SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA.

SKETCHES
OF
CENTRAL ASIA.

ADDITIONAL CHAPTERS

ON

MY TRAVELS, ADVENTURES,

AND ON THE

ETHNOLOGY OF CENTRAL ASIA.

BY

ARMINIUS VÁMBÉRY,

PROFESSOR OF ORIENTAL LANGUAGES IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF PESTH

PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
Wm. H. ALLEN & CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE,
PALL MALL, LONDON.

1868.

[All rights reserved.]

Lewis and Son, Printers, Swan Buildings, Moorgate Street.

PREFACE.

In the reviews of my "Travels in "Central Asia," which have issued from the European and American press, I have generally been reproached with scantiness of details and scrappiness of treatment;—in a word, with having said much less than I could have said about my journey from the Bosphorus to Samarkand,—so rich in varied adventures and experiences.

Now, I will not deny that such a charge has not been quite unfairly levelled against me.

While I was writing my memoirs, during the first three months of my stay in London, after my year-long wanderings in Asia, I had very great trouble in accustoming myself to the idea of being firmly settled down. I always kept fancying myself bound on the morrow to pack up and extend my travels with the caravan: hence my irresolution and hasty procedure. Moreover, I was quite a stranger in the domain of travelling, and deemed it my duty now to keep something back for mere decency; anon to leave out something else, as of inferior interest. Hence many an episode was left untouched, many a picture remained but a feeble sketch.

To make up for this defect—if sparingness in words be really a defect—I have written the following pages. They contain only supplementary papers, partly about my own adventures, partly on the manners and rare characteristics of the Central Asiatic peoples, linked together in no particular connection. It would naturally have been better to offer these pages in the place of the former volume; and yet the slightest notice of a country so little known to us as Turkestan, which political questions will soon bring into the front of passing questions, will always have its uses; and "meglio tardi che mai."

A. V.

Pesth,
2nd December, 1867.

CONTENTS.

SKETCHES OF CENTRAL ASIA.

CHAPTER I.

DERVISHES AND HADJIS.

The dervish is the veritable personification of Eastern life. Idleness, fanaticism, and slovenliness, are the features which in him are regarded as virtues, and which everywhere are represented by him as such. Idleness is excused by allusion to human impotence; fanaticism explained as enthusiasm in religion; and slovenliness justified by the uselessness of poor mortals in struggling against fate. If the superiority of European civilization over that of the East was not so clearly established, I should almost be tempted to envy a dervish, who, clad in tatters and conversing in a corner of some ruined building, shows, by the twinkling in his eye, the happiness he enjoys. What a serenity is depicted in that face; what a placidity in all his actions; what a complete contrast there is between this picture and that presented by our European civilization! In my disguise as a dervish it was chiefly this unnatural composure which made me nervous, and in the imitation of which I made, of course, the greatest mistakes. I shall never forget one day at Herat, when, after reflecting on the happiness of the early termination of the painful mask I had been wearing for so many months, I suddenly jumped up from my seat, and in a somewhat excited state began to pace up and down the old ruin which gave me shelter. A few minutes afterwards I perceived that a crowd of passers by had collected at the door, and that I was the object of general astonishment. Seeing my mistake, I blushingly resumed my seat. Soon afterwards several people came up to ask me what was the matter with me, whether I was well, &c. The good people thought I was deranged; for, to oriental notions, a man must be out of his senses if, without necessity or a special object in view, he suddenly leaves his seat to pace up and down a room.

As the dervish represents the general character, so he does the different peoples of the East. It is true, Mahomedanism enforces the dogma: "El Islam milleti wahidun"—all Islamites are one nation; but the origin and home of the different sects are easily recognised. Bektashi, Mewlewi, and Rufai, are principally natives of Turkey; because Bektash, the enthusiastic founder of the Janissaries, Moola Djelaleddin Rumi, the great poet of the Mesnevi, lived, and are buried in Turkey; the Kadrie and Djelali are most frequently met with in Arabia; the Oveisy, and Nurbakhshi Nimetullah in Persia; the Khilali and Zahibi in India; and the Nakishbendi and Sofi Islam in Central Asia.[1] The members of the different fraternities are bound together by very close ties; apprentices (Murid) and assistants (Khalfa) have to yield implicit obedience to the chief (Pir), who has an unlimited power over the life and property of his brethren. But these fraternities do not in the least trouble themselves about secret political or social objects, as is sometimes asserted in Europe by enthusiastic travellers, who have even discovered Freemasons amongst the Bedouin tribes of the Great Desert. The dervishes are the monks of Islamism; and the spirit which created and sustains them is that of religious fanaticism, and they differ from each other only by the manner in which they demonstrate their enthusiasm. For instance; whilst one of these religious orders commands constant pilgrimages to the tombs of saints, the other lays down stringent rules for reflection on divine infinity and the insignificance of our existence. A third compels his votaries to occupy themselves day and night with repeating the name of of God (Zikr) and hymns (Telkin); and it cannot surprise us to learn that the greater number of a company which has continually been calling out with all its might: "Ja hu! Ja hakk! La illahi illa hu! are seized with delirium tremens. The orthodox call this condition Medjzub; i.e., carried away by divine love, or to be in ecstacy. A person to whom such a fortunate event happens, for as such it is regarded, is envied by everybody; and as long as it lasts, the sick and the maimed, and barren women, try to get in his immediate presence, taking hold of his dress,—as touching it is supposed to have healing powers.

What the dervishes are able to do during the ecstacy caused by Zikr, I had once an opportunity of witnessing in Samarkand. In Dehbid, close to the tomb of the Makhdun Aazam, one of these howling companies had grouped themselves around the Pir (chief) of that district. At first they contented themselves with repeating the formula in a natural tone of voice, and almost in measured time. The chief was lost in the deepest thought; all eyes and ears were fixed upon him; and every motion of his hand, and every breath he drew, was audible, and encouraged his followers to utter wilder and louder ejaculations. At last he seemed to awake from his sleep-like reflections, and as soon as he raised his head all the dervishes jumped up from their seats like possessed beings. The circle was broken, and the different members began to dance in undulating motions; but hardly did the chief stand upon his feet than the enthusiastic dancers became so terribly excited that I, who had to imitate all their wild antics, became almost frightened. They were flying about, constantly dancing, right and left, hither and thither, some leaving the soft meadow and getting upon the rough stones, constantly dancing, till the blood began to run freely from their feet. Still they kept on their mad excitement, till most of them fell fainting to the ground.

In a country like the East, where such social relations exist, and where we meet with such amusing extremes, the dervish or beggar, though placed at the very bottom of the social scale, often enjoys as much consideration as the prince who reigns over millions and disposes of immense treasures. Man, an unresisting plaything in the powerful hand of Fate, can, if Destiny wills it, be transported from one extreme to the other, of which history furnishes us with numerous instances; and as in fiction we see with pleasure the two antipodes—the king, Shah-ü Keda, and the beggar, brought into close propinquity—even so we often find a ragged and dirty dervish, covered with vermin, sitting on the same carpet with a magnificently-dressed prince, and engaged with him in familiar conversation, nay, often drinking with him out of the same cup. European travellers view such a tête-à-tête with surprise, and even sometimes with a feeling of amusement; but in the East it is considered as quite natural. For, says the oriental moralist, the king must see in the glaring contrast between him and his neighbour the vanity of earthly splendour, and banish from his mind all feeling of pride; while the dervish discovers beneath the pompous dress of the prince a mere mortal man, and mindful of the vanity of sublunary things, laughs at the farce of life.

Though perfectly conscious of their relative position, these two extremes exhibit, when they meet, an admirable degree of toleration and indulgence. The dervish, who, when received in private, behaves with the freedom and unconstraint of an intimate friend, never forgets on public occasions that he is the poorest of the poor. The man of rank suffers from him what to any other person would appear insupportable. At Kerki, the governor of the province had a dervish in his palace, who, in conformity with a precept of his order, had the agreeable office of crying aloud uninterruptedly, from sunset till break of day: Ya hu! ya hakk! La illa hu![2] and that with the voice of a Stentor. As soon as darkness prevailed, and the busy hum of public life had become silent, the melancholy and monotonous exclamations became more and more audible, not only in the palace itself, but to a considerable extent around it. That his devotions disturbed many in their sleep, may be easily imagined. Nevertheless, the governor, notwithstanding the entreaties of his own family, did not venture to make any objection to this proceeding, and the dervish continued his vociferations every night as long as he sojourned in Kerki. As I lodged in the vicinity of the palace, I enjoyed my share of this nightly concert; and as the voice of the enthusiastic bawler became towards the approach of dawn weaker and weaker, I was enabled to calculate from it the distance of daybreak without stepping out of the dark cell in which I lay.

We may say, however, that we nowadays very seldom meet with a dervish in the strict sense of the word; that is, a man who, renouncing from inward conviction earthly goods and worldly comforts, is desirous only of obtaining experience of life and devoting himself to the practice of religious duties: such a man, in a word, as the poet Saadi is represented to have been. Those who embrace this vocation are either unprincipled and lazy fellows, or professed beggars, who, under the cloak of poverty, collect treasures, and when they are sufficiently enriched often adopt some lucrative trade. This is particularly the case in Persia. So long as Fortune is favourable to them they lead a life of ostentatious magnificence, and forget how transitory all is in this world. But should he be overtaken by adversity, then he retires to some modest corner, rails at the vain pursuits of men, and, inflated with pride, cries out: Men dervish em; I am a dervish.

The dervishes of India, and particularly those of Cashmere, are throughout the East pre-eminent among their Mahometan brethren for cunning, secret arts, forms of exorcism, &c. These fellows impose most impudently on the credulity of the people in Persia and Central Asia, and even men of wit and understanding sometimes fall into their snares; for, wherever such a Cashmere dervish appears, gifted as he generally is with a noble figure, striking features, bright eloquent eyes, and long dark flowing hair, he is sure of success.

The Mahometans of India and the adjoining eastern countries have always been celebrated in the Islamite world for their supernatural gifts. As soon as such a travelling saint arrives in a Mahometan country, he is entreated to cure dangerous maladies, to exorcise ghosts, or to point out where hidden treasures are buried; for, although those arts are forbidden by the Koran, they appear everywhere as the most zealous Mahometans. Count Gobineau, in his work, "Trois Ans dans l'Asie," tells us of an excellent trick, which an alchemist from Cashmere played a gold-seeking prince in Teheran. A similar trick was played on the brother of the reigning Khan of Khiva, who, wanting to have all his saddles and bridles converted into gold, was cheated in a most ridiculous manner. But they are sometimes so devoid of conscience as to rob the poorest man of his last penny. In Teheran, a Hadji, lately arrived from Central Asia, told me, with tears in his eyes, the following story. As, said he, I had heard much in Meshed of the frequent robberies that occurred on the road to Teheran, I and my companion were anxious to know what would be the best way to conceal our little capital, which was to defray our expenses to the holy grave of the Prophet. This money was the savings of five hard years, and thou knowest how difficult it is to travel without money in this land of heretics. Next to us in the caravanserai at Meshed there lodged a pious Ishan (sheikh) from Cashmere; to him we communicated our fears, and were delighted when he offered, by means of a certain form of prayer, to secure our money against all attacks of robbers. He invited us to follow him to the mosque of Iman Riza: there he bade us perform the usual ablutions. We then placed our money in his lap, and after he had breathed on it several times he put it with his own hands into our purses, wrapped them up in seven sheets of paper, and then strictly enjoined us not to open them till, on our arrival at Teheran, we had performed our devotions three times in the mosque. It is now six weeks since we left Meshed; and imagine our fright, when yesterday, after the third prayer, we opened our purses and found in them, instead of our dear ducats, nothing but heavy reddish sand. The poor fellows uttered bitter complaints and seemed almost to have lost their wits. The cunning rogue from Cashmere had, while pronouncing the blessing, changed the money without being perceived by the simple Tartars, who continued their journey to Teheran in the perfect persuasion of the efficacy of the ceremony,—a persuasion which they now found had cost them dear.

It is the same with dervishism as with all the other oriental institutions, customs and manners; the more we penetrate towards the East, the greater is the purity with which they have been preserved. In Persia the dervishes play a much more important part than in Turkey; and in Central Asia, isolated as it has been from the rest of the world for centuries, this fraternity is still in full vigour, and exercises a great influence upon society. In my "Travels," I have frequently alluded to the position occupied by the Ishan or secular priests in Central Asia. Their influence may be called a fortunate one, contrasted with the fearful tyranny existing in those countries. This is the reason why every one occupies himself with religion; every one tries to pass himself off as a worker of miracles (Ehli Keramet); or, if he fails in that, he endeavours to be recognised as a saint (veli ullah ....) Those who make the interpretation of the sacred writings their business are great rivals of the Ishans, who, by the mysticism by which they surround themselves, enjoy a large share of popular esteem. The native of Central Asia, like the wildest child of Arabia, is more easily imposed upon by magic formulas and similar hocus-pocus than by books. He may dispense with the services of a Mollah, but he cannot do without a Ishan, whose blessing (fatiha) or breath (nefes) is required when he sets out on one of his predatory expeditions, and upon which he looks as a talismanic power, when moving about his herds, his tent, or the wilds of the desert.

After the Ishans, the most interesting class are the mendicant dervishes (Kalenter),[3] which the Kirguese and Turkomans call Kuddush[4] or Divani (insane). In the whole of the great deserts which stretch from the eastern boundaries of China to the Caspian Sea, it is only these people, in their ragged dress, who are able to move unmolested. They do not take any notice of the differences of tribe or family, and the mighty words, Yaghi or Il (friend or enemy) have to them no meaning. In travelling along they join whomsoever they meet, be it a peaceful caravan or band of robbers. The dervishes who travel through Kirguese or Turkoman steppes are generally this class of people, who form a strong inclination to do nothing, follow a trade which throughout the East is considered respectable, viz., that of a mendicant. All they have to acquire is a few prayers and a certain power of mimicry, with which the chiromantic feats are performed; and I have never seen a nomad who has not been moved when he found himself in the close presence of one of those long-haired, bare-headed, and bare-footed dervishes, who, with his fiery eyes, stared hard at the son of the desert, and whilst shaking his Keshkul[5] howled a wild "Ja hu!"

The arrival of one of these fakirs in a lonely group of tents is regarded as a joyful event, or almost a festival; it is of especial importance in the eyes of the women; and the time of his arrival is differently interpreted. Early in the morning signifies the happy birth of a camel or a horse; at noon a quarrel between husband and wife; and in the evening a good prospect of marriage to the marriageable daughters. The dervish is generally taken in hand by the women, and is well supplied with the best things the tent contains, in hopes that he may be tempted to produce from beneath his battered dress some glass beads, or other talisman. Alms, which amongst the nomads seldom consist of money, are rarely denied him; and he often receives an old carpet, a few handfuls of camel hair or wool, or an old garment. He may also stop with the family for days, and move about with it without his presence becoming a burden. If the dervish possesses musical talent, i.e., able to sing a few songs and accompany himself on the two stringed instrument called dutara, he is made much of, and has the greatest difficulty in getting away from the hospitable host.

It is very seldom that dervishes are insulted or ill-treated; this, however, is said to be the case amongst the Turkomans, whose rapacity knows no bounds, and prompts them to commit incredible acts of cruelty. A dervish from Bokhara, of robust figure and dark curly hair, whom I met at Maymene, told me that a Tekke-Turkoman, prompted by the thirty ducats which his athletic figure promised to fetch in the slave market, made him a prisoner to sell him a few days afterwards. "I pretended," my colleague continued, "to be quite unconcerned, and repeated the Zikr whilst shaking my iron chains. The time was fast approaching when I was to be taken to the market, when suddenly the wife of the robber of my liberty and person was taken ill, and prevented him from starting. He seemed to see in this the finger of God, and began to be pensive, when his favourite horse, refusing to eat his food, showed signs of illness." This was enough. The robber was so frightened that he removed the chains of his prisoner, and returned to him the things he had robbed him of, begging him to leave his tent as soon as possible. Whilst a Turkoman impatiently awaited the departure of the ominous beggar, the latter fumbled about his dress, and pretended that he had lost a comb which his chief had given him as a talisman on the road, and without which he could not go a single step. The nomad returned in great haste to the place where the plunder had been kept, and as the comb did not turn up he became still more frightened, and promised the dervish the price of twenty combs if he would only take a single step beyond the boundary of his tent. The cunning bush-rite saw he was master of the situation; he pretended to be inconsolable about the lost property, and declared that he now would have to remain for years in the tent. Imagine the confusion of the deceived and superstitious robber! Like a madman he ran about asking his neighbour for advice. Formal negotiations were now commenced with the dervish, to whom, finally, a horse, a dress, and ten ducats were presented, to make up for the loss of the comb, and on condition that he should leave a tent whose proprietor will probably think twice before he ventures again upon molesting a travelling dervish.

Besides the dervishes who, as physicians, miracle-working saints, or harmless vagabonds, are wandering about in Central Asia, there is a class called "Khanka neshin," or convent dwellers, who always wish to appear as the poorest, and are without doubt the most contemptible fellows in the world. Generally speaking they are opium eaters, who by their excessive filth, skeleton-like body, and frightfully distorted features, present a most repulsive appearance. The worst is that they do not confine themselves to practising this fearful vice themselves, but with a singular persistency endeavour to make converts amongst all classes; and, supported by the want of spirituous drinks, they succeed but too frequently in their wicked attempts. What surprised me most was that these wretched people were regarded as eminently religious, of whom it was thought that from their love to God and the Prophet they had become mad, and stupefied themselves in order that in their excited state they might be nearer the Beings whom they loved so well.

Speaking of dervishes we may mention a class of hypocrites who, under the pretence of carrying out sacred vows, indulge in their desire to travel, and after their return assume, under the title of Hadji (Pilgrims) authority and a good social position. The Koran says, "Hidji ala beiti min isti Itaatun sebila"—Wander to my house (Kaaba) if circumstances permit. These "circumstances" are reduced to the following seven conditions by the commentators. The pilgrimage must be undertaken, 1st,—With sufficient money for travelling expenses; 2nd,—In bodily health; 3rd,—In an unmarried state; 4th,—Without leaving debts behind; 5th,—In times of peace; 6th,—Overland and without danger; and, 7th,—By persons who have reached the age of puberty. That our good Tartars ill-observe these conditions will be evident to all who have some idea about the countries situated between Oxus and Yaxartes. In Persia people go to Kerbela, Meshed or Mekka, only when sufficient funds enable them to do it comfortably. In Central Asia, on the contrary, it is always the poorest class who undertakes pilgrimages. A certain taste for adventure, coupled with religious enthusiasm, are the two motives which prompt the inhabitants of Central Asia to start from the remote east for the tomb of their Prophet. True, they do not suffer any material losses, for a beggar's bag is a money bag; but they frequently lose what is most precious to them—their life; as every year at least one-third of the pilgrims from Turkestan die from exposure to the climate.

This sacred or profane desire to travel braves all danger; this vague thought of tearing himself away from his family, and friends, and countrymen, to see the wide world, surrounds the Hadji with a certain poetry. I have lived weeks with my companions, and yet it always interested me to behold them, palm staff in hand, as a sacred memento of Arabia, vigorously making their way through the deep sand or mud. They were returning happily to their homes; but how many did I meet who only commenced their long and tedious journey? and yet they were equally happy. On my road from Samarkand to Teheran I had as a companion a native of Chinese Tartary, who, in total ignorance of the route he had to take, asked me every evening, even when we were yet at Meshed, whether we should see to-morrow, or at the farthest after to-morrow, the minarets of Mekka. The poor fellow had no idea how much he would have to endure before he reached his destination. However, this should not surprise us when we remember that during the time of the crusades so many honest Teutons undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and after two or three days' journey hoped to behold the walls of Jerusalem.[6]

The routes to Arabia adopted by the pious Tartars are the following, viz.:—1. Yarkend, Kilian, Tibet, Kashmir.[7] 2. Through Southern Siberia, Kazan and Constantinople. 3. Through Afghanistan and India to Djedda. 4. Through Persia, Bagdad, and Damascus. None of these routes is a comfortable one, and the amount of danger to be incurred is very much dependent upon the season of the year and the political state of the countries through which they pass. The travellers form themselves in larger or smaller companies, and elect a chief (Tchaush) from amongst themselves, who also fills amongst them the office of Imam, (the person who first says the prayers to be repeated by the rest,) and who enjoys a considerable superiority over his companions. A visit to the Kaaba and the tomb of the Prophet (which may be paid at any season) is not so much the culminating point of the whole pilgrimage as the ascent of Mount Arafat. This can be made only once a year, viz., on the Kurban festival, (10th Zil Hidje,) which is nothing more or less than the sacrifice of Abraham and Isaac dramatized. All those who have taken part in this festival and have joined in the cry, "Lebeïk Allah!"—Command, Oh God," (in allusion to Abraham's implicit obedience,) are regarded as genuine Hadjis. This cry of "Lebeïk! Lebeïk!" uttered at the most solemn moment of the whole pilgrimage, seems also to have the deepest impression upon the pilgrim himself. My travelling companions, whenever they became excited or were in a happy mood of mind, always alluded to it; and the stillness of the Tartar deserts was often broken by this memento of the stony districts of Arabia.

However painful and heartrending separation from home may be when so long and dangerous a journey has to be undertaken, the joy which the Hadjis experienced on their return fully counterbalances it. Friends and relations, informed of his near arrival, go out to meet them several days in advance. Hymns are sung, and tears of joy are shed when the Hadji makes his entry into his native place. Every one wants to embrace him, to touch him, for the atmosphere of holy places still surrounds him, the dust of Mekka and Medina still covers his garments. In Central Asia the Hadji is held in much greater esteem than in any other Mohammedan country. It has cost him much to obtain his dignity, but he is amply repaid. Respected and supported by his fellow citizens he is better protected against the tyranny of the Government than any other citizen. The title of a "Hadji" is a patent of nobility, which, during his lifetime, he parades on his seal, after death on his tombstone.

The Hadjis, of course such as are not mere beggars, often transact, during their pious pilgrimage, a little commercial business. "Hem tidjared hem ziaret."—"Commerce and pilgrimage together" are not allowed by their religion; but nobody seems to suffer any pricks of conscience in taking to his co-religionist in Arabia a few articles from distant Turkomania. The products of Bokhara and other holy places of Central Asia are in high esteem amongst the people of Arabia; besides, every one wishes to show a Hadji some favour, and is easily induced to pay double the value for any article offered. This small trade is carried on between the easternmost point of Islamitic Asia to the Galata bridge of Constantinople. Amongst the crowd of that famous capital one often sees a Tartar, whose features contrast as strangely with the rest of the population as the colours of the thin silk kerchief differ from those of our European manufacture. Fine ladies seldom become purchasers of such articles, but old matrons are frequently seen, inspired by feelings of piety, paying a good price for them, pressing them repeatedly to their faces and forehead while repeating a loud "Allahum u Sella," and continuing their walk.

That the successful sale of the exported articles leads to the importation of similar merchandize needs no confirmation. No Hadji leaves the holy places without making some purchases. At Mekka he lays in a stock of scents, dates, rosaries and combs, but especially water from the sacred well called Zemzem.[8] In Jamba and Djedda are bought European goods; these go by the name of Mali Istambul—"Stamboul Goods;" as the unbelieving Franks must not obtain credit for anything, and they consist of penknives, scissors, needles, thimbles, &c. Aleppo and Damascus enjoy the reputation of supplying the best misvak, a fibrous root, used as tooth brushes by all pious Moslems. In Bagdad are bought a hirka, made of camel's hair, and of superior quality at this place, as it is this kind of garment which the Prophet is said to have worn next his skin. Finally, in Persia, ink, powder and pens made of canes are purchased. In Central Asia all these articles are great curiosities, and they are paid for handsomely, partly from necessity, partly from religious motives.

Generally speaking a caravan of Hadjis, I mean one whose character has been well inquired into, are the best travelling companions one can have in Central Asia, or rather in the whole of the east, provided one can manage to agree with them. With regard to the travelling necessaries the Hadji is well supplied, and it was always surprising to me to see how a man who had only one poor donkey he could call his own, could make a display of a separate tea-service[9] (à la Tartar,) Pilou-apparatus, and carpet when arrived at the station at which we halted. Nobody is more clever than a Hadji in negotiating, be the people he has to deal with believers or unbelievers, nomads or agricultural tribes. A Hadji may be converted into anything, he being thoroughly penetrated by the principle "Si fueris Romae." Instead of being cast down and gloomy, as his ragged exterior would lead us to suppose, he is of a merry disposition, and during the long marches the greatest saint and miracle-worker occasionally indulges in a profane joke. The comicality of these generally serious faces has often made me forget the privations which I was myself undergoing.

