_24th May._—Shahrúd to Dih Mullah, sixteen miles. We set out at 5.30
A.M., bidding adieu to Mr Bower of our party, who at the same time set
out for Astrabad _en route_ to London with despatches. If fortunate in
catching the steamer and trains, he hopes to reach his destination in
twenty days, _viâ_ Astrakhan, Czaretzin, Berlin, &c. Were but Afghanistan
an open country, Indian officers proceeding on furlough might with
advantage take this route homewards. But as it is not an open country,
and there is little use in speculating when it will become so, its
peoples and mountains and deserts may yet for another generation maintain
their isolation from the civilised world, and remain a country of
interest to the politician, and a region of curiosity to the scientific
man.
Our route led S.S.W., along a stony hill skirt by a well-beaten track,
following a line of telegraph posts, a promising emblem of Western
civilisation in this yet semi-barbarous land. The hills on our right
belong to the Alburz range, that separates the Caspian basin from the
tableland of Persia. The northern slopes are described as clothed with
dark forests, the southern, however, are precipitous, and mostly bare, a
few juniper-trees only dotting the rocks here and there, as little black
specks on their rugged sides. The range is said to abound in wild goat
and sheep, and the stag or _gáwaz_, called _bárásinghá_ in India. The
leopard and bear are also found on it, and on its eastern spurs a small
species of lion, but not the tiger.
To the left of our route the land slopes down to a water-worn ridge of
red clay. It separates the Shahrúd valley from the salt desert to the
south. A range of hills rises out of the desert far away to the south.
One of our escort called the range Jandak, and pointed out a prominent
peak as Ahwand. Jandak is twenty _farsakhs_ from this, and contains ten
or twelve villages on the edge of the desert, where palm-trees grow
in plenty, as my informant said. He was a very communicative man, and
after volunteering scraps of information regarding the country we were
traversing, took an early opportunity to enlarge on his own grievances.
“The present the _sardár_” (chief), pointing to Sir F. Goldsmid, “gave us
sowars and _sarbáz_, has been taken from us by the governor,” he said.
“We have been so many days out,” he added, “our horses are exhausted, and
we are famished. Nobody cares for us, and the villagers have nothing we
can take from them.” “It is hard,” I said, “but it is the custom of your
country.” “Yes, it is the custom of the country,” was the ready reply,
“and that is why our country is ruined.” “With the aid of the famine,”
I add. “The famine! no that is a decree from God, and we must submit.
No one can fight against what God ordains. But our governor is a very
hard master. He is deeply in debt, and screws his subjects to pacify his
creditors. Not a _pul-i-siyáh_ (a copper coin) escapes his grasp; and
there are many like him. _Irán tabáh shud_—Persia is ruined. _Khyle,
khyle sakht ast_—it is very hard.”
And so it is really. We found the Afghan troops in every respect better
off than those of Persia. They are physically finer men, are better
clad, better armed, and better provided with shelter, carriage, and
provisions, though there is room for improvement on all points.
At Dih Mullah we were accommodated in a double-storied summer-house,
in an ornamental garden adjoining the village. Its shelter, such as
it was, with doors and windows opening in every direction, was hardly
so efficient as that afforded by our tents against the chill gusts of
wind sweeping down from the hills to the north. The situation, however,
afforded us a wide prospect of the country, which, from its nature,
hardly compensated for the discomfort. To the south was an unlimited view
of a vast salt desert, as unvaried as the horizon-girt ocean. To the
north rose a barrier of bare rocks, tipped here and there by snow, and
dotted above by black spots, like one with a mild attack of small-pox;
and on either side lay a long gravelly valley, with a string of villages
and gardens running down its central course.
This evening, having reserved a small supply of wine for the occasion, we
observed the Queen’s anniversary, and at dinner raised our glasses “To
the Queen—God bless her!”
_25th May._—Dih Mullah to Damghán, twenty-six miles. We set out at 3.30
A.M., by the light of a full moon—route south-west along the valley,
passing a succession of villages with their gardens and corn-fields.
The gardens are luxuriant in their foliage, but the corn crops are thin
and backward. Nobody is seen moving about; the villages are half empty,
and a painful silence reigns over a scene outwardly so prosperous. At
about half-way we passed the large village of Mihmándost, near which are
the ruins of the ancient city of Damghán, the scene of the grand battle
between Nadír and Mír Ashraf, Ghilzai, in which the latter received the
first of those crushing defeats that soon after led to his flight from
the country, and ignominious death at the hands of some petty Baloch
robbers in Sistan, and the expulsion of the Afghan invaders from the
Persian soil in 1730. The ruins present nothing worthy of attraction,
and but for the decayed domes and small mounds that rise amongst the low
broken walls, might be easily passed without notice.
Damghán is a decayed little town, full of ruins ancient and recent,
though buried in the midst of most prosperous-looking gardens. It has
suffered frightfully in the famine, its population having fallen, it
is said, from a thousand to two hundred families. There is a telegraph
office here, and a very fair _sarae_. Our next stage was to Khoshá Sarae,
twenty-three miles—route south-west, over a plain country skirting a
hill range to our right, and passing twenty-five or thirty villages _en
route_; morning air cold and bracing. Khoshá is simply a _sarae_ on
an uncultivated gravelly plain at the entrance to a pass in the hills
dividing Damghán from Samnán. No supplies are procurable here, and but a
limited supply of water.
Our next stage was twenty-four miles to Ahuán Sarae, or the _sarae_
of gazelle deer—route south-west, gradually rising over an undulating
pasture country between broken hills. The soil is hard and gravelly, and
the surface is everywhere covered with a thick growth of saltwort, wild
rue, &c., and the _ghích_, on which we found a number of camels at graze;
but we found no habitation or water on all the route. The weather was
very changeable. The morning air was sharp and chill, and during the day
sunshine and cloud succeeded each other, producing quite a wintry state
of atmosphere at this altitude, Ahuán being 6500 feet above the sea,
2240 feet above Khoshá, and 2820 feet above Damghán. Owing to the wind,
the air here felt much colder than the thermometer said it was; and for
about the twentieth time on our march we found ourselves retrograding
back into winter instead of advancing into summer. These sudden changes
of climate and temperature are characteristic of travelling in Persia.
One passes up and down from the hot dry atmosphere of the desert-bordered
plains, to the chill damp air of the cloud-attracting hills and their
elevated tablelands, with such rapidity that it is always necessary to be
provided with warm clothing as a protection against the ill effects of
these sudden alternations of temperature, and particularly against the
cold winds that blow. The Persian overcoat, with its close folds gathered
in across the back, is a well-suited garment for the protection of the
loins, and no doubt its adoption as a national costume is the result of
its proved efficacy or adaptability to the requirements of the climate.
Ahuán is merely a roadside _sarae_ with a supply of water. There is no
village or cultivation here, nor are supplies procurable. There is a
tradition connected with the name of this place. It is to the effect that
the Imám Razá once halted here on his march to Mashhad. Some huntsman in
the neighbourhood brought in a deer he had ridden down in the chase for
presentation to the saint On seeing the Imám, the deer appealed to his
justice, and begged to be released, on the plea of having a young one
dependent on herself for support, promising, so soon as the fawn grew up,
to return and surrender herself to her captor. The Imám at once directed
the release of the deer, and himself stood surety for her return at the
appointed time. The deer, however, did not return at the end of a year,
and the fact being reported to the Imám, he at once caused a deer to seek
out the huntsman, and surrender herself to him in his name. From this
time the deer in these hills have been held sacred, and are not hunted,
and are in consequence very numerous here.
_28th May._—Ahuán to Samnán, twenty-four miles, and halt a day—route
S.S.W. through a hilly tract on to the plain of Samnán. At two miles we
crossed a watershed running north and south, at an elevation of 6750
feet above the sea. It marks the boundary between Damghán and Samnán.
