“You haven’t got one of those mirrored rooms, have you?” I inquire, beginning to get a trifle inquisitive, and perhaps rather impertinent.  “You couldn’t manage to smuggle a fellow inside, disguised as a seyud or—­” “Nicht,” replies Mirza Abdul Kaiim Khan, laughing, “I have not bothered about a mirror chamber yet, because I only remain here for another month; but if you happen to come to Tabreez any time after I get settled down there, look me up, and I’ll-hello! here comes Prince Assabdulla to see your velocipede!” Fatteh — Ali Shah, the grandfather of the present monarch, had some seventy-two sons, besides no lack of daughters.  As the son of a prince inherits his father’s title in Persia, the numerous descendants of Fatteh-Ali Shah are scattered all over the empire, and royal princes bob serenely up in every town of any consequence in the country.  They are frequently found occupying some snug, but not always lucrative, post under the Government.  Prince Assabdulla has learned telegraphy, and has charge of the government control-station here, drawing a salary considerably less than the agent of the English company’s line.  The Persian Government telegraph line consists of one wire strung on tumble-down wooden poles.  It is erected alongside the splendid English line of triple wires and substantial iron poles, and the control-stations are built adjacent to the English stations, as though the Persians were rather timid about their own abilities as telegraphists, and preferred to nestle, as it were, under the protecting shadow of the English line.  Prince Assabdulla has an elder brother who is Governor of Miana, and who comes around to see the bicycle during the afternoon; they both seem pleasant and agreeable fellows.  “When the heat of the day has given place to cooler eventide, and the moon comes peeping over the lofty Koflan Koo Mountains, near-by to the eastward, we proceed to a large fruit-garden on the outskirts of the town, and, sitting on the roof of a building, indulge in luscious purple grapes as large as walnuts, and pears that melt away in the mouth.  Mirza Abdul Karim Khan plays a German accordeon, and Prince Assabdulla sings a Persian love-song; the leafy branches of poplar groves are whispering in response to a gentle breeze, and playing hide-and-seek across the golden face of the moon, and the mountains have assumed a shadowy, indistinct appearance.  It is a scene of transcendental loveliness, characteristic of a Persian moonlight night.

Afterward we repair to Mirza Abdul Kiirim Khan’s house to smoke the kalian and drink tea.  His favorite wife, whom he has taught to respond to the purely Frangistan name of " Eosie,” replenishes and lights the kalian-giving it a few preliminary puffs herself by way of getting it under headway before handing it to her husband-and then serves us with glasses of sweetened tea from the samovar.  In deference to her Ferenghi brother-in-law and myself, Eosie has donned a gauzy shroud over the above-mentioned