My spirits rose high as I set out on my journey in the company of my Tartar. Two routes from Meshed to Nishapur were open to me—one leading over a mountainous tract, the other through a lower hilly country. I chose the latter. As I passed out of the city, mounted on an active nag, the horse of my Tartar being loaded with everything requisite for the journey, I felt in an exceptionally cheerful humour. It was not merely the pleasurable feeling of returning home which produced this effect. The contrast between the journey now before me, furnished with all the proper equipments, and that which I had made, suffering from all sorts of privations amid the deserts of Turkestan, without doubt greatly added to this feeling. We were continually meeting with caravans either of pilgrims or of merchandise, proceeding towards or returning from the holy city. On such occasions words of greeting are always exchanged. AN OLD FRIEND.My surprise at recognizing an old acquaintance in the leader of one of these caravans may be easily imagined. He was a Shirazer, in whose society I had two years before visited the ruins of Persepolis, Nakshi Rustam, and that fair city which was the birthplace of the poet Hafiz. To have travelled a long time with a man is in Asia looked upon as a sort of relationship. The gossiping Shirazer was delighted to see me. The caravan was obliged, whether or no, to submit to a quarter of an hour's halt, while we seated ourselves on the sand to enjoy together the friendly kalian (Persian pipe). As its fragrant smoke rose before my eyes, vivid pictures of the past, of the majestic monuments of bygone civilizations, arose before my memory. How those recollections animated me! Valerius in his chains, the majestic figure of the proud Shapur, above him floating the form of the beneficent Ormuzd,—all those magnificent bas-reliefs whirled kaleidoscope-like past my mind's eye; but their charms were multiplied as I reflected that since I saw them, I had seen, and left behind me, the classical realms of Bactria and Sogdiana, which had inspired with terror the stout hearts of the Macedonians of Alexander.

I was obliged to assure my Shiraz friend that I would speedily revisit his native country, for it was not until I had soothed him with this sort of promise that he would allow me to part from him. So cheerily did I then go on my way that the first day's journey was not in the least fatiguing to me, and by night we reached the station of Sherif Abad. This was the first evening I spent as a well-equipped traveller. In my previous travels in Turkestan I had first of all to gather firewood and collect flour; I had to pronounce prayers and blessings as payment for my night quarters; and I was always liable to be turned out tired and hungry. Now, on the contrary, I was a great man. I rode proudly into the tchaparkhane (post-house), and with a loud voice called for lodgings; for although I was still completely Oriental, so far as outward appearances went, the postmaster could easily observe that he had to do with one who had at his command a sufficiency of the sinews of war. And what will not a Persian do for money? My Tartar prepared me an excellent supper; rice, sugar, fat, meat—in a word, everything in abundance. The eyes of my simple Uzbeg sparkled with joy as he thought of his former poverty and looked on the abundance which surrounded him. If the supper which he could prepare was not exactly fit to appear on the table of a Lucullus, it was a very good one for a Persian wayside station.

We had before us as our next day's work, a distance of nine German miles or thirty-six English miles to the next station, Kademgiah. Nine fersakhs in Khorassan is a good deal, for there is a saying that in that province the miles are as interminable as the chatter of women, and that he who measured them must have done so with a broken chain. European travellers, without exception, complain of the monotony and wearisome character of the road. But what was that to me who had escaped from the torments of Turkestan? Quite alone with my Tartar, and well armed and well mounted, I now for the first time felt the charms of true travelling. SADDLE V. CUSHIONS.Little know they who coop themselves up amidst the heat of July in close railway carriages, and find, perforce, delight in the dusty, grimy countenance of the guard, what travelling really means. A good saddle is better than all your stuffed cushions. Thereon a man feels himself free and unconstrained. His bridle is his Bradshaw, his sword is his law, his gun is the policeman who protects him, and though he is an outlaw and fair game for all who meet him, so all are fair game for him. When in addition to this, he is familiar with the languages, laws, and customs of the land through which he proceeds, and is independent of dragomans, firmans, and guards, then his journey is truly delightful. Travelling the whole day in the open air, he finds the hour of midday halt both a pleasure and a necessity. And then the enjoyments of the evening, when having arrived at the spot where he means to rest for the night, his steed pasturing near him, and he himself surrounded by the saddles and baggage, gazing at the crackling fire which is to cook his savoury supper! The rays of the setting sun are not then so bright and cheerful as the glances of the traveller's eyes. No meal is so savoury as his supper, and his slumber under the starry canopy of heaven is a hundred times more refreshing than that of those who sleep on luxurious down in princely chambers.

