My father, Kerbelai Hassan, was one of the most celebrated barbers of Ispahan.  I was the son of his second wife, and as I was born when my father and mother were on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Hosein, in Kerbelah, I was called Hajji, or the pilgrim, a name which has procured for me a great deal of unmerited respect, because that honoured title is seldom conferred on any but those who have made the great pilgrimage to the tomb of the blessed Prophet of Mecca.

I was taught to read and write by a mollah, or priest, who kept a school in a mosque near at hand; when not in school I attended the shop, and by the time I was sixteen it would be difficult to say whether I was most accomplished as a barber or a scholar.  My father’s shop, being situated near the largest caravanserai in the city, was the common resort of the foreign merchants; and one of them, Osman Aga, of Bagdad, took a great fancy to me, and so excited me by describing the different cities he had visited, that I soon felt a strong desire to travel.  He was then in want of someone to keep his accounts, and as I associated the two qualifications of barber and scribe, he made me such advantageous offers that I agreed to follow him.

His purpose was to journey to Meshed with the object of purchasing the lambskins of Bokhara.  Our caravan proceeded without impediment to Tehran; but the dangerous part of the journey was yet to come, as a tribe of Turcomans were known to infest the road.

We advanced by slow marches over a parched and dreary country, and our conversation chiefly turned upon the Turcomans.  Everyone vaunted his own courage; my master above the rest, his teeth actually chattering with apprehension, boasted of what he would do in case we were attacked.  But when we in reality perceived a body of Turcomans coming down upon us, the scene instantly changed.  Some ran away; others, and among them my master, yielded to intense fear, and began to exclaim:  “O Allah!  O Imams!  O Mohammed the Prophet, we are gone!  We are dying!  We are dead!” A shower of arrows, which the enemy discharged as they came in, achieved their conquest, and we soon became their prey.  The Turcomans having completed their plunder, placed each of us behind a horseman, and we passed through wild tracts of mountainous country to a large plain, covered with the black tents and the flocks and herds of our enemies.

My master was set to tend camels in the hills; but when the Turcomans discovered my abilities as a barber and a surgeon, I became a general favourite, and gained the confidence of the chief of the tribe himself.  Finally, he determined to permit me to accompany him on a predatory excursion into Persia—­a permission which I hoped would lead to my escaping.  I was the more ready to do so, in that I secretly possessed fifty ducats.  These had been concealed by my master, Osman Aga, in his turban at the outset of his journey.  The turban had been taken from him and carried to the women’s quarters, whence I had recovered it.  I had some argument with myself as to whether I ought to restore the ducats to him; but I persuaded myself that the money was now mine rather than his.  “Had it not been for me,” I said, “the money was lost for ever; who, therefore, has a better claim to it than myself?”