This wide tract of hills forms a barrier between the plain valleys of
Damghán and Samnán. It extends from east to west about thirty miles,
and rises 2500 feet above the general level of the plains on either
side. Its hills are an emanation southwards from the Alburz range, and
join a parallel range on the borders of the salt desert, to the south.
Its higher ridges are perfectly bare, but the lower are richly clothed
with excellent pasture bushes and herbs, saltwort, wormwood, wild rue,
_ghích_, &c. We left this hill tract by a very narrow ravine, between
banks of conglomerate and ridges of friable slate, and descended a long
stony slope on to the plain of Samnán, and crossing its bare, parched,
stony desert surface, camped at a _kárez_ stream under the shade of some
mulberry-trees to the north of the town. The plain wears a desolate
uninviting look, and is suggestive of unpleasant heat in summer.
On approaching the town, we were met by an _isticbál_ party of six
or seven horsemen, with a couple of led horses, and a rickety little
carriage drawn by a pair of very unkempt ponies. And on our arrival in
camp, the governor sent us some trays of sweetmeats and many polite
messages. There is a telegraph office here, but owing to a break in the
line ahead, we were unable to communicate with Tehran. Though we are now
only six stages from the capital, we have received no later intelligence
than the 29th April, received on the 16th instant.
Our next stage was twenty-two miles to Lásjird, where we camped on
stubble-fields, near some ruined huts opposite the town—route westerly,
over a plain undulating and gently rising to the westward, where it is
narrowed by hills. At this place we received a post two days out from
Tehran, with letters dated London, 8th May. Weather close and sultry,
ending at sunset with a dust-storm, and slight rain from the north-west A
disagreeably high wind blew in squally gusts all night.
Lásjird is a very remarkable little collection of dwellings on the
summit of an artificial mound with scarped sides. They are ranged in two
stories, in the form of a quadrangle, which at the south-east angle is
open, and presents a glimpse of the interior space. The chambers open on
to a balcony, that runs on both sides of each face of the quadrangle, as
shown in this diagrammatic sketch, which will convey some idea of the
general appearance of the place.
[Illustration]
The sides of the mound are streaked with open drains, that carry off
all the sewage from the interior, and must render the places above a
very unwholesome and disagreeable habitation. The place seemed pretty
crowded, and numbers of its inhabitants looked down upon us from the
balconies running in front of their chambers. The community thus crowded
together must, judging from our single night’s experience, lead a life of
constant wrangling and quarrelling. The voices of querulous old women and
obstreperous children, and the rebukes of angry husbands, kept us awake
all night, with not the best of wishes bestowed upon the Lásjirdis. This
place looks unique of its kind, but I am told that Yazdikhast is built on
a similar plan.
Our next stage was twenty-five miles to Dih Namak. Set out from Lásjird
at 1.30 A.M., and crossing three or four deep ravines by masonry
bridges, passed on to a stony desert hill skirt that falls quickly to
the southward, where it merges into the salt desert, which glistens in
the morning sunlight as white as snow. At half-way we passed a deserted
village and ruined _sarae_, but on all the route saw no cultivation or
habitation.
The country is very uninteresting, and no incident occurred to enliven
the march or occupy our thoughts, and hence I suppose the unwonted
attention devoted to the peculiarities of our own surroundings. We were
marching in the usual order of procession—that is to say, the Mirakhor
Jáfar Beg, in his handsome Kashmir-shawl-pattern coat, led the way,
with a couple of mounted grooms, each leading a _yadak_, or handsomely
caparisoned horse, by which, according to the custom of the country, all
men of rank are preceded when they take the saddle. Next came ourselves,
and behind us followed our personal servants, the Mirzá, and the escort.
The last had now dwindled down to only half-a-dozen horsemen. Our heavy
baggage with the camels generally went ahead overnight, and the mules
with our light tents, &c., followed in rear of our procession.
The Mirakhor, always serious in look, yet strictly deferential in his
bearing, was always ready with a reply to any and every query, and, as
may be conjectured, with no possible reliance on any of them. “Mirakhor!”
“Bale” (“Yes”). “The village of Sarkhrúd lies on our route to-day. How
far may it be from this?” “Yes, I know the place. You see that hill
ahead? Well it is just a _farsakh_ beyond.” We move on, prepared for
another eight miles before we alight for breakfast; but on cresting a
low marly ridge ahead, a village buried in gardens lies below us. “What
village is this, Mirakhor?” “This is Sarkhrúd. Will you breakfast here?”
“Why, you said it was a _farsakh_ beyond that hill.” Without moving a
muscle, or evincing a trace of discomposure, he merely replies, “This
side the hill. This is Sarkhrúd. Will you alight for breakfast here?”
The way this man ate his own words was surprising, but the way, under a
quiet undemonstrative demeanour, he gathered in his _mudákhil_, was more
so; for, not content with charging double rates all round, he charged for
larger quantities than were actually supplied. By the merest accident
I gained an insight into the system of corruption carried on under the
specious rights of _mudákhil_, for the extent of which I was not at
all prepared. Our Afghan companions kept their expenditure accounts
distinct from ours, and it was from what I heard from them regarding our
Mirakhor’s desire to cater for them too, that I first got an inkling of
the liberality of his views in the matter of perquisites, and his anxiety
to prevent the extent of them becoming known, by an attempt to get the
whole management into his own hands. Rogues sometimes fall out amongst
themselves, and so it happened one day that a quarrel amongst our stable
establishment threatened a disclosure of their dishonest dealings. The
Mirakhor, however, was master of the situation, and the contumacious
groom who demanded a larger share of the spoil than his chief chose to
give him was summarily dismissed, and turned adrift on the line of march,
on the accusation of selling for his own profit grain given to him for
the feed of the horses under his charge. “Clever man!” whispered the
observers, as their respect for the Mirakhor’s _savoir faire_ increased
with his success. “He deserves to prosper. You see he has got the upper
hand of his enemy. Any complaint he may hereafter prefer against the
Mirakhor will be declared malicious. Was he not deprived of his post and
turned adrift for a fault exposed by him?”
The discharged groom followed our party for several hundred miles, up to
the capital, and, what was more surprising, came out, in his disgrace
and downfall, in a new suit of broadcloth and silks, in place of the
discarded attire of his late mean occupation, and certainly looked, so
far as outward appearances go, the most respectable of our servants. The
Mirakhor after this _coup_ affected a character for honesty, and was more
punctual than ever in the observance of his religious duties. As the sun
lit up the horizon, he, and he alone, would move off the road, dismount,
and, facing the _Cablá_, perform his morning prayers, and then galloping
up, resume his position at the head of our party, with self-satisfied
pride in his singular devotion.
Dih Namak is a wretched collection of huts round a dilapidated fort on
the edge of the desert. Close by is a substantial and commodious _sarae_.
Our camp was at first pitched on the plain to its west, but the wind
blew with such force from the west, and raised such clouds of dust, that
we were obliged to strike the tents and take refuge in the _sarae_—a move
of very doubtful advantage; for though we escaped the violence of the
wind, we were almost stifled by the whirling eddies of stable dust and
litter, and tormented by myriads of the voracious little insects bred in
its deep layers.
_1st June._—We set out from Dih Namak at 1.30 A.M., and marched
twenty-four miles to Kishlác, facing a high north-west wind, sensibly
warm even at this early hour, nearly the whole way. Our route was
westerly, skirting the Ferozkoh range of hills to our right, and having
a bare desert away to the left. The country is generally flat, dotted by
a succession of villages, and crossed by numerous branches of the Hubla
rivulet, which drains to the desert, and irrigates on its way a wide
surface of corn land.
At eight miles we came to the Padih village, and leaving a cluster of
four or five others on the right and left of the road, at two miles
farther came to Arazan, where there is a telegraph-office. Arazan is the
chief town of the Khár _bulúk_ of the Veramín district, and is one of
the granaries of Tehran, and consequently by no means the “very mean”
country, one of our party facetiously styled it.
