to shut myself up in an impregnable fortress to
keep them out of my bed at night. That
fortress is the strangest four-post bedstead ever
seen. When it was made, or how it was made,
I cannot imagine. It is probably a copy taken
from an English four-post bedstead, seen in a
picture drawn by some one who was no artist.
The material is of a rare dark wood, curiously,
but rudely, carved. The posts are very slender,
and the whole edifice crazy and rickety. It is
nearly five feet from the ground. When I
climb up to it at night by means of steps, I
feel almost beyond human help, and if I turn
round but an inch before going to sleep, it
makes such a noise and lurches so fearfully that
I am threatened with imminent destruction.
It is probably the only thing of its kind in
Persia—or anywhere else—and I have paid a
fabulous price for it.

This dangerous fastness is a defence against
rats, but it is by no means a defence against
the innumerable swarms of loathsome and venomous
insects which infest the air and tumble down
from the ceiling. A night-bird, also, now and then
flies in through the window that has been left open
during the day, and, after buffeting about for a
while among my carpets and crockery, takes up
its post for the dark hours, croaking lowly, upon
one of the tall cranky posts of my bed. When
morning comes at last, it is a difficult and
delicate business to get up. I open my eyes and
see nothing but a strip of painted ceiling about
two feet from my nose, with the rain and
snow-water draining through it in places. I am
afraid to move for fear I should suddenly
disappear in some unexpected direction, and be
smothered in the ruins of my bed. The knotty
and rugged mass of wool and tow upon which I
sleep has let me down, of course, into a deep
hollow, with a stony unyielding hill upon each
side. At last, however, by a cunning series
of stratagems and manœuvres in which custom
has made me skilful, I succeed in getting one
knee over the right hillock of my mattress
amidst an awful creaking and groaning of the
bedstead, and then peer down from my heights
upon the distant floor beneath. As soon
afterwards as I am able to screw up my courage, I
come finally into the lower world again, with a
half jump, half tumble, trusting to chance
whether I shall alight upon my feet or
elsewhere, and thanking my stars that I have got
out of my grim and terrible bed once more without
serious injury.

When I am once up I hardly know what to
do. Persian servants, who seem never to go to
sleep in summer, are never awake at all in winter.
I shout Badja (children) again and again, but
nobody comes. I crawl out to the door amidst
a blinding snow-storm, and after roaring and
knocking till I am hoarse and weary, at last I
hear distant slippers coming clack, clack, clack,
from some room upon the other side. Then
there is much stamping and clamping and kicking
about the house, and some snorting and
coughing—coughing with a whistle, like horses
coughing. The whole country is one huge stable
in the winter, and my house is like everybody
else's.

At last my head-servant makes his appearance
with some tamarind tea, and a kalion (water-pipe),
to begin the day. An hour afterwards he has sent
another man to put some melted snow-water in
my bath. Then he goes to sleep again, groaning
and puffing as if quite exhausted, and all I hear of
him during the rest of the day is the rattle of the
water in his tobacco-pipe from time to time. If
I go into his den to look at him, I find him curled
up like a dormouse. The Persians themselves
have a way of waking up their servants by burning
their feet and putting pricks under their
nails, but this not being in accordance with
European notions, we Englishmen must be content
to manage as we can till the summer comes.

My house is so miserably comfortless, that I
am glad enough to get out and wander about
the streets visiting. But the streets are in a
shocking state, and there are no carriages. There
is no pavement. The roads are formed of the
same soft yellowish mud as the houses. Deep
holes for drains are found at every few paces;
and it requires some skill and practice to avoid
slipping into them. It is impossible to walk, so
we go about on horseback, attended by grooms
on foot to lead our horses over the dangerous
and slippery places, and to keep off the rabble
crowd of the streets, and the camels moving and
sliding about with their heavy loads, from crushing
us. Fierce dogs lie in wait for us at every
corner, and muster in strong tribes and
companies; they are only to be kept off by whips
and staves. Sometimes we have a pitched battle
to repulse them. Fortunately everybody is fond
of visiting, and what with hot tea and round-about
Persian talk, and soft carpets, and gold
pipes (by the way, the equipment of a Persian
dandy is rather an expensive affair), we manage
to get through the day.

But I am glad when the evening comes, and
lights, bad as they are, bring such scant warmth
and comfort as are to be found. We manage to
stop the draughts with curtains and carpets and
sand-bags as well as may be, and gather ourselves
up upon cushions and carpets to smoke and
doze away the evening. No books are to be
had; no nice writing-table or cozy reading-chair.
Our last newspapers are two months old. The
contact with educated minds is rare. Our little
European colony hardly numbers twenty. Of
Englishmen there are but five besides myself,
and two of these five are domestic servants. So,
as I have said, there is nothing for it but a brown
study betwixt sleeping and waking.

Every night when the heavy shawl-curtains
are drawn and the wet wood-fire smokes and
cannonades us with loud bangs from the grate,
and the stony coals fly spattering over the
carpets, the same incident always recurs: There
is a great cry in the street; and, as the angry
wind whistles and howls without and the bleak
snow falls, the crier roars out that a child of
three years old—or two children may be—has
been lost, and five kerrans will be paid for its
recovery. Child-stealing is a trade, and perhaps