it is yet two
farsakhs to Subzowar. The wheeling from this point, however, is very
good, and I roll into Subzowar, or, at least, up to its gate, for
Subzowar is a walled city, shortly after dark. Sherab (native wine) they
tell me, is obtainable in the bazaar, but when I inquire the price per
bottle, with a view of sending for one, several eager aspirants for the
privilege of fetching it shout out different prices, the lowest figure
mentioned being three times the actual price. Being rather indifferent
about the doubtful luxury of drinking wine for the amusement of an
eagerly curious crowd, which I know only too well beforehand will be my
unhappy portion, I conclude to chagrin and disappoint the whole dishonest
crew by doing without. One gets so thoroughly disgusted with the
ever-present trickery, dishonesty, and prying, unrestrained curiosity of
the ragged, sore-eyed and garrulous crowds that gather about one at every
halting place, that a person actually comes to prefer a mere crust of
bread 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 upon
the scene of my early preparations to depart, on the following morning,
and, when I start, takes upon himself the office of conducting me through
the labyrinthian bazaar and to the gate of exit beyond. I am wondering
somewhat who this individual may be, and wherefore the officiousness of
his 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 mayor
of the city. The Reis receives me with the glad and courteous greeting of
a person desirous of making himself agreeable and of creating a favorable
impression; trays of sweetmeats are produced, and tea is served up in
little porcelain cups.

As soon as tea and sweetmeats and kalians appear on the board, mollahs
and seyuds mysteriously begin to put in an appearance likewise, filing
noiselessly in and taking their places near or distant from the Reis,
according to their respective rank and degree of holiness. My
observations everywhere in the Land of the Lion and the Sun all tend to
the conclusion that whenever and wherever a samovar of tea begins to sing
its cheery and aromatic song, and the soothing hubble-bubble of the
kalian begins telling its seductive tale of solid comfort and social
intercourse, a huge green or white turban is certain to appear on the
scene, a r