One morning, while we were at breakfast under the “talar,” we saw a European enter the compound, and a little scene ensued that was sufficiently amusing. I must premise that in those early days of the Persian Telegraph Department, when communication was infrequent, owing to the continual destruction of the line, orders could only be conveyed by letters, which often never reached their destination. The unknown sahib, without announcing himself, or asking if the superintendent were visible, stalked up on to the platform and thrust a paper into Pierson’s hand. On it was an order to Mr. P⸺ to proceed to Hamadan and take charge of the office there. And he (Mr. P⸺) had that moment alighted from his horse, having marched some twelve stages from Ispahan. Pierson took the paper, read it, and said, “Well?” The stranger replied, “I’m P⸺.” “Have you nothing else to say?” said Pierson. “No; I’ve come to take charge of the office here.” Pierson now called for ink, and wrote “Mr. P⸺ will proceed at once to Shiraz, and take charge of the office there,” and signed it. “You need not discharge your mules, and will start to-morrow. Good morning to you.” Mr. P⸺ was equal to the occasion; he walked out of the place without a word, and he _did_ start the next day (on his march of sixteen stages). So much for discipline. Pierson, who played the concertina, cornet, and piano, suggested to me as a pastime that he should teach me the cornet. To this I assented; and the first thing was to learn to blow. This is not so easy as it seems, and as the noises I produced were not pleasant, Pierson only allowed my practising in the house when he was not at home. The flat roof at sunset was my place to practise, and here I blew to my heart’s content. I only blew one note of various loudness, and to my astonishment found I had a rival, whose lungs were stronger than mine; he, too, blew one note in rapid succession. I blew—he blew—but his were decidedly the stronger sounds, and he blew longer. I kept up my blowing, but soon came down, feeling my inferiority. The next night I was alone, my rival absent. I blew my one note in rapid succession till I could blow no more. Suddenly I heard cries, and sounds of beating, and shouts of men and women—a row evidently. I blew on. Next morning the British Agent, Syud Houssein (these native agents are appointed by the English Legation in lieu of consuls throughout Persia at the great cities; they are really news-writers, but act as consuls, and look after English interests), came to Pierson, with a long face, saying that a complaint had been made to him by the Governor, of the conduct of the sahibs in his (Pierson’s) house.