Kademgiah, the name of my second station, means "footprint," and is a place of religious pilgrimage, where pious faith discovers on a marble stone the print of Ali's foot. Such miraculous footprints are by no means of rare occurrence in the East. Christians, Mohammedans, and Brahmins, all hold them in equal veneration. What especially excited my wonder was the vast size of most of them, suggesting as they did rather the idea of the foot of an unwieldly elephant than that of a man. But religious credulity does not trouble itself about such trifles as logic or the fitness of things. In the mountains near Shiraz, for instance, there is a footprint three feet long; the one in Herat is of the same size, as is also that on Mount Sinai; and even in the distant Kothen, in Chinese Tartary, a large footprint is shown, where, as the story goes, the holy Jafer once strolled near Sadik. As I have observed, their monstrous size creates no surprise or doubt in the minds of the pious. Under the auspices of the holy place stand numerous inns for the accommodation of pilgrims. In one of these I had comfortably established myself, and was just engaged in making tea in the shade of the fine poplars, when one of the priests of the place made his appearance, and with a devout look invited me to visit the holy spot. As the only thing the priest seemed to want at the time was a cup of tea, I treated him to one. His further importunities proved him to have more mercenary views; so as the cold marble stone which contains the sacred footprint was of little interest to me, who had seen so many of its kind already, I contrived at the expense of a few krans (francs) to dispense at once with the society of my guest and the performance of a religious duty.

My third day's march took me over a region of low hills into the plain of Nishapur, so celebrated in Persia, and I may add in all Asia. Djolghe-i Nishabur (Plain of Nishapur) is in the eyes of the Persian the ne plus ultra of beauty and wealth. For him the air there is purer and more fragrant than elsewhere; its water the sweetest in the world, and its products without rivals in creation. It is difficult adequately to describe the proud joy which is pictured in his countenance as he points out the hills lying towards the north-east, abounding in turquoise mines and precious metals. For myself, I must own that the plain, like the city situated in its midst, produced a pleasing, but by no means the entrancing effect I felt justified in anticipating. Its historical importance would hardly have occurred to me, had it not been that a Persian, who discovered I was a foreigner, joined in conversation with me by the way, and unasked, began to sound with no little exaggeration the praises of his native city.

No less inconsiderable did I find the town of Nishapur itself. The bazaar is tolerably well filled with European and Persian wares, but the traveller in vain explores the town for remains of that wealth and architectural beauty which have been so highly lauded by Eastern historians. The only things of note in the town are workshops for grinding and polishing the turquoises found in the neighbourhood. The stones in their unwrought state are of a gray colour, and only acquire their well-known sky-blue hue after repeated polishings. The deeper its colour, the more prominent its shape, and the smoother its surface, so much the more costly is a stone—veins being regarded as flaws. A CURIOUS PHENOMENON.A curious phenomenon observable in these turquoises is that in many specimens the colour fades a few days after being polished. The inexperienced purchaser who is not aware of this circumstance not seldom becomes a victim to Persian fraud; and many pilgrims who have purchased in Nishapur stones of brilliant azure, have no other choice left them on their return home than to throw them away as faded and colourless. At the present day these mines are by no means so profitable as in former times, they being rented altogether for the low sum of two thousand ducats yearly. The commerce in the stones, which was once actively carried on between Persia and Europe, especially with Russia, has also of late years very much fallen off.

From Nishapur the road leads to Sebzevar, distant three days' march. The intervening stations have been often described. No one who has travelled in Persia can have failed to have heard the names of the four "stations of terror," so rich are they in danger and in strange tales of adventure. Whoever amongst the people has the ambition of laying claim to a character for bravery, he never forgets to introduce their names into the story of his adventures. Do you ask why? The answer is very simple. The four stations are posted on the edge of the great plain which extends far away into the steppes of the Turkomans. No river, no mountain, breaks its uniformity, and as those rapacious children of the desert have but little respect for political boundaries, their predatory inroads are frequent, and these four places are just those which are most exposed to their ravages. They seldom fail to profit largely by such incursions, as here runs the principal road towards Khorassan, which is ever full of heavily laden caravans and well-equipped pilgrims. The Persian never tires of dwelling on adventures with Turkomans. At one of the stations, among much else that was curious, I heard the following story. A Persian general had sent his troops of six thousand men on before him, and was only staying behind for a few minutes to enjoy comfortably the last whiffs of his kalian. He had just finished his pipe and was about to join his soldiers, followed by a few body servants, when he was pounced upon by a body of Turkomans and carried away on their swift horses. In a few minutes he was robbed and made captive, and a few weeks later was sold as a slave in the market of Khiva for the sum of twenty-five ducats.

