great crowd of carriages, containing the ladies
of the court, and horsemen, and soldiers, and
led horses. He is a gracious prince, courteous
and handsome. He fixes his eyes full upon us
as we pass by, which is the royal manner of
returning a salute in Persia. The king's dress is
of that beautiful soft peach-colour which
predominates in the finest shawls; he wears the
armlets of jewels which belong to royalty, and
the regal plume of diamonds in his hat.* With
his majesty rides the heir-apparent. He is a
pretty boy, with fresh, fat, little cheeks, just
big enough to sit upon his horse.

* See page 403 of the last volume.

But it is not always that I can make certain
of an afternoon's ride. Just as we are about
to start, a messenger may come in haste
to ask my servants to a marriage, and they all
go away by magic. We must ride when they
come back. Our grand excursion is of course
to Tehran, whither we are obliged to go on days
of public ceremony. This is a very complicated
affair indeed. We must commence and complete
our little journey within the precise time fixed by
an astrologer, who frequently obliges us with
his company at dinner-time, and who has
constituted himself a part of the establishment on
all occasions of unusual solemnity. If this
sage, however, should not be doing us the
honour of a visit on that day, we send to
consult him before we start, and we halt at a little
distance from the city and despatch a messenger
to his private residence, to ascertain that the
stars have not changed their minds, and to make
quite sure of things.

Then we go home by moonlight, with the
nightingale band hymning loud anthems round
us, and all the flowers and trees at prayer.
There stands my house among the gardens,
sleeping in the rays of the moon. But I shall
find everybody up. No one ever seems to go to
bed during the summer in Persia. And why
should they? Even now I can see to read my
brother's letter, which the gholaum has brought
to-day from Tabreez, and sit down to dream of
the homeland.

But here is my neighbour's daughter, a pretty
little thing, wild as a gazelle, and as shy. She
has a painted face, and fingers tipped with henna,
and eyebrows dyed with reng. Her feet and
arms are bare, but there are jewels of great price
upon them. She is quite covered with gems,
but her eyes are brighter than the brightest of
them, and her skin is wondrous fair. On her
little neck is a necklace of inestimable value.
On one of her wee, wee fingers is a thimble of
gold, prettily enamelled.

By-and-by comes my neighbour himself, whose
darling she is; and he seems to love me because
his child has chosen me for a playmate. So we
fall a talking, and by-and-by comes supper and
sherbets, and then day has dawned again, and
the little child has fallen fast asleep in my arms
with a shawl cast loosely round her. I fancy
that it was not to disturb her, that her father
stayed so late, and that he quoted the long, long
passage from Saadi twice over. But now she
wakes up, all life and prattle, and we rise to
saunter towards my neighbour's house together,
with a cloud of servants hovering round us.
My neighbour means to give me pipes and tea;
and as we are something more than mere
acquaintances we shall take tea in the anderoon,
and his wife will join us with her face uncovered.
She is a buxom dame, and will make the
morning gay with laughter and wild jests. As
we go sauntering along, I notice an old
crumbling wall with a turret in the centre which has
been built upon my neighbour's land, without
any apparent reason. It is so massive, so old,
and so time-worn, that I ask him who built it.

"Hoolookoo-Khan, grandson of Ghenghis-Khan,"
says my nozzir, joining respectfully in
the conversation, "built it for one of his treasure
castles."

But my neighbour reproves him mildly, and,
with the air of a sober reasoner settling a
vexed question upon undoubted authority, turns
to me kindly, and says, "All persons are of
opinion that it was built by the deevs, or
genii."

When we have breakfasted we shall probably
ride out together hawking, or slip a leash of
Kurdish greyhounds after a hare, or wander
away amidst the sunshine, idly watching the
pigeons who live in holes among the rocks, and
pass in clouds hither and thither, with swift and
troubled flight. Perhaps, by-and-by, too, we
shall dine on fruits, and milk, and roasted
lambs, in another garden, a gallant troop of
banqueters, with our horses picketed among
the trees, and likely enough some merry laughter
coming from lattice and balcony will show that
my neighbour's anderoon has followed us, and
my little friend and I may have a romp among
the roses.

In March will be commenced a New Serial Work
of Fiction, entitled
VERY HARD CASH.
By CHARLES READE, D.C.L.,
Author of  "IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."
To be continued from week to week, until completed in
about eight months.

On Monday, March the Second, will be published, bound in
cloth boards, price 5s. 6d.,
THE EIGHTH VOLUME,
Containing from No. 177 to 200, both inclusive; and, in
addition, SOMEBODY'S LUGGAGE, being the
Extra Double Number for Christmas.