. He rose and received us at the door of his cell,
with all the grace of that innate gentility well-bred orientals can
so easily display, and ushering us in with a dignity enhanced by his
handsome features and snow-white beard, motioned us to seats formed
of hastily arranged rugs, with a composure and self-possession quite
charming and wonderful under the circumstances. He ordered his servant to
prepare some tea for our refreshment, and the while gave us an account of
his travels. “Poor Cásim,” he said, the tears dimming his bright eyes,
“_tamán shud_—he is finished. His remains,” he added with a consolatory
sigh, “rest in the sacred soil of Karbalá. He was the son in whom my
hopes centered, but God gives and God takes away—His will be done.” The
details of his journey through Kúm were simply harrowing, and the scenes
he witnessed appalling. Dead bodies strewed the roads and poisoned the
air with their putrescence. The _saraes_ were filled with the dying,
whose wails and sufferings produced a scene impossible to describe. The
villages, empty and still as a house of mourning, were invaded by troops
of dogs, who contested with the survivors the possession of the dead.
Loud were his lamentations for Persia. “The country is gone,” he said.
“There is neither religion, justice, nor mercy to be found in the land.
We (he was a Shia) in Kabul look to Persia as the centre of all that is
good in Islám, but Afghanistan, with all its faults, is a better country
to live in.” Poor old gentleman! he quite brightened up at the idea of
moving on homewards, though he had one foot in the grave already, and
was fully a thousand miles away from his home, and talked composedly of
retiring into private life, and devoting the rest of his days to the
worship of God and meditation on His laws. On our departure, the General,
with characteristic kindliness and forethought, presented our pilgrim
friend with a Kashmir scarf. The old man’s gratitude was touching, and
he blessed us all round. I wonder if the old man ever did reach his
home, though the chances were greatly against his doing so? But it is
astonishing what distances these pilgrims do travel, and what hardships
they endure on the way. Let us hope that the old man did complete his
circle. When we met him on this second occasion, he had in the course of
six months travelled from Ghazni to Kandahar and Shikárpúr and Bombay,
thence by sea to Baghdad, and thence to Karbalá, and back to Baghdad, and
thence by Kirmánshah and Kúm to Tehran, and on to this place. He has yet
before him the inhospitable route from this to Mashhad, and thence to
Herat and Kandahar, before he can reach his home at Ghazni. I gave the
old man a small supply of medicines, and some hints for observance on the
road; and with all good wishes for his onward journey, and a small sum to
assist him on the road, we parted.