around the world on a bicycle. chapter xxvi....

ROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE.1

B Y T H O M A S S T E V E N S .

[Our Special Correspondent.]

AFGHANISTAN.

XXVI.

A few miles across a stretch of gravellyriver bottom, interspersed with scatteringpatches of cultivation, brings us to a ham-et of some twenty mud dwellings. Thehouses are small, circular structures, un-attached, and each one removed somedozen paces from its neighbor; they arebuilt of mud with the roof flat, as in AsiaMinor. The sun is setting as we reachthis little Harood hamlet, and as Ghalakuais some three farsakhs distant we decideto remain here for the night. We pitchour camp on a smooth threshing-floor inthe centre of the village and the head-manbrings pieces of carpet for me to reclineon, together with a sort of a carpet bolsterfor a pillow.

The Khan impresses upon these simple-minded, out-of-the-world people, a duesense of my importance as the guest ofhis master, the Ameer of Seistan, and theyskirmish around in the liveliest manner toprovide what creature comforts theirmeagre resources are equal to. The bestthey can provide in the way of eatables isbread and eggs, and mus-cal, but theymake full amends for the absence of vari-ety by bestowing upon us a superabund-ance of what they have, and no slaves ofOriental despot ever displayed more eagerhaste to anticipate their ruler’s wants thando these, my first acquaintances amongthe Afghan tillers of the soil, to wait uponus. All the evening long no female ven-tures anywhere near our al fresco quar-ters; the rigid exclusion of the female sexin this conservative Mohammedan territoryforbids them making any visible show ofinterest in the affairs of men whatsoever.When the hour arrives for the preparationof the evening meal, closely shroudedfigures flit hastily through the dusk fromhouse to house, bearing camelthorntorches. They are women who have beento their neighbors to obtain a light fortheir own fire. From the number of theseit is plainly evident that the housewivesof the entire village light their fires fromone original kindling. The shrouds ofthe women are red and black plaid; the

men wear overshirts of coarse white ma-terial that reach to their knees, pointedshoes that turn up at the toes, white Turk-ish trousers, and the regulation Afghanturban.

The night is most lovely, and frogs in-numerable are in the low-lands roundabout us, croaking their appreciation ofthe mellow moonlight, the balmy air andthe overflowing waters of the river. Forhours they favor us with a musical mel-ange, embracing everything between thehoarse bass croak of the full-blown bull-frog, to the tuneful “p-r-r-r-r-ing” of thelittle green tree-frogs ensconced in theclumps of dwarf-willow hard by. Soothedby the music of the frogs I spend a rest-ful night beneath the blue calm dome ofthe Afghan sky, though awakened once ortwice by the sowars’ horses breakingloose and fighting.

Traveling leisurely next morning, wearrive at Ghalakua in the middle of theforenoon; quarters are assigned us byAminulah Khan, the Chief of the Ghala-kua villages and tributary territory. Inappearance he is a typical Oriental official,his fluffy, sensuous countenance bearingtraces of such excesses as voluptuousEasterns are wont to indulge in, and thismorning he is suffering with an attack of“tab” (fever). Wrapped in a heavy fur-lined overcoat, he is found seated on thefront platform of a menzil beneath thearched village gateway, smoking cigar-ettes; in his hand is a bouquet of roses,and numerous others are scattered abouthis feet. Dancing attendance upon himis a smart-looking little fellow in a sheep-skin busby almost as bulky in proportionas his whole body, and which renders hisappearance grotesque in the extreme. Hiskeen black eyes sparkle brightly throughthe long wool of his remarkable headgear,the ends of which dangle over his eyeslike an overgrown and wayward bang.The bravery of his attire is measurablyenhanced by a cavalry sword, long enoughand heavy enough for a six-foot dragoon,a green kammerbund and top boots of red

1 The first article of this series appeared in Outing for April, 1885.

OUTING FOR DECEMBER. 239

leather. This person stands by, the sideof Aminulah Khan, watches keenly every-thing that is being said and done, re-ceives orders from his master and transmitsthem to the various subordinates loungingabout. He looks the soul of honest andwatchfulness, his appearance and de-meanor naturally conjuring up reflectionsof faithful servitors about the personof knights and nobles of old; he is appar-ently the Khan of Ghalakua’s confidentialretainer and general supervisor of affairsabout his person and headquarters.

Offerings of roses are brought into ourquarters by the various visitors, and boysand men toss others in through door andwindows, until our room is gratefully per-fumed and roses are literally carpetingthe floor. One might well imagine. theplace to be Gulistan itself; everybody iscarrying bunches of roses in their hands,smelling of them and wearing them intheir turbans and kammerbunds. Thepeople seem to be fairly reveling in thedelights of these choicest gems fromFlora’s evidently overflowing storehouse.The men average tall and handsome; theylook like veritable warrior-priests in theirflowing white costumes, and they make astrange picture of mingled barbarism andæstheticism as they loaf in lazy magnifi-cence about the tumble-down ruins of thekonak, toying with their roses in silence.They seem contented and happy in theirisolat ion from the great busy outerworld, and, impressed by their universalappreciation of a flower, it occurs to meon the impulse of ocular evidence, thatit would be the greatest pity to disturband corrupt these people by attempting tothrust upon them our Western civilization—they seem far happier than a civilizedcommunity.

The Khan obtains his receipt for mydelivery, and by and by Aminulah Khansends his man to request the favor of atomasha. Leaving my other effects behindin charge of the sowars, I take the bicycleand favor him with’ a few turns in front ofthe village gate. Among the various con-tents of my leathern case is a bag ofkerans; but, although the case is notlocked, it is provided with a peculiar fast-ening which I fondly imagine to be be-yond the ingenuity of the Khan to open.So that, whilst well enough aware of thatguileful individual’s uncontrollable avarice

The mudbake colors up like a guiltyschool-boy upon seeing me proceed withoutdelay to examine the leathern case. Theerstwhile orderly arranged contents arefound tumbled about in dire confusion.My bag of about one hundred keranshave dwindled to nearly half that numberas the result of being in their custodyten minutes.

“Some of you pedar sags have stolenmy money; who is i t? where ’s the

in general, and his deep, dark designs on Khan?” I inquire, addressing the guiltymy money in particular, I think little of looking mudbake. He is now shiveringleaving it with him for the few minutes I visibly with fright, but makes a ludicrous

expect to be absent. It strikes me as atrifle suspicious, however, upon discover-ing that whilst everybody else comes tosee the tomasha, all three of the sowarsremain behind.

