In these early days of the Telegraph Department we all had considerable difficulty in getting furniture; the little good furniture Pierson and I had, viz., two tables, came from Baghdad, and was originally made in India. I was delighted to get from my friend the farrash-bashi a magnificent arm-chair made of mahogany and stuffed in velvet. Even the word for a chair, “sandalli,” was not used in Kermanshah, but “kūrsi,” a platform, was the expression; and the rough chairs we got made, of plane or poplar, painted bright green or red in water-colour and unvarnished, and pinned together by wooden pegs in lieu of mortises, were uneasy in the extreme, always coming to grief; and the travelling camp-stools, with no back, were nearly as bad. In Ispahan the natives are clever as carpenters, and now make chairs, tables, and even chests of drawers very fairly. I once had some made by a very clever young Armenian carpenter, and the chests of drawers were very good indeed, but I found that the locks and hinges were nailed on instead of screws being used. I sent them back, and then, rather than buy screws, which are somewhat expensive in Persia, the carpenter cut slots with a file in the head of each round-headed nail, sending them to me and triumphantly demanding his money, supposing that now at least I was satisfied.

But on putting a screwdriver to them, I detected the ingenious deception, and remembering the Persian proverb, “If you can deal with an Armenian, you can deal with the devil,” I had to put pressure on the man to get screws really put on.

The farrash-bashi’s arm-chair arrived with five pounds in cash, ten loaves of sugar—loaf-sugar was one and sixpence a pound at that time and only used by the rich—several pounds of tea, and twenty mule-loads of barley—not a bad fee. I was surprised at the largeness of it, and found that the farrash-bashi was a “mason,” which accounted for it.

One of the king’s servants conceived the brilliant idea of introducing pseudo-masonry into Persia for the sake of his own aggrandisement. He inaugurated so-called lodges of masons (Feramūsh-khana, “the house of forgetfulness,” is the name used in the country for a masonic lodge) all over Persia, specially impressing on the neophytes the doctrine that implicit obedience was in all things temporal to be yielded to the superior, and exacted large contributions. With a people so excitable as the Persians, anything mysterious has a great charm. The astute mirza took care only to initiate rich neophytes, or at all events men of position, and a gigantic political engine was the result (of course all this was quite contrary to the spirit of masonry, which especially avoids politics). The king got wind of the matter, and the clever Armenian (for he was a son of poor Armenians of Julfa) was banished the kingdom, or fled to save his throat. But time went on, the past was condoned, and the poor Armenian boy now occupies a high diplomatic position at a great European Court, and holds the title of prince.

It appears that the farrash-bashi’s handsome fee was not so much caused by gratitude for professional treatment, but was merely a way of “rendering unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s,” for he had seen a masonic jewel of mine similar to one worn by the maker of mock masons, and hence the chair and the rest of it.

A curious episode now occurred. The Imād-u-dowlet had a son, his youngest and favourite. This fellow was guilty of every crime that is possible. While we were in Kermanshah he had attempted his father’s life, and actually wounded him with slugs from a pistol discharged at a few yards’ distance. The Imād at length confined him in chains to his chamber. At the intercession of his brothers, the chains after forty-eight hours were removed, and in a week or so he was received into apparent favour, and set at liberty. But from what we learnt afterwards, this was merely a manœuvre to quiet the minds of the townspeople—his destruction had been resolved on.

One morning a man of the Imād’s rushed into our courtyard and implored me to start at once for Imādieh, where, it was stated, the prince had wounded himself with his gun. I left at once on a very good horse of Pierson’s, and galloped violently to the place.

Here I found the Imād’s doctor, Mirza Zeynal Abdeen. He was as white as a sheet, and hurried me to the edge of the large tank; there lay the corpse of the Imād’s son; a few servants stood round, and seemed frightened out of their wits. Mirza Zeynal Abdeen was beside himself, and besought me to do something.

