Or I take a look at Houssein Khari, who has a factory for false antiquities. Here I see, among heaps of sham, at times something real and good; but Houssein Khari does not sell the good things, only the rubbish. As I go he ironically holds out to me a jade teapot, requesting me to buy it for one hundred pounds. I see that the age of bargains is over, and retire. Or I make a visit to my friends the Baabis. Here, however, I have to eat such a tremendous breakfast that a siesta is needed, and I only am allowed to start homewards at six, after pipes and tea have been taken, and much information extracted from me. Or a professional visit is made, and I come across bits of Eastern life in out-of-the-way quarters of the huge and ruined town. Or I call on the hakim-bashi, or head doctor, my friend, and hear of his troubles in ruling the Jews, editing his newspaper—for he is the editor of the _Ispahan Gazette_—in establishing the _new_ or _modern_ college, of which he is the head and the prince the patron. Or I take a long ride through the bazaars, to the disgust of my servants, who do not care to be seen as an unbeliever’s servants in the fanatical heart of the city. Or, riding to the maidān, I look out in the early morning for a cheap horse, which the brokers offer for sale here each day, and see the furious riding of the Persian buyer trying his steed. This maidān, or “_place_,” is, I think, over a quarter of a mile long by a furlong wide. In the centre is a small circular brick platform, on which is a high pole, with projecting pieces for the feet, and a pulley at top. Here criminals used to be hoisted by the feet, and then allowed, the rope being cut, to be dashed head foremost to the ground. At the foot of this pole take place the numerous executions, though the Governor of Ispahan is not fond of shedding blood. When the new Mission at Gulhaek was being finished in the time of the late minister, Mr. Alison, he instructed the builder to make “a place for a flagstaff,” and a huge pole having been procured, it was set up, and the architect smilingly presented the work to his Excellency. Mr. Alison looked at it and tapped his forehead, and, turning to the architect, said— “I think I have seen somewhere something like this” (there was then an execution pole in Teheran exactly like the one in Ispahan, but with a higher and larger brick platform). “Yes, yes,” replied the smiling Persian, of course, “the Dar” (execution pole). “I have tried to copy it exactly; very imposing, is it not? Strikes the eye at once.” No praise came. His Excellency turned away, and the pole was earthed up over the brickwork, leaving an ornamental mound, now covered with shrubs and roses.