Overland to India, Volume 1 E-Book

Dr. Sven Hedin

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A detailed account of the journey from Trebizond to Quetta. The route took Hedin through Erzerum, skirted Mount Ararat to Etchmiadzin and Nakichevan (the grave of Noah), and thence by Tabriz and Kasvin to Teheran, where the first part of his journey ended. The second part took him to Nasratabad in Seistan; the third to Quetta, where he may be said to have reached India . . . . The two volumes in which it is recorded contain a vast deal more than is above indicated. There are many digressions (from the bare record of travel) , some of which will not appeal to the general reader, whose interest is chiefly confined to the tale of travel, but many of them will command the attention of geographers and experts . . . . To mention a few, there are notes about Marco Polo's travels, about the Euphrates, Mesopotamia and Nineveh, chapters on travels in the Kavír, on the march of Alexander the Great, on post-glacial climatic changes in Persia, on the distribution of desert and on the plague. This is volume one out of two.

Leseprobe

Overland to India

Volume 1

SVEN HEDIN

Overland to India 1, Sven Hedin

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

ISBN: 9783849663384

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

CONTENTS:

PREFACE.. 1

CHAPTER I. BATUM DURING A STRIKE.. 4

CHAPTER II. ANARCHY ON THE COLCHIS COAST.. 12

CHAPTER III. TREBIZOND... 19

CHAPTER IV. A DRIVE OF 800 MILES. 25

CHAPTER V. THE ANCIENT CARAVAN ROAD TO TABRIZ.. 33

CHAPTER VI. HIGHLANDS WHICH ARE DRAINED TO THREE SEAS41

CHAPTER VII. THROUGH DESOLATED ARMENIA.. 49

CHAPTER VIII. WHERE THREE EMPIRES MEET.. 56

CHAPTER IX. BETWEEN ARARAT AND ALAGOZ TO ECHMIADZIN64

CHAPTER X. TO NAKICHEVAN, THE GRAVE OF NOAH.. 71

CHAPTER XI. THE ROAD TO JULFA AND AZERBAIJAN... 80

CHAPTER XII. MARAND-TABRIZ-AN IMPERIAL PRINCE.. 89

CHAPTER XIII. TO THE SEFID-RUD, THE LARGEST RIVER OF NORTHERN PERSIA99

CHAPTER XIV THROUGH THE PROVINCE OF KHAMSE.. 106

CHAPTER XV. IN THE CAPITAL OF THE KAJARS. 114

CHAPTER XVI. THE START FROM TEHERAN... 122

CHAPTER XVII. THE LAST VILLAGES. 133

CHAPTER XVIII. KERIM KHAN, THE LAST VILLAGE ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT139

CHAPTER XIX. A SNOWSTORM IN THE DESERT.. 148

CHAPTER XX. DESERT MIST.. 157

CHAPTER XXI. BY DEVIOUS PATHS. 167

CHAPTER XXII. STOPPED BY THE GREAT SALT DESERT.. 179

CHAPTER XXIII. ALONG THE WESTERN MARGIN OF THE KEVIR189

CHAPTER XXIV. WITHOUT GUIDES. 198

CHAPTER XXV. THE PATHS OF THE SANDY DESERT.. 206

CHAPTER XXVI. THE VILLAGE CHUPUNUN.. 217

CHAPTER XXVII. THE ROAD TO JANDAK.. 226

CHAPTER XXVIII. PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY THROUGH THE KEVIR233

CHAPTER XXIX. WAITING IN VAIN... 241

CHAPTER XXX. THROUGH THE DESERT BY NIGHT.. 252

CHAPTER XXXI. ANOTHER NIGHT IN THE KEVIR.. 264

CHAPTER XXXII. TURUT.. 274

CHAPTER XXXIII. SOUTHWARDS THROUGH THE KEVIR.. 284

CHAPTER XXXIV. AN OASIS ON THE COAST OF THE KEVIR.. 295

PREFACE

The very name of India is alone sufficient to fire the imagination of the reader. He fancies he hears the murmur of warm winds among the palms and mango trees and thinks of the teeming life and the continual struggle for existence in tropical jungles. He seems to see the brilliant trains of Indian princes, swarming crowds of dusky Hindus, grand troops of elephants, tigers trying to escape from the bloodthirsty hunters, gilded pagodas, and marble temples white as the Himalayan snows.

Of all this busy life, with its gorgeous colouring, there is not the slightest mention in my new book. It deals only with the way to the land of a thousand legends; and my route ran through the ancient, desolate, and effete Persia. Well, but Persia is the land of roses and poetry. There Sadi and Hafiz sang their lovely verses; there still remain ruins of the stately palaces of the Achaemenids. Yes, that is true, but this time my route did not touch one of the famous centers of Iran. They have been repeatedly described by writers from Herodotus, the Bible, and the cuneiform inscriptions in Bisutun, down to the immortal Marco Polo, the chivalrous Chardin, the far travelled Houtum-Schindler, the intrepid Vambery, and the learned Lord Curzon. I diligently avoid routes trod by the feet of others; and at the present time this is not easy, for Persia has been traversed by Europeans in all directions. As regards the way from Trebizond to Teheran, it is quite impossible. East of the capital it is easier, for there the routes lie farther apart. The great salt desert is crossed only by two.

My journey proper began from Teheran, and outside the gates of Teheran begins the desert; and then there is nothing but desert all the way to India. The reader who, nevertheless, has patience to accompany me will see for weeks and months nothing but yellow, brown, or white wastes in all directions. He will see the sun rise up from the distant horizon of the desert, describe an arc through the heavens, and set beyond the wilderness in the west. I can freely forgive him if he grows weary of the perpetual ring of caravan bells and looks eagerly for an oasis where for a while he may wake from his slumbers. And if he goes with me as far as the Indian frontier he will, perhaps, grumble that, in this age of hurry and excitement, I have written two volumes all about deserts.

I have tried to depict this lifeless country as faithfully as possible, and hence, perhaps, there may be a flatness in the description. Travelling in Persia is as calm and peaceful as on country roads in Sweden, and exciting adventures are exceedingly rare. One day is like another, — only a few more miles being traversed over new tracts of desert.

I paid particular attention to the peculiar form of salt desert called Kevir. In order to illustrate the problem of its formation I have collected, in certain chapters, the results arrived at by other travelers, with extracts from their narratives. In looking up the necessary material I have received invaluable assistance from Dr. Otto Quelle of Gotha, who supplied me with the titles of several works on Eastern Persia, as well as excerpts. The historical part has no claim to completeness. My views regarding Marco Polo's route from Kuhbenan to Tun may meet with opposition, but I cannot change them.

