When the twain were respectively at Abadeh and Dehbid, they used to take it in turn, alternate months, to visit each other." Their pleasure was to meet in a friendly bout with the "gloves," or as boon-companions; and "in death they were not divided." One is buried at Abadeh, and the other close to the post-house at Mashhad-i-Murghāb. Thirty-five years, more or less, have passed away since those things. I myself wondered a little, when Sergeant Hamilton told me of his flocks of sheep, and trapping, and trading in curios, how such private interests were compatible with his telegraph duties; and, as it turned out, they were viewed with no favour in higher quarters. However, all this is dead and buried and gone; and, after all, the telegraph clerk or inspector, who, forty years ago, gathered in the art treasures of Persia, was but a humble follower in the footsteps of the Director who conferred a priceless boon upon the South Kensington Museum. Mr. Dickson's Life of his father-in-law is replete with excellent and humorous stories of the cosmopolitan nature of the subordinate telegraph staff, of "pole-shooting," and of other characteristics of those days. I will only repeat one good story, because it chimes in charmingly with our own experiences of Persian postal-horses to which I have alluded, and the apt quotation from Firdausi is a perfect little gem.

On one occasion, shortly after the famine of 1872, when post-horses were scarce and bad, he (Major Murdoch Smith) was riding up the line towards Teheran. His horses broke down between two post-houses. Out of three animals, one was barely able to crawl. As much of the luggage as possible was piled upon him, and the rest was divided between Murdoch Smith, his servant, and the post-boy. Murdoch Smith's share was his heavy English saddle and bridle. Hanging his helmet on his back by a string round his neck, he balanced the saddle on his head, hung the bridle over his arm, and stepped out for the nearest post-house. Soon he out-distanced his attendants, who lagged behind with the jaded animal. Presently he met the Prince-Governor of Shiraz, who was travelling in the opposite direction. On recognising him, the Prince pulled up his horse and exclaimed, "God is great, and Mohammed is His prophet! - but, Ismit Sahib, what are you doing?" "Chaparing to Teheran," was the reply. "Yes, but in the name of Ali-how? Explain," said the Prince. Murdoch Smith laughed, and quoted the line of Firdausi, "Gahe pusht bar zin, gahe zin bar pusht" (sometimes the saddle bears the back, sometimes the back bears the saddle). The Prince was delighted with the apt reply, and ordered one of his suite to dismount, and give Major Murdoch Smith his horse.

