We marched from Kurshee to Karsan, sixteen miles distant, which is a thriving village, situated on the extremity of this öasis. We arrived on the market-day, for in the towns of Toorkistan they hold their bazars on stated days, as in Europe. We met many people proceeding to the throng, but not a single individual on foot--all were equestrians. A stranger is amused at seeing a horse literally converted into a family conveyance, and a man jogging along with his wife behind him. The ladies are of course veiled, like most females in this country: they prefer blue cloths to white, as in Cabool, and Uzbeks are sombre-looking figures. We now found ourselves among the Uzbeks, a grave, broad-faced, peaceable people, with a Tartar expression of countenance. They are fair, and some of them are handsome; but the great bulk of the people, the men at least, are without personal beauty. I was struck with the great number of old looking men among them. We had now left the Toorkmun tribes, who do not here extend much beyond the Oxus.
In our second march from Kurshee, we halted at Kuroul-tuppa, where there is a caravansary built by Abdoolla, a king of Bokhara, who reigned in the sixteenth century. It put me in mind of Hindostan and its monarchs. We also passed three large reservoirs (surdabas), which were made by order of this philanthropic prince. They had been erected at great expense in a flat and desert country, and the rain water that falls is conducted to them by ditches often from a great distance. The king Abdoolla had made a pilgrimage to Mecca, but imbibed an impression that it had not proved acceptable in the sight of God. In the hope of propitiating divine favour, he set about the construction of caravansarais and cisterns in all parts of his dominions, acts more beneficial to mankind, and therefore more acceptable, I venture to believe, than pilgrimages to shrines or tombs.
At Kurshee, we were joined by some other travellers, among whom was a Moollah from Bokhara, who introduced himself to me: the people of this country possess great affability of manner, and make agreeable companions. The priest and I rode together on our last march to the city, being the only persons on horseback. He gave me an account of the college to which he belonged in Bokhara, and requested me to visit it, which I did not fail to do. My other friend, the Khwaju, at length changed conveyances with the priest, and entertained me for half the night, by repeating and explaining odes and lines of poetry, more to my amusement than edification, for they were all about nightingales and love. It is curious to find so much said on this passion, in a country where there is really so little of it. It does not appear to strike the people themselves; though some of their verses breathe a spirit which one might think would discover it to them, thus: