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Of course the first day's march was no exception to the general rule I have already laid down. I was aroused before 8 a.m., and informed that the muleteers were ready to start, and desired to do so at once, as they proposed to "break a stage," as the expression goes--that is, to push on a distance of eight or nine parasangs to Mayar, the second halting-place out of Isfahan to the south. I accordingly dressed hurriedly, and finished packing, full of anxiety to secure so desirable a consummation as the shortening of the less interesting part of the journey by a whole day. When I descended, I found that the muleteer had gone off again to fetch the inevitable sacking and ropes which are always wanted, and apparently always forgotten. I was compelled, therefore, to abandon all hopes of getting further than Marg, some three parasangs distant from Julfa, and to resign myself to an idle morning. It was not till after lunch that all was ready for the start, and, bidding farewell to my kind host, Dr Hoernle, I mounted the sorry steed assigned to me, and, with my mind filled with delightful anticipations, turned my face in the direction of Shiraz. Karapit, the head servant of the Mission, accompanied me on my way as far as the "Farewell Fountain" (rendered conspicuous by the solitary tree which stands beside it), and even for some distance beyond it, till the post-house of Marg appeared in the distance. Then he turned back, wishing us a good journey; and a monotonous ride of an hour or so brought us to our halting-place (which the muleteers, for some reason, had changed from Marg to a village somewhat farther on, called Kal'a-i-Shur) while it was still early in the afternoon. We put up at a dilapidated caravansaray, where nothing occurred to vary the monotony, except the arrival, some time after sunset, of a party of Jewish minstrels and dancing-boys, who were, like ourselves, bound for Shiraz.
Next day we left the plain, and entered the rugged defile
The next day's march was almost precisely similar to that
of the previous day--a gray, stony, glaring plain (thinly covered
with camel-thorn and swarming with lizards), on either side
of which were bare black hills of rugged outline. Soon after
2 p.m. we came in sight of the blue dome of an Imamzade, situated
in the precincts of the considerable town of Kumishah. As it
was a Thursday (Shab-i-Jum'a, Friday Eve), which is the great
day for performing minor pilgrimages and visiting the graves
of deceased friends, we met streams of the inhabitants corning
forth from the town bent on such pious errands. Taking them
all round, I think they were the most ill-favoured, dour-looking
people I ever saw in Persia. Generally, however forbidding the
appearance of the men may be (of the women one cannot judge,
since they keep their faces veiled), the children at least are pretty
and attractive. But in all these files of people whom we met I
Before 3 p.m. I reached the telegraph station, and was welcomed by Mr Gifford, the resident telegraphist, and his wife. The son of the Governor of Kumishah, Mirza Aka by name, was there, and later he was joined by his father, Mirza Mahdi Khan, who had come to try and extract some information about the political outlook in Isfahan. It appeared that an unfortunate man from Izidkhwast had arrived in Kumishah on that or the preceding day, bringing the news of the Zillu's-Sultan's dismissal. This news was naturally very unwelcome to the Governor--so unwelcome that he not only declined to believe it, but ordered the man who brought it to be bastinadoed. Although this had the effect of checking further speculation and gossip, the Governor was unable to overcome a certain feeling of uneasiness as to his future tenure of office, and hence these visits to the telegraph-office.
Next morning the muleteer came to see me early, and offered
to push on to Amin-abad that day and to Shulghistan in Fars
on the morrow. I found, however, that this procedure would
involve passing some distance to the east of the curious village
of lzidkhwast or Yezdikhwast, which I was anxious to see. I
therefore decided to go no farther than Maksud Beg, and as this
was only four parasangs distant, I gladly accepted the invitation
of my kind host to stay to lunch and start after mid-day. The
march was absolutely without interest, and the village of Maksud
Beg, where we arrived about 4.30 p.m., was a most desolate-
looking spot. Here we found the Jewish minstrels who had
overtaken us at Marg entertaining the muleteers and villagers with
a concert in the caravansaray. The music appeared to me very
pleasing. This, and the exhilarating thought-that on the morrow
I should bid farewell to 'Irak, and enter the classical province
of Fars, the cradle of Persian greatness, enabled me to bear with
equanimity the dullness of the dilapidated caravansaray. I was
On the following morning (10th March) we got off about 7.45 a.m. The scenery was similar to that of the preceding two days--a stony valley, bounded by parallel chains of hills. As we advanced, the hills to the east became lower and lower, finally being reduced to broken fin-like ridges, situated one behind another, while beyond these, bordering the western edge of the plain, high snow mountains began to come into view, which the muleteer informed me belonged to the province of Luristan. About 11.15 a.m. we halted for lunch at Amin-abad, the last village in 'Irak. From this point we could clearly see before us a small conical hill, beyond which lay the hamlet of Yezdikhwast, which I was so anxious to see. I had read many accounts of this natural fastness, perched on a precipitous rock, and accordingly, as we drew near the conical hill (which is called Tele-pilaw, I suppose from its resemblance in shape to the pile of rice which constitutes this dish), I strained my eyes eagerly to catch a glimpse of its eyry-like abodes.
My first impressions were a mixture of disappointment and
surprise. On passing the hill I could plainly discern the green
dome of a little Imamzade surrounded by a straggling cemetery:
beyond this, apparently on the same level, and situated on the
flat plain which we were traversing, appeared the village of
Yezdikhwast. Where was its boasted inaccessibility, and the
sheer precipices which, as all travellers asserted, rendered it one
of the most marvellous natural fastnesses to be found in the
world? No amount of exaggeration, I thought, could account
for such a description of the place I saw before me, which
Right across our path lay a mighty chasm, looking like the dry bed of some giant river of the past. In the middle of this stood what I can only describe as a long narrow island, with precipitous sides, the summit of which was crowned with tier upon tier of gray, flat-roofed dwellings, which even hung over the edge of the cliff, supported by beams and rafters. These, projecting outwards in all directions, gave to the place the appearance of some strange collection of birds' nests rather than of human habitations. At the upper (i.e. the western) end this island was almost joined to the northern edge of the chasm, the comparatively shallow depression which separated them being spanned by a drawbridge, by raising which all access to the town can be cut off. At all other points a sheer precipice, increasing in height towards the east, protects it from all possibility of invasion.
At Yezdikhwast the road to Shiraz bifurcates. What is called the sar-hadd, or summer road, bears to the south-west into the mountains; while the garmsir, or winter road, crosses the chasm or valley below Yezdikhwast, and trends towards the south-east. As it was still early in the year, and the snow was not yet gone from the uplands traversed by the former, we had determined on following the latter, which course had this additional advantage, that it would lead us past Persepolis.
The inhabitants of Yezdikhwast do not apparently care to
have strangers dwelling in their cliff-girt abode; at any rate, the
caravansaray and post-house are both situated at the bottom of the
chasm, across the little river (Ab-i-Marvan) which flows through
it, and to the south-east of the crag on which the village stands.
On coming in sight of the brink of the chasm we therefore
I was anxious to see the interior of the village, and accordingly
asked some of the inhabitants who came to stare at me whether
they could take me over it. They readily agreed to do so, and
after tea I sallied forth with my guides, crossed the fields, already
green with sprouting wheat, and, skirting the southern face of
this natural citadel, reached the drawbridge at the western end.
Passing over this, we entered a dark passage, which, with
occasional outlets into comparatively open spaces, traverses, or
rather tunnels through, the whole village from west to east.