At nine miles from Arazan, crossing _en route_ ten or twelve little
streams formed by the outspread of the Hubla river over the surface, we
arrived at Kishlác, and took refuge in its little _sarae_ from the wind,
which blew with such force that we could not pitch our tents.
Our next stage was twenty-one miles to Aywáni Kyf—the “portals of
delight” to the traveller approaching the capital from the west—route
W.N.W., across a wide piece of cultivation, and then over a gravelly
pasture tract to the Sardárra defile. This is a winding path through
low clay hills, said to contain rock-salt. Through the defile flows a
small stream, the sides of which are encrusted with salines. These hills
emanate from Ferozkoh, and stretching on to the plain in a south-west
direction, separate Khár from Veramín. Beyond the defile we went
north-west over a wide pasture tract sloping up to the hills, and camped
on rising ground above the village. Aywáni Kyf is a considerable place,
surrounded by fruit gardens, and protected by a neat fort, all situated
on the right bank of a stony ravine that issues from the hills to the
north, amongst which rises aloft the snowy cone of Damavand, a prominent
object in the landscape as one approaches from the defile.
We halted here a day, and received letters from Tehran in reply to some
sent off from our camp at Shahrúd. Persia has a telegraph line, but she
has no post. The delays and inconveniences resulting from the absence of
this established institution of civilised countries must be experienced
to be appreciated. To us, accustomed as we had been to the daily receipt
of intelligence from our friends, the hardship was difficult to endure.
At this place we found the midday sun shone with considerable force,
though cool breezes from the hills to the north tempered the air. The
summer sun in Persia is too hot to admit of travelling during the day,
and consequently our marches latterly have commenced an hour or two
after midnight, an arrangement that admitted of our reaching camp before
the cattle could suffer from the heat, which, however, is nothing in
comparison with that of India. We had no cause to complain on this score,
and even where it was hot, always enjoyed the luxury of ice, of which the
Persians are very fond, and which they use freely. Every village almost
has its _yakhchál_, or ice-pits, stocked from the winter snows. The
luxury is sold at a very cheap rate, and is at the command of all classes.
From this place we marched twenty-seven miles to Khátúnabad, where we
found shelter in the _sarae_, a filthy place, swarming with vermin, and
reeking with offensive odours, and crowded with famished beggars, who
sifted the horse litter for the undigested grains of barley it contained,
and rummaged the ground for bones and fragments left by more fortunate
travellers. Our route was W.N.W. over the Veramín plain, by a good road
skirting a hill range to our right, and in sight of the magnificent peak
of Damavand.
At about ten miles we came to a bifurcation of the road. That to the
right follows the hill skirt direct to Tehran. We followed the branch to
the left, and crossing the Jájrúd (_jâjárúd_ = river everywhere?), which
here spreads over the surface in a number of little streams that water
several villages on either side our route, went down a gentle slope to
Khátúnabad.
_5th June._—Khátúnabad to Gulahak, eighteen miles. We set out at one
A.M., across the plain towards the Sherabánú hill, skirting the foot
of which we arrived at Takiabad at 4.30 A.M., and alighted at a garden
belonging to Prince Ahmad. It is a delightful spot, with a comfortable
house looking down an avenue of plane-trees, that flank a long vista of
flowering plants. On each side are vineyards and fruit trees, in the
shady foliage of which are hundreds of nightingales, strong in song. The
morning air here was so chill that we were glad to warm ourselves at a
blazing fire raised to cook us some coffee.
Beyond this we passed through the ruins of Re, or Rhages, in the midst of
which stands the town of Abdul Azím, with its rich gardens overtopped by
the dome of its shrine; and then turning north, went over a rising plain
towards Tehran, of which we now first got a view, its domes, minars, and
palaces appearing high above the dead wall of its fortifications. The
appearance of the city is not so fine as I had expected, but the general
view of the landscape, backed as it is by the snowy range of Alburz, with
Damavand’s fleecy peak standing sentry over it, is very fine; whilst the
bright gardens and happy villages nestling in the inequalities of the
slope at the foot of the range add a charm to the scene delightfully in
contrast with the bare plain that cuts the horizon to the southward.
We entered the city at the Abdul Azím gate, and passed through its bazárs
round by the king’s palace, to the new buildings of the British Legation,
which appear to be the finest in the whole place. Beyond this we left
the city by a gateway in the new line of fortifications (like that of
Abdul Azím, it is decorated with gaudily-painted tiles of inferior
quality), and followed a carriage-road to Gulahak, the summer residence
of the members of the British Legation. Here we were conducted by our
servants to some unoccupied bungalows, and alighting, found leisure to
reflect on the marked difference in the forms of social sentiment that
animate Englishmen in India and Persia. Here, after a march of upwards of
two thousand miles, through barbarous countries and dangerous regions,
a small party of British officers arrived in the midst of a little
community of their countrymen, without so much as drawing one of them
from their doors for a welcome or greeting.
Gulahak is one of several picturesque little villages on the slope at
the foot of Alburz mountain, and occupied as a summer residence by the
members of the several European Legations at the court of Persia. It
has an agreeable climate and pleasing scenery, and but for the limited
society, would be a delightful residence.
On our way through the city we saw sad evidences of the effects of
the famine. Beggars, squalid and famished, were found in every street
appealing pitifully to the passers for charity, and no less than three
corpses were carried past us on the way to burial, in the great and
densely packed graveyards that occupy much of the intramural area,
and sensibly taint its atmosphere. The condition of the population is
deplorable. The official returns for the past week represent the daily
mortality within the city walls at two hundred souls, almost wholly
victims to starvation and typhoid fever. This high rate cannot last long,
it is to be hoped, though the prospect ahead is, from all accounts,
gloomy in the extreme. Thousands of families, who have hitherto kept
body and soul together by the sale of their jewellery and property,
down to the clothes on their backs, are now reduced to a state of utter
destitution, and have not the means of purchasing the food the ripening
crops will soon render available. For these the future is indeed dark,
unless the Government at the last moment comes forward to save its
people from destruction. But as it has so far ignored the existence of
a calamity that has well-nigh depopulated the country, there is little
reason to hope that it will at the eleventh hour stultify its conduct,
and stretch out an arm to save the country from ruin.
The Sháh, it is said, is kept in ignorance of the extent of the
sufferings of his people, through the false representations of his
ministers. He was at this time absent from the capital on a hunting
excursion in the Shamrán hills, and as he did not return until after my
departure from the capital, I did not enjoy the honour of being presented
at His Majesty’s court.
At Tehran I made hasty arrangements for my return to India _viâ_ Baghdad
and the Persian Gulf, with our Indian camp establishment and despatches
for Government. Through the kindness of Mr Ronald Thomson, _chargé
d’affairs_, I was provided with letters to the Persian and Turkish
authorities for my expedition on the road, and one of the mission
_ghuláms_ or couriers, Shukrullah Beg by name, was appointed to accompany
me as guide.
On the 8th June, the camp having been sent ahead in the morning, I took
leave of my chief, Major-General F. R. Pollock C.S.I. (now Sir Richard
Pollock, K.C.S.I.), and of the Afghan commissioner, Saggid Núr Muhammad
Sháh, of Sir Frederick Goldsmid, and the members of his staff, and at
4.30 P.M. set out from Gulahak accompanied by Mr Rozario, and one of the
mission servants as guide to our first stage from the capital. Major Ewan
B. Smith, Sir F. Goldsmid’s personal assistant, rode some way out with
us, and then a “Good-bye—God bless you!” and we moved off in opposite
directions.
On our way down the avenue leading to the city, we met two
carriages-and-four, full of veiled ladies of the Sháh’s _andarún_, out
for their evening drive. They were driven by postilions, and preceded by
a number of horsemen, who with peremptory gestures motioned the people
off the road, where they stood with their backs towards royalty till the
carriages had passed. Our guide, seeing the carriages in the distance,
tutored us in our conduct, and as they approached, we turned off the
road, and respectfully turned our horse’s tails to where their heads
ought to have been.