Instinctively I arrive at the conclusionthat with these three worthy kleptomaniacsleft alone in a room with some other per-son’s portable property, something ispretty sure to happen to the property; so,excusing myself as quickly as courtesywill permit, I hasten back to our quarters.The mudbake is found posted at the outergate of the konak. He is keeping watchwhile his delectable comrades search thepackage in which they sagaciously locatethe silver lucre they so much covet. See-ing me approaching, he makes a trumpetof his hands and sings out warningly tohis accomplices that I am coming back.Taking no more notice of him than usual,I pass inside and repair at once to thebalakhana, to find that the Khan and themirza have disappeared. The mudbakefollows me in to watch my movements.In the simplicity of his semi-civilized un-derstanding he is wondering within him-self whether or no I entertain suspicionsof anything being wrong, and he is watch-ing me closely to find out. In his denseignorance he imagines the Khan and themirza artful almost beyond human com-prehension, and in thinking this he, nodoubt, merely supplements the sentimentsof these two wily individuals them-selves. Time and again on the journeyfrom Tabbass has he joined them inchuckling with ghoulish glee over someself-laudatory exposition of their owndeep, deep cunning. They well knowthemselves to be unfathomably cute besidethe simple-hearted and honest ryots andnomads with whom they are wont tocompare themselves, and from thesestandards they confidently judge theworld at large.

AROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE.

effort to put a bold face on the matter,and brazenly asks, “Chand pool?” (Howmuch is missing?)

“Khylie! where is the Khan and themirza? I will take you all to AminulahKhan and have you bastinadoed!”

The poor mudbake turns pale at thebare suggestion of the bastinado, andstoutly maintains his own innocence. Hewould no doubt as stoutly proclaim theguilt of his comrades if by so doing hecould escape punishment himself. Nor isthis so surprising when one reflects thateither of these worthies would, without amoment’s hesitation, perform the sameoffice for himself or for each other.

Without wasting time in bandyingarguments with the mudbake, I sally forthin search of the others, and meet themjust outside the gate; they are returningfrom hiding the money in the ruins. Thecrimson flood of guilt overspreads theirfaces as I raise my finger and shake it atthem by way of admonition. With themfollowing behind with all the meekness ofdiscovered guilt, I lead the way back upinto the bala-khana. Arriving there, bothof them wilt so utterly and completely,and proceed to plead for mercy with suchludicrous promptness, that my sense of theridiculous outweighs all other consider-ations and I regard their demonstrationsof remorse with a broad smile of amuse-ment. It is anything but a laughing mat-ter from their own standpoint, however;the mudbake warns them forthwith thatI have threatened to have them basti-nadoed, and they fairly writhe and groan inan agony of apprehension. The Khan,owing to his more sanguine temperament,and a lively conception that the heaviestburden of guilt and accompanying pun-ishment would naturally fall on his ownshoulders as the chief of my escort, re-moves: his turban and then lays down onthe floor and grovels at my feet.

All the hair he possesses is a little tuftor two left on his otherwise smoothlyshaven pate, by which he confidently ex-pects at his demise to be tenderly liftedup into Paradise by the prophet Mo-hammed. After kissing most of the dustoff my geivehs, and banging his headviolently against the floor, he signifieshis willingness to relinquish, all antici-pations of eternal happiness, black-eyed houris and the like, by attempting to

hoping that the woeful depth of his an-yank out even this Celestial hand-hold,

guish and the sincerity of his repentance

may prove the means of escaping presentpunishment. His eyes roll wildly aboutin their sockets, and in a voice chokingwith emotion, he begs me pathetically tokeep the matter a secret from the Khan ofGhalakua. “O Sahib, Sahib! Hoikimno, hoikim no!!” he pleads, and the an-guish-stricken Khan accompanies thesepleadings with a look of unutterableagony, and furthermore indulges in thepantomime of sawing off his ears and hishands with his forefinger. This lattertragic domonstration is to let me knowthat the result of exposure would be tohave the former, and perhaps the latterof these useful members cut off, after thecruel and summary justice of this coun-try. The mirza and mudbake clusteraround and supplement their superior’spathetic pleadings with deep-drawngroans of “Allah, Allah!” and sundryprostrations toward Mecca.

It is a ludicrous and yet a strangelytouching spectacle to see these three poordevils groveling and pleading before me,and at the same time praying to Allah forprotection in the little bala-khana, hopingthereby to save themselves from cruel mu-tilation and life-long disgrace. A watchfuleye is kept outside by the mirza, who doeshis groaning and praying near the door,and the sight of an Afghan approaching isthe signal for a mute appeal for mercy fromall three, and a transformation to ordinaryattitudes and vocations, the completenessof which would do credit to professionalcomedians.

When a favorable opportunity presents,with much peering about to make sure ofbeing unobserved, his comrades lower theKhan down over the rear wall of the bala-khana, and a minute later they hoist himup again with the same show of caution.

Producing from his kammerbund a redhandkerchief containing the stolen kerans,he advances and humbly lays it at my feet,at the same time kneeling down and im-planting yet another osculatory favor onmy geivehs. Joyful at seeing my readinessto second them in keeping the matter hid-den from stray Afghans that come droppingin, the guilty sowars are yet fearful lestthey have not yet secured my completeforgiveness. Consequently the Khan re-peatedly appeals to me as “bur-rather,”lays his forefingers together and enlargesupon the fact that we have passed throughthe dangers and difficulties of the Dasht-i-na-oomid together.

The dread spectre of possible mutilation

240

OUTING FOR DECEMBER. 2 4 1

“he is found seated beneath the arched village gateway.”

and disgrace as the consequence of theirmisdeeds, pursues these guileful, grown-up children even in their dreams. Allthrough the night they are moaning andmuttering uneasily in their sleep, and toss-ing restlessly about; and long before day-break are they up, prostrating themselvesand filling the room with rapidly mutteredprayers. The Khan comes over to mycorner and peers anxiously down into myface. Finding me awake, he renews hisplea for mercy and forgiveness, callingme “bur-rather” and pleading earnestly“Hoikim no, hoikim no!”

The sharp-eyed wearer of the big busby,the cavalry sword and red jack-boots, turnsup early next morning. He dropped inonce or twice yesterday, and being pos-sessed of more brains than the threesowars put together, he gathered from ap-pearances and his general estimation oftheir character, that all is not right Thesesuspicions he promptly communicated tohis master. Aminulah Khan is only toowell acquainted with the weakest side ofthe Persian character, and at once jumpsto the conclusion that the sowars have

stolen my money. Sending for me andsummoning the sowars to his presence,without preliminary palaver, he accusesthem of robbing me of “pool.” Address-ing himself to me, he inquires: “Sahib,Parsee namifami?” (Do you understandPersian?)