I told him the man had been dead some time. This seemed to astonish him. On closer inspection I found that death had been caused by a gun-shot wound, fired with the muzzle touching, or almost touching, the junction of the chin and neck; so close had the weapon been placed that the flesh was burnt by the flame. The entire charge was lodged in the brain. Nobody could give any information, but the man’s discharged gun lay by him. I have no doubt that the matter was really an execution, for one of the wrists was bruised by finger-marks, and doubtless the unfortunate man had been held down and slain with his own weapon.

An account was given that he had thrown the gun up and caught it several times, but, missing it, that the butt struck the pavement and the gun exploded; but the muzzle must have been nearly touching when discharged. There being nothing more to do, I promised to break the news to the Imād-u-dowlet, though doubtless he was well aware of the result.

I got on the horse Pierson had lent me on account of its swiftness, to return, but he could hardly move, so I took my servant’s. As we crawled towards the town, my servant leading the foundered animal, we had to take him into a village; he lay down and died, and I rode home on the servant’s horse. On the way, every now and then, I met parties of the grandees of Kermanshah, coming out with their servants to inquire the result of the “accident.”

I replied to their questions that the man was dead, on which these bearded men burst into loud weeping and shed floods of tears, getting down to take up handfuls of mud, which they immediately plastered on their hats as a sign of mourning.

I was spared any interview with the Imād. His people stated that he was aware of what had happened, and was in retirement in his women’s quarters. The unfortunate young man’s funeral was conducted with every show of grief.

Pierson left for Teheran, where he was called to act temporarily as Director, and I became now much occupied in looking after the building of my house, which a native had contracted to finish in six weeks under penalty of one toman a day for any delay over that time. I frequently sent to the man to ask why he did not commence, but the answer was always the same, “Furder” (“to-morrow”). To-morrow, of course, never came, and the fellow incurred a penalty of six hundred kerans. I let him off two hundred, but he was compelled to pay up the remainder, much to his astonishment and disgust.

I had occasion to go to Kerind, which is the last telegraph-station in Persia. The country was covered with snow, so I could not see much of the place. The Kerindis are reported to be a very turbulent set, and bad Mussulmans. They eat many things that are unlawful, as the hare, and are said to be devil-worshippers, or Yezeedis, and to celebrate certain unchaste rites.

However this may be, they seemed to me to be a fine, honest lot of people, and their then Governor, Malekneas Khan, certainly was not deficient in politeness and florid compliment, for he sent me a letter addressed “To the great English doctor, he who sits in the presence of princes.”

On my return I passed through Myedesht, some seven farsakhs from Kermanshah, celebrated for its horses. Here I bought a strong three-year-old horse for four hundred kerans (sixteen pounds). My stud had now got to five, for my patients kept me in corn and fodder, so all an animal cost me was his price and pay of groom. I used to take long rides each day, and we always managed, the groom and I, to tire all five horses over the turf. In fact, after dispensary hours there was little else to do, for there were only two signallers here, of whom I did not see much, as when one was on duty the other was sleeping.

Captain Chambers, who was newly appointed to the Persian Telegraph, now arrived, and it was a change for the better to have a companion. He received orders to buy mules for the Indian Government, for use in the Abyssinian war, and purchased some three hundred. Hardly was the mule-buying over, when orders came that the line from Teheran viâ Hamadan and Kermanshah, was to be handed over to the Persians; and I received orders to march across country to Ispahan, to which station I was now appointed.

We started—Mr. Hughes, clerk in charge of Kermanshah office, and his wife; Sergeant Hockey, Line Inspector, and his wife; and two signallers, all of whom, with myself, were transferred to the Ispahan section.

We went as far as Kangawar upon the post-road towards Hamadan, and then turned off on a less-known route to Ispahan, viâ Khonsar and Gūlpigon.

Nothing particularly noticeable occurred till we got to a large village called Gougas, where we had to make a day’s halt to rest the mules. The spring was well advanced, and the whole plain showed heavy crops. What, however, interested us was the quantity of ruined kanaats, or underground watercourses, these teemed with pigeons; some of them were of a depth of seventy feet.

