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Around the World on a Bicycle V1

T >> Thomas Stevens >> Around the World on a Bicycle V1




If I am surprised, the lady herself not unnaturally evinces even greater
astonishment at the apparition of a lone wheelman here on the caravan
roads of Persia; of course we are mutually delighted. With the assistance
of her servant, the lady alights from the saddle and introduces herself
as Mrs. E--, the wife of one of the Persian missionaries; her husband
has lately returned home, and she is on the way to join him. The Persians
accompanying her comprise her own servants, some soldiers procured of
the Governor of Tabreez by the English consul to escort her as far as
the Turkish frontier, and a couple of unattached travellers keeping with
the party for company and society. A mule driver has charge of pack-mules
carrying boxes containing, among other things, her husband's library.
During the course of ten minutes' conversation the lady informs me that
she is compelled to travel in this manner the whole distance to Trebizond,
owing to the practical impossibility of passing through Bussian territory
with the library. Were it not for this a comparatively short and easy
journey would take them to Tiflis, from which point there would be steam
communication with Europe. Ere the poor lady gets to Trebizond she will
be likely to reflect that a government so civilized as the Czar's might
relax its gloomy laws sufficiently to allow the affixing of official
seals to a box of books, and permit its transportation through the
country, on condition-if they will-that it should not be opened in
transit; surely there would be no danger of the people's minds being
enlightened -not even a little bit-by coming in contact with a library
tightly boxed and sealed. At the frontier an escort of Turkish zaptiehs
will take the place of the Persian soldiers, and at Erzeroum the
missionaries will, of course, render her every assistance to Trebizond;
but it is not without feelings of anxiety for the health of a lady
travelling in this rough manner unaccompanied by her natural protector,
that I reflect on the discomforts she must necessarily put up with
between here and Erzeroum. She seems in good spirits, however, and says
that meeting me here in this extraordinary manner is the "most romantic"
incident in her whole experiences of missionary life in Persia. Like
many another, she says, she can I scarcely conceive it possible that I
am travelling without attendants and without being able to speak the
languages. One of the unattached travellers gives me a note of
introduction to Mohammed. Ali Khan, the Governor of Peri, a suburban
village of Khoi, which I expect to reach some time this afternoon.






CHAPTER XIX.




PERSIA AND THE TABREEZ CARAVAN TRAIL.

A SHORT trundle to the summit of a sloping pass, and then a winding
descent of several miles brings me to a position commanding a view of
an extensive valley that looks from this distance as lovely as a dreamy
vision of Paradise. An hour later and I am bowling along beneath overhanging
peach and mulberry trees, following a volunteer horseman to Mohammed Ali
Khan's garden. Before reaching the garden a gang of bare-legged laborers
engaged in patching up a mud wall favor me with a fusillade of stones,
one of which caresses me on the ankle, and makes me limp like a Greenwich
pensioner when I dismount a minute or two afterward. This is their
peculiar way of complimenting a lone Ferenghi. Mohammed Ali Khan is found
to be rather a moon-faced individual under thirty, who, together with
his subordinate officials, are occupying tents in a large garden. Here,
during the summer, they dispense justice to applicants for the same
within their jurisdiction, and transact such other official business as
is brought before them. In Persi, the distribution of justice consists
chiefly in the officials ruthlessly looting the applicants of everything
lootable, and the weightiest task of the officials is intriguing together
against the pocket of the luckless wight who ventures upon seeking equity
at their hands. A sorrowful-visaged husbandman is evidently experiencing
the easy simplicity of Persian civil justice as I enter the garden; he
wears the mournful expression of a man conscious of being irretrievably
doomed, while the festive Kahn and his equally festive moonshi bashi
(chief secretary) are laying their wicked heads together and whispering
mysteriously, fifty paces away from everybody, ever and anon looking
suspiciously around as though fearful of the presence of eavesdroppers.
After duly binning, a young man called Abdullah, who seems to be at the
beck and call of everybody, brings forth the samovar, and we drink the
customary tea of good fellowship, after which they examine such of my
modest effects as take their fancy. The moonshi bashi, as becomes a man
of education, is quite infatuated with my pocket map of Persia; the fact
that Persia occupies so great a space on the map in comparison with the
small portions of adjoining countries visible around the edges makes a
powerful appeal to his national vanity, and he regards me with increased
affection every time I trace out for him the comprehensive boundary line
of his native Iran. After nightfall we repair to the principal tent, and
Mohammed Ali Khan and his secretary consume the evening hours in the
joyous occupation of alternately smoking the kalian (Persian water-pipe,
not unlike the Turkish nargileh, except that it has a straight stem
instead of a coiled tube), and swallowing glasses of raw arrack every
few minutes; they furthermore amuse themselves by trying to induce me
to follow their noble example, and in poking fun at another young man
because his conscientious scruples regarding the Mohammedan injunction
against intoxicants forbids him indulging with them. About eight o'clock
the Khan becomes a trifle sentimental and very patriotic. Producing a
pair of silver-mounted horse-pistols from a corner of the tent, and
waving them theatrically about, he proclaims aloud his mighty devotion
to the Shah. At nine o'clock Abdullah brings in the supper. The Khan's
vertebra has become too limp and willowy to enable him to sit upright,
and he has become too indifferent to such coarse, un-spiritual things
as stewed chicken and musk-melons to care about eating any, while the
moonshi bashi's affection for me on account of the map has become so
overwhelming that he deliberately empties all the chicken on to my sheet
of bread, leaving none whatever for himself and the phenomenal young
person with the conscientious scruples.