I have in my day had many long and interesting conversations with Persians, and Persian-speaking inhabitants of Afghanistan, Turkistan, India, and the Caucasus, notably Sardar Mohammed Hashim Khan, once an aspirant to the throne of Kabul, the Khan of Kuchan, with whom O'Donovan stayed when bent on visiting Merv, Mirza Hairat of Bombay, who translated Malcolm's History of Persia into the Persian language, and last, not least, my chatty and humorous teacher, Mirza Aga Jan of Ispahan and Hydrabad, Sind. The latter's reminiscences of Constantinople (he was a clerk in the Persian Embassy there) in the days of the Crimean war, and his mimicry of the Feringhee soldiers who frequented the cafés gave me many a good laugh. I never had a Munshi in India that, for a good yarn, could hold a candle to my valued old instructor Mirza Aga Jan. Yet, when it comes to trying to recall a Persian pun or joke, one only comes back to me. I was, in April 1885, paying my respects to the Prince-Governor of Khorasan at Mashhad. In course of conversation he asked if any other officers of the Afghan Boundary Commission proposed to visit Mashhad. I replied that I believed that Captain Gore would arrive in a fortnight, and Mr. Merk a little later. "Ah," said His Royal Highness with a smile, "I thought marg (death) usually preceded gör (the grave)." If I may be allowed, before we proceed on our way from Dehbid to Ispahan, to tell one other little Persian anecdote, I would like to do so. After I travelled back from Herat in 1885, along the Perso-Turcoman border to the Caspian, I was moved to write to the National Review an article on "Persia as an Ally," in which I gave my opinion of Persian troops and fighting material, and I rather think advocated the array of Turkish, Persian, and Afghan forces, in alliance with the British, against Russian aggression from Central Asia. Sir Charles M'Gregor, during his travels in 1875, naturally studied Persian troops whenever he saw them, and, after some very complimentary remarks about a Persian battery, he adds: "I experienced proud satisfaction in thinking that this superiority of the artillery of the Persian Army was a remnant of the wholesome system and pride in their craft, instilled into them in the days of the gallant Christie. The captain (Sooltan) in command, with whom I rode part of the way, said his father often spoke of Christie Sahib, and of his glorious death at Aslandooz (October 1812), and he added sadly, yet proudly, 'Aye, with leaders like him we'd do it again.' And I believed him, for dirty and unkempt as his men were, they bore on their fine, manly, bronzed countenances the mark which stamps men, 'fit to go anywhere and do anything.'1 It will be understood from this that the Swedes had fine material for their constabulary, but the pro-German proclivities of that Scandinavian nation, made so manifest in this war, have diverted their services into a traitorous channel. An article in the Times of 4th January 1913 concludes with these words, "Great Britain will do well to see that a due proportion of any money she may lend to Persia is allotted to the Swedish Gendarmerie." And so we found the funds to train the instruments which the Germans used against us! However, Sir Percy Sykes has now the handling of that material, and from the Kashkai to the Kurd and the Bakhtiari to the Baluch, he has a fine and wide range. The theme tempts me on, but let me refer my readers to Curzon's Persia, vol. 1. chapter xvii., and specially to his account of those fine British officers, Christie, LindsayBethune, and Hart, who, at intervals from 1810 to 1830, put backbone into the Persian troops. The six feet eight inches of Sir Henry LindsayBethune won for him throughout Persia the sobriquet of "the cypress tree," and as a Baronet and Major-General of the British realm, and Commander-in-Chief of the Persian Army, he died in 1851, and was buried in the Armenian cemetery at Teheran. There is nothing like an old cemetery, when we can read the inscriptions on the stones, to waken in our thoughts visions of the men and events of the past. And to think that for a century to come the north of France will be one vast cemetery, as hallowed, if not more so, in British eyes than the field of Waterloo ! Waterloo, glorious as it looms in British literature is it not the theme of De Quincey's "The Mail Coach "?-and, in the history of the British Army, is but a flea-bite in comparison with the Titanic struggle, already of forty-one months' duration, from the Channel to the Vosges.

دو

We were in the saddle at 5.40 A.M. on the 8th of June, and reached Khan-i-Koreh (6 farsakhs, say 20 miles) at 5.40 P.M. Our horses were good and covered the ground at an average pace of seven miles an hour. The road lay through hilly or undulating country, with high mountains here and there flecked with snow, bounding the horizon. Signs of cultivation and fertility were few, but the road was passably good, and from time to time crossed a clear refreshing stream of water. On arrival at Khan-i-Koreh we found that all the post-horses were out grazing and could not be got in under two hours. We therefore proceeded to cook and eat our breakfast. We had a frying-pan and tinned bacon-obstinate bacon, for it would frizzle and melt, without ever getting fried. My mind is rich in theories about cuisine, and I almost think I know the restaurants of Paris as well as the late Colonel Newnham-Davis, but when it comes to the actual practice I stamp myself at once as a mere theorist. With the assistance of the famous "Wyvern (Colonel Kenney-Herbert) I once cooked an omelet, which really ate uncommonly well, but no skill of mine could induce it to roll up into the compact omelet as it should be served. The chāpārchi at Khan-iKoreh had but a limited larder; but after he had sold us bread, mast, and eggs, he insisted on our partaking of venison of his own killing and cooking. It was like my omelet, palatable, but lacking that charm which attaches to a dish nicely served. A stream of good water and a nice fresh-looking garden close to the chāpārkhāna suggested some of the comforts of life; but from the flies which in thousands pestered us at breakfast there was no escape. We had noticed that in the centre of the courtyard of most chāpārkhānas and caravansarais was a quadrangular covered structure, three or four feet long and varying in area. Sometimes this structure served as dog-kennel, sometimes as a storehouse. Here it was a fowl-house, so we asked the chāpārchi for some feathers

