efuge.

Meshed is "the jumping off place" of telegraphy; the electric spider
spins his galvanized web no farther in this direction, and the dirge-like
music of civilization's--AEolian harp, that, like the roll of
England's drum, is heard around the world, approaches the barbarous
territory of Afghanistan from two directions, but recoils from entering
that fanatical and conservative domain. It approaches from Persia on the
one side, and from India on the other; but as yet it only approaches. The
drum has already been there; it is only a question of time when the
AEolian harp will follow.

It is with lively recollection of Khorassani March weather and the
experience of the last few days that, after a warm bath, I array myself
in a suit of Mr. Gray's clothing, elevate my slippered feet, "Yenghi
Donia fashion," on a pile of Turcoman! carpets, and, abetted by the
cheering presence of a bottle of Shiraz wine, exchange my recent
experiences on the road for telegraphic scraps of the latest news. How
utterly unsatisfactory and altogether wretched seems even the gilded
palace of a Persian provincial governor--the meaningless compliments, the
salaaming lackeys and empty show of courtesy, when compared with the
cosey quarters, the hearty welcome, the honest ring of an Englishman's
voice, and the genuineness of everything!

Shortly after my arrival, a gentleman with a coal-black complexion, a
retreating forehead, and an overshadowing wealth of lip appears at the
door bearing a tray of sweetmeats. Making a profound salaam, he steps out
of his slipper-like shoes, enters, and places the sweetmeats on the
table, smiling a broad expectant-of-backsheesh smile the while he
explains his mission.

"The Sartiep has sent you his salaams and a present of sweetmeats,
preparatory to calling round himself," explains mine host; "he is a
Persian gentleman, Ali Akbar Khan, at the head of the Meshed
telegraph-service, and has the rank of general or Sartiep." The Sartiep
himself arrives shortly afterward, accompanied by his favorite son, a
budding youth of some eight or ten summers, of whose beauty he feels very
justly proud. The Sartiep's son is one of those remarkably handsome boys
met with occasionally in modern Persia, and which so profusely adorn old
Persian paintings. With soft, girlish features, big, black, lustrous
eyes, and an abundance of long hair, they remind one of the beautiful
youths of Oriental romance; his fond parent takes him abo