This is the only street, for the rock is narrow, though long, and
there is not room in most places for more than two houses side
by side. My guides informed me that their town, of which they
seemed proud in no small degree, was very old--300 years older
As we advanced, the street, at first open above, became entirely covered over by houses, and the darkness was such that we could not see a yard ahead, and were only saved from continual collisions with other passengers by the cries of "Ya Allah" uttered by my companions to give warning of our approach.
The houses are for the most part three or four stories high,
and are entered by stairs communicating directly with the street.
On the outer side they are furnished with platforms or balconies,
one above the other, which overhang the cliff in a most perilous
manner. On to some of these my guides took me that I might
admire the view, but my enjoyment of this was somewhat
marred by the sense of insecurity with which the very frail
appearance of the platforms inspired me. "I should have
thought," said I to my guides, "that these platforms would have
been very dangerous to your children, for I observe that they
are provided with no rail to prevent anyone from falling over."
"They are dangerous," was the quite unconcerned reply; "hardly
a year passes without two or three falling over and being killed."
"I wonder the houses themselves don't fall," I remarked after
a brief interval, during which the palpable weakness of the flimsy
structure had become more than ever manifest to me. "They
do," replied the unmoved villagers; "look there." I turned my
eyes in the direction indicated, and saw a dismal wreck hanging
over the edge of the cliff. Feeling my curiosity quite satisfied,
I suggested that we should continue our tour of inspection,
whereupon they took me into one of the houses, which appeared
We next visited the mosque, which seemed ancient, though I could find no date graven on its walls--nothing but the usual summary of Shi'ite faith: "There is no God but God: Muhammad is the Apostle of God: 'Ali is the Friend of God." Though more solid in structure than the other buildings, it is very simply adorned, for it contains nothing but a minbar, or pulpit, looking more like a step-ladder than anything else. This, and the arch of the mihrab by which it stood, were the sole features whereby one could divine that the place was not intended for a barn or a granary.
On leaving the mosque we visited the one other shop which this primitive place contains, where I was politely compelled to accept of a quantity of that gruesome sweetmeat known as shakkar-panir ("sugar-cheese"). Then we quitted the village by the same way whereby we had entered it (for indeed there is no other), and returned to the caravansaray. Though I retired to bed early, I lay awake for some time watching the lights which twinkled from the airy dwellings of Yezdikhwast and gave to the shadowy outline of the great rock somewhat the appearance of a gigantic vessel lying at anchor in a river.
Next day we ascended the southern side of the gully by a
road running eastwards, until we again reached the summit of
the plateau. Here I halted for a few moments to gaze once
more on the picturesque scene, and then we struck off towards
the south, still bearing somewhat to the east. On the road we
met many peasants and some few travellers; they nearly all
carried arms, and were as a rule darker in complexion and fiercer
in aspect than the inhabitants of 'Irak. About 2.30 p.m. we
arrived at Shulghistan, a small picturesque village, rendered
conspicuous by a green-domed Imamzade, close to which is
Later on another man came in, whose one sole topic of conversation was dervishes, for whom he professed the most unbounded regard. His enthusiasm had apparently been aroused by the recent visit of some celebrated saint from Kirman. I ventured to ask him if there were any Babis in Shulghistan, at the very idea of which he expressed the utmost horror, adding with pride, "We would at once slay anyone whom we suspected of belonging to that sect, for here, thank God, we are all followers of Murtaza 'Ali."
His attitude towards the Babis did not encourage me to make
further enquiries in this direction, and I therefore allowed him
to ramble on about his dervishes, Imams, and miracles. He
informed me, amongst numerous other stories of equal probability,
that there was a mountain two parasangs to the east of Yezdikhwast
called Shah Kannab. There, he said, the two sons of
"That was very wonderful," I said, "but tell me what became of them, for I should have thought that it would have been better if the mountain had closed before the 'army of the infidels' could follow the two saints. As it was, it seems to me that they were all shut up together."
"Yes," replied the narrator, "but, you see, the infidels were all turned into stone at once. You might see them still if you knew the way which leads to that wondrous cavern--men, horses, camels, camel-drivers, children at their lessons, still holding in their hands the books they were readingall turned to stone! It is a wonderful thing!"
"So I should think," I answered, wondering inwardly whether armies of infidels usually carried a host of school-children about with them when they went in pursuit of fugitive saints; "but you haven't told me what happened to the Imams who were so miraculously preserved. Did they make their escape after this signal mark of Divine Displeasure had been accomplished?"
"No, they did not," rejoined my informant; "they dwell there still, and by their holy influence many wonderful miracles are wrought, some of which I will tell you. There is a shrine with two minarets on the mountain, and these minarets every year recede farther and farther apart, a fact well known to all in this neighbourhood. Furthermore, whoever goes there, and prays, and then fixes his thoughts on anything which he desires to possess--gold, silver, or precious stones--can take it from the rock to his heart's content."
"And pray," I asked, "can one find one's way to this marvellous mountain?"
"No, you cannot," retorted the other; "I could take you
"That is a pity," I said; "and I venture to suggest that you act unwisely in thus hindering them from witnessing miracles whereby they might perhaps be brought to embrace Islam. It is precisely for unbelievers that miracles are intended."
"Well," replied my informant, "there is perhaps reason in
what you say. But it is not necessary to go there to witness
proofs of the power possessed by the blessed Imams. Of this
we had a signal proof during last Muharram. A pazan (ibex or
mountain-goat) came at that time to the Imamzade across the
road, and took up its abode there for six months. Finally it
died, and is buried under a tree in the courtyard. We had no
doubt but that it was sent thither by the command of the blessed
Imams to strengthen the faith of all of us who witnessed it."
Altogether, I spent a very amusing evening with my talkative friend, who, delighted to find an appreciative listener, remained while I ate my supper, and did not finally leave till it was time to retire for the night.
Next day was bright and windy. The scenery through which
we passed was of the usual type--a stony plain full of
camelthorn (now putting forth beautiful crimson blossoms from its
apparently sapless branches) between parallel ranges of barren
hills. The ground swarmed with lizards of two distinct types,
the ordinary brown lizard and the Buz-majje. This latter is an
animal which, as I subsequently learned, sometimes attains a
length of three or four feet, but the length-of most of those
which I saw did not exceed as many inches. They have big clumsy
heads furnished with spines, and long tails constricted at the
point where they join the body, which they have a habit of
jerking up into an erect position. They are very nimble in their
movements, and when frightened dart away like a dusky shadow
My attention revived, however, when he began to talk about Shiraz. "In eleven days more, Sahib, you will see Shiraz: perhaps in ten, if you do not stop al Takht-i-Jamshid (Persepolis). You will then enter it on the Nawruz: all the people--men, women, and children--will be out in the gardens and fields; many of them in the Tang-i-Allahu-Akbar, through which you will catch your first glimpse of the city. All will be dressed in new clothes, as smart as they can make themselves, enjoying the beautiful green fields, singing, smoking kalyans, and drinking tea. There is no other city like Shiraz: all about it the earth is green with grass; even the roofs of the bazaars are covered with herbage. It is the Green City of Solomon (shahr-i-sabz-i-Suleyman). And the people are so quick and clever and generous. Not like those miserable, miserly Isfahanis, nor yet like those stupid, thick- headed Khurasanis. Have I ever told you the verses made by the Isfahani, the Shirazi, and the Khurasani, Sahib?"
"No," I answered; "I should like to hear them very much."
