AROUND THE WORLD ON A BICYCLE Volume II. From Teheran To Yokohama By Thomas Stevens CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGETHE START FROM TEHERAN, . . . . . . . . 1 CHAPTER II. PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD, . . . . . . 34 CHAPTER III. PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD, . . . . . . 43 CHAPTER IV. THROUGH KHORASSAN, . . . . . . . . . . 65 CHAPTER V. MESHED THE HOLY, . . . . . . . . . . 84 CHAPTER VI. THE UNBEATEN TRACKS Of KHORASSAN, . . . . . . 109 CHAPTER VII. BEERJAND AND THE FRONTIER OF AFGHANISTAN, . . . . 135 CHAPTER VIIIACROSS THE "DESERT OF DESPAIR, ". . . . . . . 160 CHAPTER IX. AFGHANISTAN, . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 CHAPTER X. ARRESTED AT FURRAH, . . . . . . . . . 197 CHAPTER XI. UNDER ESCORT TO HERAT, . . . . . . . . . 209 CHAPTER XII. TAKEN BACK TO PERSIA, . . . . . . . . . 230 CHAPTER XIII. ROUNDABOUT TO INDIA, . . . . . . 255 CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH INDIA, . . . . . . . . . . . 284 CHAPTER XV. DELHI AND AGRA, . . . . . . . . . . 809 CHAPTER XVI. FROM AGRA TO SINGAPORE, . . . . . . . . 833 CHAPTER XVII. THROUGH CHINA, . . . . . . . . . . . 365 CHAPTER XVIII. DOWN THE KAN-KIANG VALLEY, . . . . . . . . 400 CHAPTER XIX. THROUGH JAPAN, . . . . . . . . . . . . 432 CHAPTER XX. THE HOME STRETCH, . . . . . . . . . . 451 CAMBRIDGE, MASS. , April 10, 1887. FROM TEHERAN TO YOKOHAMA. CHAPTER I. THE START FROM TEHERAN. The season of 1885-86 has been an exceptionally mild winter in thePersian capital. Up to Christmas the weather was clear and bracing, sufficiently cool to be comfortable in the daytime, and with crisp, frosty weather at night. The first snow of the season commenced fallingwhile a portion of the English colony were enjoying a characteristicChristmas dinner of roast-beef and plum-pudding, at the house of thesuperintendent of the Indo-European Telegraph Station, and during Januaryand February, snow-storms, cold and drizzling rains alternated with briefperiods of clearer weather. When the sun shines from a cloudless sky inTeheran, its rays are sometimes uncomfortably warm, even in midwinter; afoot of snow may have clothed the city and the surrounding plain in asoft, white mantle during the night, but, asserting his supremacy on thefollowing morning, he will unveil the gray nakedness of the stony plainagain by noon. The steadily retreating snow line will be driven back-backover the undulating foot-hills, and some little distance up the ruggedslopes of the Elburz range, hard by, ere he retires from view in theevening, rotund and fiery. This irregular snow-line has been steadilylosing ground, and retreating higher and higher up the mountain-slopesduring the latter half of February, and when March is ushered in, withclear sunny weather, and the mud begins drying up and the variousindications of spring begin to put in their appearance, I decide to makea start. Friends residing here who have been mentioning April 15th as thedate I should be justified in thinking the unsettled weather at an endand pulling out eastward again, agree, in response to my anxiousinquiries, that it is an open spell of weather before the regular springrains, that may possibly last until I reach Meshed. During the winter I have examined, as far as circumstances havepermitted, the merits and demerits of the different routes to the PacificCoast, and have decided upon going through Turkestan and Southern Siberiato the Amoor Valley, and thence either follow down the valley toVladivostok or strike across Mongolia to Pekin--the latter route bypreference, if upon reaching Irkutsk I find it to be practicable; if notpracticable, then the Amoor Valley route from necessity. This route Iapprove of, as it will not only take me through some of the mostinteresting country in Asia, but will probably be a more straightawaycontinuous land-journey than any other. The distance from Teheran toVladivostok is some six thousand miles, and, well aware that six thousandmiles with a bicycle over Asiatic roads is a task of no little magnitude, I at once determine upon taking advantage of the fair March weather toaccomplish at least the first six hundred miles of the journey betweenTeheran and Meshed, one of the holy cities of Persia. The bicycle is in good trim, my own health is splendid, my experience ofnearly eight thousand miles of straightaway wheeling over the roads ofthree continents ought to count for something, and it is with everyconfidence of accomplishing my undertaking without serious misadventurethat I set about making my final preparations to start. The BritishCharge d'Affaires gives me a letter to General Melnikoff, the RussianMinister at the Shah's court, explaining the nature and object of myjourney, and asking him to render me whatever assistance he can to getthrough, for most of the proposed route lies through Russian territory. Among my Teheran friends is Mr. M------, a lively, dapperlittle telegraphist, who knows three or four different languages, and whonever seems happier than when called upon to act the part of interpreterfor friends about him. Among other distinguishing qualities, Mr. M------shines inTeheran society as the only Briton with sufficient courage to wear achimney-pot hat. Although the writer has seen the "stove-pipe" of theunsuspecting tenderfoot from the Eastern States made short work of in afar Western town, and the occurrence seemed scarcely to be out of placethere, I little expected to find popular sentiment running in the samewarlike groove, and asserting itself in the same destructive manner inthe little English community at Teheran. Such, however, is the grim fact, and I have ventured to think that after this there is no disputing thecommon destiny of us Anglo-Saxons, whatever clime, country, or governmentmay at present claim us as its own. Having seen this unfortunateheadgear of our venerable and venerated forefathers shot as full ofholes as a colander in the West, I come to the East only to find itsubjected to similar indignities here. I happen to be present at thewanton destruction of Mr. M------'s second or third importation fromEngland, see it taken ruthlessly from his head, thrust through andthrough with a sword-stick, and then made to play the unhappy andundignified part of a football so long as there is anything left to kickat. More than our common language, methinks--more than common customs andtraditions--more than all those characteristic traits that distinguish usin common, and at the same time also distinguish us from all otherpeoples--more than anything else, does this mutual spirit ofdestructiveness, called into play by the sight of a stove-pipe hat, provethe existence of a strong, resistless undercurrent of sympathy that iscarrying the most distant outposts of Anglo-Saxony merrily down thestream of time together, to some particular end; perchance a gloriousend, perchance an ignominious end, but certainly to an end that will notwear a stove-pipe hat. Mr. M------'s linguistic accomplishments include a fairknowledge of Russian, and he readily accompanies me to the RussianLegation to interpret. The Russian Legation is situated down in the oldOriental quarter (birds of a feather, etc. ) of the city, and, for us atleast, necessitated the employment of a guide to find it. On the waydown, Mr. M------, who prides himself on a knowledge ofRussian character, impresses upon me his assurance that General Melnikoffwill turn out to be a nice, pleasant sort of a gentleman. "All thebetter-class Russians are delightfully jolly and agreeable, much moreagreeable to have dealings with than the same class of people of anyother country, " he says, and with these favorable comments we reach thelegation and send up my letter. After waiting what we both consider anunnecessarily long time in the vestibule, a full-faced, sensual-looking, or, in other words, well-to-do Persian-looking individual, in the fullcostume of a Persian nobleman, comes out, bearing my letter unopened inhis hand. Bestowing upon us a barely perceptible nod, he walks straighton past, jumps into a carriage at the door, and is driven off. Mr. M------looks nonplussed at me, and I suppose I lookedequally nonplussed at him; anyhow, he proceeds to relieve his feelings inlanguage anything but complimentary to the Russian Minister. He'sthe--well, I've met scores of Russians, but--him, queer! Inever saw a Russian act half as queer as this before, never!" "Small prospect of getting any assistance from this quarter, " I suggest. "Seems deucedly like it, " assents Mr. M------. "I said, just now, that, being a Russian, he was sure to be courteous andagreeable, if nothing else; but it seems as if there are exceptions tothis rule as to others;" and, talking together, we try to findconsolation in the thought that he may be merely eccentric, and turn outa very good sort of fellow after all. While thus commenting, a liveriedservant presents himself and motions for us to follow him in the wake ofthe departing carriage. Following his guidance a short distance throughthe streets, he leads us into the court-yard of a splendid Persianmansion, delivers us into the charge of another liveried servant, whoconducts us up a broad flight of marble stairs, at the top of which hedelivers us into the hands of yet a third flunky, who now escorts us intothe most gorgeously mirrored room it has ever been my fortune to see. Theapartment is perfectly dazzling in its glittering splendor; the floor isof highly polished marble, the walls consist of mirror-work entirely, asalso does the lofty, domed ceiling; not plain, large squares oflooking-glass, but mirrored surfaces of all shapes and sizes, pitched atevery conceivable angle, form niches, panels, and geometrical designs--yeteach separate piece plays well its part in working out the harmonious anddecidedly pretty effect of the whole. All the furniture the largeapartment boasts is a crimson-and-gold divan or two, a few strips of richcarpet, and an ebony stand-table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; butsuspended from the ceiling are several magnificent cut-glass chandeliers. At night, when these Persian mirrored rooms are lit up, they present ascene of barbaric splendor well calculated to delight the eye of thesumptuous Oriental; every tiny square of glass reflects a point of light, and every larger one reproduces a chandelier; for every lamp he lights, the Persian voluptuary finds himself surrounded by a thousand. Seated on a divan toward one end of this splendid room, with an open boxof cigarettes before him, is the man who a few minutes ago passed us byon the other side and drove off in his carriage. Offering us cigarettes, he bids us be seated, and then, in very fair English (for he has oncebeen Persian Minister to England), introduces himself as "Nasr-i-Mulk, "the Shah's Minister for Foreign Affairs; the same gentleman, it will beremembered, to whom I was introduced on the morning of my appearancebefore the Shah. (Vol. I. ) I readily recognize him now, and he recognizesme, and asks me when I am going to leave Teheran; but in the gloomyvestibule of the other palace, my own memory of his face and figure wascertainly at fault. It turns out, after all, that the wretch whom we paidto guide us to the Russian Legation, in his ignorance guided us into thePersian Foreign Office. "I knew--yes, dash it all! I knew he wasn't the Russian Minister themoment I saw him, " says Mr. M------as we take our departure from theglittering room. His confidence in his knowledge of Russian character, which a moment ago had dropped down to zero, revives wonderfully upondiscovering our ludicrous mistake, and, small as he is, it is all I cando to keep up with him as we follow the guide Nasr-i-Mulk has kindly sentto show us to the Russian Legation. A few minutes' walk brings us to ourdestination, where we find, in the person of General Melnikoff, agentleman possessing the bland and engaging qualities of a gooddiplomatist in a most eminent degree. "Which is Mr. Stevens?" he exclaims, with something akin to enthusiasm, as he advances almost to the door to meet us, his face fairly beamingwith pleasure; and, grasping me warmly by the hand, he proceeds toexpress his great satisfaction at meeting a person, who had "made sowonderful a journey, " etc. , etc. , and etc. Never did Mr. Pickwick beammore pleasantly at the deaf gentleman, or regard more benignantly MasterHumphrey's clock, than the Russian Minister regards the form and featuresof one whom, he says, he feels "honored to meet. " For several minutes wediscuss, through the medium of Mr. M------, my journey from San Franciscoto Teheran, and its proposed continuation to the Pacific; and during thegreater part, of the interview General Melnikoff holds me quiteaffectionately by the hand. "Wonderful!" he says, "wonderful! nobody evermade half such a remarkable journey; my whole heart will go with youuntil your journey is completed. " Mr. M------looks on and interprets between us, with a fixed and confidentdidn't-I-tell-you-so smile, that forms a side study of no mean quality. "There will be no trouble about getting permission to go throughTurkestan?" I feel constrained to inquire; for such excessive display ofaffection and bonhommie on the Russian diplomat's part could scarce failto arouse suspicions. "Oh dear, no!" he replies. "Oh dear, no! I willtelegraph to General Komaroff, at Askabad, to remove all obstacles, sothat nothing shall interfere with your progress. " Having received thispositive assurance, we take our leave, Mr. M-------reminding me gleefullyof what he had said about the Russians being the most agreeable people onearth, and the few remaining clouds of doubt about getting the roadthrough Turkestan happily dissipated by the Russian Minister's assurancesof assistance. Searching through the bazaar, I succeed, after some little trouble, infinding and purchasing a belt-full of Russian gold, sufficient to carryme clear through to Japan; and on the morning of March 10th I bidfarewell to the Persian capital, well satisfied at the outlook ahead. While packing up my traps on the evening before starting, it beginsraining for the first time in ten days; but it clears off again beforemidnight, and the morning opens bright and promising as ever. Six membersof the telegraph staff have determined to accompany me out toKatoum-abad, the first chapar-station on the Meshed pilgrim road, adistance of seven farsakhs. "Hodge-podge, " the cook, and Meshedi Ali, thegholam, were sent ahead yesterday with plenty of substantial refreshmentsand sun-dry mysterious black bottles--for it is the intention of theparty to remain at Katoum-abad overnight, and give me a proper send-offfrom that point to-morrow morning. Some little delay is occasioned by a difficulty in meeting the fastidioustastes of some of the party as regards saddle-horses; but there is noparticular hurry, and ten o'clock finds me bowling briskly through thesuburbs toward the Doshan Tepe gate, with four Englishmen, an Irishman, and a Welshman cantering merrily along on horseback behind. "Khuda rail pak Kumad!" (May God sweep your road!), All Akbar hadexclaimed as I mounted at the door, and as we pass through the city gatethe old sentinel, when told that I am at last starting on the promisedjourney to Meshed on the asp-i-awhan, supplements this with "Padaramdaromad!" (My father has come out!), a Persian metaphorical exclamation, signifying that such wonderful news has had the effect of calling hisfather from the grave. The weather has changed again since early morning; it is evidently in avery fitful and unsettled mood; the gray clouds are swirling in confusionabout the white summit of Demavend as we emerge on the level plainoutside the ramparts, and fleecy fugitives are scudding southward in wildhaste. Imperfect but ridable donkey-trails follow the dry moat around tothe Meshed road, which takes a straight course southeastward from thecity and is seen in the distance ahead, leading over a sloping pass, adepression in the Doshan Tepe spur of the Elburz range. The road near thecity is now in better condition for wheeling than at any other time ofthe year; the daily swarms of pack-animals bringing produce into Teheranhave trodden it smooth and hard during the ten days' continuous fineweather, while it has not been dry sufficiently long to develop intodust, as it does later in the season. Our road is level and good forsomething over a farsakh, after which comes the rising ground leadinggently upward to the pass. The gradient is sufficiently gentle to beridable for some little distance, when it becomes too rocky and steep, and I have to dismount and trundle to the summit. The summit of the passis only about nine miles from the city walls, and we pause a minute toinvestigate a bottle of homemade wine from the private cellar of Mr. North, one of our party, and to allow me to take a farewell glance atTeheran, and the many familiar objects round about, ere riding down theeastern slope and out of sight. Teheran is in semi-obscurity beneath the same hazy veil observed whenfirst approaching it from the west, and which always seems to hover overit. This haziness is not sufficiently pronounced to hide any conspicuousbuilding, and each familiar object in the city is plainly visible fromthe commanding summit of the pass. The different gates of the city, eachwith its little cluster of bright-tiled minars, trace at a glance thesize and contour of the outer ditch and wall; the large framework of thepavilion beneath which the Shah gives his annual tazzia (representationof the religious tragedy of Hussein and Hassan), denuded of its canvascovering, suggests from this distance the naked ribs of some monsterskeleton. The square towers of the royal anderoon--which the Shahprofesses to believe is the tallest dwelling-house in theworld--loom conspicuously skyward above the mass of indefinable mudbuildings and walls that characterize the habitations of humbler folk, but perhaps happier on the whole than the fair occupants of thatseven-storied gilded prison. Hundreds of women-wives, concubines, slaves, and domestics are understoodto be dwelling within these palace walls in charge of sable eunuchs, andthe fate of any female whose bump of discretion in an evil moment failsher, is to be hurled headlong from the summit of one of the anderoontowers--such, at least, is the popular belief in Teheran; it may ormay not be an exaggeration. Some even assert that the Shah's chief objectin building the anderoon so high was to have the certainty of this awfuldoom ever present before its numerous inmates, the more easily to keepthem in a submissive frame of mind. Off to the right, below our position, is the Doshan Tepe palace, a memorable spot for me, where I had thesatisfaction of first introducing bicycle-riding to the notice of thePersian monarch. Off to the left, the Parsee "tower of silence" isobserved perched among the lonely gray hills far from human habitation orany traversed road; on a grating fixed in the top of this tower, theGuebre population of Teheran deposit their dead, in order that thecarrion-crows and the vultures may pick the carcass clean before theydeposit the whitened bones in the body of the tower. Having duly investigated the bottle of wine and noticed these fewfamiliar objects, we all remount and begin the descent. It is a gentledeclivity from top to bottom, and ridable the whole distance, save wherean occasional washout or other small obstacle compels a dismount. Thewind is likewise favorable, and from the top of the pass the bicycleoutdistances the horsemen, except two who are riding exceptionally goodnags and make a special effort to keep up; and at two o'clock we arriveat Katoum-abad. Katoum-abad consists of a small mud village and ahalf-ruined brick caravansarai; in one of the rooms of the latter we find"Hodge-podge" and Me-shedi Ali, with an abundance of roast chickens, coldmutton, eggs, and the before-mentioned mysterious black bottles. The few Persian travellers in the caravansarai and the villagers comeflocking around as usual to worry me about riding the bicycle, but theservants drive them away in short order. "We want to see the sahib ridethe aap-i-awhan, " they explain, -no doubt thinking their request mostnatural and reasonable. "The sahib won't let you see it, nor ride on itthis evening, " reply the servants; and, given to understand that we won'tput up with their importunities, they worry us no more. "Oh, that I couldget rid of them thus readily always!" I mentally exclaim; for I feelinstinctively that the farther east I get, the more wretchedly worryingand inquisitive I shall find the people. We arrive hungry and thirsty, and in condition to do ample justice to the provisions at hand. Aftersatisfying the pressing needs of hunger, we drink several appropriatetoasts from the contents of the mysterious black bottles--toasts for thesuccess of my journey, and to the bicycle that has stood by me so wellthus far on my journey, and promises to stand by me equally as well forthe future. About four o'clock two of the company, who have been thoughtful enough tobring shotguns along, sally forth in quest of ducks. They come ploddingwearily back again shortly after dark, without any game, but with deepdesigns on the credulity of the non-sporting members of the company. Inreply to the general and stereotyped query, "Shoot anything?" one of theerring pair replies, "Yes, we shot several canvas-backs, but lost them inthe reeds; didn't we, old un?" "Yes, five, " promptly asserts "old un, " atruthful young man of about three-and-twenty summers. After this, thesilence for the space of a minute is so profound that we can hear eachother think, until one of the company, acting as spokesman for the silentreflections of the others, inquires, "Anybody know of any reeds aboutKatoum-abad?" Some one is about to reply, but sportsman No. 1 artfullywaives further examination by heaping imprecations on the unkempt head ofa dervish, who at this opportune moment commences a sing-song monotone, in a most soul-harrowing key, outside our menzil doorway. A slight drizzling rain is falling when the early riser of the companywakes up and peeps out at daybreak next morning, but it soon ceases, andby seven o'clock the ground is quite dry. The road for a mile or so istoo lumpy to admit of mounting, as is frequently the case near a village, and my six companions accompany me to ridable ground. As I mount andwheel away, they wave hats and send up three ringing cheers and a"tiger, " hurrahs that roll across the gray Persian plain to the echoinghills, the strangest sound, perhaps, these grim old hills have everechoed; certainly, they never before echoed an English cheer. And now, as my friends of the telegraph staff turn about and wend theirway back to Teheran, is as good a time as any to mention briefly themanner in which these genial lightning-jerkers assisted to render my fivemonths' sojourn in the Persian capital agreeable. But a few short hoursafter my arrival in Teheran, I was sought out by Messrs. Meyrick andNorth, who no sooner learned of my intention to winter here, than theyextended a cordial invitation to join them in their already establishedbachelors' quarters, where four disconsolate halves of humanity werealready messing harmoniously together. With them I took up my quarters, and, under the liberal and wholesome gastronomic arrangements of theestablishment, soon acquired my usual semi-embon-point condition, andrecovered from that gaunt, hungry appearance that the hardships and scantfare of the journey from Constantinople had imparted. The house belongedto Mr. North, and he managed to give me a little room to myself forliterary work, and, under the influence of a steady stream of letters andpapers from friends and well-wishers in England and America, that snuglittle apartment, with a round, moon-like hole in the thick mud wall fora window, soon acquired the den-like aspect that seems inseparable fromthe occupation of distributing ink. Three native servants cooked for us, waited on us, turned up missing whenwanted for anything particular, cheated us and each other, swore eternalhonesty and fidelity to our faces, called us infidel dogs and pedar sagsbehind our backs, quarrelled daily among themselves over their modokal(legitimate pickings and stealings--ten per cent, on everythingpassing through their hands), and meekly bore with any abuse bestowedgratuitously upon them, for an aggregate of one hundred and thirty keransa month--and, of course, their modokal. Some enterprising members ofthe colony had formed themselves into a club, and imported abilliard-table from England; this, also, was installed in Mr. North'shouse, and it furnished the means for many an hour of pleasant diversion. Like all Persian houses, the house was built around a square court-yard. Mr. North had also a pair of small white bull-dogs, named, respectively, "Crib" and "Swindle. " The last-named animal furnished us with quite anexciting episode one February evening. He had been acting ratherstrangely for two or three days; we thought that one of the servants hadbeen giving him a dose of bhang in revenge for having worried his kitten, and that he would soon recover; but on this particular day, when out fora run with his owner, his strange behavior took the form of leapingimpulsively at Mr. North, and, with seemingly wild frolic, seizing andshaking his garments. When Mr. North returned home he took theprecautionary measure of chaining him up in the yard. Shortly afterward, I came in from my customary evening walk, and, all unconscious of thechange in his behavior, went up to him; with a half-playful, half-savagespring he seized the leg of my trousers, and, with an evidentlyuncontrollable impulse, shook a piece clean out of it. He becamegradually worse as the evening wore away; the wild expression of his eyesdeveloped in an alarming manner; he would try to get at any person whoshowed himself, and he made night hideous with the fearful barking howlof a mad dog. Poor Swindle had gone mad; and I had had a narrow escapefrom being bitten. We lassoed him from opposite directions and draggedhim outside and shot him. Swindle was a plucky little dog, and so wasCrib; one day they chased a vagrant cat up on to the roof; driven todesperation, the cat made a wild leap down into the court-yard, adistance of perhaps twenty feet; without a moment's hesitation, both dogssprang boldly after her, recking little of the distance to the ground andthe possibility of broken bones. Sometimes the colony drives dull care and ennui away by indulging inprivate theatricals; this winter they organized an amateur company, called themselves the "Teheran Bulbuls, " and, with burnt-corked faces andgrotesque attire, they rehearsed and perfected themselves in "UncleEbenezer's Visit to New York, " which, together with sundry duets, solos, choruses, etc. , they proposed to give, an entertainment for the benefitof the poor of the city. When the Shah returned from Europe, he was movedby what he had seen there to build a small theatre; the theatre wasbuilt, but nothing is ever done with it. The Teheran Bulbuls applied forits use to give their entertainment in, and the Shah was pleased to granttheir request. The mollahs raised objections; they said it would have atendency to corrupt the morals of the Persians. Once, twice, theentertainment was postponed; but the Shah finally overruled the bigotedpriests' objections, and "Uncle Ebenezer's Visit to New York" was playedtwice in Nasr-e-Deen's little gilded theatre a few days after I left, with great success; the first night, before the Shah and his nobles andthe foreign ambassadors, and the second night before more common folk. The two postponements and my early departure prevented me from being onhand as prompter. The winter before, these dusky-faced "bul-buls" hadperformed before a Teheran audience, and one who was a member at thattime tells an amusing story of the individual who acted as prompter onthat occasion. One of the performers appeared on the stage sufficientlycharged with stage-fright to cause him to entirely forget his piece. Expecting every moment to get the cue from the prompter's box, what washis horror to hear, after waiting what probably seemed to him about anhour, instead of the cue, in a hoarse whisper that could be distinctlyheard all over the room, the comforting remark, "I say, Charlie, I'velost the blooming place!" The American missionaries have a small chapel in Teheran, and on Sundaymorning we sometimes used to go; the little congregation gathered therewas composed of strange elements collected together from far-off places. From Colonel F ______, the grizzled military adventurer, now in theShah's service, and who was also with Maximilian in Mexico, to the youngAmerican lady who is said to have turned missionary and come, broken-hearted, to the distant East because her lover had died a few daysbefore they were to be married, they are an audience of people each witha more or less adventurous history. It is perfectly natural that itshould be so; it is the irrepressible spirit of adventure that is eitherdirectly or indirectly responsible for their presence here. Half an hour after the echoes of the three cheers and the "tiger" havedied away finds me wet-footed and engaged in fording a series ofaggravating little streams, that obstruct my path so frequently that tostop and shed one's foot-gear for each soon becomes an intolerablenuisance. I should think I can lay claim, without exaggeration, tocrossing fifty of these streams inside of ten miles. A good-sized streamemerges from the Elburz foot-hills; after reaching the plain it followsno regular channel, but spreads out like an open fan into a graduallywidening area of small streams, that play their part in irrigating a fewscattering fields and gardens, and are then lost in the sands of thedesert to the south. Situated where it can derive the most benefit fromthese streams is the village of Sherifabad, and beyond Sherifabadstretches a verdureless waste to Aivan-i-Kaif. On this desert, I sitdown, for a few minutes, on one of those little mounds of stones piled upat intervals to mark the road when the trail is buried beneath the wintersnows; a green-turbaned descendant of the Prophet, bestriding a bayhorse, comes from the opposite direction, stops, dismounts, squats downon his hams close by, and proceeds to regale himself with bread and figs, meanwhile casting fugitive glances at the bicycle. Presently he advancescloser, gives me a handful of figs, squats down closer to the bicycle, and commences a searching investigation of its several parts. "Where are you going?" he finally asks. "Meshed. " "Where have you comefrom?" "Teheran. " With that he hands me another handful of figs, remounts his horse, and rides away without another word. Inquisitivenessis seen almost bristling from the loose sleeves and flowing folds of hissky-blue gown, but his over-whelming sense of his own holiness forbidshim holding anything like a lengthy intercourse with an unhallowedFerenghi, and, much as he would like to know everything about thebicycle, he goes away without asking a single question about it. Shortly after parting company with the sanctimonious seyud, I encounter aprosperous-looking party of dervishes. Some of them are mounted onexcellent donkeys, and for dervishes they look exceptionally flourishingand well to do. As I ride slowly past, they accost me with theircustomary "huk yah huk, " and promise to pray Allah for a safe journey towherever I am going, if I will only favor them with the necessarybacksheesh to command their good offices. There are some stretches of very good road across this desert, and Ireach Aivan-i-Kaif near noon. There has been no drinkable water for along distance, and, being thirsty, my first inquiry is for tea. "There isa tchai-khan at the umbar (water-cistern), yonder, " I am told, andstraightway proceed to the place pointed out; but "tchai-khan neis" isthe reply upon inquiring at the umbar. In this manner am I promptlyinitiated into one peculiarity of the people along this portion of theMeshed pilgrim road, a peculiarity that distinguishes them from theordinary Persian as fully as the shaking of their heads for anaffirmative reply does the people of the Maritza Valley from other peopleof the Balkan Peninsula. They will frequently ask you if you want acertain article, simply for the purpose of telling you they haven't gotit. Whether this queer inconsistency comes of simon-pure inquisitiveness, to hear what one will say in reply, or whether they derive a certainamount of inquisitorial pleasure from raising a person's expectations onemoment so as to witness his disappointment the next, is a question Iprefer to leave to others, but more than once am I brought into contactwith this peculiarity during the few brief hours I stay at Aivan-i-Kaif. It is not improbable that these people are merely carrying their ideas ofpoliteness to the insane length of holding out the promise of what theythink or ascertain one wants, knowing at the same time their inability tosupply it. It is threatening rain as I pick my way through a mile or so of mudruins, tumble-down walls, and crooked paths, leading from the umbar tothe house of the Persian telegraph-jee, who has been requested, fromTeheran, to put me up, and, in view of the threatening aspect of theweather, I conclude to remain till morning. The English Government hastaken charge of the Teheran and Meshed telegraph-line, during thedelimitation of the Afghan and Turkestan boundary, and, besidesguaranteeing the native telegraph-jees their regular salary-which is notalways forthcoming from the Persian Government-they pay them somethingextra. In consequence of this, the telegraph-jees are at present veryfavorably disposed toward Englishmen, and Mirza Hassan readily tenders methe hospitality of the little mud office where he amuses himself dailyclicking the keys of his instrument, smoking kalians, drinking tea, andentertaining his guests. Mr. Mclntire and Mr. Stagno are somewherebetween here and Meshed, inspecting and repairing the line for theEnglish Government, for they received it from the Persians in a wretched, tumble-down condition, and Mr. Gray, telegraphist for the Afghan BoundaryCommission, is stationed temporarily at Meshed, so that, thanks to theboundary troubles, I am pretty certain of meeting three Europeans on thefirst six hundred miles of my journey. Mirza Hassan is hospitable and well meaning, but, like most Persians, heis slow about everything but asking questions. Being a telegraph-jee, heis, of course, a comparatively enlightened mortal, and, among otherthings, he is acquainted with the average Englishman's partiality forbeer. One of the first questions he asks, is whether I want any beer. Itstrikes me at once as a rather strange question to be asked in a Persianvillage, but, thinking he might perchance have had a bottle or two lefthere by one of the above-mentioned telegraph-inspectors, I signify mywillingness to sample a little. True to the peculiar inconsistency of hisfellows, he replies: "Ob-i-jow neis" (beer, no). If he hasn't ob-i-jow, however, he has tea, and in about an hour after my arrival he producesthe samovar, a bowl of sugar, and the tiny glasses in which tea is alwaysserved in Persia. Visitors begin dropping in as usual, and, before long, hundreds ofvillagers are swarming about the telegraph-khana, anxious to see me ride. It is coming on to rain, but, in order to rid the telegraph-office of thecrowd, I take the bicycle out. Willing men carry both me and the bicycleacross a stream that runs through the village, to smooth ground on theopposite side, where I ride back and forth several times, to the wild andboisterous delight of the entire population. In this manner I succeed in ridding the telegraph-office of the crowd;but there is no getting rid of the visitors. Everybody in the place whothinks himself a little better than the ragamuffin ryots comes and squatson his hams in the little hut-like office, sips the telegraph-jee'ssweetened tea, smokes his kalians, and spends the afternoon in staringwonderingly at me and the bicycle. Having picked up a little Persianduring the winter, I am able to talk with them, and understand them, rather better than last season, and, Persian-like, they ply memercilessly with questions. Often, when some one asks a question of me, Mirza Hassan, as becomes a telegraphies, and a person of profounderudition, thoughtfully saves me the trouble of replying by undertakingto furnish the desired information himself. One old mollah wants to knowhow many farsakhs it is from Aivan-i-Kaif to Yenghi Donia (NewWorld-America); ere I can frame a suitable reply, Mirza Hassan forestallsmy intentions by answering, in a decisive tone of voice that admits of noappeal, "Khylie!" "Khylie" is a handy word that the Persians always fallback on when their knowledge of great numbers or long distances is vagueand shadowy; it is an indefinite term, equivalent to our word "many. "Mirza Hassan does not know whether America is two hundred farsakhs awayor two thousand, but he knows it to be "khylie farsakhs, " and that isperfectly satisfactory to himself, and the white-turbaned questioner isperfectly satisfied with "khylie" for an answer. A person from the New World is naturally a rara avis with the simplevillagers of Aivan-i-Kaif, and their inquisitiveness concerning YenghiDonia and Yenghi Donians fairly runs riot, and shapes itself into allmanner of questions. They want to know whether the people smoke kaliansand ride horses--real horses, not asps-i-awhans-in Yenghi Donia, andwhether the Valiat smoked the kalian with me at Hadji Agha. Mirza Hassanexplains about the kalian and horses; he enlightens his wonderingauditors to the extent that Yenghi Donians smoke nargilehs and chibouquesinstead of kalians, and he contemptuously pooh-poohs the idea of themkeeping riding-horses when they are clever enough to make iron horsesthat require nothing to eat or drink and no rest. About the question ofthe Heir Apparent smoking the kalian with me he betrays as lively aninterest as anybody in the room, but he maintains a discreet silenceuntil I answer in the negative, when he surveys his guests with the airof one who pities their ignorance, and says, "Kalian neis. " A lusty-lunged youngster of about three summers has been interrupting thegenial flow of conversation by making "Rome howl" in an adjoining room, and Mirza Hassan fetches him in and consoles him with sundry lumps ofsugar. The advent of the limpid-eyed toddler leads the thoughts andquestions of the company into more domestic channels. After exhaustivequestioning about my own affairs, Mirza Hassan, with more thanpraiseworthy frankness and becoming gravity, informs me that, besides theembryo telegraphjee and sugar-consumer in the room, he is the happyfather of "yek nim" (one and a half others). I cast my eye around theroom at this extraordinary announcement, expecting to find the companyindulging in appreciative smiles, but every person in the room is assober as a judge; plainly, I am the only person present who regards theannouncement as anything uncommon. After an ample supper of mutton pillau, Mirza Hassan proceeds to say hisprayers, borrowing my compass to get the proper bearings for Mecca, whichI have explained to him during the afternoon. With no little dismay hediscovers that, according to my explanations, he has for years beenbobbing his head daily several degrees east of the holy city, and, like asensible fellow, and a person who has become convinced of theinfallibility of telegraph instruments, compasses, and kindred aids tothe accomplishment of human ends, he now rectifies the mistake. Everybody along this route uses a praying-stone, a small cake of stone orhardened clay, containing an inscription from the Koran. Thesepraying-stones are obtained from the sacred soil of Meshed, Koom, orKerbela, and are placed in position on the ground in front of thekneeling devotee during his devotions, so that, instead of touching hisforehead to the carpet or the common ground of his native village, he canbring it in contact with the hallowed soil of one of these holy cities. Distance lends enchantment to a holy place, and adds to the efficacy of aprayer-stone in the eyes of its owner, and they are valued highly orlightly according to the distance and the consequent holiness of the citythey are brought from. For example, a Meshedi values a prayer-stone fromKerbela, and a Kerbeli values one from Meshed, neither of them havingmuch faith in the efficacy of one from his own city; familiarity withsacred things apparently breeds doubts and indifference. The prayer-stoneis reverently touched to lips, cheeks, and forehead at the finish ofprayers, and then carefully wrapped up and stowed away until praying-timecomes round again. To a sceptical and perhaps irreverent observer, thesepraying-stones would seem to bear about the same relation to a pilgrimageto Meshed or Kerbela as a package of prepared sea-salt does to a seasonat the sea-side. CHAPTER II. PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD It rains quite heavily during the night, but clears off again in theearly morning, and at eight o'clock I take my departure, Mirza Hassanrefusing to allow his son and heir to accept a present in acknowledgmentof the hospitality received at his hands. The whole male population ofthe village is assembled again at the spot where their experience ofyesterday has taught them I should probably mount; and the house-topsoverlooking the same spot, and commanding a view of the road across theplain to the eastward, are crowded with women and children. The femaleportion of my farewell audience present quite a picturesque appearance, being arrayed in their holiday garments of red, blue, and other brightcolors, in honor of Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath. Pour miles of most excellent camel-path lead across a gravelly plain, affording a smooth, firm, wheeling surface, notwithstanding the heavyrains of the previous night; but beyond the plain the road leads over thepass of the Sardara Kooh, one of the many spurs of the Elburz range thatreach out toward the south. This spur consists of saline hills thatpresent a very remarkable appearance in places; the rocks are curiouslyhoney-combed by the action of the salt, and the yellowish earthy portionof the hills are fantastically streaked and seamed with white. A trundleof a couple of miles brings me to the summit, from which point I am ableto mount, and, with brake firmly in hand, glide smoothly down the easternslope. After descending about a mile, I am met by a party of travellerswho give me friendly warning of deep water a little farther down themountain. After leaving them, my road follows down the winding bed of astream that is probably dry the greater part of the year; but during thespring thaws, and immediately after a rain-storm, a stream of brackish, muddy water a few inches deep trickles down the mountain and forms a mostdisagreeable area of sticky salt mud at the bottom. The streak thismorning can more truthfully be described as yellow liquid mud than aswater, and both myself and wheel present anything but a prepossessingappearance in ten minutes after starting down its grimy channel. I am, however, congratulating myself upon finding it so shallow, and begin tothink that, in describing the water as nearly over their donkeys' backs, the travellers were but indulging their natural propensity as subjects ofthe Shah, and worthy followers in the footsteps of Ananias. About the time I have arrived at this comforting conclusion, I amsuddenly confronted by a pond of liquid mud that bars my farther progressdown the mountain. A recent slide of land and rock has blocked up thenarrow channel of the stream, and backed up the thick yellow liquid intoa pool of uncertain depth. There is no way to get around it;perpendicular walls of rock and slippery yellow clay rise sheer from thewater on either side. There is evidently nothing for it but to disrobewithout more ado and try the depth. Besides being thick with mud, thewater is found to be of that icy, cutting temperature peculiar to coldbrine, and after wading about in it for fifteen minutes, first finding afordable place, and then carrying clothes and wheel across, I emerge onto the bank formed by the land-slip looking as woebegone a specimen ofhumanity as can well be imagined. Plastered with a coat of thin yellowmud from head to foot, chilled through and through, and shivering like aTexas steer in a norther, feet cut and bleeding in several places fromcontact with the sharp rocks, and no clean water to wash off the mud!With the assistance of knife, pocket-handkerchief, and sundry theologicalremarks which need not be reproduced here, I finally succeed in gettingoff at least the greater portion of the mud, and putting on my clothes. The discomfort is only of temporary duration; the agreeable warmth of theafter-glow exhilarates both mind and body, and with the disappearance ofthe difficulty to the rear cornea the satisfaction of having found it noharder to overcome. A little good wheeling is encountered toward the bottom of the pass, andthen comes an area of wet salt-flats, interspersed with salinerivulets--those innocent-looking little streamlets the deceptive clearnessof which tempts the thirsty and uninitiated wayfarer to drink. Fewtravellers in desert countries but have been deceived by theseinnocuous-looking streamlets once, and equally few are the people whosuffer themselves to be deceived by their smooth, pellucid aspect asecond time; for a mouthful of either strongly saline or alkaline waterfrom one of them creates an impression on the deceived one's palate andhis mind that guarantees him to be wariness personified for the remainderof his life. Since a certain experience in the Bitter Creek country, Wyoming, the writer prides himself on being able to distinguish drinkablewater from the salty or alkaline article almost as far as it can be seen, and a stream about which the least suspicion is entertained is invariablytasted with gingerly hesitancy to begin with. Soon after noon I reach the village of Kishlag, where a halt of an houror so is made to refresh the inner man with tea, raw eggs, andfigs--a queer enough bill of fare for dinner, but no more queer thanthe people from whom it is obtained. Some of my readers have doubtlessheard of the Milesian waiter who could never be brought to see anyinconsistency in asking the guests of the restaurant whether they wouldtake tea or coffee, and then telling them there was no tea, they wouldhave to take coffee. The proprietor of the little tchai-khan at Kishlagasks me if I want coffee, and then, in strict conformity with the curiousinconsistency first discovered and spoken of at Aivan-i-Kaif, he informsme that he has nothing but tea. The country hereabout is evidently thebirthplace of Irish bulls; when the ancestors of modern Handy Andys wererunning wild on the bogs of Connemara, the people of Aivan-i-Kaif andKishlag were indulging in Irish bulls of the first water. The crowd at Kishlag are good-natured and comparatively well-behaved. Inreply to their questionings, I tell them that I am journeying from YenghiDonia to Meshed. The New World is a far-away, shadowy realm to theseignorant Persian villagers, almost as much out of their little, unenlightened world as though it were really another planet; theyevidently think that in going to Meshed I am making a pilgrimage to theshrine of Imam Riza, for some of them commence inquiring whether or noYenghi Donians are Mussulmans. The weather-clerk inaugurates a regular March zephyr in the east, duringthe brief halt at Kishlag; and in addition to that doubtful favor blowingagainst me, the road leading out is lumpy as far as the cultivated areaextends, and then it leads across a rough, stony plain that is traversedby a network of small streams, similar to those encountered yesterday atSherifabad. To the left, the abutting front of the Elburz Mountains isstreaked and frescoed with salt, that in places vies in whiteness withthe lingering-patches of snow higher up; to the right extends the gray, level plain, interspersed with small cultivable areas for a farsakh ortwo, beyond which lies the great dasht-i-namek (salt desert) thatcomprises a large portion of the interior of Persia. Wild asses abound on the dasht-i-namek, and wandering bands of theseanimals occasionally stray up in this direction. The Persians considerthe flesh of the wild donkey as quite a delicacy, and sometimes hunt themfor their meat; they are said to be untamable, unless caught when veryyoung, and are then generally too slender-limbed to be of any service incarrying weights. Wild goats abound in the Elburz Mountains; thevillagers hunt them also for their meat, but the flesh of the wild goatis said to contribute largely to the prevalence of sore eyes among thepeople. The Persian will eat wild donkey, wild goat, and the flesh ofcamels, but only the very poor people--people who cannot afford to befastidious--ever touch a piece of beef; gusht-i-goosfang (mutton) is thestaple meat of the country. The general aspect of the country immediately south of the ElburzMountains, beyond the circumscribed area of cultivation about thevillages, is that of a desert, desolate, verdureless, and forbidding. Onecan scarcely realize that by simply crossing this range a beautifulregion is entered, where the prospect is as different as is light fromdarkness. An entirely different climate characterizes the Province ofMazanderan, comprising the northern slopes of these mountains and theCaspian littoral. With a humid climate the whole year round, and theentire face of the country covered with dense jungle, the northern slopesof the Elburz Mountains present a striking contrast to the barren, salt-frescoed foot-hills facing the south hereabout. Here, as at Resht, the moisture from the Caspian Sea does for the province of Mazanderanwhat similar influences from the Pacific do for California. It makes allthe difference between California and Nevada in the one case, andMazanderan and the desert-like character of Central Persia in the other. In striking and effective contrast to the general aspect of death anddesolation that characterizes the desert wastes of Persia--an effectthat is heightened by the ruins of caravansaries or villages, that areseldom absent from the landscape--are the cultivated spots around thevillages. Wherever there is a permanent supply of water, there also iscertain to be found a mud-built village, with fields of wheat and barley, pomegranate orchards, and vineyards. In a country of universal greennessthese would count for nothing, but, situated like islands in the sea ofsombre gray about them, they often present an appearance of extremebeauty that the wondering observer is somewhat puzzled to account for; itis the beauty of contrast, the great and striking contrast betweenvegetable life and death. These impressions are nowhere more strongly brought into notice than whenapproaching Aradan, a village I reach about five o'clock. Like almost allPersian towns and villages, Aradan has evidently occupied a much largerarea at one time than it does at present; and the mournful-looking ruinsof mosques, gateways, walls, and houses are scattered here and there overthe plain for a mile before reaching the present limits of habitation. The brown ruins of a house are seen standing in the middle of awheat-field; the wheat is of that intense greenness born of irrigationand a rich sandy soil, and the mud ruins, dead, desolate, and crumblingto dust, look even more deserted and mournful from the great contrast incolor, and from the myriad stems of green young life that wave and nodabout them with every passing breeze. The tumble-down windows anddoorways form openings through which the blue sky and the green wavingsea of vegetation beyond are seen as in a picture, and the ruined mudmosque, its dome gone, its windows and doorways crumbled to shapelessopenings, seems like a weather-beaten skeleton of Persia's past, whilethe ever-moving waves of verdant life about it, seem to be beatingagainst it and persistently assailing it, like waves of the sea beatingagainst an isolated rock. While engaged in fording a stream on the stony plain between road. Theshagird-chapar is with them, on a third "bag of bones, " worse, ifpossible, than the others. Taking the world over, there is perhaps noclass of horses that are, subject to so much cruelty and ill-treatment asthe chapar horses of Persia, With back raw, ribs countable a hundredyards away, spavined, blind of an eye, fistula, and cursed with every illthat horseflesh in the hands of human brutes is subject to, the chaparhorse is liable to be taken out at any hour of the day or night, regardless of previous services being but just finished. He is goaded onwith unsparing lash to the next station, twenty, or perhaps thirty milesaway, staggering beneath the weight of the traveller, or his servant, with ponderous saddlebags. This chapar, or post-service, is established along the great highways oftravel between Teheran and Tabreez, Teheran and Meshed, and Teheran andBushire, with a branch route from the Tabreez trail to the Caspian portof Enzeli; the stations vary from four to eight farsakhs apart. Not allthe chapar horses are the wretched creatures just described, however, andby engaging beforehand the best horses at each station along the route, certain travellers have made quite remarkable time between pointshundreds of miles apart. In addition to horses for himself and servants, the traveller is required to pay for one to carry the shagird-chapar whoaccompanies them to the next station to bring back the horses. Theordinary charge is one keran a farsakh for each horse. It wouldn't be aPersian institution, however, if there wasn't some little underhandedarrangement on hand to mulct the traveller of something over and abovethe legitimate charges. Accordingly, we find two distinct measurements ofdistance recognized between each station--the "chapar distance" and thecorrect distance. If, for instance, the actual distance is six farsakhs, the "chapar distance" will be seven, or seven and a half; the differencebetween the two is the chapar-jee's modokal; without modokal there is noquestion but that a Persian would feel himself to be a miserable, neglected mortal. Aradan is another telegraph control station, and Mr. Stagno informs methat the telegraph-jee is looking forward to my arrival, and is fullyprepared to accommodate me over night; and, furthermore, that all alongthe line the people of the telegraph towns are eagerly anticipating thearrival of the Sahib, with the marvellous vehicle, of which they haveheard such strange stories. Aradan is reached about five o'clock; theroad leading into the village is found excellent wheeling, enabling me tokeep the saddle while following at the heels of a fleet-footed ryot, whovoluntarily guides me to the telegraph-khana. The telegraph-jee istemporarily absent when I arrive, but his farrash lets me inside theoffice yard, spreads a piece of carpet for me to sit on, and withcommendable thoughtfulness shuts out the crowd, who, as usual, immediately begin to collect. The quickness with which a crowd collectsin a Persian town has to be seen to be fully comprehended. For the spaceof half an hour, I sit in solitary state on the carpet, and endure thewondering gaze and the parrot-like chattering of a thin, long row ofvillagers, sitting astride the high mud wall that encloses three sides ofthe compound, and during the time find some amusement in watching thescrambling and quarrelling for position. These irrepressible sight-seerscommenced climbing the wall from the adjoining walls and houses themoment the farash shut them out of the yard, and in five minutes they arepacked as close as books on a shelf, while others are quarreling noisilyfor places; in addition to this, the roof of every building commanding aview into the chapar-khana compound is swarmed with neck-craning, chattering people. Soon the telegraph-jee puts in an appearance; he proves to be anexceptionally agreeable fellow, and one of the very few Persians onemeets with having blue eyes. He appears to regard it as quite anunderstood thing that I am going to remain over night with him, andproceeds at once to make the necessary arrangements for my accommodation, without going to the trouble of extending a formal invitation. He alsowins my eternal esteem by discouraging, as far as Persian politeness andcivility will admit, the intrusion of the inevitable self-sufficients whopresume on their "eminent respectability" as loafers, in contradistinctionto the half-naked tillers of the soil, to invade the premises and satisfytheir inordinate curiosity, and their weakness for kalian, smoking andtea-drinking at another's expense. After duly discussing between us asamovar of tea, we take a stroll through the village to see the oldcastle, and the umbars that supply the village with water. The telegraph-gee cleared the walls upon his arrival, but the housetops are out of hisjurisdiction, and before starting he wisely suggests putting the bicyclein some conspicuous position, as an inducement for the crowd to remainand concentrate their curiosity upon it, otherwise there would be nokeeping them from following us about the village. We set it up in plainview on the bala-khana, and returning from our walk, are amused to findthe old farrash delivering a lecture on cycling. The fortress at Aradan is the first one of the kind one sees whentravelling eastward from Teheran, but as we shall come to a larger andbetter preserved specimen at Lasgird, in a couple of days, it will, perhaps, be advisable to postpone a description till then. They are allpretty much alike, and were all built to serve the same purpose, ofaffording shelter and protection from Turkoman raiders. The Aradan umbarsare nothing extraordinary, except perhaps that the conical brick-workroofs are terraced so that one can walk, like ascending stairs, to thesummit; and perhaps, also, because they are in a good state of repair--asufficiently unusual thing in a Persian village to merit remark. Theseumbars are filled by allowing the water to flow in from a street ditchconnecting with the little stream to which every village owes itsexistence; when the umbar is full, a few spadefuls of dirt shut the wateroff. The chief occupation of the Eastern female is undoubtedly carrying water;the women of Oriental villages impress the observant Occidental, aspeople who will carry water-worlds may be created and worlds destroyed;all things else may change, and habits and costumes become revolutionizedby the march of time, but nothing will prevent the Oriental female fromcarrying water, and carrying it in huge earthenware jugs! At any hour ofthe day--I won't speak positively about the night--women may be seenat the unbars filling large earthenware jugs, coming and going, going andcoming. I don't remember ever passing one of these cisterns withoutseeing women there, filling and carrying away jars of water. No doubtthere are occasional odd moments when no women are there, but any personacquainted with village life in the East will not fail to recognize thisas simply the plain, unvarnished truth. As the ditch from which the umbaris filled not infrequently runs through half the length of the villagefirst, the personal habits of a Mohammedan population insure that itreaches the umbar in anything but a fit condition for human consumption. But the Koran teaches that flowing water cannot be contaminated ordefiled, consequently, when he takes a drink or fills the villagereservoir, your thoroughbred Mussulman never troubles his head about whatis going on up-stream. The Koran is to him a more reliable guide for hisown good than the evidence of all his seven senses combined. Stagnant pools of water, covered, even this early in the season (March12th), with green scum, breed fever and mosquitoes galore in Aradan; thepeople know it, acknowledge it readily, and suffer from it every summer, but they take no steps to remedy the evil; the spirit of publicenterprise has dwindled to such dimensions in provincial Persia, that itis no longer equal to filling up a few fever-breeding pools of water inthe centre of a village. The telegraph-jee himself acknowledges that thewater-holes cause fever and mosquitoes, but, intelligent and enlightenedmortal though he be in comparison with his fellow-villagers, whenquestioned about it, he replies: "Inshalla! the water don't matter; if itis our kismet to take the fever and die, nothing can prevent it; if it isour kismet not to take it, nothing can give it to us. " Such unanswerablelogic could only originate in the brain of a fatalist; these people areall fatalists, and--as we can imagine--especially so when thedoctrine comes in handy to dodge doing anything for the public weal. All Persian villages, except those clustered about the immediate vicinityof a large city, have some peculiarity of their own to offer in thematter of the people's dress. The pantaloons of any Persian village arenot by any means stylish garments, according to Western ideas; but themale bipeds of Aradan have something really extraordinary to offer, evenamong the many startling patterns of this garment met with in Easternlands. To note the quantity of material that enters into the compositionof a pair of Aradan pantaloons, would lead an uninitiated person intothinking the people all millionaires, were it not likewise observed thatthe material is but coarse blue cotton, woven and dyed by the wearer'swife, mother, or sister. One of the most conspicuous features about themis that their shape--if they can truthfully be said to have anyshape--seems to be a wild, rambling pattern of our own ideasconcerning the shape this garment ought to assume. The legs, instead ofbeing gathered, Oriental fashion, at the ankles, dangle loosely about thefeet; and yet it is these same legs that are the chief distinguishingfeature of the pants. One of the legs, cut off and sewed up at one end, would make the nicest kind of an eight-bushel grain sack; rather toowide, perhaps, in proportion to the depth, to make a shapely grain sack, but there is no question about the capacity for the eight bushels. Nodoubt these people would be puzzled to say why they are wearing yards andyards of stuff that is not only useless, but positively in the way, except that it has been the fashion in Aradan from time immemorable to doso. These simple Persian peasants, when they make any pretence ofsprucing up, probably find themselves quite as much enslaved by fashionas our very fastidious selves; a wide difference betaken ourselves andthem, however, being, that while they cling tenaciously to someprehistoric style of garment, and regard innovations with abhorrence, fashion demands of us to be constantly changing. The Aradan telegraph-jee is a young man skin-full of piety, rejoicing inthe possession of a nice little praying-carpet, a praying-stone from holyKerbela, the holiest of all except Mecca, and he owns a string of beadsof the same soul-comforting material as the stone. During his wakinghours he is seldom without the rosary in his hand, passing the holy beadsback and forth along the string; and five times a day he produces thepraying-stone from its little leathern pouch and goes through theceremony of saying his prayers, with becoming earnestness. At eventide, when he spreads his praying-carpet and places the little oblong tabletfrom Kerbela in its customary position, preparatory to commencing hislast prayers for the day, it is furthermore ascertained by the compassthat he has been pretty accurate in his daily prostrations toward Mecca. With all these enviable advantages--the praying-carpet, the praying-stone, the holy rosary, and the happy accuracy as regards Mecca--the Aradantelegraph-jee is a Mussulman who ought to feel tolerably certain of arose-garden, a gurgling rivulet, and any number of black-eyed houris tocontribute to his happiness in the paradise he hopes to enter beyond thetomb. Indications have not been wanting during the day that the weather is inanything but a settled condition, and upon waking in the morning I fancyI hear the pattering music of the rain. Fortunately it proves to be onlyfancy, and the telegraph-jee, assuming the part of a weather-prophet, reassures me by remarking, "Inshalla, am roos, baran neis" (Please God, it will not rain to-day). Being a Persian, he says this, not because hehas any particular confidence in his own predictions, but because hisidea of making himself agreeable is to frame his predictions by themeasurement of what he discovers to be my wishes. The road into Aradan led me through one populous cemetery, and the roadout again leads me through another; beyond the cemetery it followsalongside a meandering streamlet that flows, sluggishly along over a bedof deep gray mud. The road is lumpy but ridable, and I am pedallingserenely along, happy in the contemplation of better roads ahead than Ihad yesterday, when one of those ludicrous incidents happen that haveoccurred at intervals here and there all along my journey. A party oftravellers have been making a night march from the east, and as weapproach each other, a wary kafaveh-carrying mule, suspicious about thepeaceful character of the mysterious object bearing down toward him, pricks up his ears, wheels round, and inaugurates confusion among hisfellows, and then proceeds to head them in a determined bolt across thestream. Unfortunately for the women in the kajavehs, the mud and watertogether prove to be deeper than the mule expected to find them, and theadditional fright of finding himself in a well-nigh swamped condition, causes him to struggle violently to get out again. In so doing he burstswhatever fastenings may have bound him and his burden together, scramblesashore, and leaves the kajavehs floating on the water! The women began screaming the moment the mule wheeled round and bolted, and now they find themselves afloat in their queer craft, thesecharacteristic female signals of distress are redoubled in energy; andthey may well be excused for this, for the kajavehs are gradually fillingand sinking; it was never intended that kajavehs should be capable ofacting in the capacity of a boat. The sight of their companion'sdifficulties has the effect of causing the other mules to change theirminds about crossing the stream, and almost to change their minds aboutindulging in the mulish luxury of a scare; and fortunately the charvadarsof the party succeed in rescuing the kajavehs before they sink. Nobody isinjured, beyond the women getting wet; no damage is done worthmentioning, and as the two heroines of the adventure emerge from theirnovel craft, their garments dripping with water, their doleful looks arerewarded with unsympathetic merriment from the men. Few have been mywheeling days on Asian roads that have not witnessed something in theshape of an overthrow or runaway; so far, nobody has been seriouslyinjured by them, but I have sometimes wondered whether it will be my goodfortune to complete the bicycle journey around the world without somemishap of the kind, resulting in broken limbs for the native and troublefor myself. After a couple of miles the road and the meandering stream part company, the latter flowing southward and the road traversing a flat, curious, stone-strewn waste; an area across which one could step from one largeboulder to another without touching the ground. Once beyond this, and theroad develops into several parallel trails of smooth, hard gravel, thatafford as good, or better, wheeling than the finest macadam. Whilespinning at a highly satisfactory rate of speed along these splendidpaths, a small herd of antelopes cross the road some few hundred yardsahead, and pass swiftly southward toward the dasht-i-namek. These are thefirst antelopes, or, for that matter, the first big game I haveencountered since leaving the prairies of Western Nebraska. The Persianantelope seems to be a duplicate of his distinguished American relativein a general, all-round sense; he is, if anything, even morenimble-footed than the spring-heeled habitue of the West, possesses thesame characteristic jerky jump, and hoists the same conspicuous whitesignal of retreat. He is a decidedly slimmer-built quadruped, however, than the American antelope; the body is of the same square build, but issadly lacking in plumpness, and he seems to be an altogether lankier andless well-favored animal. For this constitutional difference, he isprobably indebted to the barren and inhospitable character of the countryover which he roams, as compared with the splendid feeding-grounds ofthe--Far West. The Persians sometimes hunt the antelope on horseback, with falcons and greyhounds; the falcons are taught to fly in advance andattack the fleeing antelopes about the head, and so confuse them andretard their progress in the interest of the pursuing hounds andhorsemen. The little village of Deh Namek is reached about mid-day, where myever-varying bill of fare takes the shape of raw eggs and pomegranates. Deh Namek is too small and unimportant a place to support a publictchai-khan; but along the Meshed pilgrim road the villagers are keenlyalive to the chance of earning a stray keran, and the advent of one ofthose inexhaustible keran-mines, a "Sahib, " is the signal for someenterprising person, sufficiently well-to-do to own a samovar, to get upsteam in it and prepare tea. East of Deh Namek, the wheeling continues splendid for a dozen miles, traversing a level desert on which one finds no drinkable water for abouttwenty miles. Across the last eight miles of the desert the road isvariable, consisting of alternate stretches of ridable and unridableground, the latter being generally unridable by reason of sand and loosegravel, or thickly strewn flints. More antelopes are encountered east ofDeh Namek; at one place, particularly, I enjoy quite a little excitingspurt in an effort to intercept a band that are heading across my roadfrom the Elburz foot-hills to the desert. The wheeling is heremagnificent, the spurt develops into a speed of fourteen miles an hour;the antelopes see their danger, or, at all events, what they fancy to bedanger, and their apprehensions are not by any mean lessened by the newand startling character of their pursuer. Wild antelopes are timid thingsat all times, and, as may be readily imagined, the sight of a mysteriousglistening object, speeding along at a fourteen or fifteen mile pace tointercept them, has a magical effect upon their astonishing powers oflocomotion. They seem to fly rather than run, and to skim like swallowsover the surface of the level plain rather than to touch the ground; butthey were some distance from the road when they first realized myterrifying presence, and I am within fifty yards of the band when theyflash like a streak of winged terror across the road. These antelopes donot cease their wild flight within the range of my powers of observation;long after the mousy hue of their bodies has rendered their formsindistinguishable in the distance from the sympathetic coloring of thedesert, rapidly bobbing specks of white betray the fact that theirsupposed narrow escape from the vengeful pursuit of the bicycle has giventhem a fright that will make them suspicious of the Meshed pilgrim roadfor weeks. "Deh Namek" means "salt village;" and it derives its name from the saltflats that are visible to the south of the road, and the general salinecharacter of the country round about. Salt enters very largely into thecomposition of the mountains that present a solid and fantasticallystreaked front a few miles to the north; and the streams flowing fromthese mountains are simply streams of brine, whose mission would seem tobe conveying the saline matter from the hills, and distributing it overthe flats and swampy areas of the desert. These flats are visible fromthe road, white, level, and impressive; like the Great American Desert, Utah, as seen from the Matlin section house, and described in a previouschapter (Vol. I. ), it looks as though it might be a sheet of water, solidified and dead. At the end of the twenty miles one comes to a small and unpretentiousvillage and an equally small and unpretentious wayside tchai-khan, bothowing their existence to a stream of fresh water as small andunpretentious as themselves. Beyond this cheerless oasis stretches againthe still more cheerless desert, the rivulets of undrinkable salt water, the glaring white salt-flats to the south, and the salt-encrustedmountains to the north. The shameless old party presiding at thetchai-khan evidently realizes the advantages of his position, where manytravellers from either direction, reaching the place in a thirstycondition, have no choice but between his decoction and cold water. Instead of the excellent tea every Persian knows very well how to make, he serves out a preparation that is made, I should say, chiefly fromcamelthorn buds plucked within a mile of his shanty; he furthermoreillustrates in his own methods the baneful effects of being without thestimulus of a rival, by serving it up in unwashed glasses, and withoutnoticing whether it is hot or cold. Much loose gravel prevails between this memorable point and Lasgird, andwhile trundling laboriously through it I am overtaken by a rain-storm, accompanied by violent wind, that at first encompasses me about in themost peculiar manner. The storm comes howling from the northwest andadvances in two sections, accompanied by thunder and lightning; the twoadvancing columns seem to be dense masses of gray cloud rolling over thesurface of the plain, and between them is a clear space of perhaps half amile in width. The rain-dispensing columns pass me by on either side withmuttering rolls of thunder and momentary gleams of lightning, envelopingme in swirling eddies of dust and bewildering atmospheric disturbances, but not a drop of rain. It is plainly to be seen, however, that the twocolumns are united further west, and that it behooves me to don mygossamer rubbers; but before being overtaken by the rain, the heads ofthe flying columns are drawn together, and for some minutes I amsurrounded entirely by sheets of falling moisture and streaming cloudsthat descend to the level plain and obscure the view in every direction;and yet the clear sky is immediately above, and the ground over which Iam walking is perfectly dry. After the first violent burst there is verylittle wind, and the impenetrable walls of vapor encompassing me roundabout at so near a distance, and yet not interfering with me in any way, present a most singular appearance. While appreciating the extremenovelty of the situation, I can scarce say in addition that I appreciatethe free play of electricity going on in all directions, and theirreverent manner in which the nickeled surface of the bicycle seems toglint at it and defy it; on the contrary, I deem it but an act of commondiscretion to place the machine for a short time where the lightning canhave a fair chance at it, without involving a respectful non-combatant inthe destruction. In half an hour the whole curious affair is over, andnothing is seen but the wild-looking tail-end of the disturbance climbingover a range of mountains in the southeast. The road now edges off in a more northeasterly course, and by fouro'clock leads me to the base of a low pass over a jutting spur of themountains. At the base of the spur, a cultivated area, consisting ofseveral wheat-fields and terraced melon-gardens, has been rescued fromthe unproductive desert by the aid of a bright little mountain stream, whose wild spirit the villagers of Lasgird have curbed and tamed fortheir own benefit, by turning it from its rocky, precipitous channel, andcausing it to descend the hill in a curious serpentine ditch. The contourof the ditch is something like this: ~~~~~~~~~~~; it brings the waterdown a pretty steep gradient, and its serpentine form checks the speed ofits descent to an uniform and circumspect pace. The road over the passleads through a soft limestone formation, and here, as in similar placesin Asia Minor, are found those narrow, trench-like trails, worn by thefeet of pilgrims and the pack-animal traffic of centuries, several feetdeep in the solid rock. On a broad cultivated plain beyond the pass issighted the village of Lasgird, its huge mud fortress, the mostconspicuous object in view, rising a hundred feet above the plain. CHAPTER III. PERSIA AND THE MESHED PILGRIM ROAD. A mile or so through the cultivated fields brings me to the village justin time to be greeted by the shouts and hand-clapping of a weddingprocession that is returning from conducting the bride to the bath. Menand boys are beating rude, home-made tambourines, and women are dancingalong before the bride, clicking castanets, while a crowd of at least twohundred villagers, arrayed in whatever finery they can muster for theoccasion, are following behind, clapping their hands in measured chorus. This hand-clapping is, I believe, pretty generally practiced by thevillagers all over Central Asia on festive occasions. As a result ofriding for the crowd, I receive an invitation to take supper at the houseof the bridegroom's parents. Having obtained sleeping quarters at thechapar-khana, I get the shagird-chapar to guide me to the house at theappointed hour, and arrive just in time for supper. The dining-room is alow-ceiled apartment, about thirty feet long and eight wide, and is dimlylighted by rude grease lamps, set on pewter lamp-stands on the floor. Squatting on the floor, with their backs to the wall, about fiftyvillagers form a continuous human line around the room. These all risesimultaneously to their feet as I am announced, bob their headssimultaneously, simultaneously say, "Sahib salaam, " and after I have beenprovided with a place, simultaneously resume their seats. Pewter traysare now brought in by volunteer waiters, and set on the floor before theguests, one tray for every two guests, and a separate one for myself. Oneach tray is a bowl of mast (milk soured with rennet--the "yaort" of AsiaMinor), a piece of cheese, one onion, a spoonful or two of pumpkin butterand several flat wheaten cakes. This is the wedding supper. The guestsbreak the bread into the mast and scoop the mixture out with theirfingers, transferring it to their mouths with the dexterity of Chinesemanipulating a pair of chop-sticks; now and then they take a nibble atthe piece of cheese or the onion, and they finish up by consuming thepumpkin butter. The groom doesn't appear among the guests; he is underthe special care of several female relations in another apartment, and isprobably being fed with tid-bits from the henna-stained fingers of oldwomen, who season them with extravagant and lying stories of the bride'sbeauty, and duly impress upon him his coming matrimonialresponsibilities. Supper eaten and the dishes cleared, an amateur luti from among thevillagers produces a tambourine and castanets, and, taking the middle ofthe room, proceeds to amuse the company by singing extempore love songsin praise of the bride and groom to tambourine accompaniment andpendulous swayings of the body. Pretending to be carried away by themelodiousness and sentiment of his own productions, he gradually bendsbackward with hands outstretched and castanets jingling, until his headalmost touches the floor, and maintains that position while keeping hisbody in a theatrical tremor of delight. This is the finale of theperformance, and the luti comes and sets his skull-cap in front of me fora present; my next neighbor, the bridegroom's father, takes it up andhands it back with a deprecatory wave of the hand; the luti replies bypromptly setting it down again; this time my neighbor lets it remain, andthe luti is made happy by a coin. Torchlight processions to the different baths are now made from the houseof both bride and groom, for this is the "hammam night, " devoted tobathing and festivities before the wedding-day. Torches are made with drycamelthorn, the blaze being kept up by constant renewal; a boy, with alighted candle, walks immediately ahead of the bridegroom and his femalerelations, and a man with a farnooze brings up the rear. Nobody among theonlookers is permitted to lag behind the man with the farnooze, everybodybeing required to either walk ahead or alongside. The tambourine-beatingand shouting and hand-clapping of the afternoon is repeated, and everynow and then the procession stops to allow one or two of the women toface the bridegroom and favor him with an exhibition of their skill inthe execution of the hip-dance. The bridal procession is coming down another street, and I stop to tryand obtain a glimpse of the bride; but she is completely enveloped in aflaming red shawl, and is supported and led by two women. There seems tobe little difference in the two processions, except the preponderance offemales in the bride's party; everything is arranged in the same order, and women dance at intervals before the bride as before the groom. It begins raining before I retire for the night; it rains incessantly allnight, and is raining heavily when I awake in the morning. The weatherclears up at noon, but it is useless thinking of pushing on, for miles oftenacious mud intervene between the village and the gravelly desert;moreover, the prospect of the fine weather holding out looks anything butreassuring. The villagers are all at home, owing to the saturatedcondition of their fields, and I come in for no small share of worryingattention during the afternoon. A pilgrim from Teheran turns up and tellsthe people about my appearance before the Shah; this increases theirinterest in me to an unappreciated extent, and, with glistening eyes andeagerly rubbing fingers, they ask "Chand pool Padishah?" (How much moneydid the King give you?) "I showed the Shah the bicycle, and the Shahshowed me the lions, and tigers, and panthers at Doshan Tepe, " I tellthem; and a knowing customer, called Meshedi Ali, enlightens them stillfurther by telling them I am not a luti to receive money for letting theShah-in-Shah see me ride. Still, luti or no luti, the people think Iought to have received a present. I am worried to ride so incessantlythat I am forced to seek self-protection in pretending to have sprainedmy ankle, and in returning to the chapar-khana with a hypocritical limp. I station myself ostensibly for the remainder of the day on thebala-khana front, and busy myself in taking observations of the villagersand their doings. Time was, among ourselves, or more correctly, among our ancestors, whenblood-letting was as much the professional calling of a barber asscraping chins or trimming hair, and when our respected beef-eating andbeer-drinking forefathers considered wholesale blood-letting as awell-nigh universal panacea for fleshly ills. In travelling throughPersia, one often observes things that suggest very strikingly those"good old days" of Queen Bess. The citizens of Zendjan offering the Shaha present of 60, 000 tomans, as an inducement not to visit their city, asthey did when he was on his way to Europe, has a true Elizabethan ringabout it, a suggestion of the Virgin Queen's rabble retinue travellingabout, devouring and destroying, and of justly apprehensive citizens, seeing ruin staring them in the face, petitioning their regal mistress tospare them the dread calamity of a royal visit. The ancient Zoroastrian barber, no doubt, bled his patients and customerson the public streets of Persian towns, for the benefit of their healths, when we pinned our pagan faith on Druidical incantations and mystic ritesand ceremonies; his Mussulman descendants were doing the same thing whenwe at length arrived at the same stage of enlightenment, and the Persianwielder of razor and tweezers to-day performs the same office asbelonging to his profession. From my vantage point on the bala-khana ofthe Lasgird chapar station, I watch, with considerable interest, theprocess of bleeding a goodly share of the male population of the village;for it is spring-time, and in spring, every Persian, whether well orunwell, considers the spilling of half a pint or so of blood verynecessary for the maintenance of health. The village barber, with his arms bared, and the flowing, o'er-ample legsof his Aradan-Lasgird pantaloons tucked up at his waist, like awasherwoman's skirt, a bunch of raw cotton in lieu of lint under his leftarm, and his keen-edged razor, looks like a man who thoroughly realizesand enjoys the importance of the office he is performing, as from thebared arm or open mouth of one after the other of his neighbors he startsthe crimson stream. The candidates for the barber's claret-tappingattentions bare their right arms to the shoulder, and bind for each othera handkerchief or piece of something tightly above the elbow, and thebarber deftly slits a vein immediately below the hollow of theelbow-joint, pressing out the vein he wishes to cut by a pressure of theleft thumb. The blood spurts out, the patient looks at the squirtingblood, and then surveys the onlookers with a "who-cares?--I-don't" sort ofa grin. He then squats down and watches it bleed about a half-pint, occasionally working the elbow-joint to stimulate the flow. Half a pintis considered about the correct quantity for an adult to lose at onebleeding; the barber then binds on a small wad of cotton. Now and then a customer gives the barber a trifling coin by way ofbacksheesh, but the great majority give nothing. In a mere village likeLasgird, these periodical blood-lettings by the barber are, no doubt, regarded as being all in the family, rather than of professional servicesfor a money consideration. The communal spirit obtains to a great extentin village life throughout both Asia Minor and Persia; neverthelessbacksheesh would be expected in Persia from those able to afford it. Somefew prefer being bled in the roof the mouth, and they all squat on theirhams in rows, some bleeding from the arm, others from the mouth, whilethe inevitable crowd of onlookers stand around, gazing and giving advice. While the barber is engaged in binding on the wad of cotton, or duringany interval between patients, he inserts the handle of the razor betweenhis close-fitting skull-cap and his forehead, letting the blade hang downover his face, edge outward; a peculiar disposition of his razor, that hewould, no doubt, be entirely at a loss to account for, except that he isfollowing the custom of his fathers. As regards the customs of hisancestors, whose trade or profession he invariably follows, the Asiaticis the most conservative of mortals. "What was good enough for my fatherand grandfather, " he says, "is certainly good enough for me;" andearnestly believing in this, he never, of his own accord, thinks ofchanging his occupation or of making improvements. Later in the afternoon I descend from the bala-khana and take a strollinglook at the village, and with the shagird-chapar for guide, pay a visitto the old fortress, the conspicuous edifice seen from the trail-wornlimestone pass. Forgetting about my subterfuge of the sprained ankle, Iwander forth without the aforementioned limp; but the people seem to haveforgotten it as completely as I had; at all events, nobody makes anycomments. A ripple of excitement is caused by a two-storied housecollapsing from the effects of the soaking rains, an occurrence by nomeans infrequent in the spring in a country of mud-built houses. A crowdsoon appears upon the scene, watching, with unconcealed delight, thespectacle of tumbling roof and toppling wall, giving vent to theirfeelings in laughter and loud shouts of approval, like delightedchildren, whenever another bulky square of mud and thatch comes tumblingdown. Fortunately, nobody happens to be hurt, beyond the half-burying inthe debris of some donkeys, which are finally induced to extricatethemselves by being vigorously bombarded with stones. No sympathy appearsto be given on the part of the spectators, and evidently nothing of thekind is expected by the tenants of the tumbling house; the wailing women, and the look of consternation on the face of the men who barely escapedfrom the falling roof, seem to be regarded by the spectators as a tomasha(show), to be stared at and enjoyed, as they would stare at and enjoyanything not seen every day; on the other hand, the occupants of thehouse regard their misfortune as kismet. Returning to the chapar-ktiana, I get the shayird to pilot me into andround about the fortress. It is rapidly falling to decay, but is still ina sufficiently good state of preservation to show thoroughly its formerstrength and conformation. The fortress is a decidedly massive building, constructed entirely of mud and adobe bricks, a hundred feet high, ofcircular form, and some two hundred yards in circumference. Thedisintegrated walls and debris of former towers form a sloping mound orfoundation about fifty feet in height, and from this the perpendicularwalls of the castle rise up, huge and ugly, for another hundred feet. Following a foot-trail up the mound-like base, we come to a low, gloomypassage-way leading into the interior of the fort. A door, composed ofone massive stone slab, that nothing less than a cannon-shot wouldshatter, guards the entrance to this passage, which is the onlyaccessible entrance to the place. Following it along for perhaps thirtyyards, we emerge upon a scene of almost indescribable squalor--a scenethat instantly suggests an overcrowded "rookery" in the tenement-houseslums of New York. The place is simply swarming with people, who, likerabbits in an old warren, seem to be moving about among the tumble-downmud huts, anywhere and everywhere, as though the old ruined fortress wereburrowed through and through, or that the people now moved through, over, under, and around the remnants of what was once a more orderly collectionof dwellings, having long forsaken regular foot-ways. The inhabitants are ragged and picturesque, and meandering about amongthem, on the most familiar terms, are hundreds of goats. Althougheverything is in a more or less dilapidated condition, huts or cellsstill rise above each other in tiers, and the people clamber about fromtier to tier, as if in emulation of their venturesome four-footedassociates, who are here, we may well imagine, in as perfect a paradiseas vagrom goatish nature would care for or expect. At a low estimate, Ishould place the present population of the old fortress at a thousandpeople, and about the same number of goats. In the days when the boldTurkoman raiders were wont to make their dreaded damans almost up to thewalls of Teheran, and such strongholds as this were the only safeguard ofout-lying villagers, the interior of Lasgird fortress resembled aspacious amphitheatre, around which hundreds of huts rose, tier abovetier, like the cells of a monster pigeon-house, affording shelter intimes of peril to all the inhabitants of Lasgird, and to such refugees asmight come in. At the first alarm of the dreaded man-stealers' approach, the outside villagers repaired to the fortress with their portableproperty; the donkeys and goats were driven inside and occupied theinterior space, and the massive stone door was closed and barricaded. Thevillagers' granaries were inside the fortress, and provisions forobtaining water were not overlooked; so that once inside, the people werequite secure against any force of Turkomans, whose heaviest arms weremuskets. The suggestion of an amphitheatre, as above described, is quite patent atthe present day, in something like two or three hundred tiered dwellings;in the days of its usefulness there must have been a thousand. Thanks tothe Russian occupation of Turkestan, there is no longer any need of thefortress, and the present population seem to be occupying it at the perilof having it some day tumble down about their ears; for, massive thoughits walls most certainly are, they are but mud, and the people areindifferent about repairs. Failing to surprise the watchful villagers intheir fields or outside dwellings, the baffled marauders would findconfronting them fifty feet of solid mud wall without so much as anair-hole in it, rising sheer above the mound-like foundation, and abovethis, tiers of rooms or cells, from inside which archers or musketeerscould make it decidedly interesting for any hostile party attempting toapproach. This old fortress of Lasgird is very interesting, as showingthe peaceful and unwarlike Persian ryot's method of defending his lifeand liberty against the savage human hawks that were ever hovering near, ready to swoop down and carry him and his off to the slave markets ofKhiva and Bokhara. These were times when seed was sown and harvestgarnered in fear and trembling, for the Turkoman raiders were adepts atswooping down when least expected, and they rode horses capable of makingtheir hundred miles a day over the roughest country. (Incredible as thislatter fact may seem, it is, nevertheless, a well-known thing in CentralAsia that the Turkoman's horse is capable of covering this remarkabledistance, and of keeping it up for days. ) A thunder-storm is raging violently and drenching everything as I retirefor the night, dampening, among other things, my hopes of getting awayfrom Lasgird for some days; for between the village and the gravelly, andconsequently always traversable, desert, are some miles of slimy clay ofthe kind that in wet weather makes an experienced cycler wince to thinkof crossing. The floor of the bala-khana forms once again my nocturnalcouch; but the temperature lowers perceptibly as the night advances andthe rain continues, and toward morning it changes into snow. The doorsand windows of my room are to be called doors and windows only out ofcourtesy to a rude, unfinished effort to imitate these things, and thefloor, at daybreak, is nicely carpeted with an inch or so of "thebeautiful snow, " and a four-inch covering of the same greets my visionupon looking outside. Determined to make the best of the situation, I remove my quarters fromthe cold and draughty bala-khana to the stable, and send theshagird-chapar out in quest of camel-thorn, bread, eggs, andpomegranates, thinking thus to obtain the luxury of a bit of fire andsomething to eat in comparative seclusion. This vain hope proves that Ihave not even yet become thoroughly acquainted with the Persians. Nosooner does my camel-thorn blaze begin to crackle and the smoke to betraythe whereabouts of a fire, than shivering, blue-nosed villagers begin toput in their appearance, their backs humped up and their bare ankles andslip-shod feet adding not a little to the general aspect of wretchednessthat seems inseparable from Persians in cold weather. And these are the people who, during a gleam of illusory sunshineyesterday, were so nonchalantly parting with their blood--of which, by theby, your bread and cucumber eating, and cold water drinking Persian haslittle enough, and that little thin enough at any time. Theserag-bedecked, shivering wretches hop up on the raised platform where thefire is burning and squat themselves around it in the most sociablemanner; and under the thawing process of passing their hands through theflames, poking the coals together, and close attention to the details ofkeeping it burning, they quickly thaw out in more respects than one. Fifteen minutes after my fire is lighted, the spot where I anticipated asamovar of tea and a pomegranate or two in peace, is occupied by as manyPersians as can find squatting room, talking, shouting, singing, andkalian-smoking, meanwhile eagerly and expectantly watching thepreparations for making tea. Preferring to leave them in full possessionrather than be in their uncongenial midst, I pass the time in promenadingback and forth behind the horses. After walking to and fro a few times, the, to them, singular performance of walking back and forth excitestheir easily-aroused curiosity, and the wondering attention of allpresent becomes once again my unhappy portion. An Asiatic's idea ofenjoying himself in cold weather is squatting about a few coals of fire, making no physical exertion whatever beyond smoking and conversing; andthe spectacle of a Ferenghi promenading back and forth, when he might befollowing their example of squatting by the fire, is to them a subject ofno little wonder and speculation. The redeeming feature of my enforced sojourn at Lasgird is the excellenceof the pomegranates, for which the place is famous, and of which thereseems an abundance left over through the winter. A small quantity ofseedless pomegranates, a highly valued variety, are grown here atLasgird, but they are all sent to Teheran for the use of the Shah and hishousehold, and are not to be obtained by anyone. It has been a raw, disagreeable day, and at night I decide to sleep in the stable, where itis at least warmer, though the remove is but a compromise by which one'solfactory sensibilities are sacrificed in the interest of securing a fewhours' sleep. An unexpected, but none the less welcome, deliverance appears on thefollowing morning in the shape of a frost, that forms on the sticky mud acrust of sufficient thickness to enable me to escape across to thewelcome gravel beyond the Lasgird Plain ere it thaws out. Thus on theprecarious path of a belated morning frost, breaking through here, jumping over there, I leave Lasgird and its memories of weddingprocessions, and blood-letting, its huge mud fortress, its pomegranates, and its discomforts. Three miles of mostly ridable gravel bring me to another village, and tofour miles of horrible mud in getting through its fields and over itsditches. A raw wind is blowing, and squally gusts of snow come scuddingacross the dreary prospect--a prospect flanked on the north by cold, grayhills, and the face of nature generally furrowed with tell-tale lines ofwinter's partial dissolution. While trundling through this village, bothmyself and bicycle plastered to a well-nigh unrecognizable state withmud, feeling pretty thoroughly disgusted with the weather and the roads, an ancient-looking Persian emerges from a little stall with a lastseason's muskmelon in hand, and advancing toward me, shouts, "H-o-i"loud enough to wake the seven sleepers. Shouting "H-o-i!!" at a personclose enough to hear a whisper, as loud as though he were a good mileaway, is a peculiarity of the Persians that has often irritatedtravellers to the pitch of wishing they had a hot potato and thedexterity to throw it down their throats; and in my present unenviablecondition, and its accompanying unenviable frame of mind, I don't mindadmitting that I mentally relegated this vociferous melon-vender to aplace where infinitely worse than hot potatoes would overtake him. Knowing full well that a halt of a single minute would mean a generalmustering of the population, and an importuning rabble following methrough the unridable mud, I ignore the old melon-man's foghorn effortsto arrest my onward progress; but he proves a most vociferous andpersistent specimen of his class. Nothing less than a dozen exclamationpoints can give the faintest idea of how a "hollering" Persian shouts"H-o-i. " Seven miles over very good gravel, and my road leads into the labyrinthof muddy lanes, ditches, and water-holes, tumble down walls, anddisorderly-looking cemeteries of the suburbs of Semnoon. In traversingthe cemeteries, one cannot help observing how many of the graves arecaved in by the rains and the skeletons exposed to view. Mohammedans burytheir dead very shallow, usually about two feet, and in Persia the graveis often arched over with soft mud bricks; these weaken and dissolveafter the rains and snows of winter, and a cemetery becomes a place ofexposed remains and of pitfalls, where an unwary step on what appearssolid ground may precipitate one into the undesirable company of askeleton. By the time Semnoon is reached the day has grown warmer, andthe sun favors the cold, dismal earth with a few genial rays, so that theblooming orchards of peach and pomegranate that brighten and enliven theenvirons of the city, and which suggest Semnoon to be a mild andsheltered spot, seem quite natural, notwithstanding the patches of snowlying about. The crowds seem remarkably well behaved as I trundle throughthe bazaar toward the telegraph office, the total absence of missilesbeing particularly noticeable. The telegraph-jee proves to be a sensible, enlightened fellow, and quite matter-of-fact in his manner for a Persian;apart from his duty to the Governor and a few bigwigs of the place, whomit would be unpardonable in him to overlook or ignore, he saves me asmuch as possible from the worrying of the people. Prince Anushirvan Mirza, Governor of Semnoon, Damghan, and Shahrood, isthe Shah's cousin, son of Baahman Mirza, uncle of the Shah, and formerlyGovernor of Tabreez. Baahman Mirza was discovered intriguing with theRussians, and, fearing the vengeance of the Shah, fled from the country;seeking an asylum among the Russians, he is now--if not dead--a refugeesomewhere in the Caucasus. But the father's disgrace did not prejudicethe Shah against his sons, and Prince Anushirvan and his sons are honoredand trusted by the Shah as men capable of distinguishing between thefriends and enemies of their country, and of conducting themselvesaccordingly. The Governor's palace is not far from the north gate of the city, andafter the customary round of tea and kalians, without which nothing canbe done in Persia, he walks outside with his staff to a piece of goodroad in order to see me ride to the best advantage. (As a specimen ofPersian extravagance--to use a very mild term--it may be as well tomention here as anywhere, that the Governor telegraphed to his son, acting as his deputy at Shahrood, that he had ridden some miles with meout of the city!) During the evening one of the Governor's sons, Prince Sultan MadjidMirza, comes in with a few leading dignitaries to spend an hour inchatting and smoking. This young prince proves one of the mostintelligent Persians I have met in the country; besides being very wellinformed for a provincial Persian, he is bright and quick-witted. Amongthe gentlemen he brings in with him is a man who has made the pilgrimageto Mecca via "Iskenderi" (Alexandria) and Suez, and has, consequently, seen and ridden on the Egyptian railway. The Prince has heard hisdescription of this railway, and the light thus gained has notunnaturally had the effect of whetting his curiosity to hear more of themarvellous iron roads of Frangistan; and after exhausting the usualprogramme of queries concerning cycling, the conversation leads, by easytransition, to the subject of railways. "Do they have railways in Yenghi Donia?" questioned the Prince. "Plenty of railways; plenty of everything, " I reply. "Like the one at Iskenderi and Stamboul?" "Better and bigger than both these put together a hundred times over; theIskenderi railroad is very small. " Nods and smiles of acquiescence from Prince and listeners follow thisstatement, which show plainly enough that they consider it a pardonablelie, such as every Persian present habitually indulges in himself andthinks favorably of in others. "Railroads are good things, and Ferenghis are very clever people, " saysthe Prince, renewing the subject and handing me a handful of salted melonseeds from his pocket, meanwhile nibbling some himself. "Yes; why don't you have railroads in Iran? You could then go to Teheranin a few hours. " The Prince smiles amusingly at the thought, as though conscious ofrailroads in Persia being a dream altogether too bright to evermaterialize, and shaking his head, says: "Pool neis" (we have no money). "The English have money and would build the railroad; but, 'Mollah neis'--Baron Reuter?--you know Baron Reuter--' Mollah neis, 'not 'pool neis. '" The Prince smiles, and signifies that he is well enough aware where thetrouble lies; but we talk no more of railroads, for he and his father andbrothers belong to the party of progress in Persia, and the triumph ofpriests and old women over the Shah and Baron Reuter's railway is to thema distressful and humiliating subject. The late lamented O'Donovan, of "To the Merve" fame, used to make Semnoonhis headquarters while dodging about on the frontier, and was personallyknown to everyone present. Semnoon is celebrated for the excellence ofits kalian tobacco, and O'Donovan was celebrated in Semnoon for his loveof the kalian. This evening, in talking about him, the telegraph-jee saysthat "when he pulled at the kalian he pulled with such tremendouseagerness that the flames leaped up to the ceiling, and after threewhiffs you couldn't see anybody in the room for smoke!" The telegraph-jee's farrash builds a good wood fire in a cozy little roomadjoining the office; blankets are provided, an ample supper is sentaround from the telegraph-jee's house, and what is still betterappreciated, I am left to enjoy these substantial comforts without somuch as a single spectator coming to see me feed; no one comes near metill morning. The morning breaks cold and clear, and for some six miles the road isvery fair wheeling; after this comes a gradual inclination toward ajutting spur of hills; the following twenty miles being the toughest kindof a trundle through mud, snow-fields, and drifts. This is a mostuninviting piece of country to wheel through, and it would seem butlittle less so to traverse at this time of the year with a caravan ofcamels, two or three of these animals being found exhausted by theroadside, and a couple of charvadars encountered in one place skinninganother, while its companion is lying helplessly alongside watching theoperation and waiting its own turn to the same treatment. It is said tobe characteristic of a camel that, when he once slips down, cold andweary, in the mud, he never again tries to regain his feet. The weatherlooks squally and unsettled, and I push ahead as rapidly as the conditionof the ground will permit, fearing a snow-storm in the hills. About three p. M. I arrive at the caravansarai of Ahwan, a dreary, inhospitable place in an equally dreary, inhospitable country. Situatedin a region of wind and snow and bleak, open hills, the wretched serai ofAhwan is remembered as a place where the keen, raw wind seems to comewhistling gleefully and yet maliciously from all points of the compass, seemingly centring in the caravansarai itself; these winds render anyattempt to kindle a fire a dismal failure, resulting in smoke and wateryeyes. Here I manage to obtain half-frozen bread and a few eggs; after anineffectual attempt to roast the latter and thaw out the former, I amforced to eat them both as they are; and although the sun looks ominouslylow, and it is six farsakhs to the next place, I conclude to chanceanything rather than risk being snow-bound at Ahwan. Fortunately, afterabout five miles more of snow, the trail emerges upon a gravelly plainwith a gradual descent from the hills just crossed to the lower level ofthe Damghan plain. The favorable gradient and the smooth trails induce asmart pace, and as the waning daylight merges into the soft, chastenedlight of a cloud-veiled moon, I alight at the village and serai ofGusheh. There are at the caravansarai a number of travellers, among them a moujikof the Don, travelling to Teheran and beyond in company with a TabreezTurk. The Russian peasant at once invites me to his menzil in thecaravansarai; and although he looks, if anything, a trifle moreindifferent about personal cleanliness than either a Turkish or Persianpeasant, I have no alternative but to accept his well-meant invitation. At this juncture, when one's thoughts are swayed and influenced by anappetite that the cold day and hard tugging through the hills haverendered well-nigh uncontrollable, a prosperous-looking Persiantraveller, returning from a pilgrimage to Meshed with his wives, family, and servitors, quite a respectable-sized retinue, emerges from theseclusion of his quarters to see the bicycle. Of course he requests me to ride, sending his link-boys to bring out allthe farnoozes to supplement fair Luna's coy and inefficient beams; andafter the performance, the old gentleman promises to send me round a dishof pillau. In due time the promised pillau comes round, an ample dish, sufficient to satisfy even my present ravenous appetite, and after thishe sends round tea, lump sugar, and a samovar. The moujik turns to andgets up steam in the samovar, and over tiny glasses of the cheering butnon-intoxicating beverage, he sings a Russian regimental song, and hiscomrade, the Tabreez Turk, warbles the praises of Stamboul. But althoughthey make merry over the tea, methinks both of them would have made stillmerrier over something stronger, for the moujik puts in a good share ofthe evening talking about vodka consumed at Shahrood, and smacking hislips at the retrospective bliss embodied in its consumption; while theTurk from Tabreez catches me aside and asks mysteriously if my packagescontain any "raki" (arrack). Like the Ah wan caravansarai, the one atGusheh seems to draw the chilly winds from every direction, and I arisefrom a rude couch, made wretchedly uncomfortable by draughts, the attacksof insects, and the persistent determination of a horse to use myprostrate form as a rest for his nose-bag, to find myself the possessorof a sore throat. Persian travellers are generally up and off before daylight, and theclicking noise (Persian curry-combs are covered with small rings thatmake a rattling noise when being used) of currying horses begins as earlyas three o'clock. The attendants of the old gentleman of happyremembrance in connection with last night's pillau and samovar, have beenbusy for two hours, and his taktrowan and kajauehs are already occupiedand starting, when by the first gleam of awakening dawn I mount and wheeleastward. A shallow, unbridged stream obstructs my path but a shortdistance from Gusheh, and I manage to get in knee-deep in trying to avoidthe necessity of removing my footgear; I then wander several miles offmy road to an outlying village. This happy commencement of a new day isfollowed by a variable road leading sometimes over stony or gravellyplains where the wheeling varies through all the stages of goodness, badness, and indifference, and sometimes through grazing grounds andcultivable areas adjoining the villages. Scattered about the grazing and arable country are now small towers ofrefuge, loop-holed for defense, to which ryots working in the fields, orshepherds tending their flocks, fled for safety in case of a suddenappearance of Turcoman marauders. But a few years ago men hereabouts wentto plough, sow, or reap with a gun slung at their backs, and a few ofthem reaching the shelter of one of these compact little mud towers wereable, through the loop-holes, to keep the Turcomans at bay until reliefarrived. The towers are of circular form, about twenty feet high andfifteen in diameter; the entrance is a very small doorway, often a merehole to crawl into, and steps inside lead to the summit; some are roofedin near the top, others are mere circular walls of mud. On grazinggrounds a lower wall often encompasses the tower, fencing in a largerspace that formed a corral for the flocks; the shepherds then, whiledefending themselves, were also defending their sheep or goats. In themore exposed localities these little towers of refuge are often but acouple of hundred yards apart, thickly dotting the country in alldirections, while watch-towers are seen perched on peaks and points ofvantage, the whole scene speaking eloquently of the extraordinaryprecautions these poor people were compelled to adopt for thepreservation of their lives and property. No wonder Russian intriguemakes headway in Khorassan and all along the Turco-inan-Perso frontier, for the people can scarcely help being favorably impressed by thestoppage of Turcoman deviltry in their midst, and the wholesaleliberation of Persian slaves. The town of Damghan is reached near noon, and I am not a little gratifiedto learn that the telegraph-jee has been notified of my approach, and hasstationed his farrash at the entrance to the bazaar, so that I shouldhave no trouble in finding the office. This augurs well for the receptionawaiting me there, and I am accordingly not surprised to find him anexceptionally affable youth, proud of a word or two of English he hadsomehow acquired, and of his knowledge of how to properly entertain aFerenghi. This latter qualification assumes the eminently practical, and, it is needless to add, acceptable form of a roast chicken, a heaping dishof pillau, and sundry other substantial proofs of anticipatorypreparations. The telegraph-jee takes great pleasure in seeing roastchicken mysteriously disappear, and the dish of pillau gradually diminishin size; in fact, the unconcealed satisfaction afforded by these savorytestimonials of his cook's abilities give him such pleasure that he urgesme to remain his guest for a day and rest up. But Shahrood is only fortymiles away, and here I shall have the pleasure of meeting Mr. McIntyre, before mentioned as line-inspector, who is making his temporaryheadquarters at that city. Moreover, angry-looking storm-dogs haveaccompanied the sun on his ante-meridian march to-day, and suchexperience as mine at Lasgird has the effect of making one, if notweather-wise, at least weather-wary. In approaching Damghan, long before any other indications of the cityappear, twin minarets are visible, soaring above the stony plain like apair of huge pillars; these minars belong to the same mosque, and form aconspicuous landmark for travellers and pilgrims in approaching Damghanfrom any direction; at a distance they appear to rise up sheer from thebarren plain, the town being situated in a depression. Six farsakhs fromDamghan is the village of Tazaria, noted in the country round about forthe enormous size of the carrots grown there; the minarets of Damghan andthe extraordinary size of the Tazaria vegetables furnish the material fora characteristic little Eastern story, current among the inhabitants. Finding that people came from far and near to see the graceful minaretsof Damghan, and that nobody came to see Tazaria, the good people of thatneglected village became envious, and they reasoned among themselves andsaid: "Why should Damghan have two minarets and Tazaria none?" So theygathered together their pack-donkeys, their ropes and ladders, and alarge company of men, and reached Damghan in the silence and darkness ofthe night, intending to pull down and carry off one of the minarets anderect it in Tazaria. The ropes were fastened to the summit of the minar, but at the first great pull the brick-work gave way and the top of thetall minaret came tumbling down with a crash and clatter, killing severalof its would-be removers. The Damghan people turned out, and afterhearing the unhappy Tazarians' laments, some sarcastic citizen gave thema few carrot-seeds, bidding them go home and sow them, and they couldgrow all the minarets they wanted. The carrots grew famously, and thevillagers of Tazaria, instead of the promised minarets, found themselvesin possession of a new and useful vegetable that fetched a good price inthe Damghan bazaars. The Damghanians, meeting a Tazarian ryot coming inwith a donkey-load of these huge carrots, cannot resist twitting himregarding the minars; but the now practical Tazarians no longer mourn theabsence of minarets in their village, and when twitted about it, reply:"We have more minarets than you have, but our minarets grow downward andare good to eat. " During the afternoon I pass many ruined villages and castles, said tohave been destroyed by an earthquake many years ago. Some few nativesfind remunerative employment in excavating and washing over the dirt anddebris of the ruined castles, in which they find coins, rubies, agates, turquoise, and women's ornaments; sometimes they unearth skeletons withornaments still attached. The sun shines out warm this afternoon, and itsgenial rays are sufficiently tempting to induce the jackals to emergefrom their hiding-places and bask in its beaming smiles on the sunny sideof the ruins. Wherever there are ruins and skeletons and decay in Easternlands--and where are there not?