“Kam Kam” (a little), I reply.“Sowari pool? pool Koob; rupee—

rupee Koob?”“O, O, pool Koob; rupee Koob; Sowari

neis, sowari Khylie Koob adam.”In this brief interchange of monosyllabic

Persian, the Khan has asked me whetherthe sowars have stolen money from me,and I have answered that they have not,but that, on the contrary, they are mostexcellent men, both “trustie and true.”May the recording angel enter my answerdown with a recommendation for mercy!During this examination, the little busby-wearer stands and closely scrutinizes thechangeful countenances of the accused.He thoroughly understands that I am mer-cifully shielding them from what he con-siders their just deserts, and he chips ina word occasionally to Aminulah Khan,

242 AROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE.

aside, like a sharp lawyer watching theprogress of a cross-examination.

The chief himself, though ostensibly ac-cepting my statement, has his own suspi-cions to the same purpose, and before dis-missing them he shakes his finger mena-cingly at the sowars and significantlytouches the hilt of his sword. The threeculprits look guilty enough to satisfy themost merciful of judges, but, relying onmy co-operation to shield them, theystoutly maintain their innocence.

Some little delay occurs about startingfor Furrah, my next objective point on theroad to India; the Khan explains that allof his sowars have been sent off to helpgarrison Herat; that the best he can pro-vide in the form of a mounted escort is anelderly little man, whom he points out,with an evident doubt as to my probableappreciation.

It is ten farsakhs to Furrah; but the inter-vening country is a hard level desert thataffords very good wheeling, and the littleold Afghan is mounted on a spirited grayhorse that keeps me close company. Ac-cordingly sunset finds us on the westernbank of the Furrah Rood, within plain viewof the city on the other side. A rude dowleh-kishti (government ferry boat) crosses theriver at Furrah, but it is tied up on theeastern side and the boatmen have gonehome for the day. We therefore obtainfood and shelter for the night in a smallnomad camp near by, and cross over inthe morning.

Riding part way to the city gate, I sendthe guide ahead to notify the governor ofmy arrival, and to present the letter fromAminulah Khan. He is absent what ap-pears to me an unnecessarily long time,and I determine to follow him in and takemy chances on the tide of circumstances,as in the cities of Persia. It is not withoutcertain lively apprehensions of possible ad-venture, however, that I approach the littlearched gateway of this gray-walled Afghancity, conscious of its being filled with themost fanatical population in the world.In addition to this knowledge is the dis-quieting reflection of being a trespasser onforbidden, territory, and therefore outsidethe pale of governmental sympathy shouldI get into trouble.

The fascination of penetrating the strangelittle world within those high walls, how.ever, ill brooks these retrospective reflec-tions, or thoughts of unpleasant conse-quences, and I make no hesitation aboutriding up to the gate. A sharp, short turn

and abrupt rise in the road occurs at thegate, necessitating a dismount and a trun-dle of about thirty yards, when I suddenlyfind myself confronting a couple of sentriesbeneath the archway of the gate. The sen-sation of surprise seems quite in order oflate, and these sentries furnish yet anothersensation, for they are wearing the red jack-ets of British infantrymen and the nattypeaked caps of the Royal artillery. Thesame crimson flush of embarrassment—orwhatever it may be—that was observed inthe countenance of the Eimuck chief, over-spreads their faces, and they seem over-come with confusion and astonishment;but they both salute mechanically as I passin. Fifty yards of open waste groundenables me to mount and ride into the en-trance of the principal street. I have pre-cious little time to look about me, and noopportunity to discover what the result ofmy temerity would be after the people hadrecovered from their amazement, for hardlyhave I gotten fairly into the street when Iam met by my old guide, conducting aguard of twelve soldiers who have beensent to bring me in.

Perhaps no stranger occurrence in thefield of personal adventure in Central Asiahas happened for many a year, than myentrance alone into Furrah on a bicycle.Only those who know Afghanistan andthe Afghans can fully realize the ticklishcharacter of this little piece of adventure.

My soldier escort are fine looking fel-lows, wearing the well known red jacketsof the British army, evidently the uniformof some sepoy regiment. Forming aroundme, they conduct me through the gate ofan inner enclosure near by, and usher meinto a small compound where MahmoudYusuph Khan, the commander-in-chief ofthe garrison, is engaged in holding a morn-ing reception of his subordinate chiefs andofficers. The spectacle that greets my as-tonished eyes is a revelation indeed; thewhole compound is filled with soldierswearing the regimentals of the Anglo-Indian army. As I enter the compoundand trundle the bicycle between long filesof soldiers toward Mahmoud Yusuph Khanand his officers, five hundred pairs of eyesare fixed on me with intense curiosity.These are Cabooli soldiers sent here togarrison Furrah, where they will be handyto march to the relief of Herat, in case ofdemonstrations against that city by theRussians. The tension over the Penjdehincident has not yet (April, 1886) whollyrelaxed, and I feel instinctively that

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I am suspected of being a Russian spy.In the centre of the compound is a large

bungalow, surrounded by a slightly raisedporch. Seated on a mat at one end of thisis Mahmoud Yusuph Khan, and ranged intwo long rows down the porch are hischiefs and officers. They are all seatedcross-legged on a strip of carpet, and at-tendants are serving them with tea in littleporcelain cups. They are the most war-like looking assembly of humans I everset eyes on. They are fairly bristling withquite serviceable looking weapons, besidesmany of the highly ornamented but lessdangerous “gew-gaws of war,” dear tothe heart ‘of the brave but conservativewarriors of Islam. Prominent among thepeculiarities observed are strips of chainmail attached to portions of their clothingas guards against sword cuts, noticeably onthe sleeves. Some are wearing steel hel-mets, some huge turbans, and others theregular Afghan military hat, this latter arakish looking headpiece something likethe hat of a Chinese Tartar general.