CHAPTER II.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY DERVISH LIFE.

On the evening of the 27th of March, 1863, my excellent friend, the Turkish ambassador in Teheran, gave me a farewell supper, at which all declared—to inspire me, of course with fear, and divert me from my adventurous undertaking,—that I was for the last time in my life to enjoy European food in the European manner. The handsome dining room at the residence of the ambassador was brilliantly lighted, the choicest viands were served, and the choicest wines handed round; for the intention was clear,—to give me a strong dose of reminiscences of European comforts on the difficult expedition before me. My friends were for ever scrutinizing my features, to discover whether my outward appearance might not betray some trace of inward excitement. But they were very much mistaken. I had ensconced myself comfortably in the velvet arm chair, which had been brought thither from the distant land of the Franks; the wine had tinged my face with the same colour as the fez which covered my head. A pious dervish and wine—what a frightful antithesis! To-night, however, I must transgress, the penance will be a long one, whether or no....

Twenty-four hours later, in the evening of the 28th of March, I was in the midst of my company of beggars on the road to Lar, in a half-dilapidated mud hut, called Dagaru. The rain was pouring in torrents. We had been pretty well wetted through during our day's march, so that all were anxious for shelter and a dry roof; and, the space being narrow, fate brought me the very first evening into the closest contact with my travelling companions. Their tattered garments, never very sweet-scented, and now thoroughly soaked with the rain, gave out the strangest evaporations; and no wonder if, under such circumstances, I had no great desire to take my share out of the large wooden bowl, from which the starved Hadjis, splashing about with their fists, were eating their supper. Moreover, hunger tormented me less than fatigue and my wet, ragged garments, to which I was as yet unaccustomed. Rolled up like a ball, I tried to get to sleep; but this also was impossible, packed together as we were in such close quarters. Now I felt the hand, now the head of one of my neighbours, falling upon me; then my opposite companion stretched out his foot, to scratch me behind the ears. It required the patience of Job to defend myself against these unpleasant civilities; and yet I might have had some sleep, but for the loud snoring of the Tartars, and above all the loud moaning of a Persian muleteer, who was sadly troubled with the gout.

Finding that all endeavours to close my eyes remained unsuccessful, I rose and sat upright in the midst of this mass of people, who were lying about in the most utter confusion. The rain kept falling, and, as I looked out into the dark and gloomy night, my thoughts returned to the difference in my position only twenty-four hours before, and the sumptuous farewell supper at the splendid Turkish embassy. The whole scene appeared to me not unlike a dramatic representation of "King and Beggar," in which I acted the chief part. The bitter feeling of reality, however, made little impression. I myself was the author of this sudden metamorphosis, and I had prepared my fate for myself.

The hard task of self-control lasted but a few days. As far as all outward peculiarities were concerned, I soon became familiar with the habitual as well as physical attributes of dervishism, such as dirt, &c. I gave my better garments, which I had brought with me from Teheran, to a weak and sickly Hadji, an act of kindness which gained all hearts. My new uniform consisted of a felt jacket, which I wore next my skin without any shirt, and of a djubbe (upper garment),[10] composed of innumerable pieces of stuff, and fastened with a cord round the loins. My feet were enveloped in rags, and an immense turban covered my head, serving as a parasol by day and pillow by night. I had also, in conformity with the rest of the Hadjis, hung round me a voluminous Koran in a bag, which resembled a cartridge pouch; and, viewing myself thus, "en pleine parade," I had reason proudly to exclaim: "Yes, indeed, I am born a beggar!"

The outer or material part of the incognito was thus easily assumed, but the moral part presented more serious difficulties than I expected. Although I had had the opportunity, for some years past, of studying the contrast between European and Asiatic modes of life, and the critical position in which I found myself made it incumbent upon me ever to be strictly on my guard, nevertheless, I could not avoid committing many glaring mistakes. The difference between Eastern and Western society does not consist merely in language, physiognomy, and dress. We Europeans eat, drink, sleep, sit, and stand, nay, I feel inclined to say, laugh, weep, sigh, and gesticulate otherwise than Eastern people. These things are visible trifles, but in reality difficult ones, and yet they are as nothing when compared with the effort required to disguise one's feelings. When travelling, people are naturally of a more eager and excitable temperament than in everyday life, and therefore it costs the European an unspeakable effort to conceal his curiosity, admiration, or any kind of emotion, when brought into intercourse with the indolent orientals, who are for ever indifferent to all and everything around them. Besides, the object of my travelling was merely to travel, whilst that of my friends was to reach their distant homes. My individual person excited their interest only during the first moments of our acquaintance, while to me they were each a continual study; and it certainly can never have entered the head of any one of them that, whenever we laughed and joked most intimately together my mind would just then be doubly occupied. No one but he who is practically acquainted with the East, can have any idea of the difficulty of entering into all these marked differences. I had been pretty well schooled by a four years' residence at Constantinople; yet there I played merely the part of an amateur, whilst here I dared not deviate even a hair's breadth from reality. Nay, I will make no secret of the fact, that during the first few days the struggle, though short, was severe, and that repentance and remorse seized me at every fresh difficulty. However, my mind, being stimulated by vanity, was in that state of excitement when everything had to give way before the irresistible impulse of its ardour; and, supported in its triumph by a sound constitution, it was enabled to bear easily whatever might happen.

I shudder even now when I think back of the fatigue I underwent during the first few days, and how much I suffered from the wet and cold, the uncleanliness—which makes one's hair stand on end—and the never-ending, harassing worry with the fanatic Shiites, during our long and tedious day-marches in Mazendran, a part of the world of historical reputation for its bad roads. Sometimes it rained from early in the morning until late in the evening, and, whilst not a thread of my tattered garments remained dry, I was moreover obliged to wade for hours knee-deep in mud. The narrow mountain-path has become hollow by the wear of centuries, and in many places it resembles a muddy brook, winding along between huge fragments of pointed rock that have fallen from the heights above. It is a sheer impossibility to remain in the saddle; and, in order to avoid danger, the best course is to tread slowly and cautiously, sounding the hollows with one's foot. No one will doubt that, under such circumstances, we arrived at the station at nightfall thoroughly exhausted and fatigued. Fire and shelter are the chief objects of desire, for which the eye looks longingly around. They both exist in Mazendran; but we, the Sunnitic beggars, had preferred, for the sake of quiet, to pass the night undisturbed and far from any human dwelling. A fire was kindled, to dry ourselves and our clothes, when the elder of our Tartar fellow-travellers observed, that such a proceeding would be prejudicial to health; and, indeed, they always preferred to dry themselves in another and more singular fashion. It is well known that, throughout the East, horse dung is dried and then ground into powder, to serve as stabling for the horses by night. During the day it is exposed to the sun, either spread out or made into conical-shaped heaps; and I was not a little astonished to see how my companions, divesting themselves entirely of their apparel, buried their soaked bodies up to the neck in such like poudre de santé. I need not add, that contact with this poudre, so well known as strong and stinging, cannot be very agreeable; but its effects are only felt during the first quarter of an hour, and I can assert, from my subsequent personal experience, that such a bed induces a most sweet and refreshing sleep, however it may offend the European eye and sense of refinement.

In spite of the drawbacks, I should have felt quite contented with my lot had it not been that, besides these fatigues common to all, an extra share was allotted to me, being a stranger in the company. As such, it was my duty to affect the qualities of modesty and devotion, to show myself not only friendly, but submissive, to all; and to endeavour to conciliate the affection of old and young, by professing an obliging disposition, and a readiness to perform any kind of small service. At first these offers were declined by most of them, since they did not wish to offend in me the character of "efendi," having made my acquaintance as such. However, it was my duty in no case to yield, but on the contrary, to strive continually to make myself useful to one or the other. Besides the minor services I performed on the march, I had to try to be helpful to every one at the station, either by preparing tea and baking bread, or by looking after the riding horses, or by packing and unpacking. Some of my companions were obliging to me in return for my attention, but others, who soon had forgotten my former position, treated me like an old fellow-traveller. Services were demanded and performed without the smallest ceremony; and I could not help laughing heartily, when a Hadji from Khokand once coolly handed me his shirt for me to free it from the many "uninvited guests," he being fully occupied in like manner on another part of his costume.

It was to be foreseen that in this way an entente cordiale would speedily ripen between us. The more I accommodated myself to my present position, forgetting the past, the quicker also disappeared the barrier between me and the other Hadjis. The society of others exercises a powerful influence upon us, uniting as it does the most opposite elements; and after I had lived for a whole month as dervish, all appeared to me not only natural and endurable, but the charm of novelty in the life around me had actually effaced Teheran, Stamboul, and Europe, from my memory; and the continual excitement in which I lived had produced in me a state of mind which was extraordinary, it is true, but never disagreeable.

One feeling alone disquieted me: this was the fear of discovery, or, rather, of its consequences,—the terrible death of torture which Tartar cruelty and offended Mahometan fanaticism would have invented for my punishment. Already during the first days of my residence with the Turkomans I became aware that, in assuming my incognito, I was playing a dangerous game; and, but for the unlimited confidence I placed in the fidelity of my companions, and my own preparations, this spectre would have haunted me every moment of my existence. During the greater part of the day, society, occupation, and events of various interest prevented the intrusion of these suspicions; but at night, when everything around was hushed in silence, and I sat alone in a solitary corner of my tent, or in the waste and barren desert, I became absorbed in thought. Fear appeared before me in its blackest guise and most terrible aspect; nor would it leave me for a long, long time, however much I attempted to dispel it by sophistry or light-heartedness. Oh, this terrible Megæra! How she tormented me, how she tortured me, at those very moments when, seeking repose, I was about to lose myself in contemplation on the grandeur of nature and the wonderful constitution of man. In the long struggle between us, fear was finally subdued; but it is this very struggle, which I now blush to remember; for it is marvellous what efforts are required to grow familiar with the constant and visible prospect of death, and how great the anxiety in seeing only a doubtful foundation for the hope of one's further existence.

No one, I am sure, will blame me for acting with precaution, nay, at first, with scrupulous precaution; but often it degenerated into ridiculous extremes. I was, for instance, conscious of my habit of gesticulating with the hands when speaking,—a habit peculiar to many Europeans, but strictly forbidden in Central Asia;—and, fearing lest I might commit this mistake, I adopted a coercive remedy. I pretended to suffer from pains in the arms, and strapping them down to the body, they soon lost the habit of involuntary movement. In like manner I seldom ventured to make a hearty meal late in the evening, for fear of being troubled with heavy dreams, which might cause me to speak some foreign, European language. I laugh now at my pusillanimity, for I might have remembered that the Tartars, being unacquainted with European languages, would not have noticed it; and yet I rather bore in mind the words of my companions, who observed one morning with great naïveté, that my snoring sounded differently from that of the Turkestanis, whereupon another interrupted and informed him: "Yes; thus people snore in Constantinople."

It may be objected, that as so many of my actions might cause remark or offence when in company with others, I must at all events have shaken off this restraint when alone. But alas! Even then I was the slave of precaution; and is it not striking, or rather ridiculous, that at night, when in the boundless desert and at a considerable distance from the caravan, I did not venture to eat the unleavened bread, mixed up with ashes and sand, or take a draught of stinking water without accompanying it with the customary Mahometan formula of blessing! I might have thought to myself, no one sees you, all around are asleep; but no! the distant sand hills appeared to me like so many spies, who were watching whether I was saying the Bismillah, and whether I had broken the bread in the proper ritualistic manner. Thus it happened when in Khiva, that, when sleeping alone in a dark cell, bolted and barred, I started up from my couch at the call to prayer, and began the troublesome labour of the thirteen Rikaat. When at the sixth or eighth, I had a great mind to leave off, thinking I was safely out of sight. But no! it struck me, that perhaps the eyes of a spy might be watching me through the crevice in the door, and conscientiously I performed my unpleasant duty.

Only time, the universal panacæa, could remedy this evil. Although my moral sufferings were considerably more painful than the physical ones, time and habit came to my aid, and gained me here also the victory, and after having lived happily through four months, my mind had grown as hardened to any fear or terror as my body to dirt and uncleanliness. The epoch of indifference succeeded, and with it I began to feel the true charms of my adventure. I was attracted above all by the unlimited freedom of our life as vagrants, the total absence of trouble as to food and clothing, the gratuitous manner in which the dervish had everything provided for him, and, in addition, the mental superiority which he exercises over the people at large. No wonder, then, that I lost no opportunity in amply profiting by the advantages of my position. My companions admitted that I possessed eminent talents for the life of a dervish, and whenever the question rose how to get money from hard-hearted villagers, or to beg and collect a larger store of victuals, I was always entrusted with that part of the business. I one day brilliantly justified the confidence thus placed in me, in an encampment of Tchandor Turkomans. These, the wildest of all nomad people, had the reputation of being exceedingly wicked, and Hadjis, Tshans and Dervishes habitually avoided going near their tents. Having been told of this I set out on my way, accompanied by three companions who were known as famous singers, and taking with me a goodly store of holy dust, Zemzem water, tooth-picks, combs and the like gifts, presented by pilgrims. Some received me rather coldly, but yet the son of the desert, however wild he may be, cannot resist the words or the mimics of a dervish's strategy, and not only did I receive ample presents in the shape of wheat, rice, cheese and pieces of felt, but I succeeded in persuading one of the men to load his own ass with this harvest, and take it to our astonished caravan.

Success leads to boldness. No wonder, then, that after several successful expeditions, I assumed a demeanour in which many will trace a certain degree of impudence. And, indeed, I can hardly refute this accusation entirely, but how was I to have done otherwise? No European can realize to himself what it is to stand, a disguised Frenghi, (this word of terror to orientals,) face to face with such a tyrant as the Khan of Khiva, and to have to bestow upon him the customary benediction. If this man were to discover the dangerous trick, this man with the sallow face and sinister look, as he sits there surrounded by his satellites—such an idea is only endurable to a mind steeled to the highest pitch of resolution. At my first audience I appeared really with a step so firm and gesture so bold, as if my presence were to bestow felicity upon the Khan. All looked at me with astonishment, for submissiveness is befitting to the pious and saints. However, they thought such was the custom in Turkey, and I heard no remark made about it.

Such bold measures, however, were seldom necessary, and, in its ordinary routine, the life of a dervish has often given me moments of the greatest happiness. Without feeling any inclination to imitate the Russian Count D——, who, wearied of the artificial life of Europeans, withdrew into one of the valleys of Kashmir, turning beggar-dervish, I must confess that a peculiar feeling of enjoyment came over me when, basking in the warm rays of the autumnal sun, either in some ruin or other solitary spot, I could, in true oriental manner, absorb myself in vacant reflection. It is inexpressibly pleasurable to be rocked in the soft cradle of oriental repose and indifference, when one is without money or profession, free from care and excitement. To us Europeans such an enjoyment of course can only be of very short duration, for if our thoughts turn at such moments toward the distant, ever-active, and stirring west, the great contrast between these two worlds must at once strike the eye, and instinctively we feel attracted towards the latter. European activity and Asiatic repose are the two great subjects which occupy the mind, but we have only to cast our look upon the ruins scattered around us to see which of the two follows the right philosophy of life. Here everything is on the road to ruin and servitude, there everything leads to prosperity and the sovereignty of the world.

These varied scenes of life, in which I moved during my incognito, were far from being devoid of attractions, as many a prejudiced European might imagine, although they naturally could fascinate but for a time. I was truly frightened one day, when the Khan of Khiva proposed to me seriously to marry and settle in Khiva, since persons of such extensive travelling as myself were far from disagreeable to him. The idea of spending my whole life in Turkestan, with an Œzbeg wife for my partner, was horrible, and I should certainly have thrown up my plans if I had been obliged to accept the offer; but, as it is, I shall certainly never repent having spent a few months in an adventure which ended happily. I say never, for even the remembrance of all I experienced is indescribably sweet, and even now, when already more than three years have elapsed since my return, I find every circumstance as fresh in my memory, the whole scene as near and vivid, as if I had arrived with my caravan only last night, and were obliged to start off again on the morrow, and load my ass for the journey; as often as I think back on my fellow-travellers, the most pleasant feelings are re-awakened in remembrance of that intimate and hearty friendship which existed between us. We chatted, laughed, and bantered with each other on our long day's march, as if we could not wish for a more enjoyable existence; it was above all my merry humour which greatly pleased them, and my jokes and puns afforded to them an endless source of amusement when we were alone, for in public we all of us wore the long, stony faces suited to the gravity of our character as holy men. What would they say if they could see me now in the midst of so many unbelievers, and dressed in a garment so ridiculous in their eyes, the forked garment, as they designate European trousers?—me, in whom they and the rest of the world believed to see a true specimen of a western Mahometan Mollah! I must confess that although the pleasant episodes of my incognito are even now frequently the cause of cheerful moments of recollection, the sad hours of suffering and extremity of danger loom like black clouds on the horizon of the present. Their gloomy shadows remind me vividly of past terrors, and even now, whenever I start up in my sleep, haunted by oppressive dreams, it was very often His Majesty, the Khan of Bokhara, or the frightful tortures of thirst, or a fanatic group of Mollahs, who, hastening hither from Central Asia on the wings of Morpheus, honoured me with a visit. How happy do I feel on awaking, to find myself in Europe, in my dear native country, in my peaceful home!

I have often been in critical, nay, extremely critical situations, but on the whole only a few episodes have left behind on me such an impression as never will be effaced, and which, from being associated with the most imminent danger to my life, will never be forgotten by me as long as I live.

I.

The evening in the Khalata desert, when, after having endured for two days the torments of thirst, I felt, with the last drop of water, my vital energies gradually ebbing away. Around me were lying many of my fellow-travellers, suffering, probably, as acutely as myself, to judge from their wild, haggard looks, and rigid features. Raising my heavy head with the greatest effort, I met the glance of those near me. They all seemed to be looking at me with expressions of bitter resentment, for during the afternoon I had heard the old ascetic, Kari Messud, repeat several times, "We are, alas! the propitiatory victims for some great evil-doer who is amongst us in our caravan." Possibly not one of them referred to me, but I felt, nevertheless, full of anxiety. Meanwhile the hour of evening prayer was approaching. Only a few could join in it. The sun was fast setting, and, as the last rays lit up the unhappy group of sufferers in that vast desert, I could not help casting a look towards the spot, where from the horizon he sent his last beams towards me,—that spot, which we call the west, the beloved west, which I had little hope to live to see the next morning again; and with unspeakable sadness I clung to the word 'west;' my half-exhausted senses revived anew, for with the word returned the thought of Europe, of my beloved home, my early departure from this world, the hard struggles of my past life, the wreck of all my aspirations, of all my pleasant hopes. My heart nearly broke with the burden of this great sorrow; I longed to weep, but could not. This moment is one of imperishable memory; the terror of that scene has impressed itself indelibly on my mind, and whenever my thoughts turn towards the Khalata desert it will rise and haunt me like a phantom.

II.

The next occasion was during my audience with the emir of Bokhara, in the palace of Samarkand. This prince, who had been represented to me as a person of doubtful character, had been severely examining my countenance as I sat by his side, in order to discover in me a Frenghi in disguise. The readers of my travels are already acquainted with a part of the conversation that took place between us. I hoped to gain him over to our interests, but it cost me a giant's effort not to betray by my countenance, and especially my eyes, the excitement within me; and, although I shook and trembled in every nerve, I was obliged to suppress even the slightest symptom of fear. An old adept in the part I played, I effectually succeeded in preventing a blush, or any change of colour, but I did not feel confident about the result. Let the reader realise my position, when the emir, after an audience of a quarter of an hour, called to him one of his servants, cautiously whispered something in his ear, and, motioning to me with a serious expression of countenance, ordered me to follow his attendant.

I rose quickly from my seat. The servant led me through room after room, and court after court, whilst the uncertainty of my fate filled me with alarm; and, as oppression of heart breeds none other but images of terror, I fancied that this ominous walk was leading me to the torture-chamber, and to that dreadful death which so often had presented itself to my imagination. After some time we came to a dark room, where my guide ordered me to sit down and wait for his return. I remained standing, but in what state of mind my readers may readily imagine. Perhaps I should have felt less terror could I only have known what my death was to be, but this uncertainty was like the torture of hell, and I shall never forget it as long as I live. With a feverish impatience I counted the minutes, until the door should open again.... A few more seconds of torture and the servant appeared. I fixed my eyes upon him, and perceived by the light that entered through the doorway that he did not bring with him the dreaded instruments of the executioner, but carried under his arm, instead, a carefully folded-up bundle. This contained a dress of honour, presented to me by the emir, as well as the 'viaticum' for my long pilgrim road.

III.

The third instance occurred to me when waiting for the arrival of the Herat caravan on the banks of the Oxus, during the hot days of August, in the company of the Lebab Turkomans. I dwelt in the court of a deserted mosque, and in the evenings the Turkomans usually brought with them one of their collections of songs or ballads, from which I had to read to them aloud, and it gave me especial pleasure to witness the undivided attention with which they listened to the deeds of some popular hero, while the silence of the night air around us was only broken by the hollow murmur of the rolling waters of the Oxus. One evening our reading lasted till near midnight. I felt rather tired, and, unmindful of the advice I had often received, not to sleep in the immediate proximity of ruined buildings, I stretched myself out beside a wall, and soon fell sound asleep. After about an hour I was suddenly awakened by an indescribably violent pain in my foot, and jumping up and screaming aloud, I felt as if hundreds of poisoned needles were shooting through my leg, and concentrating in one small point near the big toe of my right foot. My screams awakened the eldest of the Turkomans, who slept near me, and without questioning me, he exclaimed, "Poor Hadji, a scorpion has bitten thee, and that during the unlucky period of the Saratan (the dog days!) May God help thee!" With these words he seized my foot, and bound it up round the ancle with such violence as if he were going to cut it in two, then searching in all haste with his lips for the wounded spot, he sucked with such force that I felt it all through my body. Another soon took his place, and two more bandages having been applied they left me with these words of comfort, that, if it be the will of Allah, between now and the hour of the next morning prayer, it would be seen whether I should be released from pain, or freed from the follies of this world of vanity.

Although I felt completely maddened by the itching, pricking and burning, which kept increasing more and more in violence, yet I remembered the legend of the scorpions of Belkh, well known for their venomous nature even in ancient times. The reasonable apprehension of death rendered the pain still more unbearable, and that, after many hours of suffering, I really did surrender all hopes of recovery, was shown by the fact that, forgetting my incognito, I began to pour out my lament in expressions and sounds which, as the Tartars afterwards told me, appeared to them extremely droll, since they are in the habit of using them when shouting for joy. It is remarkable that the pain spread in a few minutes from the toe to the top of the head, but only on the right side, and kept flowing up and down me like a stream of fire. No words can describe the torment I had to undergo the hour after midnight. Loathing any longer to live, I was about to dash my head to pieces by beating it upon the ground, but my companions observed my intention and tied me fast to a tree. Thus I lay for hours, half fainting, whilst the cold sweat of death was running down me, and my eyes turned fixedly towards the stars. The Pleiades were gradually sinking in the west, and whilst awaiting in perfect consciousness the voice that calls to prayer, or rather the break of morning, a gentle sleep fell upon me, from which I was soon roused by the monotonous la illah il Allah.

No sooner was I fully awake when I was sensible of a faint diminution of the pain. The pricking and burning disappeared more and more, in the same way as it had come, and the sun had not yet risen a lance's height over the horizon when I was able, though weak and exhausted, to rise to my feet. My companions assured me that the devil, having entered my body through the bite of the scorpion, had been scared away by the morning prayer, a fact I dared not of course discredit. But that terrible night will for ever remain engraven on my memory.