--there also is sure to be found theprowling and sneakish-looking jackal. Shelter, and the usual rude accommodation, supplemented on this occasionby a wandering luti and his vicious-looking baboon, as also a company ofriotous charvadars, who insist on singing accompaniments to the luti'ssoul-harrowing tom-toming till after midnight, are obtained at thecaravansarai of Deh Mollah. From Deh Mollah it is only a couple offarsakhs to Shahrood, and after the first three miles, which is slightlyupgrade and not particularly smooth, it is downgrade and very fairwheeling the remainder of the distance. The road forks a couple of milesfrom Shahrood, and while I am entering by one road, Mr. McIntyre isleaving on horseback by the other to meet me, guessing, from wordreceived from Damghan, that I must have spent last night at Deh Mollah, and would arrive at Shahrood this morning. Only those who have experienced it know anything of the pleasure of twoEuropeans meeting and conversing in a country like Persia, where thehabits and customs of the natives are so different, and, to mosttravellers, uncongenial, and only to be tolerated for a time. I have met Mr. Mclntyre in Teheran, so we are not total strangers, which, of course, makes it still more agreeable. After the customary interchangeof news, and the discussion of refreshments, Mr. Mclntyre hands me atelegram from Teheran, which bears a date several days old. It is fromthe British Legation, notifying me that permission is refused to gothrough the Turcoman country; an appendage from the Charge d'Affairessuggests that I repair to Astrakhan and try the route through Siberia. And this, then, is the result of General Melnikoff's genial smiles andready promises of assistance; after providing myself with proper moneyand information for the Turkestan route, on the strength of the RussianMinister's promises, I am overtaken, when three hundred miles away, witha veto against which anything I might say or do would be of no avail! Sultan Ahmed Mirza, a sou of Prince Anushirvan, is deputy governor ofShahrood, responsible to his father; and ere I have arrived an hour theusual request is sent round for a "tomasha, " the word now used by peoplewanting to see me ride, and which really means an exhibition. His placeis found in a brick court-yard with the usual central tank, and the airyrooms of the building all opening upon it, and once again comes thefeeling of playing a rather ridiculous role, as I circle awkwardly aroundthe tank over very uneven bricks, and around short corners where an upsetwould precipitate me into the tank--amid, I can't help thinking, "roars oflaughter. " The Prince is very lavish of his flowery Persian compliments, and says, "You English have now left nothing more to do but to bring thedead back to life. " In the court-yard my attention is called to a set ofbastinado poles and loops, and Mr. McIntyre asks the Prince if he hasn'ta prisoner on hand, so that he can give us a tomasha in return for theone we are giving him; but it is now the Persian New Year, and theprisoners have all been liberated. Here, gentle reader, in Shahrood--but it now behooves us to be dark andmysterious, and deal in hints and whispers, for the Persian proprietiesmust not be ruthlessly violated and then as ruthlessly exposed to satisfythe prying curiosity of far off Frangistan that would never do. Behold, then, Mr. Mclntyre absent; behold all male humans absent savemyself and a couple of sable eunuchs, whose smooth, whiskerless facesbetray inward amusement at the extreme novelty of the situation, and weall alone between the high brick walls that encircle the secrecy of aninner court--and yet not all alone, fortell it in whispers--some half-dozenshrouded female forms are clustered together in one corner. Yashmaks aredrawn aside, and plump oval faces and bright eyes revealed, faces brownand soft of outline, eyes black, large and lustrous, with black linesskillfully drawn to make them look still larger, and lashes deeplystained to impart love and languor to their wondrous depths. Whisper itnot in Gath, and tell it not in the streets of Frangistan, that thewondrous asp-i-awhan has proved an open sesame capable of revealing to aninquisitive and all-observant Ferenghi the collective charms of a Persianswell's harem! We can imagine these ladies in the seclusion of the zenana hearing of theFerenghi and his wonderful iron horse, and overwhelmed with femininecuriosity, with much coaxing and promising, obtaining reluctant consentfor a strictly secret and decorous tomasha, with covered faces and no onepresent but the attendant eunuchs and the Ferenghi, who, fortunately, will soon leave the country, never to return. Mohammedan women are merelyovergrown children, and the promise of strict decorousness is forgottenor ignored the moment the tomasha begins; and the fun and the wickednessof removing their yashmaks in the presence of a Ferenghi is too rare anopportunity to be missed, and, no doubt, furnishes them with material foramusing conversation for many a day after. Rare fun these ladies think itto uncover their olive faces and let the Ferenghi see their beauty; theeunuchs are generally indulgent to their charges whenever they can safelybe so, and on this occasion they content themselves with looking on andsaying nothing. After seeing me ride, the ladies cluster boldly aroundand examine the bicycle, chatting freely among themselves the whileconcerning its capabilities; but some of the younger ladies regard mewith fully as much curiosity as the bicycle, for never before did theyhave such an opportunity of scrutinizing a Ferenghi. And now, while granted the privilege of this little revelation, we mustbe very careful not to reveal the secret of whose harem we have seenunveiled, and whose inner court our paran wheels have pressed; for thewhirligig of time brings about strange things, and apparently triflingthings that have been indiscreetly published by travellers in books athome, have sometimes found their way back to the far East, and causedembarrassment and chagrin to people who treated them with hospitality andrespect. CHAPTER IV. THROUGH KHORASSAN. Shahrood is at the exit from the mountains of the caravan route fromAsterabad, Mazanderan, and the Caspian coast. The mountains overlookingit are bare and rocky. A good trade seems to be done by several firms ofRussian-Armenians in exporting wool, cotton, and pelts to Russia, andhandling Russian iron and petroleum. But for the iniquitous method oftaxation, which consists really of looting the producing classes of allthey can stand, the volume of trade here might easily be tenfold what itis. Shahrood is, or rather was, one of the "four stations of terror, "Mijamid, Miandasht, and Abassabad being the other three, so called onaccount of their exposed position and the consequent frequency ofTurcoman attacks. Even nowadays they have their little ripples ofexcitement; rumors of Turcoman raids are heard in the bazaars, and newswas brought in and telegraphed to Teheran a week ago that fifteenthousand sheep had been carried off from a district north of themountains. Word comes back that a regiment of soldiers is on its way tochastise the Turcomans and recover the property; what really will happen, will be a horde of soldiers staying there long enough to devour what fewsheep the poor people have left, and then returning without having seen, much less chastised, a Turcoman. The Persian Government will notify theRussian Minister of the misdoings of the Turcomans, and ask to have thempunished and the sheep restored; the Russian Minister will reply thatthese particular Turcomans were Persian subjects, and nothing furtherwill be done. Mr. Mclntyre is a canny Scot, a Royal Engineer, and weighs fully threehundred pounds; but with this avoirdupois he is far from being inactive, and together we ramble up the Asterabad Pass to take a look at the BostamValley on the other side. The valley isn't much to look at; no verdure, only a brown, barren plain, surrounded on all sides by equally brown, barren mountains. In the evening the Prince sends round a pheasant, andshortly after calls himself and partakes of tea and cigarettes, I accept Mr. McIntyre's invitation to remain and rest up, but only foranother day, my experience being that, when on the road, one or two days'rest is preferable to a longer period; one gets rested without gettingout of condition. We take a stroll through the bazaar in the morning, andcall in at the wine-shop of a Russian-Armenian trader named Makerditch, who keeps arrack and native wine, and sample some of the latter. In hisshop is a badly stuffed Mazanderaii tiger, and the walls of the privatesitting-room are decorated with rude, old-fashioned prints of saints andscriptural scenes. It is now the Persian New Year, and bright newgarments and snowy turbans impart a gay appearance to the throngs in thebazaar, for everybody changed his wardrobe from tip to toe oneid-i-noo-roos (evening before New Year's Day), although the "greatunwashed" of Persian society change never a garment for the next twelvemonths. Considering that the average lower-class Persian puts in a goodshare of this twelve months in the unprofitable process of scratchinghimself, one would think it must be an immense relief for him to castaway these old habiliments with all their horrid load of filth andvermin, and don a clean, new outfit; but the new ones soon get as thicklytenanted as the old; and many even put the new garments on over certainof the old ones, caring nothing for comfort and cleanliness, andeverything for appearance. The Persian New Year's holiday lasts thirteendays, and on the evening of the thirteenth day everybody goes out intothe fields and plucks flowers and grasses to present to his or herfriends. Governors of provinces who retain their position in consequence of havingsent satisfactory tribute to the Shah, and ruled with at least asemblance of justice, get presents of new robes on New Year's Day, andthose who have been unfortunate enough to lose the royal favor getremoved: New Year's Day brings either sorrow or rejoicing to everyPersian official's house. The morning of my departure opens bright and warm after a thunder-stormthe previous evening, and Mr. Mclntyre accompanies me to the outskirts ofthe city, to put me on the right road to Mijamid, my objective point forthe day, eleven farsakhs distant. The streets are, of course, muddy andunridable, and ere the suburbs are overcome a messenger overtakes us fromthe Prince, begging me to return and drink tea with him before starting. "Tell the Prince, the sahib sends salaams, but cannot spare the time toreturn, " replies my companion, who knows Persian thoroughly. "You mustcome, " says the messenger, "for the Khan of Bostam has arrived to pay theNew Year's salaam to the Prince, and the Prince wants you to show him thebicycle. " "'Must come!' Tell the Prince that when the sahib gets fairly started, ashe is now, with his bicycle, he wouldn't turn back for the Shah himself. " The messenger looks glum and crestfallen, as though very reluctant toreturn with such a message, a message that probably sounds to himstrangely disrespectful, if not positively treasonable; but he sees theuselessness of bandying words, and so turns about, feeling and lookingvery foolish, for he addressed us very boldly and confidently before thewhole crowd when he overtook us. A few small streams have to be crossed on leaving Shahrood for the cast;splendid rivulets of clear, cold water in which there ought to be trout. After these streams the road launches at once on to a level camel-thornplain, the gravelled surface of which provides excellent wheeling. Anoutlying village and caravanserai is passed through at a couple offarsakhs, where, as might be expected in the "district of terror, " arehundreds of the little towers of refuge. This village would be in a veryexposed position, and it looks as though it is but just now being rebuiltand repopulated after a period of ruin and desertion. Beyond this villagethe towers of refuge and other signs of human occupation disappear; theuncultivated desert reigns supreme on either hand; but the wheelingcontinues fairly good, although a strong headwind somewhat impedes myprogress. Beyond the level plain and the lower hills to the north are thesnowy heights of the Elburz range; a less ambitious range of mountainsforms a barrier some twenty miles to the south, and in the distantsoutheast there looms up a dark, massive pile that recalls at a glancememories of Elk Mountain, Wyoming; though upon a closer inspection thereis no doubt but that the densely wooded slopes of our old acquaintance ofthe Rockies would be found wanting. Twenty miles of this level plain is traversed, and I find myself gazingcuriously at a range of mica-flecked hills off to the right. These hillspresent a very curious appearance; the myriads of flakes of micascattered all about glitter and glint in the bright sunlight as if theymight be diamonds, and it requires but an easy effort of the imaginationto fancy one's self in some strange, rich land of the "gorgeous East, "where precious jewels are scattered about like stones. Thesemica-spangled hills bear about the same relation to what one'simagination might conceive them to be as the "gorgeous East" as itactually exists does to the "gorgeous East" we read of in fairytales. Beyond the mica hills, I pass through a stretch of abandoned cultivation, where formerly existed fields and ditches, and villages with an abundanceof portable property tempted Turkoman raiders to guide their matchlesschargers hither. But small outlying settlements hereabout were precariousplaces to live in, and the persistent damans generally caused them to beabandoned entirely from time to time. The road has averaged good to-day, and Mijamid is reached at fouro'clock. Seeking the shelter of the chapar-khana, that devoted buildingis soon surrounded by a new-dressed and accordingly a good-natured andvociferous crowd shouting--"Sowar shuk! sowar shuk! tomasha!tomasha!" As I survey the grinning, shouting multitude from my retreat on the roof, and note the number of widely-opened mouths, the old wicked thoughtsabout hot potatoes and dexterity in throwing them persist in coming tothe fore. Several scrimmages and quarrels occur between the chapar-jeeand his shagirds, and the crowd, who persist in invading the premises, and the tumult around is something deafening, for it is holiday times andthe people feel particularly self-indulgent and disinclined forself-denial. In the midst of the uproar, from out the chaotic mass ofrainbow-colored costumes, there forms a little knot of mollahs in hugesnowy turbans and flowing gowns of solid blue or green, and at their headthe gray-bearded patriarchal-looking old khan of the village in hisflowered robe of office from the governor. These gay-looking, butcomparatively sober-sided representatives of the village, endeavor tohave the crowd cease their clamorous importunities--an attempt, however, that results in signal failure--and they constitutethemselves a delegation to approach me in a respectful and decorousmanner, and ask me to ride for the satisfaction of themselves and thepeople. The profound salaams and good taste of these eminently respectablepersonages are not to be resisted, and after satisfying them, the khanpromises to provide me with supper, which at a later hour turns up in theform of the inevitable dish of pillau. Two miles on the road next morning and it begins raining; at five milesit develops into a regular downpour, that speedily wets me through. Asmall walled village is finally reached and shelter obtained beneath itsample portals, a place that seems to likewise be the loafing-place of thevillage. The entrance is a good-sized room, and here on wet days the mencan squat about and smoke, and at the same time see everything thatpasses on the road. The village is defended by a strong mud wall somethirty feet high, and strengthened with abutting towers at frequentintervals; the only entrance is the one massive door, and inside there isplenty of room for all the four-footed possessions of the people; thehouses are the usual little mud huts with thatched beehive roofs, builtagainst the wall. The flocks of goats and sheep are admitted inside everyevening, and taken out again to graze in the morning; the appearance ofthe interior is that of a very filthy, undrained, and utterly neglectedfarmyard, and as no breath of wind ever passes through it, or comes anynearer the ground than the top of the thirty-foot wall, living in itsreeking, pent-up exhalations must be something abominable. Such a place as this in Persia would be fairly swarming with noxiousinsect life, of which fleas would be the most tolerable variety, andtwo-thirds of the people would be suffering from chronic ophthalmia. Thislittle village, doubtless, had enough to do a few years ago to maintainits existence, even with its remarkably strong walls; and on the highestmountain peaks round about they point out to me their watch-towers, wheresentinels daily scanned the country round for the wild horsemen they somuch dreaded. Four men and three women among the little crowd gatheredabout me here, are pointed out as having been released from slavery bythe Russians, when they captured Khiva and liberated the Persian slavesand sent them home. Every village and hamlet along this part of thecountry contains its quota of returned captives who, no doubt, entertainlively recollections of being carried off and sold. Soon after my arrival here, a little, weazen-faced, old seyud, in athreadbare and badly-faded green gown, comes hobbling through the rainand the mahogany-colored slush of the village yard to the gate. Everybodyrises respectfully as he comes in, and the old fellow, accustomed tohaving this deference paid him by everybody about him, and wishing toshow courtesy to a Ferenghi, motions for me to keep seated. Seeing that Ihad no intention of rising, this courtesy was somewhat superfluous, butthe incident serves to show how greatly these simple villagers areimpressed with the idea of a seyud's superiority, to say nothing of theseyud's assumption of the same. They explain to me that the little, unwashed, unkempt, and well-nigh unclad specimen of humanity examiningthe bicycle is a seyud, with the manner of people pointing out a being ofunapproachable superiority. Still, looking at the poor old fellow's rags, and remembering that it is new year and the time for a change of raiment, one cannot help thinking, "Old fellow, you evidently come in for moreresect, after all, than material assistance, and would, no doubt, willingly exchange a good deal of the former for a little of the latter. "Still, one must not be too confident of this; the bodily requirements ofa wrinkled old seyud would be very trifling, while his egotism would, onthe other hand, be insufferable. This is a grazing village chiefly, andthe gravelly desert comes close up to the walls, so that there is nodifficulty about pushing on immediately after it ceases raining. Two farsakhs of variable wheeling through a belt of low hills and brokencountry, and two more over the level Miandasht Plain, and thecaravanserai of Miandasht is reached. Here the village, the telegraphoffice and everything is enclosed within the protecting walls of animmense Shah Abbas caravanserai, a building capable of affording shelterand protection to five thousand people. In the old--and yet not so veryold--dangerous days, it was necessary, for safety, that travellers andpilgrims should journey together through this section of country in largecaravans, otherwise disaster was sure to overtake them; and Shah Abbasthe Great built these huge caravanserais for their accommodation. Indeference to the memory of this monarch as a builder of caravanserais allover the country, any large serai is nowadays called a Shah Abbascaravanserai, whether built by him or not. Certainly not less than threehundred pack-camels, besides other animals, are resting and feeding, orbeing loaded up for the night march as I ride up, their myriad clangingbells making a din that comes floating across the plain to meet me as Iapproach. Miandasht is the first place in Khorassan proper, and among the motleygathering of charmdars, camel-drivers, pilgrims, travellers, villagersand hangers-on about the serai, are many Khorassanis wearing hugesheepskin busbies, similar to the head-gear of the Roumanians and TabreezTurks of Ovahjik and the Perso-Turkish border. Most of these busbies areblack or brown, but some affect a mixture of black and white, a piebaldaffair that looks very striking and peculiar. The telegraph-jee here turns out to be a person of immense importance inhis own estimation, and he has evidently succeeded in impressing the samebelief upon the unsophisticated minds of the villagers, who, apparently, have come to regard him as little less than "monarch of all he surveys. "True, there isn't much to survey at Miaudasht, everything there beingwithin the caravanserai walls; but whenever the telegraph-jee emergesfrom the seclusion of his little office, it is to blossom forth upon thetheatre of the crowd's admiring glances in the fanciful habiliments of ala-de-da Persian swell. Very punctilious as regards etiquette, instead ofcoming forth in a spontaneous manner to see who I am and look at thebicycle, he pays me a ceremonious visit at the chapar-khana half an hourlater. In this visit he is preceded by his farrash, and he walks with amagnificent peacock strut that causes the skirts of his faultlessroundabout to flop up and down, up and down, in rhythmic accompaniment tohis steps. Apart from his insufferable conceit, however, he tries to makehimself as agreeable as possible, and after tea and cigarettes, I givehim and the people a tomasha, at the conclusion of which he askspermission to send in my supper. The room in which I spend the evening is a small, dome-roofed apartment, in which a circular opening in the apex of the dome is expected to fillthe triple office of admitting light, ventilation, and carrying off smokefrom the fire; the natural consequence being that the room is dark, unventilated, and full of smoke. Now and then some determined sightseeron the roof fills this hole up completely with his head, in an effort topeer down through the smoke and obtain a glimpse of myself or thebicycle, or a mischievous youngster, unable to resist the temptation, drops down a stone. The shagird-chapar here is a man who has been to Askabad and seen therailroad; and when the inevitable question of Russian versus Englishmarifet (mechanical skill) comes up, he endeavors to impress upon theopen-mouthed listeners the marvellous character of the locomotive. "It isa wonderful atesh-gharri" (fire-wagon), he would say, "and runs on anawhan rah (iron road); the charvadar puts in atesh and ob. It goes chu, chu! chu!! ch-ch-ch-chu-ch-u-u-u!!! spits fire and smoke, pulls along-khylie long-caravan of forgans with it, and goes ten farsakhs anhour. " But in order to thoroughly appreciate this travelled and highlyenlightened person's narrative, one must have been present in thesmoke-permeated room, and by the nickering light of a camel-thorn firehave watched the gesticulations of the speaker and the rapt attention ofthe listeners; must have heard the exclamations of "Mashal-l-a-h!" escapehonestly and involuntarily from the parted lips of wonder-strickenauditors as they endeavored to comprehend how such things could possiblybe. And yet there is no doubt that, five minutes afterward, the verdictof each listener, to himself, was that the shagird-chapar, in describingto them the locomotive, was lying like a pirate--or a Persian--and, afterall, they couldn't conceive of anything more wonderful than the bicycleand the ability to ride it, and this they had seen with their own eyes. It is the change of the moon, and a most wild-looking evening; the sunsets with a fiery forge glowing about it, and fringing with an angryborder the banks of darksome clouds that mingle their weird shapes withthe mountain masses to the west, the wind sighs and moans through thearchways and menzils of the huge caravanserai, breathing of rain andunsettled weather. These warning signals are not far in advance, for adrenching rain soaks and saturates everything during the night, converting the parallel trails of the pilgrim road into twenty narrow, silvery streaks, that glisten like trails of glass ahead, as I wheelalong them to meet the newly-risen sun. It is a morning of hurrying, scudding clouds and fitful sunshine, but fresh and bracing after therain; a country of broken hills and undulating road is reached in anhour; the broken hills are covered with blossoming shrubs and green youngcamel-thorn, in which birds are cheerily piping. Six farsakhs bring me to Abbasabad, the last of the four stations ofterror. A lank villager is on the lookout a couple of miles west of theplace, the people having been apprised of my coming by some travellerswho left Miandasht yesterday evening. Tucking the legs of his pantaloonsin his waistband, leaving his legs bare and unencumbered, he follows meat a swinging trot into the village, and pilots me to the caravanserai. The population of the place are found occupying their housetops, andwhatever points of vantage they can climb to, awaiting my appearance, their curiosity having been wrought to the highest pitch by theirinformant's highly exaggerated accounts of what they might expect to see. The prevailing color of the female costume is bright red, and the swarmsof these gayly-dressed people congregated on the housetops, and mingledpromiscuously with the dark gray of the mud walls and domes, makes apicture long to be remembered. And long also to be remembered is the reception awaiting me inside thecaravanserai yard--the surging, pushing, struggling, shouting mob, amongwhom I notice, with some wonderment and speculation, a far largerproportion of blue-eyed people than I have hitherto seen in Persia. Uponinquiry it is learned that Abbasabad is a colony of Georgians, plantedand subsidized here by Shah Abbas the Great, as a check on the Turkomans, whose frequent alamans rendered the roads hereabout well-nigh impassablefor caravans. These warlike mountaineers were brought from the Caucasusand colonized here, with lands, exemption from taxes, and given an annualsubsidy. They were found to be of good service as a check on theTurkomans, but were not much of an improvement upon the Turkomansthemselves in many respects. As seen in the caravanserai to-day, theyseem a turbulent, headstrong crowd of people, accustomed to be petted, and to do pretty much as they please. At the caravanserai is a traveller who says he hails from the PishinValley, and he produces a certificate in English, recommending him as astone mason. The certificate settles all doubts of his being from India, for were one to meet an Hindostani in the classic shades of purgatoryitself, he would immediately produce a certificate recommending him forsomething or other. As the crowd surge and struggle for some positionaround me where they can enjoy the exquisite delight of seeing me siptiny glasses of scalding hot tea, prepared by the enterprising individualwho met me two miles out, the Pishin Valley man tries to look amused atthem, and to rise superior to the situation, as becomes a person to whoma Sahib, and whatever wonderful things he may possess, are nothingextraordinary. The crowd seem very loath to let such an extraordinarything as the bicycle and its rider depart from among them so soon, although at the same time anxious to see me speed along the smooth, straight trails that fortunately lead directly from the caravanseraieastward. Scores of the shouting, yelling mob race, bare-footed andbare-legged, over the stones and gravel alongside the bicycle, until Ican put on a spurt and out-distance them, which I take care to do as soonas practicable, thankful to get away and eat the bread pocketed indisgust at the caravanserai in the peace and quietude of the desert. Beyond Abbasabad my road skirts Mazinan Lake to the north, passingbetween the slimy mud-flats of the lake shore and the ever-present Elburzfoot-hills, and then through several wholly ruined or partially ruinedvillages to Mazinan, where I arrive about sunset, my wheel yet again amass of mud, for the Mazinan lake country is a muddy hole in spring. Adrizzling rain ushers in the dusky shades of the evening, as I repair tothe chaparkhana, a wretched hole, in a most dilapidated condition. Thebalakhana is little better than being out of doors; the roof leaks like acolander, the windows are mere unglazed holes in the wall, and the doorsare but little better than the windows. It promises to be a cold, draughty, comfortless night, and the prospects for supper look gloomyenough in the light of smoky camel-thorn and no samovar to make a cup oftea. Such is the cheerless prospect confronting me after a hard day's run, when, soon after dark, a man arrives with a thrice-welcome invitationfrom a Russian officer, who he says is staying at the caravanserai. Theofficer, he says, has pillau, kabobs, wine, plenty of everything, andwould be glad if I would bring my machine and come and accept hishospitality for the night. Under the circumstances nothing could be morewelcome news than this; and picturing to myself a pleasant evening with agenial, hospitable gentleman, I take the bicycle down the slippery andbroken mud stairway, and follow my guide through drizzling rain anddarkness, over ditches and through miry byways, to the caravanserai. The officer is found squatting, Asiatic-like, on his menzil floor, hisovercoat over his shoulders. He is watching his cook broiling kabobs forhis supper. It is a cheery, hopeful prospect, the glowing charcoal firesparkling in response to the vigorous waving of half a saddle-flap, thesavory, sizzling kabobs and the carpeted menzil, in comparison with thedreary tumble-down place I have just left. My first impression of theofficer himself, however, is scarcely so favorable as my impression ofthe picture in which he is set--the picture as just described; a sinisterleer characterizes the expression of his face, and what appears like anod, with an altogether unnecessary amount of condescension in it, characterizes his greeting. Hopping down to the ground, lamp in hand, heexamines the bicycle minutely, and then indirectly addressing theby-standers, he says, "Pooh! this thing was made in Tiflis; there'shundreds of them in Tiflis. " Having delivered himself of this lyingstatement, he hops up on the menzil front again and, without paying theslightest attention to me, resumes his squatting position at the fire, and his occupation of watching the preparations of his cook. Nothing ismore evident to me than that he had never before seen a bicycle, andastounded at this conduct on the part of an officer who doubtless thinkshimself a civilized being, even though he might not understand anythingof our own conception of an "officer and a gentleman, " I begin lookingaround for an explanation from the fellow who brought me the invitation, thinking there must be some mistake. The man has disappeared and isnowhere to be found. The chapar-jee accompanied us to the caravanserai, and seeing that thisman has bolted, and that the Russian officer's intentions toward me areanything but hospitable, he calls the missing man--or the officer, Idon't know which--a pedar suktar (son of a burnt father), andsuggests returning to the cold comfort of the bala-khana. My own feelingsupon realizing that this wretched, unscrupulous Muscovite has craftilydesigned and executed this plan for no other purpose but to insult andhumiliate one whom he took for granted to be an Englishman, in the eyesof the Persian travellers present, I prefer to pass over and leave to thereader's imagination. After sleeping on it and thinking it over, earlynext morning I returned to the caravanserai, bent on finding the fellowwho brought the invitation, giving him a thrashing, and seeing if theofficer would take it up in his behalf. In the morning, the cossacks saidhe had gone away; whether gone away or hiding somewhere in thecaravanserai, he was nowhere to be found; which perhaps was just as well, for the affair might have ended in bloodshed, and in a fight the chanceswould have been decidedly against myself. This incident, disagreeable though it be to think of, is instructive asshowing the possibilities for mean and contemptible action that may lurkbeneath the uniform of a Russian officer. Russian officers as a generalthing, however, it is but fair to add, would show up precisely thereverse of this fellow, under similar circumstances, being genial andhospitable to a fault; still, I venture that in no other army in theworld, reckoning itself civilized, could be found even one officercapable of displaying just such a spirit as this. The unwelcome music of pattering rain and flowing water in the concert Ihave to sit and listen to all the forenoon, and a glance outside isrewarded by the dreariest of prospects. The landscape as seen from mylone and miserable lookout, consists of gray mud-fields and graymud-ruins, wet and slimy with the constant rains; occasionalbarley-fields mosaic the dreary prospect with bright green patches, butacross them all--the mud-flats, the ruins, and the barley-fields--thedriving rain sweeps remorselessly along, and the wind moans dismally. There is only one corner of my room proof against the drippings from theroof, and through the wretched apologies for doors and windows thedriving rain comes in. Everything seems to go wrong in this particularplace. I obtain tea and sugar, but there is no samovar, and thechapar-jee attempts to make it in an open kettle; the result is sweetenedwater, lukewarm and smoky. I then send for pomegranates, which turn outto be of a sour, uneatable variety; but worse than all is the drearyconsciousness of being hopelessly imprisoned for an uncertain period. It grows gradually colder, and toward noon the rain changes to snow; thecold and the penetrating snow drive me into the shelter of theill-smelling stables. It blows a perfect hurricane all the afternoon, accompanied by fitful squalls of snow and hail, and the same programmecontinues the greater part of the night. But in the morning I am thankfulto discover that the wind has dried the surface sufficiently to enable meto escape from my mud-environed prison and its uncongenial associations. Before getting many miles from Mazinan, I encounter the startling noveltyof streams of liquid mud, rolling their thick, yellow flood over theplain in treacly waves, travelling slowly, like waves of molten lava. Themud is only a few inches deep, but the streams overspread a considerablebreadth of country, as my road is some miles from where they leave themountains, and they seem to have no well-defined channels to flow in. Astream of slimy, yellow mud, two hundred yards wide, is a mostdisagreeable obstacle to overcome with a bicycle; but confined in narrow, deep channels, the conditions would be infinitely worse. It is a drearyand forbidding stretch of country hereabout, the carcasses of camels thathave dropped exhausted by the roadside, are frequently passed, andjackals feasting on them slink off at my approach, watch my progress pastwith evident impatience, and then return again to their feast. Occasionalstretches of very fair wheeling are passed over, and at six farsakhs Ireach Mehr, the usual combination of brick caravanserai and mud village. Here a halt is made for tea and such rude refreshments as are obtainable, consuming them in the presence of the usual sore-eyed andmiserable-looking crowd; more than one poor wretch appealing to me tocure his rapidly-failing sight. A gleam of warm sunshine brightens mydeparture from Mehr, and after shaking off several following horsemen, the going seems quite pleasant, the wheeling being very good indeed. Themountains off to the left are variegated and beautiful on the lower andintermediate slopes, and are crested with snow; scudding cloudlets, whosemultiform shadows are continually climbing up and over the mountains, produce a pleasing kaleidoscopic effect, and here and there a sunny, glistening peak rises superior to the changeful scenes below. Sheepskin-busbied shepherds are tending flocks of very peculiar-lookingsheep on this plain, the first of the kind I have noticed. The fattycontinuation of the body, popularly regarded as an abnormal growth oftail, is wanting; but what is lacking in this respect is amplycompensated for in the pendulous ears, these members hanging almost tothe ground; they have a goatish appearance generally, and may possibly bethe result of a cross. Herds of antelope also frequent this locality, which by and by develops into a level mud-plain that affords smooth andexcellent wheeling, and over which I take the precaution of making thebest time possible, conscious that a few minutes' rain would render itimpassable for a bicycle; and wild wind-storms are even now careeringover it, accompanied by spits of snow and momentary squalls of hail. A lone minar, looming up directly ahead like a tall factory chimney, indicates my approach to Subzowar. The minaret is reached by sunset; itturns out to be a lone shrine of some imam, from which it is yet twofarsakhs to Subzowar. The wheeling from this point, however, is verygood, and I roll into Subzowar, or, at least, up to its gate, forSubzowar is a walled city, shortly after dark. Sherab (native wine) theytell me, is obtainable in the bazaar, but when I inquire the price perbottle, with a view of sending for one, several eager aspirants for theprivilege of fetching it shout out different prices, the lowest figurementioned being three times the actual price. Being rather indifferentabout the doubtful luxury of drinking wine for the amusement of aneagerly curious crowd, which I know only too well beforehand will be myunhappy portion, I conclude to chagrin and disappoint the whole dishonestcrew by doing without. One gets so thoroughly disgusted with theever-present trickery, dishonesty, and prying, unrestrained curiosity ofthe ragged, sore-eyed and garrulous crowds that gather about one at everyhalting place, that a person actually comes to prefer a mere crust ofbread in peace by a road-side pool to the best a city bazaar affords. A well-dressed individual makes his salaam and intrudes his person uponthe scene of my early preparations to depart, on the following morning, and, when I start, takes upon himself the office of conducting me throughthe labyrinthian bazaar and to the gate of exit beyond. I am wonderingsomewhat who this individual may be, and wherefore the officiousness ofhis demeanor to the crowd at our heels; but his mission is soon revealed, for on the way out he pilots me into the court-yard of the Reis, or mayorof the city. The Reis receives me with the glad and courteous greeting ofa person desirous of making himself agreeable and of creating a favorableimpression; trays of sweetmeats are produced, and tea is served up inlittle porcelain cups. As soon as tea and sweetmeats and kalians appear on the board, mollahsand seyuds mysteriously begin to put in an appearance likewise, filingnoiselessly in and taking their places near or distant from the Reis, according to their respective rank and degree of holiness. Myobservations everywhere in the Land of the Lion and the Sun all tend tothe conclusion that whenever and wherever a samovar of tea begins to singits cheery and aromatic song, and the soothing hubble-bubble of thekalian begins telling its seductive tale of solid comfort and socialintercourse, a huge green or white turban is certain to appear on thescene, a robed figure steps out of its slippers at the door, glidesnoiselessly inside, puts its hand on its stomach, salaams, and drops, assilently as a ghost might, in a squatting attitude among the guests. Hardly has this one taken his position than another one appears at thedoor and goes through precisely the same programme, followed shortlyafterward by another, and yet others; these foxy-looking members of thePersian priesthood always seem to me to possess the faculty of scentingthese little occasions from afar and of following their noses to theplace with unerring precision. Upon emerging from the shelter of the city and adjacent ruins, I findmyself confronted by a furious head-wind, against which it is quiteimpossible to ride, and almost impossible to trundle. During the forenoonI meet on the road a disgraced official, in the person of theAsaf-i-dowleh, Governor-General of Khorassan, returning to Teheran fromMeshed, having been recalled at New Year's by the Shah to give an accountof himself for "oppressing the people, insulting the Prophet, andintriguing with the Russians. " The Asaf-i-dowleh made himself veryobnoxious to the priests and people of the holy city by arresting acriminal within the place of refuge at Imam Riza's tomb, and by anoutrageous devotion to his own pecuniary interests at the public expense. Riots occurred, the mob taking possession of the telegraph-office andsmashing the windows, because they fancied their petition to the Shah wasbeing tampered with. A timely rain-storm dispersed the mob and gave timefor the Shah's reply to arrive, promising the Asaf-i-dowleh's removal anddisgrace. The ex-Governor is in a carriage drawn by four grays; his ownwomen are in gayly gilded taktrowans, upholstered with crimson satin; thewomen of his followers occupy several pairs of kajavehs, and thehousehold goods of the party follow behind in a number of huge Russianforgans or wagons, each drawn by four mules abreast. Besides these are along string of pack-camels, mules, and attendants on horseback, formingaltogether the most imposing cavalcade I have met on a Persian road. Howthey manage to get the heavily loaded forgans and the Governor's carriageover such places as the pass near Lasgird is something of amystery--but there may be another route--at any rate, hundreds ofvillagers would be called out to assist. An opportunity also presents this morning of seeing the amount ofobstinacy and perverseness that manages to find lodgement within theunsightly curves and angles of a runaway camel. A riding-camel, led byits owner, scares at the bicycle, and, breaking away, leads him a livelychase through a belt of low sand ridges near the road, jolting variouspackages off his back as he runs. Every time the man gets almost withinseizing distance of the rope, the contrary camel starts off again in along, awkward lope, slowing up again, as though maliciously inviting hisowner to try it over again, when he has covered a couple of hundredyards. These manoeuvres are repeated again and again, until the chase hasextended to perhaps four miles, when a party of travellers assist inrounding him up; the man then has to re-traverse the whole four miles andgather up the things. A late luncheon of bread, warm from the oven, is obtained at the villageof Lafaram, where I likewise obtain a peep behind the scenes of everydayvillage life, and see something of their mode of baking bread. The walledvillage of Lafaram presents a picture of manure heaps, holes of filthywater, mud-hovels, naked, sore eyed youngsters, unkempt, unwashed, bedraggled females, goats, chickens, and all the unsavory elements thatenter into the composition of a wretched, semi-civilized community. Withbare, uncombed heads, bare-armed, bare-breasted, and bare-limbed, andwith their nakedness scarcely hidden beneath a few coarse rags, some ofthe women are engaged in making and baking bread, and others in thepreparation of tezek from cow manure and chopped straw. In carrying onthese two occupations the women mingle, chat, and help each other withhappy-go-lucky indifference to consequences, and with a breezyunconsciousness of there being anything repulsive about the idea ofhandling hot cakes with one hand and tezek with the other. The ovens arehuge jars partially sunk in the ground; fire is made inside and the jarheated; flat cakes of dough are then stuck in the inside of the jar, afew minutes sufficing for the baking. The hand and arm the woman insertsinside the heated jar is wrapped with old rags and frequently dipped in ajar of water standing by to keep it cooled; the bread thus baked tastesvery good when fresh, but it requires a stomach rendered unsqueamish bydire necessity to relish it after seeing it baked. The plain beyond Lafaram assumes the character of an acclivity, that infour farsakhs terminates in a pass through a spur of hills. The adversewind blows furiously all day and shows no signs of abating as the dusk ofevening settles down over the landscape. A wayside caravanserai isreached at the entrance to the pass, and I determine to remain tillmorning. Here I meet with a piece of good fortune in a small way, in theshape of a leg of wild goat, obtained from a native Nimrod; a thin rod ofiron, obtained from the serai-jee, serves for a skewer, and I spend theevening in roasting and eating wild-goat kabobs, while a youth fans thelittle charcoal fire for me with the sole of an old geiveh. CHAPTER V. MESHED THE HOLY. Warning spits of snow accompany my early morning departure from thewayside caravanserai, and it quickly develops into a blinding snow-stormthat effectually obscures the country around, although melting as ittouches the ground. A mile from the caravanserai the trails fork, and, taking the wrong one, I wander some miles up the mountains ere discovering my mistake. Retracing my way, the right road is finally taken; but the gale increasesin violence, the cold is numbing to unprotected hands and ears, and thewind and driving snow difficult to face. At one point the trail leadsthrough a morass, in which are two dead horses, swamped in attempting tocross, and near by lies an abandoned camel, lying in the mud and wearilymunching at a heap of kali (cut barley-straw) placed before him by hisowners before leaving him to his kismet; perchance with a forlorn hopethat he might pull through and finally regain his feet. I have a narrow escape from swamping in the treacherous morass myself, sinking knee-deep in the slimy, oozing mud-mass, pulling off my geivehsand having no end of trouble in recovering them. Shurab is reached about noon, where the customary crowd and customaryrude accommodations await me. Quite an unaccustomed luxury, however, isobtained at Shurab--a substance made from grapes, called sheerah, which resembles thin molasses. A communal dish, which I see thechapar-jee and his sliagirds prepare for themselves and eat this evening, consists of one pint of sheerah, half that quantity of grease, a handfulof chopped onions and a quart of water. This awful mixture is stewed fora few minutes and then poured over a bowl of broken bread; they thengather around and eat it with their hands--that they also eat it withgreat gusto goes without saying. Opium smoking appears to be indulged in to a great extent here, two outof the three chapar men putting in a good portion of their time "hitting"the seductive pipe, and tinkering with their opium-smoking apparatus. They only have one outfit between them; both of them are half blind withophthalmia, and the bane of their wretched existence seems to be aRussian candle-lamp, with a broken globe, that persists in falling apartwhenever they attempt to use it--which, by the by, is well-nigh allthe time--in manipulating the opium needle and pipe. Observing themfrom my rude shake-down, after supper, bending persistently over thisbroken, or ever-breaking lamp, their sore eyes and shrunken features, thesuzzle-suzzle of the opium as they suck it into the primer and inhale thefumes--the indescribable odor of the drug pervading theroom--all this would seem to be a picture of an ideal Chinese opiumden rather than of a chapar-khana in Persia. A broken bridge and miles of deep mud not far ahead has been the burthenof information gathered from the villagers during the afternoon, and thechapar-jee urges upon me the necessity of employing men and horses tocarry me and the bicycle across these obstructions into Nishapoor. Preferring to take my chances of getting through, however, I pay no heedto these warnings, well aware that the chapar-jee's interest in thematter begins and ends in the fact that he has horses to hire himself. In imitation of my example yesterday, I wander off the proper road againthis morning, taking a road that leads to an abandoned ford instead of tothe bridge, a mistake that is probably a very good one to have made whenviewed from the stand-point of mud, as my road is at least the shorterone of the two. A wild-looking, busby-decked crowd of Khorassani goatherds from aneighboring village follow behind me across the level mudflats leading tothe stream, vociferously clamoring for me to ride. They shoutpersistently: "H-o-i! Sowar shuk; tomasha! tomasha!" even when they seethe difficult task I have of it getting the bicycle through the mud. Ihave singled out a big, sturdy goat-herder to assist me across thestreams, of which I learn there are two, a mile or thereabout apart, andhis compatriots are accompanying us to see us cross, as well as beingimpelled by prying curiosity to see how many kerans he gets for histrouble. The first stream is found to be arm-pit deep, with a fairlystrong current. My sturdy Khorassani crosses over first, to try thebottom, feeling his way with a long-handled spade; he then returns andcarries the bicycle across on his head, afterward carrying me acrossastride his shoulders, landing me safely with nothing worse than wetfeet. A mile of awful saline mud, and stream number two is reached and crossedin a similar manner--although here I unfortunately cross part wayover fairly sitting on the water. The water and the weather are bothuncomfortably chilly, and my assistant emerges from the second streamwith chattering teeth and goose-pimply flesh. A liberal and well-deservedpresent makes him forget personal discomforts, and, fervently kissing myhand and pressing my palm to his forehead, he tells me there is no morewater ahead, and, recrossing the stream, he wends his way homeward again. Fortunately the road improves rapidly, developing beyond the NishapoorValley into smooth, upland camel-trails that afford quite excellentwheeling. The Nishapoor Valley impresses me as about the finest area ofcultivation seen in Persia, except, perhaps, the Tabreez Plain; andtoward Gadamgah the country gets positively beautiful--at least, beautifulin comparison. Crystal streamlets come purling and gurgling across theroad over pebbly beds; and, looking northward for their source, one findsthat the usually gray and uninteresting foot-hills have changed intobright, green slopes, on whose cheerful brows are seen an occasional pineor cedar. Overtopping these green, grassy slopes are dark, rugged rocks, and higher still the grim white region of--winter. Somewhere behindthese emerald foot-hills, near Gadamgah, are the famous turquoise minesalluded to in the "Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. " The mines are worked atthe present time, but only in a desultory and unenterprising manner. Favored with good roads, I succeed in reaching Gadamgah before dark, where, besides a comfortable and commodious caravanserai, and thepleasure of seeing around a number of fine-spreading cedars, one canobtain the rare luxury of pine-wood to build a fire. Immediately upon my arrival a knowing and respectable-looking oldpilgrim, who calls himself a hadji and a dervish from Mazan-deran, rescues me from the annoying importunities of the people and invites meto share the accommodation of his menzil. Augmenting his scanty stock offirewood and obtaining eggs and bread, quite a comfortable evening isspent in reclining beside the blazing pine-wood fire, which is itself notrifling luxury in a country of scanty camel-thorn and tezek. Wheneverthe prying curiosity of the occupants of neighboring menzils impels themto visit our quarters, to stand and stare at me, my friend the hadjiwaxes indignant, and, waving a stick of firewood threateningly towardthem, he pours forth a torrent of withering and sarcastic remarks. Once, in his wrath, he hops lightly off the menzil floor, seizes an individualtwice his own size by the kammerbund, jerks him violently forward, bidshim stare until he gets ashamed of staring, and then, turning him round, shoves him unceremoniously away again, pursuing him as he retreats to hisown quarters with vengeful shouts of "y-a-h!" To a few eminently respectable travellers, however, the hadji graciouslyaccords the coveted privilege of squatting around our fire and chatting. Being himself a person who dearly loves the music of his own voice, heholds forth at great length on the subject of himself in particular, dervishes in general, and the Province of Mazanderaii. Like a good manyother people conscious of their own garrulousness, the hadji evidentlysuspects his auditors of receiving his statements with a good deal ofallowance; consequently, when impressing upon them the circumstance ofhis hailing from Mazanderan--a fact that he seems to think creditable insome way to himself--he produces from the depths of his capacioussaddlebags several dried fish of a variety for which that province iscelebrated, and exhibits them in confirmation of his statements. It is genuine wintry weather, and with no bedclothes, save a narrowhorse-blanket borrowed from my impromptu friend, I spend a cold, uncomfortable night, for a caravanserai menzil is but a mere place ofshelter after all. The hadji rises early and replenishes the fire, andwith his little brass teapot we make and drink a glass of tea togetherbefore starting out. At daybreak the hadji goes outside to take a preliminary peep at theweather, and returns with the unwelcome intelligence that it is snowing. "Better snow than rain, " I conclude, as I prepare to start, littlethinking that I am entering upon the toughest day's experience of thewhole journey through Persia. Before covering three miles, the snow-storm develops into a regularblizzard; a furious, driving storm that would do credit to Dakota. Without gloves, and in summer clothes throughout, I quickly find myselfin a most unenviable plight. It is no common snow-storm; every fewminutes a halt has to be made, hands buffeted and ears rubbed to preventthese members from freezing; yet foot-gear has to be removed and streamswaded in the bitter cold. The road leads up into a region of broken hills, and the climax of mydiscomfort is reached, when the blizzard is raging with ever-increasingfury, and the cold has already slightly nipped one finger. Whileattempting to cross a deep, narrow stream without disrobing, it is myunhappy fate to drop the bicycle into the water, and furthermore to frontthe necessity of instantly plunging in, armpit deep, to its rescue. WhenI emerge upon the opposite bank my situation is really quite critical; ina few moments my garments are frozen stiff; everything I have with me iswet; my leathern case, containing the small stock of medicines, matches, writing material, and other small but necessary articles, is full ofwater, and, with hands benumbed, I am unable to unstrap it. My only salvation consists in vigorous exercise, and, conscious of this, I splurge ahead through the blinding storm and the fast-deepening snow, fording several other streams, often emerging dripping from the icy waterto struggle through waist-deep snow-drifts that are rapidly accumulatingunder the influence of the driving blast and fast-falling snow. Uncertainof the distance to the next caravanserai, I push determinedly forward inthis condition for several hours, making but slow progress. Everythingmust come to an end, however, and twenty miles from Gadamgah the welcomeoutlines of a road-side caravanserai become visible through the thicklyfalling snow-flakes, and the din of many jangling camel-bells proclaimsit already occupied. The caravanserai is found so densely crowded with people, horses, camels, and their loads that it is impossible to at first carry the bicycleinside. Confusion, and more than confusion, reigns supreme; every menzilis occupied, and the whole interior space is a confused mass ofcharvadars, stoutly vociferating at one another and at the pack-animalslying down, wandering about, or being unloaded. Leaving the bicycle outside in the snow, I clamber over the humpy formsof kneeling camels, through an intricate maze of mules and overbarricades of miscellaneous merchandise, and, making a virtue of direnecessity, invade the menzil of a well-to-do looking traveller. Here, waiving all considerations of whether my presence is acceptable or thereverse, I take a seat beside their fire and forthwith proceed to shed mysaturated foot-gear. Under ordinary conditions this proceeding would benothing less than a piece of sublime assurance; but necessity knows nolaw, and my case is really very urgent. When I explain to the occupantsof the menzil that this nolens volens invasion of their premises is but atemporary arrangement, in the flowery language of polite Persian theytell me that the menzil, the fire, and everything they have is mine. After the inevitable examination of my map, compass, and sundry effects, I begin to fancy my presence something of an embarrassment, andconsequently am not a little gratified at hearing the authoritative voiceof my friend the hadji shouting loudly at the charvadars, telling themthat he is a hadji and a Mazanderan dervish, for whom they cannot clearthe way too quickly. Looking round, I see him appear at the caravanseraientrance with a party of pilgrims, in whose company he has journeyed fromGadamgah. The combined excellences that enter into the composition of aperson who is both a dervish and an ex-Mecca pilgrim are of great benefitin securing the respect and consideration of the common herd in Persia;and as, in addition to this, our hadji commands attention by the peculiartone and volume of his voice when delivering his commands, his tall, angular steed is quickly tied up in a snug and sheltered corner and hissaddle-bags deposited on the floor of a fellow-pilgrim's menzil. Hearing of my arrival, he straightway seeks me out and invites me toshare the accommodation of his new-found quarters, not forgetting toexplain to the people he finds me with, however, that he is a hadji, adervish, and that he hails from Mazanderan. I shouldn't be much surprisedto see him back up the latter assertion by producing a dried fish fromthe ample folds of his kammerbund; but these finny witnesses are reservedto perform their role later in the evening. As the gloom of night envelopes the interior of the caravanserai, and thescores of little brushwood fires smoke and glimmer and twinkle fitfully, the scene appeals to an observant Occidental as being decidedly unique, and totally unlike anything to be seen outside of Persia. Around eachlittle fire, from four to a dozen figures are squatting, each groupforming a most social gathering; some are singing, some chattingpleasantly, some quarrelling and arguing violently; some are shoutinglustily at each other across the whole width of the serai; all are takingturns at smoking the kalian or sipping tea, or preparing supper. Occasionally a fiery wheel glows through the darkness, from which flymyriads of sparks, looking very pretty as it describes rapid circles. This is a. Little wire cage, full of live charcoal, that is being swunground and round like a sling to enliven the coals for priming the kalian. In the middle space, crowded with animals and their loads, the horses, being all stallions, are constantly squealing and fighting; camels, aregrunting dolefully, donkeys are braying and bells clanging, and groomsand charvadars are shouting and quarrelling. Taken all in all, theinterior of a crowded caravanserai is a decidedly animated place. The snow-storm subsides during the night, and a clear, frosty morningbreaks upon a wintry landscape, in which nothing is visible but snow. Thehadji announces his intention of "Inshallah Meshed, am roos" (please God, we will reach Meshed to-day) as he covers up the obtrusive tail of a fishemerging from one of the saddle-bags and prepares to mount. I give him mypackages to carry, by way of lightening my burden as much as possible forthe struggle through the snow, and promise him a bottle of arrack, uponreaching Meshed, as a reward for thus assisting me through. Arrack isforbidden fruit to a hadji above all things else, so that nothing I couldpromise him would likely prove more tempting or acceptable, or be betterappreciated! It proves slavish work trundling, tugging, and carrying the bicyclethrough the deep snow along a half-broken trail made by a few horses, andthrough deep drifts; but the cold, bracing air is favorable for exertion, and by ten o'clock we reach Shahriffabad, where a halt is made to preparea cup of tea and to give the hadji's horse a feed of barley. AtShahriffabad we are warned that on the hills between here and Meshed snowwill be found two feet deep, streams belly deep to the hadji's horse willhave to be forded, and, toward Meshed, mud knee-deep. Conscious that themud will be "knee-deep" the whole distance, after the disappearance ofthe snow, this makes us only the more eager to push on while we may. The sun has by this time become uncomfortably warm, and the narrow trailis fast becoming a miry pathway of mud and slush under the trampling feetof the animals gone ahead, and of villagers' donkeys returning from thecity. Mile after mile is devoted to the unhappy task of trundling thebicycle ahead, rear wheel aloft, through mud and slush varying fromankle-deep to worse, occasionally varying the programme by fording astream. Late in the afternoon we arrive at the summit of the hills overlookingthe Meshed Plain, and the hadji points out enthusiastically the goldendome of Imam Biza's sanctuary; the yellow, glistening goal whose famedsanctity has attracted hosts of pilgrims from all quarters of CentralAsia for ages past. The hills hereabout are of a rocky character, andpious pilgrims have gathered into little mounds every loose piece ofrock, it being customary for each pilgrim to find a stone and add it toone of these piles upon first viewing the bright golden dome of the holycity from this commanding spot. Below the rocky paths of this declivity the snow disappears in favor ofslippery mud, and the hadji's wearied charger slips and slides about, tothe imminent danger of its rider's neck; and all the time the slimTurkoman! steed trembles visibly in terror of the old Mazanderandervish's whip and his awful threats. Two miles down the bed of thestream, crossing and recrossing it a dozen times, often thigh-deep, andwe emerge upon the gently sloping area of the Meshed Plain, with theyellow beacon-light of Meshed glowing in the mellow light of the eveningsun six miles away. The late storm has been chiefly rain in the lower altitude of the plain, and the day's sunshine has partially dried the surface, but leaving itslippery and treacherous here and there. After leaving the bed of thestream the hadji becomes anxious about reaching Meshed before dark, andadvises me to mount and put on the speed. "Inshallah, Meshed yek saat, " he says, and so I mount and bid him followalong behind. By vocal suasion and a liberal application of his cruel, triple-thonged, raw-hide whip, he urges his well-nigh staggering animalinto a canter, lifting his forefeet clear of the ground seemingly by thebridle at every jump. Suspicious as to his lank and angular steed'ssure-footedness under the strain, I take the very laudable precaution ofkeeping as far from him as possible, not caring to get mixed up in acatastrophe that seems inevitable every time the horse, goaded by thestinging stimulus of the whip and the threats, makes another jump. Notmore than a mile of the six is covered when I have ample reason forcongratulating myself on taking this precaution, for the horse stumbles, and, being too far gone to recover himself, comes down on his nose, andthe "hadji and Mazanderau dervish" is cutting a most ridiculous figure inthe mud. His tall lambskin hat flies off and lands in a pool of muddywater some distance ahead; the ponderous saddle-bags, which are merelylaid on the saddle, shoot forward athwart the horse's neck, the horse'snose roots quite a furrow in the road, and the horse's owner pickshimself up and takes a woeful survey of his own figure. It is needless tosay that the survey includes a good deal more real estate than the hadjicares to claim, even though it be the semi-sacred soil of the MeshedPlain. The poor horse is altogether too tired to attempt to recover his legs ofhis own inclination; but, regarding him as the author of his ignominiousmisadventure, the hadji surveys him with a wrathful eye for a moment, mutters a few awful imprecations--imported, no doubt, from Mazanderan--andthen attacks him savagely about the head with the whip. In his wrath anddetermination to make a lasting impression of each blow given, the hadjiemphasizes each visitation with a very audible grunt; and, to speakcorrectly, so does the horse. It goes without saying, however, thatmaster and animal grunt from widely different motives; although, so faras the mere audible performance is concerned, one grunt might almost bean echo of the other. At length, by adopting a more circumspect pace, we reach the gate of theholy city about sunset without further mishap. The hadji leads the waythrough a bewildering labyrinth of narrow streets that consist of an opensewage-ditch in the centre, at present full of filth, and a narrowfootway of rough, broken, and mud-bespattered cobble-stones on eitherside. Of course we are followed through these fearful thoroughfares by asurging and vociferous crowd of people such as a Central Asian city alonecan produce; but I can this time happily afford to smile at these usuallyirritating accompaniments to my arrival in a populous city, for tenminutes after entering the gate finds me shaking hands with Mr. Gray, thegenial telegraphist of the Afghan Boundary Commission. With awell-guarded gate between our cosey quarters and the shouting moboutside, the evening is spent very pleasantly and quietly, in strikingcomparison with what it would have been had no one been here to afford mea place of refuge. Meshed is "the jumping off place" of telegraphy; the electric spiderspins his galvanized web no farther in this direction, and the dirge-likemusic of civilization's--AEolian harp, that, like the roll ofEngland's drum, is heard around the world, approaches the barbarousterritory of Afghanistan from two directions, but recoils from enteringthat fanatical and conservative domain. It approaches from Persia on theone side, and from India on the other; but as yet it only approaches. Thedrum has already been there; it is only a question of time when theAEolian harp will follow. It is with lively recollection of Khorassani March weather and theexperience of the last few days that, after a warm bath, I array myselfin a suit of Mr. Gray's clothing, elevate my slippered feet, "YenghiDonia fashion, " on a pile of Turcoman! carpets, and, abetted by thecheering presence of a bottle of Shiraz wine, exchange my recentexperiences on the road for telegraphic scraps of the latest news. Howutterly unsatisfactory and altogether wretched seems even the gildedpalace of a Persian provincial governor--the meaningless compliments, thesalaaming lackeys and empty show of courtesy, when compared with thecosey quarters, the hearty welcome, the honest ring of an Englishman'svoice, and the genuineness of everything! Shortly after my arrival, a gentleman with a coal-black complexion, aretreating forehead, and an overshadowing wealth of lip appears at thedoor bearing a tray of sweetmeats. Making a profound salaam, he steps outof his slipper-like shoes, enters, and places the sweetmeats on thetable, smiling a broad expectant-of-backsheesh smile the while heexplains his mission. "The Sartiep has sent you his salaams and a present of sweetmeats, preparatory to calling round himself, " explains mine host; "he is aPersian gentleman, Ali Akbar Khan, at the head of the Meshedtelegraph-service, and has the rank of general or Sartiep. " The Sartiephimself arrives shortly afterward, accompanied by his favorite son, abudding youth of some eight or ten summers, of whose beauty he feels veryjustly proud. The Sartiep's son is one of those remarkably handsome boysmet with occasionally in modern Persia, and which so profusely adorn oldPersian paintings. With soft, girlish features, big, black, lustrouseyes, and an abundance of long hair, they remind one of the beautifulyouths of Oriental romance; his fond parent takes him about on his visitsand finds much gratification in the admiring remarks bestowed upon theson. The Sartiep is an ideal Persian official, courteous and complimentary, but never forgetful of Ali Akbar Khan; his full, round figure and sensualOriental face speak eloquently of mutton pillau and other fatteningdishes galore, sweetmeats, cucumbers, and melons; and deep draughts frompleasure's intoxicating cup have not failed to leave their indeliblemarks. In this particular the Sartiep is but a casually selected sampleof the well-to-do Persian official. Leaving out a few notable exceptions, this brief description of him suffices to describe them all. Following in the train of the Sartiep arrive more servants, bearingdishes of kabobs, herb-seasoned pillau, and various other strange, savorydishes, which, Mr. Gray explains, are considered great delicacies amongthe upper-class Persians and are intended as a great compliment to me. Although Mohammedans, and particularly Shiite Mohammedans, are forbiddenby their religion to indulge in alcoholic beverages, the average highofficial in Persia is anything but a sanctimonious individual, andpartakes with a keen relish of the forbidden fruit in an open-secretmanner. The thin, transparent veil of abstemiousness that the Persiannoble wears in deference to the sanctimonious pretensions of the mollahsand seyuds and the public eye at large, is cast aside altogether in thepresence of intimate friends, and particularly if that intimate friend isa Ferenghi. Owing to their association in the telegraph-service, minehost and the Sartiep are on the most intimate terms. The Sartiep soonafter his arrival intimates, with a humorous twinkle of the eye, that hefeels the need of a little medicine. Mr. Gray, as becomes a goodphysician who knows well the constitutional requirements of his patient, and who knows what to prescribe without even going through thepreliminary act of feeling the pulse, produces a pale-green bottle and atumbler and pours out a full dose of its contents for an adult. The patient swallows it at a gulp, nibbles a piece of sweetmeat, andstrokes his stomach in token of approval. "What was the medicine you prescribed, Gray?" "High wines, " says thephysician, "95 proof alcohol; a bottle that the entomologist of theBoundary Commission happened to leave here a year ago; it was the onlything in the house except wine. The patient pronounces it the 'bestarrack' he ever tasted; the firier these fellows can get it the betterthey like it. " "Why, it didn't even make him gasp!" "Gasp--nonsense; you haven't been in Persia as long as I have yet, or youwouldn't say 'gasp' even at 95% alcohol. " But how polite, how complimentary, these French of Asia are, and howimaginative and fanciful their language! Not having shaved since leavingTeheran, after surveying myself in the glass, I feel called upon, in theinterest of fellow-wheelmen elsewhere, to explain to our discerningvisitors that all bicyclers are not distinguished from their fellow menby a bronzed and stubby phiz and an all-around vagrom appearance. The Sartiep strokes his beard and stomach, casts a lingering glance atthe above-mentioned green-glass bottle, smiles, and replies: "Havingaccomplished so wonderful a journey, you are now prettier with yourrough, unshaven face than you ever were before; you can now surveyyourself in the looking-glass of fame instead of in a common mirror thatreflects all the imperfections of ordinary mortals. " Having deliveredhimself of this compliment, the Sartiep's eye wanders in the direction ofthe 95% alcohol again, and the next minute is again smacking his lips andcomplacently stroking his stomach. In the morning, before I am up, a servant arrives from a Mesh-edi notablenamed Hadji Mahdi, bringing salaams from his master, and a letter clothedin the fine "apparel diplomatique" of the Orient. The letter, although inreality nothing more than a request to be allowed to come and see thebicycle, reads in substance as follows: "Salaams from Hadji Mahdi--may hebe your sacrifice!-to Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib who hasarrived in Holy Meshed from Teheran, on the wonderful asp-i-awhan, thefame of whose deeds reaches to the ends of the earth. Bismillah! May yourshadows never grow less! Your sacrifice's brother, Hadji Mollah Hassan, whose eyes were gladdened by a sight of the asp-i-awhan Sahib atShahrood, and who now sends his salaams, telegraphs me--his unworthybrother--that upon the Sahib's arrival in Meshed I should render himany assistance he might need. Inshallah, with your permission--mayit not be withheld--your sacrifice will be pleased to call andgladden his eyes with a sight of Gray Sahib and the illustrious Sahib hisguest. " As might have been expected, the advent of a Ferenghi on so strange avehicle as a bicycle, arriving in the sacred city of Imam Eiza'ssanctuary, arouses universal curiosity; and not only the Sartiep andHadji Mahdi, but hundreds of big-turbaned Meshedi notables, mollahs, andseyuds are admitted during the day to enjoy the happy privilege offeasting their eyes on the latest proof of the Ferenghis' wonderfulmarifet, Upon receipt of the telegram at Shahrood refusing me permission to gothrough Turkestan, I telegraphed to Mr. Gray, requesting him to obtainleave for me to go to the Boundary Commission Camp, and accompany themback to India, or reach India from the camp alone. Mr. Gray kindlyforwarded my request to the camp, and now urges me to consider myself hisguest until the return courier arrives with the answer. This turns out tomean a stop-over of seven days, and on the second day immense crowds ofpeople assemble in the street, shouting for me to come out and ride thebicycle. The clamor on the streets renders it impossible for them totransact business in the telegraph office, and several times requests aresent in begging me to appease them and stop the uproar by riding to andfro along the street. An outer door separates the compound in which thehouse is built from the street, and to prevent the rabble from invadingthe premises, and the possibility of unpleasant consequences, theGovernor-General stations a guard of four soldiers at the door. Thisprecaution works very well so far as the common herd are concerned, butevery hour through the day little knots of priestly men in the flowingnew garments and spotless turbans representing their Noo Roos purchases, or the lamb's-wool cylinder and semi-European garb of the official, bribe, coerce, or command the guard to let them in. These persistent people generally stand in a respectful attitude justinside the outer gate, and send word in by a servant that a Shahzedah(relative of the Shah) wishes to see the bicycle. After the first"Shahzedah" has been treated with courtesy and consideration in deferenceto his royal relative at Teheran, fully two-thirds of those who comeafter unblushingly proclaim themselves uncles, cousins, or nephews of"His Majesty, the King of Kings and Ruler of the Universe!" The constantworry and annoyance of these people compel us to adopt measures ofself-defence, and so, after admitting about a hundred uncles, twice thatnumber of nephews, and Heaven knows how many cousins, we conclude thatblood-relations of the Shah are altogether too numerous in Meshed to beof much consequence. Soon after arriving at this conclusion, Mr. Gray'sfarrash, an Armenian he brought with him from Ispahan, comes in with amessage that another Shahzedah has succeeded in getting past the guardand sends in his salaams. "Shahzedah be d----d! Turn him out--put himoutside, and tell the guards to let nobody else in without ourpermission!" A moment later the farrash re-enters with the look of a man scarcely ableto control his risibilities, and says the man and his friends are stillinside the gate. "Why the devil don't you put them out, as you are told, then?" "He says he is the Padishah's step-father. " "Well, what if he is the Padishah's step-father? It's nothing to be theShah's step-father; the Shah probably has five hundred step-father's, tosay the least--turn him out. No; hold hard; let him stay. " We conclude that a step-father to the king, whether genuine or only acounterfeit, is at least something of a relief after the swarms ofnephews, cousins, and uncles, and so order him to be shown in He provesto be a corpulent little man about sixty, who advances up the brickedwalk toward us, making about three extra profound salaams to the rod andsmiling in a curious, apprehensive manner, as though not quite assured ofhis reception. About a dozen long-robed mollahs and seyuds follow withtimid hesitancy in his wake. Strange to say, he makes no allusion to hisillustrious step-son, the King of Kings at Teheran; and plainly betraysembarrassment when Gray mentions the fact of my having appeared beforehim on the wheel. We conclude that the Shah's step-father and the littlegroup of holy men clubbed together and paid the Persian guard about akeran to let them in, and perhaps another half-keran to the Armenianfarrash for not summarily turning them out. He tries very hard, however, to make himself agreeable, and when told about the Russians refusing methe road, exclaims artfully: "I was not an enemy of the Russians before Iheard this, but now I am their worst enemy! Suppose the Sahib's ironhorse was a wheel of fire, what harm would it do their country eventhen?" Our most distinguished caller to-day is Mirza Abbas Khan, C. I. E. , aKandahari gentleman, who has been the British political agent at Meshedfor many years. He makes a formal call in all the glory of his officialgarments, a magnificent Cashmere coat lined with Russian sable andprofusely trimmed with gold braid; a servant leads his gayly caparisonedhorse, and another brings up the rear with a richly mounted kalian. Appearances count for something among the people of Northeastern Persia, and Abbas Khan draws a sufficiently large salary to enable him to weargorgeous clothes, and thereby dim the lustre of his bitter rival, thepolitical agent of Russia. Abbas Khan is perhaps the handsomest man in Meshed, is in the prime oflife, dyes his flowing beard an orthodox red, and possesses most charmingmanners; in addition to his ample salary he owns the revenue of a villagenear Meshed, and seems to be altogether the right man in the right place. Abbas Khan and a friend of his from Herat both agree that thedifficulties and dangers of Afghanistan will be likely to proveinsurmountable; at the same time promising any assistance they can renderme in getting to India, consistent, of course, with Abbas Khan's dutiesas British Agent. It seems to be a pretty general opinion thatAfghanistan will prove a stumbling-block in my path; friends at Teherantelegraph again, advising me to go anywhere rather than risk the dangersto be apprehended in that most lawless and fanatical territory. Nothingcan be decided on, however, until the arrival of an answer from theCommission. In the meantime, the days slowly pass away in Meshed; every day comescores of visitors and invitations to go and ride for the delectation ofsundry high officials; ever-present are the crowds in the streetsshouting, "Tomasha! tomasha! Sowar shuk!" and the frequent squabbles atthe gate between the guard and the people wanting to come in. Above the din and clamor of the crowd outside there sometimes arise thechanting voices of a party of newly arrived pilgrims making their wayjoyously through the thronged streets toward the gold-domed sanctuary ofImam Riza, the tomb being situated a couple of hundred yards down thestreet from our quarters. Sometimes we hear parties of men utteringstrange cries and sounding aloud the praises of Imam Riza, Houssein, Hassan, and other worthies of the Mohammedan world, in response to whichare heard the swelling voices of a multitude of people shouting inchorus, "Allah be praised! Allah be praised!!" These weird chanters aredervishes, who, with tiger-skin mantles drawn carelessly about them, clubs or battle-axes on shoulder, their long unkempt hair dangling downtheir backs, look wildly grotesque as they parade the streets of thePersian Mecca. Meshed is a strange city for a Ferenghi to live in; every day are heardthe chanting and singing of newly arriving bands of pilgrims, thestrange, wild utterances of dervishes preaching on the streets, and theshouting responses of their auditors. Conspicuous above everything elsein the city, as gold is conspicuous from dross, is the golden dome andgold-tipped minarets of the holy edifice that imparts to the city itssacred character. The gold is in thin plates covering the hemisphericalroof like sheets of tin; like most Eastern things, its appearance is moreimpressive from a distance than at close quarters. Grains of barleydeposited on the roof by pigeons have sprouted and grown in rank bunchesbetween the thin gold plates, many of which are partially loose, imparting to the place an air of neglect and decay. By resting their feeton the dome of this sacred edifice, the pigeons of Meshed have themselvesbecome objects of veneration; shooting them is strictly prohibited, and amob would soon be about the ears of anyone venturing to do them harm. The two most important persons in Meshed are the acting Governor-Generalof Khorassan, and Mardan Khan, Ex-Governor of Sarakhs and HereditaryChief of the powerful tribe of Timurees. Of course, the Governor sendshis salaams, and invites me to come round to the government konak andfavor him with an exhibition. Since our refusal to entertain any more ofthe "Shah's relations, " we find that the worthy and long-suffering AbbasKhan has been worried almost to the verge of despair by requests from allover the city begging the privilege of seeing me ride. "Knowing that you have been worried in the same way yourselves, " saysAbbas Kahu, "I have replied to them, 'Is the Sahib a giraffe and I hiskeeper? Why, then, do you come to me? The Sahib has travelled a long way, and is stopping here to rest, not to make an exhibition of himself. " An exception is of course made in favor of the Governor-General andMardan Khan. The Government compound is a large enclosure, and to reachthe Governor-General's quarters one has to traverse numerous longcourt-yards connected with one another by long, gloomy passage-ways ofbrick, where the tramping of the sentinels and the march of retiring andrelieving guards resound through the vaults like an echo of mediaevaltimes. There is nothing particularly interesting about the Governor'sapartments, but Mardan Khan's palace is a revelation of barbaric splendorentirely different from anything hitherto seen in the country. Incontradistinction to the dazzling, silvery glitter of the mirror-work andstuccoed halls of the Teheran palaces, the home of the wealthy TimureeChieftain is distinguished by a striking and lavish display of coloredglass, gilt, and tinsel. Mardan Khan is a valued friend of Mirza Abbas Khan and a man of powerfulinfluence; besides this, he is a pronounced admirer of the Ingilis asagainst the Oroos, and my reception at his palace almost takes thecharacter of an ovation. News of the great tomasha has evidently beenwidely spread, crowds of outsiders fill the streets leading to thepalace, and inside the large garden are scores of the elite of the city, mollahs, seyuds, official and private gentlemen; the numerous niches ofthe walls are occupied by groups of closely veiled females. Trundlingthrough this interesting and expectant crowd with Abbas Khan, Mardan Khanissues forth in flowing gown of richest Cashmere-shawl material and goldbraid, to greet us and to take a preliminary peep at the bicycle, and tolead the way into his gorgeously colored room of state. The scene in this room is an ideal picture of the popular occidentalconception of the "gorgeous East. " Abbas Khan and Mar-dan Khan sitcross-legged side by side on a rich Turcoman rug, salaaming andexchanging compliments after the customary flowery and extravagantlanguage of the Persian nobility. The marvellous pattern and costlytexture of Abbas Khan's coat, the gold braid, the Russian sable lining, and the black Astrakhan cylinder he wears, are precisely matched by thegarments of Mardan Khan. Twenty or thirty of the most importantdignitaries and mollahs of the city are ranged according to theirrespective rank or degree of holiness around the room; prominent amongthem is the Chief Imam of Meshed, a very important and influential personin the holy city. The Chief Imam is a slim-built, sharp-looking individual of about fortysummers, with a face pale, refined, and intellectual; hands white andslender as a lady's, and a foot equally shapely and feminine. He wears amonster green turban, takes his turn regularly at the kalian, and passesit on to the next with the easy gracefulness that comes of good breeding;and by his manners and appearance he creates an impression of being aperson rather superior to his surroundings. Liveried pages pass around little glasses of tea, kalians, cigarettes, and sweetmeats, as well as tiny bottles of lemon-juice and rose-water, afew drops of these two last-named articles being used by some of theguests to impart a fanciful flavor to their tea. Now and then a new guestarrives, steps out of his shoes in the hallway, salaams, and takes hisproper position among the people already here. Everybody sits on thecarpet except me, for whom a three-legged camp-stool has beenthoughtfully provided. Finally, all the guests having arrived, I ride several times around thebrick-walks, the strange audience of turbaned priests and veiled womenshowing their great approval in murmuring undertones of "kylie khoob" andinvoluntary acclamations of "Mashallah! mash-all-ah!" as they witnesswith bated breath the strange and incomprehensible scene of a Ferenghiriding a vehicle, that will not stand alone. Altogether, the great tomasha at Mardan Khan's is a decided success. Scarcely can this be said, however, of the "little tomasha" given to themembers of Abbas Khan's own family on the way home. Abbas Khan's compoundis very small, and the brick-walks very rough and broken; therefore, itis hardly surprising to me, though probably somewhat surprising to him, when, in turning a corner I execute an undignified header into a bunch ofbusbies. The third day after my arrival in Meshed, I received a telegram from theBritish Charge d'Affaires at Teheran saying: "You must not attempt tocross the frontier of Afghanistan at any point. " Two days later theexpected courier arrives from the Boundary Commission Camp with a lettersaying: "It is useless for you to raise the question of coming to theCommission Camp. In the first place, the Afghans would never allow you tocome here; and if you should happen to reach here, you would never beable to get away again. " These two very encouraging missives from our own people seem at firstthought more heartless than even the "permission refused" of theRussians. It occurs to me that this "you must not attempt to cross theAfghan frontier" might just as easily have been told me at the Legationat Teheran as when I had travelled six hundred miles to get to it; butthe ways of diplomacy are past the comprehension of ordinary mortals. What, after all, are the ambitions and enterprises of an individual, compared to the will and policy of an empire? No matter whether theempire be semi-civilized and despotic, or free and enlightened, theobscure and struggling individual is usually rated 0000. Russia--"permission refused. " England--paternally--"mustnot attempt;" cold, offish language this for a lone cycler to beconfronted with away up here in the northeast corner of Persia, fromrepresentatives of the two greatest empires of the world. What is to bedone? Mr. Gray, returning from the telegraph office later in the evening, findsme endeavoring to unravel the Gordian knot of the situation through themedium of a brown-study. My geographical ruminations have alreadyresulted in a conviction that there is no possible way to unravel it andreach India with a bicycle; my only chance of doing so is to cut it andabide by the consequences. "I have just been communicating with Teheran, " says Mr. Gray. "Everybodywants to know what you propose doing. " "Tell them I am going down to Beerjand to consult with Heshmet-i-Molk, the Ameer of Seistan, and see if it is possible to get through to Quettavia Beerjand. " "Ever hear of Dadur?" queries Mr. Gray. "Ever hear of Dadur, the place ofwhich the Persians tritely say: 'Seeing that there is Dadur, why didAllah, then, make the infernal regions?' That is somewhere inBeloochistan. You'll find yourself slowly broiling to death on ageographical gridiron if you attempt to reach India down that way. " "Never mind; tell them at Teheran I am going that way anyhow. " Having entered upon this decision, I bid my genial host farewell on April7th, and mounting at the door, depart in the presence of a well-behavedcrowd of spectators. In my pocket is a general letter from theGovernor-General of Khorassan to subordinate officials of the province, ordering them to render me any assistance I may require, and another froma prominent person in Meshed to his friend Heshmet-i-Molk, the Ameer ofKain and Governor of Seistan, a powerful and influential chief, with hisseat of government at Beerjand. Couched in the sentimental language of the country, one of these lettersconcludes with the touching remark: "The Sahib, of his own choice istravelling like a dervish, with no protection but the protection ofAllah. " It is a fine bracing morning as I leave the Mecca of Khorassan behind, and the paths leading round outside the walls and moat of the city fromgate to gate afford excellent wheeling. The Beerjand trail branches offfrom the Teheran and Meshed road about a farsakh east of Shahriffabad;for this distance I shall be retraversing the road by which I came, andshall be confronted at every turn of my wheel by reminiscences of driedfish, a Mazanderau dervish, and an angular steed. The streams that under the influence of the storm ran thigh-deep have nowdwindled to mere rivulets, and the narrow, miry trail through the meltingsnow has become dry and smooth enough to ride wherever the grade permits. The hills are verdant with the green young life of early spring, and areclothed in one of nature's prettiest costumes--a costume of seal-brownrocks and green turf studded with a profusion of blue and yellow flowers. Shahriffabad is reached early in the afternoon, and the threateningaspect of the changed weather forbids going any farther today. Shortly after taking up my quarters in the chapar-khana, a party ofPersian travellers appear upon the scene, and with them a fussy littleman in big round spectacles and semi-European clothes. Scarcely have theyhad time to alight and seek out quarters than the little man makes hisappearance at my menzil door in all the glory of a crimson velvetdressing-cap and blue slippers, and beaming gladsomely through hismoon-like spectacles, he comes forward and without further ceremonyshakes hands. "Some queer little French professor, geologist, entomologist, or something, wandering about the country in search ofscientific knowledge, " is the instinctive conclusion I arrive at themoment he appears; and my greeting of "bonjour, monsieur, " is quite asinvoluntary as the conclusion. "Paruski ni?" he replies, arching his eyebrows and smiling. "Paruski ni; Ingilis. " "Parsee namifami?" "Parsee kam-kam. " In this brief interchange of words in the vernacular of the country wedefine at once each other's nationality and linguistic abilities. He is aRussian and can speak a little Persian. It is difficult, however, tobelieve him anything else than a little French professor, wise above hisgeneration and skin-full of occult wisdom in some particular branch ofscience; but then the big round spectacles, the red dressing-cap, and thecerulean leather slippers of themselves impart an air of owlish andpreternatural wisdom. Six times during the afternoon he bounces into my quarters and shakeshands, and six times shakes hands and bounces out again. Every time herenews his visit he introduces one or more natives, who take as muchinterest in the hand-shaking as they do in the bicycle. Evidently hisobject in coming round so frequently is to exhibit for the gratificationof his own vanity and the curiosity of the Persians, this European modeof greeting, and the profound depth of his own knowledge of the subject. Later in the evening the women of the village come round in a body to seethe Ferenghi and his iron horse, and the wearer of the spectacles, thered cap, and blue slippers, takes upon himself the office of showman forthe occasion; pointing out, with a good deal of superficial enthusiasm, the peculiar points of both steed and rider. Particularly is it impressed upon these woefully ignorant fail-ones, thatthe bicycle is not a horse, but a machine--a thing of iron and notof flesh and blood. The fair ones nod their heads approvingly, but it is painfully apparentthat they don't comprehend in the least, how, since it is an asp-i-awhan, it can be anything else but a horse, regardless of the material enteringinto its composition. When supper-time arrives the chapar-Jee announces his willingness to turncook and prepare anything I order. Knowing well enough that thisseemingly sweeping proposition embraces but two or three articles, Iorder him to prepare scrambled eggs, bread, and sheerah. An hour later hebrings in the scrambled eggs, swimming in hot molasses and grease! He hasstirred the grease and molasses together, and in this outlandish mixturecooked the eggs. Off the main road the country assumes the character of low hills of redclay, across which it would be extremely difficult to take the bicycle inwet weather, but which is now fortunately dry. After three or fourfarsakhs it develops into a curious region of heterogeneous parts; rocky, precipitous mountains, barren, salt-streaked hills, saline streams, andpretty little green valleys. Here, one feels the absence of any plain, well-travelled road, the dim and ill-defined trail being at times verydifficult to distinguish from the branch trails leading to some isolatedvillage. The few people one meets already betray a simplicity and a lackof "gumption" that distinguish them at once from the people frequentingthe main road. CHAPTER VI. THE UNBEATEN TRACKS OF KHORASSAN. During the afternoon I traverse a rocky canon, crossing and recrossing aclear, cold stream that winds its serpentine course from one precipitouswall to another. Mountain trout are observed disporting in this stream, and big, gray lizards scuttle nimbly about among the loose rocks on thebank. The canon gradually dwindles into a less confined passage betweensloping hills of loose rock and bowlders, a wild, desolate region throughwhich the road leads gradually upward to a pass. Part way up this gorge is a rude stone tower about twenty feet high, onthe summit of which is perched a little mud hut, looking almost as thoughit might be a sentry-box. While yet a couple of hundred yards away, arough-looking customer emerges from the tower and appears to be awaitingmy approach. His head is well-nigh hidden beneath a huge Khorassanibusby, and he wears the clothes of an irregular soldier. The long, shaggywool of the sheepskin head-dress dangling over his eyes imparts a veryferocious appearance, and he is armed with the ordinary Persian sword andone of those antiquated flint-lock muskets that are only to be seen onthe deserts of the East or in museums of ancient weapons. Taken all in all, he presents a very ferocious front; he is, in fact, about the most ruffianly-looking specimen I have seen outside of AsiaticTurkey. As I ride up he motions for me to alight, at the same timeretreating a few steps toward his humble stronghold, betraying a spiritof apprehension lest, perchance, he might be unwittingly standing in theway of danger. Greeting him with the customary "Salaam aleykum" and beingsimilarly greeted in reply, I dismount to ascertain who and what he is. He retreats another step or two in the direction of his strange abode, and eyes the bicycle with evident distrust, edging off to one side as Iturn toward him, as though fearful lest it might come whizzing into hissacred person at a moment's notice like a hungry buzz-saw. In response tomy inquiries, he points up toward the pass and offers to accompany methither for the small sum of "yek keran;" giving me to understand thatwithout his presence it is highly indiscreet to proceed. Little penetration is required to understand that this is one of thelittle black-mailing schemes peculiar to semi-civilization, and which, itis perhaps hardly necessary to explain, comes a trifle too late in thechapter of my Asiatic experiences to influence my movements or toreplenish the exchequer of the picturesque and enterprising persondesirous of shielding me from imaginary harm. This wily individual is making his living by the novel and ingeniousprocess of trading on the fears and credulity of stray travellers, makingthem believe the pass is dangerous and charging them a small sum for hisservices as guard. It is not at all unlikely that he is the presentincumbent of an hereditary right to extort blackmail from such travellersalong this lonely road as may be prevailed upon without resorting toviolence to pay it, and is but humbly following in the footsteps of hisworthy sire and still more worthy grandsire. The pass ahead is neither very steep nor difficult, and the summit oncecrossed, and the first few hundred yards of rough and abrupt declivityovercome, I am able to mount and wheel swiftly down long gradients ofsmooth, hard gravel for four or five miles, alighting at the walledvillage of Assababad in the presence of its entire population. Some keen-sighted villager has observed afar off the strange apparitiongliding swiftly down the open gravel slopes, and the excited populationhave all rushed out in breathless expectancy to try and make out itscharacter. The villagers of Assababad are simple-hearted people, and bothmen and women clap their hands like delighted children to have so rare anovelty suddenly appear upon the scene of their usually humdrum anduneventful lives. Quilts are spread for me on the sunny side of thevillage wall, and they gather eagerly around to feast to the full theirunaccustomed eyes. A couple of the men round up a matronly goat and exactfrom her the tribute of a bowl of milk; others contribute bread, and thefrugal repast is seasoned with the unconcealed delight of my hospitableaudience. They are not overly clean in their habits, though, these rude andisolated people; and to keep off prying housewives, bent on satisfyingtheir curiosity regarding the texture of my clothing and the comparativewhiteness of my skin, I am compelled to adopt the defensive measure ofcounter curiosity. The signal and instantaneous success of this plan, resulting in the hasty, scrambling retreat of the women, is greeted withboisterous merriment, by the entire crowd. I have about made up my mind to remain over-night with the hospitablepeople of Assababad; but at the solicitation of a Persian traveller whocomes along, I conclude to accompany him to a building observable in thedistance ahead which he explains is a small but comfortable serai. Thegood villagers seem very loath to let me, go so soon, and one young mankneels down and kisses my dusty geivehs and begs me to take him with meto Hindostan--strange, unsophisticated people; how simple-hearted, how childlike they seem! The caravanserai is but a couple of miles ahead, but it is situated inthe dip of an extensive, basin-like depression between two mountainranges, and the last half mile consists of mud and water eighteen inchesdeep. The caravanserai itself stands on a slight elevation, and is foundoccupied by a couple of families, who make the place their permanentabode and gain a livelihood by supplying food, firewood, and horse-feedto travellers. Upon our arrival, a woman makes her appearance and announces herwillingness to cater to our wants. "Noon ass?" "Yes, plenty of bread. " "Toke-me-morge neis f" "Neis; loke-me-morge-neis. " "Sheerah ass?" "Sheerah neis. " "What have you then besides bread?" For answer the woman points to a few beruffled chickens scratching forgrains of barley among a heap of rubbish that has evidently beenexploited by them times without number before, and says she can sell uschickens at one keran apiece. Seeing the absence of anything else, I order her forthwith to capture onefor me, and the Persian gentleman orders another. The woman sets threeyoungsters and a yellow, tailless dog to run down the chickens, and in afew minutes presents herself before us, holding in each hand the pluckedand scrawny carcass of a fowl that has had to scratch hard andpersistently for its life for heaven knows how many years. One of thechickens is considerably larger than the other, and I tell the Persiangentleman to take his choice, thinking that with himself and his twoservants he would be glad to accept the larger fowl. On the contrary, however, he fixes his choice on the smaller one. Touched by what appears to be a simple act of unselfishness, I endeavorto persuade him to take the other, pointing out that he has three mouthsto fill while I have only one. My importunities are, however, wasted onso polite and disinterested a person, and so I reluctantly takepossession of the bulkier fowl. The Persian's servant dissects his master's purchase and stows it awayfor future use, the three making their supper off bread and a mixture ofgrease, chopped onions and sheerah from the larder of their saddle-bags. The woman readily accepts the offer of an additional half keran forrelieving me of the onerous task of cooking my own supper, and takes herdeparture, promising to cook it as quickly as possible. Happy in the contemplation of a whole chicken for supper, I sit aroundand chat and drink tea with my disinterested friend for the space of anhour. To a hungry person an hour seems an ominously long period of timein which to cook a chicken, and, becoming impatient, the Persiangentleman's servant volunteers to go inside and investigate. I fancydetecting a shadow of amusement passing over the face of the gentleman ashis servant departs, and when he returns with the intelligence that thechicken won't be tender enough to eat for another hour, his risibilitiesget the better of his politeness and he gives way to uncontrollablelaughter. Then it is that a gleam of enlightenment steals over myunsuspecting soul and tells me why my guileless fellow-traveller sopolitely and yet so firmly selected the smallest of the fowls--he is abetter judge of Persian "morges" than I. The woman finally turns up, bringing the result of her two hours' culinary perseverance in a largepewter bowl; she has cut the chicken up into several pieces and has beenindustriously keeping the pot boiling from the beginning. The result ofthis laudable effort is meat of gutta-percha toughness, upon which one'steeth are exercised in vain; but I make a very good supper after all bybreaking bread into the broth. I don't know but that the patriarchalruler of the roost makes at least the richer broth. Thin ice covers the water when I leave this caravanserai in the gray ofthe morning, and the Persian travellers, who nearly always start beforedaybreak, have already departed. Stories were heard yesterday evening ofstreams between here and the southern chain of mountains, deep anddifficult to cross; and I pull out fully expecting to have to strip anddo some disagreeable work in the water. Considerable mud is encountered, and three small streams, not over three feet deep, are crossed; butfurther on I am brought to a stand by a deep, sluggish stream flowingalong ten feet below the level of the ground. Though deep, it is verynarrow in places, and might almost be described as a yawning crack in theearth, filled with water to within ten feet of the top. A little way up stream is a spot fordable for horses, and, of course, fordable also for a cycler; but the prevailing mud and the chilliness ofthe morning combine to influence me to try another plan. A happy plan itseems at the moment, a credit to my inventive genius, and spiced with theseductive condiment of novelty, the stream is sufficiently narrow at oneplace to be overcome with a running jump; but people cannot take runningjumps encumbered with a bicycle. The bicycle, however, can quickly andeasily be taken into several parts and thrown across, the jump made, andthe wheel put together again. Packages, pedals, and backbone with rear wheel are tossed successfullyacross, but the big wheel attached to fork and handle-bar, unfortunatelyrolls back and disappears with a splash beneath the water. The details ofthe unhappy task of recovering this all-important piece of property--how Ihave to call into requisition for the first time the small, strong rope Ihave carried from Constantinople--how, in the absence of anything in theshape of a stick, in all the unproductive country around, I have topersuade my unwilling and goose-pimpled frame into the water and duck mydevoted head beneath the waves several times before succeeding in passinga slip-noose over the handle--is too harrowing a tale to tell; it makes meshiver and shrink within myself, even as I write. Beyond the stream the road approaches the southern framework of the plainwith a barely discernible rise, and dry, hard, paths afford fairwheeling. Looking back one can see the white, uneven crest of the ElburzRange peeping over the lesser chain of hills crossed over yesterday, showing wondrously sharp and clear in the transparent atmosphere of amore or less desert country. A region of red-clay hills and innumerable little streams ends my ridingfor the present, and the road eventually leads into a cul-de-sac, thesource of the little streams and the home of spongy morasses whosedeceptive mossy surface may or may not bear one's weight. Bound about thecul-de-sac is a curious jumble of rocks and red-clay heights; the strataof the former inclining to the perpendicular and sometimes rising likeparallel walls above the earth, reminding one of the "Devil's Slide" inWeber Canon, Utah. A stiff pass leads over the brow of the range, and onthe summit is perched another little stone tower; but no valiant championof defenceless wayfarers issues forth to proffer his protectionhere--perhaps our acquaintance of yesterday comes down here when he wantsa change of air. From the pass the descent is into a picturesque region of huge rocks andsplendid streams that come bubbling out from among them, and fartheralong is a more open space, a few fields of grain, and the little hamletof Kahmeh. Stopping here an hour for refreshments, the country againbecomes rough and hilly for several miles; the road then descends a rockyslope to the plain, where a few miles ahead can be seen the crenelatedwalls and suburban orchards and villages of Torbet-i-Haiderie. Remembering my letter from the Governor-General to subordinate officials, I permit a uniformed horseman, who seems anxious to make himself usefulin the premises, to pilot me into the city, telling him to lead the wayto the Mustapha's office. Guiding me through the narrow, crowded streetsinto the still more crowded bazaar, he descants, from his commandingposition in the saddle, to the listening crowd, on the marvellous natureof my steed and the miraculous ability required to ride it as he had seenme riding it outside the walls. Having accomplished his vain purpose ofattracting public attention to himself through me, and by his utterancesaroused the popular curiosity to an ungovernable pitch, he rides off andleaves me to extricate myself and find the Mustapha as best I can. The ignorant, inconsiderate mob at once commence shouting for me to ride. "Sowar shuk; sowar shuk! tomasha; tomasha!" a thousand people cry in thestuffy, ill-paved bazaar as they struggle and push and surge about me, giving me barely room to squeeze through them. When it is discovered thatI am seeking the Mustapha, there is a great rush of the crowd to reachthe municipal compound and gain admittance, lest perchance the gatesshould be closed after I had entered and a tomasha be given without themseeing. Following along with the crowd, the compound is reached and found to bejammed so tightly with people that the greatest difficulty is experiencedin forcing my way through them to the Mustapha's quarters. Nobody seemsto take a particle of interest in the matter, save to lend their voicesto help swell the volume of the cry for me to ride; nobody in all thetumultuous mob seems capable of the simple reflection that there is noroom whatever to ride, not so much as a yard of space unoccupied by humanbeings. They might with equal propriety be shouting for a fish to swimwithout providing him with water. The Mustapha is found seated on the raised floor of his open-frontedoffice, examining, between whiffs of the kalian, papers brought to him byhis subordinates, and I hand him my general letter of recommendation. Taking a cursory glance at the contents, he gives a sweep of his chintoward the bicycle, and says, "Sowar shuk; tomasha. " Pointing out theutter impossibility of complying with his request in a badly-pavedcompound packed to its utmost capacity with people; he looks wearily atthe ragged and unruly multitude before him, as though conscious that itwould be useless to try and do anything with them, and then giving someorder to an officer resumes his official labors. The officer summons a couple of farrashes, and with long willow switchesthey flog their way through the crowd, opening a narrow, but instantlyfilled again, passage for me to follow. Outside the compound the officerpractically forsakes me and goes over body and soul to the enemy. Filledwith the same dense ignorance and overwhelming desire to see the bicycleridden, he desires also to gain the approbation of the crowd, and sobrings all his powers of persuasion to bear against me. Time and again, while traversing with the greatest difficulty the narrow bazaar in themidst of a surging mob, he faces about and makes the same insane request, shouting like a maniac to make his voice audible above the din of athousand clamorous appeals to the same purpose. Had I the power toannihilate the whole crazy, maddening multitude with a sweep of the hand, I am afraid they would at this juncture have received but small mercy. The caravanserai is a big, commodious affair, a quadrangular structure ofbrick surrounding fully an acre of ground, and with a small open spaceoutside. There is plenty of room to satisfy their insane curiosity herewithout jeopardizing my own neck, and in a fruitless effort to gratifythem I essay to ride. My appearance in the saddle is greeted with wildshouts of exultation, and in their eagerness to come closer and seeexactly how the bicycle is propelled and prevented from falling over, they close up in front as well as behind, compelling an instant dismountto prevent disagreeable consequences to myself. Howls of disapprovalgreet this misinterpreted action, and the officer and farrashes commenceflogging right and left to clear a space for another trial. This time, while circling about in the small amphitheatre, walled aroundby shouting, grinning human beings, wanton youngsters from the rear shyseveral stones, and the officer comes near giving me a header byaccidentally inserting his willow staff in the front wheel while pointingout to the crowd the action of the pedals and the modus operandi ofthings in general. The officer evidently regards me as the merest dummy, unable to speak or comprehend a word of the language, or help myself inany way--the result, it is presumed, of some explanation to that effect inthe letter--and he stalks about with the proud bearing andself-conscious expression of a showman catering successfully to anappreciative and applauding populace. The accommodation provided at the caravanserai consists of doorlessmenzils, elevated three feet above the ground; a walled partition, withan open archway, divides the quarters into a room behind and an openporch in front. Conducting me to one of these free-for-anybody places, which I could just as easily have found and occupied without hisassistance, he takes his departure, leaving me to the tenderconsideration of an overbearing, ragamuffin mob, in whom the spirit ofwantonness is already aroused. I attempt to appeal to the reason of my obstreperous audience by standingon the menzil front and delivering a harangue in such Persian as I haveat command. "Sowar shuk, neis, tomasha, caravanserai neis rah koob neis. Inshallasaba, gitti koob rah Beerjandi, khylie koob lomasha-kh-y-l-ie koobtomasha saba, " is the burden of this harangue; but eloquent though it bein its simplicity, it fails to accomplish the desired end. Their reply toit all takes the form of howls of disapproval, and the importunities toride become more clamorous than ever. An effort to keep them from taking possession of my quarters by shovingthem off the front porch, results in my being seized roughly by thethroat by one determined assailant and cracked on the head with a stickby another. Ignorant of a Ferenghi's mode of attack, the presumptuousindividual, with his hand twisted in my neck-handkerchief, cocks his headin a semi-sidewise attitude, in splendid position to be dropped like apole-axed steer by a neat tap on the temple. He wears the greenkammerbund of a seyud, however; and even under the shadow of thelegations in Teheran, it is a very serious and risky thing to strike adescendant of the Prophet. For a lone infidel to do so in the presence oftwo thousand Mussulman fanatics, already imbued with the spirit ofwantonness, would be little less than deliberate suicide, so a sense ofdiscretion intervenes to spare him the humiliation of being knocked outof time by an unhallowed fist. The stiff, United States army helmet, obtained, it will be remembered, at Fort Sidney, Nebraska, and worn onthe road ever since, saves my bump of veneration from actual contact withthe stick of number two; and finding me making only a passive resistance, the valiant individual in the green kammerbund relaxes both the severityof his scowl and his grip on my neck gear. After this there is no use trying to keep them from invading my quarters, and I deem it advisable to stand closely by the bicycle, humoring theircuriosity and getting along with them as peaceably as possible. The crowdpresent is constantly augmented by new arrivals from without; at leasttwo thousand people are struggling, pushing and shouting, some comingforward to invade my menzil, others endeavoring to escape from the crush. While the rowdiest portion of the crowd struggle and push and shout inthe foreground of this remarkable scene, little knots of big-turbanedmollahs and better-class citizens are laying their precious headstogether scheming against me in the rear. Now and then a messenger in thesemi-military garb of a farrash, pushes his way to the front and deliversa message from these worthies, full of lies and deceit. From the top oftheir shaved and turbaned heads to the soles of their slip-shod feet theyare filled with a pig-headed determination to accomplish their object ofseeing the bicycle ridden. They send me all sorts of messages, from oneof but ordinary improbability, saying that the Mustapha is outside andwants me to come out and ride, to one altogether ridiculous in its wildabsurdity, promising me a present of two tomans. Occasionally a dervish holds aloft the fantastic paraphernalia of hisprofession, battles his way through the surging human surf, and with hisblack, ferret-like eyes gleaming with unconscious ferocity through avision of unkempt hair, thrusts his cocoa-nut alms-receiver under my noseand says, "Huk yah huk!" or "backsheesh!" Shouted at, gesticulated at, intrigued against and solicited for alms all at the same time, and withbrain-turning persistency, the classic halls of Bedlam would, incontrast, be a reposeful and calm retreat. Driven by my tormentors almostto the desperate resolve of emptying my six-shooter among them, let theresult to myself be what it may, the sun of my persecutions has notreached the meridian even yet. The officer who an hour agoinconsiderately left me to my own resources, now returns with a largeparty of friends, bent on seeing the same wonderful sight that hasseemingly set the whole city in an uproar. He has been about the placecollecting friends and acquaintances for the purpose of treating them toan exhibition of my skill on the wheel. The purpose of the officer'sreturn, with his friends, is readily understood by the crowd, and hisarrival is announced by a universal roar of "Sowar shuk! tomasha!" asthough not one of this insatiable mob had yet seen me ride. Appearing before the elevated porch of the menzil, he beckons me to "comeahead" in quite an authoritative manner. The peculiar beckoning twist ofthis presumptuous individual's chin and henna-stained beard summoning meto come out and "perform" reminds me of nothing so much as some tamer ofwild animals ordering a trained baboon to spruce himself up and dance forthe edification of the circus-going public. Signifying my unwillingnessto be thus made a circus of over and over again, the officer beckons evenmore peremptorily than before, and even makes a feint of coming andfetching me out by force. As may well be believed, the sum of my patience is no longer equal to thestrain, and jerking my revolver around from the obscurity of itshiding-place at my hip to where it can plainly be seen, and laying a handmenacingly on the butt, I warn him to clear off, in a manner that causeshim to wilt and turn pale. He leaves the caravanserai at once in highdudgeon. It has been a most humiliating occasion for him, to fall soignobly from the very high horse on which he just entered with his bosomfriends; but it is no more than he rightly deserves. Shortly after this little incident the part-proprietor of a tchai-khannot far from the caravanserai, proposes that I leave my menzil and comewith him to his place. Happy in the prospect of any kind of a change thatwill secure me a little peace, I readily agree to the proposal and atonce take my departure. A few stones are thrown, fortunately withoutdoing any damage, ere the tchai-khan is reached; but once inside, thesituation is materially improved. It soon transpires that the speculative proprietors have conceived thebright idea of utilizing me as an attraction to draw customers to theirplace of business. Two men are stationed at the door with clubs, andadmittance is only granted to likely-looking people who have money tospend on water-pipes and tea. A rival attraction already occupies thefield in the person of a Tabreez Turkish luti with a performing rib-nosedmandril and a drum. Now and then, when the crowd with no money to spendbecomes too clamorous about the doorway, the luti goes to the assistanceof the guards, and giving the mandril the length of his chain, chases thepeople away. These wandering troubadours and their performing monkeys are commonenough all over Persia, and one often meets them on the road or in thevillages; but the bicycle is quite a different thing, and theenterprising Tchan-jees do a roaring business all the evening withcustomers pouring in to see it and me. The bicycle, the luti, and themandril occupy the back part of the large room, where several lamps andfarnooses envelop this attractive and drawing combination with a garishand stagy glow, so that they can be seen to advantage by the throngs ofeager visitors. My own place, as the lion of the occasion, is happily inthe vicinity of the samovar, where liberal-minded customers can treat meto cigarettes and tea. Ridiculous as is my position in the tchai-khan, it is, of course, infinitely superior in point of comfort and freedom from annoyance, to myexposed quarters over at the caravanserai. The luti sings doubtful lovesongs to the accompaniment of finger-strumming on the drum, and themandril now and then condescends to stand on its head, grunt loudly inresponse to questions, spin round and round like a dancing dervish, andotherwise give proof of his intelligence and accomplishments. Its longhair is shorn from the lower portion of its body, but its head andshoulders are covered with a wealth of silvery-grayish hair that overlapsthe nakedness of its body and gives it the grotesque appearance ofwearing a tippet. The animal's temper is anything but sweet, necessitating the habitual employment of a muzzle to prevent him frombiting. Every ten or fifteen minutes, as regular almost as the movementsof Father Time, the mandril's bottled discontent at being made to performseems to reach the explosive point, and springing suddenly at his master, he buries his nose viciously among his clothing in a. Determined effortto chew him up. This spasmodic rage subsides in horrible grunts ofdisappointment at being unable to use his teeth, and he becomesreasonably tractable again for another ten minutes. The luti himself is filled with envy and covetousness at the immensedrawing powers of the bicycle; and in a burst of confidence wants to knowif I am an "Ingilis lut;" at the same time placing his forefingerstogether as an intimation that if I am we ought by all means to form acombination and travel the country together. About ten o'clock thekhan-jees make me up quite a comfortable shake-down, and tired out withthe tough journey over the mountains and the worrying persecutions of theafternoon, I fall asleep while yet the house is doing a thriving trade;the luti singing, the mandril grunting, kalians bubbling, and peopletalking, all fail to keep me awake. The mental and physical exhaustion that makes this possible, does not, however, prevent me from falling asleep with a firm determination toleave Torbet-i-Haiderie and its turbulent population too early in themorning for any more crowds to gather. Accordingly, the morning star hasscarcely risen above the horizon ere I turn out, waken one of thekhan-jees, pocket some bread and depart. Beyond the streams and villages about Torbet-i-Haiderie, the countrydevelops into a level desert, stretching away southward as far as eye canreach. The trail is firm gravel, the wind is favorable, the morning cool, and the fresh, clear air of the desert exhilarating; under thesefavorable conditions I bowl rapidly along, overtaking in a very shorttime night-marching camel-riders that left the city last night. Traces ofold irrigating ditches and fields in one or two places tell the tale ofan attempt to reclaim portions of this desert long ago; but now thecamel-thorn and kindred hardy shrubs hold undisputed sway on every hand. During the forenoon a small oasis is found among some low, shaly hillsthat give birth to a little stream, and consequent subsistence, to a fewfamilies of people; they live together inside a high mud-walled enclosureand cultivate a few small fields of grain. The place is called Kair-abad, and the people mix chopped garlic with their bread before baking it, orsprinkle the dough liberally with garlic seeds. About 2 p. M. Is reached a much larger oasis containing a couple ofvillages; beyond this are diverging trails with no one anywhere near toask the way. Choosing the one that seems to take the most southerlycourse, the trail continues hard and ridable for a few more miles, whenit becomes lost in a sea of shifting sand. Firmer ground is visible inthe distance ahead, and on it are seen the small black tents of a fewfamilies of Eliautes. Considerable difficulty is experienced in gettingthrough the sand; but the width is not great, and the dim trail isrecovered on the southern side with the assistance of a chanceacquaintance. This chance acquaintance is an Eliaute goat-herd, whom I unwittinglyscared nearly out of his senses, and whose gratitude at finding himselfconfronting a kindly-disposed human being instead of some supernaturalagent of destruction, is very great indeed. He was slumbering at hispost, this gentle guardian of a herd of goats, stretched at full lengthon the ground. Surveying his unconscious form for a moment and carriedaway by the animal-like simplicity of his face, I finally shout "Hoi!"Opening his eyes with a start and seeing a white-helmeted head surveyinghim over the top of a weird, bristling object, the natural impulse ofthis simple-hearted child of the desert is to seek safety in flight. Recovering his head, however, upon hearing reassuring words, he adoptsthe propitiatory course of rushing impulsively forward and kissing myhand. Spending his whole life here on the lonely desert in the constant societyof a herd of goats, rarely seeing a stranger or meeting anybody to speakto outside the very limited members of his own tribesmen in yonder tents, he seems to have almost lost the power of conversation. His replies aremere guttural gruntings, as though the ever-present music of bleatinggoats has had the lamentable effect of neutralizing the naturallysuperior articulation of a human being and dragging his powers ofutterance down almost to the ignoble level of "mb-b-a-a. " My small stock of Persian words seems also to be altogether lost upon hiswarped and blunted powers of understanding, and it is only by anelaborate use of pantomime that I finally succeed in making my wantsunderstood. He possesses the simple hospitable instincts of a child ofNature's broad solitudes; he leads the way for over a mile to put me onthe now scarcely perceptible continuation of the trail, and with aworshipfully anxious face he begs of me to go and stay over night at thetents. My road leads right past the little cluster of black tents; several womenoutside collecting stunted brushwood greet me with the silent, wonderingstare of people incapable of any deeper display of emotion than theanimals they daily associate with and subsist upon; half-naked childrenstare at me in a dreamy sort of way from beneath the tents. Even the dogsseem to have lost their canine propensity to resent innovations; theresult, no doubt, of the same dreary, uneventful round of existence, inwhich the faculty of resentment has become dwarfed by the general absenceof anything new or novel to bark at. The tents of the Eliautes are small and inelegant as compared with thetents of well-to-do Koords, and the physique and general appearance ofthe Eliautes themselves is vastly inferior to the magnificent fellowsthat we found loafing about the headquarters of the Koordish sheikhs inAsia Minor and Western Persia. The trail I am now following is evidently but little used, requiring thetracking instincts of an Indian almost to keep it in view. It leads duesouthward across the broad, level wastes of the Goonabad Desert, thesurface of which affords most excellent wheeling even where there is notthe faintest indication of a trail. Much of the surface partakes of thecharacter of bare mud-flats that afford as smooth a wheeling surface asthe alkali flats of the West; the surface is covered all over with crispsun peelings--the thin, shiny surface of mud, baked and curled upward bythe fierce heat of the sun, and which now crackle like myriads of driedtwigs beneath the wheel. Occasionally I pass through thousands of acresof wild tulips, and scattering bands of antelopes are observed feeding inthe distance. The bulbous roots of a great many of the tulips have beeneaten by herbivorous animals of epicurean tastes---our fastidiousfriends, the antelopes, no doubt. The flags are bitten off and laidaside, the tender, white interior of the bulb alone is extracted andeaten, the less tender outside layers being left in the hole. It is aglorious ride across the Goonabad Desert, a ten-mile pace being quitepossible most of the way; sometimes the trail is visible and sometimes itis not. With but the vaguest idea of the distance to the next abode ofman, or the nature of the country ahead, I bowl along southward, led bythe strange infatuation of a pathfinder traversing terra incognita, andrejoicing in the sense of boundless freedom and unrestraint that comes ofspeeding across open country where Nature still holds her primitive sway. Twice I wheel past the ruins of wayside umbars, whose now utterlyneglected condition and the well-nigh obliterated trail point out that Iam travelling over a route that has for some reason been abandoned. Avariation from the otherwise universal level occurs in the shape of acluster of low, mound-like hills, whose modest proportions are madegorgeous and interesting by flakes of mica that glint and glisten in thesunlight as though the hills might be strewn with precious jewels. The sun is getting pretty low, and no signs of human habitation anywhereabout; but the wheeling is excellent, and the termination of thelake-like level is observable in the distance ahead in favor of lowhills. Between my present position and the hills the prospect is that ofcontinuous level ground. Imagine my astonishment, then, at shortlyfinding myself standing on the bank of a stream about thirty yards wide, its yellow waters flowing sluggishly along twenty feet below the surfaceof the desert. The abrupt nature of its banks, and an evidentlyunpleasant habit of becoming unfordable after a rain, tell the story ofthe abandoned trail I have been following. Whether three feet deep orthirty, the thick, muddy character of its moving water refuses to reveal, as, standing on the bank, I ruefully survey the situation. No time is to be lost in idle speculation, unless I want to stretch mysupperless form on the barren, brown bosom of mother earth, and dream thedreary visions conjured up by the clamorous demands of unsatisfiednature; for the sun has well-nigh sunk below the horizon. Clambering downthe almost perpendicular bank I succeed, after several attempts, indiscovering a passage that can be forded, and so, wrapping my clothing, money, revolver, etc. Tightly within my rubber coat, I essay to carry thebundle across. All goes well until I reach a point just beyond the middleof the stream, when the bed of the stream breaks through with my weightand lets me down into a watery cavern to which there appears to be nobottom. The bed of the stream at this point seems to be a mere thinshell, beneath which there are other aqueous depths, and fearful lest theundercurrent should carry me beneath the crust and prevent me recoveringmyself, I loose the bundle and regain the surface without more ado. Therubber covering preserves the clothes from getting much of a wetting, andI swim and wade to the opposite shore with them without much trouble. To get the bicycle over, however, looks a far more serious undertaking;for to break through in this way with a bicycle held aloft would probablyresult in getting entangled in the wheel and held under the water. Itwould be equally risky to take that important piece of property apart andcross over with it piece by piece, for the loss of any part would be aserious matter here. Several new places are tried, but this one is the only passage that canbe forded. My rope is also too short to be of avail in swimming over andpulling the bicycle across. Finally, after many attempts, I succeed infinding a ford immediately alongside where I had broken through, andafter thoroughly testing the strength of the crust by standing andjumping up and down, I conclude to risk carrying the wheel. Owing to theextreme difficulty of following the same line, it is scarcely necessaryto remark that every step forward is made with extreme caution and everyfoot of the riverbed traversed tested as thoroughly as possible, underthe circumstances, before fully trusting my weight upon it. Once thecrust breaks through again, letting me down several inches; but, fortunately, the second bottom is here but a matter of inches below thefirst shell, and I am able to recover myself without dropping thebicycle; and the southern bank is reached without further misadventure. No trail is visible on the crackled surface of the mud-flat across theriver, as I continue in a general southward course, hoping to find itagain ere it becomes too dark Soon a man riding on a camel is descriedsome distance off to the right, and deeming it advisable to seek forinformation at his hands, I shape my course toward him and give chase. Becoming conscious of a strange-looking object careering over the plainin his direction, the man surveys me for a moment from the back of hisawkward steed and then steers his ship of the desert in anotherdirection. The lumbering camel is quickly overtaken, however, and thegallant but apprehensive rider makes a stand and threateningly waves meaway. Observing the absence of the familiar long-barrelled gun, I persistin my purpose of interviewing him regarding the road, and finally learnfrom him that the village of Goonabad is eight miles farther south, andthat the trail will be easier followed when I reach the hills. Had hebeen armed with a gun, there would have been more or less risk inapproaching him in the dusky shades of evening on so strange a vehicle oftravel; but before I depart he alights from his camel for thecharacteristic purpose of kissing my hand. A couple of miles brings me to the hills, where my riding abruptly comesto an end; the hills are simply huge waves of sand and dust collected onthe shore of the desert and held together by a growth of coarse shrubs. The dim light of the young moon proves insufficient for my purpose ofkeeping the trail, and the difficulty in trundling through the sandcompels me to seek the cold comfort of a night in the desert, after all. Goonabad appears to be a sort of general rendezvous for wandering tribesof