on

with which to clean out our pipes. Presently the agonised cries of an unhappy fowl assailed our ears. It was sacrificing feathers the altar of our pipes. Its tortured accents seemed to echo and re-echo the familiar Persian phrase "qurbānot," which means "I am ind indeed thy sacrifice." The extensive plain which surrounds Khan-i-Koreh is bounded to the south by the Kuh-i-Baghu, 11,000 to 12,000 feet high, gathered in the clefts of which the snow lay glistening in the sun. Three days before our arrival, we learned, thieves had walked off with three post-horses. However the three which we wanted came in at 11.30, and by 11.45 we were en route for the next stage at Surmeh. The ponies could scarce carry themselves, far less us. Still, there was nothing for it but whip and spur, and the twenty-two or twenty-three miles that lay between Khan-i-Koreh and Surmeh were covered by 4 Р.М. Five miles short of Surmeh we struck a streamlet of pure water flowing across the road, and gladly we dismounted and enjoyed a draught. It was sweet as a draught from the pump-spout after a day's bird-nesting in boyhood. Our road previously had led for six or seven miles through an uncultivated valley, till suddenly, rounding a spur of the mountains, we saw the valley of Abadeh stretching before us for forty or fifty miles, with a breadth, say, of ten to twelve. As Surmeh is approached a fine expanse of orchards and gardens flanked the right of our road. We rested an hour at Surmeh-urging feeble beasts is "hard labour" with a vengeance-smoked, munched a biscuit, and took an occasional pull at a "surāhi" full of deliciously cool water. We then started (5 P.M.) for Abadeh and, traversing a succession of villages, gardens, and fields of grain and opium, arrived at 6.40 P.M. at the telegraph station, our resting-place for the night. Our ponies had proved in good fettle, and we covered the fourteen miles at a rapid pace. Abadeh is a large town encircled by high walls (doubtless of mud and sun-dried brick), and embedded, as it were, in a wide area of cultivated farm-lands. Opium loomed large among the crops. I was told that, after the sap of the poppy-pod had been extracted, the natives eat the seed which remains in the pod. An incision allows the juice to ooze out and form a gummy globule on the outside. This is scraped off the next day. All narcotic properties exude with the sap. An Eurasian telegraph clerk entertained us kindly and hospitably at Abadeh. About 7.30 I had a bathe in the tank, as I had had at Dehbid the previous evening, and then we dined and gladly went to roost. The elevation is about 6000 feet, and the nights are chilly.

I look back sometimes and think of the varied houses and persons who so kindly extended their hospitality to us during our ride across Persia. It is even more interesting to study the impressions produced upon others. Sir Mortimer Durand puts it all in a nutshell as "the charm of Persia"; but, if you peruse that "charm," you will find that it blossoms and expands into concrete shape and form. That somewhat stern and bluff soldier, as I remember him, Sir Charles M'Gregor, seems to soften under the witching influence of Persian life, Persian art, and Persian scenic beauty (woman's beauty is taboo in Iran). When he writes: "The prettiest place I saw in Shiraz was the drawing-room of Nawab Hoosen Ali Khan.1 This was a small room, with the walls most tastefully ornamented with stucco work, inlaid with mirrors in appropriate patterns, and with pictures interspersed here and there, which gave the room a very cheerful appearance, and did great credit to

FIG. 1. Reception-room in British Agent's house in Shiraz. 1886.

the Nawab's taste," he seems to suggest tacitly that this decorative "charm"

1 Mr. B. W. Stainton, a reliable authority, tells me that only the head of the family adopts this title "Nawab" before his name. The junior members put it after the name. "Hoosen Ali Khan Nawab," is what Colonel M'Gregor should have written. The brother of "Hoosen," or rather Husain, viz. Hasan Ali Khan Nawab, was well known in India and in London circles. In his latter days I met him and sometimes joined him at dinner in the St. James's Club. He died before Mr. Dickson brought out his Life of Sir Robert Murdoch Smith, and a note at p. 261 of that book tell us that his body was taken to Kerbela to be buried. This reminds me that the Turks borrowed a million or two from Kerbela when war broke out, and whatever the Russian Maximalists may think about indemnity, His Majesty's Government will, I trust, see that Turkey pays its debts, principal and interest, to the most holy shrine of the Shiahs.

VOL. XXXIV.

B.