A large part of the population of Bokhara belongs to the religious orders, and are known as Ishans, Mullahs, and Reis. They belong to the Sunnite faction, and have an utter abhorrence of Persian Moslems, who do not belong to that sect; they maintain the same standard of religious asceticism as that of the Middle Ages, and are prepared to fight just as in those days. It is hard to realise that they are utterly untouched by modernism, and the barbarism of Bokhara is unspeakable. Needless to say, we did not visit the prison—descriptions of it can be read in every book dealing with the place, but it does not bear thinking of when we remember that Englishmen were literally rotting away there, “masses of their flesh having been gnawn off their bones by vermin in 1843” (Wolff). The citadel has no less hideous tales to tell: indeed Bokhara is one of the most degraded places on the face of the earth according to all accounts. “Thou wilt to Bokhara? O fool for thy pains, Thither thou goest to be put into chains.” MESNEVI. Vambéry’s description of what he saw only half a century ago leaves no room for doubt on this subject. He heard the robes which were to be awarded to successful soldiers described as “four-head,” “ten-head,” or “twenty-head” robes, and seeing no such design on them inquired the meaning of the term. For all answer he was taken to see the arrival of the conquerors; they had women captives tied to their saddle bows as well as great sacks. These were filled with _human heads_, and each man in turn had these hideous trophies counted, and the number placed upon the official list to be the measure of the reward he should receive. The lot of the slaves is a terrible one, and slavery still exists, being a thing wholly approved and sanctioned by the Koran. The law of Harem is observed with the utmost stringency, and women of the upper class are kept closely secluded. If a girl is allowed to go out at all, she must not only be veiled, but must put on the appearance of age and decrepitude, walking with a stick on tottering footsteps. Although not compelled to do so as in the case of women, the men also cultivate assiduously the art of a special step, which is known as the “Reftari khiraman”: their poets describe it as the swaying of a cypress in the wind, but to us it appears as an ungainly waddle. David Cox was clever enough to make the dogs bark in his sketches, but I, alas, cannot make my man waddle!