"Once upon a time," he resumed, "an Isfahani, a Shirazi,
and Khurasani were travelling together. Now, one night they
succeeded in getting a dish of pilaw, and the Isfahani, being a
witty fellow, as well as stingy (like all his rascally countrymen),
suggested that no one should be allowed to have a share of the
About 2 p.m. we arrived at the little town of Abade, another stronghold of the Babis. It will be remembered that the Babi missionary at Isfahan, on bidding me farewell, had promised to write to one of his co-religionists here, as well as at Shiraz, to be on the look-out for me. I therefore hoped that I might have an opportunity of holding further conversation with the members of the proscribed sect, but in this hope I was disappointed, for the shortness of my stay in the town, and the hospitality of Sergeant Glover of the telegraph station, did not give me leisure to seek out the person indicated to me. I was very favourably impressed with Abade in every way, and the approach to it, through lanes surrounded by orchards and gardens, the trees of which were already bursting into blossom and filling the air with their fragrance, was very beautiful.
At the telegraph station I was cordially received by Sergeant
Glover and his eldest son, a bright, clever boy of about fifteen,
Next day a short march of about three hours brought us to the post-house of Surme. On arriving there, I was surprised to see a European traveller standing at the door, who greeted me in English. He proved to be one of the telegraph staff at Shiraz travelling up to Isfahan and Teheran, and kindly offered me a share of the bala-khane (upper-room), which was the only respectable apartment in the post-house. Even that was horribly cold and draughty, for a violent wind was still blowing. Notwithstanding this, we spent a very pleasant evening together, and, by combining our resources, managed to produce a very respectable supper.
Next day, after a leisurely breakfast, we parted on our
respective roads. The wind had dropped, the sky was cloudless,
and the sun very powerful. We could see the road stretching
away straight before us for three parasangs or so, when it took
a sudden turn to the left round an angle of the mountains. As we
advanced--very slowly, owing to the sorry condition of our
beasts--the plain gradually narrowed, and became broken by
great crests of rock rising abruptly out of the ground. The
mountains on the right (west) grew gradually higher and higher,
and their summits were now crowned with snow. On reaching
the angle of the road above-mentioned we halted by some
rocks for lunch. The spot was not devoid of beauty, which was
On leaving this place we began to ascend, and continued to do so till, about 4 p.m., we reached the disconsolate stone caravansaray of Khan-i-Khurre, which stands quite alone and apart from other habitations. It was crowded with people of all sorts: Bakhtiyaris, and other tribesmen on their migrations towards their summer quarters; people who had come out from Shiraz and elsewhere to meet the new Governor and do him honour; and a certain small contingent of ordinary travellers. I might have had some difficulty in obtaining quarters if my acquaintance of the previous day had not informed me that there was a special room in the caravansaray, set apart for members of the telegraph staff, which I might have by applying to the caravansaray- keeper for the key. I did so, and thus obtained a warm, snug room, where I might otherwise have been compelled to put up with the most miserable quarters. Though the caravansaray was in the most ruined and filthy condition, the ground being strewn with dead camels and horses in various stages of decay, the scene was not lacking in interest owing to the strange costumes and stranger appearance of the tribesmen. The women do not cover their faces, and many of them are endowed with a certain wild beauty.
After tea I had a visit from the postmaster (na'ib-chapar), who
came to consult me about some disorder of the chest from which
he was suffering. He soon, however, forgot the object which
had brought him, and wandered off into a variety of topics, which
he illustrated with a surprising number of quotations from the
poets; and it was only when he rose to depart that he again
recurred to his ailments. His dreamy abstracted manner had
already led me to suspect that he was a votary of opium and other
narcotics, and in reply to a question to this effect he answered
that he did occasionally indulge in a pipe of tiryak when depressed
in spirits.
"Perhaps you take hashish now and then for a change?" I asked.
"Well," he replied, "I don't deny that I do now and then." "Of course you smoke the kalyan too?"
"Yes," he said, "what else is there to do in this desolate spot where there is no society except these tribesmen?"
"Well," I said, "I wish very much that I could do anything
for you, but the state of the case is this: the essential principle
of treating diseases is to remove their cause, and unless this can
be done it is very little use to give medicines. Now, smoking
kalyans in excess disorders the chest, and I understand that you
do smoke them very often. Whether the opium and hashish which
you also take are answerable for the evil in any degree I can't
say, but at any rate it is scarcely likely that they do you any good.
Just now you quoted this couplet from . Hafiz--
"You are right," he replied (convinced, I feel sure, more by the quotation from Hafiz than by anything else), "and I will try to follow your advice." So saying, he departed and left me alone.
Next day we started early, as the muleteers were anxious to
"break" a stage--that is, to go three stages in two days; so that
our halting-place for the night was not to be Dihbid, where there
is a telegraph station, but Khan-i-Kirgan, situated some two
hours' march beyond it. Our road continued to ascend almost
till we reached Dihbld, and once or twice we enjoyed a fine view
to the east across the Plain of Abarkuh to the great range of
After his departure Haji Safar entertained me with a long disquisition on kasids and their marvellous powers of endurance. He assured me that one had walked from Teheran to Shlraz in five days, while another had gone from Bushire to Shiraz in two days. He added that the latter had come near forfeiting his life for his prowess, because Prince Ferhad Mirza, then Governor of Fars, hearing of his exploit, had said, "Such a man had best be put to death forthwith, for one who can go on foot from here to Bushire in two days might commit murder or highway robbery, and be in another province before his crime was even discovered." I am fain to believe that this was only a grim jest on the part of Ferhad Mirza; at any rate the sentence, as I was informed, was not carried out.
The wind, which had been gradually increasing in strength
since the morning, began now to cause us much annoyance,
and indeed Dihbid, as I subsequently learnt by experience, is
one of the windiest places in Persia. Haji Safar, however,
declared that in this respect it was far behind Damghan, on the
Mashhad road. "This is but a place which the wind visits at
times," he remarked, "but it lives there: its abode is in a well,
and anyone can arouse it at any time by throwing dirt or stones
into the well, when it rushes out in anger."
Our road was redeemed from dreariness by the variety of beautiful flowers with which the advancing spring had bedecked the upland meadows. I noticed particularly the wild hyacinth (sunbul-i-biyabani), and the sight of its long narrow dark green leaves enabled me better to understand the appositeness of the comparison between it and the "tresses of the beloved" so often made by the Persian poets.
It was nearly 1.30 p.m. when we reached Dihbid, a small
village consisting of about fifteen or twenty cabins, a very
dilapidated caravansaray, a post-house, and the telegraph-office.
To the latter I at once made my way, and was welcomed very
cordially by Mr and Mrs Blake. They expressed great regret on
learning that I could not stop with them for the night, and
repeatedly pressed me to do so with a hospitality so evidently
genuine that I would gladly have altered my plans and
relinquished the idea of "breaking a stage" had that been possible;
but the muleteer had gone on with the baggage, and I was
therefore compelled to adhere to my original intention, contenting
myself with a halt of three or four hours for rest and refreshment.
It was beginning to grow dusk when I again set out, and the gathering shades of evening warned me that I must bestir myself, especially as the muleteer was no longer with us to direct our course. Mr Blake kindly volunteered to ride some distance with me to put me in the right way, and this offer I was glad to accept. Crossing the little river just beyond the village we saw a flight of about a dozen storks, and farther on four gazelles. Half a mile or more to the west of the road stood an old withered tree close to a mined caravansaray, and this spot, as Mr Blake informed me, was reputed to be haunted by a "white lady," but with the details of this superstition he was unable to acquaint me.
