In my early days I was in the habit of riding over from Julfa to the town of Ispahan daily; twenty-five minutes’ smart trotting brought me to my dispensary. During the summer the river was easily fordable, large banks of gravel being visible; these were occupied by the “rinsers of printed calicoes;” while the sun was out, for about half a mile the gravel banks were covered with long strips of printed calico placed closely together; at dawn the rinsers came down from the bazaars with many donkey-loads of dyed cotton cloths; the beasts used for the carriage were the lame, the halt, and the blind of the asses and mules of Ispahan. As the last use a horse is put to in Persia is to be a miller’s pack-horse, so this work seemed to be the end of the donkeys and mules. Along the edges of the channels between the gravel banks stood rows of old millstones; in front of each stone was a rinser up to his knees in the river. Taking a piece of dyed cloth half wrung out, which had been thoroughly soaked in water, in his hands—and the pieces were at times twenty yards long—he proceeded to thwack the roll of cloth against the stone with his whole strength, keeping time to a loud song until he was out of breath. As these men worked in rows, and the cloths were full of water, the noise and splashing were something tremendous. The work was heavy in the extreme, and as they can only get to the river when low, some seven months in the year, the pay is good. As each piece had the water thus thoroughly beaten out of it, a boy on the bank seized it and proceeded to spread it on the gravel, fixing the edges and corners with a stone; his duty was never to let the wrung cloth get dry, which he managed to do by constantly dashing water over the out-spread rows of dyed cloths with a pan. Often the process has to be repeated several times, as the cloths are sent down from the printers in the various stages. Above each furiously beating rinser rose a cloud of variously coloured spray which gradually became colourless; in every direction the sheets of water thrown by the boys glittered in the strong sun, and the loud choruses of the half-naked rinsers, and the barking of their watch-dogs—for each batch had their dogs—made a cheerful and exciting scene. Of course the calico, cotton-cloth, or T-cloth, as it is variously termed, had to be strong and good to stand such a process; and the adulterator had little chance with the wily calico-printer, who always weighed his cloth prior to purchasing, washed and dried it, and then weighed it again; the consequence is that, save of _the best quality_, little cotton-cloth is sold in Ispahan. Certain brands well known for their genuineness command a high figure, such as that of the Ace of Spades, though they are soon closely imitated by unscrupulous makers. However, the calico-printer is generally quite a match for the adulterator.