When bedtime arrives it requires the united exertions of Abdullah and
the phenomenal young man to partially undress Mohammed Ali Khan and drag
him to his couch on the floor, the Kahn being limp as a dish-rag and a
moderately bulky person. The moonshi bashi, as becomes an individual of
lesser rank and superior mental attainments, is not quite so helpless
as his official superior, but on retiring he humorously reposes his feet
on the pillow and his head on nothing but the bare floor of the tent,
and stubbornly refuses to permit Abdullah to alter either his pillow or
his position. The phenomenal young man and myself likewise seek our
respective pile of quilts, Abdullah removes the lamp, draws a curtain
over the entrance of the tent, and retires.

The Persians, as representing the Shiite division of the Mohammedan
religion, consider themselves by long odds the holiest people on the
earth, far holier than the Turks, whom they religiously despise as
Sunnites and unworthy to loose the latchets of their shoes. The Koran
strictly enjoins upon them great moderation in the use of intoxicating
drinks, yet certain of the Persian nobility are given to drinking this
raw intoxicant by the quart daily. When asked why they don't use it in
moderation, they reply, " What is the good of drinking arrack unless one
drinks enough to become drunk and happy. " Following this brilliant idea,
many of them get " drank and happy " regularly every evening. They
likewise frequently consume as much as a pint before each meal to create
a false appetite and make themselves feel boozy while eating. In the
morning the moonshi bashi, with a soldier for escort, accompanies me on
horseback to Khoi, which is but about seven miles distant over a perfectly
level road. Sad to say, the moonshi bashi, besides his yearning affection
for fiery, untamed arrack, is a confirmed opium smoker, and after last
night's debauch for supper and "hitting the pipe " this morning for
breakfast, he doesn't feel very dashing in the saddle; consequently I
have to accommodate myself to his pace. It is the slowest seven miles
ever ridden on the road by a wheelman, I think; a funeral procession is
a lively, rattling affair, beside our onward progress toward the mud
battlements of Khoi, but there is no help for it. Whenever I venture to
the fore a little the dreamy-eyed moonshi bashi regards me with a gaze
of mild reproachfulness, and sings out in a gently-chide-the-erring tone
of voice: "Kardash. Kardash." meaning " f we are brothers, why do you
seem to want to leave me." Human nature could scarcely be proof against
an appeal wherein endearment and reproach are so beautifully and
harmoniously blended, and it always brings me back to a level with his
horse. Reaching the suburbs of Khoi, I am initiated into a new departure - new
to myself at this time - of Persian sanctimoniousness. Halting at a fountain
to obtain a drink, the soldier shapes himself for pouring the water out
of the earthenware drinking vessel into my hands; supposing this to be
merely an indication of the Persian's own method of drinking, I motion
my preference for drinking out of the jar itself. The soldier looks
appealingly toward the moonshi bashi, who tells him to let me drink, and
then orders him to smash the jar. It then dawns upon my unenlightened
mind, that being a Ferenghi, I should have known better than to have
touched my unhallowed lips to a drinking vessel at a public fountain,
defiling it by so doing, so that it must be smashed in order that the
sons of the "true prophet" may not unwittingly drink from it afterward
and themselves become defiled. The moonshi bashi pilots me to the residence
of a certain wealthy citizen outside the city walls; this person, a mild-
mannered, purring-voiced man, is seated in a room with a couple of
seyuds, or descendants of the prophet; they are helping themselves from
a large platter of the finest, pears, peaches, and egg plums I ever saw
anywhere. The room is carpeted with costly rugs and carpets in which
one's feet sink perceptibly at every step; the walls and ceiling are
artistically stuccoed, and the doors and windows are gay with stained
glass. Abandoning myself to the guidance of the moonshi bashi, I ride
around the garden-walks, show them the bicycle, revolver, map of Persia,
