After a considerable amount of diplomacy, we managed to secure a fine large house with a good garden and stabling, in the principal and best street of Julfa. My wife was pleased with the cool climate of Ispahan, the abundance of water, and the rows of trees with which each street is planted.

The Armenian is a thrifty fellow, and plants the Zoban-i-gūngishk, or sparrow-tongue, a kind of willow, on either side of the small ditch which runs down the side or centre of the streets; this ditch brings the water for the irrigation of the gardens, and by planting the trees he obtains shade and fire-wood; for the “Zoban-i-gūngishk” is the best of all woods for fuel, and the roots keep the ditch-bank solid and in good repair. Cool and pretty as the streets look from the unaccustomed masses of foliage, one soon finds that one is in a Christian village. Sheep and oxen are slaughtered all down the principal street, in the most public manner; and on Saturday night especially drunkards are common, while swarms of loafers, generally men who live on small pensions from relatives in India, lean with their backs against the wall, basking in the early sun, or sprawl in the shade during the heat.

In each doorway sit or lounge the women, but their hands and tongues are busily employed; they knit socks as long as daylight lasts; some widows even maintain a family by this industry. With nose and mouth hidden, poorly fed, but well and warmly clad, the Armenian woman makes up by her industry for the laziness of her husband; she sweeps the house and yard, cooks the food, makes the clothes, bakes the bread, makes wine, arrack, flour—for this is generally ground in a hand-mill by the poor; and the rest of her time is filled up by knitting. These Armenian women are notable housekeepers, and though generally ignorant and ungraceful—a girl is never even fairly good-looking after seventeen—they are hard-working and very virtuous.

In most of the quarters of Julfa may be seen at the roadside huge stone mortars for the pounding of rice, by which means it is extracted from the husk; these are the remains of the teeming Julfa of other days, when it was a large city with twenty-four crowded parishes, each with its church, the ruins of most of which are now all that remain of the parishes. You seldom see a Julfa man pounding at one of the huge mortars; he prefers to hire a Mussulman or villager to do the heavy work for him, and as he does not care to part with his money—“Thrift, thrift, Horatio!”—the payment is generally a glass of spirits. These spirits cost nothing, as each man makes his own wine, which he sells, and from the refuse his arrack, which he drinks. Armenians seldom drink wine; it is not strong enough for them, and arrack is much more to their taste. All the refuse, after clearing the wine, is put in a big pot, a head and worm is fixed on with mud, and distillation by means of a very slow fire of big logs is proceeded with. The product is redistilled once, and even a third time. A strong rough spirit is the result; it is generally coloured green, and flavoured by thrusting a handful of leaves of anise (rasianah) into the receiver. Of course the spirit is quite pure, being after a third distillation simply strong spirits of wine. What the Armenians sell, however, is much adulterated and drugged; it is known as “fixed bayonets,” and is simply made to produce intoxication.

I secured a fine house in Julfa for forty-eight pounds a year. One side of this house—it formed two of the four enclosing sides of a big garden—is shown in the illustration. The immense window indicates the great size of the huge T-shaped summer room, or Orūssee, the floor of which was tiled. The fountain is seen playing in the hauz, or ornamental tank, in front of the Orūssee.

My landlord had a fine vineyard at the side of my house, and for a yearly payment of one hundred kerans I secured the right of entry, and the privilege of eating as many grapes as we pleased. The landlord, however, made mud bricks, and covered over all the paths with the freshly-made bricks laid to dry; it was only, finding remonstrance ineffectual, by calling our five dogs in with us, and letting them run over the soft bricks, that I could get him to clear the paths. I found, too, that I was waterless directly water became scarce and dear, the man having sold our water. Fortunately the lease specified the water, so I took the water, and referred the purchasers to my landlord. They beat him, and got back their money. I saw the three arguing and fighting for several days; how the matter ended I did not inquire. I got my water.

Twice in my house concealed treasure had been discovered; once to a large amount by the grandfather of my landlord, and a second time to a smaller value by his father.