Whatever the reader's verdict on the text may be, he must acknowledge that the two maps are excellent. They have been drawn by Lieut. -Colonel A. H. Bystrom, who has spared neither time nor labour. The first map is intended to give a general sketch of Persia, and to show my route through the country. The special map is based on my 232 original sheets — of which, however, about fifty relating to Baluchistan are not available, for political reasons — and the latest English and German maps. A preliminary map in eleven sheets has been constructed in the Survey of India department from the original sheets. From the same original material Lieut.-Colonel Bystrom has, during the past year, compiled a detailed map on the scale 1: 300,000, which will be published in seven sheets in a scientific work to be issued later. On these seven sheets is based the special map in this book.

In order that the map may be clear, only the more important names and the camping-places have been inserted. I cannot answer for the bounds of the desert, except those I have followed or crossed myself In some places, as, for instance, in the north-west of the Kevir, they are uncertain. Besides the great desert belts, there are undoubtedly many smaller ones. Kevir expanses are exceedingly numerous in Eastern Persia. Most travelers who have visited the country have not considered it necessary to mark them on their route-maps.

Dr. Nils Ekholm has calculated the absolute heights, with his usual accuracy. A large number are inserted on the special map to render more apparent the relief of the country.

The rocks mentioned here and there in the text have been identified from the specimens brought home, by Anders Hennig, Lecturer in the Lund University.

With the exception of five, all the photographs are my own. The pencil drawings here reproduced may suffice to give a conception of Persian folk types — they have no other merit.

The six coloured pictures have been executed from photographs by the artist P. Lindroth, to whom I gave instructions regarding the colouring. All the blocks and maps were made in the Lithographic Institute of the General Staff and do great credit to its skill.

I desire to express my most hearty thanks to all the gentlemen I have mentioned, as well as to my father, who, though eighty-four years old and an invalid, has made a clean copy of my often nearly illegible manuscript, and to my sister Alma, who has compiled the index.

Also I wish to acknowledge here my obligations to Sir Rennell Rodd, now Ambassador at Rome, who procured me a special permission to travel along the Seistan-Nushki Trade Route; to E. Grant Duff, British Charge d'Affaires, who, with his charming wife, entertained me so hospitably in their house at Teheran, and, as well as the Swedish Consul -General, A. Houtum-Schindler, gave me good advice and assistance in various ways; to Major Sykes, who is a great authority on Persia, for the valuable hints and advice he sent me by letter; and to Captain Macpherson for his generous hospitality in Seistan. Indeed, all the Englishmen I met on my journey to India treated me right royally, and I look back with pleasure to the days I spent with them.

The dedication is a slight mark of the gratitude I owe to Colonel Sir J. R. Dunlop Smith, private secretary to the Viceroy of India at the time of my expedition, and now political A.D.C. to the Secretary of State for India, Lord Morley of Blackburn.

SVEN HEDIN. Stockholm, October 16, 1910.

CHAPTER I. BATUM DURING A STRIKE

How Stormy, dark, and tumultuous the billows of the Black Sea appeared when, at the end of October 1905, I traversed it in a Russian vessel from Constantinople, passing Sebastopol, Yalta, Kerch, Novorossisk, and Poti, to Batum; and yet how peaceful, hospitable, and friendly compared to the turmoil that raged with senseless and hateful madness in the sea of human beings which forms a semicircle round the northern and eastern coasts of the Black Sea.

The Svatoi Nikolai, or St. Nicholas, which, besides myself and a few other passengers, carried a heavy cargo to Batum, rocked like a nutshell on mountains of violently agitated water — I could hardly have believed that the Kara Denis of the Turks and the Chernoye More of the Russians could have been so rough, or hillocky, to use a topographical expression. We parted with some of our passengers in the Crimea, and beyond Novorossisk only three were left in the first class, Colonel Ileshenko from Van on the Persian frontier, the Consul Akimovich on his way to his new post at Bayazid, and the author. During the latter part of the voyage, we saw little of one another — the sea was too rough, and only an acrobat could have made his way to the saloon, so we preferred a recumbent position in our cabins. My porthole was on the lee side; at every roll it dipped five or six feet under water, but between the plunges T could see the coast-line at a distance of a couple of cable-lengths, and the forest-clad crests of the Caucasus, already partly covered with snow and gleaming white and cold in the sunshine.

We tarried a while in the roadstead of Sukhum-Kale; a couple of boats rowed by sinewy Abkhazians took off a little cargo; a boatman came on board and talked with a young woman on the middle deck; she burst into continuous weeping, and all efforts to console her were vain. Her husband had been shot in a riot. She was one of thousands and thousands of Russian women who wept in those days. Her wailing sounded desperate and hopeless above the raging of the storm till the end of the voyage.

Beyond Poti the violence of the storm increased, the sky was blue-black, and the rain pelted on the deck and the saloon windows, but we had only three hours more. At midnight the vessel entered the harbour of Batum, What a dismal landing! Pouring rain, pitchy darkness unbroken by lights, dead silence, no porters, no droskies, and, worst of all, the news that railway traffic had been stopped three days before. In fact, a great strike was in progress, involving all departments of labour and trade.

However, under cover of the darkness, a couple of bold dock-labourers ventured, in consideration of high pay, to take charge of our luggage and guide us to the nearest hotel, a regular den of thieves, full of rogues and vagabonds. If they were detected as strike-breakers, they would be mercilessly shot down, our porters assured us, and we subsequently found that their statement was not exaggerated.

I was on the way to Teheran. But I might well be asked why on earth I chose just now the route through the Caucasus, the most restless corner of the Russian Empire. Well, when I left Constantinople on October 25, furnished with two special passports from the Russian Ambassador Zinovieff, formerly Minister in Stockholm, comparative quiet prevailed in Russia, and at least the railways were being worked. My goal was Tibet, and I had decided to travel overland to India. I had a choice of three routes to the capital of Persia: (1) Batum-Tiflis-Baku-Resht-Teheran; (2) Batum-Tiflis-Erivan-Nakichevan-Tabriz-Teheran; (3) Trebizond-Erzerum-Bayazid-Khoi-Tabriz, and Teheran. I knew the first of old, and therefore wished to avoid it. The road from Trebizond, according to information received from Dr. Martin at our embassy in Constantinople, was now, in autumn, almost destroyed by rain, snow, and swollen rivers, and the Persian ambassador Mirza Riza Khan, formerly Minister in Stockholm, also advised me not to take the long laborious journey over the mountains of Asia Minor, Therefore, and also to save time, I chose the road through Erivan, by which I should travel in five days from Batum to Tabriz and in two weeks to Teheran. But fate decided otherwise, and instead of making a short journey to the residence of the Shah, I lost half a month on the coast of Colchis.