On another occasion a pilgrim was captured on his way to the shrine of Imam Riza. Luckily he saw the approaching enemy, and had just time to hide his little store behind a stone ere the plunderers came upon him. After he had been sold as a slave and brought to Khiva, he wrote from thence to his tender spouse as follows: "My dear child, in such and such a place, under such and such a stone, I have hidden forty ducats. Send thirty of them to this place to ransom thy loving husband, and take care of the remainder until I return from the land of the Turkomans, this house of bondage, in which I must now, perforce, perform menial service."

It is true that there is good cause here for fear and caution, but the absurd pusillanimity of the Iranians is the main source of their misfortunes. Their caravans are wont to assemble here in large masses. They are protected by soldiers with drawn swords, and cannons with their matches burning. Often their numbers are very considerable. No sooner, however, do a few desperate desert robbers make their appearance than caravan and escort alike lose their courage and presence of mind, fling away their weapons, offer all their property to the enemy, and putting out their hands to be fettered, allow themselves to be carried away into painful, often lifelong, captivity and slavery. ALONE IN THE DESERT.I rode from station to station with my Tartar for my only escort—a journey which no European had ever made before me. Of course I was warned not to do so. But in my Turkoman dress what cared I for Turkoman robbers? As for my Tartar, he looked wistfully around in hope that he might espy a countryman of his. If we had fallen in with some of those Sunnite sons of the desert, travelling as we were in a Shi-ite land, I believe that so far from injuring a mollah of their own faith, they would have rewarded us richly for the fatiha which we would have bestowed on them. For four days I wandered in the steppe; once in the dusk of the evening I lost my way, yet not a single Turkoman crossed my path. I met no one except a few scared Persian travellers.

The reader will easily imagine the eagerness with which the traveller's eyes look out for the gardens which surround Shahrud. As this town is situated at the foot of a mountain, it is visible for miles off on the plain. The wearied horseman thinks he has already reached the end of his day's journey, when it is in reality five German miles distant. The road is as monotonous as can possibly be imagined. It affords nothing whatsoever to attract the eye. In summer, owing to utter want of water, it must be very unpleasant to travel over it. Unfortunately I had mistaken a village which lies in the vicinity of Shahrud for the town itself, which at the point of the road was concealed in a hollow. My anger when I discovered my mistake may be easily conceived. It was in truth no joke to have added to the long day's journey a good half-hour's additional ride. I had mounted my horse before twelve o'clock the night before, and it was already past six o'clock in the evening, when I at last gained the badly paved streets of Shahrud, and dismounted in one of its principal caravansaries. My poor beast was utterly exhausted, and I myself scarcely less so. AN ENGLISHMAN.But as I looked around the square of the caravansary, how great was my astonishment at beholding a son of Britain, yes, actually an unmistakable living Englishman, with a genuine John Bull physiognomy, sitting at the door of one of the cells. An Englishman alone here in Shahrud—that is certainly a rarity, almost a miracle. I rushed towards him. He also, although apparently absorbed in deep thought, regarded me with wondering eyes. My Bokhariot dress, and my evident fatigue had attracted his attention. Who knows what he thought of me then? For myself, in spite of my extreme exhaustion, I hastened as well as I could to this extraordinary rencontre. I dragged myself towards him, and staring at him with weary eyes, addressed him with a "How are you, sir?" He appeared not to have understood me, so I repeated my question. At this he sprang from his seat in surprise, the greatest astonishment depicted in his countenance, while he gave vent to his feelings with "Well I——. Where have you learned English?" asked he, stammering with emotion; "perhaps in India." I should have liked to have screwed up his curiosity a peg or two higher, and at any other time might have enjoyed a mystification amazingly. But my long ride had so thoroughly tired me out that I had not the spirits required for carrying on the joke. I made a plain confession of what and who I was. His joy was indescribable. To the great astonishment of my Tartar, who until now had always regarded me as a true believer, he embraced me and took me into his quarters. We spent a famous evening together, and I allowed myself to be induced to rest there the whole of next day; for it did the poor fellow no end of good to be able to speak of the West after six months' separation from European society. A few months after our strange meeting he was robbed and murdered on the road. His name was Longfield, and he was agent for a large Lancashire house, for which he had to purchase cotton. He had to carry a great deal of money about him, and unfortunately forgot, as do too many, that Persia is not the civilized land which the glowing representations of its lying agents in Europe would lead us to suppose, and that one cannot place much reliance on passports and royal firmans.