etc.; like the moonshi bashi, they become deeply interested in the map,
finding much amusement and satisfaction in having me point out the
location of different Persian cities, seemingly regarding my ability to
do so as evidence of exceeding cleverness and erudition. The untravelled
Persians of the northern provinces regard Teheran as the grand idea of
a large and important city; if there is any place in the whole world
larger and more important, they think it may perhaps be Stamboul. The
fact that Stamboul is not on my map while Teheran is, they regard as
conclusive proof of the superiority of their own capital. The moonshi
bashi's chief purpose in accompanying me hither has been to introduce
me to the attention of the "hoikim"; although the pronunciation is a
little different from hakim, I attribute this to local brogue, and have
been surmising this personage to be some doctor, who, perhaps, having
graduated at a Frangistan medical college, the moonshi bashi thinks will
be able to converse with me. After partaking of fruit and tea we continue
on our way to the nearest gate-way of the city proper, Khoi being
surrounded by a ditch and battlemented mud wall. Arriving at a large,
public inclosure, my guide sends in a letter, and shortly afterward
delivers me over to some soldiers, who forthwith conduct me into the
presence of - not a doctor, but Ali Khan, the Governor of the city, an
officer who hereabouts rejoices in the title of the "hoikim." The
Governor proves to be a man of superior intelligence; he has been Persian
ambassador to France some time ago, and understands French fairly well;
consequently we manage to understand each other after a fashion. Although
he has never before seen a bicycle, his knowledge of the mechanical
ingenuity of the Ferenghis causes him to regard it with more intelligence
than an un-travelled native, and to better comprehend my journey and its
object. Assisted by a dozen mollahs (priests) and officials in flowing
gowns and henna-tinted beards and finger-nails, the Governor is transacting
official business, and he invites me to come into the council chamber
and be seated. In a few minutes the noon-tide meal is announced; the
Governor invites me to dine with them, and then leads the way into the
dining-room, followed by his counsellors, who form in line behind him
according to their rank. The dining-room is a large, airy apartment,
opening into an extensive garden; a bountiful repast is spread on yellow-
checkered tablecloths on the carpeted floor; the Governor squats cross-
legged at one end, the stately-looking wiseacres in flowing gowns range
themselves along each side in a similar attitude, with much solemnity
and show of dignity; they - at least so I fancy - evidently are anything but
rejoiced at the prospect of eating with an infidel Ferenghi. The Governor,
being a far more enlightened and consequently less bigoted personage,
looks about him a trifle embarrassed, as if searching for some place
where he can seat me in a position of becoming honor without offending
the prejudices of his sanctimonious counsellors. Noticing this, I at
once come to his relief by taking the position farthest from him,
attempting to imitate them in their cross-legged attitude. My unhappy
attempt to sit in this uncomfortable attitude - uncomfortable at least to
anybody unaccustomed to it - provokes a smile from His Excellency, and he
straightway orders an attendant to fetch in a chair and a small table;
the counsellors look on in silence, but they are evidently too deeply
impressed with their own dignity and holiness to commit themselves to
any such display of levity as a smile. A portion of each dish is placed
upon my table, together with a travellers' combination knife, fork and
spoon, a relic, doubtless, of the Governor's Parisian experience. His
Excellency having waited and kept the counsellors waiting until these
preparations are finished, motions for me to commence eating, and then
begins himself. The repast consists of boiled mutton, rice pillau with
curry, mutton chops, hard-boiled eggs with lettuce, a pastry of sweetened
rice-flour, musk-melons, water-melons, several kinds of fruit, and for
beverage glasses of iced sherbet; of all the company I alone use knife,
fork, and plates. Before each Persian is laid a broad sheet of bread;
bending their heads over this they scoop up small handfuls of pillau,
