The courts of oriental princes have been frequently and variously described. Beginning with the shore of the Bosphorus, where Dolma Bagtsche, Beshiktash and Serayburun furnish the first pictures in the panorama, and ranging as far as the palaces of Pekin and Yedo, we have read again and again of the love for ostentation and empty splendour, the glitter of gold and diamonds of oriental life. But to complete the series, a few sketches of life at the court of Turkestan sovereigns are wanting, and the description of such may not, therefore, be deemed superfluous.

My readers must not expect either to be dazzled, or to have their amazement and admiration excited, and yet it will repay the trouble to accompany me through the tortuous streets of Khiva and the bazaar with its vaulted roof to the Ark (the Royal Castle.) Like all the residences of sovereigns in Central Asia, this castle is strangely fortified and surrounded by a double wall. Through a narrow gate we enter into the first court, which is crowded with the royal body-guard and other soldiers and servants. Near the entrance two cannons are planted, brought thither by the mighty Nadir, and left behind on his hasty retreat. They are decorated with pretty symmetrical ornaments, and seem to have been made at Delhi. After having passed the second gate, we enter a more spacious court, with a mean looking building on one side, not unlike an open coach-house; it is here that the high officials pass the hours of office, the Mehter (Minister of the Interior) presiding. To the left of this building is a kind of guard-house, in which divers servants, policemen and executioners live during the day time, awaiting the commands of their royal master. A small gate leads between these two buildings, to the residence of His Majesty of Khiva. On the outside it resembles a poor mud-hut, like all the other houses in the town, and is of course without windows, nor is any particular luxury to be met with inside, except several large and valuable carpets, a few sofas and round cushions, together with a considerable number of chests—the entire furniture of this place—which serve in some degree to remind us of the princely rank of the master. The number of apartments is very small, and as every where the case, is divided into the Harem, (the rooms set apart for the women,) and the Selamdjay, (the reception hall.)

Nowhere are any signs of splendour perceptible; the large train of followers alone mark the distinction, the lacqueys are the sole insignia of the ruler. Let us pass them in review before us. At the head of the household is the Desturkhandji, (literally, the man who spreads the table cloth,) whose peculiar office is to superintend the royal table. He is present during dinner, clothed in full armour and state dress, and on him devolves the inspection and control of the entire number of servants. Next to him follows the Mehrem, a kind of valet de chambre in officio, but in reality rather a privy councillor, who shares in the business of the state besides his immediate domestic affairs, and, conjointly with the former, exercises the most powerful influence upon his royal master. Then follows the rest of the servants, of whom each has his distinct office. The Ashpez, or cook, prepares the food, whilst the Ashmehter serves it. The Sherbetshi prepares tea, sherbet, and other drinks, but he is expected to be skilled besides in the decoction of wonder-working elixirs. The Payeke is entrusted with the tchilim (pipe,) which at court is made of gold or silver, and must be replenished with fresh water every time it is filled with tobacco. This office does not exist in any other court in Central Asia, tobacco being strictly forbidden by law. His Tartar Majesty has no dressing room, it is true, but, nevertheless, several servants are appointed to assist at the toilet. Whilst the Shilaptshi kneeling holds the wash-hand basin, the Kumgandshi (the man who holds the can or jug) pours the water from a silver or golden vessel, and the Rumaldshi is ready, as soon as the two former have withdrawn, to throw the towel to the prince, holding it with the tips of his fingers. The Khan has an especial Sertarash (who shaves the head,) who is expected to have nimble fingers and at the same time a skilful hand for squeezing the skull, a favourite operation throughout the east. Then the prince possesses a Ternaktshi, or nail cutter, a Khadimdshi, whose duty it is to knead and pummel his back, also to kneel upon him and make his limbs crack, whenever the Khan, after long fatigue, wishes to refresh himself. Lastly, there is a TÖshektshi, or bed maker, whose office it is to spread out at night the soft pieces of felt or the mattresses. The magnificent harness, saddles and weapons are in charge of the Khaznadshi (treasurer,) who, whenever the sovereign rides out in public, walks beside him. The Djigadj, or keeper of the plumes, walks at the head of the train of servants.