Before reaching Teheran I had a journey of eleven days yet before me. The road is safe. The only point of interest offered along the stations is the observation of the contrast between the manners of the inhabitants of Khorassan and those of Irak. The proximity of Central Asia has left its mark of many rude habits on the people of Khorassan, whilst the polish of Iranian civilization is unmistakable in the inhabitants of Irak. The traveller who is supposed to be possessed of worldly means is always sure here of most polite treatment. Not but that in outward appearance they pretend to a vast amount of guilelessness with not a touch of greediness. The guest is treated as a most welcome personage. He is overwhelmed with the very quintessence of courtly phrases which accompany the presents offered to him. But he had better be careful of his purse if he is uninitiated in the intricacies of Persian politeness. I had become well acquainted with Iranian etiquette during my travels in Southern Persia, and on such occasions I always played the Iranian, meeting compliments with phrases even more complimentary. I accepted, of course, the presents offered me, but never failed with most flowery speeches to invite the giver of the gift to partake of it. It rarely happened that he was proof against my high-flown bombast, and quotations from Saadi and his other favourite poets. Forgetting compliments and courtesy, he would then make a fierce onslaught on the food and fruits he had himself heaped on the khondja (wooden table), and tell me with repeated and significant shakes of the head, "Effendi, thou art more Iranian than the Iranians; thou art too polished to be sincere."

The nearer we approached Teheran the worse became the weather. We were now in the latter part of December. I had felt the cold of the impending winter while still on the plains; but here, in more elevated regions, it was doubly severe. The temperature in Persia is liable to sudden changes, and a journey of a few hours often makes a serious difference. But the weather in the two stations of Goshe and Ahuan was so very severe as to cause me anxiety. These two places are situated on a mountain, and can afford accommodation to but a small number of people. I fared tolerably well at Goshe, where I had the caravansary all to myself and could arrange myself comfortably and cosily, while outside a cruel, bitter cold prevailed. The next day, on my way to Ahuan, I found snow in many parts of the roads. The biting north wind compelled me often to dismount in order to keep my feet warm with walking. The snow lay already several feet deep when I arrived at Ahuan, and it was frozen so hard as to form along some parts of our road two solid walls. In catching sight of the solitary post-house, I had but one intense longing, to get beneath a roof and to find a good fire by which to warm myself. The eye roving over the hills, white with snow, could not discover within its range anywhere a human habitation or even the wreck of one. We rode into the yard of the tchaparkhane in our usual demonstrative manner in order to attract attention. A SNUG BERTH.The postmaster was exceedingly polite, which, in itself, was a good omen, and I was delighted as he led me into a smoky, but withal well-sheltered room; and I paid but little attention to what he was saying, as he expatiated at great length, with an air of great importance, on the expected arrival of the lady of Sipeh Salar, the Persian generalissimo and minister of war, who was on her way back from a pilgrimage to Meshed, and would arrive either that night or the following day with a retinue of from forty to sixty servants. To be overtaken by them in a place affording such meagre accommodations as this post-house did, would of course be far from pleasant. But the likelihood of such an event little disturbed my equanimity; on the contrary I made myself and my weary beast as comfortable as I could. As the fire began to blaze cheerily on the hearth, and the tea to send its steamy flavour through the room, I entirely lost all sense of the cold and discomfort I had so lately endured, and listening to the shrill whistling of rude Boreas without, who seemed to wish to rob me of my slumbers out of spite for having escaped his fury, I gave no thought to the probability of being ousted from my comfortable quarters. After I had taken my tea and felt a pleasant warmth creeping through my whole body I began to undress. I had thrown myself on my couch, my pilar and roast fowl were almost ready, when, about midnight, through the howling of the wind I heard the tramp of a troop of horsemen. I had scarcely time to jump up from my bed when the whole cavalcade dashed into the court with clashing arms, oaths and shouts. In an instant they were at my door, which was of course bolted. "Hallo! who is here? Out with you! The lady of Sipeh Salar, a princess of royal blood, is come; every one must turn out and make room for her." I need not say that there were cogent reasons for not immediately opening the door. The men asked of the postmaster who was the occupier of the room, and upon learning that it was only a hadji, and he too a heretic, a Sunnite, they began to level their swords and the butt ends of their guns at the door, crying out, "Ha, hadji! take thyself off, or wilt thou have us grind thy bones to meal!"