The SL Nicholas stayed a day, and then returned with all its cargo to Odessa, and the same fate befell all the vessels which came in afterwards, whether they were from Russia or elsewhere, and the losses arising hence may be estimated in millions.

We passed the night in the robbers' den of the " Versal," which was open to wind and weather, and therefore both host and guests ran the risk of being treated as strike-breakers. But early next morning I changed my quarters to the hotel " Frantsia," to get a proper roof over my head. The hotel was barred and bolted, the window-shutters were closed, all the servants had left, and only the landlord and two lads remained at their posts. A room, indeed, was given me, but for the rest I had to provide for myself as best I could. The supply of provisions was scanty, wine and bread and cold sturgeon several days old. Food could not be got for love or money, to make a fire was forbidden, and only the samovar was lighted morning and evening. There was not even water for washing; all the suckis, who usually carry water round in the town, had gone on strike like the other men, and I washed myself in mineral water. Here drought prevailed as in a desert, though the sea raved in front.

At the " Frantsia " a Georgian prince was living; we became very good friends the first evening and supped together. He promised on his honour and conscience to lead me safe and sound through the forests of Georgia and over the Suram Pass to Tiflis. Evidently, however, he was himself a robber chief in league with the agitators. But I declined, thanking him for his kindness, and was congratulated by my two Russian fellow-travellers, who took it for granted that I should soon have been stripped to the skin if I had accepted the offer. No; here there was no resource but patience — " Patience! " whispered the palms and magnolias in the strand boulevard; " Patience!" sang the surge on the sea — yea, an angel's patience was needed to extricate me from this wretched Batum.

On the first day, the last of October, we obtained a fairly clear idea of the situation, and it was evident that it was not of the nature of an ordinary strike easily to be suppressed by strict discipline and vigour, but a political insurrection of a very serious character. The town lay in a deep, deathlike trance, and, except for shots from tirearms, all was silent and empty in the tiresome streets of cobbles, where the rumble of carriages and wagons usually is heard among the ugly monotonous rows of houses. All shops and business premises were closed with shutters, bars, and locks. A Georgian, who sold provisions secretly to his customers at a back door, received a written notice from the strike committee that he was condemned to death, and would be shot on the following day. By such threats, followed up by bloody deeds, exemplary obedience was ensured. The citizens remained in their houses, and only vagabonds, the scum of various nationalities, and spies were about; women were not to be seen, or only such as belonged to the dregs of society. Meetings and assemblies were forbidden, and only small groups of workmen appeared here and there. One looked in vain for a laden horse, an ass loaded with grapes, a fruit-seller or vegetable dealer, such as usually crowd the streets and lanes in Oriental towns, and at every five steps cry and praise their wares. If a carriage came along the driver was a soldier with his rifle ready to hand, and the passengers were officers. If horse-hoofs resounded on the stones, the riders were Cossacks armed to the teeth. All the public buildings were guarded by soldiers, and strong watches were posted both inside and outside the bank doors. When I asked the Georgian porter why the door of the hotel was locked, even in the daytime, he replied that we might be attacked and murdered at any time if we were not in a state of defence. Here, too, stood some soldiers who answered shortly or not at all when they were spoken to.

Boys ten or twelve years old loitered about the streets; they seemed quite innocent, but in reality, they were spies under the orders of the strike committee, sent out to report any infractions of their regulations. Even the foreign consulates were closed, and it was possible to get at the consuls only by back ways — at any rate such was the case with the two I visited. One of these was the Swedish consul, who had lately travelled to Tifiis to seek an antidote for the bite of a mad dog — evidently here all was in confusion. At Nobel's it was expected that the stores of petroleum might at any moment be set on fire and bombs thrown into the office, especially since orders were given to continue to supply kerosene to the authorities.

A merchant could not go to his office; if he did, he was reported by the boy spies, and was fortunate if he got off with all his windowpanes broken and a severe blow on the head; or he received a letter ordering him to pay a certain sum of money if he wished to save his life. To go to the banks was considered exceedingly dangerous; one would probably be robbed on the way home. However, I drew some money from the Tiflis Commercial Bank and reached home without difficulty.

Besides the labour strikes, which, as regards the railway servants, aimed at a rise of the monthly pay from 25 to 35 rubles, the terrorists worked with untiring energy in furtherance of their own extremely far-reaching plans. They availed themselves of the general discontent and stirred up the ignorant masses by revolutionary talk at secret meetings. They declared that the Tsar was deposed, and that De Witte was president of the Russian republic. The people would now take the power into their own hands, all property would be equitably divided, the poor would have land and bread; tyranny, despotism, and slavery would be abolished. Such talk was received with stormy applause by the multitude, who saw the immediate future gleaming in purple and gold. Every man you met might be a terrorist or his tool. Men regarded one another with suspicion; it was as though all the inhabitants of the town went in expectation of something extraordinary, something terrible, which would suddenly put an end to the injustice of the old time. In the countenances of the Caucasians of higher rank — mostly Georgians in fur caps and long, close-fitting coats with two rows of cartridge cases on the breast — could be read an expression of satisfaction. They were unmistakably delighted that the Russian authorities had such serious difficulties to contend with; they hoped for and expected the cessation of Russian supremacy over the formerly free Caucasus and longed for a renewal of the immortal Schamil's glorious but hopeless fight for freedom.

The Governor issued an order that no one was to show himself outside after six o'clock — the pleasure was also doubtful, for on the pitch-dark streets one might be shot down anywhere. No civilian could go armed. If the terrorists suspected the possession of a revolver, they immediately came forward and confiscated the weapon for their own use; by this means they acquired a considerable supply of arms. Cossacks and soldiers had orders to seize all firearms which did not belong to the military. On October 31 eight people were murdered in Batum, including five soldiers, and a gendarme and fifteen persons were wounded. A police inspector on duty was attacked by a mob and was shot in the forehead, but was saved by the peak of his cap. He had sufficient presence of mind to fall off his horse and lie as though dead, or he would have received one or two more bullets. A hand-to-hand fight arose, which cost the lives of three of the combatants, while several were wounded. This occurred at noon. After a day or two one did not pay much heed to gunshots, though they made an uncomfortable impression when they were heard in the silence of night.