It is these three events which were the critical moments in my adventures in Central Asia. As to the rest, the many curious eyes that scrutinised me, the various suspicions I laboured under, as well as the unspeakable fatigues of travelling in the guise of a beggar, all these privations and obstacles have left behind but few sad remembrances. The fascinations in seeing those strange countries, for which my eyes were longing from the earliest days of my youth, possessed in itself a charm at once animating and invigorating, for, except in the few cases just mentioned, I felt always particularly cheerful and happy. This much is certain, that I often miss, in my present civilised European life, the bodily and mental activity of those days, and who knows but that I may, in after years, wish that time to return, when, enveloped in tatters and without shelter, but vigorous and high in spirits, I wandered through the steppes of Central Asia.

CHAPTER III.

FROM MY JOURNAL.

AMONGST THE TURKOMANS.

13th April.

Struck with astonishment and surprise at the strange, social relations, amongst which I was to-day living for the first time, I was sitting in the early morning hours upon one and the same carpet with Khandjan, my hospitable host, listening with eager attention to his descriptions of Turkoman life and manners. He was one of the most influential chiefs amongst the nomads, by nature an upright man, and anxious to make me acquainted with the faults as well as the merits of his countrymen; for being firmly convinced of my Turkish and semi-official character, he hoped to gain, through my position with the Sultan, on whom the whole Sunnitish world relies, assistance against Russians and Persians. He spoke with zeal, without betraying it outwardly; and after having given me his first lesson he rose, to show me, as he said, his house and court-yard, or in our phraseology, to make me acquainted with the ladies of the family. This is a very especial mark of distinction among Asiatic nations; however, a man supposed to be an agent of the Sultan, well deserves such an attention; and accordingly I endeavoured, by my attitude in sitting, my whole mien and carriage, to show myself worthy of it.

After a few minutes I heard a strange clattering and clinking, the curtain of the tent was raised, and there entered a whole crowd of women, girls and children, who, headed by a corpulent and tolerably old matron, walked towards the place where I was sitting. They were evidently as much struck as myself by the scene; looking timidly around, the young women cast down their eyes, whilst the children clung with evident signs of fear to the clothes of their parents. Khandjan introduced the matron to me as his mother. She was about sixty years old, in the primitive costume of a long, red silk garment, and wearing across her chest, to the right and left, several large as well as small silver sheaths, in which as many talismans of great virtue were preserved; some even were inlaid with precious stones, as were also a considerable number of armlets, necklaces and anklets,—the heirlooms of the family through several generations, and, to judge from their appearance, bearing the traces of high antiquity. The other women and children were likewise arrayed in ornaments of a similar kind, varying, however, with the wearer's rank and position in the favour of their lord and master. The clothes themselves are often torn and dirty, and are looked upon as quite a matter of secondary importance; but a Turkoman lady is not fashionably dressed, unless she carries about her person one or two pounds of silver in ornaments.

The old lady was the first to extend her wrinkled hands for the customary greeting, the others followed, and, after the young girls and children had embraced me,—for such is the rule of the bon ton,—all squatted down around me in a semicircle and began to question me about my health, welfare, and happy arrival. Each one addressed me three or four times on the same subject. I had to return just as many answers; and not in Europe alone does it happen that a circle of ladies may perplex and embarrass an inexperienced Solomon: even in the desert of Central Asia the like may occur. Everywhere among the nomad people of the Mahomedan East the women lose more and more their moral and physical attributes, the older they grow. During my first interview I was obliged to reply to the most delicate questions of the younger portion; whilst the elder ones conversed on religion, politics, and the domestic relations of the neighbouring tribes. I had to guard against exhibiting surprise at the manner of either of them; the younger women I succeeded in inspiring with awe for my strict virtue as a Mollah, and the elderly ones received an ample share of blessings. Several men, neighbours and relatives, arrived during this visit, but they caused no disturbance or discomposure among the ladies, who enjoy, as I have often had the opportunity of observing, a certain respect, although they are exclusively the working class of the community. And indeed the Turkoman women deserve such, for nowhere in the East have I met with their equals in exemplary virtue, devotion to their families, and indefatigable industry.

This visit lasted nearly an hour, and towards the end of it I had to write several talismans, in return for which the women presented me with sundry small gifts, their own handwork. The old lady came several times afterwards to visit me; once I even accompanied her to the tumulus which is raised over the remains of her husband, in order to pray for the soul of the departed. The good understanding between us two struck even the nomads: however, at present the reason for it is sufficiently clear to me. In the first instance a certain foreign look in my appearance, as well as the halo of piety which surrounded me, had attracted her, at the same time that I was ever ready to lend a patient ear to her conversations; listening attentively to her discourses on the short-comings of the Persian female slaves in her household, on the want of skill in the women of the present day, in weaving carpets, preparing felt, &c., interspersing now and then an observation of my own, as if I had been accustomed to these subjects from my youth and took an especial interest in all the details of a nomad household.

And, after all, this is the philosophy of life that should guide a traveller everywhere, if he wishes to learn anything. Here, for instance, a pliant demeanour proved of considerable use, since the affection of the old matron towards me contributed in a great measure to render my residence amongst the Turkomans agreeable,—a people, amongst whom not even an Asiatic stranger can move freely, still less an European.

16th April.

I entered the tent of Khandjan after the morning prayer and found here a whole company, listening with the greatest attention to the narrative of a young Turkoman, who was covered with dust and dirt, and whose face bore evident traces of excitement and severe hardships. He was describing in a low voice, but in lively colours, a marauding excursion against the Persians of the evening before, in which he had taken part. Whilst he was speaking, the women, servants and slaves (what must have been the thoughts of these latter), squatted down around the circle of listeners, and many a curse was hurled at the slaves, the clanking of the chains on their feet interrupting for a time the general quiet. It struck me as remarkable, that, in proportion as the speaker warmed in describing the obstinate resistance of the unfortunate people, who were fallen on unawares, the indignation of the audience increased at the audacity of the Persians, not to have at once quietly submitted to being plundered.

No sooner was the narration of this great feat of arms at an end when all rose to their feet to have a look at the spoils, the sight of which excites in the Turkoman's breast a mixed feeling of envy and pleasure. I followed them likewise, and a terrible picture presented itself to my eyes. Lying down in the middle of the tent were two Persians, looking deadly pale and covered with clotted blood, dirt and dust. A man was busily engaged in putting their broken limbs into fetters, when one of them gave a loud, wild shriek, the rings of the chains being too small for him. The cruel Turkoman was about to fasten them forcibly round his ancles. In a corner sat two young children on the ground, pale and trembling, and looking with sorrowful eyes towards the tortured Persian. The unhappy man was their father; they longed to weep, but dared not;—one look of the robber, at whom they stole a glance now and then, with their teeth chattering, was sufficient to suppress their tears. In another corner a girl, from fifteen to sixteen years old, was crouching, her hair dishevelled and in confusion, her garments torn and almost entirely covered with blood. She groaned and sobbed, covering her face with her hands. Some Turkoman woman, moved either by compassion or curiosity, asked her what ailed her, and where she was wounded. "I am not wounded," she exclaimed, in a plaintive voice, deeply touching. "This blood is the blood of my mother, my only one, and the best and kindest of mothers. Oh! ana djan, ana djan (dear mother)!" Thus she lamented, striking her head against the trellised wood-work of the tent, so that it almost tumbled down. They offered her a draught of water, and her tongue became loosened, and she told them how she (of course a valuable prize) had been lifted into the saddle beside the robber, but that her mother, tied to the stirrups, had been obliged to run along on foot. After an hour's running in this manner, she grew so tired that she sank down exhausted every moment. The Turkoman tried to increase her strength by lashing her with his whip, but this was of no avail; and as he did not want to remain behind from his troop he grew in a rage, drew his sword, and in a second struck off her head. The blood spirting up, had covered the daughter, horseman and horse; and, looking at the red spots upon her clothes, the poor girl wept loud and bitterly.

Whilst this was going on in the interior of the tent, outside the various members of the robbers' family were busy inspecting the booty he had brought home. The elder women seized greedily upon one or another utensil for domestic use, whilst the children, who were jumping about merrily, were trying on the different garments,—now one, now another, and producing shouts of laughter.

Here all was triumph and merriment; not far from it a picture of the deepest grief and misery. And yet no one is struck by the contrast; every one thinks it very natural that the Turkoman should enrich himself with robbery and pillage.

And these terrible social relations exist within scarcely a fortnight's distance from Europe, travelling by St. Petersburg, Nishnei Novogorod, and Astrakhan!

18th April.

Eliaskuli, who dwelt in the fourth tent from mine on the banks of the Görgen, was a "retired" Turkoman, who, up to his thirtieth year, had carried on the usual profession of kidnapping and pillaging, and had now retired from business, in order, as he said, to spend the rest of this futile, ridiculous life (fani dünya) here below in the pious exercise of the law; as far as I know, however, it is because several shot wounds of the "hellish" weapons at Ashurada prevented him from carrying on any longer his infamous trade. He was in hopes I might invoke upon his wicked head every blessing of heaven by my prayers, and to this effect he narrated to me, with many details, how the Russians, after having declared a religious war, had once landed here, and attacked and set fire to all the tents that stood on the banks of the Görgen. This religious war was in fact nothing else than that the Russians wanted to release some countrymen of theirs, whom these robbers had carried off prisoners, but the fight lasted more than a whole day. He added, that although the Russians, being too cowardly to come near, shot only from a distance, yet the valiant Gazis (religious combatants) could not resist their devilish arts, that he too received at that time some death wounds, and was a whole day without giving a sign of life, until at last his Pir (spiritual chief) called him back into existence.

This same Eliaskuli offered to accompany me to-day to the Ova of the Ana Khan, who is the chief of the Yarali tribe, and dwells on the upper Görgen, close to the Persian frontier. From curiosity, perhaps, or some other motive, he wished to make my acquaintance. Our road lay for some time along the left bank of the river, but soon we were obliged to make a considerable circuit, in order to avoid the large marshes and morasses. Unacquainted as the people around me were with my motives for travelling, I laid myself open to suspicion, no doubt; but the experience of a few days calmed my fears for the security of my position, and indeed all misgivings vanished, when I saw how the people, whenever we were passing some tent on our route, came towards me with milk, cheese and other presents, asking for my blessing. Thus I rode on in high spirits, troubled at nothing but the heavy Turkoman felt cap, on the top of which in addition several yards of linen were folded round in the shape of a turban, and the heavy musket on my back, which for propriety's sake I was obliged to carry, in spite of my character as Mollah. Eliaskuli sometimes remained behind for full half an hour, but I continued my way alone, meeting now and then a few marauding stragglers, who, returning home empty from some unsuccessful foray, measured me with sinister looks from head to foot. Some saluted me, others only asked, "Whose guest art thou, Mollah?" in order to judge from my personality whether it was feasible to plunder me or not; but no sooner did I reply "Kelte Khandjan Bay," when they rode on in evident displeasure, muttering in their beard an abrupt "Aman bol," (farewell.)

Towards evening we arrived at the tents, together with Khandjan, who, having taken a different road, had joined us on the way. Ana Khan, the patriarchal chief, a man about sixty years of age, was seated on the green slope of a hill, surrounded by his grandchildren and little children, (it is only in the east that one meets with people, thus related to one another, of the same age,) watching them with looks of pleasure, as also the flocks of sheep and herds of camels who were returning home from their rich pasturage. Our reception was short, but friendly. Walking before us, he conducted us into the ready prepared tent, where I was appointed to the seat of honour; the proper conversation, however, not beginning until the very last remnants of the sheep, killed expressly for the occasion, had disappeared from the table. Ana Khan spoke little, but he listened attentively to my description of Turkish life and Russo Turkish relations. The next morning, however, he grew rather more talkative, and he began by treating us with the narrative of an act of hospitality on his part towards an English iltshi (ambassador) on his way to Khiva. I guessed at once that this must have been the mission of Mr. William T. Thomson, who was sent thither by his government to adjust the differences between Persia and the Khan of Khiva. Ana Khan, in describing the arms, trinkets and person of the Frenghi ambassador, laid such particular stress upon the resemblance of his features to mine, that the cause of his curiosity was at once evident, as well as his reason for wishing me to visit him. Looking significantly and with glowing eyes at his countrymen, as if to persuade them of the keenness of his perceptions, he came close up to me, and gently tapping me on the shoulder, said, "Efendi! the Tura (rule) of the Sultan of Rum is held in high honour amongst us; first, he is the prince of all the Sunnites; secondly, Turkomans and Osmanlis are blood-relations, and thou art our honoured guest, although thou hast brought us no presents." In this remark I read much, but inferred still more from it. My incognito, then, as dervish, did not always meet with implicit belief. The majority, however, especially the Mollahs, trusted in me, and single sceptics did not by any means cause me disquiet.

I observed, moreover, that Khandjan did not share the views of Ana Khan, the subject was never again broached, and I enjoyed the full hospitality of the suspicious chieftain.

20th April.

In distant Mergolan, in the Khanat of Khokand, religious zeal recommends the frequent collection of money among the people, to support the high schools at Medina, which town possesses a large number of such institutions. Here, at the fountain-head of Islamism, ardent students crowd together, eager interpreters of the Koran, who, under the protecting Ægis of their pious occupation, are supported in luxurious idleness by all the Mahometan countries far and near. Stipends arrive here from distant Fez and Morocco; the chiefs of the Algerine tribes send their annual gifts; Tunis, Tripolis and Egypt as well as other smaller Mahommedan states, send hither their tribute. Turkey vies with Persia in the support of these pupils. The Tartar, living under Russian protection, the native of India, subject to English dominion, all give freely to the high schools of Medina. And yet all this is not deemed sufficient; even the poor inhabitants of the oasis in Turkestan are asked to contribute their mite.

It was at the time of my travels in Central Asia, that Khodja Buzurk, the much-revered saint in those parts, had collected, no doubt by dint of immense assiduity, 400 ducats for Medina. Mollah Esad, the confidential friend of His Holiness, was commissioned to take the sum to its destination. Although in Central Asia the possession of money, the great source of danger for its possessor, is always kept secret, yet the above-mentioned Mollah made no mystery of the object of his journey, in the hope of enlarging his fund. Bokhara, Khiva and other towns he visited had contributed to increase it, and in the belief of meeting with equal success among the Turkomans, he entered upon his journey through the desert, relying upon his letters of recommendation to several of the nomad learned men.

He reached Gömüshtepe without any mishap, but with the news of his arrival there spread simultaneously that of the contents of his travelling bag. The Turkomans were told at the same time that the money was destined for a pious object, but this did not trouble them. Each man endeavoured to catch him before he became the guest of any one, for until a traveller enjoys the rights of hospitality he is completely unprotected among the nomads; he may be plundered, killed, sold into captivity,—there is no one to call the offender to account. The host alone it is, whose vengeance is dreaded; whosoever is taken under his protection is looked upon as a member of his family, and is tolerably secure from attack.

With these facts our Khokand Mollah must have been acquainted, and nevertheless he trusted to the mere lustre of his religious zeal. One morning, having gone a short distance from the caravan, he was fallen upon by two Turkoman men, and plundered of all his money. No entreaties on his part, no appeal to the holiness of his mission, no threats of terrible and condign punishment, nothing was of any avail; they stripped him even of his clothes, and left him nothing but his old books and papers. Thus he returned to the caravan, stunned and half naked. This happened about a fortnight before my arrival, during which time the delinquents were found out and summoned before the religious tribunal. In my position, as Mollah from Constantinople, I had the good luck to be honoured with a seat in court, and the scene at which I was present, and in which I took an active part, will long remain vivid in my recollection. We, that is to say, the learned men, had assembled in a field, where we were sitting in the open air, forming a semi-circle, and holding large volumes in our hands, surrounded by a great crowd, who were eager with curiosity. The robbers made their appearance accompanied by their families and the chief of their tribe, without betraying the least embarrassment, just as if they had come for the settlement of some honest transaction. When questioned, who has taken the money? the culprit answered in the haughtiest tone, "I have taken it." I felt sure from the very beginning that a restitution of money would never be made. Most of the council having exhausted their talents of rhetoric by endless quotations from the Koran, it was my turn to try and impress the hero, and I did so by pointing out to him the wickedness of his deed. "What wickedness!" the Turkoman exclaimed, "is robbery punished in thy country? This is strange indeed! I should have thought that the Sultan, the Lord of the Universe, was a man of more sense. If robbery is not permitted amongst you, how do thy people live?"

Another Mollah threatened him with the Sheriat (religious precepts,) and depicted in glowing colours the punishments of hell, which the Turkoman had to expect in another world. "What Sheriat?" he replied, "each man his own! Thou, Mollah, possessest laws and precepts in thy tongue, which thou twistest as thou likest, I possess my Sheriat in my good sword, which I brandish whenever my arm commands!" After long and fruitless exhortations, and equally long consultations amongst the grey-beards, our sitting was closed without any success on our part. The Turkoman went away with his money, which he spent in furnishing himself with new weapons, instead of its being sent to Medina towards the support of her students. Mollah Esad returned with a sad heart to Khokand, having learnt from bitter experience that the Turkomans, although calling themselves orthodox, are the blackest Kafirs on the face of the earth.

6th May.

Oraz Djan, a young, daring and wild looking Turkoman, of about eighteen years old, who had taken part in marauding excursions ever since he was twelve, was a daily guest in our tent at Etrek, in order to listen to the Pir (spiritual chief) of the kidnapping robbers, in his discourses on religion and moral philosophy. It happened one day, that Omer Akhond, a Mollah from the neighbourhood, was present, a man celebrated for his great knowledge, and still better known as the owner of a particularly excellent horse. The animal was spoken of, and every one was loud in the praise of its high qualities, when young Oraz, catching fire on hearing this, called out half in earnest, half in joke, "Akhond, I will give thee three asses and a Persian for thy horse. It is a pity that it should rest in the stable, whilst the Persians so freely wander in their fields. But, if thou dost not consent, then mark my words, in a few days it will be stolen from thee!" The Mollah and Pir rebuked him severely, but he laughed aloud wildly, and the conversation continued as before.

Scarcely four days had passed when the Mollah entered our tent one morning with tears in his eyes, and looking very sad. "My horse has been stolen from me," he exclaimed with a sigh, "thou alone, Kulkhan, canst restore it to me. Let me entreat thee, by the love of the Tshiharyar (the four first chiefs,) do thy utmost!" "This is the work of the Haramzade (Bastard) Oraz," muttered Kulkhan, "you will see, I shall tear his black soul from out of his dirty body."

At the time of evening prayer our amiable Oraz was, as usual, among the rest of our orthodox friends, who assembled on the terrace-like height, where stands the mosque of the desert, and certainly no one would have guessed, from his devotional expression at his prayers, that this very day he had been robbing a father of the church. When after the Namaz all formed the customary circle (Khalka,) Oraz did not fail to come. Kulkhan at once addressed him with, "Young fellow! The horse of the Mollah has been stolen, thou knowest where it is; to-morrow morning he must be again in his stable, do you hear me?" This address caused the young robber not the least embarrassment. Playing with one hand in the sand, and with the other pushing on one side his heavy fur hat, he replied, "I have the horse, but I shall not return it; he who wants it must fetch it." These words, I thought, would have roused the indignation of every one present, but not a trace of it was seen in the features of one of the company. Kulkhan went on speaking to him in his former quiet tone of voice, but the robber insisted on refusing to restore the horse, and when some of the grey-beards began to use threats, he, too, caught fire, and having turned to his spiritual chief with "Hast thou done better with the mare of the Hadji?" rose and left the company; and for some time was heard singing aloud the refrain of the poem Körogli, in the still evening air, thus proving sufficiently his joy at the victory he had gained.

A considerable time was spent in consultation after he was gone. No one ventured to attack him, since his tribe, according to custom, would have taken him under their protection, in spite of his abominable conduct, and they were too powerful to risk an attack. Spiritual aid, therefore, had to be called in, and that it should have taken immediate effect is not to be marvelled at.

According to the Deb no greater punishment can befal a living man, than to be accused before the shade of his departed father or ancestor. This is done by planting a lance upon the top of the grave, and fastening to it a couple of blood-stained rags, if murder has been committed, and for any other crime a broken bow. Such an appeal unites the Turkomans as one man against the offender and his tribe, and how deep an effect it has on the mind of the culprit, I saw on this occasion, for no sooner did Oraz perceive the lance fixed upon the high Yoska of his grandfather, when in the silence of the following night he led the horse back to the tent of the Mollah, and tied it to its former place. This act of restitution, as he himself told me, will pain him for a long time to come. But it is better to lie in the black earth than to have disturbed the repose of one's ancestors.

CHAPTER IV.

THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT.

"The Chil menzili Turkestan, or the Forty Stations across the desert of Turkestan," I often heard my friends say, "are far more troublesome and much more difficult to get over than the Chil menzili Arabistan, or the Forty Stations on the Pilgrims' route from Damascus to Mecca. On this last one finds every day fresh cisterns, which furnish drinkable water for thousands; the pilgrim is sure to get fresh bread, a good dish of pilaw or meat, cool shade, and all the comforts he longs for after the exhausting day's march. But on the former route, man has done nothing for the support of the poor traveller. He is in constant danger of dying from thirst, of being murdered, of being sold as a slave, of being robbed, or of being buried alive under the burning sand-storm. Well-filled water-skins and flour sacks, the best horses and arms, often become useless, and there is nothing left to one but to strive to get forward as fast as possible, while invoking the name of Allah."

The readers of my "Travels in Central Asia," may be supposed to have some idea of the awfully imposing journey from Persia to the oasis-lands of Turkestan. I may here furnish a few additional particulars about the experience of our caravan. I have several times been blamed for being too concise to be graphic, and this charge, I confess, is not altogether undeserved. I propose here to make up for my faults of omission.

During the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence of the desert—a silence as of the grave—cast a most powerful spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes fixed on the distance before me, and as my companions believed me to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed. I only half observed how, during the march, certain members of our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by their ludicrous movements and sudden starts afforded our company exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep would lay hold of the high pummel of the saddle with both his hands, but this did not prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward one, threatening to fall with a summersault to the ground. Indeed this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness.

The most inexhaustible fountain of cheerfulness was a young Turkoman, named Niyazbirdi, who possessed no less liveliness of spirits than agility of body, and by every word and movement contrived to draw laughter from the most venerable of the Mollahs. Although he was owner of several laden camels, he was, nevertheless, for the most part, accustomed to go on foot; and running now right, now left, he alarmed by cries or gestures any group of wild asses that showed themselves along our route. Once, indeed, he succeeded in getting hold of a young wild ass, which, through fatigue, had loitered behind the rest. The young shy creature was led along by a rope, and was the occasion of really droll scenes, when its lucky captor gave a prize of three spoonfuls of sheeps-tail fat to any one who dared to mount it. Three spoonfuls of mutton fat is a tempting prize for Hadjis in the desert, so that many were seduced by the prospect of gaining it. Nevertheless, they could make nothing of this uncivilized brother of Balaam's charger, for the unfortunate Hadjis had no sooner seated themselves on its back than they were stretched sprawling in the sand.

Only after a march of several hours is general weariness to be remarked. All eyes are then turned towards the Kervan bashi, whose gaze at such a time wanders in every direction to spy out a suitable halting place, that is to say, one which will afford most plentiful fodder for the camels. No sooner has he found such, than he himself hastens towards it, while the younger members of the caravan disperse themselves to right and left to collect dried roots, or scrub, or other fuel. Dismounting, unpacking, and settling down, is the work of a few moments. The hope of much-desired rest restores the exhausted strength. With speed the ropes are slackened, with speed the heaviest bales of merchandize are piled up in little heaps, in whose shade the wearied traveller is accustomed to stretch himself. Scarcely have the hungry camels betaken themselves to their pasture-ground when a solemn stillness fills the caravan. This stillness is, I may say, a sort of intoxication, for every one revels in the enjoyment of rest and refreshment.

The picture of a newly-encamped caravan in the summer months, and on the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the camels, in the distance but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush the juicy thistles, the travellers, even the poorest among them, sit with their tea-cups in their hands and eagerly sip the costly beverage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still human art has discovered no food, has invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing in the desert, as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid recollection of its wonder-working effects. As I sipped the first drops a soft fire filled my veins, a fire which enlivened without intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the eye became peculiarly bright and began to gleam. In such moments I felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions sank in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes.

