At Nasirabad, a village a
few miles out of the city, there had been an earthquake that morning.
Many of the mud houses were in ruins, and their late owners sitting
dejectedly on the remains.
Earthquakes are common enough in
Persia, and this was by no means our last experience in that line.
Commiserating with the homeless ones, we divided a few kerans among
them, in return for which they brought us large water-melons (for
which Nasirabad is celebrated), deliciously flavoured, and as cold as
ice.
Kashan, which stands on a vast plain about two thousand feet above
sea-level, is picturesque and unusually clean for an Eastern town. The
bazaar is a long one, and its numerous caravanserais finer even than
those of the capital. The manufacture of silk [F] and copperware is
extensive; but, as usual, one saw little in the shops, _en evidence
_, but shoddy cloth and Manchester goods, and looked in vain for real
Oriental stuffs and carpets. I often wondered where on earth they
_were_ to be got, for the most persistent efforts failed to produce
the real thing. I often passed, on the road, camel and mule-cloths
that made my mouth water, so old were their texture and delicate their
pattern and colouring, but the owners invariably declined, under any
circumstances, to part with them.
Kashan will ever be associated in my mind with the fact that I there
saw the prettiest woman it was my luck to meet in Persia.
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