In the evening there was a terrible uproar in the Turkish bazaar. Some hundred Cossacks were firing under my window. One volley followed another, but mostly aimed in the air, so that only few persons were wounded, and then the place was cleared with whips. The same evening twenty cannon-shots were discharged from the squadron, thundering so that the windows rattled in their frames, a reminder of the power of Russia, and a threat of bombardment in case of bloody disturbances. The searchlights of the war vessels swept all night over the houses of the town; the façades turned towards the harbour were brilliantly illuminated; here and there a Turkish minaret glistened dazzling white above indistinct outlines. In horizontal rays these bluish-white shafts of light shot defiantly and searchingly over Batum — it was the armoured vessels fixing their spying eyes of fire and iron on the seething town. And thus the darkness in the dismal town of Batum was partly dispersed, at least in the streets parallel to the beams of light. A whistle broke on the stillness of the night; it was answered from a distance, and again, scarcely audible, from still farther off. Probably the officers in command were communicating with one another.

A shot cracked under my window, the sound of horses' hoofs died away, and all was again quiet. Had another man's life been lost? A peaceful Turk came hither from Trebizond on November 1, visited the Turkish bazaar, and was on his way to his night quarter. Two patrolling Cossacks rode past him in the twilight and called out Stoi (stop). The man quickened his steps, perhaps supposing that the word was an intimation to hurry on. A second and third summons had no effect. If a man did not obey after the third warning, the Cossacks had orders to shoot. Pierced by two bullets, the Turk fell dead in the street.

In the company of the Colonel and Consul I made the most of the days, and sometimes, out of pure curiosity, we took late strolls through the dark streets. With a Colonel in uniform, it was not so dangerous. On the evening of November 1, we stayed longer than usual on a bench on the strand promenade, where a bed of coarse rounded pebbles slopes gently to the white margin of the surf. The sea elsewhere was calm, and some children were playing unconcernedly on the beach, in strong contrast to the state of siege in the disturbed city. The boulevard was bright with almost tropical verdure; araucarias, magnolias, and palms gave it quite a southern aspect. The evening was fresh, the air clear and pure like the water; the crescent moon rose over Batum, struggling vainly against the darkness in the gloomy town. One star came out after another. The sun had sunk in a fiery glow over the level horizon of the sea beyond Trebizond, but it had still left an orange tint which was reflected in the waters of the Black Sea. Deep silence everywhere. A steamer moved slowly towards Trebizond, its outline standing out pitch black against the orange reflection which fell on the waves — a strikingly fine and attractive spectacle which for a moment reconciled us to the situation in the inhospitable Batum. To the north was seen the crest of the Caucasus, airy and unreal as in a dream, a suggestion of light red hues; to the north-west the mountains grew fainter, like thinned-out mist. The sea was smooth as a mirror, the mountains were solemn as ghosts; not a breath of air was perceptible; the town seemed asleep; perfect peace surrounded us in this country where only man is vile.

Next day we witnessed a funeral. A gorodovoi, or policeman, had been shot, and was to be interred with military honours. A slight smoke of incense floated out of the open door of the little church, and the whole ceremony was veiled in mystic haziness. Without a flower to decorate it the silver-white coffin stood between burning candelabra, bearded priests and choristers, who in deep bass voice intoned the affecting funeral hymn " Hospodi pomilui." At length the service was over, and the man who fell at his post was to be carried to his grave. The procession set itself in motion. First marched an ecclesiastic with a large crucifix, another bore a wreath, the third and fourth held up holy banners, and then followed priests with small crosses in their hands, and after them came the coffin borne by superior officers, among whom was the Governor himself, General von Parkau. Behind the bier walked the mourners and friends of the deceased, a company of soldiers, and two musicians, who played solemn funeral marches — monotonous, melancholy, and truly Russian; but sounding grand, touching, and beautiful in the quiet streets, where all life seemed numbed. At the end of the procession came a troop of mounted Cossacks, and on either side stood the staring crowds where I was. Who was the dead man? Did the sudden termination of his life imply expiation for some deadly sin he had committed? No; he was only one victim among thousands of an antiquated system which, indeed, like him, is on its way to the grave.

The Governor and other officers soon handed over the coffin to comrades of the deceased. A carriage was waiting at a street corner, the Governor got in with an aide-de-camp and drove off at a rapid pace, so quickly that only good marksmen could have hit them. Slowly and solemnly the funeral procession passed on through the streets; the plaintive tones of the music grew fainter and fainter, and at length the white uniforms disappeared in the distance.

General von Parkau was amiability personified and displayed an admirable calmness amidst all the restlessness that surrounded him. His charming wife and attractive daughters, however, were in constant anxiety for his life, and did not leave him even when, overwhelmed with work, he retired to his office. He was one of the men who know how to fall at their posts with calm composure. He was much more exposed to danger than an one else; and during a great strike, military and civil officials, the powers opposed to anarchy and mob violence, are naturally the particular objects of detestation.

On November 3 there was at length an improvement in our captivity. I was awakened by noises in the streets; izvoshchiks and wagons were out, carts drawn by oxen rattled over the cobbles; travelers, traders, and watercarriers were about; Persians roved about with mats on their backs; Tatars offered their wares in portable samples; Georgians sold grapes, water-melons, and other fruit, and extolled their goods with shrill cries; beggars were more numerous than usual, — all seemed happy and contented, weary as they were of this useless zabastovka or strike. The hotel restaurant was full of customers, who took their places at the tables on the pavement under the awning to enjoy the renewed life and motion, which, under the circumstances, was more attractive than any carnival. Unfortunately, this day happened to be a prazdnik, the anniversary of the Tsar's accession to the throne, and what was worse was that next day was one of the great church festivals, the Kazanski Ikoni Bozhe Materi, and the following day was Sunday. It was absurd that three holidays should immediately follow six days of strike. Many tradesmen, however, kept their shops open, and anything wanted could be obtained. All Batum was beflagged, and the garrison marched with flying colours and lively music to divine service to celebrate the day. But what was of most importance to us, the railway was still in the same forlorn state as before, and no one had any notion when a train would depart for Tiflis. Certainly, we could now drive about and observe the exhibition of different types of Caucasian and Levantine peoples who moved through the streets, the beauty prize being deserved by the tall, broad-shouldered, graceful Georgians and Imeretians in their becoming costumes, which did full justice to the harmonious lines of the figure. And we could sit and enjoy the odour of the luxuriant vegetation which flourished round the pools in the Alexanderski Sad, where in the warm air the dark-green cypresses stood out in sharp outline against a cloudless sky.