After the tea has restored their strength the caravan becomes gradually busier and noisier. They eat in groups or circles which are here called kosh, which represent the several houses of the wandering town. Everywhere there is something to be done, and everywhere it is the younger men who are doing it, while their elders are smoking. Here they are baking bread. A Hadji in rags is actively kneading the black dough with dirty hands. He has been so engaged for half an hour, and still his hands are not clean, for one mass of dough cannot absorb the accumulations of several days. There they are cooking. In order to know what is being cooked, it is not necessary to look round. The smell of mutton-fat, but especially the aroma, somewhat too piquant, of camel or horse-cutlets, tells its own tale. Nor have the dishes when cooked anything inviting to the eye. But in the desert a man does not disturb himself about such trifles. An enormous appetite covers a multitude of faults, and hunger is notoriously the best of sauces.

Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in sleeping, or in attending to their toilet. I say "toilet," but it is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As to the toilet of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I leave as a riddle for the reader to solve.

Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty and privations, he is accustomed to, even at home. No wonder, then, that he sits content in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly. They thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers. The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which prevailed far and wide; and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied, they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are the blessings of civilization from these countries!

So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to his fellows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain; by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which, marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed under the direction of the Kervan bashi. The bales of goods are heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place, and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of any enemy from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who sleep within the rayon find themselves in immediate contact with these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could be angry with these animals, who, although ugly in appearance, are so patient, so temperate, so good-tempered, and so useful?

It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles, which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks, nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions, the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is, besides, so patient and so obedient that a child can with one "tshukh" make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with a "berrr" get up again. How much could I not read in their large dark blue eyes! When the march is too long or the sand too deep, they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness. This is especially when they are being laden, if too heavy bales are piled upon their backs. Bending under the burden, they turn their heads round towards their master; in their eyes gleam tears, and their groans, so deep, so piteous, seem to say, "Man, have compassion upon us!"

Except during a particular season of the year, when through the operation of the laws of nature it is in a half-intoxicated, half-stupefied condition, the camel has always a striking impression of seriousness. It is impossible not to recognise in its features the Chaldee-aramæan type, and in whatever portions of the earth he may be found at the present day, his original home is unquestionably Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. The Turkomans disturb this serious expression of countenance by the barbarous manner in which they arrange the leading-rope through the bored nose. With the string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in the air, and both are alike led by the nose.

As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start. The Kervan bashi is the first to rouse himself. At his call or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the halting-place there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean, and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot seems to their eyes like a splendid caravanserai, and the thought that here human beings have been, that here life once was active, makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home.

Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded of those vast burnt plains, often many days' march in extent, which I met with in the desert between Persia and Khiva, and of which I heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of the nomads. During the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can with difficulty escape. It rolls over the scanty herbage like an overflowing stream, and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, it flares up with wild wrath. Thus traversing large tracts of country in a short time, its raging course can only be checked by a river or a lake. At night such conflagrations must present a terrible appearance, when far and wide the horizon is lit up with a sea of flame. Even the bravest heart loses its courage at the appalling sight. The cowardly and hesitating are soon destroyed, but one who has sufficient presence of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire can man contend against fire with success.

This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind blows they can easily fly before the slowly-advancing fire; but it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least breath of wind, and the fugitives find a united death in the very means they had taken to secure their safety.

It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustyort, running towards the north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid optical illusions which one can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of cities, towers, and castles dancing in the air, of vast caravans, horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which continually disappeared from one place to reappear in another. As for my nomad companions, they regarded the neighbourhoods where these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their opinion these are ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our Kervan bashi asserted that he also saw the same figures in the same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in the air over the spot where we had perished.

These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads, and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not far removed from the new European theory, which maintains that such tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes in their social state. As examples are cited the great Sahara of Africa and the desert of central Arabia, where cultivable land is not so much wanting as industrious hands. As regards these last countries, the assertion is probably not without some truth, but it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was in the last century more cultivation than at present; but, taken as the whole, these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water, the expanses—many hundred miles in extent—of deep loose sand, the extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a central Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath; for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice."

CHAPTER V.

THE TENT AND ITS INHABITANTS.

An able critic of my "Travels in Central Asia" wrote—"Mr. Vambéry wandered because he has the wild spirit of dervishism strong within him." On first reading this it struck me as a little too strong, and I shall ever protest against such attribution of the title of vagabond, however refined may be the terms in which it is couched. Still I must candidly confess that the tent, the snail shell of the nomad, if I may be allowed so to call it, has left on my memory an ineffaceable impression. It certainly is a very curious feeling which comes over one when he compares the light tent with such seas of stone buildings as make up our European cities. The vice of dervishism is, to be sure, contagious, but happily not for everybody, so that there is no danger in accompanying me for a little while to Central Asia, and glancing at the contrast there presented to our fixed, stable mode of life.

It is almost noonday. A Kirghiz family, which has packed house and household furniture on the backs of a few camels, moves slowly over the desert towards a spot indicated to them by the raised lance of a distant horseman. The caravan rests, according to nomad notions of rest, while thus on the march, to become lively and busy when they settle themselves down to repose according to our ideas. Nevertheless, the elder women seated on the bunches of camels (for the younger ones travel on foot), grudge themselves repose even then, and occupy their time in spinning a sort of yarn for sacks out of the coarser camels' hair. Only the marriageable daughter of the family enjoys the privilege of being completely at leisure on her shambling beast. She is polishing her necklace of coins, Russian, Ancient Bactrian, Mongolian, or Chinese, which hangs down to her waist. So engrossed is she in her employment, that an European numismatist might take her for a fellow connoisseur; nevertheless not a movement of the young Kirghizes, who seek to distinguish themselves by all manner of equestrian gymnastics, as they caracole around the caravan, escapes her notice.

At last the spot fixed on by the guide is reached. An inhabitant of cities might imagine that now the greatest confusion would arise. But no—everybody has his appointed office, everybody knows what he has to do, everything has its fixed place. While the pater-familias unsaddles his cooled horse and lets him loose on the pasture, the younger lads collect, with frightful clamour, the sheep and the camels, which are only too disposed to wander. They must stay to be milked. Meanwhile the tent has been taken down. The old matron seizes on the latticed framework and fixes it in its place, spitting wildly right and left as she does so. Another makes fast the bent rods which form the vaulting of the roof. A third sets on the top of all a sort of round cover or lid, which serves the double purpose of chimney and window. While they are covering the woodwork with curtains of felt, the children inside have already hung up the provision-sacks, and placed the enormous tripod on the crackling fire. This is all done in a few moments. Magical is the erection, and as magical is the disappearance of the nomad's habitation. Still, however, the noise of the sheep and camels, of screaming women and crying children, resounds about the tent. They form, indeed, a strange chorus in the midst of the noonday silence of the desert. Milking-time, the daily harvest of these pastoral tribes is, however, the busiest time in the twenty-four hours. Especial trouble is given by the greedy children, whose swollen bellies are the result and evidence of an unlimited appetite for milk. The poor women have much to suffer from the vicious or impatient disposition of the beasts; but, although the men are standing by, the smallest help is rigorously refused, as it would be held the greatest disgrace for a man to take any part in work appointed to women.

Once, when I had, in Ettrek, obtained by begging a small sack of wheat, and was about to grind it in a handmill, the Turkomans around me burst out into shouts of laughter. Shocked and surprised, I asked the reason of their scornful mirth, when one approached me in a friendly manner and said: "It is a shame for you to take in hand woman's work. But Mollahs and Hadjis are of course deficient in secular savoir faire, and one pardons them a great many such mistakes."

After the supply of milk has been collected, and all the bags of skins (for vessels of wood or of earthenware are purely articles of luxury) have been filled, the cattle, small and great, disperse themselves over the wide plain. The noise gradually dies away. The nomad retires into his tent, raises the lower end of the felt curtain, and while the west wind, rustling through the fretted wood-work, lulls him to sleep, the women outside set to work on a half-finished piece of felt. It is certainly an interesting sight to see how six, often more, of the daughters of the desert, in rank and file, roll out under their firm footsteps the felt which is wrapped up between two rush mats. An elderly lady leads this industrial dance and gives the time. It is she who can always tell in what place the stuff will be loose or uneven. The preparation of the felt, without question the simplest fabric which the mind of man has invented, is still in the same stage among these wandering tribes as when first discovered. The most common colour is grey. Particoloured felt is an article of luxury, and snowy white is only used on the most solemn occasions. Carpets are only to be found among the richer tribes, such as the Turkomans and the Œzbegs, as they require more skill in their manufacture and a closer contact with more advanced civilization. The inwoven patterns are for the most part taken from European pocket-handkerchiefs and chintzes; and I was always surprised at the skill with which the women copied them, or, what is still more surprising, imitated them from memory after having once seen them.

While the poor women are fatiguing themselves with their laborious occupation, their lord and master is accustomed to snore through his noonday siesta. Soon the cattle return from their pasture ground and collect around the tent. Scarcely does the afternoon begin to grow cooler, than the migrating house is in a trice broken up, everything replaced on the backs of the camels, and the whole party in full march. This is already the second day of their journey, and yet all, men and beasts, are as lively as if they had dwelt for years on the spot, and, at length released from the talons of ennui, were delighted at the prospects of a change.

Long after sunset, while the endless waste of the desert is gradually being over-canopied by the clear starry heaven, the caravan still plods steadily, in order to rest during the colder hours of the night under the shelter of their warm felts. Quickly is their colossal batterie de cuisine placed on the fire; still more quickly is it emptied. No European can have any idea of the voracious appetite of a nomad.

The caravan has been scarcely an hour encamped before everybody has supped and retired to rest; the older members of the family within the tent, the younger ones in the open air, their flocks around them. Only where a marriageable maiden lives is there any movement to be found. Among the nomad tribes of Central Asia, Islamism has not succeeded in carrying into effect its rigorous restrictions on the social intercourse of the sexes. The harem is here entirely unknown. The young nomad always knows by what star to direct his course in order to find the tent of his adored on the trackless desert. His appearance is seldom unexpected. The nomad young lady has already divined from what quarter the hoof-tramp will sound through the nightly stillness, and has already taken up an advanced post in that direction. It is scarcely necessary to observe that the conversation of the two children of the desert, in this their tender rendezvous, is not quite in unison with our ideas of æsthetical propriety; but poetry is to be found everywhere, nay, I might say, is more at home in the desert than in these western countries. Sometimes a whole company of loving couples come together, and on such occasions the dialogue, which must be in rhyme and adorned with the richest flowers of Tartar metaphor, seems as if it would never come to an end. I was at first enchanted with listening to such conversation; but how irritated I was when I had to pass the night in the same tent with such amorous society, and in spite of all the fatigue of the day could not find quiet slumbers to refresh me!

The above is but a faint picture of the life of the nomads during the more agreeable portion of the year. In winter, especially in the more elevated regions, where severe cold prevails, this wandering life loses everything which can give it the least tinge of poetry in our eyes. Even the inhabitants of the cities of Central Asia marvel that the nomads can support life in the bleak open country, amid fearful storms and long weeks of snow. Indeed, with a cold of 30° Réaumur, it cannot be very pleasant to live in a tent; still even this occasions no serious inconvenience to the hardy child of Nature. Himself wrapped up in a double suit of clothes, he doubles the felt hangings of his tent, which is pitched in a valley or some other sheltered spot. Besides this the number of its inhabitants is increased, and when the saksaul (the root of a tree hard as stone and covered with knobs) begins to give out its heat, which lasts for hours, the want of a settled home is quite forgotten. The family circle is drawn closer round the hearth. The daughter of the house must continually hand round the skin of kimis. This favourite beverage opens the heart and looses the tongue. When, furthermore, a bakhshi (troubadour) is present to enliven the winter evenings with his lays, then even the howling of the tempest without serves as music.

When no extraordinary natural accidents, such as sand-storms or snow-storms, break in upon his regular course of life, the nomad is happy; indeed, I may say, as happy as any civilization in the world could make him. As the nations of Central Asia have but very few wants, poverty is rare among them, and where it occurs, is by no means so depressing as with us. The lives of the inhabitants of the desert would glide peacefully away, were it not for the tendency to indulge in feuds and forays—a leading feature in their character. War, everywhere a curse, there draws after it the most terrible consequences which can be conceived. Without the smallest pretext for such violence, a tribe which feels itself stronger often falls upon the weaker ones. All who are able to bear arms conquer or die; the women, children, and herds of the fallen are divided as booty among their conquerors. Often does it happen that a family, which in the evening lay down to rest in all the blessedness of security, find themselves in the morning despoiled of parents, of freedom, and of property, and dragged into captivity far apart from one another!

Among the Turkomans near Khiva I saw many Kirghiz prisoners, who had formerly belonged to well-to-do families. The unfortunate creatures, who had been but a short time before rich and independent, and cherished by parents, accommodated themselves to the change of their fortunes as to some ordinary dispensation of nature. With what honesty and diligence did they attach themselves to their masters' interests! How they loved and caressed their masters' children! Yet these same masters were they who had robbed them of their whole property, murdered their father, and branded them for ever with the opprobrious title of "Kul" (slave.)

Buddhism, Christianity, Mohammedanism, have one after the other attempted to force their way into the steppes of upper Asia. The first and the last have succeeded to some extent in making good their footing, but the nomads have, nevertheless, remained the same as they were at the time of the conquests of the Arabs, or of the campaigns of Alexander—the same as they were described by Herodotus. I shall never forget the conversations about the state of the world which I had with elderly Turkomans and Kirghizes. It is true that one can picture to oneself beforehand a specimen of ancient simplicity, but that is still something quite different from seeing before you one of these still standing columns of a civilization several millenniums old.

The Central Asiatic still speaks of Rome (Rum, modern Turkey) as he spoke in the days of the Cæsars; and when one listens to a grey-beard as he depicts the might and the greatness of this land, one might imagine that the invincible legions had only yesterday combated the Parthians and that he was present as an auxiliary. That his Rum (Turkey) is a state of but miserable proportions in comparison with old Rome, is what he cannot believe. He has learned to associate with that name glory and power. At the most, China may be sometimes compared to Rome for might and resources; although the legends that are told of this latter empire dwell rather on the arts and the beauty than on the valour of the Chinese people. Russia is regarded as the quintessence of all fraud and cunning, by which means alone she has of late years contrived to effect her conquests. As for England, it is well known that the late emir of Bokhara, on the first occasion in which he came into contact with the British, was quite indignant "that the Ingiliz, whose name had only risen to notice within a few years, should dare to call themselves Dowlet (government) when addressing him."

Extremely surprising to the stranger is the hospitality which is to be found among the nomads of Central Asia. It is more abounding than perhaps in any other portion of the east. Amongst the Turks, Persians, and Arabs, there still linger faint memories of this old duty, but our European tourists have had, I believe, ample opportunity of satisfying themselves that all the washing of feet, slaughter of sheep, and other good offices, are often only performed in the hope of a rich Bakhshish, or Pishkesh, (as they say in Persian.) It is true that the Koran says, "Honour a guest, even though he be an infidel;" but this doing honour is generally the echo of orders issued from some consulate or embassy. Quite otherwise in Central Asia. There hospitality is, I may say, almost instinctive; for a nomad may be cruel, fierce, perfidious, but never inhospitable.

One of my fellow-beggars went, during my sojourn among the Turkomans, on a round of begging visits, having first dressed himself in his worst suit of rags. Having wandered about the whole day he came at evening to a lonely tent, for the purpose of lodging there for the night. On entering he was saluted in the customary friendly manner; nevertheless he soon observed that the master of the poverty-stricken establishment seemed to be in great embarrassment, and moved hither and thither as if looking for something. The beggar began to feel very uncomfortable when at last his host approached him, and, deeply blushing, begged him to lend him a few krans, in order that he might be able to provide the necessary supper, inasmuch as he himself had nothing but dried fish, and he wished to set something better before his guest. Of course it was impossible to refuse such a request. My comrade opened the purse which he carried under his rags, and when he had given his host five krans, everything seemed to be satisfactorily arranged. The meal was eaten amidst the most friendly conversation, and when it was ended, the softest felt carpet was assigned to the stranger as his couch, and in the morning he was dismissed with the customary honours.

"I was scarcely gone half an hour from the tent," so my friend related his adventure subsequently to me, "when a Turkoman came running towards me, and with violent threats demanded my purse. How great was my astonishment when I recognised in the person of the robber no other than my host of the previous night! I thought he was joking, and began to address him in a friendly manner; but he grew only more and more serious. So, in order to avoid unpleasant consequences, there remained nothing for me but to hand over my purse, a few leaves of tea, my comb, and my knife, in one word, my whole property. Having so done, I was about to proceed on my way, when he held me back, and opening my—that is to say now his—purse, and taking out five krans, gave them to me with these words:—'Take my debt of yesterday evening. We are now quits, and you can go on your way.'"

CHAPTER VI.

THE COURT OF KHIVA.

The courts of oriental princes have been frequently and variously described. Beginning with the shore of the Bosphorus, where Dolma Bagtsche, Beshiktash and Serayburun furnish the first pictures in the panorama, and ranging as far as the palaces of Pekin and Yedo, we have read again and again of the love for ostentation and empty splendour, the glitter of gold and diamonds of oriental life. But to complete the series, a few sketches of life at the court of Turkestan sovereigns are wanting, and the description of such may not, therefore, be deemed superfluous.

My readers must not expect either to be dazzled, or to have their amazement and admiration excited, and yet it will repay the trouble to accompany me through the tortuous streets of Khiva and the bazaar with its vaulted roof to the Ark (the Royal Castle.) Like all the residences of sovereigns in Central Asia, this castle is strangely fortified and surrounded by a double wall. Through a narrow gate we enter into the first court, which is crowded with the royal body-guard and other soldiers and servants. Near the entrance two cannons are planted, brought thither by the mighty Nadir, and left behind on his hasty retreat. They are decorated with pretty symmetrical ornaments, and seem to have been made at Delhi. After having passed the second gate, we enter a more spacious court, with a mean looking building on one side, not unlike an open coach-house; it is here that the high officials pass the hours of office, the Mehter (Minister of the Interior) presiding. To the left of this building is a kind of guard-house, in which divers servants, policemen and executioners live during the day time, awaiting the commands of their royal master. A small gate leads between these two buildings, to the residence of His Majesty of Khiva. On the outside it resembles a poor mud-hut, like all the other houses in the town, and is of course without windows, nor is any particular luxury to be met with inside, except several large and valuable carpets, a few sofas and round cushions, together with a considerable number of chests—the entire furniture of this place—which serve in some degree to remind us of the princely rank of the master. The number of apartments is very small, and as every where the case, is divided into the Harem, (the rooms set apart for the women,) and the Selamdjay, (the reception hall.)

Nowhere are any signs of splendour perceptible; the large train of followers alone mark the distinction, the lacqueys are the sole insignia of the ruler. Let us pass them in review before us. At the head of the household is the Desturkhandji, (literally, the man who spreads the table cloth,) whose peculiar office is to superintend the royal table. He is present during dinner, clothed in full armour and state dress, and on him devolves the inspection and control of the entire number of servants. Next to him follows the Mehrem, a kind of valet de chambre in officio, but in reality rather a privy councillor, who shares in the business of the state besides his immediate domestic affairs, and, conjointly with the former, exercises the most powerful influence upon his royal master. Then follows the rest of the servants, of whom each has his distinct office. The Ashpez, or cook, prepares the food, whilst the Ashmehter serves it. The Sherbetshi prepares tea, sherbet, and other drinks, but he is expected to be skilled besides in the decoction of wonder-working elixirs. The Payeke is entrusted with the tchilim (pipe,) which at court is made of gold or silver, and must be replenished with fresh water every time it is filled with tobacco. This office does not exist in any other court in Central Asia, tobacco being strictly forbidden by law. His Tartar Majesty has no dressing room, it is true, but, nevertheless, several servants are appointed to assist at the toilet. Whilst the Shilaptshi kneeling holds the wash-hand basin, the Kumgandshi (the man who holds the can or jug) pours the water from a silver or golden vessel, and the Rumaldshi is ready, as soon as the two former have withdrawn, to throw the towel to the prince, holding it with the tips of his fingers. The Khan has an especial Sertarash (who shaves the head,) who is expected to have nimble fingers and at the same time a skilful hand for squeezing the skull, a favourite operation throughout the east. Then the prince possesses a Ternaktshi, or nail cutter, a Khadimdshi, whose duty it is to knead and pummel his back, also to kneel upon him and make his limbs crack, whenever the Khan, after long fatigue, wishes to refresh himself. Lastly, there is a Töshektshi, or bed maker, whose office it is to spread out at night the soft pieces of felt or the mattresses. The magnificent harness, saddles and weapons are in charge of the Khaznadshi (treasurer,) who, whenever the sovereign rides out in public, walks beside him. The Djigadj, or keeper of the plumes, walks at the head of the train of servants.

In dress and food, the prince's household is little distinguished from that of rich merchants or officials of rank. The king wears the same heavy cap of sheep-skin, the same clumsy boots, stuffed out with several yards of linen rags, the same thickly-wadded coats of print or silk as his subjects, and, like them, endures in this Siberian costume, under the oppressive heat of July, a state of fearful perspiration. On the whole, the position of the Prince of Kharezm is one little to be envied, nay, I feel inclined to say, it is far more wretched than that of other Eastern princes. In a country, where pillage and murder, anarchy and lawlessness, are the rule, and not the exception, a sovereign has to maintain his authority by inspiring his subjects with the utmost dread and almost superstitious terror for his person; never with affection. Even those nearest to him fear him for his unlimited power; and wife and children, as well as relations, not unfrequently attempt his life. At the same time, the sovereign is expected to be the model of Islamitic virtue and Œzbeg manners and customs; every most trifling, insignificant error of his Majesty, becomes the talk of the town; and although nobody would venture to blame him for very considerable offences, yet in the former case it is the influential Mollahs who would feel affronted,—a result entirely opposed to the interests of the sovereign.

The Khan, like every orthodox Mussulman, is obliged to leave his bed before sun-rise, and to be present at the morning prayer in full assembly. It lasts rather more than half an hour, after which he partakes of several dishes of tea, seasoned with fat and salt. Not unfrequently some of the learned Mollahs are invited, in order to enliven the breakfast, by explaining some sacred precept or arguing upon some religious question, of which his highness rarely of course understands anything. Profound discussions generally invite sleep, and no sooner does his Majesty begin to snore aloud, when the learned men take it as a signal to withdraw. This sleep is called the morning doze, and lasts from two to three hours. When it is over, the selam (reception) of the ministers and other high dignitaries commences, and the Khan enters in full earnest upon his duties as sovereign. Consultations are held as to the maurauding expeditions to be undertaken, politics are discussed in reference to the neighbouring state of Bokhara, the Yomut- and Tchaudor-Turkomans, the Kasaks, and at present probably the Russians, who are pushing their advances nearer and nearer;—or the governors of the provinces and the tax-gatherers, who had been sent out over the country, have to submit to the Khan and his ministers their several accounts. Every farthing has to be paid over with the most scrupulous accuracy, and woe to that man in whose account the smallest error is detected; it may happen that he is dismissed, leaving his head behind. And now, after having transacted for several hours the ordinary business of the state, breakfast is served, consisting for the greater part of rather light food, that is to say, "light" for an Œzbeg digestion—the déjeuner à la fourchette of his Majesty of Khiva sufficing in all probability for several of our active working men at home. During this meal all present have to stand round respectfully and look on, and after having finished, he invites one or the other of his favourites to sit down and play with him at chess,—an amusement which is continued until the time for mid-day prayer. This lasts about an hour. When it is over, his Majesty proceeds to the outer court, and taking his seat on a kind of terrace, the arz (public audience) takes place, to which every rank, every class is admitted,—men, women, and children, either in the greatest négligé or even half naked. All crowd round the entrance, where amidst noise and shouting they wait for audience. Each in turn is admitted, but only one person at a time, who is allowed to approach quite close to his sovereign; to speak out freely and without reserve, to make entreaty or complaint, nay, to engage even in the most violent altercation with the Khan, the smallest sign from whom would suffice to deliver his subject, without any reason whatever, into the hands of the executioner. Thus the East is, and ever was from times immemorial, the land of the most striking contradictions. The inexperienced may interpret this as love of strict justice. I, however, see in it nothing but a whimsical habit of demeanour, permitting one person to defy the royal authority in the coarsest terms of speech, while another forfeits his life for the smallest offence against the rules of propriety.