When we had ridden a farsakh, my host bade me farewell
and turned back, whereupon we quickened our pace so as to
As it was quite dark, and I was, moreover, very cold and tired, I had no opportunity of making any observations on the nature of the place or its inhabitants that night, but on the following morning I discovered that here also were domiciled multitudes of tribesmen on their way to their surnmer quarters. On the road, which wound through-beautiful grassy valleys bedecked with sweet spring flowers, we met many more, all bound for the highland pastures which we were leaving behind us, and a pretty sight it was to see them pass; stalwart, hardy- looking men, with dark, weather-beaten faces; lithe, graceful boys clothed in skins; and tall, active women with resolute faces, not devoid of a comeliness which no veil concealed. They were accompanied by droves of donkeys bearing their effects, and flocks of sheep and goats, which paused here and there to nibble the fresh grass.
Early in the afternoon we descended into the valley of Murghab,
and, passing the hamlet of that name (a well-built and
thriving-looking village, pleasantly situated by a beautiful clear
streamlet) halted at Dih-i-Naw, some three miles farther on. The
feeling of regret at not having sought for a lodging at the former,
which the first sight of the somewhat squalid appearance of the
latter caused me, was at once removed when I learned that the
group of ancient ruins generally identified with the site of the
city of Pasargadae on European maps, and known to the Persians
as Takht-i-Suleyman ("the Throne of Solomon") and Masjid-i-
Leaving Dih-i-Naw on the south, or Shiraz, side, the first object of interest reached is the Takht-i-Suleyman. This, consisting of a large platform faced with masonry, projects from the face of a hill situated a little to the left (east) of the high road, not five minutes' walk from the village. Its frontage must be about 150 feet, and here the conscientious thoroughness and solidity of the masonry is most easily appreciated. I noticed the holes for the iron clamps (which have themselves been removed) noticed by Sir R. Ker Porter, and also the peculiar marks on most of the stones which he, if I remember rightly, was inclined to regard as characters of some ancient language. The villager who accompanied me declared that they were marks placed by each mason on the stone at which he had worked, in order that the amount of his work and the wages due to him might be proved; and I have no doubt that such is their nature. At any rate, they in no wise resemble the characters of any known alphabet.
From the platform of the Takht-i-Suleyman the whole plain
of Pasargadae is clearly visible. The Shiraz road takes a bold
sweep towards the west ere it quits the plain and enters the grand
defile through which flows the river Pulvar, and all the ruins
except the Tomb of Cyrus (or Masjid-i-Madar-i-Suleyman, as the
Persians call it) are situated within a short distance of it and of
one another, on the left hand of the southward-bound traveller.
The Tomb of Cyrus lies about half a mile beyond them, on the
opposite side of the road: it is encircled by a little village, and
is regarded by the Persians as a place of considerable sanctity.
The first building to which I came on descending from the
Takht-i-Suleyman is that called by Ker Porter Atash-kede ("the
Fire-Temple"). My guide, however, gave it the name of Zindan-
khane ("the Prison-house"). It is situated close to the road, which
it faces, and is very solid and massive in structure, but bears no
inscriptions or carvings. The western end of the building only
is standing; it is about thirty feet high, and contains sixteen
courses of stones, and a window, below which is a buttress.
The next object which presents itself is a solitary square pillar of white stone in twelve courses, bearing a cuneiform inscription of four lines, of which the second is separated from the third, and the third from the fourth, by a blank space. I could not learn that it had any popular name.
A short distance beyond this lies the main group of ruins,
called Nakkara-khane-i-Suleyman ("the Music-hall of Solomon").
Amongst these the most conspicuous object is a very tall slender
column about sixty feet high, white in colour, and circular in
shape, composed of four stones placed one on the other, the
length of each one diminishing from below upwards. This
column is quite plain, and bears no inscription. There are two
or three other pillarlike structures, which appear to have
formed the corners of the ruined edifice. At the back of each I
noticed the hollowing-out of the stone noticed by Ker Porter. One
of them bears on its north face a cuneiform inscription similar
to that already noticed on the first column, but containing
four or five different characters. On the western side of this
group of ruins (i.e. on the side facing the road) are the remains
of two doorways, each about five feet in width. The stones
forming the sides of these are blackish in colour and susceptible
of a high degree of polish. They are broken off within two feet
of the ground, and on their inner surfaces are carved two pairs
of feet, both turned towards the entrance. Of these, the outer
pair are human feet, the inner pair feet like those of a bird: both
are beautifully executed. A fragment of a similar doorway also
A little distance to the east of this group of ruins, i.e. farther
from the road, stands a solitary column, on the west side of
which is carved in bas-relief the beautiful winged figure described
and depicted by Ker Porter and others. I was still absorbed in
delighted contemplation of this, when my guide, impatient at
the long delay, called attention to the approach of evening, and
urged me to return, declaring that it was unsafe to be out in
the plain after dusk, and reminding me that I could complete
my examination of the ruins next day. With regret I acceded to
his request, and reluctantly retraced my steps. On the way back
my companion talked freely of the state of the country and the
dismissal of the old Sahib-Divan from the government of Fars,
at which he expressed unbounded delight. I asked if the Sahib-
Divan had been a cruel governor that he had so aroused the
hatred of the people. To this question my guide replied in the
negative, alleging his incapacity and lack of integrity as the reason
why he was so much disliked. "He has made everything dear,"
he concluded, "and we enjoy no sort of protection from the
rapacity of the wandering tribes, who carry off our cattle and
flocks without the least fear of reprisals. Riza Khan, his old
enemy, is now encamped between Seydun and Sivand with all
his tribe, and has sworn to slay him if he can waylay him on his
journey north; in which attempt I, for my part, wish him all
success. He has already begun stripping and plundering all the
followers and retainers of the ex-governor on whom he can lay
his hands, including forty of Zeynu'l-'Abidin's men who were
sent out to catch him or drive him away, and who came back to
Shiraz crestfallen and discomfited, with nothing but their shirts.
As for the new governor, the Ihtishamu'd-Dawla, if he is like
his father, Prince Ferhad Mirza, he will keep things in better
Next day on quitting Dih-i-Naw I again visited the ruins
above described, and, after reluctantly tearing myself away from
them, proceeded to explore the Tomb of Cyrus. This, as I have
already mentioned, is called by the Persians "the Mosque of the
Mother of Solomon," and is regarded as a holy place, so that I
had some fear lest they should prevent me from entering it. This
fear fortunately proved to be groundless; indeed, one of the
inhabitants of the adjacent village volunteered to accompany
me as a guide, though such assistance was quite unnecessary.
The Tomb of Cyrus, being built of white stone, forms a most
conspicuous landmark in the plain of Pasargadae. It consists of
a rectangular roofed chamber of extraordinary solidity, situated
on a square platform approached on all sides by steep and lofty
steps, up which one must climb, rather than walk, to reach the
low entrance. The building bears no inscriptions in cuneiform
or Pahlavi characters, but numerous Musulman visitors have
engraved their names on its walls and steps. I had hitherto
imagined that the passion for leaving such memorials of one's
visit was peculiar to the West, and reached its highest development
with the English and Americans; but not only the ruins of Pasargada
and Persepolis, but every post-house and caravansaray in Persia,
bear witness to the fact that this habit is hardly less rife
amongst the Persians. De Sacy was, I think, the first to direct
attention to these interesting relics of former travellers. In
the presence of the ancient cuneiform characters, which carry us
back to the time of the Achemenian kings, one is tempted to
overlook them, though not a few of them date back to the earlier
Muhammadan period. The longest of these inscriptions is situated
on the wall to the right of one entering the mausoleum. This wall
Leaving the mausoleum, I turned to descend, examining the steps and the inscriptions cut on them on my way. Some of the stones bore mason's marks similar to those referred to in speaking of the Takht-i-Suleyman. Besides these there were a great many Neo-Persian inscriptions, mostly undated, or of comparatively recent date, some almost illegible, others as clear as though cut yesterday.