But our only wish was to get to Tiflis, and still the railway station remained empty and desolate, constantly guarded by soldiers. The bridge over the Rion was blown up and the rails torn up at several places. One contingent of navvies after another was dispatched from Batum and Tiflis to repair the line, but while work was proceeding in one section the rails were pulled up in another. When a long military train was sent off from Kutais for Poti it ran off the track before it reached the next station. Twenty-three persons were killed or severely injured. The damage here done to the line was cunningly contrived. The rails were left, and everything appeared to be in perfect order, but the iron bolts which held the rails to the sleepers had been removed. The engine and some of the carriages passed unharmed, but the rest of the train was broken into splinters.

Under such circumstances the journey to Tiflis could not be particularly pleasant, but still we were quite determined to travel thither. Reports came in daily of parties of engineers having been attacked at their work by rebels and of bloody collisions. The first train dispatched to Tiflis was to be accompanied by a strong escort, and it was reported that 5000 men had been sent from Tiflis to guard the line.

On the evening of November 4 I again paid a visit to the Governor, who informed me that a train would probably start in three days, but that it would be long on the way, and that changes of trains were unavoidable with all the damaged sections and blown up bridges For greater certainty he telephoned to the chief engineer of the railway, and learned that the connection between Poti and Kutais was clear, and that one could probably travel on from Kutais to Tiflis.

I decided at once to go to Poti by the steamer which started the same evening for Odessa, and the Governor kindly furnished me with an order permitting me to travel in the first military train from Poti. I hurriedly sought out my two Russian fellow-travelers, and we had but just time to get our things together, pay the bill, and go on board, before the steamer made its way out to the dark sea

CHAPTER II. ANARCHY ON THE COLCHIS COAST

In pouring rain and pitchy darkness we landed in the middle of the night at Poti. Here, at any rate, we found carriages. My fellow-travelers drove into the town, which is a mile and a quarter from the pier, but I had to get out my heavy baggage, weighing 770 lbs., and see it under cover in a warehouse before I could follow them. The rain pelted against the hood and splashed in the mud; we passed safely the two bridges over the Rion, but when we drove into the first street my carriage was stopped by Cossacks, who looked at me suspiciously, and would not let me proceed till after a rigorous identification according to the regulations. All the hotels were overflowing with visitors who were waiting for an opportunity to take train for Tiflis, and it was not till nearly morning that we found a miserable room in the " Yevropeiskiya Nomera," a fourth -class hotel, which should rather be called " The Asiatic Apartments." Kept by Georgian speculators, it is surrounded on all sides by water, and a small bridge communicates with the street, an ordinary country road, with a cobblestone here and there. Fortunately, the streets are somewhat raised above the adjoining ground, and provided with gutters, so that the water runs off. But the houses on either side stand in marshes and pools, and the gardens, in particular, stand under water. If one did not know it, one would suspect that this town must be a fever haunt. In summer rain is less frequent; but the air is then heavy with moisture, mist, and warm miasma.

Our hotel, indeed, was an island, and cows in the garden grazed up to their knees in water. The house was of one story with a floor on a level with the ground, so that the rooms were damp, musty, and fusty. Now the rain gathered into rivulets, pools and marshes spread out between the houses, and it was impossible to take a walk. Without the fiacres with their round hoods, one could not go out. Galoshes and umbrellas must have an extraordinary sale in this puddle of a town — poor men who are obliged to live in this muddle! The whole town of Poti is stupidly and unpractically arranged. It stands too far from the steamboat pier, which is exceedingly inconvenient for travelers who land at one o'clock in the morning, and still worse for those who have to embark. I must frankly confess that I cannot understand how they endure it. They have to encamp in the waiting-room amidst Caucasian ruffians, for the steamer waits only an hour when it has not a large cargo, and in the town no information is obtainable about the times of arrival and departure.

Between the town and the pier, the Rion flows to the sea, divided into two swollen branches, which are crossed by two wooden bridges simply dangerous for both man and beast. Their planks are rotten and soft as cork, corroded as they are by sun and rain alternately. Here and there half a plank is wanting, and through the gap the river is seen rolling down its muddy water. It is a serious matter to put one's foot in such a hole when it is pitch dark, and, besides, one may fall through anywhere in this rotten structure. How our driver got safely over at night is inconceivable; the horses perhaps see the holes — but the wheels! The bridges are far better in China and India, but a great part of this wretched state of affairs may perhaps be ascribed to the strike.

We stayed four days in this infernal hole, in the company of rats as large as rabbits. We kept up our courage and were in excellent spirits in spite of coarse fare. Now the Colonel and then the Consul succeeded in hunting up a box of sardines, a sausage, or a bottle of red wine, and we lived much as war correspondents in a campaign where they have to put up with anything they can get hold of. I had the advantage of again obtaining a good lesson in Russian, but the other two men probably did not learn a single word of Swedish all the time.

On the afternoon of the 5th, we attended an assembly with dancing at the club for the benefit of the town school, which has no other resources but a subsidy of two hundred rubles from the State. Here were to be seen specimens of Poti citizens, officers, Russian civilians, worn and ill both in body and soul, and countrymen, Georgians, Gurians, Imeretians, Mingrelians, Abkhazians, Armenians, etc. Natives were most numerous, Russians comparatively few. The picturesque Georgian dances, with their peculiar rapid and pliant movements, were executed to the strains of strange and monotonous music. A gentleman and a lady, fair as an angel, danced together; she skimmed noiselessly as a sylph over the floor, raising herself on her toes as she flew on with inconceivable rapidity — she seemed not to move her legs and feet but to glide smoothly along, holding her hands to her sides, and bearing her head nobly and gracefully like a queen of the Caucasus. The cavalier followed her with coaxing and inviting gestures, while she always retreated and avoided him. The spectators clapped their hands and kept the time, urging on the dancers to greater speed and endurance. They amused themselves as well as they could, the poor creatures who were deported to Poti, but their dance was splendid to look at, and in comparison, European dances are by no means artistic displays of plastic grace. Characteristic of such a genuine Russian sobranye evening were the loud screaming at the buffet, the ring of glasses filled with red wine, beer, or vodka, the polluted and overheated air, the hermetically closed windows, which jealously separated us from the autumn air outside.

On Nov. 6 we were thoroughly roused by a tremendous downpour of rain, with thunder and lightning. One clap was so violent that the Colonel started and exclaimed, " A bomb." The sky was covered with dense masses of cloud, which came drifting over Poti in leaden-grey and dark-blue cumuli, discharging shower after shower, so that the pools incessantly increased in size. We drove down to the harbour and watched the waves break over the mole. Here lay five Russian vessels fully laden, but lifeless and deserted, for no one would unload them, and the goods could not be forwarded. A huge heap of chests, sacks, and bales was piled up at the harbour, enough to fill 500 trucks. A large part consisted of flour and sugar, which was quite spoiled, and was washed away, to the great loss of the merchants and the delight of the workmen on strike.

The stationmaster at Poti, Lopatin, married to an amiable Swedish woman, was the only railway employee who remained at his post when all the rest struck; but he lived in a constant state of siege, and his life was threatened — it was touching to see his wife's anxiety for his safety, and she had good reason for it, for four stationmasters had been murdered between Poti and Tiflis. Lopatin advised us to wait; he believed that a strong military train would come from Tiflis within two days, and he could send us to Samtredi at any time; so far the way was clear.

At mid-day on Nov. 8, I paid my usual visit to Lopatin. A soldier directed me to an adjacent warehouse where the railway men were holding a meeting, which had already lasted more than four hours. It was quite entertaining to listen to their political discussions. The most absurd propositions for the distribution of all property and power were set forth, defended and applauded. My friend Lopatin was the object of a violent attack because he had not joined in the general strike, and a fearless partisan proposed that he should be killed forthwith. But another speaker undertook his defense, calling to mind that Lopatin had always been well disposed towards the workmen. At the meeting an old strike-breaker came forward and showed a laconic threatening letter he had received — a sketch of a coffin, declaring that he would not be daunted by anything of the kind. Lastly, two Georgians spoke in their native tongue, of which speeches I understood nothing but adopted words, such as revolution, liberal party, politics, autonomy, social democracy, with other strong and expressive terms. The more the speech was interspersed with them, the louder the cries of hurrah and bravo, which at times were quite deafening, although the poor men ought to have been tired after being here four hours. It was dark and stuffy in the warehouse, the floor of which was strewn with straw; only the listeners who stood nearest to the two entrances were in the light, while the rest were hidden in almost subterranean darkness. The audience was mixed — wild Caucasian types, hotheaded Russians, Armenians, and Tatars. The discussion was, to say the least, still lively when we left the meeting, and no resolution could be agreed upon except that no work was to be done.

Lopatin had little comforting information to give us that day. The revolutionary disturbances seemed to be developing into a civil war. A detachment of 150 Cossacks had been surrounded by 2000 well-armed Georgians at Osurgeti. The commander of the small troop tried to send off a messenger to Batum with a request for assistance. The horseman did not get through. Another was sent off and was caught; a third and fourth disappeared. The fifth messenger, a Musselman, creeping through the twilight, succeeded in breaking through the blockade and escaped safely to Batum. Two hundred men with four machine guns had just been sent off from Poti to reinforce the Cossacks. My friend the Colonel considered their undertaking desperate, as they would have to force their way through narrow passes and defiles, where they could be shot at from above by marksmen scattered and hidden in the woods, and where they would be picked off, one after another, without being able to defend themselves. From time-to-time small parties of navvies were constantly attacked as they were repairing various sections of the line, and every attack cost the lives of some soldiers — a real guerilla war!

Meanwhile we took counsel about the roads which were open to us — or more correctly closed — to Teheran. To wait till traffic was restored on the Poti-Tiflis-Erivan line seemed hopeless, especially after the railway on this side of Samtredi was again torn up. How would it be to travel through Novorossisk, Vladikavkaz, and the Georgian military road, or to Petrovsk and Baku? No; probably a strike was in progress there also. The Colonel suggested that we could ride from Batum to Artvin and Kars and on along the frontier to Erivan, but some Georgians most emphatically opposed this plan, for we might be quite certain that we should be plundered by robbers, who in this unsettled time were more active than usual.' There was no danger to our lives, but where should I be without my instrument -case and cashbox.? To come back a pillaged ragamuffin to Batum would be romantic and exciting, but I had no time for rash experiments.

I made up my mind in a hurry to turn my back by some means or other on this unfriendly coast, make for Trebizond, and take the route through Erzerum, Bayazid, Khoi, and Tabriz to Teheran. Even this road was unsafe! but secure compared to the Caucasus; the journey would take three weeks longer than by the road through Erivan, but I should have an opportunity of seeing Turkish Armenia, the mountains of Asia Minor, and the majestic Ararat.

What I had to do, then, was to sail to Trebizond with some proper passports. I had made no preparations in Constantinople for this route— I had no need, for I never thought of entering Asiatic Turkey. Fortunately, the Swedish Minister, Baron Ramel, had introduced me to the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Tewfik Pasha, and the Grand Vizier, Ferid Pasha, who therefore knew me and were aware that I was not dangerous to the Crescent and the Sublime Porte.

I hastened to the steamboat office in Poti to inquire when the next boat would sail for Batum. The agent had no notion; he no longer received telegrams and believed that traffic was stopped in consequence of the strikes. While we were talking an employee announced that the steamer Alexei had just entered the harbour. We hurried down. The captain, a jolly sea-dog, reported disturbances in Odessa and other towns. He was going to lie at anchor during the night so as to enter the harbour of Batum by daylight, and after I had sent all my baggage on board I had plenty of leisure to dine for the last time with my two Russian fellow-travelers, who intended to try their luck on the route through Novorossisk. I went on board in the dusk and made acquaintance with the only passengers on the vessel: a colonel of Don Cossacks of huge dimensions — according to his own statement he weighed 9 ½ pud (24 ½ stones), nearly half the weight of my baggage; and a Greek merchant who had had twelve trucksful of goods stolen on the way from Poti to Tiflis, At the same time we heard that a fresh strike had broken out at Batum, and that the state of affairs was worse than ever. The Governor had put the fortress in a state of defense, and the garrison was raised to its full strength when the insurgents threatened to proceed to extremities. Several salvos had been discharged seawards to show that all was ready for the worst. Riots and murders in the streets were of daily occurrence, and no one was safe.