At the arz not only all great and important lawsuits are settled, and sentences of death pronounced and executed; but even trifling differences are not unfrequently adjusted, as for instance, a quarrel between a husband and wife, or between one man and his neighbour on account of some few pence or the stealing of a hen. No complainant whatever can be refused a hearing; and although the Khan may send him to the Kadi, yet he must first listen to whatever he has to say. The afternoon prayer alone puts an end to this wearisome occupation. Later in the day the prince takes his customary ride on horseback outside the town, and usually returns just before sunset. Evening prayers again are said in full assembly, and these ended, the prince retires to take his supper. The servants, and all those who do not live in the palace, withdraw, and the king remains alone with his confidants. Supper is a luxurious meal, and lasts longer than any other. Spirituous drinks are seldom taken by the sovereigns of Khiva and Bokhara, although the other members of the royal family and the grandees frequently transgress on this point, and indulge in the practice to excess. After the supper, singers and musicians make their appearance, or jugglers, with their various performances. Singing is very popular in Khiva, and the native singers of this place are the most renowned in Turkestan, and indeed throughout the whole Mahomedan East of Asia. The instrument upon which they excel is called girdshek, and bears a general resemblance to our violin. It has a longer neck and three strings, one of wire and two of silk; the bow, too, is like our bow. Then there are the tambur and dutara, on which instruments the Bakhshi plays the accompaniment to his songs, improvised in praise of some popular hero of the day; whereas at the royal court they select for the most part ghaseles from Nevai and the Persian poets. The young princes are instructed in music, and it often happens that the Khan invites them to perform either alone or with the troubadours at court. Particular merriment and good humour, such as presides at the drinking-bouts at Teheran, or at the banquets in the palaces on the Bosphorus, is not to be met with at the court of Œzbeg princes; it is unknown here, or at least such is not the custom. The national character of the Tartar is chiefly marked by seriousness and firmness; to dance, jump, or show high spirits, is in his eyes only worthy of women or children. I have never seen an Œzbeg person of good manners indulge in immoderate laughter.

About two hours after sunset the Khan retires to the harem, or to his sleeping apartment, and with it his daily labours as sovereign are ended. The harem is here very different from those of the Turkish or Persian court. The number of women is limited, the fairy-like luxuriousness of life in a harem is entirely wanting, strict chastity and modesty pervade it; and in this respect the court of Khiva is eminently superior to all Eastern courts. The present Khan has only two lawful wives, although the Koran allows four. These are always chosen from among the royal family; and it is an extremely rare thing for the daughter of a dignitary, who does not belong to the family, to be raised to this rank. The Khan, although possessing the same unlimited power over his wife as over any of his subjects, treats her without severity, and on the whole with tenderness, unless she be found guilty of any particular offence. She possesses no titles or prerogatives whatever; her court is distinguished in nothing from the other harems, but that she has more female servants and slaves about her; the former consisting of the wives or daughters of officials, the latter for the most part of Persian and a few dark Arab women. The daughters of Iran are far inferior to the Œzbeg women in personal beauty, and their mistress has no cause to fear from either of them any rivalry. As regards their intercourse with the outer world, the princesses of Khiva are far more restricted than the wives of other Eastern potentates. The rules of modesty require that they should pass the greater part of the day in the harem, where comparatively little time is lavished upon the embellishments of the toilet. And in fact, the ladies of the harem have very little leisure for idleness, since in accordance with the custom of the country it is desirable that the greater part of the clothes, carpets, and other stuffs, for the use of the prince, should be prepared by the hand of his wife. This custom reminds one strongly of the patriarchal mode of life of which Turkestan, in spite of its roughness, has preserved many remnants of simple refinement.

The princess of Khiva is permitted occasionally to visit the neighbouring royal summer palaces and chateaux, never on horseback, as is the general custom in Persia, but in a large carriage, painted with gaudy colours, and completely covered and shut in with red carpets and shawls. Before and behind the vehicle trot a couple of horsemen, furnished with white staves. On her progress all rise respectfully from their seats and salute her with a profound bow. Nobody thinks of daring to cast a look of curiosity into the interior of the carriage; not only would this be useless, so closely is it covered, but such temerity would have to be atoned for by death, whether the object be the wife of the sovereign or any subordinate official. Whenever the Queen of Persia takes a ride on horseback, the numerous ferrash (servants) who head the cavalcade cut right and left with their sabres at the crowd, who disperse in terror and confusion, in spite of their eager curiosity. Such a proceeding, however, is not necessary with the grave Œzbegs; for here life in the harem is not regulated with the same severity, and it is well known that the less strictly its laws are administered, the less frequently they are transgressed.

During the summer the royal family inhabit the castles of Rafenek and Tashhauz, near Khiva. Both were erected in the Persian style by former princes, and are distinguished by possessing some window-panes and small looking-glasses—the latter, especially, being considered articles of great luxury in the eyes of the people of Khiva. Tashhauz has not been built without taste. The chateau stands in a large garden; it has several reservoirs, and resembles the castle of Nigaristan, near the town gate, Shimran at Teheran. The winter is spent in the town, but when here his Œzbeg highness occupies a light tent which is pitched inside the walls; and herein he shows no bad taste, for the round-shaped dwelling, made of snow-white felt, with a cheerful fire burning brightly in the middle, is not only quite as warm as any building of stone, but there is something pleasant about it, and it makes a far less gloomy impression than the windowless mud-huts of Turkestan.

CHAPTER VII

JOY AND SORROW.

Joy and sorrow are undoubtedly the mirror, in which not only is the character of a people clearly reflected, but which likewise offers the most faithful image of their manners and customs. In joy and sorrow every sign of dissimulation vanishes, man shows himself in his true colours, and the lights and shades of his temperament become at once apparent; for, in any matter of real feeling, it is vain to try to speak and act differently to the dictates of this potent voice within us. And nowhere is a better opportunity offered for studying the various features of joy and sorrow, than at a birth, marriage, and death,—those three stages in the great family of mankind. The main outlines are no doubt everywhere the same, but in the colouring and composition a variety is produced, not found even among civilized nations. Ethnography has frequently thrown light on this subject in different parts of the world; but we must confess that Central Asia in this respect is wrapt in considerable obscurity. To attempt to dispel this darkness may therefore not be deemed superfluous; and, the savage Polynesian and Central African having resisted vainly the spirit of inquiry, we will in like manner raise the veil from the rude and suspicious Œzbeg. It is a first attempt, and consequently a feeble one.

1. Birth.

As soon as a woman in Central Asia (I refer to a settled family), about to become a mother, feels the first pangs of childbirth, she sends for her neighbour, her nearest relations, a midwife, and a nurse for the child. A new felt or carpet is spread out in the tent or room, and upon this the woman is placed, with her legs doubled under her. As the pains increase, her nearest relations squat round her; and she, flinging both her arms round the neck of two of her most intimate friends, the midwife seizes her by the thighs, and moves her about, until she has been delivered of the child. She is now placed upon a bed, the relations taking the mother under their care, and the midwife having charge of the child. The former is restored to strength by friction on the temples and pulse, whilst the midwife sets about cutting out swaddling-clothes from a new piece of linen, in which she wraps the infant, strictly observing the various superstitious customs. Then taking the remainder of the linen to the mother, she informs her of the sex and appearance of her child; she also is the bearer of the happy tidings to the father, from whom she receives a present on this occasion. In fact, the kindik kesen (swaddling-clothes maker) plays a very important part in the whole affair. For three days the child is invisible to every one, during which time it is frequently smeared over with butter, and, to prevent any redness in them, which is considered extremely objectionable, the eyes are washed with salt water. It is then clothed in a little shirt, and finally it is laid upon a pillow of camel's hair, and exhibited. Now all the friends and acquaintances pay their visits, and the husband offers a present to his wife, who is anxious to hear from her guests their prognostications as to the future of her child, which experienced matrons draw from the limbs and movements of its little body. Thus for instance, it is a bad sign, if it has entered the world with the left foot or hand first; a small apple of the eye augurs that her offspring will be a thief; a broad forehead denotes valour; a restless kicking of the feet future wealth, and so forth. Every one scrutinizes the infant with insignificant gestures; and well might the fear of the evil eye make the mother uneasy, but that she herself has tied the white magic-stone on the left arm of her child.

After the chille (forty days) have elapsed, festivities begin. In the case of a girl, not much is done; but if the child be a boy, even the poorest make every effort to gather round them a considerable number of guests, and to feast them as sumptuously as possible. Grand banquets, horse-racing, wrestling and music, are the order of the day; and finally, a special celebration in honour of the birth, the so-called Altin Kabak, takes place, which consists in hanging up a golden or silver ball on the top of a high tree, and whosoever brings it down at the first shot, with either ball or arrow, gains this prize, together with a certain number of sheep, and often even camels and horses.

During the first year the greatest care is taken to guard the child against cats, evil spirits, and other dangerous influences, after which time the above-mentioned white stone is replaced by a round-shaped bone, and on his little cap are hung the argushtek (a piece of wood, carved and dyed mysteriously), a nusha (amulet), which must be written by the hand of some learned man, several corals, the tooth of an hyæna, and, if circumstances permit, a small bag with holy earth from the grave of Mohamed. All these things, together, often make up a considerable weight, which presses very heavily on the head of the poor little creature; but this is not taken into consideration. On the contrary; the mother examines with jealous care to see that not a single thing be found wanting, each being looked upon as a certain means of protection against so many dangers.

In Central Asia, as throughout the whole East, children are allowed but a very few years to devote merely to play. Girls are early taught to spin, weave, sew, to make cheese, &c.; and boys are put on horseback, and learn to ride as early as their fifth year, and are employed as horsemen in sham fights, and as jockeys in horse races in, and even before, their tenth year. It is only the more wealthy parents who give their children in charge of a Mollah. When they have learned to read, the Korantoy, or the festival of the Koran, is celebrated, which is of the same nature as the Chatemdüyünü of the Osmanlis, with this difference: that the latter takes place when the lad has, for the first time, read through the sacred book of Mohamed, and here, when he begins reading.

2. Marriage.

Although childhood is of short duration among the Œzbegs, yet a youth does not receive the name of yighid (a mature youth) until his eighteenth year, nor the girl that of kïz (virgin) before she is sixteen years old. In the country the intercourse between the two sexes is not in the least degree influenced by the Koran. Here, as in Western countries, we see the "rosy play of love" represented with all its joys and sorrows, all its fascination and enthusiasm. At first I felt amazed that the tenderest of feelings should find room in the heart of a man in Central Asia, accustomed as he is from his earliest youth to robbery and murder, and hardened to the tears of widows, orphans and slaves. But I had the opportunity of convincing myself, that love is here more frequently the cause of the most extraordinary adventures than in other Mahomedan countries. The Œzbeg is passionately devoted to music and poetry, and hence it is but natural that his heart should be susceptible to the emotions of love.

When two young people have formed a mutual attachment the secret is entrusted to their parents, and if these make no objections, the young man opens the transaction by despatching two female ambassadors, Soutchi Khatin, to ask them formally for the hand of their daughter. The parents, for the most part, have been previously informed of the demand, and receiving the embassy with honour and distinction, they express their satisfaction at the offer, but refrain from giving any decisive answer. To pronounce a regular straightforward "yes," is contrary to the rules of propriety, and the young man has to interpret, from trivial allusions, whether his suit will be granted or not. The next thing is to talk over the kalim (marriage portion) which the man is ready or able to give for his future wife. The question is always, how many times nine, i.e., how many times nine sheep, cows, camels or horses, or how many times nine ducats, as is the custom in a town, the father is to receive for giving up his daughter. The less wealthy give twice nine, the wealthier six times nine, and the Khan alone has to pay nine times nine, for the purchase of his bride. The kalim having been settled, the next question to be considered is one of great importance, the eginbash (present in ornaments) to be presented by the future husband. It consists of eight rings, yüzük, a semi-tiara (sheghendjin), a tiara (shekergül), a bracelet (bilezik), ear-rings (isirga), nose-rings (arabek), and ornaments for the neck (öngülük). This whole set of ornaments must be presented complete, and not a single article wanting; it is also previously settled, whether it is to consist of gold or silver. No doubt a man in Central Asia has to pay dearly for his wife. The negotiations are generally a protracted business; and finally, when every thing is definitely settled, neighbours and relations are invited to the fatiha toy (feast of promise), which is celebrated for two days in the home of the future bride, and two more in that of the future husband. The Mollah, or some grey-beard, announces the new arrangement to the guests. He tells them the exact purchase-price for the girl, and when the wedding is to take place, and concludes his short address with a fatiha, after which the festivities begin and are continued for four days. In entertainments of this kind, called toy, all the guests are assembled in one and the same apartment, but form different groups. The upper part of the room is occupied by the elderly people; the women range themselves along the right side of the wall and the girls and lads sit down in some corner, generally near the musicians and singers. The toy consists not merely in eating and drinking, but there is also music and singing, and above all, horse-racing, which latter forms the chief part of all festivities in Central Asia. Prizes of considerable value are given, and young and old take the most lively interest in the sport. The race-course varies from one to three fersakh in length; on the former only two year olds are admitted, on the latter full-grown strong horses. Two villages are chosen, lying at this distance apart, and whilst the crowd are assembling in one of them, a toy emini, steward, is appointed in the other. It is his duty to see that a fair start is effected, and that horse is proclaimed the winner, who first passes the goal which is fixed at the entrance of the opposite village. The horses are trained for several weeks for the race, and are ridden by young boys, who wear on this occasion short and tight-fitting clothes, very similar to those worn by jockeys in England.

The interval between the fatiha toy and the marriage is fixed according to the age of the "promessa." A week before the wedding, the toyluk (food for the wedding) is sent by the man to the house of his future wife; and consists of meat, flour, rice, fat, sugar and fruit. Soon after, his mother and nearest female relations arrive, who have been invited as guests for several weeks. Two days before the beginning of the festival the future husband mounts his horse, and, surrounded by his friends, all of whom, as well as their horses, are decked out in the gayest colours, goes also to the home of her parents, his father alone remaining behind, not for the sake of taking care of the house, but in order to make all necessary preparations for the due reception of the newly-married couple on their return.

Meanwhile, in the house of the future wife, where the first days of the marriage-feast are celebrated, the greatest bustle and activity prevails. The young girls have to do the cooking, and are fully employed with their gigantic cauldrons. The quantity of food brought together for an Œzbeg wedding is as enormous as the appetite of the numerous guests. Whilst the young girls are busy at cooking and baking, the young swains carry on a lively flirtation with them. The galant homme, who is lucky enough to obtain from his beloved a bone or some tit-bit out of the cauldron, regards the gift as a signal sign of favour, but still more lucky is he who gets a few sharp raps with the cooking ladle, the highest of all favours, and appreciated far above the daintiest morsels. Men and women gather round the fire-place in groups, laughing, talking, joking and shrieking, whilst musicians play and sing, and children shout and yell. These noises are mingled with the bleating of sheep, barking of dogs, neighing of horses and braying of donkeys, while loud above the general hubbub is heard the clown's stentorian voice in coarse sallies of Œzbeg wit and humour. He is the very life of the whole party. His gesticulations, the grimaces with which he accompanies his jests, give rise to continual bursts of laughter. Now he mimics this person or that, now he tells of some droll prank or merry adventure, or whistles like a bird and mews like a cat, and thus he has to continue without interruption, although from sheer exertion the perspiration runs down his face in streams.

It is a strange custom that, for the last few days before his wedding, the young man is not allowed to leave his tent, the young girl and her companions watching it, meanwhile, with looks of the utmost curiosity. It is said that friends and relations sometimes assist in bringing about a secret tête-à-tête, but not until after the marriage ceremony is he permitted to mix with the company. This ceremony takes place at the end of the second day, in the presence of the whole assembly. Each party is represented by two witnesses, to whom the Mollah puts the question, whether the two young people mutually agree as to the marriage. He then proceeds at once to perform the ceremony, when the witnesses of the young girl put in their veto. They declare (with a feigned reluctance) their unwillingness to give up the treasure entrusted to them, unless the young man should present them with a certain sum of money, or some other present. He finds the demand exorbitant, and now begins a bargaining and haggling, which continues until both parties are satisfied, when the solemn ceremony is at last performed. The Mollah reads aloud the permission of the reis (religious chief,) the witnesses attest on oath, and with significant gestures, the marriage compact, a short prayer is read, and the ceremony is over.

The bride now hands round fruit and a rich cake, and distributes white kerchiefs, garments, or other presents among the Mollahs, grey-beards, and above all, the young men who have acted as witnesses.

The bridegroom now makes his appearance, but is not permitted to approach the company nearer than a few steps from the door! and all having partaken of an enormous repast, the festivities in the bride's home terminate.

The elderly, as well as the married folk, now take their departure, but the young people remain, and pack the bride and her marriage portion on a sort of carriage, and thus accompanied by her female companions and friends, she sets out for the home of her husband. The journey, called bolush, is protracted as much as possible, and often when the distance is short, one or two long circuits are made, in order to have the opportunity of continuing the amusements on the road. The bride sits in the first carriage with her future sister-in-law, the young men accompany the procession on horseback, and he who can manage to force his way first to the front, riding full gallop, receives from her a handkerchief as the prize. The others try to snatch it from him, he flies and is pursued, and the chase does not cease till he has reached the carriage again. The handkerchiefs thus gained are tied to the horse's head, and preserved a long time as valuable trophies.[11] Whenever the procession passes a village on the route, they are generally stopped, and a toll is demanded. The sister-in-law sitting next the bride distributes cake, and the passage is again free. Amidst continued sport and chaff the bride arrives at the home of her husband, and no sooner does she draw near it, than she wraps her veil around her, changing her merry expression of face to one of the utmost gravity. Her father-in-law lifts her from the carriage, conducts her into the room, and leads her to a tent improvised with curtains and carpets in a corner of the apartment. The husband soon follows her, and for the second time raises her veil in the presence of his father, who compliments his daughter-in-law on her charming appearance, the first sight of which he has to requite with presents. The young couple are left alone, but have to endure for some time the jokes of the noisy crowd assembled outside the tent, who are eager to exhibit on these occasions their slender store of wit and humour. They disperse late at night, and at last all is quiet.

Among the Turkomans and Kirghis it is customary for newly-married people to be separated for a whole year, after they have lived together for a few days, and although the husband is allowed to make his appearance in the house of his wife, it must be only at night and in the most clandestine manner. In the opinion of the nomads, married life, in its beginning, is made all the more pleasant by acting up to the proverb, "stolen kisses taste the sweetest," and hence also the belief, that the first born child must always be handsome and vigorous.

The great national festival, called noruz (new year), of the Œzbegs, has been transmitted to them by the Persians, and is celebrated in Central Asia with the same pomp which distinguishes it in Persia, with this only difference, that the Œzbegs have an old and a new noruz. The latter, however, is of no especial importance. There is no lack of amusing games, but it is very remarkable that some have degenerated into the most pernicious gambling. Playing cards (sokti) are introduced from Russia (without the court cards), but have not yet come into general use. The favourite game is the Ashik-game (Ashik—the anklebones of sheep), which is played in the manner of European dice with the four anklebones of a sheep, and with a degree of passionate excitement of which one can form no idea. The upper part of the bone is called tava, the lower altchi, and the two sides yantarap. The player takes these four little bones into the palm of his hand, throws them up and receives half of the stake, if two tava or two altchi, and the whole of the stake, if all four tava or altchi turn up. The advantage to be gained arises entirely from dexterity in throwing; trickery is impossible, since the bones are frequently changed. This game is equally popular with the dweller in settlements as with the nomad; and although apparently a trivial amusement, it not unfrequently happens that the Ashik player, in the heat of his passion, stakes the whole of his possessions, nay, even his wife. Mankind, in fact, are everywhere the same. The refined European makes his offerings at rouge et noir upon the green table; the Œzbeg on the sandy ground with four anklebones.

3. Death.

Whenever a member of a family is on the point of death, his nearest relations usually leave the house or tent. The Mollah, or the elderly among the neighbours, surround the dying man, watching for the last breath and repeating the customary prayers, while outside the air is filled with wailing and lamentations. If he should have been lying speechless for some time, some wool is moistened by his friends, and water dropped into his mouth, for fear lest, deprived of his speech, he might die of thirst. The rolling of the eyes and the contraction of the nose are regarded as symptoms of death; and no sooner has the dying man drawn his last breath than his jaws are tied up, and the body is stripped and then covered over. The clothes are destroyed, for even the poorest Œzbeg could not be persuaded to put on anything worn by a dying man.

The corpse is not allowed to be kept longer than twelve or fifteen hours, in accordance with the custom among all Mahomedan nations. It is not washed upon a board, but on a mat (buria), which is immediately after burnt; and the relations and neighbours, nay, often the whole population of the place, having wept and wailed their fill, the body is taken to be buried. The settled inhabitants of Central Asia possess cemeteries for their dead, but among the nomads each dead body is buried singly in the desert; and if he has been a man of influence and consideration, a large mound (tumulus) is generally raised over his grave, in the construction of which all the male members of the tribe are expected to take part. The more honoured the person, the higher and larger the mound (yoska). The surviving relations look upon it with pride; on certain festivals, and on the anniversary of the death, food or other presents are placed upon it for the benefit of the poor; and no sooner does the nomad come in sight of it, however great the distance may be, than he mutters a short prayer for the repose of the dead.

Men that fall in battle are neither undressed nor washed. The blood of a brave soldier being regarded as his greatest adornment, is consequently not removed.

The funeral feast begins immediately after the burial with a simple repast, at which the iyis (bread baked in fat) is distributed among rich and poor, and must be eaten by everybody. The feast is repeated on the third, seventh, and fortieth day after the death took place, besides which the anniversary is celebrated in like manner,—a duty which even the poorest would not omit to perform, for fear lest, by neglecting it, the departed might appear to them at night, and, exhorting the survivors, complain that they had forgotten to invite those of this world who are to pray for the welfare of his soul.

Among the nomads, the funeral feast occupies a more important part. Once every week, throughout the first year, a repast is prepared on the day of the death, and daily, as mentioned already in our "Travels among the Turkomans," the women sing the song of lamentation at the hour in which the member of the family breathed his last. With the latter, moreover, the memory of a dead person is held in the highest regard, and peculiar respect is paid to his grave for a long time after, if he has fallen in battle, or on some marauding expedition. The shaft of his lance is planted upon it, and decked with various-coloured pieces of stuff, ram's horns, a horse's tail, or like mementos,—friends and members of the same tribe contributing, as a matter of course, every time they pass it. The "yoskas" are called by the name of those that repose beneath; children play around, but, however playfully inclined, are careful not to climb upon them. It is even said, that horses go to visit the yoskas of their former masters, and are seen standing before them, with heads bent downward in mourning; and young warriors habitually look with veneration on these mounds, and draw from them the inspiration to their greatest deeds of valour.

Whenever we happened to meet one of these graves in our travels in the steppes of Central Asia, each member of our caravan was obliged to tear off a little piece of his clothes and fasten it to the shaft, or to a bench, or all joined in a hymn sung in his praise, Karavan bashi saying every time: "He who does not honour the dead will never receive honour from the living."

CHAPTER VIII.

HOUSE, FOOD, AND DRESS.

The house, or fixed dwelling, has never, up to the present day, gained a firm footing among the nations in Central Asia, not even in those parts where regular settlements have existed for several hundred years. Part of the population build houses for themselves, but they are generally looked upon as gloomy places, producing feelings of melancholy, and the light, airy tent is in all cases preferred. It is principally the Œzbeg people who build houses, an art they have learnt from the original Persian settlers, and, as they resemble in many points the inhabitants of Iran, the architecture in Central Asia is in the early Iranic style, and at the same time very similar to the new Persian.

The first thing before building a house, is to level and prepare the ground by stamping it down with a heavy pounder. Foundations are only made to large buildings. The common-sized houses are made with a mud flooring, two feet high, and upon this, after it has dried hard, the walls are raised with a layer of rushes or wood underneath, in order to keep them from the damp rising from the ground. The walls are either "tam," i.e., of clay or stone, or "akchub," i.e., of wooden laths, laid crossways, and the interstices filled up with clay and unbaked tiles. The ceiling consists of planks, closely fitting together; in the houses of the poor these are left bare, and in those of the rich they have a coating of plaster and lime. Small holes serve as windows; they are open in summer, and in winter are pasted over with oiled paper. The roof, similar to those in Persia, is like a terrace, and serves as a sleeping place during the heat of the summer. Regular bricklayers are seldom met with. Every man is his own architect, convinced of possessing sufficient knowledge to build for himself a house suitable to his wants; and the plumb-line being still unknown, it is not to be wondered at that the walls are crooked and uneven, bulging either in or out, and soon become dilapidated.

