Travels in Central Asia

Je marchais, et mes compagnons flottaient comme des branches par l’effet du sommeil.—Victor Hugo, from Omaïah ben Aiëdz.

Whoever has travelled through Persia in the middle of July will sympathise with me when I say how glad I felt at having got through the district that extends from Tabris to Teheran. It is a distance of only fifteen, or perhaps we may rather say of only thirteen karavan stations: still, it is fearfully fatiguing, when circumstances compel one to toil slowly from station to station under a scorching sun, mounted upon a laden mule, and condemned to see nothing but such drought and barrenness as characterise almost the whole of Persia. How bitter the disappointment to him who has studied Persia only in Saadi, Khakani, and Hafiz; or, still worse, who has received his dreamy impressions of the East from the beautiful imaginings of Goethe’s ‘Ost-Westlicher Divan,’ or Victor Hugo’s ‘Orientales,’ or the magnificent picturings of Tom Moore!