November 9. At length the hour of release had struck, and I was to leave Russian territory and betake myself to more peaceful surroundings, among Turks, Armenians, and Persians. The signal of departure woke me, the engines began to work, and Poti disappeared behind us. For a second time I was on my way southwards to Batum, without a notion how and when I could leave this wasps' nest. The captain suggested that I should try to hire some foreign vessel lying up at Batum, and he took upon himself with pleasure the task of sending me on. He expected that the expenses would mount up to 500 rubles (about £50), and I considered it a moderate price for getting safely out of Russian harbours. It would at any rate be a new experience to sail my own vessel on the Black Sea, and I had already made up my mind to invite anyone who would like to go with me, — Turks and Armenians eager to go home, Europeans wishing to get away, vagabonds, robbers, and rogues, — it was to be a voyage of a motley crew of Argonauts on the Colchis coast. I should be able to get hold of some small Turkish coasting steamer, or at worst an open boat under the Turkish flag, of the kind which transports, at low fares, goods and passengers, who have plenty of time to spare, from town to town along the coast of Asia Minor to the west of Anatolia. Such a voyage may be dangerous in a northerly storm, but that was impossible when the weather was as calm as now. In a week all might be got ready, but I would have the vessel cleared of vermin, set up a tent on the after-deck, and sail smoothly towards the sunset

We glided into the harbour of Batum, where many vessels lay idle, and the town was bathed in sunlight and looked peaceful and contented. How long should I have to stay there? Under ordinary circumstances one of the Austrian Lloyd's boats calls on Thursdays, and starts again on Friday evening, but now I learned that during the strike most foreign vessels did not come beyond Trebizond, and I should have to wait at Batum till Monday week, eleven days in all, when a Russian boat started for Constantinople. An agent came on board and reported that the workmen had proclaimed an implacable strike because troops had been concentrated at Batum No work was to be recommenced until they were removed It was demanded that the guards should be removed from the banks, that the fort should be evacuated, nay more a general massacre of the citizens of Batum was threatened If the men did not get their way. It was said that the citizens meditated an escape to the Turkish coast on an English steamer. All the hotels were closed— a pleasant outlook— one could not move about the streets, and I was just wondering whether I should take up my quarters at Nobel's office or apply to the Governor, when the Alexei swept gently past an Austrian vessel, the Saturno, and the Greek merchant, recognizing the Austrian Lloyd's agent on the deck, called out to him as we passed by " When do you sail, and whither? "

" In two hours, for Trebizond."

These words affected me like an electric shock I must at any price travel with it; and I had no passport for Turkey. I rushed on foot— of course there were no droskies— to the Austrian consulate, to the police station, where I obtained a Russian visa for my passport, to the Russian steamboat office, to the Austrian Lloyd's office where the information overwhelmed me like a cold douche that, according to a Russian police regulation, the Saturno was not allowed to take passengers. I adjured the agent a gentleman whose nationality was mysterious, by all the infernal powers to allow me to go. He yielded and promised to try to procure special permission from the police, but he advised me to make haste, as it was only half-an-hour before the steamer started. If the police refused, I must submit to my fate. Then I hurried to the pier, casting a glance as I went by at my old prison, the Hotel Frantsia, where all the windows were closed with shutters.

How was I to get my heavy luggage on board the Austrian when not a cat was at work in this wretched harbour? The captain of the Alexei was a worthy man; he had a boat lowered from the davits, and in a few minutes I saw my valuable baggage dangling between the sky and water and then stowed in the yawl, where I took my place on the top of a chest and was rowed on the high swell by strong arms to the gangway of the Saturno, just when the signal was given for starting. " Row for your lives; you shall have a tip of 10 rubles if you bring my boxes on board in time." The boat rose and sank amid the waves, and it was an acrobatic feat to hoist the heavy baggage on to the steps of the Saturno. Just then the captain appeared, a rough weather-beaten seadog, and bade me go to h—l. I asked politely what he meant.

" We take no passengers here; go away," he roared, and went off. Availing myself of his absence I let the sailors carry my baggage up to the deck, gave them the reward I had promised, and told them to put out from the Saturno's gangway as quickly as possible, and then I felt quite certain that I could be put overboard again only with a crane. I expected a hot encounter when the sea bear, surly and haughty as a dictator, came stamping along the deck and yelled:

" Oh, you are here; I can put you ashore again."

" My papers are correct," I informed him.

" Let me see them." He looked at the passport and other slips, and burst out with, " Well, you are authorized to come with us, but you have no visa from the Turkish consul, and cannot go ashore at Trebizond, but that is your own affair."

" If I only get to Trebizond I can look out for myself.

The great thing is to get away safely from Batum. I have telegraphed to the Swedish Minister in Constantinople and am already vouched for in Trebizond."

In my inmost soul I saw before me no end of troubles with Turkish customs officers, who just at that time must be very particular with vessels from disturbed Russia, but I kept a bold face and answered quietly, "Geographical exploration," when the captain asked me the object of my journey. ''

"That is unnecessary," he declared; "much better collect stamps as I do."

"Then I can accommodate you with some Persian stamps I bought from a Greek in Batum; will you look at them?"

"Certainly." He chose out those that he did not possess and asked if he could buy them.

" No; but you may have them as a present in remembrance of me." In five minutes we were friends for life, the captain of the Saturno and I; a first-class deck cabin was assigned to me, 6 rubles were paid for the ticket— I saved 494 rubles and ten days in time; two Turks, whose passports were not in order, were taken ashore, and the steamer glided out of the harbour, leaving a white and light-green wake behind it. With a feeling of freedom and satisfaction I saw the facades, minarets, and churches of Batum sink below the horizon, and before us to the south-west, the coast of Asia Minor stretching out to an endless distance.

CHAPTER III. TREBIZOND

The Saturno was really a miserable cargo vessel from Triest, an old halting camel compared to the splendid Russian boats from Odessa. But I blessed this vessel which, puffing and panting, carried me to freedom, to the Turks, to the land of the Turkish dogs where, in these days, singular as it may sound, there was greater security than among the Russians. The boat had reached Batum in the morning, but prepared to return immediately, when it was found that no business could be done. It only stayed two hours, just at the time when I needed help. Now it was returning to Trebizond to load up and was to remain there two days, so that I had more than enough time to set my affairs in order.