Eliautes that roam the desert country around with their flocks andherds, the tent population of the place far outnumbering the soil-tillingpeople of the village itself. A complete change is here observable inboth the climate and the people; north of the desert the young barley isin a very backward state, but at Goonabad both wheat and barley areheaded out, and the sun strikes uncomfortably hot as soon as it risesabove the horizon. It is a curious change in so short a distance. The menaffect the long, dangling, turban-end of the Afghans and the womenblossom forth in the gayest of colors; the people are refreshinglysimple-hearted and honest, as compared with the knowing customers alongthe Teheran-Meshed road. Sand-hills, scattering fields and villages, and a bewildering timegenerally, in keeping my course, characterize the experience of theforenoon. The people of one particular village passed through areobserved to be all descendants of the Prophet, wearing monster greenturbans and green kammerbunds; the women are dressed in whitethroughout--white socks, white pantalettes, and white shrouds; theymove silently about, more like ghostly visitants than human beings. Distinctly different types of people from the majority are sometimes metwith--full-bearded, very dark-skinned men, whose bared breasts betray thefact that they are little less hairy than a bison. Beyond the sand-hills, the villages, and the cultivation is a stony plainextending for sixteen miles, a gradual upward slant to a range ofmountains. At the base of the mountains an area of dark-green coloringdenotes the presence of fields and orchards and the whereabouts of theimportant village of Kakh. Beautifully terraced wheat-fields andvineyards, and peach and pomegranate orchards in full bloom, gladden theeyes and present a most striking contrast to the stony plain as thevicinity of Kakh is reached, and another pleasing and conspicuous featureis the dome of a mesjid mosaicked with bright-colored tiles. The good people of Kakh are inquisitive even above their fellows, if suchcan be possible, but they are well-behaved and mild-mannered with it. After taking the ragged edge off their curiosity by riding up and downthe main thoroughfare of the village, the keeper of a mercantile affairlocks the bicycle up in his room, and I spend the evening hobnobbing withhim and his customers in his little stall-like place of business. Kakh isfamous for the production of little seedless raisins like those ofSmyrna. Bushels of these are kicking about the place, and our merchantfriend becomes filled with a wild idea that I might, perchance, buy thelot. A moment's reflection would convince him that ten bushels ofsickly-sweet raisins would be about the last thing he could sell to aperson travelling on a bicycle; but his supply of raisins is evidently sooutrageously ahead of the demand that his ambition to reduce his stockobscures his better judgment like a cloud, and places him in the positionof a drowning man clutching wildly at a straw. Considerable opium is also grown hereabouts, and the people make it intosticks about the size of a carpenter's pencil; hundreds of these alsooccupy the merchant's shelves. He seems to have very little that isn'tgrown in the neighborhood except tea and loaf-sugar. Eyots, who were absent in their fields when I arrived, come crowdingaround the store in the evening, bothering me to ride; the shop-keeperbids them wait till my departure in the morning, telling them I am not aluti, riding simply to let people see. He provides me with a door thatfastens inside, and I am soon in the land of dreams. Early in the morning I am awakened by people pounding at the door andshouting, "A/tab, Sahib-a/tab. '" It is the belated ryots of yesterdayeve; thoroughly determined to be on hand and see the start, they areletting me know that it is sunrise. A boisterous mountain stream, tearing along at racing speed over a rockybed a hundred and fifty yards wide, provides Kakh with perpetual music, and furnishes travellers going southward with an interesting time gettingacross. This stream must very frequently become a raging torrent, quiteimpassable; for although it is little more than knee-deep this morning, the swift water carries down stones as large as a brick, that strikeagainst the ankles and well-nigh knock one off his feet. Beyond Kakh the trail winds its circuitous way through a mountainousregion, following one little stream to its source, climbing over thecrest of an intervening ridge and down the bed of another stream. It isbut an indistinct donkey trail at best, and the toilsome mountainclimbing reminds me vividly of the worst parts of Asia Minor. Towardnightfall I wander into the village of Nukhab, a small place perchedamong the hills, inhabited by kindly-disposed, hospitable folks. Having seen the unhappy effect of the Governor-General's letter ofrecommendation at Torbet-i-Haiderie, and desirous of seeing what effectit might, perchance, have on the more simple-hearted people of Nukhab, Ipresent it to the little, old, blue-gowned Khan of the village. Like avery large proportion of his people, the Khan is suffering from chronicophthalmia; but he peruses the letter by the glimmer of a blaze ofcamel-thorn. The intentions of these people were plainly most hospitablefrom the beginning, so that it is difficult to determine about the effectof the letter. Willing hands sweep out the quarters assigned for my accommodation, theimprovised besoms filling the place with a cloud of dust; the doorway isruthlessly mutilated to make it large enough to admit the bicycle;nummuds are spread and a crackling fire soon fills the room with mingledsmoke and light. The people are allowed to circulate freely in and out tosee me, but only the Khan himself and a few of the leading lights of thevillage are permitted to indulge in the coveted privilege of spending theentire evening in my company. The village is ransacked for eatables tohonor their guest, resulting in a bountiful repast of eggs, pillau, mast, and sheerah. Away down here among the mountains and out of the world, these people seenothing more curious than their next-door neighbors from year to year;they take the most ridiculous interest in such small affairs as mynote-book and pencil, and everything about me seems to strike them aspeculiar. The entire village, as usual, assembles to see me dispose of the eatablesso generously provided; and later in the evening there is anotherhighly-expectant assembly waiting around, out of curiosity, to see whatsort of a figure a Ferenghi cuts at his evening devotions. Poor benightedfollowers of the False Prophet, how little they comprehend us Christians!Suddenly it seems to dawn upon the mind of the simple old Khan that, being a stranger in a strange land, I might, perchance, be a trifle mixedabout my bearings, and so he kindly indicates the direction of Mecca. When informed that the Ingilis never prostrate themselves toward Meccaand say "Allah-il-allah!" they evince the greatest astonishment; and thenthe strange, unnatural impiousness of people who never address themselvesto Allah nor prostrate toward the Holy City, impresses their simple mindswith something akin to the feeling entertained among certain of ourselvestoward extra dare-devil characters, and they seem to take a deeper andkindlier interest in me than ever. The disappointment at not seeing whatI look like at prayers is more than offset by the additional noveltyimparted to my person by the, to them, strange and sensational omission. They seem greatly disappointed to learn that I am going away in themorning; they have plenty of toke-me-morge, pillau, mast, and sheerah, they say--plenty of everything; and they want me to stay with themalways. Revolving the matter over in my mind, I am forcibly struck withthe calm, reposeful state of Nukhab society; and what a brilliant fieldof enterprise for an ambitious person the place would be. TurnedMussulman, joined in wedlock to three or four sore-eyed village damsels;worshipped as a sort of strange, superior being, hakim and eye-waterdispenser; consulted as a walking store-house of occult philosophy on alloccasions; endeavoring to educate the people up to habits of all-roundcleanliness; chiding the mothers for allowing the flies to swarm anddevour the poor little babies' eyes--all this, for toke-me-morge, pillau, mast, and sheerah, twice or thrice a day! Involuntarily my eye roams overthe gladsome countenances of the eligible portion of my female auditors, as though driven by this whimsical flight of fancy to the necessity of atonce making a choice. There is only one present with any pretence tocomeliness; and embarrassed, no doubt, by the extreme tenderness of thestranger's glance, she shrinks from view behind an aged and ugly personwhom I take to be her mother. Everybody stops to see what a Ferenghi looks like en deshabille, and whenI am snugly sandwiched between the quilts provided, they gather about meand peer curiously down into my face. An enterprising youth is on hand at daybreak making a fire; but it iseight o'clock before I am able to get away; they seem to be mildlyscheming among themselves to keep me with them as long as possible. The trail winds and twists about among the mountains, following in thetrain of a wayward little stream, then leads over a pass and emerges, inthe company of another stream, upon a slanting plateau leading down to anextensive plain. Rounding the last spur of the hills, I find myselfapproaching a crowd numbering at least a hundred people. Hats are wavedgleefully, voices are lifted up in joyous shouts of welcome, and thewhole company give way to demonstrations of delight at my approach. Aminute later I find myself surrounded by the familiar faces of thepopulation of Nukhab--my road has followed a roundabout course ofsix or seven miles, and our enterprising friends have taken a short cutover the lulls to intercept me at this point, where they can watch my, progress across the open plain. They have brought along the kind oldKahn's kalian and tobacco-bag, and the wherewithal to make me a partingglass of tea. Eight or ten miles of fair wheeling across the plain, through theisolated village of Mohammedabad, and the trail loses itself among therank, dead stalks of the assafoetida plant that here characterizes thevegetation of the broad, level sweep of plain. The day is cloudy, andwith no trail visible, my compass has to be brought into requisition;though oft-times finding it useful, it is the first time I have foundthis article to be really indispensable so far on the tour. The atmosphere of an assafoetida desert is among those things that canbetter be imagined than described; the aroma of the fetid gum is waftedto and fro, and assails the nostrils in a manner quite the reverse of"Araby the blest. " The plant is a sturdy specimen among the annuals: itsstraight, upright stem is but three or four feet high, but oftenmeasuring four inches in diameter, and it not infrequently defies theblasts of the Khorassan winter and the upheaving thaws of spring, andpreserves its upright position for a year after its death. The thick, dead stems and branching tops of last year's plants are seen by thethousands, sturdily holding their ground among the rank young shoots ofthe new growth. Mountainous territory is again entered during the afternoon, and shortlyafter sunset I arrive at a cluster of wretched mud hovels, numberingabout two dozen. Here my reception is preeminently commercial andbusiness-like, the people requiring payment in advance for the bread andeggs and rogan provided. A nonsensical custom among the people of Southern Khorassan is to offerone's food in turn to everybody present and say, "Bis-millah, " beforecommencing to eat it yourself. Although a ridiculous piece of humbug, itis generally my custom to fall in with the peculiar ways of the country, and for days past have invariably offered my food to scores of peoplewhom I knew beforehand would not take it. The lack of courtesy at thishamlet in exacting payment in advance would seem naturally to precludethe right to expect the following of courteous customs in return. Inthis, however, I find myself mistaken; for my omission to say"Bis-millah" not only fills these people with astonishment, but excitesunfavorable comment. The door-ways of the houses here are entirely too small to admit thebicycle, and that much-enduring vehicle has to take its chances on thelow roof with a score or so inquisitive and meddlesome goats thatinstantly gather around it, as though revolving in their pugnacious mindssome fell scheme of destruction. Outside are several camels tied to theirrespective pack-saddles, which have been taken off and laid on theground. Before retiring for the night, it occurs to my mind that thetotal depravity of a goat's appetite bodes ill for the welfare of mysaddle, and that, everything considered, the bicycle could, perhaps, beplaced safer on the ground; in addition to regarding the saddle as aparticularly toothsome morsel, the goats' venturesome disposition mightlead them to clambering about on the spokes, and generally mixing thingsup. So, taking it down, I stand it up against the wall, and place a heapof old pack-saddle frames and camel-trappings before it as an additionalprecaution. During the night some of the camels break loose and are heardchasing one another around the house, knocking things over and bellowingfuriously. Apprehensive of my wheel, I get up and find it knocked over, but, fortunately, uninjured; I then take off the saddle and return it tothe tender care and consideration of the goats. Four men and a boy share with me a small, unventilated den, about tenfeet square; one of them is a camel-driving descendant of the Prophet, and sings out "Allah-il-allah!" several times during the night in hissleep; another is the patriarch of the village, a person guilty ofcheating the undertaker, lo! these many years, and who snuffles andcatches his breath. The other two men snore horribly, and the boy givesout unmistakable signs of a tendency to follow their worthy example;altogether, it is anything but a restful night. CHAPTER VII. BEERJAND AND THE FRONTIER OF AFGHANISTAN. Thirty miles over hill and dale, after leaving the little hamlet, andbehold, the city of Beerjand appears before me but a mile or thereaboutsaway, at the foot of the hills I am descending. One's first impression ofBeerjand is a sense of disappointment; the city is a jumbled mass ofuninteresting mud buildings, ruined and otherwise, all of the same dismalmud-brown hue. Not a tree exists to relieve the eye, nor a solitary greenobject to break the dreary monotony of the prospect; the impression isthat of a place existing under some dread ban of nature that forbids theenlivening presence of a tree, or even the redeeming feature of a bit ofgreensward. The broad, sandy bed of a stream contains a sluggishly-flowing reminderof past spring freshets; but the quickening presence of a stream of waterseems thrown away on Beerjand, except as furnishing a place forclosely-veiled females to come and wash clothes, and for the daily wadingand disporting of amphibious youngsters. In any other city a part of itsmission would be the nurturing of vegetation. The Ameer, Heshmet-i-Molk, I quickly learn, is living at hissummer-garden at Ali-abad, four farsakhs to the east. Curious to seesomething of a place so much out of the world, and so little known asBeerjand, I determine upon spending the evening and night here, andcontinuing on to Ali-abad next morning. There appears to be absolutely nothing of interest to a casual observerabout the city except its population, and they are interesting from theirstrange, cosmopolitan character, and as being the most unscrupulous andkeenest people for money one can well imagine. The city seems a seethingnest of hard characters, who buzz around my devoted person like wasps, seemingly restrained only by the fear of retribution from pouncing on mypersonal effects and depriving me of everything I possess. The harrowing experiences of Torbet-i Haiderie have taught a usefullesson that stands me in good stead at Beerjand. Ere entering the cityproper, I enlist the services of a respectable-looking person to guidethe way at once where the pressing needs of hunger can be attended tobefore the inevitable mob gathers about me and renders impossible thisvery necessary part of the programme. Having duly fortified myselfagainst the anticipated pressure of circumstances by consuming bread andcheese and sheerah in the semi-seclusion of a suburban bake-house, myguide conducts me to the caravanserai, receives his backsheesh, and loseshimself in the crowd that instantly fills the place. The news of my arrival seems to set the whole city in a furore; besidesthe crowds below, the galched roof of the caravanserai becomes standingroom for a mass of human beings, to the imminent danger of breaking itin. So, at least, thinks the caravanserai-jee, who becomes anxious aboutit and tries to persuade them to come down; but he might as well attemptto summon down from above the unlistening clouds. Around two sides of the caravanserai compound is a narrow, bricked walk, elevated to the level of the menzil floors; at the imminent risk ofbreaking my neck, I endeavor to appease the clamorous multitude, ridingto and fro for the edification of what is probably the wildest-lookingassembly that could be collected anywhere in the world. Afghans, withtall, conical, gold-threaded head-dresses, converted into monster turbansby winding around them yards and yards of white or white-and-blue cloth, three feet of which is left dangling down the back; Beloochees in flowinggowns that were once white; Arabs in the striped mantles and peculiarheaddress of their country; dervishes, mollahs, seyuds, and the wholefantastic array of queer-looking people living in Beerjand, travellingthrough, or visiting here to trade. Some of the Afghans wear a turban and kammerbund, all of one piece; afterwinding the long cotton sheet a number of times about the peakedhead-dress, it is passed down the back and then ends its career in theform of a kammerbund about the waist. Fights and tumults occur as theresult of the caravanserai-jee's attempt to shut the gate and keep themout, and in despair he puts me in a room and locks the door. In less thanfive minutes the door is broken down, and a second attempt to secludemyself results in my being summarily pelted out again with stones througha hole in the roof. A Yezdi traveller, occupying one of the menzils--all of which atBeeriand are provided with doors and locks--now invites me to hisquarters; locking the door and keeping me out of sight, he hopes bymaking me his guest to assist in getting rid of the crowd. Whatever hisobject, its consummation is far from being realized; the unappeasedcuriosity of the crowds of newly arriving people finds expression innoisy shouts and violent hammering on the door, creating a din soinfernal that the well-meaning traveller quickly tires of his bargain. Following the instincts of the genuine Oriental, he conjures up thegenius of diplomacy to rid himself of his guest and the annoyanceoccasioned by my presence. "If you go outside and ride around the place once more, " he says, "Inshallah, the people will all go home. " This is a very transparent proposition--a broad hint, covered withthe thin varnish of Persian politeness. No sooner am I outside than thedoor is locked, and the wily Yezdi has accomplished his purpose ofousting me and thereby securing a little peace for himself. Noright-thinking person will blame him for turning me out; on the contrary, he deserves much praise for attempting to take me in. I now endeavor to render my position bearable by locking up the bicycleand allowing the populace to concentrate their eager gaze on me, perchingmyself on the roof in position to grant them a fair view. Swarms ofpeople come flocking up after me, evidently no more able to control theirimpulse to follow than if they were so many bleating sheep following thetinkling leadership of a bellwether or a goat. The caravanserai-jee begsme to come down again, fearing the weight will cause the roof to cave in. Well-nigh at my wit's end what to do, I next take up a squatting positionin a corner and resign myself to the unhappy fate of being importuned toride, shouted at in the guttural tones of desert tribesmen, questioned inunknown tongues, solicited for alms and schemed against and worried forthis, that, and the other, by covetous and evil-minded ruffians. "The Ingilis have khylie pool-k-h-y-lie pool!" (much money) says oneferocious-looking individual to his companion, and their black eyesglisten and their fingers rub together feverishly as they talk, as if themere imagination of handling my money were a luxury in itself. "He must have khylie pool if he is going all the way toHindostan-k-h-y-lie pool!" suggests another; and the coveteousness ofdozens of keenly interested listeners finds expression in "Pool, pool;the Ingilis have khylie pool. " One eager ragamuffin brings me half-a-dozen sour and shrivelled oranges, utterly worthless, for which he asks the outrageous sum of three kerans;a second villainous-looking specimen worries me continuously to leave thecaravanserai and go with him somewhere. I never could make out where. He looks the veriest cutthroat, and, curious to penetrate the secret ofhis intentions, and perchance secure something interesting for mynote-book, I at length make pretence of acceding to his wishes. Bystanders at once interfere to prevent him enticing me away, and when heangrily remonstrates he is hustled unceremoniously out into the street. "He is a bad man, " they say; "neis koob adam. " Nothing daunted by the summary ejection of this person, a dervish, withthe haggard face and wild, restless eyes of one addicted to bhang, nowvolunteers to take me under his protection and lead me out of thecaravanserai to--where? He vouchsafes no explanation where; none, atleast, that is at all comprehensible to me. Where do these interestingspecimens of Beerjand's weird population want to entice me to? why dothey want to entice me anywhere? I conclude to go with the dervish andfind out. The crowd enter their remonstrances again; but the dervish wears the garbof holy mendicancy; violent hands must not be laid on the sacred personof a dervish. Our path is barred at the outer gate of the caravanserai, however, by two men in semi-military uniforms, armed with swords and hugeclubs; they chide the dervish for wanting to take me with him, and haveevidently been placed at their post by the authorities. Soon a uniformed official comes in and tries to question me. He is aperson of very limited intelligence, incapable of understanding andmaking himself understood through the medium of the small stock of hisnative tongue at my command. The linguistic abilities of the strange, semi-civilized audience about us comprise Persian, Turkish, Hindostani, and even a certain amount of Russian; not a soul besides myself knows asingle word of English. After queries have been propounded to me in all these tongues, myintellectual interviewer gives me up in despair, and, addressing thecrowd about us, cries out in astonishment: "Parsee neis! Turkchi binmus!Hindostani nay! Paruski nicht! mashallah, what language does he speak?" "Ingilis! Ingilis! Ingilis!" shout at least a dozen more knowing peoplethan himself. "Oh, I-n-g-i-l-i-s!" says the officer, condemning his own lack ofcomprehension by the tone of his voice. "Aha, I-n-g-i-l-i-s, aha!" and helooks over the crowd apologetically for not having thought of so simple athing before. But having ascertained that I speak English, he nowproceeds to treat me to a voluble discourse in simon-pure Persian. Seeingthat I fail to comprehend the tenor of the officer's remarks, some of thegarrulous crowd vouchsafe to explain in Turkish, others in Hindostani, and one in Russian! In the absence of a lunatic asylum to dodge into, I fasten on to theofficer and get him to take me out and show me the Ali-abad road, so thatI can find the way out early in the morning. Another caravanserai is found located nearer the road leading from thecity eastward, and I determine to change my quarters quietly by the lightof the moon, leaving the crowd in ignorance of my whereabouts, so thatthere will be no difficulty in getting through the streets in themorning. Late at night, when the now quieted city is bathed in the soft, mellowlight of the moon, and the crenellated mud walls and old ruins andarchways cast weird shadows across the silent streets, with a few chosencompanions, parties to the secret of the removal, the bicycle is trundledthrough the narrow, crooked streets and under arched alleyways, to thecaravanserai on the eastern edge of the city. Seated beneath the shadowy archway of the first caravanserai is a silentfigure smoking a kalian; as we open the gate to leave, the figure risesup and thrusts forth an alms-receiver and in a loud voice sings out, "Backsheesh, backsheesh; huk yah huk!" It is the same dervish that wasturned back with me by the guards at this same gate this afternoon. My much-needed slumbers at my new quarters are rudely disturbed--as a sonof Erin might, perhaps, declare under similar circumstances--before theyare commenced, by the fearful yowling of Beerjand cats. Several of theseanimals are paying their feline compliments to the moon from differentroofs and walls hard by, and their utterances strike my unaccustomed(unaccustomed to the Beerjand variety of cat-music) ears as about themost unearthly sound possible. Fancying the noise is made by women wailing for the dead, from a strikingresemblance to the weird night-sounds heard, it will be remembered, atBey Bazaar, Asia Minor (Vol. I), I go outside and listen. Many guesseswould most assuredly be made by me before guessing cats as the authors ofsuch unearthly music; but cats it is, nevertheless; for, seeing melistening outside by the door, one of the sharers of my rude quarterscomes out and removes all doubt by drawing the rude outlines of a cat inthe dust with his finger, and by delivering himself of an explanatory"meow. " The yowl of a Beerjand cat is several degrees more soul-harrowingthan anything inflicted by midnight prowlers upon the Occidental world, and I learn afterward that they not infrequently keep it up in thedaytime. An early start, sixteen miles of road without hills or mountains, butembracing the several qualities of good, bad, and indifferent, and ateight o'clock I dismount in the presence of a little knot ofHeshmet-i-Molk's retainers congregated outside his summer-garden, and agoodly share of the population of the adjacent village of Ali-abad. Whileyet miles away, Ali-abad is easily distinguished as being something outof the ordinary run of Persian villages by the luxuriant foliage of theAmeer's garden. The whole country around is of the same desert-likecharacter that distinguishes well-nigh all this country, and the dark, leafy grove of trees standing alone on the gray camel-thorn plain, derives additional beauty and interest from the contrast. The village of Ali-abad, consisting of the merest cluster of low mudhovels and a few stony acres wrested from the desert by means ofirrigation, the people ragged, dirty, and uncivilized, looks anything butan appropriate dwelling-place for a great chieftain. The summer gardenitself is enclosed within a high mud wall, and it is only after passingthrough the gate and shutting out the rude hovels, the rag-bedeckedvillagers, and the barren desert, that the illusion of unfitness isremoved. My letter is taken in to the Ameer, and in a few minutes is answered in amost practical manner by the appearance of men carrying carpets, tent-poles, and a round tent of blue and white stripes. Winding itssilvery course to the summer garden, from a range of hills several milesdistant, is a clear, cold stream; although so narrow as to be easilyjumped, and nowhere more than knee-deep, the presence of trout betraysthe fact that it never runs dry. The tent is pitched on the banks of this bright little stream, theentrance but a half-dozen paces from its sparkling water, and a couple ofguards are stationed near by to keep away intrusive villagers; anabundance of eatables, including sweetmeats, bowls of sherbet, and driedapricots, and pears from Foorg, are provided at once. A neatly dressed attendant squats himself down on the shady side of thetent outside, and at ridiculously short intervals brings me in a newlyprimed kalian and a samovar of tea. Everything possible to contribute tomy comfort is attended to and nothing overlooked; and the Ameerfurthermore proves himself sensible and considerate above the average ofhis fellow-countrymen by leaving me to rest and refresh myself in thequiet retreat of the tent till four o'clock in the afternoon. Reclining on the rich Persian carpet beneath the gayly striped tent, entertained by the babbling gossip of the brook, provided with luxuriantfood and watchful attendants, taking an occasional pull at a jewelledkalian primed with the mild and seductive product of Shiraz, or sippingfragrant tea, it is very difficult to associate my present conditions andsurroundings with the harassing experiences of a few hours ago. Thismarvellous transformation in so short a time--from the madding clamor ofan inconsiderate mob, to the nerve-soothing murmur of the little stream;from the crowded and filthy caravanserai to the quiet shelter of theluxurious tent; in a word, from purgatory to Paradise--what can havebrought it about? Surely nothing less than the good genii of Aladdin'slamp. A very agreeable, and, withal, intelligent young man, the incumbunt ofsome office about the Ameer's person, no doubt a mirza, pays me a visitat noon, apparently to supervise the serving up of the--more thanbountiful repast sent in from his master's table. My attention is at oncearrested by the English coat-of-arms on his sword-belt; both belt andclasp have evidently wandered from the ranks of the British army. "Pollock Sahib, " he says, in reply to my inquiries--it is a relic ofthe Seistan Boundary Commission. About four o'clock, this same young man and a companion appear with theannouncement that the Ameer is ready to receive me, and requests that Ibring the bicycle with me into the garden. The stream flows through a lowarch beneath the wall and lends itself to the maintenance of anartificial lake that spreads over a large proportion of the enclosedspace. The summer garden is a fabrication of green trees and the coolglimmer of shaded water, rather than the flower-beds, the turf, andshrubbery of the Occidental conception of a garden; the Ameer's quartersconsist of an un-pretentious one-storied building fronting on the lake. The Ameer himself is found seated on a plain divan at the open-windowedfront, toying with a string of amber beads; a dozen or so retainers arestanding about in respectful and expectant attitudes, ready at a moment'snotice to obey any command he may give or to anticipate his personalwants. He is a stoutly built, rather ponderous sort of individual, with afull, rotund face and a heavy, unintellectual, but good-naturedexpression; one's first impression of him is apt to be less flattering tohis head than to his heart. He is a person, however, that improves withacquaintance, and is probably more intelligent than he looks. He seems tobe living here in a very plain and unpretentious manner; no gaudy stainedglass, no tinsel, no mirror-work, no vain gew-gaws of any descriptionimpart a cheap and garish glitter to the place; no gorgeous apparelbedecks his ample proportions. Clad in the ordinary dress of a well-to-doPersian nobleman, Heshmet-i-Molk, happy and contented in the enjoyment ofcreature comforts and the universal esteem of his people, probably findshis chief pleasure in sitting where we now find him, looking out upon thegreen trees and glimmering waters of the garden, smoking his kalian, andattending to the affairs of state in a quiet, unostentatious manner. Witha refreshing absence of ceremonial, he discusses with me the prospects ofmy being able to reach India overland. The conversation on his part, however, almost takes the form of trying to persuade me from my purposealtogether, and particularly not to attempt Afghanistan. "The Harood is as wide as from here to the other side of the lake yonder(200 yards); tund (swift) as a swift-running horse and deep as thishouse, " he informs me. "No bridge? no ferry-boat? no means of getting across?" "Eitch" (no), replies the Ameer. "Pull neis, kishti neis. " "Can't it be forded with camels?" "Shutor neis. " "No village, with people to assist with poles or skins to make a raft?" "Afghani dasht-adam (nomads), no poles; you might perhaps find skins; butthe river is tund-t-u-n-d! skins neis, poles neis; t-u-n-d!!" and theAmeer points to a bird hopping about on the garden walk, intimating thatthe Harood flows as swiftly as the flight of a bird. The result of the conference I have been so anxiously looking forward tois anything but an encouraging picture--a picture of insurmountableobstacles on every hand. The deep sand and burning heat of the dreadfulLut Desert intervenes between me and the Mekran coast; the route throughBeloochistan, barely passable with camels and guides and skins of waterin the winter, is not only impracticable for anything in the summer, butthere is the additional obstacle of the spring floods of the Helmund andthe Seistan Lake. The Ameer's description of the Lut Desert and Beloochistan is but aconfirmation of my own already-arrived-at conclusions concerning theutter impracticability of crossing either in the summer and with abicycle; but the wish gives birth to the thought that perhaps he may notunlikely be indulging in the Persian weakness for exaggeration in hisgraphic portrayal of the difficulties presented by the Harood. The region between Beerjand and the Harood is on my map a dismal-looking, blankety-blank stretch of country, marked with the ominous title"Dasht-i" which, being interpreted into English, means Desert of Despair. A gleam of hope that things may not be quite so hopeless as pictured isborn of the fact that, in dwelling on the difficulties of the situation, the Ameer makes less capital out of this same Desert of Despair than ofthe Harood, which has to be crossed on its eastern border. As regards interference from the Legation of Teheran, thank goodness I amnow three hundred miles from the nearest telegraph-pole, and shall enterAfghanistan at a point so much nearer to Quetta than to the BoundaryCommission Camp that the chances seem all in favor of reaching the formerplace if I only succeed in reaching the Dasht-i-na-oomid and the Harood. The result of the foregoing deliberations is a qualified (qualified bythe absence of any alternative save turning back) determination to pointmy nose eastward, and follow its leadership toward the British outpost atQuetta. "Khylie koob" (very well), replies the Ameer, as he listens to mydetermination; "khylie koob;" and he takes a few vigorous whiffs at hiskalian as though, conscious of the uselessness of arguing the matter anyfurther with a Ferenghi, he were dismissing the ghost of his own opinionsin a cloud of smoke. Shortly after sunrise on the following morning a couple of well-mountedhorsemen appear at the door of my tent, armed and equipped for the road. Their equipment consists of long guns with resting-fork attachment, theprongs of which project above the muzzle like a two-pronged pitchfork;swords, pistols, and the brave but antique display of warlikeparaphernalia characteristic of the East. One of them, I am pleased toobserve, is the genial young mirza whose snuff-colored roundabout is heldin place by the "dieu et mon droit" belt of yesterday; his companion isthe ordinary sowar, or irregular horseman of the country. They announcethemselves as bearers of the Ameer's salaams, and as my escort to Tabbas, a village two marches to the east. A few miles of plain, with a gradual inclination toward the mountains;ten miles up the course of a mountain-stream-up, up, up to where thawingsnow-banks make the pathway anything but pleasant for my escort's horsesand ten times worse for a person reduced to the necessity of lugging hishorse along; over the summit, and down, down, down again over a fearfultrail for a wheelman, or, more correctly, over no trail at all, butscrambling as best one can over rocks, along ledges, often in the waterof the stream, and finally reaching the village of Darmian, the end ofour first day's march, about 3 p. M. Darmian is situated in a rugged gulch, and the houses, gardens, andorchards ramble all over the place--with little regard toregularity, although some attempt has been made at forming streets. Darmian and Poorg are twin villages, but a short distance apart, in thissame gulch, and are famous for dried apricots, pears, and driedbeetroots, and for the superior quality of its sheerah. Among the absurdities that crop up during the course of an eventfulevening at Darmian is the case of a patriarchal villager whose broad andenlightening experience of some threescore years has left him in thepossession of a marvellously logical and comprehensive mind. Hearing ofthe arrival of a Ferenghi with an iron horse, this person's subtleintellect pilots him into the stable of the place we are stopping at andleads him to search curiously therein, with the expectation, we mayreasonably presume, of seeing the bicycle complacently munching kah andjow. This is perhaps not so much to be wondered at, when it is reflectedthat plenty of people hereabout have no conception whatever of a wheeledvehicle, never having seen a vehicle of any description. The good people of Darmian, as is perhaps quite natural in people nearthe frontier, betray a pardonable pride in comparing Persia withAfghanistan, always to the prodigious disadvantage of the latter. In thecourse of the usual examination of my effects, they are immenselygratified to learn from my map that Persia is much the larger country ofthe two. A small corner of India is likewise visible on the map, and, taking it for granted that the map represents India as fully as it doesPersia, the khan, on whom I am unwittingly bestowing the rudiments of afalse but patriotic geographical education, turns around, and withswelling pride informs the delighted people that Seistan is larger thanIndia, and Iran bigger than all the rest of the world, he taking it forgranted that my map of Persia is a map of the whole world. More and more fantastic grow the costumes of the people as one getsfarther, so to speak, out of civilization and off the beaten roads. Theends of the turbans here are often seen gathered into a sort of bunch ortuft on the top; the ends are fringed or tipped with gold, and whengathered in this manner create a fanciful, crested appearance--impart asort of cock-a-doodle-doo aspect to the wearer. Among the most interesting of my callers are three boys of eight totwelve summers, who enter the room chewing leathery chunks of driedbeetroot. Although unwashed, "unwiped, " and otherwise undistinguishablefrom others of the same age about the place, they are gravely introducedas khan this, that, and the other respectively; and while they remain inthe room, obsequiousness marks the deportment of everybody present excepttheir father, and he regards them with paternal pride. They are sons of the village khan, and as such are regarded superiorbeings by the common people about them. It looks rather ridiculous to seegrown people bearing themselves in a retiring, servile manner indeference to youngsters glaringly ignorant of how to use apocket-handkerchief, and who look as if their chief pastime were chewingdried beetroot and rolling about in the dust. But presently it is revealed that their first visit has been a mereinformal call to satisfy the first impulse of youthful curiosity. By andby their fond parent takes them away for half an hour, and then ushersthem into my presence again, transformed into gorgeous youths with niceclean faces and wiped noses. Marshalling themselves gravely oppositewhere I am sitting, they put their hands solemnly on their youthfulstomachs, salaam, and gracefully drop down into a cross-legged positionon the carpet. They look like real little chieftains now, both in dress and deportment. Scarlet roundabouts, trimmed with a profusion of gold braid, bedeck theirconsequential bodies; red slippers embroidered with gold thread covertheir feet, and their snowy turbans end in a gold-flecked tuft oftransparent muslin that imparts a bantam-like air of superiority. Theirfather comes and squats down beside me, and, as we sip tea together, hebestows a fond, parental smile upon the three scarlet poppies sittingmotionless, with heads slightly bent and eyes downcast, before us, andinquires by an eloquent sweep of his chin what I think of them asspecimens of simon-pure nobility. All through Persia the word "ob" has heretofore been used for water; butlinguistic changes are naturally to be expected near the frontier, andthe Darmian people use the term "ow. " Upon my calling for ob, the khan'sattendant stares blankly in reply; but an animated individual in thefront ranks of the crowd about the doors and windows enlightens him andme at the same time by shouting out, "Ow! ow! ow!" The muezzin, calling the faithful to their evening prayers, likewiseutters the summons here at Darmian quite differently from anything of thekind heard elsewhere. The cry is difficult to describe; but without meaning to cast reflectionson the worthy muezzin's voice, I may perhaps be permitted to mention thatthe people are twice admonished, and twice a listening katir (donkey)awakens the echoing voices of the rock-ribbed gulch in vociferousresponse. The mother-in-law of the mirza lives at Darmian, and, like a dutiful son, he lingers in her society until nine o'clock next morning. At that hourhe turns his horse's footsteps down the bed of the stream, while hiscomrade guides me for a couple of miles over a most abominablemountain-trail, rejoining the river and the dutiful son-in-law at Foorg. Foorg is situated at the extremity of the gulch, and is distinguished bya frowning old castle or fort, that occupies the crest of a precipitoushill overtopping the village and commanding a very comprehensive view ofthe country toward the Afghan frontier. The villages of Darmian and Foorg, looking out upon wild frontierterritory, inhabited chiefly by turbulent and lawless tribes-people whosehereditary instincts are diametrically opposed to the sublime ethics ofthe decalogue have no doubt often found the grim stronghold towering sopicturesquely above them an extremely convenient thing. The escort points it out and explains that it belongs to the "Padishah atTeheran, " and not to his own master, the Ameer--a national, asdistinct from a provincial, fortification. The cultivated environs ofFoorg present a most discouraging front to a wheelman; walled gardens, rocks, orchards, and ruins, with hundreds of water-ditches winding andtwisting among them, the water escaping through broken banks and creatingnew confusion where confusion already reigns supreme. Among thisindescribable jumble of mud, water, rocks, ruins, and cultivation, pitched almost at an angle of forty-five degrees, the natives climb aboutbare-legged, impressing one very forcibly as so many human goats as theyscale the walls, clamber over rocks, or wade through mud and water. A willing Foorgian divests himself of everything but his hat, and carriesthe bicycle across the stream, while I am taken up behind the mirza. Asthe mirza's iron-gray gingerly enters the water, an interesting andinstructive spectacle is afforded by a hundred or more Foorgiansfollowing the shining example of the classic figure carrying the bicycle, for the purpose of being on hand to see me start across the plain towardTabbas. Some of these good people are wearing turbans the size of a bandbox;others wear enormous sheep-skin busbies. A number of tall, angularfigures stemming the turbid stream in the elegant costumes of our firstparents, but wearing Khorassani busbies or Beerjand turbans, makes abizarre and striking picture. A gravelly trail, with the gradient slightly in my favor, enables me tocreate a better impression of a bicycler's capabilities on the mind ofthe mirza and the sowar than was possible yesterday, by quickly leavingthem far in the rear. Some miles are covered when I make a halt for themto overtake me, seeking the welcome shelter of a half-ruined waysideumbar. An Eliaute camp is but a short distance away, and several sun-paintedchildren of the desert are eagerly interviewing the bicycle when myescort comes galloping along; not seeing me anywhere in view ahead, theyhad wondered what had become of their wheel-winged charge and are quiterelieved at finding me here hobnobbing with the Eliautes behind theumbar. The mirza's fond mother-in-law has presented him with a quantity of driedpears with half a walnut imbedded in each quarter; during a brief halt atthe umbar these Darmian delicacies are fished out of his saddle-bags andduly pronounced upon, and the genial Eliautes contribute flowing bowls ofdoke (soured milk, prepared in some manner that prevents its spoiling). High noon finds us at our destination for the day, the village of Tabbas, famous in all the country around for a peculiar windmill used in grindinggrain. A grist-mill, or mills, consists of a row of one-storied mud huts, each of which contains a pair of grindstones. Connecting with the upperstone is a perpendicular shaft of wood which protrudes through the roofand extends fifteen feet above it. Cross-pieces run through at rightangles and, plaited with rushes, transform the shaft into an uprightfour-bladed affair that the wind blows around and turns the millstonesbelow. So far, this is only a very primitive and clumsy method of harnessing thewind; but connected with it is a very ingenious contrivance that redeemsit entirely from the commonplace. A system of mud walls are built about, the same height or a little higher than the shaft, in such a manner as toconcentrate and control the wind in the interest of the miller, regardless of which direction it is blowing in. The suction created by the peculiar disposition of the walls whisks therude wattle sails around in the most lively manner. Forty of these millsare in operation at Tabbas; and to see them all in full swing, making aloud "sweeshing" noise as they revolve, is a most extraordinary sight. Aside from Tabbas, these novel grist-mills are only to be seen in theterritory about the Seistan Lake. The door-way of the quarters provided for our accommodation being toosmall to admit the bicycle, not the slightest hesitation is made aboutknocking out the threshold. Every male visible about the place seemseagerly desirous of lending a hand in sweeping out the room, spreadingnummuds, bringing quilts, tea, kalians, or something. A slight ripple upon the smooth and pleasing surface of the universalinclination to do us honor is a sententious controversy between the mirzaand a blatant individual who enters objections about killing a sheep. Whether, in the absence of the village khan, the objections are based onan unwillingness to supply the mutton, or because the sheep are milesaway on the plain, does not appear; but whatever the objections, themirza overcomes them, and we get freshly slaughtered mutton for supper. Tea is evidently a luxury not to be lightly regarded at Tabbas; after theleaves have served their customary purpose, they are carefully emptiedinto a saucer, sprinkled with sugar, and handed around--each guest takes apinch of the sweetened leaves and eats it. The modus operandi of manipulating the kalian likewise comes in for aslight modification here. The ordinary Persian method, before handing thewater-pipe to another, is to lift off the top while taking the last pull, and thus empty the water-chamber of smoke. The Tabbasites accomplish thesame end by raising the top and blowing down the stem. This mightydifference in the manner of clearing the water-chamber of a hubble-bubblewill no doubt impress the minds of intellectual Occidentals as aremarkably important and valuable piece of information. Not lessinteresting and remarkable will likewise seem the fact that theflour-frescoed proprietors of these queer little Tabbas grist-mills arenothing less than the boundary-mark between that portion of thewater-pipe smoking world which blows the remaining smoke out and thatportion which inhales it. The Afghan, the Indian, and the Chinaman adoptthe former method; the Turk, the Persian, and the Arab the latter. Yet another interesting habit, evidently borrowed from their uncultivatedneighbors beyond the Dasht-i-na-oomid, is the execrable practice ofchewing snuff. Almost every man carries a supply of coarse snuff in alittle sheepskin wallet or dried bladder; at short intervals he rubs apinch of this villainous stuff all over his teeth and gums and deposits asecond pinch away in his cheek. Abdurraheim Khan, the chief of several small villages on the Tabbasplain, turns up in the evening. He is the mildest-mannered, kindliest-looking human being I have seen for a long time; he does theagreeable in a manner that leads his guests to think he worships the"Ingilis" people humbly at a distance, and is highly honored in beingable to see and entertain one of those very worshipful individuals. Likenearly all Persians, he is ignorant of the Western custom of shakinghands; the sun-browned paw extended to him as he enters is stared at amoment in embarrassment and then clasped between both his palms. The turban of Abdurraheim Khan is a marvellous evidence of skill in thearranging of that characteristic Eastern head-dress; the snowy whitenessof the material, the gracefulness of the folds, and the elegantcrest-like termination are not to be described and done justice to byeither word or pen. In reply to my inquiries, I am glad to find that Abdurraheim Khan speaksless discouragingly of the Harood than did the Ameer at Ali-abad; he saysit will be fordable for camels, and there will be no difficulty infinding nomads able to provide me an animal to cross over with. Some cause of delay, incomprehensible to me, appears to interfere withthe continuation of my journey in the morning, most of the forenoon beingspent in a discussion of the subject between Abdurraheim Khan and themirza. About noon a messenger arrives from Ali-abad, bringing a letterfrom the Ameer, which seems to clear up the mystery at once. The letterprobably contains certain instructions about providing me an escort thatwere overlooked in the letter brought by the mirza. When about starting, the khan presents me with a bowl of sweet stuff--a heavy preparation of sugar, grease, and peppermint. A very smallportion of this lead-like concoction suffices to drive out all otherconsiderations in favor of a determination never to touch it again. Anattempt to distribute it among the people about us is interpreted by thewell-meaning khan as an impulse of pure generosity on my own part; theresult being that he ties the stuff up nicely in a clean handkerchiefthat an unlucky bystander happens to display at that moment and bids mecarry it with me. An ancient retainer, without any teeth to speak of, and an annoying habitof shouting "h-o-i!" at a person, regardless of the fact that one iswithin hearing of the merest whisper, is detailed to guide me to a fewhovels perched among the mountains, four farsakhs to the southeast, fromwhich point the journey across the Dasht-i-na-oomid is to begin, with anescort of three sowars, who are to join us there later in the evening. A couple of miles over fairly level ground, and then commences again theeverlasting hills, up, up, down, up, down, clear to our destination forthe day. While trundling along over the rough foot-hills, I am approachedby some nomads who are tending goats near by. Seeing them gather aboutme, my aged but valiant protector comes galloping briskly up andimperatively waves them away. A grandfatherly party, with a hackingcough, a rusty cimeter, and a flint-lock musket of "ye olden tyme, " Ifancied "The Aged" merely a guide to show me the road. As I worry alongover the rough, unridable mountains, the irritation of being shouted"hoi!" at for no apparent reason, except for the luxury of hearing themusic of his own voice, is so annoying that I have about resolved toabandon him to a well-deserved fate, in case of attack. But now, instead of leaning on me for protection, he blossoms forth atonce as not only the protector of his own person, but of mine as well! Ashe comes galloping bravely up and dismisses the wild-looking children ofthe desert with a grandiloquent sweep of his hand, he is almost rewardedby an involuntary "bravo, old un!" from myself, so superior to theoccasion does he seem to rise. The little nest of mud huts are found, after a certain amount ofhesitation and preliminary going ahead by "The Aged, " and towardnightfall three picturesque horsemen ride up and dismount; they are thesowars detailed by the Ameer's orders to Abdurraheim, or some otherborder-land khan, to escort me across the Desert of Despair. "The Aged" bravely returns to Tabbas in the morning by himself. When onthe point of departing, he surveys me wistfully across a few feet ofspace and shouts "h-o-i!" He then regards me with a peculiar andindescribable smile. It is not a very hard smile to interpret, however, and I present him with the customary backsheesh. Pocketing the coins, heshouts "h-o-i!'" again, and delivers himself of another smile even morepeculiar and indescribable than the other. "Persian-like, receiving a present of money only excites his cupidity formore, " I think; and so reply by a deprecatory shake of the head. Thisturns out to be an uncharitable judgment, however, for once; he goesthrough the pantomime of using a pen and says, "Abdurraheim Khan. " He sawme write my name, the date of my appearance at Tabbas, etc. , on a pieceof paper and give it to Abdurraheim Khan, and he wants me to do the samething for him. The three worthies comprising my new escort are most interestingspecimens of the genus sowar; the leader and spokesman of the trio sayshe is a khan; number two is a mirza, and number three a mudbake. Khansare pretty plentiful hereabouts, and it is nothing surprising to happenacross one acting in the humble capacity of a sowar; a mirza gets histitle from his ability to write letters; the precise social status of amudbake is more difficult to here determine, but his properroosting-place is several rungs of the social ladder below either of theothers. They are to take me through to the Khan of Grhalakua, the firstAfghan chieftain beyond the desert, and to take back to the Ameer areceipt from him for my safe delivery. It is a far easier task to reckon up their moral calibre than theirsocial. Before being in their delectable company an hour they reveal thatstrange mingling of childlike simplicity and total moral depravity thatenters into the composition of semi-civilized kleptomaniacs. The khan isa person of a highly sanguine temperament and possesses a headstrongdisposition; coupled with his perverted notions of meum and tuum, thesequalities will some fine day end in his being brought up with a roundturn and required to part company with his ears or nose, or to be turnedadrift on the cold charity of the world, deprived of his hands by thecrude and summary justice of Khorassan. His eyes are brown and large, andspherical almost as an owl's eyes, and they bulge out in a manner thatexposes most of the white. He wears long hair, curled up after the mannerof Persian la-de-da-dom, and in his crude, uncivilized sphere evidentlyfancies himself something of a dandy. The mirza is quiet and undemonstrative in his manners, as compared withhis social superior; and as becomes a person gifted with the rare talentof composing and writing letters, his bump of cautiousness is severaldegrees larger than the khan's, but is, nevertheless, not large enough tocounterbalance the pernicious effect of an inherited and deeply rootedyearning for filthy lucre and a lamentable indifference as to the mannerof obtaining it. The mudbake is the oldest man of the three, and consequently should befound setting the others a good example; but, instead of this, hisfrequent glances at my packages are, if anything, more heavily freightedwith the molecules of covetousness and an eager longing to overhaul theircontents than either the khan's or the mirza's. "Pool, pool, pool--keran, keran, keran, " the probable amount in mypossession, the amount they expect to receive as backsheesh, and kindredspeculations concerning the financial aspect of the situation, formalmost the sole topic of their conversation. Throwing them off theirguard, by affecting greater ignorance of their language than I am reallyguilty of, enables me to size them up pretty thoroughly by theirconversation, and thus to adopt a line of policy to counteract thebaneful current of their thoughts. Their display of cunning and rascalityis ridiculous in the extreme; fancying themselves deep and unfathomableas the shades of Lucifer himself, they are, in reality, almost astransparent and simple as children; their cunning is the cunning of theschool-boy. Well aware that the safety of their own precious carcassesdepends on their returning to Khorassan with a receipt from the Khan ofGhalakua for my safe delivery, there is little reason to fear actualviolence from them, and their childish attempts at extortion by othermethods will furnish an amusing and instructive study of barbariancharacter. The hovel in which our queerly assorted company of eight people sleep--the owners of the shanty, "The Aged, " the khan, the mirza, themudbake, and myself--is entered by a mere hole in the wall, and thebicycle has to stand outside and take the brunt of a heavy thunder-stormduring the night. In this respect, however, it is an object of envyrather than otherwise, for myriads of fleas, larger than I would care tosay, for fear of being accused of exaggeration, hold high revel on ourdevoted carcasses all the livelong night. From the swarms of these friskyinsects that disport and kick their heels together in riotous revelry onand about my own person, I fancy, forsooth, they have discovered in mesomething to be made the most of, as a variety of food seldom comingwithin their province. But the complaining moans of "Ali-Akbar" from "TheAged, " the guttural grunts of disapproval from the mirza and the mudbake, and the impatient growls of "kek" (flea) from the khan, tell of theirbeing at least partial companions in misery; but, being thicker-skinned, and withal well seasoned to this sort of thing, their sufferings are lessthan mine. The rain has cleared up, but the weather looks unsettled, as about eighto'clock next morning our little party starts eastward under the guidanceof a villager whom I have employed to guide us out of the immediate rangeof mountains, the sowars betraying a general ignorance of thecommencement of the route. My escort are a great improvement as regards their arms and equipmentsupon "The Aged. " Among the three are two percussion double-barrelledshot-guns, a percussion musket, six horse-pistols of various degrees ofserviceableness, swords, daggers, ornamental goat's-paunchpowder-pouches, peculiar pendent brass rings containing spring nippersfor carrying and affixing caps, leathern water-bottles, together withvarious odds and ends of warlike accoutrements distributed about theirpersons or their saddles. "Inshallah, Ghalakua, Gh-al-a-kua!" exclaims the khan, as he swingshimself into the saddle. "Inshallah, Al-lah, " is the response of themirza and the mudbake, as they carelessly follow his example, and themarch across the Dasht-i-na-oomid begins. The ryot leads the way afoot, following along the partially empty beds ofmountain torrents, through patches of rank camel-thorn, overbowlder-strewn areas and drifts of sand, sometimes following along themerest suggestion of a trail, but quite as frequently following no trailat all. At certain intervals occurs a piece of good ridable ground; ourvillager-guide then looks back over his shoulder and bounds ahead with aswinging trot, eager to enjoy the spectacle of the bicycle spinning alongat his heels; the escort bring up the rear in a leisurely manner, absorbed in the discussion of "pool. " Several miles are covered in this manner, when we emerge upon a more opencountry, and after consulting at some length with the villager, the khandeclares himself capable of finding the way without further assistance. It is a strange, wild country, where we part from our local guide; itlooks as though it might be the battleground of the elements. A trail, that is only here and there to be made out, follows a southeasternlycourse down a verdureless tract of country strewn with rocks and bowldersand furrowed by the rushing waters of torrents now dried up. Jagged rocksand bowlders are here mingled in indescribable confusion on a surface ofunproductive clay and smaller stones. On the east stretches a waste oflow, stony hills, and on the west, the mountains we have recently emergedfrom rise two thousand feet above us in an almost unbroken wall ofprecipitous rock. By and by the khan separates himself from the party and gallops away outof sight to the left, his declared mission being to purchase "goosht-i"(mutton) from a camp of nomads, whose whereabouts he claims to know. Asthe commissaire of the party, I have, of course, intrusted him with asufficient quantity of money to meet our expenses; and the mirza and themudbake no sooner find themselves alone than another excellent trait oftheir character conies to the surface. Upon comparing their thoughts, they find themselves wonderfully unanimous in their suspicions as to thehonesty of the khan's intentions toward--not me, but themselves! These worthy individuals are troubled about the khan's independentconduct in going off alone to spend money where they cannot witness thetransaction. They are sorely troubled as to probable sharp practice onthe part of their social superior in the division of the spoils. The "spoils!" Shades of Croesus! The whole transaction is but an affairof battered kermis, intrinsically not worth a moment's consideration; butit serves its purpose of affording an interesting insight into thecharacter of my escort. The poor mirza and the mudbake are, no doubt, fully justified inentertaining the worst opinions possible of the khan; he is a sadscoundrel, on a small scale, to say the least. While they are growlingout to each other their grievances and apprehensions, that artful schemeris riding his poor horse miles and miles over the stony hills to thecamping-ground of some hospitable Eliaute chieftain, from whom he canobtain goosht-i-goosfany for nothing, and come back and say he bought it. Several miles are slowly travelled by us three, when, no sign of the khanappearing, we decide upon a halt until he rejoins us. In an hour or sothe bizarre figure of the absentee is observed approaching us from overthe hills, and before many minutes he is welcomed by a simultaneous queryof "chand pool?" (how much money?) from his keenly suspicious comrades, delivered in a ludicrously sarcastic tone of voice. "Doo Tceran, " promptly replies the khan, making a most hopeless effort toconceal his very palpable guilt beneath a transparent assumption ofinnocence. The mirza and the mudbake make no false pretence of taking himat his word, but openly accuse him of deceiving them. The khan maintainshis innocence with vehement language and takes refuge incounter-accusations. The wordy warfare goes merrily on for some minutesas earnestly as if they were quarrelling over their own honest moneyinstead of over mine. The joint query of "chand pool?" gathers anadditional load of irony from the fact that they didn't seem to think itworth while to even ask him what he had bought. Across the pommel of his saddle he carries a young kid, which is nowhanded to the mudbake to be tethered to a shrub; he then dismounts andproduces three or four pounds of cold goat meat. Before proceeding againon our way we consume this cold meat, together with bread brought fromlast night's rendezvous. By reason of his social inferiority the mudbakeis now required to assume the burden of carrying the youthful goat; hetakes the poor kid by the scruff of the neck and flings it roughly acrosshis saddle in a manner that causes the gleeful spirits of the khan tofind vent in a peal of laughter. Even the usually imperturbablecountenance of the mirza lightens up a little, as though infected by thekhan's overflowing merriment and the mudbake's rough handling of theyoung goat. They know each other thoroughly--as thoroughly asorchard-looting, truant-playing, teacher-deceiving school-boys--thesethree hopeful aspirants to the favor of Allah; they are an amusing trio, and not a little instructive. CHAPTER VIII. ACROSS THE "DESERT OF DESPAIR. " For some hours we are traversing a singularly wild-looking country; itseems as though the odds and ends of all creation were tossedindiscriminately together. Rocky cliffs, sloping hills, riverbeds, drysave from last night's thunder-storm, bits of sandy desert, strips ofalkaline flat or hard gravel, have been gathered up from various parts ofthe earth and tossed carelessly in a heap here. It is an odd corner inwhich the chips, the sweepings and trimmings, gathered up after theterrestrial globe was finished, were apparently brought and dumped. Thereis even a little bit of pasture, and at one point a little area of arableland. Here are found four half-naked representatives of this strange, wild border-land, living beneath one rude goat-hair tent, watching over afew grazing goats and several acres of growing grain. We arrive at this remarkable little community shortly after noon, andhalt a couple of hours to rest and feed the horses, and to kill and cookthe unhappy kid slung across the mudbake's saddle. The poor littlecreature doesn't require very much killing; all the way from where it wasgiven into his tender charge its infantile bleatings have seemed to grateharshly on the mudbake's unsympathetic ear, and he has handled it anywisebut tenderly. The four men found here are Persian Eliautes, a numeroustribe, that seem to form a sort of connecting link between the genuinenomads and the tillers of the soil. They are frequently found combiningthe occupations of both, and might aptly be classed as semi-nomads. Pitching their tents beside some outlying, isolated piece of cultivableground in the spring, they sow it with wheat or barley, and three monthslater they reap a supply of grain to carry away with them when theyremove their flocks to winter pasturage. An iron kettle is borrowed to stew the kid in, and when cooked a portionis stowed away to carry with us. The Eliaute quartette contribute bowlsof mast and doke, and off this and the remainder of the stewed kid we allmake a hearty meal. More than once of late have I been impressed by the striking, evenstartling, resemblance of some person among the people of SouthernKhorassan, to the familiar face of some acquaintance at home. And, strange it is, but true, that one of these four Eliautes blossoms forthupon my astonished vision as the veritable double of one of America'smost prominent knights of the pen and wheel. The gentleman himself, anenthusiastic tourist, and to use his own expression, fond of "walkinglarge, " has taken considerable interest in my tour of the world. Can itbe--I think, upon first confronting this extraordinary reproduction--canit be, that Karl Kron's enthusiasm has caused him to start from thePacific coast of China on his wheel to try and beat my time incircumcycling the globe? And after getting as far as this strange terrestrial chip-pile, he hasbeen so unfortunately susceptible as to fall in love with someslender-limbed daughter of the desert?--has he been captivated by apair of big, opthamalmia-proof, black eyes, a coy sidewise glance, or agraceful, jaunty style of shouldering a half-tanned goat-skin of doke? The very first question the nomad asks of the khan, however, removes allsuspicions of his being the author and publisher of X. M. M. --heasks if I am a Ferenghi and whither I am going; Kron would have asked mefor tabulated statistics of my tour through Persia. A couple of hours' rest in the Eliaute camp, and we bid adieu to thisqueer little oasis of human life within the barbarous boundary-line ofthe Dasht-i-na-oomid, and proceed on our way. One of the Eliautesaccompanies us some little distance to guide us through a belt of badlybroken country immediately surrounding their camp. The country continuesto be a regular jumble of odds and ends of physical geography all theafternoon, and several times the horses of the sowars, withoutpreliminary warning, break through the thin upper crust of sometreacherous boggy spot and sink suddenly to their bellies. During theafternoon the mirza is pitched headlong over his horse's head once, andthe khan and the mudbake twice. In one tumble the khan's loosely sheathedsword slips from its scabbard, and he well nigh falls a victim to theaccident a la King Saul. While traversing this treacherous belt ofterritory I make the sowars lead the way and perform the office ofpathfinder for myself and wheel. Whenever one of them gets stuck in boggyground, and his horse flounders wildly about, to the imminent risk ofunseating its rider, his two hopeful comrades bubble over with merrimentat his expense; his own sincere exclamations of "Allah!" being answeredby unsympathetic jeers and sarcastic remarks. A few minutes later, perchance one of the hilarious twain finds himself unexpectedly in thesame predicament; it then becomes his turn to look scared and importuneAllah for protection, and also his turn to be the target for the wildhilarity of the others. And so this lively and eventful afternoon passes away, and about fiveo'clock we round the base of a conglomerate hill that has been shuttingout the prospect ahead, cross a small spring freshet, and emerge upon anextensive gravelly plain stretching away eastward to the horizon. It isthe central plain of the Dasht-i-na-oomid, the heart of the desert, ofwhich the wild, heterogeneous territory traversed since morning forms thesetting. So far as the utility of the bicycle and the horses isconcerned, the change is decidedly for the better, even more so for theformer than for the latter. The gravelly plain presents very goodwheeling surface, and I forge ahead of my escort, following a trail sofaint that it is barely distinguishable from the general surface. Shortlyafter leaving the mountainous country the three sowars hip their horsesinto a smart canter to overtake the bicycle. As they come clattering up, the khan shouts loudly for me to stop, and the mirza and mudbakesupplement his vocal exertions by gesticulating to the same purpose. Dismounting, and allowing them to approach, in reply to my query of "Chimi khoi?" the khan's knavish countenance becomes overspread with aridiculously thin and transparent assumption of seriousness andimportance, and pointing to an imaginary boundary-line at his horse'sfeet he says: "Bur-raa (brother), Afghanistan. " "Khylie koob, Afghanistaninja-koob, hoob, sowari. " (Very good, I understand, we are enteringAfghanistan; all right, ride on. ) "Sowari neis, " replies the khan; and hetries hard to impress upon me that our crossing the Afghan frontier is amomentous occasion, and not to be lightly regarded. Several times duringthe day has my delectable escort endeavored to fathom the extent of mycourage by impressing upon me the danger to be apprehended in Afghanistanby a Ferenghi. Not less than half a dozen times have they indulged in thegrim pantomime of cutting their own throats, and telling me that this isthe tragic fate that would await me in Afghanistan without their valuableprotection. And now, as we stand on the boundary line, their bronzed andbared throats are again subjected to this highly expressive treatment;and transfixing me with a penetrating stare, as though eager to read inmy face some responsive sign of fear or apprehension, the khan repeatswith emphasis: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan. " Seeing me still inclined tomake light of the matter, he turns to his comrades for confirmation. "O, bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan, " assents the mirza; and the mudbake chimes inwith the same words. "Well, yes, I understand; Afghanistan--what ofit?" I inquire, amused at this theatrical display of their childishknavery. For answer they start to loading up their guns and pistols, which up tonow they have neglected to do; and they examine, with a ludicrous show ofimportance, the edges of their swords and the points of their daggers, staring the while at me to see what kind of an impression all this ismaking. Their scrutiny of my countenance brings them small satisfaction, methinks, for so ludicrous seems the scene, and so transparent themotives of this warlike movement, that no room is there for aught but agenuine expression of amusement. Having loaded up their imposing array of firearms, the khan gives theword to advance, with as much show of solemnity as though leading aforlorn hope on some desperate undertaking, and he impresses upon me theimportance of keeping as close to then as possible, instead of ridingahead. All around us is the unto-habited plain; not a living thing orsign of human being anywhere; but when I point this out, and picking up astone, ask the khan if it is these that are dangerous, he replies, asbefore: "Bur-raa-ther, Afghanistan, " and significantly taps his weapons. As we advance the level plain becomes covered with a growth of wild thymeand camel-thorn, the former permeating the desert air with its agreeableperfume. The evening air is soft and balmy I as we halt in the dusk ofthe evening to camp alongside the trail; each sowar has a large leathernwater-bottle swinging from his stirrup-strap filled at the little freshetabove mentioned, and for food we have bread and the remains of the coldkid. The horses are fastened to stout shrubs, and a fire is kindled withdried camel-thorn collected by the mudbake. Not a sound breaks thestillness of the evening as we squat around the fire and eat our frugalsupper--all about us is the oppressive silence and solitude of thedesert Away off in the dim distance to the northeast can be seen a singlespeck of light--the camp-fire of some wandering Afghan tribe. "What is the fire yonder?" I ask of the khan. The khan looks at it, sayssomething to his comrades, and then looks at me and draws his finger yetagain across his throat; the mirza and the mudbake follow suit. Theridiculous frequency of this tragic demonstration causes me to laughoutright, in spite of an effort to control my risibilities. The khanreplies to this by explaining, "Afghani Noorzais-dasht-adam, " and thengoes on to explain that the Noorzais are very bad Afghans, who would likenothing better than to murder a Ferenghi. From the beginning of ouracquaintance I have allowed my escort to think my understanding of theconversation going on among themselves is extremely limited. By thismeans have they been thrown somewhat off their guard, and frequentlycommitted themselves within my hearing. It is their laudable purpose, Ihave discovered, to steal money from me if an opportunity presentswithout the chance of being detected. Besides being inquisitive about theprobable amount in my possession, there has evolved from their collectivebrain during the day, a deep-laid scheme to find out something about theamount of backsheesh they may expect me to bestow upon them at the end ofour journey. This deep-laid scheme is for the khan to pretend that he issending the mirza and the mudbake back to Beerjand from this point, andfor these two hopeful accomplices to present themselves before me asabout ready to depart, and so demand backsheesh. This little farce isduly played shortly after our arrival; it is a genuine piece of lightcomedy, acted on the strangely realistic stage of the lonely desert, towhich the full round moon just rising above the eastern horizon. Theseadvances are met on my part by broad intimations that if they continue toact as ridiculously during the remainder of the journey as they haveto-day they will surely get well bastinadoed, instead of backsheeshed, when we reach Ghalakua. The actors retire from the stage with visiblediscomfiture and squat themselves around the fire. Long after I havestretched my somewhat weary frame upon a narrow strip of saddle-blanketfor the night, my three "protectors" squat around the smouldering embersof the camel-thorn fire, discussing the all-absorbing topic of my money. Little do they suspect that concealed in a leathern money-belt beneath myclothes are one hundred Russian gold Imperials, the money obtained inTeheran for the journey through Turkestan and Siberia to the Pacific. Though sleeping with the traditional one eye open and my Smith & Wessonwhere it can be readily used, there is little apprehension of beingrobbed, owing to their obligation to take back the receipt for my safedelivery to Heshmet-i-Molk. It is the weather-changeful period of the full moon, and about midnight aclap of thunder rolls over the desert, and a smart shower descends from asmall dark cloud, that sails slowly across the sky, obscuring for a briefperiod the moist-looking countenance of the moon, and then disappears. Acouple of hours later a rush of wind is heard careering across the deserttoward us, accompanied by a wildly scudding cloud. The cloud peppers uswith hailstones in the most lively manner, and the wind strikes us almostwith the force of a tornado, knocking over the bicycle, which I haveleaned against a clump of shrubs at my head, and favoring us with ablinding fusilade of sand and gravel. It rains and hails enough to make us wet and uncomfortable, and themudbake gets up and kindles another fire. In a short time the squallymidnight weather has given place to a dead calm; the clouds havedispersed; the moon shines all the brighter from having had its facewashed; the stars twinkle themselves out one by one as the gray dawngradually makes itself manifest. It is a most lovely morning; thebruising hailstones and the moistening rain have proved themselvesstimulants in the laboratory of the wild-thyme shrubs, setting free anddisseminating a new supply of aroma; and while until now the voice ofanimate nature has been conspicuous by its absence, the morning vespersof song-birds seed almost to be issuing, like flowers, from the ground. There is an indescribable charm about this morning's experience on thedesert; dawn appears, the moon hangs low-suspended in the heavens, thebirds carol merrily, and every inspiration one takes is a tonic tostimulate the system. Half an hour later the sun has risen, thesong-birds have one and all lapsed into silence, the desert is itselfagain, stern, silent, uncompromising, and apparently destitute of life. Total depravity, it appears, has not yet claimed my worthy escort for itsown entirely, for while saddling up their horses during this briefdisplay of nature's kindlier mood they call my attention to the singingof the birds and the grateful perfumery in the air. The germ of goodnessstill lingers within their semi-civilized conception of things aboutthem; they are the children of Nature, and are profoundly impressed bytheir mother's varying moods. Their prostrations toward Mecca and theirmatutinal prayers to Allah seem to gain something of sincerity from theaccompanying worship of the birds and the sympathetic essence of theawakening day. Eastward from our camping-ground the trail is oftentimesindistinguishable; but a few loose stones have been tossed together atintervals of several hundred yards, to guide wayfarers across the desert. A surface of mingled sand and gravel characterizes the way; sometimes itis unridably heavy, and sometimes the wheeling is excellent for a mile ortwo at a stretch, enabling me to leave the ambling yahoos of the sowarsfar behind. Beautiful mirages sometimes appear in the distance--lakes of water, waving groves of palms, and lovely castles; andoften, when far enough ahead, I can look back, and see the grotesquefigures of the khan, the mirza, and the mudbake apparently riding throughthe air. Perhaps twenty miles are covered, when we arrive at a pile of dead brushthat has been erected for a landmark, and find a dilapidated wellcontaining water. The water is forty feet below the surface, and containsa miscellaneous assortment of dead lizards, the carcasses of varioussmall mammalia, and sundry other unfortunate representatives of animatednature that have fallen in. Beyond this well the country assumes thecharacter of a broad sink or mud-basin, the shiny surface of its mudglistening in the sun like a sheet of muddy water. Sloughs innumerablemeander through it, fringed with rank rushes and shrubs. A far heavierdown-pour than we were favored with on the plain has drenched a region ofstony hills adjacent, and the drainage therefrom has, for the time being, filled and overflowed the winding sloughs. A dozen or more of these are successfully forded, though not without somedifficulty; but we finally arrive at the parent slough, of which theothers are but tributaries. This proves too deep for the sowars' horsesto ford, and after surveying the yellow flood some minutes and searchingup and down, the khan declares ruefully that we shall have to return toBeerjand. As I remonstrate with him upon his lack of enterprise inturning from so trifling a difficulty, the khan finally orders themudbake to strip off his purple and fine linen and try the depth. Themudbake proceeds to obey his superior, with many apprehensive glances atthe muddy freshet, and wades gingerly in, muttering prayers to Allah thewhile. Deeper and deeper the yellow waters creep up his shivering form, and when nearly up to his neck, a sudden deepening causes him to bobunexpectedly down almost over his head. Hurriedly retreating, splutteringand whining, he scrambles hastily ashore, where his two companions, lolling lazily on their horses, watching his attempt, are convulsed withmerriment over his little misadventure and his fright. The shivering mudbake, clad chiefly in goose-pimples, now eagerlysupplements the khan's proposition for us all to return to Beerjand, andthe mirza with equal eagerness murmurs his approval of the same course ofaction. Making light of their craven determination, I prepare to crossthe freshet without their assistance, and announce my intention ofproceeding alone. The stream, though deep, is not over thirty yards wide, and a very few minutes suffices for me to swim across with my clothes, mypackages, and the saddle of the bicycle; the small, strong rope I havecarried from Constantinople is then attached to the bicycle, and, swimming across with the end, the wheel is pulled safely through thewater. Neither of the sowars can swim, and they regard the prospect ofbeing left behind with no little consternation. Their guileful souls seemto turn naturally to Allah in their perplexity; and they all prostratethemselves toward Mecca, and pray with the apparent earnestness of deepsincerity. Having duly strengthened and fortified themselves with thesedevotional exercises, they bravely prepare to resign themselves to kismetand follow my instructions about crossing the stream. The khan's iron-gray being the best horse of the three, and the khanhimself of a more sanguine and hopeful disposition, I make him tie allhis clothes and damageable things into a bundle and fasten them on hissaddle; the rope is then tied to the bridle and the horse pulled across, his gallant rider clinging to his tail, according to my orders, andpraying aloud to Allah on his own account. The gray swims the unfordablemiddle portion nobly, and the khan comes through with no worse damagethan a mouthful or two of muddy water. As the dripping charger scramblesup the bank, the khan allows himself to be hauled up high and dry by itstail; he then looks back at his comrades and favors them with a brief buthighly exaggerated account of his sensations. The mirza and the mudbake deliver themselves of particularly deep-chestedacclamations of "Allah, Allah!" at the prospect of undergoing similarsensations to those described by the khan, whereupon that unsympatheticindividual vents his hilarity in a gleeful, heartless peal of laughter, and tells them, with a diabolical chuckle of delight, that they will mostlikely fare ten times worse than himself on account of the inferiority oftheir horses compared with the gray. Much threatening, bantering, andpersuasion is necessary to induce them to follow the leadership of thekhan; but, trusting to kismet, they finally venture, and both comethrough without noteworthy misadventure. The khan's wild hilarity andribaldish jeers at the expense of his two subordinates, as he stands onthe solid foundation of a feat happily already accomplished and surveystheir trepidation, and hears their prayers as they are pulled like humandinghies through the water, is in such ludicrous contrast to his ownprayerful utterances under the same circumstances a minute before that myown risibilities are not to be wholly controlled. This little episode makes a profound impression upon the minds of myescort; they now regard me as a very dare-devil and determinedindividual, a person entirely without fear, and their deference duringthe remainder of the afternoon is in marked contrast to their previousattempts to work upon my presumed apprehensions of the dangers ofAfghanistan. Following the guidance of a few rude landmarks of piled brush, wediscover, a few miles off to the left, and on the eastern environ of theslough-veined basin, a considerable body of tents and a herd of grazingcamels. The sowars pronounce them to be a certain camp of Einiucks thatthey have been expecting to find somewhere in this vicinity, and withwhose chief the khan says he is acquainted. Wending our way thither we find a large camp of about fifty tentsoccupying a level stretch of clean gravelly ground, slightly elevatedabove the mud-flats. The tents are of brownish-black goat-hair, similarin material to the tents of Koords and Eliautes; in size and structurethey are larger and finer than those of the Eliautes, but inferior to thesplendid tent-palaces of Koordistan. A couple of hundred yards from thetents is a small spring of water, enclosed within a rude wall ofloosely-piled stone; the water is allowed to trickle through this walland accumulate in a basin outside. Here, as we ride up, are several womenfilling goat-skin vessels to carry to the tents. The tent of the chief stands out conspicuously from the others, and thekhan, desirous of giving his "bur-raa-ther, " as he now terms the Eimuckchieftain, a surprise, suggests that I ride ahead of the horsemen anddismount before his tent. This capital little arrangement is somewhatinterfered with by the fact that a goodly proportion of the malepopulation present have already become cognizant of our presence, and arestanding in white-robed groups about their tents trying with hand-shadedeyes to penetrate the secret of my strange appearance. Nevertheless, Iride ahead and alight at the entrance to the chief's tent. The chief is amiddle-aged man of medium height and inclined to obesity. He and all themen are arrayed in garments of coarse white cotton stuff throughout, loose pantaloons, bound at the ankles, and an over-garment of a patternvery much like a night-shirt; on their heads are the regulation Afghanturbans, with long, dangling ends, and their feet are incased in rudemoccasins with upturned toes. As I dismount, and the chief fully realizesthat I am a Ferenghi, his face turns red with embarrassment. Instead ofthe smiles or the grave kindliness of a Koordish sheikh, or the simple, childlike greeting of an Eliaute, the Eimuck chief motions me into histent in a brusque, offish manner, his countenance all aglow with theredness of what almost looks like a guilty conscience. With the intuition that comes of long and changeful association withstrange peoples, the changing countenance of the Afghan chief impressesme at once as the fiery signal of inbred Mussulman fanaticism, lightingup spontaneously at the unexpected and unannounced arrival of a loneFerenghi in his presence. It savors somewhat of bearding a dangerous lionin his own den. He certainly betrays deep embarrassment at my appearance;which, however, may partly result from not yet knowing the character ofmy companions, or the wherefore of this strange visitation. When myescort rides up his whole demeanor instantly undergoes a change; thecloud of embarrassment lifts from his face, he and the khan recognize andgreet each other cordially as "bur-raa-ther, " and kiss each-other'shands; some of his men standing by exchange similar brotherly greetingswith the mirza and the mudbake. After duly refreshing and invigorating ourselves with sundry bowls ofdoke, the inevitable tomasha is given, and the chief asks the khan to getme to ride up before one row of tents and down the other for theedification of the women and children, curious groups of whom aregathered at every door. The ground between the two long, even rows oftents resembles a macadam boulevard for width and smoothness, and I givethe wild Eimuck tribes-people a ten minutes' exhibition of circling, speeding, and riding with hands off handles. A strange and novelexperience, surely, this latest triumph of high Western civilization, invading the isolated nomad camp on the Dasht-i-na-oomid and disportingfor the amusement of the women and children. Some of the women areattired in quite fanciful colors; Turkish pantaloons of bright blue andjackets of equally bright red render them highly picturesque, and theywear a profusion of bead necklaces and the multifarious gewgaws ofsemi-civilization. The younger girls wear nose-rings of silver in theleft nostril, with a cluster of tiny beads or stones decorating the sideof the nose. The wrists of most of the men are adorned with bracelets ofplain copper wire about the size of ordinary telegraph wire; they averagelarge and well-proportioned, and seem intellectually superior to theEliautes. A very striking peculiarity of the people in this particularcamp is a sort of lisping, hissing accent to their speech. When firstaddressed by the chief, I fancied it simply an individual case oflisping; but every person in the camp does likewise. Another peculiarityof expression, that, while not peculiar to this particular camp, is madestriking by reason of its novelty to me at this time, the use of theexpression "O" as a term of assent, in lieu of the Persian "balli. " Thesowars, from their proximity to the frontier, have sometimes used thisexpression, but here, in the Eimuck camp, I come suddenly upon a peoplewho use it to the total exclusion of the Persian word. The change fromthe "balli sahib" of the Tabbas villagers to the "O, O, O" of the Afghannomads is novel and entertaining in the extreme, and I sit and listenwith no small interest to the edifying conversation of the khan, themirza, and the mudbake on the one side, and the Eimuck chieftain andprominent members of the tribe on the other. Standing behind the chief, who sits cross-legged on a Persian nummud, isa handsome, intelligent-looking man, who seems to be the mostpleasant-faced and entertaining conversationalist of the nomads. The kahngrows particularly talkative and communicative, the evening hours flowon, and while addressing his remarks and queries directly to the chief, he gazes about him to observe the effects of his words on the generalassembly gathered inside and crowded about the tent-entrance. Thepleasant-faced man does far more talking in reply than does the chiefhimself. In reply to the khan's innumerable queries he replies, in thepeculiar, hissing shibboleth of the camp, "O, O, O-O bus-s-s-orah, b-s-s-s-orah. " Sometimes the khan delivers himself of quite a lengthydisquisition, and as his remarks are followed by the assembled nomadswith the eager interest of people who seldom hear anything but the musicof their own voices, the interesting individual above referred tosprinkles his assenting "O, O, O" thickly along the line of the khan'spresumably edifying narrative; now and then the chief himself chimes inwith a quiet "b-s-s-s-orah. " Here also, in this camp of surprises andinnovations, do I first hear the word "India" used in lieu of "Hindostan"among Asiatics. The fatigue of the day's journey, and the imperfect rest of the twopreceding nights, cause me to be overcome with drowsiness, early in theevening, and I stretch oat alongside the bicycle and fall into a deepsleep. An hour or two later I am awakened for the evening meal. Flat, pancake-like sheets of unleavened bread, inferior to the bread of Persia, and partaking somewhat of the character of the chupalties of India, boiled goat, and the broth preserved from the same, together with theregulation mast and doke, constitute the Eimuek supper. A liberal bowl ofthe broth, an abundance of meat, bread, mast and doke are placed beforeme on a separate wooden tray, while my escort, the chief, and several ofhis men gather around a communal spread of the same variety of edibles. Acrowd of curious people occupy the remainder of the space inside, andstand at the door. As I rise and prepare to eat, all eyes are turned uponme as though anticipating some surprising exhibition of the strangemanners of a Ferenghi at his meals. Surveying the broth, I motion thekhan to try and obtain a spoon. The chief looks inquiringly at the khan, and the khan with the gladsome expression of a person conscious of havingon hand a rare piece of information for his friends, explains that aFerenghi eats soup with a spoon. The chief and his men smile incredibly, but the khan emphasizes his position by appealing to the mirza and themudbake for confirmation. "Eat soup with a spoon?" queries the chief inPersian; and he casts about him a look of unutterable astonishment. Recovering somewhat from his incredulity, however, he orders an attendantto fetch one, which shortly results in the triumphant production of arude wooden ladle. These uncivilized children of the desert watch medrink broth from the ladle with most intense curiosity. In their owncase, an attendant tears several of the sheets of bread into pieces andputs them in the broth; each person then helps himself to thebroth-soaked bread with his fingers. What broth remains at the bottom ofthe bowl is drunk by them from the vessel itself in turns. Afterconsuming several generous chunks of "gusht" bread and mast and broth, and supplementing this with a bowl of doke, I stretch myself out againand at once become wrapped in sound, refreshing slumbers that last tillmorning. It is a glorious morning as, after breakfasting off the cold remains ofthe meat left over from the evening meal, we bid farewell to thehospitable Eimuek camp and resume our journey. As we leave, I offer toshake hands with the chief to see if he understands our mode of greeting;he seizes my hand between his two palms and kisses it. For the first fewmiles the country is gravelly and undulating, after which it changes to asort of basin, partially covered by dense patches of tall, rank weeds. Oneither side are rocky hills, almost rising to the dignity of mountains;the rain and melting snow evidently convert this basin into a swamp atcertain periods, but it is now dry. A mile or so off to the right wecatch a glimpse, of some wild animal chasing a small herd of antelope. From its size and motion, I judge it to be a leopard or cheetah; thesowars regard it, bounding along after the fleet-footed antelope, withlively interest; they call it a "baab" (tiger), and say there are many inthe reeds. It looks quite a likely spot for tigers, and it is not at allunlikely that it may have been one, for, while not plentiful hereabout, Tigris Asiaticus occasionally makes his presence known in the patches ofreed and jungle in Southern Afghanistan and Seistan. All three of the sowars are frisky as kittens this morning, the result, it is surmised, of the generous hospitality of the Eimuek chief--gusht galore and rich broth cause their animal spirits to runriot. Like overfed horses they "feel their oats" as they sniff the freshand invigorating morning air, and they point toward the shadowy form ofthe racing baab a mile away, and pretend to take aim at it with theirguns. They sing and shout and swoop down on one another about the basin, flourishing their swords and aiming with their guns, and they whip theirpoor, long-suffering yahoos into wild, sweeping gallops as they swoopdown on some imaginary enemy. This wild hilarity and mimic warfare of thedesert is kept up until the ragged edge of their exuberance is worn away, and their horses are well-nigh fagged out; we then halt for an hour toallow the horses to recuperate by nibbling at a patch of reeds. About ten miles from the Eimuek camp, the country develops into awilderness of deep, loose sand and bowlders. Across this sandy regionstretches a range of dark volcanic hills; the bases of the hillsterminate in billows of whitish-yellow sand; the higher waves of thesandy sea stretch well up the sides like giant ocean breakers driven bythe gale up the side of the rocky cliffs. It is a tough piece of countryeven for the sowars' horses, and dragging a bicycle through the mingledsand and bowlders is abominable in the extreme. The heat becomesoppressive as we penetrate deeper into the belt of sand-hills, and afterfive miles of desperate tugging I become tired and distressed. The sowarslolling lazily in their saddles, well-nigh sleeping, while I am strugglingand perspiring, form another chapter of experience entirely novel in thefield of European travel in Asia. Usually it is the natives who have tosweat and toil and administer to the comfort of the traveller. Revolving these things over in my mind, and becoming really wearied, Isuggest to the khan that he change places for a brief spell and give me achance to rest. The idea of himself trundling the asp-i-awhan appeals tothe khan as decidedly novel, and he bites at the bait quite readily. Mounting his vacated saddle, I join the mirza and the mudbake in watchinghim struggle along through the sand with it for some two hundred yards. Along that brief course he topples over with it not less than half adozen times. The novel spectacle of the khan trundling the asp-i-awhanarouses his two comrades from the warmth-inspired semi-torpidity of theircondition, and whenever the khan topples over, they favor him with jeersand laughter. At the end of two hundred, yards the khan declares himselfexhausted and orders the mudbake to dismount and try it; this, however, the mudbake bluntly refuses to do. After a little persuasion the inirzais induced to try the experiment of a trundle; it is but an experiment, however, for, being less active than the khan, the first time he tumblesthe bicycle over finds him sprawling on top of it, and, fearful lest heshould snap some spokes, I take it in hand again myself. Another couple of miles and the eastern edge of the sandy area I isreached, after which a compensational proportion of smooth gravelabounds. Shortly after noon another small camp of nomads I is reached, some half-dozen inferior tents, pitched on the shelterless edge of anexposed gravelly slope. The afternoon is oppressively hot, and the menare comfortably snoozing in all sorts of outlandish places among thescrubby camel-thorn. Only the I women and children are visible as weapproach the tents; but youngsters are despatched forthwith, and, lo!several tall white-robed figures seem to rise up literally out of theground at different spots round about; they were burrowed away under thelow, bushy shrubbery like rabbits. The women and children among thesenomads always seem industriously engaged, the former with domestic dutiesabout the tents, and the latter tending the flocks; but the men put inmost of their unprofitable lives loafing, sleeping, and gossiping. We are not invited into the tents, but bread and mast is provided, and, while we eat, four men hold the corners of an ample blue turban sheetover us to shelter us from the sun. Spread out on sheets and on the roofsof the tents are bushels of curds drying in the sun; the curds arecompressed into round balls the size of an apple, and when dried intohard balls are excellent things to put in the pocket and nibble along theroad. Here we learn that the Harood is only one farsakh distant, and acouple of stalwart young nomads accompany us to assist us across. AtBeerjand the Harood was "deep as a house;" at our last night's camp wewere told that it was fordable with camels; here we learn, that, thoughvery swift, it is really fordable for men and horses. First we come to abranch less than waist-deep. My nether garments are handed to the khan;in the pocket of my pantaloons is a purse containing a few kerans. Whileengaged in fording this branch the khan ferrets out the purse andextracts something from it, which he deftly slips into the folds of hiskammerbund. All this I silently observe from the corners of my eyes, butsay nothing. Emerging from the stream, the wily khan points across the interveningthree hundred yards or thereabout to the main stream, and motions for meto go ahead. The discovery of the purse and the purloined kerans hasaroused all the latent cupidity of his soul, and he wants me to rideahead, so that he can straggle along in the rear and investigate thecontents of the purse at his leisure. While winking at the amusing littleact of petty larceny already detected, I do not propose to give hiskleptomaniac tendencies full swing, and so I meet his proposal to sowarand go ahead by peremptorily ordering him to take the lead. Arriving at the bank of the Harood, I retire behind a clump of reeds, andfold my money-belt, full of gold, up in the middle of my clothes, makinga compact bundle, with my gossamer rubber wrapped around the outside. Theriver is about a hundred and fifty yards wide at the ford, with asand-bar about mid-stream, and is not above shoulder-deep along the ridgethat renders it fordable; the current, however, is frightfully strong. Like the Indians of the West, the Afghan nomads are accustomed frominfancy to battling with the elements, and are comparatively fearless inregard to rivers and deserts and storms, etc. Such, at least, is the impression created by the conduct of the two youngmen who have come to assist us across. The bicycle, my clothes, and allthe effects of the sowars are carried across on their heads, the rushingwaters threatening to sweep them off their feet at every step; butnothing is allowed to get wet. When they are carrying across the lastbundle, the khan, solicitous for my safety, wants me to hang on to ashort rope tied around the waist of the strongest of the nomads. Naturally disdaining any such arrangement as this, however, I declare myintention of crossing without assistance, and wade in forthwith. Ere Ihave progressed thirty yards, the current fairly sweeps me off my feetand I have to swim for it. Fancying that I am overcome and in a fair wayof being drowned, the sowars set up a wild howl of apprehension, andshout excitedly to the nomads to rescue me from a watery grave. TheAfghans are not so excited, however, over the outlook; they see that I amswimming all right, and they confine themselves to motioning thedirection for me to take. The current carries me some little distancedown stream, when I find footing on the lower extremity of the sand-bar, and on it, wade up; stream again with some difficulty against swiftlyrushing water four feet deep. The khan thinks I have had the narrowestpossible escape, and in tones of desperation he shouts out and begs menot to attempt to cross the other channel without assistance. "Thereceipt!" he shouts, "the receipt! Allah preserve us! the receipt; Heshmet-i-Molk. " The worthy khan is afflicted with a keen consciousness ofcoming punishment awaiting him at Beerjand, should I happen to come togrief while under his protection, and he, no doubt, suffers an agony ofapprehension during the fifteen minutes I am battling with the rapidcurrent of the Harood. The second channel is found less swift and comparatively easy to ford. The sturdy nomads, having transported all of my escort's damageableeffects, those three now stark-naked worthies mount with fear andtrembling their equally stark-naked steeds-naked all, save for theturbans of the men and the bridles of their horses. Whatever ofintrepidity the khan possesses is of a quantity scarcely visible to thenaked eye, and it is, therefore, scarcely surprising to find him tryingto persuade, first the mudbake and then the mirza, to take theinitiative. His efforts prove wholly ineffectual, however, to bring thefeebly flowing tide of their courage up to the high-water level ofassuming the duties of leadership, and so in the absence of anyalternative, he finally screws up his own courage and leads the way. Theothers allow their horses to follow closely behind. The horses seem toregard the rushing volume of yellow water about them with far lessapprehension than do their riders. While dressing myself on the easternbank, the frightened mutterings of "Allah" from these gallant horsemencome floating across the water, and, as they reach the sand-bar in themiddle of the stream, I can hear their muttered importunities forProvidential protection change, like the passing shadow-whims of Nature'schildren that they are, into gleeful chuckles at their escape. When the khan emerges from the water, the ruling passion within hisavaricious nature asserts itself with ridiculous promptness. With thewater dripping from his dangling feet, he rides hastily to where I amdressing and whispers, "Pool neis; Afghani dasht-adam, pool neis. " Bythis he desires me to understand that the men who have been soindustrious and ready in helping us across, being Afghan nomads, will notexpect any backsheesh for their trouble. The above-mentioned rulingpassion is wonderfully strong in the rude breast of the khan, and in viewof his own secret machinations against my money he, no doubt, entertainsobjections to leakages in other directions. So far as presenting thesehospitable souls of the desert with money for their services isconcerned, the khan's advice probably contains a good deal more wisdomthan would appear from a superficial view of the case merely. Assistingtravellers across streams and through difficult places evidently appealsto these people as the most natural thing in the world for them to do. Itis a part of the un-written code of the hospitality of their uncivilizedcountry, and is, in all probability, undertaken without so much as amercenary thought. Presenting them with a money-consideration for theirservices certainly has a tendency to awaken the latent spirit ofcupidity, generally resulting in their transformation from simple andunsophisticated children, hospitable both by nature and tradition, intowretched mercenaries, who regard the chance traveller solely from abacksheesh-giving stand-point. The baneful result of this is todayglaringly apparent along every tourist route in the East; and, among thepool-loving subjects of the Shah of Persia, travellers do not have toappear very frequently to keep alive and foster a wild yearning forbacksheesh that effectually suppresses all loftier considerations. These Afghans, however, seem to be people of an altogether differentmould; the ubiquitous Western traveller has not yet become a palpablefactor in their experiences. The hidden charms of backsheesh will notbecome apparent to the wild Afghans until their fierce Mussulmanfanaticism has cooled sufficiently to allow the Ferenghi tourist towander through their territory without being in danger of his life. The danger of corruption in the present instance is exceedingly small, considering that I am the only representative of the Occident that hasever happened along this way, and the probability that none other willfollow for many a year after; therefore I ignore the khan's whollydisinterested advice and make the two worthy nomads a small present. Theyaccept the proffered kerans with a look of bewilderment, as though quiteunable to comprehend why I should tender them money, and they lay itcarelessly down on the sand while they assist the sowars to resaddletheir horses. To see the indifference with which the magnificent Afghannomads toss the silver pieces on the sand, and the eager, covetousexpression that the sight of the same coins lying there inspires in thethree Persians is, of itself, an instructive lesson on the differencebetween the two peoples. The sowars become inspired, as if touched by themagic wand of alchemy, to the discussion of their favorite theme; but theAfghans pay no more heed to their remarks about money than if they weretalking in an unknown tongue. They really act as though they regarded thesubject of money as something altogether beyond their comprehension. CHAPTER IX. AFGHANISTAN. A few miles across a stretch of gravelly river-bottom, interspersed withscattering patches of cultivation, brings us to a hamlet of some twentymud dwellings. The houses are small, circular structures, unattached, andeach one removed some dozen paces from its neighbor; they are built ofmud with the roof flat, as in Asia Minor. The sun is setting as we reachthis little Harood hamlet, and, as Ghalakua is some three farsakhsdistant, we decide to remain here for the night. We pitch our camp on asmooth threshing-floor in the centre of the village, and the headmanbrings pieces of carpet for me to recline on, together with a sort of acarpet bolster for a pillow. The khan impresses upon these simple-minded, out-of-the-world people adue sense of my importance as the guest of his master, the Ameer ofSeistan, and they skirmish around in the liveliest manner to provide whatcreature comforts their meagre resources are equal to. The best they canprovide in the way of eatables is bread and eggs, and muscal, but theymake full amends for the absence of variety by bestowing upon us asuperabundance of what they have, and no slaves of Oriental despot everdisplayed more eager haste to anticipate their ruler's wants than dothese, my first acquaintances among the Afghan tillers of the soil, towait upon us. All the evening long no female ventures anywhere near ouralfresco quarters; the rigid exclusion of the female sex in thisconservative Mohammedan territory forbids them making any visible show ofinterest in the affairs of men whatsoever. When the hour arrives for thepreparation of the evening meal, closely shrouded figures flit hastilythrough the dusk from house to house, bearing camel-thorn torches. Theyare women who have been to their neighbors to obtain a light for theirown fire. From the number of these it is plainly evident that thehousewives of the entire village light their fires from one originalkindling. The shrouds of the women are red and black plaid; the men wearovershirts of coarse white; material that reach to their knees, pointedshoes that turn up at the toes, white Turkish trousers, and theregulation Afghan turban. The night is most lovely, and frogs innumerableare in the lowlands round about us, croaking their appreciation of themellow moonlight, the balmy air, and the overflowing waters of the river. For hours they favor us with a musical melange, embracing everythingbetween the hoarse bass croak of the full-blown bull-frog, to the tuneful"p-r" of the little green tree-frogs ensconced in the clumps ofdwarf-willow hard by. Soothed by the music of the frogs I spend a restfulnight beneath the blue, calm dome of the Afghan sky, though awakened onceor twice by the sowars' horses breaking loose and fighting. There are no geldings to speak of in Central Asia, and unless eternalvigilance is maintained and the horses picketed very carefully, a fightor two is sure to occur among them during the night. As it seemsimpossible for semi-civilized people to exercise forethought in smallmatters of this kind, a night without being disturbed by a horse-fight isa very rare occurrence, when several are travelling together. The morning opens as lovely as the close of evening yesterday; a sturdyvillager carries me and the bicycle through a small tributary of theHarood. He shakes his head when I offer him a present. How strange thatan imaginary boundary-line between two countries should make so muchdifference in the people! One thinks of next to nothing but money, theother refuses to take it when offered. The sowars are in high glee at having escaped what seems to me theimaginary terrors of the passage across the Dasht-i-na-oomid, and as weride along toward Ghalakua their exuberant animal spirits find expressionin song. Few things are more harrowing and depressing to theunappreciative Ferenghi ear than Persian sowars singing, and three mostunmelodious specimens of their kind at it all at once are somethinghorrible. The country hereabouts is a level plain, extending eastward to the FurrahRood; within the first few miles adjacent to the Harood are seen thecrenellated walls of several villages and the crumbling ruins of as manymore. Clumps of palm-trees and fields of alfalfa and green young wheatenviron the villages, and help to render the dull gray ruins picturesque. The atmosphere seems phenomenally transparent, and the trees and ruinsand crenellated walls, rising above the level plain, are outlined clearand distinct against the sky. In the distance, at all points of the compass, rocky mountains rise sheerfrom the dead level of the plain, looking singularly like giant cliffsrising abruptly from the bed of some inland sea. One of these may bethirty miles away, yet the wondrous clearness of the air renders apparentdistances so deceptive that it looks not more than one-third thedistance. It is a strikingly interesting country, and its inhabitants area no less strikingly interesting people. A farsakh from our Harood-side camping-place, we halt to obtainrefreshments at a few rude tents pitched beneath the walls of a littlevillage. The owners of the tents are busy milking their flocks of goats. It is an animated scene. No amount of handling, nor years of humanassociation, seems capable of curbing the refractory and restless spiritof a goat. The matronly dams that are being subjected to the milkingprocess this morning have, no doubt, been milked regularly for years; yetthey have to be caught and held firmly by the horns by one person, whileanother robs them of what they seem reluctant enough to give up. The sun grows uncomfortably warm, and myriads of flies buzz hungrilyabout our morning repast. Before we resume our journey a little damsel, in flaming red skirt and big silver nose-ring, enters the garden andplucks several roses, which she brings to me on a pewter salver. Thesepeople are Eliautes, and the women are less fearful of showing themselvesthan at the village where we passed the night. Several of them apply tome for medical assistance. The chief trouble is chronic ophthalmia;nearly all the children are afflicted with this disease, and at the eyesof each poor helpless babe are a mass of hungry flies. The wonder is, notthat ophthalmia runs amuck among these people, but rather, that any ofthe children escape total blindness. Several villages are passed through en route to Ghalakua; the people turnout en masse and indulge in uproarious demonstrations at the advent ofthe Ferenghi and the bicycle. These people seem as incapable ofcontrolling their emotions and their voices as so many wild animals; theyshout and gesticulate excitedly, and run about like people bereft oftheir senses. The uncivilization crops out of these obscure Haroodvillagers far plainer than it does in the tents of the wandering tribes. They are noisier and more boisterous than the nomads, who, as a matter offact, are sober-sided and sedate in their deportment. No women appear among the crowd on the street, but a carefully coveredhead is occasionally caught peeping furtively from behind a chimney onthe roof of a house, or around some corner. A glance from me, and thehead is withdrawn as rapidly as if one were taking hostile aim at it witha rifle. Fine large irrigating ditches traverse this partially cultivable area, and in them are an abundance of fish. In one ditch I catch sight of asplendid specimen of the speckled trout, that must have been three feetlong. Travelling leisurely next morning, we arrive at Ghalakua in themiddle of the forenoon; quarters are assigned us by Aminulah Khan, theChief of the Ghalakua villages and tributary territory. In appearance heis a typical Oriental official, his fluffy, sensuous countenance bearingtraces of such excesses as voluptuous Easterns are wont to indulge in, and this morning he is suffering with an attack of "tab" (fever). Wrappedin a heavy fur-lined over-coat, he is found seated on the front platformof a inenzil beneath the arched village gateway, smoking cigarettes; inhis hand is a bouquet of roses, and numerous others are scattered abouthis feet. Dancing attendance upon him is a smart-looking little fellow ina sheepskin busby almost as bulky in proportion as his whole body, andwhich renders his appearance grotesque in the extreme. His keen blackeyes sparkle brightly through the long wool of his remarkable headgear, the ends of which dangle over his eyes like an overgrown and waywardbang. The bravery of his attire is measurably enhanced by a cavalrysword, long enough and heavy enough for a six-foot dragoon, a greenkammerbund, and top-boots of red leather. This person stands by the sideof Aminulah Khan, watches keenly everything that is being said and done, receives orders from his master, and transmits them to the varioussubordinates lounging about. He looks the soul of honesty andwatchfullness, his appearance and demeanor naturally conjuring upreflections of faithful servitors about the persons of knights and noblesof old; he is apparently the Khan of Ghalakua's confidential retainer andgeneral supervisor of affairs about his person and headquarters. Our quarters are in the bala-khana of a small half-ruined konak outsidethe village, and shortly after retiring thither the khan's sprightlylittle retainer brings in tea and fried eggs, besides pomegranates androses for myself. A new departure makes its appearance in the shape ofsugar sprinkled over the eggs. While we are discussing these refreshmentsour attendant stands in the doorway and addresses the sowars at somelength in Persian. He is apparently delivering instructions received fromhis master; whatever it is all about, he delivers it with the air of anorator addressing an audience, and he supplements his remarks withgestures that would do credit to a professional elocutionist. He is asagreeable as he is picturesque; he and I seem to fall en rapport at once, as against the untrustworthiness of the remainder of our company. As hiskeen, honest eyes scrutinize the countenances of the sowars, and thenseek my own face, I feel instinctively that he has sized my escort upcorrectly, and that their innate rascality is as well revealed to him asif he had accompanied us across the desert. Several visitors drop in to pay their respects; they salaam respectfullyto me, and greet the sowars as "bur-raa-thers, " and kiss, their hands. One simple, unsophisticated mortal, who in his isolated life has neverhad the opportunity of discriminating between a Mussulman and a Ferenghi, addresses me also as "bur-raa-ther, " and favors my palm with theregulation osculatory greeting. The Afghans present view thisextraordinary proceeding with dignified silence, and if moved in anymanner by the spectacle, manage to conceal their emotions beneath astolid exterior. The risibilities of the sowars, however, are stirred totheir deepest depths, and they nearly choke themselves in desperateefforts to keep from laughing outright. Offerings of roses are brought into our quarters by the various visitors, and boys and men toss others in through door and windows, until our roomis gratefully perfumed and roses are literally carpeting the floor. Onemight well imagine the place to be Gulistan itself; every person iscarrying bunches of roses in his hands, smelling of them, and wearingthem in his turban and kammerbund. The people seem to be fairly revellingin the delights of these choicest gems from Flora's evidently overflowingstorehouse. The men average tall and handsome; they look like veritablewarrior-priests in their flowing white costumes, and they make a strangepicture of mingled barbarism and aestheticism as they loaf in lazymagnificence about the tumble-down ruins of the konak, toying with theirroses in silence. They seem contented and happy in their isolation fromthe great busy outer world, and, impressed by their universalappreciation of a flower, it occurs to me, on the impulse of ocularevidence, that it would be the greatest pity to disturb and corrupt thesepeople by attempting to thrust upon them our Western civilization--theyseem far happier than a civilized community. The khan obtains his receipt for my delivery, and by and by Aminulah Khansends his man to request the favor of a tomasha. Leaving my other effectsbehind in charge of the sowars, I take the bicycle and favor him with afew turns in front of the village gate. Among the various contents of myleathern case is a bag of kerans; but, although the case is not locked, it is provided with a peculiar fastening which I fondly imagine to bebeyond the ingenuity of the khan to open. So that, while well enoughaware of that guileful individual's uncontrollable avarice in general, and his deep, dark designs on my money in particular, I think little ofleaving it with him for the few minutes I expect to be absent. It strikesme as a trifle suspicious, however, upon discovering that while everybodyelse comes to see the tomasha, all three of the sowars remain behind. Instinctively I arrive at the conclusion that with these three worthykleptomaniacs left alone in a room with some other person's portableproperty, something is pretty sure to happen to the property; so, excusing myself as quickly as courtesy will permit, I hasten back to ourquarters. The mudbake is found posted at the outer gate of the konak. Heis keeping watch while his delectable comrades search the package inwhich they sagaciously locate the silver lucre they so much covet. Seeingme approaching, he makes a trumpet of his hands and sings out warninglyto his accomplices that I am coming back. Taking no more notice of himthan usual, I pass inside and repair at once to the bala-khana, to findthat the khan and the mirza have disappeared. The mudbake follows me into watch my movements. In the simplicity of his semi-civilizedunderstanding he is wondering within himself whether or no I entertainsuspicions of anything being wrong, and he is watching me closely to findout. In his dense ignorance he imagines the khan and the mirza artfulalmost beyond human comprehension, and in thinking this he no doubtmerely supplements the sentiments of these two wily individualsthemselves. Time and again on the journey from Tabbas has he joined themin chuckling with ghoulish glee over some self-laudatory exposition oftheir own deep, deep, cunning. They well know themselves to beunfathomably cute beside the simple-hearted and honest ryots and nomadswith whom they are wont to compare themselves, and from these standardsthey confidently judge the world at large. The mudbake colors up like aguilty school-boy upon seeing me proceed without delay to examine theleathern case. The erstwhile orderly arranged contents are found tumbledabout in dire confusion. My bag of about one hundred kerans have dwindlednearly half that number as the result of being in their custody tenminutes. "Some of you pedar sags have stolen my money; who is it? where's thekhan?" I inquire, addressing the guilty-looking mud-bake. He is nowshivering visibly with fright, but makes a ludicrous effort to put a boldface on the matter, and brazenly asks, "Chand pool" (How much ismissing?). "Khylie! where is the khan and the inirza? I will take you allto Aminulah Khan and have you bastinadoed!" The poor mudbake turns paleat the bare suggestion of the bastinado, and stoutly maintains his owninnocence. He would no doubt as stoutly proclaim the guilt of hiscomrades if by so doing he could escape punishment himself. Nor is thisso surprising, when one reflects that either of these worthies would, without a moment's hesitation, perform the same office for him or foreach other. Without wasting time in bandying arguments with the mudbake, I sallyforth in search of the others, and meet them just outside the gate; theyare returning from hiding the money in the ruins. The crimson flood ofguilt overspreads their faces as I raise my finger and shake it at themby way of admonition. With them following behind with all the meekness ofdiscovered guilt, I lead the way back up into the bala-khana. Arrivingthere, both of them wilt so utterly and completely, and proceed to pleadfor mercy with such ludicrous promptness, that my sense of the ridiculousoutweighs all other considerations, and I regard their