and toss it dextrously into their mouths; scattering particles missing
the expectantly opened receptacle fall back on to the bread; this handy
sheet of bread is used as a plate for placing a chop or anything else
on, as a table-napkin for wiping finger-tips between courses, and now
and then a piece is pulled off and eaten. When the meal is finished, an
attendant waits on each guest with a brazen bowl, an ewer of water and
a towel. After the meal is over the Governor is no longer handicapped
by the religious prejudices of the mollahs, and leaving them he invites
me into the garden to see his two little boys go through their gymnastic
exercises. They are clever little fellows of about seven and nine,
respectively, with large black eyes and clear olive complexions; all
the time we are watching them the Governor's face is wreathed in a fond,
parental smile. The exercises consist chiefly in climbing a thick rope
dangling from a cross-beam. After seeing me ride the bicycle the Governor
wants me to try my hand at gymnastics, but being nothing of a gymnast I
respectfully beg to be excused. While thus enjoying a pleasant hour in
the garden, a series of resounding thwacks are heard somewhere near by,
and looking around some intervening shrubs I observe a couple of far-rashes
bastinadoing a culprit; seeing me more interested in this novel method
of administering justice than in looking at the youngsters trying to
climb ropes, the Governor leads the way thither. The man, evidently a
ryot, is lying on his back, his feet are lashed together and held soles
uppermost by means of an horizontal pole, while the farrashes briskly
belabor them with willow sticks. The soles of the ryot's feet are hard
and thick as rhinoceros hide almost from habitually walking barefooted,
and under these conditions his punishment is evidently anything but
severe. The flagellation goes merrily and uninterruptedly forward until
fifty sticks about five feet long and thicker than a person's thumb are
broken over his feet without eliciting any signals of distress from the
horny-hoofed ryot, except an occasional sorrowful groan of "A-l-l-ah."
He is then loosed and limps painfully away, but it looks like a rather
hypocritical limp, after all; fifty sticks, by the by, is a comparatively
light punishment, several hundred sometimes being broken at a single
punishment. Upon taking my leave the Governor kindly details a couple
of soldiers to show me to the best caravanserai, and to remain and protect
me from the worry and annoyance of the crowds until my departure from
the city. Arriving at the caravanserai, my valiant protectors undertake
to keep the following crowd from entering the courtyard; the crowd refuses
to see the justice of this arbitrary proceeding, and a regular pitched
battle ensues in the gateway. The caravanserai-jees reinforce the soldiers,
and by laying on vigorously with thick sticks, they finally put the
rabble to flight. They then close the caravanserai gates until the
excitement has subsided. Khoi is a city of perhaps fifty thousand
inhabitants, and among them all there is no one able to speak a word of
English. Contemplating the surging mass of woolly-hatted Persians from
the bala-khana (balcony; our word is taken from the Persian), of the
caravanserai, and hearing nothing but unintelligible language, I detect
myself unconsciously recalling the lines: " Oh it was pitiful; in a whole
city full--." It is the first large city I have visited without finding
somebody capable of speaking at least a few words of my own language.
Locking the bicycle up, I repair to the bazaar, my watchful and zealous
attendants making the dust fly from the shoulders of such unlucky wights
whose eager inquisitiveness to obtain a good close look brings them
within the reach of their handy staves. We are followed by immense crowds,
a Ferenghi being a rara avis in Khoi, and the fame of the wonderful asp-
i (horse of iron) has spread like wild-fire through the city. In the
bazaar I obtain Russian silver money, which is the chief currency of the
country as far east as Zendjan. Partly to escape from the worrying crowds,
and partly to ascertain the way out next morning, as I intend making an
early start, I get the soldiers to take me outside the city wall and
show me the Tabreez road.

