Of marching with a native caravan I have no experience—Europeans as a rule avoid it—and having usually enough luggage and servants to occupy a string of mules of their own, generally travel by themselves. A specimen of daily life upon the road when marching will be given in my journal on our road home, when we did twenty-eight days’ marching over some twenty-five to thirty miles a day, with only two days’ rest.

Of travelling post I have said enough: I have ridden myself from Ispahan to Teheran, seventy farsakhs, in thirty-nine hours twenty-five minutes, the horses being mostly full of grass: taking three miles and three-quarters to the farsakh, this gives two hundred and sixty miles as the distance, or a continuous speed of over six and a half miles an hour, allowing for stoppages, sleep, etc., in that time. Probably the actual rate is an average of eight miles, but it requires some resolution to keep it up. When it is remembered that the roads are vile in the extreme, being mere mule-tracks, and that horses can only be changed every twenty to twenty-six miles; that a heavy kit is carried; also that saddling, to be done well, has to be done by oneself, the horses paid and haggled for, half the time being at night, and that the post-people have to be awakened; it is not perhaps, after all, bad going. Much faster journeys than this however are made when the rider is expected, or prepared to liberally grease the palms of the post-people.

As a rule the European always outrides the native, the baggy “shulwars” of the latter rendering the wearer sore after prolonged cantering, and the native saddle and short stirrups being unfitted for long and rapid journeys. How a Persian can ever be thrown, as they are frequently, is very wonderful. Packed into the deeply-forked saddle, with a tremendous pommel, to which they cling, a fall ought to be impossible.

The native bits are “ab khori,” or watering-bit, a common snaffle; and “danah,” a most severe ring-bit. These are made like the letter H, very small, and having a plate, to which a ring is attached, affixed to the middle of the centre bar. This ring acts as does the curb-chain; a horse can be certainly stopped with one, but they are cruel though effectual; being made square, they cut like a knife, and are the frequent cause of very hard mouths. In fact, when one buys a horse he is always a puller, and, if an old horse, it takes a long time to accustom him to the snaffle. Of course in posting the native bit is the best to use, unless one wishes to be quite powerless.

Endless yarns are told in Persia of the road and its vicissitudes, every one has had his special experiences; a few sweet, many bitter, and each man starts fully determined in his heart to make the fastest time on record, but a succession of bad horses, an ugly fall, or a very wet day, often upset the most careful plans; or the dearness of grain, or a series of couriers, may provide the rider with a number of half-starved or tired horses, or he may lose his way and find himself “on the road to nowhere.” I travelled once with one Malek Mahommed Beg, one of the couriers of the English Legation: this man was a celebrated rider, and I well remember my astonishment at seeing him get down from the saddle and deliberately place a sharp stone under it, in order to get an extreme turn of speed out of a wretchedly knocked-up post-horse. On going into Teheran I was horrified to see the post-house guide deliberately whip a bit of cord round his knife-blade, thus making a goad of three-quarters of an inch in length, with which he urged on his wretched steed; remonstrance was useless, and, as he went on ahead, he called to me to follow his example.

Among the stock yarns told amongst Europeans in Persia is that of the most cruel and elaborate hoax I have ever heard of. One of the Teheran residents was in the habit of snubbing a quiet little man, who had come to the country as private secretary to the manager of an enormous scheme for the regeneration of Persia; the little man bore the rough jokes and rudeness of his tormentor for a year, and then, as even worms will turn, got huffy and vowed revenge. Unluckily for the habitual snubber, he had revealed in a moment of confidence that he was proprietor of some tickets in an Austrian lottery scheme, and that a drawing was imminent: also he gave some of his numbers, even exhibiting the bonds or tickets. One morning the monotony of Teheran life was broken with the news that X— had won a fortune. It appeared that a bogus telegram was brought to a gentleman in Teheran requesting him to ascertain if the holder of a certain number in the lottery was in Teheran, as he was believed to be a Mr. X—.

No sooner was the news communicated to X— than he went to his strong box to verify the number, and, to his delight, found that he was the actual holder of the winning bond.

A castle, one hundred thousand gulden, and the territorial rank of Count was, I believe, the prize, as stated in the telegram.