The greater part of the irrigation of Persia is carried on by systems of underground tunnelling, called “kanaats.” A well is dug, generally on the slope of a range of hills, until water is reached; then, a few feet above the bottom of this well, a tunnel is made some four feet high and two wide, having its outlet in a second well, and so constructed as to have a very slight fall towards well No. 2. Should the ground be soft these tunnels are lined by large oval hoops of baked pottery, two inches thick and a foot wide. By placing these continuously the prime cost of the tunnel is much increased, but the expense for repairs is very much less; the great charge being the annual clearing out that the tunnels, unless lined, require, the soil falling in and blocking them, and the fall of water being lost by accumulations of the settlings of mud and sand.

Sometimes the wells of the kanaats are not more than twenty yards apart; sometimes as far off as fifty or even eighty. As each well is dug, the “mokennis,” or tunnellers, draw up from it all the earth, which they carefully place round it in a circle. As they come to water, the mud which is drawn up is poured on the earth, and as it hardens in the sun, a number of crater-like mounds are formed; these mark the lines of kanaats, which may be distinguished running across barren plains for many miles, or even farsakhs. They are often dry, and disused ones are rather dangerous.

I once, when riding, went into an old one, horse and all, but managed to scramble out as my horse struggled; he plugged the well, and had to be, with some difficulty, dug and drawn out.

A very curious accident happened to Mr. H—, of the Department, when coursing at Teheran. Fair coursing was obtained in the immediate vicinity of the capital, but the kanaat-holes rendered it somewhat dangerous. A run took place, and Mr. H— was missed. His horse, riderless, joined the others, and the only conclusion was that he must have tumbled down a well-hole, which occur here in tens of thousands, and in every direction. After a long search his hat was discovered at the margin of one of the innumerable well-holes. That saved his life; for had his hat not been found, he would still be in the kanaat, as his voice would never have reached the surface. Stirrup-leathers were joined, and he was drawn out not much the worse, strange to say, though his face and hands were badly cut. To construct a kanaat is the highest benefit a rich man can confer upon a village; it at once becomes a flourishing place. Sometimes a long series of tunnels and wells are dug, and by some error in calculation there is no supply of water; but this is very rare. The great advantage of these subterranean channels is, that loss by evaporation is reduced to a minimum, and water cannot be stolen; of course the cost of making is very great; but if successful it is a very profitable transaction, for the ryots have to buy the water, and at a high price.

Most of the kanaats are full of fish: where they come from is a puzzle, as the water is lost in the ground at one end and rises subterraneously at the other. I believe it has been shown by Darwin that fish-spawn is carried on the feet of frogs: this at times accounts for it. The larger kanaat fish are not very nice, having a sodden muddy taste—they are like tench; but the smaller ones, when fried, resemble much the “Friture de la Seine” sold at the restaurants at Asnières. We often, when marching, amused ourselves by obtaining a good friture from the openings of the kanaats in the villages, in rather an unsportsmanlike manner. Cocculus Indicus (some ten beans) was pounded and mixed with dough, and cast down one of the wells; in an hour, at least a half-bushel of fish were always caught. The fish poison imparted no poisonous effects to the flesh of the fish, probably because so small a portion was taken. The fish, if allowed to remain in the water, generally recovered; the large ones always did. This mode of getting a dish of fish would have been hardly excusable; but in a country where the only food on the road is fowls or eggs, a change is of great importance. These kanaat-fish will not take bait as a rule, though I have known them to be voracious and easily taken by paste.