demonstrations ofremorse with a broad smile of amusement. It is anything but a laughingmatter from their own standpoint, however; the mudbake warns themforthwith that I have threatened to have them bastinadoed, and theyfairly writhe and groan in an agony of apprehension. The khan, owing tohis more sanguine temperament, and a lively conception that the heaviestburden of guilt and accompanying punishment would naturally fall on hisown shoulders as the chief of my escort, removes his turban and then liesdown on the floor and grovels at my feet. All the hair he possesses is a little tuft or two left on his otherwisesmoothly shaven pate, by which he confidently expects at his demise to betenderly lifted up into Paradise by the Prophet Mohammed. After kissingmost of the dust off my geivehs, and banging his head violently againstthe floor, he signifies his willingness to relinquish all anticipationsof eternal happiness, black-eyed houris and the like, by attempting toyank out even this Celestial hand-hold, hoping that the woeful depth ofhis anguish and the sincerity of his repentance may prove the means ofescaping present punishment. His eyes roll wildly about in their sockets, and in a voice choking with emotion he begs me pathetically to keep thematter a secret from the Khan of Ghalakua. "O Sahib, Sahib! Hoikim no, hoikim no!" he pleads, and the anguish-stricken khan accompanies thesepleadings with a look of unutterable agony, and furthermore indulges inthe pantomime of sawing off his ears and his hands with his forefinger. This latter tragic demonstration is to let me know that the result ofexposure would be to have the former, and perhaps the latter, of theseuseful members cut off, after the cruel and summary justice of thiscountry. The mirza and mudbake cluster around and supplement theirsuperior's pathetic pleadings with deep-drawn groans of "Allah, Allah!"and sundry prostrations toward Mecca. It is a ludicrous and yet a strangely touching spectacle to see thesethree poor devils grovelling and pleading before me, and at the same timepraying to Allah for protection in the little bala-khana, hoping therebyto save themselves from cruel mutilation and lifelong disgrace. Awatchful eye is kept outside by the mirza, who does his groaning andpraying near the door, and the sight of an Afghan approaching is thesignal for a mute appeal for mercy from all three, and a transformationto ordinary attitudes and vocations, the completeness of which would docredit to professional comedians. When a favorable opportunity presents, with much peering about to makesure of being unobserved, his comrades lower the khan down over the rearwall of the bala-khana, and a minute later they hoist him up again withthe same show of caution. Producing from his kammerbund a red handkerchief containing the stolenkerans, he advances and humbly lays it at my feet, at the same timekneeling down and implanting yet another osculatory favor on my geivehs. Joyful at seeing my readiness to second them in keeping the matter hiddenfrom stray Afghans that come dropping in, the guilty sowars are stillfearful lest they have not yet secured my complete forgiveness. Consequently, the khan repeatedly appeals to me as "bur-raa-ther, " layshis forefingers together, and enlarges upon the fact that we have passedthrough the dangers and difficulties of the Dasht-i-na-oomid together. The dread spectre of possible mutilation and disgrace as the consequenceof their misdeeds pursues these guileful, grown-up children even in theirdreams. All through the night they are moaning and muttering uneasily intheir sleep, and tossing restlessly about; and long before daybreak arethey up, prostrating themselves and filling the room with rapidlymuttered prayers, The khan comes over to my corner and peers anxiouslydown into my face. Finding me awake, he renews his plea for mercy andforgiveness, calling me "bur-raa-ther" and pleading earnestly "Hoikim no, hoikim no!" The sharp-eyed wearer of the big busby, the cavalry sword, and redjack-boots turns up early next morning. He dropped in once or twiceyesterday, and being possessed of more brains than the three sowars puttogether, he gathered from appearances, and his general estimation oftheir character, that all is not right. These suspicions he promptlycommunicated to his master. Aminulah Khan is only too well acquaintedwith the weakest side of the Persian character, and at once jumps to theconclusion that the sowars have stolen my money. Sending for me andsummoning the sowars to his presence, without preliminary palaver heaccuses them of robbing me of "pool. " Addressing himself to me, heinquires: "Sahib, Parses namifami?" (Do you understand Persian?) "KamKam" (a little), I reply. "Sowari pool f pool koob; rupee-rupee Jcoob?""O, O, pool koob; rupee koob; sowari neis, sowari khylie koob adam. " Inthis brief interchange of disconnected Persian the khan has asked mewhether the sowars have stolen money from me, and I have answered thatthey have not, but that, on the contrary, they are most excellent men, both "trustie and true. " May the recording angel enter my answer downwith a recommendation for mercy! During this examination the littlebusby-wearer stands and closely scrutinizes the changeful countenances ofthe accused. He thoroughly understands that I am mercifully shieldingthem from what he considers their just deserts, and he chips in a wordoccasionally to Aminulah Khan, aside, like a sharp lawyer watching theprogress of a cross-examination. The chief himself, though ostensiblyaccepting my statement, has his own suspicions to the same purpose, andbefore dismissing them he shakes his finger menacingly at the sowars andsignificantly touches the hilt of his sword. The three culprits lookguilty enough to satisfy the most merciful of judges, but, relying on myoperation to shield them, they stoutly maintain their innocence. Some little delay occurs about starting for Furrah, my next objectivepoint on the road to India; the khan explains that all of his sowars havebeen sent off to help garrison Herat; that the best he can provide in theform of a mounted escort is an elderly little man whom he points out, with an evident doubt as to my probable appreciation. The man looks more like a Persian than an Afghan, which he probably is, as the population of these borderland districts is much mixed. Nothingwould have pleased me better than to have had Aminulah Khan bid me goahead without any escort whatever, but next to nobody at all, the mostsatisfactory arrangement is the harmless-looking old fellow in thePersian lamb's-wool hat. Telling him that he has done well in sending hissowars to Herat, and that the old fellow will answer very well as guide, I prepare to take my departure. My guide disappears, and shortly returnsmounted on a powerful and spirited gray. Aminulah Khan gives him aletter, and after mutual salaams, and "good ahfis, " the old sowar leadsthe way at a pace which shows him to be filled with exaggerated ideasabout my speediness. Irrigating ditches and fields characterize the way for some few miles, after which we emerge upon a level desert whose hard gravel surface isridable in any direction without regard to beaten trails. Numerouslizards of a peculiar spotted variety are observed scuttling about onthis gravelly plain as we ride along. The sun grows hot, but the way islevel and smooth, and about ten o'clock we arrive at the oasis ofMahmoudabad, five farsakhs from Ghalakua. Mahmoudabad consists of a fewmud dwellings surrounded by a strong wall, and a number of tents. Wateris brought in a ditch from some distant source, and my faculty ofastonishment is once again assailed by the sight of flourishing littlepatches of "Windsor beans. " This is the first growth of these particularlegumes that have come beneath my notice in Asia; dropping on them in thelittle oasis of Mahmoudabad is something of a surprise, to say the least. The men of Mahmoudabad wear bracelets and ankle-ornaments of thick copperwire, and necklaces of beads. Nothing whatever is seen of the women; sofar as ocular evidence is concerned, Mahmoudabad might be a community ofmen and boys exclusively. The plain continues level and gravelly, andpretty soon it becomes thinly covered with green young camel-thorn. Thewidely scattered shrubs fail to cover up much of the desert's nakednessat close quarters, but a wider view gives a pleasant green plain, out ofwhich the dark, massive mountains rise abrupt with striking effect. Late in the afternoon the hard surface of the desert gives place to theloose adobe soil of the Furi-ah Eooi bottom-lands. For some distance thisis so loose and soft that one sinks in shoe-top deep at every step, andthe path becomes a mere trail through dense thickets of reeds that wavehigh above one's head. Beyond this is a narrow area of cultivation andseveral walled villages, most of which are distinguished by one or twopalms. Arriving at one of these villages, an hour before sunset, the oldguide advocates remaining for the night. In obedience to his orders theheadman brings out a carpet and spreads it beneath the shadow of thewall, and pointing to it, says, "Sahib, bismillah!" Taking the profferedseat, I inquire of him the distance to Furrah. Ho says it is across theFurrah Rood, and distant one farsakh. "Kishtee ass?" "O, Idshtee" Turningto the guide, I suggest: "Bismillah Furrah. " The old fellow looksdisappointed at the idea of going on, but he replies, "Bismillah. " Thecarpet is taken away again, and the village headman sends a younger manto guide us through the fields and gardens to the river. The Furrah Rood is broader and swifter here than the Harood, and when atsunset we reach the ferry, it is to find that the boat is on the otherside and the ferrymen gone to their homes for the night. Several hundredyards back from the river the city of Furrah reveals itself in the shapeof a sombre-looking high mud wall, forming a solid parallelogram, Ishould judge a third of a mile long and of slightly less width. The wallsare crenellated, and strengthened by numerous buttresses. It occupiesslightly rising ground, and nothing is visible from without but thewalls. The old guide shouts lustily at a couple of men visible on theopposite bank; but he only gets shouted back at for his pains. Darkness is rapidly settling down upon us, and I begin to realize mymistake in not abiding by the guide's judgment and stopping at thevillage. Another village is seen a couple of miles across the reedylowland to our rear, and thitherward we shape our course. The interveningspace is found to consist largely of tall reeds, swampy or overflowedareas, and irrigating ditches. Many of the latter are too deep to ford, and darkness overtakes us long before the village is reached. Finding itimpossible to do anything with the bicycle, I remove my packages and laythe naked wheel on top of a conspicuous place on the bank of a ditch, where it may be readily found in the morning. For some reason unintelligible to me accommodation is refused us at thevillage. The old guide addresses the people in tones loud andauthoritative, but all to no purpose--they refuse to let us remain. Whilehesitating about what course to pursue, one of the men comes out andvolunteers to guide us to a camp of nomads not far away. Following hisguidance, a camp of a dozen tents is shortly reached, and in theirhospitable midst we spend the night on a piece of carpet beneath the sky. The usual simple refreshments are provided, as also quilts for covering. Upon waking in the morning I am surprised to find the bicycle lying closeto my head. The hospitable nomads, having heard the story of itsabandonment from the guide, have been out in the night and found it andbrought it in. The same friendly person who brought us to the camp turns up at daybreakand voluntarily guides us through the area of ditches and impenetrablereed-patches to the river. Several people are squatting on the bankwatching a crew of half-naked men tugging a rude but strong ferryboatup-stream toward them. The boat is built of heavy hewn timber, andcapable of ferrying fifty passengers. The Furrah Rood, at the ferry, is about two hundred yards wide, and witha current of perhaps five miles an hour. A dozen stalwart men with rude, heavy sweeps propel the boat across; but at every passage the swiftcurrent takes it down-stream twice as far as the river's width. Afterdisembarking the passengers, the boatmen have to tow it this distanceup-stream again before making the next crossing. The boatmen wear asingle garment of blue cotton that in shape resembles a plain looseshirt. When nearing the shore, three or four of them deftly slip theirarms out of the sleeves, bunch the whole garment up around their necks, and spring overboard. Swimming to shallow water with a rope, they bracethemselves to stay the down-stream career of the boat. A small gathering of wild-looking men are collected at the landing-place, and my astonishment is awakened by the familiar figure of a Celestialamong the crowd. He is a veritable John Chinaman--beardless face, queue, almond eyes, and everything complete. The superior thriftiness ofthe Chinaman over the Afghans needs no further demonstration than theocular evidence that among them all he wears by far the best and thetidiest clothes. In this, not less than in the strong Mongolian type offace, is he a striking figure among the people. John Chinaman is a very familiar figure to me, and I regard this strangespecimen with almost as great interest as if I had thus unexpectedly meta European. His grotesque figure and dress, representing, so it seems tome at the moment, a speck of civilization among the barbarousness of mysurroundings, is quite a relief to the senses. A closer investigation, however, on the bank, while waiting for the guide's horse, reveals thefact that he is far from being the John Chinaman of Chinatown, SanFrancisco. Instead of hailing from the rice-fields of Quangtung, thisfellow is a native of Kashga-ria, a country almost as wild asAfghanistan. A moment's scrutiny of his face removes him as far from thecivilized seaboard Celestials of our acquaintance as is the Zulu warriorfrom the plantation-darky of the South. Except for the above-mentionedcomparative neatness of appearance, it is very evident that the Mongolianis every bit as wild as the Afghans about him. The people regard me with a deep and peculiar interest; very few remarksare made among themselves, and no one puts a single question to me orventures upon any remarks. All this is in strange contrast to theeverlasting gabble and the noisy and persistent importunities of thePersians. The Afghans are plainly full of speculations concerning mymission, who I am, and what I am doing in their country; although theyregard the bicycle with great curiosity, the machine is evidently amatter of secondary importance. Like the Eimuck chieftain on the Dasht-iseveral of these men change countenance when I favor them with a glance. Whether this peculiar reddening of the face among the Afghans comes ofembarrassment, or what it is, it always impresses me as much like the"perturbation of a wild animal at finding himself suddenly confrontedwith a human being. " Hiding part way to the city gate, I send the guide ahead to notify thegovernor of my arrival, and to present the letter from Aininulah Khan. Heis absent what appears to me an unnecessarily long time, and I determineto follow him in and take my chances on the tide of circumstances, as inthe cities of Persia. It is not without certain lively apprehensions ofpossible adventure, however, that I approach the little arched gateway ofthis gray-walled Afghan city, conscious of its being filled with the mostfanatical population in the world. In addition to this knowledge is thedisquieting reflection of being a trespasser on forbidden territory, andtherefore outside the pale of governmental sympathy should I get intotrouble. The fascination of penetrating the strange little world within those highwalls, however, ill brooks these retrospective reflections, or thoughtsof unpleasant consequences, and I make no hesitation about riding up tothe gate. A sharp, short turn and abrupt rise in the road occurs at thegate, necessitating a dismount and a trundle of about thirty yards, whenI suddenly find myself confronting a couple of sentries beneath thearchway of the gate. The sensation of surprise seems quite in order oflate, and these sentries furnish yet another sensation, for they arewearing the red jackets of British infantrymen and the natty peaked capsof the Royal Artillery. The same crimson flush of embarrassment--orwhatever it may be--that was observed in the countenance of theEimuck chief, overspreads their faces, and they seem overcome withconfusion and astonishment; but they both salute mechanically as I passin. Fifty yards of open waste ground enables me to mount and ride intothe entrance of the principal street. I have precious little time to lookabout me, and no opportunity to discover what the result of my temeritywould be after the people had recovered from their amazement, for hardlyhave I gotten fairly into the street when I am met by my old guide, conducting a guard of twelve soldiers who have been sent to bring me in. CHAPTER X. ARRESTED AT FURRAH. Perhaps no stranger occurrence in the field of personal adventure inCentral Asia has happened for many a year than my entrance into Furrah ona bicycle. Only those who know Afghanistan and the Afghans can fullyrealize the ticklish character of this little piece of adventure. My soldier-escort are fine-looking fellows, wearing the well-known redjackets of the British Army, evidently the uniform of some sepoyregiment. Forming around me, they conduct me through the gate of an innerenclosure near by, and usher me into a small compound where MahmoudYusuph Khan, the commander-in-chief of the garrison, is engaged inholding a morning reception of his subordinate chiefs and officers. Thespectacle that greets my astonished eyes is a revelation indeed; thewhole compound is filled with soldiers wearing the regimentals of theAnglo-Indian army. As I enter the compound and trundle the bicyclebetween long files of soldiers toward Mahmoud Yusuph Khan and hisofficers, five hundred pairs of eyes are fixed on me with intensecuriosity. These are Cabooli soldiers sent here to garrison Furrah, wherethey will be handy to march to the relief of Herat, in case ofdemonstrations against that city by the Russians. The tension over thePenjdeh incident has not yet (April, 1886) wholly relaxed, and I feelinstinctively that I am suspected of being a Russian spy. In the centre of the compound is a large bungalow, surrounded by aslightly raised porch. Seated on a mat at one end of this is MahmoudYusuph Khan, and ranged in two long rows down the porch are his chiefsand officers. They are all seated cross-legged on a strip of carpet, andattendants are serving them with tea in little porcelain cups. They arethe most martial-looking assembly of humans I ever set eyes on. They arefairly bristling with quite serviceable looking weapons, besides many ofthe highly ornamented, but less dangerous, "gewgaws of war" dear to theheart of the brave but conservative warriors of Islam. Prominent amongthe peculiarities observed are strips of chain mail attached to portionsof their clothing as guards against sword-cuts, noticeably on thesleeves. Some are wearing steel helmets, some huge turbans, and othersthe regular Afghan military hat, this latter a rakish-looking head-piecesomething like the hat of a Chinese Tartar general. Mahmoud Yusupli Khan himself is wearing one of these hats, and is attiredin a tight-fitting suit of buckram, pipe-clayed from head to foot; in hishat glitters a handsome rosette of nine diamonds, which I have anopportunity of counting while seated beside him. He is a stoutish person, full-faced, slightly above middle age, less striking in appearance thanmany of his subordinates. When I have walked up between the two rows ofseated chieftains and gained his side, he forthwith displays hisknowledge of the English mode of greeting by shaking hands. He orders anattendant to fetch a couple of camp chairs, and setting one for me, herises from the carpet and occupies the other one himself. Tea is broughtin small cups instead of glasses, and is highly sweetened after themanner of the Persians; sweetmeats are handed round at the same time. After ascertaining that I understand something of Persian, he expresseshis astonishment at my appearance in Furrah. At first it is painfullyevident that he suspects me of being a Russian spy; but after severalminutes of questions and answers, he is apparently satisfied that I amnot a Muscovite, and he explains to his officers that I am an "Ingilisnockshi" (correspondent). He is greatly astonished to hear of the routeby which I entered the country, as no traveller ever entered Afghanistanacross the Dasht-i-na-oomid before. I tell him that I am going toKandahar and Quetta, and suggest that he send a sowar with me to guidethe way. He smiles amusedly at this suggestion, and shaking his headvigorously, he says, "Kandahar neis; Afghanistan's bad; khylie bad;" andhe furthermore explains that I would be sure to get killed. "Kliyliekoob; I don't want any sowar, I will go alone; if I get killed, thennobody will be blamable but myself. " "Kandahar neis, " he replies, shakinghis finger and head, and looking very serious; "Kandahar neis; beest (20)sowars couldn't see you safely through to Kandahar; Afghanistan's bad; aFerenghi would be sure to get killed before reaching Kandahar. "Pretending to be greatly amused at this, I reply, "koob; if I get killed, all right; I don't want any sowars; I will go alone. " At hearing this, hegrows still more serious, and enters into quite an eloquent and lengthyexplanation, to dissuade me from the idea of going. He explains that theAmeer has little control over the fanatical tribes in Zemindavar, andthat although the Boundary Commission had a whole regiment of sepoys, theAmeer couldn't guarantee their safety if they came to Furrah. Hefurthermore expresses his surprise that I wasn't killed before gettingthis far. The officer of the guard who brought me in, and who is standingagainst the porch close by, speaks up at this stage of the interview andtells with much animation of how I was riding down the street, and of thepeople all speechless with astonishment. Mahmoud Yusuph Khan repeats this to his officers, with comments of hisown, and they look at one another and smile and shake their heads, evidently deeply impressed at what they consider the dare-devilrecklessness of a Ferenghi in venturing alone into the streets of Furrah. The warlike Afghans have great admiration for personal courage, and theyevidently regard my arrival here without escort as a proof that I ampossessed of a commendable share of that desirable quality. As thecommander-in-chief and a few grim old warriors squatting near us exchangecomments on the subject of my appearance here, and my willingness toproceed alone to Kandahar, notwithstanding the known probability of beingmurdered, their glances of mingled amusement and admiration are agreeablyconvincing that I have touched a chord of sympathy in their rude, martialbreasts. Half an hour is passed in drinking tea and asking questions. MahmoudYusuph Khan proves himself not wholly ignorant of English andBritish-Indian politics. "General Roberts Sahib, Cabool to Kandahar?" hequeries first. The Afghans regard General Roberts' famous march as awonderful performance, and consequently hold that distinguished officer'sname in high repute. He asks about Sir Peter Lumsden and Colonel Sir WestRidgeway; and speaks of the Governor-General of India. By way of testingthe extent of his knowledge, I refer to Lord Ripon as the presentGovernor-General of India, when he at once corrects me with, "No; LordDufferin Sahib. " He speaks of London, and wants to know about Mr. Gladstone and Lord Salisbury--which is now Prime Minister? Iexplain by pantomime that the election is not decided; he acknowledgeshis understanding of my meaning by a nod. He then grows inquisitive aboutthe respective merits of the two candidates. "Gladstone koob or Salisburykoob?" he queries. "Gladstone koob, England, ryot, nune, gusht, kishrnish, pool-Salisbury koob, India, Afghanistan, Ameer, Russiasoldier, officer, " is the reply. To the average reader this latter readslike so much unintelligible shibboleth; but it is a fair sample of thedisjointed language by which I manage to convey my meaning plainly to theAfghan chieftain. He understands by these few disconnected nouns that Iconsider Gladstone to be the better statesman of the two for England'sdomestic affairs, and Salisbury the better for the foreign policy of theEmpire. All this time the troops are being put through their exercises, marchingabout the compound in companies and drilling with their muskets. Some areuniformed in the picturesque Anglo-Oriental regimentals of the Indiansepoy, and others in neat red jackets, peaked caps, and white trouserswith red stripes. The buttons, belts, bandoleers, and buckles are allwanderers from the ranks of the British army. The men themselves--many ofthem, at least--might quite as readily be credited to that high standardof military prowess which characterizes the British army as the clothesand accoutrements they are wearing, judging from outward appearances. Notonly do their faces bear the stamp of both fearlessness and intelligence, but some of them are possessed of the distinctively combative physiognomyof the born pugilist. The captain of the Governor's guard has aparticularly plucky and aggressive expression; he is a man whose facewill always remain pictured on my memory. The interesting expression thisofficer habitually wears is that of a prize-ring champion, with adetermined bull-dog phiz, watching eagerly to pounce on some imaginaryantagonist. Seeing that his attention is keenly centred upon me the wholetime I am sitting by the side of his chief, he becomes an object of morethan passing interest. He watches me with the keen earnestness of abull-dog expectantly awaiting the order to attack. Mahmoud Yusuph Khan now attempts to explain at length sundry reasons whyit is necessary to place me, for the time being, under guard. He seemsvery anxious to convey this unpleasant piece of information in theflowery langue diplomatique of the Orient, or in other words, to coat thebitter pill of my detention with a sugary coating of Eastern politeness. His own linguistic abilities being unequal to the occasion, he sends offsomewhere for a dusky Hindostani, who shortly arrives and, in obedienceto orders, forthwith begins jabbering at me in his own tongue. Of this I, of course, know literally nothing, and, ever swayed by suspicion, it iseasily perceivable that their first impression of my being a Russian spyis in a measure revived by my ignorance of Hindostani. They seem to thinkit inconsistent that one could be an Englishman and not understand thelanguage of a native of India. After the interview the twelve red-jacketsthat appear to constitute the Governor's bodyguard are detailed toconduct me to a walled garden--outside the city. Before departing, however, I give the strange assembly of Afghan warriors an exhibition ofriding around the compound. The guard, under the leadership of theofficer with the bull-dog phiz, fix bayonets and form into a file oneither side of me as I trundle back through the same street traversedupon my arrival. Accompanying us is a man on a gray horse whom everybodyaddresses respectfully as "Kiftan Sahib" (Captain), and anotherindividual afoot in a bottle-green roundabout, a broad leathern belt, astriped turban, white baggy pantalettes, and pointed red shoes. KiftanSahib looks more like an English game-keeper than an Afghan captain; hewears a soiled Derby hat, a brown cut-away coat, striped pantaloons, andNorthampton-made shoes without socks; his arms are a cavalry sabre and arevolver. Outside the gate, at the suggestion of the young man in the bottle-greenroundabout, I mount and ride, wheeling slowly along between the littlefiles of soldiers. The soldiers are delighted at the novelty of theirduty, and they swing briskly along as I pedal a little faster. They smileat the exertion necessary to keep up, and falling in with their spirit ofamusement, I gradually increase my speed, and finally shoot ahead of thementirely. Kiftan Sahib comes galloping after me on the gray, and withgood-humored anxiety motions for me to stop and let the soldiers catchup. He it is upon whom the commander-in-chief has saddled theresponsibility for my safe-keeping, and this little display of levity andmy ability to so easily out-distance the soldiers, awakens in him thespirit of apprehension at once. One can see that he breathes easier assoon as we are safely inside the garden gate. A couple of little whitewashed bungalows are the only buildings in thegarden, and one of these is assigned to me for my quarters. Kiftan Sahiband the young man in the bottle-green roundabout give orders about thepreparation of refreshments, and then squat themselves down near me togladden their eyes with a prolonged examination of my face. Thered-jackets separate into three reliefs of four each; one reliefimmediately commences pacing back and forth along the four sides of thebungalow, one soldier on each side, while the remainder seek the shade ofa pomegranate grove that occupies one side of the garden. By-and-byservitors appear bearing trays of sweetmeats and more substantial fare. The variety and abundance of eatables comprising the meal, are such as tothoroughly delight the heart of a person who has grown thin and gaunt andwolfish from semi-starvation and prolonged physical exertion. The twolong skewers of smoking kabobs and the fried eggs are most excellenteating, the pillau is delicious, and among other luxuries is a sort ofpomegranate jam, some very good butter (called muscal), a big bowl ofsherbet, and dishes of nuts, sweetmeats, and salted melon seeds. Afterdinner the young man in bottle-green, who seems anxious to cultivate mygood opinion, smiles significantly at me and takes his departure; heturns up again in a few minutes bearing triumphantly an old Phillips'Atlas, which he deferentially places at my feet. Opening it, I find thatthe chief countries and cities of the world are indicated in writtenHindostani characters. In this manner some English officer has probablybeen the undesigning medium of giving these Afghans a peep into theconfiguration of the earth they live on, and their first lesson ingeography. I reward the young man by asking him whether he too is a "kiftan. " Heacknowledges the compliment by a broad grin and two salaams made in rapidsuccession. After noon a messenger arrives from Mahmoud Yusuph Khan bringing salaamsand a pair of stout English walking-boots to replace my old worn-outgeivehs; and a cake of toilet soap, also of English make. Both shoes andsoap, as may be easily imagined, are highly acceptable articles. Theadvent of the former likewise answers the purpose of enlightening me atrifle in regard to matters philological; the Afghans call theirfoot-gear "boots" (the Chinese call their foot-wear "shoes, " and theirgloves "tung-shoes, " or hand-shoes). About four o'clock I am visited by a fatherly old khan in a sky-bluegown, and an interesting Cabooli cavalry colonel, with pieces of chainmail distributed about his uniform, and a fierce-looking moustache thatstands straight out from his upper lip. Sweetmeats enough to start asmall candy shop have been sent me during the afternoon, and setting themout before my guests, we are soon on the most familiar terms. The colonelshows me his weapons in return for a squint down the shining rifledbarrel of my Smith & Wesson, and he explains the merits and demerits ofboth his own firearms and mine. The 38-calibre S. & W. He thinks aperfect weapon in its way, but altogether too small for Afghanistan. Withexpressive pantomime he explains that, while my 38 bullet would kill aperson as well as a larger one, it requires a heavier missile to crashinto a man who is making for you with a knife or sword, and stop him. Hisfavorite weapon for close quarters is a murderous-looking piece, halfblunderbuss, half pistol, that he carries thrust in his kammerbund, sothat the muzzle points behind him. This weapon has a small single-handmusket stock, and the bell-mouthed barrel is filled nearly to the muzzlewith powder and round bullets the size of buckshot. This formidablefirearm is for hand-to-hand fighting on horseback, and at ten paces mighteasily be warranted to blow a man's head into smithereens. The colonel is an amiable old warrior, and kindly points this interestingweapon at my head for me to peer down the barrel and satisfy myself thatit is really loaded almost to the top! Like Injun-slaying youngsters inAmerica, the doughty Afghan warriors seem to delight in having theirweapons loaded, their sidearms sharp, and their bayonets fixed, and seemanxious to impress the beholder with the fact that they are realwarriors, and not mere make-believe soldiers. The colonel wears adark-brown uniform profusely trimmed with braid, a Kashgarian militaryhat, and English army shoes. In matters pertaining to his wardrobe it isvery evident that he has profited to no small extent by Afghanistan beingadjacent territory to British India; but his semi-civilized ambition hasnot yet soared into the aesthetic realm of socks; doubtless he considersNorthampton-made shoes sufficiently luxurious without the addition ofsocks. The mission of these two officers is apparently to prepare me graduallyfor the intelligence that I am to be taken back to Herat. So skillfullyand diplomatically does the old khan in the cerulean gown acquit himselfof this mission, that I thoroughly understand what is to be mydisposition, although Herat is never mentioned. He talks volubly aboutthe Ameer, the Wali, the Padishah, the dowleh, Cabool, Allah, and a hostof other subjects, out of which I readily evolve my fate; but, as yet, hebreathes nothing but diplomatic hints, and these are clothed in the mostpleasant and reassuring smiles, and given in tones of paternalsolicitude. The colonel sits and listens intently, and now and thenchimes in with a word of soothing assent by way of emphasizing thesubject, when the khan is explaining about the Ameer, or Allah, orkismet. Mahmoud Tusuph Khan himself comes to the garden in the cool ofthe evening, and for half an hour occupies bungalow No. 2. He betrays aspark of Oriental vanity by having an attendant follow behind, bearing ahuge and wonderful sun-shade, into the make-up of which peacock feathersand other gorgeous material largely enters. Noticing this, I make adetermined assault upon his bump of Asiatic self-esteem, by asking him ifhe is brother to the Ameer. He smiles and says he is a brother of ShereAli, the ex-Ameer deposed in favor of Abdur Bahman. His remarks duringour second interview are largely composed of furtive queries, intended topenetrate what he evidently, even as yet, suspects to be the secretobject of my mysterious appearance in the heart of the country. TheAfghan official is nothing if not suspicious, and although he professedhis own conviction, in the morning, of my being an English "nokshi, " hisconstitutionally suspicious nature forbids him accepting this impressionas final. During this interview two more natives of India are produced and orderedto assail my long-suffering ears with the battery of their vernacular. They are an interesting pair, and they evince the liveliest imaginableinterest in finding a Sahib alone in the hands of the Afghans. They arevivacious and intelligent, and try hard to make themselves understood. From their own vocal and pantomimic efforts and the Persian of theAfghans, I learn that they are sepoys in charge of three prisoners fromthe Boundary Commission camp, whom they are taking through to Quetta. They seem very anxious to do something in my behalf, and want MahmoudYusuph Khan to let them take me with them to Quetta. I lose no time insignifying my approval of this suggestion; but the Governor shakes hishead and orders them away, as though fearful even to have such aproposition entertained. All the time the sepoys are endeavoring to makethemselves understood, every Afghan present regards my face with thekeenest scrutiny; so glaringly evident are their suspicions that thesituation becomes too much for my gravity. The sepoys grin broadly inresponse, whereupon the pugilistic-faced captain of the Governor's guardremonstrates with them for their levity, by roughly making them stand ina more respectful attitude. I dislike very much to see them ordered off, for they are evidently anxious to champion my cause; moreover, it wouldhave been interesting to have accompanied them through to Quetta. Understanding thoroughly by this time that I am not to be allowed to gothrough by way of Giriskh and Kandahar, and dreading the probability ofbeing taken back into Persia, I ask permission to travel south to Jowainand the frontier of Beloochistan. The Afghan-Beloochi boundary is notmore than fifty or sixty miles south of Furrah, and while it would bedifficult to say what advantage would be gained by reaching there, itwould at all events be some consolation to find myself at liberty. The interview ends, however, without much additional light being shed ontheir intentions; but the advent of more sweetmeats shortly after theGovernor's departure, and the unexpected luxury of a bottle of Shirazwine, heightens the conviction that my own wishes in the matter are to bepolitely ignored. The red-jackets patrol my bungalow till dark, when theyare relieved by soldiers in dark-blue kilts, loose Turkish pantalettes, and big turbans. I sit on the threshold during the evening, watchingtheir soldierly bearing with much interest; on their part they comportthemselves as though proudly conscious of making a good impression. Ijudge they have been especially ordered to acquit themselves well in mypresence, and so impress me, whether I am English or Russian, with asense of their military proficiency. All about the garden red-coatedguards are seen prostrating themselves toward Mecca in the prosecution oftheir evening devotions. Full of reflections on the exciting events ofthe day and the strange turn affairs have taken, I stretch myself on aTurkoman rug and doze off to sleep. The last sound heard ere reaching therealms of unconsciousness is the steady tramp of the sentinels pacing toand fro. Scarcely have I fallen asleep--so at least it seems to me--when I am awakened by my four guards singing out, one afteranother, "Kujawpuk! Ki-i-puk!!" This appears to be their answer to thechallenge of the officer going his rounds, and they shout it out in tonesclear and distinct, in succession. This programme is repeated severaltimes during the night, and, notwithstanding the sleep-inducing fatiguesof the last few days, my slumbers are light enough to hear the reliefs ofthe guard and their strange cry of "Kujawpuk, ki-i-puk" every time it isrepeated. As the sun peeps over the wall of the garden my red-jackets reappear attheir post; roses are stuck in their caps' and their buttonholes, andfastened to their guns. A big bouquet of the same fragrant "guls" ispresented to me, and a dozen gholams are busy gathering all that areabloom in the garden. These are probably gathered every morning in therose season, and used for making rose-water by the officers' wives. During the forenoon the blue-gowned old khan and his major-domo, themail-clad colonel, again present themselves at my bungalow. They aregracious and friendly to a painful degree, and sugar would scarcely meltin the mouth of the paternal old khan as he delivers the "Wall's salaamsto the Sahib. " Tea and sweetmeats are handed around, and Kiftan Sahib andBottle Green join our company. Nothing but the formal salaams has yet been said; but intuition is afaithful forerunner, and ere another word is spoken, I know well enoughthat the khan and the colonel have been sent to break the disagreeablenews that I am to be taken to Herat, and that Kiftan Sahib and BottleGreen have dropped in out of curiosity to see how I take it. The kindly old khan finds his task of awakening the spirit ofdisappointment anything but congenial, and he seems very loath to deliverthe message. When he finally unburdens himself, it is with averted eyesand roundabout language. He commences by a rambling disquisition on thedangers of the road to Kandahar, apologizing profusely for the Ameer'sinability to guarantee the good behavior of the wandering tribes, and theconsequent necessity of forbidding travellers to enter the country. He dwells piously and at considerable length upon our obligations tosubmit to the will of Allah, not forgetting a liberal use of the Orientalfatalist's favorite expression: "kismet. " For the sake of argument, rather than with any hope of influencing things in my favor, I reply:"All right, I don't ask the Ameer's protection; I will go to Kandahar andQuetta alone, on my own responsibility; then if I get murdered by theGhilzais, nobody but myself will be to blame. " "The Wali has his ordersfrom the Padishah, the Ameer Abdur Eahman Khan, that no Ferenghi is tocome in the country. " "Tell the Wali that Afghanistan is Allah's countryfirst and Abdur Eahman's country second. Inshallah, Allah gives everybodythe road. " The old khan is evidently at a loss how to meet so logical anargument, and the colonel, Kiftan Sahib, and Bottle Green are deeplyimpressed at what they consider my unanswerable wisdom. They look at oneanother and shake their heads and smile. The chief concern of the khan is apparently to convince me that it isonly out of consideration for my own safety that I am forbidden to gothrough, and, after a brief consultation with the others, he againaddresses his flowery eloquence to me. He comes and squats beside me, and, with much soothing patting of my shoulder, he says: "The Wali isonly taking you to Herat to obtain Ridgeway Sahib's and Faramorz Khan'spermission for you to go through. Inshallah, after you have seen Herat, if it is the will of Allah, and your kismet to go to Kandahar, the Ameerwill let you go. " To this comforting assurance I deem it but justice tothe well-meaning old chieftain to signify my submission to theinevitable. Before departing, he requests the humble present of apencil-sketch of the bicycle as a souvenir of my visit to Furrah. Duringthe day I get on quite intimate terms with my guard, and among otherthings compete with them in the feat of holding a musket out at arm'slength, gripping the extreme end of the barrel. Tall, strapping fellowssome of them are, but they are not muscular in comparison; out of a rounddozen competitors I am the only one capable of fairly accomplishing thisfeat. Many of the soldiers carry young pheasants about with them in cages, andseem to derive a good deal of pleasure in feeding them and attending totheir wants. The cages are merely pieces of white muslin, ormosquito-netting, about the size of a pocket-handkerchief, enclosing afour-inch disk of wood for the inmate to stand on. The crape is gatheredand loosely tied at the corners. It is carried as one would carryanything suspended in a handkerchief, and is hung on the limb of a treein the same manner. Late in the afternoon of the second clay my scarlet guard marshalthemselves in front of the bungalow, and Kiftan Sahib and Bottle Greenbid me prepare for departure to Herat. The old khan and the colonel, andseveral other horsemen, appear at the gate; the soldiers form themselvesinto two files, and between them I trundle from my circumscribedquarters. The rude ferry-boat is awaiting our coming, and in a fewminutes the khan and the colonel bid me quite an affectionate farewell onthe river-bank, gazing eagerly into my face as though regretful at thenecessity of parting so soon. My escort favor me with the, same lingeringgaze. These people are evidently fascinated by the strange and mysteriousmanner of my coming among them; who am I, what am I, and wherefore mymarvellous manner of travelling, are questions that appeal strongly totheir Asiatic imagination, and they are intensely loath to see medisappear again without having seen more of me and my wonderful ironhorse, and learned more about it. Several horsemen have already crossed and are awaiting us on the oppositeshore. Kiftan Sahib and another officer with a henna-tinted beard are incharge of the party taking me back. Besides myself and these two, theparty consists of eleven horsemen; with sundry modifications, theirgeneral appearance, arms, and dress resemble the make-up of a Persiansowar rather than the regular Afghan soldier. The sun is just settingbehind those western mountains I passed three days ago as we reach thewestern shore, the boatmen are unloading the saddles and accoutrements ofour party, and I sit down on the bank and survey the strange scene justacross the river. The steep bluff opposite is occupied by people whoaccompanied us to the river. Many of them are seizing this opportunemoment to prostrate themselves toward the Holy City, the geographicalposition of which is happily indicated by the setting sun. Prominent among the worshippers are seen side by side the cerulean figureof the khan, and the colonel in all the bravery of his militarytrappings, his chain armor glistening brightly in the waning sunlight. Alittle removed from the crowd, the twelve red-coats are ranged in a row, performing the same pious ceremony; as their bared heads bob up and downone after another, the scarlet figures outlined in a row against theeastern sky are strangely suggestive of a small flock of flamingoesengaged in fishing. CHAPTER XI. UNDER ESCORT TO HERAT. Our party camps near a village not far from the river, but it takes ustill after dark to reach the place, owing to ditches and overflow. A fewmiles of winding trails and intricate paths through the reedyriver-bottom next morning, and we emerge upon a flinty upland plain. Atfirst a horseman is required to ride immediately ahead of the bicycle, myuntutored escort being evidently suspicious lest I might suddenly forgeahead, and with the swiftness of a bird disappear from their midst. As this leader, in his ignorance, occasionally stops right in the narrowpath, and considers himself in duty bound to limit my speed to that ofthe walking horses, this arrangement quickly becomes very monotonous. Appealing to Kiftan Sahib, I point out the annoyance of having a horsejust in front, and promise not to go too far ahead. He points appealinglyto a little leathern pouch attached to his belt. The pouch contains aletter to the Governor of Herat, and he it is whom Mahmoud Yusuph Khanexpects to take back a receipt. The chief responsibility for my safedelivery rests upon his shoulders, and he is disposed to be abnormallyapprehensive and suspicious. Reassuring him of my sincerity, he permits the horseman to follow alongbehind. When the condition of the road admits of my pushing ahead alittle, this sowar canters along immediately behind, while the remainderof the party follow more leisurely. One of the party carries a skin of water, and as the morning growsfearfully hot, frequent halts are made to wait for him and get a drink, otherwise we two are usually some distance ahead. These water-vessels aremerely goat-skins, taken off with as little mutilation of the hide aspossible; one of the legs serves as a faucet, and the tying or untying ofa piece of string opens or closes the "tap. " It is the handiestimaginable contrivance for carrying liquids on horseback, the tough, pliant goat-skin resisting any amount of hard usage and accommodatingitself readily to the contour of the pack-saddle, or itself forming asoft enough seat to the rider. Near noon we reach the ruins of Suleimanabad, entirely deserted save byhideous gray lizards a foot long, numbers of which scuttle off into theirhiding places at our approach. In the distance ahead are visible theblack tents of a nomad camp. The glowing, reflected heat of the stonydesert produces an unquenchable thirst, and the generous bowls of cool, acidulous doke obtained in the tents are quaffed most eagerly by theentire party. The solicitude of Kiftaii Sahib as displayed on my behalf is quiteamusing, not to say affecting; while the others are attending to theirhorses he squats down before me underneath the little goat-hair tent andgazes at me with an attention so close that one might imagine him afraidlest I should mysteriously change into some impalpable spirit and floataway. The nomads themselves appear to be amiably disposed, intent chiefly onsupplying our wants and fulfilling the traditions of tented hospitality. They look wild enough, but, withal, pleasant and intelligent. KiftanSahib, however, watches every movement of the stalwart nomads with keeninterest; and small power of penetration is required to see thatapprehension, if not positive suspicion, enters very largely into histhoughts concerning them and myself. A howling wind and dust-storm comes careering across the plain, creatinga wild scene, and black cloud-banks gather and pile up ominously in thewest. The threatened rain-storm, however, passes off with a pyrotechnicdisplay of great brilliancy, and the evening air lowers to a refreshingtemperature as we stretch ourselves out on nummuds, fifty yards away fromthe tents. Kiftan Sahib spreads his own couch on the right side of mineand the red-whiskered chief of the sowars occupies the left. Waking up during the night, I am somewhat taken by surprise at findingone of my escort standing guard over me with fixed bayonet. Thisextraordinary precaution appears to me at the time as being altogethersuperfluous; while recognizing these nomads as lawless and fanatical, Ishould nevertheless have no hesitation in venturing alone among them. The morning star is just soaring above the eastern horizon, and thefeeble rays of Luna's half-averted face are imparting a ghostly glimmerof light, when I am awakened from a sound sleep. The horses have all beensaddled and packed, and everybody is ready to start. Daylight comes onapace and, finding the trail hard and reasonably smooth, I am happilyable to "sowari, " and not only able to ride but to forge right ahead ofthe party. The country is level and open, and uninhabited, so that KiftanSahib is far less apprehensive than he was yesterday. I am perhaps a couple of miles ahead when I come to a splendid, large, irrigating canal, evidently conveying water from the Harood down acrossthe desert to the low cultivable lands near the Furrah Rood. The water isthree feet deep, and I revel in the luxury of a cooling and refreshingbath until overtaken by the escort. The plain, heretofore hard, now changes into loose sand and gravel, andthe trail becomes quite obliterated. In addition to these undesirablechanges, the wind commences blowing furiously from the north, making itabsolutely impossible to ride. Rounding the base of an abutting mountain, we emerge upon the grassy lowlands of the Harood in the vicinity ofSubzowar. Subzowar is a sort of way-station between Furrah and Herat, theonly inhabited place, except tents, on the whole journey. It is on thewest side of the Harood and the broad, swift stream is full tooverflowing, a turgid torrent rushing along at a dangerous pace. After much shouting and firing of guns, a score of villagers appear onthe opposite bank, and several of them come wading and swimming across. They seem veritable amphibians, capable of stemming the tide thatwell-nigh sweeps strong horses off their feet. The river is fordable byfollowing a zigzag course well known to the local watermen. One of themcarries the bicycle safely across on his head, and others lead thesowars' horses by the bridle. When all the Afghans but Kiftan Sahib have been assisted over, thestrongest horse of the party is brought back for my own passage. A dozennatives are made to form a close cordon about me to rescue me in case ofmisadventure, while one leads the horse by his bridle and anothersteadies him by holding on to his tail. Kiftan Sahib himself brings upthe rear, and, as the rushing waters deepen around us, he abjures me tokeep a steady seat and, in a voice that almost degenerates into anapprehensive whine, he mutters: "The receipt, Sahib, the receipt. " A ripple of excitement occurs in the middle of the river by one the menbeing swept off his feet and carried down stream; and, although he swimslike a duck, the treacherous undercurrent sucks him under several times. It looks as though he would be drowned; a number of his comrades racedown the bank and plunge in to swim to his rescue, but he finally securesfooting on a submerged sand-bank, and after resting a few minutes swimsashore. The remainder of the day, and the night, are passed in tents nearSubzowar, it being very evidently against Afghan social etiquette forstrangers to take shelter within the confines of the village itself. Whether from their knowledge of the unsuitableness of the country ahead, or from a new spasm of apprehension concerning their responsibility, doesnot appear; but in the morning Kiftan Sahib and the chief of the sowarsinsist upon me mounting a horse and handing the bicycle over to thetender mercies of the person in charge of the nummud pack-horse. Theypoint in the direction of Herat, and deliver themselves of a marvellousquantity of deprecatory pantomime. My own impression is that, havingrecrossed the Harood, the only great obstacle in the path of a wheelmanbetween Furrah and Herat, their abnormally suspicious minds imagine thatthere is now nothing to prevent me taking wings and outdistancing them tothe latter place. Finding them determined, and, moreover, nothing loath to try a horse fora change, on the back-stretch, I take the wheel apart and distributefork, backbone, and large wheel among the sowars. The only fit place forthe latter is on the top of the nummuds and blankets on the sparepack-horse, and, before starting, I see to fastening it securely on topof the load. This pack-horse is a powerful black stallion that puts in agood share of his time trying to attack the other horses. Owing to thisuncontrollable pugnacity, he is habitually led along at some considerabledistance from the party, generally to the rear. The person in charge of him is a young negro as black, andproportionately powerful, as himself. Wild and ferocious as is thestallion, he is a civilized and mild-mannered animal compared with hismanager. In the matter of facial expression and intellectual developmentthis uncivilized descendant of Ham is first cousin to a wild gorilla, andit is not without certain misgivings that I leave the web-likebicycle-wheel in his charge. He has been a very interesting study ofuncivilization all along, and his bump of destructiveness is as large asan orange. The military Afghans, one and all, impress me as beingespecially created to destroy the fruits of other people's industry andthrift, whether it be in wearing out clothes and shoes made in England, or devouring the substance of the peaceful villagers of their ownterritory; and this untamed darkey fairly bristles with the evidence ofhis capacity as a destroyer. Everything about him is in a dilapidated condition; the leathern scabbardof his sword is split half way up, revealing a badly notched and rustedblade. An orang-outang, fresh from the jungles of Sumatra, could scarcelydisplay less intelligence concerning human handicraft than he; he bubblesover with laughter at seeing anything upset or broken, growls sullenly atreceiving uncongenial orders, calls on Allah, and roars threateningly atthe stallion, all in the same breath. No wonder I ride ahead, feelingsomewhat apprehensive; and yet the wheel looks snug and safe enough ontop of the big pile of soft nummuds. The day's march is long and dreary, through a country of desert wastesand stony hills. The only human habitation seen is a small cluster oftents near some wells of water. The people seem overjoyed at the sight oftravellers, and come running to the road with their kammerbunds full oflittle hard balls of sun-dried mast. We fill our pockets with these andnibble and chew them as we ride along. They are pleasantly sour, containing great thirst-quemhing properties, as well as being verynourishing. The sun goes down and dusk settles over our trail, and still the chief ofthe sowars and Kiftan Sahib lead the way. Many of the horses are prettybadly fagged, they have had nothing to eat all day and next to nothing todrink, and the party are straggling along the trail for a couple of milesback. At length lights are observed twinkling in the darkness ahead. Halfan hour later we dismount in a nomad camp, and one after another theremainder of the party come straggling in, some of them leading theirhorses. Both men and animals are well-nigh overcome with fatigue. The shrill neighing of the ferocious and spirited black stallion is heardas he approaches and realizes that he is coming into camp; he is aglorious specimen of a horse, neither hunger nor thirst can curb hisspirit. He is carrying far the heaviest load of the party, yet he comesinto camp at ten o'clock, after hustling along over stones and sand sincebefore daylight, without food or water; neighing loudly and ready tofight all the horses within reach. The chief of the sowars goes out tosuperintend the unloading of the black stallion; and soon I hear himaddressing the negro in angry tones, supplementing his reproachful wordswith several resounding blows of his riding-whip. The wild darkey'sdisapproval of these proceedings finds expression in a roar of pain andfear that would do justice to a yearling bull being dragged into theshambles. The cause of this turmoil shortly turns up in the shape of my wheel, withno less than eleven spokes broken, and the rim considerably twisted outof shape. Kiftan Sahib surveys 'the damaged wheel a moment, draws his ownrawhide from his kammerbund, and rises to his feet. With a hoarse cry ofalarm the negro vanishes into the surrounding gloom; the next moment isheard his eager chuckling laugh, the spontaneous result of his luckyescape from Kiftan Sahib's vengeful rawhide. Kiftan Sahib keeps adesultory lookout for him all the evening, but the wary negro is moreeagerly watchful than he, and during supper-time he hovers perpetuallyabout the encircling wall of darkness, ready to vanish into itsimpenetrable depths at the first aggressive demonstration. The explanation of the negro is that the black horse laid down with hisload. The wheel presents a well-nigh ruined appearance, and I retire tomy couch in a most unenviable frame of mind; lying awake for hours, pondering over the probability of being able to fix it up again at Herat. One of our party of stragglers has failed to come in, and a couple ofnomads start out about 2 a. M. To try and find him; but neither absenteenor searchers turn up at daybreak, and so we pull out without him. The wind blows raw and chilly from the north as we depart at early dawn, and the men muffle themselves up in whatever wraps they happen to have. Unwilling to trust the wheel further in the charge of the negro, I carryit myself, resting it on one stirrup, and securing it with a rope over myshoulder. It is a most awkward thing to carry on horseback; but, unhandythough it be, I regret not having so carried it the whole way fromSubzowar. Our route leads through a dreary country, much the same character asyesterday, but we pass a pool of very good water about mid-day, and meetthree men driving laden pack-horses from Herat. They are halted andquestioned at great length concerning the contents of their packages, whither they are bound and whence they come; and their firearms areexamined and commented upon. The members of our party appear to addressthem with a very domineering spirit, as though wantonly revelling in thesense of their own numerical superiority. On the other hand, the threehonest travellers comport themselves with what looks like an altogetherunnecessary amount of humility during the interview, and they seem verythankful and relieved when permitted to take their departure. Thesignificance of all this, I imagine, is that my escort were sorelytempted to overhaul the effects of the weaker party, and see if they hadany toothsome eatables from the bazaars of Herat; and the latter, justlyapprehensive of these designs on their late purchases, considerthemselves fortunate in escaping without being ruthlessly looted. Toward evening we pass a comparatively new cemetery on a knoll; no signsof human habitation are about, and Kiftan Sahib, in response to myinquiries, explains that it is the graveyard of a battle-field. Several times during the afternoon we lose the trail; we seem to be goingacross an almost trailless country, and more than once have to call ahalt while men are sent to the summit of some neighboring hill to surveythe surrounding country for landmarks. At dark we pitch our camp in a grassy hollow, where the horses are madehappy with heaps of pulled bottom-grass. Neither trees nor houses areanywhere in sight; but the chief of the sowars and another man ride awayover the hills, and late at night return with two men carrying bread andmast and fresh goat-milk enough to feed the whole hungry party. We make a leisurely start next morning, the reason of the dalliance beingthat we are but a few farsakhs from Herat. The country develops intoundulating, grassy upland prairie, the greensward being thickly spangledwith yellow flowers. A two flours' ride brings us to a camp of probablynot less than one hundred tents. Large herds of camels are peacefullybrowsing over the prairie, numbers of them being females rejoicing in thepossession of woolly youngsters, whose uncouth but tender proportions areswathed in old quilts and nummuds to protect them from the fierce rays ofthe sun. Sheep are being sheared and goats milked by men and boys; some of thewomen are baking bread, some are jerking skin churns, suspended ontripods, vigorously back and forth, and others are preparing balls ofmast for drying in the sun. The whole camp presents a scene ofpicturesque animation. From the busy nomad camp, the trail seems to make a gradual ascent until, on the morning of April 30th, we arrive at the bluff-like termination ofa rolling upland country, and behold! spread out below is the famousvalley of Herat. Like a panorama suddenly opened up before me is thecharmed stretch of country that has time and again created such a stir inthe political and military circles of England and Russia, the famous"gate to India" about which the two greatest empires of the world havesometimes almost come to blows. Several populous villages are scatteredabout the valley within easy range of human vision; the Heri Rood, nowbursting its natural boundaries under the stimulus of the spring floods, glistens broadly at intervals like a chain of small lakes. The fortressof Herat is dimly discernible in the distance beyond the river, probablyabout twenty miles from our position; it is rendered distinguishable fromother masses of mud-brown habitations by a cluster of tall minarets, reminding one of a group of factory chimneys. The whole scene, as viewedfrom the commanding view of our ridge, embraces perhaps four hundredsquare miles of territory; about one-tenth of this appears to be undercultivation, the remainder being of the same stony, desert-like characteras the average camel-thorn dasht. Doubtless a good share of this latter might be reclaimed and renderedproductive by an extensive system of irrigating canals, but at present noincentive exists for enterprise of this character. In its present stateof cultivation the valley provides an abundance of food for theconsumption of its inhabitants, and as yet the demand for exportation islimited to the simple requirements of a few thousand tributary nomads. The orchards and green areas about the villages render the whole scene, as usual, beautiful in comparison with the surrounding barrenness, butthat is all. Compared with our own green hills and smiling valleys, theValley of Herat would scarcely seem worth all the noise that has beenmade about it. There has been a great amount of sentiment wasted ineulogizing its alleged beauty. Of its wealth and commercial importance inthe abstract, I should say much exaggeration has been indulged in. Still, there is no gainsaying that it is a most valuable strategical position, which, if held by either England or Russia, would exercise greatinfluence on Central Asian and Indian affairs. Such are my firstimpressions of the Herat Valley, and a sojourn of some ten days in one ofits villages leaves my conjectures about the same. A few miles along a stony and gradually descending trail, and we aremaking our way across the usual chequered area of desert, patches, abandoned fields, and old irrigating ditches that so often tell the taleof decay and retrogression in the East. These outlying evidences ofdecay, however, soon merge into green fields of wheat and barley, poppygardens, and orchards, and flowing ditches; and two hours after obtainingthe first view of Herat finds us camped in a walled apricot garden in theimportant village of Rosebagh (?). Overtopping our camping ground are a pair of dilapidated brick minarets, attached to what Kiftan Sahib calls the Jami Mesjid, and which hefurthermore volunteers was erected by Ghengis Khan. The minarets are ofcircular form, and one is broken off fifteen feet shorter than itsneighbor. In the days of their glory they were mosaicked with blue, greenand yellow glazed tiles; but nothing now remains but a fewmournful-looking patches of blue, surviving the ravages of time anddecay. Pigeons have from time to time deposited grains of barley on thedome, and finding sustenance from the gathered dirt and the fallingrains, they have sprouted and grown, and dotted the grand old mosque withpatches of green vegetation. One corner of the orchard is occupied by a stable, to the flat roof ofwhich I betake myself shortly after our arrival to try and ascertain mybearings, and see something of the village. High walls rise up betweenthe roofs of the houses and divide one garden from another, so thatprecious little opportunity exists for observation immediately around, and from here not even the tall minarets of Herat are visible. The adjacent houses are mostly bee-hive roofed, and within the littlegardens attached the soil is evidently rich and productive. Pomegranate, almond, and apricot trees abound, and produce a charming contrast to theprevailing crenellated mud walls. A very conspicuous feature of thevillage is a cluster of some half-dozen venerable cedars. The stable roof provides sleeping accommodation for the chief of thesowars, Kiftan Sahib, and myself, the remainder of the party curlthemselves up beneath the apricot-trees below. During the night one ofthe sowars, an old fellow whose morose and sulky disposition has had theeffect of rendering him socially objectionable to his comrades on themarch from Furrah, comes scrambling on the roof, and in loud tones ofcomplaint addresses himself to Kiftan Sahib's peacefully snoozingproportions. His midnight eruption consists of some grievance against hisfellows; perhaps some such wanton act of injustice as appropriating hisblanket or stealing his "timbakoo" (tobacco). The only satisfaction he obtains from his superior takes the form ofangry upbraidings for daring to disturb our slumbers; and, continuing hiscomplaints, Kiftan. Sahib springs up from beneath his red blanket andadministers several resounding cuffs. Having meted our this summary interpretation of Afghan petty justice, Kiftan Sahib resumes his blanket, and the old sowar comes and squatsalongside my own rude couch, and endeavors to heal his wounded spirit bymuttering appeals to Allah. His savage groanings render it impossible forme to go to sleep, and several times I motion him away; but he affectsnot to take any notice. Determined to drive him away, I rise up hastily as though about to attackhim, --a piece of strategy that causes him to scramble off the rooffar quicker than he climbed on. His fit of rage lasts through the night, finding vent in mutterings that are heard long after his hurrieddeparture from my vicinity, and in the morning he is seen perched in acorner of the wall by himself, still angry and unappeased. The rising sun ushers in May-day with unmistakable indications of hisgrowing powers, and when he glares fiercely over the walls of our littleorchard retreat, we find it profitable to crouch in the shade. It isalready evident that I am not to be permitted to enter Herat proper, orsee or learn any more of my surroundings than my keepers can help. Letters are forwarded to the city immediately upon our arrival, and onthe following morning an officer and several soldiers make theirappearance, to receive me from Kiftan Sahib and duly receipt for mytransfer. The officer announces himself as having once been to Bombay, and proceeds to question me in a mixture of Persian and Hindostani. Finding me ignorant of the latter language, he openly accuses me of beinga Russian, raising his finger and wagging his head in a deprecatorymanner. He is a simple-minded individual, however, and open to easyconviction, and moreover inclined to be amiable and courteous. He tellsme that Faramorz Khan is "Wall of the soldiers" and Niab Alookimah Khanthe "dowleh" (civil governor), and after listening to my explanation ofbeing English and not Russian, he takes upon himself to deliver salaamsfrom them both. "Merg Sahib, " the political agent of the Boundary Commission, he says isat Murghab, and "Ridgeway Sahib" at Maimene. Learning that a courier isto be sent at once to them with letters in regard to myself, I quicklyembrace the opportunity of sending a letter to each by the samemessenger, explaining the situation, and asking Colonel Ridgeway to tryand render me some assistance in getting through to India. By request of the officer I send the governor of Herat a sketch of thebicycle, to enlighten him somewhat concerning its character andappearance. No doubt, it would be a stretching of his Asiatic dignity asthe governor of an important city, to come to Rosebagh on purpose to seeit for himself, and on no circumstances can I, an unauthorized Ferenghiinvading the country against orders, be permitted to visit Herat. The transfer having been duly made, I am conducted, a mile or so, to thegarden of a gentleman named Mohammed Ahziin Khan, my quarters there beingan open bungalow just large enough to stretch out in. Here is providedeverything necessary for the rude personal comfort of the country, andsuch additional luxuries as raisins and pomegranates are at once brought. Here, also, I very promptly make the acquaintance of Moore's famousbul-buls, the "sweet nightingales" of Lalla Eookh. The garden is full offruit-trees and grape-vines, and here several pairs of bul-buls maketheir home. They are great pets with the Afghans, and when Mohammed AhzimKhan calls "bul-bul, bul-bul, " they come and alight on the bushes closeby the bungalow and perk their heads knowingly, evidently expecting to befavored with tid-bits. They are almost tame enough to take raisins out ofthe hand, and hesitate not to venture after them when placed close to ourfeet. It is the first time I have had the opportunity of a closeexamination of the bul-bul. They are almost the counterpart of theEnglish starling as regards size and shape, but their bodies are of amousey hue; the head and throat are black, with little white patches oneither "cheek;" the tail feathers are black, tipped with white, and onthe lower part of the body is a patch of yellow; the feathers of the headform a crest that almost rises to the dignity of a tassel. While the bul-bul is a companionable little fellow and possessed of acheery voice, his warble in no respects resembles the charming singing ofthe nightingale, and why he should be mentioned in connection with thesweet midnight songster of the English woodlands is something of amystery. His song is a mere "clickety click" repeated rapidly severaltimes. His popularity comes chiefly from his boldness and hiscompanionable associations with mankind. The bul-bul is as much of afavorite in the Herat Valley as is robin red-breast in rural England, orthe bobolink in America. The second day in the garden is remembered as the anniversary of my startfrom Liverpool, and I have plenty of time for retrospection. It isunnecessary to say that the year has been crowded with strangeexperiences. Not the least strange of all, perhaps, is my presentpredicament as a prisoner in the Herat Valley. In the afternoon there arrives from Herat a Peshawari gentleman namedMirza Gholam Ahmed, who is stationed here in the capacity of native agentfor the Indian government. He is an individual possessed of considerableAsiatic astuteness, and his particular mission is very plainly todiscover for the governor of Herat whether I am English or Russian. He isa somewhat fleshy, well-favored person, and withal of prepossessingmanners. He introduces himself by shaking hands and telling me his name, and forthwith indulges in a pinch of snuff preparatory to his task ofinterrogation. Accompanying him is the officer who received me fromKiftan Sahib in the apricot garden, and whose suspicions of my being aRussian spy are anything but allayed. During the interview he squats down on the threshold of the littlebungalow, and concentrates his curiosity and suspicion into a protractedpenetrating stare, focused steadily at my devoted countenance. MohammedAhzim Khan imitates him to perfection, except that his stare containsmore curiosity and less suspicion. Mirza Gholam Ahmed proceeds upon his mission of fathoming the secret ofmy nationality with extreme wariness, as becomes an Oriental officialengaged in a task of significant import, and at first confines himself tothe use of Persian and Hindostani. It does not take me long, however, tosatisfy the trustworthy old Peshawari that I am not a Muscov, and fifteenminutes after his preliminary pinch of snuff, he is unbosoming himself tome to the extent of letting me know that he served with General Pollockon the Seistan Boundary Commission, that he went with General Pollock toLondon, and moreover rejoices in the titular distinction of C. I. E. (Companion Indian Empire), bestowed upon him for long and faithful civiland political services. The C. I. E. He designates, with a pardonablesmile of self-approval, as "backsheesh" given him, without solicitation, by the government of India; a circumstance that probably appeals to hisOriental conception as a most extraordinary feature in his favor. Bribery, favoritism, and personal influence enter so largely into thepreferments and rewards of Oriental governments, that anything obtainedon purely meritorious grounds may well be valued highly. He understands English sufficiently well to comprehend the meaning of myremarks and queries, and even knows a few words himself. From him I learnthat I will not be permitted to visit Herat, and that I am to be keptunder guard until Faramorz Khan's courier returns from the BoundaryCommission Camp with Colonel Ridgeway's answer. He tells me that the fameof the bicycle has long ago been brought to Herat by pilgrims returningfrom Meshed, and the marvellous stories of my accomplishments are currentin the bazaars. Fourteen farsakhs (fifty-six miles) an hour, and nothingsaid about the condition of the roads, is the average Herati'sunderstanding of it; and many a grave, turbaned merchant in the bazaar, and wild warrior on the ramparts, indulges in day-dreams of an iron horselittle less miraculous in its deeds than the winged steed of the air weread of in the Arabian Nights. The direct results of Mirza Gholam Ahmed's visit and favorable report tothe Governor of Herat, are made manifest on the following day by theappearance of his companion of yesterday in charge of two attendants, bringing me boxes of sweetmeats, almonds, raisins, and salted nuts, together with a package of tea and a fifteen-pound cone of loaf-sugar;all backsheesh from the Governor of Herat. Mirza Gholam Ahmed himselfcontributes a cake of toilet soap, a few envelopes and sheets of paper, and Huntley & Palmer's Beading biscuits. Upon stumbling upon these latteracceptable articles, one naturally falls to wondering whether thisworld-famed firm of biscuit-makers suspect that their wares sometimespenetrate even inside the battlemented walls of Herat. With them comealso three gunsmiths, charged with the duty of assisting in thereparation of the bicycle, badly damaged by the horse, it is remembered, on the way from Furrah. Their implements consist of a pair of peculiar goat-skin bellows, provided with wooden nozzles tipped with iron. A catgut bowstring drillsfor boring holes, and screw-drills for cutting threads, hammers, and ananvil. A rude but ingenious forge is constructed out of a few handfuls ofstiff mud, and, building a charcoal fire, they spend the evening insharpening and tempering drills for tomorrow's operations. Everybody seems more attentive and anxious to contribute to my pleasure, the result, evidently, of orders from Herat. The officer, who but twodays ago openly accused me of being a Russian, is to-day obsequiousbeyond measure, and his efforts to atone for Ma openly assured suspicionsare really quite painful and embarrassing; even going the length ofbegging me to take him with me to London. The supper provided to-dayconsists of more courses and is better cooked and better served; MohammedAhzim Khan himself squats before me, diligently engaged in picking hairsout of the butter, pointing out what he considers the choicest morsels, and otherwise betrays great anxiety to do the agreeable. The whole of the fifth and sixth days are consumed in the task ofrepairing the damages to the bicycle, the result being highlysatisfactory, considering everything. Six new spokes that I have with mehave been inserted, and sundry others stretched and the ends newlythreaded. The gunsmiths are quite expert workmen, considering the toolsthey have to work with, and when they happen to drill a hole a triflecrooked, they are full of apologies, and remind me that this isAfghanistan and not Frangistan. They know and appreciate good materialwhen they see it, and during the process of heating and stretching thespokes, loud and profuse are the praises bestowed upon the quality of theiron. "Koob awhan, " they say, "Khylie koob awhan; Ferenghi awhan koob. "As artisans, interested in mechanical affairs, the ball-bearings of thepedals, one of which I take apart to show them, excites their profoundadmiration as evidence of the marvellous skill of the Ferenghis. Muchcareful work is required to spring the rim of the wheel back into a truecircle, every spoke having to be loosened and the whole wheel newlyadjusted. Except for the handy little spoke-vice which I very fortunatelybrought with me, this work of adjustment would have been impossible. Asthere is probably nothing obtainable in Herat that would have answeredthe purpose, no alternative would have been left but to have carried thebicycle out of the country on horseback. After the coterie of gunsmithshave exhausted their ingenuity and my own resources have been expended, three spokes are missing entirely, two others are stretched and weakened, and of the six new ones some are forced into holes partially spoiled inthe unskillful boring out of broken ends. Yet, with all these defects, sothoroughly has it stood the severest tests of the roads, that I apprehendlittle or no trouble about breakages. Day after day passes wearily along; wearily, notwithstanding the kindlyefforts of my guardians to make things pleasant and comfortable. From anAsiatic's standpoint, nothing could be more desirable than my presentcircumstances; with nothing to do but lay around and be waited on, generous meals three times daily, sweetmeats to nibble and tea to drinkthe whole livelong day; conscious of requiring rest and generous diet--allthis, however, is anything but satisfactory in view of the reflectionthat the fine spring weather is rapidly passing away, and that every dayought to see me forty or fifty miles nearer the Pacific Coast. Time hangs heavily in the absence of occupation, and I endeavor torelieve the tedium of slowly creeping time by cultivating the friendshipof our new-found acquaintances, the bul-buls. My bountiful supply ofraisins provides the elements of a genuine bond of sympathy between us, and places us on the most friendly terms imaginable from the beginning. During the day my bungalow is infested with swarms of huge robber ants, that make a most determined onslaught on the raisins and sweetmeats, invading the boxes and lugging them off to their haunts among thegrape-vines. A favorite occupation of the bul-buls is sitting on a twigjust outside the bungalow and watching for the appearance of these antsdragging away raisins. The bul-bul hops to the ground, seizes the raisin, shakes the ant loose, flies back up in his tree, and swallows thecaptured raisin, and immediately perks his head in search of anotherprize. Among other ideas intended to contribute to my enjoyment, a loud-voicedpee-wit imprisoned in a crape cage is brought and hung up outside thebungalow. At intervals that seem almost as regular as the striking of aclock, this interesting pet stretches itself up at full length and givesutterance to a succession of rasping cries, strangely loud for so small acreature. A horse is likewise brought into the garden, for the pleasureit will presumably afford me to watch it munch bunches of pulled grass, and switch horseflies away with his tail. The horse is tied up abouttwenty yards from my quarters, but in his laudable zeal to cater to myamusement Mohammed Ahzim Khan volunteers to station it close by if moreagreeable. All these trifling occurrences serve to illustrate the Asiatic's idea ofpersonal enjoyment. Every day a subordinate called Abdur Rahman Khan rides into Herat toreport to the Governor, and Mohammed Ahzim Khan himself keeps watch andward over my person with faithful vigil. Sometimes I wander about thelittle garden for exercise, and either he or one of his assistantsfollows close behind, faithful in their attendance as a shadow. Occasionally I grow careless and indifferent about possible danger, andleave my revolver hanging up in the bungalow; noticing its absence, hebids me buckle it around me, saying warningly, "Afghanistan;Afghanistan;" he also watches me retire at night to make sure that I putit under my pillow. One day, a visitor appears upon the scene, carrying a walking-cane. Mohammed Ahzim Khan pounces upon him instantly and I grabbing the stick, examines it closely, evidently suspicious lest it should be asword-stick. He is the most persistent "gazer" I have yet met in Asia;hour after hour he squats on his hams at my feet and stares intently intomy face, as though trying hard to read my inmost thoughts. Oriental-like, he is fascinated by the mystery of my appearance here, and there is nosuch thing as shaking off his silent, wondering gaze for a minute. He ison hand promptly in the morning to watch my rude matinual toilet, and healways watches me retire for the night. Even when I betake myself to aretired part of the garden in the dusk of evening to take a sluice-bathwith a bucket of water, his white-robed figure is always loitering near. Four men are stationed about my bungalow at night; their respectivearmaments vary from a Martini-Henry rifle attached to a picturesqueAsiatic stock, owned by Abdur Rahman Khan, to an immense knobbed cudgelwielded by a titleless youth named Osman. Osman's sole wardrobe consists of a coarse night-shirt style of garment, that in the early part of its career was probably white, but which is nowneither white nor equal to the task of protecting him from thepenetrating rays of the summer sun. His occupation appears to be that ofall-round utility man for whomsoever cares to order him about. Osman hasto bring water and pour it on my hands whenever I want to wash, hie himaway to the bazaar to search for dates or anything my epicurean tastedemands in addition to what is provided, feed the horse, change theposition of the pee-wit to keep it in the shade, sweep out my bungalow, and perform all sorts of menial offices. Every noble loafer about myperson seems anxious to have Osman continually employed in contributingto my comfort; Mohammed Ahzim Khan even deprecates the independencedisplayed in lacing up my own shoes. "Osman, " he says, "let Osman do it. " Osman's chief characteristic is a reckless disregard for theconventionalities of social life and religion; he never seems to botherhimself about either washing his person or saying his prayers. Somewhere, not far away, every evening the faithful are summoned to prayer by amuezzin with the most musical and pathetic voice I have heard in allIslam. The voice of this muezzin calling "Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h, " as itcomes floating over the houses and gardens in the calm silence of thesummer evenings, is wonderfully impressive. From the pulpits of allChristendom I have yet to hear an utterance so full of pathos andsupplication, or that carries with it the impressions of such deepsincerity as the "Allah-il-A-l-l-a-h" of this Afghan muezzin in the HeratValley. It is a supplication to the throne of grace that rings in my earseven as I write, months after, and it touches the hearts of every Afghanwithin hearing and taps the fountain of their piety like magic. It callsforth responsive prayers and pious sighings from everybody around mybungalow--everybody except Osman. Osman can scarcely be calledimperturbable, for he has his daily and hourly moods, and is of varyingtemper; but he carries himself always as though conscious of being anoutcast, whom nothing can either elevate or defile. When his fellowMussulmans are piously prostrating themselves and uttering religioussighs sincere as fanaticism can make them, Osman is either curled upbeneath a pomegranate bush asleep, feeding the horse, or attending to thepee-wit. Observing this, I often wonder whether he is considered, or considershimself, too small a potato in this world to hope for any attention fromthe Prophet in the next. The paradise of the Mohammedans, its shadygroves, marble fountains, walled gardens, and cool retreats, its karaghuz kiz and wealth of material pleasures, no doubt seem to poor Osman, with his one tattered garment and unhappy servility, far beyond theaspirations of such as he. Like the gutter-snipe of London or New Yorkwho gazes into the brilliant shop windows, he feels privileged to feasthis imagination, perchance, but that is all. Big bouquets of roses are gathered for me every morning, and when thestore in our own little garden is exhausted they are procured fromsomewhere else. The efforts of those about me to render my forceddetention as pleasant as possible is very gratifying, and all the time Iam buoyed up by the hope that the Boundary Commissioners will be able todo something to help me get through to India. The Boundary Commission camp is stationed over two hundred miles fromHerat; eight days roll wearily by and my movements are still carefullyconfined to the little garden, and my person attended by guards day andnight. Every day I amuse myself with giving raisins to the robber ants, for the sake of seeing the ever-watchful bul-buls pounce upon them androb them. Morning and evening the imprisoned pee-wit awakens the echoeswith his ratchetty call, and every sunset is commemorated by thesincerely plaintive utterances of the muezzin mentioned above. Thus the days of my detention pass away, until the ninth day after myarrival here. On the evening of May 8th, the officer who firstinterviewed me in the apricot orchard comes to my bungalow, and bringssalaams from Faramorz Khan. He and Mohammed Ahzim Khan, after a briefdiscussion between themselves, commence telling me, in the sameroundabout manner as the blue-gowned Khan at Furrah, that the Ameer atCabool has no control over the fanatical nomads of Zemindavar. MohammedAhzim Khan draws his finger across his throat, and the officer repeats"Afghan badmash, badmash, b-a-d-m-a-s-h. " (desperado). This parrot-like repetition is uttered in accents so pleaful, and is, withal, accompanied by such a searching stare into my face, that itscomicality for the minute overcomes any sense of disappointment at thefall of my hopes. For my experience at Furrah teaches me that this isreally the object of their visit. Another ingenious argument of these polite and, after a certain childishfashion, astute Asiatics, is a direct appeal to my magnaminity. "We knowyou are brave, and to accomplish your object would even allow theGhilzais to cut your throat; but the Wali begs you to sacrifice yourselffor the reputation of his country, by keeping out of danger, " they plead. "If you get killed, Afghanistan will get a bad name. " They are in dead earnest about converting me by argument and pleadings totheir view of the case. I point out that, so far as the reputation ofAfghanistan is concerned, there can be little difference betweenforbidding travellers to go through for fear of their getting murdered, and their actual killing. I remind them, too, that I am a "nokshi, " andcan let the people of Frangistan understand this if I am turned back. These arguments, of course, avail me nothing; the upshot of instructionsreceived from the Boundary Commission camp, is that I am to be conductedat once back into Persia. Horses have to be shod, and all sorts of preparations made next morning, and it is near about noon before we are ready to start. Our destinationis the Persian frontier village of Karize, about one hundred miles to thewest. Everything is finally ready; when it transpires that Mohammed AhzimKhan's orders are to put me on a horse and carry the bicycle on another. This programme I utterly refuse to sanction, knowing only too well whatthe result is likely to be to the bicycle. In defence of the arrangement, Mohammed Ahzim Khan argues that, as the bicycle goes fourteen farsakhs anhour, the horses will not be able to keep up; and strict orders areissued from Herat that I am not to separate myself from my escort whileon Afghan territory. Off posts Abdur Kahman Khan, hot haste to Herat, to report the difficultyto the Governor, while we return to the garden. It being too late in theday when he returns, our departure is postponed till morning, and Osman, with his knobbed stick, performs the office of nocturnal guard yet onceagain. During the evening Mohammed Ahzim Khan unearths from somewhere a coupleof photographs of English ladies. These, he tells me, came into hispossession from one of Ayoob Khan's fugitive warriors after theirdispersion in the Herat Valley, on their flight before General Roberts'command at Kandahar. They were among the effects gathered up by AyoobKhan's plundering crew from the disastrous field of Maiwand. CHAPTER XII. TAKEN BACK TO PERSIA. The Governor of Herat sends "khylie salaams" and permission for me toride the bicycle, stipulating that I keep near the escort. So, with manyan injunction to me about dasht-adam, kooh, dagh, etc. , by way of warningme against venturing too far ahead, we bid farewell to the garden, withits strange associations, in the early morning. Beside Mohammed AhzimKhan and myself are three sowars, mounted on splendid horses. The morning is bright and cheerful, and shortly after starting the animalspirits of the sowars find vent in song. I have been laboring under theimpression that, for soul-harrowing vocal effort, the wild-eyed sowars ofKhorassan, as exemplified in my escort from Beerjand, were entitled tothe worst execrations of a discriminating Ferenghi, but the Afghans cango them one better. If it is possible to imagine anything in the wholeworld of sound more jarring and discordant than the united efforts ofthese Afghan sowars, I have never yet discovered it. Out of pureconsideration and courtesy, I endure it for some little time; but theyfinally reach a high-searching key that is positively unendurable, and Iam compelled in sheer self-protection to beg the khan to suppress theirexuberance. "These men are not bul-buls; then why do they sing?" is allthat is necessary for me to say. They all laugh heartily at the remark, and the khan orders them to sing no more. Over a country that consistschiefly of trailless hills and intervening strips of desert, we wend ourweary way, the bicycle often proving more of a drag than a benefit. Theweather gets insufferably hot; in places the rocks fairly shimmer withheat, and are so hot that one can scarce hold the hand to them. We campfor the first night at a village, and on the second at an umbar thatsuggests our approach to Persia, and in the morning we make an earlystart with the object of reaching Karize before evening. The day grows warm apace, and, at ten miles, the khan calls a halt forthe discussion of what simple refreshments we have with us. Our larderembraces dry bread and cold goat-meat and a few handfuls of raisins. Itought also to include water in the leathern bottle swinging from thestirrup of one of the sowars; but when we halt, it is to discover thatthis worthy has forgotten to fill his bottle. The way has been heavy fora bicycle, trundling wearily through sand mainly, with no riding to speakof; and young as is the day, I am well-nigh overcome with thirst andweariness. I am too thirsty to eat, and, miserably tired and disgusted, one gets an instructive lesson in the control of the mind over the body. Much of my fatigue comes of low spirits, born of disappointment at beingconducted back into Persia. One of the sowars is despatched ahead to fill his bottle with water at awell known to be some five miles farther ahead, and to meet us with it onthe way. On through the sand and heat we plod wearily, myself almost sickwith thirst, fatigue, and disgust. Mohammed Ahzim Khan, observing mywretched condition, insists upon me letting one of the sowars try hishand at trundling the wheel, while I rest myself by riding his horse. Both the sowars bravely try their best to relieve me, but they cutridiculous figures, toppling over every little while. At length one ofthem upsets the bicycle into a little gully, and falling on it, snapsasunder two spokes. The khan gives him a good tongue-lashing for hiscarelessness; but one can hardly blame the fellow, and I take it under myown protection again, before it goes farther and fares worse. About 2 p. M. The sowar sent forward meets us with water; but it is almostundrinkable. Far better luck awaits us, however, farther along. Sightingan Eimuck camel-rider in the distance, one of the sowars gives chase andhalts him until we can come up. Slung across his camel he has a skin ofdoke, the most welcome thing one can wish for under the circumstances. Everybody helps himself liberally of the refreshing beverage, shrinkingthe Eimuck's supply very perceptibly. The Eimuck joins heartily with ourparty in laughing at the altered contour of the pliant skin, as pointedout jocularly by Mohammed Ahzim Khan, bids us "salaam aleykum, " andpursues his way across country. During the afternoon we cross several well-worn trails; though evidentlybut little used of late, they have seen much travel. My escort explainsthat they are daman trails, in other words the trails worn by Turkomanraiders passing back and forth on their man-stealing expeditions, beforetheir subjugation by the Russians. By and by we emerge from a belt of low hills, and descend into a broad, level plain. A few miles off to the right can be seen the Heri Rood, itssinuous course plainly outlined by a dark fringe of jungle. Some milesahead the village-fortress of Kafir Kaleh is visible. A horseman comesgalloping across the plain to intercept us. Mohammed Ahzim Khan produceshis written orders concerning my delivery at Karize and reads it to thenew arrival. Thereupon ensues a long explanation, which ends in, ourturning about and following the new-comer across the trailless plaintoward the Heri Rood. "What's up now?" I wonder; but the only intelligible reply I get in replyto queries is that we are going to camp in the jungle. Misgivings as topossible foul play mingle with speculations regarding this person'smission, as I follow in the wake of the Afghans. We camp on a plot of rising ground that elevates us above the overflow, and shortly after our arrival we are visited by a band of nomads who arehunting through the jungle with greyhounds, Mohammed Ahzim Khan informsme that both baabs, and palangs (panthers) are to be found along theHeri Rood. Luxuriant beds of the green stuff known in the United States aslamb's-quarter, abound, and I put one of the sowars to gathering somewith the idea of cooking it for supper. None of our party know anythingabout its being good to eat, and Mohammed Ahzim Khan shakes his headvigorously in token of disapproval. A nomad visitor, however, corroborates my statement about its edibleness, and fills our chief withwonderment that I should know something in common with an Afghan nomad, that he, a resident of the country, knows nothing about. By way ofstimulating his wonderment still further, I proceed to call off the namesof the various nomad tribes inhabiting Afghanistan, together with theirlocations. "Where did you learn all this. " he queries, evidently suspicious that Ihave been picking up altogether too much information. "London, " I reply. "London!" he says; "Mashallah! they know everything at London. " The horseman who intercepted us rode away when we camped for the night. Nothing more was seen of him, and at a late hour I turn in for the night--if one can be said to turn in, when the process takes the form ofstretching one's self out on the open ground. No explanation of ourdetention here has been given me during the evening, and as I lay down tosleep all sorts of speculations are indulged in, varying from having mythroat cut before morning, to a reconsideration by the authorities of theorders sending me back to Persia. Some time in the night I am awakened. A strange horseman has arrived incamp with a letter for me. He wears the uniform of a military courier. The sowars make a blaze of brushwood for me to read by. It is a letterfrom Mr. Merk, the political agent of the Boundary Commission. It is along letter, full of considerate language, but no instructions affectingthe orders of my escort. Mr. Merk explains why Mahmoud Yusuph Khan couldnot take the responsibility of allowing me to proceed to Kandahar. Thepopulation of Zemindavar, he points out, are particularly fanatical andturbulent, and I should very probably have been murdered; etc. The march toward Karize is resumed in good season in the morning. "Whatwas that? a cuckoo?" At first I can scarcely believe my own senses, theidea of cuckoos calling in the jungles of Afghanistan being about thelast thing I should have expected to hear, never having read oftravellers hearing them anywhere in Central Asia, nor yet having heardthem myself before. But there is no mistake; for ere we pass Kafir Kaleh, I hear the familiar notes again and again. The road is a decided improvement over anything we have struck sinceleaving Herat, and by noon we arrive at Karize. For some inexplicablereason the Sooltan of Karize receives our party with very ill grace. Helooks sick, and is probably suffering from fever, which may account forthe evident sourness of his disposition. Mohammed Ahzim Khan is anything but pleased at our reception, and as soonas he receives the receipt for my delivery makes his preparations toreturn. I don't think the Sooltan even tendered my escort a feed of grainfor their horses, a piece of inhospitality wholly out of place in thiswild country. As for myself, he simply orders a villager to supply me with food andquarters, and charge me for it. Mohammed Ahzim Khan comes to my quartersto bid me good-by, and he takes the opportunity to explain "this is Iran, not Afghanistan. Iran, pool; Afghanistan, pool neis. " There is no need ofexplanation, however; the people rubbing their fingers eagerly togetherand crying, "pool, pool, " when I ask for something to eat, tells meplainer than any explanations that I am back again among our pool-lovingfriends, the subjects of the Shah. As I bid Mohammed Ahzim Khan farewell, I feel almost like parting--from a friend; he is a good fellow, andwith nine-tenths of his inquisitiveness suppressed, would make a veryagreeable companion. And so, here I am within a hundred and sixty miles of Meshed again. Morethan a month has flown past since I last looked back upon its goldendome; it has been an eventful month. My experiences have been exceptionaland instructive, but I ought now to be enjoying the comforts of theEnglish camp at Quetta, instead of halting overnight in the mud huts ofthe surly Sooltan of Karize. The female portion of Karize society make no pretence of covering uptheir faces, which impresses me the more as I have seen precious littleof female faces since entering Afghanistan. All the women of Karize areugly; a fact that I attribute to the handsomest specimens being carriedoff to Bokhara, for decades past, by the Turkomans. The people thatassemble to gaze upon me are the same sore-eyed crowd that characterizesmost Persian villages; and among them is one man totally blind. The lossof sight has not dimmed his inquisitiveness any, however; nothing coulddo that, and he gets someone to lead him into my room, where he makes anexhaustive examination of the bicycle with his hands. A village luti entertains me during the evening with a dancing deer; acomical affair of wood, made to dance on a table by jerking a string. Theluti plays a sort of "whangadoodle" tune on a guitar, and manipulates thestring so as to make the deer keep time to the tune. He tells me heobtained it from Hindostan. Among the wiseacres gathered around me plying questions, is one who asks, "Chand menzils inja to London?" He wants to know how many marches, orstopping-places, there are between Karize and London. This is a fairillustration of what these people think the world is like. His idea of ajourney from here to London is that of stages across a desert countrylike Persia from one caravanserai to another; beyond that conceptionthese people know nothing. London, they think, would be some such placeas Herat or Meshed. At the hour of my departure from Karize, on the following morning, alittle old man presents himself, and wants me to employ him as an escort. The old fellow is a shrivelled-up little bit of a man, whom I couldwell-nigh hold out at arm's length and lift up with one hand. Not feelingthe need of either guide or guard particularly, I decline the oldfellow's services "with thanks, " and push on; happy, in fact, to findmyself once more untrammelled by native company. Small towers of refuge, dotting the plain thickly about Karize, tell ofpast depredations by the Turkomans. An outlying village like Karize must, indeed, have had a hard struggle for existence; right in the heart of thedaman country, too. For miles the plain is found to be grassy as theWestern prairies; an innovation from the dreary gray of the camel-thorndasht that is quite refreshing. A stream or two has to be forded, andmany Afghans are met returning from pilgrimage to Meshed. The village of Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm is reached at noon, a pleasant towncontaining many shade-trees. Here, I find, resides Ab-durrahzaak Khan, asub-agent of Mirza Abbas Khan, and consequently a servant of the IndianGovernment. He is one of the frontier agents, whose duty it is to keeptrack of events in a certain section of country and report periodicallyto headquarters. He, of course, receives me hospitably, does theagreeable with tea and kalians, and provides substantial refreshments. The soothing Shi-razi tobacco provided with his kalians, and theexcellent quality of his tea, provoke me to make comparison between themand the wretched productions of Afghanistan. Abdurrahzaak laughsgood-humoredly at my remark, and replies, "Mashallah! there is nothinggood in Afghanistan. " He isn't far from right; and the English officerwho named the products of Afghanistan as "stones and fighting men" cameequally near the truth. Fair roads prevail for some distance after leaving Torbet-i-Sheikh Jahm;a halt is made at an Eliaute camp to refresh myself with a bowl of doke. A picturesque dervish emerges from one of the tents and presents hisalms-receiver, with "huk yah huk. " Both man and voice seem familiar, andafter a moment I recognize him as a familiar figure upon the streets ofTeheran last winter. He says he is going to Cabool and Kandahar. A uniquefeature of his makeup is a staff with a bayonet fixed on the end, inplace of the usual club or battle-axe. The night is spent in an Eliaute camp; nummuds seem scarce articles withthem, and I spend a cold and uncomfortable night, scarcely sleeping awink. The camp is not far from the village of Mahmoudabad, and a rowdygang of ryots come over to camp in the middle of the night, having heardof my arrival. From Mahmoudabad the road follows up a narrow valley with a range ofhills running parallel on either hand. The southern range are quiterespectable mountains, with lingering patches of snow, and--can itbe possible!--even a few scattering pines. Pines, and, for thatmatter, trees of any kind, are so scarce in this country that one canhardly believe the evidence of his own eyes when he sees them. On past the village of Karizeno my road leads, passing through a hard, gravelly country, the surface generally affording fair riding except fora narrow belt of sand-hills. At Karizeno, a glimpse is obtained of ourold acquaintances the Elburz Mountains, near Shah-riffabad. They areobserved to be somewhat snow-crowned still, though to a measurably lessextent than they were when we last viewed them on the road to Torbeti. The approach of evening brings my day's ride to a close at Furriman, avillage of considerable size, partially protected by a wall and moat, Stared at by the assembled population, and enduring their eager gabbleall the evening, and then a nummud on the roof of a villager's house tillmorning. The night is cold, and sleeplessness, with shivering body, againrewards me for a long, hard day's journey. But now it is but about sixfarsakhs to Meshed, where, "Inshallah, " a good bed and all kindredcomforts await me beneath Mr. Gray's hospitable roof. Ere the forenoon ispassed the familiar gold dome once again appears as a glowing yellowbeacon, beckoning me across the Meshed plain. A camel runs away and unseats his rider in deference to his timidity atmy strange appearance as I bowl briskly across the Meshed plain at noon. By one o'clock I am circling around the moat of the city, and by two amsnugly ensconced in my old quarters, relating the adventures of the lastfive weeks to Gray, and receiving from him in exchange the latest scrapsof European news. I have made the one hundred and sixty miles from Karizein two days and a half--not a bad showing with a bicycle that hasbeen tinkered up by Herati gunsmiths. Among other interesting items of news, it is learned that a hopefulMeshedi blacksmith has been inspired to try his "prentice hand" at makinga bicycle. One would like to have seen that bicycle, but somehow I didn'tget an opportunity. Friendly telegrams reach me from Teheran, and alsoanother order from the British Legation, instructing me not to attemptAfghanistan again. Since my departure from Meshed, southward bound, another wanderingcorrespondent has invaded the Holy City. Mr. E------, "special" of agreat London daily paper, whom I had the pleasure of meeting once ortwice in Teheran, has come eastward in an effort to enter Afghanistan. He has been halted by peremptory orders at Meshed. Disgusted with hisill-luck at not being permitted to carry out his plans, he is on the eveof returning to Constantinople. As I am heading for the same pointmyself, we arrange to travel there in company. Being somewhat under theweather from a recent attack of fever, he has contracted for a Russianfourgon to carry him as far as Shahrood, the farthest point on our routeto which vehicular conveyance is practicable. Our purpose is to reach theCaspian port of Bunder Guz, thence embark on a Russian steamer to Baku, over the Caucasus Railway to Batoum, thence by Black Sea steamer toConstantinople. On the afternoon of May 18th, R------makes a start withthe fourgon. It is a custom (unalterable as the laws of, etc. ) with allPersians starting on a journey of any length to go a short distance onlyfor the first stage. The object of this is probably to find out by actualexperience on the road whether anything has been forgotten or overlooked, before they get too far away to return and rectify the mistake. Semi-civilized peoples are wedded very strongly to the customs in vogueamong them, and the European traveller finds himself compelled, more orless, to submit to them. My intention is to overtake the fourgon thefollowing day at Shahriffabad. Accordingly, soon after sunrise on the morrow, the road around the outermoat of Meshed is circled once again. A middle-aged descendant of theProphet, riding a graceful dapple-gray mare, spurs his steed into aswinging gallop for about five miles across the level plain in an effortto bear me company. Three miles farther, and for miles over the steep andunridable gradients of the Shah-riffabad hills, I may anticipate thedelights of having his horse's nose at my shoulder, and my heels inconstant jeopardy. To avoid this, I spurt ahead, and ere long have thesatisfaction of seeing him give it up. In the foothills I encounter, for the first time, one of thosecharacteristics of Mohammedan countries, and more especially of Persia, acaravan of the dead. Thousands of bodies are carried every year, onhorseback or on camels, from various parts of Persia, to be buried inholy ground at Meshed, Kerbella, or Mecca. The corpses are bound aboutwith canvas, and slung, like bales of merchandise, one on either side ofthe horse. The stench from one of these corpse-caravans is somethingfearful, nothing more nor less than the horrible stench of putrid humanbodies. And yet the drivers seem to mind it very little indeed. One stouthorse in the party I meet this morning carries two corpses; and in thesaddle between them rides a woman. "Mashallah. " perchance those verybodies, between which she sits perched so indifferently, are the remainsof small-pox victims. But, what cares the woman?--is she not aMohammedan, and a female one at that?--and does she not believe inkismet. What cares she for Ferenghi "sanitary fads?"