Mahmoud Yusuph Khan himself is wear-ing one of these hats, and is attired in atight-fitting suit of buckram, pipe-clayedfrom head to foot; in his hat glitters a

DECEMBER. 243

handsome rosette of nine diamonds, whichI have an opportunity of counting whileseated beside him. He is a stoutish per-son, full-faced, slightly above middle age,less striking in appearance than many ofhis subordinates. When I have walked upbetween the two rows of seated chieftainsand gained his side, he forthwith displayshis knowledge of the English mode ofgreeting, by shaking hands. He orders anattendant to fetch a couple of camp chairs,and setting one for me, he rises from thecarpet and occupies the other one himself.Tea is brought in small cups instead ofglasses, and is highly sweetened afterthe manner of the Persians; sweetmeatsare handed round at the same time. Afterascertaining that I understand somethingof Persian, he expresses his astonishmentat my appearance in Furrah. At first it ispainfully evident that he suspects me ofbeing a Russian spy; but after severalminutes of questions and answers, he isapparently satisfied that I am not a Mus-covite, and he explains to his officers thatI am an “Ingilis nokshi” (correspondent).He is greatly astonished to hear of theroute by which I entered the country, asno traveler ever entered Afghanistan across

“when i find myself comforting a couple of sentries.


the Dasht-i-na-oomid before. I tell himthat I am going to Kandahar and Quetta,and suggest that he send a sowar with meto guide the way. He smiles amusedly atthis suggestion, and shaking his head vig-orously he says, “Kandahar neis; Afghan-istan’s bad; khylie bad;” and he further-more explains that I would be sure to getkilled.

“Khylie koob; I don’t want any sowar,I will go alone; if I get killed, then no-body will be blamable but myself.”

“Kandahar neis,” he replies, shakinghis finger and head, and looking veryserious; “Kandahar neis; beest (20) so-wars couldn’t see you safely through toKandahar; Afghanistan’s bad; a Ferenghiwould be sure to get killed before reach-in Kandahar.”

Pretending to be greatly amused atthis, I reply, “Koob; if I get killed, allright; I don’t want any sowars; I will goalone.”

At hearing this, he grows still more seri-ous, enters into quite an eloquent andlengthy explanation, to persuade me fromthe idea of going. He explains that theAmeer has little control over the fanaticaltribes in Demindavar, and that althoughthe Boundary Commission had a wholeregiment of sepoys, the Ameer couldn’tguarantee their safety if they came toFurrah. He furthermore expresses hissurprise that I wasn’t killed before gettingthis far. The officer of the guard whobrought me in and who is standing againstthe porch close by, speaks up at thisstage of the interview and tells with muchanimation of how I was riding down thestreet, and of the people all speechlesswith astonishment.

Mahmoud Yusuph Khan repeats this tohis officers, with comments of his own,and they look at one another and smileand shake their heads, evidently deeplyimpressed at what they consider the dare-devil recklessness of a Ferenghi in ven-turing alone into the streets of Furrah.The warlike Afghans have great admira-sion for personal courage, and they evi-dently regard my arrival here withoutescort as a proof that I am possessed of acommendable share of that highly desira-ble quality. As the commander-in-chiefand a few grim old warriors squattingnear us exchange comments on the sub-ject of my appearance here, and my will-ingness to proceed alone to Kandahar,notwithstanding the known probabilityof being murdered, their glances of min-

gled amusement and admirat ion areagreeably convincing that I have toucheda chord of sympathy in their rude, mar-tial breasts.

Half an hour is passed in drinking teaand asking questions. Mahmoud YusuphKhan proves himself not wholly ignorantof English and British-Indian politics.“General Roberts Sahib, Cabool to Kan-dahar?” he queries first. The Afghansregard General Roberts’ famous march asa wonderful performance, and conse-quently hold that distinguished officer’sname in high repute. He asks about SirPeter Lumsden and Col. Sir West Ridge-way; and speaks of the Governor-Gen-eral of India. By way of testing theextent of his knowledge I refer to LordRipon as the present Governor-General ofIndia, when he at once corrects me with,“No; Lord Dufferin Sahib.” He speaksof London, and wants to know about Mr.Gladstone and Lord Salisbury—which isnow Prime Minister? I explain by pan-tomime that the election is not decided;he acknowledges his understanding ofmy meaning by a nod. He then growsinquisitive about the respective merits ofthe two candidates.

“Gladstone koob or Salisbury koob?”he queries.

“Gladstone koob, England, ryot, nune,

India, Afghanistan, Ameer, Russ, soldier,gusht, kirhmish, pool—Salisbury koob,

officer,” is the reply.To the average reader this latter reads

like so much unintelligible shibboleth;but it is a fair sample of the monosyllabiclanguage by which I manage to conveymy meaning plainly to the Afghan chief-tain. He understands by these few dis-connected nouns that I consider Glad-stone to be the better statesman of thetwo for England’s domestic affairs, andSalisbury the better for the foreign policyof the Empire.

All this time the troops are being putthrough their exercises, marching aboutthe compound in companies and drillingwith their muskets. Some are uniformedin the picturesque Anglo-Oriental regi-mentals of the Indian sepoy, and others inneat red jackets, peaked caps and whitetrousers with red stripes. The buttons,belts, bandoliers and buckles are allwanderers from the ranks of the Britisharmy. The men themselves—many ofthem, at least—might quite as readily becredited to that high standard of militaryprowess which characterzes the British


army as the clothes and accoutrementsthey are wearing, judging from outwardappearances. Not only do their facesbear the stamp of both fearlessness andintelligence, but some of them are pos-sessed of the distinctive combative physi-ognomy of the born pugilist, The cap-tain of the Governor’s guard has a partic-ularly plucky and aggressive expression;he is a man whose face will alwaysremain pictured on my memory. Theinteresting expression this officer habit-ually wears is that of a prize champion witha determined bull-dog phiz, watchingeagerly to pounce on some imaginary an-tagonist. Seeing that his attention is keenlycentred upon myself the whole time I amsitting by the side of his chief, he becomes anobject of more than passing interest. Hewatches me with the keen earnestness ofa bull-dog expectantly awaiting the orderto attack.

comprising the meal, are such as to thor-oughly delight the heart of a person whohas grown thin and gaunt and wolfishfrom semi-starvation and prolongedphysical exertion. The two long skewersof smoking kabobs and the fried eggs aremost excellent eating, the pillau is de-licious, and among other luxuries is asort of pomegranate jam, some very goodbutter (called mus-cal), a big bowl ofsherbet, and dishes of nuts, sweetmeatsand salted melon seeds.

After the interview the twelve red jack-ets that appear to constitute the Gover-nor’s body-guard are detailed to conductme to a walled garden outside the city.Before departing, however, I give thestrange assembly of Afghan warriors anexhibition of riding around the compound.The guard, under the leadership of theofficer with the bull-dog phiz, fix bayonetsand form into a file on either side of me asI trundle back through the same streettraversed upon my arrival. Accompany-ing us is a man on a gray horse whomeverybody addresses respectfully as “Kif-tan Sahib” (Captain), and another individ-ual afoot in a bottle-green roundabout,a broad leathern belt, a striped turban,white baggy pantalettes and pointed redshoes.

