describe the magic
of this superb and mysterious abode, wherein the voluptuous Khans forgot
the trials and sorrows of life: I cannot do it, as in the case of one of
our Western palaces, by analyzing the style, the arrangement, and the
details of its splendid architecture, by deciphering the idea of the
artist in the regularity, grace, and simplicity of the noble edifice.
All this may easily be understood or described, but one needs something
of the poet's heart and brain to appreciate an Oriental palace, the
attraction of which lies not in what one sees, but in what one feels
(and imagines?). I have heard persons speak very contemptuously of
Bagtche Serai. 'How' they ask, 'can any one apply the name of palace to
that cluster of wooden houses, daubed with coarse paintings, and
furnished only with divans and carpets?' From this point of view they
are right. The positive cast of their minds prevents them from seeing
the beautiful in aught but costly material, well-defined forms, and
highly-polished workmanship: hence, to them Bagtche Serai must be a mere
group of shabby huts adorned with paltry ornaments, and fit only for the
habitation of miserable Tartars."

To this order of minds, however, Madame de Hell, as we have had abundant
opportunities of observing, did not belong, and Bagtche Serai has
justice done to it at her hands.

The Serai, or palace, is situated in the centre of the town; it is
enclosed within walls and a moat, and fills the heart of a valley, which
is surrounded by irregular heights. Entering the principal court you
find yourself in the shade of flowering lilacs and tall poplars, and on
your ear falls the murmur of a fountain, which sings its monotonous song
beneath the willows. The palace, properly so called, displays externally
the usual irregularity of Oriental architecture, but its want of
symmetry is forgotten by him who surveys its broad colonnades, its
bright decorations, its fantastic pavilions, and sheltering groves. As
for the interior, it is a page out of the "Arabian Nights." In the first
hall is the celebrated Fountain of Tears, to which Pushkin has dedicated
a beautiful lyric. It derives its pathetic name from the sweet sad
murmur of its pearly drops as they fall upon the marble basin. The
sombre and mysterious aspect of the hall stimulates the tendency in the
mind of the visitor to forget reality for the dreams of the imagination.
The foot falls noiselessly upon soft Egyptian mats: the w