The ruined and dry kanaats are much more numerous than those in working order, and form a secure asylum for jackals and porcupines. Three very good bull-terriers I had, once went down a kanaat near Shiraz after a porcupine; two were badly wounded from the quills, and the third, a very old and decrepit dog, was lost, probably drowned. I fancy from their muzzles that they must have killed the beast, but the dogs did not recover from the effects of the quill wounds for a fortnight; and one had a piece of quill lodged in her thigh that I did not detect till she showed it me and almost asked me to extract it a month after. In the unsuccessful search we made for the decrepit dog in the kanaat, we nearly came to grief ourselves, for as I was creeping along with a lantern in my hand, up to my knees in mud and water, a quantity of earth and stones fell from the roof, separating me from my man who followed. I rushed for the well in front, and was drawn out by servants who were awaiting me, while my man made for the one we had descended by; we were equally glad to see each other. It was the first time I had been in a kanaat—I mean it to be the last.

Pigeons may generally be shot for the pot from these kanaats, and afford very good practice; the pigeons are similar to our blue rocks. One simply follows a line of wells, and just before you reach a well, a servant throws a stone into that behind; if there be any pigeons they usually rise and give a fair chance, returning to the kanaat by a neighbouring well. Considerable amusement may be got out of this. Gougas was full of pigeons, and here we first saw the pigeon towers so common in Ispahan. A description of one will serve for all, for they differ merely in size. The towers are constructed simply for the collection of pigeons’ dung, which commands a high price as a manure for the raising of melons, and, in fact, is a kind of guano. The pigeon when living in the kanaats is liable to the depredations of jackals, foxes, etc., so the Ispahanis, the most careful and calculating of the Persian nation, build these towers for the pigeons. They are circular, and vary in height, from twenty to seventy feet, and are sometimes as much as sixty feet in diameter. The door, which is merely an opening in the wall half-way up, is only opened once a year for the collection of the guano, the remainder of the time it is plastered like the rest of the building, which is composed of mud bricks and ornamented with a ring of plaster painted with scrolls or figures in red ochre. These bricks are made on the spot, and cost from one keran to two kerans a thousand. The whole surface of the inside of the circular outer wall is covered with small cells open to one side about twelve inches in size; in these the pigeons build. In the centre of the circle are two walls cutting each other at a right angle, and so forming a cross; the sides and ends of these walls are also covered with cells.

I have counted cells for seven thousand one hundred pairs in a large pigeon tower; there were five thousand five hundred in the outer wall, and sixteen hundred in the cruciform wall occupying the centre. Most of those near Ispahan are now in ruins, for as it is no longer the capital, an excessive price cannot be obtained for early melons, and so pigeon-keeping is not so profitable. In no case did the proprietor of the tower feed the birds; they picked up a living from the fields of the neighbours.

A ridiculous incident now occurred to us. As we were marching across an immense plain, we noticed men in a crowd on the side of the mountains; they were all armed, and seemed over a hundred in number. We were considerably alarmed to see that they ran in a body towards our caravan, which we had no doubt would now be looted, for what were three revolvers and a cavalry sabre against a hundred armed men? The muleteers ran away, shouting “Doz, doz!” (“Thieves, thieves!”) We could not save ourselves by flight, for two of the party were married—Mr. Hughes and Sergeant Hockey—and their wives were in palikees, or paniers, on the mules.

The armed crowd advanced at a run; we put ourselves on the supposed danger-side of the caravan. The mules had all stopped when the drivers ran away, and to our delight we found that the armed men were merely some villagers who had fled to the mountains rather than pay excessive taxes. These poor fellows begged us to intercede with the Governor of Ispahan for them on our arrival, which we promised to do. Our muleteers, seeing there was no fighting, now returned; we put up our revolvers, and on we went. We did not pass through Khonsar, which is off the road.

That night we arrived at a small village which had a quantity of warm springs. So unsophisticated were the natives that, having no other shelter to give us, they suggested that we, like Mussulman travellers, should put up in the mosque. To this we did not object, and had a very good resting-place. This was a very extraordinary occurrence, as villagers are generally very bigoted; but I fancy these people did not really understand that we were not Mahommedans.