The interior arrangement of a house is as follows: you enter by a wide gate, which forms the chief entrance, into a covered passage, called dalar. To the right of the gate are one or two rather large apartments (mihmankhane), which serve as reception-rooms for guests, and contain weapons as well as useful domestic utensils. Next to these are two small rooms, used as store-rooms. To the left are the stable and the shed for the carts and trucks, whilst a small door at the back of the dalar, opposite the entrance, leads to the inner apartments or harem. These are for the most part ayvans, that is, rooms which are open on one or two sides, and generally look out upon a garden. In towns they are used as favourite summer apartments, and it is really pleasant to live in them, especially during the night, with a peshekhane, a square tent made of gauze, like mosquito-nets, over one's bed, as a protection against catching cold, which is as dangerous in Central Asia as it is in Persia. In the country the dwellings are scattered. The farmstead (havli), which consists of several different parts, is always surrounded with a high wall for protection, and looks like a small fortress. The interior is very roomy; on one side are the buildings, always lower than the wall, on the other the tents, the fixed dwellings being set apart here also exclusively for animals and store-rooms. Sometimes the inner space is so large that a small kitchen-garden has found room within it. Outside, but near the walls, is a large reservoir, the edges of which are bordered with plantains, and afford a most agreeable resting-place. These trees flourish admirably in this part of Asia, where they are found of an astonishing height and breadth, and reach the great age of from 300 to 400 years. On hot summer days they afford the most refreshing shade, and for hours the Œzbeg is seen sleeping beneath the spreading branches. Not only does the thick foliage protect him from the burning rays, but the breeze, which always blows under the plantains, drives away tormenting insects.

The furnitures of a house are the same as in Persia, and consist of carpets, coverlets of felt, large chests, painted red, for keeping clothes, some cauldrons and other vessels for cooking, and holding water. Splendour or luxury are entirely wanting, and even the modern improvements in windows and doors, met with sometimes, come from Persia, from whence some clever and expert slave has introduced them into Central Asia. Nothing can find its way here from Europe, it has always to pass through the channel of Turkish and Persian civilization, And everything travels its customary snail's pace; the Persian imitates European institutions second hand from the Turks, and the nations in Central Asia adopt nothing but what reaches them through the medium of Persia.

The food of the Tartars consists principally of meat. Bread, in many parts of the country, although not unknown, is yet a rare luxury. Mutton is the favourite meat; next to this goat's flesh, beef, and horse flesh; camel's flesh is least valued. Occasionally, the horse is declared to be "mekruh" by the religious, and is not eaten, but in the country little notice is taken of it; and the Torama, horse flesh boiled soft and mixed up with onions, carrots and dumplings, is a very popular dish. It is worthy of remark, that the water first used in boiling the horse flesh is poured away, as far too strong and heavy for even Tartar digestion, and that only the second infusion can be eaten as broth. In some parts of Central Asia sausages are made of the entrails, and considered a dainty dish; but I have nowhere found, that the delicate parts of this animal are held in such high favour among the Œzbegs as is asserted throughout Persia. Camel's flesh is hard and tough; it is cut in small pieces, covered with paste, boiled, and then fried in lard. This dish, called Somsa, is not quite tasteless, but to our digestions like a weight of lead.

The favourite national dish is the Palau, also called ash, which, though related to the pilau of the Persians and the pilaf of the Turks, by far surpasses both these in savour. I have lived on it for a long time, and willingly impart to Europeans my knowledge of how it is prepared. A few spoonfuls of fat are melted (in Central Asia the fat of the tail is usually taken) in a vessel, and as soon as it is quite hot, the meat, cut up into small pieces, is thrown in. When these are in part fried, water is poured upon it to the depth of about three fingers, and it is left slowly boiling until the meat is soft; pepper and thinly-sliced carrots are then added, and on the top of these ingredients is put a layer of rice, after it has been freed from its mucilaginous parts. Some more water is added, and as soon as it has been absorbed by the rice the fire is lessened, and the pot, well-closed, is left over the red-hot coals, until the rice, meat and carrots, are thoroughly cooked in the steam.

After half an hour the lid is opened, and the food served in such a way that the different layers lie separately in the dish, first the rice, floating in fat, then the carrots and the meat at the top, with which the meal is begun. This dish is excellent, and indispensable alike on the royal table and in the hut of the poorest. From here it was introduced among the Afghans; by them to the Persians, who call it kabuli (kabul). The pilau, if I am not mistaken, has its origin in Central Asia, and spread from thence far and wide over Western Asia.

Another national dish of the Tartars is Tchörek, a soup with small dumplings in it, which are filled with spice and minced meat. I say "a soup," and yet this dish alone suffices for a whole dinner, since it is partaken of in such quantities that any other dish can be easily dispensed with. It is known among the Osmanlis, by the name of tatar börek. Thirdly, Sheöle, a porridge of rice mixed up with meat and dried meat. Fourthly, bulamuk, a dish consisting simply of flour, water and fat. Fifthly, Mestava, rice boiled in sour milk, a dish exclusively for the summer, as the former is for the winter. Besides these dishes there are the Yarma, corn bruised and boiled in milk; Godje, a kind of porridge, made of the molcussorghum; and Mashava, likewise a porridge of grits, eaten with fat, and sometimes with oil. Heavy, strong and piquant dishes are generally preferred, few sweets are eaten, sugar and honey being unknown, and the many syrups (shires) prepared of grapes, melons, and other fruits, are rarely used in cooking. Of bread only enough for the day's consumption is baked, as is the custom everywhere in Asia. The dough is not made into thin cakes, as in Persia, but into round thick loaves, such as are used in the neighbourhood of Erzerum, and are called lavash. There is also a sort of biscuit baked in fat, eaten when travelling.

Among the settled nations of Central Asia, tea is the favourite drink, and among the nomads, especially the Kirghis tribe, it is the Kümis. In summer they drink green tea, which thins the blood and promotes digestion; but in winter a black tea (brick tea) of a very harsh taste and an extraordinary stimulant; its effects are for a long time unbearable, and must be very dangerous. Cooling drinks are the Airan, sour milk mixed with water, and various decoctions made of dried fruit. Coffee is entirely unknown; even in Persia it is only met with in the southern province of Fars, and in Irak among the higher classes. Wine and brandy are sometimes sold secretly in the capitals, by Jews who manufacture both, but the number of consumers is very small. The Islamitic laws are severe on this point, and forbid, under pain of death, the use of spirituous liquors, but they do not prevent the vice of intoxication. Those who wish for stimulants use opium, teriak, or other narcotic poisons, and thus, in order to obviate a small evil, the door is opened to a much larger one, the gratification of which costs health and life.

The wretched poverty among the inhabitants of Central Asia is shown in nothing more strongly than in their dress, and the eye is with difficulty accustomed to the simple cotton stuff, or silks of glaring colours, in which every one is clothed, man and woman, young and old. Cloth or other European manufactures are only exhibited on extraordinary festive occasions, and are worn by wealthy or great dignitaries, as a ne plus ultra of luxury. At any other time, whether winter or summer, a garment, the so-called Aladja, is worn, and the only difference made in the various seasons is, that they put in a thicker lining, of either linen, wool, or fur. The cut of it is, perhaps, the most primitive among all the settled nations of Asia. No one has any idea of dressing tastefully and yet conveniently, or of setting off their figure to advantage, the only object is to cover or rather envelope it, and the Persian is perfectly right when he satirically says of his rude neighbours, that the whole nation moves about wrapt up in bed clothes. The Tchapan (upper coat) is the chief article of a man's wardrobe; it is not unlike our European dressing gowns, and cut out in Khiva so as to fit the body pretty well; in Bokhara it is already so large that two people can envelop themselves in it, and in Khokand it is widest of all. It is a highly ludicrous sight to see a man trot along in this smock-frock-like garment, full of folds, and puffing out at every part, and though I can well understand the many folds round the chest, forming as they do a receptacle for a whole set of cooking utensils, and all the necessaries for travelling, and food to last at least for two days, yet it will always be a mystery to me why the sleeves are twice as long as the arms, and what is the advantage of tucking them up and making an enormous roll or puff on the top of the arm. Under the tchapan is worn in summer a Yektey (a thin under dress), and under this the shirt, which reaches down to the ankles, and is distinguished from other shirts, worn in Asia, by being open on the left shoulder instead of in front, very much like a sack. At night the Turkestans have the strange habit, before going to sleep, of drawing their arms out of their shirt sleeves, and doubling themselves up. In winter an extra garment, Tchekmen, of ample dimensions and made of coarse stuff, is added to this costume. In some parts of the country, especially in Khiva, where the cold is greater, thickly-wadded, clumsy trousers are worn. As a covering for the head they wear in Khiva the telpek, a broad, conical-shaped hat of fur, which is very heavy; throughout Bokhara the turban is worn. It has a very picturesque appearance, with its long loops hanging down on the left side, and the trim natty way in which it is put on. In Khokand a small light cap used to be worn until twenty years ago, not unlike our clergyman's scapula (skull cap,) but since then it has yielded to Bokhariot civilisation, and has been supplanted by the turban. As to boots, those made in Bokhara and Khokand are the best. The leather is good, the shape rather handsome, but for the ludicrously long and thin heel, the end of which is scarcely broader than a nail's head. People of rank wear a kind of stocking made of morocco leather (mest), and over these, shoes, of which the best are made in Samarkand.

With respect to the dress of the women, it seems as if they were still more desirous than the men to avoid any approach to ostentation, luxury or smartness. When in undress, the women wear in summer a long shirt, reaching down to the ankles, the hind part of which is made of coarse linen, and the front mostly of a light coloured strong Russian print. The trousers are in like manner made of linen down to the knee, and the lower part, which fits close to the ankle, is made of print, or any other coloured stuff. The women wear in winter, over the shirt, one or two thickly-wadded jackets, fastened round the loins with a shawl. When abroad they put over all this a long garment, not unlike a man's coat, in which the woman muffles herself, holding it tightly together with both hands across her chest. The feet are covered with clumsy boots. It is a sorry sight to see a town woman of Central Asia walk about in this wretched costume, with her whole attention engrossed by the effort not to let the over-coat escape from her hands, since she would be regarded as an impudent woman indeed, if she allowed her under garments to be seen, and although the boldest stare cannot penetrate the coarse veil of horse-hair, yet she has to be for ever on the watch not to attract the looks of the passers by.

In the country, women are allowed to move with less restraint. Married women are seldom veiled, young girls never. The overcoat is shorter, and is merely thrown across the shoulder, and the broad shawl girded round the waist, with long ends fluttering to the breeze, gives a certain picturesqueness to their appearance. This indulgence, however, is only enjoyed in Khiva and Khokand; in Bokhara, even in the country, the tyrannical laws of Islamitic civilisation are executed with great severity, and it is rare to meet with an exception.

Among the men, various objects of ornament are seen, those which hang from the Koshbag, such as good knives with silver or other ornamented handles, gold-embroidered bags for tea, pepper and salt; further, rings for the fingers, tesbih (rosaries,) seals sometimes, but rarely, bracelets, gold and silver sheaths for amulets and watches, which latter are especial articles of luxury, and only to be found among the great. The objects of ornament among women I have already mentioned when speaking of the customs at weddings. It is useless to look for comfort or luxury either in the dwellings, food, or clothing of the natives of Central Asia, every thing here bears the impress of very ancient manners and customs, and every one conforms to them willingly, not wishing for anything better. The government, supported by the Mollahs, labours to keep up this status quo of things, by declaring all foreign productions contraband, and endeavouring to supplant them in the market, for fear the inhabitants of Turkestan might become aware of their poverty, and attribute it, not to the natural, but to the social circumstances of their country. And yet such an endeavour is fruitless, railroads and steam vessels bring their powerful veto, even in these rude countries, to bear upon a whole nation's backwardness. The ships which plough the Indian Ocean, the Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, the Lake of Aral, the Volga, and, at the present time, the Yaxartes likewise, have considerably lessened the distance between Central Asia and the west of Europe. The locomotives, which on the south run as far as Lahore, on the north to Nishnei-Novgorod, and astonish and perplex the eastern nations, are still, it is true, far from the inland waters of the Oxus and Yaxartes; yet, nevertheless, they exercise a considerable influence upon the communication of these countries. The Œzbeg trader need only go as far as Orenburg on the one, and Peshawur on the other side, and he has St. Petersburg, Bombay, and the whole of Europe before him. Inaccessible as Central Asia still is to all scientific, as well as commercial travellers, yet within the last twenty-five years an essential material advancement is apparent. We need only look over the custom-house list of the English and Russian frontier towns, and we should be surprised at the enormous increase of articles imported from Europe. From 1840 to 1850 goods were transported across the Russian frontier of nearly a million pounds sterling in value, and in the year 1860 they amounted already to the value of two millions. Cotton and silk stuffs have been more largely imported than any other goods, and in spite of the detestation and horror felt towards the producer, the productions of the west grow more and more in request, and are well paid for. Cottons, handkerchiefs and cambrics, as is well known, are the great forerunners of civilisation, the mute apostles of western culture, who spread blessings in their path, even though European arms and military tactics occasionally accompany their footsteps. And, however much the condition of half savage nations may be extolled for its happiness by foolish and weak-brained enthusiasts, yet a practical observer must feel convinced that our civilisation is preferable, and that it is a sacred duty on our part to transplant it to every clime and country.

CHAPTER IX.

FROM KHIVA To KUNGRAT AND BACK.

The young Mollah from Kungrat, who had joined our caravan in order to reach Samarkand, was planning to go and take leave of his native town and kindred whilst we were staying at Khiva; and great was his joy when he learned that I was desirous of accompanying him thither, partly from a wish to make a begging tour and collect all I could, and partly for the sake of escaping the uncomfortable crowding in hot, sultry Khiva. In his delight he promised me mountains of gold, describing everything in the most glowing colours, to sustain me in my resolve. I needed, however, no urging, too glad to meet with such an opportunity; and two days after I was actually on my way to Yengi Urgendj, from whence I hoped to reach the Oxus, where a half-laden vessel was ready to take us on board for a moderate fare.

The journey from Khiva to Kungrat is chiefly made by water in the summer, and down the river at high water it never lasts longer than five days; that is, during the very heat of summer, when the river has reached its greatest height, owing to the melting of the snow on the Hindukush and the tops of the Bedakhshan mountains. In the autumn and spring, at low water, the voyage lasts longer, and in winter it is entirely interrupted, the Oxus being in many parts, although not wholly, covered with ice.

The traveller can take ship, if so inclined, from the very walls of Khiva, that is, on the canal Hazreti Pehlivan, but not without making a great détour, since its mouth is to the south, near Hezaresp, instead of being to the north. The same objection applies to the second canal, Gazavat, which is at a considerable distance from the town, and flows rather eastward than northward. For this reason the traveller prefers to go to Yengi Urgendj, the first manufacturing and commercial city in the Khanat, and then on to Akhun Baba, the tomb of a saint, with a few scattered havlis (farmsteads) near it, which is situated on the banks of the Oxus, and is the first stage on the road. The distance is about eighteen English miles, in a well cultivated and tolerably populous district, the road leading through fields, gardens and meadows. Here are found the finest mulberry trees in the greatest abundance, and consequently the cultivation of silk is extremely flourishing; in fact, this part of the country justly deserves to be called one of the most beautiful in the whole Khanat.

The heat was so fierce and intolerable on the banks of the Oxus, that I could not help expressing some uneasiness to the boatmen, but they comforted me by saying, that down stream this evil would be remedied, by putting up a Peshekhane (mosquito net), which would not be in their way, the boat being steered only at either end. The mosquito net was at once put up; it had the shape of a canopy, and was to protect us in the day time from the sun, at night from the dangerous mosquitoes; and the necessary fatiha (blessings) on starting having been pronounced, we pushed off in company of four boatmen and two other passengers.

The voyage was at first very monotonous. The two men, one at the upper end and one at the lower end of the boat, kept steering it to those parts of the river where the water was yellowish and turbid, the current being here the strongest, as they explained to us. The rudders consisted of long poles, flattened at the end, and the two steersmen generally remained seated down at their work, unless special care and attention were required. They were relieved about every two hours, when, less fatigued by their labour than scorched by the sun, they would join us in our sheltered retreat, stretch themselves out at full length, to our great annoyance, and soon be heard snoring in chorus, until they had to return to their task. Of our two fellow-travellers, happily only one was very loquacious; and whenever my Tartar friend explained to me this or that point of interest, he would interrupt him with his copious emendations, and thus satisfy my curiosity by a full and detailed commentary.

The banks of the Oxus present few features especially worthy of interest, although far more than Boutenieff notices in his travels, who, in his mission in 1858, took the same route from Kungrat to Yengi Urgendj, up stream. On the right bank, opposite the place where we embarked, is seen the great ruin, Shahbaz Veli (the sacred hero), which is said to have been a strong fortress in ancient times, and which was destroyed by the Kalmucks. In the history of Khiva these people are regarded as the great destroyers of the Khanat; and although it is true that at the time of their invasion under Djengiz, the then flourishing Kharezm suffered terribly at their hands, yet it is an exaggeration to assert, as tradition does, that all the ruins are the sole work of their lust for devastation. Farther on I met with another extensive ruin with the remains of stone buildings, called Gaur Kaleszi (the fortress of the Gaurs). Under the term "Gaur," I first understood the Gebers or fire-worshippers, but soon I learned to my great astonishment, that by this name are designated, throughout Central Asia, the Armenians or rather the Nestorians, who possessed here large colonies, extending from the Sea of Aral far into China, in pre-Islamitic times down to the decline of the Mongol dominion.

On the right bank extends for more than three leagues, from the above-mentioned ruins down to the water's edge, a somewhat dense forest (togay), called Khitabegi. The trees are not particularly high, but the sun is nevertheless unable to penetrate and dry up the marshes fed by the Oxus. Only in very few places is the forest inhabited, and that by the Karakalpak tribe, who rear cattle. The left bank is the really inhabited part; here the chain of Havlis is scarcely interrupted, and here and there villages of some size are seen lying close to the water, such as the Œzbeg village Tashkale, which is situated on a high bank, and the smaller village of Vezir, near which the canal Kilidjbay discharges, or rather forms a basin, previous to losing itself beyond Yilali in the sand.

To make tea, prepare palau, and either listen to or tell sacred legends, was the alternate occupation of the day. Sometimes it happened that all my companions, the steersmen alone excepted, fell fast asleep, producing a pause, which was to me a most pleasant change; and as I fixed my eyes upon the yellow, turbid waters of the ancient Oxus, my imagination loved to revert to the clear mirror of many a European river, whose waters are ploughed by hundreds of ships, and whose verdant, smiling banks, are full of life and activity. What a gigantic contrast!

The Oxus is the typical representative of the country it traverses,—wild and unruly in its course, like the temperament of the Central Asiatics. Its shallows are as little marked as the good and bad qualities in the Turkoman; daily it makes for itself new channels similar to the nomad, whose restless spirit, wearied of staying long in one spot, is ever craving for novelty and change.

Early the second day we passed the town of Görlen at a short distance from the shore. The proper landing place is a village near, called Ishimdji, and opposite to it on the right bank is situated the fort Rehimberdi Beg, which I mention merely because here begins the mountain chain of Oveis Karayne, extending from south-east to north.[12] At first sight it bears much resemblance, as well in height as in its formation, to the Great Balkan in the desert, between Khiva and Astrabad; but on a nearer approach its larger circumference soon becomes apparent, and the luxuriant vegetation and the woods with which several of its heights are clothed, present a scene of agreeable surprise. On one of them is said to be the tomb of Oveis Karayne, a celebrated place of pilgrimage in Khiva, and in the distance we discovered several buildings, which Rehimberdi Beg had erected for the convenience of the devotees. Further on is the Munadjat daghi (mount of devotion), which is pointed out as the resting place of a holy lady, called Amberene (Mother Ambra). Holy women are not often met with in Sunnitic Islamism; there are, however, a few of them in Central Asia, which may be taken as a fresh proof that Islamism does not treat the fair sex with such unnatural harshness as people in Europe are apt to imagine. As to my lady Amberene, tradition tells us that, a Zuleikha in beauty, a Fatima in virtue, she was hated and afterwards expelled by her husband, solely because she professed the Mohammedan religion, of which he was an arch-enemy. Driven from her princely abode in Urgendj, she was obliged to take refuge in this wild spot, and would have died of starvation but for a hind which appeared daily at the entrance of her cave, waiting to be milked, and then again disappeared. Who, in hearing this tale, is not reminded of the story of Genoveva? The Parisians in those days were not better than the Œzbegs of to-day; nor can we fail to be struck with the identity that exists in fables of social and religious life, among nations living widely separated from each other.

After leaving Görlen we went on for about four hours down stream, and came to Yengï yap, an insignificant hamlet, surrounded by earth walls, and about one hour and a half distant from the river. Two hours later we reached the district of Khitayi, which begins where the Yumalak, a conical hill, rises close to the left bank. On the right the Oveis mountains approach nearer and nearer to the Oxus, and soon we passed the prominent peak Yampuk, crowned with the ruins of an old castle. Opposite Yumalak the mountain chain, Sheik Djeli, which runs from east to west, forms a very narrow channel (here called kisnak), much narrower than the Iron Gates on the Danube, and often dangerous to navigation from the force and rapidity of the current. The waters here roar, as if the Oxus, that unruly son of the desert, were angry at being so imprisoned between the rocks. The narrowest part is, however, very short; on the left bank the mountains terminate abruptly, while on the right bank the high lands gradually slope, and after having passed Tama, which lies on the left, the country is everywhere flat. With the mountains disappeared every romantic feature along the banks of the Oxus. After a voyage of two days our eyes and imagination were fully satisfied, and although the morning and evening hours had their charms, yet the heat became intolerable in the day-time, and the mosquitoes and flies at night—insects, in comparison with which the Golumbacz on the Lower Danube are harmless and insignificant as butterflies. As soon as the sun began to set, every one crept carefully under the mosquito-net, made, of course, of linen, the air under which had become so thoroughly poisoned by my fellow-travellers, that I felt keenly not to be able to exchange it for the purer air outside. Towards evening we reached the district of Mangit, which has a town of the same name, about two hours' distance from the river, but not visible from the boat on account of a small wood which intervenes. Here we remained for some time moored along the bank, and having comfortably cooked our dinner in the open air, instead of on the narrow hearth in the boat, we continued our voyage. We reached Basuyap, after another hour's journey, at night, much to the regret of my friend, who had been anxious to pay a visit with me to a very celebrated Nogaï Ishan, who resided there, in order to ask his advice and blessing on the journey he had undertaken. These Nogaï, who fled hither to escape the Russian authorities or the conscription, are in Central Asia regarded as martyrs to freedom and Islamism, and revered as such; but I have frequently met among them the most consummate rascals, and thought that they had probably run away from a fully merited chastisement.

Early in the morning we passed Kiptchak, which is the second stage on the journey, and lies on both sides of the Oxus. At this place a rock rises from the water, which, extending across the river, narrows the channel by more than half its width, and renders the navigation so extremely dangerous, that it is never attempted, except at broad daylight. At low water some of the points are visible, and it is no uncommon thing to see children, a foot deep in water, clambering upon them.

Kiptchak itself is a place of considerable importance, inhabited by an Œzbeg tribe of the same name, and possesses several mosques and colleges. Of the latter, the college situated on the right bank of the river was founded by Khodja Niaz, and is deservedly celebrated for its rich endowments. Not far from this building, which stands separately, is seen the ruin Tchilpik, on a hill rising close to the water. Tradition asserts that in ancient times it was a strong castle, and the residence of a Princess, who, having fallen in love with one of her father's slaves, and dreading the anger of her offended parent, fled hither for refuge with her lover. In order to obtain water, they were obliged to pierce the hill downwards to the river, and the subterranean passage exists at the present day.