Around the base of the steps is a small burial-ground strewn
with fragments of other buildings which have perished. At its
entrance are two long stones, propped one against the other in
the shape of an inverted V, which form a sort of gate to the
enclosure. Each of these is engraved on its inner surface with
a line of Arabic in a fine bold character. The space left between
the two stones is very narrow, and their surfaces are worn as
smooth as glass by the passage of generations of pilgrims and
visitors. These stones are supposed to be endowed with healing
virtues, and my guide informed me that anyone bitten by a mad
dog can be cured by crawling through the narrow interstice
Turning at length with much reluctance from this interesting spot, I again mounted and rode forward, and, in a few minutes, quitted the plain and entered the splendid rocky defile through which the river Pulvar flows down towards Shiraz. This defile, with occasional widenings into fertile grassy valleys, continues to within two stages of Shiraz. There, a little beyond the post- house of Puze, its rocky walls fall sharply away to the east and west as it enters the great plain of Marv-Dasht. At that point its width is three or four miles; in the rocks to the right are the tombs called by the Persians Naksh-i-Rustam; on the left, opposite to these, are the sculptures of Naksh-i-Rajab, the ruins of Istakhr, and just round the angle formed by the Kuh-i-Rahmat ("Mountain of Mercy") the stupendous remains of Persepolis, of which I shall shortly have to speak.
This defile of the Pulvar offers some of the finest and most picturesque views in Persia: the rugged cliffs which hem it in on either side; the rushing river meandering through fertile meadows under the willows which fringe its banks; the fragrant shrubs and delicate flowers which, at this season, perfume the air and delight the eye; the gaily-plumaged hoopoes--the birds of Solomon--which dart through the clear sunny air; but most of all, perhaps, the memories of the glorious Past which every footstep awakens, all combined to render this one of the most delightful parts of my journey.
Soon after turning into the defile we ascended the rocks to
the right for some distance, and entered the Sang-bur ("Rock-
cutting"), a passage two or three hundred yards in length, just
wide enough to admit a man and horse, hewn out of the mountain
side. While marvelling at this enduring triumph of the engineering
skill of ancient Persia, a vision arose in my mind's eye of
gorgeously apparelled horsemen spurring in hot haste with
Soon after leaving the Sang-bur I was startled--almost frightened --by the sudden apparition of four or five armed men, who sprang out from behind a rock and barred my progress. The reports which I had heard of the disturbed state of Fars, the turbulence of its inhabitants, and the deeds of Riza Khan flashed through my mind; and I was in full expectation of a summons to surrender my money or my life, when I was reassured by a humble request on the part of the spokesman of the party that I would be kind enough to "remember the poor tufankchi" who watched over the safety of the roads. I was so relieved that I readily gave him what he desired; and it was not till I had passed on, and these guardians of the peace had once more hidden themselves in their ambush, that I was struck by the ludicrous nature of the proceeding. Imagine policemen or sentinels in England hiding behind rocks and leaping out on the passing traveller to ask him for a "present" in recognition of their vigilance!
About mid-day I halted in a pleasant meadow by the river for
lunch. The infinitely-varied shades of green and red exhibited
by the willows, just bursting into foliage, the emerald hue of the
grass, and the pleasant murmur of the rushing river flowing past
me, rendered the spot charming beyond all description. Haji
Safar, whose spirits appeared to rise higher and higher as he
drew nearer to Shiraz (for, whatever he may say, in his heart of
hearts every Shirazi thinks his own native city incomparable
and peerless), was in high good humour--a fact which always
disclosed itself by his giving me a better meal than usual--and
on this occasion he went so far as to kindle a fire and make some
Reluctantly quitting this delightful spot, we again continued on our way through scenery as varied as it was grand, and presently passed through one of the wide cliff-girt valleys into which the Pulvar defile here and there expands. Here the rich pastures were dotted with groups of black tents belonging to the wandering tribes (ilyat) moving northward into the mountains, while their flocks of sheep and goats, tended by dark-eyed graceful shepherd boys, moved hither and thither over the plain. Leaving this happy valley we entered another defile, which brought us, a little before 6 p.m., to the village of Sivand, in which is situated the last telegraph station before Shiraz. Here I was received with the utmost kindness by Mr and Mrs Whittingback, whose little boy had ridden out to meet me some while before, for I was expected earlier.
Next morning I did not start till about ten o'clock, being
unwilling to leave the hospitable roof of my kind entertainers.
The post-road to Shiraz continues on the left bank of the river,
but as I wished to visit the inscriptions on the rocks above
Haji-abad, which lies on the opposite side, we forded the stream,
and followed the western bend of the valley, thus shortening our
day's march by nearly a parasang. Soon after mid-day the village
of Hajl-abad came in sight, and, as I was uncertain as to the exact
position of the inscriptions, I began carefully to scrutinise
the rocky cliffs to the right, in the hopes of discerning some
trace of them. Presently I detected a small squarish hole hewn
in the face of the rocks some distance up the side of one of the
mountains (which at this point receded considerably from the
road), and at once proceeded to scramble up to it. As usual, the
clearness of the atmosphere led me to underrate the distance,
and it was only after a long and hot climb that I finally reached
the spot, where, to my disappointment, no inscription was visible
--nothing but the shallow excavation, which in the distance
"Do you mean the writing or the sculptures?" he demanded.
"The writing," I answered; "I know that the sculptures are lower down the valley."
"And what do you want with the writing?" asked the shepherd, suspiciously. "Can you read it?"
"No," I replied, "unfortunately I cannot; nevertheless I have heard that there are writings from the ancient time somewhere in these rocks, and I am desirous of seeing them."
"You can read them, I know very well," said he, "and you hope to find treasures there; many Firangis come here seeking for treasures. However, if you must know, they are up there," and he pointed up the valley. I wished to ask him in which bifurcation of the valley they were, but he had returned to his sheep, evidently disinclined to give me any further information.
There was nothing for it but to explore both of the gullies
in question, and I began with the one to the right. It led me up
into the heart of the mountain, and, after scrambling up amongst
I now proceeded to explore the other ravine, which, if less
gloomy, was hardly less imposing than that which I had just
quitted. As I ascended, its sides grew steeper and steeper, until,
approaching one another more and more closely, they terminated
in sheer precipices. At this point several huge boulders lay at
their feet, seeming to bar all further progress, and I was beginning
to doubt the advisability of trying to proceed farther, when,
raising my eyes to the rocks on the right, I espied, some distance
up, a long depression, looking dark in the sunshine, on the wall
of which I thought I could discern a prepared tablet of cruciform
shape. Hastily ascending to this, I perceived with joy that my
conjecture was right. On the rock forming the back of this
hollow was a prepared surface, shaped roughly like a cross with
very thick limbs, along the transverse length of which were four
tablets hewn in the mountain face. Of these tablets the two
situated to the left were bare, having apparently never received
the inscriptions for which they were destined; but each of the
other two bore an inscription of some length in Pahlavi characters.
