up, and my guards scuffle back to their places,
and cuddle and slap them with much fuss and
excitement. I feel disposed to say to them,
"Oh don't, if you please; you will hurt
yourselves, and it is not at all necessary." But it
appears that they call this cuddling and slapping
of the old muskets a salute, and would feel
professionally aggrieved if requested to omit it
from an ill-judged consideration for their
comfort.

These four old creatures permit no one to pass
beneath my windows, though they are always
peeping in themselves, and privacy is quite
impossible for a stranger among these lively,
curious Persians. I had an eager crowd around me
even while dressing this morning.

In due time— it is about an hour after noon--
the prince's servants bring in my dinner. They
file in with trays upon their heads in interminable
procession. They are fine slender fellows with
waists like wasps, and dressed in gay-coloured
robes. It is a luxurious repast of an infinite
variety of dishes; but queer of taste, and more
to be looked at than eaten by a Briton.

A whole day glides like this imperceptibly
away, and a whole night passes like an instant
in the dreamless sleep of a traveller. Next
morning (it is always the same glorious
sun-shiny weather) we go to visit the prince-
governor at his country quarters, and to thank
him for his magnificent hospitality. His
highness is camped out in a garden about a league
from the city, and has provided us with horses
and a numerous retinue to conduct us thither.

We proceed in imposing procession through
the streets of the city. Our horses are
splendidly caparisoned with golden housings and
bridles. They are large horses, of the famed
Turcoman breed, it being undignified for a man
of rank to ride a small horse. At our right
hand rides our Mehmandar, a colonel of artillery,
who has accompanied us from the frontier,
charged to supply our wants and see that we
lacked nothing on the road. He has now got
out his finest uniform, and blazes with stars and
medals. The bridle-reins of his horse are of
purple silk, massive gold chains form the head-
stall. The bit is of solid silver.

Eight common-looking men, dressed in blue
calico, each with a stick in his hand, march in
single file on each side of the road before us to
clear the way. They are policemen, or feroshes.
Behind us ride a large party of horsemen, each
of whom desires to sell his horse to us, and
shows it off accordingly with prance and caper. So
on through the dusty streets and shady bazaars,
along the mud fortifications where the ground
crumbles beneath us; past women, driving
asses, who turn aside to hide their faces; past
horsemen, who dismount and salute us humbly
as we go by. So on—the theme of gossips and
wonder, our arms and harness glittering in the
sunshine—a gallant company trooping away into
the open country out towards the pleasant
garden where the prince is encamped.

The prince-governors - usually relatives or
connexions of the royal family- are very numerous
in Persia. They have immense power in
civil and criminal jurisdiction throughout their
districts—the power of life and death, the
power to make and unmake men, the power of
the rod, and the power of taxation. They are
respected and dreaded accordingly, though it
lias been the policy of recent governments rather
to humble them.

We found our host, the Prince-Governor of
Khoi, seated in a tent of chintz and silk,
pitched among a grove of fruit-trees, near a
waterfall. It was a pretty tent, though without
any pretension to state or grandeur. On the
ground were the bright-coloured carpets of
Resht, and we sat upon chairs of ivory inlaid
with brass, and fashioned to represent snakes
coiled about each other. The wind played
among the graceful branches of a beautiful
plane-tree, which protected us with its shadow,
and our horses neighed from time to time, as
though calling to each other among the leafy
woodlands without, during the interview.

The prince was a slight man, who gave you
the idea of extreme bodily weakness and
exhaustion at first sight. But when you looked
again, there was a latent fire about the eye, and
a certain compression of the lips, which
indicated great nervous power. He had a sidelong
glance, which was not very prepossessing. His
skin was almost copper-colour. His nose fine
and aquiline, beautifully chiselled. His mouth
large, but his teeth narrow and pointed, which
gave it a fierce expression. It was a cruel
mouth—a mouth that could utter unkind and
bitter things, and like the taste of them. His
beard was short and scrupulously trimmed.
His eyebrows artificially pointed after the
manner of the Persian dandy. He had that
perennial air of youth so common in Persia,
and looked, with his well-dyed hair and
carefully-preserved skin, scarcely more than thirty
years of age, though in reality he must have
been past sixty. His dress was a frock-coat
made of a fine shawl, in which a delicate
puce-colour, very sober but very clear, was the
predominant tint. He wore a calico shirt, without
a neckerchief, narrow black cloth European
trousers, and a green silk under-coat, white
worsted socks of coarse fabric, and the national
high, brimless, pointed, sugar-loaf cap of black
lambswool, beneath which flowed long love-
locks, carefully curled.

His whole aspect was one of extreme delicacy.
As we approached, he rose and graciously came
up to shake hands with us; then he motioned us
to be seated. Twenty years ago he would have
kept us standing, but the pride of the greatest
Oriental satraps has been humbled since then,
and they now condescend to treat European
gentlemen on a footing of equality. The prince's
conversation was mild and courteous. He spoke
in a tone so whisperingly soft and low that the
gentle prattle of the waterfall was heard above
his voice, and formed a sort of running
accompaniment to it.

Shortly after we were seated some very sweet
tea was served to us in cups of delicate china.