Our route through the city traversed its western quarters, and led out
by the Darwaza Nao—“the new gate”—and then across the plain to Khanabad,
where we were accommodated for the night in a summer-house situated
in a very delightful garden belonging to Prince Ali Culi Mirzá. On our
way through the city we passed a bloated corpse in a horrible state of
putrefaction lying in the street, and by it stood a couple of men about
to drag it into concealment amongst the broken walls and crumbling
huts that here and there separate the occupied houses, and assail the
passengers with the most sickening stinks. The view of Alburz and
Damavand from the south side of the city is very fine, whilst the wide
plain of Veramín, with its numerous villages and gardens, wears an aspect
of prosperity and plenty, cruelly belied by the hard reality of their
misery and poverty.
Khanabad was our _nacl mucám_ or preparatory stage, hardly four miles
from the city. Our servants had had the whole day to run backwards and
forwards for the hundred and one things they had forgotten, or which the
opportunity made them fancy they required for the journey, and when we
arrived at nightfall, half of them were yet lingering there, taking a
last fill of the pleasures it afforded them. Seeing this, I anticipated
trouble and delay, but, to avoid the latter as much as possible, gave
the order to march at midnight, and, as a first step, had the loads
brought out and arranged all ready for loading, as a plain hint that I
expected the absent muleteers to be present at the appointed hour. The
measure proved successful, for after much running to and fro amongst
the servants, our party was brought together by two o’clock in the
morning, and we set out on our march half an hour later, but without the
head muleteer and three of his men, who, having received their hire in
advance, were indifferent on the score of punctuality.
Our route was W.S.W., by a well-beaten track, over a plain country,
covered with many villages, and traversed towards the south and west
by detached ridges of hill. At about eight miles we came to Husenabad,
and passing through it, halted on apiece of green turf near the road for
the baggage to come up. I had had no rest during the night owing to the
bustle of our people and the noise made by the nightingales, and was here
so overpowered with fatigue, that I stretched myself on the sward, and
was fast asleep in a minute, dreaming where all the hundreds of mules and
asses we had just passed on their way to the city with loads of green
lucerne could have come from, since our Mirakhor had assured us that
not one was to be procured in the country, and had, simply as a token
of good-will, provided me with twenty of those that had brought us from
Sistan, only at quadruple the former rates, half down in advance for the
whole journey. Clever fellow! he at all events secured his _mudákhil_
before losing sight of the muleteers.
From this we went on, and crossing the river Kárij by a masonry bridge,
passed over a stony ridge from a hill on the right, and sloped down to
Rabát Karím, where we found quarters in some of the many empty houses of
the village, having come twenty-five miles from Khanabad. The population
of this village was formerly reckoned at a thousand families. It does not
now contain a fourth of that number, and a very wretched, sickly-looking
set they are, with hardly a child to be found amongst them. And so it was
with every place we came to on all the journey down to Kirmánshah.
We concluded our first march away from Tehran more successfully than I
had hoped for in the face of the troubles lowering ahead at the first
start. My guide, Shukrullah Beg, has been most energetic and willing, and
promises to turn out a good conductor. He is a blunt, plain-spoken man,
with sharp intelligent features, a freckled complexion, and bristly red
beard, and has none of the polish and love of finery so characteristic of
the Persian of Tehran, though he is equally impressed with the necessity
for ceremony and show. To my amusement he started our procession this
morning quite _en règle_, with a strict adherence to the form observed by
great men on the march. My spare horse was lead as a _yadak_ in front by
the groom mounted on a mule, whilst he himself, having assumed the title,
led the way as Mirakhor, the two riding camels, servants, and baggage
following us in column close in rear, and gradually dropping behind as
our pace exceeded theirs.
We arrived at our resting-place at the breakfast hour, and now I missed
the cheerful society of those we had parted from, and my thoughts ran
back over the long journey we had done together. The frosts and snows of
Balochistan, the passage of the Khojak, and the cutting winds of Kandahar
recurred to memory; and with them came recollections of the General’s
enduring energy and indomitable pluck, that overcame all difficulties and
inspired a confidence that deprived hardships of half their sting; his
ever-cheerful spirits too, and kindly thought for all, that made distance
wane, and fatigue lose its load. Recollections of the Afghan welcome and
hospitality, and of the Saggid’s friendly intercourse and sociability,
his amusing conversation, interesting tales, and theologic dogmatism.
Recollections too of our Persian secretary, Mirzá Ahmad (a native of
Peshawar), his cheerful bearing under trials, his modest demeanour, his
honesty and readiness at all times for all things. I thought of Sistan,
and ran over the journey thence to the Persian capital with those we
joined there, and I missed the charming grace of Sir F. Goldsmid’s
manner, his benevolent self-denial, and his instructive conversation.
Our march through Khorassan was gone over again, with many an agreeable
recollection of the benefits derived from Major Ewan Smith’s excellent
arrangements for the road, and recollections, too, of many a tedious
march enlivened by the vivacity of his humour and sprightly wit. The
first of April in our camp at Birjand was not forgotten, nor the post we
all rushed out of our tents to meet; and if the others have not forgiven
Major Beresford Lovett, I have, out of respect for his talents. Many
a race across country with Mr Bower to bring to bay and question some
astonished shepherd or ploughman came to mind, and the sharp ring of his
“_Máli ínjá hastí? Dih chi ism dárad?_” (“Do you belong to this place?
What’s the name of the village?”) methought was heard afresh.
With such thoughts was I occupied when Shukrullah Beg made his
appearance, and, with a serious face, announced that the mulemen demanded
their discharge, as they had no money for the journey, and the head
muleteer, who had received the advance, had not joined them. They were
afraid they would never get their share of the hire, and did not wish to
go on without being paid. This was rather embarrassing news. However, I
sent for the men, explained to them that the head muleteer would probably
soon overtake us, and that meanwhile I would pay for their food and that
of the mules, and dismissed them to their work, and ordered the march at
two in the morning. At the same time, for safety’s sake, I had the mules
brought over and picketed in the court below our quarters, and at sunset
had the loads packed and ranged out ready for lading.
_10th June._—Rabát Karím to Khanabad, thirty-three miles. We set out at
three A.M., following a westerly course over wide pasture downs, along
the line of telegraph between Tehran and Baghdad, with a range of hills
away to the right. At an hour and a half we came to a roadside _sarae_,
where we alighted for the baggage to come up. The _sarae_ dates from the
time of Sháh Abbas the Great, and was very substantially built of trap
rock and cellular lava. It is now in a state of ruin. In the interior
we found portions of several human skeletons. To two of them were still
adhering the clothes they wore during life, and they told the tale of
the dead—poor peasants cut short on their way to the capital in search
of food. To one of them the skull was attached uninjured. I took it off,
and carried it away with me for the anthropological museum of a learned
friend.
Beyond this we crossed the Rúdi Shor, a brackish stream that drains past
Kúm on to the salt desert, where it joins the Káli Shor of Nishabor and
Sabzwár, and went over an undulating pasture country, rising gently to
the westward, and having the snowy mountains of Shamrán in view to the
right. At about twenty miles we rose to the crest of the downs, and
looked down on the smiling valley of Pashandia with its many villages and
gardens, an agreeable change from the dreary wilds and pasture downs of
the country we had traversed. The elevation here is 4380 feet above the
sea, thus giving an ascent of 700 feet from Rabát Karím.