X— sent an immediate invitation to his friends to come to his house, and was congratulated generally on his good fortune; no one being taken into the secret, everybody’s pleasure was sincere, and they became accomplices unawares, in the carrying out of the elaborate trick. Just as the excitement was at its height, and the clock was five minutes to twelve, the perpetrator of the hoax arrived; he was received by the victim with open hands, and bursting to tell his news: this was heard, and the expected congratulations given. “I have made up my mind to return to Europe at once,” said the doomed one: “we shall buy a two hundred ton yacht and live a good deal abroad,” etc., etc. “By the bye, what is to-day?” said the hoaxer.

The First of April!

Tableau! I regret to add, though, that this very cruel joke caused an attack of hysterics to the victim’s wife.

X— was the hero of many tales, one of which was too good not to be perpetuated. An American missionary at a large breakfast party was suddenly accosted by X—, from the other end of a long table, with—“I say, P—, I don’t believe in hell.” The parson took no notice, but the remark was repeated in a loud tone after a dead silence.

“I say, P—, I don’t believe in hell.”

The pale Yankee drew himself up, and, in the national drawl, quietly replied, “Waal, for your sake, X—, I hope you’re right.” That parson was more than a match for his opponent.

Another Persian tale of these latter days is the answer of a lady as witty as she was prepossessing. On the high-road to the capital from the Caspian, the members of the expedition sent by the German Government to observe the transit of Venus met a lovely vision in habit and hat, on a prancing steed. They halted, saluted, and declared their errand.

“To observe the transit of Venus, ah—well, you can go home now, gentlemen; your duty is done; good-bye;” and the pretty vision disappears at a smart canter “away in the ewigkeit,” as Hans Breitmann says. That joke dawned on those Germans after some hours.

There was once a little paper published in the Persian Gulf, called the Jask Howl, to which I was a contributor, but it died a natural death, after becoming very personal.

Theatricals, too, had their day, both in the capital and down country. Lawn tennis, played on a ground of prepared mud, was the great amusement when I left Teheran.

Riding, however, is the never-failing pastime, and the poorest European can afford a horse.

Photography was to me a pleasant way of beguiling the tedium of Persian down-country life. I spent many hours a day, and obtained a fair proficiency; but finding myself becoming a slave to it, I gave it up, though reluctantly. In the meantime I had taken innumerable likenesses, and some two hundred types. I had also had the barren honour of having large photographs reproduced in the Graphic and Illustrated.

I patronised art in Persia to the extent of having some enamels painted on small gold plaques. This art is rapidly being lost, and the continued marring of an otherwise pretty picture by errors of drawing and perspective is very annoying.

I also commenced having illustrations to the wonderful novel of ‘Hadji Baba,’ by Morier, executed by native artists; but the men I employed raised their prices in almost geometrical progression as each fresh picture was executed. They are, however, very spirited, and well exhibit Persian life.

While I was in Ispahan, M. P— was sent by the ‘Magazin du Louvre’ to buy curios, china, etc., of every description.

He bought with a vengeance, doubtless knowing what he was about. All was fish that came to the net; and to see the little Frenchman gesticulating to a crowd of excited Persians, each anxious to dispose at a fancy price of his own wares, was very amusing. Since that time it has been difficult to get anything really good in the curio way in Persia, each man thinking his own article an unappreciated treasure.

The Abadeh carvings, generally ornamental sherbet spoons and boxes, carved from pear-wood with a common knife, and very beautifully done, are still to be had; but the work is deteriorating, and the attempt to copy European drawings is destroying its originality.

Very beautiful carving, or rather engraving, on metal is still done in Ispahan; and I have some cups of brass, and others of silver, that are probably unique in this kind of metal-work. But that, too, is deteriorating; the good artists find it pays them better to do a quantity of coarse work for the exporting curio-dealers than finer and more delicate engravings, which are paid for at a higher rate, but which tax their sight and skill to the uttermost.

Calligraphy as a high art is dying the death. A single line by a great calligrapher was worth a fabulous amount, and large sums were often paid for a good manuscript of Hafiz or the Koran. Printing has destroyed all this, and the cheap volumes from Bombay presses tend to eradicate calligraphy as an art.