On this second occasion, the well running dry, men were sent down to deepen it; a door was found in the wall, and a quantity of arms and clothing were discovered in a small chamber in the wall, but no money or jewels. I found a secret chamber in this house, but it was empty.

Of course my wife had to be taken to that terrible fraud, the Shaking Minarets. Why, no one knows, but every one has heard of the Shaking Minarets. “You went to Ispahan. What did you think of the Shaking Minarets?” is constantly asked by those who have not been there. Even those who have, much on the principle of the bumpkin, who, on paying his penny, is triumphantly shown the biggest donkey in the fair, in a looking-glass, and urges his friends to go and see that show: so does a feeling of having been defrauded cause people to advise their friends to see the Shaking Minarets. The mere name is poetical and mysterious.

Upon a gentleman high in the diplomatic service being asked what was the use of the British Agent at Ispahan, he replied:

“Oh, it is an hereditary office; he shows British travellers the Shaking Minarets.”

But then that “excellency” was a humorous man. He it was who, on being troubled by a pertinacious clergyman with many grievances, and told by him (the parson) that “he was but a humble member of the Church Militant,” replied, “Church Pugnacious, you mean.”

Dearly did the British Agent love to perform his “hereditary function.” The new-comer, full of desire to see the Shaking Minarets, and really pleased with his visit to the town of Ispahan, would make the appointment for the sight, and, seeing the “hereditary functionary’s” enthusiasm, not liking to damp it, would acknowledge that he had seen the eighth wonder of the world.

An hour’s sharp canter through bridle-paths and shady lanes, after crossing the river by the old Marnūn bridge, would bring one to the little shrine, through the power of whose “Pir,” or saint, there interred, the miracle of the Shaking Minarets is daily on view. As one approached the village where the shrine is, the labourers in the field would begin to run towards it, each eager to be the holder of a European’s horse, and their shouts would bring a crowd to the scene.

There is nothing particularly wonderful about the shrine; it is under a lofty arch of modern construction, and is the usual rectangular chest, under which reposes the body of the saint. On the whole lies an open Koran and reading-stand. The chest is covered by a ragged pall of cotton cloth; and a few strings of copper “kendils,” or votive offerings, in the shape of small copper cylinders constricted in the middle, attest the popularity of the saint with the villagers. The guardian, also the village schoolmaster, is a Syud, or holy man; no information can be obtained from him, save that the dead saint has great power, and that the shaking is a miracle. Proceeding to the top of the shrine, a good view of the Ispahan valley is obtained, and here one sees the celebrated Shaking Minarets. A lusty villager ascends each, and by dint of strong shaking, both vibrate considerably. The “hereditary functionary” used to do this himself with great gusto, but, having visited England, has become too important for the personal exercise of his “functions.” When one man ceases to shake the vibration continues in both, and a peculiar sensation of insecurity is felt when one is inside the minaret.

The minarets are some twelve or fourteen feet high above the roof. They are of brick; and the fact is, that being continuous with a long thin wall which connects the two at the base, the vibration caused in one is communicated to the other. This is the miracle, which will probably some day cease by the vibrator being propelled into space, and then the office of the “hereditary functionary” will be really a sinecure. The place, however, has been repaired, and the minarets rebuilt, within the last thirty years, so the guardian says. I fancy that the explanation of the miracle lies in the hypothesis I have suggested, the long wall on which the minarets are built having probably settled, and so, having no communication with the side walls, being no miracle, but merely bad building. We saw the miracle, expressed our wonder, thanked “the hereditary functionary,” and went home sadder and wiser than we came.

Vaccination is now happily appreciated in Persia. On my first arrival it was unknown, and inoculation was regularly practised. Another plan, too, was common, and the future native pastor of the Protestant Armenians lost a child by its practice. He put his own child in bed with a child having small-pox, that it might take the disease in a benign form; confluent small-pox of the most virulent type resulted, and the poor child died, to the great grief of the parent, a most deserving and honest fellow.