Up to this point we found no water except that of Rúdi Shor, and the
whole country wears a very uninteresting and wild look. From the crest
we dropped into the valley, and passing several villages, some in ruins,
crossed a wide sandy ravine in which lay some great blocks of brown
lava, and farther on arrived at Khanabad, where we alighted at the
_chapparkhana_ or post-house, glad of its shelter, for the sun shone out
towards noon with much force. This is a poor little village, and has only
fifteen families left of a population of sixty before the famine. It is
in the Zarand _bulúk_, which contains sixty or seventy villages, with
Sába as their capital town. The _bulúk_ is the dower of one of the Sháh’s
wives, named Anísuddaula. She deputes her brother, Muhammad Hasan Khán,
to its government. His residence is at Sába, where are the ruins of an
ancient fire-temple. Gabr relics are found all over the district. Such
were the fruits of a chat with the keeper of the post-house, who, his
horses having all died, and the appearance of travellers being few and
far between, was only too glad of the opportunity to talk on any subject
with any one, and answered our endless questions with willing readiness.
Hence we marched twenty-six miles to Khushkak—route W.S.W., and then west
over a wide hill-girt plain, mostly uncultivated owing to want of water.
At three miles we passed Asyábad, and then no other village up to our
stage. A few were seen at the foot of the hills to the right, at long
distances apart, and a number of _kárez_ wells were traced across the
plain by their line of little mounds of excavated earth. The soil is firm
and gravelly, and the surface now presents a thick green carpet of herbs
of sorts, all in full flower. I recognised the Syrian rue, two or three
kinds of spurge, the wild poppy, larkspur, clove pink, ragged-robin,
and a variety of cruciferous, composite, labiate, leguminous, and
umbelliferous herbs. Myriads of caterpillars loaded their little
branches, and the whole surface, along our route at least, was fluttering
with innumerable butterflies with leopard-like spotted wings. Lizards
of different sorts and sizes were common enough, and dodged our horses’
hoofs at every step, but not a bird was seen of any kind.
Across the plain the road rises over a long hill slope up to the
post-house and hamlet of Khushkak at the entrance of a pass into the
hills. We found the post-house deserted and falling to ruin, and
therefore alighted at one of the empty huts of the village. Khushkak
is the last village of the Zarand _bulúk_ in this direction. It is a
poor place, and only retains twenty of the fifty families that formed
its population. The little hut we occupy, though it has just been swept
and spread with carpets, has an almost insupportably disagreeable musty
odour, raising unpleasant suspicions as to the condition of its former
occupants. The floor was a little below the level of a brisk little
stream that ran down the hill close outside its walls, and the moisture,
percolating through the soil, filled the atmosphere of the room with a
heavy sickly vapour. In the absence of our tents, which were yet far
behind, it was the best shelter the place afforded, and I was content to
correct its vapours with the addition of tobacco fumes.
_12th June._—Khushkak to Novarán, thirty-six miles. Marched at 1.45
A.M.—route a little south of west by a winding path continually ascending
and descending across a range of low rounded hills covered with the
richest pasture, on which we found large herds of camels at graze, and
in the sheltered hollows between spied the black tents of their _ilyát_
owners.
At two miles we crossed a noisy hill torrent, and, turning to the left,
went up its narrow glen, with long strips of orchards and hamlets on
either slope, and at about another five miles reached the watershed. Its
elevation is about 6938 feet above the sea, and 1528 feet above Khushkak.
Here we turned to the right, and passing over rolling pasture downs,
gradually descended to a long valley in which are many villages. At about
twenty miles we passed the villages of Shamrin and Bivarán, picturesquely
perched on the hill slopes amidst delightful vineyards. Farther on, we
left the hills, and going along the valley, passed a number of villages
to our left; and at eleven o’clock, after a fatiguing ride of nine hours,
camped under the shade of some splendid walnut-trees close to the village
of Novarán. Several of the villagers flocked out to see us, and, to my
surprise, I found they did not understand Persian. They are Kurds, and
speak a dialect of Turki, said to be different from the language spoken
by the Turks.
This place is in the Muzdkhanchay _bulúk_, which contains about forty
villages. It is said to have suffered less from the famine than other
parts of the country. Its people, however, looked the impersonation of
poverty.
_13th June._—Novarán to Zaráh, thirty-two miles. Departed at 2.15 A.M.;
morning air still and chilly. At four miles out crossed the Muzdkhanchay
river by a masonry bridge. It is a tributary of the Kúm river, which is
lost on the desert towards Kirmán, and here marks the boundary between
Tehran and Hamadán. It is subject to violent floods after rains on the
hills, and its bed certainly bears the traces of violent rushes of water.
At four miles on we came to a ruined and deserted hamlet by which flowed
a sparkling little hill torrent. On its bank lay the corpse of a woman
half devoured by wild animals, and beyond it lay the broken skeletons
of other victims of the famine. Here our route changed from W.S.W. to
N.N.W., and led over a long uninteresting succession of undulations, and
finally cresting a low ridge, sloped down a wide hollow in which are
many villages. The soil is everywhere up to the ridge a bare clay thrown
up into hummocks, and furrowed by the action of water. Onwards from the
ridge we marched in view of the snow-crowned Alwand mountain away to the
south-west.
At 9.30 A.M. we arrived at Zaráh, a miserable little village, almost
depopulated, and the very picture of poverty and neglect, and alighted
at the _chapparkhana_, which we found empty and extremely filthy. Below
the village, on a turfy spot beyond its rivulet, we found the camp of
Imám Culi Khán, Imáduddaula, the governor of Kirmánshah. He is a son of
the late Muhammad Ali Mirzá, one of the many sons of the late Fath Ali
Sháh, and is consequently an uncle of the reigning Sháh. He is now going
to the capital to take part in the discussion of various important state
questions that are shortly to occupy the attention of the Sháh and his
ministers. His camp consists of a large single-poled tent, and a dozen
smaller ones round it for his ladies and attendants; and in front of them
are drawn up three very handsome four-wheeled carriages of English or
French manufacture.
Towards sunset Shukrullah Beg announced that a _peshkhidmat_, or page in
attendance, had arrived with a message from the Prince. He was ushered
up to the room I occupied, and, with a polite bow, and hands folded in
front, delivered his message. “The Imáduddaula is pleased to say that a
saddled horse is ready if your honour feels disposed to pay him a visit”
“My compliments to the Imáduddaula, and I shall have much pleasure in
paying my respects to his excellency.” “By your leave I will go for the
horse.” “There is no necessity for that. My own is at hand, and I will
ride over in half an hour.” And the _peshkhidmat_ with a bow retired.
I gave the order for my horse to be saddled, and meanwhile donned a
suit of presentable attire. Shukrullah Beg the while was busy arranging
a procession _more Persico_; and when I came down to the gate of the
_chapparkhana_, I found my groom with the spare horse ready as a _yadak_,
and the mulemen, and others he had somehow got hold of for the occasion,
ranged in file on either side the path, and looking as solemn as if they
were about to be led to execution.
It was all, no doubt, quite correct, and had the individual actors in
the ceremony been at all decently attired, I might have submitted to the
rules of conventionality, and allowed myself to be led off _en grande
tenue_. Under the actual conditions, however, the processionists did look
such a set of ragamuffins, that I could not consent to play a part in
the farce, and consequently, much to the chagrin of Shukrullah Beg, sent
them all back to their places, and mounting my horse, set off towards
the camp, attended by my personal orderly in uniform, and Shukrullah Beg
leading the way.
Near the camp we met the horse sent out for me, and crossing a small
rivulet, arrived in front of the great tent. Here I dismounted, and sent
in my card by one of the servants ranged in two rows in front of the tent
door. Presently a very intelligent-looking man stepped out, and, with a
deferential manner, invited me to walk in. I did so, and removing my hat,
bowed to the Prince, who was seated, oriental fashion on a broad cushion,
like a mattress. Without rising, he motioned me to a chair placed at the
side of his cushion. As I took my seat, his son, the only other occupant
of the tent, and who had risen from his kneeling posture seated on his
heels as I entered, again resumed his former position on the other side
of the cushion. He was a handsome young man with a glossy black beard,
and throughout the interview observed a respectful silence, with an
attentive gaze towards his father. The Prince was plainly dressed in a
suit of black cloth, and, with spectacles adjusted, appeared to have been
busy with a number of manuscripts that lay in a small pile before him.
