AT THE RUINS OF PERSEPOLIS--AN AUTOGRAPH ON THE PORCH OF
XERXES--LOST IN A SNOWSTORM AND MRS. McILRATH'S FEET FROZEN.
Describing the ruins of an ancient city, a famous structure, or
even a locality, which, to the modern world, is vaguely grasped
as having an existence, is a task most difficult. Consequently
I shall in no manner attempt to enter detail in describing the
ruins of Persepolis. Towering forty-five feet above the plain the
grand platform extends 1,500 feet north by south, and, far as the
excavations of explorers have revealed, 800 feet east and west. The
first of the remarkable remnants of Achæmenian glory which greet one,
are the pieces which form the group known as the Porch of Xerxes. The
portals are the favorite background upon which visitors inscribe their
names. I have always held such proceeding as vandalism, and thought the
names of British ambassadors, naval officers, and clergy deface the
rock. I should have foregone the pleasure of perpetuating our visit,
had not my eye fallen upon the following inscription: "Stanley, New
York Herald, 1870." Never for a moment has an inhabitant of Chicago
allowed that New York to thrust its ancient claim upon the world as a
typical American city without resentment, and immediately we chipped
beneath, "McIlrath, Chicago Inter Ocean, 1897."
Our tour of the ruins was thorough, including visits to the grand hall
of Xerxes, the hall of One Hundred Columns, and the tombs of Darius
and Xerxes, south of the Grand Platform. Persepolis, as it stands
to-day, is a stern rebuke to him who styled himself "King of Kings"
and "Ruler of the Rulers of the Universe," and vowed that he would
build a city that would be the capital of the world, and peopled
by all tribes until time nevermore. On Sunday, Dec. 4, we resumed
our journey up the hills toward Dehbid. The roads were muddy and the
various streams swollen, and we encountered rainstorms and high winds,
which caused us to lose the path and occasioned us much discomfort
before we could enter the town of Murghab. We found the hotel crowded
with passengers, many of whom had seen us previously. There was one
Persian in the number who evidently wished to speak to me concerning
Frank Lenz, since he uttered the boy's name, pointed to the bicycle,
and drew his finger across his own throat in a manner suggestive
of Lenz's horrible fate. Monday, Dec. 6, our journey, though not
extensive, was exhaustive; we walked up grades too steep to permit
of riding, and we walked down grades too steep and rough to ride
with safety. Occasionally we passed through sections of country
where patches of snow glistened under the shade of bushes and wild
grass. From Khan-I-Khergan our ride was a steady up-hill grind for
several miles, but ended when the summit was gained by a four-mile
dash down-grade into the little settlement of Dehbid. When we left the
following morning we had the wind at our back and made such excellent
time that we entered the dreaded Koli-kush before we realized it. We
experienced no difficulty in the pass, riding down the opposite side
as easily as we had ascended the southern approach. There is little
to tell of our ride into Surmek, except that we made it at the rate
of fifteen miles an hour. The scenery in the background was rugged
and outlined against the clear blue sky was beautiful. The high
fever which Mrs. McIlrath developed in consequence of a drenching,
caused the loss of a day in Abadeh, but it gave me an opportunity
of visiting the bazaars and inspecting the marvelous work done by
the wood-carvers. We cycled from the telegraph station on Dec. 11,
bound for Maksudbeg, seventy-one miles north. We found the roads in
passable condition and were escorted for eight or ten miles by a
Mr. Stevens, who is connected with the telegraph company, and the
solitary cyclist of Central Persia. Passing through the cities of
Shulgistan and Yezbikhast, we should have made Maksudbeg early in the
afternoon, but I discovered three large lacerations in my rear tire,
which prevented fast riding.
The "Khaneh" at Maksudbeg was well filled the night of our arrival,
but until our baggage train and interpreter arrived we lacked for
nothing. We left Maksudbeg early the next morning, whirling at a rapid
rate to Marg, where we stopped for the night. On Tuesday, Dec. 14,
when we again set out for Julfa, we completed within thirteen miles
the second of the three long stages into Teheran. Though many Persians
reside in Julfa, the town is typically Armenian. The same high walls
that are so general in Persian cities, face each street, but the
buildings inside are Armenian, the inscriptions over the doors are
in Armenian characters, and the majority of the people seen on the
street are Armenians. The Armenian men are a type in themselves. They
appear dirtier than the Persian, and if circumstances permit,
they affect European clothes and get beastly drunk. In occupation,
the Armenian finds himself adapted to any business or trade and in
general transactions is a fluent liar and barefaced cheat. There
are few good Armenians, but there are those who have received a
liberal education, or have been taken in hand by kindly people and
brought up to Christian and civilized ideas. The other good Armenians
are like the good American Indians--they are deceased Armenians. At
Ispahan we were the guests of Bishop Stuart, of the Church of England
Mission. Ispahan is just across the Landah River from Julfa, and is
not so void of features. Having visited, at his palace, His Royal
Highness, the Zil-i Sultan of Persia, the Armenian Cathedral, and
the brass working bazaar of Ispahan, we departed for the North on
Saturday, Dec. 19. We had a long, hard ride over ravines strewn with
rocks, to the city of Soh, where we were the guests of Mr. Newey, an
intimate friend of Mr. Christmas, whom we met in Bushire. Snow began
to fall on Dec. 22, and our entertainer refused positively to allow
us to proceed. The storm did not cease until the following morning,
when, despite the protests of Mr. Newey, we set out for the village of
Khurud, twenty-five miles away, and a most disastrous trip it proved
to be. We expected to cover the distance to Khurud by 4 o'clock in
the afternoon, but when that hour arrived our cyclometers registered
but eight miles, and we were worn out and almost unable to proceed
farther. We had prepared for the trip by putting on extra sweaters
and incasing our legs in heavy woolen leggings, such as are worn by
native travelers, but we found, after a mile or so on the road, that
the most discomfort we suffered was with our hands and feet. Beneath
the snow were many pools of water, and into these we floundered,
wetting ourselves to the knees and our bicycles to the hubs.