A kind of inlaid work similar to our Tonbridge ware is made in Persia; it is to be seen at both Ispahan and Shiraz; though not so chaste as the Indian work, it is much more varied in pattern, and the effect is good. Metal is freely used with the coloured woods, but brass, and not silver, is employed. It is called “Kahtam.” Glove and handkerchief boxes are made for the European market, and tables, chairs, chess and backgammon boards, and mirror frames for the wealthy Persians. The Shiraz work is the best.

Ispahan is celebrated for its incised work on iron. This “pūlad,” as it is termed, is beautifully veined and cleverly damascened, being inlaid with thin plates of gold. The specimens are, however, very expensive; as the work is the monopoly of a family, prices are almost prohibitive. This, too, is a dying art.

Of painters and paintings I have spoken. The copying of doubtful European works is their bane, and they fail in their rendering of the nude, in which they delight. For pretty faces and good colouring, the Persian artist has a deserved reputation. He is especially great in miniatures, some of these being almost microscopic.

The embroideries of Resht, on the Caspian, are too well known to need description. They are very florid, but cheap and effective. The price is about two pounds a square yard for very elaborate ones, if a large one is ordered, and paid for by instalments as the work proceeds. Aniline colours, used to dye the silks employed, are the curse of the modern work, the showy tints of which soon fade. These, however, can be avoided by specifying that they are not to be used.

The gold and silver work, except that of Zinjan, is poor in the extreme, but solid; while, for filigree-work especially, Zinjan rivals Malta. There are, however, some great artists. Stones are clumsily set, and often even strung and bored. A few clever gem-setters have come from Constantinople to the capital.

The use of starch is unknown in Persia, and the laundresses very bad. As in most Eastern countries, the washing is done at the side of a stream, the minimum amount of soap and the maximum of beating being employed. Such rough washing rapidly destroys one’s linen. Nowadays most Europeans keep a laundress, or what is called a washerman, of greater or less skill, and their shirts are “got up” as in Europe.

The Persians understand ironing, and the trade of ironer is a common one. The dresses of the common people are ornamented by lines drawn on them parallel with each other, by means of a kind of iron. The garment is laid on a large jar of clay, and, holding this between his knees, the ironer (“ūtū-kesh”) makes his pattern upon the new garment of silk or cotton.

The same means are used to mark the stuffs for quilting, which is much in fashion. A Persian wears always at least one quilted garment, and his quilts (“lahaf”) are simply large sheets of thick quilting. New cloth clothes are also carefully ironed, a box-iron, filled, with live charcoal, being generally employed.

The needlework of the Persians is very beautiful, silk being used for sewing to the total exclusion of cotton. Some of the patterns of embroidery, particularly those on silk, are very original; while the networks of white silk, done with the needle on the “rubanda,” or veils, at the part covering the eyes, being done wholly with the needle, are almost monuments of art work.

Women as well as men smoke the kalian, and the aged ladies are often opium-eaters to a large extent.

The great amusement of the Persian women of every rank is the bath. Generally three or four hours in the week are passed by the very poorest in the “hammām.”[32] As for the wealthier, they have baths in their own houses, and use them almost daily. The middle classes make parties to go to the hammām, and assist each other in the various processes of shampooing, washing with the “keesa,” or rough glove, and washing the hair with pipe-clay of Shiraz—a plan, by the way, which it is worth while to follow, for the hair is rendered thereby cleaner than when eggs are used. The pipe-clay is made up in little round cakes much resembling biscuits.

A traveller of the pessimist type, who was posting through the country to India, once showed me a pocketful of these cakes of clay, and drew my attention to the “beastly native biscuits, that a fellow couldn’t eat!” He had got a large handful for a copper as he passed through a roadside bazaar.

Serious matters are the dyeing of the hair and beard, the use of the depilatory, and the smoothing of the soles with pumice, and, lastly, the dyeing of the soles and palms of the hands with “henna.” The very poor seize the opportunity to wash their rags in the public bath at the same time that they bathe. These public baths are open free of charge and without distinction to rich and poor. A few coppers are given to the “delaks,” or bath attendants, male and female. These pay for fuel, hot water, etc. Certain hours are appropriated to each sex. The whole bath can be always exclusively hired for a few kerans.

