that one needed the all-compassing eyes of a fly to see it. Persia's nearness was attested by the graceful shapes of water-pots, bottles and bowls, the damascened metals and the blue-glazed pottery; and the Russian advance was there in visible, tangible form in the tall copper samovars that steamed and hissed in the frequent tea-shops—the hand of Russia seen in every such gathering-place, and the seeds of sedition lying in every bowl of tea.
Disputing passage with a deliberate ox loaded with twice its bulk of fodder-cane, we came through a deep arch in a wall to the circular Bokhara, or silk bazaar, and to a dazzling picture all light and life and color in the blazing, blinding sunlight of that early, cloudless afternoon. Dens of alcove shops surrounded the great open space, where leafless trees cast thin traceries of shadows over the bare earth, and scores of men sat in groups in the sun, twirling reels of green, yellow, rose, and purple silks, tossing glistening skeins of every hue as they came fresh from traders' packs or dyers' vats. Bales of woven silks and shimmering lengths of gay tissues were heaped and spread over the floors of the tiny shops; and sitting statuesque, or moving in and out among the whirling spindles, were Afghan and Bokhara silk merchants and brokers, who brightened the scene with their gold-threaded and -fringed turban-cloths, gold-embroidered and cloth-of-gold vests and waistcoats, and inner garments of gorgeous Bokhara shadow-silks. From "silken Samarkand," from Bokhara and Kabul, these men come every winter to this silk bazaar, and huge bales of raw silks
