least, necessitated the employment of a guide to find it.  On the way down, Mr. M------, who prides himself on a knowledge of Russian character, impresses upon me his assurance that General Melnikoff will turn out to be a nice, pleasant sort of a gentleman.  “All the better-class Russians are delightfully jolly and agreeable, much more agreeable to have dealings with than the same class of people of any other country,” he says, and with these favorable comments we reach the legation and send up my letter.  After waiting what we both consider an unnecessarily long time in the vestibule, a full-faced, sensual-looking, or, in other words, well-to-do Persian-looking individual, in the full costume of a Persian nobleman, comes out, bearing my letter unopened in his hand.  Bestowing upon us a barely perceptible nod, he walks straight on past, jumps into a carriage at the door, and is driven off.

Mr. M------looks nonplussed at me, and I suppose I looked
equally nonplussed at him; anyhow, he proceeds to relieve his feelings in
language anything but complimentary to the Russian Minister.  He’s
the—­well, I’ve met scores of Russians, but—­him, queer!  I
never saw a Russian act half as queer as this before, never!”

“Small prospect of getting any assistance from this quarter,” I suggest.

“Seems deucedly like it,” assents Mr. M------.  “I said,
just now, that, being a Russian, he was sure to be courteous and
agreeable, if nothing else; but it seems as if there are exceptions to
this rule as to others;” and, talking together, we try to find
consolation in the thought that he may be merely eccentric, and turn out
a very good sort of fellow after all.  While thus commenting, a liveried
servant presents himself and motions for us to follow him in the wake of
the departing carriage.  Following his guidance a short distance through
the streets, he leads us into the court-yard of a splendid Persian
mansion, delivers us into the charge of another liveried servant, who
conducts us up a broad flight of marble stairs, at the top of which he
delivers us into the hands of yet a third flunky, who now escorts us into
the most gorgeously mirrored room it has ever been my fortune to see.  The
apartment is perfectly dazzling in its glittering splendor; the floor is
of highly polished marble, the walls consist of mirror-work entirely, as
also does the lofty, domed ceiling; not plain, large squares of
looking-glass, but mirrored surfaces of all shapes and sizes, pitched at
every conceivable angle, form niches, panels, and geometrical designs—­yet
each separate piece plays well its part in working out the harmonious and
decidedly pretty effect of the whole.  All the furniture the large
apartment boasts is a crimson-and-gold divan or two, a few strips of rich
carpet, and an ebony stand-table, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; but
suspended from the ceiling are several magnificent cut-glass chandeliers. 
At night, when these Persian mirrored rooms are lit up, they present a