The inscriptions in question have been fully treated of by Haug
in his admirable Essay on the Pahlavi Language and it
is therefore unnecessary for me to say more of them in this
place than that one of them is in Sasanian, and the other in
Chaldeo-Pahlavi; that both belong to the reign of Shapur I,
Having satisfied my curiosity, I returned to Haji Safar, who was awaiting me with the horses in the road, and we proceeded in a straight line towards the village of Zangavar (situated on the same side of the river as Haji-abad, nearer the end of the valley), where I proposed to halt for the following day, as it forms the best starting-point for visiting Persepolis and the rock-sepulchres; of Naksh-i-Rustam. Our progress was, however, soon checked by innumerable streams and ditches, and we were compelled to return to the road skirting the base of the mountains on the western side of the valley. Annoying as this delay at first appeared, it was in truth a most fortunate occurrence, for, while looking about for signs of a path which would lead us more directly to our goal, I suddenly caught sight of a large cruciform excavation on the face of the rock, which I at once recognised, from the descriptions I had read and the sketches I had seen, as one of the tombs of Naksh-i-Rustam, on which I had thus unexpectedly chanced. Haji Safar seemed scarcely so well pleased as I was, for he well knew that this discovery would involve a further delay, and, as the day had now turned cold and windy, he would doubtless fain have reached the halting-place as soon as possible. Since an hour or two of daylight still remained, however, it was obviously out of the question to waste it; and as I knew that the morrow would be all too short fully to explore the wonders of Persepolis, I was anxious to get a clear impression of the monuments which so thickly beset this angle of the valley.
Accordingly I spent about an hour in examining and taking
notes of these--a delightful hour, which passed only too quickly.
The monuments in question are well-known to all travellers and
antiquarians, and have been fully described in many books, so
I shall content myself with merely enumerating them.
They are as follows:--
(i) Four rock-sepulchres dating from Achaemenian times.
Externally, these present the appearance of crosses cut in the
rock, with limbs equal in length and about half as wide as they
are long. The aperture affording access to the inner gallery (which
corresponds to the horizontal limbs of the cross in length, height,
and position) is near the centre. Of the interior I shall have to
speak shortly. Two pillars carved out of the rock stand on either
side of this aperture, which is forty or fifty feet above the ground.
The upper limb of the cross is adorned with sculptured symbols,
amongst which a fire-altar surmounted by a crescent moon, a
priest engaged in devotional exercises, and, over all, the winged
figure girt with the symbol of infinity, which forms so constant
a feature in the Achaemenian tombs, are most conspicuous.
(ii) Six tablets bearing inscriptions and bas-reliefs of Sasanian
workmanship. Close to the first of these (proceeding from the
north southwards) is a modern Persian inscription*, bearing the
date A.H. 1127 (A.D. 1715), which is already almost as much
defaced as the Sasanian inscriptions by the side of which it stands,
and far more so than the exquisite cuneiform of the Achaemenians.
Of the six Sasanian tablets, most of which are commemorative of
victories over the Romans, and one or two of which bear long
Pahlavi inscriptions, the first is adjacent to the Neo-Persian
inscription noticed above, and stands about half-way between
the first and second rock-tombs, but close to the ground;
* This is not the only place where the kings of modern Persia have
adopted this time-honoured means of perpetuating tbeir fame. A similar
tablet, bearing a bas-relief of the king on horseback spearing a lion, as
well as a Neo-Persian inscription (also barely legible), may be seen in the
rocks to the north of what is generally regarded as the site of Rey, near
Teheran. I believe that it was cut by order of Fath-Ali Shah. Another and
a much better tablet, containing, besides a Persian inscription, bas-relief
portraits of Nasiru'd-Din Shah (by whosc command it was cut) surrounded by his
ministers, forms a conspicuous object on the rocks above the admirably-
constructed new road leading through Mazandaran from the capital to Amul,
about two stages south of the latter town. This will be further noticed in
its proper place.
(iii) Opposite the last rock-tomb, on the other side of the road (which runs close to the face of the cliff), is a square building of very solid constmction, bearing some resemblance to the Tomb of Cyrus. This can be entered by climbing without much difficulty. It is called by the villagers Ka'ba-i-Zaratusht ("the Caaba of Zoroaster").
(iv) On a summit of the rocks which form the angle of the valley is a cylindrical pillar about five feet high, sunk in a socket cut to receive it. This is called Dasta-i-Pire-Zan ("the Old Woman's Pestle").
(v) Beyond the angle formed by the junction of the Pulvar valley with the Marv-Dasht, and consequently concealed from the sight of one standing in the former, are two altars, each about four and a half feet high, hewn out of the solid rock. These are well described and figured by Ker Porter.
The above list comprises all the remains included by the Persians under the name "Naksh-i-Rustam," and, with the exception of a brief description of the interior of one of the rock-tombs which I shall shortly attempt, I shall say no more about them, since they have been exhaustively described by many writers far more competent in this matter than myself.
While engaged in examining the Naksh-i-Rustam, we were
joined by a villager who had been collecting a plant called kangar
in the mountains. Some of this he gave to Haji Safar, who
cooked it for my supper. It is by no means unsavoury, and
resembles celery more than anything else I can think of. This
villager proved to be a native of Zangavar, the village whither
we were bound; and on learning that I proposed to spend the
morrow there, so as to explore the antiquities in the neighbourhood,
As the gathering dusk warned me that I must postpone further explorations till the morrow, I regretfully turned my back on the Naksh-i-Rustam, and, after a ride of fifteen or twenty minutes, reached the large straggling village of Zangavar. Here I was informed that the Kedkhuda (chief man of the village), apprised by the muleteer of my arrival, had assigned quarters to me in the takye consecrated to the Muharram passion- plays. Proceeding thither, I found a clean and comfortable room set apart for me, in which I had hardly installed myself when the Kedkhuda in person, accompanied by one or two friends, came to pay his respects. He was a nice old man, very courteous and kindly in his manners, and we had a long conversation, of which the antiquities in the neighbourhood formed the principal topic. He told me that a little while ago two Frenchmen (working for M. Dieulafoy) had been engaged for some time in making plans and taking photographs of Persepolis and the Naksh-i-Rustam, in front of which they had erected a sort of scaffold (manjanik) the better to reach its upper part. They had lodged in this village; but, the Kedkhuda complained, had been very unsociable and reticent, refusing to allow the people to watch their work or see their photographs and sketches.
This subject exhausted, the Kedkhuda began to question me concerning our religion, and to ask me whether I had heard of the European doctor who had recently embraced the Muhammadan faith at Shiraa. I answered that I had read about his conversion in a Persian newspaper which I had seen at Isfahan, and that I was very desirous of conversing with him, so that I might learn the reasons which had led him to abandon his own creed in favour of Islam.
"Perhaps you, too," said the Kedkhuda, "will, by the grace of
God, be brought to believe in the religion of our Prophet. You
"Gladly would I do as you advise," I replied, and I trust that I am not so bigoted as to refuse fairly to consider whatever proofs can be adduced in favour of your religion. Unfortunately, however, your countrymen and co-religionists, so far from offering any facilities to 'unbelievers' for witnessing the miracles whereby, as you say, the Imams continue to manifest their power and presence to the world, would drive me from their shrines like a dog if I attempted to approach them, even as they did at the shrine of Shah 'Abdu'l-'Azim. Surely they act most unwisely in this matter; for if, as you say, miracles are there wrought, they must be intended not so much for those who believe as for those who doubt, and who might be convinced thereby."