About four o’clock I am visited by afatherly old Khan in a sky-blue gown,and an interesting Cabooli cavalry colo-nel, with pieces of chain mail distributedabout his uniform, and a fierce-lookingmustache that stands straight out fromhis upper lip. Sweetmeats enough tostart a small candy shop have been sentme during the afternoon, and setting themout before my guests, we are soon on themost familiar terms. The colonel showsme his weapons in return for a squintdown the shining rifled barrel of mySmith & Wesson, and he explains themerits and demerits of both his own fire-arms and mine. The 38-calibre S. & W.he thinks a perfect weapon in its way,but altogether too small for Afghanistan.With expressive pantomime he explains,that whilst my 38 bullet would kill aperson as well as a larger one, it requiresa heavier missile to crash into a man whois making for you with a knife or sword,and stop him. His favorite weapon forclose quarters is a murderous-lookingpiece, half blunderbuss, half pistol, thathe carries thrust in his kammerbund, sothat the muzzle points behind him. This

A couple of little whitewashed bunga-lows are the only buildings in the garden,and one of these is assigned to me formy quarters. Kiftan Sahib and the youngman in the bottle-green roundabout giveorders about the preparation of refresh-ments, and then squat themselves downnear me to gladden their eyes with a pro-longed examination of my face. Thered-jackets separate into three reliefs offour each; one relief immediately com-menced pacing back and forth along thefour sides of the bungalow, one soldieron each side, whilst the remainder seekthe shade of a promegranate grove thatoccupies one side of the garden. By-and-by’ servitors appear bearing trays ofsweetmeats and more substantial fare.The variety and abundance of eatables

weapon has a small, single-hand musketstock. and the bell-mouthed barrel isfilled nearly to the muzzle with powderand round bullets the size of buckshot.This formidable firearm is for hand-to-hand fighting on horseback, and at tenpaces might easily be warranted to blowa man’s head into smithereens, and toscatter his intellectual faculties piecemealover the gory field of battle.

The colonel is an amiable old warrior,and kindly points this interesting weaponat my head for me to peer down the bar-rel and satisfy myself that it is reallyloaded almost to the top. Like Injun-slaying youngsters in America, thedoughty Afghan warriors seem to delightin having their weapons loaded, their side-arms sharp and their bayonets fixed, andseem anxious to impress the beholder with


the fact that they are real warriors and notmere make-believe soldiers. The colonelwears a dark-brown uniform profuselytrimmed with braid, a Kashgarian militaryhat and English army shoes. In matterspertaining to his wardrobe it is very evi-dent that ‘he has profited to no smallextent by Afghanistan being adjacent ter-ritory to British-India; but his semi-civil-ized ambition has not yet soared into theæsthetic realm of socks; doubtless heconsiders Northampton-made shoes suffi-ciently luxurious without the addition ofsocks.

The red-jackets patrol my bungalow tilldark, when they are relieved by soldiersin dark blue kilts, loose Turkish panta-lettes and big turbans. I sit on thethreshold during the evening, watchingtheir soldierly bearing with much interest;on their part they comport themselves asthough proudly conscious of making agood impression. I judge they havebeen especially ordered to acquit them-selves well in my presence, and so impressme, whether I am English or Russian,with a sense of their military proficiency.All about the garden red-coated guardsare seen prostrating themselves towardMecca in the prosecution of their even-

ing devotions. Full of reflections onthe exciting events of the day and thestrange turn affairs have taken, I stretchmyself on a Turkoman rug and doze offto s leep. The last sound heard erereaching the realms of unconsciousness isthe steady tramp of the sentinels pacingto and fro. Scarcely have I fallen asleep—so at least it seems to me—when I amawakened by my four guards singing outone after another, “Kujaw puk! Ki-i-puk!!” This appears to be their answerto the challenge of the officer going hisrounds, and they shout it out in tonesclear and distinct, in succession. Thisprogramme is repeated several times dur-ing the night, and notwithstanding thesleep-inducing fatigues of the last fewdays, my slumbers are light enough tohear the reliefs of the guard and theirstrange cry of “Kujaw puk, ki-i-puk”every time it is repeated.

During my two days’ retention in thegarden many strange experiences occurthat must of necessity remain over for acomplete narrative. A corporal’s guardof sepoys conducting prisoners from theBoundary Commission Camp to Quettaarrive and volunteer to take me throughwith them, another interview with Mah-

moud Yusuph Khan, visits from officersand duels of Oriental argument about thewhy and wherefore of my arrest enterinto my strange experiences.

Late in the afternoon of the second daymy scarlet guard marshal themselves infront of the bungalow, and Kiftan Sahiband Bottle-green bid me prepare for de-parture to Herat. The old Khan andthe colonel and several other horsemen,appear at the garden gate; the soldiersform themselves into two files, and be-tween them I trundle from my circum-scribed quarters. The rude ferry-boat isawaiting our coming, and in a fewminutes the Khan and the colonel bidme quite an affectionate farewell on theriver bank, gazing eagerly into my faceas though regretful at the necessity ofparting so soon. My escort favor mewith the same lingering gaze. Thesepeople are evidently fascinated by thestrange and mysterious manner of mycoming among them; who am I, whatam I, and wherefore my marvelous man-ner of traveling, are questions that ap-peal strongly to their Asiatic imagination,and they are intensely loath to see me dis-appear again without having seen moreof me and my wonderful iron horse, andlearned more about it.

Several horsemen have already crossedand are awaiting us on the opposite shore.Kiftan Sahib and another officer with ahenna-tinted beard are in charge of theparty taking me back. Besides myselfand these two, the party consists ofeleven horsemen; with sundry modifi-cations, their general appearance, armsand dress resemble the make-up of aPersian sowar rather than the regularAfghan soldier. The sun is just settingbehind those western mountains I passedthree days ago as we reach the westernshore, the boatmen are unloading thesaddles and accoutrements of our party,and I sit down on the bank and surveythe strange scene just across the river.

The steep bluff opposite is occupied bypeople who accompained us to the river.Many of them are seizing this opportunemoment to prostrate themselves towardthe Holy City, the geographical positionof which is happily indicated by the set-ting sun.