At six o'clock we took dinner in the stern saloon, three of us, the captain, myself, and an old Turkish gentleman. The sea was quiet, the moon shone cheerfully among light clouds and spread a bright track over the surface of the Black Sea. On either side of the wake was seen a whole school of porpoises, which made gentle and elegant somersaults above the surface of the water or followed the vessel for hours in hopes of food. One could plainly discern the dark back of the porpoise through the clear water when he came up from below to roll over on the top and let his back shine like metal in the moonlight. The air was soft, not the faintest breeze rippled the waters. We were close to the land, and the mountains showed a bluish-grey outline under the moon; here and there a peak already covered with snow overtopped the dark heights.

Late in the evening the Saturno dropped her anchor before the small coast town of Rize, the lights of which glimmered in a small recess in the line of mountains. The white surf beat monotonously against the beach, the vessel rose and fell slowly, the rudder banged and banged so that the whole hull trembled, which did not tend to lull light sleepers to rest.

Next day at the hour of starting we could enjoy the picturesque panorama presented by Rize and its surrounding heights. The center of the life of the town seemed to be the strand road where the white two-storied houses, with red-tiled roofs sloping to the four sides, lay thickest. Here several boats were drawn up on land, most of them small fishing-boats, but also larger sailing boats with one or two masts; some of these were also anchored in the roadstead, and a whole flotilla of small boats were out fishing more than a mile from the coast. The greater the distance from the strand road, the more scattered are the houses, but they are seen right up to the summit of the ridge where they are perched like swallows' nests among the vegetation and turn their northern fronts to the sea; from the uppermost the view must be magnificent, but it is a hard pull up there. And the charming picture is framed in lofty mountains clothed with bright white snowfields.

Then we steered westwards. This coast, which I had skirted twice before, in 1886 and 1890, is very uniform, a series of elevations with rather a steep fall to the sea, seldom broken by lowland, but often by valley mouths. On the flanks and by the shore are seen lonely farms and woods interrupted, even high up on the slopes, by patches of tilled land. Here and there greyish-blue smoke rises from a chimney. Three hours passed by. A solitary sailing vessel was waiting for a wind. The mountains were lower than before, we again approached the coast and made straight for Trebizond, the haven where we would be, though it was not yet visible, for the air was hazy. A little later the eastern end of the town, built in an amphitheater, presented itself to our view, with its huge hunched mountain in the background and its steep promontory. Two steamers lay at anchor; a swarm of rowing-boats made for the Saturno; it was like a regatta, a rowing match; the water spurted up round the blunt bows of these motley-painted boats with their broad benches and large half-decks fore and aft, and narrow oars balanced with weights in the handles. Their crews climbed up to the gangway and then were on board in a moment.

Last of all appeared the shipping agent and advised me to wait till next morning — after dusk no one may go ashore. But I did not listen and taking a handbag had myself rowed to the customs pavilion. Here I fell into the hands of a party of Turks in uniform who gesticulated, talked one another down, regarded my passport as highly unsatisfactory, and at last sent for a police officer who treated me much as if I had come from a pest-smitten port. In Jaggatai Turkish I related the varying fortunes which had brought me to Trebizond against my will, mentioned my acquaintance with Tewfik Pasha and the great Osman Pasha — Allah bless his soul! — and several other illustrious pashas, and declared that I occasionally dined at the table of Abdul Hamid in Yildiz Kiosk. Their faces grew longer and longer, but nothing impressed them more than my intimate acquaintance with Temir Bash, Charles XII., and that was not the first time his name had saved me in the East. I obtained permission to pass the night on shore, after my handbag had been searched even to the toothbrush, and two romances by Daudet and Coppee and a map of Persia were seized for examination by the censor.

A little later I sat talking with the French consul, the amiable M. Colomb, who advised me not to fetch my baggage from the steamer before an answer to my last telegram had arrived from Constantinople, for the customs officials were dreadful and laid hands on everything suspicious and thought everything suspicious which they did not understand. He also advised me not to travel to Erzerum without an escort, for the road was too unsafe, and two Capuchin fathers had quite recently been robbed on their return from that town.

Old Trapezus was a colony founded in the seventh century b.c. by Greeks of Sinope, and the town, which thus has illustrious antecedents, has in the course of thousands of years passed through the most various fortunes, tossed to and fro among peoples and princes who sprang up, flourished, and vanished from the stage. In the time of Hadrian there was no town on the Pontus Ruxinus which could rival it in size, and Trebizond has also been the capital of an empire. Before the Russians conquered the Caucasus and laid the Trans-Caucasian railway between Batum and Baku, Trebizond was the terminus of the most important line of communication between Persia and the West, but in our days, owing to Russian competition, like the trade-route through Erzerum, has declined. Still the Tarabuzun of the Turks, the Trabysos of the Greeks, the Trebisonde of the French, the Trebisonda of the Italians, the Trapezunt of the Germans, Trabezon, Trabizum, Tirabson, or whatever else it is called, this town of the Princess of Trebizond, is even now the seat of a Governor-General, and is considered the most important commercial town in Asiatic Turkey after Smyrna. Amidst this densely packed mosaic of wooden houses rises an old fortress on a point, and still a number of churches remind one of Christian times, which after the Turkish conquest were converted into mosques. There are several modern churches, American and Catholic missionaries, and a convent with a girls' school. The population is said to number 60,000, — Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Lazes, and foreigners, — but this figure is probably too large. France, Persia, Russia, England, America, and Austria maintain consuls in the town. During the disturbed state of the Caucasus, and especially in consequence of the railway strike, Trebizond was rejoicing in a temporary prosperity, for the goods which could not be unloaded at Batum were mostly transported through Trebizond and Erzerum. But even in ordinary circumstances cotton goods and other manufactures, cloths, wool, tea, silver, velvet, etc., are imported into Persia, and from Persia mats, shawls, silk, raisins, etc., are brought.

When I went home in the dusk to the Hotel de Suisse, kept by a young Frenchwoman married to a decent Greek named Polikandrioti, I heard the well-known sound of camel bells under my window — a caravan was starting for its first night encampment on the long road to the land of the lion and the sun. Then lamps were lighted round the minaret balconies, the muezzin called out his melancholy high-pitched " La illaha il Allah " in the peaceful evening of Ramazan, and life and movement increased in the streets; it was pleasant to see honest, industrious, and loyal men, open shops and inns, where Mohammedans gathered for the evening meal after a cannon-shot had announced that the day's fast was ended, and that the sun had sunk.