In the land of the lion and sun, or, modern Persia

by C. J. Wills

Major S⸺, as an undoubted personage, had a dervish sent to his house. He had suffered from the infliction before, and had bought himself off on that occasion by a gift of fifty kerans (two pounds), but this time he was determined to grin and bear it, thinking that by making a stand he would escape a similar infliction in the future.

The chief of the dervishes indicates to his subordinates the houses that they are to besiege, and they are allotted to the various members of the fraternity according to seniority—the king, the prime minister, the chancellor, and so on, downwards.

When I say that every man of standing had his dervish, it will be seen that there were many of the brotherhood at that time in Teheran.

Every foreign minister had one at his door, and I am sure that any Persian of consideration would have been very loth to be without this very visible sign of greatness.

The Major’s dervish was to be found in the street day and night, in or beside his so-called tent; this consisted of some two yards of thin canvas, pegged into the wall at the side of the outer gate, and held down by three pieces of string. The dervish sat by day on an antelope-skin, and by night (if he ever did sleep) slept on it in his clothes.

As any one, visitor or host, entered or left the house, a shrill blast was blown on a buffalo-horn, and the man emitted his monotonous “Huc—yah huc” and extended his palm. He had a small pot of live charcoal before him; and smoking, and his so-called garden (a sort of playing at gardening, six twigs of box-tree being planted in a little heap of dust, and an orange being placed between each), occupied a good deal of his time.

The annoying part of it was that he was always there, and that we could never forget, or fail to notice this fact, from the persistent salutations of “Salaam, sahib!” smilingly given, or the eternal cries and blasts of the buffalo-horn, by which he made night hideous and the day unbearable. As time wore on and the New Year approached, the blasts and cries became more prolonged and more frequent, and the whole household became more and more depressed. We all knew that the servants were providing the man with two square meals a day and unlimited tobacco, of course quite contrary to orders.

But I think the greatest sufferers were myself and a friend, whose bedroom-window was above the so-called tent of this demon in human form. Patience has its limits, and one morning we determined to, as we hoped, induce our bugbear to shift his quarters. We poured our two tubs into one, and carefully choosing our moment, suddenly emptied the contents on the tent.

Down it came on the head of the dervish, putting out his fire-pot, and producing a very free succession of invocations to saints.

But, alas! when we went out in the morning, hoping to find him gone, we were received with “Salaam, sahib!” and a solo on the horn that for volume, Harper, of trumpet fame, might have vainly attempted to emulate.