--if it is herkismet to take the small-pox, she will take it; if it is her kismet notto, she won't. One would think, however, that common sense and commonprudence would instruct these people to imitate the excellent example ofthe Chinese, in taking measures to dispose of the flesh beforetransporting the bones to distant burial-places. Many of the epidemics ofdisease that decimate the populations of Eastern countries, and sometimestravel into the West, originate from these abominable caravans of thedead and kindred irrationalities of the illogical and childlike Oriental. As the golden dome of Imam Riza's sanctuary glimmers upon my retreatingfigure yet a fourth time as I reach the summit of the hill whence wefirst beheld it, I breathe a silent hope that I may never set eyes on itagain. The fourgon is overtaken, as agreed upon, at Shahriffabad, andafter an hour's halt we conclude to continue on to the caravanserai, where, it will be remembered, my friend the hadji and Mazanderan dervishand myself found shelter from the blizzard. B___'s Turkish servant, Abdul, a handy fellow, speaking three or fourlanguages, and numbering, among other accomplishments, the knack ofalways having on hand plenty of cold chicken and mutton, is a vastimprovement upon obtaining food direct from the villagers. Resting heretill 2 a. M. , we make a moonlight march to Gadamgah, arriving there forbreakfast. The trail is a revelation of smoothness, in comparison to myexpectations, based upon its condition a few weeks ago. The moon is aboutfull, and gives a light as it only does in Persia, and one can see toride the parallel camel-paths very successfully. Persians are very much given to night-travelling, and as I ride wellahead of the fourgon, the strange, weird object, gliding noiselesslyalong through the moonlight, fills many a superstitious pilgrim withmisgivings that he has caught a glimpse of Sheitan. I can hear themrapidly muttering "Allah. " as they edge off the road and hurry along ontheir way. Many Arabs from the Lower Euphrates valley are now mingled with thepilgrim throngs en route to Meshed. They are evil-looking customers, black as negroes almost; they look capable of any atrocity under the sun. These Arab pilgrims are hadjis almost to a man, coming, as they do, frommuch nearer Mecca than the Persians; but their holiness does not preventthem bearing the unenviable reputation of being the most persistentthieves. Abdul knows them well, and when any of them are about, keeps asharp lookout to see that none of them approach our things. On the following evening, at a caravanserai near Nishapoor, we meet andspend the night with a French scientific party of three sent out by theParis Geographical Society to make geographical and geological researchesin Turkestan. The three Frenchmen are excellent company; they entertainus with European news, their views on the political aspect, and ofincidents on their fourgon journey from Tiflis. Among their charvadars isa man who saw me last autumn at Ovahjik. Much good riding surface prevails, and we pass the night of the 21st atLafaram. The crowds that everywhere gather about us are very annoying toK------, whose fever and consequent weakness is hardly calculated tosweeten his temper under trying circumstances. A whole swarm of womengather to stare at us at Lafaram. "I'll soon scatter them, anyway, " saysR------; and he reaches for a pair of binoculars hanging up in thefourgon. Adjusting them to his eyes, he levels them at the bunch offemales, expecting to see them scatter like a flock of partridges. Scattering is evidently about the last thing the women are thinking ofdoing, however; they merely turn their attention to the binoculars andconcentrate their comments upon them instead of on other of our effects, for the moment, but that is all. In the vicinity of Subzowar we find the people engaged in harvesting thecrop of opium. The way they do it is to go through the fields of poppyevery morning and scarify the green heads with a knife-blade notched forthe purpose, like a saw. During the day the milky juice oozes out andsolidifies. In the evening the harvesters pass through the fields again, scrape off the exuded opium, and collect it in vessels. This, after thewatery substance has been worked out with frequent kneadings and drying, is the opium of commerce. The chief opium emporium of Persia is Shiraz, where buyers ship it by camel-caravan to Bushire for export. Persianopium commands the topmost prices in foreign markets. Here every idler about the villages seems to be amusing himself byworking a ball of opium about in his hands, much as a boy delights inhandling a chunk of putty. Lumps as large as the fist are freely offeredme by friendly people, as they would hand one a piece of bread or apomegranate; I might collect pounds of the stuff by simply taking what isoffered me without the asking. In the caravanserai at Miandasht, Abdul's failure to appreciate ourwhilom and egotistical friend, the la-de-da telegraph-jee, at his ownvaluation comes near resulting in a serious fracas. One of Abdul's mostvalued services is keeping at a respectful distance the crowds ofvillagers that invariably swarm about us when we halt. In doing this hesometimes flogs about him pretty lively with the whip. As a general thingthe natives take this sort of thing in the greatest good humor; in fact, rather enjoy it than otherwise. At Miandasht, however, Abdul's whip happens to fall rather heavily uponthe shoulders of the telegraph-jee's farrash, who is in the crowd. Thisindividual, reflecting something of his master's self-esteem, takesexceptions to this, and complains, with the customary Persianelaboration, no doubt, to the consequential head of the place. Theconsequence is that a gang of villagers, headed by the telegraph-jeehimself, gather around, and suddenly attack poor Abdul with clubs. Exceptfor the prompt assistance of R------and myself, he wouldhave been mauled pretty severely. As it is, he gets bruised up ratherbadly; though he inflicts almost as much damage as he receives, with ahatchet hastily grabbed from the fourgon. The fact of his being a Turk, whom the Persians consider far less holy than themselves, Abdul explains, accounts for the attack on him as much as anything else. A new surprise awaits us at Mijamid, something that we are totallyunprepared for. As we reach the chapar-khana there, a voice from the roofgreets us with "Sprechen sie Deutsch. " Looking up in astonishment, webehold Colonel G------, a German officer in the Shah's army, whom both ofus are familiarly acquainted with by sight, from seeing him so often atthe morning reviews in the military maiden at Teheran. But this is notall, for with him are his wife and daughter. This is the first timeEuropean ladies have traversed the Meshed-Teheran road, Teheran being thefarthest point eastward in Persia that lady travellers have heretoforepenetrated to. Colonel G has been appointed to the staff of the newGovernor-General of Khorassan, and is on his way to Meshed. Theappearance of Ferenghi ladies in the Holy City will be an innovation thatwill fairly eclipse the introduction of the bicycle. All Meshed will bewild with curiosity, and the poor ladies will never be able to ventureinto the streets without disguise. There is furor enough over them in Mijamid; the whole population isassembled en masse before the chapar-khana. The combination of thebicycle, three Ferenghis, and, above all, two Ferenghi ladies, is anevent that will form a red-letter mark in the history of Mijamid forgenerations of unborn Persian ryots to talk about and wonder over. The colonel produces a bottle of excellent Shiraz wine and a box ofRussian cigarettes. The ladies have become sufficiently Orientalized tonumber among their accomplishments the smoking of cigarettes. They aredelighted at meeting us, and are already acquainted with the maincircumstances of my misadventure in Afghanistan. Camp-stools are broughtout, and we spend a most pleasant hour together, before continuing on ouropposite courses. The wondering natives are almost speechless withastonishment at the spectacle of the two ladies sitting out there, facesall uncovered, smoking cigarettes, sipping claret, and chatting freelywith the men. It is a regular circus-day for these poor, unenlightenedmortals. The ladies are charming, and the charm of female society losesnothing, the reader may be sure, from one's having been deprived of itfor a matter of months. The colonel's lingual preference is German, Mrs. G------'s, French, andthe daughter's, English; so that we are quite cosmopolitan in the matterof speech. All of us know enough Persian to express ourselves in thatlanguage too. In commenting upon my detention by the Afghans, the colonelcharacterizes them as "pedar sheitans, " Madame as "le diable Afghans, "and Miss G------as well, "le diable" in plain yet charmingly brokenEnglish. The next day, soon after noon, we roll into Shahrood, where B------discharges his fourgon and we engage mules to transport us over the TashPass, a breakneck bridle-trail over the Elburz range to the AsterabadPlain and the Caspian. A half-day search by Abdul results in the employment of an outfitcomprising three charvadars, with three mules, a couple of donkeys, andriding horses for ourselves. A liberal use of the whip by R on thecharvadars' shoulders, awful threats, and sundry other persuasivearguments, assist very materially in getting started at a decent hour onthe morning following our arrival. The bicycle is taken apart and placedon top of the mule-packs, where, in remembrance of its former fate undersomewhat similar conditions, I keep it pretty strictly undersurveillance. The Asterabad trail is a steady ascent from the beginning; and beforemany miles are covered, scattering dwarf pines on the, mountains indicatea change from the utter barrenness that characterizes their southernaspect. One lone tree of quite respectable dimensions, standing a mile orso off to our left, suggests a special point of demarcation between utterbarrenness and where a new order of things begins. Our way leads up fearful rocky paths, where the horses have to be led, and at times assisted; up, up, until our elevation is nearly ten thousandfeet, and we are among a chaotic wilderness of precipitous rocks andscrub pines. A false step in some places, and our horses would roll downamong the craggy rocks for hundreds of feet. It is a toilsome march, butwe cross the Tash Pass, camp for the night in a little inter-mountainvalley, beside a stream at the foot of a pine-covered mountain. Thechange from the interior plains is already novel and refreshing. Grassabounds abundance, and the prospect is the greenest I have seen for ninemonths. We camp out in the open, and are put to some discomfort bypassing showers in the night. A march of a dozen miles from this valley over a tortuous mountain trailbrings us into a country the existence of which one could never, by anystretch of the imagination, dream of in connection with Persia, as onesees it in its desert-like character south of the mountains. Thetransformation is from one extreme of vegetable nature to the other. Wecamp for lunch on velvety greensward beneath a grove of oak and cherrytrees. Cuckoos are heard calling round about, singing birds make melody, and among them we both recognize the cheery clickety-click of myraisin-loving Herati friends, the bul-buls. Flowers, too, are here at ourfeet in abundance, forget-me-nots and other familiar varieties. The view from our position is remarkably fine, reminding me forcibly ofthe Balkans south of Nisch, and of the Californian slopes of the SierraNevadas, where they overlook the Sacramento Valley. The Asterabad Plainis spread out below us like a vast map. We can trace the windings and twistings of the various streams, thetracts of unreclaimed forest, and the cultivated fields. Asterabad andnumerous villages dot the plain, and by taking R------'sbinoculars we can make out, through the vaporous atmosphere, theshimmering surface of the Caspian Sea. It is one of the most remarkableviews I ever saw, and the novelty and grandeur of it appeals the moreforcibly to one's imagination, no doubt, because of its striking contrastto what the eyes have from long usage become accustomed to. From dreary, barren dasht, and stony wastes, to densely wooded mountains, jungle-covered plains, tall, luxurious tiger-grass, and beyond all thisthe shimmering background of the sea is a big change to find but littlemore than a day's march apart. We are both captivated by the change, andagree that the Caspian slope is the only part of Persia fit to look at. The descent of the northern slope is even steeper than the other side;but instead of rocks, it is the rich soil of virgin forests. Open parksare occasionally crossed, and on one of these we find a large camp ofTurcomans, numbering not less than a hundred tents. Mountaineers arealways picturesquely dressed, and so, too, are nomads. When, therefore, one finds mountaineer nomads, it seems superfluous almost to describethem as being arrayed chiefly in gewgaws and bright-colored clothes. Camped here amid the dark, luxurious vegetation, they and their tentsmake a charming picture--a scene of life and of contrast in colors whichif faithfully transferred to canvas would be worth a king's ransom. Down paths of break-neck steepness and slipperiness, our way descendsinto a dark region where vegetation runs riot in the shape of fine talltimber, of a semi-tropical variety. Many of the trees present a fantasticappearance, by reason of great quantities of hanging moss, that in someinstances fairly load down the weaker branches. Banks of beautiful ferns, and mossy rocks join with the splendid trees in making our march throughthese northern foothills of the Elburz Mountains an experience long to beremembered. A curious and interesting comparison that comes under our observation isthat, on the gray plains and rocky mountains of the interior the lizardsare invariably of a dull and uninteresting color, quite in keeping withtheir surroundings. No sooner, however, do we find ourselves in adistrict where nature's deft hand has painted the whole canvas of thecountry a bright green, than the lizards which we see scuttling throughthe ferns and moss-beds are also the greenest of all the green things. These scaly little reptiles shine and glisten like supple shapes ofemerald, as one sees them gliding across the path. This is but anotherlink in the chain of evidence that seems to prove that animals derivemuch of their distinctive character and appearance from the nature oftheir surroundings. In Northern China are a species of small monkey witha quite heavy coat of fur. They are understood to be the descendants of acomparatively hairless variety which found its way there from the warmjungles of the South, the change from a warm climate to a cold one beingresponsible for the coat of fur. In the same way, after noting thecomplete change that has come over the lizards, we conclude that, if acolony of the gray species from the other side of the mountains werebrought and turned loose among the green foot-hills here, theirdescendants, a few generations hence, would be found with coats as greenas those of the natives. This conviction gathers force from the fact thatno gray lizards whatever are encountered here; all the lizards we see aregreen. Emerging from the foot-hills, we find ourselves in a country the generalappearance of which reminds me of a section of Missouri more thananything I have seen in Asia. Fields and pastures are fenced in with thesame rude corduroy-fences one sees in the Missouri Valley, some well keptand others neglected. The pastures are blue grass and white clover; beesare humming and buzzing from flower to flower, and, to make thesimilitude complete, one hears the homely tinkle of cow-bells here andthere. It is difficult to realize that all this is in Persia, and thatone has not been transported in some miraculous manner back to the UnitedStates. A little farther out from the base of the mountains, however, andwe come upon wild figs, pomegranates, and other indigenous evidences ofEastern soil; and by and by our path almost becomes a tunnel, burrowingthrough a wealth of tiger-grass twenty feet high. The fields and littleclearings which, a few miles back, were devoted to the cultivation ofwheat and rye, now become rice-fields overflowed from irrigating ditches, and in which bare-legged men and women are paddling about, over theirknees in mud and water. Early in the evening we reach the city of Asterabad, which we findtotally different from the sombre, mud-built cities of the interior. Thewall surrounding it is topped with red tiles, and the outer moat ischoked with rank vegetation. The houses are gabled, and roofed with tilesor heavy thatch, presenting an appearance very suggestive of thepicturesque towns and villages about Strasburg. The streets are narrowand ill-paved, and neglect and decay everywhere abound. The cemeteriesare a chaotic mass of tumbledown tombstones and vagrant vegetation. Poolsof water covered with green scum, and heaps of filth everywhere, fill thereeking atmosphere with malaria and breed big clouds of mosquitoes. Thepeople have a yellowish, waxy complexion that tells its own story of theunhealthiness of the place, without instituting special inquiry. One canfairly sniff fever and ague in the streets. Much taste is displayed in architectural matters by the wealthierresidents. The walls surrounding the little compounds are sometimesadorned with house-leeks or cactus, tastefully set out along the top;and, in other cases, with ornamental tiles. The walls of the houses aredecorated with paintings depicting, in bright colors, scenes of thechase, birds, animals, and mythological subjects. The charvadars lead the way to a big caravanserai in the heart of thecity. The place is found to be filled with a miscellaneous crowd ofcaravan people, travellers, merchants, and dervishes. The serai alsoappears to be a custom-house and emporium for wool, cotton, and otherproducts of the tributary country. Horses, camels, and merchandise crowdthe central court, and rising fifty feet above all this confusion andbabel is a wooden tower known as a tullar. This is a dilapidatedframework of poles that sways visibly in the wind, the uses of which atfirst sight it is not easy to determine. Some of the natives motion forus to take possession of it, however; and we subsequently learn that thelittle eyrie-like platform is used as a sleeping-place by travellers ofdistinction. The elevation and airiness are supposed to be a safeguardagainst the fever and a refuge from the terrible mosquitoes, of whichAsterabad is over-full. An hour after our arrival, Abdul goes out and discovers a Persiangentleman named Mahmoud Turki Aghi, who presents himself in the capacityof British agent here. As we were in ignorance of the presence of anysuch official being in Asterabad, he comes as a pleasant surprise, andstill more pleasant comes an invitation to accept his hospitality. From him we learn that the steamer we expect to take at Bunder Guz, theport of Asterabad, eight farsakhs distant, will not sail until six dayslater. Mindful of the fever, from which he is still a sufferer to anuncomfortable extent, E------looks a trifle glum at thisannouncement, and, after our traps are unpacked at Mahmoud Turki Aghi's, he ferrets out a book of travels that I had often heard him refer to asan authority on sundry subjects. Turning over the leaves, he finds areference to Bunder Guz, and reads out the story of a certain"gimlet-tailed fly" that makes life a burden to the unwary traveller whoelects to linger there on the Caspian shore. Between this gimlet-tailedpest, however, and the mosquitoes of Asterabad we decide that there canbe very little to choose, and so make up our minds to accept our host'shospitality for a day and then push on. During the day we call on the Russian consul to get our passports vised. As between English and Russian prestige, the latter are decidedly to thefore in Asterabad. The bear has his big paw firmly planted on thisfruitful province--it is more Russian than Persian now; before long itwill be Russian altogether. Nothing is plainer to us than this, as wereach the Russian Consulate and are introduced by Mahmoud Turki Aghi tothe consul. He is no "native agent. " On the contrary, he is one of thebiggest "personages" I have seen anywhere. He is the sort of man that theRussian Government invariably picks out for its representation at suchimportant points in Asia as Asterabad. A six-footer of magnificent physique, with a smooth and polished address, all smiles and politeness, the Russian consul wears a leonine mustachethat could easily be tied in a knot at the back of his head. Although heis the only European resident of Asterabad save a few Cossack attendants, he wears fashionable Parisian clothes, a wealth of watch-chain, rings, and flash jewellery, patent-leather shoes, and all the accompaniments ofan ostentatious show of wealth and personal magnificence. His rooms areequally gorgeous, and contain large colored portraits of the Czar andCzarina. The intent and purpose of all this display is to fill the minds of thenatives, and particularly the native officials, with an overwhelmingsense of Russian grandeur and power. No Persian can enter the presence ofthis Russian consul in his rooms without experiencing a certain measureof awe and admiration. They regard with covetous eyes the rich andcomfortable appointments of the rooms, and the big gold watch-chains andrings on the consul's person. They too would like to be in the Russianservice if its rewards are on such a magnificent scale. Of patriotism tothe Shah they know nothing--self-interest is the only master theywillingly serve. No one knows this better than the Russian consul; and in the case ofinfluential officials and other useful persons, he sees to it that goldwatches and such-like tokens of the Czar's esteem are not lacking. Theresult is that Asterabad, both city and province, is even now moreRussian than Persian, and when the proper time arrives will drop into thebear's capacious maw like a ripe plum. At daybreak on the morning of departure the charvadars wake us up bypounding on the outer gate and shouting "hadji" to Abdul Abdul lets themin, and the next hour passes in violent and wordy disputation among themas they load up their horses. All three have purchased new Asterabad hats, big black busbies muchprized by Persians from beyond the mountains. The acquisition of theseimposing head-dresses has had the effect of increasing their self-esteemwonderfully. They regard each other with considerable hauteur, andquarrel almost continually for the first few miles. E puts up with theirangry shouting and quarrelling for awhile, and then chases them around alittle with the long hunting whip he carries. This brings them to theirsenses again, and secures a degree of peace; but the inflating effect ofthe new hats crops out at intervals all day. Our road from Asterabad leads through jungle nearly the whole distance toBunder Guz. In the woods are clearings consisting of rice-fields, orchards, and villages. The villages are picturesque clusters of wattlehouses with peaked thatch roofs that descend to within a few feet of theground. Groves of English walnut-trees abound, and plenty of these treesare also scattered through the jungle. During the day we encounter a gang of professional native hunters huntingwild boars, of which these woods contain plenty, as well as tigers andpanthers. They are a wild-looking crowd, with long hair, and sleevesrolled up to their elbows. Big knives are bristling in their kammerbunds, besides which they are armed with spears and flint-lock muskets. Theymake a great deal of noise, shouting and hallooing one to another; onecan tell when they are on a hot trail by the amount of noise they make, just as you can with a pack of hounds. We reach our destination by the middle of the afternoon, and find theplace a wretched village, right on the shore of the Caspian. We repair tothe caravanserai, but find the rooms so evil-smelling that we decide uponcamping out and risking the fever rather than court acquaintance withpossible cholera, providing no better place can be found elsewhere. Thisserai is a curious place, anyway. All sorts of people, some of them sopeculiarly dressed that none of our party are able to make out theircharacter or nationality. A dervish is exhorting a crowd of interestedlisteners at one end of the court-yard, and a strolling band of lutis areentertaining an audience at the other end. There are six of these lutis;while two are performing, four are circulating among the crowd collectingmoney. In any other country but Persia, five would have been playing andone passing the hat. E------and Abdul go ahead to try and secure betterquarters, and shortly the latter returns, and announces that they havebeen successful. So I, and the charvadars, with the horses, follow himthrough a crooked street of thatched houses, at the end of which we findR------seated beneath the veranda of a rude hotel kept byan Armenian Jew. As we approach I observe that my companion looks happierthan I have seen him look for days. He is pretty thoroughly disgustedwith Persia and everything in it, and this, together with his fever, haskept him in anything but an amiable frame of mind. But now his face isactually illumined with a smile. On the little table before him stand a half-dozen black bottles, imperialpints, bearing labels inscribed with outlandish Russian words. "This is civilization, my boy--civilization reached at last, " saysE------, as he sees me coming. "What, this wretched tumble-down hole. " I exclaim, waving my hand at thevillage. "No, not that, " replies E------; "this--this is civilization, " and heholds up to the light a glass of amber Russian beer. Apart from Russians, we are the first European travellers that havetouched at Bunder Guz since McGregor was here in 1875. We keep a looseeye out for the gimlet-tailed flies, but are not harassed by them half somuch as by fleas and the omnipresent mosquito. These two latter insectshave dwindled somewhat from the majestic proportions described byMcGregor; they are large enough and enterprising enough as it is; butMcGregor found one species the size of "cats, " and the other "as large ascamels. " Bunder Guz is simply a landing and shipping point for Asterabadand adjacent territory. A good deal of Russian bar iron, petroleum, ironkettles, etc. , are piled up under rude sheds; and wool from the interioris being baled by Persian Jews, naked to the waist, by means ofhand-presses. Cotton and wool are the chief exports. Of course, the wholeof the trade is in the hands of the Russians, who have driven thePersians quite off the sea. The Caspian is now nothing more nor less thana Russian salt-water lake. The harbor of Bunder Guz is so shallow that one may ride horseback intothe sea for nearly a mile. The steamers have to load and unload at afloating dock a mile and a half from shore. Very pleasant, in spite ofthe wretched hole we are in, is it to find one's self on the seashore--to see the smoke of a steamer, and the little smacks riding atanchor. The day after our arrival, a man comes round and tells Abdul that he hasthree fine young Mazanderan tigers he would like to sell the Sahibs. Wesend Abdul to investigate, and he returns with the report that a party ofAsterabad tiger-hunters have killed a female tiger and brought in threecubs. The man comes back with him and impresses upon us the assertionthat they are khylie koob baabs (very splendid tigers), and would be dirtcheap at three hundred kerans apiece, the price he pretends to want forthem. From this we know that the tigers could be bought very cheap, andsince Mazanderan tigers are very rare in European menageries, wedetermine to go and look at them anyway. They are found to be the merestkittens, not yet old enough to see. They are savage little brutes, andspend their whole time in dashing recklessly against the bars of the coopin which they are confined. They refuse to eat or drink, and although thePersians declare that they would soon learn to feed, we conclude thatthey would be altogether too much trouble, even if it were possible tokeep them from dying of starvation. On the evening of June 3d we put off, together with a number of nativepassengers, in a lighter, for the vessel which is loading up with balesof cotton at the floating dock. Most of the night is spent in sitting ondeck and watching the Persian roustabouts carry the cargo aboard, for theshouting, the inevitable noisy squabbling, and the thud of bales dumpedinto the hold render sleep out of the question. The steamer starts at sunrise, and the captain comes round to pay hisrespects. He is more of a German than a Russian, and seems pleased towelcome aboard his ship the first English or American passengers he hashad for years. He makes himself agreeable, and takes a good deal ofinterest in explaining anything about the burning of petroleum residue onthe Caspian steamers, instead of coal. He takes us down below and showsus the furnaces, and explains the modus operandi. We are delighted at theevident superiority of this fuel over coal, and the economy and ease ofsupplying the furnaces. Seven copecks the forty pounds, the captain says, is the cost of the fuel, and two and a half roubles the expense ofrunning the vessel at full speed an hour. There is not an ounce of coalaboard, the boiler-house is as clean and neat as a parlor, and no cindersfall upon the deck or awnings. In place of huge coal-bunkers, taking uphalf the vessel's carrying space, compact tanks above the furnaces holdall the liquid fuel. Pipes convey it automatically, much or little, aseasily as regulating a water-tap, to the fire-boxes. Jets of steamscatter it broadcast throughout the box in the form of spray, and insuresits spontaneous combustion into flame. A peep in these furnaces displaysa mass of flame filling an iron box in which no fuel is to be seen. Aslight twist of a brass cock increases or diminishes this flame at once. A couple of men in clean linen uniforms manage the whole business. Weboth concluded that it was far superior to coal. Many windings and tackings are necessary to get outside Ashdurada Bay;sometimes we are steaming bow on for Bunder Guz, apparently returning toport; at other times we are going due south, when our destination isnearly north. This, the captain explains, is due to the intricacy of thechannel, which is little more than a deeper stream, so to speak, meandering crookedly through the shallows and sand-bars of the bay. Buoysand sirens mark the steamer's course to the Russian naval station ofAshdurada. Here we cross a bar so shallow that no vessel of more thantwelve feet draught can enter or leave the bay. Our own ship is alight-draught steamer of five hundred tons burden. A little steam-launch puts out from Ashdurada, bringing the mails andseveral naval officers bound for Krasnovodsk and Baku. The scenery of theMazanderan coast is magnificent. The bold mountains seem to slope quitedown to the shore, and from summit to surf-waves they present onedark-green mass of forest. The menu of these Caspian steamers is very good, based on the Frenchschool of cookery rather than English. No early breakfast is provided, however; breakfast at eleven and dinner at six are the only refreshmentsprovided by the ship's regular service--anything else has to be paid foras extras. At eleven o'clock we descend to the dining saloon, where wefind the table spread with caviare, cheese, little raw salt fishes, pickles, vodka, and the unapproachable bread of Russia. The captain andpassengers are congregated about this table, some sitting, othersstanding, and all reaching here and there, everybody helping himself andeating with his fingers. Now and then each one tosses off a littletumbler of vodka. We proceed to the table and do our best to imitate theRussians in their apparent determination to clean off the table. Theedibles before us comprise the elements of a first-class cold luncheon, and we sit down prepared to do it ample justice. By and by the Russiansleave this table one by one, and betake themselves to another, on theopposite side of the saloon. As they sit down, waiters come in bearingsmoking hot roasts and vegetables, wine and dessert. A gleam of intelligence dawns upon my companion as he realizes that weare making a mistake, and pausing in the act of transferring bread andcaviare to his mouth, he says to me, impressively: "This is only sukuski, you know, on this table. " "Why, of course. Didn't you know that. Yourignorance surprises me; I thought you knew. ". And then we follow theexample of everybody else and pass over to the other side. The sukuski is taken before the regular meal in Russia. The tidbits andthe vodka are partaken of to prepare and stimulate the appetite for theregular meal. Not yet, however, are we fully initiated into the mysteriesof the Caspian steamer's service. Wine is flowing freely, and as we seatourselves the captain passes down his bottle. Presently I hold my glassto be refilled by a spectacled naval officer sitting opposite. With apolite bow he fills it to the brim. The next moment, I happen to catchthe captain's eye, it contains a meaning twinkle of amusement. Heavens!this is not a French steamer, even if the cookery is somewhat Frenchy;neither is it a table-d'hote with claret flowing ad libitum. Theridiculous mistake has been made of taking the captain's politehospitality and the liberal display of bottles for the free wine of theFrench table-d'hote. The officer with the eyeglasses lands at Tchislikarin the afternoon, for which I am not sorry. At Tchislikar we are met by a lighter with several Turcoman passengers. The sea is pretty rough, and the united efforts of several boatmen arerequired to hoist aboard each long-gowned Turcoman, each woman and child. They are Turcoman traders going to Baku and Tiflis with bales of thefamous kibitka hangings and carpets. Tchislikar is the port whence a fewyears ago the Russian expedition set out on their campaign against theTekke Turcomans. Three hundred miles inland is the famous fortress ofGeoke Tepe, where disaster overtook the Russians, and where, in asubsequent campaign, occurred that massacre of women and children whichcaused the Western world to wonder anew at the barbarism of the Russiansoldiery. Still steaming north, our little craft ploughs her way towardKrasnovodsk, an important military station on the eastern coast. At night the surface of the sea becomes smooth and glassy, the sun sets, rotund and red, in a haze suggestive of Indian summer in the West. Thecabins are small and stuffy, so I sleep up on the hurricane-deck, wrapping a Persian sheepskin overcoat about me. An awning covers thisdeck completely, but this does not prevent everything beneath gettingdrenched with dew. Never did I see such a fall of dew. It streams off thebig awning like a shower of rain, and soaks through it and drips, dripson to my recumbent form and everything on the hurricane-deck. Early in the morning we moor our ship to the dock at Krasnovodsk, andload and unload merchandise till noon. Here is where railway material forthe Transcaspian railway to Merv is landed, the terminus being atMichaelovich, near by. We go ashore for a couple of hours and look about. The inmates of a military convalescent hospital are passing from thedoctor's office to their barracks. They are wearing long dressing-gownsof gray stuff, with hoods that make them look wonderfully like a lot ofmonks arrayed in cowls. A company of infantry are target-practising atthe foot of rocky buttes just outside the town. Not a tree nor a greenthing is visible in the place nor on all the hills around--nothing but theblue waters of the Caspian and the dull prospect of rude rock buildingsand gray hills. Except for the sea, and the raggedness and abject servility of the poorclass of people, one might imagine Krasnovodsk some Far Western fort. Scarcely a female is seen on the streets, soldiers are everywhere, and inthe commercial quarter every other place is a vodka-shop. We visit one ofthese and find men in red shirts and cowhide boots playing billiards anddrinking, others drinking and playing cards. Rough and sturdy men theylook--frontiersmen; but there is no spirit, no independence, intheir expression; they look like curs that have been chastised andbullied until the spirit is completely broken. This peculiar humbled andresigned expression is observable on the faces of the common people fromone end of Russia to the other. It is quite extraordinary for a commonRussian to look one in the eye. Nor is this at all deceptive; a socialsuperior might step up and strike one of these men brutally in the facewithout the slightest provocation, and, though the victim of the outragemight be strong as an ox, no remonstrance whatever would be made. It isdifficult for us to comprehend How human beings can possibly become soabjectly servile and spiritless as the lower-class Russians. But theterrors of the knout and Siberia are ever present before them. Cheapchromolithographs of Gregorian saints hang on the walls of the saloon, and with them are mingled fancy pictures of Tiflis and Baku cafe-chantantbelles. Long rows of vodka-bottles are the chief stock-in-trade of theplace, but "peevo" (beer) can be obtained from the cellar. Quite a number of army officers, with their wives, come aboard atKrasnovodsk. They seem good fellows, nearly all, and inclined tocultivate our acquaintance. Individually, the better-class Russian andthe Englishman have many attributes in common that make them like eachother. Except for imperial matters, Russian and English officers would bethe best of friends, I think. The ladies all smoke cigarettesincessantly. There is not a handsome woman aboard, and they show thelingering traces of Russian barbarism by wearing beads and gewgaws. The most interesting of our passengers is a Persian dealer in preciousstones. He is a well-educated individual, quite a linguist, and apolished gentleman withal. He is taking diamonds and turquoises that hehas collected in Persia, to Vienna and Paris. Another night of drenching dew, and by six o'clock next morning we aredrawing near to the great petroleum port of Baku. From Krasnovodsk wehave crossed the Caspian from east to west right on the line of latitude40 deg. CHAPTER XIII. ROUNDABOUT TO INDIA. Baku looks the inartistic, business-like place it is, occupying the baseof brown, verdureless hills. Scarcely a green thing is visible to relievethe dull, drab aspect roundabout, and only the scant vegetation of a fewgardens relieves the city a trifle itself. To the left of the city theslopes of one hill are dotted with neatly kept Christian cemeteries, andthe slopes of another display the disorderly multitude of tombstonescharacteristic of the graveyards of Islam. On the right are seen numbersof big iron petroleum-tanks similar to those in the oil regions ofPennsylvania. Numbers of petroleum-schooners are riding at anchor in theharbor, and two or three small steamers are moored to the dock. Our steamer moves up alongside a stout wooden wharf, the gang-plank isran out, and the passengers permitted to file ashore. A cordon of policeprevents them passing down the wharf, while custom-house officers examinetheir baggage. We are, of course, merely in transit through the country;more than that, the Russian authorities seem anxious, for some reason, tomake a very favorable impression upon us two Central Asian travellers; soa special officer comes aboard, takes our passports, and with anexcessive show of politeness refuses to take more than a mere formalglance at our traps. A horde of ragamuffin porters struggle desperatelyfor the privilege of carrying the passengers' baggage. Poor, half-starvedwretches they seem, reminding me, in their rags and struggles, ofdesperate curs quarrelling savagely over a bone. American porter's strivefor passengers' baggage for the sake of making money; with theseRussians, it seems more like a fierce resolve to obtain the wherewithalto keep away starvation. Burly policemen, armed with swords, like thegendarmerie of France, and in blue uniforms, assail the wretched portersand strike them brutally in the face, or kick them in the stomach, showing no more consideration than if they were maltreating the merestcurs. Such brutality on the one hand, and abject servility and humandegradation on the other is to be seen only in the land of the Czar. Servility, it is true exists everywhere in Asia, but only in Russia doesone find the other extreme of coarse brutality constantly gloating overit and abusing it. Our stay in Baku is limited to a few hours. We are to take the train forTiflis the same afternoon, as we land at two o'clock so can spare no timeto see much of the city or of the oil-refineries. Summoning one of the swarm of drosky-drivers that beset the exit from thewharf, we are soon tearing over the Belgian blocks to the Hotel del'Europe. The Russian drosky-driver, whether in Baku or in Moscow, seemsincapable of driving at a moderate pace. Over rough streets or smooth heplies the cruel whip, shouts vile epithets at his half-wild steed, andrattles along at a furious pace. Baku is the first Europeanized city either R------or I have been in formany months; the rows of shops, the saloons, drug-stores, barber-shops, and, above all, the hotels--how we appreciate it all after the bazaarsand wretched serais of Persia! We patronize a barber-shop, and find the tonsorial accommodations equalin every respect to those of America. One of the chairs is occupied by aCossack officer. He is the biggest dandy in the way of a Cossack we haveyet seen. Scarce had we thought it possible that one of these hardywarriors of the Caucasus could blossom forth in the make-up that burstsupon our astonished vision in this Baku barber-chair. The top-boots hewears are the shiniest of patent leather from knee to toe; lemon-coloredsilk or satin is the material of the long, gown-like coat thatdistinguishes the Cossack from all others. His hair is parted in themiddle to a hair, and smoothed carefully with perfumed pomade; hismustache is twirled and waxed, his face powdered, and eyebrows pencilled. A silver-jointed belt, richly chased, encircles his waist, and theregulation row of cartridge-pockets across his breast are of the samematerial. He wears a short sword, the hilt and scabbard of which displaythe elaborate wealth of ornament affected by the Circassians. During theforenoon we take a stroll about the city afoot, but the wind is high, andclouds of dust sweep down the streets. A Persian in gown and turban stepsquietly up behind us in a quiet street, and asks if we are mollahs. Weknow his little game, however, and gruffly order him off. The houses ofBaku are mostly of rock and severely simple in architecture; they looklike prisons and warehouses mostly--massive and gloomy. Everywhere, everywhere, hovers the shadow of the police. One seems tobreathe dark suspicion and mistrust in the very air. The people in thecivil walks of life all look like whipped curs. They wear the expressionof people brooding over some deep sorrow. The crape of dead liberty seemsto be hanging on every door-knob. Nobody seems capable of smiling; onewould think the shadow of some great calamity is hanging gloomily overthe city. Nihilism and discontent run riot in the cities of the Caucasus;government spies and secret police are everywhere, and the people on thestreets betray their knowledge of the fact by talking little and alwaysin guarded tones. Our stay at the hotel is but a few hours, but eleven domestics rangethemselves in a row to wait upon our departure and to smirk and extendtheir palms for tips as we prepare to go. No country under the sun savethe Caucasus could thus muster eleven expectant menials on the strengthof one meal served and but three hours actual occupation of our rooms. Another wild Jehu drives us to the station of the Tiflis & Baku Railway, and he loses a wheel and upsets us into the street on the way. Thestation is a stone building, strong enough almost for a fort. Militaryuniforms adorn every employee, from the supercilious station-master tothe ill-paid wretch that handles our baggage. Mine is the first bicyclethe Tiflis & Baku Railroad has ever carried. Having no precedent togovern themselves by, and, withal, ever eager to fleece and overcharge, the railway officials charge double rates for it; that is, twice as muchas an ordinary package of the same weight. No baggage is carried free onthe Tiflis & Baku Railroad except what one takes with him in thepassenger coach. The cars are a compromise between the American style and those ofEngland. They are divided into several compartments, but the partitionshave openings that enable one to pass from end to end of the car. Thedoors are in the end compartments, but lead out of the side, there beingno platform outside, nor communication between the cars. The seats areupholstered in gray plush and are provided with sliding extensions forsleeping at night. Overhead a second tier of berths unfolds for sleeping. No curtains are employed; the arrangements are only intended forstretching one's self out without undressing. The engines employed on theTiflis & Baku Railway are without coal-tenders. They burn the residue ofpetroleum, which is fed to the flames in the form of spray by anatomizer. A small tank above the furnace holds the liquid, and a pipefeeds it automatically to the fire-box. The result of this excellentarrangement is spontaneous conversion into flame, a uniformly hot fire, cleanliness aboard the engine, a total absence of cinders, and almost anabsence of smoke. The absence of a tender gives the engine a peculiar, bob-tailed appearance to the unaccustomed eye. The speed of our train is about twenty miles an hour, and it starts fromBaku an hour behind the advertised time. For the first few miles unfencedfields of ripe wheat characterize the landscape, and a total absence oftrees gives the country a dreary aspect. The day is Sunday, but peasants, ragged and more wretched-looking than any seen in Persia, are harvestinggrain. The carts they use are most peculiar vehicles, with wheels eightor ten feet in diameter. The tremendous size of the wheels is understoodto materially lighten their draught. After a dozen miles the countrydevelops into barren wastes, as dreary and verdureless as the deserts ofSeistan. At intervals of a mile the train whirls past a solitary stonehut occupied by the family of the watchman or section-hand. Sometimes aman stands out and waves a little flag, and sometimes a woman. Whethermale or female, the flag-signaller is invariably an uncouth bundle ofrags. The telegraph-poles consist of lengths of worn-out rail, with anupper section of wood on which to fasten the insulators. These makesubstantial poles enough, but have a make-shift look, and convey theimpression of financial weakness to the road. The stations are oftenquite handsome structures of mingled stone and brickwork. The names areconspicuously exposed in Russian and Persian and Circassian. Beer, wine, and eatables are exposed for sale at a lunch-counter, and pedlers vendboiled lobsters, fish, and fruit about the platforms. On the platform ofevery station hangs a bell with a string attached to the tongue. Whenalmost ready for the train to start, an individual, invested with thedignity of a military cap with a red stripe, jerks this string slowly andsolemnly thrice. Half a minute later another man in a full militaryuniform blows a shrill whistle; yet a third warning, in the shape of asmart toot from the engine itself, and the train pulls out. Full half thecrowd about the stations appear to be in military uniform; the remainderare a heterogeneous company, embracing the modern Russian dandy, whoaffects the latest Parisian fashions, the Circassians and Georgians inpicturesque attire, and the ever-present ragamuffin moujik. At onestation we pass an institution peculiarly Russian--a railwayprison-car conveying convicts eastward. It resembles an ordinary box-car, with iron grating toward the top. We can see the poor wretches peepingthrough the bars, and the handcuffs on their wrists. Outside at eitherend is a narrow platform, where stands, with loaded guns and fixedbayonets, a guard of four soldiers. Once or twice before dark the train stops to replenish the engine'ssupply of fuel. Elevated iron tanks containing a supply of the liquidfuel take the place of the coal-sheds familiar to ourselves. Thepetroleum is supplied to the smaller tank on the engine through a pipe, as is water to the reservoir. Such villages as we pass are the most unlovely clusters of mud hovelsimaginable. Only the people are interesting, and the life of the railwayitself. The Circassian peasantry are picturesque in bright colors, andthe thin veneering of Western civilization spread over the semi-barbarityof the Russian officials and first-class passengers is an interestingstudy in itself. We have been promising ourselves a day in Tiflis, the old Georgiancapital, and now the head-quarters of the Russian army of the Caucasus, which our friends of the French scientific party said we would findinteresting. We find it both pleasant and interesting, for here are all modernimprovements of hotel and street, as well as English telegraph officers, one a former acquaintance at Teheran. Tiflis now claims about one hundredand sixty thousand inhabitants, and is situated quite picturesquely inthe narrow valley of the Kur. The old Georgian quarters still retaintheir Oriental appearance--gabled houses, narrow, crooked streets, andfilth. The modernized, or European, portion of the city contains broadstreets, rows of shops in which is displayed everything that could befound in any city in Europe, and street-railways. These latter were introduced in 1882, and at first met with fierceantagonism from the drosky-drivers, who swarm here as in every city inRussia. These wild Jehus of the Caucasus expected the tram-cars to turnout the same as any other vehicle. Four people were killed by collisionsthe first day. Severe punishment had to be resorted to in order to stopthe hostility of the drosky-drivers against the strange innovation. The day is spent in seeing the city and visiting the hot sulphur bathsand in the evening we attend a big bal masque in a suburban garden. Aregimental band of fifty pieces plays "Around the World, " by order ofPrince Nicholas F, who exerts himself to make things pleasant for us inthe garden. The famed beauties of Georgia, Circassia, and Mingrelia, masked and costumed, promenade and waltz with Russian officers, andsometimes join Circassian officers in a charming native dance. We spend our promised clay in Tiflis, enjoy it thoroughly, and thenproceed to Batoum. The Tiflis railway-station is a splendid building, with fountains and broad nights of stone terrace leading up to it fromthe street behind. Our drosky-driver rattles up to the foot of theseterraced approaches at 8 a. M. , and draws up a steed with an abruptnesspeculiar to the half-wild Jehus of the Caucasus. The same employee of theHotel de Londres who had mysteriously hailed us by name from the platformas our train glided in from Baku the morning before, accompanies us tothe depot now. All English travellers in Russia are supposed to bemillionaires; all Americans, possessed of unlimited wealth. Bearing thisin mind, our Russian-Armenian henchman has from first to last been mostassiduous in his attentions, paying out of his own pocket the few oddcopecks to porters carrying our luggage up from drosky to depot, in orderto save us bother. The station is crowded with people going away themselves or seeingfriends off. As usual, the military overshadows and predominateseverything. Between civilians and the wearers of military uniforms oneplainly observes in a Russian Caucasus crowd that no love is lost. Thestrained relationship between the native population and the militaryaliens from the north is generally made the more conspicuous by thecomparative sociability of the Georgians among themselves and kindredpeople of the Caucasus. Circassian officers in their picturesque uniformsand beautifully chased swords and pistols mingle sociably with thecivilians, and are evidently great favorites; but that the blue-coated, white-capped Russians are hated with a bitter, sullen hatred requires nopenetrating eye to see. The military brutality that crushed the brave andwarlike people of Georgia, Circassia, and Mingrelia, and well-nighdepopulated the country, has left sore wounds that will take the wine andoil of time many a generation to heal completely up. With an inner consciousness of duty well done and services faithfullyrendered, our friend from the hotel flicks off our seats in the car withthe tail of his long linen duster. Not that they need dusting; but as agentle reminder of the extraordinary care he has bestowed upon us, inlittle things as well as in bigger, during our brief acquaintance withhim, he dusts them off. That last attentive flick of his coat-tail is thefinishing touch of an elaborate retrospective panorama we are expected toconjure up of the valuable services he has rendered us, and for which heis now justly entitled to his reward. The customary three bells are struck, the inevitable military-lookingofficial blows shrilly on his little whistle, and still the trainlingers; lastly, the engine toots, however, and we pull slowly out ofTiflis. The town lies below us to the left, the River Kur follows usaround a bend, the train speeds through deep gravel cuttings, and when weemerge from them the Georgian capital is no longer visible. Between Baku and Tiflis, the Caucasus Railway runs for the most partthrough a flat, uninteresting country. Wastes as dreary and desolate asthe steppes of Central Russia or the deserts of Turkestan sometimesstretched away to the horizon on either side of the track. At otherpoints were gray, verdureless slopes and rocky buttes, or salinemud-flats that looked like the old bed of some ancient sea. Occasionaloases of life appeared here and there, a few wheat-fields and a wretchedmud-built village, or a picturesque scene of smoke-browned tents, gaylydressed nomads, and grazing flocks and herds. At night we had passedthrough a grassy steppe, a facsimile of the rolling prairies of the West. Though but the 6th of June, the country was parched, and the grass dried, as it stood, into hay by the heat and drought. We saw at one point a widesweep of flame that set the darkening sky aglow and caused therailway-rails ahead to gleam. It was the steppe on fire--anotherreproduction of a Far Western prairie scene. All this had changed as we woke up an hour before reaching Tiflis. Thecountry became green, lovely, and populous in comparison. The peopleseemed less 'ragged, poverty-stricken, and wretched; the native womenwore garments of brightest red and blue; the men put on more style, withtheir long Circassian coats and ornamental daggers, than I had yetobserved. East of Tiflis, the Caucasus Hallway may, roughly speaking, besaid to traverse the dreary wastes of an Asiatic country; west of it towind around among the green hills and forest-clad heights of Europe'ssoutheastern extremity. Lovelier and more beautifully green grows thecountry, and more interesting, too, grow the people and the towns, as ourtrain speeds westward toward Batoum and the Black Sea coast. Everythingabout the railway, also, seems to be more prosperous, and betterequipped. The improvised telegraph poles of worn-out lengths of rail seeneast of Tiflis give place to something more becoming. Sometimes we speedfor miles past ordinary cedar poles, procured, no doubt, from themountain forests near at hand. Occasionally are stretches of iron polesimported from England, and then poles composed of two iron railway-railsclamped together. For much of the way we see the splendidly equippedIndo-European Telegraph Company's line, the finest telegraph line in theworld. Equipped with substantial iron poles throughout, and with everyinsulator covered with an iron cap in countries where the half-civilizednatives are wont to do them damage, this line runs through the variouscountries of Europe and Asia to Teheran, Persia, where it joins handswith the British Government line to India. Following along the valley of the River Kur, our train is sometimesrattling along up a wild gorge between rugged heights whose sides arebristling with dark coniferous growth, or more precipitous, with hugejagged rocks and the variegated vegetation of the Caucasus strewn in wildconfusion. Again, we emerge upon a peaceful grassy valley, lovely enoughto have been the Happy Valley of Rasselas, and walled in almostcompletely with forest-clad mountains. Through it, perhaps, there winds amountain stream, fed by welling springs and hidden rivulets, and on thestream is sure to be a town or village. An old Georgian town it would be, picturesque but dirty, built, too, with an eye to security from attack. One town is particularly noteworthy--not a very large town, but moreimportant, doubtless, in times past than now. Out of the valley thererises a rocky butte, abrupt almost as though it were some monstrousvegetable growth. On the summit of this natural fortress some oldGeorgian chief had, in the good old days of independence, built a massivecastle, and nestling beneath its protecting shadow around the base of thebutte is the town, a picturesque town of adobe and wattle walls andquaint red tiles. So intensely verdant is the valley, so thickly woodedthe dark surrounding mountains, so brown the walls, so red the tiles, andso picturesque the elevated castle, that even K goes into raptures, andcalls the picture beautiful. The improvement in the Russian telegraph line, perhaps, owes something toits brief association with the invading stranger from England; and nowamong the sublime loveliness of this Caucasian Switzerland one finds thestation-houses built with far more pretence to the picturesque than onthe barren steppes toward Baku and the Caspian. Here is the Caucasia ofour youthful dreams, and the mystic hills and vales whence Mingrelianprinces issued forth to deeds of valor in old romantic tales. Urchins, small mountaineers, more picturesquely clad than anything seen in AlpineItaly, even, now offer us little baskets of wild strawberries at tencopecks a basket-strawberries they and their little brothers and sistershave gathered this very morning at the foot of the hills. The cuisine atthe lunch-counters embraces fresh trout from neighboring mountainstreams, caught by vagrant Mingrelian Isaac Waltons, who bring them in onstrings of plaited grass to sell. Humorous scenes sometimes enliven our stops at the stations. The Russianwarnings for travellers to seek the train before it is everlastingly toolate cover fully a minute of time. First come three raps of a bellsuspended on the platform, afterward a station employe blows a littlewhistle, and lastly comes a toot from the engine itself, by way of anultimatum. Once this afternoon a woman leaves the train to enter thewaiting-room for something. Just as she is entering, the station-manrings the bell. The woman, evidently unaccustomed to railway travel, rushes hastily back to the train. Everybody greets her performance withgood-natured merriment. Finding the train not pulling out, and encouragedby some of the passengers, the woman ventures to try it again. As shereaches the waiting-room door, the station-man blows a shrill blast onhis whistle. The woman rushes back, as before. Again the people laugh, and again words of encouragement tempt her to venture back again. Thistime it is the toot of the engine that brings that poor female scurryingback across the platform amid the unsympathetic laughter of herfellow-passengers, and this time the train really starts. From this itwould appear that too many signals are quite as objectionable atrailway-stations as not signals enough. Every stoppage at a lunch-counterstation, or where venders of things edible come on the platform, gives usopportunity to turn our minds judicially upon the civilization of ourfellow first-class passengers. They present a curious combination ofFrench fashion and polite address, on the one hand, and want of taste andignorance of civilization's usages on the other. Gentlemen and ladies, dressed in the latest Parisian fashions, stand out on the platform anddevour German sausage or dig their teeth into big chunks of yellow cheesewith the gusto of half-starved barbarians. We double our engines--our compact, tenderless, petroleum-burningengines--at the foot of the Suran Pass. At its base, a stream disappearsin an arched cave at the foot of a towering rocky cliff, and I havebethought me since of whether, like Allan Quatermain's subterraneanstream, it would, if followed, reveal things heretofore unseen. And so weclimb the lovely Suran Pass, rattle down the western slope upon the BlackSea coast, and reach Batoum at 11 p. M. As the chief mercantile port of the Caucasus, Batoum is an importantshipping point. By the famous Berlin treaty it was made a free port; butnothing is likely to remain free any length of time upon which theRussian bear has managed to lay his greedy paw. Consequently, Batoum isnow afflicted with all sorts of commercial taxes and restrictions, peculiar to a protective and autocratic semi-Oriental government. Notwithstanding this, however, ships from various European ports crowdits harbor, for not only is it the shipping point of Baku petroleum, butalso the port of entry for much of the Persian and Central Asianimportations from Europe. An oil-pipe line is seriously contemplated fromBaku to replace the iron-tank cars now run on the railroad. Big fortifications are under headway to protect the harbor; its strategicimportance as the terminus of the Caucasus Railway and the shipping pointfor troops and war material making Batoum a place of special solicitationon the part of the Russian military authorities. R------and I walk aroundand take a look at the fortification works, as well as one can do this;but no strangers are allowed very near, and we are conscious of closesurveillance the whole time we are walking out near the scene ofoperations. A pleasant day in Batoum, and we take passage aboard a MessageriesMaritimes steamer for Constantinople. Late at night we depart, amid theglare and music of a violent thunder-storm, and in the morning wake up inthe roadstead of Trebizond. To fully realize the difference between mock-civilization and the genuinearticle, one cannot do better than to transfer from a Russian Caspiansteamer to a Messageries Maritimes. The Russians affect French methodsand manners in pretty much everything; but the thinness and transparencyof the varnish becomes very striking in contrast aboard the steamers. The scenery along the Anatolian coast is striking and lovely in theextreme as we steam along in full view of it all next day. It ismountainous the whole distance, but the prospect is charmingly variable. Sometimes the mountains are heavily wooded down to the water's edge, andsometimes the slopes are prettily chequered with clearings andcultivation. More and more lovely it grows next day, as we pass Samsoon, celebratedthroughout the East for chibouque tobacco; Sinope, memorable as the placewhere the first blow of the Crimean War was delivered; and, on themorning of the third day, Ineboli, the "town of wines. " On the evening of the third day we lay off the entrance to the Bosphorustill morning, when we steam down that charming strait to Constantinople. It is almost a year since I took, in company with our friend Shelton Bey, a pleasure trip up the Bosphorus and gazed for the first time on itswondrous beauties. I have seen considerable since, but the Bosphoruslooks as fresh and lovely as ever. While yielding as full a measure of praise to the Bosphorus as any of itsmost ardent admirers, I would, however, at the same time, recommend thosein search of lovely coast scenery to take a coasting voyage along thesouthern shore of the Black Sea in June. I have no hesitation in sayingthat the traveller who goes into raptures over the beauties of theBosphorus would, if he saw it, include the whole Anatolian coast toBatoum. Several very pleasant days are spent in Constantinople, talking over myCentral Asian adventures with former acquaintances and seeing the city. But as these were pretty thoroughly described in Volume I. , there is noneed of repetition here. With many regrets I part company with R, who hasproved a very pleasant companion indeed, and set sail for India. The steamers of the Khedivial Line, plying between Constaninople andAlexandria, have their mooring buoys near the Stamboul side of the GoldenHorn, between Seraglio Point and the Galata bridge. During the forenoon, Shelton Bey, R--, and I had taken a caique and sought out from amongthe crowd of shipping in the harbor the steamship Behera, of theabove-mentioned line, on which I have engaged my passage to Alexandria, so that we should have no difficulty in finding it in the afternoon. Inthe afternoon the Behera is found surrounded by a swarm of caiques, bringing passengers and friends who have come aboard to see them off. These slender-built craft are paddling about the black hull of thesteamer in busy confusion. A fussy and authoritative little police boatseems to take a wanton delight in increasing the confusion by makingsallies in among them to see that newly arriving passengers have providedthemselves with the necessary passports, and that their baggage has beenduly examined at the custom-house. All is bustle and confusion aboard theBehera, and in two hours after the advertised time (pretty prompt for anEgyptian-owned boat) a tug-boat assists her from her moorings, paddlesglibly to one side, and in ten minutes Seraglio Point is rounded, and weare steaming down the Marmora with the domes and minarets of the Ottomancapital gradually vanishing to the rear. People whose experience of steamship travel is confined to voyages inwestern waters, and the orderliness and neatness aboard an Atlanticsteamer, can form little idea of the appearance aboard an Orientalpassenger boat. The small foredeck is reserved for the use of first andsecond-class passengers; the remainder of the deck-room is pretty wellcrowded with the most motley and picturesque gathering imaginable. Arabsand Egyptians returning from a visit to Stamboul, pilgrims going to Meccavia Egypt, Greeks, Levantines, and Armenians, all more or lessfantastically attired and occupying themselves in their own peculiar way. The nomadic instinct of the Arabs asserts itself even on the deck of thesteamer; ere she is an hour from Stamboul they may be seen squatting inlittle circles around small pans of charcoal, cooking their evening mealin precisely the same manner in which they are wont to cook it in thedesert, leaving out, of course, the difference between camel chips andcharcoal. The soothing "bubble bubble" of the narghileh is heard issuing from allsorts of quiet corners, where dreamy-looking Turks are perchedcross-legged, happy and contented in the enjoyment of their belovedwater-pipe and in the silent contemplation of the moving scenes aboutthem. As we ply our way at a ten-knot speed through the blue waves of theMarmora, and the sun sinks with a golden glow below the horizon, thespirit moves one of the Mecca pilgrims to climb on top of a chicken coopand shout "Allah-il!" for several minutes; the dangling ends of histurban flutter in the fresh evening breeze, streaming out behind him ashe faces the east, and flapping in his swarthy face as he turns roundfacing to the opposite point of the compass. His supplications seem to beaddressed to the dancing, white-capped waves, but the old Osmanlis mutter"Allah, Allah, " in response between meditative whiffs of the narghileh, and the Arab and his fellow Mecca pilgrims swell the chorus withdeep-fetched sighs of "Allah, Ali Akbar!" A narrow space is walled off with canvas for the exclusive use of thefemale deck passengers, and in this enclosure scores of women andchildren of the above-named nationalities are huddled togetherindiscriminately for the night, packed, I should say, closer thansardines in a tin box. Male sleepers and family groups are sprawled aboutthe deck in every conceivable position, and in walking from the foredeckto the after-cabins by the ghostly glimmer of the ship's lanterns, onehas to pick his way cautiously among them. Woe to the person who attemptsthis difficult feat without the aid of a good pair of sea-legs; he issure to be pitched head foremost by the motion of the vessel into thebosom of some family peacefully snoozing in a promiscuous heap, or tostep on the slim, dusky figure of an Arab. The ubiquitous Urasian who can speak "a leetle Inglis" soon betrays hispresence aboard by singling me out and proceeding to make himselfsociable. I am sitting on the foredeck perusing a late copy of a magazinewhich I had obtained in Constantinople, when that inevitable individualintroduces himself by peeping at the corner of the magazine, and, with awinning smile, deliberately spells out its name; and soon we are engagedin as animated a discussion of the magazine as his limited knowledge ofEnglish permits. After listening with much interest to the varioussubjects of which it treats, he parades his profuse knowledge ofAnglo-Saxon athletics by asking: "Does it also speak of ballfoot?" The cuisine in both first and second-class cabins aboard the Egyptianliners is excellent, being served after the French style, with severalcourses and wine ad libitum. At our table is one solitary female, a Greeklady with an interesting habit of talking and gesticulating duringmeal-times, and of promenading the fore-deck in a profoundly pensive moodbetween meals. I have good reason to remember her former peculiarity, asshe accidentally knocks a bottle of wine over into my soup-plate whilegesticulating to a couple of Levantines across the table. She is acurious woman in more respects than one: she always commences to pick herteeth at the beginning of the meal, and between courses she sticks thelittle wooden toothpick, pen-fashion, behind her ear. Being Greek, ofcourse she smokes cigarettes, and being Greek, of course she is alsoarrayed in one of those queer-looking garments that resemble an invertedcloth balloon, with the feet protruding from holes in the bottom. Shesometimes absent-mindedly keeps the toothpick behind her ear whilepromenading the deck, and I have humbly thought that a woman promenadingpensively back and forth in the national Greek costume, smoking acigarette, and with a wooden toothpick behind her starboard ear, wasdeserving of passing mention. The chief engineer of the ship is an Englishman with a large experiencein the East; he has served with the late lamented General Gordon in thesuppression of the slave trade in the Red Sea, and was anchored inAlexandria harbor during the last bombardment of the forts by the Englishships. "The best thing about the whole bombardment, " he says, "was to seethe enthusiasm aboard the Yankee ships; the rigging swarmed with men, waving hats and cheering the English gunners, and whenever a more tellingshot than usual struck the forts, wild hurrahs of approval from theAmerican sailors would make the welkin ring again. " "There was no holding the Yankee sailors back when the English werepreparing to go ashore, " the old engineer continues, a gleam ofenthusiasm lighting up his face, "and it was arranged that they should goashore to protect the American Consulate--only to protect theAmerican Consulate, you know, " and the engineer winks profoundly, andthinking I might not comprehend the meaning of a profound wink, he winksknowingly as he repeats, "only to protect the American Consulate, youknow. " The engineer winds up by remarking: "That little affair inAlexandria harbor taught me more about the true feeling between theEnglish and Americans than all the newspaper gabble on the subject puttogether. " We touch at Smyrna and the Piraeus, and at the latter place anumber of recently disbanded Greek soldiers come aboard; some areAlbanian Greeks whose costume is sufficiently fantastic to meritdescription. Beginning at the feet, these extremities are incased inmoccasins of red leather, with pointed toes that turn upward and inwardand terminate in a black worsted ball. The legs look comfortable andactive in tights of coarse gray cloth, but the piece de resistance of thecostume is the kilt. This extends from the hips to the middle of thethighs, and instead of being a simple plaited cloth, like the kilt of theScotch Highlanders, it consists of many folds of airy white material thatprotrude in the fanciful manner of the stage costume of a coryphee. Ajacket of the same material as the tights covers the body, and isembellished with black braid; this jacket is provided with open sleevesthat usually dangle behind like immature wings, but which can be buttonedaround the wrists so as to cover the back of the arm. The head-gear is ared fez, something like the national Turkish head-dress, but with a hugeblack tassel that hangs half-way down the back, and which seems ever onthe point of pulling the fez off the wearer's head with its weight. Atnoon of the fifth day out we arrive in Alexandria Harbor, to find theshipping gayly decorated with flags and the cannon booming in honor ofthe anniversary of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's coronation. Alexandria is the most flourishing and Europeanized city I have thus farseen in the East. That portion of the city destroyed by the incendiarytorches of Arabi Pasha is either built up again or in process ofrebuilding. Like all large city fires, the burning would almost seem tohave been more of a benefit than otherwise, in the long-run, for imposingblocks of substantial stone buildings, many with magnificent marblefronts, have risen, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of the inferiorstructures destroyed by the fire. After seeing Constantinople, Teheran, or even Tiflis, one cannot but be surprised at Alexandria--surprised atfinding its streets well paved with massive stone blocks, smoothly laid, and elevated in the middle, after the most approved methods; surprised atthe long row of really splendid shops, in which is displayed everythingthat can be found in a European city; surprised at the swell turn-outs onthe Khediveal Boulevard of an evening; surprised at the many evidences ofwealth and European enterprise. In the yet unfinished quarters of thecity, houses are going up everywhere, the large gangs of laborers, bothmen and women, engaged in their erection, create an impression ofbeehive-like activity, and everybody looks happy and contented. After somany surprises comes a feeling of regret that this commercial andindustrial rose, that looks so bright and flourishing under thestimulating influence of the English occupation, should ever again beexposed to the blighting influence of an Oriental administration. Red-coated "Tommy Atkins, " stalking in conscious superiority down thestreets, or standing guard in front of the barracks, is no doubt chieflyresponsible for much of this flourishing state of affairs in Alexandria, and the withdrawal of his peace--insuring presence could not fail tooperate adversely to the city's good. The many groves of date-palms, rising up tall and slender, vying ingracefulness with the tapering minarets of the mosques, and with theirfeathery foliage mingling with and overtopping the white stone buildings, lends a charm to Alexandria that is found wanting in Constantinople--albeit the Osmanli capital presents by far the more lovelyappearance from the sea. Massive marble seats are ranged along theKhediveal Boulevard beneath the trees, and dusky statues, in the scantdrapery of the Egyptian plebe, are either sitting on them or reclining atlazy length, an occasional movement of body alone betraying that they arenot part and parcel of the tomb-like marble slabs. The tall, slim figures of Soudanese and Arabs mingle with thecosmopolitan forms in the streets; Nubians black as ebony, their skinsseemingly polished, and their bare legs thin almost as beanpoles, slouchlazily along, or perhaps they are bestriding a diminutive donkey, theirlong, bony feet dangling idly to the ground. All the donkeys ofAlexandria are not diminutive, however. Some of the finest donkeys in theworld are here, large, sleek-coated, well-fed-looking animals, thatappear quite as intelligent as their riders, or as the native donkey-boyswho follow behind and persuade them along. These donkeys are for hire onevery street-corner, and all sorts and conditions of people, from anEnglish soldier to a lean Arab, may be seen coming jollity-jolt along thestreets on the hurricane-deck of a donkey, with a half-naked donkey-boyracing behind, belaboring him along. The population of Alexandria isessentially cosmopolitan, but, considering the English occupation, one isscarcely prepared to find so few English. The great majority of Europeansare Germans, French, and Italian, nearly all the shopkeepers being ofthese nationalities. But English language and Bullish money seem to bealmost universally understood, and probably the Board of Trade returnswould show that English commerce predominates, and that it is only theretail trade in which the foreign element looms so conspicuously to thefore. An English evening paper, the Egyptian Gazette, has taken roothere, and the following rather humorous account of a series of camelraces, copied from its pages, serves to show something of how thesporting proclivities of the English army of occupation enlist theservices of even the awkward and ungainly ships of the desert: 5. 15 p. M. -Camel race, for gentlemen riders. Once round and a distance. Sweepstakes, 10 shillings. Don Juan, a fine, long-maned, fast-lookingdromedary, started first favorite, Commodore Goodridge, K. N. , ourpopular naval transport officer, being as good a judge of the ship of thedesert as he is of a man-of-war. There was some difficulty at the post toget the riders together, owing to the fractiousness of Don Juan, who, with Kobert the Devil (ridden by Surgeon Porke), did not seem quiteagreed about the Professional Beauty (ridden by Surgeon Moir). At thestart Shaitan (ridden by Mr. Airey, E. N. ) shoved to the front, closelyfollowed by Surgeon Robertson's Mother-in-law, who, with LieutenantShuckburg's Purely Patience, Mr. Dumreicher's First Love, and SurgeonHalle's Microbe, rather shut out Don Juan. They kept this order untilrounding Tattenham Corner, when Mr. Dumreicher brought his camel to thefront, proving to his backers that he meant business with his First Love, and won a splendid race by her neck, Don Juan making a good second, withProfessional Beauty about a length behind. 6. 15 p. M. -Camel race, for sailors and soldiers. Once round and adistance. First prize, 10s. ; second, 5s. ; third, 2s. 6d. Elevencompetitors turned up for this race, which was very well contested, although one of the camels appeared to think it too much trouble to run, and quietly squatted down immediately after the start, and could not beinduced to join his fellows. Abdel Hal Hassin of the Coast Guard came infirst, with Wickers of the Royal Artillery second, and Simpson of thecommissariat and transport corps third. "Second camel race, for gentlemen riders. This was got up on the courseby a sporting naval officer. Five camels started: G. O. M. , Hartington, Goschen, Chamberlain, and Unionist. This looked a certainty for G. O. M. , as all but Unionist were in the same stable. However, the jockeys seem tohave been 'got at, ' for although G. O. M. Got away with a good start, yetrounding the second corner he was shut out by a combined effort ofHartington, Goschen, Chamberlain, and Unionist, the latter winning, amidthunders of applause, by 30 lengths. " Egypt is pre-eminently the land of backsheesh, and Alexandria, as thechief port of arrival and departure, naturally comes in for its share ofthis annoying attention. From ship to hotel, and from hotel torailway-station, the traveller has to run the gauntlet of people deeplyversed in the subtle arts and wiles of backsheesh diplomacy. At any time, as you stroll down the street, some native will suddenly bob up like asable ghost beside you, point out something you don't want to see, andbrazenly demand backsheesh for showing it. Cook's tourists' office is buta few hundred yards from my hotel. I have passed it before, and knowexactly where it is, but one of these dusky shadows glides silentlybehind me, until the office is nearly reached, when he slips ahead, points it out, and with consummate assurance demands backsheesh forguiding me to it. The worst of it is there is no such thing as gettingrid of these pests; they are the most persevering and unscrupulousblackmailers in their own small way that could be imagined. People whomyou could swear you never set eyes on before will boldly declare theyhave acted as guide or something, and dog your footsteps all over thecity; most of them are as "umble" as Uriah Heep himself in their annoyingimportunities, but some will not even hesitate to create a scene to gaintheir object, and, as the easiest way to get rid of them, the harassedtraveller generally gives them a coin. In leaving by the train, after one has backsheeshed the hungry swarm ofhotel servitors, backsheeshed the porter who has doggedly persisted incoming with you to the station, regardless of repeatedly telling him hewasn't wanted, backsheeshed the baggage man, and bolted almost like ahunted thing into the railway-carriage from a small host of people whowant backsheesh--one because he happened to detect your wanderinggaze in search of the station clock and eagerly pointed out itswhereabouts, another because he has told you, without being asked, thatthe train starts in ten minutes, another because he pointed out yourcarriage, which for a brief transitory instant you failed to recognize, and others for equally trivial things, for which they all seem keenly onthe alert--you shut yourself in with a feeling of relief that must besomething akin to escaping from a gang of brigands. King Backsheeshevidently rules supreme in Egypt yet. My route to India takes me along the Egyptian Railway to Suez, thence bysteamer down the Red Sea to Aden and Karachi. A passenger train on thisrailway consists of carriages divided into classes as they are inEngland, the first and second class cars being modelled on the same linesas the English. The third-class cars, however, are mere boxes providedwith seats, and with iron bars instead of windows. Nice airy vehiclesthese, where the conditions of climate render airiness desirable, but itmust be extremely interesting to ride in one of them through an Egyptiansand-storm. At the Alexandria station, an old wrinkle-faced native, bronzed andleathery almost as an Egyptian mummy, pulls a bell-rope three times, theconductor comes to the car-window for the second time and examines yourticket, the engine gives a cracked shriek and pulls out. As the trainglides through the suburbs one's attention is arrested by well-keptcarriage-drives, lined and overarched with feathery palm-tree groves, andother evidences of municipal thrift. From the suburbs we plunge at once into a rich and populous agriculturalcountry, the famed Nile Delta, of which a passing descriptive glimpsewill not here be considered out of place. Cotton seems to be the mostimportant crop as seen from the windows of my car, and for many a mileafter leaving Alexandria we glide through luxuriant fields of thatimportant Egyptian staple. Interspersed among the darker green of the growing cotton are fields ofyoung rice, sometimes showing bright and green in contrast to the darkershade of the cotton, and sometimes being represented by square areas ofglistening water, beneath which the young rice is submerged. The Nile Delta is a net-work of irrigating ditches from end to end. Largecanals, big enough to float barges, and on which considerable commerce iscarried, tap the Nile above the Delta, and traversing it in alldirections, furnish water to systems of smaller ditches and canals, andthese again to still smaller channels of distribution. The water in these channels is all below the surface, and a goodlyproportion of the whole teeming population of the delta is engagedbetween seed-time and harvest in pumping the life-giving water from theseditches into the small surface trenches that conduct it over their fieldsand gardens. The water-pumping fellahs, ranged along the net-work ofcanals, often at intervals of not more than one hundred yards, create animpression of marvellous industry pervading the whole scene, as the trainspeeds its way alongside the larger canals. The pumping in most cases is done by men or buffaloes, and theclumsy-looking but effective Egyptian water-wheel, a rough woodencontrivance that as it revolves, raises the water from below and pours itfrom holes in the side into a wooden trough, from whence it flows overthe field. Small rude shelters are erected close by, beneath which the attendantfellah can squat in the shade and keep the meek and gentle, but lazybuffaloes up to their task, by constant threats and bellicosedemonstrations. Most of these animals are blindfolded, a contrivancethat, no doubt, inspires them to pace round and round their weary circlewith becoming perseverance, inasmuch as it tends to keep them inperpetual fear of the dusky driver beneath the shade. People too poor, or with holdings too small, to justify the employment ofoxen in pumping water, raise it from the ditches themselves, with bucketsat the end of long well-sweeps; in some localities one can cast his eyeover the landscape and see scores of these rude sweeps continually risingand falling, rising and falling. A few windmills are also used for pumping, but the wind is a fickle thingto depend on, and his utter dependence on the water supply makes theEgyptian agriculturist unwilling to run such risks. Steam-engines, bothstationary and portable, are observed at frequent intervals. Both theengines and the coal for fuel have to be imported from England; but theyevidently pump enough water to repay the outlay, otherwise there wouldnot be so many of them in use. It must be a rich, productive soil thatcan afford the expensive luxury of importing steam-engines and coal froma distant market to supply it with water for irrigation. The sediment from the Nile, which settles in the canals and ditches, iscleaned out at frequent intervals and spread over the fields, providing anew dressing of rich alluvial soil to annually stimulate the productivecapacity of the soil. In the larger cotton-fields the dusky sons and daughters of Egypt areseen strung out in long rows, wielding cumbersome hoes, reminding one ofold plantation days in Dixie; or they are paddling about in the inundatedrice-fields like amphibious things. Swarms of happy youngsters aresplashing about in the canals and ditches; all about is teeming with lifeand animation. Villages are populous and close together. They are, for the most part, mere jumbles of low, mud houses with curious domed roofs, and they riseabove the dead level of the delta like mounds. Many of these villageshave probably occupied the same site since the days of the Pharaohs, thedebris and rubbish of centuries have accumulated and been built uponagain and again as the unsubstantial mud dwellings have crumbled away, until they have gradually developed into mounds that rise like hugemole-hills above the plain, and on which the present houses are built. Near each village is a graveyard, also forming a mound-like excrescenceon the dead level of the surrounding surface. At intervals the train passes some stately white mansion, looking lovelyand picturesque enough for anything, peeping from a grove of date-palmsor other indigenous vegetation. The tall, slender palms with theirbeautiful feathery foliage, lend a charm to the sunny Egyptian landscapewith its golden dawns and sunsets that is simply indescribable. Thereseems no reason why every village on the whole delta should not be hidingits ugliness beneath a grove of this charming vegetation. Further east, near Fantah, nearly every village is found thus embowered, and date-palmgroves form a very conspicuous feature of the landscape. One need hardlyadd that here the fellaheen look more intelligent, more prosperous andhappy. At all the larger stations women come to the train with roast quailsstuffed with rice, which they sell at six-pence apiece, and at everystation along the line children bring water in the porous clay bottles ofthe country. This latter is badly needed, for the train rattles alongmost of the time in a stifling cloud of dust, that penetrates the car andsettles over one in incredible quantities. During the afternoon we pass the battle-field of Tel-el-Kebre, the trainwhisking right through the centre of Arabi Pasha's earthworks. Near thebattle-field is a little cemetery where the English soldiers killed inthe battle were buried. The cemetery is kept green and tidy, andsurrounded by a neat iron fence; amid the gray desert that begins atTel-el-Kebre this little cemetery is the only bright spot immediatelyabout. From Tel-el-Kebre to Suez the country is a sandy desert, wheresand-fences, like the snow-fences of the Rocky Mountains, have been foundnecessary to protect the railway from the shifting sand. On this drearywaste are seen herds of camels, happy, no doubt, as clams at high tide, as they roam about and search for tough camel-thorn shrubs, that here andthere protrude above the wavy ridges of white sand. Put a camel in apasture of rich, succulent grass and he will roam about with a far-away, disconsolate look and an expression of disgust, but here, on the glaringwhite sands of the desert with nothing to browse upon but prickly dryshrubs he is in the seventh 'heaven of a camel's delight. Very curious it looks as we approach Suez to see the spars and masts ofbig steamers moving along the ship-canal, close at hand, without seeinganything of the water. The high dumps, representing the excavations fromthe canal, conceal everything but the masts and the top of the funnelseven when one is close by. Several days are spent at Suez, waiting for the steamer which we willcall the Mandarin, on which I am to take passage to Karachi. Suez is awretched hole, although there is a passably good English hotel facing thewater-front. It is the month of Bairam, however, and there isconsequently a good deal of picturesque life in the native quarters. Suez seems swarming with guides, and as I am, for the greater part of aweek, the only guest at the hotel, they show me far more attention than adozen people would know what to do with. Some want to take me to see theplace where Moses struck the rock, others urge me to visit the spot wherethe Israelites crossed the Red Sea; both these places being suspiciouslyhandy to Suez. Donkey boys dog one's footsteps with their long-eared chargers, wheneverone ventures outside the hotel. "I'm the Peninsular and Oriental DonkeyBoy, sir, Jimmy Johnson; I have a good donkey, sir, when you want toride, ask for Jimmy Johnson. " To all this, sundry seductive offers areadded, such as a short trial trip along the bund. The Mandarin comes along on July 7th, and a decidedly stably smell iswafted over the waters toward us as we follow behind her with the littlelaunch that is to put me aboard when the steamer condescends to ease upand allow us to approach. The Mandarin, owing to the quarantine, has keptme waiting several days at Suez, and when at last she steams out of thecanal and we give chase with the little launch, and finally rangealongside, the whole length of the deck is observed to be bristling withears. Some particularly hopeful agent of the Indian Government has beensanguine enough to ship one hundred and forty mules from Italy to Karachiduring the monsoon season, on the deck of a notoriously rolling ship, andwith nothing but temporary plank fittings to confine the mules. The mulesare ranged along either side of the deck, seventy mules on each side, heads facing inward, and with posts and a two-inch plank separating themfrom the remainder of the deck, and into stalls of six mules each. Cocoanut matting is provided for them to stand on, and a plank nailedalong the deck for them to brace their feet against when the vesselrolls. Nothing could be more happily arranged than this, providing themules were unanimously agreed about remaining inside the railed-offspace, and providing the monsoons had agreed not to roll the Mandarinviolently about. With unpardonable short-sightedness, however, it seemsthat neither of these important factors in the case has been seriouslyconsidered or consulted, and, as an additional insult to the mules, theplank in front of them is elevated but four feet six above the deck. They are a choice lot of four-year-old mules, unbroken and wild, harum-skarum and skittish. Well-fed four-year-old mules are skin-full ofdeviltry under any circumstances, and ranged like so many red herrings intheir boxes, with no exercise, and every motion of the ship jostling themagainst one another, they very quickly developed a capacity forsimon-pure cussedness that caused the officers of the ship no littleanxiety from day to day, and a good deal more anxiety when they reflectedon the weather that would be encountered on the Indian Ocean. The officers of the Mandarin are excellent seamen; they are perfectly athome and at their ease when it comes to managing a vessel, but theirknowledge of mules is not so profound and exhaustive as of vessels; inshort, their experience of mules has hitherto been confined to casuallynoticing meek and sober-sided specimens attached to the street cars ofcertain cities they have visited. Three Italian muleteers have been hiredto assist and instruct the coolies in feeding and watering the mules, andto supervise their general welfare. The three muleteers is an excellentarrangement, providing there were but three mules, but unfortunatelythere are one hundred and forty, and before they had been aboard theMandarin two days it became apparent that they ought to have engaged anequal number of Italians to keep the mules out of devilment. Uneasy in their minds at the wild restlessness and seemingly dare-deviland inconsiderate pranks of their long-eared and unspeakable charges, theofficers are naturally anxious to avail themselves of any stray grains ofenlightenment concerning their management they might perchance drop on toby appealing to persons they come in contact with. Accordingly, one ofthem approaches me, the only passenger aboard, except some Hindoosreturning home from a visit to the Colinderies, and asks me if Iunderstand anything about mules. I modestly own up to having reared, broken, driven, and generally handled mules in the West, whereat theofficer is much pleased, and proceeds to unburden his mind concerning theanimals aboard the ship. "Fine young mules, " he says they are, and inreply to a question of what the government of India is importing mulesfrom Europe for, instead of raising them in India, he says he thinks theymust be intended for breeding purposes. Understanding well enough that all this is quite natural and excusable ina sea-faring man, I succeed in checking a rising smile, and gently, butfirmly, convince the officer of the erroneousness of this conclusion. Theofficer is delighted to find a person possessing so complete a knowledgeof mules, and I am henceforth regarded as the oracle on this particularsubject, and the person to be consulted in regard to sundry things theydon't quite understand. Between the two-inch plank and the awning overhead is a space of aboutthree feet; the mate says he is a trifle misty as to how a sixteen-handmule can leap through this small space without touching either the plankor the awning; "and yet, " he says, "there is hardly a mule on board thathas not performed this seemingly miraculous feat over and over again, anda good many of them, make a practice of doing it every night. " Thisjumping mania makes him feel uneasy every night, the mate goes on toexplain, for fear some of the reckless and "light-heeled cusses" shouldmake a mistake and jump over the bulwarks into the sea; the bulwarks areno higher than the plank, yet, while half the mules were found outsidethe plank every morning, none of them had happened to jump outside thebulwarks so far. Many of the mules, he says, were putting in most oftheir time bulldozing their fellows, and doing their best to make theirlife unbearable, and the downtrodden specimens seem so desperately scaredof the bulldozers that he expects to see some of them jump overboard fromsheer fright and desperation. At this juncture we are joined by another officer, and the mate joyfullyinforms him that I am a man who knows more about mules than anybody hehad ever talked mule with. His brother officer is delighted to hear this, as he has been uneasy about the mules' appetites; they would devour allthe hay and coarse feed they could get hold of, but didn't seem to havethat constant hankering after grain that he had always understood to bepart and parcel of a horse's, and, consequently, a mule's, nature. Heknows something about horses, he says, for his wife keeps a pony inScotland, and the pony would leave hay at any time to eat oats and bran;consequently, he thinks there must be something radically wrong with themules; and yet they seem lively enough--in fact, they seem d-d lively. The two salts are also troubled somewhat in their minds at the marvellouskicking powers and propensities of the mules. One says he couldunderstand an animal kicking to defend itself when attacked in the rear, or when anything tickled its heels, but the mules aboard the Mandarin hadtheir heels in the air most of the time, and they battered away at oneanother, and pounded the iron bulwarks, without the slightestprovocation. "Yes, " chimes in the other officer, "and, more than that, I've seen 'em throw their heels clear over the bulwarks, kicking at awhite-capped wave--if you'll believe me, sir, actually kicking at awhite-capped wave--that happened to favor them with a trifle ofspray. " I say I have no doubt what the officer says is true, and notnecessarily exaggerated, and the officer says: "No, there is noexaggeration about it. You'll see the same thing yourself before you'vebeen aboard twelve hours. There'll be h-ll to pay aboard this ship whenwe strike the monsoons. " After explaining to the officers that there are not men enough, norbulldozing and tyrannical mules enough, aboard the Mandarin to scare thetimidest mule of the consignment into jumping over the bulwarks into thesea; that it is quite natural for mules to prefer hay to bran and oats, and that it is as natural and necessary for a four-year-old mule to kickas it is to breathe, they thank me and say they shall sleep soundertonight than they have for a week. The heat, as we steam slowly down theRed Sea, is almost overpowering at this time of the year, July. Auniversal calm prevails; day after day we glide through waters smooth asa mirror, resort to various expedients to keep cool, and witness fieryred sunsets every evening. Every day the deck presents a scene ofanimation, from the pranks and vagaries of our long-eared cargo. All goes well with them, however, as we glide along the placid bosom ofthe Red Sea; the oppressive heat has a wilting effect even on the riotousspirits of the young mules. They still exhibit their mulish contempt forthe barriers reared so confidingly around them, and develop new andstartling traits of devilment every day; but it is not until we leaveAden, and the long swells come rolling up from the monsoon region, thatthe real fun begins. The Mandarin lurches and rolls awfully, making itextremely difficult at times for any of the mules to keep their feet;each mule seems to think his next neighbor responsible for the jostlingand crowding, and the kicking and squealing is continuous along bothlines. While battering away at each other, each mule seems to be at thesame time keeping a loose eye behind him for the oncoming waves andswells that occasionally curl over the bulwarks and irrigate and irritatethem in the rear. Most of the mules seem capable of kicking at theirneighbors and at a wave at the same time; but it is when their undividedattention is centred upon the crested billow of a swell that sweepsalongside the ship and flings a white, foamy cataract at the business endof each mule as it advances, that their marvellous heel-flinging capacitybecomes apparent. Each mule batters frantically away as the wave strikeshim, and the rattle of nimble and indignant hoofs on the iron bulwarksfollows the wave along from one end of the ship to the other. One of the most arrogant and overbearing of the animals aboard is aginger-colored mule stationed almost amidships on the starboard side. This mule soon develops the extraordinary capacity of casting its eyeover the heaving waste of waters and distinguishing the particular wavethat intends coming over the bulwarks long before it reaches the vessel. The historical arrogance of Canute's followers in thinking the waveswould recede at his command, is nothing in comparison to the cheekyassumption of this ginger mule. This mule will fold back its ears, lookwild, and raise its heels menacingly at a white-crested wave when thewave is yet a hundred yards away; and on the second day out from Aden itsarrogance develops in such an alarming degree that it bristles up andlifts its heels at waves that its experience and never-flaggingobservation must have taught it wouldn't come half-way up the bulwarks! Now and then a mule will be caught off his guard and be flung violentlyto the deck, but the look of astonishment dies away as it nimbly regainsits feet, and gives place to angry attack on its neighbor and ahalf-reproachful, half-apprehensive look at the sea. So far, however, themules seem to more than hold their own, and, all oblivious of what isbefore them, they are comparatively happy and mischievous. But on thenight of the third day out from Aden, the full force of the monsoonswells strikes the Mandarin, and, true to her character, she responds byrolling and pitching about in the trough of the sea in a manner thatfills the mules with consternation, and ends in their utter collapse anddemoralization. Planks break and give way as the whole body of mules areflung violently and simultaneously forward, and before midnight the mulesare piled up in promiscuous and struggling heaps, while tons of watercome on deck and wash and tumble them about in all imaginable shapes andforms. All hands are piped up and kept busy tying the mules' legs, to preventthem regaining their feet only to be flung violently down again in themidst of a struggling heap of their fellows. There is only one muleactually dead in the morning, but the others are the worst used up, discouraged lot of mules I ever saw. Mules that but the day before wouldnearly jump out of their skins if one attempted to pat their noses, nowseem anxious to court human attention and to atone for past sins. Many ofthem are pretty badly skinned up and bruised, and a few of them arewell-nigh flayed alive from being see-sawed back and forth about thedeck. It is not a pleasant picture to dwell upon, and it would be muchpleasanter to have to record that the mules proved too much for themonsoon, but truth will prevail, and before we reach Karachi the monsoonhas scored fourteen mules dead and pretty much all the others more orless wounded. But this is no discredit to the mules; in fact, I havegreater respect for the staying qualities of a mule than ever before, since the monsoon only secures ten per cent of them for the sharks afterall. A week from Aden, and fourteen days from Suez we reach Karachi. The tidehappens to be out at the time, and so we have to lay to till thefollowing morning, when the Mandarin crosses the bar and drops anchorpreparatory to unloading the now badly demoralized mules into lighters. Karachi bids fair to develop into a very prominent sea-port in the nearfuture. The extension of the frontier into Beloochistan gives Karachi astrategic importance as the port of arrival of troops and war materialfrom England. Not less is its importance from a purely commercial view;for down the Indus Valley Railway to Karachi for shipment, come theenormous and yearly increasing wheat exportations from the Punjab. Thus far my precise plans have been held in abeyance until my arrival onIndian soil. Whether I would find it practicable to start on the wheelagain from Karachi, or whether it would be necessary to proceed to thenortheast, I had not yet been able to find out. At any rate, it is alwaysbest to leave these matters until one gets on the spot. The result of my investigations at once proves the impossibility, evenwere it desirable, of starting from Karachi. The Indus River is at flood, inundating the country, which is also jungly and wild and without roads. The heat throughout Scinde in July is something terrific; and to endeavorto force a way through flooded jungle with a bicycle at such a time wouldbe little short of madness. Under these conditions I decide to proceed by rail to Lahore, the capitalof the Punjab, whence, I am told, there will be a good road all the wayto Calcutta. As the crow flies, Lahore is nearer to Furrah than Karachiis, so that my purpose of making a continuous trail will be better servedfrom that point anyhow. It is an interesting jaunt by rail up the Indus Valley; but one's firstimpression of India is sure to be one of disappointment by taking thisroute. It is a desert country, taken all in all, this historic Scinde;through which, however, the Indus Valley makes a narrow streak ofagricultural richness. The cars on the railroad are provided with kus-kus tatties to mollify theintense heat. They are fixed into the windows so that the passengers mayturn them round from time to time to raise the water from the lower halfto the top, whence it trickles back again and cools the heated air thatpercolates through. The heat increases as we reach Rohri and Sukhar, where passengers aretransferred by ferry across the Indus; the country seems a veritablefurnace, cracking and blistering with heat. At Sukhar our train glidesthrough some rich date-palms, the origin of which, legend says, were thedate-stones thrown away by the soldiers of Alexander the Great. They seemto have taken root in congenial soil, anyway, for every tree is heavilyladen with ripe and ripening dates. Reclining under the date-trees orwandering about are many dusky sons and daughters of Scinde, the latterin bright raiment and with children in no raiment whatever. The heat, thefruitful date-palms, and the lotus-eating natives combine to make up atruly tropical scene. Much of the country population seems to be nomadic, or semi-nomadic, dwelling in tents with which they remove to the higher ground when theIndus becomes inundated, and return again to the valley to cultivate andharvest their crops. They seem a picturesque people mostly, sometimesstrangely incongruous in the matter of apparel, as, for instance, one Isaw wearing a white breech-cloth and a hussar coat. This was the wholeextent of his wardrobe, for he had neither shoes, shirt, nor hat. Water-buffaloes are wading and swimming about in the overflowed jungle, browsing off bulrushes and rank grass. Youngsters are sometimes seenperched on the buffaloes' backs, taking care of the herd. About Mooltan the aspect of the country changes to level, barren plain, and this, as we gradually approach Lahore, gives place to a cultivatedcountry of marvellous richness. Here one first sees the matchless kunkahroads, traversing the country from town to town, the first glimpse ofwhich is very reassuring to me. It is July 28th when I at length find myself in Lahore. The heat is notonly well-nigh unbearable, but dangerous. Prickly heat has seized holdupon me with a promptness that is anything but agreeable; the thermometerin my room at Clarke's Hotel registers 108 deg. At midnight. Apunkah-wallah is indispensable night and day. A couple of days are spent in affixing a new set of tires to my wheel andseeing something of the lions of Lahore. The Shalamar Mango Gardens, afew miles east of the city, and Shah-Jehan's fort, museum, etc. , are theregular things to visit. In the museum is a rare collection of ancient Asiatic arms, some of whichthrow a new light on the origin of modern firearms. Here are revolvingmuskets that were no doubt used long before the revolving principle wasever applied to arms in the West. But our narrative must not linger amidthe antiquities of Lahore, fascinating as they may, peradventure, be. CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH INDIA. The heat is intense, being at the end of the heated term at thecommencement of the earliest monsoons. It is certainly not less than 130deg. Fahr. , in the sun, when at 3 p. M. I mount and shape my course towardAmritza, some thirty-five miles down the Grand Trunk Road. In such a temperature and beneath such a sun it behooves the discreetCaucasian to dress as carefully for protection against the heat as hewould against the frost of an Arctic winter. The United States armyhelmet which I have constantly worn since obtaining it at Fort Sydney, Neb. , has now to be discarded in favor of a huge pith solar topee an inchthick and but little smaller than an umbrella. This overshadowinghead-dress imparts a cheerful, mushroom-like aspect to my person, andcasts a shadow on the smooth whitish surface of the road, as I ridealong, that well-nigh obliterates the shadow of the wheel and its rider. Thus sheltered from the rays of the Indian sun, I wheel through thebeautifully shaded suburban streets of Lahore, past dense thickets offruitful plantains, across the broad switch-yard of the Scinde, Delhi &Punjab Railway, and out on to the smooth, level surface of the GrandTrunk Road. This road is, beyond a doubt, the finest highway in the wholeworld. It extends for nearly sixteen hundred miles, an unbroken highwayof marvellous perfection, from Peshawur on the Afghan frontier toCalcutta. It is metalled for much of its length with a substance peculiarto the country, known as kunkah. Kunkah is obtained almost anywherethroughout the Land of the Five Rivers, underlying the surface soil. Itis a sort of loose nodular limestone, which when wetted and rolledcements together and forms a road-surface smooth and compact as anasphaltum pavement, and of excellent wearing quality. It is a magnificentroad to bicycle over; not only is it broad, level, and smooth, but formuch of the way it is converted into a veritable avenue by spreadingshade-trees on either side. Far and near the rich Indian vegetation, stimulated to wear its loveliest garb by the early monsoon rains, isintensely green and luxuriant; and through the richly verdant landscapestretches the wide, straight belt of the road, far as eye can reach, awhitish streak, glaring and quivering with reflected heat. The natives of the Punjab, the most loyal, perhaps, of the Indian races, are beginning to regard the Christian Sabbath as a holiday, and happycrowds of people in holiday attire are gathered at the Shalamar MangoGardens, a few miles out of Lahore. Beyond the gardens, I meet a nativein a big red turban and white clothes, en route to Lahore on abone-shaker. He is pedalling ambitiously along, with his umbrella underhis left arm. As we approach each other his swarthy countenance lights upwith a "glad, fraternal smile, " and his hand touches his turban inrecognition of the mystic brotherhood of the wheel. There is a mysteriousbond of sympathy recognizable even between the old native-madebone-shaker and its Punjabi rider and the pale-faced Ferenghi Sahibmounted on his graceful triumph of Western ingenuity and mechanicalskill. The free display of ivories as we approach, the expectation offraternal recognition so plainly evident in his face, and the friendlyand respectful, rather than obsequious, manner of saluting, tellsomething of that levelling tendency of the wheel we sometimes hearspoken of. The park-like expanse of country on either hand continues as mile aftermile is reeled off; the shady trees, the ruins, the villages, and theroadside kos-minars, with the perfect highway leading through it all--whatmore could wheelman ask than this. A wayside police-chowkee is now seenahead, a snug little edifice of brick beneath the sacred branches of aspreading peepul. A six-foot Sikh, in the red-and-blue turban and neatblue uniform of the Punjab soldier-police, stands at the door andexecutes a stiff military salute as I wheel past. A row of conical whitepillars and a grass-grown plot of ground containing a few bungalows andcamping space for a regiment indicate a military reservation. Thesespaces are reserved at intervals of ten or twelve miles all down theGrand Trunk Road; the distance from each represents a day's march forIndian troops in time of peace. A bend in the road, and the bicycle sweeps over a substantial brickbridge, spanning an irrigating canal large enough to float a three-mastedschooner. The bridge and the ditch convey early evidence of Englishenterprise no less conspicuous than the road itself. Neatly trimmed banksand a tropical luxuriance of overhanging vegetation give the longstraight reach of water the charming appearance of flowing through aleafy tunnel. Under the stimulus of the monsoon rains and the more thantropical heat, the soil seems bursting with fatness, and earth, air, andwater are teeming with life. The roadway itself is swarming withpedestrians, trudging along in both directions; some there are with theinevitable umbrellas held above their heads, but more are carrying themunder their arms, as though in lofty contempt of 130 deg. Fahr. Vehicles jingle past by the hundred, filled with villagers who have beenvisiting or shopping at Lahore or Amritza. Their light bamboo carts areprovided with numbers of little brass cymbals that clash togethermusically in response to the motion of the vehicle; the occupants arefairly loaded down with silver jewellery, and for color andpicturesqueness generally it is safe to assume that "not even Solomon inall his glory was arrayed like one of these. " The women particularly seemto literally revel in the exuberance of bright coloring adorning theirdusky proportions, the profusion of jewellery, the merry jingle-jangle ofthe cymbals, the more than generous heat, and the seeming bountifulnessof everything. These Sikh and Jatni merry-makers early impress me asbeing particularly happy and light-hearted people. Splendid wheeling though it be, it soon becomes distressingly apparentthat propelling a bicycle has now to be considered in connection with theoverpowering heat. Half the distance to Amritza is hardly covered, andthe riding time scarcely two hours, yet it finds me reclining beneath theshade of a roadside tree more used up than five times the distance wouldwarrant in a less enervating climate. The greensward around me as Irecline in the shade is teeming with busy insects, and the trees areswarming with the beautiful winged life of the tropical air. Flocks ofparoquets with most gorgeous plumage--blue, red, green, gold, and everyconceivable hue--flit hither and thither, or sweep past in whirringflight. Some of the native pedestrians pause for a moment and cast a wonderinglook at the unaccustomed spectacle of a Sahib and a bicycle recliningalone beneath a wayside tree. All salaam deferentially as they pass by, but there is a refreshing absence of the spirit of obtrusion thatsometimes made life a burden among the Turks and Persians. In his disgustat the aggressive curiosity of the Persians, Captain E, my companion fromMeshed to Constantinople, had told me, "You'll find, when you get toIndia, that a Sahib there is a Sahib, " and the strikingly deferentialdemeanor of the natives I have encountered on the road to-day forciblyreminds me of his remarks. The myriads of soldier-ants crossing the road in solid phalanx orclimbing the trees, the winged jewels of the air flitting silently hereand there, the picturesque natives and their deferential salaams--allthese only serve to wean one's thoughts from the oppressive heat for amoment. At times one fairly gasps for breath and looks involuntarilyabout in forlorn search of some place of escape, if only for a moment, from the stifling atmosphere. A feeling of utter lassitude and loss ofambition comes over one; the importance of accomplishing one's objectdiminishes, and the necessity of yielding to the pressure of the fearfulheat and taking things easy becomes the all-absorbing theme of theimagination. A supreme and heroic effort of the will is necessary toarouse one from the inclination to remain in the shade indefinitely, regardless of everything else. No sort of accommodation is to be obtained this side of Amritza, however, so, waiting until the dreadful power of the sun is tempered somewhat byhis retirement beneath the trees, I resume my journey, making severalbrief halts in deference to an overwhelming sense of lassitude erecompleting the thirty-five miles. Owing to these frequent halts, it isafter dark when I arrive at Amritza--a thoroughly wilted individual, and suffering agonies from the prickly heat aggravated by the feverishtemperature superinduced by the exertion of the afternoon ride. My karkisuit and underclothes hold almost as much moisture as though I had justbeen fished out of the river, and my dry-drained corporeal system isclamorous for the wherewithal to quench the fires of its feverish heat asI alight in the suburbs of Amritza and inquire for the dak bungalow. A willing native guides me to a hotel where a smooth-mannered ParseeBoniface accommodates Sahibs with supper, charpoy, and chota-hazari forthe small sum of Rs4; punkah-wallahs, pahnee-wallahs, sweepers, etc. , extra. A cooling douche with water kept at a low temperature in thecelebrated porous bottles, a change of underclothing, and a punkah-wallahvigorously engaged in creating an artificial breeze, soon change thingsfor the better. All these refreshing and renovating appliances, however, barely suffice to stimulate one's energy up to the duty of jotting downin one's diary a brief summary of the day's happenings. The punkah of India is a long, narrow fan, suspended by cords from theceiling; attached to it is another cord which finds its way outsidethrough a convenient hole in the wall or window-frame. For themagnificent sum of three annas (six cents) the hopeful punkah-wallah sitsoutside and fills the room with soothing, sleep-inducing breezes for thespace of a day or night, by a constant seesawing motion of the string. Few Europeans are able to sleep at night or exist during the day withoutthe punkah-wallah's services, for at least nine months in the year. Theslightest negligence on his part at night is sufficient to summon thesleeper instantly from the land of dreams to the stern reality that thedusky imp outside has himself dropped off to sleep. A pardonableimprecation, delivered in loud, threatening tones; or, in the case of aperson vengefully inclined, or once too often made a victim, a stealthyvisit to the open door, a well-aimed boot, and the pendulous punkah againswings to and fro, banishing the newly awakened prickly heat, and fanningthe recumbent figure on the charpoy with grateful breezes that quicklysend him off to sleep again. A slight fall of rain during the night tempers somewhat the oppressiveheat, and the zephyrs of the prevailing monsoons blow stiffly against meas I pedal southward in the early morning. The rain has improved ratherthan injured the kunkah road, and it is, moreover, something of a toss-upas to whether the adverse wind is advantageous or otherwise. On the onehand it exacts increased muscular effort to ride against it, but on theother, its beneficent services as a cooler are measurably apparent. One needs only to traverse the Grand Trunk Road for a few days in orderto obtain a comprehensive idea of India's teeming population. Vehiclesand pedestrians throng the road again this morning, pouring into Amritzaas though to attend some great festival. The impression of some festiveoccasion obtains additional color from parties of musicians who keep up aperpetual tom-tom-ing on their drums as they trudge along; the object oftheir noisiness is apparently to gratify their own love of the soundingrattle of the drums. At the police-chowkee of Ghundeala, ten miles from Amritza, a halt ismade for rest and a drink of water. To avoid trampling on the casteprejudices, or the sanctimonious religious feelings of the natives, everybody drinks from his hands, or from a cheap earthenware dish thatmay afterward be smashed. The Sikhs and Mohammedans of the Punjab are farmore reasonable in this matter than are the Brahmans and other ultra-holyidolaters of the country farther south. Among the Hindoos, where casteprejudices exist throughout all the strata of society, to avoid the awfulconsequences of touching their lips to a vessel out of which someunworthy wretch a shade less holy has previously drunk, the fastidiousworshipper of Krishna, Vishnu, or Kamadeva always drinks from his hands, unless possessed of a private drinking vessel of his own. The hands areheld in position to form a trough leading to the mouth; while anassistant pours water in at one end, the recipient receives it at theother. No little skill and care is required to prevent the water runningdown one's sleeve: the average native seems to think the human throat agutter down which the water will flow as fast as he can pour it into thehands. The flowing yellow flood of Beas River, now at flood, and spreadingitself over the width of a mile, makes an impassable break in my roadsoon after mid-day. A ferryboat usually plies across the stream, but byreason of the broad area of overflow, and the consequent difficulty ofworking it, it is moored up for the time being. Fortunately, the Scinde, Punjab & Delhi Railroad crosses the river on a fine bridge near by, witha regular ferry-train service in operation. Repairing thither, I find, incharge of the ferry-train, an old Anglo-Indian engineer, who prevailsupon me to accept his hospitality for the night. Hundreds of natives pass the night round about the railway-station, waiting to cross the bridge on the first morning train. Nowhere else inthe world does a gathering of people present so picturesque andinteresting a sight as in sunny Hindostan. These people gathered aboutthe Beas River station look more like a company rigged out for thespectacular stage than ordinary, everyday mortals attending to theprosaic business of life. The nose-rings worn by many of the women are somassive and heavy that silken cords are attached and carried to somesupport on the head to relieve the nostril of the weight. The rims of theears are likewise grievously overburdened with ornaments. Theseunoffending appendages are pierced with a number of holes all round therim from lobe to top; each hole contains a massive ring almost large andheavy enough for a bracelet, the weight of which pulls the ear all out ofshape. Simple yet gaudy costumes prevail-garments of red, yellow, blue, green, olive, and white, with gold tinsel, drape the graceful forms ofthe dusky Sikh or Jatni belles; and not a whit less picturesque andparti-colored are the costumes of their husbands, brothers, andfathers-fine fellows mostly, tall, straight, military-looking men, withhandsome faces and fierce mustashios. Not a few thoroughbred Jats aremingled in the crowd--the "stout-built, thick-limbed Jats, " thewarlike race with the steel or silver discus surmounting their queerpyramidal headdress. Under the independent government of their people bythe Gurus, or ruler-priests, of the last century, and particularly underthe regulations of the celebrated Guru Govind, every Sikh was considereda warrior from his birth, and was always required to wear steel iri someform or other about his person. The Jats, being the most enterprising andwarlike tribe of the territory acknowledging the rule of the Gurus andthe religious teachings of the Adi Granth as their faith, take especialpride in commemorating the bravery and warlike qualities of theirancestors by still wearing the distinguishing steel quoits on theirheads. Seesum or banyan trees, shading twenty yards' width of luxuriantgreensward on either side of the road, and each and every treesheltering groups of natives, resting, idling, washing their clothes insome silent pool, or tending a few grazing buffaloes, form a trulyArcadian scene for mile after mile next day. These buffaloes are huge, unwieldy animals with black, hairless hides, strong and heavy almost asrhinoceroses. In striking contrast to them are the aristocratic littlecream-colored Brahmani cows, with the curious big "camel-hump" on theirwithers. These latter animals are pampered and revered and made much ofamong the Brahmans; mythology has it that Brahma created cows andBrahmans at the same time, and the cow is therefore an object of worshipand veneration. Taken all in all, the worship of the Hindoos has something eminentlyrational about it; their worship is frequently bestowed upon sometangible object that contributes directly to their material enjoyment. Itis very much like going back to the first principles of gratitude fordirect blessings received to worship "Mother Ganga, " the noble streamthat brings down the moisture from the Himalayas to water their plainsand quicken into life their needy crops, or to worship the gentle bovinethat provides them daily with milk and cheese and ghee. Wonderful legendsare told of the cow in Hindoo mythology. The Ramayana tells of a certainmarvellous cow owned by a renowned hermit. The hermit being honored by avisit from the king, who had with him a numerous retinue, was sorelypuzzled how to provide refreshments for his princely guests. The cow, however, proved herself equal to the emergency, and--"Obedient toher saintly lord, Viands to suit each taste outpoured. Honey she gave, and roasted grain, Mead, sweet with flowers, and sugar-cane. Eachbeverage of flavor rare, And food of every sort, were there. Hills of hotrice, and sweetened cakes, And curdled milk, and soup in lakes. Vastbeakers flowing to the brim, With sugared drink prepared for him; Anddainty sweetmeats, deftly made, Before the hermit's guest were laid. " In all Brahman communities are sacred bulls, allowed to roam at their ownsweet will among the crops and help themselves. Chowel and dood (rice-and-milk) is obtained at noon from a villageeating-stall; the rice is dished up to all customers in basins improvisedfrom a broad banyan-leaf, so that nobody's caste may be jeopardized byhandling spoons or dishes that others have touched. Most of the nativesmanage to eat with their fingers, but they bring for the Sahib a stiffgreen leaf which is bent into the form of a scoop and made to answer thepurpose of a spoon. The milk is served in valueless earthenware basinsthat are tossed into the street and broken after being once used. Thereis a regular caste of artisans in India whose hereditary profession isthe manufacture of this cheap pottery; almost every village has itsfamily of pottery-makers, who manufacture them for the use of thecommunity. The people are curious about the bicycle, and the Sahib'speculiar manner of travelling without the usual native servant and eatingrice at an ordinary village stall. They are, however, far from being inthe least obtrusive or annoying; on the contrary, their respectfulnessand conservatism is something to admire; although they gather about thebicycle in a compact ring, not a hand in all the company is meddlesomeenough to touch it. Through the smooth kunkah-laid bazaars of Jullundar, so different fromthe unridable bazaars we have heretofore been made familiar with, and Iwheel past the Queen's Gardens and into the cantonment along lovelyavenues and perfect roads. The detachment of Royal Artillery, whosequarters my road leads directly past, is composed largely of the gallantsons of Erin, and as I wheel into the cantonment, an artilleryman seatedon a eharpoy beneath a spreading neem-tree, sings out to his comrades, "Be jabbers, bhoys; here's the Yankee phat's travellin' around theworruld wid a bicycle. " I have with me a letter of introduction to an officer stationed atJullundar. Upon inquiry, however, I find that he is absent at Simla onleave. Desirous of seeing something of Tommy Atkins in his Indianquarters, I therefore accept an invitation to remain at the barracks ofthe Royal Artillery until ready to resume my journey in the morning. Atthis season of the year, an Indian cantonment presents the appearance ofa magnificent park. The barracks are large, commodious structures, builtwith a view to securing the best results for the health and comfort ofthe troops. No soldiers in the world are so well fed, housed, and clothed as theBritish soldiers in India, and none receive as much pay, except thesoldiers of the United States army. That they are justly entitled toeverything that can contribute to their happiness and welfare, goeswithout saying. For actual service rendered, and the importance of theresponsibilities resting on their shoulders, it is little enough to saythat the British soldiers in India are entitled to a greater measure ofconsideration than the soldiers of any other army in existence. Thislittle army of fifty or sixty thousand men is practically responsible forthe good behavior of one-sixth of the world's population, saying nothingof affairs without. And in addition to this is the wearisome round ofexistence in an Indian barrack, the enervating climate and the ennui, sopoisonous to the active Anglo-Saxon temperament. After all that is said for or against the Anglo-Indian army, theunprejudiced critic cannot fail to admit that they are the finest body offighting men in existence, a force against which it would be impossiblefor an equal number of the soldiers of any other country to contend. Thatthe old dominant spirit of the British soldier is yet rampant as ever maybe seen, perhaps, plainer in the cantonments of India than anywhere else. The manifest superiority of Tommy Atkins as a fighter stands out in boldrelief against the gentle populations of India, who regard him as thevery incarnation of war and warlike attributes. His own confidence in hisability to whip all the multitudinous enemies of England put together, isas great to-day as it ever was, and nothing would suit him better than acampaign against the military colossus of the North in defence of theBritish interests in India he now so faithfully guards. The interest in my appearance is deepened by my recent adventures inAfghanistan and letters partly descriptive of the same that have appearedin late issues of the Indian press. A mile or so from the Artillerybarracks are the quarters of a detachment of the Connaught Rangers. Acouple of non-commissioned officers in the Rangers, I am happy todiscover, are wheelmen, and when the tidings of the Around the Worldrider's arrival reaches them, they wheel over and endeavor to have mebecome their guest. The Royal Artillery boys refuse to give their protegeup, however, and the rivalry is compromised by my paying the Rangers avisit and then coming back to my first entertainers' quarters for thenight. The evening is spent pleasantly in telling stories of camp-life in Indiaand Afghanistan. Some of the soldiers present have been recentlystationed at Peshawur and other points near the northern frontier, andtell of the extraordinary precautions that had to be adopted to preventtheir rifles being stolen at night from the very racks within thebarrack-rooms where they were sleeping. An officer at the cantonment claims to have cured himself of enlargedspleen, the bane of so many Anglo-Indian officers, by daily riding on atricycle. He then disposed of it to advantage to a native gentleman whohad noted the marvellous improvement it had wrought in his health, andwho was also affected with the same disease. The native also curedhimself, and now firmly believes the tricycle possessed of some magicproperties. Reliefs of punkah-wallahs are provided for the barracks, a number ofpunkahs being connected so that one coolie fans the occupants of a dozenor more charpoys. In talking about these useful and very necessaryservants, some of the comments indulged in by the gentleman who firstinvited me into the barracks are well worth repeating: "Be jabbers, an'yeez have to kape wide awake all night to swear at the lazy divils, inorther to git a wink av shlape"--and--"The moment yeez dhrapashlape, yeez are awake, " are choice specimens, heard in reference to thepunkah-wallahs' confirmed habit of dozing off in the silent watches ofthe night. The two wheelmen of the Connaught Rangers, accompany me five miles to theBane River ferry, in the cool of early morning. They would have escortedme as far as Umballa, they say, had they known of my coming in time toarrange leave' of absence. Twenty-five miles of continuously smooth andlevel kunkah, bring me to Phillour, a Mohammedan town of several thousandinhabitants. The fort of Phillour is a conspicuous object on the left ofthe road; it was formerly an important depot of military supplies, and inthe time of Sikh independence was regarded by them as the key to thePunjab. Since the mutiny it has dwindled in importance as a militarystronghold, but is held by a detachment of native infantry. A mile or so from Phillour is a splendid girder railway bridge crossingthe River Sutlej. The overflow of the river extends for miles, convertingthe depressions into lakes and the dry ditches into sloughs and creeks. Resting under the shade of a peepul-tree, I while away a passing hourwatching native fishermen endeavoring to beguile the finny denizens ofthe overflow into their custody. Their tactics are to stir up the waterand make it muddy for a space around, so that the fish cannot see them;they then toss a flat disk of wood so that it falls with an audiblesplash a few yards away. This manoeuvre is intended to deceive the fishinto thinking something eatable has fallen into the water. Woe betide theguileless fish, however, whose innocent, confiding nature is thus imposedupon, for "swish" goes a circular drop-net over the spot, from the meshesof which the luckless captive tries in vain to struggle. The River Sutlej has its source in the holy lake of Manas Saro-vara, inThibet's most mountainous regions, and for several hundred miles itscourse leads through mighty canons, grand and rugged as the canons of theColorado and the Gunnison. It is on the upper reaches of the Sutlej thatthe celebrated swing bridges called karorus are in operation. A karorusconsists of a bagar-grass or yak-hair rope, stretched from bank to bank, across which passengers are pulled, suspended in a swinging chair orbasket. The karorus is also largely patronized by the swarms of monkeysinhabitating the foot-hill jungles of the Himalayas; nothing could wellbe more congenial to these festive animals than the Blondin-likeperformance of crossing over some deep, roaring gorge along the swayingrope of a karorus. Like other rivers of the level Punjab plains, the Sutlej has at varioustimes meandered from its legitimate channel; eight miles south of itspresent bed the large and flourishing city of Ludhiana once stood on itsbank. Ludhiana and its dak bungalow, provides refreshments and a threehours' siesta beneath the cooling and seductive punkah, besides aninteresting and instructive tete-a-tete with a Eurasian civil officerspending the day here. Among other startling confidences, thisolive-tinted gentleman declares that to him the punkah is unbearable, itspendulous, swinging motion invariably making him "sea-sick. " Through a country of alternate sandy downs and grazing areas my roadleads at length through the territory of the Rajah of Sir-hind. Picturesque and impressive fortresses, and high, crenellated stone wallsaround the villages give the rajah's little dominion here a most decidedmediaeval appearance, and dark, dense patches of sugar-cane attest themarvellous richness of the sandy soil, wherever water can be applied. Moreover, as if to complete the interesting picture of a native prince'srule, on the road is encountered a gayly dressed party in charge of someyouthful big-wig on a monster elephant. A thick, striped mattress makes asoft platform on the elephant's broad back, and here the young voluptuarysquats as naturally as on the floor of his room. Some of the attendantsare dancing along before him, noisily knuckling tambourines and drums, while others trudge alongside or behind. The elephant regards the bicyclewith symptoms of mild apprehension, and swerves slightly to one side. The police-officer of Kermandalah chowkee, just off the Rajah ofSirhind's territory, voluntarily tenders me the shelter of his quarters, just as the sun is finishing his race for the day by painting the skywith fanciful tints and streaks. The long, straight avenue which I havewheeled down, for miles hereabout runs east and west. The sun, rotund andfiery, sets immediately in the perspective of the avenue; and at hisdisappearance there shoot from the same point iridescent javelins thatspread, fan-like, over the whole heavens. A sight never to be forgottenis the long white road and the ribs of the glorious celestial fan meetingtogether in the vista-like distance; and--oh, for the brush andpalette and genius of a Turner!