Prominent among the worshipers areseen side. by side the cerulean figure ofthe Khan, and the colonel in all thebravery of his military trappings, hischain armor glistening brightly in the


“and behold before us the famous valley of herat.”

waning sunlight. A little removed from chain of small lakes. The fortress ofthe crowd, the twelve red-coats are Herat is dimly discernible in the distanceranged in a row, performing the same beyond the river, probably about twentypious ceremony; as their bared heads miles from our position; it is renderedbob up and down one after another, the distinguishable from other masses ofscarlet figures outlined in a row against mud brown habitations by a cluster ofthe eastern sky are strangely suggestive tall minars, reminding one of a groupof a small flock of flamingos, engaged in of factory chimneys. The whole scenefishing. as viewed from the commanding view

Four days of strange experiences on the of our ridge embraces perhaps fourdesert roads between Furrah and Herat, hundred square miles of territory; aboutcamping at night in the tents of wandering one-tenth of this appears to be undert r i be smen and mee t ing w i th many cultivation, the remainder being of thestrange adventures, and on the morn- same stony, desert-like character as theing of April 30 we arrive at the bluff- average camelthorn dasht.like termination of a rolling upland Doubtless a good share of this lattercountry, and behold, spread out below might be reclaimed and rendered pro-is the famous valley of Herat. Like a ductive by an extensive system of irrigat-panorama suddenly opened up before ing canals, but at present no incentiveme is the charmed stretch of the country exists for enterprise of this character. Inthat has time and again created such a its present state of cultivation the valleystir in the political and military circles provides an abundance of food for theof England and Russia, the famous “gate consumption of its inhabitants, and asto India” about which the two greatest yet the demand for exportation is limitedempires of the world have sometimes to the simple requirements of a fewalmost come to blows. Several populous thousand tributary nomads. The orchardsvillages are scattered about the valley and green areas about the villages renderwithin easy range of human vision; the the whole scene, as usual, beautiful inHeri Rood now bursting its natural bound- comparison with the surrounding barren-aries and the stimulus of the spring ness, but that is all. Compared to ourfloods glistens broadly at intervals like a own green hills and smiling valleys the


Valley of Hera. would scarcely seemworth all the noise that has been madeabout it. There has been a great amountof sentiment wasted in eulogizing itsalleged beauty. Of its wealth and com-mercial importance in the abstract Ishould say much ‘exaggeration has beenindulged in. Still, there is no gainsayingthat it is a most valuable strategicalposition, which if held by either Englandor Russia would exercise great influenceon Central Asian and Indian affairs.

Such are my first impressions of theHerat Valley, and a sojourn of some tendays in one of its villages leaves my con-jectures about the same.

A few miles along a stony and gradu-ally descending trail and we are makingour way across the usual chequered areaof desert patches, abandoned fields andold irrigating ditches that so often tellthe tale of decay and retrogression in theEast. These outlying evidences of decay,however, soon merge into green fields ofwheat and barley, poppy gardens andorchards and flowing ditches; and twohours after obtaining the first view ofHerat finds us camped in a walled apricotgarden in the important v i l lage ofRosebagh(?).

Letters are forwarded to this city im-mediately upon our arrival, and on thefollowing morning an officer and severalsoldiers made their appearance, to re-ceive me from Kiftan Sahib and dulyreceipt for my transfer. The officer an-nounces himself as having once been toBombay, and proceeds to question me ina mixture of Persian and Hindostani.

Finding me ignorant of the latter lan-

Russian; raising his finger and waggingguage he openly accuses me of being a

his head in a deprecatory manner. He isa simple-minded individual, however, andopen to easy conviction, and moreoverinclined to be amiable and courteous,He tells me that Faramerz Khan is “Waliof the soldiers” and Niab AlookimahKhan the “dowleh” (civil governor), andafter listening to my explanation of beingEnglish and not Russian, he takes uponhimself to deliver salaams from them both.

“Merg Sahib,” the political agent of theBoundary Commission, he says is atMurghab, and “Ridgway Sahib” atMaimene. Learning that a courier is tobe sent at once to them with letters inregard to myself, I quickly embrace theopportunity of sending a letter to each bythe same messenger, explaining the situa-

tion, and asking Colonel Ridgway to tryand render me some assistance in gettingthrough to India.

By request of the officer I send the gov-ernor of Herat a sketch of the bicycle toenlighten him somewhat concerning itscharacter and appearance. No doubt, itwould be a stretching of his Asiatic digni-ty as the governor of an important cityto come to Rosebagh on purpose to seeit for himself, and on no circumstancescan I, an unauthorized Ferenghi invadingthe country against orders, be permittedto visit Herat.

The transfer having been duly made, Iam conducted, a mile or so, to the gardenof a gentleman named Mohammed AhzimKhan, my quarters there being an openbungalow just large enough to stretch outin. Here is provided everything neces-sary for the rude personal comfort ofthe country, and such additional luxu-ries as raisins and pomegranates are atonce brought. Here also I very promptlymade the acquaintance of Moore’s famousbul-buls, the “sweet nightingales” ofLalla Rookh. The garden is full of fruittrees and grape-vines, and here severalpairs of bul-buls make their home.They are great pets with the Afghans, andwhen Mohammed Ahzim Khan cal ls“Bul-bul, bul-bul,” they come and alighton the bushes close by the bungalow andperk their heads knowingly, evidently ex-pecting to be favored with tid-bits. Theyare almost tame enough to take raisinsout of the hand, and hesitate not to ven-ture after them when placed close to ourfeet. It is the first time I have had theopportunity of a close examination of thebul-bul. They are almost the counter-part of the English starling as regardssize and shape, but their bodies are of amousey hue; the head and throat areblack, with little white patches on either“cheek”; the tail feathers are black, tip-ped with white, and on the lower part ofthe body is a patch of yellow; the feath-ers of the head form a crest that almostrises to the dignity of a tassel.

Whilst the bul-bul is a companionablelittle fellow and possessed of a cheeryvoice, his warble in no respects resemblesthe charming singing of the nightingale,and why he should be mentioned in con-nection with the sweet midnight songsterof the English woodlands is something ofa mystery. His song is a mere “clicketyclick” repeated rapidly several times.His popularity comes chiefly from his


oldness and his companionable associa- as “backsheesh” given him, without soli-tions with mankind The bul-bul is as citation, by the government of India; amuch of a favorite in the Herat Valley as circumstance that probably appeals to hisis robin red-breast in rural England, or Oriental conception as a most extraordin-the bobolink in America.