From Kiptshak up the stream begins the forest already mentioned, which extends with few interruptions along the right bank of the river to some distance beyond Kungrat. I could not see from the boat how far its breadth stretched eastward, but I have been assured that it is from eight to ten hours' journey. Its approach from the river is intercepted by bogs and morasses, which render it only in a few places accessible. In the less thickly-wooded parts graze numberless herds of cattle, the property of the Karakalpaks, who find abundance of game in the forest, but sometimes suffer greatly from the numerous wild beasts, especially panthers, tigers, and lions, which infest that district. From here to Görlen the stream has so many shallows, that we were incessantly striking aground. The left bank rises to an elevated plateau, which extends far in a north-westerly direction, and is called Yilankir (the field of serpents) by the natives. On the western frontier of the desert it forms a declivity as steep as the Kaflankir, or the whole table-land of Ustyurt. The population of this region consists of Jomut-Turkomans and Tchaudors; the former lead a nomadic life near the river, and in the country round Porsu and Yilali; the latter inhabit the skirts of the desert and the several oases of the Ustyurt. Both tribes, as may well be imagined, live in constant feud with each other,—a condition as much to their disadvantage, as it is to the advantage of the Œzbegs, the immediate neighbourhood of a strong and united nomad people proving always most dangerous to the dwellers in settled habitations.

On the evening of the third day we stopped at Khodja Ili,[13] a town about two hours' distance from the river. Most of the inhabitants derive their origin from Khodja, and they are not a little proud of comparing their ancestry with that of the other Œzbegs. The whole district is thickly populated, and the left bank forms as far as Nöks[14] an uninterrupted chain of wood and cultivated land. Here is one of the most dangerous places in the Oxus, a waterfall, which at the time of our voyage rushed down from the height of three feet with the swiftness of an arrow and with a tremendous noise, which is heard at the distance of more than a league. The natives call it Kazankitken, i.e., the spot where the cauldrons went to the bottom, since a vessel laden with these utensils is said to have been lost here. Full fifteen minutes before reaching the waterfall the boats are brought close to the shore, and carefully towed along. From here down the stream the river has formed by inundations very considerable lakes, which communicate with one another by small natural canals, which seldom dry up entirely. The largest are: Kuyruklu Köl and Sari Tchöngül. The former is said to extend for several days' journey far towards the north-east; the latter is smaller in circumference, but much deeper.

We passed Nöks on the fourth day. Even on the left bank we saw cultivation gradually decreasing as we advanced; the river on both sides is bordered with forests, and forms half-way to Kungrat a broad and rather deep canal, called Ogüzkitken, which takes a south-westerly direction and falls into the lake Shorkatchi. Efforts have been made to cut off the latter from the large stream by raising dykes, but in vain, and the immense extent of water renders the navigation here exceedingly troublesome. The forest terminates at the tomb of a saint, called Afakkhodja, and the district of Kungrat begins, covered, as far as the eye can reach, with gardens, fields and "havlis." The town itself did not become visible until the evening of the fifth day, after we had passed the run of a fortress built by the rebel Törebeg at the time of Mehemmed Emin, and a whirlpool near it.

Our stay in this most northerly town of the Khanat of Khiva was of very short duration, since my young companion, having lost his parents a year before, was not long in taking leave of the relative who dwelt here, and himself urged a speedy return. The town has a far more miserable appearance than those in the south, and is chiefly known for its large fairs, to which the nomads of the neighbourhood resort, offering for sale large quantities of cattle, butter, carpets of felt, camels' hair and wool. A brisk trade is also carried on in fish, especially dried fish, which are brought from the sea of Aral, and sent afterwards from here all over the Khanat. I must mention as a very remarkable fact, that I met here with two Russians, who had turned Mahometans, and lived in the full enjoyment of a comfortable dwelling-house, a flourishing farmstead, and a numerous family. They were prisoners of the Perowsky Army, and received their liberty from Mehemmed Emin Khan, under the condition that they would adopt Islamism. One of them has been presented with a Persian slave: the dark-brown daughter of Iran and the fair-haired son of the north live very happily together, and although the latter has several times had the opportunity of returning to his native home, he has not been able to form the resolution of quitting his adopted fatherland on the banks of the Oxus.

In conclusion, I will state the scanty information I gathered here about the further course of the Oxus from Kungrat to its embouchure in the Sea of Aral. At two hours' distance from this town, going down stream, the river divides into two great arms, which are little distinguished from each other. The right one, which keeps the name of Amu Derya, reaches the lake first, but in consequence of its many ramifications it is too shallow, and at low water extremely difficult to navigate. The left arm, which bears the name of Tarlik (the strait)[15] is narrow, but of a certain depth throughout, and is little used, simply on account of the great circuit it makes on its way to the lake. The traffic on the Lower Oxus is inconsiderable, and not to be compared with that which enlivens the river between Tchihardjuy and Kungrat, where it forms the principal commercial highway between Bokhara and Khiva. In autumn it is chiefly fishing which takes the Œzbegs to the sea, and the trade in dried sea-fish is in all three Khanats an important one. It has become an almost indispensable article to the inhabitants of the steppes, from their being too parsimonious to feed on meat, in spite of their wealth in cattle, and therefore preferring, as they do, dried fish as its substitute. In the spring, on the other hand, it is the wild geese, large numbers of which are found around the several mouths of the river, which tempt all those who are fond of shooting to the shores of the Sea of Aral. At this season of the year also most pilgrimages take place, undertaken by pious Œzbegs to the tomb of Tokmak Baba, which is situated upon an island of the same name, near these outlets. This saint is revered as the patron of fishermen, and rests under a small mausoleum, in the inner cell of which have been carefully preserved through remote ages his clothes and cooking utensils, among which a cauldron is an object of peculiar veneration. I was told, that even the Russians very rarely land on this island, although access to it has been greatly facilitated by steam-vessels, and that in case they do visit it, they never touch these relics,—as if moved by involuntary feelings of respect.

In surveying the whole course of this remarkable river, from its source on the Ser-i-kul (beginning of the sea) down to its embouchure, we perceive firstly, that it is not, as Burnes asserts, navigable throughout its entire length, but on the contrary, that only from Kerki, or rather from Tchihardjuy down stream can it be used for large and small craft. Upwards from these towns we meet nothing but rafts, carrying fuel and timber, in which the slopes of the Bedakhshan mountains abound, and supplying the scantily wooded plains, but seldom used by families emigrating to the Lower Oxus. Between Hezaresp and Eltchig, a part of the river which forms one stage on the way to Bokhara, larger boats already are used from and to Khiva, which carry goods and victuals; but the greatest traffic is undoubtedly on that part of the river, which flows in the Khanat of Khiva, where the river, with its many towns along its banks, affords a favourite and cheap means, up as well as down stream, for the transport of large freight, and is used among the poorer classes even for personal inter-communication. Secondly, it appears to me (I abstain from making any assertion, not possessing sufficient knowledge on the subject), that the Oxus has scarcely the capabilities of becoming the powerful artery for traffic and communication in Central Asia, which politicians, when speaking of the future of Turkestan, confidently expect. It never can become of the same importance as the Yaxartes, whose waters at this very moment are ploughed by Russian steamers, a conjecture sufficiently warranted by the fact, that the Russians entered Turkestan with their flotilla of the Sea of Aral, not by the Oxus, but by the Yaxartes, a river far less favourable to their plans of occupation. It has been urged, that the uninhabited shores of this last-named river are of greater importance to the Court of St. Petersburg; but this is a worthless argument, and rests solely on our want of geographical knowledge with respect to Central Asia.

With steamers on the Oxus, the Russians would not only have been able to keep the Khanat of Khiva in check, to garrison the fortress of Kungrat, Kiptshak and Hezaresp, but they would have had the power of introducing with the greatest ease a strong corps d'armée by Karakul into Bokhara, and thus into the very heart of Central Asia, had not the extraordinary physical difficulties of this route rendered such a scheme impracticable. Moreover, of this the Russians themselves became sufficiently convinced, when making their very first appearance in Central Asia. Apart from the waterfall at Khodja Ili, the dangerous cliffs near Kiptchak and the Kisnak near Yampuk, the Oxus offers perhaps the greatest difficulties to navigation in its numerous sandbanks, which in some parts extend for many miles, and at the same time undergo such rapid changes in consequence of the large quantity of sand the stream carries along with it, that it is quite impossible to take observations, and even the most experienced steersman can do no more than guess the navigable channel by the colour, but can never indicate it with confidence or certainty. Thirdly, to regulate this stream, which at the beginning of the spring, and during the latter part of the autumn, is almost two-thirds smaller than in summer, would be of the greatest disadvantage to the inhabitants, since its numerous arms and canals not only are necessary for the cultivation of their fields, but supply with drinking water even the most distant parts of the country, to say nothing of the rapid current rendering such an undertaking extremely difficult. If the Khan of Khiva wanted to declare war against some rebellious part of his country, he would first of all cut off the canals and aqueducts, a stroke of policy which would be felt most severely; and a government, which were to shut the sluices in order to increase the water in the bed of the Oxus, would commit an act equivalent to a declaration of hostilities against the whole country at once.

Not only has the Oxus extremely rapid currents, but it continually deviates from its original channel. These deviations in the lower part of the river begin after its bend near Hezaresp, and are far more numerous than is generally supposed. Upon enquiring of the inhabitants about them, they reckoned up more than eight on each side, and although they may have included in this estimate former canals, nevertheless its irregularity must be admitted. Taking this view, there is very little difficulty in agreeing with Sir Henry Rawlinson, who founded his assertion on a very valuable Persian manuscript, that in former times the Sea of Aral had no existence whatever.

The journey from Kungrat to Khiva is generally made by land, since it requires from eighteen to twenty days up stream. The transport of freight is made by water. There are three roads by land; 1, by Köhne Urgends, which is called the summer route, and avoids the lakes, outlets and arms of the Oxus, which at that season of the year are full to overflowing. This route is the longest, 56 farsakh[16] in length; 2, by Khodja Ili, a distance of 40 farsakh, which the traveller prefers in the winter, all the waters being frozen; and 3, the road on the right bank of the Oxus by Shurakhan, which makes several détours, and runs through a great many sand-steppes.

Our return journey had to be made with all possible speed, but nevertheless we were obliged to take the long road by Köhne Urgendj. We had the good fortune to join a party of travellers, of whom some were going to Köhne Urgendj, others to Khiva. All were capitally mounted, and even the horses placed at our disposal "lillah" (out of pious benevolence) were young, vigorous animals, and, as we carried no luggage except a few biscuits with a small store of provisions for our journey, we rode briskly along in spite of the heat, which even in the early morning made itself felt. Leaving the gate of the town behind us, we rode across the well-cultivated district of Kungrat, keeping always a north-westerly direction, and then crossing a barren tract of country, came to a large stagnant water, called Atyolu, which is marked out as the first stage, and is 7 farsakh long. A bridge leads over a narrow part of it, and here the road diverges in two parts, the one of which skirts a low mountain, called Kazak Orge, and, crossing the great plateau of Ustyurt, goes to Orenburg; the other leads to Köhne Urgendj. We took the latter route, and passing through forests and sandy tracts, now and then came in sight of some ruin on either side of the road, of which two were pointed out as being worthy of notice;—Karagömbez (black dome), near which a salt is found as clear and white as crystal, and the finest in the Khanat, and Barsakilmez (he who goes does not return), a dangerous spot, inhabited even at the present day by evil spirits, and where many, who went there from curiosity, have lost their lives.

After a long ride of five hours we reached the second station, called Kabilbeg Havli. It is an isolated farmstead, but, in accordance with an old custom of the proprietors, we were received and treated with great hospitality, and remembering that we had the prospect of a long ride of eight hours from here to the next stage, Kiziltchagalan, our kind host had not forgotten to provide us at breakfast with meat and bread. It was still dark when we started. Our companions were examining their weapons with the utmost care, which made me fear that we might perhaps have to pass some hostile tribe of the Turkomans; but they removed my uneasiness on this point, cautioning me at the same time that we should have to travel the whole day long in a thick forest, in which there were many lions, panthers and wild boars, which sometimes have been known to attack the traveller. They added, that although they never reached the place of danger till broad daylight, yet they invariably moved forward with the greatest circumspection, and, above all put great confidence in their horses, which no sooner prick up their ears, or begin to snort, than each and all seize their weapons. It is well known that lions and panthers in a climate like that of Central Asia are far less dangerous than their brethren in India and Africa, and therefore I did not share the fears of my young Tartar companion; on the contrary, I rather longed for adventure and the excitement of the chase. The Œzbeg, however, like a true Asiatic, possesses an excitable imagination; there was neither trace nor sound to indicate that we were near the abode of the king of animals, and we saw nothing but some herds of wild boars, who with a loud crash made their way through the thick underwood, and an immense, nay, fabulous number of Guinea-fowl and pheasants, of which we made rich spoil for our evening halt. These birds are in this part of the country of a much finer flavour than in Mazendran, the Œzbegs also understand far better than the Persians to dress and cook them. Emerging from the forest, we soon came in sight of the fortified place Kiziltshagalan, which is inhabited by Œzbegs. We arrived there in good time, and the following morning continued our road across a district inhabited by Yomuts.

Köhne Urgendj is considered the fourth station, although the journey thither does not occupy above three hours. This ancient metropolis of far-famed Kharezm, in Central Asia, is the poorest of all those cities in Asia which have shared the same fate, and however much its former splendour is extolled in word and writing, I could not help feeling at the sight of its still existing ruins, that it had been the centre of no higher than Tartar civilisation. The town of the present day is small, dirty and insignificant, although it must have been much larger in former times, to judge from the ruins that lie scattered outside the wall. These ruins are not older than the Islamitic era, and date from the reign of Shahi Kharezmian, an epoch of a higher culture. The most remarkable object here is the mosque of Törebeg Khanim (not Khan), of which I have already made mention in my "Travels," and which is larger and more splendid than Hazreti Pehlivan. The latter, nevertheless, has been considered hitherto the finest monument in Khiva, and it must be admitted that with its works in Kashi (glazed tiles), in which throughout the yellow colour predominates, it is not inferior to any architectural monument of the same kind in Turkestan. Further is seen the mausoleums of Sheikh Sheref with a high azure dome, of Piriyar, the father of the very celebrated Pehlivan, and of Sheikh Nedshm ed-din Kübera. The latter has of late been restored from decay by the liberality of Mehemmed Emin Khan. I was told that there are in the neighbourhood several towers and walls built of stone, such as Puldshoydu (money destroyed) which is distant three hours' journey. Whenever a storm ploughs up the sand-hills there, coins and vessels of gold and silver are discovered, and people who take the trouble of sifting the sand, find frequently their labour amply requited. There is also the Aysanem, or double kiosk of Aysanem and Shahsanem, the famous pair of lovers, whose romantic fate forms the subject of a collection of songs frequently sung by the native minstrels. The name appears to be a stereotyped name for any two isolated ruins, since there are Shahsanems to be found in other parts of Khiva and Bokhara, as well as in the neighbourhood of Herat, and everywhere the same legends are recorded of them with few variations.

At Köhne Urgendj the road divides, both branches running at a small distance from each other. The one less frequented runs by Porsu and Yilali, and is taken by people who travel in large parties; the proximity of the marauding tribes of the Tshaudors and Yomut Turkomans, rendering the road, at least as far as Tashhauz, very insecure. The second road, nearer the Oxus, runs with few interruptions along its banks, a tract of country strewn with farmsteads (Havlis), villages and hamlets. This road is generally taken in summer, although it is the longer of the two, and also more troublesome on account of the many ditches and canals for irrigation. Whereas, a caravan must keep together as far as Tashhauz on the former road, travellers on the latter may part company as early as at Kiptchak, and each continue his way separately.

CHAPTER X.

MY TARTAR.

I cannot conceive it possible to imagine a greater contrast than an Asiatic, and more particularly a Central Asiatic, who, as late as two years ago, wrapt in his national garb of ample width, hanging about him in loose folds, was feeding on the simple and primitive fare of a nomadic people, and who, at the present moment, booted and spurred, moves about in the closely-fitting costume of the Hungarians, and is already accustomed to the food and manners of the West; one, who, destined to lead the life of a Mollah, once spent his time in the lonely cell of the Medresse Mehemmed Emin at Khiva, absorbed either in prayer or in the doctrines of Islamism, and who is now seen turning over the large folios in the library of a European academy, acquainted with books on philosophy, or the history of the world and religion, Greek and Latin literature, and numberless authors besides; who scarcely ever had heard the name of Europe, or had heard it mentioned only in terms of the utmost abhorrence; who knew no other institutions, no other phases or aspects of men and things, but those in his own wild Eastern world, and recognised these alone as true and reasonable;—and who now is reading the leading articles of European newspapers, discussing the different politics of Western countries, and unhesitatingly making the boldest comparisons between the Eastern and Western hemispheres.

These are certainly clear and sharply-defined contrasts, and such contrasts my friend the Mollah exhibits "in propriâ personâ,"—the Hadji whom I brought with me from Central Asia, whom I met with whilst on his way to Mekka, who became my companion and associate, and who, instead of the holiest of holy cities, now lives with me in the metropolis of Hungary. How I succeeded in inducing him to form this resolution has been to many a matter of the liveliest curiosity to know; nor were their enquiries less eager as to the impression made upon him by my metamorphosis from the pious dervish into the European traveller. One fundamental error ran through all these enquiries,—namely, the strange belief that my change had been as sudden as that of the chrysalis to the butterfly. It was, on the contrary, extremely gradual, and its various phases are the more interesting, since they illustrate in a striking manner the difference between Eastern and Western life. The history of my transformation, in fact, deserves to be given in detail.

I first met my Tartar, as I mentioned before, in Khiva. A Mollah, young and animated with a desire for travelling, he was in search of a companion on his journey to Mekka, and in the full belief to find in me a Turk and a Mohamedan, the most suitable fellow-traveller, he at once attached himself to me with the utmost ardour and devotion. During the early part of our acquaintance he saw in me merely the learned Mollah, the wild zealot, whom he approached with the greatest veneration, listening most attentively to every word that fell from my lips. Such was the relation that existed between us throughout our journey to Bokhara, Samarkand, and Karshi, as far as the banks of the Oxus. Here I became more confidential towards him: occasionally I put off somewhat the disguise of my affected sanctity; we grew more and more intimate by degrees; our slender store of provisions was put into one common bag, and as he was thoroughly honest and true-hearted, his sincere and loyal friendship became a great support and comfort to me on my solitary and perilous journey. Only slowly, and with difficulty, could he accustom himself to a real and mutual intimacy; and on our begging expeditions he would take upon himself, as his own undisputed task, to collect the heavy contributions, such as wood, flour, &c., whilst he left to me the less onerous business of collecting the pence. In the evening he made it his duty to prepare the supper, and, after having served the rice on a piece of rag or a board, it was always a matter of conscience with him not to touch it until I had twice helped myself with my hands. I do not know whether veneration or conscience inspired him with this excessive respect, but, be the cause what it may, he invariably shrank from placing himself in a position of equality. Not wishing to spoil his pleasure, I therefore let him do exactly as he pleased.

On our journey from the Oxus to Herat, my feigned devoutness visibly decreased in exact proportion as the distance between me and fanatic Bokhara kept increasing. Prayers, ablutions, pious meditations—all became less frequent. My Tartar, no doubt, observed this, but it did not seem to trouble him, and he accommodated himself ungrudgingly to his master. His questions on religion were fewer, but he listened instead with more eager attention to my descriptions and narratives of the foreign land of the 'Frengi,' and the pictures I drew of those marvellous countries of the West. Such lectures as these were usually delivered during our night marches, when we were riding alone in intimate converse, and at some distance from the caravan. The pleasure I felt in being able to talk of my beloved West in a barbarous country, surrounded as I was with dangers in so doing, was not greater than my Tartar's astonishment when he heard that there were towns more beautiful than Bokhara, and countries where it was possible to travel without fear of robbers or of dying with thirst. He was especially struck when I assured him that the 'Frengis,' so far from being the savage, pitiless cannibals, such as they had been represented to him, possessed heart and feeling, and that they were infinitely superior to their reputed character in the East. Under different circumstances he might have doubted the truth of my assertions; but as I, the Efendi, his teacher and master, assured him of these facts, he placed implicit belief in all I told him. No wonder that I was pleased with his thirst for knowledge and his loyalty, and that I in return became greatly attached to my young Tartar. Moreover, he kept as much as possible aloof from the other Central Asiatics, his countrymen, uniting himself more closely to my society. As soon as I perceived—which I could not fail to do before long—that something could be made of the young man, I resolved not to let him leave me, but, if possible, to take him with me to Europe. If such was my determination long before we came to Herat, it was still further strengthened by the brilliant proofs of his attachment and fidelity which he showed to me during our residence in this town. Here, as is already known, my sufferings and privations reached their climax. Totally without means, I had not unfrequently to bear all the torments of hunger; and whenever, at this advanced season of the year, the cold prevented my sleeping during the night, it was my young Tartar who honestly shared with me his poor thin rags, in order to procure for me a warmer covering and a quiet sleep. During these six weeks that we spent in Herat we suffered, indeed, greatly; but I tried to strengthen the courage of my companion by assuring him that we should meet with certain help in Persia. The idea that a pious Sunnite should fare well in the heretical country of the Shiites, appeared to him sufficiently droll; but the child-like innocence of his heart, and his unaffected confidence in me, prevented his making any further conjectures. He looked, like myself, with intense longing to the frontiers of Iran, and the capital of Khorassan.

At last we arrived in Meshed. The hearty friendship of the English officer here, and his kindness towards me as well as my companion, were at first a great puzzle to my Tartar. He knew Dolmage was a Frengi;—what strange thoughts must have crossed his mind, in his astonishment at seeing me, the pious Mohamedan, his "chef spirituel," sit for hours in the company of an unbeliever, talking with him in a foreign language, nay, eating with him out of one and the same dish. The servants of the English officer, and indeed every one in the town, repeatedly declared to him their opinion that his master was a Frengi in disguise. He shuddered at the thought, and although he heard these suspicions with feelings of anger and indignation, yet he never questioned me on this point, and his firm faith in me remained unshaken. Moreover, his attachment to me naturally increased, from finding in me at all times a friend and protector, especially on our journey to Teheran, when, on account of his Tartar costume, he had frequently to encounter the ill-will of the vindictive Shiites. On my part, again, it was, I consider, no small risk, to travel for a whole month alone with this man, to pass whole nights alone with him in desolate spots. Let one single evil thought arise in his heart, and it would have been an easy matter for him to kill me during my noon-day slumbers on the open road, and, carrying with him my horses, weapons and money, to escape into the desert, northward to the Turkomans. But I never harboured any such suspicion. Fully confiding in him, I entrusted to his charge my musket, sword and horse; when tired and fatigued I stretched myself out upon the sand and slept soundly and securely, whilst he acted as sentinel; for at the very beginning of our acquaintance I had discovered that he had a true heart, and I cannot say that I have ever once been mistaken in this respect.

It was in Shahrud where he saw me for a second time embrace an unbeliever. He was struck by it, and said: "My master, thou art truly wise, in always associating with the Frengis; for these Persians, although they believe in the Koran and in Mohammed, are, by heaven! a hundred times worse than the unbelievers!" On this occasion he expressed to me also, after having met a second Englishman, his surprise at finding these Frengis, both "outwardly and inwardly, such agreeable persons," and yet he found it difficult to approach them. He would stare at them and scrutinize them for hours, proving clearly that, although he had partly got rid of his deeply-rooted prejudices, a certain degree of shyness and reserve was still clinging to him.

During the latter part of our march towards the Persian capital, my joyous feelings occasionally woke within me some long-forgotten song or melody. I began first to whistle, and then to sing, popular airs of certain operas. Whistling is not practised in the East, and regarded as extremely frivolous and indecorous; nevertheless, he was greatly pleased with the charming melodies from the Troubadour, Lucia, and others. He asked me with great naïveté, whether in Mekka people recited the Koran with these accompaniments, and was greatly astonished when I replied in the negative.

It was at the post station of Ahuan for the first time he heard me called by my European name. This name touched the tenderest fibres of his heart, and no doubt he struggled long and painfully before he found the courage to question me. I replied, that I would give him an answer in Teheran, and this set him at rest for a time. On my arrival in Teheran, I lodged with my old friends in the Turkish embassy. The young Efendis, who represented the Sultan, were fashionable European diplomatists, bearing the signs of Frengiism in far stronger colours than myself. This lessened his suspicions; and when I enlightened him on the modern civilization of his Sunnitic brethren in the West, he gradually became aware of the immense gulf between Stamboul and Bokhara. He was told of the continuous efforts of the Osmanlis to assimilate themselves as much as possible to the Western countries and their culture, and he could not help following this example himself. If we take into account, that he saw and heard nothing but what was good and excellent of the few Frengis whom he had hitherto had the opportunity of knowing, it was natural that his hatred and his prejudices should vanish day by day.