As a wild, precipitous descent lay between us and the village, and as
nightfall was fast approaching, Mrs. McIlrath suggested that I leave
her and the machine in the first gorge which afforded any shelter,
and then hurry forward, find the village and send back men and horses
for herself and the wheels. I did not entertain the thought for a
moment, for I was too deeply impressed with the trying situation,
though I did not let her know of our danger. For a time I succeeded in
buoying up her spirits, but as we slowly plodded through canyon after
canyon, the winds ever growing colder and the sun sinking from sight,
Mrs. McIlrath refused to be comforted and grew weaker and more erratic
in her movements. The effect of the high, rare air, the terrible mental
strain and the enormous muscular exertion were the greatest test to
which I have ever been put. It was necessary that we keep moving, and
with such an object in view I whistled and sang, and finally scolded
Mrs. McIlrath in language most harsh. It would have been cowardly to
have been unkind toward my wife under such circumstances had not the
occasion demanded, and the cross words intended to assist in working
out our salvation. There was no time or thought to be wasted, and I
used every means to urge her onward. Cruel as it may seem to those
who do not know the dire result of falling exhausted in the snow,
I looked about for something with which to flog my wife did she
refuse to proceed, and had decided to use the heavy leather belt
which encircled my waist. I shouted to her constantly to keep her
toes moving, and to bend her feet as much as possible. For two hours
we floundered on, and I was then forced to pile the machines together
in a conspicuous place, which could afterward be found, and leaving
them, push on unhampered. Up the canyon we plunged, every step an
agony and every hundred yards a mile to our tortured minds. I kept
my wife in front, dreading lest she should fall and succumb to the
dreadful fatigue which ends in death.
So absorbed was I in her safety, that I lost track of the telegraph
poles, and was suddenly confronted with the realization that we were
lost on the very peak of the mountain. My medicine case contained no
liquors or stimulants, and we had not tasted food since 7 o'clock in
the morning. There were but two chances for our lives. Our interpreter
had gone on ahead with his horse and our luggage. He might send out a
rescue party for us. The second chance was a more forlorn one. At 9
o'clock each evening the telegraph line between Bushire and Teheran
is tested, and if communication is broken, the officer on each side
of the break will send out men for an immediate repair. It lacked a
full half hour to the testing time, and I determined to wait fifteen
minutes and then if help did not arrive, climb the pole, shoot the
insulators from the arms, and break each and every wire. The fifteen
minutes passed and I was in search of the telegraph pole, with but
ten minutes to interrupt the "test." In the gloom I perceived a number
of dark figures, which I took to be wolves. As they came nearer they
developed into men and horses, and from the cheery manner in which the
riders greeted us we knew that the interpreter had not forgotten us,
and had sent to our rescue.
It would have been Mrs. McIlrath's duty as a woman to have fainted
when the horses arrived, but she did nothing of the kind. She thanked
God, as I did, and when placed in the saddle, wrapped herself in
blankets and ordered the men to "hurry up" just as if we had been
waiting for them by appointment. Slowly we descended the tortuous
path, the intelligent horses leading the men until the right road
was regained. I called to my wife to ascertain her condition, and
she assured me that her feet no longer pained, but were "warm and
comfortable." Two hours later, when we halted at the Chapar Khaneh,
my wife cried to me piteously that she could not walk, and I knew only
too well why her feet had been "warm and comfortable." We carried her
into the dim-lighted post-room and cut the leggings from her limbs. The
shoes were ice-covered and stiff. The blackness of her stockings ended
at the ankles, and the foot casings were white frost. My instructions
to the men were to rub her feet with snow, until each toe showed
its natural ruddy glow to a candle light held behind it. For two
hours they kept up a vigorous massage, and then when the power of
motion was restored and swelling was noticeable, I was content to
leave the rest to nature. Two men on horses went up the slopes of
the mountain next day and brought in the cycles. The cyclometer was
frozen so tightly that at the first revolution of the wheel it had
broken off. Otherwise the machines were unharmed. It was absolutely
necessary that we reach a point which would afford communication
with the nearest surgeon, and on Friday we wrapped Mrs. McIlrath in
blankets and placed her upon a horse, our destination being Kashan,
a telegraph station. We were in the saddle ten hours before we sighted
the city. The telegraph operator was an Armenian, drunk as he could
be, and after questioning me as to my ability to speak and understand
English, he permitted us to occupy the waiting room.
I sent in haste a message to Dr. Wishard, superintendent of the
American Presbyterian Mission at Teheran, informing him that my
wife's feet were frozen. He replied that he would do all he could,
coming himself or sending medicines as we pleased.