As to bread, it is of three varieties, and is all made from leavened dough. The “sangak” is of the thickness of a finger, some three feet long and a foot wide. This is baked in a peculiar manner, and from the word “sang,” a stone, it obtains its name. A huge arched oven is half filled with small pebbles from the river. Upon these pebbles is placed a pile of brushwood; this is fired and fed till the stones are sufficiently hot; the fire is then pushed into a corner, and the flaps of dough are placed on the heated stones by means of a peel, as many as twenty loaves being put on at a time. Batch after batch is baked in this way, the stones being stirred occasionally when they get too cool to bake well, and the fire is raked forward and fed again, and so on. Or at times the fire is simply shifted from place to place in the oven, the loaves being placed on the stones as they are heated. Thoroughly good bread is the result, crisp, appetising, and satisfying. Eaten hot with butter, it is the finest of breads after the Russian. Of course it is absolutely pure. The term “flap-jack” is applied to this form of bread by the Europeans in Persia.

The next variety is mostly baked by the smaller bakers of the various suburbs of the towns, who have a slower sale. Your Persian likes his bread hot from the oven, save the thrifty Ispahani, who prefers it cold, thus gaining in the weight. This is the “tannūr” bread. The “tannūr,” or oven, is simply a huge jar fixed into the earth, and usually placed against a wall. This is constantly fed with pieces of camel-thorn, which catch from the flames at the bottom, and keep the walls of the jar hot, as well as maintaining a high temperature inside. The loaf is the same thickness as the “sangak,” and about two feet by one, oval in shape. They are flung against the inside of the heated jar by a peculiar motion of the hand of the “shartir,” or baker’s oven-man. In a few seconds they are thoroughly done and browned. They are then quickly removed by a fork, and others placed in their stead.

The third kind of bread is that usually baked by villagers or tribesmen. It is a thick circular loaf, some foot or more in diameter, and is a sort of griddle-cake.

It is baked on a hot plate of iron, or at times a pot-lid covered with live ashes is placed over it, or the cake is turned over.

The unleavened bread, which is best prepared by Armenians and Kūrds, is merely a paste of flour and water, rolled to the thinness of a wafer, and of great size. It is baked on a hot plate, and is hung out to air and dry; it is then folded, when not quite dry, into four. It will keep for several months if kept dry, and is damped prior to using, when it loses its brittleness, and becomes easily rent, but unbreakable. It is a capital bread for the road, and is invariably carried by Persians when marching, being very portable, and as palatable after a couple of months as on the day it was made.

Rusks, biscuits, and a peculiar form of very dry bread, called “twice-fired,” are specially made for travellers; and the Armenians prepare a kind of bun, which is made with flour and ghee, slightly sweetened and sprinkled with sesamum seeds. Sesamum and poppy seeds are often used to ornament and flavour the breads, especially the “tannūr” variety. Hard-boiled eggs are also sold, dyed red or yellow, for the use of travellers. A lump of cheese, a few raisins, and a dozen of eggs are, with some of the “twice-fired” bread, a sufficient and cheap provision for the native traveller.

The appetite of some of the lower orders for bread is very extraordinary. I have often been surprised to have a servant ask for an increase of wages, because he had a large appetite. Persians invariably pay their servants so much in cash, so much (by weight) of bread, two suits a year, and what is left at meals divided among them. This the European does not do; he gives it all in coin. I have seen a boy eat fourteen pounds of new bread and, as a sauce to the bread, a dozen hard-boiled eggs. I saw this, and I left him—still eating.

Bread, eggs, “mast” (curds), and cheese form the staple food of the labouring classes in Persia; occasional onions, eaten in chunks as a boy eats an apple with us, render the menu tasty, and the eater insupportable.

Meat the poor seldom eat. When they do get it, they make soup of it, pounding up the meat after it is boiled to rags, and mixing it anew with the soup; they dip bits of bread in the mess till it is consumed. Of course, in the fruit, lettuce, cucumber, grape, and melon seasons, these form a large portion of their diet.