--one of the rainbow-tinted javelinsspits the crescent moon and holds it to toast before the glowing sunsetfires, like a piece of green cheese. The heat of the night is ominously suggestive of shed's popularlyconceived temperature, and, in the absence of the customary punkah andnodding, see-sawing wallah, a villager is employed to sit beside mycharpoy and agitate the air immediately about my head with a bigpalm-leaf fan. But sleep is next to impossible; the morning finds mefeeling but little refreshed and with a decided yearning to remain allday long in the shade instead of taking to the road. Not a moment'srespite is possible from the oppressive heat; an hour in the saddledevelops a sensation of grogginess and an amphibian inclination forwallowing in some road-side tank. South of Sirhind the country develops into low, flat jungle, with much ofit partly overflowed. The road through these semi-submerged lowlands isan embankment, rising many feet above the general level, and providedwith numerous culverts and bridges to prevent the damming of the watersand the danger of washing away the road. The jungle is full of busy life. The air is thick with the low, murmuring hum of busy insect-life, birdsshriek, whistle, call, hoot, peep, chirp, and sing among the intertwiningbranches, and frogs croak hoarsely in the watery shallows beneath. Noises, too, are heard, that would puzzle, I venture to say, many ascholarly, book-wise and specimen-wise naturalist to define as comingfrom the articulatory organs of bird, beast, or fish. The slow, measuredsweep of giant wings beating the air is heard above, and the next momenta huge bustard floats down through the trees and alights in a moistfooting of jungle-grass and water. A little Brahman village at the railway station of Rajpaira is reached inthe middle of the afternoon; but it provides little or nothing in the wayof accommodation for a European. The chow-keedar of the dak bungalowblandly declares his inability to provide anything eatable for a Sahib, and the Eurasian employes at the railway station are unaccommodating andindifferent, owing to the travel-stained and ordinary appearance of myapparel. The Eurasians, by the by, impress me far less favorably as arace than do the better-class full-blood natives. It seems to be theunfortunate fate of most mixed races to inherit the more undesirablequalities of both progenitors, and the better characteristics of neither. No less than the mongrel populations of certain West Indian islands, theSpanish-speaking republics, and the mulattoes of the Southern States, dothe Eurasians of India present in their character eloquent argumentationagainst the error of miscegenation. A little Brahman village is anything but, an encouraging place for atraveller to penetrate in search of eatables. A thin, yellow-skinnedBrahman, with a calico fig-leaf suspended from a cocoa-nut-fibrewaist-string, and the white-and-red tattooing of his holy caste on hisforehead, presides over a big lump of goodakoo (a preparation of tobacco, rose-leaves, jaggeree, bananas, opium, and cardamom seed, used forhookah-smoking), and his double performs the same office for sickly, warmgoats' milk and doughy, unleavened chup-patties. Uninviting as is theprospect, one is compelled, by the total absence of any alternative, topatronize the proprietor of the latter articles. As I step inside his little shed-like establishment to see what he has, he holds up his hands in holy trepidation at the unhallowed intrusion, and begs me to be seated outside. My entrance causes as muchconsternation as the traditional bull in the china shop, the explanationof which is to be found in the fact that anything I might happen to touchbecomes at once defiled beyond redemption for the consumption of nativecustomers. With the weather wilting hot, doughy chuppaties and lukewarm, unstrained, strong-tasting goats' milk can scarcely be called anappetizing meal, and the latter is served in the usual cheap, earthenwareplatter, which is at once tossed out and broken. The natives of India are probably less concerned about their stomachsthan the people of any other country in the world. They seem to delightin fasting, and growing thin and emaciated; their ordinary meal is ahandful of parched grain and a few swallows of milk or water. Among theaesthetic Brahmans are many specimens reduced by habitual fasting andgeneral meagreness of diet to the condition of living skeletons; yet theyseem to enjoy splendid health, and live to a shrivelled old age. TheBrahman shop-keeper squats contentedly among his wares, passing the hoursin dreamy meditation and in consoling pipes of goodakoo. Nothing seems todisturb his calm serenity, any more than the reposeful expression on thecountenance of a marble Buddha could be affected--nothing but theapproach of a Sahib toward his shop. It is interesting to observe themingled play of politeness, apprehension, and alarm in the actions of aBrahman shopkeeper at the appearance of a blundering, but withalwell-meaning Sahib, among his wares. Knowing, from long experience, thatthe Englishman would on no account wilfully injure his property ortrample wantonly on his caste prejudices, he is at his wits' end tocomport himself deferentially and at the same time prevent anything frombeing handled. Money has to be placed where the Brahman can pick it upwithout incurring the awful danger of personal contact with an unhallowedkaffir. The fifty miles, that from the splendid condition of the roads I havethought little enough for the average day's run, is duly reeled off as Iride into the splendid civil lines and cantonment of Um-balla at dusk. But my few days' experience on the roads of India have sufficed toconvince me that fifty miles is entirely beyond the bounds of discretion. It is, in fact, beyond the bounds of discretion to be riding any distancein the present season here; fifty miles is overcome to-day only by theexercise of almost superhuman will-power. The average native, when asked for the dak bungalow, is quite as likelyto direct one to the post-office, the kutcherry, or any other governmentbuilding, from a seeming inability to discriminate between them. At theentrance to Umballa one of these hopeful participants in the blessings ofenlightened government informs me, with sundry obsequious salaams, thatthe dak bungalow is four miles farther. So thoroughly has my fifty-mileride used up my energy that even this four miles, on a most perfect road, seems utterly impossible of accomplishment; besides which, experience hastaught that following the directions given would very likely bring me tothe post-office and farther away from the dak bungalow than ever. Above the trees, not far away, is observed the weathercock of achapel-spire, plainly indicating the location of the European quarter. Taking a branch road leading in that direction, I discover a party ofEnglish and native gentlemen playing a game of lawn-tennis. Arriving onthe scene just as the game is breaking up, I am cordially invited to"come in and take a peg. " To the uninitiated a "peg" is a ratherambiguous term, but to the Anglo-Indian its interpretation takes theseductive form of a big tumbler of brandy and soda, a "long drink, " thanwhich nothing could be more acceptable in my present fagged-outcondition. No hesitation is therefore made in accepting; and, under thestimulating influence of the generous brandy and soda, exhausted natureis quickly recuperated. While not an advocate of indiscriminateindulgence in alcoholic stimulants, after an enervating ride through thewilting heat of an Indian day I am convinced that nothing is morebeneficial than what Anglo-Indians laconically describe as a "peg. " This very opportune meeting results, naturally enough, in a pressinginvitation to stay over and recruit up for a day, a programme to which Ioffer no objections, feeling rather overdone and in need of rest andrecuperation. Mine hosts are police-commissioners, having supervisionover the police-district of Uniballa. One of their number is on the eveof departure for his summer vacation in the Himalayas and, in honor ofthe event, several guests call round to partake of a champagne dinner, the sparkling Pommery Sec being quaffed ad libitum from pint tumblers. Atthe present time, no surer does water seek its level than theafter-dinner conversation of Anglo-Indian officials turns into thediscussion of the great depreciation of the silver rupee and its relationto the exchange at home. As the rate of exchange goes lower and lower, and no corresponding increase of salary takes place, the natural resultis a great deal of hardship and dissatisfaction among those who, fromvarious causes, have to send money to England. From the Anglo-Indians'daily association with Orientals and their peculiarly subtleunderstandings, it is perhaps not so surprising to find an occasionalflight of fancy brought to bear upon the subject that would do credit toa professional romancer. One ingenious young civil officer presentevolves a deep, deep scheme to get even with the government for presentinjustice that for far-reaching and persistent revenge speaks volumes forthe young gentleman's determination to carry his point. His brilliantscheme is to retire on a pension at the proper time, live to the age ofeighty years, and then marry a healthy girl of sixteen. As the pension ofan Anglo-Indian government officer descends to his surviving widow, theingenuity and depth of this person's reasoning powers becomes at onceapparent. He proposes to take revenge for the present shortcomings of thegovernment by saddling it with a pension for a hundred years or moreafter his retirement from active service. Tusked and antlered trophies of the chase adorning the walls, and panther and tiger skins scattered about the floor, attest thepolice-commissioners' prowess with the rifle in the surrounding jungle. The height of every young Englishman's ambition when he comes to India isto kill a tiger; not until with his own rifle he has laid low a genuineTigris Indicus, and handed its striped pelt over to the taxidermist, doeshe feel entitled to hold his chin at a becoming elevation and to indulgein the luxury of talking about the big game of the jungle on an equalitywith his fellows. Among the pets of the establishment are a youthfulblack bear that spends much of its time in climbing up and down a post onthe lawn, a recently captured monkey that utters cries of alarm and looksbadly frightened when approached by a white person, and a pair of spotteddeer. These, together with several hunting dogs that delight in takingwanton liberties with the bear and deer, form quite a happy, though notaltogether trustful family party in the grounds. The day's rest does me a world of good, and upon resuming my journey thevoice of my own experience is augmented by the advice of my entertainers, in warning me against overexertion and fatigue in so trying a climate asIndia. It has rained during the night, and the early morning is signalledby cooler weather than has yet been experienced from Lahore. Companies oftall Sikhs, magnificent-looking fellows, in their trim karki uniforms andmonster turbans, are drilling within the native-infantry lines as I wheelthrough the broad avenues of one of the finest cantonments in all India, and English officers and their wives are taking the morning air onhorseback. This splendid cantonment contains no less than seven thousand two hundredand twenty acres and might well be termed a magnificent park throughout. It is in the hilly tracts of the Umballa district that the curious customprevails of placing infants beneath little cascades of water so that thestream of water shall steadily descend on the head. The cool water ofsome mountain-rivulet is converted into a number of streams appropriatefor the purpose, by means of bamboo ducts or spouts. The infants arebrought thither in the morning by their mothers and placed in properposition on beds of grass; the trickling water, pouring on their heads, keeps the brain cool and is popularly supposed to be efficacious in theprevention of many infantile diseases peculiar to the country. Childrennot subjected to this curious hydropathic treatment are said to generallydie young, or grow up weaklings in comparison with the others. A sudden freshet in the ordinarily shallow and partially dry bed of theDonglee River tells of the heaviness of last night's rainstorm among thehills, and compels a halt of a couple of hours until the rapidlysubsiding water gets low enough to admit of fording it with a nativebullock gharri. A branch of the same stream is crossed in a similarmanner, and yet a third river, a few miles farther, has to be crossed ona curious raft made of a number of buoyant earthenware jars fixed in abamboo frame. A splendid bridge spans the swollen torrent of the moreformidable Markunda, and the well-metalled highway now cuts a widestraight swath through inundated jungle. A big wild monkey, the first ofhis species thus far encountered on the road, utters a shrill squeak ofapprehension at seeing the bicycle come bowling down the road, and in hisfright he leaps from the branches of a road-side tree into the shallowwater and escapes into the jungle with frantic leaps and bounds. Travelling leisurely, and resting often, for thirty miles, the afternoonbrings me to the small town of Peepli, where a dak bungalow provides foodand shelter of a certain kind. The sleeping-accommodation of the dakbungalow may hardly be described as luxurious; ants and other insectsswarm in myriads, and lizards drag their slimy length about the timber ofthe walls and ceiling. The wild jungle encroaches on the village, and thedak bungalow occupies an isolated position at one end. The jungleresounds with the strange noises of animals and birds, and a friendlynative, who speaks a little English, confides the joyful information thatthe deadly cobra everywhere abounds. For the first time it is cool enough to sleep without the services of thepunkah-wallah, and not a soul remains about the dak bungalow afternightfall. The night is dark and cloudy, but not by any means silent, forthe "noises of the night" are multitudinous and varied, ranging from thetuneful croaking of innumerable frogs to the yelping chorus of thejackals-the weird nocturnal concert of the Indian jungle, a musicalmelange far easier to imagine than describe. About ten o'clock, out fromthe gloomy depths of the jungle near by is suddenly heard theunmistakable caterwauling of a panther, followed by that cunningarch-dissembler's inimitable imitation of a child in distress. As thoughawed and paralyzed by this revelation of the panther's dread presence, the chirping and juggling and p-r-r-r-ring and yelping of inferiorcreatures cease as if by mutual impulse moved, and the pitter-patter oflittle feet are heard on the clay floor of my bungalow. The cry of theforest prowler is repeated, nearer than before to my quarters, andpresently something hops up on the foot of the charpoy on which myrecumbent form is stretched; and still continues the pattering of feet onthe floor. It is pitchy dark within the bungalow, and, uncertain of thenature of my strange visitant, I kick and "qu-e-e-k" at him and scare himoff; but, evidently terrorized by the appearance of the panther, the nextminute he again invades my couch. To have one's room turned nolens volens into a place of refuge for timidanimals, hiding from a prowling panther which is not unlikely to followthem inside, is anything but a desirable experience in the dark. Shouldhis panthership come nosing inside the bungalow, in his eagerness tosecure something for supper he might not pause to discriminate betweenbrute and human; and as his awe-inspiring voice is heard again, apparently quite near by, I deem it expedient to warn him off. Soreaching my Smith & Wesson from under the pillow, I fire a shot up intothe thatched roof. The little intruders, whatever they may be, scamperout of the bungalow, nor wait upon the order of their going, and a loudscream some distance away a moment later tells of the panther's rapidretreat into the depths of the jungle. Soon a courageous bull-frog gives utterance to a subdued, hesitativecroak; his excellent example is quickly followed by others; answeringnoises spring up in every direction, and ere long the midnight concert ofthe jungle is again in full melody. A comparatively cooling breeze blows across flooded jungle and rice-fieldin the morning. The country around resembles a shallow lake from out ofwhich the rank vegetation of the jungle rears its multiform foliage; muchof the water is merely the temporary overflow of the Markunda, silentlymoving through the shady forest, but over the more permanently submergedareas is gathered a thick green scum. Not unlike a broad expanse of levelmeadow-land do some of these open spaces seem, and the yellow, fallenblossoms of the gum arabic trees, scattered thickly about, are thebuttercups spangling and beautifying the meadows. Forty-eight miles from Umballa the Grand Trunk road leads through thecivil lines and past the towering walls of ancient Kurnaul. Formerly onthe banks of the river Jumna, Kurnaul is now removed several miles fromthat stream, owing to the wayward trick of Indian rivers carving out forthemselves new channels during seasons of extraordinary flood. The cityis old beyond the records of history, its name and fame glimmeringfaintly in the dim and distant perspective of ancient Hindostani legendand mythical tales. Within the last few hundred years, Kurnaul has beentaken and retaken, plundered and destroyed, by Sikh, Rajput, Mogul, andMahratta freebooters, and was occupied in 1795 by the celebratedadventurer George Thomas, who figured so largely in the military historyof India during the latter part of the last century. Here also was foughtthe great battle between Nadir Shah and Mohammed Shah, the Emperor ofDelhi, that resulted in the defeat of the latter, the subsequent lootingof Delhi, and the carrying off to Persia of the famous peacock throne. Splendid water-tanks, spreading banyans, feathery date-palms, andtoddy-palms render the suburbs of Kurnaul particularly attractive, thesedays; but the place is unhealthy, being very low and the surroundingcountry subject to the overflow that induces fever. A letter of introduction from Umballa to Mr. D, deputy commissioner atKurnaul, insures me hospitable recognition and creature comforts uponreaching the latter place at 9 a. M. Spending the heat of mid-day in Mr. D's congenial society, recounting the incidents of my journey and learningin return much valuable information in regard to India, I continue on myjourney again when the fiercest heat of the sun has subsided in favor ofthe slightly more tolerable evening. The country grows more and moreinteresting from various standpoints as my progression carries mesouthward. Not only does it become intensely interesting by reason of itshistorical associations in connection with the old Mogul Empire, but inits peculiar aspect of Indian life to-day. Monkeys are hopping about allover the place, moving leisurely about the roofs and walls of thevillages, or complacently examining one another's phrenologicalpeculiarities beneath the trees. About the streets, shops, and housesthese mischievous anthropoids are seen in droves, moving hither andthither at their own sweet will, as much at home as the human occupantsand owners of the houses themselves. Monkeys, being held sacred by the Hindoos, are allowed to remain in thetowns and villages unmolested, doing pretty much as they please. Sometimes they swarm in such numbers that eternal vigilance alone keepsthem from devouring the fruit, grain, and other eatables displayed forsale in front of the shops. When they get to be an insufferable nuisance, although the pious Hindoos would suffer from their depredations even toruin rather than do them injury, they offer no objections to beingrelieved of their charges by the government officials, so long as themeasures taken are not of a sanguinary nature. Sometimes the monkeys arecaught and shipped off in car-loads to some point miles away and turnedloose in the jungle. The appearance of a car-load of these exiles, however, always excites the sympathies of the pious Hindoo, and instanceshave been known when they have been stealthily liberated while the trainwas waiting at some other town. An effectual remedy has been recently discovered in cleaning out coloniesof the smaller varieties of monkeys and inducing them to remove somewhereelse, by introducing into their midst a certain warlike and aggressivevariety from somewhere in the Himalaya foot-hills. This particular raceof monkey, being a veritable anthropoidal Don Juan among his fellows, when turned loose in a village commences making violent love to the wivesand sweethearts of the resident monkeys. The faithless fair, ever readyfor coquetry and flirtation, flattered beyond measure by the attentionsof the gallant stranger, forsake their first loves by the wholesale, andbask shamelessly in the sunshine of his favor. The result is that theoutraged males, afraid to attack the warlike libertine so rudelyintroduced into their peaceful community, gather up their erring spouses, giddy daughters, and small children and betake themselves off forever. Not far from Kurnaul I overtake an interesting party of gypsies, movingwith their bag and baggage piled on the backs of diminutive cows led bystrings. Numbers of the smaller children also bestride the gentle littlebovines, but the rest of the party are afoot. The ruling passion of theRomany, the wide world over, asserts itself at my approach; brown-bodiedyoungsters with sparkling, coal-black eyes race after the bicycle, holding out their hands and begging, "pice, sahib, pice, pice. " Facsimile in cry and gesture almost, and in appearance, are theseHindostani gypsies of their relatives in distant Hungary, who, fifteenmonths before, raced alongside the bicycle, and begged for "kreuzer, kreuzer. " Many ethnologists believe India to have been the originalabiding place of the now widely scattered Romanies; certain it is that nocountry and no clime would be so well adapted to their shiftless habitsand wandering tent-life as India. Their language, subjected to analysis, has been traced in a measure to Sanscrit roots, and although spreadpretty much all over the surface of the globe, this strange, romanticpeople are said to recognize one another by a common language, evenshould the one hail from India and the other from the frozen North. Certain professors claim to have discovered a connecting link between thegypsies of the Occident and the Jats of the Punjab. A boy tending a sacred cow undertakes to drive that worshipful animal outof my way as he sees me come bowling briskly down the road. The bovine, pampered and treated with the greatest deference and consideration fromher earliest calfhood, resents this treatment by making a short butdetermined spurt after me as I sweep past. Whether the sacred cows ofIndia are spoiled by generations of overindulgence, or whether thevariety is constitutionally evil-tempered does not appear, but they oneand all take pugnacious exception to the bicycle. Spurting away from achasing Brahmani cow is an every-day experience. Mr. D has kindly telegraphed from Kurnaul to Nawab Ali Ahmed Khan, ahospitable Mohammedan gentleman at Paniput, apprising him of my coming. More ancient even than Kurnaul, Paniput's vast antiquity is reputed toextend back to the period of the great Pandava War described in theMahabharat, and supposed to have been fought nearly four thousand yearsago. The city occupies a commanding position to the left of the road, andis rendered conspicuous by several white marble domes and minarets. The nawab and another native gentleman, physician to the PaniputHospital, are seated in a dog-cart watching for my appearance, at a forkin the road near one of the city gates. The nawab's place is a mile and ahalf off the main road, but the smooth, level kunkah leads right up tothe fine, commodious bungalow, in which I am duly installed. A tepidbath, prepared in deference to the nawab's anticipation of my preference, is awaiting my pleasure, and from the moment of arrival I am therecipient of unstinted attention. A large reclining chair is placedimmediately beneath the punkah, and a punkah-wallah, ambitious to please, causes the frilled hangings of this desirable and necessary piece offurniture to wave vigorously to and fro but a foot or eighteen inchesabove my head. A smiling servant kneels at my feet and proceeds to kneadand "groom" the muscles of the legs. Judging from the attentions lavishedupon my pedal extremities, one might well imagine me to be a race-horsethat had just endeared himself to his groom and owner by winning theDerby. An ample supper is followed by a most refreshing sleep, and in themorning, when ready to depart, my watchful attendants present themselveswith broad smiles and sheets of paper. Each one wants a certificateshowing that he has contributed to my comfort and entertainment, andlastly comes the nawab himself and his bosom friend, the hospital doctor, to bid me farewell and request the same favor. This certificate-foible isone of the greatest bores in India; almost every native who performs anyservice for a Sahib, whether in the capacity of a mere waiter at a nativehotel, or as retainer of some wealthy nabob--and not infrequentlythe nabob himself, if a government official--wants a testimonialexpressing one's approval of his services. An old servitor who hasmingled much among Europeans must have whole reams of these uselessarticles stowed away. What in the world they want with them is somethingof a puzzler; though the idea is, probably, that they might come inuseful to obtain a situation some time or other. South of Paniput the trees alongside the road are literally swarming withmonkeys; they file in long strings across the road, looking anxiouslybehind, evidently frightened at the strange appearance of the bicycle. Shinnying up the toddy-palms, they ensconce themselves among the foliageand peer curiously down at me as I wheel past, giving vent to theirperturbation in excited cries. Twenty-five miles down the road, an houris spent beneath a grove of shady peepuls, watching the amusing antics ofa troop of monkeys in the branches. Their marvellous activity among thetrees is here displayed to perfection, as they quarrel and chase oneanother from tree to tree. The old ones seem passively irritable anddecidedly averse to being bothered by the antics and mischievous activityof the youngsters. Taking possession of some particular branch, they warnaway all would-be intruders with threatening grimaces and feints. Theyouthful members of the party are skillful of pranks and didoes, carriedon to the great annoyance of their more aged and sedate relatives, who, in revenge, put in no small portion of their time punishing or pursuingthem with angry cries for their deeds of wanton annoyance. One monkey, that has very evidently been there many and many a time before on thesame thievish errand, with an air of amusing secrecy and roguishness, slips quickly along a horizontal bough and thrusts its arm into a hole. Its eyes wander guiltily around, as though expectant of detection andattack--an apprehension that quickly justifies itself in the shape of ablue-plumaged bird that flutters angrily about the robber's head, causingit to beat a hasty retreat. Birds' eggs are the booty it expected tofind, and, me-thinks, as I note the number and activity of thefreebooters to whom birds' eggs would be most toothsome morsels, watchfulindeed must be the parent-bird whose maternal ambition bears itslegitimate fruit in this monkey-infested grove. In me the monkeys seem torecognize a possible enemy, and at my first appearance hasten to hidethemselves among the thickest foliage; peering; cautiously down, theyyield themselves up to excited chattering and broad grimaces. Peacocks, too, are strutting majestically about the greensward beneaththe trees, their gorgeous tails expanded, or, perched on some horizontalbranch, they awake the screaming echoes in reply to others of theirkindred calling in the jungle. In the same way that monkeys are regardedand worshipped as the representatives of the great mythologicalmonkey-king Hanumiin, who assisted Kama, in his war with Havana for thepossession of Sita, so is the peacock revered and held sacred as the birdupon which rode Kartikeya the god of war and commander-in-chief of thearmies of the Puranic gods. Thus do both these denizens of the jungleobtain immunity from harm at the hands of the natives, by reason ofmythological association. English sportsmen shoot them, however, exceptin certain specified districts where the government has made theirkilling prohibitory, in deference to the religious prejudices of theHindoos. The Rajput warriors of Ulwar used to march to battle with apeacock's feather in their turbans; they believe that the reason why thisfine-plumaged bird screams so loudly when it thunders is because itmistakes the noise for the roll of war-drums. Large, two-storiedpassenger-vans, drawn sometimes by one camel and sometimes two, are nowfrequently encountered; they are regular two-storied cages, with ironbars, like the animal-vans in a menagerie. The passengers squat on thefloors, and when travelling at night, or through wild districts, arelocked in between stages to guard against surprise and robbery. CHAPTER XV. DELHI AND AGRA. From the police-thana of Rai, where the night is spent, to Delhi, thecharacter of the road changes to a mixture of clay and rock, altogetherinferior to kunkah. The twenty-one miles are covered, however, by 8. 30a. M. , that hour finding me wheeling down the broad suburban road to theLahore Gate amid throngs of country people carrying baskets of mangoes, plantains, pomegranates, and other indigenous products into the marketsof the old Mogul capital. Massive archways, ruined forts and serais, placid water-tanks, lovely gardens, feathery toddy-palms, plantain-hedges, and throngs of picturesque people make the approach tohistoric Delhi a scene long to be remembered. Entering the Lahore Gate, suitable accommodation is found at NorthbrookHotel, a comfortable hostelry under native management near the MoreeGate, and overlooking from its roof the scenes of the most memorableevents connected with the siege of Delhi in 1857. Letters are found atthe post-office apprising me of a bicycle-camera and paper negativesawaiting my orders at the American Consulate at Calcutta, and it behoovesme to linger here for a few days until its arrival in reply to atelegram. No more charming spot could possibly be found to linger in thanthe old Mogul capital, with its wondrous wealth of historicalassociations, both remotely antique and comparatively modern, itsglorious monuments of imperial Oriental splendor and its reminiscences ofheroic deeds in battle. A letter of introduction to an English gentleman, brought from Kurnaul, secures me friends and attention at once; in the cool of the evening wedrive out together in his pony-phaeton along the historic granite ridgethat formed the site of the British camp during the siege. The operationsagainst the city were conducted mostly from this ridge and theintervening ground; on the ridge itself is erected a beautiful redgranite monument memorial, bearing the names of prominent officers andthe numbers of men killed, the names of the regiments, etc. , engaged inthe siege and assault. Here, also, is Hindoo Rao's house, and ancientobelisks. East of the Moree Gate is the world-famed Cashmere Gate--world-famedin connection with the brilliant exploit of the little forlorn hope that, on the morning of September 14, 1857, succeeded, in the face of a deadlyfusillade from the, walls and the wicket gates, in carrying bags ofgunpowder and blowing it up. Through the opening thus effected poured theeager troops that rescued the city from ten times their own number ofmutineers and turned the beams of the scale in which the fate of thewhole British Indian Empire was at the moment balanced. Perhaps in allthe world's battles no more heroic achievement was ever attempted orcarried out than the blowing up of the Cashmere Gate. "Salkeld laid hisbags of powder, in the face of a deadly fire from the open wicket not tenfeet distant; he was instantly shot through the arm and leg, and fellback on the bridge, handing the port-fire to Sergeant Burgess, biddinghim light the fuse. Burgess was instantly shot dead in the attempt. Sergeant Carmichael then advanced, took up the port-fire, and succeededin firing the fuse, but immediately fell, mortally wounded. SergeantSmith, seeing him fall, advanced at a run, but finding that the fuse wasalready burning, flung himself into the ditch. " Difficult, indeed, would it be to crowd more heroism into the same numberof words that I have here quoted from Colonel Medley, an eye-witness ofthe affair. Between the double archways of the gate is a red-sandstonememorial tablet, placed there by Lord Napier of Magdala, upon which isinscribed the names, rank, and regiment of those who took part in theforlorn hope. All is now peaceful and lovely enough, but the stonebastions and parapets still remain pretty much as when the Britishbatteries ceased their plunging rain of shot and shell thirty years ago. Not far from the Moree Gate is the tomb of General Nicholson, one of themost conspicuous and heroic characters of that trying period, andgenerally regarded as the saviour of Delhi. Enshrined in the hearts ofthe brave Sikhs no less than in the hearts of his own countrymen, histomb has become a regular place of pilgrimage for the old Sikh warriorswho fought side by side with the English against the mutineers. It has been my good fortune, I find, to arrive at the old Mogul capitalthe day before the commencement of an annual merrymaking, picnicking, andgeneral holiday at the celebrated Kootub Minar. The Kootub Minar is abouteleven miles out of Delhi, situated amid the ruins of ancient Dilli(Delhi), the old Hindoo city from which the more modern city takes itsname. It is conceded to be the most beautiful minar-monument in theworld, and ranks with the Taj Mahal at Agra as one of the beautifularchitectural triumphs peculiar to the splendid era of Mohammedan rule inIndia, and which are not to be matched elsewhere. The day following myarrival I conclude to take a spin out on my bicycle as far as the Kootub, and see something of it, the ruins amid which it stands, and the Hindoosin holiday attire. I choose the comparative coolness of early morning forthe ride out; but early though it be, the road thither is alreadyswarming with gayly dressed people bent on holiday-making. The road is aworthy offshoot of the Grand Trunk, not a whit less smooth of surface, nor less lovely in its wealth of sacred shade-trees. Moreover, it passesthrough a veritable wilderness of ruined cities, mosques, tombs, andforts the whole distance, and leads right through the magnificent remainsof the ancient Hindoo city itself. The Kootub Minar is found to be a beautifully fluted column, two hundredand forty feet high, and it soars grandly above the mournful ruins of oldDilli, its hoary wealth of crumbled idol temples, tombs, and forts. Theminar is supposed to have been erected in the latter part of the twelfthcentury to celebrate the victory of the Mohammedans over the Hindoos ofDilli. The general effect of the tall, stately Mohammedan monument amongthe Hindoo ruins is that of a proud gladiator standing erect andtriumphant amid fallen foes. At least, that is how it looks to me, as Iview it in connection with the ruins at its base and ponder upon itshistory. A spiral stairway of three hundred and seventy-five steps leadsto the summit. A group of natives are already up there, enjoying the coolbreezes and the prospect below. In the comprehensive view from the summitone can read an instructive sermon of centuries of stirring Indianhistory in the gray stone-work of ruined mosques and tombs and fortressesand pagan temples that dot the valley of the Jumna hereabout almost asthickly as the trees. Strange crowds have congregated on this rare old historic camping-groundin ages past. It was a strange crowd, gathered here for a strangepurpose, on that traditional occasion, when Rajah Pithora, in the fourthcentury of the Christian era, had the celebrated iron shaft dug up tosatisfy his curiosity as to whether it had transfixed the subterraneansnake-god Vishay. There is a strange crowd gathered here to-day, too; Ican hear their shouting and their tom-toming come floating up from amongthe ruins and the dark-green foliage as I look down from my beautifuleyrie on top of the Kootub upon their pygmy forms, thronging the walksand roads, brown and busy as swarms of ants. It is a vast concourse of people, characteristic of teeming India; butthey are not, on this occasion, congregated to witness pagan rites andceremonies, nor to encourage iconoclastic Moolahs in smashing Hindoo godsand chipping offensive Hindoo carvings off their temples; they are amixed crowd of Hindoos, Sikhs, and Mohammedans, who, having to someextent buried the hatchet of race and religious animosities under thejust and tolerant rule of a Christian government, have gathered here amidthe ruins and relics of their respective past histories to enjoythemselves in innocent recreation. Descending from the Kootub Minar, I am resting beneath the shade of thedak bungalow hard by, when a gray-bearded Hindoo approaches, salaams, andhands me a paper. The paper is a certificate, certifying that the bearer, Chunee Lai, had performed before Captain Somebody of the Fusileers, andhad afforded that officer excellent amusement. Before I have quitegrasped the situation, or comprehended the purport of the tenderedmissive, several men and boys deposit a miscellaneous assortment of boxesand baskets before me and range themselves in a semicircle behind them. The old fellow with the certificate picks out a small box and raises thelid; a huge cobra thrusts out its hideous head and puffs its hooded neckto the size of a man's hand. It then dawns upon me that the gray-beardedHindoo is a conjurer; and being curious to see something of Indianprestidigitation, I allow him to proceed. Many of the tricks are quite commonplace and transparent even to anovice. For example, he mixes red, yellow, and white powders together ina tumbler of water and swallows the mixture, making, of course, a wryface, as though taking a dose of bitter medicine. He then calls a boyfrom among the by-standers and blows first red powder, then yellow, thenwhite into the youngster's face. I judge he had small bags of dry powderstowed away in his cheek. He performs his tricks on the bare ground, without any such invaluable adjunct as the table of his European rival, and some of them, viewed in the light of this disadvantage, are indeedpuzzling. For instance, he fills an ordinary tin pot nearly full ofwater, puts in a handful of yellow sand and a handful of red powder, andthoroughly stirs them up; he then thrusts his naked hand into the waterand brings forth a handful of each kind, dry as when he put them in. Asimple enough trick, no doubt, to the initiated; but the old conjurer'sarm is bared, and the tin is, as far as I can discover, but an ordinaryvessel, and the trick is performed without any cover, table, or cloth. After this he expectorates a number of glass marbles, and ends with acouple of solid iron jingal balls that he can scarce get out of hismouth. There is no mistake about their being of solid iron, and the oldconjurer opens his mouth and lets me see them emerging from his throat. From what I see him do as the final act, and which there is no deceptionabout, I am inclined to think the old fellow has actually acquired thepower of swallowing these jingal balls and reproducing them at pleasure. After a number of tricks too familiar to justify mentioning here hecovers his head with a cloth for a minute, and then reappears with brasseyeballs, with a small hole bored in the centre of each to represent thepupils; and his mouth is rendered hideous with a set of teeth belongingto some animal. In this horrible make-up the old Hindoo tom-toms on asmall oblong drum, while one of his assistants sings in broken English"Buffalo Gals. " He then openly removes the false teeth, and taking outthe brass eyeballs, he casts them jingling on the gravel at my feet. Theyare simply hemispheres of sheet-brass, and fitted closely over theeyeballs, beneath the lids. The conjurer's eyes water visibly after thebrass covers are removed; and well enough they might; there is nosleight-of-hand about this--it is purely an act of self-torture. In most of the conjuring tricks the conjurer would purposely make apartial failure in the first attempt; an assistant would then impart thenecessary power by muttering cabalistic words over a monkey's skull. A mongoose had been tethered to a stake at the beginning of theperformance, and the little ferret-like enemy of the snake family kepttugging at his tether and sniffing suspiciously about whenever snakesappeared in the conjurer's manipulations. He bad promised me a fightbetween the mongoose and a snake, and before presenting his little brassbowl for backsheesh he holds out a four-foot snake toward the eagerlittle animal at the stake. The snake writhes and struggles to get away, evidently badly scared at the prospect of an encounter with the mongoose;but the man succeeds in depositing him within his adversary's reach. Themongoose nabs him by the neck in an instant, and would no doubt soon havefinished him; but the assistants part them with wire crooks, putting thesnake in a basket with several others and the mongoose in another. While watching the interesting performances of the Hindoo, conjurers Ihave left the bicycle at a little dak bungalow near the oldentrance-gate. From the commanding height of the Kootub-one could seethat the Delhi road is a solid mass of vehicles and pedestrians (how thepeople in teeming India do swarm on these festive occasions!). It looksimpossible to make one's way with a bicycle against that winding streamof human beings, and so, after wandering about a while among the strikingand peculiar colonnades of the ancient pagan temples, paying theregulation tribute of curiosity to the enigmatic iron column, and doingthe place in general, I return to the bungalow, thinking of starting backto Delhi, when I find that my "cycle of strange experiences" hasattracted to itself a no less interesting gathering than a troupe ofNautch girls and their chaperone. The troupe numbers about a dozen girls, and they have come to the merry-making at the Kootub to gather honestshekels by giving exhibitions of their terpsichorean talents in theNautch dance. I had been wondering whether an opportunity to see this famous dancewould occur during my trip through India; and so when four or five of theprettiest of these dusky damsels gather about me, smile at me winsomelyogle me with their big black eyes, smile again, smile separately, smileunanimously, smile all over their semi-mahogany but nevertheless notunhandsome faces, and every time displaying sets of pearly teeth, whatcould I do, what could anyone have done, but smile in return? There is no language more eloquent or more easily understood than thelanguage of facial expression. No verbal question or answer is necessary. I interpret the winsome smiles of the Nautchnees aright, and theyinterpret very quickly the permission to go ahead that reveals itself inthe smile they force from me. Eight of the twelve are commonplace girlsof from fourteen to eighteen, and the other four are "dark butcomely"--quite handsome, as handsomeness goes among the Hindoos. Their arms are bare of everything save an abundance of bracelets, and theupper portion of the body is rather scantily draped, after the manner andcustom of all Hindoo females; but an ample skirt of red calico reaches tothe ankle. Rings are worn on every toe, and massive silver anklets withtiny bells attached make music when they walk of dance. They wear aprofusion of bracelets, necklaces of rupees, head-ornaments, ear-rings, and pendent charms, and a massive gold or brass ring in the left nostril. The nostril is relieved of its burden by a string that descends from ahead-ornament and takes up the weight. The Nautch girls arrange themselves into a half-circle, their scarletcostumes forming a bright crescent, terminating in a mass of spectators, whose half-naked bodies, varying in color from pale olive to mahogany, are arrayed in costumes scarcely less showy than the dancers. Thechaperone and eight outside girls tom-tom an appropriate Nautchaccompaniment on drums with their fingers, the four prettiest girlsadvance, and favoring me with sundry smiles, and coquettish glances fromtheir bright black eyes, they commence to dance. An idea seems to prevail in many Occidental minds that the Nautch danceis a very naughty thing; but nothing is further from the truth. Of courseit can be made naughty, and no doubt often is; but then so can manyanother form of innocent amusement. The Nautch dance is a decorous andartistic performance when properly danced; the graceful motions andelegant proportions of the human form, as revealed by lithe and gracefuldancers, are to be viewed with an eye as purely artistic and critical asthat with which one regards a Venus or other production of the sculptor'sstudio. The four dancers take the lower hem of their red garment daintily betweenthe thumb and finger of the right hand, spreading its ample folds intothe figure of an opened fan, by bringing the outstretched arm almost on alevel with the shoulder. A mantle of transparent muslin, fringed withsilver spangles, is worn about the head and shoulders in the sameindescribably graceful manner as the mantilla of the Spanish senorita. Raising a portion of this aloft in the left hand, and keeping the "fan"intact with the right, the dancers twirl around and change positions withone another, their supple figures meanwhile assuming a variety ofgraceful motions and postures from time to time. Now they imitate thespiral movement of a serpent climbing around and upward on an imaginarypole; again they assume an attitude of gracefulness, their duskycountenances half hidden in seeming coquetry behind the muslin mantle, the large red fan waving gently to and fro, the feet unmoving, but theundulating motions of the body and the tremor of the limbs sufficing tojingle the tiny ankle-bells. On the whole, the Nautch dance would bedisappointing to most people witnessing it; its fame leads one to expectmore than it really amounts to. Before starting back to Delhi, I take a stroll through the adjacentvillage of Kootub, a place named after the minar, I suppose. The crookedmain street of the village of Kootub itself presents to-day a scene ofgayety and confusion that beggars description. Bunting floats gayly fromevery window and balcony, in honor of the festival, and is strung acrossthe street from house to house. Thousands of globular colored lanternsare hanging about, ready to be lighted up at night. The streets arethronged with people in the gayest of costumes, and with vehicles thegilt and paint and glitter of which equal the glittering wagons andchariots of a circus parade at home. The balconies above the shops are curtained with blue gauze, behind whichare seen numbers of ladies, chatting, eating fruits and sweetmeats, andpeeping down through the semi-transparent screens upon the animated scenein the streets. On the stalls, choice edibles are piled up by the bushel, and busy venders are hawking fruits, sweets, toddy, and all imaginablerefreshments about among the crowds. Vacant lots are occupied by thetents of visiting peasants, and in out-of-the-way corners acrobatics, jugglery, and Nautch-dancing attract curious crowds. The incoming tide of human life is at its flood as I start back to Delhiby the same road I came. Here one gets a glimpse of the real gorgeousnessof India without seeking for it at the pageants of princes and rajahs. Small zemindars from outlying villages are bringing their wives anddaughters to the festivities at the Kootub in circusy-lookingbullock-chariots covered with gilt and carvings, and draped and twinedwith parti-colored ribbons. Some of these gaudy turn-outs are drawn byrichly caparisoned, milk-white oxen, with gilded horns. Cymbals andsleigh-bells galore keep up a merry jingle, and tom-toming parties maketheir noisy presence known all along the line. Still more gorgeous and interesting than the gilded ox-gharries of theordinary zemindars are miniature chariots drawn by pairs of well-matched, undersized oxen covered with richly spangled trappings, and with hornscuriously gilded and tipped with tiny bells. These are the vehicles ofpetted young nabobs in charge of attendants: tiny oxen with gorgeoustrappings, tiny chariots richly gilded and carved and painted, tinyoccupants richly dressed and jewelled. Troupes of Nautchnees add theirpicturesque appearance to the brilliant throngs, and here and there isencountered a holy fakir, unkempt and unwashed, having, perchance, registered a vow years ago never more to apply water to his skin, hisonly clothing a dirty waist-cloth and the yellow clay plastered on hisbody. Long strings of less pretentious bullock-gharries almost block theroadway, and people constantly dodging out from behind them in front ofmy wheel make it extremely difficult to ride. Several days are passed at Delhi, waiting the arrival of a smallbicycle-camera from Calcutta, which has been forwarded from America. Mostof this time is spent in the pleasant occupation of reclining in anarm-chair beneath the punkah, the only comfortable situation in Delhi atthis season of the year. Nevertheless, I manage to spin around the citymornings and evenings, and visit the famous fort and palace of ShahJehan. In the magnificent--magnificent even in the decline of its grandeur--fort-palace of the Mogul Emperor named, British soldiers now findcomfortable quarters. This fort, together with modern Delhi (the realIndian name of Delhi is Shahjehanabad, after the emperor Shah Jehan, whohad it built), is but about two hundred and fifty years old, the entireaffair having been built to gratify the Mogul ambition for founding newcapitals. Although so modern compared with other cities near by, both city andpalace have gone through strangely stirring and tragic experiences, andevents have happened in the latter that, although sometimes trivial inthemselves, have led to momentous results. In this palace, in 1716, was given permission, by the Emperor FurrokhSeeur, to the Scotch physician, Gabriel Hamilton, the privileges thathave gradually led up to the British conquest of the whole peninsula. Asa reward for professional services rendered, permission to establishfactories on the Hooghly was given; the Presidency of Fort William sprungtherefrom, and at length the British Indian Empire. Twenty years afterthis, the terrible Nadir Shah, from Persia, occupied the palace, and heldhigh jinks within while his army slaughtered over a hundred thousand ofthe inhabitants in the streets. When this red-handed marauder took hisdeparture he carried away with him booty to the value of eighty millionssterling in the value of that time. Among the plunder was the famousPeacock Throne, alone reputed to be worth six million pounds. Thisremarkable piece of kingly furniture is said to be in the possession ofthe Shah of Persia at the present time. It is very probable, however, that only some unique portion of the throne is preserved, as it couldhardly have been carried back to Persia by Nadir intact. This throne isthus described by a writer: "The throne was six feet long and four broad, composed of solid gold inlaid with precious stones. It was surmounted bya canopy of gold, supported on twelve pillars of the same material. Around the canopy hung a fringe of pearls; on each side of the thronestood two chattahs, or umbrellas, symbols of royalty, formed of crimsonvelvet richly embroidered with gold thread and pearls, and with handlesof solid gold, eight feet long, studded with diamonds. The back of thethrone was a representation of the expanded tail of a peacock, thenatural colors of which were imitated by sapphires, rubies, emeralds, andother gems. " This Peacock Throne was the envy and admiration of everycontemporary monarch who heard of it, and was undoubtedly one of thechief elements in exciting the cupidity of the outer world that finallyended in the dissolution of the Mogul Empire. Less than ten years after the departure of Nadir Shah, Ahmud Khanadvanced with an army from Cabool, and took pretty much everything ofvalue that the Khorassani freebooter had overlooked, besides committingmore atrocities upon the population. At the end of another decade an armyof Mahrattas took possession, and completed the spoilation by ripping thesilver filigree-work off the ceiling of the Throne-room. Not long afterthis, yet another adventurer took a hand in the work of destruction, tortured the members of the imperial family, and put out the eyes of thehelpless old emperor, Shah Alum. Here Lord Lake's cavalcade arrived, too, in 1803, and found the blinded chief of the royal house of Timour and hismagnificent successors, who built Delhi and Agra, seated beneath thetattered remnants of a little canopy, a mockery of royalty, with everyexternal appearance of misery and helplessness And lastly, here, in May, 1857, the last representative of the great Moguls, a not unwilling toolin the hands of the East India Company's mutinous soldiery, presided overthe butchery of helpless English women and children. It is difficult to realize that Delhi has been the theatre of such astirring and eventful history, as nowadays one strolls down the ChandniChouk and notes the air of peace and contentment that pervades the wholecity. It seems quite true, as Edwin Arnold says in his "India Revisited, "that Derby is now not more contentedly British than is Delhi. Whatevermay be the faults of British rule in India, no impartial critic can saythat the people are not in better hands than they have ever been before. One of the most interesting objects in the city is the Jama Mesjid, thelargest mosque in India, and the second-largest in all Islam, rankingnext to St. Sophia at Constantinople. Broad flights of red sandstonesteps lead up to handsome gateways surmounted by rows of small milk-whitemarble domes or cupolas. Inside is a large quadrangular court, paved withbroad slabs of sandstone; occupying the centre of this is a white marblereservoir of water. The mosque proper is situated on the west side of thequadrangle, an oblong structure two hundred feet long by half that manyin width, ornamented and embellished by Arabic inscriptions and threeshapely white marble domes. Very elegant indeed is the pattern andcomposition of the floor, each square slab of white marble having anarrow black border running round it, like the border of a mourningenvelope. Very charming, also, are the two graceful minarets at eitherend, one hundred and thirty feet high, alternate strips of white marbleand red sandstone producing a very pretty and striking effect. In the northeastern corner of the quadrangle is a small cabinetcontaining the inevitable relics of the Prophet. Three separate guideshave accumulated at my heels since entering the gate, and now a fourth, ancient and hopeful, appears to unravel, for the Sahib's benefit, themysteries of the little cabinet. Unlocking the door, he steps out of hisslippers into the entrance, stooping beneath an iron rail that furtherbars the entrance. From an inner receptacle he first produces some ancient manuscript, whichhe explains was written by the same scribes who copied the Koran forMohammed's grandson. Putting these carefully away, the Ancient andHopeful then unwraps, very mysteriously, a handkerchief, and reveals asmall oblong tin box with a glass face. The casket contains what uponcasual observation appears to be a piece of bark curling up at the edges;this, I am informed, however, is nothing less than the sole of one ofMohammed's sandals. Putting away this venerable relic of the greatfounder of Islam, the old Mussulman assumes a look of profound importanceand mystery. One would think, from his expression and manners, that hewas about to reveal to the sacrilegious gaze of an infidel nothing lessthan the Prophet's fifth rib or the parings from his pet corn. Instead ofthese he exhibits a flat piece of rock bearing marks resembling the shapeof a man's foot--the imprint of Mohammed's foot, miraculously made. To one whose soulful gaze has been enraptured with an imprint of thefirst Sultan's hand on the wall of St. Sophia, and the mosaic figure ofthe Virgin Mary persistently refusing to be painted out of sight on thedome of the same mosque, this piece of rock would scarcely seem tojustify the vast display of reverence that is evidently expected of allvisitors by the Ancient and Hopeful. But perhaps it is on account of the place of honor it occupiesimmediately preceding what is undoubtedly a very precious relic indeed, arelic that fills the worthy custodian with mystery and importance. Or, perchance, mystery and importance have been found, during his long andvaried experience with the unsophisticated tourist, excellent things toincrease the volume of importance attached to the exhibited articles, andthe volume of "pice" in his exchequer. At any rate, the Ancient andHopeful assumes more mystery and importance than ever as he uncovers asecond tin casket with a glass front. Glued to the glass, inside, is asingle coarse yellow hair about two inches long; the precious relic, which has a suspicious resemblance to a bristle, is considered the gem ofthe collection, being nothing less than a hair from the Prophet'svenerable mustache. Mohammedans swear by the beard of the Prophet, justas good Christians swear by "the great horned spoon, " or by "greatCaesar's ghost, " so that the possession of even this one poor littlehair, surrounded as it is by a blue halo of suspicion as to itsauthenticity, sheds a ray of glory upon the great Jama Mesjid scarcelysurpassed by its importance as the second-largest mosque in the world. The two-inch yellow hair is considered the piece de resistance of thecollection, and the Ancient and Hopeful stows it away with all duereverence, strokes his henna-stained beard with the air of a man who hasgot successfully through a very important task, steps into his slippers, and presents himself for "pice. " Pice is duly administered to him and his three salaaming associates, when, lo! a fifth candidate mysteriously appears, also smiling andsalaaming expectantly. Although I haven't had the pleasure of a previousacquaintance with this gentleman, the easiest way to escape gracefullyfrom the sacred edifice is to backsheesh him along with the others. Thesebacksheesh considerations are, of course, small and immaterial matters, and one ought to feel extremely grateful to all concerned for the happyprivilege of feasting one's soul with ever so brief a contemplation ofthe things in the cabinet, and more especially on the bristle-like yellowhair. These joy-inspiring objects, ramshackled from the storehouse of themusty past, fulfil the double mission of keeping alive the reverence ofdevout Mussulmans who visit the mosque, and keeping the Ancient andHopeful well supplied with goodakoo. My camera having duly arrived, together with a package of letters, whichare always doubly welcome to a wanderer in distant lands, I prepare toresume my southward journey. The few days' rest has enabled me to recoverfrom the wilting effects of riding in the terrific heat, and I have seensomething of one of the most interesting points in all Asia. Delhi issometimes called the "Home of Asia, " which, it seems to me, is a veryappropriate name to give it. Neatly clad and modest-looking females, native converts to Christianity, are walking in orderly procession to church, testaments in hand, as Iwheel through the streets of Delhi on Sunday morning toward the Agraroad. Very interesting is it to see these dusky daughters of heathendomarrayed in modest white muslin gowns, their lithe and graceful formsfreed from the barbarous jewellery that distinguishes the persons oftheir unconverted sisters. Very charming do they look in theirChristianized simplicity and self-contained demeanor as they walkquietly, and at a becoming Sabbath-day pace, two by two, down the ChandniChouk. They present an instructive comparison to the straggling groups ofheathen damsels who watch them curiously as they walk past and thenproceed to chant idolatrous songs, apparently in a spirit of wantonraillery at the Christian maidens and their simple, un-ornamented attire. The fair heathens of Delhi have a sort of naughty, Parisian reputationthroughout the surrounding country, and so there is nothing surprising inthis exhibition of wanton hilarity directed at these more strait-lacedconverts to the religion of the Ferenghis. The heathen damsels, arrayedin very worldly costumes, consisting of flaring red, yellow, and bluegarments, the whole barbaric and ostentatious array of nose-rings, ear-rings, armlets, anklets, rupee necklaces, and pendents, and themultifarious gewgaws of Hindoo womankind, look surpassingly wicked andsaucy in comparison with their converted sisters. The gentle converts tryhard to regard their heathen songs with indifference, and to show bytheir very correct deportment the superiority of meekness, virtue, andChristianity over gaudy clothes, vulgar silver jewellery, and heathenism. The whole scene reminds one very forcibly of a gang of wicked street-boysat home, poking fun at a Sunday-school procession or a platoon ofSalvation Army soldiers parading the streets. Past the Queen's Gardens and the fort, down a long street of nativeshops, and out of the Delhi gate I wheel, past the grim battlements ofFirozabad, along a rather flinty road that extends for ten miles, afterwhich commences again the splendid kunkah. Villages are numerous, and thecountry populous; tombs and the ruins of cities dot the landscape, pahnee-chowkees, where yellow Brahmans dispense water to thirstywayfarers, line the road, and at one point three splendid, massivearchways, marking some place that has lost its former importance, span myroad. Hindoos are now the prevailing race, and their religion finds frequentexpression in idol temples and shrines beneath little roadside groves. The night is spent on the porch of a dak bungalow just outside the wallsof Pullwal, a typical Hindoo city, with all its curious display ofhideous idols, idolatrous paintings, and beautiful carved temples withgilded spires. The groves about the bungalow are literally swarming withgreen parrots; in big flocks they sweep past near my charpoy, producing agreat wh-r-r-r-ring commotion with their wings. A flock of parrots may beso far aloft as to be well-nigh beyond the range of human vision in theethery depths, but the noise of their wings will be plainly audible. A two hours' terrific downpour delays me at the village of Hodell nextday, and affords an opportunity to inspect an ordinary little Hindoovillage temple. The captain of the police-thana sends a tall Sikhpoliceman to show me in. The temple is only a small tapering marbleedifice about thirty feet high, surmounted by a gilded crescent, andresting on a hollow plinth, the hollow of which provides quarters for thepriest. One is expected to remove his foot-gear before going inside, thesame as in a Mohammedan mosque. A taper is burning in a niche of thewall; mural paintings of snakes, many-handed gods, bulls, monsters, andmythical deities create a cheap and garish impression. In the centre ofthe floor is a marble linga, and grouped around it a miniature man, woman, and elephant; before these are laid offerings of flowers. Theinterior of the temple is not more than eight feet square, a mere cell inwhich the deities are housed; the worshippers mostly perform theirprostrations on the plinth outside. The villagers gather in a crowd aboutthe temple and watch every movement of my brief inspection; they seempleased at the sight of a Sahib honoring their religion by removing hisshoes and carefully respecting their feelings. When I descend from theplinth they fall back and greet me with smiles and salaams. The rain clears up and I forge ahead, finding the kunkah road-bed nonethe worse for the drenching it has just received. Hour by hour one getsmore surprised at the multitudes of pedestrians on the road; neither rainnor sun seems to affect their number. Some of the costumes observed arequite startling in their ingenuity and effect. One garment much affectedby the Rajput women are yellowish shawls or mantles, phool-karis, inwhich, are set numerous small circular mirrors about the circumference ofa silver half-dollar; the effect of these in the bright Indian sun, asthe wearer trudges along in the distance, is as though she were allablaze with gems. Whenever I wheel past a group of Rajput females, theyeither stand with averted faces or cover up their heads with theirshawls. The road-inspector's bungalow at Chattee affords me shelter, and anintelligent native gentleman, who speaks a misleading quality of English, supplies me with a supper of curried rice and fowl. Hard by is a Hindootemple, whence at sunset issue the sweetest chimes imaginable from a pealof silver-toned bells. My charpoy is placed on the porch facing the east, and soon the rotund face of the rising moon floats above the trees, andthe silvery tinkle of the bells is followed by a chorus of jackals payingtheir noisy compliments to its loveliness. My slumbers can hardly be saidto be unbroken to-night, three pariah dogs have taken a fancy to myquarters; two of them sit on their haunches and howl dismally in responseto the jackals, while number three reclines sociably beneath my charpoyand growls at the others as though constituting himself my protector. Some Indian Romeo is serenading his dusky Juliet in the neighboring town;flocks of roysteriug parrots go whirring past at all hours of the night, and a too liberal indulgence in red-hot curry keeps me on the verge of anightmare almost till the silvery tinkle-tinkle of the Brahman bellsannounces the break of day. Cynics have sometimes denounced Christians as worse than the heathens, inrequiring loud church-bells to summon them to worship. Such, it appears, are putting the case rather thoughtlessly. Mohammedans have theirmuezzins, while both Christians and idolaters have their chiming bells. Neither Christians, nor Mohammedans, nor heathens need these agencies tosummon them to their respective worldly enjoyments, so that, taken all inall, we are pretty much alike--cynics, notwithstanding, to the contrary, we are little or no worse than the heathens. A loudly wailing woman with her head covered up, and supported betweentwo companions who are vainly trying to console her, and a partyconveying two cassowaries, a pair of white peacocks, and a kangaroo fromCalcutta to some rajah's menagerie up country, are among the curiositiesencountered on the road the following day. Spending the afternoon andnight in the quarters of the Third Dragoon Guards at Muttra Cantonment, Iresume my journey early in the morning, dodging from shelter to shelterto avoid frequent heavy showers. It is but thirty-five miles from Muttra to Agra, and notwithstandingshowers and heat, the distance is covered by half-past ten. Wheeling atthis pace, however, is an indiscretion, and the completion of the stretchis signalized by a determination to seek shade and quiet for theremainder of the day. Once again the sociable officers of the garrisontender me the hospitality of their quarters, and the ensuing day is spentin visiting that wonder of the world, the Taj Mahal, Akbar's fort, andother wonderful monuments of the palmy days of the Mogul Empire. Finer and more imposing in appearance even than the fort at Delhi, isthat at Agra. Walls of red sandstone, seventy feet high, and a mile and ahalf in circuit, picturesquely crenellated, and with imposing gatewaysand a deep, broad moat, Complete a work of stupendous dimensions. One isovercome with a sense of grandeur upon first beholding these Indianpalace-forts, after seeing nothing more imposing than mud walls in Persiaand Afghanistan; they are magnificent looking structures. The contrast, too, of the red sandstone walls and gates and ramparts, with the whitemarble buildings of the royal quarters, is very striking. The domes ofthe latter, seen at a distance, seem like snow-white bubbles resting everso lightly and airily upon the darker mass; one almost expects to seethem rise up and float away on the passing zephyrs like balloons. Passing inside over a drawbridge and through the massive Delhi Gate, weproceed into the interior of the fort, traversing a broad ascent ofsandstone pavement. Everything around us shows evidence of unstintedoutlay in design, execution, and completion of detail in the carrying outof a stupendous undertaking. Everywhere the spirit of Akbar theMagnificent seems to hover amid his creations. One emerges from thecovered gateway and the walled corrugated causeway, upon the paradeground. Crenellated walls, a park of artillery, and roomy Englishbarracks greet the vision. Sentinels--Sepoy sentinels in hugeturbans, and English sentinels in white sun-helmets--are pacingtheir beats. But not on these does the gaze of the visitor rest. Straightahead of him there rises, above the red sandstone walls and the bareparade ground, three marble domes, white as newly-fallen snow, and justbeyond are seen the gilt pinnacles of Akbar's palace. We wander among the beautiful marble creations, gaze in wonder at thesnowy domes supported on marble pillars, mosaiced with jasper, agate, blood-stone, lapis-lazuli, and other rare stones. We stand on the whitemarble balustrades, carved so exquisitely as to resemble lace-work, andwe look out upon the yellow waters of the Jumna, flowing sluggishly alongseventy feet below. Here is where the Grand Mogul, Akbar, used to sit andwatch elephant fights and boat races. There are none of these to be seennow; but that does not mean that the prospect is either tame oruninteresting. The banks of the Jumna are alive with hundreds of duskynatives engaged in washing clothes and spreading linen out in the sun tobleach. The prospect beyond is a revelation of vegetable luxuriance andwealth, and of historical reminiscence in the shape of ruins and tombs. One's eyes, however, are drawn away from the contemplation of thepicturesque life below, and from the prospect of grove and garden andcrumbling tombs, by the mesmerism, of the crowning glory of all Indianarchitectural triumphs, the famous Taj. This matchless mausoleum rests onthe right-hand bank of the Jumna, about a mile down stream. The Taj, withits marvellous beauty and snowy whiteness, seems to cast a spell over thebeholder, from the first; one can no more keep his eyes off it, when itis within one's range of vision, than he can keep from breathing. Itdraws one's attention to itself as irresistibly as though its magnetismwere a living and breathing force exerted directly to that end. It is thesubtlety of its unapproachable loveliness, commanding homage from allbeholders, whether they will or no. We turn away from it awhile, however, and find ample scope for admirationclose at hand. We tread the marble aisles of the Pearl Mosque, consideredthe most perfect gem of its kind in existence. One stands in itscourt-yard and finds himself in the chaste and exclusive companionship ofsnowy marble and blue sky. One feels almost ill at ease, as thoughconscious of being an imperfect thing, marring perfection by hispresence. "Quiet as a nun, breathless with adoration, " one enthusiasticvisitor exclaims, in an effort to put his sentiments and impressions ofthe Moti Mesjid into words. Like this adoring traveller, the averagevisitor will rest content to be carried away by the contemplation of itschaste beauty, without prying around for possible defects in the detailsof the particular school of architecture it graces. He will have littlepatience with carping critics who point to the beautiful screens, offloriated marble tracery, and say: "Nuns should not wear collars of pointlace. " From the Moti Mesjid, we visit the Shish Mahal, or mirrored bath-rooms. The chambers and passages here remind me of the mirrored rooms of Persia;here, as there, thousands of tiny mirrors are used in working out variousintricate designs. My three uniformed companions at once reflect not lessthan half a regiment of British soldiers therein. From the fort we drive in a native gharri to the Taj, a mile-drivethrough suburban scenery, plantain-gardens, groves, and ruins. Inapproaching the garden of the Taj, one passes through a bazaar, where theskilful Hindoo artisans are busy making beautiful inlaid tables, inkstands, plates, and similar fancies, as well as models of the Taj, outof white Jeypore marble. These are the hereditary descendants andsuccessors of the men who in the palmy days of the Mogul power spenttheir lives in decorating the royal palaces and tombs with mosaics andtracery. Nowadays their skill is expended on mere articles of virtue, tobe sold to European tourists and English officers. Some of them areoccasionally employed by the Indian Government to repair the workdesecrated by vandals during the mutiny, and under the purely commercialgovernment of the East India Company. One curious phase of this work is, that the men employed to replace with imitations the original stones thathave been stolen receive several times higher pay than the men in Akbar'stime, who did such splendid work that it is not to be approached, thesedays. Several months' imprisonment is now the penalty of prying outstones from the mosaic-work of the Taj. This lovely structure has been described so often by travellers that onecan scarce venture upon a description without seeming to repeat what hasalready been said by others. One of the best descriptions of itssituation and surroundings is given by Bayard Taylor. He says: "The Tajstands on the bank of the Jumna, rather more than a mile to the eastwardof the Fort of Agra. It is approached by a handsome road cut through themounds left by the ruins of ancient palaces. It stands in a large garden, inclosed by a lofty wall of red sandstone, with arched galleries aroundthe interior, and entered by a superb gateway of sandstone, inlaid withornaments and inscriptions from the Koran in white marble. Outside thisgrand portal, however, is a spacious quadrangle of solid masonry, with anelegant structure, intended as a caravanserai, on the opposite side. Whatever may be the visitor's impatience, he cannot help pausing tonotice the fine proportions of these structures, and the massive style oftheir construction. Passing under the open demi-vault, whose arch hangshigh above you, an avenue of dark Italian cypress appears before you. Down its centre sparkles a long row of fountains, each casting up asingle slender jet. On both sides, the palm, the banyan, and featherybamboo mingle their foliage; the song of birds meets your ears, and theodor of roses and lemon-flowers sweetens the air. Down such a vista, andover such a foreground, rises the Taj. " Of the Taj itself, fault has been found with its proportions by severecritics, like the party who regards the Moti Mesjid "nun" as faultybecause she wears a point-lace collar; but the ordinary visitor will findroom for nothing but admiration and wonder. It is hard to believe thatthere is any defect, even in its proportions, for so perfect do theselatter appear, that one is astonished to learn that it is a tallerbuilding than the Kootub Minar. One would never guess it to be anywherenear so tall as 243 feet. The building rests on a plinth of white marble, eighteen feet high and a hundred yards square. At each corner of theplinth stands a minaret, also of white marble, and 137 feet high. Themausoleum itself occupies the central space, measuring in depth and width186 feet. The entire affair is of white Jeypore marble, resting upon alower platform of sandstone: "A thing of perfect beauty and of absolutefinish in every detail, it might pass for the work of a genii, who knewnaught of the weaknesses and ills with which mankind are beset. It is nota great national temple erected by a free and united people, it owes itscreation to the whim of an absolute ruler who was free to squander theresources of the State in commemorating his personal sorrows or hisvanity. " Another distinguished visitor, commenting on the criticisms of those whoprofess to have discovered defects, says: "The Taj is like a lovelywoman; abuse her as you please, but the moment you come into herpresence, you submit to its fascination. " "If to her share some female errors fall, Look in her face, and you'llforget them all. " Passing beneath the vaulted gateway, we find a sign-board, telling thatthe best place from which to view the Taj is from the roof of thegateway. A flight of steps leads us to the designated vantage-point, whenthe tropic garden, the fountains, the twin mosques in the far corners, the river, the minarets, and, above all, the Taj itself lay spread outbefore us for our inspection. The scene might well conjure up a vision ofParadise itself. The glorious Taj: "So light it seems, so airy, and solike a fabric of mist and moonbeams, with its great dome soaring up, asilvery bubble, " that it is difficult, even at a few hundred yards'distance, to believe it a creation of human hands. While gazing on theTaj, men let their cigars go out, and ladies drop their fans withoutnoticing it. Descending the steps again, we pass inside, and again pause to survey itfrom the end of the avenue. An element of the ridiculous here appears inthe person and the appeals of an old Hindoo fruit-vender. This hopefulagent of Pomona squats beside a little tray, and, as we stand and feastour eyes on the sublimest object in the world of architecture, hepersistently calls our attention to a dozen or two half-decayed mangoesand custard-apples that comprise his stock in trade. We pass down the cypress aisle, and invade the plinth. Hundreds ofnatives, both male and female, are wandering about it. The dazzlingwhiteness of the promenade is in striking contrast to the color of theirown bodies. As the groups of women walk about, their toe-rings andankle-ornaments jingle against the marble, and their particolored raimentand barbarous gewgaws look curiously out of place here. The place seemsmore appropriate to vestal virgins, robed in white, than to dusky Hindoofemales, arrayed in all the colors of the rainbow. Many of these peopleare pilgrims who have come hundreds of miles to see the Taj, and to paytribute to the memory of Shah Jehan, and his faithful wife the PrincessArjumund, whose mausoleum is the Taj. Two young men we see, leading anaged female, probably their mother, down the steps to the vault, where, side by side, the remains of this royal pair repose. The old lady isgoing down there to deposit a rose or two upon Arjumund's tomb, a tendertribute paid to-day, by thousands, to her memory. We climb the spiral stairs of one of the miuars, and sit out on thelittle pavilion at the top, watching the big ugly crocodiles float lazilyon the surface of the Jumna at our feet. Before departing, we enter theTaj and examine the wonderful mosaics on the cenotaphs and the encirclingscreen-work. This inlaid flower-work is quite in keeping with the generalmagnificence of the mausoleum, many of the flowers containing not lessthan twenty-five different stones, assorted shades of agate, carnelian, jasper, blood-stone, lapis lazuli, and turquoise. Ere leaving we put totest the celebrated echo; that beautiful echoing, that--"floats andsoars overhead in a long, delicious undulation, fading away so slowlythat you hear it after it is silent, as you see, or seem to see, a larkyou have been watching, after it is swallowed up in the blue vault ofheaven. " We leave this garden of enchantment by way of one of the mosques. AnIndian boy is licking up honey from the floor of the holy edifice withhis tongue. We look up and perceive that enough rich honey-comb to fill abushel measure is suspended on one of the beams, and so richly laden isit that the honey steadily drips down. The sanctity of the place, Isuppose, prevents the people molesting the swarm of wild bees that haveselected it for their storehouse, or from relieving them of their honey. The Taj is said to have cost about two million pounds, even though mostof the labor was performed without pay, other than rations of grain tokeep the workmen from starving. Twenty thousand men were employed upon itfor twenty-two years, and for its inlaid work "gems and precious stonescame in camel-loads from various countries. " The next morning I bid farewell to Agra, more than satisfied with myvisit to the Taj. It stands unique and distinct from anything else onesees the whole world round. Nothing one could say about it can give thesatisfaction derived from a visit, and no word-painting can do itjustice. CHAPTER XVI. FROM AGRA TO SINGAPORE. A couple of miles from the cantonment, and the broad Jumna is crossed ona pontoon bridge, the buoys of which are tubular iron floats instead ofboats. Crocodiles are observed floating, motionless as logs, their headsturned up-stream and their snouts protruding from the water. The road isundulating for a few miles and then perfectly level, as, indeed, it hasbeen most of the way from Lahore. Pilgrims carrying little red flags, and sometimes bits of red paper tiedto sticks, are encountered by the hundred; mayhap they have come fromdistant points to gaze upon the beauties of the Taj Mahal, the fame ofwhich resounds to the farthermost corners of India. They can now see itacross the Jumna, resting on the opposite bank, looking more like aspecimen of the architecture of the skies than anything produced by mereearthly agency. A partly dilapidated Mohammedan mosque in the middle of a forty-acrewalled reservoir, overgrown with water-lilies, forms a charming subjectfor the attention of my camera. The mosque is approached from an adjacentvillage by a viaduct of twenty arches; a propos of its peculiarsurroundings, one might easily fancy the muezzin's call to prayer takingthe appropriate form of, "Come where the water-lilies bloom, " instead ofthe orthodox, "Allah-il-allah. " Villages are now rows of shops lining the road on either side, sometimesas much as half a mile in length. The entrance is usually marked by ashrine containing a hideous idol, painted red and finished off withcheap-looking patches of gold or silver tinsel. In the larger towns, evidences of English philanthropy loom conspicuously above the hut-likeshops and inferior houses of the natives in the form of large andsubstantial brick buildings, prominently labelled "Ferozabad Hospital" or"Government Free Dispensary. " A discouraging head-wind blows steadily allday, and it is near sunset when the thirty-seven miles to Sbikarabad iscovered. A mile west of the town, I am told, is the Rohilcund Railway, the dak bungalow, and the bungalow of an English Sahib. Quite suitablefor a one-mile race-track as regards surface is this little side-stretch, and a spin along its smooth length is rewarded by a most comfortablenight at the bungalow of Mr. S, an engineer of the Ganges Canal, amagnificent irrigating enterprise, on the banks of which his bungalowstands. Several school-boys from Allahabad are here spending theirvacation, shooting peafowls and fishing. Wild boars abound in the talltiger-grass of the Shikobabad district and the silence of the gloaming isbroken by the shouting of natives driving them out of their cane-patches, where, if not looked after pretty sharply, they do considerable damage inthe night. A curious illustration of native vanity and love of fame is pointed outhere in the case of a wealthy gentleman who has spent some thousands ofrupees in making and maintaining a beautiful flower-garden in the midstof a worthless piece of sandy land, close by the railway station. Closeby is an abundance of excellent ground, where his garden might have beeneasily and inexpensively maintained. Asked the reason for this strangepreference and seemingly foolish choice, he replied: "When people seethis beautiful garden in the midst of the barren sand, they will ask, 'Whose garden is this?' and thus will my name become known among men. If, on the other hand, it were planted on good soil, nobody would seeanything extraordinary in it, and nobody would trouble themselves to askto whom it belongs. " Youthful Davids, perched on frail platforms that rise above thesugar-cane, indigo, or cotton crops, shout and wield slings withdexterous aim and vigor, to keep away vagrant crows, parrots, and wildpigs, all along the line of my next day's ride to Mainpuri. In manyfields these young slingers and their platforms are but a couple ofhundred yards apart, the range of their weapons covering the entirecrop-area around. Sometimes I endeavor to secure one of these excellentsubjects for my camera, but the youngsters invariably clamber down fromtheir perch at seeing me dismount, and become invisible among the thickcane. To the music of loud, rolling thunder, I speed swiftly over the last fewmiles, and dash beneath the porch of the post-office just in the nick oftime to escape a tremendous downpour of rain. How it pours, sometimes, inIndia, converting the roads into streams and the surrounding country intoa shallow lake in the space of a few minutes. Hundreds of youths, nakedsave for the redeeming breech-cloth, disport themselves in the great warmshower-bath, chasing one another sportively about and enjoying thedownpour immensely. The rain ceases, and, with water flinging from my wheel, I seek the civillines and the dak bungalow three miles farther down the road. Very goodmeals are dished up by the chowkee-dar at this bungalow, who seems anintelligent and enterprising fellow; but the lean and slipperedpunkah-wallah is a far less satisfactory part of the accommodation. Twiceduring the night the punkah ceases to wave and the demon of prickly heatinstantly wakes me up; and both times do I have to turn out and arousehim from the infolding arms of Morpheus. On the second occasion the oldfellow actually growls at being disturbed. He is wide-awake andobsequious enough, however, at backsheesh-time in the morning. The clock at the little English station-church chimes the hour of six asI resume my journey next morning along a glorious avenue of overarchingshade-trees to Bhogan, where my road, which from Delhi has been a branchroad, again merges into the Grand Trunk. Groves of tall toddy-palms are adistinguishing feature of Bhogan, and a very pretty little Hindoo templemarks the southern extremity of the town. A striking red and gilt shrinein a secluded grove of peepuls arrests my attention a few miles out oftown, and, repairing thither, my rude intrusion fills with silentsurprise a company of gentle Brahman youths and maidens paying theirmatutinal respects to the representation of Kamadeva, the Hindoo cupidand god of love. They seem overwhelmed with embarrassment at theappearance of a Sahib, but they say nothing. I explain that my object ismerely a "tomasha" of the exquisitely carved shrine, and a young Brahman, with his smooth, handsome face fantastically streaked with yellow, follows silently behind as I walk around the building. His object isevidently to satisfy himself that nothing is touched by my unhallowedChristian hands. Seven miles from Bhogan is the camping ground of Bheyo, where inDecember, 1869, an English soldier was assassinated in the night whilestanding sentry beneath a tree. His grave, beneath the gnarled mangowhere he fell, is marked by two wooden crosses, and the tree-trunk is allcovered with memorial plates nailed there, from time to time, by thevarious troops who have camped here on their winter marches. Twenty-eight miles are duly reeled off when, just outside a village, Iseek the shade of a magnificent banyan. The kindly villagers, unaccustomed to seeing a Sahib without someone attending to his comfort, bring me a charpoy to recline on, and they inquire anxiously, "roti?pahni? doctor. " (am I hungry, thirsty, or ill?). Nor are these peopleactuated by mercenary thoughts, for not a pice will they accept on mydeparture. "Nay, Sahib, nay, " they reply, eagerly, smiling and shakingtheir heads, "pice, nay. " The narrow-gauge Rohilcuud Railway now followsalong the Grand Trunk road, being built on one edge of the broadroad-bed. Miran Serai, a station on this road, is my destination for theday; there, however, no friendly dak bungalow awaits my coming and nohostelry of any kind is to be found. The native station-master advises me to go to the superintendent ofpolice across the way; the police-officer, in turn, suggests applying tothe station-master. The police-thana here is a large establishment, and anumber of petty prisoners are occupying railed-off enclosures beneath thearched entrance. They accost me through the bars of their temporary, cage-like prison with smiles, and "Sahib" spoken in coaxing tones, asthough moved by the childish hope that I might perchance take pity onthem and order the police to set them at liberty. A small and pardonable display of "bounce" at the railway station finallysecures me the quarters reserved for the accommodation of Englishofficers of the road, and a Mohammedan employe about the station procuresme a supply of curried rice and meat. The station-master himself is ahigh-caste Hindoo and can speak English; he politely explains thedifficulty of his position, as an extra-holy person, in being unable topersonally attend to the wants of a Sahib. Upon discovering that I havetaken up my quarters in the station, the police-superintendent comes overand begs permission to send over my supper, as he is evidently anxious tocultivate my good opinion, or, at all events, to make sure of giving nooffence in failing to accommodate me with sleeping quarters at the thana. He supplements the efforts of the Mohammedan employe, by sending over adish of sweetened chuppaties. On the street leading out of Miran Serai is a very handsome andelaborately ornamented temple. Passing by early in the morning, I pay ita brief, unceremonious visit of inspection, kneeling on the steps andthrusting my helmeted head in to look about, not caring to go to thetrouble of removing my shoes. Inside is an ancient Brahman, engaged insweeping out the floral offerings of the previous day; he favors me withthe first indignant glance I have yet received in India. When I havesatisfied my curiosity and withdrawn from the door-way, he comes outhimself and shuts the beautifully chased brazen door with quite an angryslam. The day previous was the anniversary of Krishna's birth, and theblood of sacrificial goats and bullocks is smeared profusely about thealtar. It is, probably, the enormity of an unhallowed unbeliever in onegod, thrusting his infidel head inside the temple at this unseemly hourof the morning, while the blood of the mighty Krishna's sacrificialvictims is scarcely dry on the walls, that arouses the righteous wrath ofthe old heathen priest--as well, indeed, it might. Passing through a village abounding in toddy-palms, I avail myself of anopportunity to investigate the merits of a beverage that I have beensomewhat curious about since reaching India, having heard it spoken of sooften. The famous "palm-wine" is merely the sap of the toddy-palm, collected much as is the sap from the maple-sugar groves of America, although the palm-juice is generally, if not always, obtained from theupper part of the trunk. When fresh, its taste resembles sweetened water;in a day or two fermentation sets in, and it changes to a beverage that, except for slightly alcoholic properties, might readily be mistaken forvinegar and water. Every little village or hamlet one passes through, south of Agra, seemslaudably determined to own a god of some sort; those whose finances failto justify them in sporting a nice, red-painted god with gilt trimmings, sometimes console themselves with a humble little two-dollar soapstonedeity that looks as if he has been rudely chipped into shape by someunskilful prentice hand. God-making is a highly respectable and lucrativeprofession in India, but only those able to afford it can expect theluxury of a nice painted and varnished deity right to their hand everyday. People cannot expect a first-class deity for a couple of rupees;although the best of everything is generally understood to be thecheapest in the end, it takes money to buy marble, red paint, andgold-leaf. A bowl of pulse porridge, sweet and gluey, is prepared andserved up in a big banyan-leaf at noon by a villager. In the same villageis one of those very old and shrivelled men peculiar to India. Fromappearances, he must be nearly a hundred years old; his skin resemblesthe epidermis of a mummy, and hangs in wrinkles about his attenuatedframe. He spends most of his time smoking goodakoo from a neat littlecocoa-nut hookah. The evening hour brings me into Cawnpore, down a fine broad streetdivided in the centre by a canal, with flights of stone steps for banksand a double row of trees--a street far broader and finer than the ChandniChouk--and into an hotel kept by a Parsee gentleman named Byramjee. Lifeat this hostelry is made of more than passing interest by the familiarmanner in which frogs, lizards, and birds invade the privacy of one'sapartments. Not one of these is harmful, but one naturally grows curiousabout whether a cobra or some other less desirable member of the reptileworld is not likely at any time to join their interesting company. Thelizards scale the walls and ceiling in search of flies, frogs hopsociably about the floor, and a sparrow now and then twitters in and out. A two weeks' drought has filled the farmers of the Cawnpore district withgrave apprehensions concerning their crops; but enough rain fallsto-night to gladden all their hearts, and also to leak badly through theroof of my bedroom. My punkah-wallah here is a regular automaton--he has acquired the valuableaccomplishment of pulling the punkah-string back and forth in his sleep;he keeps it up some time after I have quitted the room in the morning, until a comrade comes round and wakes him up. For three days the rains continue almost without interruption, raining asmuch as seven inches in one night. Slight breaks occur in the downpour, during which it is possible to get about and take a look at the MemorialGardens and the native town. The Memorial Gardens and the well enclosedtherein commemorate one of the most pathetic incidents of the mutiny--thebrutal massacre by Nana Sahib of about two hundred English women andchildren. This arch-fiend held supreme sway over Cawnpore from June 6, 1857, till July 15th, and in that brief period committed some of the mostatrocious deeds of treachery and deviltry that have ever been, recorded. Backed by a horde of blood-thirsty mutineers, he committed deeds thememory of which causes tears of pity for his victims to come unbiddeninto the eyes of the English tourist thirty years after. Delicate ladies, who from infancy had been the recipients of tender care andconsideration, were herded together in stifling rooms with thethermometer at 120 deg. In the shade, marched through the broiling sunfor miles, subjected to heart-rending privations, and at length finallybutchered, together with their helpless children. After the treacherousmassacre of the few surviving Englishmen at the Suttee Chowra Ghaut, theremaining women and children were reserved for further cruelties, and thefinal act of Nana's fiendish vengeance. From the graphic account of thismurderous period of Cawnpore's history contained in the "Tourists' Guideto Cawnpore" is quoted the following brief account of Nana's consummatedeed of devilment. But the Nana's reign of terror was now drawing to a close, though not toterminate without a stroke destined to make the civilized world shudderfrom end to end. He was now to put the finishing touch to his work ofmischief. The councils of the wicked were being troubled. Danger was onits way. Stories were brought in by scouting Sepoys of terrible bronzedmen coming up the Grand Trunk Road, before whose advance the rebel hostswere fleeing like chaff and dust before the fan of the threshing-floor, Futtehpore had fallen, and disaster had overtaken the rebel forces atAoung. Reinforcements were despatched by Nana in rapid succession, butall was of no avail--on came Havelock and his handful of heroes, carrying everything before them in their determination to rescue thehapless women and children imprisoned at Cawnpore. About noon on July15th a few troopers came in from the south and informed Nana that hislast reinforcement had met the same fate as the others, and reported thatthe English were coming up the road like mad horses, caring for neithercannon nor musketry; nor did these appear to have any effect on them. Theguilty Nana, with the blood of the recent treacherous massacre on hishands, grew desperate at the hopelessness of the situation, and called acouncil of war. What plans could they devise to keep out the English?what steps could they adopt to stay their advance. The conclusion arrivedat in that council of human tigers could have found expression nowheresave in the brains of Asiatics, illogical, and diabolically cruel. "Wewill destroy the maims and baba logues, " they said, "and inform theEnglish force of it; they will then be disheartened, and go back, forthey are only a handful in number!" How the unfortunate innocents were butchered in cold blood in thebeebeegurch where they were confined, by Sepoys who gloried in tryingtheir skill at severing the ladies' heads from their bodies at one cut, in splitting little children in twain, and in smearing themselves withthe blood of their helpless victims, is too harrowing a tale to dwellupon here. On the following morning "the mangled bodies of both dead anddying" were cast into the well over which now hovers the marblerepresentation of the Pitying Angel. When the victorious relieving forcescattered Nana's remaining forces and entered the city, two days later, instead of the living forms of those they had made such heroic efforts tosave, they looked down the well and saw their ghastly remains. In this lovely garden, where all is now so calm and peaceful, scarcelydoes it seem possible that beneath the marble figure of this PityingAngel repose the dust of two hundred of England's gentle martyrs, whosemurdered and mutilated forms, but thirty years ago, choked up the wellinto which they were tossed. While I stand and read the sorrowfulinscription it rains a gentle, soft, unpattering shower. Are these gentledroppings the tender tribute of angels' tears. I wonder, and does italways rain so soft and noiselessly here as it does to-day? No natives are permitted in this garden without special permission; andan English soldier keeps sentinel at the entrance-gate instead of theSepoy usually found on such duty. The memory of this tragedy seems tohang over Cawnpore like a cloud even to this day, and to cause a feelingof bitterness in the minds of Englishmen, who everywhere else regard thenatives about them with no other feelings than of the kindliest possiblenature. Other monuments of the mutiny exist, notably the Memorial Church, a splendid Lombard-Gothic structure erected in memoriam of those who fellin the mutiny here. The church is full of tablets commemorating the deathof distinguished people, and the stained-glass windows are covered withthe names of the victims of Nana Sahib's treachery, and of those who fellin action. Cawnpore is celebrated for the number and extensiveness of itsmanufactures, and might almost be called the Manchester of India;woollen, cotton, and jute mills abound, leather factories, and variouskindred industries, giving employment to millions of capital andthousands of hands. A stroll through the native quarter of any Indian city is interesting, and Cawnpore is no exception. One sees buildings and courts thedecorations and general appearance of which leave the beholder in doubtas to whether they are theatre or temple. Music and tom-toming would seemrather to suggest the former, but upon entering one sees fakirs andHindoo devotees, streaked with clay, fanciful paintings and hideousidols, and all the cheap pomp and pageantry of idolatrous worship. Strolling into one of these places, an attendant, noting my curiousgazing, presents himself and points to a sign-board containing charactersas meaningless to me as Aztec hieroglyphics. In one narrow street a crowd of young men are struggling violently forposition about a door, where an old man is flinging handfuls of yellowpowder among the crowd. The struggling men are aspirants for the honor ofhaving a portion of the powder alight on their persons. I inquire of anative by-stander what it all means; the explanation is politely given, but being in the vernacular of the country, it is wasted on theunprofitable soil of my own lingual ignorance. Impatient to be getting along, I misinterpret a gleam of illusorysunshine at noon on the third day of the rain-storm and pull out, takinga cursory glance at the Memorial Church as I go. A drenching showerovertakes me in the native military lines, compelling me to seek shelterfor an hour beneath the portico of their barracks. The road is perfectlylevel and smooth, and well rounded, so that the water drains off andleaves it better wheeling than ever; and with alternate showers andsunshine I have no difficulty in covering thirty-four miles beforesunset. This brings me to a caravanserai, consisting of a quadrangularenclosure with long rows of cell-like rooms. The whole structure is muchinferior to a Persian caravanserai, but there is probably no need of thebig brick structures of Shah Abbas in a winterless country like India. Interesting subjects are not wanting for my camera through the day; butthe greatest difficulty is experienced about changing the negatives atnight. A small lantern with a very feeble light, made still more feebleby interposing red paper, suffices for my own purpose; but the tooattentive chowkee-dar, observing that my room is in darkness, andfancying that my light has gone out accidentally, comes flaring in with atorch, threatening the sensitive negatives with destruction. The morning opens with a fine drizzle or extra-heavy mist that ispenetrating and miserable, soaking freely into one's clothes, andthreatening every minute to change into a regular rain. It is fourteenmiles to Futtehpore, and thence two miles off the straight road to therailway-station, where I understand refreshments are to be obtained. Thereward of my four-mile detour is a cup of sloppy tea and a fewweevil-burrowed biscuits, as the best the refreshment-room can produce onshort notice. The dense mist moves across the country in big banks, between which are patches of comparatively decent atmosphere. The countryis perfectly flat, devoted chiefly to the cultivation of rice, and thedepressions alongside the road are, of course, filled with water. Timid youngsters, fleeing from the road at my approach, in theirscrambling haste sometimes tumble "head-over-heels" in the water; but, beyond a little extra terror lest the dreadful object they see comingbowling along should overtake them, it doesn't matter--they haven'tany clothes to spoil or soil. Neither rain nor heat nor dense, reeking, foggy atmosphere seems to diminish the swarms of people on the road, northe groups bathing or washing clothes beneath the trees. Some of theselatter make a very interesting picture. The reader has doubtless visitedthe Zoo and observed one monkey gravely absorbed in a "phrenologicalexamination" of another's head. With equal gravity and indifference tothe world at large, dusky humans are performing a similar office for oneanother beneath the roadside shade-trees. Roasted ears of maize and a small muskmelon form my noontide repast, andduring its consumption quite a comedy is enacted down the street betweena fat, paunchy vender of goodakoo and the shiny-skinned proprietor of adhal-shop. The scene opens with a wordy controversy about something;scene two shows the fat goodakoo merchant advanced midway between his ownand his adversary's premises, capering about, gesticulating, and utteringdire threats; scene three finds him retreating and the valorous man ofdhal held in check by his wife to prevent him following after withhostile intent. The men seem boiling over with rage and ready to cheweach other up; but, judging from the supreme indifference of everybodyelse about, nobody expects anything serious, to happen. This ismentionable as being the first quarrel I have seen in India; as a generalthing the people are gentleness personified. Several tattooed Hindoo devotees are observed this afternoon payingsolemn devotions to bel-trees streaked with red paint, near the road. Many of the trees also shelter rude earthenware animals, andhemispherical vessels, which are also objects of worship, as representingthe linga. The bel-tree is sacred to Siva the Destroyer, and the thirdperson in the Hindoo Triad, whom Brahma himself is said to haveworshipped, although he is regarded as the Creator. In the absence ofSiva himself, the worship of the bel-tree is supposed to be asefficacious as worshipping the idol direct. Soon I overtake an individual doing penance for his sins by crawling onhis stomach all the way to Benares, the Mecca of the Hindoo religion. Inaddition to crawling, he is dragging a truck containing his personaleffects by a rope tied about his waist. Every fifty yards or so he standsup and stretches himself; then he lies prostrate again and worms hiswearisome way along the road like a snake. Benares is still about ahundred miles distant, and not unlikely this determined devotee hasalready been crawling in this manner for weeks. This painful sort ofpenance was formerly indulged in by Hindoo fanatics very largely; but theEnglish Government has now all but abolished the practice by mild methodsof discouragement. The priests of the different idols in Benares annuallysend out thousands of missionaries to travel throughout the length andbreadth of India to persuade people to make pilgrimages to that city. Each missionary proclaims the great benefits to be derived by going toworship the particular idol he represents; in this manner are the priestsenriched by the offerings presented. Not long since one of these zealouspilgrim-hunters persuaded a wealthy rajah into journeying five hundredmiles in the same manner as the poor wretch passed on the road to-day. The infatuated rajah completed the task, after months of torture, onall-fours, accompanied the whole distance by a crowd of servants andpriests, all living on his bounty. Many people now wear wooden sandals held on the feet by a spool-likeattachment, gripped between the big and second toes. Having no straps, the solid sole of the sandal flaps up and mildly bastinadoes the wearerevery step that is taken. Another night in a caravanserai, where rival proprietors of rows oflittle chowkees contend for the privilege of supplying me char-poy, dood, and chowel, and where thousands of cawing rooks blacken the trees andalight in the quadrangular serai in noisy crowds, and I enter upon thehome-stretch to Allahabad. In proof that the cycle is making its way in India it may be mentionedthat at both Cawnpore and Allahabad the native postmen are mounted onstrong, heavy bicycles, made and supplied from the post-office workshopsat Allighur. They are rude machines, only a slight improvement upon thehonored boneshaker; but their introduction is suggestive of what may belooked for in the future. As evidence, also, of the oft-repeated sayingthat "the world is small, " I here have the good fortune to meet Mr. Wingrave, a wheelman whom I met at the Barnes Common tricycle parade whenpassing through London. There is even a small cycle club in quasi existence at Allahabad; but itis afflicted with chronic lassitude, as a result of the enervatingclimate of the Indian plains. Young men who bring with them from Englandall the Englishman's love of athletics soon become averse to exercise, and prefer a quiet "peg" beneath the punkah to wheeling or cricket. During the brief respite from the hades-like temperature afforded byDecember and January, they sometimes take club runs down the Ganges andindulge in the pastime of shooting at alligators with small-bore rifles. The walks in the beautiful public gardens and every other place aboutAllahabad are free to wheelmen, and afford most excellent riding. Messrs. Wingrave and Gawke, the two most enterprising wheelmen, turn outat 6 a. M. To escort me four miles to the Ganges ferry. Some idea of thetrying nature of the climate in August may be gathered from the fact thatone of my companions arrives at the river fairly exhausted, and iscompelled to seek the assistance of a native gharri to get back home. Theexposure and exercise I am taking daily is positively dangerous, I ameverywhere told, but thus far I have managed to keep free from actualsickness. The sacred river is at its highest flood, and hereabout not less than amile and half wide. The ferry service is rude and inefficient, beingunder the management of natives, who reck little of the flight of time ormodern improvements. The superintendent will bestir himself, however, inbehalf of the Sahib who is riding the Ferenghi gharri around the world:instead of putting me aboard the big slow ferry, he will man a smallerand swifter boat to ferry me over. The "small boat" is accordinglyproduced, and turns out to be a rude flat-boat sort of craft, capable ofcarrying fully twenty tons, and it is manned by eight oarsmen. Their oarsare stout bamboo poles with bits of broad board nailed or tied on theend. Much of the Ganges' present width is mere overflow, shallow enough forthe men to wade and tow the boat. It is tugged a considerable distanceup-stream, to take advantage of the swift current in crossing the mainchannel. The oars are plied vigorously to a weird refrain of "deelah, sahlah-deelah, sahlah!" the stroke oarsman shouting "deelah" and theothers replying "sahlah" in chorus. Two hours are consumed in crossingthe river, but once across the road is perfection itself, right from theriver's brink. Through the valley of the sacred river, the splendid kunkah road leadsonward to Benares, the great centre of Hindoo idolatry, a city that ismore to the Hindoo than is Mecca to the Mohammedans or Jerusalem to theearly Christians. Shrines and idols multiply by the roadside, and tanksinnumerable afford bathing and purifying facilities for the far-travelledpilgrims who swarm the road in thousands. As the heathen devoteeapproaches nearer and nearer to Benares he feels more and moredevotionally inclined, and these tanks of the semi-sacred water of theGanges Valley happily afford him opportunity to soften up the crust ofhis accumulated transgressions, preparatory to washing them away entirelyby a plunge off the Kamnagar ghaut at Benares. Many of the people aretrudging their way homeward again, happy in the possession of bottles ofsacred water obtained from the river at the holy city. Precious liquidthis, that they are carrying in earthenware bottles hundreds of wearymiles to gladden the hearts of stay-at-home friends and relations. At every tank scores of people are bathing, washing their clothes, orscouring out the brass drinking vessel almost everyone carries forpulling water up from the roadside wells. They are far less particularabout the quality of the water itself than about the cleanliness of thevessel. Many wells for purely drinking purposes abound, and Brahmansserve out cool water from little pahnee-chowkees through window-likeopenings. Wealthy Hindoos, desirous of performing some meritorious act toperpetuate their memory when dead, frequently build a pahnee-chowkee bythe roadside and endow it with sufficient land or money to employ aBrahman to serve out drinking-water to travellers. Thirty miles from Allahabad, I pause at a wayside well to obtain a drink. It is high noon, and the well is on unshaded ground. For a brief momentmy broad-brimmed helmet is removed so that a native can pour water intomy hands while I hold them to my mouth. Momentary as is the experience, it is followed by an ominous throbbing and ringing in the ears--the voiceof the sun's insinuating power. But a very short distance is covered whenI am compelled to seek the shelter of a little road-overseer's chowkee, the symptoms of fever making their appearance with alarming severity. The quinine that I provided myself with at Constantinople is brought intorequisition for the first time; it is found to be ruined from not beingkept in an air-tight vessel. A burning fever keeps me wide awake till 2a. M. , and in the absence of a punkah, prickly heat prevents my slumberingafterward. This wakeful night by the roadside enlightens me to theinteresting fact that the road is teeming with people all night as wellas all day, many preferring to sleep in the shade during the day andtravel at night. It is fifty miles from my chowkee to Benares, and the dread of beingovertaken with serious illness away from medical assistance urges upon methe advisability of reaching there to-day, if possible. The morning isushered in with a stiff head-wind, and the fever leaves me feelinganything but equal to pedalling against it when I mount my wheel at earlydaybreak. By sheer strength of will I reel off mile after mile, stoppingto rest frequently at villages and under the trees. A troop of big government elephants are having their hoofs trimmed at avillage where a halt is made to obtain a bite of bread and milk. Theelephants enter unmistakable objections to the process in the way oftrumpeting, and act pretty much like youngsters objecting to soap andwater. But a word and a gentle tap from the mahout's stick and themonster brutes roll over on their sides and submit to the inevitable witha shrill protesting trumpet. Another diversion not less interesting than the elephants is a wrestlingtournament at the police-thana, where twenty stalwart policemen, strippedas naked as the proprieties of a country where little clothing is wornanyhow will permit, are struggling for honor in the arena. Vigoroustom-toming encourages the combatants to do their best, and they flop oneanother over merrily, in the dampened clay, to the applause of adelighted crowd of lookers-on. The fifty miles are happily overcome byfour o'clock, and with the fever heaping additional fuel on the alreadywell-nigh unbearable heat, I arrive pretty thoroughly exhausted atClarke's Hotel, in the European quarter of Benares. Of all the cities of the East, Benares is perhaps the most interesting atthe present day to the European tourist. Its fourteen hundred shivalas oridol temples, and two hundred and eighty mosques, its wonderful bathingghauts swarming with pilgrims washing away their sins, the burningbodies, the sacred Ganges, the hideous idols at every corner of thestreets, and its strange idolatrous population, make up a scene thatawakens one to a keen appreciation of its novelty. One realizes fullythat here the idolatry, the "bowing down before images" that in ourSunday-school days used to seem so unutterably wicked and perverse, somonstrous, and so far, far away, is a tangible fact. To keep up theiroutward appearance on a par with the holiness of their city, men streaktheir faces and women mark the parting in their hair with red. Sacredbulls are allowed to roam the streets at will, and the chief business ofa large proportion of the population seems to be the keeping of religiousobservances and paying devotion to the multitudinous idols scatteredabout the city. The presiding deity of Benares is the great Siva--"The Great God, ""The Glorious, " "The Three-Eyed, " and lord of over one thousand similarlygrandiloquent titles, and he is represented by the Bishesharnath kashivala, a temple whose dome shines resplendent with gold-leaf, and whichis known to Europeans as the Golden Temple. Siva is considered the kingof all the Hindoo deities in the Benares Pauch-kos, and is consequentlyhonored above all other idols in the number of devotees that pay homageto him daily. His income from offerings amounts to many thousands ofrupees annually: there is a reservoir for the reception of offeringsabout three feet square by half that in depth. The Maharajah RanjitSingh, Rajah of the Punjab, once filled this place with gold mohurs; manywealthy Hindoos have from time to time filled it with rupees. The old guide whom I have employed to show me about then conducts me intothe "Cow Temple, " a filthy court containing a number of pampered-lookingBrahman bulls, and several youthful bovines whose great privilege it isto roam about the court-yard and accept tid-bits from the hands ofdevotees. In the same court-yard-like shivala are several red idols, andthe numerous comers and goers make the place as animated as a vegetablemarket at early morning. Priests, too, are here in numbers; seated on acentral elevation they make red marks on the faces of the devotees, dipping in the mixture with their finger; in return they receive a smallcoin, or a pinch of rice or grain is thrown into a vessel placed there forthe purpose. In many stalls are big piles of flower-petals which devotees purchase topresent as offerings. Men and women by the hundred are encountered in thenarrow streets, passing briskly along with baskets containing a supply ofthese petals, a dish of rice, and a bowl of water; one would think, fromtheir business-like manner, that they were going, or had been, marketing. They are going the morning round of their favorite gods, or the godswhose particular services they happen to stand in need of at the time;before these idols they pause for a moment, mutter their supplications, and sprinkle them with water and flower-petals, passing from one deity toanother in a most business-like, matter-of-fact manner. Women unblessedwith children throng to the idols of Sidheswari and Sankatadevi, bestowing offerings and making supplication for sons and daughters;pilgrims from afar are flocking to Sakhi-Banaik, whose office it is totestify in the next world of their pilgrimage in this. No matter how fara pilgrim has come, and how many offerings he has bestowed since hisarrival, unless he repair to the shivala of Sakhi Banaik and duly reporthis appearance, his pilgrimage will have been performed in vain. Everywhere, in niches of the walls, under trees, on pedestals at frequentcorners, are idols, hideously ugly; red idols, idols with silver facesand stone bodies, some with mouths from ear to ear, big idols, littleidols, the worst omnium gatherum imaginable. Sati, nothing visible buther curious silver face, beams over a black mother-hubbard sort of gownthat conceals whatever she may possess in the way of a body; Jagaddatri, the Mother of the World, with four arms, seated on a lion; Brahma, withfive eyes and four mouths, curiously made to supply quadruple faces. Karn-adeva, the handsome little God of Love (the Hindoo Cupid), whom thecruel Siva once slew with a beam from his third eye--all these andmultitudinous others greet the curious sight-seer whichever way he turns. Hanuman, too, is not forgotten, the great Monkey King who aided Kama inhis expedition to Ceylon; outside the city proper is the monkey temple, where thousands of the sacred anthropoids do congregate and considerthemselves at home. Then there is the fakirs' temple, the mostbeautifully carved shivala in Benares; here priests distribute handfulsof soaked grain to all mendicants who present themselves. The grain issupplied by wealthy Hindoos, and both priests and patrons consider it agreat sin to allow a religious mendicant to go away from the templeempty-handed. Conspicuous above all other buildings in the city is the mosque ofAurungzebe, with its two shapely minarets towering high above everythingelse. The view from the summit of the minarets is comprehensive andmagnificently lovely; the wonderful beauty of the trees and shivalas, thegreen foliage, and the gilt and red temples, so beautifully carved andgracefully tapering; the broad, flowing Ganges, the busy people, themoving boats, the rajahs' palaces along the water-front, make up a trulybeautiful panorama of the Sacred City of the Hindoos. From here we take anative boat and traverse the water-front to see the celebrated bathingghauts and the strange, animated scene of pilgrims bathing, bodiesburning, and swarms of people ascending and descending the broad flightsof steps. How intensely eager do these dusky believers in the efficacy of"Mother Ganga" as a purifier of sin dip themselves beneath the yellowwater, rinse out their mouths, scrape their tongues, nib, duck, splash, and disport; they fairly revel in the sacred water; happy, thrice happythey look, as well indeed they might, for now are they certain of futurehappiness. What the "fountain filled with blood" is to the Christian, sois the precious water of dear Ganga to the sinful Hindoo: all sins, past, present, and future, are washed away. Next to washing in the sacred stream during life, the Hindoo's ambitionis to yield up the ghost on its bank, and then to be burned on theBurning Ghaut and have his ashes cast adrift on the waters. On theManikarnika ghaut the Hindoos burn their dead. To the unbelievingFerenghi tourist there seems to be a "nigger in the fence" about allthese heathen ceremonies, and in the burning of the dead the wilypriesthood has managed to obtain a valuable monopoly on firewood, bywhich they have accumulated immense wealth. No Hindoo, no matter howpious he has been through life, how many offerings he has made to thegods, or how thoroughly he has scoured his yellow hide in the Ganges, canever hope to reach Baikunt (heaven) unless the wood employed at hisfuneral pyre come from a domra. Domras are the lowest and most despisedcaste in India, a caste which no Hindoo would, under any consideration, allow himself to touch during life, or administer food to him even ifstarving to death; but after his holier brethren have yielded up theghost, then the despised domra has his innings. Then it is that therelatives of the deceased have to humble themselves before the domra toobtain firing to burn the body. Realizing that they now have the pull, the wily domras sometimes bleed their mournful patrons unmercifully. Asmany as a thousand rupees have been paid for a fire by wealthy rajahs. The domra who holds the monopoly at the Manikarnika ghaut is one of therichest men in Benares. Two or three bodies swathed in white are observed waiting their turn tobe burned, others are already burning, and in another spot is the corpseof some wealthier person wrapped in silver tinsel. Not the leastinteresting of the sights is that of men and boys here and there engagedin dipping up mud from the bottom and washing it in pans similar to thegold-pans of placer-miners; they make their livelihood by findingoccasional coins and ornaments, accidentally lost by bathers. A veryunique and beautifully carved edifice is the Nepaulese temple; but thecarvings are unfit for popular inspection. The whole river-front above the ghauts is occupied by temples and thepalaces of rajahs, who spend a portion of their time here preparingthemselves for happiness hereafter, by drinking Ganges water andpropitiating the gods. On festival occasions, and particularly during aneclipse, as many as one hundred thousand people bathe in the Ganges atonce; formerly many were drowned in the great crush to obtain thepeculiar blessings of bathing during an eclipse, but now a large force ofpolice is employed to regulate the movements of the people on suchoccasions. Formerly, also, fights were very frequent between theMohammedans and Hindoos, owing to the clashing of their religiousbeliefs, but under the tolerant and conciliatory system of the BritishGovernment they now get along very well together. A rest of two days and a few doses of quinine subdue the fever and put mein condition to resume my journey. Twelve miles from Benares, on the EastIndian Kail way, is Mogul Serai, to which I deem it advisable to wheel inthe evening, by way of getting started without over-exertion at first. Two English railroad engineers are stationed at Mogul Serai, and each ofthem is a wheelman. They, of course, are delighted to offer me thehospitality of their quarters for the night, and, moreover, put forthvarious inducements for a longer stay; but being anxious to reachCalcutta, I decide to pull out again next morning. My entertainers accompany me for a few miles out. Mogul Serai is fourhundred and twelve miles from Calcutta, and at the four hundred andfourth milestone my companions bid me hearty bon voyage and return. Splendid as are the roads round about Mogul Serai, this eight-mile stoneis farther down the road than they have ever ridden before. Twenty-five miles farther, and a sub-inspector of police begs myacceptance of curried chicken and rice. He is a five-named Mohammedan, and tells me a long story about his grandfather having been a reminder ofa hundred and fifty villages, and an officer in the East India Company'sarmy. On the pinions of his grandparents' virtues, his Oriental soulsoars ambitiously after present promotion; on the strength of sundryeulogistic remarks contained in certificates already in his possession, he wants one from myself recommending him to the powers that be for theirfavorable consideration. He is the worst "certificate fiend" that I havemet. Near Sassaram I meet a most picturesque subject for my camera, a Kajputhill-man in all the glory of shield, spear, and gayly feathered helmet. He is leading a pack-pony laden with his travelling kit, and mechanicallyobeys when I motion for him to halt. He remains stationary, and regardsmy movements with much curiosity while I arrange the camera. When thetube is drawn out, however, and pointed at him, and I commence peepingthrough to arrange the focus, he gets uneasy, and when I am about readyto perpetuate the memory of his fantastic figure forever, he moves away. Nor will any amount of beckoning obtain for me another "sitting, " nor theproduction and holding aloft of a rupee. Whether he fancied the camera indanger of going off, or dreaded the "evil eye, " can only be surmised. The famous fleet-footed mail-carriers of Bengal are now frequentlyencountered on the road; they are invariably going at a bounding trot ofeight or ten miles an hour. The letter-bag is attached to the end of astick carried over the shoulder, which is also provided with rings thatjingle merrily in response to the motions of the runner. The day is notfar distant when all these men will be mounted on bicycles, judging fromthe beginning already made at Allahabad and Cawnpore. The village womenhereabouts wear massive brass ankle-ornaments, six inches broad, andwhich are apparently pounds in weight. A deluge of rain during the night at Dilli converts the road intostreams, and covers the low, flat land with a sheet of water. The groundis soaked full, like a wet sponge, and can absorb no more; rivers areoverflowing, every weed, every blade of grass, and every tree-leaf isjewelled with glistening drops. The splendid kunkah is now graduallygiving place to ordinary macadam, which is far less desirable, the heavy, pelting rain washing away the clay and leaving the surface rough. Not less than four hours are