In dress and food, the prince's household is little distinguished from that of rich merchants or officials of rank. The king wears the same heavy cap of sheep-skin, the same clumsy boots, stuffed out with several yards of linen rags, the same thickly-wadded coats of print or silk as his subjects, and, like them, endures in this Siberian costume, under the oppressive heat of July, a state of fearful perspiration. On the whole, the position of the Prince of Kharezm is one little to be envied, nay, I feel inclined to say, it is far more wretched than that of other Eastern princes. In a country, where pillage and murder, anarchy and lawlessness, are the rule, and not the exception, a sovereign has to maintain his authority by inspiring his subjects with the utmost dread and almost superstitious terror for his person; never with affection. Even those nearest to him fear him for his unlimited power; and wife and children, as well as relations, not unfrequently attempt his life. At the same time, the sovereign is expected to be the model of Islamitic virtue and Œzbeg manners and customs; every most trifling, insignificant error of his Majesty, becomes the talk of the town; and although nobody would venture to blame him for very considerable offences, yet in the former case it is the influential Mollahs who would feel affronted,—a result entirely opposed to the interests of the sovereign.

The Khan, like every orthodox Mussulman, is obliged to leave his bed before sun-rise, and to be present at the morning prayer in full assembly. It lasts rather more than half an hour, after which he partakes of several dishes of tea, seasoned with fat and salt. Not unfrequently some of the learned Mollahs are invited, in order to enliven the breakfast, by explaining some sacred precept or arguing upon some religious question, of which his highness rarely of course understands anything. Profound discussions generally invite sleep, and no sooner does his Majesty begin to snore aloud, when the learned men take it as a signal to withdraw. This sleep is called the morning doze, and lasts from two to three hours. When it is over, the selam (reception) of the ministers and other high dignitaries commences, and the Khan enters in full earnest upon his duties as sovereign. Consultations are held as to the maurauding expeditions to be undertaken, politics are discussed in reference to the neighbouring state of Bokhara, the Yomut- and Tchaudor-Turkomans, the Kasaks, and at present probably the Russians, who are pushing their advances nearer and nearer;—or the governors of the provinces and the tax-gatherers, who had been sent out over the country, have to submit to the Khan and his ministers their several accounts. Every farthing has to be paid over with the most scrupulous accuracy, and woe to that man in whose account the smallest error is detected; it may happen that he is dismissed, leaving his head behind. And now, after having transacted for several hours the ordinary business of the state, breakfast is served, consisting for the greater part of rather light food, that is to say, "light" for an Œzbeg digestion—the dÉjeuner À la fourchette of his Majesty of Khiva sufficing in all probability for several of our active working men at home. During this meal all present have to stand round respectfully and look on, and after having finished, he invites one or the other of his favourites to sit down and play with him at chess,—an amusement which is continued until the time for mid-day prayer. This lasts about an hour. When it is over, his Majesty proceeds to the outer court, and taking his seat on a kind of terrace, the arz (public audience) takes place, to which every rank, every class is admitted,—men, women, and children, either in the greatest nÉgligÉ or even half naked. All crowd round the entrance, where amidst noise and shouting they wait for audience. Each in turn is admitted, but only one person at a time, who is allowed to approach quite close to his sovereign; to speak out freely and without reserve, to make entreaty or complaint, nay, to engage even in the most violent altercation with the Khan, the smallest sign from whom would suffice to deliver his subject, without any reason whatever, into the hands of the executioner. Thus the East is, and ever was from times immemorial, the land of the most striking contradictions. The inexperienced may interpret this as love of strict justice. I, however, see in it nothing but a whimsical habit of demeanour, permitting one person to defy the royal authority in the coarsest terms of speech, while another forfeits his life for the smallest offence against the rules of propriety.

