Altogether, as an expedition in search of
solitude, my enterprise was a failure. Everywhere
there were people. The omnibuses were
empty, it is true; the large thoroughfares,
such as Holborn and the New-road, looked
bare; but solitude there was none. No, not
in Burton-crescent, where one old lady was
crawling along by the railings, done up in
her best clothes, and, doubtless, going out to
tea; and where a poor invalid gentleman was
returning with his wife from taking a convalescent's
airing; not, as we have seen, in
Mecklenburgh-square, where I had sought it
confidently; not even in Burton-street, a small thoroughfare
at the back of the Crescent, where I made
sure of solitude, and in which I counted, to my
horror and disgust, no fewer than thirty souls,
including several children, and a man eating a
raw carrot; no, nor yet was there solitude in
the Underground Railway, into one of whose
carriages I at length flung myself with disgust,
and where I came upon a host of people, who,
having seen the Procession in the City, were
rushing off to catch it again at Paddington.

Now, surely, when one reflects that the whole
of that line from the Bricklayers' Arms to the
Great Western Railway was thronged densely;
when one remembers that all the little streets
which turned out of the main line were crowded;
when one thinks of the mass of people
accommodated with seats at windows, and on scaffoldings,
and house-tops; it does seem rather hard
that a perfectly harmless misanthrope who had
looked forward for months to a Robinson Crusoeistic
afternoon, should find that there were still
plenty of people left, to dispute his possession of
Burton-crescent or the open space of ground in
front of the Foundling. My chance is over now,
and I am not likely to get another until the
happy day arrives when I shall have at last done
with the gas company, and can go and establish
myself under canvas in the middle of Salisbury
Plain.

IN THE STREETS OF TEHRAN.

MY favourite horse, a beautiful Arab from the
stud of Timour Meerza at Bagdad, has been ailing
some days, so a Persian horse-doctor is sent for to
cure him. Great is my alarm and tribulation when
I see my magnificent favourite thrown upon the
ground, and the horse-doctor kneeling upon his
neck with a horrible instrument like an oyster
knife in his hand. Presently, he thrusts one of
his thumbs into my beauty's eyes, forces the
eyeballs round and cuts something like a stone
as big as a small bean from the back of each
eyeball, then he gets up, and my poor favourite
gets up too, winking piteously, his bright soft
kind eyes all dimmed and bleared, and running
with blood. A large concourse of grooms and
horse-dealers, assembled to witness the ceremony,
appear highly delighted by it, and compliment
the horse-doctor, who evidently considers
himself, and is considered by others, a professional
man of the highest scientific attainments. There
is no reason to gainsay this opinion; for, in two
days after this shocking gouging operation with
the oyster-knife, my beauty will be bounding
under me again as fresh as a daisy, and with
eyes as bright and good tempered as ever.

But, meantime, what am I to do for a ride? I
will do what is a very uncommon thing in Persia,
I will take a walk.

Five servants prepare to go with me. Two
go before, two follow, and my nozzir, or chief
servant, walks beside me, but a pace or two
behind, at convenient speaking distance. He
wants to know where we are going, as a
coachman might inquire in England, and I tell
him that I have a fancy to walk round the chief
bazaars. He marshals his men accordingly.
We are an imposing company; but I have
not more attendants than are strictly necessary,
for no Persian gentleman ever walks abroad
with fewer, and indeed they are requisite for
safety and protection, quite as much as for state
and parade. Swift-pacing, ambling horses flit
noiselessly about, and knock down the
unsuspecting foot-passenger who is unattended very
unceremoniously. The bustle and hurry of
everybody, the narrowness of the streets, the
holes and abrupt flights of steps at the entrance
of houses, make each yard of the road
dangerous. Then there are donkeys pattering
rapidly along, with large blocks of ice tied on
each side of them, and a boy with a goad
behind. Luckless the man who should be jammed
between a house-wall and one of these donkeys;
he would be quashed flat as a pancake. Then
there are armed men of fierce aspect, trailing
their guns after them as Britons do their
umbrellas. Many of these personages are of saintly
character, and would consider that they had
wrought a work of peculiar excellence if they
could rid the world of a Christian or two. There
are white-clothed madmen rushing about, and
shouting, and gibbering—jolly dogs, who love
the gay thoroughfares, and who would not be
sorry either to have a turn up with a Frank;
being well aware of the impunity their madness,
whether pretended or otherwise, would secure
to them. Here and there is a man carrying the
reeking carcase of a fat-tailed sheep across his
horse—a disgusting sight—and he rushes through
the crowd; everywhere making way for himself,
and knocking people down if not beaten off. The
Shah's runners and messengers hurry through the
street, dressed in scarlet, with short breeches and
embroidered leggings, and caps all covered with
tinsel. They have sticks in their hands, and
apply them with great readiness to the backs of
anybody in their way who appears likely to take
a beating without making much fuss about it.
Then there are the insolent attendants of great
men clearing the way for their masters with
blows and shouts; and beggars foul with leprosy,
who would be very troublesome to a solitary
Frank on foot. Long streams of camels, laden
with heavy merchandise, would crush a man
in their passage, as one might crack a walnut,
if he did not keep his eyes about him. And
there are mules tied between long poles—the