A new caravanserai is in process of construction just outside the Tabreez
gate, and I become an interested spectator of the Persian mode of building
the walls of a house; these of the new caravanserai are nearly four feet
thick. Parallel walls of mud bricks are built up, leaving an interspace
of two feet or thereabouts; this is filled with stiff, well-worked mud,
which is dumped in by bucketsful and continually tramped by barefooted
laborers; harder bricks are used for the doorways and windows. The
bricklayer uses mud for mortar and his hands for a trowel; he works
without either level or plumb-line, and keeps up a doleful, melancholy
chant from morning to night. The mortar is handed to him by an assistant
by handsful; every workman is smeared and spattered with mud from head
to foot, as though glorying in covering themselves with the trade-mark
of their calling.

Strolling away from the busy builders we encounter a man the "water
boy of the gang"- bringing a three-gallon pitcher of water from a
spring half a mile away. Being thirsty, the soldiers shout for him to
bring the pitcher. Scarcely conceiving it possible that these humble
mud-daubers would be so wretchedly sanctimonious, I drink from the jar,
much to the disgust of the poor water-carrier, who forthwith empties
the remainder away and returns with hurried trot to the spring for a
fresh supply; he would doubtless have smashed the vessel had it been
smaller and of lesser value. Naturally I feel a trifle conscience-stricken
at having caused him so much trouble, for he is rather an elderly man,
but the soldiers display no sympathy for him whatever, apparently regarding
an humble water-carrier as a person of small consequence anyhow, and
they laugh heartily at seeing him trotting briskly back half a mile for
another load. Had he taken the first water after a Ferenghi had drank
from it and allowed his fellow-workmen to unwittingly partake of the
same, it would probably have fared badly with the old fellow had they
found it out afterward.

Returning cityward we meet our friend, the moonshi bashi, looking me up;
he is accompanied by a dozen better-class Persians, scattering friends
and acquaintances of his, whom he hag collected during the day chiefly
to show them my map of Persia; the mechanical beauty of the bicycle and
the apparent victory over the laws of equilibrium in riding it being,
in the opinion of the scholarly moonshi bashi, quite overshadowed by a
map which shows Teheran and Khoi, and doesn't show Stamboul, and which
shows the whole broad expanse of Persia, and only small portions of other
countries. This latter fact seems to have made a very deep impression
upon the moonshi banhi's mind; it appears to have filled him with the
unalterable conviction that all other countries are insignificant compared
with Persia; in his own mind this patriotic person has always believed
this to be the case, but he is overjoyed at finding his belief verified -
as he fondly imagines - by the map of a Ferenghi. Returning to the
caravanserai, we find the courtyard crowded with people, attracted by
the fame of the bicycle. The moonshi bashi straightway ascends to the
bala-khana, tenderly unfolds my map, and displays it for the inspection
of the gaping multitude below; while five hundred pairs of eyes gaze
wonderingly upon it, without having the slightest conception of what
they are looking at, he proudly traces with his finger the outlines of
Persia. It is one of the most amusing scenes imaginable; the moonshi
bashi and myself, surrounded by his little company of friends, occupying
the bala-khana, proudly displaying to a mixed crowd of fully five hundred
people a shilling map as a thing to be wondered at and admired.