The next stage was Lilliane, an Armenian village; the people were apparently prosperous; they wore the dress of the ancient Armenians, or Feridan costume. Feridan is a collection of villages, most of which are Armenian, in the neighbourhood of Ispahan. The priest put me up; he had been to Bombay, and seemed a decent fellow. He was an old man, and told me that, were it not for their secluded position, they should be much oppressed.

The men and boys seemed very boorish; the women were clad in the peculiar ancient costume referred to. Cylinders of pasteboard were swathed in chintz of various colours, and worn as head-coverings. These hats, if they may be so called, were ornamented with strings of silver coins; they wore long trousers, the bottoms of which were in some cases elaborately embroidered. It is these embroideries, called naksh, that are exhibited in the Persian collection in the South Kensington Museum. At one time they were part of the universal indoor dress of the Persian women; each bride worked herself a pair during her girlhood, and they are said to have employed three, four, or even five years in the labour. The figures are flowers, generally roses, worked in diagonal rows in fine silk on muslin; there is no filling in, it is all stitching.

To return to the women. They had high shagreen shoes and thick socks of coloured wool; the skirts were long but not voluminous; over the dress was worn a long mantle of red cloth, trimmed and lined with foxes’ skin; the shirts were red or green, and the breasts were allowed to be fully exposed as ornaments. This liberal exhibition struck us as very strange. A huge metal belt of copper plated, or silver, girded their waists; the hair was hidden by long kerchiefs tied over the head and hanging down behind, while, strangest of all, a white cloth was tied round the neck and hid the nose and mouth. This, I was informed by the priest, is never removed—they even sleep in it. With them it is what the veil is with the Mahommedan woman, the sign of modesty: this completed the costume.

The women, all save the very old, spoke only in whispers or by pantomime. A girl on marriage never speaks in the presence of her mother-in-law or husband—she only signs. The very young girls and very old women, however, fully made up for the silence of the rest.

The priest was much surprised that we did not accept his invitation to get drunk, telling me that “if one didn’t get drunk one might as well be a Mussulman.” The Armenians were very friendly, but charged us much more for provisions, etc., than the Mussulmans. They are great beggars.

Of Gūlpigon, a large, scattered place, we saw nothing, from the weather being bad, but I got some good carpets there.

Our last stage brought us again on the regular caravan road to Ispahan, and there we found a magnificent stone caravanserai (Charlēseah).

There were quantities of travellers, but we were lucky enough to arrive in time to find good rooms. This is of great importance, for if one happens to come in after the arrival of a big caravan with pilgrims, or a regiment of soldiers, it is next to impossible to get rooms, and a row is often the result, for the presence of a large number of co-religionists makes the people put on the appearance of bigotry; and some beggar will insist perhaps on occupying a room large enough for ten, and decline to be even bought out; an unpleasant wrangle will ensue, and then, if one is not good-tempered, a row. First come is first served, and good road law.

Generally, however, a few kerans will secure two rooms, and as a rule stratagems obtain the accommodation that force fails to secure. I thought myself, when a married man, that it was better to pay a small fee when I found, as I did at times, every room occupied and no other place to go to. At the same time it is a crying shame that the employés of our Persian Telegraph Department, who always travel on business, should not be enabled to go to the post-houses as a right, and that they are at times compelled to argue in the rain, or engage in serious rows, when they find that there is absolutely no other means of getting shelter for themselves and families. This is particularly hard, too, on the signaller and subordinate member, who, with few muleteers and perhaps two servants, finds it more difficult to secure a place to put his head in than the superior officer, who has a regiment of servants and muleteers, and can consequently overawe opposition, and be too strong to provoke a row.