The second day in the garden is re-ary feature in his favor. Bribery, favori-

membered as the anniversary of my starttism and personal influence enter so

from Liverpool, and I have plenty of timelargely into the preferments and rewardsof Oriental governments, that anything

for retrospection. It is unnecessary to obtained on purely meritorious groundssay that the year has been crowded withstrange experiences. Not the least strange

may well be valued highly.

of all, perhaps, is my present predica-He understands English sufficiently

ment as a prisoner in the Herat Valley.well to comprehend the meaning of myremarks and queries, and even knows a

In the afternoon there arrives from few words himself. From him I learn thatHerat a Peshawari gentleman named I will not be permitted to visit Herat, andMirza Gholam Ahmed, who is stationed that I am to be kept under guard untilhere in capacity of native agent for the Faramorz Khan’s courier returns from theIndian government. He is an individual Boundary Commission Camp with Colonelpossessed of considerable Asiatic astute- Ridgway’s answer. He tells me thatness, and his particular mission is very the fame of the bicycle has long agoplainly to discover for the governor of been brought to Herat by pilgrims return-Herat whether I am English or Russian, ing from Meshed, and the marvelousHe is a somewhat fleshy, well favored stories of my accomplishments are cur-person, and withal of prepossessing man- rent in the bazaars. Fourteen farsakhsners. He introduces himself by shakinghands and telling me his name, and forth-

(fifty-six miles) an hour, and nothing saidabout the condition of the roads, is the

with indulges in a pinch of snuff prepara- average Herati’s understanding of it; andtory to his task of interrogation. Accom- many a grave, turbaned merchant in thepanying him is the officer who received bazaar, and wild warrior on the ramparts,me from Kiftan Sahib in the apricot gar- indulges in day-dreams of an iron horseden, and whose suspicions of my being a little less miraculous in its deeds than theRussian spy are anything but allayed

During the interview he squats down onwinged steed of the air we read of in the“Arabian Nights.”

the threshold of the little bungalow and The direct results of Mirza Gholamconcentrates his curiosity and suspicion Ahmed’s visit and favorable report to theinto a protracted penetrating stare, focused Governor of Herat, are made manifest onsteadily at my devoted countenance. the following day by the appearance ofMohammed Ahzim Khan imitates him to his companion of yesterday in charge ofperfection, except that his stare contains two attendants, bringing me boxes ofmore curiosity and less suspicion. Mirza sweetmeats, almonds, raisins and saltedGholam Ahmed proceeds upon his mission nuts, together with a package of tea and aof following the secret of my nationality fifteen-pound cone of loaf-sugar; all back-with extreme wariness, as becomes an sheesh from the Governor of HeratOriental official engaged in a task of signi- Mirza Gholam Ahmed himself contributesficant import, and at first confines himself a cake of toilet soap, a few envelopes andto the use of Persian and Hindostani. It sheets of paper, and Huntley & Palmer’sdoes not take me long, however, to Reading biscuits. Upon stumbling uponsatisfy the trustworthy old Peshawari that these latter acceptable articles, one natur-I am not a Muscov, and fifteen minutes ally falls to wondering, whether thisafter his preliminary pinch of snuff, he is world-famed firm of biscuit-makers sus-unbosoming himself to me to the extent of pect that their wares sometimes penetrateletting me know that he served with Gen- even inside the battlemented walls oferal Pollock on the Seistan Boundary Herat. With them come also threeCommission, that he went with General gunsmiths, charged with the duty ofPollock to London, and moreover rejoices assisting in the reparation of the bicycle,in the titular distinction of C. I. E. (Com- badly damaged by a horse on the waypanion Indian Empire), bestowed upon from Furrah.him for long and faithful civil and politi- Their implements consist of a pair ofcal services. The C. I. E. he designates, peculiar goat-skin bellows, provided withwith a pardonable smile of self-approval wooden nozzles tipped with iron. A cat-


gut bowspring, drills for boring holes andscrew-drills for cutting threads, hammersand an anvil. A rude but ingenious forgeis constructed out of a few handfuls ofstiff mud, and, building a charcoal fire,they spend the evening in sharpening andtempering drills for to-morrow’s oper-ations.

Everybody seems more attentive andanxious to contribute to my pleasure, theresult evidently of orders from Herat.The officer, who but two days ago openlyaccused me of being a Russian, is to-dayobsequious beyond measure, and hisefforts to atone for his openly assured sus-picions are really quite painful and em-barrassing; even going the length of beg-ging me to take him with me to London.The supper provided to-day consists ofmore courses and is better cooked andbetter served; Mohammed Ahzim Khanhimself squats before me diligently en-gaged in picking hairs out of the butter,pointing out what he considers thechoicest morsels, and otherwise betraysgreat anxiety to do the agreeable.

The whole of the fifth and sixth daysare consumed in the task of repairing thedamages to the bicycle, the result being

highly satisfactory, considering every-thing. Six new spokes that I have withme have been inserted, and sundry othersstretched and the ends newly threaded.The gunsmiths are quite expert workmenconsidering the tools they have to workwith, and when they happen to drill ahole a trifle crooked, they are full ofapologies and remind me that this isAfghanistan and not Frangistan. Theyknow and appreciate good material whenthey see it, and during the process of heat-ing and stretching the spokes, loud andprofuse are the praises bestowed upon thequality of the iron; “Koob ahen,” theysay, “Khylie koob ahen; Ferenghi ahenkoob.” As artisans, interested in mechan-ical affairs, the ball-bearings of the pedals,one of which I take apart to show them,excites their profound admiration as evi-dence of the marvelous ski l l of theFerenghis. Much careful work is requiredto spring the rim of the wheel back intoa true circle, every spoke having to beloosened and the whole wheel newly ad-justed. Except for the handy little spoke-vise which I very fortunately broughtwith me, this work of adjustment wouldhave been impos s ib l e . As the re i s

the gunsmiths of herat repairing stevens bicycle.

OUTING FOR DECEMBER.

probably nothing obtainable in Herat thatwould have answered the purpose, noalternative would have been left, but tohave carried the bicycle out of the coun-try on horseback. After the coterie ofgunsmiths have exhausted their ingenuityand my own resources have been ex-pended, three spokes are missing en-tirely, two others are stretched andweakened, and of the six new ones someare forced into holes partially spoiled inthe unskillful boring out of broken ends.Yet, with all these defects, so thoroughlyhas it stood the severest tests of the roads,that I apprehend little or no trouble aboutbreakages.

Day after day passes wearily along;wearily, notwithstanding the kindlyefforts of my guardians to make thingspleasant and comfortable . From anAsiatic’s standpoint, nothing could bemore desirable than my present circum-stances; with nothing to do but layaround and be waited on, generous mealsthree times daily, sweetmeats to nibbleand tea to drink the whole livelong day;conscious of requiring rest and generousdiet, all this, however, is anything butsatisfactory in view of the reflection thatthe fine spring weather is rapidly passingaway, and that every day ought to see meforty or fifty miles nearer the PacificCoast.