His close-trimmed grizzly beard gave him a somewhat stern expression,
but his voice was gentle and his manner affable, with an easy sense of
conscious dignity. He inquired how I fared on my travels, and how long
I had resided in Persia. “It is my first visit to the country,” I said,
“and I have been marching through it for four months.” With an inquiring
look of doubt he asked where I had learned the language, and was pleased
to compliment me on my knowledge of it. He alluded in a kindly way to the
death of Mr Alison, said it was a great loss to Persia, and speculated on
his successor, giving his own vote for Sir H. Rawlinson. He made several
inquiries regarding Sistan, and asked if the boundary had been settled.
The question, I replied, was now under discussion at Tehran. He had
heard of the assassination of Lord Mayo, and asked whether it was true
that a general rebellion in India had followed the tragedy. He referred
to European politics very sensibly; said the defeat of the French took
all Persians by surprise; they must fight again, but Prussia would
maintain the position she had gained in Europe. He spoke in disparaging
terms of Turkey; the country was rotten to the core, had no credit, no
organisation, and no army; she was doomed sooner or later to fall before
Russian progress. He supposed the proposed Euphrates Valley railway would
soon be set on foot; it would prove the regeneration of Persia. The
country now, he said, was in a deplorable state, upwards of a million
of its people had perished in the famine. The country, he said, was
naturally divided into five fifths. One fifth was desert, two fifths were
mountain, another fifth was pasture, and the remaining fifth was arable
and habitable.
In such converse the set courses of coffee, sherbet, tea, and ice, with
the _calyán_ between each, were got through, and I took my leave with
the same ceremony as on entering. On returning to my quarters in the
post-house, I found a sheep, trays of sweetmeats, four great cones of
Russian white sugar, two large packets of tea, and two boxes of _gáz_ (a
sweetmeat prepared at Kirmánshah from manna), had been politely sent over
for me by the Imáduddaula—a civility which in the East corresponds with
an invitation to dinner in the West. I was much pleased with this visit,
particularly as it afforded me an opportunity of correcting some mistaken
notions regarding the pride and insincerity of the Persians, and the
disposition of the leading men of the country towards our nation.
In the Imáduddaula I found a dignified, quiet, and well-informed man,
who spoke sensibly on all matters, and bore himself like a prince. He
thanked me for my visit, said he was much pleased to have seen me, and
wished me a prosperous journey onwards, and hoped I would make use of his
garden-house at Kirmánshah during my stay there.
_14th June._—Zaráh to Míla Gird, twenty miles—route W.S.W., across a wide
alluvial plain, bounded by the Alwand mountain on the south, and the
Caraghan range on the north. The level surface presents a bright sheet
of green corn, pasture land, and meadows, interspersed with numerous
villages and gardens, all radiant in their summer foliage. The scene is
one of great promise, but its reality sadly disappoints.
On arrival at Míla Gird we rode up to the post-house. A corpse with
gaping mouth and staring eyes lay athwart the threshold; hungry, pinched,
and tattered men and women, careless of their surroundings, passed and
repassed without so much as a glance at it. We too passed on through
the village, and witnessed the nakedness of its misery. Men desponding,
bowed, and paralysed by want, women nude in their rags, with matted
hair and shrivelled features, wandered restlessly like witches, naked
children with big bellies and swollen feet turned up their deep sunk
eyes with an unmeaning stare as we disturbed them at their morning meal
of wild seed grasses and unripe ears of corn. The scene was the most
frightful we had anywhere seen, and the roadside deposits of undigested
grass and weeds, told of the dire straits the surviving population
endures.
We passed on from this scene of suffering, and alighted under the shade
of some willow-trees fringing a water-course beyond the village, and
there awaited the arrival of our baggage, which by some mistake had taken
the wrong road, and was passing our stage, as we rightly concluded by the
dust rising on the plain some miles off. Shukrullah Beg galloped after
them, and brought them back about midday, all more or less knocked up by
the heat of the sun.
In the afternoon I had a quantity of bread prepared and distributed
to the poor villagers. The frantic struggles for its possession, the
fighting and biting and screaming that followed, decided me not to
attempt such a mode of relief again. I had had thirty or forty men and
women and children seated in a row preparatory to the distribution.
But the bread was no sooner brought forward than they all rushed on
Shukrullah Beg and the two muleteers bearing the bread, and nearly tore
the clothes off their backs. They dropped their loads, and extricating
themselves as best they could, left the crowd to fight it out amongst
themselves. And they certainly set to work with the ferocity of wild
beasts, and the bread, of which there was a sackful, was torn from hand
to hand, and fought over till much of it was destroyed.
_15th June._—Míla Gird to Hamadán, thirty-six miles, and halt a day. We
set out shortly before midnight by a westerly route along the plain to
the foot of the hills, and then turned south-west to Hamadán, at the foot
of the snow-topped Alwand mountain. At about seven miles we reached a
range of low hills, and beyond them passed over a long stretch of pasture
downs, a dreary solitude, without a sign of life for miles. At another
seven miles we passed the roadside hamlet of Durguz, and three miles
farther on a decayed village, which we were told had been depopulated by
the famine. As it stood close to the road, I turned aside to visit it,
and witnessed a scene that baffles description, and, from what we heard,
is but too common in this part of the country.
The village (its name I omitted to note at the time, and have since
forgotten) contained about a hundred and fifty houses, but only five of
them were now tenanted. The rest were all deserted, and many of them were
falling to ruin. In one of the now still and voiceless streets I passed
a middle-aged man, apparently in the last stage of starvation. He was
propped in a sitting posture against a wall, with his lank withered arms
crossed in front to support his shrivelled legs from weighing upon his
misshaped feet and swollen ankles. His sickly-looking face, with puffed
cheeks, drawn lips, and sunken eyes, rested on his knees, and as we rode
past he had not the energy to move or beg a morsel of bread. I threw
him a _kran_, but, without a motion towards it, he merely gasped out,
“_Nán, bidih nán!_” (“Bread, give me bread!”) A little way on a horrible
stink declared the existence of a putrid corpse in the tenantless houses
around; and outside the village, on the edge of a small patch of ripening
corn, we found the remnant of the population, already at this early hour
(it was only four o’clock) staying the pangs of their hunger by literally
grazing the green grass. They were three or four hag-like women, and as
many half-grown lads; and as they plucked the ears of bearded corn, they
chewed and swallowed them beard and all.
At four miles farther on we crested an upland, and then sloped down to
the delightful valley of Hamadán. Its green sward, yellowing crops, and
gardens dark in the luxuriance of their foliage, presented a picture of
happiness and prosperity strangely reversed by the cruel reality. On
a hill slope overlooking this crest of upland we observed a couple of
small military tents. In front of them were seated three or four _sarbáz_
of the guard, stationed here to protect the road from depredation by
the hungry peasantry around. Lower down the slope we passed a party of
Hamadánis, driving their oxen and asses in the direction whence we had
come. They were almost all armed, indicating the insecure state of the
country here, for they are the first armed people (other than military)
we have met in all our journey from the eastern frontier.
Our road across the valley led past Surkhabad over a river crossed by
a masonry bridge of five arches, and then by Shivím to the city, where
we found accommodation in the post-house. We arrived at 7.47 A.M., and
at this hour the thermometer rose to 71° Fah. At daybreak on the march
it was so low as 48° Fah. Hamadán is an extensive city, delightfully
situated at the foot of the Alwand. In the nooks and hollows extending
along the base of the mountain, and some way up its bare rocky slopes,
are situated a number of picturesque little hamlets, buried from view in
their surrounding vineyards and orchards; and in the valley stretching
away to the west is a continuous succession of corn-fields, fruit
gardens, and villages, amidst which flows a considerable stream fed by
numerous little rills coming down from the hills. Altogether the scenery
is very charming, and the snowy heights of the mountain above add a
feature as pleasing to view as it is refreshing to the senses. The
ground, too, is classic. Here stood the ancient Ecbatana, whose mouldy
soil yields a variety of ancient relics, Median, Grecian, and early Arab
signets, seals, and rings, with coins, beads, and sculptures. Here too
are shown the tombs of Esther and Mordecai, and of Avicenna, the Arabian
philosopher and physician.