After the departure of the moonshi bashi and his friends, by invitation
I pay a visit of curiosity to a company of dervishes (they themselves
pronounce it "darwish") occupying one of the caravanserai rooms. There
are eight of them lolling about in one small room; their appearance is
disgusting and yet interesting; they are all but naked in deference to
the hot weather and to obtain a little relief from the lively tenants
of their clothing. Prominent among their effects are panther or leopard
skins which they use as cloaks, small steel battle-axes, and huge spiked
clubs. Their whole appearance is most striking and extraordinary; their
long black hair is dangling about their naked shoulders; they have the
wild, haggard countenances of men whose lives are being spent in debauchery
and excesses; nevertheless, most of them have a decidedly intellectual
expression. The Persian dervishes are a strange and interesting people;
they spend their whole lives in wandering from one end of the country
to another, subsisting entirely by mendicancy; yet their cry, instead
of a beggar's supplication for charity, is "huk, huk" (my right, my
right); they affect the most wildly, picturesque and eccentric costumes,
often wearing nothing whatever but white cotton drawers and a leopard
or panther skin thrown, carelessly about their shoulders, besides which
they carry a huge spiked club or steel battle-axe and an alms-receiver;
this latter is usually made of an oval gourd, polished and suspended
on small brass chains. Sometimes they wear an embroidered conical cap
decorated with verses from the Koran, but often they wear no head-gear
save the covering provided by nature. The better-class Persians have
little respect for these wandering fakirs; but their wild, eccentric
appearance makes a deep impression upon the simple-hearted villagers,
and the dervishes, whose wits are sharpened by constant knocking about,
live mostly by imposing on their good nature and credulity. A couple of
these worthies, arriving at a small village, affect their wildest and
most grotesque appearance and proceed to walk with stately, majestic
tread through the streets, gracefully brandishing their clubs or battle-
axes, gazing fixedly at vacancy and reciting aloud from the Koran with
a peculiar and impressive intonation; they then walk about the village
holding out their alms-receiver and shouting "huk yah huk! huk yah huk "
Half afraid of incurring their displeasure, few of the villagers
refuse to contribute a copper or portable cooked provisions. Most dervishes
are addicted to the intemperate use of opium, bhang (a preparation of
Indian hemp), arrack, and other baleful intoxicants, generally indulging
to excess whenever they have collected sufficient money; they are likewise
credited with all manner of debauchery; it is this that accounts for
their pale, haggard appearance. The following quotation from "In the
Land of the Lion and Sun," and which is translated from the Persian, is
eloquently descriptive of the general appearance of the dervish: The
dervish had the dullard air, The maddened look, the vacant stare, That
bhang and contemplation give. He moved, but did not seem to live; His
gaze was savage, and yet sad; What we should call stark, staring mad.
All down his back, his tangled hair Flowed wild, unkempt; his head was
bare; A leopard's skin was o'er him flung; Around his neck huge beads
were hung, And in his hand-ah! there's the rub- He carried a portentous
club. After visiting the dervishes I spend an hour in an adjacent tchai-
khan drinking tea with my escort and treating them to sundry well-deserved
kalians. Among the rabble collected about the doorway is a half-witted
youngster of about ten or twelve summers with a suit of clothes consisting
of a waist string and a piece of rag about the size of an ordinary pen-
wiper. He is the unfortunate possessor of a stomach disproportionately
large and which intrudes itself upon other people's notice like a prize
pumpkin at an agricultural fair. This youth's chief occupation appears
to be feeding melon-rinds to a pet sheep belonging to the tchai-khan and
playing a resonant tattoo on his abnormally obtrusive paunch with the
palms of his hands. This produces a hollow, echoing sound like striking
an inflated bladder with a stuffed club; and considering that the youth
also introduces a novel and peculiar squint into the performance, it is
a remarkably edifying spectacle. Supper-time coming round, the soldiers
show the way to an eating place, where we sup off delicious bazaar-kabobs,
one of the most tasteful preparations of mutton one could well imagine.
The mutton is minced to the consistency of paste and properly seasoned;
it is then spread over flat iron skewers and grilled over a glowing
charcoal fire; when nicely browned they are laid on a broad pliable sheet
of bread in lieu of a plate, and the skewers withdrawn, leaving before
the customer a dozen long flat fingers of nicely browned kabobs reposing
side by side on the cake of wheaten bread-a most appetizing and digestible
dish. Returning to the caravanserai, I dismiss my faithful soldiers with
a suitable present, for which they loudly implore the blessings of Allah
on my head, and for the third or fourth time impress upon the caravanseraijes
the necessity of making my comfort for the night his special consideration.
They fill that humble individual's mind with grandiloquent ideas of my
personal importance by dwelling impressively on the circumstance of my
having eaten with the Governor, a fact they likewise have lost no
opportunity of heralding throughout the bazaar during the afternoon. The
caravanserai-jee spreads quilts and a pillow for me on the open bala-khana,
and I at once prepare for sleep. A gentle-eyed and youthful seyud wearing
an enormous white turban and a flowing gown glides up to my couch and
begins plying me with questions. The soldiers noticing this as they are
about leaving the court-yard favor him with a torrent of imprecations
for venturing to disturb my repose; a score of others yell fiercely at
him in emulation of the soldiers, causing the dreamy-eyed youth to hastily
scuttle away again. Nothing is now to be heard all around but the evening
prayers of the caravanserai guests; listening to the multitudinous cries
of Allah-il-Allah around me, I fall asleep. About midnight I happen to
wake again; everything is quiet, the stars are shining brightly down
into the court-yard, and a small grease lamp is flickering on the floor
near my head, placed there by the caravan-serai-jee after I had fallen
asleep. The past day has been one full of interesting experiences; from
the time of leaving the garden of Mohammed Ali Khan this morning in
company with the moonshi bashi, until lulled to sleep three hours ago
by the deep-voiced prayers of fanatical Mohammedans the day has proved
a series of surprises, and I seem more than ever before to have been the
sport and plaything of fortune; however, if the fickle goddess never
used anybody worse than she has used me to-day there would be little
cause for complaining.

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