This man and one other are the only teetotalers of Julfa, which may dispute the palm with any Scotch town for capability of swallowing liquor on a Sunday.

So common is drunkenness here, that an old cook of mine, an English-speaking Armenian, used to say to me on Sunday night—

“Dinner finished, sir; if you no orders, I go get drunk with my priest.” Needless to add, that they both did get drunk, and that it was at the cook’s expense. Happily, there are some few exceptions among the Julfa priests, for all India, Persia, and Batavia are supplied with priests for their Armenian communities from Julfa.

Spirits are supposed to deaden pain, and a Yezdi, a guebre (fire-worshipper), who had lodged some slugs and iron in his hand, prior to my removing them, swallowed a quart of strong spirit without my knowledge. I supposed him to become suddenly delirious, but he was only suddenly drunk.

Our first care was to make a road for our little dog-cart. The gates separating the parishes were mostly too narrow to let it pass, and we finally made one six feet wide at the narrowest, having three bridges without parapets (which we widened), and one was at a sharp angle, and a deep ditch the whole way on one side, and a wall on the other. This was capital for a small two-wheel thing, as long as the horse didn’t jib or shy, or we didn’t meet any one. Happily, it did not in our time, but when we got a bigger trap, a park phaeton, with a pair of horses, the pleasure of our drive was somewhat damped by the possibility of a capsize at night in the dark! But the cherub that always keeps a watch over poor Jack must have been on duty, for we never did have an accident. It was Hobson’s choice, that road or none.

Crossing the river at Marnūn became our favourite ride, and here one could canter for miles on a good road, the greater part of which was shaded by the gardens and orchards on either side. A great deal of firewood, too, is grown in this neighbourhood, water is plentiful, and so firewood is a staple crop. Getting out beyond the gardens, on a small mountain standing by itself on the plain, was the ruin of an ancient fire-temple. It was merely built of mud bricks, but here at Ispahan these remain for centuries, and it was only on climbing up to it that one perceived that it was not all quite modern, and a small portion built of very large bricks on an ancient wall. A grand view was got from it, as it commanded the entire plain.

Several large plane-trees are to be seen in the villages, many with platforms built round them, where the villagers sit and smoke in the evenings. A sort of semi-sacred character is attached to some of them, particularly to one which is called the “plane of Mortaza Ali.”

A striking feature at Julfa is the so-called racecourse at Ferhabad. A couple of walls enclose a straight run of over a mile. These walls, which are in ruins, and of mud, have at intervals various pavilions, some of the rooms of which are still almost perfect. At the end is a large square, having many rooms round it in a still better state. The road turned at a right angle towards the village of Julfa; but as this is intersected by wells and watercourses, it is not used as a cantering ground. The place is supposed to have been the summer palace of the Afghan conquerors.

Ruins and ancient buildings, when built of burnt bricks, rapidly disappear in Persia. It is for a very simple reason. It is cheaper to demolish an old building, and carry off the good seasoned bricks by donkey-loads, than to make and burn new ones, which often crumble.

In my own time a large and handsome college near the Char Bagh of Ispahan has utterly disappeared, the prince having given an order for its demolition, and that the material be used in making the new one he has now completed. The very foundations were grubbed up. In Ispahan itself every third house is a ruin, and in Julfa the walls of gardens and orchards often contain the bare inner walls of ancient houses, which retain the brightness of their painting and gilding in the dry and pure air.

Donkeys, as beasts of burden, are much employed in a country where there are no carts or wheeled vehicles; save in the capital, the donkeys do all the ordinary work of vehicles. Earth, manure, produce, firewood, charcoal, grain, are all carried on these beasts or on mules. Each animal has his pack-saddle, in which he lives and sleeps. It is only removed when the donkey gets a rare and very occasional curry-combing from a very primitive sort of instrument, having jangling rings, which produce a music supposed to be soothing to a donkey’s soul. Every villager has his donkey; if more than one he is well-to-do. The ordinary wage of a man is one keran, a man and donkey one keran and a half, and each additional donkey half a keran. They work from sunrise to sunset, with an hour’s interval for feeding.