At the arz not only all great and important lawsuits are settled, and sentences of death pronounced and executed; but even trifling differences are not unfrequently adjusted, as for instance, a quarrel between a husband and wife, or between one man and his neighbour on account of some few pence or the stealing of a hen. No complainant whatever can be refused a hearing; and although the Khan may send him to the Kadi, yet he must first listen to whatever he has to say. The afternoon prayer alone puts an end to this wearisome occupation. Later in the day the prince takes his customary ride on horseback outside the town, and usually returns just before sunset. Evening prayers again are said in full assembly, and these ended, the prince retires to take his supper. The servants, and all those who do not live in the palace, withdraw, and the king remains alone with his confidants. Supper is a luxurious meal, and lasts longer than any other. Spirituous drinks are seldom taken by the sovereigns of Khiva and Bokhara, although the other members of the royal family and the grandees frequently transgress on this point, and indulge in the practice to excess. After the supper, singers and musicians make their appearance, or jugglers, with their various performances. Singing is very popular in Khiva, and the native singers of this place are the most renowned in Turkestan, and indeed throughout the whole Mahomedan East of Asia. The instrument upon which they excel is called girdshek, and bears a general resemblance to our violin. It has a longer neck and three strings, one of wire and two of silk; the bow, too, is like our bow. Then there are the tambur and dutara, on which instruments the Bakhshi plays the accompaniment to his songs, improvised in praise of some popular hero of the day; whereas at the royal court they select for the most part ghaseles from Nevai and the Persian poets. The young princes are instructed in music, and it often happens that the Khan invites them to perform either alone or with the troubadours at court. Particular merriment and good humour, such as presides at the drinking-bouts at Teheran, or at the banquets in the palaces on the Bosphorus, is not to be met with at the court of Œzbeg princes; it is unknown here, or at least such is not the custom. The national character of the Tartar is chiefly marked by seriousness and firmness; to dance, jump, or show high spirits, is in his eyes only worthy of women or children. I have never seen an Œzbeg person of good manners indulge in immoderate laughter.

About two hours after sunset the Khan retires to the harem, or to his sleeping apartment, and with it his daily labours as sovereign are ended. The harem is here very different from those of the Turkish or Persian court. The number of women is limited, the fairy-like luxuriousness of life in a harem is entirely wanting, strict chastity and modesty pervade it; and in this respect the court of Khiva is eminently superior to all Eastern courts. The present Khan has only two lawful wives, although the Koran allows four. These are always chosen from among the royal family; and it is an extremely rare thing for the daughter of a dignitary, who does not belong to the family, to be raised to this rank. The Khan, although possessing the same unlimited power over his wife as over any of his subjects, treats her without severity, and on the whole with tenderness, unless she be found guilty of any particular offence. She possesses no titles or prerogatives whatever; her court is distinguished in nothing from the other harems, but that she has more female servants and slaves about her; the former consisting of the wives or daughters of officials, the latter for the most part of Persian and a few dark Arab women. The daughters of Iran are far inferior to the Œzbeg women in personal beauty, and their mistress has no cause to fear from either of them any rivalry. As regards their intercourse with the outer world, the princesses of Khiva are far more restricted than the wives of other Eastern potentates. The rules of modesty require that they should pass the greater part of the day in the harem, where comparatively little time is lavished upon the embellishments of the toilet. And in fact, the ladies of the harem have very little leisure for idleness, since in accordance with the custom of the country it is desirable that the greater part of the clothes, carpets, and other stuffs, for the use of the prince, should be prepared by the hand of his wife. This custom reminds one strongly of the patriarchal mode of life of which Turkestan, in spite of its roughness, has preserved many remnants of simple refinement.

The princess of Khiva is permitted occasionally to visit the neighbouring royal summer palaces and chateaux, never on horseback, as is the general custom in Persia, but in a large carriage, painted with gaudy colours, and completely covered and shut in with red carpets and shawls. Before and behind the vehicle trot a couple of horsemen, furnished with white staves. On her progress all rise respectfully from their seats and salute her with a profound bow. Nobody thinks of daring to cast a look of curiosity into the interior of the carriage; not only would this be useless, so closely is it covered, but such temerity would have to be atoned for by death, whether the object be the wife of the sovereign or any subordinate official. Whenever the Queen of Persia takes a ride on horseback, the numerous ferrash (servants) who head the cavalcade cut right and left with their sabres at the crowd, who disperse in terror and confusion, in spite of their eager curiosity. Such a proceeding, however, is not necessary with the grave Œzbegs; for here life in the harem is not regulated with the same severity, and it is well known that the less strictly its laws are administered, the less frequently they are transgressed.

During the summer the royal family inhabit the castles of Rafenek and Tashhauz, near Khiva. Both were erected in the Persian style by former princes, and are distinguished by possessing some window-panes and small looking-glasses—the latter, especially, being considered articles of great luxury in the eyes of the people of Khiva. Tashhauz has not been built without taste. The chateau stands in a large garden; it has several reservoirs, and resembles the castle of Nigaristan, near the town gate, Shimran at Teheran. The winter is spent in the town, but when here his Œzbeg highness occupies a light tent which is pitched inside the walls; and herein he shows no bad taste, for the round-shaped dwelling, made of snow-white felt, with a cheerful fire burning brightly in the middle, is not only quite as warm as any building of stone, but there is something pleasant about it, and it makes a far less gloomy impression than the windowless mud-huts of Turkestan.