"You are perhaps right," said the Kedkhuda, after a moment's reflection, "yet still I would urge you to make the attempt, even if you must disguise yourself as a Persian to do so. It would be a pity that you should come here at so much trouble and expense and should take back nothing with you but a collection of those curiosities and antiquities with which your people seem for the
On completing my most part to be so strangely infatuated." So saying, the Kedkhuda took his departure and left me to myself.
Although I was up in good time next day, all eagerness to make
the best use of an opportunity which I should in all probability
never again enjoy, I was delayed in starting for some time by a
crowd of people who, hearing that I possessed some medical
knowledge, desired to consult me about their various disorders;
and it was not till nine o'clock that I finally left the village,
Entering the tomb by the low doorway opening on to this ledge or platform, I found myself in a long gallery corresponding to the transverse limb of the cross carved on the face of the rock. This gallery was twenty-seven paces in length from end to end, three paces in width, and perhaps twenty feet in height. On the side opposite to the entrance, four rectangular recesses are hewn out of the rock, the width of each being about four and a half paces. The floors of these are not level with the ground, but raised some three feet above it. Out of each of these floors are hewn three parallel tombs or sarcophagi, their greatest length being parallel to the gallery, and consequently transvers to the recess in which they lie. These sarcophagi were, of course, empty (except for some debris of stones and rubbish), and their coverings had been destroyed or removed.
On completing my examination of the tomb and descending to the ground, I found a small knot of people collected. These asked me whether I could read the inscriptions, and would hardly believe my assertion that I was unable to do so, asking me if I were not a "mulla." Indeed, one or two appeared to imagine that they were written in my own language, or in one of the languages of Firangistan.
We now struck across the valley towards Persepolis--"Takht-
i-Jamshid" ("the Throne of Jamshid"), as it is called by the
Of the ruins of Pasargadae, the Tomb of Cyrus, and the rock- sepulchres of Naksh-i-Rustam I have attempted to set down some description, however meagre. In the case of Perseporls it would be vain to make this attempt, since the three or four hours during which I wandered through its deserted halls, trod its silent stairs, and gazed in admiration, such as I have seldom before experienced, on the endless succession of lofty columns, giant statues, and delicate traceries (whose beauty long ages, kinder than the besotted Macedonian who first stretched forth his impious hand against them, have scarcely marred), were hardly sufficient to enable me to do more than wonder and admire. To study Persepolis would require months; to describe it, volumes. It has already been studied and described by others far more competent than myself. All that I shall do, then, is to notice certain minor details which happened to strike me.
On the stones of Persepolis, as on the monuments which I
have already noticed, a host of travellers of many ages and many
nations have carved their names, their sentiments, and their
reflections, by the side of the ancient cuneiform inscriptions.
Only, by as much as Persepolis exceeds all the other ruins in
extent and splendour, by so much do these memorials exceed
all the rest in number and interest. The two great stone lions
which guard the entrance of the eastern hall, and the adjacent
walls, seem to have been the favourite spots. Amongst the
European names recorded here, those of Malcolm and his suite,
carved in large bold Roman characters, are most conspicuous;
while, amidst the remainder, cut or written in every possible
Many of these consisted, like their European congeners, of mere names and dates, and to these I paid but little attention. Here and there, however, a few lines of poetry, or a reflection on the transitoriness of earthly glory in Arabic or Persian, showed me that the same feeling of mixed awe and sadness with which the place inspired me had affected others. Some of these inscriptions were not devoid of grace and beauty, and I could not help thinking that, if one must leave a token of one's visit to such a spot, these records of the solemn feelings evoked thereby were more seemly and more congruous than aught else. As a specimen of their tenour I append translations of two, both in Arabic: one in prose, one in verse.
The first was written in A.H. 1206 (A.D. 1791-2) by a son of
Shah-Rukh Mirza, and runs as follows:
"Where are the proud monarchs of yore? They multiplied treasures which
endured not, neither did they endure."
The second consists of four lines of poetry, attributed by the
carver to 'Ali, the successor of the Prophet:--
"Where are the kings who exercised dominion
Until the cup-bearer of Death gave them to drink of his cup?
How many cities which have been built betwixt the horizons
Lay ruined in the evening, while their dwellers were in the abode of death?"
This was cut by 'Ali ibn Sultan Khalid ibn Sultan Khusraw.
In one of the windows a stone was pointed out to me, so
highly polished that I could clearly see therein my reflection
as in a mirror. Here and there excavations have laid bare long-
buried chambers. Some of these excavations were undertaken
by the command of Ferhad Mirza, the Shah's uncle less, I fear,
from a disinterested love of antiquarian research than from a
On reaching the edge of the platform next the mountain from
the face of which it is built out, two sepulchres on the hillside
above attracted my attention, and I was making towards them
when I suddenly espied two figures approaching me. The pith
hat worn by one stamped him at once as a European, and I,
thinking that it must be my friend and late fellow-traveller,
H---, hastened forward to meet him. A nearer approach,
however, showed that I was mistaken. The wearer of the pith
hat proved to be an English officer who had been staying for
some days in Shiraz on his homeward road from India. He was
now bound for Teheran, and thence for England by way of Russia.
From him I learned that H--- had posted up to Persepolis and
back to Shiraz a day or two before, and that he had probably
already set out for Bushire. After a short conversation we
separated, and I proceeded to examine the tombs above
mentioned which, in general plan, closely resemble the sepulchres
Short as the time had seemed to me, symptoms of impatience began to manifest themselves in my guides. Although it was not yet four o'clock, they declared that the lateness of the hour made it advisable to withdraw from this solitary spot, lest robbers, tempted from their hiding-places in the mountains by the approach of night, should waylay us. Without attaching much credence to their representations I was forced to yield to them, and, with many a backward glance of regret, to turn my back on Persepolis. On the way back to the village I lingered for a while to examine the Sasanian bas-reliefs of Naksh-i-Rajab, which are situated in a little hollow on the mountain side just behind the post-house of Puze, and attempted to transcribe the Greek inscription of Shapur I, which afforded the key whereby the mysteries of the anomalous and ambiguous Pahlavi tongue were first unlocked.
Next morning I quitted Zangavar, and again turned my face
southwards. Our departure was greatly delayed by a crowd of
sick people seeking medical advice, and, even when we at length
escaped from these, an unwise attempt to take a short cut towards
the main road resulted in a further loss of time. All the morning
our course lay across the flat marshy plain of Marv-Dasht--a vast
amphitheatre, surrounded by mountains of which some of those
to the west assume the wildest shapes. Amongst these one, on
which the ruins of an ancient fortress are said still to exist, is
conspicuous for its precipitous and apparently inaccessible summit.
The day was cold and cloudy with some rain, a state of things
which rendered travelling over the naturally moist and marshy
plain rather unpleasant. I was surprised, at this distance from the
About mid-day we reached the end of the plain and entered another valley, in which we presently came to a great sheet of water, stretching away to the east towards the Band-i-Amir*. This is traversed by a stone causeway, and swarms with a variety of waterfowl. Leaving this behind, and bending somewhat to the left towards the mountains which form the eastern limit of the valley, we reached Zargan, our last stage before Shiraz, about dusk.