Julfa is a particularly healthy place, for the cesspools are constantly kept clean by the market-gardeners, who pay for the privilege of removing the manure. By mixing the contents of the cesspools with ashes, a dry and portable manure is produced of the highest efficacy, and odourless. It is removed on donkeys, and stored in the fields until required.

In the very depth of the winter, when snow and ice had rendered the ride to the town highly dangerous for horses, I was summoned in haste to see my old patient the Zil-es-Sultan, now the most important man in the kingdom next to the king. I went, though risking my horse’s knees, and was rather disgusted to find that I was sent for to see if he was ill or not, as he was not sure. I found him in a hot room, temperature eighty (by the thermometer), wrapped in furs, being shampooed by three attendants, while a fourth was reading poetry to him. He was, I told him, in a fair way to get ill, and that air and exercise were all he needed. He took my advice, and returned to his usual very active life.

He showed me an armoury of some eight hundred rifles, with a proportionate amount of fowling-pieces and pistols. I expressed the desired amount of admiration. I suppose the time will come when his Royal Highness will make an effort for the throne, probably on the present Shah’s death. It will be a lucky day for Persia if he succeeds, as he is clever, tolerant, and a good governor. His personal popularity is very great, and his luck as a governor proverbial. He has a dislike to deeds of blood, but is a severe governor, like his uncle, the late Hissam-u-Sultaneh, whose virtues he emulates.

The Valliāt, or heir-apparent, on the contrary, is physically weak, and mentally imbecile, being a bigot in the hands of a few holy men, and as impracticable as he is obstinate. No doubt if he ever does reign a black time will set in for the country, for religious persecution on a gigantic scale will commence, and the future of Iran be very sad.

The Zil-es-Sultan had just got two bull-terriers from England. He was convinced of their ferocity; and certainly the dog, very short-faced, and almost a bull-dog, was of terrific appearance. His Royal Highness caused them to be let into the courtyard, cautioning me to be very still, as not knowing me they might attack me, and providing me with a lump of sugar to appease them. Of course nothing of the sort took place, but the dogs ran about and smelt the various grandees, to their great disgust. The prince made great pets of them, feeding them with sugar. I was surprised to find that though these dogs had not seen an Englishman for months, yet on my speaking to them in English they followed me about, fawning on me, and neglecting the prince, and the dog-man who was their valet.

Since this time the prince has procured two huge half-bred Dutch mastiffs, in which he greatly rejoices, and these animals, though not fierce, are certainly very powerful dogs. Strange that the love of animals in a man like the Zil-es-Sultan should so overcome the Mussulman dislike of the unclean beast. The dogs were in the habit of licking the prince’s hand.

This particular winter was an unusually severe one. There was much snow, and it was impossible to get out for rides for a fortnight; and two store-rooms of my huge house fell in, from the heavy mud roofs being soaked with water, and breaking their supports by the enormous increase of weight.

On one occasion in the early spring we had ridden out to the garden palace of Haft Dust, and were preparing to take tea, when with great noise the Zil-es-Sultan rode into the place with some fifty horsemen. No sooner did he see and recognise my servants than he asked if I was alone. On hearing that my wife (“my house,” as my man put it) was with me, he rode out, taking all his followers with him, and sending me a message to “go on with my tea, that he trusted I should enjoy my visit, that the place was mine as long as I pleased,” etc.

Europeans avoid the Persians when with ladies, as very ridiculous scenes are at times the result. One gentleman, whose wife was not in her first youth, on meeting the prince when riding with her, instead of avoiding him, stopped to speak.

It was one of his rude days, for he calmly asked, in defiance of the rules of Persian politeness, which demand the ignoring of the existence of any female:

“Is that your wife?”

“Yes, my wife.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have a wife so old and ugly as that. Get a young one.”

The situation for both lady and gentleman was embarrassing.