by a couple of gholams with long wands, is carried by, and one gets a momentary glimpse of a pair of dark eyes and henna-stained finger-tips, as a fair one from the “anderoon” [C] of some great man is carried to her jeweller’s or perfumer’s.  The “yashmak” is getting very thin in these countries, and one can form a very fair estimate of the lady’s features (singularly plain ones) as the sedan swings by.  Towards midday business is suspended for a while, and the alleys of the bazaar empty as if by magic.  For nearly a whole hour silence, unbroken save by the snarling of some pariah dog, the hiss of the samovar, and gurgle of the kalyan, falls over the place, till 2 p.m., when the noise recommences as suddenly as it ceased, and continues unbroken till sunset.

On the whole, the bazaar is disappointing.  The stalls for the sale of Persian and Central Asian carpets, old brocades and tapestries, and other wares dear to the lover of Eastern art, are in the minority, and must be hunted out.  Manchester goods, cheap calicoes and prints, German cutlery, and Birmingham ware are found readily enough, and form the stock of two-thirds of the shops in the carpet and silk-mercers’ arcade.

It is by no means easy to find one’s way about.  No one understands a word of English, French, or German, and had it not been for my knowledge of Russian—­which, by the way, is the one known European language among the lower orders—­I should more than once have been hopelessly lost.

Europeans in Teheran lead a pleasant though somewhat monotonous life.  Summer is, as I have said, intolerable, and all who can seek refuge in the hills, where there are two settlements, or villages, presented by the Shah to England and Russia.  Winter is undoubtedly the pleasantest season.  Scarcely an evening passes without a dance, private theatricals, or other festivity given by one or other of the Embassies, entertainments which his Imperial Majesty himself frequently graces with his presence.

There is probably no living sovereign of whom so little is really known in Europe as Nasr-oo-din, “Shah of Persia,” “Asylum of the Universe,” and “King of Kings,” to quote three of his more modest titles.  Although he has visited Europe twice, and been made much of in our own country, most English people know absolutely nothing of the Persian monarch’s character or private life.  That he ate entrees with his fingers at Buckingham Palace, expressed a desire to have the Lord Chamberlain bowstrung, and conceived a violent and unholy passion for an amiable society lady somewhat inclined to embonpoint, we are most of us aware; but beyond this, the Shah’s vie intime remains, to the majority of us at least, a sealed book.  This is perhaps a pity, for, like many others, Nasr-oo-din is not so black as he is painted, and, notwithstanding all reports to the contrary, is said, by those who should know, to be one of the kindest-hearted creatures breathing.