consumed in crossing the River Sone at Dilliin a native punt, so swiftly runs the current and so broad is theoverflow. The frequent drenching rains, the lowering clouds, and thepersistent southern wind betoken the full vigor of the monsoons. One canonly dodge from shelter to shelter between violent showers, and pedalvigorously against the stiff breeze. The prevailing weather is stormy, and inky clouds gather in massy banks at all points of the compass, culminating in violent outbursts of thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Occasionally, by some unaccountable freak of the elements, the monsoonveers completely around, and blowing a gale from the north, hustles mealong over the cobbly surface at great speed. Just before reaching Shergotti, on the evening of the third day fromBenares, a glimpse is obtained of hills on the right. They are the firstrelief from the dead level of the landscape all the way from Lahore;their appearance signifies that I am approaching the Bengal Hills. FromMogul Serai my road has been through territory not yet invaded by therevolutionizing influence of the railway, and consequently the dakbungalows are still kept up in form to provide travellers withaccommodation. Chowkeedar, punkah-wallah, and sweeper are in regularattendance, and one can usually obtain curried rice, chicken, dhal, andchuppatties. An official regulation of prices is posted conspicuously inthe bungalow: For room and charpoy, Rs 1; dinner, Rs 1-8; chota-hazari, Rs 1, and so on through the scale. The prices are moderate enough, evenwhen it is considered that a dinner consists of a crow-like chicken, curried rice, and unleavened chuppatties. The chowkeedar is usually anold Sepoy pensioner, who obtains, in addition to his pension, apercentage on the money charged for the rooms--a book is kept inwhich travellers are required to enter their names and the amount paid. The sweepers and punkah-wallahs are rewarded separately by the recipientof their attentions. Sometimes, if a Mohammedan, and not prohibited bycaste obligations from performing these menial services, the oldpensioner brings water for bathing and sweeps out one's own room himself, in which case he of course pockets the backsheesh appertaining to theseduties also. A few miles south of Shergotti the bridge spanning a tributary of theSone is broken down, and no ferry is in operation. The stream, however, is fordable, and four stalwart Bengalis carry me across on a charpoy, hoisted on their shoulders; they stem the torrent bravely, and keep uptheir strength and courage by singing a refrain. From this point the roadbecomes undulating, and of indifferent surface; the macadam is badlywashed by the soaking monsoon rains, and the low, level country isgradually merging into the jungle-covered hills of Bengal. The character of the people has undergone a decided change since leavingDelhi and Agra, and the Bengalis impress one decidedly unfavorably incomparison with the more manly and warlike races of the Punjab. Abjectservility marks the demeanor of many, and utter uselessness for anypurpose whatsoever, characterizes one's intuitive opinion of a largepercentage of the population of the villages. Except for the pressingnature of one's needs, the look of unutterable perplexity that comes overthe face of a Bengali villager, to-day, when I ask him to obtain mesomething to eat, would be laughable in the extreme. "N-a-y, Sahib, n-a-y. " he replies, with a show of mental distraction as great as thoughordered to fetch me the moon. An appeal for rice, milk, dhal, chuppatties, at several stalls results in the same failure; everybodyseems utterly bewildered at the appearance of a Sahib among themsearching for something to eat. The village policeman is on duty in theland of dreams, a not unusual circumstance, by the way; but a youthscuttles off and wakes him up, and notifies him of my arrival. Anxious toatone for his shortcomings in slumbering at his post, he bestirs himselfto obtain the wherewithal to satisfy my hunger, his authoritative effortsculminating in the appearance of a big dish of dhal. The country becomes hillier, and the wild, jungle-covered hills and darkravines alongside the road are highly suggestive of royal Bengal tigers. The striped monsters infest these jungles in plenty; during the afternoonI pass through a village where a depredatory man-eater has been carryingoff women and children within the last few days. The chowkeedar at Burhee, my stopping-place for the night in the hillcountry, is a helpless old duffer, who replies "nay-hee, Sahib, nay-hee, "with a decidedly woe-begone utterance in response to all queries aboutrefreshments. A youth capable of understanding a little English turns upshortly, and improves the situation by agreeing to undertake thepreparation of supper. Still more hopeful is the outlook when a Eurasianand a native school-master appear upon the scene, the former acting asinterpreter to the genial pedagogue, who is desirous of contributing tomy comfort by impressing upon my impromptu cook the importance of hisduties. They become deeply interested in my tour of the world, which thescholarly pedagogue has learned of through the medium of the vernacularpress. The Eurasian, not being a newspaper-reader, has not heard anythingof the journey. But he has casually heard of the River Thames, and hisfirst wondering question is as to "how I managed to cross the Thames!" My saturated karki clothing has been duly wrung out and hung up insidethe dak bungalow, the only place where it will not get wetter instead ofdryer, and my cook is searching the town in quest of meat, when anEnglish lady and gentleman drive up in a dog-cart and halt before thebungalow. Unaware of the presence of English people in the place, I amtaken completely by surprise. They are Mr. And Mrs. B, an internal revenue officer and his wife, who, having heard of my arrival, have come to invite me to dinner. Of course Iam delighted, and they are equally pleased to entertain one about whoseadventures they have recently been reading. Their ayah saw me ride in, and went and told her mistress of seeing a "wonderful Sahib on wheels, "and already the report has spread that I have come down from Lahore infour days! A very agreeable evening is spent at Mr. E 's house, talking about theincidents of my journey, Mr. E 's tiger-hunting exploits in theneighborhood, and kindred topics. Mr. R devotes a good deal of time inthe winter season to hunting tigers in the jungle round about hisstation, and numerous fine trophies of his prowess adorn the rooms of hishouse. He knows of the man-eater's depredations in the village I passedto-day, and also of another one ahead which I shall go through to-morrow;he declares his intention of bagging them both next season. Mrs. R arrived from Merrie England but eighteen months ago, a romanticgirl whose knowledge of royal Bengal tigers was confined to the subduedhabitues of sundry iron-barred cages in the Zoo. She is one of those dearconfiding souls that we sometimes find out whose confidence in theomnipotent character of their husbands' ability is nothing if notcharming and sublime. Upon her arrival in the wilds of Bengal she wasfascinated with the loveliness of the country, and wanted her liege lordto take her into the depths of the jungle and show her a "real wildtiger. " She had seen tigers in cages, but wanted to see how a real wildone looked in his native lair. One day they were out taking horsebackexercise together, when, a short distance from the road, the horribleroar of a tiger awoke the echoes of the jungle and reverberated throughthe hills like rolling thunder. Now was the long-looked-for opportunity, and her husband playfully invited her to ride with him toward the spotwhence came the roars. Mrs. R, however, had suddenly changed her mind. Mrs. R was the first white lady the people of many of the outlyingvillages had ever seen on horseback, or perhaps had ever seen at all, andthe timidest of them would invariably bolt into the jungle at herappearance. When her husband or any other Englishman went among themalone, the native women would only turn away their faces, but from thelady herself they would hastily run and hide. Here, also, I learn thatthe natives in this district are dying by the hundred with a malignanttype of fever; that the present season is an exceptionally sickly one, all of which gives reason for congratulation at my own health being sogood. It is all but a sub-aqueous performance pedalling along the road nextmorning; the air is laden with a penetrating drizzle, the watery cloudsfairly hover on the tree-tops and roll in dark masses among the hills, while the soaked and saturated earth reeks with steam. The road ismacadamized with white granite, and after one of those tremendousdownpourings that occur every hour or so the wheel-worn depressions oneither side become narrow streams, divided by the white central ridge. Down the long, straight slopes these twin rivulets course right merrily, the whirling wheels of the bicycle flinging the water up higher than myhead. The ravines are roaring, muddy torrents, but they are all wellbridged, and although the road is lumpy, an unridable spot is very rarelyencountered. For days I have not had a really dry thread of clothing, from the impossibility of drying anything by hanging it out. Under thesetrying conditions, a relapse of the fever is matter for daily and hourlyapprehension. The driving drizzle to-day is very uncomfortable, but less warm thanusual; it is anything but acceptable to the natives; thousands are seenalong the road, shivering behind their sheltering sun-shields, from whichthey dismally essay to extract a ray of comfort. These sun-shields areumbrella-like affairs made of thin strips of bamboo and broad leaves;they are without handles, and for protection against the sun or rain arebalanced on the head like an inverted sieve. When carried in the handthey may readily be mistaken for shields. In addition to this, the mencarry bamboo spears with iron points as a slipshod measure of defenceagainst possible attacks from wild animals. When viewed from arespectable distance these articles invest the ultra-gentle Bengali witha suggestion of being on the war-path, a delusion that is really absurdin connection with the meek Bengali ryot. The houses of the villages are now heavily thatched, and mostly enclosedwith high bamboo fencing, prettily trailed with creepers; the bazaars aremerely two rows of shed-like stalls between which runs the road. In lieuof the frequent painted idol, these jungle villagers bestow theirdevotional exercises upon rude and primitive representations ofimpossible men and animals made of twisted straw. These are sometimes setup in the open air on big horseshoe-shaped frames, and sometimes they arebeneath a shed. In the privacy of their own dwellings the Bengali ryotbows the knee and solemnly worships a bowl of rice or a cup of arrack. The bland and childlike native of Hindostan falls down and worshipsalmost everything that he recognizes as being essential to his happinessand welfare, embracing a wide range of subjects, from Brahma, who createdall things, to the denkhi with which their women hull the rice. Thisdenkhi is merely a log of wood fixed on a pivot and with a hammer-likehead-piece. The women manipulate it by standing on the lever end and thenstepping off, letting it fall of its own weight, the hammer striking intoa stone bowl of rice. The denkhi is said to have been blessed by Brahma'sson Narada, the god who is distinguished as having cursed his venerableand all-creating sire and changed him from an object of worship andadoration to a luster after forbidden things. The country continues hilly, with the dense jungle fringing the road; allalong the way are little covered platforms erected on easily climbedpoles from twelve to twenty feet high. These are apparently places ofrefuge where benighted wayfarers can seek protection from wild animals. Occasionally are met the fleet-footed postmen, their rings janglingmerrily as they bound briskly along; perhaps the little platforms arebuilt expressly for their benefit, as they are not infrequently thevictims of stealthy attack, the jingle of their rings attracting Mr. Tiger instead of repelling him. Mount Parisnath, four thousand five hundred and thirty feet high, thehighest peak of the Bengal hills, overlooks my dak bungalow at Doomree, and also a region of splendid tropical scenery, dark wooded ridges, deepravines, and rolling masses of dark-green vegetation. During the night the weather actually grows chilly, a raw wind laden withmoisture driving me off the porch into the shelter of the bungalow. Noportion of Parisnath is visible in the morning but the base, nine-tenthsof its proportions being above the line of the cloud-masses that rollalong just above the trees. Another day through the hilly country and, ahundred and fifty miles from Calcutta, the flourishing coal-miningdistrict of Asansol brings me again to the East India Railway andsemi-European society and accommodation. Instead of doughy chuppatties, throat-blistering curry, and octogenarian chicken, I this morningbreakfast off a welcome bottle of Bass's ale, baker's bread, and Americancheese. My experience of hotels and hotel proprietors has certainly been somewhatwide and varied within the last two years; but it remains for Rannegunjto produce something entirely novel in the matter of tariff even to oneof my experience. The cuisine and service of the hotel is excellent, andwell worth the charges; but the tariff is arranged so that it costs moreto stay part of a day than a whole one, and more to take two meals thanto take three. If a person remains a whole day, including room and threemeals, it is Rs 4, and he can, of course, suit himself about staying orgoing if he engages or pays in advance; but should he only take dinner, room, and chota-hazari, his bill reads: Dinner, Rs 2; room, Rs 1, 8annas; chota-hazari, rupees 1; total, Rs 4, 8 annas, or 8 annas more thanif he had remained and taken another square meal. The subtle-mindedproprietor of this establishment should undoubtedly take out a patent onthis very unique arrangement and issue licences throughout allBonifacedom; there would be more "millions in it" than in anythingColonel Sellers ever dreamed of. And now, beyond Rannegunj, comes again the glorious kunkah road, afternearly three hundred miles of variable surface. Level, smooth, and broadit continues the whole sixty-five miles to Burd-wan. Notwithstanding anadverse wind, this is covered by three o'clock. The road leads throughthe marvellously fertile valley of the Dammoodah, an interesting regionwhere groves of cocoa-nut palms, bamboo thickets, and thatched villagesgive the scenery a more decidedly tropical character than that north ofthe Bengal hills. Rice is still the prevailing crop, and the overflow ofthe Dammoodah is everywhere. Men and women are busily engaged among thepools, fishing for land-crabs, mussels, and other freshwater shell-fish, with triangular nets. As my southward course brings me next day into the valley of the HooghliRiver, the road partakes almost of the character of a tunnel burrowingthrough a mass of dense tropical vegetation. Cocoa-nut and toddy-palmsmingle their feathery foliage with the dark-green of the mango, the wildpomolo, giant bamboo, and other vegetable exuberances characteristic of ahot and humid climate, and giant creepers swing from tree to tree andwind among the mass in inextricable confusion. In this magnificent conservatory of nature big, black-faced monkeys, withtails four feet long, romp and revel through the trees, nimbly climb thecreepers, and thoroughly enjoy the life amid the sylvan scenes aboutthem. It is a curious sight to see these big anthropoids, almost as largeas human beings, swing themselves deftly up among the festooned creepersat my approach--to see their queer, impish black faces peeringcautiously out of their hiding-place, and to hear their peculiar squeakof surprise and apprehension as they note the strange character of myconveyance. Sometimes a gang of them will lope awkwardly along ahead ofthe bicycle, looking every inch like veritable imps of darkness pursuingtheir silent course through the chastened twilight of green-grown, subterranean passageways, their ridiculously long tails raised aloft, andtheir faces most of the time looking over their shoulders. Youthful lotus-eaters, sauntering lazily about in the vicinity of sometoddy-gatherer's hamlet, hidden behind the road's impenetrableenvironment of green, regard with supreme indifference the evil-lookingapes, bigger far than themselves, romping past; but at seeing me theyscurry off the road and disappear as suddenly as the burrow-like openingsin the green banks will admit. Women are sometimes met carrying baskets of plantains or mangoes to thevillage bazaars; sometimes I endeavor to purchase fruit of them, but theyshake their heads in silence, and seem anxious to hurry away. These womenare fruit-gatherers and not fruit-sellers, consequently they cannot sella retail quantity to me without violating their caste. My experiences in India have been singularly free from snakes; nothinghave I seen of the dreaded cobra, and about the only reminder of Eve'sguileful tempter I encounter is on the road this morning. He is only atwo-foot specimen of his species, and is basking in a streak of sunshinethat penetrates the green arcade above. Remembering the judgmentpronounced upon him in the Garden of Eden, I attempt to acquit myself ofthe duty of bruising his head, by riding over him. To avoid thisindignity his snakeship performs the astonishing feat of leaping entirelyclear of the ground, something quite extraordinary, I believe, for asnake. The popular belief is that a snake never lifts more thantwo-thirds of his length from the ground. From the city of Hooghli southward, the road might with equal proprietybe termed a street; it follows down the west side of the Hooghli Riverand links together a chain of populous towns and villages, the stragglingstreets of which sometimes fairly come together. Fruit-gardens, crowdedwith big golden pomolos, delicious custard, apples, and bananas abound;in the Hooghli villages the latter can be bought for two pice a dozen. Depots for the accumulation and shipment of cocoa-nuts, where tons andtons of freshly gathered nuts are stacked up like measured mounds ofearth, are frequent along the river. Jute factories with thousands ofwhirring spindles and the clackety-clack of bobbins fill the morning airwith the buzz and clatter of vigorous industrial life. Juggernaut cars, huge and gorgeous, occupy central places in many of the towns passedthrough. The stalls and bazaars display a variety of European beveragesvery gratifying from the stand-point of a hot and thirsty wayfarer, ranging from Dublin ginger ale to Pommery Sec. California Bartlett pears, with seductive and appetizing labels on their tin coverings, are seen inplenty, and shiny wrappers envelop oblong cakes of Limburger cheese. For a few minutes my wheel turns through a district where the names ofthe streets are French, and where an atmosphere of sleepy Catholicrespectability pervades the streets. This is Chandernagor, a wee bit ofterritory that the French have been permitted to retain here, a rosebudin the button-hole of la belle France's national vanity. Chanderuagor isa bite of two thousand acres out of the rich cake of the lower HooghliValley; but it is invested with all the dignity of a governor-general'scourt, and is gallantly defended by a standing army of ten men. TheGovernor-General of Chandernagor fully makes up in dignity what the placelacks in size and importance; when the East India Railway was being builthe refused permission for it to pass through his territory. There is nodoubt but that the land forces of Chandernagor would resist like bantamsany wanton or arbitrary violation of its territorial prerogatives by anymercenary railroad company, or even by perfide Albion herself, if needbe. The standing army of Chandernagor hovers over peaceful India, aperpetual menace to the free and liberal government established byEngland. Some day the military spirit of Chandernagor will break loose, and those ten soldiers will spread death and devastation in some peacefulneighboring meadow, or ruthlessly loot some happy, pastoral melon-garden. Let the Indian Government be warned in time and increase its army. By nine o'clock the bicycle is threading its way among the moving throngson the pontoon bridge that spans the Hooghli between Howrah and Calcutta, and half an hour later I am enjoying a refreshing bath in Cook's AdelphiHotel. I have no hesitation in saying that, except for the heat, my tour downthe Grand Trunk Road of India has been the most enjoyable part of thewhole journey, thus far. What a delightful trip a-wheel it would be, tobe sure, were the temperature only milder! My reception in Calcutta is very gratifying. A banquet by the DalhousieAthletic Club is set on foot the moment my arrival is announced. Withsuch enthusiasm do the members respond that the banquet takes place thevery next day, and over forty applicants for cards have to be refused forwant of room. For genuine, hearty hospitality, and thoroughness incarrying out the interpretation of the term as understood in its realhome, the East, I unhesitatingly yield the palm to Anglo-Indians. Timeand again, on my ride through India, have I experienced Anglo-Indianhospitality broad and generous as that of an Arab chief, enriched andrendered more acceptable by a feast of good-fellowship as well ascreature considerations. The City of Palaces is hardly to be seen at its best in September, forthe Viceregal Court is now at Simla, and with it all the governmentofficials and high life. Two months later and Calcutta is more brilliant, in at least one particular, than any city in the world. Every evening in"the season" there is a turn-out of splendid equipages on the bund roadknown as the Strand, the like of which is not to be seen elsewhere, Eastor West. It is the Rotten Row of Calcutta embellished with thegorgeousness of India. Wealthy natives display their luxuriousness invying with one another and with the government officials in the splendorof their carriages, horses, and liveries. Mr. P, a gentleman long resident in Calcutta, and a prominent member ofthe Dalhousie Club, drives me in his dog-cart to the famous BotanicalGardens, whose wealth of unique vegetation, gathered from all quarters ofthe world, would take volumes to do it justice should one attempt adescription. Its magnificent banyan is justly entitled to be called oneof the wonders of the world. Not less striking, however, in their way, are the avenues of palms; so straight, so symmetrical are these that theylook like rows of matched columns rather than works of nature. FortWilliam, the original name of the city, and the foundation-stone of theBritish Indian Empire, is visited with Mr. B, the American Consul, agentleman from Oregon. The glory of Calcutta, its magnificent Maidan, isoverlooked by the American Consulate, and one of the most conspicuousobjects in the daytime is the stars and stripes floating from theconsulate flag-staff. On the 18th sails the opium steamer Wing-sang to Hong-Kong, aboard whichI have been intending to take passage, and whose date of departure hassomewhat influenced my speed in coming toward Calcutta. To cross overlandfrom India to China with a bicycle is not to be thought of. This I wasnot long in finding out after reaching India. Fearful as the task wouldbe to reach the Chinese frontier, with at least nine chances out of tenagainst being able to reach it, the difficulties would then have onlycommenced. The day before sailing, the bicycle branch of the Dalhousie Athletic Clubturns out for a club run around the Maidan, to the number of seventeen. It is in the evening; the long rows of electric lamps stretching acrossthe immense square shed a moon-like light over our ride, and the smooth, broad roads are well worthy the metropolitan terminus of the Grand Trunk. My stay of five days in the City of Palaces has been very enjoyable, andit is with real regret that I bid farewell to those who come down to theshipping ghaut to see me off. The voyage to the Andamans is characterized by fine weather enough; butfrom that onward we steam through a succession of heavy rain-storms; anddown in the Strait of Malacca it can pour quite as heavily as on theGangetic plains. At Penang it keeps up such an incessant downpour thatthe beauties of that lovely port are viewed only from beneath the ship'sawning. But it is lovely enough even as seen through the drenching rain. Dense groves of cocoa-nut palms line the shores, seemingly hugging thevery sands of the beach. Solid cliffs of vegetation they look, almost, sotall, dark, and straight, and withal so lovely, are these forests ofpalms. Cocoa-nut palms flourish best, I am told, close to the sea, acertain amount of salt being necessary for their healthful growth. The weather is more propitious as we steam into Singapore, at which pointwe remain for half a day, on the tenth day out from Calcutta. Singaporeis indeed a lovely port. Within a stone's-throw of where the Wing-sangties up to discharge freight the dark-green mangrove bushes are bathingin the salt waves. Very seldom does one see green vegetation minglingfamiliarly with the blue water of the sea--there is usually a strip ofsand or other verdureless shore--but one sees it at lovelySingapore. A fellow-passenger and I spend an hour or two ashore, riding in the firstjiniriksha that has come under my notice, from the wharf into town, abouthalf a mile. We are impressed by the commercial activity of the city; aswell as by the cosmopolitan character of its population. Chinesepredominate, and thrifty, well-conditioned citizens these Celestialslook, too, here in Singapore. "Wherever John Chinaman gets half a show, as under the liberal and honest government of the Straits Settlements orHong-Kong, there you may be sure of finding him prosperous and happy. " Hindoos, Parsees, Armenians, Jews, Siamese, Klings, and all the variousEurasian types, with Europeans of all nationalities, make up theconglomerate population of Singapore. Here, on the streets, too, one seesthe strange cosmopolitan police force of the English Eastern ports, madeup of Chinese, Sikhs, and Englishmen. CHAPTER XVII. THROUGH CHINA. Daily rains characterize our voyage from Singapore through the ChinaSea--rather unseasonable weather, the captain says; and for the secondtime in his long experience as a navigator of the China Sea, St. Elmo'slights impart a weird appearance to the spars and masts of his vessel. The rain changes into misty weather as we approach the Ladrone Islands, and, emerging completely from the wide track of the typhoon'smoisture-laden winds on the following morning, we learn later, uponlanding at Hong-kong, that they have been without rain there for severalweeks. It is my purpose to dwell chiefly on my own experiences, and not to writeat length upon the sights of Kong-kong and Canton; hundreds of othertravellers have described them, and to the average reader they are nolonger unique. Several days' delay is experienced in obtaining a passportfrom the Viceroy of the two Quangs, and during the delay most of thesights of the city are visited. The five-storied pagoda, the temple ofthe five hundred genii, the water-clock, the criminal court--where severalpoor wretches are seen almost flayed alive with bamboos-flower-boats, silk, jade-stone, ivory-carving shops, temple of tortures, and a dozenother interesting places are visited under the pilotage of the genialguide and interpreter Ah Kum. The strange boat population, numbering, according to some accounts, twohundred thousand people, is one of the most interesting features ofCanton life. Wonderfully animated is the river scene as viewed from thebalcony of the Canton Hotel, a hostelry kept by a Portuguese on theopposite bank of the river from Canton proper. The consuls and others express grave doubts about the wisdom of myundertaking in journeying alone through China, and endeavor to dissuademe from making the attempt. Opinion, too, is freely expressed that theViceroy will refuse his permission, or, at all events, place obstacles inmy way. The passport is forthcoming on October 12th, however, and I loseno time in making a start. Thirteen miles from Canton I reach the city of Fat-shan. Five minutesafter entering the gate I am in the midst of a crowd of struggling, pushing natives, whose aggressive curiosity renders it extremelydifficult for me to move either backward or forward, or to do aught butstand and endeavor to protect the bicycle from the crush. They seem avery good-natured crowd, on the whole, and withal inclined to becourteous, but the pressure of numbers, and the utter impossibility ofdoing anything, or prosecuting my search for the exit on the other sideof the city, renders the good intentions of individuals whollyinoperative. With perseverance I finally succeed in extricating myself and followingin the wake of an intelligent-looking young man whom I fondly fancy Ihave enlightened to the fact that I am searching for the Sam-shue road. The crowd follow at our heels as we tread the labyrinthine alleyways, that seem as interminable as they are narrow and filthy. Every turn wemake I am expecting the welcome sight of an open gate and the greenrice-fields beyond, when, after dodging about the alleyways of what seemsto be the toughest quarter of the city, my guide halts and points to theclosed gates of a court. It now becomes apparent that he has been mistaken from the beginning inregard to my wants: instead of taking me to the Sam-shue gate, he hasbrought me to some kind of a house. "Sam-shue, Sam-shue, " I explain, making gestures of disapproval at the house. The young man regards mewith a look of utter bewilderment, and forthwith betakes himself off tothe outer edge of the crowd, henceforth contenting himself to join thegeneral mass of open-eyed inquisitives. Another attempt to again enlisthis services only results in alienating his sympathies still further: hehas been grossly taken in by my assumption of intelligence. Havingdiscovered in me a jackass incapable of the Fat-shan pronunciation ofSam-shue, he retires on his dignity from further interest in my affairs. Female faces peer curiously through little barred apertures in the gate, and grin amusedly at the sight of a Fankwae, as I stand for a few minutesuncertain of what course to pursue. From sheer inability to conceive ofanything else I seize upon a well-dressed youngster among the crowd, tender him a coin, and address him questioningly--"Sam-shue lo. Sam-shue lo. " The youth regards me with monkeyish curiosity for a second, and then looks round at the crowd and giggles. Nothing is plainer thanthe evidence that nobody present has the slightest conception of what Iwant to do, or where I wish to go. Not that my pronunciation of Sam-shueis unintelligible (as I afterward discover), but they cannot conceive ofa Fankwae in the streets of Fat-shan inquiring for Sam-shue; doubtlessmany have never heard of that city, and perhaps not one in the crowd hasever been there or knows anything of the road. As a matter of fact, thereis no "road, " and the best anyone could do would be to point out itsdirection in a general way. All this, however, comes withafter-knowledge. Imagine a lone Chinaman who desired to learn the road to Philadelphiasurrounded by a dense crowd in the Bowery, New York, and uttering the oneword "Phaladilfi, " and the reader gains a feeble conception of my ownpredicament in Fat-shan, and the ludicrousness of the situation. Finallythe people immediately about me motion for me to proceed down the street. Like a drowning man, I am willing to clutch wildly even at a straw, inthe absence of anything more satisfactory, and so follow theirdirections. Passing through squalid streets occupied by loathsomebeggars, naked youngsters, slatternly women, matronly sows with Utters ofyoung pigs, and mangy pariahs, we emerge into the more respectablebusiness thoroughfares again, traversing streets that I recognize ashaving passed through an hour ago. Having brought me here, the leaders inthe latest movement seem to think they have accomplished their purpose, leaving me again to my own resources. Yet again am I in the midst of a tightly wedged crowd, helpless to makemyself understood, and equally helpless to find my own way. Three hoursafter entering the city I am following-the Fates only know whither--theleadership of an individual who fortunately "sabes" a word or so ofpidgin English, and who really seems to have discovered my wants. Firstof all he takes me inside a temple-like building and gives me a drink oftea and a few minutes' respite from the annoying pressure of the crowds;he then conducts me along a street that looks somewhat familiar, leads meto the gate I first entered, and points triumphantly in the direction ofCanton! I now know as much about the road to Sam-shue as I did before reachingFat-shan, and have learned a brief lesson of Chinese city experience thatis anything but encouraging for the future. The feeling of relief atescaping from the narrow streets and the garrulous, filthy crowds, however, overshadows all sense of disappointment. The lesson of Fat-shanit is proposed to turn to good account by following the country paths ina general course indicated by my map from city to city rather than torely on the directions given by the people, upon whom my words andgestures seem to be entirely thrown away. For a couple of miles I retraverse the path by which I reached Fat-shanbefore encountering a divergent pathway, acceptable as, leadingdistinctly toward the northwest. The inevitable Celestial is right onhand, extracting no end of satisfaction from following, shadow-like, close behind and watching my movements. Pointing along the divergentnorthwest road, I ask him if this is the koon lo to Sam-shue; for answerhe bestows upon me an expansive but wholly expressionless grin, andpoints silently toward Canton. These repeated failures to awaken thecomprehension of intelligent-looking Chinamen, or, at all events, toobtain from them the slightest information in regard to my road, aresomewhat bewildering, to say the least. So much of this kind ofexperience crowded into the first day, however, is very fortunate, asawakening me with healthy rudeness to a realizing sense of what I am toexpect; it places me at once on my guard, and enables me to turn on thetap of self-reliance and determination to the proper notch. Shaking my head at the almond-eyed informant who wants me to return toCanton, I strike off in a northwesterly course. The Chinaman grins andchuckles humorously at my departure, as though his risibilities wereprobed to their deepest depths at my perverseness in going contrary tohis directions. As plainly as though spoken in the purest English, hischuckling laughter echoes the thought: "You'll catch it, Mr. Fankwae, before you have gone very far in that direction; you'll wish you hadlistened to me and gone back to 'Quang-tung. '" The country is a marvellous field-garden of rice, vegetables, andsugar-cane for some miles. The villages, with their peculiar, characteristic Chinese architecture and groves of dark bamboo, arestriking and pretty. The paths seem to wind about regardless of anyspecial direction; the chief object of the road-makers would appear tohave been to utilize every little strip of inferior soil for the publicthoroughfare wherever it might be found. A scrupulous respect forindividual rights and the economy of the soil has resulted in adding manya weary mile of pathway between one town and another. To avoid destroyingthe productive capacity of a dozen square yards of alluvial soil, hundreds of people are daily obliged to follow horseshoe bends around theedges of graveyards that after two hundred paces bring them almost towithin jumping distance of their first divergence. Occasionally the path winds its serpentine course between two tallpatches of sugar-cane, forming an alleyway between the dark-green wallsbarely wide enough for two people to pass. Natives met in these confinedpassages, as isolated from the eyes of the world as though between twowalls of brick, invariably recoil a moment with fright at the unexpectedapparition of a Fankwae; then partially recovering themselves, theynimbly occupy as little space as possible on one side, and eye me withsuspicion and apprehension as I pass. Great quantities of sugar-cane are chewed in China, both by children andgrown people, and these patches grown in the rich Choo-kiang Valley forthe Fat-shan, Canton, and Hong-kong markets are worth the price of aday's journeying to see. So marvellously neat and thrifty are they, thatone would almost believe every separate stalk had been the object ofspecial care and supervision from day to day since its birth; everycane-garden is fenced with neat bamboo pickets, to prevent depredation atthe hands of the thousands of sweet-toothed kleptomaniacs who file pastand eye the toothsome stalks wistfully every day. After a few miles the hitherto dead level of the valley is broken by lowhills of reddish clay, and here the stone paths merge into well-beatentrails that on reasonably level soil afford excellent wheeling. Thehillsides are crowded with graves, which, instead of the sugar-loaf "anthillocks" of the paddy-fields, assume the traditional horseshoe shape ofthe Chinese ancestral grave. On the barren, gravelly hills, unfit forcultivation, the thrifty and economical Celestial inters the remains ofhis departed friends. Although in making this choice he is supposed to bechiefly interested in securing repose for his ancestors' souls, he at thesame time secures the double advantage of a well-drained cemetery, andthe preservation of his cultivable lands intact. Everything, indeed, would seem to be made subservient to this latter end; every foot ofproductive soil seems to be held as of paramount importance in theteeming delta of the Choo-kiang. Beyond the first of these cemetery hills, peopled so thickly with thedead, rise the tall pawn-towers of the large village of Chun-Kong-hoi. The natural dirt-paths enable me to ride right up to the entrance-gate ofthe main street. Good-natured crowds follow me through the street; andoutside the gate of departure I favor them with a few turns on the smoothflags of a rice-winnowing floor. The performance is hailed with shouts ofsurprise and delight, and they urge me to remain in Chun-Kong-hoi allnight. An official in big tortoise-shell spectacles examines my passport, reading it slowly and deliberately aloud in peculiar sing-song tones tothe crowd, who listen with all-absorbing attention. He then orders thepeople to direct me to a certain inn. This inn blossoms forth upon my asyet unaccustomed vision as a peculiarly vile and dingy little hovel, smoke-blackened and untidy as a village smithy. Half a dozen rude benchescovered with reed mats and provided with uncomfortable wooden pillowsrepresent what sleeping accommodations the place affords. The place is soforbidding that I occupy a bench outside in preference to theevil-smelling atmosphere within. As it grows dark the people wonder why I don't prefer the interior of thedimly lighted hittim. My preference for the outside bench is notunattended with hopes that, as they can no longer see my face, mygreasy-looking, half-naked audience would give me a moment's peace andquiet. Nothing, however, is further from their thoughts; on the contrary, they gather closer and closer about me, sticking their yellow faces closeto mine and examining my features as critically as though searching theface of an image. By and by it grows too dark even for this, and thensome enterprising individual brings a couple of red wax tapers, placingone on either side of me on the bench. By the dim religious light of these two candles, hundreds of people comeand peer curiously into my face, and occasionally some ultra-inquisitivemortal picks up one of the tapers and by its aid makes a searchingexamination of my face, figure, and clothes. Mischievous youngsters, withirreligious abandon, attempt to make the scene comical by lightingjoss-sticks and waving bits of burning paper. The tapers on either side, and the youngsters' irreverent antics, withthe evil-spirit-dispersing joss-sticks, make my situation so ridiculouslysuggestive of an idol that I am perforce compelled to smile. The crowdhave been too deeply absorbed in the contemplation of my face to noticethis side-show; but they quickly see the point, and follow my lead with ageneral round of merriment. About ten o'clock I retire inside; theirrepressible inquisitives come pouring in the door behind me, but thehittim-keeper angrily drives them out and bars the door. Several other lodgers occupy the room in common with myself; some aresmoking tobacco, and others are industriously "hitting the pipe. " Thecombined fumes of opium and tobacco are well-nigh unbearable, but therais no alternative. The next bench to mine is occupied by a peripateticvender of drugs and medicines. Most of his time is consumed in smokingopium in dreamy oblivion to all else save the sensuous delights embodiedin that operation itself. Occasionally, however, when preparing foranother smoke, he addresses me at length in about one word ofpidgin-English to a dozen of simon-pure Cantonese. In a spirit offriendliness he tenders me the freedom of his pipe and little box ofopium, which is, of course, "declined with thanks. " Long into the midnight hours my garrulous companions sit around and talk, and smoke, and eat peanuts. Mosquitoes likewise contribute to the generalinducement to keep awake; and after the others have finally lain down, myancient next neighbor produces a small mortar and pestle and busieshimself pounding drugs. For this operation he assumes a pair of large, round spectacles, that in the dimly lighted apartment and its nocturnalassociations are highly suggestive of owls and owlish wisdom. The oldquack works away at his mortar, regardless of the approach of daybreak, now and then pausing to adjust the wick in his little saucer of grease, or to indulge in the luxury of a peanut. Such are the experiences of my first night at a Chinese village hittim;they will not soon be forgotten. The proprietor of the hittim seems overjoyed at my liberality as Ipresent him a ten-cent string of tsin for the night's lodging. Small asit sounds, this amount is probably three or four times more than heobtains from his Chinese guests. The country beyond Chun-Kong-hoi is alternately level and hilly, theformer highly cultivated, and the latter occupied mostly with graves. Peanut harvest is in progress, and men, women, and children areeverywhere about the fields. The soil of a peanut-bed to the depth ofseveral inches is dug up and all passed through a sieve, the meshes ofwhich are of the proper size to retain the nuts. The last possible grain, nut, or particle of life-sustaining vegetable or insect life is extractedfrom the soil, ducks and chickens being cooped and herded on the fieldsand gardens after human ingenuity has reached its limit of research. Big wooden pails of warm tea stand about the fields, from which everybodyhelps himself when thirsty. A party of peanut-harvesters are regalingthemselves with stewed turnips and tough, underdone pieces of driedliver. They invite me to partake, handing me a pair of chopsticks and abowl. Gangs of coolies, strung in Indian file along the paths, are met, carrying lacquer-ware from some interior town to Fat-shau and Canton. Others are encountered with cages of kittens and puppies, which they areconveying to the same market. These are men whose business is collectingthese table delicacies from outlying villages for the city markets, afterthe manner of egg and chicken buyers in America. My course at length brings me to the town of Si-noun, on the south bankof the Choo-kiang. The river is here prevented from inundating the lowcountry adjacent by strong levees; along these are well-tramped pathsthat afford much good wheeling, as well as providing a well-definedcourse toward Sam-shue. After following the river for some miles, however, I conclude that its course is altogether more southerly thanthere is any necessity for me to go; so, crossing the river at a villageferry, I strike a trail across-country in a north-westerly direction thatmust sooner or later bring me to the banks of the Pi-kiang. Sam-shue isat the junction of these two rivers, the one flowing from west to eastand the other from north to south; by striking across-country, but oneside of a triangle is traversed instead of the two formed by the rivers. My objective point for the night is Lo-pow, the first town of any size upthe Pi-kiang. A volunteer guide from one of the villages extricates me from abewildering network of trails in the afternoon, and guides me across tothe bottom-lands of the Pi-kiang. Receiving a reward, he eyes the pieceof silver a moment wistfully, puts it away, and guides me half a milefarther. Pointing to the embankment of the Pi-kiang in the distanceahead, he presents himself for further reward. Receiving this, hethereupon conceives the brilliant idea of piloting me over successiveshort stages, with a view of obtaining tsin at the end of each stage. John Chinaman is no more responsible, morally, for the "dark ways andvain tricks" accredited to him in the Western World than a crow is forthe blackness of his plumage. The desperate struggle for existence inthis crowded empire, that has no doubt been a normal condition of itssociety for ages, has developed traits of character in these latergenerations which are as unchangeable as the skin of the Ethiopian or thespots of the leopard. Either of these can be whitened over, but notreadily changed; the same may be truthfully said of the moral leprosy ofthe average Celestial. Here is a simple peanut-farmer's son, who knowsnothing of the outer world, yet no sooner does a stray opportunitypresent than he develops immediately financial trickery worthy of aConstantinople guide. The paths across the Pi-kiang Valley are more walls than paths, oftenrising ten feet above the paddy-fields, and presenting a width of notmore than two feet. Good riding, however, is happily found on the levees, and a few miles up-stream brings me to Lo-pow. The hittim at Lo-pow is somewhat superior to that of yesterday; it is atwo-storied building, and the proprietor hustles me up-stairs in shortorder, and locks me in. This is to prevent any possible hostility fromthe crowd that immediately swarms the place; for while I am in his househe is in a measure held responsible for my treatment. The bicycle is keptdown-stairs, where it performs the office of a vent for the rampantcuriosity of the thousands who besiege the proprietor for a peep at me. A little cup and a teapot of hot tea is brought me at once, and my ordertaken for supper; the characters on ray limited written vocabularyproving invaluable as an aid toward making my g-astro-nomic preferencesunderstood. A dish of boiled fish, pickled ginger, chicken entrees, youngonions, together with rice enough to feed a pig, form the ingredients ofa very good Chinese meal. Chop-sticks are, of course, provided; but, asyet, my dexterity in the manipulation of these articles is decidedly ofthe negative order, and so my pocket-knife performs the dual office ofknife and fork; for the rice, one can use, after a manner, the littleporcelain dipper provided for ladling an evil-smelling liquid over thatstaple. Bread, there is none in China; rice is the bread of both thiscountry and Japan. During the night one gets a reminder of the bek-jeesof Constantinople in the performances of a night policeman, who passes byat intervals loudly beating a drum. This, together with roysteringmosquitoes, and a too liberal indulgence in strong tea, banishes sleepto-night almost as effectually as the pounding of the old drug-vender'spestle did at Chun-Kong-hoi. The rooms below are full of sleeping coolies, cat-and-dog hucksters andtravellers, when I descend at day-break to start. The first two hours arewasted in wandering along a levee that leads up a tributary stream, coming back again and getting ferried to the right embankment. The ridingis variable, and the zigzagging of the levee often compels me to travelthree miles for the gaining of one. My elevated path commands a good viewof the traffic on the river, and of the agricultural operations on theadjacent lowlands. The boating scenes on the river are animated, and peculiarly Chinese. Thenorthern monsoons, called typhoons in China, are blowing strongly downstream, while the current itself is naturally strong; under the influenceof wind and current combined, junks and sampans with butterfly sails allset are going down stream at racing speed. In striking contrast to these, are the up-stream boats, crawling along at scarcely perceptible paceagainst the current, in response to the rhythmical movements of a line ofmen, women, and children harnessed one behind another to a long tow-line. The water in the river is low, and the larger boats have to be watchedcarefully to prevent grounding; sometimes, when the river is wide and thepassable channel but a narrow place in the middle, the tow-people have totake to the water, often wading waist deep. Men and women are dressedpretty much alike, but in addition to the broad-legged pantaloons andblue blouse, the women are distinguished by a checked apron. Some of themwear broad bamboo hats, while others wear nothing but nature's covering, or perchance a handkerchief tied around their heads. The traffic on theriver is something enormous, scores of boats dotting the river at everyturn. It is no longer difficult to believe the oft-heard assertion, thatthe tonnage of China's inland fleet is equal to the ocean tonnage of allthe world. Below me on the right the scene is scarcely less animated; one wouldthink the whole population of the country were engaged in pumping waterover the rice-fields, by the number of tread-wheels on the go. One of themost curious sights in China is to see people working these irrigatingmachines all over the fields. Instead of the buffaloes of Egypt andIndia, everything here is accomplished by the labor of man. Thetread-wheel is usually worked by two men or women, who steady themselvesby holding to a cross-bar, while their weight revolves the tread-wheeland works a chain of water-pockets. The pockets dip water from a hole orditch and empty it into troughs, whence it spreads over the field. Thescreeching of these wheels can be heard for miles, and the grotesqueChinese figures stepping up, up, up in pairs, yet never ascending, thewomen singing in shrill, falsetto voices, and the incessant gabble ofconversation, makes a picture of industry the like of which is to be seenin no other part of the world. Chin-yuen, my next halting-place, forma something of a crescent on thewest shore of the river, and is distinguished by a seven-storied pagodaat the southern extremity of its curvature. As seen from the east bank, the city and its background of reddish hills, two peaks of which rise tothe respectable height of, I should judge, two thousand feet, is notwithout certain pretensions to beauty. Many of the houses on the riverfront are built over the water on piles, and broad flights of stone stepslead down to the water. The usual boat population occupy a swarm of sampans anchored before thecity, while hundreds of others are moving hither and thither. The wateris intensely blue, and the broad reaches of Band are dazzlingly white; oneither bank are dark patches of feathery bamboo; the white, blue andgreen, the pagoda, the city with its towering pawn-houses, and the wholeflanked by red clay hills, forms a picture that certainly is not wantingin life and color. The quarters assigned me at the hittim, here, are again upstairs, and myroom-companion is an attenuated opium smoker, who is apparently apermanent lodger. This apartment is gained by a ladder, and aftersubmitting to much annoyance from the obtrusive crowds below invading ourquarters, my companion drives them all out with the loud lash of histongue, and then draws up the only avenue of communication. He is engagedin cooking his supper and in washing dirty dishes; when the crowd belowgets too noisy and clamorous he steps to the opening and coolly treatsthem to a basin of dish-water. This he repeats a number of times duringthe evening, saving his dish-water for that special purpose. The air is reeking with smoke and disagreeable odors from below, wherecooking is going on, and pigs wallow in filth in a rear apartment. Theback-room of a Chinese inn is nearly always a pigsty, and a noisome placeon general principles. Later in the evening a few privileged charactersare permitted to come up, and the room quickly changes into a regularopium-den. A tough day's journey and two previous nights of wakefulness, enable me to fall asleep, notwithstanding the evil smells, the presenceof the opium-smoking visitors, and the grunting pigs and talkative humansdown below. During the day I have sprained my right knee, and it becomes painful inthe night and wakes me up. In the morning my way is made through thewaking city with a painful limp, that gives rise to much unsympatheticgiggling among the crowd at my heels. Perhaps they think all Pankwaesthus hobble along; their giggling, however, is doubtless evidence of thewell-known pitiless disposition of the Chinese. The sentiments of pityand consideration for the sufferings of others, are a well-nigh invisiblequality of John Chinaman's character, and as I limp slowly along, Imentally picture myself with a broken leg or serious illness, alone amongthese people. A Fankwae with his leg broken! a Fankwae lying at the pointof death! why, the whole city would want to witness such an extraordinarysight; there would be no keeping them out; one would be the centre of atumultuous rabble day and night! The river contains long reaches leading in a totally contrary directionto what I know my general course to be. My objective point is a littleeast of north, but for miles this morning I am headed considerably southof the rising sun. There is nothing for it, however, but to keep thefoot-trail that now follows along the river bank, conforming to all itsmultifarious crooks and angles. Every mile or two the path is overhung bya big bamboo hedge, behind which is hidden a village. The character of these little riverside villages varies from peacefulagricultural and fishing communities, to nests of river-pirates and hardcharacters generally, who covertly prey on the commerce of the Pi-kiang, and commit depredations in the surrounding country. A glimpse of me isgenerally caught by someone behind the hedge as I ride or trundle past;shouts of "the Fankwae, the Fankwae, " and screams of laughter at theprospect of seeing one of those queer creatures, immediately follow thediscovery. The gabble and laughter and hurrying from the houses to thehedge, the hasty scrambling through the little wicket gates, all occurswith a flutter and noisy squabble that suggest a flock of excited geese. A few miles above Chin-yuen the river enters a rocky gorge, and themarvellous beauty of the scenery rivets me to the spot in wonderingcontemplation for an hour. It is the same picture of rocky mountains, blue water, junks, bridges, temples, and people, one sometimes sees onsets of chinaware. Never was water so intensely blue, or sand sodazzlingly white, as the Pi-kiang at the entrance to this gorge thissunny morning; on its sky-blue bosom float junks and sampans, theircurious sails appearing and disappearing around a bend in the canon. Thebrown battlemented cliffs are relieved by scattering pines, and in theinterstices by dense thickets of bamboo; temples, pagodas, and a villagecomplete a scene that will be long remembered as one of the loveliestbits of scenery the whole world round. The scene is pre-eminentlycharacteristic, and after seeing it, one no longer misunderstands theChinaman who persists in thinking his country the great middle kingdom oflandscape beauty and sunshine, compared to which all othersare--"regions of mist and snow. " Across the creeks which occasionally join issue with the river, areerected frail and wabbly bamboo foot-rails; some of these are evidentlyprivate enterprises, as an ancient Celestial is usually on hand for thecollection of tiny toll. Narrow bridges, rude steps cut in the face ofthe cliffs, trails along narrow ledges, over rocky ridges, down acrossgulches, and anon through loose shale on ticklishly sloping banks, characterize the passage through the canon. The sun is broiling hot, andmy knee swollen and painful. It is barely possible to crawl along at asnail's pace by keeping my game leg stiff; bending the knee is attendedwith agony. Frequent rests are necessary, and an examination reveals myknee badly inflamed. Hours are consumed in scrambling for three or four miles up and downsteps, and over the most abominable course a bicycle was ever dragged, carried, up-ended and lugged over. At the end of that time I reach atemple occupying a romantic position in a rocky defile, and where aflight of steps leads down to the water's edge. All semblance of anythingin the nature of a continuous path terminates at the temple, and hailinga sampan bound up stream, I obtain passage to the northern extremity ofthe canyon. The sampan is towed by a team of seven coolies, harnessed to a small, strong rope made of bamboo splint. It is interesting, yet painful, to seethese men clambering like goats about the rocky cliffs, sometimes as muchas a hundred feet above the water; one of the number does nothing elsebut throw the rope over protuberant points of rock. One would naturallyimagine that Chinese enterprise would be sufficient to constructsomething like a decent towpath through this caiion, considering thenumber of boats towed through it daily; but everything in China seems tobe done by the main strength and awkwardness of individuals. The boatmen seem honest-hearted fellows; at noon they invite me toparticipate in their frugal meal of rice and turnips. Passing sampans aregreeted by the crew of our boat with the intelligence that a Fankwae isaboard; the news being invariably conveyed with a droll "ha-ha!" andreceived with the same. Indeed, the average Chinese river-man oragriculturist, the simple-hearted children of the water and the soil, seem to regard the Fankwae as a creature so remarkably comical, that themere mention of him causes them to laugh. Near the end of the canon the boat is moored at a village for the day, and my knee feeling much better from the rest, I pursue my course up thebank of the river. The bank is level in a general sense, but much cut upwith small tributary creeks. While I am resting on the bank of one of these creeks, partly hiddenbehind a clump of bamboo, a slave-woman carrying her mistress pick-a-backappears upon the scene. Catching sight of me, the golden lily utters alittle cry of alarm and issues hurried orders to her maid. The latterwheels round and scuttles back along the path with her frightened burden, both maid and golden lily no doubt very thankful at finding themselvesunpursued. A few minutes after their hasty flight, three men approach myresting-place with pitchforks. The frightened females have probably toldthem of the presence of some queer-looking object lurking behind thebushes, and like true heroes they have shouldered their pitchforks andsallied forth to investigate. A whoop and a feint from me would eitherput them to flight, or precipitate a conflict, as is readily seen fromthe extreme cautiousness of their advance. As I remained perfectly still, however, they approach by short stages, and with many stops forconsultation, until near enough to satisfy themselves of my peacefulcharacter. They loiter around until my departure, when they follow behindfor a few hundred yards, watching me narrowly until I am past their ownlittle cluster of houses. It is almost dark when I arrive at the next village, prepared to seeksuch accommodations for the night as the place affords, if any. Thepeople, however, seem decidedly inclined to give me the cold shoulder, eying me suspiciously from a respectful distance, instead of clustering, as usual, close about me. Being pretty tired and hungry, and knowingabsolutely nothing of the distance to the next place, I endeavor tocultivate their friendship by smiles, and by addressing the nearestyoungster in polite greetings of "chin-chin. " All this proves of no avail; they seem one and all to be laboring underthe impression that my appearance is of evil portent to themselves. Perchance some social calamity they have just been visited with, isattributed in their superstitious minds to the fell influence of theforeign devil, who has so suddenly bobbed up in their midst just at thisunhappy, inauspicious moment. Perad-venture some stray and highlyexaggerated bit of news in regard to Fankwae aggression in Tonquin (theFrench Tonquin expedition) has happened to reach the little interiorvillage this very day, and the excited people see in me an emissary ofdestruction, here for the diabolical purpose of spying out their country. A dozen reasons, however, might be here advanced, and all be far wide ofthe truth. Whatever their hostility is all about is a mystery to me, the innocentobject of sundry scowls and angry gestures. One individual contemplatesme for a minute with unconcealed aversion, and then breaks out into atorrent of angry words and excited gestures. From all appearances, itbehooves me to be clearing out, ere the pent-up feelings of the peoplefind vent in some aggressive manner, as a result of this person'sincitant eloquence. Greatly puzzled to account for this unpleasantreception, I quietly take myself off. It is now getting pretty dark, and considering the unfortunate conditionof my knee, the situation is, to say the least, annoying. It is notwithout apprehensions of being followed that I leave the village; and ereI am two hundred yards away, torches are observed moving rapidly about, and soon loud shouts of "Fankwae, Fankwae!" tell me that a number of menare in pursuit. Darkness favors my retreat, and scrambling down the river bank, I shapemy course across the sand and shallow side-channels to a small island, thickly covered with bamboo, the location of which is now barely outlinedagainst the lingering streaks of daylight in the western sky. Half anhour is consumed in reaching this; but no small satisfaction is derivedfrom seeing the flaming torches of my pursuers continue on up the bank. The dense bamboo thickets afford an excellent hiding-place, providing mydivergence is not suspected. A little farther up-stream, on the bank, arethe lights of another village; and as I crouch here in the darkness I cansee the torches of the pursuing party entering this village, and can hearthem making shouting inquiries of their neighbors about the foreigndevil. The thicket is alive with ravenous mosquitoes that issue immediatelytheir peculiar policy of assurance against falling asleep. Unappeasedhunger, mosquitoes, and the perilousness of the situation occupy myattention for some hours, when, seeing nothing further of the vengefulaspirants for my gore, I drag my weary way up-stream, through sand andshallow water. Keeping in the river-bed for several miles, I finallyregain the bank, and, although my inflamed knee treats me to a twinge ofagony at every step, I steadily persevere till morning. An hour or two of morning light brings me to the town of Quang-shi, afteran awful tugging through sand-hills, unbridged ravines and water. Hardlyable to stand from fatigue and the pain of my knee, the desperate natureof the road, or, more correctly, the entire absence of anything of thekind, and the disquieting incident of the night, awaken me to a realizingsense of my helplessness should the people of Quang-shi prove to behostile. Conscious of my inability to run or ride, savagely hungry, anddesperately tired, I enter Quang-shi with the spirit of a hunted animalat bay. With revolver pulled round to the front ready to hand, and halfexpecting occasion to use it in defence of my life, I grimly speculate onthe number of my cartridges and the probability of each one bagging asore-eyed Celestial ere my own lonely and reluctant ghost is yielded up. All this, fortunately, is found to be superfluous speculation, for thegood people of Quang-shi prove, at least, passively friendly; a handfulof tsin divided among the youngsters, and a general spendthriftscatterment of ten cents' worth of the same base currency among thestall-keepers for chow-chow heightens their friendly interest in me to anappreciable extent. Chao-choo-foo is the next city marked on my itinerary, but as Quang-shiis not on my map I have no means of judging whether Chao-choo-foo is fourli up-stream or forty. All attempts to obtain some idea of the distancefrom the natives result in the utter bewilderment of both questioned andquerist. No amount of counting on fingers, or marking on paper, orinterrogative arching of eyebrows, or repetition of "Chao-choo-foo li"sheds a glimmer of light on the mind of the most intelligent-lookingshopkeeper in Quang-shi concerning my wants. Yet, withal, he courteouslybears with my, to him, idiotic pantomime and barbarous pronunciation, andrepeats parrot-like after me "Chao-choo-foo li; Chao-choo-foo li" withsundry beaming smiles and friendly smirks. Far easier, however, is it to make them understand that I want to go tothat city by boat. The loquacious owner of a twenty-foot sampan puts inhis appearance as soon as my want is ascertained, and favors me with anunpunctuated speech of some five minutes' duration. For fear I shouldn'tquite understand the tenor of his remarks, he insists on thrusting hisyellow Mongolian phiz within an inch or two of mine own. At the end offive minutes I thrust my fingers in my ears out of sheer considerationfor his vocal organs, and turn away; but the next moment he is frontingme again, and repeating himself with ever-increasing volubility. Findingmy dulness quite impenetrable, he searches out another loquacious mortal, and by the aid of the tiny beam-scales every Chinaman carries forweighing broken silver, they finally make it understood that for six bigrounds (dollars) he will convey me in his boat to Chao-choo-foo. Understanding this, I promptly engage his services. Bundles of joss-sticks, rice, fish, pork, and a jar of samshoo (ricearrack) are taken aboard, and by ten o'clock we are underway. Two men, named respectively Ah Sum and Yung Po, a woman, and a baby of eighteenmonths comprise the company aboard. Ah Sum, being but an inconsequentialwage-worker, at once assumes the onerous duties of towman; Yung Po, husband, father, and sole proprietor of the sampan, manipulates therudder, which is in front, and occasionally assists Ah Sum by poling. Theboat-wife stands at the stern and regulates the length of the tow-line;the baby puts in the first few hours in wondering contemplation ofmyself. The strange river-life of China is all about us; small fishing-boats areeverywhere plying their calling. They are constructed with a centralchamber full of auger-holes for the free admittance of water, in whichthe fish are conveyed alive to market, or imprisoned during the owner'spleasure. Big freight sampans float past, propelled by oars if goingdown-stream, and by the combined efforts of tow-line and poles if againstthe current. The propelling poles are fitted with neatly carved"crutch-trees" to fit the shoulder; the polers, sometimes numbering asmany as a dozen, walk back and forth along side-planks and encouragethemselves with cries of "ha-i, ha-i, ha-i. " A peculiar and indescribableinflection would lead one, hearing and not seeing these boatmen, to fancyhimself listening to a flight of brants in stormy weather. Yung Po, poling by himself, gives utterance to a prolonged cry of "Atta-atta-attaaaoo ii, " every time he hustles along the side-plank. Much of the scenery along the river is lovely in the extreme, and at darkwe cast anchor in a smooth, silent reach of the river just within thefrowning gateway of a rocky canon. Dark masses of rock tower skyward fivehundred feet in a perpendicular wall, casting a dark shadow over thetwilight shimmer of the water. In the north, the darksome prospect isinvested with a lurid glow, apparently from some large fire; the canonimmediately about our anchoring place is alive with moving torches, representing the restless population of the river, and on the banksclustering points of light here and there denote the locality of avillage. The last few miles has been severe work for poor Ah Sum, clambering amongrocks fit only for the footsteps of a goat. He sticks to the tow-linemanfully to the end, but wading out to the boat when over-heated, causeshim to be seized with violent cramps all over; in his agony he rollsabout the deck and implores Yung Po to put him out of his miseryforthwith. His case is evidently urgent, and Yung Po and his wife proceedto administer the most heroic treatment. Hot samshoo is first poured downhis throat and rubbed on his joints, then he is rolled over on hisstomach; Yung Po then industriously flagellates him in the bend of theknees with a flat bamboo, and his wife scrapes him vigorously down thespine with the sharp edge of a porcelain bowl. Ah Sam groans and wincesunder this barbarous treatment, but with solicitous upbraidings they holdhim down until they have scraped and pounded him black and blue, almostfrom head to foot. Then they turn him over on his back for a change ofprogramme. A thick joint of bamboo, resembling a quart measure, isplanted against his stomach; lighted paper is then inserted beneath, andthe "cup" held firmly for a moment, when it adheres of its own accord. This latter instrument is the Chinese equivalent of our cupping-glass;like many other inventions, it was probably in use among them ages beforeanything of the kind was known to us. Its application to the stomach forthe relief of cramps would seem to indicate the possession of drawingpowers; I take it to be a substitute for mustard plasters. While the wifeattends to this, Yung Po pinches him severely all over the throat andbreast, converting all that portion of his anatomy into little blueridges. By the time they get through with him, his last estate seems agood deal worse than his first, but the change may have saved his life. Before retiring for the night lighted joss-sticks are stuck in the bow ofthe sampan, and lighted paper is waved about to propitiate the spirit ofthe waters and of the night; small saucers of rice, boiled turnip, andpeanut-oil are also solemnly presented to the tutelary gods, to enlisttheir active sympathies as an offset against the fell designs ofmischievous spirits. Falling asleep under the soothing influence of theseextraordinary precautions for our safety and a supper of rice, ginger, and fresh fish, I slumber peacefully until well under way next morning. Ah Sum is stiff and sore all over, but he bravely returns to his post, and under the combined efforts of pole and tow-line we speed alongagainst a swift current at a pace that is almost visible to the nakedeye. This morning I purchase a splendid trout, weighing seven or eight pounds, for about twenty cents; off this we make a couple of quite excellentmeals. Observing my awkward attempts to pick up pieces of fish with thechop-sticks, the good, thoughtful boat-wife takes a bone hair-pin out ofher sleek, oily back hair, and offers it to me to use as a fork! Before noon we emerge into a more open country; straight ahead can beseen an eight-storied pagoda. Beaching the pagoda, we pass, on theopposite shore, the town of Yang-tai (?). Fleets of big junks sail gaylydown stream, laden with bales and packages of merchandise fromChao-choo-foo, Nam-hung, and other manufacturing points up the river. Others resemble floating hay-ricks, bearing huge cargoes of coarse hayand pine-needles down for the manufacture of paper. Several war-junks are anchored before Yang-tai; unlike the peaceful (?)merchantmen on the Choo-kiang, they are armed with but a single cannon. They are, however, superior vessels compared with other craft on theriver, and are manned with crews of twenty to thirty theatrical-lookingcharacters; rows of muskets and boarding-pikes are observed, andconspicuous above all else are several large and handsome flags of thegraceful triangular shape peculiar to China. The crew of these warlike vessels are uniformed in the gayest of red, andin the middle of their backs and breasts are displayed white "bull'seyes" about twelve inches in diameter. The object of these big whitecircular patches appears to be the presentation of a suitable place forthe conspicuous display of big characters, denoting the district or cityto which they belong; or in other words labels. The wicked and sarcasticFankwaes in the treaty ports, however, render a far differentexplanation. They say that a Chinese soldier always misses a bull's-eyewhen he shoots at it--under no circumstances does he score a bull's-eye. Observing this, the authorities concluded that Fankwae soldiers weretarred with the same unhappy feather. With true Asiatic astuteness, theytherefore conceived and carried out the brilliant idea of decorating allCelestial warriors with bull's-eyes, front and rear, as a measure ofprotection against the bullets of the Fankwae soldiers in battle. Ah Sum becomes sick and weary at noon and is taken aboard, Tung Po andhis better half taking alternate turns at the line. Toward evening theriver makes a big sweep to the southeast, bringing the prevailing northwind round to our advantage; if advantage it can be called, in blowing uspretty well south when our destination lies north. The sail is hoisted, and the crew confines itself to steering and poling the boat clear ofbars. Poor Ah Sum is subjected to further clinical maltreatment this evening aswe lay at anchor before No-foo-gong; while we are eating rice and porkand listening to the sounds of revelry aboard the big passenger junksanchored near by, he is writhing and groaning with pain. He is too stiff and sore and exhausted to do anything in the morning; thewoman goes out to pull, and the babe makes Rome howl, with littleintermission, till she comes back. The boat-woman seems an industrious, wifely soul; Yung Po probably paid as high as forty dollars for her; atthat price I should say she is a decided bargain. Occasionally, when YungPo cruelly orders her overboard to take a hand at the tow-line, or tohelp shove the sampan off a sand ridge, she enters a playful demurrer;but an angry look, an angry word, or a cheerful suggestion of "corporealsuasion, " and she hops lightly into the water. A few miles from No-foo-gong and a rocky precipice towers up on the westshore, something like a thousand feet high. The crackling offire-crackers innumerable and the report of larger and noisier explosionsattract my attention as we gradually crawl up toward it; and comingnearer, flocks of pigeons are observed flying uneasily in and out ofcaves in the lower levels of the cliff. In the course of time our sampan arrives opposite and reveals a curioustwo-storied cave temple, with many gayly dressed people, pleasuresampans, and bamboo rafts. This is the Kum-yam-ngan, a Chinese Buddhisttemple dedicated to the Goddess of Mercy. It is the home of flocks ofsacred pigeons, and the shrine to which many pilgrims yearly come; thepilgrims manage to keep their feathered friends in a chronic state oftrepidation by the agency of fire-crackers and miniature bombs. Outside, under the shelter of the towering cliffs to the' right, are more templesor dwellings of the priests; they present a curious mixture of blueporcelain, rock, and brick which is intensely characteristic of China. During the day we pass, on the same side of the river, yet anotherremarkable specimen of man's handiwork on the scene of one of nature'scurious rockwork conceptions. Leading from base to summit of a slopingmountain are two perpendicular ridges of rock, looking very much like acouple of walls. Across the summit of the mountain, from wall to wall, some fanciful architect three hundred years ago built a massivebattlement; in the middle he left a big round hole, which presents a verycurious appearance, and materially heightens the delusion that the wholeaffair, from foot to summit, is the handiwork of man. This place is knownas Tan-tsy-shan, or Bullet Mountain, and is the scene of a fight thatoccurred some time during the Ming dynasty. A legend is current among thepeople, that the robber Wong, a celebrated freebooter of that period, while firing on a pursuing party of soldiers, shot this moon---likehole through the mountain battlement with the huge musket he used toslaughter his enemies. Many huge rafts of pine logs are now encountered floating down stream tothe cities of the lower country; numbers of them are sometimes met, following close behind one another. Several huts are erected on each bigraft, so that the sight not infrequently suggests a long stragglingvillage floating with the tide. This suggestion is very much heightenedby the score or more people engaged in poling, steering, al frescocooking, etc. , aboard each raft. And anon there come along men, poling with surprising swiftnessslender-built craft on which are perched several solemn andimportant-looking cormorants. These are the celebrated cormorant fishersof the Chinese rivers. Their craft is simply three or four stems of thegiant bamboo turned up at the forward end; on this the naked fishermanstands and propels himself by means of a slender pole. His stock-in-tradeconsists of from four to eight cormorants that balance themselves andsmooth their wet wings as the lightsome raft speeds along at the rate ofsix miles an hour from one fishing ground to another. Arriving at somelikely spot the eager aspirant for finny prizes rests on his oars, andallows his aquatic confederates to take to the water in search of theirnatural prey, the fishes. A ring around the cormorants' necks preventsthem swallowing their captives, and previous training teaches them tobalance themselves on the propelling pole that the watchful fishermaninserts beneath them the moment they rise to the surface with a fish;captive and captor are then lifted aboard the raft, the cormorant robbedof his prey and hustled quickly off again to business. The sight of thesenimble craft, skimming along with scarcely an effort, almost fills mewith a resolve to obtain one of them myself and abandon Tung Po and hisdreary lack of speed forever. The third day of our voyage against the prevailing typhoons and the rapidcurrent of the Pi-kiang, comes to an end, and finds us again anchoredwithin the dark shadow of a towering cliff. Anchored alongside us is abig junk freighted with bags of rice and bales of paper; the hands aboardthis boat indulge in a lively quarrel, during the evening chow-chow, andbang one another about in the liveliest manner. The peculiar indignationthat finds expression in abusive language no doubt reaches its higheststate of perfection in the Celestial mind. No other human being iscapable of soaring to the height of the Chinaman's falsetto modulations, as he heaps reproaches and cuss-words on his enemy's queue-adorned head. A big boat's crew of naked Chinamen cursing and gesticulating excitedly, advancing and retreating, chasing one another about with billets of wood, knocking things over, and raising Cain generally, in the ghostly glimmerof fantastic paper lanterns, is a spectacle both weird and wild. Another weird, but this time noiseless, affair is a long string ofnocturnal cormorant fishers, each with a big, flaming torch attached tothe prow of his raft, propelling themselves along close under the darkfrowning cliff. The torches light up the black face of the precipice witha wild glare, and streak the shimmering water with moon-like reflections. The country through which our watery, serpentine course winds all nextday, is hilly rather than mountainous; grassy hills slope down to thewater's blue ripples at certain places, but the absence of grazinganimals is quite remarkable. Regions, which in other countries would becovered with flocks of sheep and herds of cows and horses, are without somuch as a sign of herbivorous animals. Pigs are the prevailingmeat-producing animals of Southern China; all the way up country I havenot yet seen a single sheep, and but very few cattle; I have also yet tosee the first horse. Instead of herbivorous quadrupeds peacefullybrowsing, are swarms of men, women, and children cutting, bundling, andstacking the grass for the manufacture of paper. Among the fleeting curiosities of the day are a crowd of sampans flyingblack flags, evidently some military expedition; they are bound downstream, and it occurs to me that they are perhaps a reinforcement ofthese famous free-lances going to join the hordes of that denominationmaking things so uncomfortable for the French in Tonquin and Quang-tse. We also pass a district where the women enhance their physical charms bythe aid of broad circular hats that resemble an inverted sieve. Theedges, however, are not wood, but circular curtains of black calico; theroof of the hat is bleached bamboo chip. Officers board us in the evening to search the vessel for dutiable goods;but they find nothing. The privilege of levying customs on salt and opiumis farmed out by the government to people in various cities along therivers. The tax on these articles from first to last of a long rivervoyage is very heavy, customs being levied at various points; it isscarcely necessary to add that under these arbitrary arrangements, theoily, conscienceless and tsin-loving Celestial boatman has reduced thenoble art of smuggling to a science. Yung Po smiles blandly at theofficer as he searches carefully every nook and corner of the sampan, even rooting about with a stick in the moderate amount of bilge-watercollected between the ribs, and when he is through, dismisses him with anair of innocence and a wealth of politeness that is artfully calculatedto secure less rigorous search next time. The poling and towing is prolonged till nearly midnight, when we castanchor among a lot of house-boats and miscellaneous craft before a city. Even at this unseemly hour we are visited by an owlish pedler, whose boatis fitted up with boxes containing various dishes toothsome to theheathen palates of the water-men. Yung Po and Ah Sum look wistfully overthe ancient pastry-ped-ler's wares, and pick out tiny dishes of sweetenedrice gruel; this they consume with the same unutterable satisfaction thathungry monkeys display when eating chestnuts, ending the performance bylicking the platters. Although the price is nearly a farthing a dish, with wanton prodigality Yung Po orders dishes for the whole company, including even his passenger! From various indications, it is surmised, as I seek my couch, that thecity opposite is Chao-choo-foo. Inquiry to that effect, as usual, elicitsnothing but a bland grin from Yung Po. When, however, he takes theunnecessary precaution of warning me not to venture outside the coveredsleeping quarters during the night, intimating that I should probably getstabbed if I do, I am pretty well satisfied of our arrival. This cautiousproceeding is to be explained by the fact that I am Yung Po's debtor fortwo days' diet of rice, turnips, and flabby pork, and he is suspiciousthat I might creep forth in the silence and darkness of the night andleave him in the lurch. Yung Po now summons his entire pantomimic ability, to inform me thatChao-choo-foo is still some distance up the river, at all events that ismy interpretation of his words and gestures. On this supposition I enterno objections when he bids me accompany him to the market and purchase anew supply of provisions for the remainder of the journey. Impatient to proceed to Chao-choo-foo I now motion for them to make astart. Yung Po points to the frowning walls of the city we have justvisited, and blandly says, "Chao-choo-foo. " Having accomplished hispurpose of bamboozling me into replenishing his larder, by making mebelieve our destination is yet farther upstream, he now turns round andtells me that we have already arrived. The neat little advantage he hasjust been taking of my ignorance with such brilliant results to thelarder of the boat, has visibly stimulated his cupidity, and he nowbrazenly demands the payment of filthy lucre, making a circular hole withhis thumb and finger to intimate big rounds in contradistinction to meretsin. The assumption of dense ignorance has not been without its advantages atvarious times on my journey around the world, and regarding Yung Po'sgestures with a blankety blank stare, I order him to proceed up stream toChao-choo-foo. The result of my refusal to be further bamboozled by thewily Yung Po, without knowing something of what I am doing, is that I amshortly threading the mazy alleyways of Chao-choo-foo with Ah Sum andYung Po for escort. What the object of this visit may be I haven't theremotest idea, unless we are proceeding to the quarters of some officialto have my passport seen to, or to try and enlighten my understanding inregard to Yung Po's claims for battered Mexican dollars. Vague apprehensions arise that, peradventure, the six dollars paid atQuang-shi was only a small advance on the cost of my passage up, and thatYung Po is now piloting me to an official to establish his just claimsupon pretty much all the money I have with me. Ignorant of the properrate of boat-hire, disquieting visions of having to retreat to Canton forthe lack of money to pay the expenses of the journey through to Kui-kiangare flitting through my mind as I follow the pendulous motions of YungPo's pig-tail along the streets. The office that I have been conjuring upin my mind is reached at last, and found to be a neat room provided withforms and a pulpit like desk. A pleasant-faced little Chinaman in a blue silk gown is examining a sheetof written characters through the medium of a pair of tortoise-shellspectacles. On the wall I am agreeably astonished to see a chromo of HerMajesty Queen Victoria, with an inscription in Chinese characters. Thelittle man chin-chins (salaams) heartily, removes his spectacles andaddresses me in a musical tone of voice. Yung Po explains obsequiouslythat my understanding Chinese is conspicuously unequal to the occasion, afact that at once becomes apparent to the man in blue silk; whereupon hequickly substitutes written words for spoken ones and presents me thepaper. Finding me equally foggy in regard to these, he excuses myignorance with a courteous smile and bow, and summons a gray-queuedunderling to whom he gives certain directions. This person leads the wayout and motions for me to follow. Yung Po and Ah Sum bring up behind, keeping in order such irrepressibles as endeavor to peer too obtrusivelyinto my face. Soon we arrive at a quarter with big monstrous dragons painted on thewalls, and other indications of an official residence; palanquin-bearersin red jackets and hats with tassels of red horse-hair flit past at afox-trot with a covered palanquin, preceded by noisy gong-beaters and agayly comparisoned pony. This is evidently the yamen or mandarin'squarter, and here we halt before a door, while our guide enters anotherone, and disappears. The door before us is opened cautiously by aCelestial who looks out and bestows upon mo a friendly smile. A curlyblack dog emerges from between his legs and presents himself with muchwagging of tail and other manifestations of canine delight. All this occurs to me as very strange; but not for a moment does itprepare me for the agreeable surprise that now presents itself in theappearance of a young Englishman at the door. It would be difficult tosay which of us is the most surprised at the other's appearance. Mutualexplanations follow, and then I learn that, all unsuspected by me, twomissionaries of the English Presbyterian mission are stationed atChao-choo. At Canton I was told that I wouldn't see a European face nor hear anEnglish word between that city and Kui-kiang. On their part, they haveread in English papers of my intended tour through China, but neverexpected to see me coming through Chao-choo-foo. I am, of course, overjoyed at the opportunity presented by theirknowledge of the language to arrange for the continuation of my journeyin a manner to know something about what I am doing. They are startingdown the river for Canton to-morrow, so that I am very fortunate inhaving arrived today. As their guest for the day I obtain an agreeablechange of diet from the swashy preparations aboard the sampan, and learnmuch valuable information about the nature of the country ahead fromtheir servants. They have never been higher up the river thanChao-choo-foo themselves, and rather surprise me by giving the distancesto Canton as two hundred and eighty miles. By their kind offices I am able to make arrangements for a couple ofcoolies to carry the bicycle over the Mae-ling Mountains as far as thecity of Nam-ngan on the head waters of the Kan-kiang, whence, ifnecessary, I can descend into the Yang-tsi-kiangby river. The route leadsthrough a mountainous country up to the Mae-ling Pass, thence down to thehead waters of the Kan-kiang. All is ready by eight o'clock on the morning of October 22d; the coolieshave lashed the bicycle to parallel bamboo poles, as also a tin of lunchbiscuits, a tin of salmon, and of corned beef, articles kindly presentedby the missionaries. Nam-ngan is said to be two hundred miles distant, but subsequentexperience would lessen the distance by about fifty miles. Our way leadsfirst through the cemeteries of Chao-choo-foo, and along little windingstone-ways through the fields leading, in a general sense, along theright bank of the Pi-kiang. The villagers in the upper districts of Quang-tung are peculiarly wantingin facial attractiveness; in some of the villages on the Upper Pi-kiangthe entire population, from puling infants to decrepit old stagers whosehoary cues are real pig-tails in respect to size, are hideously ugly. They seem to be simple, primitive people, bent on satisfying theircuriosity; but in the pursuit of this they are, if anything, somewhatmore considerate or more conservative than the Persians. Mothers hurry home and fetch their babies to see the Fankwae, pointing meout to their notice, very much like pointing out a chimpanzee in theZoological gardens. In these village inns the spirit of democracyembraces all living things; sore-eyed coolies, leprous hangers-on to thethread of life, matronly sows and mangy dogs, come, go, and freely mingleand associate in these filthy little kitchens. When cooking is inprogress, nothing is set off the fire on to the ground but that a hungrypig stands and eyes it wistfully, but sundry burnings of their sensitivesnouts during the days of their youthful inexperience have made thempreternaturally cautious, so that they are not very meddlesome. Thesleeping room is really a part of the pig-sty, nothing but an openrailing separating pigs and people. A cobble-stone path now leads througha hilly country, divided up into little rice-fields, peanut gardens, pinecopses, and cemeteries. Peanut stalls one encounters at short intervals, where ancient dames or wrinkled old men preside over little saucers ofhalf-roasted nuts, peanut sweet cakes, peanut plain cakes, peanutcrullers, peanut dough, peanut candy, peanuts sprinkled with sugar, peanuts sprinkled with salt, and peanuts fresh from the ground. Thepeople seem to be well-nigh living on peanuts, which unhappy dietprobably has something to do with their marvellous ugliness. In a gathering of villagers standing about me are people with eyes thatare pitched at the most peculiar angles, varying from long, narrow eyesthat slope downward toward the cheek-bone, to others that seem almostperpendicular. No less astonishing is the contour of their mouths; raggedholes in their ugly faces are these for the most part, shapeless anduncouth as anything well could be. They are the most unprepossessinghumans I have seen the whole world round. As, on the evening of the third day from Chao-choo-foo, we approachNam-hung, the people and the country undergo a great change for thebetter. The land is more level and better cultivated; villages arethicker and more populous, and the people are no longer conspicuouslyill-favored. All evidence goes to prove that meagre diet and hard linesgenerally, continued from generation to generation, result in theproduction of an ill-conditioned and inferior race of people. A three-storied pagoda on a prominent hill to the right marks theapproach to Nam-hung, and another of nine stories marks the entrance. Swarms of people follow us through the streets, rushing with eagercuriosity to obtain a glimpse of my face. Sometimes the surging masses ofpeople, struggling and pushing and dodging, separate me from the coolies, and the din of the shouting and laughing is so great that my shouts tothem to stop are unheard. A shout, or a wave of the hand results only ina quickening of the people's curiosity and an increase in the volume oftheir own noisiness. Thus hemmed in among a compact mass of apparentlywell-meaning, but highly inflammable Chinese, hooting, calling, laughing, and gesticulating, I follow the lead of Ching-We and Wong-Yup through amile of streets to the hittim. Rich native wares are displayed in great abundance, silks, satins, andfur-lined clothing so costly and luxurious, and in such numbers, that onewonders where they find purchasers for them all. Side by side with theseare idol factories, where Joss may be seen in every stage of existence, from the unhewn log of his first estate to the proud pre-eminence of hishighly finished condition, painted, gilded, and furbished. Coffinwarehouses in which burial cases are displayed in tempting array arealways conspicuous in a Chinese city. The coffins are made of curiousslabs, jointed together in imitation of a solid log; some of these arevarnished in a style calculated to make the eyes of a prospective corpsebeam with joyous anticipation; others are plainly finished, destined forthe abode of humbler and less pretentious remains. At the hittim, with much angry expostulation and firmness of decision, the following mob are barred entrance to our room. They are not, by anymeans satisfied, however; they quickly smash in a little closed panel sothey can look in, and every crack between the boards betrays a row ofpeering eyes. Ching-We is a hollow-eyed victim of the drug, and yearnsfor peace and quiet so that he can pass away the evening amid theseductive pleasures of the opium-smoker's heaven. The rattle and racketof the determined sight-seers outside, clamorously demanding to come inand see the Fankwae, annoy him to the verge of desperation under thecircumstances. He patiently endeavors to forget it all, however, and to banish the wholetroublesome world from his thoughts, by producing his opium-pipe and lampand attempting to smoke. But just as he is getting comfortably settleddown to rolling the little knob of opium on the needle and has puckeredhis lips for a good pull, a decayed turnip comes sailing through the openpanel and hits him on the back. The people looking in add insult toinjury by indulging in an audible snicker, as Ching-We springs up andglares savagely into their faces. This indiscreet expression of theirlevity at once seals their doom, for Ching-We grabs a pole and hits theboards such a resounding whack, and advances upon them so savagely, thatonly a few undaunted youngsters remain at their post; the panel isrepaired, and comparative peace and quiet restored for a short time. Nosooner, however, has Ching-We mounted to the first story of heavenlybeatitude from the effects of the first pipe of opium, than loud howls of"Fankwae. Fankwae!" are heard outside, and a shower of stones comesrattling against the boards. Ching-We goes to the partition door andindulges in an angry and reproachful attack upon the unoffending head ofthe establishment. The unoffending head of the establishment goesimmediately to the other door and indulges in an angry and reproachfulattack upon the shouters and stone-throwers outside. The Chinese arepeculiar in many things, and in nothing, perhaps, more than their respectfor words of reproach. Whether the long-suffering innkeeper hurled attheir heads one of the moral maxims of Confucius, or an originalproduction of his own brain, is outside the pale of my comprehension; butwhatever it is, there is no more disturbance outside. It must be about midnight when I am awakened from a deep sleep by thegabble of many people in the room. Transparent lanterns adorned with bigred characters held close to my face cause me to blink like a cat uponopening my wondering eyes. These lanterns are held by yameni-runners insemi-military garb, to light up my features for the inspection of anofficer wearing a rakish Tartar hat with a brass button and a redhorse-hair tassel. The yameni-runners wear the same general style ofhead-dress, but with a loop instead of the brass button. The officer ispossessed of a wonderfully soft, musical voice, and holds forth at greatlength concerning me, with Ching-We. The officer takes my passport to the yamen, and ere leaving the room, pantomimically advises me to go to sleep again. In the morning Ching-Wereturns the two-foot square document with the Viceregal seal, and winksmysteriously to signify that everything is lovely, and that the goose ofpermission to go ahead to Nam-ngan hangs auspiciously high. The morning opens up cool and cloudy, the pebble pathway is wider andbetter than yesterday, for it is now the thoroughfare along whichthousands of coolies stagger daily with heavy loads of merchandise to thecommencement of river navigation at Nam-hung. The district is populousand productive; bales of paper, bags of rice and peanuts, bales oftobacco, bamboo ware, and all sorts of things are conveyed by muscularcoolies to Nam-hung to be sent down the river. Gradually have we been ascending since leaving Nam-hung, and now ispresented the astonishing spectacle of a broad flight of stone steps, certainly not less than a mile in length, leading up, up, up, to thesummit of the Mae-ling Pass. Up and down this wonderful stairway hundredsof coolies are toiling with their burdens, scores of travellers inholiday attire and several palanquins bearing persons of wealth orofficial station. The stairway winds and zigzags up the narrow defile, averaging in width about twenty feet. Refreshment houses are perched hereand there along the side, sometimes forming a bridge over the steps. The stairway terminates at the summit in a broad stone archway of ancientbuild, over which are several rooms; this is evidently an office for thecollection of revenue from the merchandise carried over the pass. Standing beneath this arch one obtains a comprehensive view of thecountry below to the north; a pretty picture is presented of gabledvillages and temples, green hills, and pale-gold ripening rice-fields. The little silvery contributaries of the Kan-kiang ramify the picturelike veins in the human palm, and the brown, cobbled pathways are seenleading from village to village, disappearing from view at shortintervals beneath a cluster of tiled houses. Steeper but somewhat shorter steps lead down from the pass, and thepathway follows along the bank of a tiny stream, leading through analmost continuous string of villages to the walls of Nam-ngan. CHAPTER XVIII. DOWN THE KAN-KIANG VALLEY. The country is still nothing but river and mountains, and a sampan isengaged to float me down the Kan-kiang as far as Kan-tchou-foo, fromwhence I hope to be able to resume my journey a-wheel. The water is verylow in the upper reaches of the river, and the sampan has to be abandoneda few miles from where it started. I then get two of the boatmen to carrythe wheel, intending to employ them as far as Kan-tchou-foo. From the stories current at Canton, the reputation of Kan-tchou-foo israther calculated to inspire a lone Fankwae with sundry misgivings. Sometime ago an English traveller, named Cameron, had in that city anunpleasantly narrow escape from being burned alive. The Celestialsconceived the diabolical notion of wrapping him in cotton, saturating himwith peanut-oil, and setting him on fire. The authorities rescued him nota moment too soon. Ere traversing many miles of mountain-paths we emerge upon a partiallycultivated country, where the travelling is somewhat better than inQuang-tung. The Mae-ling Pass was the boundary line between the provincesof Quang-tung and Kiang-se; my journey from Nam-ngan will lead me throughthe whole length of the latter great province, between three hundred andfour hundred miles north and south. The paths hereabout are of dirt mostly, and although wretched roads for awheelman in the abstract, are nevertheless admirable in comparison withthe stone-ways of Quang-tung. Gratified at the prospect of being able toproceed to Kui-kiang by land after all, I determine at once that, if thecountry gets no worse by to-morrow, I will dismiss the boatmen and pursuemy way alone again on the bicycle. This resolve very quickly developsinto an earnest determination to rid myself of the incubus of thesnail-like movements of my new carriers, who are decidedly out of theirelement when walking, as I am very quickly brought to understand by theannoying frequency of their halts at way-side tea-houses to rest andsmoke and eat. Ere we are five miles from the sampan these festive mariners of theKan-kiang have developed into shuffling, shirking gormandizers, who peerlongingly into every eating-house we pass by and evince a decidedtendency to convert their task into a picnic. Finding me uncomplaining infooting their respective "bills of lading" at the frequent places wherethey rest and indulge their appetites for tid-bits, they advance, in thebrief space of four hours, from a simple diet of peanuts and bubbles ofgreasy pastry to such epicurean dishes as pickled duck, salted eggs, andfricasseed kitten! Fricasseed kitten is all very well for people who have been reared in thelap of luxury, and tenderly nurtured; but neither of these half-cladKan-kiang navigators was born with the traditional silver spoon. Frominfancy they have had to thrive the best way they could on rice, turnip-tops, peanuts, and delusive expectations of pork and fish; theirassumption of the delicacies above mentioned betrays the possession ofbumps of assurance bigger than goose-eggs. It is equivalent to amoneyless New York guttersnipe sailing airily into Delmonico's andordering porter-house steak and terrapin, because some benevolent personvolunteered to feed him for a day or two at his expense. Fearful lesttheir ambitious palates should soar into the extravagant and bankruptingrealms of bird-nest soup, shark's fins, and deer-horn jelly, I firmlyresolve to dispense with their services at the first favorableopportunity. Many of the larger villages we pass through are walled with enormouslymassive brick walls, all bearing evidence of battering at the hands ofthe Tai-pings. Owing to the frequent restings of the carriers we areovertaken toward evening by a fellow boat-passenger, Oolong, who afterour departure determined to follow our enterprising example and walk toKan-tchou-foo. He comes trudging briskly along with a little whitetea-pot swinging in his hand and an umbrella under his arm. The day is disagreeably cold by reason of the chilly typhoons that blowsteadily from the north. I have considerately encased the thinnest cladcarrier in my gossamer rubbers to shield him from the wind, but Oolong iseven thinner clad than he, and he has to hustle along briskly to keep hisCelestial blood in circulation. No sooner do we reach the hittim where it is proposed to remain overnight than poor Oolong gets into trouble by appropriating to his own usethe quilted garment of one of the employes of the place, which he findslying around loose. The irate owner of the garment loudly accuses Oolongof wanting to steal it, and notwithstanding his vigorous protestations tothe contrary he is denounced as a thief and summarily ejected from thepremises. The last I ever see of Oolong and his white tea-pot and umbrella is whenhe pauses for a moment to give his accusers a bit of his mind beforevanishing into outer darkness. The morning is quite wintry, and the people are clad in the seasonablecostumes of the country. Huge quilted garments are put on one overanother until their figures are almost of ball-like rotundity; the handsare drawn up entirely out of sight in the long, loosely flowing sleeves, while the head is half-hidden by being drawn, turtle-like, into theirblue-quilted shells. Like the Persians, they seem nipped and miserable inthe cold; looking at them, standing about with humped backs and pinchedfaces this morning, I wonder, with the Chinaman's happy nonchalance aboutcommitting suicide, why they don't all seek relief within the nice warmtombs at the end of the village. Surely it can be nothing but theirrampant curiosity, urging them to live on and on in the hopes of seeingsomething new and novel, that keeps them from collapsing entirely in thewinter. My epicurean carriers indulge largely in chopped cayenne peppers thismorning, which they mis liberally with their food. The paths at least get no worse than they were yesterday, and to-day Imeet the first passenger-wheelbarrow, with its big wheel in the centre, abulky female with a baby on one side, and a bale of merchandise on theother. Sometimes our road brings us to the banks of the Kan-kiang, andmost of the time, even when a mile or two away, we can see the queer, corrugated sails of the sampans. Once to-day we happen upon a fleet of fourteen cormorant fishers at amoment when the excitement of their pursuit is at its height. Aboutseventy or eighty cormorants are diving and chasing about among a shoalof fish in a big silent pool, while fourteen wildly excited Chinamen, clad in abbreviated breech-cloths, dart their bamboo rafts about hitherand thither, urging each one his own cormorants to dive by tapping themsmartly with their poles. The scene is animated in the extreme, a uniquepicture of Chinese river-life not to be easily forgotten. About two o'clock in the afternoon we arrive at a city that I flattermyself is Kan-tchou-foo; all attempts to question the carriers or anybodyelse in regard to the matter results in the hopeless bewilderment of boththem and myself. The carriers are not such ignoramuses in the art ofpantomime, however, but that they are able to announce their intention ofstopping here for the remainder of the day, and night. The liberality of my purse for a short day and a half, with itsconcomitant luxurious living, has so thoroughly demoralized theunaccustomed river-men, that they encroach still further upon my bountyand forbearance by revelling all night in the sensuous delights of opium, at my expense, and turning up in the morning in anything but fitcondition for the road. Putting this and that together, I conclude thatwe have not yet readied Kan-tchou-foo; but the carriers have developedinto an insufferable nuisance, a hinderance to progress, rather than ahelp, so I determine to take them no farther. I tell them nothing of my intentions until we reach a lonely spot a milefrom the city. Here I tender them suitable payment for their services andthe customary present, attach my loose effects to the bicycle and aboutmy person, and motion them to return. As I anticipated, they make aclamorous demand for more money, even seizing hold of the bicycle andshouting angrily in my face. This I had easily foreseen, and wiselypreferred to have their angry demonstrations all to myself, rather thanin a crowded city where they could perhaps have excited the mob againstme. For the first time in China I have to appeal to my Smith & Wesson in theinterests of peace; without its terrifying possession I should on thisoccasion undoubtedly have been under the necessity of "wiping up a smallsection of Kiang-se" with these two worthies in self defence. In theaffairs of individuals, as of nations, it sometimes operates to thepreservation of peace to be well prepared for war. How many times hasthis been the case with myself on this journey around the world! The barometer of satisfaction at the prospect of reaching Kui-kiangbefore the appearance of old age rises from zero-level to a quiteflattering height, as I find the pathways more than half ridable afterdelivering myself of the dead weight of native "assistance. " Twelve milesfarther and I am approaching the grim high walls of a large city thatinstinctively impresses me as being Kan-tchou-foo. The confused babel ofnoises within the teeming wall-encompassed city reaches my ears in theform of an "ominous buzz, " highly suggestive of a hive of bees, into theinterior of which it would be extremely ticklish work for a Fankwae toenter. "Half an hour hence, " I mentally speculate, "the pitying angelsmay be weeping over the spectacle of my seal-brown roasted remains beingdragged about the streets by the ribald and exultant rag, tag, andbobtail of Kan-tchou-foo. " Reflecting on the horrors of cotton, peanut-oil, and fire, I sit down forhalf an hour at a peanut-seller's stall, eat peanuts, and meditativelyargue the situation of whether it would be better, if seized by amurderous mob, to take the desperate chances of being, like Cameron, rescued at the last minute from the horrors of incineration, or to takemy own life. Fourteen cartridges and a 38 Smith & Wesson is the sum totalof my armament. Emptying my revolver among the mob, and then being caughtwhile reloading, would mean a lingering death by the most diabolicaltortures, processes that the heathen Chinee has reduced to a refinementof cruelty unsurpassed in the old Spanish inquisition chambers. The saucer of peanuts eaten, I pursue my way along the cobblestone pathleading to the gate, without having come to any more definite conclusionthan to keep cool and govern my actions according to circumstances. Tenminutes after taking this precaution I am trundling along a paved street, somewhat wider than the average Chinese city street, in the thick of theinevitable excited crowd. The city probably contains two hundred thousand people, judging from thelength of this street and the wonderful quantity and richness of thegoods displayed in the shops. Along this street I see a more lavishdisplay of rich silks, furs, tiger-skins, and other evidences of opulencethan was shown me at Canton. The pressure of the crowds reduces me atonce to the necessity of drifting helplessly along, whithersoever theseething human tide may lead. Sometimes I fancy the few officiouslyinterested persons about me, whom I endeavor to question in regard to thehoped-for Jesuit mission, have interpreted my queries aright and arepiloting me thither; only to conclude by their actions, the next minute, that they have not the remotest conception of my wants, beyond reachingthe other side of the city. Now and then some ruffian in the crowd, in aspirit of wanton devilment, utters a wild, exultant whoop and raises thecry of "Fankwae. Fankwae. " The cry is taken up by others of his kind, andthe whoops and shouts of "Fankwae" swell into a tumultuous howl. Anxious moments these; the spirit of wanton mischief fairly bristlesthrough the crowd, evidently needing but the merest friction to set itablaze and render my situation desperate. My coat-tail is jerked, thebicycle stopped, my helmet knocked off, and other trifling indignitiesoffered; but to these acts I take no exceptions, merely placing my helmeton again when it is knocked off, and maintaining a calm serenity of faceand demeanor. A dozen times during this trying trundle of a mile along the chiefbusiness thoroughfare of Kan-tchou-foo, the swelling whoops and yells of"Fankwae" seem to portend the immediate bursting of the anticipatedstorm, and a dozen times I breathe easier at the subsidence of itsvolume. The while I am still hoping faintly for a repetition in part ofmy delightful surprise at Chao-choo-foo, we arrive at a gate leading outon to a broad paved quay of the Kan-kiang, which flows close by thewalls. Here I first realize the presence of Imperial troops, and awaken to theprobability that I am indebted to their known proximity for theself-restraint of the mob, and their comparatively mild behavior. TheseCelestial warriors would make excellent characters on the spectacularstage; their uniforms are such marvels of color and pattern that it isdifficult to disassociate them from things theatrical. Some are uniformedin sky blue, and others in the gayest of scarlet gowns, blue aprons withlittle green pockets, and blue turbans or Tartar hats with red tassels. Their gowns and aprons are patterned so as to spread out to a ridiculouswidth at bottom, imparting to the gay warrior an appearance not unlike anopened fan, his head constituting the handle. As a matter of fact, the soldiers of the Imperial army are the biggestdandies in the country; when on the march coolies are provided to carrytheir muskets and accoutrements. As seen today, beneath the walls ofKan-tchou-foo, they impress me far more favorably as dandies than assoldiers equal to the demand of modern warfare. Like soldiers the whole world round, however, they seem to be agood-natured, superior class of men; no sooner does my presence becomeknown than several of them interest themselves in checking the aggressivecrowding of the people about me. Some of them even accompany me down tothe ferry and order the ancient ferryman to take me across for nothing. This worthy individual, however, enters such a wordy protestation againstthis that I hand him a whole handful of the picayunish tsin. The soldiersmake him give me back the over-payment, to the last tsin. The sordidmoney-making methods of the commercial world seem to be regarded withmore or less contempt by the gallant sons of Mars everywhere, notexcepting even the soldiers of the Chinese army. The scene presented by the city and the camp from across the river is ofa most pronounced mediaeval character, as well as one of the prettiestsights imaginable. The grim walla of the city extend for nearly a milealong the undulating bank of the Kan-kiang, with a narrow strip ofgreensward between the solid gray battlements and the blue, wind-rippledwaters of the river. Along the whole distance, rising and falling withthe undulations of the bank, are ranged a continuous row of gaylyfluttering banners-red, purple, blue, green, yellow, and all these colorscombined in others that are striped as prettily as the prettiest ofbarber-poles-probably not less than five hundred flags. Thesemultitudinous banners flutter from long, spear-headed bamboo-staves, andof themselves present a wonderfully pretty effect in combination with theblue waters, the verdant bank, and the gray walls. But in addition tothese are thousands of soldiers, equally gaudy as to raiment, recliningirregularly along the same greensward, each warrior a bright bit ofcoloring on the verdant groundwork of the bank. Over variable paths and through numerous villages and hamlets my way nowleads, my next objective point being Ki-ngan-foo. At first a country ofcurious red buttes, terraced rice-fields, and reservoirs ofmountain-drift water, serving the double purpose of fish-ponds andirrigating reservoirs, it develops later into a more mountainous region, where the bicycle quickly degenerates into a thing more ornamental thanuseful. On a narrow mountain-trail is met a gentleman astride of a chunkytwelve-hand pony. This diminutive steed is almost concealed beneath awealth of gay trappings, to which are attached hundreds of jingling bellsthat fill the air with music as he walks or jogs along. In his fright atthe bicycle, or me, he charges wildly up the steep mountain-slope, unseating his rider and making for the mountain-top like theall-possessed. His rider takes the sensible course of immediatelypursuing the pony, instead of wasting time in unprofitable fault-findingwith me. Few people of these obscure mountain-hamlets have ever seen a Fankwae;many, doubtless, have never even heard of the existence of such queerbeings. They gather in a crowd about me when I stay to seek refreshments;the general query of "What is he? what is he?" passed from one toanother, sometimes elicits the laconically expressed information of"Fankwae" from some knowing villager or traveller passing through, butoften their question remains unanswered, because among the whole assemblythere is nobody who really knows what I am. The wonderful industry of these people is more apparent in thismountain-country than anywhere else. The valleys are very narrow, oftenlittle more than mere ravines between the mountains, and wherever asquare yard of productive soil is to be found it is cultivated to itsutmost capacity. In places the mountain-ravines are terraced, to theirvery topmost limits, tier after tier of substantial rock wall banking upa few square yards of soil that have been gathered with infinite laborand patience from the ledges and crevices of the rocky hills. Theuppermost terrace is usually a pond of water, gathered by the artificialdrainage of still higher levels, and reserved for the irrigation of thescore or more descending "steps" of the rice-growing stairway beneath it. Notwithstanding the mountainous nature of the country and the dallyingprogress through Kan-tchou-foo, so lightsome does it seem to be once morejourneying along, free and unencumbered, that I judge my day's progressto be not less than fifty miles when nightfall overtakes me in a littlemountain-village. It is the first day's progress in China with which Ihave been really satisfied. Nevertheless, it has been a toilsome day, taken altogether, and when nothing but tea and rice confronts me atsupper the reward seems so wretchedly inadequate that I rise in rebellionat once. Neither eggs, fish, nor meat are to be obtained, the good woman at thelittle hittim explains in a high key; neither loan, ue, nor ue-ah, nothing but ch'ung-ch'a and mai. The woman is evidently a dear, considerate mortal, however, for she surveys my evident disgust withsorrowful visage, and then, suddenly brightening up, motions for me to beseated and leaves the house. Presently the good dame returns with a smileof triumph on her face and an object in her hand that, from casualobservation, might be the hind-quarters of a rabbit. Bringing it to me inthe most matter-of-fact manner, she holds it near my face and, pointingto it with the air of a cateress proudly conscious of having securedsomething that she knows will be unusually acceptable to her guest, sheexplains "me-aow, me-aow!" The woman's naivete is simply sublime, and hersagacity in explaining the nature of the meat by imitating a kitten's cryinstead of telling me its Chinese name stamps her as superior to hersurroundings; but, for all that, I conclude to draw the line at kittenand sup off plain rice and tea. "Me-aow, me-aow" might not be altogetherobjectionable if one knew it to have been a nice healthy kitten, but myobservations of Chinese unsqueamishness about the food they eat leaves anabundance of room for doubt about the nature of its death and itssuitableness for human consumption. I therefore resist the temptation toindulge. A clear morning and a white frost usher in the commencement of anothermarch across the mountains, over cobbled paths for the greater part ofthe forenoon. The sun is warm, but the mountain-breezes are cool andrefreshing. About noon I ferry across a large tributary of the Kan-kiang, and follow for miles a cobble-stone path that leads down its easternbank. According to my map, Ki-ngan-foo should be about fifty miles south ofKan-tchou-foo, so that I ought to have reached there by noon to-day. Alldue allowance, however, must be made for the map-makers in mapping out acountry where their opportunities for accuracy must have been of themeagerest kind. Small occasion for fault-finding under the circumstances, I think, for in the middle of the afternoon the gray battlements, thepagodas, and the bright coloring of military flags a few miles fartherdown stream tell me that the geographers have not erred to anyconsiderable extent. It is about sunset when I enter the gates and find myself within theManchu quarter, that portion of the city walled off for the residence ofthe Manchu garrison and their families. The hittim to which the quicklygathering crowd conduct me is found to be occupied by a ratherprepossessing female, who, however, looks frightened at my approach andshuts the door. Nor will she consent to open it again until reassured ofmy peaceful character by the lengthy explanation of the people outside, and a searching scrutiny of my person through a crack. After opening thedoor again, and receiving what I opine to be a statement of the financialpossibilities of the situation from some person who has heard fabulousaccounts of the Fankwaes' liberality, her apprehensiveness dissolves intoa smile of welcome and she motions for me to come in. The evening is chilly, and everybody is swollen out to ridiculousproportions by the numerous thick-quilted garments they are wearing. Allpresent, whether male or female, are likewise distinguished by abnormallyprotruding stomachs. Being Manchus, and therefore the accredited warriorsof the country, it occurs to ine that perhaps the fashionable fad amongthem is to pad out their stomachs in token of the possession ofextraordinary courage, the stomach being regarded by the Chinese as theseat of both courage and intelligence. In the absence of large stomachsprovided by nature, perhaps these proud Manchus come to the correction ofniggardly nature with wadding, as do various hollow-chested people in the"regions of mist and snow, " the dreary, sunless land whence cometh thegenus Fankwae. But are the females also ambitious to be regarded as warriors, Amazoniansoldiers, full of courage and warlike aspirations. As though in directreply to my mental queries, a woman standing by solves the problem for meat once by producing from beneath her garments a wicker-basket containinga jar of hot ashes; stirring the deadened coals up a little she replacesit, evidently attaching it to her garments underneath by a little hook. Among the hundreds of visitors that drop in to see the Fankwae and hisbicycle is an intelligent old officer who actually knows that the greatcountry of the Fankwaes is divided into different nationalities; eitherthat, or else he thinks the Fankwaes have another name, said name being"Ying-yun" (English). Some idea of the dense ignorance of the Chinese ofthe interior concerning the rest of the world may be gathered from thefact that this officer is the first person since leaving Chao-choo-foo, upon whom the word "Ying-yun" has not been wholly thrown away. Scenes of more than democratic equality and fraternity are witnessed inthis Manchu hittim, where silk-robed mandarins and uncouth ragamuffinsstand side by side and enjoy the luxury of seeing me take lessons in theuse of the chop-sticks. All through China one cannot fail to be impressedwith the freedom of intercourse between people of high and low degree;beggars with unwashed faces and disgusting sores and well-nigh nakedbodies stand and discuss my appearance and movements with mandarins ofhigh degree, without the least show of presumption on the one hand orcondescension on the other. Fully under the impression that Ki-ngan-foo has now peacefully come andpeacefully gone from the pale of my experiences, I follow along awfulstone paths next morning, leading across a level, cultivated country forseveral miles. Before long, however, a country of red clay hills andlimited cultivable depressions is reached, where well-worn foot-trailsover the natural soil afford more or less excellent going. In thisparticular district the women are observed to be all golden lilies, whereas the proportion of deformed feet in other rural districts has beenrather small. Seeing that deformed feet add fifty or a hundred per cent, to the social and matrimonial value of a Chinese female, one cannot helpapplauding the enterprise of the people in this district as compared tothe apathy existing on the same subject in some others. The comparativepoverty of their clayey undulations has doubtless awakened them to theopportunities of increasing values in other directions. Hence theyconvert all their female infants into golden lilies, for whom someprospective husband will be willing to pay a hundred dollars more than ifthey were possessed of vulgar extremities as provided by nature. The people hereabout seem unusually timid and alarmed at my strangeappearance; it is both laughable and painful to see the women hobble offacross the fields, frightened almost out of their wits. At times I canlook about me and, within a radius of five hundred yards, see twenty orthirty females, all with deformed feet, scuttling off toward the villageswith painful efforts at speed. One might well imagine them to be a colonyof crippled rabbits, alarmed at the approach of a dog, endeavoring tohobble away