During the morning we had passed eight or ten horsemen,
whose arrogant bearing and unprovoked incivility proclaimed
them servants of the ex-governor; and while passing the sheet
of water above mentioned we had heard numerous shots in the
surrounding hills and on the borders of the lake, which testified
to the presence of a party of sportsmen. Rumour had, moreover,
apprised us of the fact that Prince Jalalu'd-Dawla (the son of
the fallen Prince Zillu's-Sultan, and the nominal governor of
Shiraz), as well as the aged Sahib-Divan, the virtual governor,
had quitted the city, in which they had no excuse for remaining
longer, and were on their way northwards to the capital with a
large company of followers and retainers. On reaching Zargan
it was, therefore, witn more annoyance than surprise that I
found the whole town filled with the soldiers and servants of
the young prince and his minister. Enquiries for lodgings were
everywhere met with the same reply, that there was not a room
to be had for love or money in the place; and it was only after
* The "Bendemeer's stream" of the poet Moore. Its name signifies "the Amir's Dyke."
And here at Zargan I was like to have suffered yet graver trouble,
and came near perishing, as Haji Safar poetically observed, "like
a moth consumed in the candle of Shiraz," ere ever I set eyes
on that beautiful and classical city. For while, according
to my wont, I lay smoking and reading in my camp-bed before
composing myself to sleep, slumber overtook me unawares, and
I lost all consciousness of my surroundings till I suddenly awoke
with a sense of suffocation and contact with something hot. A
moment's examination showed me that the quilt on which I lay
was smouldering and aglow with sparks. I immediately sprang
up and dragged it on to the ground, when I found the mischief
to be much more extensive than I had imagined, at least a third
of its lower fold being in a state of ignition. Having neither
water nor light at my disposal, I was compelled to awaken Haji
Safar, who was sleeping outside on the ground; and our united
efforts soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames, but not till
the greater part of the quilt had been consumed. Neither was
this the only mischief done, for my coat and waistcoat had both
suffered in greater or less degree, while the smoke and steam
produced by the conflagration and its extinction filled the room,
and rendered the atmosphere well nigh unbearable. I was
thankful enough, however, to have escaped so lightly from the
effects of my own carelessness, and, leaving the door open, and
rolling myself up as best I could in the remnants of my bedding,
was soon asleep again. Haji Safar, who, though at times self-
willed and refractory, was never wanting in time of need, insisted,
in spite of my remonstrances, in covering me with his cloak,
When I awoke in the morning all recollections of the disaster of the previous night were obliterated by the joyous thought that before the sun was down I should set foot in that city which, for seven years, it had been the chief ambition of my life to behold. Leaving Zargan, we had first to strike out into the plain to join the main road (remarkabie for its excessive stoniness), which, crossing over a low pass, brought us to a building called Baj-gah ("the Toll-House"), where customs' dues were formerly levied. I was surprised at the number of travellers whom we met--more, I think, than on any previous day's march since we quitted Trebizonde. Many of these were servants or messengers of the old or the new administration, but at all times the traffic between Zargan and Shiraz seems to be considerable. Beyond this there was little to attract my interest till, about 1.30, on surmounting another pass, Haji Safar cried out "Ruknabad! Ruknabad!" and, with a thrill of pleasure, I found myself at the source of that stream, so dear to every Shirazi, of which Hafiz declared, in perhaps the best known of his poems, that Paradise itself could not boast the like.
But for the rich associations which the sight of it evoked
in my mind, I might perhaps have experienced that sense of
disappointment with which Vambery declares he was affected by
the first view of this classic stream. As it was, I saw nothing
but the limpid water rushing from its rocky source; heard
nothing but its melodious ripple; thought nothing but those
thoughts which rise in the mind of one who first stands in the
favourite haunt of an immortal bard who immortalises all that
he touches. One often hears the expression, "I had heard so
much of such-and-such a thing that when I saw it I was quite
disappointed." This may happen in the case of objects admired
or loved only for themselves, but not of those endeared by their
associations. One does not love Hafiz because he wrote of
In this pleasant spot I tarried for about an hour, eating my lunch under the shadow of one of the trees which stand by the edge of the stream. Again setting out, we came in about an hour to a building called Khil'at-pushi, where, as its name implies, governors of Shiraz, honoured by receiving such a distinction from the Shah, come out to meet the bearers of the royal favours, and are invested with the robe of honour. Shortly after passing this spot we perceived a horseman advancing towards us, who proved to be the chief servant of my host, the Nawwab Mirza Haydar 'Ali Khan. After presenting the Nawwab's compliments and regrets that he had been unable himself to come out to welcome me by reason of the multitudinous social duties incidental to the Nawruz, the servant turned his horse's head and led the way towards the city. We were, I gathered, quite close to it now, and I was so full of expectancy that I had but little inclination to talk. Suddenly we turned a corner, and in that moment--a moment of which the recollection will never fade from my mind--there burst upon my delighted gaze a view the like of which (in its way) I never saw.
We were now at that point, known to all students of Hafiz,
called Tangi-Allahu Akbar, because whoever first beholds
Shiraz hence is constrained by the exceeding beauty of the sight
to cry out in admiration "Allahu Akbar"--"God is most
great!" At our very feet, in a grassy, fertile plain girt with
purple hills (on the loftier summits of which the snow still
lingered), and half concealed amidst gardens of dark stately
cypresses, wherein the rose and thel judas-tree in luxuriant
abundance struggled with a host of other flowers for the mastery
of colour, sweet and beautiful in its garb of spring verdure
which clothed the very roofs of the bazaars, studded with many
a slender minaret, and many a turquoise-hued dome, lay the
home of Persian culture, the mother of Persian genius, the
From the Tang-i-Allahu Akbar the road runs broad and
straight to the gate of the city, to reach which a wide and well-
built bridge spanning a river-bed (which, even in spring, contains
comparatively little water except after heavy showers, and
which in summer must be almost dry) is crossed. Descending
this road, which at this festal season was enlivened by hundreds
of pleasure-seekers, who, dressed in their best, had come out
from the city to enjoy the fragrance of the air and the beauty
of the fields, we first passed under the arch, in a chamber over
which is preserved the great "Kur'an of 17 maunds" (Kur'an-i-
hafdah mani), whereof it is fabled that a single leaf, if removed,
would weigh as much as the whole volume. Lower down, just
to the right of the road, Musalla, another favourite haunt of
Hafiz, was pointed out to me. The building which at present
stands there is quite modern, and the "rose-walks," on which
Hafiz dwells so lovingly, have disappeared. To the left of the
road were the gardens of Jan-numa, Dil-gusha, Chahil-tan and
Haft-tan; beyond these were visible the cypresses which over-
shadow the grave of Hafiz; while farther still the tomb of Sa'di
could just be discerned. To the right lay a multitude of other
A little before reaching the bridge which leads to the Isfahan gate, we turned to the right, and continued outside the city wall till we came to the "Gate of the King's Garden" (Derwaze-i- Bagh-i-Shah), by which we entered. A short ride through the narrow, tortuous streets brought us at length to the house of my host, the Nawwab. Dismounting at the gate, I was ushered into a large and handsome courtyard paved witb stones and traversed by a little stream of clear water which flowed from a large square tank at the upper end. On either side of this stood a row of stately sycamores, interspersed with orange-trees, while a mass of beautiful flowers tastefully grouped lent brightness to the view and fragrance to the air.
As I stood here the Nawwab himself came out to welcome
me with that easy courtesy and unaffected hospitality wherein
the Persians excel all other nations. Taking me by the hand, he
led me into a room opening into the courtyard, where, as is
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