At times one must have recourse to stratagem. At Dehbeed, the loneliest and coldest station in Persia, there is no village, only a post-house and caravanserai, the latter quite in ruins; these, with the telegraph-office, form all the shelter in winter, in summer-time there are a few black tents. One bitter winter’s day I arrived at Dehbeed, marching, and proceeded to the post-house. This I found full of irregular horsemen, some twenty in each bottom room, while their master, a Khan, engaged in collecting taxes, occupied the top room. I, supposing these men were servants, asked them to vacate one room; they declined, and told me to get out of the place, and not on any account to wake the Khan.

What was I to do? Dehbeed is twenty-four miles from any village, the caravanserai in ruins, and the greater part of the telegraph-office had fallen in from heavy snow. The unfortunate sergeant in charge had reported to the superintendent, Mr. W—, the state of his office, and on asking how he was to keep the instrument dry with no roof, had been told “to sit on it.” He and his family were at a loss for room, and there was no other shelter of any kind, and snow to any amount, temperature awful, and three in the afternoon. The only thing was to shake down in the stable. I had no right in the post-house as I was marching, and not riding, post, nor had this Khan, for the same reason.

Programme:—to attempt to get a room by begging and trusting to his politeness; if that fails, a ruse. I shout violently, and am threatened by the rough horsemen.

At last I wake the Khan, and a message is sent down to know what I want. I reply that a room is all I need, and will he give me one of the three he occupies?

I am invited to a cup of tea.

Fortunately my caravan is not yet arrived, I being ahead, so I go up-stairs, am very polite, and have no doubt of getting a room. I am regaled with a cup of tea, and after a long explanation from my entertainer, the royal tax-gatherer, as to what a great man he is, and how he is waiting orders from the Governor of Fars, at Shiraz, I am told I had better march twenty-four miles, through the snow, to the next stage.

I did not argue with the Khan, but I was determined to get quarters, and I told him that I should telegraph at once to the Governor at Shiraz and complain.

“Go to the devil,” was the reply.

Boiling with rage I plodded through the deep snow to the telegraph-office. I knew the line was down, and that I could not telegraph to Shiraz, but I had my plan.

I returned with a large telegraph form covered with English writing, and entering the Khan’s room in a blustering manner sat down and tossed him the supposed despatch.

“What is this, sahib?”

“A message for you.”

“But I can’t read it; please read it for me.”

I carelessly comply, after pulling off my wet boots.

“His Royal Highness the Governor of Fars to —, Khan.

“What do you mean by refusing to give the European quarters? Vacate post-house at once, and proceed instantly to Abadeh for orders.”

Now had this Persian been as sharp as he was ill-mannered and dog-in-the-mangery he would have known that he would never have received such a message; but he gave credit to it, supposing that I had complained by wire, and he cleared out with many apologies. Poor devil! He started for Abadeh, seventy miles off, the nearest halting-place twenty-eight miles, just as day was fading and my caravan marching in to the post-house. The weather was very bitter, and this rather Persian way of getting the man out did not weigh on my conscience. I told the Governor of Fars, and he said simply, “Serve him right, he ought to have given you at least one room.”

Ispahan was surrounded by gardens and full of ruins. Here a street, of which a fourth of the houses were inhabited; there a ruined quarter; then miles of bazaar full of buyers and sellers, who shouted “Bero, Armeni!” (“Be off, Armenian!”) with occasional gaps of ruins. Then a huge maidān, or public square, the largest in Persia, one end thronged by hucksters, at the other the Musjid-i-Shah, or royal mosque; more ruins, then a magnificent and lofty bazaar, also in ruins, through which we rode; then the Char Bagh, a royal garden, with its tile-domed college and golden ball, and with its rows of magnificent planes, and its dry and ruined tanks and watercourses; then a fine and level bridge which crossed the river Zendarūd, which just at that time was full of rushing muddy water, passing furiously under the many arches.

At length we arrived in Julfa, the Armenian village on the further side of the Ispahan river, after seventeen days’ marching from Kermanshah, and two occupied by our halt in Gougas. We had found the grass and young wheat high there, and plenty of lambs to be bought; but Ispahan was not so forward, the trees being only just in leaf, and weather cold.