The present city occupies the depression and slopes of a hollow at the
foot of the mountain, and is said to contain nine thousand houses. Its
situation affords facilities for drainage, but is objectionable on
the score of ventilation. The climate, however, is described as very
salubrious, although its winter is a rigorous season, as may be well
understood from its elevation at 6162 feet above the sea. The surrounding
country is pretty and productive, and in prosperous times the place must
be a delightful residence, which it certainly is not now.
The population of the city was reckoned at fifty thousand before the
famine, and is now estimated at half that number, but I don’t think
there can be so many as fifteen thousand. The place was the centre of
a considerable trade, especially with Russia by Resht on the Caspian,
and had a numerous colony of Jews. It now appears to be utterly ruined.
Hardly a decently-dressed man is to be seen, and nothing is to be got in
its bazárs; even our cattle were with difficulty supplied with fodder
and grain. The city swarms with famishing beggars, and our lodging in
the post-house was besieged by crowds of them, whom it was impossible to
satisfy. We were prevented moving outside the walls of the post-house
through fear of them, for, as Shukrullah Beg warned us, they were in
a dangerous mood, and if I ventured into the city on foot, I should
certainly have the clothes torn off my back, and might possibly lose my
life—neither very pleasant alternatives; so I curbed the promptings of
curiosity at the dictates of discretion, and fed my would-be assailants
with bread, the distribution going on through a hole in the gateway, by
way of protection against assault.
A good deal of wine is made at this place. The white is something like
hock, and the red like claret. The samples brought to us, however, were
of very inferior quality and crude flavour, but were as good as one could
expect at the rate of tenpence a quart, which was probably double the
market price.
_17th June._—Hamadán to Asadabad, thirty-two miles. We set out at 3.30
A.M., and passed through the northern quarters of the city, where is a
covered bazár in a state of dilapidation. Its shops are mostly empty and
tenantless, the streets are choked with refuse and filth of sorts, and
the air is loaded with abominable stinks. The dress, appearance, and
condition of the people we met was in keeping with their surroundings.
Beyond the city we passed through an old cemetery, crowded with handsome
tombstones of the Arab period. Some were carved out of splendid slabs
of white marble, and others were formed of massive blocks of granite
and sandstone, all from the mountain overlooking. Farther on, clearing
a number of vineyards and orchards, we came to the open country, and
following the path skirting the foot of the mountain, passed several
villages, and crossed many brisk little streams from the hill slopes,
some of them by masonry bridges, till, at about fourteen miles, we came
to a branching of the road. The branch to the left goes direct over a
high ridge of Alwand, and was taken by our baggage as being the shortest
route; the other winds over lesser heights of the same ridge farther to
the westward.
We followed the latter, and passing the castellated village of Zaghár,
entered amongst low hills. Here our route changed from W.N.W. to
south-west, and crossing two lesser ridges, at about twenty-six miles
from Hamadán brought us to the crest of a watershed, from which we looked
down on the hill-locked valley of Asadabad. Here the aneroid figured
22·38, giving the elevation at about 7525 feet above the sea, and 1363
feet above Hamadán. The road is very good and easy. It was made two years
ago for the Sháh’s journey to Karbalá. The soil is light and fertile,
and corn crops cover the hill slopes. The rock is a soft friable slate,
traversed by great veins of quartz.
The descent is by an easy gradient in view of the high snowy range of
Nahwand away to the south. At the foot of the descent we came to a wide
boulder-strewn ravine, over the surface of which were scattered great
gabions and fascines, the relics of a disruptured dam built across the
ravine to retain its floods for purposes of irrigation. Some few weeks
ago a violent flood from the hills above burst through this dam, and
inundated the town of Asadabad, destroying several of its houses, and
causing much loss of life and property.
On arrival at the town, a few miles farther on, we found the streets had
been furrowed by the rush of waters, the height of which was plainly
marked on the walls by a water-line two feet above the level of the
street. The town wears a wretched, desolate look, and a gloomy silence
reigns over it. We put up at the post-house, which we found deserted
and in a filthy state. We could procure no barley for our cattle here,
a decided hardship after their long march; and our followers had to go
on half rations, owing to the unwillingness of the people to sell their
bread. Asadabad is said to contain five hundred houses, but only two
hundred are occupied. I saw no beggars here, and the people appeared in
much better plight than we had anywhere yet seen.
Our next stage was twenty-five miles to Kangawár. The night air in
Asadabad was close, oppressive, and steamy, probably owing to the action
of a hot sun during the day (a thermometer placed in its direct rays rose
to 142° Fah.) on its soaked soil. For so soon as we got out on the plain
beyond the town, the early morning air struck cold and damp.
We set out at 2.40 A.M., and proceeded over a level plain south by west,
along the line of telegraph posts. The plain is girt on all sides by
high hills, and presents a green sheet of corn-fields and meadows, over
which are scattered many villages. We passed six or seven dessicated and
putrefying corpses on the road, and overtook several small parties of
destitutes, forty or fifty people in all, dragging their withered limbs
slowly along. Men, women, and children were eating from whisps of unripe
corn, plucked from the roadside fields, to stave off the bitter end that
was fast creeping upon them. There is nobody to help them, and they
themselves are past begging.
At about half-way we passed Mandarabad, a collection of twenty or thirty
huts round fortified walls enclosing an ancient tumulus, and covered with
storks’ nests. Here we found the corpse of a woman lying across the road,
at the edge of a _kárez_ stream supplying the village with water.
Farther on we passed a little roadside hamlet, and beyond it, crossing
a swampy rivulet by a masonry bridge, entered low hills. Passing over
these, we entered the Kangawár valley, and turning westward along a hill
skirt blooming with flowers and whole fields of wild hollyhock, and at
8.20 A.M. arrived at Kangawár post-house.
The valley is rich in crops, and covered with villages. Most of them are
more or less depopulated, and the people have yet a month to wait before
the growing corn will be ready for the sickle. Meanwhile, how many must
perish! The town, which is said to contain five hundred houses, half of
which are empty, is indescribably filthy, and swarms with beggars, many
of whom are dying curled up on the dung-heaps obstructing the roads. Cold
and starvation together must soon put an end to their sufferings, for the
night air at this elevation of 5125 feet above the sea is chill and damp.
This town appears to occupy the site of some more ancient city. On
an eminence in its midst, and at the foot of some low hills, we saw
the ruins of some ancient temple of vast proportions and very solid
build. Six round monolith pillars on a corniced basement still exist in
position, and another lies prostrate before the pile. Each pillar, so far
as I could see between the intervening houses, is of solid limestone,
about twelve feet high and four feet diameter. Nobody could tell us
anything about the history of this ruin.
_19th June._—Kangawár to Sahnah, twenty-three miles. Departure, 3.45
A.M.—route south-west, by a good though stony road, winding up and
down between hills all the way, their slopes bare rock, but the skirts
covered with a profusion of flowering plants, that perfume the air with
their fragrance. Overtook several parties of travellers on their way to
Kirmánshah. They had been waiting for several days for a caravan, and
took advantage of my arrival to proceed with my party. They kept with us
all the way, but held themselves aloof from our people at each stage.
At half-way we came to the Kotal Sahnah or “Pass of Sahnah.” Its top
is called Gardan Búmsúrkh, or the “red-earthed ridge,” from the colour
of the soil. Its elevation is 5800 feet above the sea. Here our course
changed to due west, and the descent at four miles brought us to the
spring and hamlet of Sarab, the first water met from Kangawár. At six
miles farther, we reached Sahnah, and finding its post-house in ruins and
its _sarae_ yet incomplete, were glad to pass on from the scenes of its
misery to a garden on the outskirts, where we camped under the shade of
some magnificent elm-trees. Around us are vineyards and corn crops, the
latter ripe and being cut.