In Teheran he made the acquaintance of a countryman of mine, Mr. Szántó, who frequently came to see me, and with whom he was soon on terms of intimacy. Szántó told him with no small joy, that he and his master (he meant me) were the only Magyars in Persia. The Magyars, moreover, the philologizing tailor added, are the kindred of the Osmanlis,—a statement the Tartar felt surprised at, but which did not exactly disquiet him, our long intercourse and friendship reconciling him to all he saw and heard. And seeing in me more affection and kindness than in the genuine Turk, the trifling difference as to nationality troubled him very little. He roved about cheerfully in Teheran, making himself acquainted with the manners and language of the Persians, and was extremely glad, when, after a residence of several weeks, we were saddling our horses once more for our journey to Constantinople.

Hitherto no other plan had been talked of, but that he was to accompany me as far as Constantinople, and from thence go on to Mekka by Alexandria. But soon I perceived that this original plan no longer pleased him, and that he intended to do otherwise. Our life in the Turkish embassy in Teheran, where everything was arranged after the European manner, and our frequent intercourse with other embassies, had shown him a part of Western life in a very pleasant aspect, and awakened in him the desire to visit with me these wonderful countries. Nor is it difficult to understand how his original longing, to prostrate himself upon the grave of the holy Prophet, receded more and more into the background. His sound understanding was not long in penetrating this religious humbug; and, having naturally a great love for adventure, he soon resolved, instead of the illustrious Mekka, to go and visit Frengistan, a country formerly thought of with dread and detestation.

I pretended not to observe what was passing in his mind, and putting him on shore at Constantinople, I was about to take leave of him, after having amply provided him with money. The young Tartar looked at me fixedly with tears in his eyes, and in spite of the sight of the proud minaret, in spite of the crowd of orthodox worshippers who surrounded him here on every side, he felt constrained to say to me, in a voice trembling with emotion, and interrupted by frequent sobs: "Efendi, do not leave me here behind alone. Thou hast brought me from Turkestan into this strange land: I know here no one but thee. I follow thee, gladly, whithersoever thou goest!"—"What, wilt thou come with me to Frengistan?" I asked him; "from thence it is very far to Mekka; there are no mosques and public baths, no Mussulman food; how wilt thou live there?" For a moment he seemed perplexed; but after a brief silence he replied: "The Frengis are such good and kind people; I should like to see their country; and afterwards I will return to Stamboul." I required no more. Fully understanding the character of my Central Asiatic friend, I embarked with him once more on the shore of the Bosphorus, and in three days he was already upon a steamer on the Danube, surrounded by Europeans, and on his way to the not far distant capital of Hungary. On board the steamer I found him often absorbed in thought. Not yet venturing to taste European food, he gazed at everything around him with a shy timidity, but gradually he grew accustomed to the novelty of the scene, and a few days later he promenaded the streets of Pesth in Bokhara costume. During the first few days he could scarcely find words, so full was he of amazement. Everything, indeed, appeared to him like an enchantment. He admired all he saw, from the square-hewn paving stones in the streets to the lofty buildings and towers; and it can easily be imagined what singular, and at times comical, remarks he made;—he, the son of the desert, in the midst of one of the first cities in Europe. He was much struck with the quick walking of people in the streets, and the rapid movements of the vehicles; but, above all, the women arrested his attention; and he could not understand how the Frengi, clever and sensible people as they are, could allow their women-folk to appear in public in such clumsy and uncouth attire, and without any protection. In the day time I often saw him standing by the telegraph wires, listening to the sounds that passed along them. At night he would stare at the gas lamps, full of curiosity to discover whether it was the iron that was burning. At the hotel, the luxury and magnificence that surrounded him filled him with astonishment. Judging of every person he met by his dress, he regarded every one as some mighty lord or potentate, and frequently exclaimed: "Oh! this is a happy country! Here seems to be not a single poor man!" He soon grew accustomed to the looks of curiosity that followed him wherever he went. His former dread of the Frengi had entirely disappeared; he had a pleasant face for every one, and frequently entered eagerly into conversation with the first person he met, forgetting, in his characteristic manner, that no one could understand him; and he would go on talking to his heart's content, without being in the least disturbed by the surprise exhibited by those he was thus addressing.

I should most gladly have taken him on with me to London, had I not deemed it better for him to leave him for the while behind in Hungary. A friend of mine, who lived in the country, received him kindly into his house; and when, after a year's absence, I returned from England, I was not a little surprised to find my young Tartar dressed in the Hungarian costume, and, instead of the turban, with his hair nicely curled and trimmed, with a rather droll air and demeanour, and a certain stiff gravity in his manner. He had learned the Hungarian language in a very short time; he was everywhere liked and heartily welcomed, and when, for the first time, I saw him smartly dressed, and with gloves on his hands, talking most courteously and earnestly to a lady in her drawing-room, I could scarcely refrain from laughter. Two years ago a Mollah of a Medresse, he is now grown into half a dandy:—in truth what cannot be made of an Oriental? Being able to write as well as speak Hungarian, my friends kindly procured him an appointment as assistant-librarian in the Academy, which position he fills at the present moment. When I question him about his new life, and talk to him of the difference between Eastern and Western manners and habits, I find that his past life floats like a dream across his mind, which he cherishes only as a distant reminiscence, but which he would not on any account exchange for his present existence. He rarely feels any longing for his native home, and he loves our Western civilisation for the following reasons. In the first place, he is particularly pleased with the perfect security that society affords to the individual, and the absence of any arbitrary tyranny on the part of the Government. In Central Asia a man's bare life is not safe on the roads from robbers; in the towns he is threatened with constant danger from the barbarous decrees of the authorities. The frequent cruel executions, the desolating civil wars in his country, have never struck him until now, when he has become aware how thousands of persons come in daily contact with each other, without quarrels, fighting, or bloodshed ensuing—all consequences of frequent occurrence in his native country. Secondly, the comfort which Europeans enjoy, at once benefits and captivates him. He finds the house of a simple citizen better appointed than the palace of his sovereign. The cleanliness in dress and food, the reciprocal offices of kindness and courtesies of society, are magnets which attract him and make him forget his rude and uncivilised home. Thirdly, it is a special delight to him to find that the various differences of religion and nationality are scarcely ever felt here, whilst in the East they form the strongest barriers between man and man. With him at home the mere notion of visiting the country of the Frengi would have been certain death, and now he lives in the very heart of their land, not only without encountering hostility, but actually received with cordiality and affection.

With regard to his feelings on Islamism, his own speculations had already in some degree enlightened him. He observed that the nearer he approached the West, the more Mahometan fanaticism decreased, and as he, in proportion with its decrease, drew nearer and nearer to humanity and order, he could not help suspecting very soon that Islamism, or at least the Islamism he knew and confessed, was the declared enemy of civilisation and refinement of life, such as he met with in Europe. He has never yet uttered a word of aversion or reproach when referring to the doctrines of the Arabian prophet, but his subtle and speculative theories sufficiently indicate that a strong revolution has been wrought within him. Without wishing to assign the cause of this great contrast between the East and the West solely to the influence of Christianity, he has, nevertheless, arrived so far in his conclusions as to comprehend that our western culture and mode of life are incompatible with the teachings of Mahomet. He has never yet distinctly expressed to me his preference of either one or the other religion, and it will probably be long before he will venture to give expression to any thought of the kind. His allusions and fragmentary remarks, however, prove that his mind is occupied with questions of this nature, and that the great struggle with himself has begun.

Such, indeed, is the history of every Mussulman, whether Tartar, Arab, Persian, or Turk, as soon as he becomes thoroughly acquainted with our western civilisation—a complete transformation but seldom occurs. The highly important question, whether the civilisation of the East or West is the better—whether the teaching of Christ or of Mohammed is the true religion, will long remain undecided by the nations of Asia;—nay, so long, I feel inclined to say, as the rays of the sun produce with us a temperate, with them a burning, heat; so long as distance separates the east and the west. Were it possible to bring the doctrines of Christianity more into conformity with their views, by setting aside those of the Incarnation and the Trinity, and were these tenets, thus modified, put into the place of the Koran, an opportunity might be presented of a small, but only a very small, step in advance. I say advisedly a small step, since Christianity, though sprung from an Eastern soil, has long ago proved to be a plant which can only flourish in the West. And who would deny that the Koran and Vedas, created as they are by an Eastern mind and in the spirit of Eastern nations, are prized and revered by them above everything besides? Their disappearance would bring new and similar productions into existence. I venture almost to assert that the Christian tenets would, after a time, become transformed, on Eastern soil, into a sort of Koran or Vedas, in order to be the typical embodiment of oriental sentiment, and be recognised by orientals as their real and peculiar property. Are not the Nestorians, Armenians, and other followers of the Eastern Church, all disciples of Christianity? but as great as the difference is between them and their co-religionists in Europe, so little do they differ in their mode of thought, their feelings, and views of life, from their Mohammedan fellow-countrymen in the East.

CHAPTER XI.

THE ROUND OF LIFE IN BOKHARA.

"Hadji! Thou hast, I am sure, seen many countries—tell me now, is there another city in the world in which it is so agreeable to reside as Bokhara?" Such was the inquiry with which I was frequently greeted in the Tartar capital, even by men who had already several times visited India, Persia, and Turkey. My answer upon these occasions it is not of course difficult to divine. Questions of a nature so delicate are an embarrassment to the traveller when he is in Paris, London, or St. Petersburg, just as much as when he is in Constantinople, Teheran, or Bokhara. One encounters egotism everywhere.

Bokhara, the focus of Tartar civilization, possesses beyond a doubt much to remind one of a capital, particularly when a man enters it as a traveller, coming immediately from a journey of many weeks through deserts and solitudes. As for the luxury of its dwellings, its dresses, and manner of living, that hardly merits attention at all when compared with what is to be seen in the cities of Western Asia. Still it has its peculiarities, which prevent one wondering so much that habit and partiality dispose the Bokhariot to be proud of his native city.

The houses, built of mud and wood, present, with their crooked paintless walls, a gloomier appearance than the dwellings of other Mohammedan cities. On entering the court through the low gateway, one fancies oneself in a fortress. On all the sides there are high walls, which serve as a protection, not so much against thieves as against the amatory oglings of intriguing neighbours. In Bokhara, the most shameless sink of iniquity that I know in the East, a glance even from a distance is regarded as dishonouring! The number of the separate apartments varies with the fortune of the proprietor. The more important part of them comprises the harem, styled here Enderun (the inner penetralia), the smaller room for guests, and the hall for receptions. This last is the most spacious, as well as the most ornamented apartment in the house, and, like the other rooms, has a double ceiling, with a space between used as a store-room. The floor is paved with bricks and stones, and has only carpets round the sides near the walls. Rectangular stones, which have been hollowed out, are placed in a corner—a comfortable contrivance enabling the owner to perform the holy ablutions in the room itself. This custom is met with in no other Mohammedan country. The walls have no particular decorations; those, however, which are nearest to Mekka are painted with flowers, vases, and arabesques of different kinds. The windows are mere openings, each with a pair of shutters. Glass is seen nowhere, and few take the trouble to use paper smeared with fat as a substitute. Articles of furniture, still rarities throughout the East, are here scarcely known by name; but this need not excite surprise, for often have I heard Orientals who have visited Europe exclaim: "Is not that a stupid custom among the Frengi, that they so crowd their handsome, spacious rooms with such a heap of tables, sofas, chairs, and other things, that they have hardly place left to seat themselves in any comfort!" Of course meaning on the ground.

The expenditure upon the wardrobe is on a footing with the style of each house and its arrangement. Cloth is rarely met with: it serves for presents from the Khan to his officials of high rank. Different qualities of the Aladja (cotton) are employed by all classes, from king to dervish, for winter and summer. Although the Bokhariot over-garment has the form of a night-dress extending down to the ankles, still it is subject from time to time to little innovations as to cut, sleeve, collar, and trimming, in accordance with the fashion of the moment, which is as much respected in Bokhara as in Paris. A dandy in the former city takes especial care to have his turban folded according to the idea in force at the moment, as an evidence of good taste. He sees particularly to his shawl, by which he binds his trousers round the loins, and to his koshbag suspended to that shawl. The koshbag is a piece of leather consisting of several tongues, to which are fastened a knife or two, a small tea-bag, a miswak (toothpick), and a leathern bag for copper money. These articles constitute the indispensables of a Central Asiatic, and by the quality and value of each is a judgment formed of the character and breeding of the man.

Whoever may wish to see the haute volée, the fashionable world of Bokhara, should post himself on a Friday, between ten and twelve o'clock in the forenoon, in the street leading from Deri Rigistan to the Mesdjidi Kelan, or great mosque. At this time the Ameer, followed by his grandees, in great state, betakes himself to his Friday's devotions. All are in their best attire, upon their best horses; for these, with their splendid housings, serve as substitutes for carriages. The large, stiff, silken garments of staring colours are in striking contrast with the high and spurred boots. But what produces a particularly comic effect is the loose and waddling gait which all pedestrians studiously put on. Reftari khiraman (the waddling or trotting step), which Oriental poets find so graceful, comparing it to the swaying movement of the cypress when agitated by the zephyrs, and whose attainment is the subject of careful study in Persia as well as Bokhara, to us Europeans seems like the gait of a fatted goose floundering on his way home. But this is no subject for me to jest upon, for our stiff, rapid pace is just as displeasing to an Oriental eye, and it would not be very polite to mention the comparison they make use of with respect to us.

It does not excite less wonder on our part when we see the men in Bokhara clad in wide garments of brilliant colour, whereas the women wear only a dress that is tight to the shape, and of a dark hue. For in this city, where the civilization has retained with the greatest fidelity its antique stamp of Oriental Islamism, women, ever the martyrs of Eastern legislation, come in for the worst share.

In Turkey the contact with Christian elements has already introduced many innovations, and the Yaschmak (veil) is rather treated as part of the toilette than as the ensign of slavery. In Persia the women are tolerably well muffled up, still they wear the Tchakshur (pantaloons and stockings in one piece) of brilliant colouring and silken texture, and the Rubend (a linen veil with network for the eyes) is ornamented with a clasp of gold. In Bokhara, on the other hand, there is not a trace of tolerance. The women wear nothing that deserves to be named full dress or ornament. When in the streets, they draw a covering over their heads, and are seen clad in dark gowns of deep blue, with the empty sleeves hanging suspended to their backs, so that observed from behind, the fair ones of Bokhara may be mistaken for clothes wandering about. From the head down to the bosom they wear a veil made of horsehair, of a texture which we in Europe would regard as too bad and coarse for a sieve, and the friction of which upon cheek or nose must be anything but agreeable. Their chaussures consist of coarse heavy boots, in which their little feet are fixed, enveloped in a mass of leather. Such a costume is not in itself attractive; but even so attired, they dare not be seen too often in the streets. Ladies of ranks and good character never venture to show themselves in any public place or bazaar. Shopping is left to the men; and whenever any extraordinary emergency obliges a lady to leave the house and to pay visits, it is regarded as bon ton for her to assume every possible appearance of decrepitude, poverty, and age.

To send forth a young lady in her eighteenth or twentieth year, in all the superabundant energy of youth, supported upon a stick, and thus muffled up, in the sole view that the assumption of the characteristics of advanced life may spare her certain glances, may be justly deemed the ne plus ultra of tyranny and hypocrisy. These erroneous notions of morality are to be met with, more or less, everywhere in the East; but nowhere does one find such striking examples of Oriental exaggeration as in that seat of ancient Islamite civilization, Bokhara. In Constantinople, as well as other cities of Turkey, there are certain Seir-yeri (promenades), where ladies appear in public. In Teheran, Ispahan, and Shiraz, it is the custom for the Hanims, en grande toilette, and mounted on magnificent horses, to make excursions to the places of pilgrimage situate in the environs of those cities. The tomb of the Said is the place of rendezvous, and instead of prayers, reciprocal declarations of love are not seldom made. In Bokhara, on the contrary, there is not a shadow of all this. Never have I seen there a man in the company of his wife. The husband slinks away from his other half, or third, or fourth, as the case may be; and it is a notorious fact, that when the wives of the Ameer pass by any place, all men are expected to beat a hasty retreat. Under such circumstances it is easy to see how society must constitute itself, and what shapes it must assume. Where the two sexes are so separated, it can never put on an appearance of gladness and geniality; all becomes compulsion and hypocrisy; every genuine sentiment is crushed by these unnatural laws which are imposed as God's ordinances, and as such expected to be observed with the strictest obedience.

To study that part of their lives which is before the public eye, we must first pay a visit to the tea-booths, which are the resorts of all classes. The Bokhariot, and the remark applies indeed universally to all Central Asiatics, can never pass by a second or third tea-booth without entering, unless his affairs are very urgent indeed. As I before mentioned, every man carries with him his little bag of tea: of this, on his entry, he gives a certain portion to the landlord, whose business is rather to deal in hot water than in tea. During day-time, and particularly in public places, the only tea drunk is green tea, which is served without sugar, and with the accompaniment of a relish or two, consisting of little cakes made of flour and mutton suet; for the making of these Bokhara is famous. As any attempt to cool tea by blowing upon it, however urgent on account of its heat some such process may be, is regarded as highly indecorous—nay, as an unpardonable offence—the Central Asiatic is wont to make it revolve for this purpose in the cup itself until the temperature is tolerable. To pass for a man comme il faut, one must support the right elbow in the left hand, and gracefully give a circular movement to the cup; no drop must be spilt, for such an awkwardness would much damage a reputation for savoir faire. The Bokhariot can thus chatter away hours and hours, amidst his fellow tea-drinkers; for the meaningless conversations that are maintained weary him as little as the cup after cup of tea which he swallows. It is known to a second how much time is required for each kind of tea to draw. Every time the tea-pot is emptied, the tea-leaves that have been used are passed round: etiquette forbids any one to take more than he can hold between finger and thumb, for it is regarded by connoisseurs as the greatest dainty.

They seek to find amusements of a higher kind in excursions to the environs of the city. These are made sometimes to the tombs of the saints; sometimes to the convents of certain Ishans (sheiks), in the odour of sanctity; sometimes to the Tchiharbag Abdullah Khan, situate near the Dervaze Imam. The visit to a Khanka, that is to a dignitary of religion still instinct with life, is an act of more importance and involving greater outlay than the pilgrimage to a grave. The sainted men, whether departed or still living, have equally their fixed days for levées and receptions. In the former case the descendants of his Sanctity receive the tribute, in the latter a man has the good fortune to have his purse emptied by the holy hands themselves. On the occasion of these formal visits the Ishans are tuned to a higher pitch than ordinary, and as the holy eye distinguishes at once by the exterior of the visitor the amount of the offering that is to be received, so does that measure serve to fix with precision how long or how short the benediction is to be cut. Scenes of this kind, in which I performed my part as a spectator, or stood by, were always full of interest to me; and one, over which I have had many a hearty laugh, has made an indelible impression upon my mind. In the environs of Bokhara, I entered the residence of a sheikh to ask for his blessing and a little assistance in money. Upon the first point no difficulty was made, but the second seemed to stagger him. At this moment a Turkoman was announced as an applicant for a Fatiha. He was allowed to enter. His holiness made his hocus-pocus with the greatest devotion. The Turkoman sat there like an innocent lamb, and after being subjected to the influences of the sanctifying breath, energetically administered, he dived into his money-bag, from which he extracted some pieces of coin, and, without counting them, transferred them to the hand of him from whom he had received the benediction. I noticed that the latter rubbed the money betwixt his fingers, and was really astounded when he beckoned to me, and without once looking at the number of pieces, handed them over to me in the presence of the Turkoman. That was real liberality, the reader may say. I thought so myself until coming to the bazaar and seeking to make a purchase from a baker, one of the coins was rejected by him as false. I tendered the others, and they were all pronounced to be bad—valueless. The nomad, as crafty as he was superstitious, had paid for the spurious ware with spurious money, and as his holiness on his side had at once detected the cheat by the touch, he had no scruple in making it over to me.

On the occasion of their excursions to the environs of the city, persons of wealth are in the habit of taking with them their tea-things, and a servant to prepare tea. Those who are not so well off have recourse to establishments that are to be found at these places of resort. Visitors evince just as much desire to hide themselves, where possible, in the booths, as they do to avoid encamping close to the road. As it is the approved custom to invite every passer-by, be he of what rank he may, to take some refreshment of food or drink, each host entertains an apprehension, not unjustified by experience, lest those whom he accosts, not content with returning for answer the ordinary word expressive of gratitude—khosh (well)—may actually close at once with the invitation. Still, not to give it is everywhere regarded as a mean sin. Conditional acceptance only is usual in some places. These rules of hospitality so exaggerated, and at the same time so specious, operate oppressively and unpleasantly, both on him that takes and him that gives; and the confounded, I might almost say the aghast, air of the host who is taken at his word always produced upon me the drollest effect.

The spectacle which these private parties of pleasure generally afford is one of no great gladness, they rather seem to produce a deadly-lively effect. The significant joke, the peal of laughter, the loud cry are, it is true, none of them wanting on these occasions; but where the crown of society, woman, is absent, all is in vain, and never can life assume its real aspect of genuine enjoyment.

If I do not err, it is the Tchiharbag Abdullah Khan that still preserves most of the characters of a public place of entertainment. It is a spot well shaded by lofty trees; a canal flows through it, to whose banks the pupils of the numerous colleges and the young men belonging to the wealthier classes, resort generally on Friday afternoons. The inevitable tea-kettle is here again in requisition, and tea is the article for which the place is renowned; but not the only one, for the combats of rams are here celebrated also. The savageness with which these sturdy animals rush against each other when irritated, the fearful shock of their two heads, particularly when they struggle to push their antagonists back, present a spectacle very attractive to the inhabitant, not only of Bokhara, but of every part of Central Asia. What the bull-fight is in Spain, and horse-racing in England, these combats of rams are in Turkestan. The rams are trained to this sport, and it is really surprising how these brutes support with obstinacy often as many as one hundred charges. When they first make their appearance on the avenue, the bystanders begin to wager as to the number of shocks their chosen champion will support. Sometimes the weaker combatant beats a retreat; but very often the battle only ends with the entire discomfiture of one animal, consequent upon the cracking of his skull. It is a cruel spectacle; still the cruelty does not seem so great in the middle of Tartary as some of the sports in which so many civilised nations of the West still find amusement.

Let me now attempt to portray in the following slight sketch the external mode of living in Bokhara. In the morning—I mean by the term before sunrise, as by religious compulsion every man is an early riser—one encounters people, half-asleep, and half-awake, and half-dressed, hurrying one by one to the mosques: any delay in arriving not only entails reproach, but is considered as meriting punishment. The stir made by these devotees in running through the streets rouses the houseless dogs from their lairs in the out-of-the-way corners or upon the heaps of dung. These famished, horrid-looking animals—yet contrasted with their Stambouli brethren, presenting a princely appearance—are crying proofs of the miserly nature of the Bokhariots. The poor creatures first struggle to rear their gaunt frames, mere skin and bone, from sleep; then they rub their rough, hairless carcases, against the mouldering walls, and this toilette at an end, they start upon their hunt for a dejeûner à la fourchette, for the most part made up of a few fleshless bones or carrion, but very often of kicks in the ribs administered by some compassionating and charitable inhabitant of Bokhara. At the same time as the dogs, awake the hardly-better lodged Parias of the Tartar capital—I mean the wretched men afflicted with incurable and contagious skin diseases, who sit at the corners of the streets en famille, and house in miserable tents. In Persia they are met with, remote from cities and villages, on the high roads; but here, owing to the absence of sanitary regulations, they are tolerated in the middle of the city. Their lot is far the most terrible to which any son of earth can have to submit, and unhappily they are long livers too. Whilst the mother is clothing her other accursed offspring with a scanty covering of rags, the father seats himself with the most disfigured one amongst them by the roadside, in order to solicit charity and alms from those who pass. Charity and alms to prolong such an existence!