The moment was a very exciting and a very critical one. It is but a sorry jest to be turned out of a warm shelter, where one is perfectly comfortable, and to have to pass a bitterly cold winter's night in the open air. CONFOUNDING THE DISTURBERS.It was not, perhaps, so much the fear of harm from exposure to the cold as the suddenness of the surprise and the shock of the unwelcome disturbance, which suggested to me the bold thought not to yield, but fearlessly to accept the challenge. My Tartar, who was in the room with me, turned pale. I sprang from my seat, seized gun and sword, while I handed my pistols to him, with the order to use them as soon as I gave him a sign to do so. I then took up a position near the door, firmly resolved to fire at the first person who would intrude. My martial preparations seemed to have been observed by those without, for they began to parley. Indeed I remarked that the elegance of the Persian which I employed in talking with them rather staggered them into a suspicion that they might be mistaken after all in supposing me to be a Bokhariot. "Who art thou, then? Speak, man, it seems thou art no hadji," was now heard from without. "Who talks about hadjis?" I cried; "away with that abusive word! I am neither Bokhariot nor Persian. I have the honour to be a European, and my name is VambÉry Sahib."

Silence followed this speech of mine. My assailants seemed to be utterly dumbfounded. Its effect, however, was even more startling on my Tartar, who now, for the first time, heard from his hadji fellow-traveller's own lips that he whom he had looked upon as a true believer was a European and that his real name was VambÉry. Pale as death, and with eyes glaring wildly, he stared at me. I was in fact placed between two fires. A sharp side-glance from me restored his equanimity. The Persians too changed their tactics. The name of European, that word of terror for Orientals, produced a magic effect. Terms of abuse were followed by expressions of politeness; menaces by entreaties; and as they earnestly besought me to allow two of the principal members of the escort to share my room, while the others would resign themselves to occupy the barn and the stable, I opened the door to the trembling Persians. My features convinced them at once of the truth of my assertions. Our conversation soon became very lively and friendly, and in the course of half an hour my guests were reposing in a corner of the room, completely stupified by over-indulgence in arrack. There they lay snoring like horses. I then applied myself to the task of explaining matters to my Tartar, and found him, to my agreeable surprise, quite willing to appreciate my explanations. Next morning when I left the snow-clad hills, and rode over the cheerful plain of Damgan, the recollection of the adventure came back to me in all its vividness, and I own that on sober second thoughts I was disposed to quake somewhat on contemplating the unnecessary danger my rashness had exposed me to the preceding night.

Damgan is supposed to be the ancient Hecatompylae (city with the hundred gates); a supposition which our archÆologists will maintain at every hazard, although the neighbourhood affords no trace of a city to which the hundred gates might have belonged. Of course one must make large deductions from all assertions made by either Greeks or Persians, who rival each other in the noble art of bragging and exaggerating. If we reduce the hundred gates to twenty, it will still remain a matter of considerable difficulty to discover a city of over twenty gates in the obscure spot now called Damgan. The place boasts of scarcely more than a hundred houses, and two miserable caravansaries in the midst of its empty bazaar are sufficient indications that Damgan's reputation for importance in commercial respects is equally unfounded.

REPUTATION WITHOUT FOUNDATION.From Damgan I travelled over two stations to Simnan, celebrated for its cotton, and still more for its tea-cakes. Almost every town in Persia is conspicuous for some speciality, in the production of which it claims to be not only the foremost in Persia, but unrivalled in the whole world. Shiraz, for instance, is famous for lamb, Isfahan for peaches, Nathenz for pears, and so on. The odd thing about it is, that on arriving in any of these towns and looking for the article so much bragged of, the traveller is either greatly disappointed as to its quality, or, more amusing still, he fails to find the article at all. In Meshed I heard the tea-cakes of Simnan talked of, nay even in Herat; but as I had often had occasion to value these exaggerations at their true worth, I did not expect too much. Nevertheless, I went into the bazaar to inquire after tea-cakes. My search, long and painful, was rewarded by a few mouldy specimens. "Simnan," said one, "is justly celebrated for the excellence of this article, but the export is so tremendous that we are left without any." Another said: "It is true that Simnam was once famous for the production of this article, but hard times have caused even the quality of the tea-cakes to deteriorate." Here at any rate people had the grace to invent some excuses, but in most places not even an apology is attempted; and the unblushing fraud of the pretended claim to the production of some excellent article shows itself without any disguise.

The same sensations which overcame me when I arrived in Meshed, I felt now with even greater intensity as I drew near Teheran, the starting-place of my adventurous journey, where I was to meet so many kind friends who, in all probability, had long ago resigned themselves to the thought of my having paid with my life the penalty of my rash enterprise.