On our way through the town, we passed several beggars lying in the
streets, and moaning pitifully. During the day we have seen at least
sixty poor wretches, mostly women and half-grown youths, who cannot
live another month, I should say, even if they were now provided with
food, to such a state of bloodless dropsy are they reduced. All the
afternoon, tattered famished wretches hovered around our camp. Amongst
them, in strange contrast, appeared a gaily-dressed, active, and rather
good-looking young wench, with bare legs and short petticoats not
reaching to the knees. A loose open shift of gauze showed a tattooed
bosom and full stomach, whilst her painted cheeks and saucy bearing
advertised her calling.
Some villagers who brought our supplies into camp gave us harrowing
details of the sufferings this village had passed through. “This vineyard
is full of the skeletons,” said one of them, “of those who have died
here eating the leaves and shoots of the vines.” “Come,” he added, “I
will show you some of them.” And at less than thirty paces from where
I was seated at my table, he showed me three human skeletons. I saw
several others farther in amongst the vines, and took advantage of the
opportunity to secure a skull. But none of them being fit to take away,
I asked my guide to fetch me a clean and perfect one. He disappeared
over the wall into the next vineyard, and in less than as many minutes
returned bearing three skulls in his arms. I selected one, and the others
he tossed back amongst the vines we had just left. He told me this
village formerly had two hundred and twenty families, but that not one
hundred of them now remained.
_20th June._—Sahnah to Besitun, eighteen miles. Night cold, clear, and
moonlight—morning air delightful and fresh—midday sun hot. Departure,
three A.M.—route west for two miles to foot of hills, and then south-west
through a fertile valley along the course of the Lolofar river. The
country is crossed by numerous irrigation streams, dotted with many
villages, covered with corn crops, and fragrant with the perfume of
multitudes of pretty flowers.
At the spring-head of Besitun I dismounted, and climbed over the rocks
to look at the wonderful sculptures rescued from their obscurity and set
before the world by Rawlinson, and then proceeded to the village, hardly
five minutes off. The village is a miserable collection of forty or fifty
huts close to a large _sarae_. As we passed the latter on our way to the
post-house, a great wolfish shaggy dog stalked by, head erect, with the
leg and foot of a woman held between his jaws. Some villagers staring at
our party did not even take up a stone to hurl at the brute. We found
the post-house so filthy, and after being swept, sprinkled with water,
and carpeted, so unbearably foul-smelling, that we were obliged to quit
it. A corpse lying at the door of the _sarae_ turned us away from that
too, and we went off to the turfy bank of a little stream hard by, and
there awaited the arrival of our tents and baggage. The midday sun shone
with considerable force, and the plague of flies and musquitoes was most
annoying. A number of diminutive goats panting in the sun’s rays sought
shelter in our tents from their worry and stings.
In different parts of our journey we had fared on what bread the places
respectively produced, and took it, good, bad, and indifferent, as it
came. But here the stuff they brought us was simply uneatable, so black,
gritty, and musty was it. Even our servants refused to eat it, and we
did very well without, aided by the disgust the horrid sights we had
witnessed of themselves produced. An intelligent-looking Persian of this
place came up to me at sunset, when our tents were being struck, and to
my surprise addressed me in very good Hindustani. I learned from him
that he was a Wahabi, and had recently returned from Dacca, where he had
resided two years in the service of a wealthy merchant of that place.
He told me there were no people left in this place except ten or twelve
families of shopkeepers, who kept a small stock of supplies for wayfarers
at the _sarae_.
We slept out, _à la belle étoile_, under the majestic shadow of Besitun.
The lights and shades on the face of the precipitous rock, reflected by
the rays of a full moon, were very magnificent, and I long gazed at the
glorious steep, watching the grotesque phantom forms produced by the
flitting shadows stirred by the breeze; and at last, overcome by fatigue,
fell asleep dreaming of the ancient peoples whose mark, living on the
rock, hallows the place with a mysterious interest.
_21st June._—Besitun to Kirmánshah, twenty-eight miles. Marched at one
A.M.—route westerly, at first through a narrow valley skirting Besitun
hills, and then away across an open undulating country, covered with
ripe corn crops and villages and Kurd camps. As we struck away from the
hills, a splendid meteor shot across the sky horizontally, and burst
only a few hundred yards from us, in a shower of most beautiful stars of
purple, gold, and silver hue, just a “roman candle.”
At six o’clock, crossing the Cárású river by a masonry bridge of six
arches, we alighted at a dilapidated _sarae_ for our baggage to come
up. Here we were joined by Abdurrahím, a very fair and intelligent
youth of eighteen years, a son of Agha Hasan, the British Wakiluddaula
at Kirmánshah. He had been sent out, attended by a single horseman, to
meet and escort us to the quarters prepared for us in the city. Up to
this point I had ridden my dromedary, but here changed to my horse, as
the more fitting mode of entering the city, though he was in such poor
condition from his long and rapid marches, that he must have attracted
as much attention from the punctilious as the camel would have excited
comment. Kirmánshah has a clean, neat, and agreeable appearance as one
approaches from the east, and is decidedly the most flourishing place
we have yet seen in Persia. As we neared its walls, we passed a vast
collection of new graves, filled during the last two years with the
bodies of fifteen thousand people who have died here. Most of them, it
is said, had come in from the surrounding country to find food in the
capital of the province, but found instead a stone in place of bread.
In the city we alighted at some very dilapidated quarters adjoining
the residence of the Wakiluddaula. The rooms were nicely carpeted with
rich felts, and furnished with tables and chairs and cots. Soon after
our arrival a couple of servants brought over tea and sweets for our
refreshment; and the young lad returning from a visit to his father,
said the Wakiluddaula begged his absence might be excused. He was laid
up with a fit of ague, but he hoped on its passing off to call in the
afternoon. I begged he would not take the trouble, and thanked him for
his arrangements for our comfort, which were all very satisfactory.
Towards sunset Agha Hasan was announced. He walked across the court
supported by two servants, and really looked very ill. With him came
Mirzá Sadíc Khán, Hakím Bashi, a physician who had walked the London
hospitals, and spoke English remarkably well. He told us we had now got
over the worst part of our journey, and that all ahead would be easy
travelling. His words were very strangely falsified, as the sequel will
show.
We halted here a day, and I took the opportunity to return the visit of
the Wakiluddaula, and inquire after his health. He came out to the court
to receive me, and seemed much pleased at the attention. He told me
that I should most likely have some difficulty in crossing the Turkish
frontier, as reports had recently been received of disturbances on the
road. He had applied to the governor here for a special passport for
me, and would himself write to the commandant on the frontier, who was
a personal friend—a service for which I afterwards had reason to be
grateful.
The Wakil in conversation told me that the famine might now be considered
as past. Prices had fallen greatly since the cutting of the crops, and
would soon reach the usual rates. He said Persia was utterly ruined, and
had lost nearly half her population, and he did not think the country
could recover its prosperity for fifty years under favourable conditions.
Society was disorganised; no two men in the country could trust each
other, or combine for any good. Turkey, he said, though looked down on by
Persia, was far ahead in civilisation. I took my leave much pleased with
his attentions, and sent him a revolver as a present before starting on
my forward journey, and he sent me a couple of small carpets in return.
Whilst here, we rode over to see the Tác o Bostám sculptures, and
returned by the garden of Imáduddaula. The reservoir at the spring-head
at Tác o Bostám is a charming spot, and the sculptures, so fully
described and delineated by Sir H. Rawlinson, are well worth a visit.
Kirmánshah is a very fertile province, and the city in better times was
very populous and flourishing. We did not go over the bazárs, as it was
considered unsafe to do so for fear of the beggars offering us insult or
annoyance. I was disappointed at this, as I wished to see some Kurdistan
carpets, which are here procurable of the best quality.