from his destructive presence. In the villages they seem equally apprehensive of danger, making itsomewhat difficult to obtain anything to eat. At one village where I haltfor refreshments the people scurry hastily into their houses at seeing mecoming, and peep timidly out again after I have passed. Leaning thebicycle against a wall, I proceed in search of something to eat. A basketof oranges first attracts my attention; they are setting just inside thedoor of a little shop. The two women in charge look scared nearly out oftheir wits as I appear at the door and point to the basket; both of themretreat pell-mell into a rear apartment, and, holding the door ajar, peepcuriously through to see what I am going to do. While my attention isdirected for a moment to something down the street, one daring soul dartsout and bears the basket of oranges triumphantly into the back room. Forthis heroic deed I beg to recommend this brave woman for the VictoriaCross; among the golden lilies of the Celestial Empire are no doubt manysuch brave souls, coequal with Grace Darling or the Maid of Saragossa. Baffled and out-generaled by this brilliant sortie, I meander down to theother end of the village and invade the premises of an old man engaged inchopping up a piece of pork with a cleaver. The gallant pork-butchergathers up the choicest parts of his meat and carries them into a rearroom; with a wary yet determined look in his eye he then returns, andproceeds to mince up the few remaining odds and ends. It is plainlyevident that he fancies himself in dangerous company, and is prepared todefend himself desperately with his meat-chopper in case he gets corneredup. Finally I discover a really courageous individual, in the person of a manpresiding over a peanut and treacle-cake establishment; this man, whileevidently uneasy in his mind, manfully steels his nerves to the task ofattending to my wants. Presently the people begin to gather at arespectful distance to watch me eat, and five minutes later, by ajudicious distribution of a few saucers of peanuts among the youngsters, I gain their entire confidence. About four o'clock in the afternoon my road once again brings me to aferry across the Kan-kiang. Just previous to reaching the river, I meeton the road eight men, carrying a sedan containing a hideous black idolabout twice as large as a man. A mile back from the ferry is anotherlarge walled city with a magnificent pagoda; this city I fondly imagineto be Lin-kiang, next on my map and itinerary to Ki-ngan-foo, and Imentally congratulate myself on the excellent time I have been making forthe last two days. Across the ferry are several official sampans with a number of boys gaylydressed in red and carrying old battle-axes; also a small squad ofsoldiers with bows and arrows. No sooner does the ferryman land me thanthe officer in charge of the party, with a wave of his hand in mydirection, orders a couple of soldiers to conduct me into the city; hisorder is given in an off-hand manner peculiarly Chinese, as though I werea mere unimportant cipher in the matter, whose wishes it really was notworth while to consult. The soldiers conduct me to the city and into theyamen or official quarter, where I am greeted with extreme courtesy by apleasant little officer in cloth top-boots and a pigtail that touches hisheels. He is one of the nicest little fellows I have met in China, allsmiles and bustling politeness and condescension; a trifle too much ofthe latter, perhaps, were we at all on an equality; but quite excusableunder the conditions of Celestial refinement and civilization on oneside, and untutored barbarism on the other. Having duly copied my passport (apropos of the Chinese doing almosteverything in a precisely opposite way to ourselves may be pointed outthe fact that, instead of attaching vises to the traveller's passport, like European nations, each official copies off the entire document), thelittle officer with much bowing and scraping leads the way back to theferry. My explanation that I am bound in the other direction elicitssundry additional bobbings of the head and soothing utterances andsmiles, but he points reassuringly to the ferry. Arriving at the river, the little officer is dumbfounded to discover that I have no sampan--thatI am not travelling by boat, but overland on the bicycle. Such apossibility had never entered his head; nor is it wonderful that itshould not, considering the likelihood that nobody, in all hisexperience, had ever travelled to Kui-kiang from here except by boat. Least of all would he imagine that a stray Fankwae should be travellingotherwise. At the ferry we meet the officer who first ordered the soldiers to takeme in charge, and who now accompanies us back to the yamen. Evidentlydesirous of unfathoming the mystery of my incomprehensible mode oftravelling through the country, these two officers spend much of theevening with me in the hittim smoking and keeping up an animated effortto converse. Notwithstanding my viceregal passport, the superior officervery plainly entertains suspicions as to my motives in undertaking thisjourney; his superficial politeness no more conceals his suspicions thana glass globe conceals a fish. Before they take their departure threeyameni-runners are stationed in my room to assume the responsibility formy safe-keeping during the night. An hour or so is spent waiting in the yamen next morning, apparently forthe gratification of visitors continually arriving. When the yamen iscrowded with people I am provided with a boiled fish and a pair ofchop-sticks. Witnessing the consumption of this fish by the Fankwae isthe finale of the "exhibition, " and candor compels me to chronicle thefact that it fairly brings down the house. It is a drizzly, disagreeable morning as I trundle out of the city gateover cobble-stones, made slippery by the rain. Walking before me is aslim young yameni-runner with a short bamboo-spear, and on his back awhite bull's-eye eighteen inches in diameter; he is bare-footed andbare-headed and bare-legged. In the poverty of his apparel, the all-roundcontempt of personal appearance and cleanliness, and the total absence ofindividual ambition, this young person reminds me forcibly of ourhappy-go-lucky friend Osman, in the garden at Herat. In striking contrast to him is the dandified individual who brings up therear, about ten paces behind the bicycle. He likewise is a yameni-runner, but of higher degree than his compatriot of the advance; instead of avulgar and rusty spear, he is armed with an oiled paper parasol, aflaming red article ornamented with blue characters and gilt women. Besides this gay mark of distinction and social superiority, he owns bothshoes and hat, carrying the former, however, chiefly in his hand; whenfairly away from town, he deliberately turns his red-braided jacketinside out to prevent it getting dirty. This transformation brings abouta change from the two white bull's-eyes, to big rings of stitching bywhich these distinguishing appendages are attached. A substantial meal of yams and pork is obtained at a way-sideeating-house, after which yet another evidence of the sybaritic tastes ofthe rear-guard comes to light, in the form of a beautiful jade-stoneopium pipe, with which he regales himself after chow-chow. He is, withal, possessed of more than average intelligence; it is from questioning himthat I learn the rather startling fact that, instead of having reachedLin-kiang, I have not yet even come to Ki-ngan-foo. Ta-ho is the name ofthe city we have just left, and Ki-ngan-foo is whither we are nowdirectly bound. The weather at noon becomes warm, and the luxurious personage at the reardelivers his parasol, and shoes, and jade-stone pipe over to the slenderand lissom advance guard to carry, to spare himself the weariness oftheir weight. Tea and tid-bit houses are plentiful, and stoppages forrefreshing ourselves frequent. The rear guard assumes considerabledignity when in the presence of a crowd of sore-eyed rustics; he chidestheir ill-bred giggling at my appearance and movements by telling them, no matter how funny I appear to them here, I am a mandarin in my owncountry. After hearing this the crowd regard me with even more curiosity;but their inquisitiveness is now heavily freighted with respect. Some of the costumes of the women in this region are very pretty andcharacteristic, and many of the females are themselves not devoid ofbeauty, as beauty goes among the Mongols. Particularly do I notice oneto-day, whose tiny, doll-like extremities are neatly bound with red, blue, and green ribbon; her face is a picture of refinement, herhead-dress a marvel of neatness and skill, and her whole manner andmake-up attractive. Unlike her timid and apprehensive sisters ofyesterday, she sees nothing in me to be afraid of; on the contrary, shecomes and sits beside ine on the bench and makes herself at home with thepeanuts and sweets I purchase, and laughs merrily when I offer to giveher a ride on the bicycle. The sun is sinking behind the mountains to the west when we approach thecity of Ki-ngan-foo, its northern extremity marked by a very ancientpagoda now rapidly crumbling to decay. The city forms a crescent on thewest bank of the Kan-kiang, the main street running parallel with theriver for something like half a mile before terminating at the walls ofthe Manchu quarter. The fastidious gentleman at the rear has betrayed symptoms of a veryuneasy state of mind during the afternoon, and now, as he halts theprocession a moment to turn the bull's-eye side of his coat outward, andto put on his shoes, he gives me a puzzled, sorrowful look and shakes hishead dolefully. The trickiness of former acquaintances causes me tomisinterpret this display of emotion into an hypocritical assumption ofsorrow at the near prospect of our parting company, with ulterior designson the nice long strings of tsin he knows to be in my leathern case. Itsoon becomes evident, however, that trouble of some kind is anticipatedin Ki-ngan-foo, for he points to my revolver and then to the city andsolemnly shakes his head. The crescent water-front, the broad blue river and white sand, the plaindotted with smiling villages opposite, the tall pagodas, the swarms ofsampans with their quaint sails, form the composite parts of a verypretty and striking picture, as seen from the northern tip of thecrescent. Near the old ruined pagoda the rear-guard points in an indifferent sortof a way to a substantial brick edifice surmounted by a plain woodencross. Ah! a Jesuit mission, so help me Pius IX! now shall I meet somegenial old French priest, who will make me comfortable for the night andenlighten me in regard to my bearings, distances, and other subjectsabout which I am in a very thick fog. Instead of the fifty miles fromKan-tchou-foo to Ki-ngan-foo indicated on my map, it has proved to beconsiderably over a hundred. The sole occupant of the building, however, is found to be a fat, monkish-looking Chinaman, who knows never a word of either French orpidgeon English. He says he knows Latin, but for all the benefit thisworthy accomplishment is to me he might as well know nothing but his ownlanguage. He informs me, by an expressive motion of the hand, that themissionaries have departed; whether gone to their everlasting reward, however, or only on a temporary flight, his pantomimic language fails torecord. Subsequently I learn that they were compelled to flee thecountry, owing to the hostility aroused by the operations of the Frenchin Tonquin. Instead of extending that cordial greeting and consideration one wouldnaturally expect from a converted Chinaman whose Fankwae accomplishmentssoar to the classic altitude of Latin, the Celestial convert seems ratheranxious to get rid of me; he is evidently on pins and needles for fear mypresence should attract a mob to the place and trouble result therefrom. As we proceed down the street my appearance seems to stir the populationup to a pitch of wild excitement. Merchants dart in and out of theirshops, people in rags, people in tags, and people in gorgeous apparel, buzz all about me and flit hither and thither like a nest of stirred-upwasps. If curiosity has seemed to be rampant in other cities it passesall the limits of Occidental imagination in Ki-ngau-foo. Upon seeing meeverybody gives utterance to a peculiar spontaneous squeak of surprise, reminding me very much of the monkeys' notes of alarm in the tree-topsalong the Grand Trunk road, India. One might easily imagine the very lives of these people dependent upontheir success in obtaining a glimpse of my face. Well-dressed citizensrush hastily ahead, stoop down, and peer up into my face as I trundlepast, with a determination to satisfy their curiosity that our languageis totally inadequate to describe, and which our temperament rendersequally difficult for us to understand. By the time we are half-way along the street the whole city seems in wildtumult. Men rush ahead, peer into my face, deliver themselves of theabove-mentioned peculiar squeak, and run hastily down some convergentalley-way. Stall-keepers quickly gather up their wares, and shop-keepersfrantically snatch their goods inside as they hear the tumult and see themob coming down the street. The excitement grows apace, and the samewanton cries of "Fank-wae. Fankwae!" that followed me throughKan-tchou-foo are here repeated with wild whoops and exultant cries. Onewould sometimes think that all the devils of Dante's "Inferno" had gotteninto the crowd and set them wild with the spirit of mischief. By this time the yameni-runners are quaking with fear; he of the paperparasol and jade-stone pipe walks beside me, convulsively clutching myarm, and with whiningly anxious voice shouts out orders to hissubordinate. In response to these orders the advance-guard now and thenhurries forward and peeps around certain corners, as though expectingsome hidden assailants. Thus far, although the symptoms of trouble have been gradually assumingmore and more alarming proportions, there has been nothing worse thandemoniacal howls. The chief reason of this, however, it now appears, hasbeen the absence of loose stones, for no sooner do we enter an inferiorquarter where loose stones and bricks are scattered about, than they comewhistling about our ears. The poor yameni-runners shout deprecatingly atthe mob; in return the mob loudly announce their intention of workingdestruction upon my unoffending head. Fortunately for me that head ispretty thoroughly hidden beneath the thick pith thatch-work of my Indiansolar topee, otherwise I should have succumbed to the first fusillade ofstones at the instance of a cracked pate. Stones that would have knockedme out of time in the first round rattle harmlessly on the 3/4-inch pithhelmet, the generous proportions of which effectually protect head andneck from harm. Once, twice, it is knocked off by a stone striking it onthe brim, but it never reaches the ground before being recovered andjammed more firmly than ever in its place. Things begin to look prettydesperate as we approach the gate of the Manchu quarter; an immense crowdof people have hurried down back streets and collected at this gate;fancying they are there for the hostile purpose of heading us off, I comevery near dodging into an open door way with a view of defending myselftill the yameni-runners could summon the authorities. There is no timefor second thought, however; precious little time, in fact, for anythingbut to keep my helmet in its place and hurry along with the bicycle. Theyameni-runners repeatedly warn the crowd that I am armed with atop-fanchee (revolver); this, doubtless, prevents them from closing in onus, and keeps their aggressive spirit within certain limits. A moment's respite is happily obtained at the Manchu gate; the crowdgathered there in advance are comparatively peaceful, and the mob, for amoment, seem to hesitate about following us inside. Making the most ofthis opportunity, we hurry forward toward the yamen, which, I afterwardlearn, is still two or three hundred yards distant. Ere fifty yards arecovered the mob come pouring through the gate, yelling like demons andpicking up stones as they hurry after us. "A horse, a horse, my kingdomfor a horse. " or, what would suit me equally as well, a short piece ofsmooth road in lieu of break-neck cobble-stones. Again are we overtaken and bombarded vigorously; ignorant of the distanceto the yamen, I again begin looking about for some place in which toretreat for defensive purposes, unwilling to abandon the bicycle todestruction and seek doubtful safety in flight. At this juncture a brickstrikes the unfortunate rear-guard on the arm, injuring that memberseverely, and quickening the already badly frightened yameni-runners tothe urgent necessity of bringing matters to an ending somehow. Pointing forward, they persist in dragging me into a run. Thus far I havebeen very careful to preserve outward composure, feeling sure that anydemonstration of weakness on my part would surely operate to mydisadvantage. The runners' appealing cries of "Yameni! yameni!" however, prove that we are almost there, and for fifty or seventy-five yards wescurry along before the vengeful storm of stones and pursuing mob. As I anticipated, our running only increases the exultation of the mob, and ere we get inside the yamen gate the foremost of them are upon us. Two or three of the boldest spirits seize the bicycle, though themajority are evidently afraid I might turn loose on them with thetop-fanchee. We are struggling to get loose from these few determinedruffians when the officials of the yamen, hearing the tumult, comehurrying to our rescue. The only damage done is a couple of spokes broken out of the bicycle, anumber of trifling bruises about my body, a badly dented helmet, and theyameni-runner's arm rather severely hurt. When fairly inside and awayfrom danger the pent-up feelings of the advance-guard escape in silenttears, and his superior of the jade-stone pipe sits down and mournfullybemoans his wounded arm. This arm is really badly hurt, probably hassustained a slight fracture of the bone, judging from its unfortunateowner's complaints. The Che-hsein, as I believe the chief magistrate is titled, greets mewhile running out with his subordinates, with reassuring cries of "S-s-o, s-s-o, s-s-o, s-s-o, " repeated with extraordinary rapidity between shoutsof deprecation to the mob. The mob seem half inclined to pursue us eveninside the precincts of the yamen, but the authoritative voice of theChe-hsein restrains their aggressiveness within partly governablemeasure; nevertheless, in spite of his presence, showers of stones arehurled into the yamen so long as I remain in sight. As quickly as possible the Che-hsein ushers me into his own office, wherehe quickly proves himself a comparatively enlightened individual byarching his eyebrows and propounding the query, "French?" "Ying-yun, " Ireply, feeling the advantage of being English or American, rather thanFrench, more appreciably perhaps than I have ever done before or since. This question of the Che-hsein's at once reveals a gleam of explanatorylight concerning the hostility of the people. For aught I know to thecontrary it may be but a few days ago since the Jesuit missionaries werecompelled to flee for their lives. The mob cannot be expected todistinguish between French and English; to the average Celestial we ofthe Western world are indiscriminately known as Fankwaes, or foreigndevils; even to such an enlightened individual as the Che-hsein himselfthese divisions of the Fankwae race are but vaguely understood. After satisfying himself by questioning the yameni-runners, that I amwithout companions or other baggage save the bicycle, the Che-hseinferrets out a bottle of samshoo and tenders me a liberal allowance in atea-cup. This is evidently administered with the kindly intention ofquieting my nerves, which he imagines to be unstrung from the alarminglyrough treatment at the hands of his riotous townmen. Riotous they are, beyond a doubt, for even as the Che-hsein pours out thesamshoo the clamorous howls of "Fankwae. Fankwae. " seem louder than everat the gates. Now and then, as the tumult outside seems to be increasing, the Che-hsein writes big red characters on flat bamboo-staves and sendsit out by an officer to be read to the mob; and occasionally, as he sitsand listens attentively to the clamor, as though gauging the situation bythe volume of the noise, he addresses himself to me with a soothing andreassuring "S-s-o, s-s-o, s-s-o, s-o. " Shortly after my arrival the worthy-minded Che-hsein knits his brow for amoment in a profound study, and then, lightening up suddenly, delivershimself of "No savvy, " a choice morsel of pidgeon English that he hassomehow acquired. This is the full extent of his knowledge, however; but, feeble glimmer of my own mother tongue though it be, it sounds quitecheery amid the wilderness wild of Celestial gabble in the office. Foralthough the shackles of authority hold in check the murderous mob, howling for my barbarian gore outside, a constant stream of officials andtheir friends are admitted to see me and the bicycle. In making an examination of the bicycle, the peculiar "Ki-ngan-foosqueak" finds spontaneous expression at every new surprise. A man entersthe room, peers wonderingly into my face-squeak!--comes closer, and looksagain--squeak!--notices the peculiar cut of my garments--squeak!--observesmy shoes--squeak!--sees helmet on table--squeak!--sees thebicycle--squeak!--goes and touches it--squeak!--finds out that the pedalstwirl round--squeak! and thus he continues until he has seen everythingand squeaked at everything; he then takes a lingering survey of the roomto satisfy himself that nothing has been overlooked, gives a partingsqueak, and leaves the room. The Che-hsein provides me with a chicken, boiled whole, head included, for supper, and consumes his own meal at the same time. The differencebetween the Che-hsein, eating little prepared meatballs and rice, withgilded chop-sticks, and myself tearing the spraggly-looking roosterasunder and gnawing the drum-sticks greedily with my teeth, no doubtreadily appeals to the interested lookers-on as an instructive picture ofChinese civilization and outer barbarism as depicted in our respectivemodes of eating, side by side. More than once during the evening the tumult at the gate swells into afierce hubbub, as though pandemonium had broken loose, and theblood-thirsty mob were determined to fetch me out. Every minute, at theseperiodical outbursts, I expect to see them come surging in through thedoorway. A sociable young man, whose chief concern is to keep me suppliedwith pipes and tea, explains, with the aid of a taper, that the crowd aredesirous of burning me alive. This cheerful piece of information, thesociable young man imparts with a characteristic Chinese chuckle ofamusement; the thought of a Fankwae squirming and sizzling in the oil-fedflames touches the chord of his risibilities, and makes him gigglemerrily. The Che-hsein himself occasionally goes out and harangues theexcited mob, the authoritative tones of his voice being plainly heardabove the squabbling and yelling. It must be near about midnight when the excitement has finally subsided, and the mob disperse to their homes. Six yameni-runners then file intothe room, paper umbrellas slung at their backs in green cloth cases, andstout bamboo quarter-staves in hand. The Che-hsein gives them theirorders and delivers a letter into the hands of the officer in charge; hethen bids me prepare to depart, bidding me farewell with much politebowing and scraping, and sundry memorable "chin-chins. " A closely covered palanquin is waiting outside the door; into this I amconducted and the blinds carefully drawn. A squad of men with flamingtorches, the Che-hsein, and several officials lead the way, maintaininggreat secrecy and quiet; stout carriers hoist the palanquin to theirshoulders and follow on behind; others bring up the rear carrying thebicycle. Back through the Manchu quarter and out of the gate again our littlecavalcade wends its way, the officials immediately about the palanquinaddressing one another in undertones; back, part way along the samestreet which but a few short hours ago resounded with the hoots and yellsof the mischievous mob, down a long flight of steps, and the palanquin isresting at the end of a gang-plank leading aboard a littlepassenger-sampan. The worthy Che-hsein bows and scrapes and chin-chins mealong this gang-plank, the bicycle is brought aboard, the sixyameni-runners follow suit, and the boat is poled out into the river. Thesquad of torch-bearers are seen watching our progress until we are wellout into the middle of the stream, and the officer in charge of my littleguard stands out and signals them with his lantern, notifying them, Isuppose, that all is well. One would imagine, from their actions, thatthey were apprehensive of our sampan being pursued or ambushed by somedetermined party. And yet the scene, as we drift noiselessly along withthe current, looks lovely and peaceful as the realms of the blest; thecrescent moon, the shimmering water--and the slowly receding lights of thecity; what danger can there possibly be in so quiet and peaceful a sceneas this? By daylight we are anchored before another walled city, which I think isKi-shway, a city of considerable pretentions as to wall, but full ofsocial and moral rottenness and commercial decadence within, judging, atleast, from outward appearances. Few among the crowds that are permittedfree access to the yamen here do not betray, in unmistakable measure, thesins of former generations; while, as regards trade, half the place is ina ruinous, tumble-down condition. The mandarin here is a fleshy, old-fashioned individual, with thick lipsand an expression of great good humor. He provides me with a substantialbreakfast of rice and pork, and fetches his wife and children in to enjoythe exhibition of a Fankwae feeding, likewise permitting the crowd tolook in through the doors and windows. He is a phlegmatic, easy-goingCelestial, and occupies about two hours copying my passport and writing aletter. At the end of this time he musters a squad of twelve retainers infaded red uniforms and armed with rusty pikes, who lead the way back tothe river, followed by three yameni-runners, equipped, as usual, eachwith an umbrella and a small string of tsin to buy their food. Thegentlemen with the mediaeval weapons accompany us to the river and keepthe crowd from pressing too closely upon us until I and theyameni-runners board a Ki shway sampan that is to convey me to the nextdown-stream city. It now becomes apparent that my bicycling experiences in China are aboutending, and that the authorities have determined upon passing me down theKan-kiang by boat to the Yang-tsi-kiang. I am to be passed on from cityto city like a bale of merchandise, delivered and receipted for from dayto day. A few miles down stream we overtake a fleet of some twenty war-junks, presenting a most novel and interesting sight, crowded as each one iswith the gayest of flags and streaming pennants galore. The junks arecumbersome enough, in all conscience, as utterly useless for purposes ofmodern warfare as the same number of floating hogsheads; yet withal theymake a gallant sight, the like of which is to be seen nowhere these daysbut on the inland waters of China. Each junk is propelled by a crew offourteen oarsmen, dressed in uniforms corresponding in color to thetriangular flags that flutter gayly in the breeze at the stern. Not theleast interesting part of the spectacle are these same oarsmen, as theyply. Their long unwieldy sweeps in admirable unison; the sleeves of theircoats are almost as broad as the body of the garment, and at every sweepof the oar these all flap up and down together in a manner most comicalto behold. All day long our modest little sampan keeps company with this gay fleet, giving me an excellent opportunity of witnessing its manoeuvres. Saidmanoeuvres and evolutions consist of more or less noisy greetings anddemonstrations at every town and village we pass. In the case of a smalltown, a number of pikemen and officials assemble on the shore, erect afew flags, hammer vigorously on a resonant gong, shout out some sing-songgreeting and shoot off a number of bombs and fire-crackers. The foremostvessel of the fleet replies to these noisy compliments by a salute of itsone gun, and mayhap throws in two or three bombs, according to theliberality of the salutation ashore. At the larger towns the amount of gunpowder burned and noise created issomething wonderful. Bushels of fire-crackers are snapping and rattlingaway, the while gongs are beating, bombs exploding by the score, andsalvoes of artillery are making the mountains echo, from every vessel inthe fleet. Beneath the walls of a town we pass soon after noon are rangedfifteen other junks; as the fleet passes, these vessels simultaneouslydischarge all their guns, while at the same instant there burst upon thestartled air detonations from hundreds of bombs, big heaps offirecrackers, and the din of many resonant gongs. Not to be outdone, thefleet of twenty return the compliment in kind, and with cheers from thecrews thrown in for interest. The fifteen now join the procession, adding volume and picturesquenessto the already wonderfully pretty scene, by their hundreds ofbrilliant-hued banners, and theatrically costumed oarsmen. About fouro'clock, as we are approaching the city of Hat-kiang, our destination forthe day, there comes to meet the gallant navy a pair of twin vesselssurpassing all the others in the gorgeousness of their flags and thepicturesqueness of the costumes. Purple is the prevailing color of bothflags and crew. At their splendid appearance our yameni-runners announcein tones of enthusiasm and admiration that these new-comers hail fromLin-kiang, a large city down stream, that I fancied, it will beremembered, having reached at Ta-ho. The officials are still abed when, in the early morning of the third day, we reach Sin-kiang, and repair to the yamen. A large crowd, however, gather and follow us from the market-place, swelling gradually byreenforcements to a multitude that surges in and out of the shanty-likeoffice in such swarms that the frail board walls bulge and crack with thepressure. When the crowd overwhelm the place entirely, the officialsclear them out by angry gesticulations and moral suasion, sometimesmenacingly shaking the end of their own queues at them as though theywere wielding black-snake whips. Having driven them out, no furthernotice is taken of them, so they immediately begin swarming in again, until the room is again inundated, when they are again driven out. The permitting of this ebbing and flowing of the multitude into theofficial quarters is something quite incomprehensible to me; the mob isswayed and controlled--as far as they are controlled at all--without anyorganized effort of those in authority; when the officials commencescreaming angrily at them they begin moving out; when the shouting ceasesthey begin swarming back. Thus in the course of an hour the room will, perchance, be filled and emptied with angry remonstrance half a dozentimes, when, from our own stand-point, a couple of men stationed at thedoor with authority to keep them out would prevent all the bother andannoyance. Sure enough the Chinaman is "a peculiar little cuss, " whetherseen at home or abroad. If the inhabitants of Ki-shway are scrofulous, sore-eyed, and mangy, theyare at least an improvement on the disgusting state of the public healthat Sin-kiang, as revealed in the lamentable condition of the crowd at theyamen and in the markets. Scarcely is it possible to single out a humanbeing of sound and healthful appearance from among them all. Everybodyhas sore eyes, some have horribly diseased scalps, sores on face andbody, and all the horrible array of acquired and hereditary diseases. One's hair stands on end almost at the thought of being among them, tosay nothing of eating in their presence, and of their own cooking. Of mynew escort from Sin-kiang all three have dreadfully sore eyes, and onewretched mortal is as piebald as a circus pony, from head to foot, withthe leprosy. Added to these recommendations, they have the manners andinstincts of swine rather than of human beings. The same sampan is re-engaged to convey us farther down stream; beneaththe housing of bamboo-mats, the rice-chaff leaves barely room for us tocrowd in and huddle together from the rain and cold prevailing outside. The worst the elements can do, however, is far preferable to personalcontact with these vile creatures; and so I don my blanket and gossamerrubbers, and sit out in the rain. The rain ceases and the chilly nightair covers everything with a coating of hoar-frost, but all this isnothing compared with the horrible associations inside, the reeking fumesof opium and tobacco adding yet another abomination to be remembered. At early morn we land and pursue our way for a few miles across countryto Lin-kiang, which is situated on a big tributary stream a few milesabove its junction with the Kan-kiang. Our way loads through a rich stripof low country, sheltered and protected from inundations by an extensivesystem of dykes. Here we pass through orchards of orange-trees bristlingwith the small blood-red mandarin oranges; we help ourselves freely fromthe trees, for their great plenteousness makes them of very little value. On the stalls they can be purchased six for one cent; like the people inthe great peanut producing country below Nam-hung, the cheapness andabundance of oranges here seems an inducement for the people to almostsubsist thereon. Everybody is either buying, stealing, selling, packing, gathering, carrying, or eating oranges; coolies are staggering Lin-kiang-wardbeneath big baskets of newly plucked fruit, and others are conveying themin wheelbarrows; boats are being loaded for conveyance along the river. Every orange-tree is distinguished by white characters painted on itstrunk, big enough so that those who run may read the rightful owner'sname and take warning accordingly. Three more wearisome but eventful days, battling against adverse winds, and we come to anchor in a little slough, where a war-junk and severalfishing vessels are already moored for the night. While supper ispreparing I pass the time promenading back and forth along a littlefoot-trail leading for a short distance round the shore. The crew of thewar-vessel are engaged in drying freshwater shrimps, tiny minnows, andother drainings and rakings of the water to store away for future use. One of the younger officers stalks back and forth along the same path asmyself, brusquely maintaining the road whenever we meet, evidently benton showing off his contempt for the boasted prowess of the Fankwaes, bycompelling me to step to one side. His demeanor is that of a bullystalking about with the traditional chip on his shoulder, daring me tocome and knock it off. Considering the circumstances about us, this is awonderfully courageous performance on his part; nothing but his ignoranceof my Smith & Wesson can explain his temerity in assuming a bellicoseattitude with only one man-of-war at his back. Out of consideration forthis ignorance, I studiously avoid interfering with the chip. At length the river-voyage comes to an end at Wu-chang, on the PoyangHoo, when I am permitted to proceed overland with an escort to Kui-kiang. Spending the last night at a village inn, we pursue our way over awfulbowlder paths next morning, for several miles; over a low mountain-passand down the northern slope to a level plain. A towering white pagoda isobservable in the distance ahead; thia the yameni-runner says isKui-kiang. At a little way-side tea-house, I find Christmas numbers ofthe London Graphic pasted on the walls; yet with all this, so utterlyunreliable has my information heretofore been, and so often have my hopesand expectations turned out disappointing, that I am almost afraid tobelieve the evidence of my own senses. The Graphic pictures are of theChristmas pantomimes; the good woman of the tea-house points out to methe tremendous noses, the ear-to-ear mouths, and the abnormal growths ofchin therein depicted, with much amusement; "Fankwae, " she says, "te-he, te-he, " apparently fancying them genuine representations of certain typesof that queer, queer people. The paths improve, and soon I see the smoke of a steamer on the Yang-tsithan which, it is needless to say, no more welcome sight has greeted myvision the whole world round. Only the smoke is seen, rising above thecity; it cannot be a steamer, it is too good to be possible! this isn'tKui-kiang; this is another wretched disappointment, the smoke is someChinese house on fire! Not until I get near enough to distinguish flagson the consulates, and the crosses on the mission churches, do I permitmyself fully to believe that I am at last actually looking at Kui-kiang, the city that I have begun to think a delusion and a snare, an ignisfatuus that was dancing away faster than I was approaching. The sight of all these unmistakable proofs that I am at last biddingfarewell to the hardships, the horrible filth, the soul-harrowing crowds, the abominable paths, and the ever-present danger and want ofconsideration; that in a little while all these will be a dream of thepast, gives wings to my wheel wherever it can be mounted, and ridden. Theyameni-runner is left far behind, and I have already engaged a row-boatto cross the little lake in the rear of the city, and the boatman isalready pulling me to the "Ying-yun, " when the poor yameni-runner comeshurrying up and shouts frantically for me to come back and fetch him. Knowing that the man has to take back his receipt I yield to his request, follow him first to the Kui-kiang yamen, and from thence proceed to theEnglish consulate. Captain McQuinn, of the China Steam NavigationCompany's steamer Peking, and the consulate doctor see me riding down thesmooth gravelled bund, followed by a crowd of delighted Celestials. "Hello! are you from Canton" they sing out in chorus. "Well, well, well!nobody expected to ever see anything of you again; and so you got throughall safe, eh?" "What's the matter? you look bad about the eyes, " says the observantdoctor, upon shaking hands; "you look haggard and fagged out. " Upon surveying myself in a mirror at the consulate I can see that thedoctor is quite justified in his apprehensions. Hair long, face unshavedfor five weeks, thin and gaunt-looking from daily hunger, worry, and harddues generally, I look worse than a hunted greyhound. I look far worse, however, than I feel; a few days' rest and wholesome fare will workwonders. An appetizing lunch of cold duck, cheese, and Bass's ale is quicklyprovided by Mr. Everard, the consul, who seems very pleased that theaffair at Ki-ngan-foo ended without serious injury to anybody. The Peking starts for Shanghai in an hour after my arrival; a warm bath, a shave, and a suit of clothes, kindly provided by pilot King, bringsabout something of a transformation in my appearance. Bountiful meals, clean, springy beds, and elegantly fitted cabins, form an impressivecontrast to my life aboard the sampans on the Kan-kiang. The genii ofAladdin's lamp could scarcely execute any more marvellous change thanthat from my quarters and fare and surroundings at the village hittim, where my last night on the road from Canton was spent, and my first nightaboard the elegant and luxurious Peking, only a day later. A pleasant run down the Yang-tsi-kiang to Shanghai, and I arrive at thatcity just twenty-four hours before the Japanese steamer, Yokohama Maru, sails for Nagasaki. Taking passage aboard it leaves me but one brief dayin the important and interesting city of Shanghai, during which time Ihave to purchase a new outfit of clothes, see about money matters, andwhat not. CHAPTER XIX. THROUGH JAPAN. An uneventful run of two days, and the Yokohama Maru steams into thebeautiful harbor of Nagasaki. The change from the filth of a Chinese cityto Nagasaki, clean as if it had all just been newly scoured andvarnished, is something delightful. One gets a favorable impression ofthe Japs right away; much more so, doubtless, by coming direct from Chinathan in any other way. Two days of preparation and looking about leavesalmost a pang of regret at having to depart so soon. The American consulhere, Mr. B, is a very courteous gentleman; to him and Mr. M, an Americangentleman, instructor in the Chinese navy, I am indebted for anexhibition of the geisha dance, and many other courtesies. Having duly supplied myself with Japanese paper-money--ten, five, and oneyen notes; fractional currency of fifty, twenty, and ten sen notes, besides copper sen for tea and fruit at road-side teahouses, on Tuesdaymorning, November 23d, I start on my journey of eight hundred milesthrough lovely Nippon to Yokohama. Captain F and Mr. B, the American consul, have come to the hotel to seeme off. A showery night has made the roads a trifle muddy. Through thelong, neat-looking streets of Nagasaki, into a winding road, past crowdedhill-side cemeteries, adorned with queer stunted trees and quaint designsin flowers, I ride, followed by wondering eyes and a running fire ofcurious comments from the Japs. Nagasaki lies at the shoreward base of a range of hills, over a passcalled the Himi-toge, which my road climbs immediately upon leaving thecity. A good road is maintained over the pass, and an office establishedthere to collect toll from travellers and people bringing produce intoNagasaki. The aged and polite toll-collector smiles and bows at me as Itrundle innocently past his sentry-box-like office up the steep incline, hoping that I may take the hint and spare him the necessity of telling methe nature of his duty. My inexperience of Japanese tolls and roads, however, renders his politeness inoperative, and, after allowing me toget past, duty compels him to issue forth and explain. A wooden ticketcontaining Japanese characters is given me in exchange for a few tinycoins. This I fancy to be a passport for another toll-place higher up. Subsequently, however, I learn it to be a return ticket, the oldtoll-keeper very naturally thinking I would return, by and by, toNagasaki. Ponies and buffaloes, laden with baskets of rice, fodder, firewood, andvarious agricultural products, are encountered on the pass, in charge ofJapanese rustics in broad bamboo-hats, red blankets, bare legs, and strawsandals, who lead their charges by long halter-ropes. Both horses andbuffaloes are shod with shoes of the same unsubstantial material as themen. When the Japanese traveller sets out on a journey, he provideshimself with a new pair of straw sandals; these last him for a tramp offrom ten to twenty miles, according to the nature of the road. When wornout, his foot-gear may be readily renewed at any village for a mere song. The same may be said of his horse or buffalo, although several extrashoes are generally carried along in case of need. The summit of the pass is distinguished by a very deep cutting throughthe ridge rock of the mountain, and a series of successive sharp turnsback and forth along narrow-terraced gardens and fields bring the roaddown into the valley of a clear little stream, called the Himi-gawa. Smooth, hard roads follow along this purling rivulet, now and thencrossing it on a stone or wooden bridge. A small estuary, reaching inlandlike a big bite out of a cake, is passed, and the pretty little villageof Yagami reached for dinner. The eating-house, like nearly all Japaneseeating-places, is neat and cleanly, the brown wood-work being fairlypolished bright from floor to ceiling. Sitting down on the edge of the raised floor, I am approached by thelandlady, who kneels down and bows her forehead to the floor. Herpoliteness is very charming, and her smile would no doubt be more or lesswinsome were it not for the hideous blackening of the teeth. Blackenedteeth is the distinguishing mark between maid and matron in the flowerykingdom of the Mikados. The teeth are stained black at marriage, andhenceforth a smile that heretofore displayed rows of small white ivories, and perchance was fairly bewitching, becomes positively repulsive to theWestern mind. Fish and rice (sakana and meshi) are the most readily obtainable thingsto eat at a Japanese hotel, and often form the only bill of fare. Sake, or rice-beer, is usually included in the Jap's own meal, but the averageEuropean traveller at first prefers limiting his beverage to tea. Thesake is served up in big-necked bottles of cheap porcelain holding abouta pint. The bottle is set for a few minutes in boiling water to warm thesake, the Japs preferring to drink it warm. Sake is more like spiritsthan beer, an honest alcoholic production from rice that soon recommendsitself to the European palate, though rather offensive at first. Every tea-house along the road is made doubly attractive by prettilydressed attendants-smiling girls who come out and invite passingtravellers to rest and buy tea and refreshments. Their solicitations arechiefly winsome smiles and polite bows and the cheerful greeting "O-ai-o"(the Japanese "how do you do"). A tiny teapot, no larger than those thelittle girls at home play at "keeping house" with, and shell-like cup tomatch, is brought on a lacquered tray and placed before one, withcharming grace, if a halt is made at one of these tea-houses. Persimmons, sweets, cakes, and various tid-bits are temptingly arrayed on the slopingstand in front. The most trifling purchase is rewarded with an exhibitionof good-nature and politeness worth many times the money. About sunset I roll into the smooth, clean streets of Omura, a good-sizedtown, and seek the accommodation of a charming yadoya (inn) pointed outby a youth in semi-European clothes, who seems bubbling over withpleasure at the opportunity of rendering me this slight assistance. Aroom is assigned me upstairs, a mat spread for me to recline on, by apolite damsel, who touches her forehead to the floor both when she makesher appearance and her exit. Having got me comfortably settled down withthe customary service of tea, sweets, little boxed brazier of livecharcoal, spittoon, etc. , the proprietor, his wife, and daughter, allcome up and prostrate themselves after the most approved fashion. After all the salaaming and deferentiality experienced in other Easterncountries, one still cannot help being impressed with the spectacle ofseveral grotesque Japs bowing before one's seated figure like Hindoosprostrating themselves before some idol With any other people than theJaps this lowly attitude would seem offensively servile; but theseinimitable people leave not the slightest room for thinking their actionsobsequious. The Japs are a wonderful race; they seem to be the happiestpeople going, always smiling and good-natured, always polite and gentle, always bowing and scraping. After a bountiful supper of several fishy preparations and rice, thelandlord bobs his head to the floor, sucks his breath through the teethafter the peculiar manner of the Japs when desirous of being excessivelypolite, and extends his hands for my passport. This the yadoya proprietoris required to take and have examined at the police station, provided nopoliceman calls for it at the house. The Japanese Government, in its efforts to improve the institutions ofthe country, has introduced systems of reform from various countries. Commissions were sent to the different Western countries to examine andreport upon the methods of education, police, army, navy, postal matters, judiciary, etc. What was believed to be the best of the various systemswas then selected as the model of Japan's new departure and adoption ofWestern civilization. Thus the police service is modelled from theFrench, the judiciary from the English, the schools after the Americanmethods, etc. Having inaugurated these improvements, the Japs seemdetermined to follow their models with the same minute scrupulosity theyexhibit in copying material things. There is probably as little use forelaborate police regulations in Japan as in any country under the sun;but having chosen the splendid police service of France to pattern by, they can now boast of having a service that lacks nothing ineffectiveness. A very good road, with an avenue of fine spreading conifers of some kind, leads out of Omura. To the left is the bay of Omura, closely skirted attimes by the road. At one place is observed an inland temple, connectedwith the mainland by a causeway of rough rock. The little island iscovered with dark pines and jagged rocks, amid which the Japs haveperched their shrine and erected a temple. Both the Chinese and Japs seemfond of selecting the most romantic spots for their worship and theerection of religious edifices. The day is warm, and a heavy shower during the night has made the roadheavy in places, although much of it is clean gravel that is not injuredby the rain. Over hill and down dale the ku-ruma road leads to Ureshino, a place celebrated for its mineral springs and bath. On the way onepasses through charming little ravines, where tiny cataracts cometumbling down the sides of moss-grown precipices, a country of prettythatched cottages, temples, groves, and purling rivulets. On the streams are numerous rice-hulling machines, operated by theingenious manipulation of the water. In a little hut is a mortarcontaining the rice. Attached to a pivot is a long beam having a pestleat one end and a trough at the other. The pestle is made to fall upon therice in the mortar by the filling and automatic emptying of the troughoutside. The trough, filling with water, drops down and empties of itsown weight; this causes the opposite end to fall suddenly. This operationrepeats itself about every two seconds through the day. The gravelly hills about Ureshino are devoted to the cultivation of tea;the green tea-gardens, with the undulating, even rows of thick shrubs, looking very beautiful where they slope to the foot of the bare rockycliffs. Ureshino and the baths are some little distance off the main roadto Shimonoseki; so, not caring particularly to go there, I continue on tothe village of Takio, where rainy weather compels a halt of severalhours. Everything is so delightfully superior, as compared with China, that the Japanese village yadoya seems a veritable paradise during thesefirst days of my acquaintance with them. Life at a Chinese village hittimfor a week would well-nigh unseat the average Anglo-Saxon's reason, whereas he might spend the same time very pleasantly in a Japanesecountry inn. The region immediately around Takio is not only naturallylovely, but is embellished by little artificial lakes, islands, grottoes, and various landscape novelties such as the Japs alone excel in. An eight-wire telegraph line threads the road from Takio to Ushidzu, passing through numerous villages that almost form a continuous streetfrom one town to the other. As one notices such improvements, and seesthe police and telegraph officials in trim European uniforms seated intheir neat offices, an American clock invariably on the wall within, and, moreover, notes the uniform friendliness of the people, it is difficultto imagine that thirty years ago one would have been in more dangertravelling through here than through China. Passing through the mainstreets of Ushidzu in search of the best yadoya, I am accosted by amiddle-aged woman with, "Hello! you wanchee room? wanchee chow-chow. " Hermother keeps a yadoya, she tells me, and leads the way thither, chattinggayly in pidgeon English, all the way. She seems very pleased at theopportunity to exercise her little stock of broken English, and tells meshe learned it at Shanghai, where she once resided for a couple of yearsin an English family. Her name, she says, is O-hanna, but her Englishfriends used to call her Hannah, without the prefix. Understanding fromexperience what I would be most likely to appreciate for supper, sherustles around and prepares a nice fish, plenty of Ureshino tea, sugar, sweet-cakes, and sliced pomolo; this, together with rice, is the extentof Ushidzu's present gastronomic limits. The following morning opens with a white frost, the road is level andgood, and the yadoya people see that I am provided with a substantialbreakfast in good season. My boots, I find, have been cleaned even. Theywere cleaned with a rag, O-hanna apologizing for the absence ofshoe-brushes and blacking in pidgeon English: "Brush no have got. " In striking contrast to China, here are gangs of "cantonniers" takingcare of the road; men in regular blue uniforms with big white"bull's-eyes, " and characters like our Celestial friends theyameni-runners. Troops of school-children are passed on the road going toschool with books and tally-boards under their arm. They sometimes rangethemselves in rows alongside the road, and, as I wheel past, bob theirheads simultaneously down to the level of their knees and greet me with apolite "O-ai-o. " The country hereabout is rich and populous, and the people seeminglywell-to-do. The tea-houses, farm-houses, and even the little ricks ofrice seem built with an eye to artistic effect. One sees here the gradualencroachment of Western mechanical improvements. The first two-handledplough I have seen since leaving Europe is encountered this morning; butalongside it are men using the clumsy Japanese digging-tool of theirancestors, and both men and women stripped to the waist, hulling rice bypounding it in mortars with long-headed pestles. It is merely a questionof a few years, however, until the intelligent Japs will discard alltheir old clumsy methods and introduce the latest agriculturalimprovements of the West into their country. Passing through a mile ormore of Saga's smooth and continuously ridable streets, past bigschool-houses where hundreds of children are reciting aloud in chorus, past the big bronze Buddha for which Saga is locally famous, the roadcontinues through a somewhat undulating country, ridable, generallyspeaking, the whole way. Long cedar or cryptomerian avenues sometimescharacterize the way. Strings of peasants are encountered, leadingpack-ponies and bullocks. The former seem to be vicious little wretches, rather masters, on the whole, than servants of their leaders. The Japanese horse objects to a tight girth, objects to being overloaded, and to various other indignities that his relations of other countriesmeekly endure. To suit his fastidious requirements he is allowed tomeander carelessly along at the end of a twenty-foot string, and he isdecorated all over with gay and fanciful trappings. A very peculiar traitof his character is that of showing fight at anything he doesn't like thelooks of, instead of scaring at it after the orthodox method ofhorse-flesh in other countries. This peculiarity sometimes makes itextremely interesting for myself. Their usual manner of taking exceptionto me and the bicycle is to rear up on the hind feet and squeal and pawthe air, at the same time evincing a disposition to come on and chew meup. This necessitates continual wariness on my part when passing acompany of peasants, for the men never seem to think it worth while torestrain their horses until the actions of the latter render itabsolutely necessary. Jinrikishas now become quite frequent, pulled by sturdy-limbed men, who, naked almost as the day they were born, trot along between the shafts oftheir two-wheeled vehicles at the rate of six miles an hour. Men also aremet pulling heavy hand-carts, loaded with tiles, from country factoriesto the city. Most of the heaviest labor seems to be performed by humanbeings, though not to the same extent as in China. In every town and village one is struck with the various imitations ofEuropean goods. Ludicrous mistakes are everywhere met with, where thisserio-comical people have attempted to imitate name, trade-mark, andeverything complete. In one portion of the eating-house where lunch isobtained to-day are a number of umbrella-makers manufacturing ginghamumbrellas; on every umbrella is stamped the firm-name "John Douglas, Manchester. " Cigarettes, nicely made and equal in every respect to thoseof other countries, are boldly labelled "cigars:" thus do these curiousimitators make mistakes. Had Shakespeare seen the Japs one could betterunderstand his "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merelyplayers;" for most other nations life is a serious enough problem, theJaps alone seem to be merely "playing at making a livelihood. " Theyalways impress me as happy-go-lucky harlequins, to whom this wholebusiness of coming into the world and getting a living for a few years isnothing more nor less than a huge joke. The happiest state of affairs seems to exist among all classes andconditions of people in Japan. One passes school-houses and sees theclasses out on the well-kept grounds, going through various exercises, such as one would never expect to see in the East. To-day I pause a whilebefore the public-school in Nakabairu, watching the interesting exercisesgoing on. Under the supervision of teachers in black frock-coats andDerby hats, a class of girls are ranged in two rows, throwing andcatching pillows, altogether back and forth at the word of command. Classes of boys are manipulating wooden dumb-bells and exercising theirmuscles by various systematic exercises. The youngsters are enjoying ithugely, and the whole affair looks so thoroughly suggestive of the bestelements of Occidental school-life that it is difficult to believe theevidence of one's own eyes. I suspect the Japanese children are about theonly children in the wide, wide world who really enjoy studying theirlessons and going to school. One of the teachers comes to the gate andgreets me with a polite bow. I address him in English, but he doesn'tknow a word. The wooden houses of Japan seem frail and temporary, but they look newand bright mostly in the country. The government buildings, police-offices, post-offices, schools, etc. , all look new and bright andartistic, as though but lately finished. The roads, too, are sometimeslaid out straight and trim, suggestive of an attempt to imitate the roadsof France; then, again, one traverses for miles the counterpart of thegreen lanes of Merrie England--narrow, winding, and romantic. The Japaneseroads are mainly about ten or twelve feet wide, giving ample room for twojinrikishas to pass, these being the only wheeled vehicles on the roads. Rustic bridges frequently span lovely little babbling brooks, andwaterfalls abound this afternoon as I approach, at early eve, Futshishi. Rain necessitates a lay-over of a day at Futshishi, but there is nothingunendurable about it; the proprietor of the house is a blind man, whoplays the samosan, and makes the girls sing and dance the geisha for myedification. Beef and chicken are both forthcoming at Futshishi, and thefish, as in almost all Japanese towns, are very excellent. The weather opens clear and frosty after the rain, and the road toFukuoko is most excellent wheeling; the country continues charming, andevery day the people seem to get more and more polite and agreeable. Anovel sight of the morning's ride is a big gang of convicts working theroads. They are fastened together with light chains, wear neat brownuniforms, and seem to regard the unconvicted world of humans outsidetheir own company with an expression of apology. To look in theirserio-comic faces it is difficult to imagine them capable of doinganything wrong, except in fun: they look, in fact, as if their beingchained together and closely attended by guards was of itself anythingbut a serious affair. Cavalry officers, small, smart-looking, and soldierly, in yellow-braideduniforms, are seen in Fukuoko, looking as un-Asiatic in make-up as theschools, policemen, and telegraph-operators. A collision with ajinrikisha that treats me to a header, and another with a diminutive Jap, that bowls him over like a ninepin, and a third with a bobtailed cat, that damages nothing but pussy's dignity, enter into my reminiscences ofFukuoko. The numbers of jinrikishas, and the peculiar habits of thepeople, necessitate lynx-eyed vigilance to prevent collisions every hourof the day. The average Jap leaves the door of a house backward, and bowsand scrapes his way clear out into the middle of the street, in biddingadieu to the friends he has been calling upon, or even the shopkeeper hehas been patronizing. Scarcely a village is passed through but someperson waltzes backward out of a door and right in front of the bicycle. A curious sight one frequently sees along the road is an acre or two ofground covered with paper parasols, set out in the sun to dry after beingpasted, glued, and painted ready for market. Umbrellas and paper lanternsare as much a part of the Japanese traveller's outfit as his clothes. These latter, nowadays, are sometimes a very grotesque mixture of nativeand European costume. The craze for foreign innovations pervades allranks of society, and every village dandy aspires to some article ofEuropean clothing. The result is that one frequently encounters men onthe road wearing a Derby hat, a red blanket, tight-fitting white drawers, and straw sandals. The villager who sports a European hat or coat comesaround to my yadoya, wearing an amusing expression of self-satisfaction, as though filled with an inward consciousness of inv approval of thesame. Whereas, every European traveller deprecates the change from theirnative costume to our own. Following for some distance along the bank of a large canal I reach thevillage of Hakama for the night. The yadoya here is simply spotless fromtop to bottom; however the Japanese hotel-keeper manages to transactbusiness and preserve such immaculate apartments is more of a puzzleevery day. The regulation custom at a yadoya is for the newly arrivedguest to take a scalding hot bath, and then squat beside a little brazierof coals, and smoke and chat till supper-time. The Japanese are moreaddicted to hot-water bathing than the people of any other country. Theysouse themselves in water that has been heated to 140 deg. Fahr. , atemperature that is quite unbearable to the "Ingurisu-zin" or"Amerika-zin" until he becomes gradually hardened and accustomed to it. Both men and women bathe regularly in hot water every evening. The Japshave not yet imbibed any great quantity of mauvaise honte from theirassociation with Europeans, so the sexes frequent the bath-tubindiscriminately, taking no more notice of one another than if they wereall little children. "Venus disporting in the waves"--of a bath-tub--is aregular feature of life at a Japanese inn. Nor can they quite understandwhy the European tourist should object to the proprietor, his wife andchildren, chambermaids, tea-girls, guests and visitors crowding around tosee him undress and waltz into the tub. Bless their innocent Japanesesouls! why should he object. They are only attracted out of curiosity tosee the whiteness of his skin, to note his peculiar manner of undressing, and to satisfy a general inquisitiveness concerning his corporealpossibilities. They have no squeamishness whatever about his watchingtheir own natatorial duties; why, then, should he shrink within himselfand wave them off? The regular hotel meals consist of rice, fish in various forms, littleslices of crisp, raw turnip, pickles, and a catsup-like sauce. Meat israrely forthcoming, unless specially ordered, when, of course, extracharges are made; sake also has to be purchased separately. After supperone is supplied with a teapot of tea and a brazier of coals. Passing the following night at Hakama, I pull out next morning forShimonoseki. Traversing for some miles a hilly country, covered withpine-forest, my road brings me into Ashiyah, situated on a small estuary. Here, at Ashiyah, I indulge in nay first simon-pure Japanese shave, patronizing the village barber while dodging a passing shower. TheJapanese tonsorial artist shaves without the aid of soap, merely wettingthe face by dipping his fingers in a bowl of warm water. During theoperation of shaving he hones the razor frequently on an oil-stone. Heshaves the entire face and neck, not omitting even the lobes of the ear, the forehead, and nose. If the European traveller didn't keep his sensesabout him, while in the barber-chair of a Japanese village, he would findhimself with every particle of fuzz scraped off his face and neck, save, of course, his regular whiskers or mustache, and with eye-browsconsiderably curtailed. From Ashiyah my road follows up alongside a small tidal canal toHakamatsu, traversing a lowland country, devoted entirely to thecultivation of rice. Scores of coal-barges are floating along the canal, propelled solely by the flowing of the tide. I can imagine them floatingalong until the tide changes, then tying up and waiting patiently untilit ebbs and flows again; from long experience they, no doubt, have cometo calculate upon one, two, or three tides, as the case may be, floatingtheir barges up to certain landings or villages. The streets of Hakamatsu present a lively and picturesque scene, swarmingwith country people in the gayest of costumes; the stalls are fairlygroaning beneath big piles of tempting eatables, toys, clothing, lanterns, tissue-paper flowers, and every imaginable Japanese thing. Street-men are attracting small crowds about them by displayingcuriosities. One old fellow I pause awhile to look at is selling tinyrolls of colored paper which, when cast into a bowl of water, unfold intoflowers, boats, houses, birds, or animals. In explanation of theholiday-making, a young man in a custom-house uniform, who knows a fewwords of English, explains "Japan God "-it is some religious festivalthese smiling, chatting, bowing, and comical-looking crowds are keepingwith such evident relish. Prom Hakamatsu to Kokura the country is hilly and broken; from Kokura onecan look across the narrow strait and see Shimonoseki, on the mainland ofJapan. Thus far we have been traversing the island of Kiu-shiu, separatedfrom the main island by a strait but a few hundred yards wide atShimonoseki. From Kokura the jinrikisha road leads a couple of ri fartherto Dairi; thence footpaths traverse hills and wax-tree groves for anothertwo miles (a ri is something over two English miles) to the village ofMoji. Here I obtain passage on a little ferry-boat across to Shimonoseki, arriving there about two o'clock in the afternoon. A twenty-four hours' halt is made at Shimonoseki in deference to rainyweather. The landlady of the yadoya understands enough about Europeancookery to prepare me a very decent beefsteak and a pot of coffee. Shimonoseki is full of European goods, and clever imitations of the same;a stroll of an hour through the streets reveals the extent of the Japs'appreciation of foreign things. Every other shop, almost, seems devotedto the goods that come from other countries, or their counterfeits. Notcontent with merely copying an imported article, the Japanese artisangenerally endeavors to make some improvement on the original. Forinstance, after making an exact imitation of a petroleum-lamp, the Japworkman constructs a neat little lacquer cabinet to set it in when not inuse. The coffee-pot in which the coffee served at my yadoya is preparedis an ingenious contrivance with three chambers, evidently a reproductionof Yankee ingenuity. A big Shinto temple occupies the crest of a little hill near by, andflights of stone steps lead up to the entrance. At the foot of the steps, and repeated at several stages up the slope, are the peculiar torii, or"bird-perches, " that form the distinctive mark of a Shinto temple. Numerous shrines occupy the court-yard of the temple; the shrines arebuilt of wood mostly, and contain representations of the various gods towhose particular worship they are dedicated. Before each shrine is abarred receptacle for coins. The Japanese devotee poses for a minutebefore the shrine, bowing his head and smiting together the palms of hishands; he then tosses a diminutive coin or two into the barred treasury, and passes on round to the next shrine he wishes to pay his respects to. In the main building are numerous pictures, bows, arrows, swords, andvarious articles, evidently votive offerings. The shrine of the deitythat presides over the destiny of fishermen is distinguished by a hugesilver-paper fish and numerous three-pronged fish-spears. Among otherqueer objects whose meaning defies the penetration of the travellerunversed in Japanese mythology is a monstrous human face, with a nose atleast three feet long, and altogether out of proportion. Strolling about to while away a rainy forenoon I pass big school-housesfull of children reciting aloud. Their wooden clogs and paper umbrellasare stowed away in racks, provided for the purpose, at the door. Thecheerfulness with which they shout out their exercises proves plainlyenough that they are only keeping "make-believe" school. Female vegetableand fruit venders, neat and comely as Normandy dairy-maids, are walkingabout chatting and smiling and bowing, "playing at selling vegetables. "While I pause a moment to inspect the stock of a curio-dealer, theproprietor, seated over a brazier of coals, smoking, bows politely andpoints, with a chuckle of amusement, at the fierce-looking effigy of adaimio in armor. There is not the slightest hint of a mercenary thoughtabout his actions; plainly enough, he hasn't the remotest wish to sell meanything--he merely wants to call my attention to the grotesqueness ofthis particular figure. He is only playing curio-dealer; he doesn't tryto sell anything, but would do so out of the abundance of his good-natureif requested to, no doubt. A pair of little old-fashioned fire-enginesrepose carelessly against the side of a municipal building. They havegrown tired of playing at extinguishing fires and have thrown aside theirtoys. I wander to the water-front and try to locate my hotel from thatpoint of observation. Watermen are lounging about in wistaria waterproofcoats. They want me to ride to my destination in one of their boats, veryevidently, from their manner, only for the fun of the thing. Everybody issmiling and urbane, nobody looks serious; no careworn faces are seen, nopinched poverty. Wonderful people! they come nearer solving the problemof living happily than any other nation. Even the professional mendicantsseem to be amused at their own poverty, as if life to them was a merehumorous experiment, scarcely deserving of a serious thought. The weather clears up at noon, and in the face of a strong northernbreeze I bid farewell to Shimonoseki. The road follows for some miles along the shore, a smooth, level roadthat winds about the bases of the hills that here slope down to toy anddally with the restless surf of the famous Inland Sea. Following theshore in a general sense, the road now and then leads inland for a mileor two, for the purpose of linking together the numerous towns andvillages that dot the little alluvial valleys between the hills. Passingthrough one large village, my attention is attracted by the sign "EnglishBooks, " over a book-shop. Desirous of purchasing some kind of a guide forthe road to Kobe, I enter the establishment, expecting at least to findsome one capable of understanding English. The young man in charge knowsnever a word of English, and his stock of "English books" consists ofprimers, spelling-books, etc. , for the use of school-children. The architecture of the villages above Shimonoseki is strikinglyartistic. The quaint gabled houses are painted a snowy white, and areroofed with brown glazed tiles of curious pattern, also rimmed withwhite. About the houses are hedges grotesquely clipped and trained inimitation of storks, animals, or fishes, miniature orange and persimmontrees, pretty flower-gardens and little landscape vanities peculiar tothe Japanese. Circling around through little valleys, over smallpromontories and along smooth, gravelly stretches of sea-shore road, forthirty miles, brings me to anchor for the night in a good-sized village. Among my visitors for the evening is a young gentleman arrayed in shinytop-boots, tight-fitting corduroy trousers, and jockey cap. In hisgeneral make-up he is the "horsiest" individual I have seen for many aday. One could readily imagine him to be a professional jockey. Theprobability is, however, that he has never mounted a horse in his life. In all likelihood he has become infatuated with this style of Westernclothes from studying a copy of the London Graphic, has gone to greattrouble and expense to procure the garments from Yokohama, and nowblossoms forth upon the dazed provincials of his native town in a make-upthat stamps him as the swellest of the swell He affects great interest inthe bicycle--much more so than the average Jap--from which I inferthat he has actually imbibed certain notions of Western sport, and isdesirous of posing before his uninitiated and, consequently, unappreciative, countrymen, as an exponent of athletics. Altogether thehorsey young gentleman is the most startling representative of "NewJapan" I have yet encountered. A cold drizzle ushers in the commencement of my next day's journey. Oneis loath to exchange the neat yadoya, with everything within so spotlessand so pleasant, the tiny garden, not over ten yards square, butcontaining a miniature lake, grottos, quaint stone lanterns, bronzestorks, flowers, and stunted trees, for the road. Disagreeable weatherhas followed me, however, from Nagasaki like an avenging Fate, bent onpreventing the consummation of my tour from being too agreeable. Evenwith rain and mud and consequent delays my first few days in Japan haveseemed a very paradise after my Chinese experiences; what, then, wouldhave been my impressions of country and people amid sunshine andfavorable conditions of weather and road, when the novelty of it allfirst burst upon my Chinese-disgusted senses? The country round about is mountainous, snow lying upon the summits of afew of the higher peaks. The road, though hilly at times, manages totwist and wind its way along from one little valley to another withoutany very long hills. Peasants from the mountains are met with, leadingponies loaded with firewood and rice. Their old Japanese aboriginalcostumes of wistaria raincoats, broad bamboo-hats, and rude straw-sandalsmake a conspicuous contrast to their countrymen of "New Japan, " in Derbyhats or jockey suits. Notwithstanding the rapid Europeanizing of thecity-bred Japs, the government's progressive policy, the blue-coatedgendarmerie, and the general revolutionizing of the country at large, many a day will come and go ere these mountaineers forsake the ways andmethods and grotesque costumes of their ancestors. For decades Japan willpresent an interesting study of mountaineer conservatism andultra-liberal city life. One party will be wearing foreign clothes, apingforeign manners, adopting foreign ways of doing everything; the otherwill be clinging tenaciously to the wistaria garments, bamboo sieve-hats, straw-sandals, and the traditions of "Old Japan. " Most farm-houses are now thatched with straw; one need hardly add thatthey are prettily and neatly thatched, and that they are embellished byvarious unique contrivances. Some of them, I notice, are surrounded by abroad, thick hedge of dark-green shrubbery. The hedge is trimmed so thatthe upper edge appears to be a continuation of the brown thatch, whichmerely changes its color and slopes at the same steep gradient to theground. This device produces a very charming effect, particularly when afew neatly trimmed young pines soar above the hedge like green sentinelsabout the dwelling. One inimitable piece of "botanical architecture"observed to-day is a thick shrub trimmed into an imitation of a mountain, with trees growing on the slopes, and a temple standing in a grove. Before many of the houses one sees curious tree-roots or rocks, that havebeen brought many a mile down from the mountains, and preserved onaccount of some fanciful resemblance to bird, reptile, or animal. Artificial lakes, islands, waterfalls, bridges, temples, and grovesabound; and at occasional intervals a large figure of the Buddha squatsserenely on a pedestal, smiling in happy contemplation of the peace, happiness, prosperity, and beauty of everything and everybody around. Happy people! happy country. Are the Japs acting wisely or are theyacting foolishly in permitting European notions of life to creep in andrevolutionize it all. Who can tell. Time alone will prove. They will getricher, more powerful, and more enterprising, because of the necessity ofwaking themselves up to keep abreast of the times; but wealth and power, and the buzz and rattle of machinery and commerce do not always meanhappiness. CHAPTER XX. THE HOME STRETCH. During the afternoon the narrow kuruma road merges into a broad, newlymade macadam, as fine a piece of road as I have seen the whole worldround. Wonderful work has been done in grading it from the low-lyingrice-fields, up, up, up, by the most gentle and even gradient, to whereit seemingly terminates, far ahead between high rocky cliffs. The pictureof charming houses and beautiful terraced gardens climbing to the veryupper stories of the mountains here beggars description; one no longermarvels at what he has seen in the way of terraced mountains in China. New sensations of astonishment await me as the upper portion of thesmooth boulevard is reached, and I find myself at the entrance to atunnel about five hundred yards long and thirty feet wide. The tunnel islit up by means of big reflectors in the middle, shining through thegloom as one enters, like locomotive headlights. It is difficult toimagine the Japs going to all this trouble and expense for merejinrikisha and pedestrian travel; yet such is the case, for no othervehicular traffic exists in the country. It is the only country in whichI have found a tunnel constructed for the ordinary roadway, althoughthere may be similar improvements that have not happened to come to mynotice or ear. One would at least expect to find a toll-keeper in such aplace, especially as a person has to be employed to maintain the lights, but there is nothing of the kind. A few miles beyond the tunnel the broad road terminates in a good-sizedseaport, whence I encounter some little difficulty in finding my wayalong zigzag field-paths to my proper road for the north. The rain hasfallen at intervals throughout the day, but the roads have averaged good. Fifty miles, or thereabout, must have been reeled off when, at earlyeventide, I pull up at a village ya-doya. Before settling myself down, for rest and supper, I take a stroll through the village in quest ofpossible interesting things. Not far from the yadoya my attention isarrested by a prominent sign, in italics, "uropean eating, Kameya hous. "Entertaining happy visions of beefsteak and Bass's ale for supper, Ienter the establishment and ask the young man in charge whether the placeis an hotel. He smiles, bows, and intimates his woeful ignorance of whatI am saying. The following morning is frosty, and low, scudding clouds denoteunsettled weather, as I resume my journey. Much of the time my roadpractically follows the shore, and sometimes simply follows the windingsand curvatures of the gravelly beach. Most of the low land near the shoreappears to be reclaimed from the sea--low, flat-looking mud-fields, protected from overflow by miles and miles of stout dikes and rock-ribbedwalls. Fishing villages abound along the shore, and for long distances arecent typhoon has driven the sea inland and washed away the road. Thousands of men and women are engaged in repairing the damages with theabundance of material ready to hand on the sloping granite-shale hillsaround the foot of which the roadway winds. Fish are cheaper and more plentiful here than anything else, and the olddame at the yadoya of a fishing village cooks me a big skate for supper, which makes first-rate eating, in spite of the black, malodorous sauceshe uses so liberally in the cooking. In this room is a wonderful brass-bound cabinet, suggestive ofsoul-satisfying household idols and comfortable private worship. Duringthe evening I venture to open and take a peep in this cabinet to satisfya pardonable curiosity as to its contents. My trespass reveals a littlewax idol seated amid a wealth of cheap tinsel ornaments, and bits ofinscribed paper. Before him sets an offering of rice, sake, and driedfish in tiny porcelain bowls. Clear and frosty opens the following morning; the road is good, thecountry gradually improves, and by nine o'clock I am engaged in lookingat the military exercises of troops quartered in the populous city ofHiroshima. The exercises are conducted within a large square, enclosedwith a low bank of earth and a ditch. Crowds of curious civilians arewatching the efforts of raw cavalry recruits to ride stout little horses, that buck, kick, bite, and paw the air. Every time a soldier gets thrownthe on-lookers chuckle with delight. Both men and horses are undersized, but look stocky and serviceable withal. The uniform of the cavalry isblue, with yellow trimmings. The artillery looks trim and efficient, andthe horses, although rather small, are powerful and wiry, just the horsesone would select for the rough work of a campaign. North of Hiroshima the country assumes a hilly character, the roadfollowing up one mountain-stream and down another. In this mountainousregion one meets mail-carriers, the counterpart almost of thefleet-footed postmen of Bengal. The Japanese postman improves upon natureby the addition of a waist-cloth and a scant shirt of white and bluecotton check; his letter-pouch is fastened to a bamboo-staff; as hebounds along with springy stride he warns people to clear the way byshouting in a musical voice, "Honk, honk. " This cry resembles in a verystriking degree the utterances of an old veteran brant, or wild-goose, when speeding northward in the spring to escape a warm wave from thesouth. Among these mountains one is filled with amazement at the tremendous workthe industrious Japs have done to secure a few acres of cultivable land. Dikes have been thrown up to narrow the channels of the streams, so thatthe remaining width of the bed may be converted into fields and gardens. The streams have been literally turned out of their beds for the sake ofa few acres of alluvial soil. Among the mountains, chiefly between themountains and the shore, are level areas of a few square miles, supporting a population that seems largely out of proportion to the sizeof the land. Many of these sea-shore people however, get their livelihoodfrom the blue waters of the Inland Sea; fish sharing the honors with ricein being the staple food of provincial Japan. The weather changes to quite a disagreeable degree of cold by the time Ireach the end of to-day's ride. This introduces me promptly into themysteries of how the Japanese manage to keep themselves warm in theirflimsy houses of wooden ribs and semi-transparent paper in cold weather. An opening in the floor accommodates a brazier of coals; over this standsan open wood-work frame; quilts covered over the frame retain the heat. The modus operandi of keeping warm is to insert the body beneath thisframe, wrapping the covering about the shoulders, snugly, to prevent theescape of the warm air within. The advantage of this unique arrangementis that the head can be kept cool, while, if desirable, the body can besubjected to a regular hot-air bath. The following day is chilly and raw, with occasional skits of snow. People are humped up and blue-nosed, and seemingly miserable. Yet, withal, they seem to be only humorously miserable, and not by any meansseriously displeased with the rawness and the snow. Straw wind-breaks areset up on the windward side of the tea-houses, and there is much stoppingamong pedestrians to gather around the tea-house braziers and gossip andsmoke. Everybody in Japan smokes, both men and women. The universal pipe of thecountry is a small brass tube about six inches long, with the end turnedup and widened to form the bowl. This bowl holds the merest pinch oftobacco; a couple of whiffs, a smart rap on the edge of the brazier toknock out the residue, and the pipe is filled again and again, until thesmoker feels satisfied. The girls that wait on one at the yadoyas andtea-houses carry their tobacco in the capacious sleeve-pockets of theirdress, and their pipes sometimes thrust in the sash or girdle, andsometimes stuck in the back of the hair. Many of the Buddhas presiding over the cross-roads and village entrancesalong my route to-day are provided with calico bibs, the object of whichit is impossible for me to determine, owing to my ignorance of thevernacular. The bibs are, no doubt, significant of some particular seasonof religious observance. The important city of Okoyama provides abundant food for observation--theclean, smooth streets, the wealth of European goods in the shops, and theswarms of ever-interesting people, as I wheel leisurely through it onSaturday, December 4th. No human being save Japs has so far crossed mypath since leaving Nagasaki, nor am I expecting to meet anybody here. Anagreeable surprise, however, awaits me, for at the corner of one of theprincipal business thoroughfares a couple of American missionaries appearupon the scene. Introducing themselves as Mr. Carey and Mr. Kowland, theyinform me that three families of missionaries reside together here, andextend a cordial invitation to remain over Sunday. I am very glad indeedto accept their hospitality for to-morrow, as well as to avail myself ofan opportunity to get my proper bearings. Nothing in the way of areliable map or itinerary of the road I have been traversing fromShimonoseki was to be obtained at Nagasaki, and I have travelled with butthe vaguest idea of my whereabouts from day to day. Only from them do Ilearn that the city we meet in is Okoyama, and that I am now within ahundred miles of Kobe, north of which place "Murray's Handbook" willprove of material assistance in guiding me aright. The little missionary colony is charmingly situated on a pine-clad hilloverlooking the city from the east. Several lady missionaries arevisiting from other points, all Americans, making a pleasant party forone to meet in such an unexpected manner. On Sunday morning I accompany Mr. Carey to see his native congregation inthe nice new church which he says they have erected from their own meansat a cost of two thousand yen. This latter is a very gratifyingstatement, not to say surprisingly so, for it savors of something likesincerity on the part of the converts. In most countries the convertsseem to be brought to a knowledge of their evil ways, and to perceive thebeauties of the Christian religion through the medium of materialassistance provided from the mission. Instead of spending moneythemselves for the cause they profess to embrace, they expect to receivesomething from it of a tangible earthly nature. Here, however, we findthe converts themselves building their own meeting-house, and biddingfair ere long to support the mission without outside aid. This isencouraging from the stand-point of those who believe in converting "theheathen" from their own religion to ours, and gratifying to the studentof Japanese character. About five hundred people congregate in the church, seating themselvesquietly and orderly on the mat-covered floor. They embrace all classes, from the samurai lawyer or gentleman to the humblest citizen, and fromgray-haired old men and women to shock-headed youngsters, who merely comewith their mothers. Many of these same mothers have been persuaded by themissionaries to cease the heathenish practice of blackening their teeth, and so appear at the meeting in even rows of becoming white ivories liketheir unmarried sisters. Numbers of curious outsiders congregate aboutthe open doors and peep in and stand and listen to the sermon of Mr. Carey, and the singing. The hymns are sung to the same tunes as inAmerica, the words being translated into Japanese. Everybody seems toenjoy the singing, and they listen intently to the sermon. After the sermon, several prominent members of the congregation stand upand address their countrymen and women in convincing words and gestures. Mr. Carey tells me that any ordinary Jap seems capable of delivering afluent, off-hand exposition of his views in public without special effortor embarrassment. Altogether the Japanese Christian congregation, gathered here in ita own church, sitting on the floor, singing, sermonizing, and looking happy, is a novel and interesting sight to see. One can imagine missionary life among the genial Japs as being verypleasant. Saturday and Sunday pass pleasantly away, and, with happy memories of thelittle missionary colony, I wheel away from Oko-yama on Monday morning, passing through a country of rich rice-fields and numerous villages forsome miles. The scene then changes into a beautiful country of smalllakes and pine-covered hills, reminding me very much of portions of theBerkshire Hills, Mass. The weather is cool and clear, and the roadsplendid, although in places somewhat hilly. Fifty-three miles are duly scored when, at three o'clock in theafternoon, I arrive at the city of Himeji. The yadoya here is a superiorsort of a place, and Himeji numbers among its productions European pan(bread), steak, and bottled beer. The Japs are themselves rapidly comingto an appreciation of this latter article, and even to manufacture it, abig brewery being already established somewhere near Tokio. A couple ofyoung dandies of "New Japan" drop in during the evening, send out forbottles of beer, and seem to take particular delight in showing off theirappreciation of the newly introduced beverage before their countrymen ofthe "ancient regime. " Beyond Himeji one leaves behind the mountains, emerging upon a broad, level, rice-producing plain, which extends eastward to Kobe and thesea-shore. The fine level road traversing the plain passes throughnumerous towns and villages, and for the latter half of the distanceskirts the shore. Old dismantled stone forts, tea-houses, eating-stalls, fishermen's huts, house-boats, and swarms of jinrikishas and pedestriansmake their sea-shore road lively and interesting. The single arterythrough which the life of all the southern tributary country ebbs andflows to trade at the busiest treaty port in Japan, this road isconstantly swarming with people. Over the Minato-gawa Kiver by anelevated bridge, and one finds himself in a broad street leading throughHiogo to Kobe. These two cities are practically joined together, althoughbearing different names. Like many of the rivers of Japan, the bed of theMinato-gawa is elevated considerably above the surrounding plain. Confined between artificial banks to prevent the flooding of the adjacentfields in spring, the debris brought down from year to year has graduallyraised the bed, and necessitated continued raising also of the levees. These operations have very naturally ended in raising the whole affair toan elevation that leaves even the bottom of the stream several feethigher than the fields around. Kobe is one of the treaty ports of Japan, and nowadays is reputed to domore foreign trade than any of the others. One can imagine Kobe being avery pleasant and desirable place to live; the foreign settlement isquite extensive, the surroundings attractive, and the climate mild andhealthful. Pleasant days are spent at Kobe and Ozaka. Twenty-seven miles of levelroad from the latter city, following the course of the Yodo-gawa, a broadshallow stream that flows from Lake Biwa to the sea, brings me to Kioto. From the eighth century until 1868 Kioto was the capital of the Japaneseempire, and is generally referred to as the old capital of the country. The present population is about a quarter of a million, about half ofwhat it was supposed to be in the heyday of its ancient glory as the seatof empire. Living at Kioto is Mr. B, an American ex-naval officer, who several yearsago forsook old Neptune's service to embark in the more peaceful pursuitof teaching the ideas of youthful Japs to shoot. The occasion wasauspicious, for the whole country was fired with enthusiasm for learningEnglish. English was introduced into the public schools as a regularstudy. Mr. B is settled at Kioto, and now instructs a large andinteresting class of boys in the mysteries of his mother tongue. Taking aletter of introduction he makes me comfortable for the afternoon andnight at his pleasant residence on the banks of the Yodo-gawa. Under thepilotage of his private jinrikisha-man, I spend a portion of theafternoon in making a flying visit to various places of interest. A partyof American tourists are unexpectedly met in the first temple we visit, that of Nishi Hon-gwan-ji. The paintings and decorations of this temple, one of the ladies says with something akin to enthusiasm, are quite equalto those of the great temple at Nikko. This lady appears to be amissionary resident, or, at all events, a person well versed in Japanesetemples and things. Her companions are fleeting tourists, who listen toher explanations with respect, but, like myself, know nothing more whenthey leave the temple than when they entered. Japanese mythology, religion, temples, politics, history, and titles, seem to me to be theworst mixed up and the most difficult for off-hand comprehension ofanything I have yet undertaken to peep into. The multitudinous gods ofthe Hindoos, with their no less multitudinous functions, seem to me to beeasily understood in comparison with the weird legends and mazy mythologyof the Flowery Kingdom. Near this temple is a lovely little garden that gives much moresatisfaction to the casual visitor than the temples. It is always apleasure to visit a Japanese garden, and, in addition to its landscapeattractions, historical interest lends to this one additional charm. Theartificial lake is stocked with tame carp, which come crowding to theside when visitors clap their hands, in the expectation of being fed. Apair of unhappy-looking geese are imprisoned beneath an iron gratingwithin the garden. They are kept there in commemoration of somehistorical incident; what the incident is, however, even thewell-informed lady of the party doesn't seem to know; neither doesMurray's voluminous guide-book condescend to explain. A small palace, with interior decorations of the usual conventional subjects--storks, flying geese, rising moons, bamboo-shoots, etc. --together with asmall, round, thatched summer-house, where, five hundred years ago, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu, the Shogun monk, was wont to pass the time inmeditation, form the remaining sole attractions of the garden. The one place I have been anticipating some real pleasure in visiting isthe Shu-gaku-In gardens, one of the most famous gardens in this countrywhere, above all others, gardening is pursued as a fine art. This, however, is not accessible to-day, and wearied already of temples, gods, and shaven-pated priests, I give the jin-rikisha-coolie orders to returnhome. A mile or two through the smooth and level streets and the hopefuland sanguine "riksha" man dumps me out at another temple. Fancying that, perchance, he might have brought me to something extraordinary, I followhim wearily in. A graduate in the Shinto religion would no doubt findsomething different about these temples, but to the ordinary, every-dayhuman, to see one is to see them all. My man, however, seems determinedto give me a surfeit of temples, and hurries me off to yet another one, ere awakening to the fact that I am trying to get him to return to Mr. B's. The third one I positively refuse to have anything to do with. At Mr. B 's I find awaiting my coming an interesting deputation, consisting of the assistant superintendent of the young ladies' seminary, together with three of his most interesting pupils. They have beenreading about my tour in the native papers, and, in the assistantsuperintendent's own words, "are very curious at seeing so famous atraveller. " The three young ladies stand in a row, like the veritable"three little maids from school" in "The Mikado, " and giggle theirapproval of the teacher's explanation. They are three very pretty girls, and two of them have their hair banged after the most approved Americanstyle. Sweetcakes and tea are indulged in by the visitors, and before they leavean agreement is entered into by which I am to visit their school in themorning before leaving and hear them sing "Bonny Boon" and "Thefire-fly's light, " in return for riding the bicycle in the school-housegrounds. "The fire-fly's light" is sung to the tune of "Auld lang syne, "the Japanese words of which commemorate a legend of the tea-district ofUji near Lake Biwa. The legend states that certain learned men repairedto a secluded spot near Uji to pursue their studies. On one occasion, being out of oil and unable to procure the means of lighting theirapartment, myriads of fire-flies came and illumined the place with theirtiny lamps sufficient for their purpose. My compact with the "three little maids from school" takes me down intothe city on something of a detour from my nearest road out next morning. The detour is well repaid, however; besides the singing and organ-playingpromised, the many departments of industrial study into which the schoolis divided are very interesting. Laces and embroidery for the Tokiomarket, dresses for themselves and to sell, are made by the girls, theproceeds going toward the maintenance of the institution. One of the mostcurious scholarships of the place is the teaching of what is known as the"Japanese ceremony. " It seems to be a perpetuation of some old courtceremony of making tea for the Mikado. Expressing a wish to see theceremony, I am conducted to a small room divided off by the usual slidingpaper panels. A class of girls are kneeling in a row, confronting a veryneat-looking old lady who sits beside a small brazier of coals. The oldlady is the teacher; when she claps her hands, one of the paper screensslides gently aside and one of the scholars enters, bearing a smalllacquer tray with tiny teapot and cups, a canister of tea, and variousother paraphernalia. There is really very little to the "ceremony, " thegraceful motions of the tea-maker being by far the more interesting partof the performance. The tea used is finely powdered and comes from Uji, where it is grown especially for the use of the Mikado's household. Thetea-dust is mixed with hot water by means of a curiously splinteredbamboo mixer that looks very much like a shaving-brush. The result is avery aromatic cup of tea, delicious to the nostrils, but hardlyacceptable to the European palate. My jinrikisha-man of yesterday precedes me through the streets, shoutingthe "honk, honk, honk. " of the mail-runners, to clear the way. To see himcleave a way through the multitudes for me to follow, keeping up asix-mile pace the while, swinging his arms like a windmill, one mightwell imagine me a real dai-mio on wheels with faithful samurai-runnerahead, warning away the common herd from my path. At Kioto begins the Tokaido, the most famous highway of Japan, a roadthat is said to have been the same great highway of travel, that it isto-day, for many centuries. It extends from Kioto to Tokio, a distance ofthree hundred and twenty-five miles. Another road, called the Nakasendo, the "Road of the Central Mountains, "in contradistinction to the Tokaido, the "Road of the Eastern Sea, " alsoconnects the old capital with the new; but, besides being somewhatlonger, the Nakasendo is a hillier road, and less interesting than theTokaido. After leaving the city the Tokaido leads over a low pass throughthe hills to Otsu, on the lovely sheet of water known as Biwa Lake. This lake is of about the same dimensions as Lake Geneva, and fairlyrivals that Switzer gem in transcendental beauty. The Japs, with alltheir keen appreciation of the beauties of nature, go into raptures overBiwa Lake. Much talk is made of the "eight beauties of Biwa. " These eightbeauties are: The Autumn Moon from Ishi-yama, the Evening Snow onHira-yama, the Blaze of Evening at Seta, the Evening Bell of Mii-dera, the Boats sailing back from Yabase, a Bright Sky with a Breeze at Awadzu, Bain by Night at Karasaki, and the Wild Geese alighting at Katada. Allthe places mentioned are points about the lake. All sorts of legends andromantic stories are associated with the waters of Lake Biwa. Its originis said to be due to an earthquake that took place several centuriesbefore the Christian era; the legend states that Fuji rose to itsmajestic height from the plain of Suruga at the same moment the lake wasformed. Temples and shrines abound, and pilgrims galore come from far-offplaces to worship and see its beauties. One object of special curiosity to tourists is a remarkable pine-tree, whose branches have been trained in horizontal courses over uprightposts, until it forms a broad shelter over several hundred square yards. A smaller imitation of the large tree is also spreading to ambitiousproportions on the Tokaido side. Snow has fallen and rests on the upper slopes of the mountainsoverlooking the lake, little steamers and numerous sailing-craft areplying on the smooth waters, and wild geese are flying about. With thesebeauties on the left and tea-gardens on the right, the Tokaido leadsthrough rows of stately pines, and past numerous villages along the lakeshore. The Nakasendo branches off to the left at the village of Kusa-tsu, celebrated for the manufacture of riding-whips. Through Ishibe andbeyond, to where it crosses the Yokota-gawa, the Tokaido continues leveland good. Near the crossing of this stream is a curious stone monument, displaying the carved figures of three monkeys covering up their eyes, mouth, and ears, to indicate that they will "neither see, hear, nor sayany evil thing. " All through here the country is devoted chiefly togrowing tea; very pretty the undulating ridges and rolling slopes of thebroken foot-hills look, set out in thick, bushy, well-defined rows andclumps of dark, shiny tea-plants. Down a very steep declivity, by sharp zigzags, the Tokaido suddenly dipsinto the little valley of the Yasose-gawa. At the foot of the hill is acurious shrine cave, containing several rude idols, a trough with tamegoldfish, and one of the crudest Buddhas I ever saw. The aim of theambitious sculptor of Buddhas is to produce a personification of "greattranquillity. " The figure in the Valley of Yasose-gawa is certainlysomething of a masterpiece in this direction; nothing could well be moretranquil than an oblong bowlder with the faintest chiselling of a mouthand nose, poised on the top of an upright slab of stone rudely chippedinto a dim semblance of the human form. A mile or two farther and my day's ride of forty-six miles terminates atthe village of Saka-no-shita. A comfortable yadoya awaits me here, nobetter nor worse, however, than almost every Jap village affords; but onthe Tokaido the innkeepers are more accustomed to European guests thanthey are south of Kobe. Every summer many European and American touristsjourney between Yokohama and Kobe by jinrikisha. At this yadoya I first become acquainted with that peculiar institutionof Japan, the blind shampooer. Seated in my little room, my attention isattracted by a man who approaches on hands and knees, and butts hisshaven pate accidentally against the corner of the open panel that formsmy door. He halts at the entrance and indulges in the pantomime ofpinching and kneading his person; his mission is to find out whether Idesire his services. For a small gratuity the blind shampooer of Japanwill rub, knead, and press one into a pleasant sensation from head tofoot. This office is relegated to sightless individuals or ugly oldwomen; many Japs indulge in their services after a warm bath, finding thetreatment very pleasant and beneficial, so they say. One of the most amusing illustrations of Jap imitativeness is displayedin the number of American clocks one sees adorning the walls of theyadoyas in nearly every village. The amusing feature of the thing is thatthe owners of these time-pieces seem to have the vaguest ideas of whatthey are for. One clock on the wall of my yadoya indicates eleveno'clock, another half-past nine, and a third seven-fifteen as I pull outin the morning. Other clocks through the village street vary in similardegree. Watching out for these widely varying clocks as I wheel throughthe villages has come to be one of the diversions of the day's ride. The road averages good, although somewhat hilly in places, from Saka-nothrough lovely valleys and pine-clad mountains to Yokka-ichi. Yokka-ichiis a small seaport, whence most travellers along the Tokaido take passageto Miya in the steam passenger launches plying between these points. Thekuruma road, however, continues good to the Ku-wana, ten miles farther, whence, to Miya, one has to traverse narrower paths through a flatsection of rice-fields, dikes, canals, and sloughs. A ri beyond Okabe and the pass of Utsunoya necessitates a mile or two oftrundling. Here occurs a tunnel some six hundred feet in length andtwelve wide; a glimmer of sunshine or daylight is cast into the tunnel bya system of simple reflectors at either entrance. These are merely glassmirrors, set at an angle to reflect the rays of light into the tunnel. Descending this little pass the Tokaido traverses a level rice-fieldplain, crosses the Abe-kawa, and approaches the sea-coast at Shidzuoka, acity of thirty thousand inhabitants. The view of Fuji, now but a shortdistance ahead, is extremely beautiful; the smooth road sweeps around thegravelly beach, almost licked by the waves. The breakers approach andrecede, keeping time to the inimitable music of the surf; vessels aredotting the blue expanse; villages and tea-houses are seen resting alongthe crescent-sweep of the shore for many a mile ahead, where Fuji slopesso gracefully down from its majestic snow-crowned summit to the sea. It is indeed a glorious ride around the crescent bay, through thesea-shore villages of Okitsu, Yui, Kambara, and Iwabuchi to Yoshiwara, alittle town on the footstool of the big, gracefully sweeping cone. Thestretch of shore hereabout is celebrated in Japanese poetry asTaga-no-ura, from the peculiarly beautiful view of Fuji obtained from it. This remarkable mountain is the highest in Japan, and is probably thefinest specimen of a conical mountain in existence. Native legendssurround it with a halo of romance. Its origin is reputed to besimultaneous with the formation of Biwa Lake, near Kioto, both mountainand lake being formed in a single night--one rising from the plaintwelve thousand eight hundred feet, the other sinking till its bedreached the level of the sea. The summit of Fuji is a place of pilgrimage for Japanese ascetics who aredesirous of attaining "perfect peace" by imitating Shitta-Tai-shi, theJapanese Buddha, who climbed to the summit of a mountain in search ofnirvana (calm). Orthodox Japs believe that the grains of sand broughtdown on the sandals of the pilgrims ascend to the summit again of theirown accord during the night. Tradition is furthermore responsible for the belief that snow disappearsentirely from the mountain for a few hours on the fifteenth day of thesixth moon, and begins to fall again during the following night. Formerlyan active volcano, Fuji even now emits steam from sundry crevices nearthe summit, and will some day probably fill the good people at Yoshiwaraand adjacent villages with a lively sense of its power. Fuji is thespecial pride of the Japs, its loveliness appealing strongly to thenational sense of landscape beauty. Of it their poet sings: "Great Fusiyama, tow'ring to the sky. A treasure art thou, giv'n tomortal man, A god-protector watching o'er Japan: On thee forever let mefeast mine eye. " Fuji is passed and left behind, and sixteen miles reeled off fromYoshiwara, when Mishima, my destination for the night, is reached. Afestival in honor of Oyama-tsumi-no-Kami, the god of "mountains ingeneral, " is being held here; for, behold, to-day is November 15th, the"middle day of the bird, " one of the several festivals held in his honorevery year. The big temple grounds are swarming with people, and pedlers, stalls, jugglers, and all sorts of attractions give the place theappearance of a country fair. Leaving the bicycle outside, I wander in and stroll about among thecrowds. Sacred ponds on either side of the footway are swarming withsacred fish. An ancient dame is doing a roaring trade, in a small way, infeathery bread-puffs, which the people buy and throw to the fish, for thefun of seeing them swarm around and eat. Interested groups are gathered around veritable fac-similes of the Yankee"street-men, " selling to credulous villagers little boxes of powder for"coating things with silver. " Others are selling song-books, attractingcustomers by the novel and interesting performances of a quartette ofpretty girls, who sing song after song in succession. Here also arelittle travelling peep-shows, containing photographic scenes of famoustemples and places in distant parts of the country. Among the various shrines in this temple is one dedicated to an ancientwood-cutter, who used to work and spend his wages on drink for his agedfather, who was now too old to earn money for the purpose himself. At hisfather's demise the son was rewarded for his filial devotion by thediscovery of a "cascade of pure sake. " A gayly decorated car and a closed tumbril, that looks very much like anold ammunition-wagon, have been wheeled out of their enclosures for theoccasion. Strings of little bells are suspended on these; mothers holdtheir little ones up and allow them to strike these bells, toss a coininto the contribution-box, and pass on. The vehicles probably containrelics of the gods. A wooden horse, painted red, stands in solemn and lonely state behind thewooden bars of his stall--but I have almost registered a vow againsttemples and their belongings, in Japan, so inexplicable are most of thethings to be seen. A person who has delved into the mysteries of Japanesemythology would no doubt derive much satisfaction from a visit to theOyama-tsumi-uo-Kami temple, but the average reader would weary of it allafter seeing others. What to ordinary mortals signify such hideousmythological monsters as saru-tora-hebi (monkey-tiger-serpent), or the"Twenty-four Paragons of Filial Piety" on the architrave. Yet, of such asthese is the ornamentation of all Japanese temples. Some few there arethat are admirable as works of art, but most of them are hideous daubsand representations more than passing rude. Down the street near my yadoya, within a boarded enclosure, a dozenwrestlers are giving an entertainment for a crowd of people who have paidtwo sen apiece entrance-fee. The wrestlers of Japan form a distinct classor caste, separated from the ordinary society of the country by longcustom, that prejudices them against marrying other than the daughter ofone of their own profession. As the biggest and more muscular men havealways been numbered in the ranks of the wrestlers, the result of thisexclusiveness and non-admixture with physical inferiors is a class ofpeople as distinct from their fellows as if of another race. The Japanesewrestler stands head and shoulders above the average of his countrymen, and weighs half as much more. As a class they form an interestingillustration of what might be accomplished in the physical improvement ofmankind by certain Malthusian schemes that have been at times advocated. Within a twelve-foot arena the sturdy athletes struggle for the mastery, bringing to bear all their strength and skill. No "hippodroming" here:stripped to the skin, the muscles on their brown bodies standing out inirregular knots, they fling one another about in the liveliest manner. The master of ceremonies, stiff and important, in a faultless graygarment bearing a samurai crest, stands by and wields the fiddle-shapedlacquered insignia of his high office, and utter his orders and decisionsin an authoritative voice. The wrestlers squat around the ring and shiver, for the evening is cold, until called out by the master of ceremonies. The two selected take asmall handful of salt from baskets of that ingredient suspended on posts, and fling toward each other. They then advance into the arena, andfurthermore challenge and defy their opponent by stamping their bare feeton the ground, in a manner to display their superior muscularity. Anotherorder from the gentleman wielding the fiddle-shaped insignia, and theyrush violently together, engage in a "catch-as-catch-can" scuffle, which, in less than half a minute usually, results in a decisive victory for oneor the other. The master of ceremonies waves them out of the ring, straightens himself up, assumes a very haughty expression, until he lookslike the very important personage he feels himself to be, and announcesthe name of the victor to the spectators. The one portion of the Tokaido impassable with a wheel commences atMishima, the famous Hakone Pass, which for sixteen miles offers a steepsurface of rough bowlder-paved paths. Coolies at Mishima make theirlivelihood by carrying goods and passengers over the pass on kagoa (theJapanese palanquin). Obtaining a couple of men to carry the bicycle, thechilly weather proves an inducement for following them afoot, rather thanoccupy a kago myself. The block road is broad enough for a wagon, beingconstructed, no doubt, with a view to military transport service. Thelong steep slopes are literally carpeted in places with the worn-outstraw shoes of men and horses. The country observed from the elevation of the Hakone Pass is extremelybeautiful, the white-tipped cone of the magnificent Fuji towering overall, like a presiding genius. Near the hamlet of Yamanaka is a famouspoint, called Fuji-mi-taira (terrace for looking at Fuji). Bigcryptomerias shade the broad stony path along much of its southern slopeto Hakone village and lake. Hakone is a very lovely and interesting region, nowadays a favoritesummer resort of the European residents of Tokio and Yokohama. From thelatter place Hakone Lake is but about fifty miles distant, and byjinrikisha and kago may be reached in one day. The lake is a mostcharming little body of water, a regular mountain-gem, reflecting in itsclear, crystal depths the pine-clad slopes that encompass it round about, as though its surface were a mirror. Japanese mythology peopled theregion round with supernatural beings in the early days of the country'shistory, when all about were impenetrable thickets and pathless woods. Until the revolution of 1868, when all these old feudal customs wereruthlessly swept away, the Tokaido here was obstructed with one of the"barriers, " past which nobody might go without a passport. These barrierswere established on the boundaries of feudal territories, usually atpoints where the traveller had no alternate route to choose. A magnificent avenue of cryptomeria shades the Tokaido for a shortdistance out of Hakone village; on the left is passed a large governmentsanitarium, one of those splendid modern-looking structures that speak soeloquently of the present Mikado's progressive and enlightened policy. The road then turns up the steep mountain-slopes, fringed withimpenetrable thickets of bamboo. Fuji, from here, presents a grand andcurious sight. The wind has risen, and the summit of the cone is almosthidden behind clouds of drifting snow, which at a distance might almostbe mistaken for a steamy eruption of the volcano. Close by, too, thespirit of the wind moves through the bamboo-brakes, rubbing the myriadfrost-dried flags together and causing a peculiar rustling noise--thewhispering of the spirits of the mountains. The summit reached, the Tokaido now leads through glorious pine-woods, descending toward the valley of the Sakawagawa by a series of breakneckzigzags. The region is picturesque in the extreme; a smallmountain-stream tumbles along through a deep ravine on the left, mountains tower aloft on the other side, and here and there give birth toa cataract that tumbles and splashes down from a height of severalhundred feet. By 1 p. M. Yomoto and the recommencement of the jinrikisha road isreached; a broiled fish and a bottle of native beer are consumed forlunch, and the kago coolies dismissed. The road from Yomoto is a gradualdescent, for four miles, to Odawara, a town of some thirteen thousandinhabitants, on the coast. The road now becomes level and broader thanheretofore; vehicles drawn by horses mingle with the swarms ofjinrikishas and pedestrians. Both horses and drivers of the former seemsleepy, woe-begone and careless, as though overcome with a consciousnessof being out of place. Gangs of men are dragging stout hand-carts, loaded with material for theconstruction of the Tokaido railway, now rapidly being pushed forward. Every mile of the road is swarming with life--the strangelyinteresting life of Japan. Thirty miles from Yomoto, and Totsuka providesme a comfortable yadoya, where the people quickly show their knowledge ofthe foreigner's requirements by cooking a beefsteak with onions, also inthe morning by charging the first really exorbitant price I have beenconfronted with along the Tokaido. Totsuka is within the treaty limits ofYokohama. A mile or so toward Yokohama I pass, in the morning, the "WhiteHorse Tavern, " kept in European style as a sort of road-house forforeigners driving out from that city or Tokio. A fierce wind, blowing from the south, fairly wafts me along the lasteleven miles of the Tokaido, from Totsuka to Yokohama. The wind, indeed, has been generally favorable since the rain-storm at Okabe, but it fairlywhistles this morning. It calls to mind the Kansas wheelman, who claimedto have once spread his coat-tails to the breeze and coasted fromLawrence to Kansas City in three hours. Unfortunately I am wearing a coatthe pattern of which does not admit of using the tails for sailsotherwise the homestretch of the tour around the world might haveprovided one of the most unique incidents of the many I have encounteredon the journey. A battery of field-artillery, the smartest seen since leaving Germany, isencountered in the streets of Kanagawa, at which point the road toYokohama branches off from the Tokaido. The great Imperial highway, alongwhich I have travelled from the old capital almost to the new, continueson to the latter, seventeen miles farther. Since the completion of therailway between Tokio and Kanagawa, travellers journeying from thecapital down the Tokaido usually ride on the train to Kanagawa, so thatthe jinrikisha journey proper nowadays commences at the latter city. Kanagawa is practically a suburban part of Yokohama: one Japanese-ownedclock observed here points to the hour of eight, another to eleven, and athird to half past-nine, but the clock at the Club Hotel, on the Yokohamabund, is owned by an Englishman, and is just about striking ten, when thelast vault from the saddle of the bicycle that has carried me through somany countries is made. And so the bicycle part of the tour around theworld, which was begun April 22, 1884, at San Francisco, California, endsDecember 17, 1886, at Yokohama. At this port I board the Pacific mail steamer City of Peking, which inseventeen days lands me in San Francisco. Of the enthusiastic receptionaccorded me by the San Francisco Bicycle Club, the Bay City Wheelmen, andby various clubs throughout the United States, the daily press of thetime contains ample record. Here, I beg leave to hope that the courtesiesthen so warmly extended may find an echoing response in this long recordof the adventures that had their beginning and ending at the Golden Gate. ITINERARY:GIVING THE NAME AND DATE OF EACH SLEEPING-POINT ON THE BICYCLE TOUR AROUND THE WORLD. VOLUME I. UNITED STATES. CALIFORNIA. 1884 April 23 San Francisco 23 House in the tuiles 24 Elmira 25 Sacramento 26 Near Rocklin 27-28 Clipper Gap 29 Blue Canon 30 Summit House NEVADA. May 1 Verdi 2 Ranch on Truckee River 3 Hot Springs 4 Lovelocks 5 Mill City 6 Winnemucca 7 Stone House 8 Ranch on Humboldt 9 Palisade 10 Carlin 11 Halleck 12 C P Section House UTAH. 13 Tacoma 14 Matlin 15 Salt House 16 Near Corrinne 17 Willard City 18 Ogden 19 Echo City 20 Castle Rocks WYOMING TERRITORY. May 21 Evanston 22 Hilliard 23 In abandoned freight wagon 24 Carter Station 25 Near Granger 26 Rocks Springs 27 Ranch 28-29 Rawlins 30 Carbon 31 Lookout June 1-2 Laramie City 3 Cheyenne NEBRASKA. 4 Pine Bluffs 5 Potter Station 6 Lodge Pole 7 Ranch on Platte 8 Ogallala 9 In a "dug-out" 10 Brady Island 11 Plum Creek 12 Kearney Junction 13 Grand Island 14 Duncan 15 North Bend 16 Fremont 17-18 Omaha IOWA. 19 Farm near Nishnebotene 20 Farm near Griswold June 21 Farm near Menlo 22 Farm near De Soto 23 Altoona 24 Kellogg 25 Victor 26 Tiffin 27 MOSCOW-ILLINOIS. 28 Rock Island 29 Atkinson 30 La Moile July 1 Yorkville 2 Naperville 3 Lyons 4-11 Chicago INDIANA. 12 Miller Station 13 Beneath a wheat shock 14 Goshen 15 Farm OHIO. 10 Ridgeville 17 Empire House 18 Bellevue 19 Village near Cleveland 20 Madison PENNSYLVANIA. 21 Roadside Hotel near Erie NEW YORK. 22 Angola 23 Buffalo 24 Leroy 25 Farm near Canandaigua 26 Marcellns 27 East Syracuse 28 Erie Canal Inn 29 Indian Castle 80 Crane's Village 31 Westfalls Inn MASSACHUSETTS. Aug. 1 Otis 2 Palmer 3 Worcester 4 BostonEUROPE. ENGLAND. 1885 Liverpool May 2 Warrington 3 Stone 4 Coventry 5 Fenny Stratford 6 Great Berkhamstead 7-8 London 9 Croydon 10 British Channel Steamer FRANCE Via Dieppe 11 Elbeuf 12 Mantes 13-15 Paris 16 Sezanne 17 Bar le Duo 18 Trouville 19 Nancy GERMANY. 20 Phalzburg Via Strasburg 21 Oberkirch 22 Rottenburg 23 Blauburen 24 Augsburg 25-26 Munich 27 Alt Otting AUSTRIA-HUNGARY. 28 Hoag 29 Strenberg 80 Neu Lengbach 31 Vienna June 1-3 4 Altenburg 5 Neszmely 6-7 Budapest 8 Duna Pentele 9 Szegszard 10 Duna Szekeso 11-12 Eszek 13 Sarengrad 14 Neusatz 15 Batauitz SERVIA, BULGARIA, AND TURKEY. 16-17 Belgrade 18 Jagodina 19 Nisch June 20-31 Bela Palanka 22 Sofia 23 Ichtiman 24 Near Tartar Bazardjic 25 Cauheme 26 Near Adrianople 27-28 Eski Baba 29 Small Village 30 Tchorlu July 1 Camped out 2 Constantinople 6, 000 miles wheeled from San Francisco. ASIA. ASIA MINOR. Aug. 10 Ismidt 11 Geiveh 12 Terekli 13 Beyond Torbali 14 Nalikhan 15 Bey Bazaar 16-17 Angora 18 Village 19 Camped out 20 Koordish Camp 21 Yuzgat 22 Camped out 23 Village 24-25 Sivas 26 Zara Mar. 27 Armenian Village 28 Camp in a cave 29 Merriserriff 30 Erzingan 31 Houssenbeg Khan Sept. 1 Village in Euphrates Valley 2-6 Erzeroum 7 Hassan Kaleh 8 Dela Baba 9 Malosman 10 Sup Ogwanis Monastery PERSIA. 11 Ovahjik 12 Koodish Camp 13 Peri 14 Khoi 15 Village near Lake Ooroomiah 16 Village near Tabreez 17-20 Tabreez 21 Hadji Agha 22 Turcomanchai 23 Miana 24 Koordish Camp 25-26 Zendjan 27 Heeya 28 Kasveen 29 Yeng Imam 30 Teheran VOLUME II. 1886 Mar. 10 Katoum-abad 11 Aivan-i-Kaif 12 Aradan 13-14-15 Lasgird 16 Semnoon 17 Gusheh 18 Deh Mollah 19-20 Shahrood 21 Mijamid 22 Miandasht 23-24 Mazinan 25 Subzowar 26 Wayside caravanserai 27 Shiirab 28 Gadamgah Mar. 29 Wayside caravanserai 30-Ap. 6 Meshed April 7 Shahriffabad 8 Caravanserai 9 Torbet-i-Haidorai 10 Camp on Gounabad Desert 11 Kakh 12 Nukhab 13 Small hamlet 14 Beerjand 15 Ali-abad 16 Darmian 17 Tabbas 18 Huts on desert edge AFGHANISTAN. April 19 Camp on Desert of Despair 20 Nomad camp 31 Village ou Harud 22 Ghalakua 23 Nomad camp 24-25 Furrali (arrested by Afghans) 26 Nomad camp 27 Subzowar 28 Nomad camp 29 Camp out 30-May 9 Herat May 10 Village 11 Roadside umbar 12 Camp in Heri-rood jungle PERSIA. 13 Karize (released by Afghans) 14 Nomad camp 15 Furriman 16-18 Meshed 19 Caravanserai 20 Near Nishapoor 21 Lafaram 22 Wayside umbar 23 Mazinan 24 Near caravanserai 25 Camp out 26-27 Shahrood 28 Camp out 29 Asterabad 30 Bunder Guz Russian steamer to Baku;rail to Batoum; steamer to Constantinople and India. Renewed bicycle tour: INDIA. August Lahore 1 Amritza 2 Beas River 8 Jullunder 4 Police chowkee 5-6 Umballa 7 Peepli 8 Paniput 9 Police chowkee 10-14 Delhi 15 Dak bungalow 16 Bungalow 17 Muttra Aug. 18-19 Agra 20 Mainipoor 21 Miran-serai 22-26 Cawnpore 27 Caravanserai 28 Caravanserai 29-30 Allahabad 31 Roadside hut Sept. 1-2 Benares 3 Mogul-serai 4 Caravanserai 5 Dilli 6 Shergotti 7 D`ak bungalow 8 D`ak bungalow 9 Burwah 10 Ranuegunj 11 Burdwan 12 Hooghli 13-17 Calcutta Steamer to Canton CHINA. Oct. 7-12 Canton 13 Chun-kong-hi 14 Low-pow 15 Chin-ynen 16 Bamboo thicket 17-20 Aboard sampan 21 Schou-chou-foo 22 Small village 23 Do. 24 Nam-hung 25-28 Nam-ngan 29 Aboard sampan 30 Large village 31 Large village near Kan-tchou-i'oo Nov. 1 Small mountain hamlet 2 Walled garrison city 3 Ta-ho 4 Ki-ngan foo (under arrest) 5-15 Under arrest on sampan 16 Inn near Kui-Kiang 17 Yangtsi-Kiang steamer 18 Shanghai 19-20 Japanese steamer JAPAN. 21-22 Nagasaki 23 Omura Nov. 24 Ushidza 25-26 Futshishi 27 Hakama 28 Shemonoseki 29 Village 30 Do. Dec. 1 A small fishing hamlet 2 Do. 3 Do. 4-5 Okoyama Dec. 6 Himeji 7-8 Kobe 9 Ozaka 10 Kioto 11 Saka-no-shita 12 Miya 13 Hamamatsu 14 Roadside inn 15 Mishima 16 Totsuka 17 Yokohama DISTANCE ACTUALLY WHEELED, ABOUT 13, 500 MILES.