Time hangs heavily in the absence ofoccupation, and I endeavor to relieve thetedium of slowly creeping time, by culti-vating the friendship of our new-found ac-quaintances, the bul-buls. My bountifulsupply of raisins provides the elements ofa genuine bond of sympathy between us,and places us on the most friendly termsimaginable from the beginning. Duringthe day my bungalow is infested withswarms of huge robber ants, that make amost determined onslaught on the raisinsand sweetmeats, invading the boxes andlugging them off to their haunts amongthe grape-vines. A favorite occupationof the bul-buls is sitting on a twig justoutside the bungalow and watching forthe appearance of these ants draggingaway raisins. The bul-bul hops to theground, seizes the raisin, shakes the antloose, flies back up in his tree andswallows the captured raisin, and imme-diately perks his head in search of anotherprize.

Among other ideas intended to con-tribute to my enjoyment, a loud voicedpee-wit imprisoned in a crape cage is

251

brought and hung up outside the bunga-low. At intervals that seem almost asregular as the striking of a clock, this in-teresting pet stretches itself up at fulllength and gives utterance to a successionof rasping cries, strangely loud for sosmall a creature. A horse is likewisebrought into the garden, for the pleasureit will presumably afford me to watch itmunch bunches of pulled grass, andswitch horse-flies away with his tail. Thehorse is tied up about twenty yards frommy quarters, but in his laudable zeal tocater to my amusement MohammedAhzim Khan volunteers to station it closeby if more agreeable.

All these trifling occurrences serve toillustrate the Asiatic’s idea of personal en-joyment.

Every day a subordinate called AbdurRahwan Khan rides into Herat to reportto the governor, and Mohammed AhzimKhan himself keeps watch and ward overmy person with faithful vigil. SometimesI wander about the little garden for exer-cise, and either he or one of his assistantsfollows close behind, faithful in theirattendance as a shadow. Occasionally Igrow careless and indifferent about possi-ble danger, and leave my revolver hang-ing up in the bungalow; noticing itsabsence he bids me buckle it around me,saying warningly “Afghanistan; Afgha-nistan;” he also watches me retire at nightto make sure that I put it under mypillow.

One day, a visitor appears upon thescene, carrying a walking cane. Moham-med Ahzim Khan pounces upon him in-stanter, and grabbing the stick, examinesit closely, evidently suspicious lest itshould be a sword-stick. He is the mostpersistent “gazer” I have yet met in Asia;hour after hour he squats on his hams atmy feet and stares intently into my face,as though trying hard to read my inmostthoughts. Oriental-like, he is fascinatedby the mystery of my appearance here,and there is no such thing as shaking offhis silent, wondering gaze for a minute.He is on hand promptly in the morningto watch my rude matutinal toilet, and healways watches me retire for the night.Even when I betake myself to a retiredposition of the garden in the dusk of even-ing to take a sluice-bath with a bucket ofwater, his white-robed figure is alwaysloitering near.

Four men are stationed about my bunga-low at night; their respective ornaments


vary from a Martini-Henry rifle attachedto a picturesque Asiatic stock, owned byAbdur Rahwan Khan, to an immensenobbed cudgel wielded by a title-less youthnamed Osman.

Osman’s sole wardrobe consists of acoarse night-shirt style of garment, thatin the early part of its career was prob-ably white, but which is now neitherwhite nor equal to the task of protectinghim from the penetrating rays of thesummer sun. His occupation appears tobe that of all-round utility man for whom-soever cares to order him about. Osmanhas to bring water and pour on my handswhenever I want to wash, hie him awayto the bazaar to search for dates or any-thing my epicurean taste demands inaddition to what is provided, feed thehorse, change the position of the pee-witto keep it in the shade, sweep out mybungalow and perform all sorts of menialoffices. Every noble loafer about my per-son seems anxious to have Osman con-tinually employed in contributing to mycomfort; Mohammed Ahzim Khan evendeprecates the independence displayed inlacing up my own shoes. “Osman,” hesays, “let Osman do it.”

Osman’s chief characteristic is a recklessdisregard for the conventionalities ofsocial life and religion; he never seemsto bother himself about either washing hisperson or saying his prayers. Some-where, not far away, every evening thefaithful are summoned to prayer by amuezzin with the most musical andpathetic voice I have heard in all Islam.The voice of this muezzin calling “Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h” as it comes floating over thehouses and gardens in the calm silence ofthe summer evenings is wonderfully im-pressive. From the pulpits of all Christen-dom I have yet to hear an utterance sofull of pathos and supplication, or thatcarries with it the impressions of suchdeep sincerity as the “Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h”of this Afghan muezzin in the Herat Val-ley. It is a supplication to the throne ofgrace that rings in my ears even as I writemonths after, and it touches the hearts ofevery Afghan within hearing and taps thefountain of their piety like magic. It

calls forth responsive prayers and piouss ighings from everybody around mybungalow—everybody but Osman.Osman can scarcely be called imperturb-able, for he has his daily and hourlymoods, and is of varying temper; but hecarries himself always as though consciousof being an outcast whom nothing caneither elevate or defile. When his fellowMussulmans are piously prostrating them-selves and uttering religious sighs sincereas fanaticism can make them, Osman iseither curled up beneath a pomegranatebush asleep, feeding the horse or attend-ing to the pee-wit.

On the ninth evening of my detentionin the garden of Rosebagh, the courier re-turns with orders that I am to be con-ducted back into Persia. But again thenecessity of curtailing, in the interest of aforthcoming volume, bids the omission ofdetails. A four days’ journey under theescort of Mohammed Ahzim Khan andparty of horsemen, and I am set at libertyin the village of Karize, Persia, a hundredand sixty miles from Meshed. At theHoly City I am delighted to find Mr. R.,a correspondent of the London Standard,who, failing in an attempt to cross theAfghan frontier, is about retiring to Europe.Together we journey back to the CaspianSea, thence by Russian steamer to Baku,by the Caucasus Railway to Batoum, anddown the Black Sea to Constantinople,meeting with all sorts of adventures andeven thrilling experiences together, nota-bly the rescue of his Turkish servant,Abdul, from a vengeful Persian mob in aserai.

At Constantinople I found new tyres andextras awaiting me, which I took aroundwith me by steam to India. The nearestpracticable starting point for a bicycle toFurrah is Lahore, the Capital of the Pun-jaub, British India. To reach this point Itook a Khedevial steamer from Constanti-nople to Alexandria, Egyptian railroad toSuez, English steamer to Kurrachee,Indus Valley Railroad to Lahore.

The next sketch will be descriptive ofthe tour through India, along fourteenhundred miles of the finest metaled high-way in the world.

around the world on a bicycle. chapter xxvi....

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